Hermione walked back to her room, alone, her shaking fingers brushing against her lips. Her heart was still thumping like a wild horse's hooves in full gallop. The haze in her mind was dreamlike, and she wondered if she'd just experienced an outer-body moment. She couldn't remember leaving the bathroom.

All she could remember were feelings and sounds. His god-given hands pressing her hips and yanking her to him, squeezing her arse, stroking her cheekbones, threading her hair. She'd felt fire and sparkles, winds of pleasure making her whole body shudder.

She'd never kissed someone like that. Blood rushed to her face just thinking about it.

She'd never been kissed like that.

And she'd do it over and over and over again. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

When she opened the door to her room, Theo was sitting on her bed, back slouching against the wall, his long legs sticking out, feet dangling in the air.

He watched her as she silently closed the door behind her. She averted his eyes. Maybe she should have stopped by the lavatory first to splash some cold water on her face. Anything to cool her down, because her nerves were still tingling.

"You're back." He smiled at her.

"Hello." Her voice sounded so small.

"Are you… okay?" His forehead creased when he noticed her complete lack of normalcy.

She crossed her arms, deciding to sit on the chair in the corner. "Yes, yes."

He continued to gape at her. "You look… disorganised."

She swallowed and cleared her throat. Her hands needed something to do, so she grabbed the elastic from her wrist and gathered her hair to tame and tie them.

"Stop staring, Nott," she grumbled, briefly looking back at him.

There was no furniture whatsoever in her room except for the chair and the bed, so the stuff that Theo had brought was at the foot of the bed. Clothes—for her, because he'd need to borrow her uniform—another pillow and a blanket. The room wasn't spacious enough to accommodate a second cot.

"Merlin's tits, were you just with Malfoy?" he gasped.

Hermione didn't know that her blush could deepen even more. Her cheeks turned a noticeable shade of vermilion.

"You have a love bite, by the way," he snickered, pointing at his own neck, right under his ear.

Her heart jumped and she hastily undid her hair until it was draped over her shoulders, hiding her neck. "It's…It's not—"

"Relax, Granger." His smile was way too wide and impish. Then he winked. "This means I have to prepare to be an official third wheel soon."

"Stop it," she scolded him, wiping her clammy palms on her knees. "It's not like that." She didn't want to talk about it any more, and not with him, so she hastened to change the topic. "You should get some sleep."

He changed position and sat cross-legged on her bed. Fortunately, he had taken off his boots. "I don't think I can fall asleep right now." His features changed suddenly. The lightness was gone. She could tell tomorrow's game was at the forefront of his mind.

"We can talk about it… if you want," she offered, lowering her voice.

"Not the first time I'm doing this, Granger." He was colder now.

"All the more reason to talk about it. You're going to go through it all again."

His hands rubbed at his face and she couldn't see his expression. Unexpectedly, he started chuckling, a throaty sound she'd never heard before. She thought that maybe a simple idea had crossed his mind and the humour would pass.

But he kept laughing.

She rose from the chair and sat on the bed beside him. "Hey." She brushed his shoulder, a featherlight touch.

He removed his hands and looked at her, bleary-eyed. His skin was red. "I'm a psychopath, Hermione."

Her head started shaking to contradict him, but he urged on. "Yes! Yes, I am. Think about it. Think about what I've done. For you, for the others. Think of what I'm about to do tomorrow."

"Theo— " Tears were gathering at the corners of her eyes now.

"I don't like it, okay? I don't feel joy about it. But I'm not as bothered by it as I should. I just feel that violence here has become such a common thing that we forget that it shouldn't be this… normal."

Words evaded her. Her gaze remained on him, as she detailed his face. A painful knot was expanding in her throat, and it wasn't the time for her crying now.

After a minute, she whispered "Do you… want me to put you to sleep?"

He looked at her strangely and snickered once again, the redness of his face had disappeared. "Erm—if you're talking about cuddling me to sleep, first of all, thank you but I'd rather not be murdered by Malfoy because he would make it slow and second, huh, no."

She rolled her eyes and got off the bed. "Not cuddling. I was talking about… a calming spell. Something to put your mind at ease so you can fall asleep. I've gotten quite good at them in the last few years."

He squinted at her slightly, processing her audacity or her stupidity. "With… my… wand?"

Heat flushed her cheeks. "Yes." There was an interesting crack in her wall. Her blood buzzed with delight at the mere thought of touching a wand again. "If… if you trust me."

He was still watching her, debating it. Her heart sank when she realised that maybe he hadn't decided to trust her yet, after all this time.

But then, Theo's hand slipped to the sheath strapped around his thigh and retrieved his wand slowly. Her gaze fell on it immediately, her heart booming with excitement, her fingers tingling with anticipation.

He handed it to her from the other end. "I trust you, Granger."

With a shaking hand, she reached for his wand and closed her palm around it. Instantly, a surge of familiar energy hit her, penetrating every one of her senses. The vibration of magic in her blood was like a long-lost sister who had just found her way back.

She closed her second hand around Theo's wand and her gates shattered.

She turned her back to him, facing the wall, and she cried, clutching the wand to her chest. This was the closest she'd felt to herself in a very long time. As her shoulders shook with silent sobs, he said nothing and simply waited, in reverence to her reunion.

Eventually, she got her bearings and wiped her eyes. She turned back to him and smiled. "Thank you," she whispered.

She was still shaking when she raised the wand toward him. "Ready?"

The Empire, The Sorting Ceremony— September 1st, 2004

The Gamemaster conjured up a pocket watch and clutched it in his gloved hand. "On the other side of this door, you'll find the Scavenger who'll tag along to make sure you follow the rules." With his other hand, he waved his wand at Hermione, untying her wrists. He glanced at his watch. "Your two hours start now."

She turned on her heels, ready to walk through the doors.

"Oh, I forgot to mention," the man raised his voice behind her, a smile tinging his tone, "I'll search your mind to see how you killed the corpse upon your return, should you choose killing."

She left the room, and the doors behind her shut. Theodore Nott was in front of her, standing with a blank face, hands behind his back. He had thick brown hair, half of them were tied in a bun on the back of his head.

She hadn't seen him in years—had never even spoken to him at school. He was dressed in black, exactly like Draco had been dressed years ago when he'd intercepted her.

She couldn't read Nott's expression. Her heart was beating wildly with stress.

"I-I don't know where to go," she admitted, looking at him with pleading eyes. "I—"

"Do you know your task?" His voice was clipped, and she noticed how different the texture of it was from Malfoy's.

"Yes…" Her hands were shaking.

"Then I'd say going out of the castle is a good way to start." He turned on his heels and started walking away, expecting her to follow.

She did.

They went all the way to the castle's entrance. He led her to the Whomping Willow. Out of sight from most of the people strolling the grounds. Once under the tree, he turned to look at her.

A different emotion was burning through his eyes. His expression was softer. "If you don't mind, Granger, I'm gonna grab your hand and disapparate us."

She frowned with surprise. "Erm—what? Where?"

Nott grabbed her hand the next second and she was transported through space, her head and universe spinning around her. When they landed, her wrist started to burn and he yanked it toward him, pressing the tip of his wand to her flesh. He muttered something—and the pain ceased.

She noticed how the air smelled different, how open the space was. The mountains were even more far away, and she couldn't recognize if they were the same mountains as Hogwarts' highlands.

There was a farmhouse near a forest, in the middle of a wheat field. The stalks were bent, their golden colour turned more ash-like. The trickling of a stream was echoing from somewhere near. The farmhouse was made of white wood with red accents—the door, the windows' frame and the gables. It was surrounded by a battered wooden fence.

It was beautiful and peaceful.

She blinked a few times to take it all in, before turning to Nott. "Why did you bring me here?" Her heartbeat was quickening again. "I don't have much time, I have to—"

"Listen to me." He interrupted her, his tone assertive but not sharp. "Before we do anything, I have to know." He stared deep into her eyes. "Do you want to participate in Numberland? If I do this for you, it means you'll pass the Sorting Ceremony and you'll be officially a player. Is that what you want?"

There was too much information. She shook her head, her brain halting on one sentence at a time. "I don't have a choice. If I don't, my parents will pay."

His features were serious, two parallel creases between his brows.

She watched his face, trying to understand his intentions."But what do you mean, 'if I do this for you'?"

"Are you able to kill an animal?"

His question was so direct that oxygen was stuck somewhere between her lungs and her throat. The mere thought of killing an animal was filling her with dread, horror and panic.

But Theodore Nott was part of the Empire. He wore Scavenger clothes. He had awand. This was probably a trick. A test, somehow.

She blinked back her tears and exhaled sharply with resolve. "I don't want your help." The farmhouse was probably a great spot to check for animals. The best she could hope for was maybe a chicken.

She could manage to kill a chicken—to break its neck.

She could do that, right?

Even better, a mouse. The man in the mask hadn't said anything about the corpse's size.

"Fine," Nott said from behind. "I'll supervise, then."

The long grass swayed with the wind. The sun was hiding behind clouds. The farmhouse looked long abandoned. She marched toward it, lining the fence. If she shut down her mind, she could do it.

Her eyes were trained on the ground, alert for any movement, any scurrying. She could hear insects clicking, ravens croaking. Surely there must be some kind of small rodent somewhere.

Walking around the house, scanning for the corners, she buried her worries. She could do this. Glancing above her shoulder, she saw that Nott was following her a few metres behind.

She turned to face him, stopping. "Can it be a bird?"

Nott halted, hands slipped in his pockets. "I'm not supposed to tell you, because you had only the right to one question."

She grunted in frustration and turned back to continue her walk.

"But no, it can't be a bird or an insect," he added loudly. "Players made that mistake before. It has to be a mammal."

No chicken, then. She refused to think about how she would kill a mammal without a wand. One thing at a time.

When she had completed one full turn of the house and found nothing, she walked toward the forest. "How much time do I have left?" she asked.

A pause. "One hour and thirty-seven minutes."

At the edge of the forest, she could see the stream running through it. The canopy of trees was dense and the ground was dark. She weaved through the trunks and the roots.

A mammal—that meant it couldn't be a frog.

"If I were you, I'd go back to the porch," Nott offered from somewhere behind.

She ignored him, eyes sweeping the leaves-covered ground. She walked alongside the stream, trying to forget the sense of urgency that weighed on top of her lungs.

At this point, a squirrel was her best chance. But she didn't know how she would even catch it.

Her pulse was quickening with each minute passing, as she wandered deeper into the forest. After a while, short of breath, she turned around.

Nott was leaning against a trunk.

"How much time left?" Her voice was trembling.

He looked at his pocket watch. "Fifty-one minutes."

She exhaled, puffing her cheeks. Wiping her clammy palms against her jeans, she repeated 'okay, okay, okay, okay' to herself countless times as she started her search again.

Fifty-one minutes to save her parents. To save herself.

She kept combing the forest and the trees, hoping to catch a glance of something. Anything.

Until, finally, she spotted a squirrel on a very high branch of a pine tree.

She had to try. The rodent would flee as soon as she would climb the first branch. Instead, she picked a few river stones.

She threw the first one—and her aim wasn't so bad. But the stone smacked against the tree instead, spooking the squirrel that darted for safety. He jumped on another tree, and she desperately threw another stone in this general direction.

She followed him for a while. Squatted behind trees in silence while he calmed down. As soon as he settled in a sitting position, his fluffy tail curving behind him, she threw a stone. And missed.

And missed.

And missed.

After what seemed like an eternity, she threw her remaining stones on the ground with a hopeless grunt. Her heartbeat was thundering. Despair was clawing at her stomach. She would fail.

"How much left?" she heaved, hands on her hips.

Nott's face was hard, his lips in a thin line. "Thirty-three."

A whimper flew out of her lungs and she scrambled back to the farmhouse. It took a few minutes until she reached it. She was breathless, her pulse hammering in her ears. She had no leeway whatsoever.

Silent, she stood in front of the house, directly in front of the porch. Thinking. Hoping.

She couldn't hear herself think above the despair in her head, the guilt in her gut.

There wasn't time—

There wasn't enough time—

A faint rustle in the grass. A curious head peaked out from the under porch.

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart sank to her ankles. She kneeled anyway, extended her hand to the cat.

She tutted repeatedly as tears were already gathering at her lower lids. The cat emerged from the darkness of the under porch, making tentative steps toward her. It was a tabby adult cat—fawn-coloured striped with dark fur. His eyes were wide with curiosity, and he was way too thin.

After two whole minutes in a succession of walking-stopping-walking-stopping, the cat reached her spot. He sniffed her fingers, pink nose flicking.

When he rubbed his head against her hand, she started crying, caressing him. He was arching his back under her strokes, already purring. Happy. Trusting.

She took him in her arms and he let her. Not even a struggle.

He probably was the pet of whoever had lived in the house.

She cradled him against her chest as she felt every piece of her heart ready to fracture. "How much time?" she wheezed out.

Nott drew a long inhale and raked a hand through his hair. "Twenty-six minutes."

She was crying because she had to choose between killing a cat and saving her parents and her own life. And her choice was already made—it wasn't a real choice, really—but she couldn't bring her hands to do it. The cat was purring in her arms, blinking slowly at the peaceful environment around him. He was unbothered. Gentle.

She rocked him in her arms for a while. Crookshanks was lost, somewhere, alive or dead. It had been years since she held a pet against her.

"Granger, you shouldn't pet him so much…" Nott winced, and his eyes were saddened. Burdened.

They both knew what she had to do.

But her arms were locked around the animal's small body. He wasn't even asking to be let go. She sank her nose into his fur, smelling him. He smelled like wilderness and wood. Maybe he had fleas, but at this moment, she couldn't care less.

She hiccupped. "I-I can't do it."

Nott approached her, placing himself in her line of sight. His features contorted when he saw her tears-streaked face.

"Granger… let me handle it," he said softly.

Her hand was frantically stroking the cat's neck. "He-he doesn't deserve this."

"He doesn't." His throat bobbed. "But you have no choice."

"Why—" she tried to catch her breath, "why would you help me? You don't even know me." The sheer hopelessness of the situation meant that she had no other choice than to trust Nott. Trust that it wasn't a trick, a test.

His eyes were blazing when he answered. "I'm on your side. I'll help you in any way I can."

"I don't unders— this doesn't make any sense!" she exclaimed, cheeks puffy with emotion.

"Nobody deserves to die in Numberland. I'll try my best to make your passage through it as easy as possible." His voice was gentle, his eyes sunken. "Please, Granger. Let me handle it."

She kept crying and sniffing, the purrs of the cat vibrating against her chest. "What are you going to do?"

"I'll make it painless. I promise. Just a quick curse."

She shook her head. "But they'll search my mind…"

"They only look at the surface. They'll see through your eyes, they won't hear your thoughts." He inhaled calmly. "Please, trust me." His arms slowly lifted towards her, ready for her to give him the cat.

There wasn't enough time. And there wasn't any other choice.

She closed the distance between them and transferred the cat to his arms. Nott grabbed him with extreme care and tenderness, but didn't look at him too long.

"Alright." He was watching her again. "I suggest you turn around and maybe plug your ears if you don't want to hear the curse."

She wiped the tears from her face and turned around, walking away. It didn't matter if she heard the curse or not—she knew it would happen. She had to stop crying. She had done what was necessary.

The cat had just been innocent. Pure. Unsuspecting.

"Avada Kedavra."

She clamped her palm against her mouth when she heard Nott's voice. Swallowed her sobs. He muttered another spell behind her and there was a soft sound.

"Alright," he called.

Nott had a big straw bag—the kind that could hold pounds of flour. The bag was hanging at his fist, hovering above the ground. An indistinct, unmoving mass inside of it. Its soul back to dust.

She blinked away, trying to control her breathing. Okay, okay, okay, okay.

He didn't suffer.

He didn't suffer.

"Listen to me." His eyes were serious again. "I'll give you the bag, and you'll dunk it into the stream. Make it look like you're drowning him. Like he's trashing."

Her head started shaking no, no, no—

"Granger," he said more urgently, "you'll have to say that you drowned him. When they'll look into your mind, they'll only see what you decide to show them."

"I'm not a Legilimens."

"They're only interested in the death, nothing else." He extended the bag to her. "We have nineteen minutes left."

She took the bag from him with a shaking hand. The weight tugged her hand down and she bit her lip. She made her way to the stream nearby, burying deep deep deep down each of her emotions.

Kneeling by the stream bank, jeans soaking up the water, she paused, holding the bagged corpse in both her hands. A second before offering it to the water.

"I'm so sorry," she whimpered, before dunking the bag violently into elbow-deep water.

She trashed. Made the water splash.

Even though her hands were gripping a stiff body.

After what she considered a sufficient amount of time, she stood up and retrieved the bag, dripping wet against her legs. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. There were still tears clogged in her throat, but they didn't come out.

Nott was staring at her and made a few steps. "You won't be alone in here."