Chapter 2: was it punishment?
"Farewell happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail."
― John Milton, Paradise Lost
Hermione and Malfoy pretended the other didn't exist.
When Malfoy passed Hermione in the hall, he looked away.
When Hermione needed to pass him back something in class, she didn't meet his eye.
At meals, when Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table, Pansy draped over him like some soft-core porno, Hermione could ignore it. Her insides didn't feel brutally mutilated.
Umbridge continued her unholy terrorization of students at Hogwarts while Harry became continually more susceptible to fits, often being pulled into Voldemort's head.
And still, Hermione studied for her O.W.L.s.
She could control her performance and her test scores. She knew how to prepare for exams.
The first few tests went as planned. Defence Against the Dark Arts was exactly what she thought. Transfiguration had a few trick questions she puzzled out in no time. Her practical exam for Potions was exemplary.
Hermione felt like she was regaining control of her life.
They could solve Harry's issues and ensure Ron at least passed his O.W.L.s, and everything would sort itself out in the end, just as it always had. Perhaps things weren't changing as much as she feared.
That was until she sat for her divination exam.
She wasn't sure why she bothered if she was being honest. Divination wasn't practical. It was all open to interpretation. It just wasn't logical. It made no sense to Hermione.
The tea leaves were abysmal and looked like dregs in her cup. Her scrying was useless, and she stared into the Crystal Ball until she felt like she was going cross-eyed. Even the written part of the test made her frustrated and irritable.
By the time she passed in her exam booklet, she felt the familiar pressure building in her chest, like a weight was sitting on her and would continue to grow until she was crushed.
Hermione rushed to the door, almost tripping over her cloak to flee.
The moment she stepped into the hallway, the walls seemed to close in around her, the stone corridors twisting and warping in her vision. Her heart raced, pounding against her ribs, each beat louder than the last until it drowned out every other sound.
She tried to swallow, but her throat felt dry and constricted, like she was trying to breathe through a straw. Her lungs fought for air, but each breath was shallow, rapid—too fast. Too much. She couldn't get enough.
I've failed. I've failed. I've failed.
The words looped in her mind, a chant she couldn't shake off.
Hermione prided herself on being in control, on being prepared for anything. But now she was slipping—like everything was spiralling out of her grasp.
She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't think.
Her vision blurred, spots dancing in front of her eyes as the corridor tilted beneath her feet. She leaned against the cold stone wall, her hands pressed flat against it, trying to ground herself.
A cold, creeping sensation that spread through her veins like ice. She could feel her fingers tingling, a numbness crawling up her arms, and she realized with a jolt of terror that she couldn't seem to stop them from shaking.
Focus, Hermione. Breathe.
Her chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vice, her thoughts a chaotic whirl that refused to settle.
She fought with every breath, but lost ground.
She could hear her ragged breaths echoing in the empty corridor, too loud, too fast, like they were coming from someone else. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow down, but it only seemed to beat faster, the rhythm erratic and wild.
The world was spinning, her mind spinning, and she couldn't find her footing.
She couldn't find control.
Why can't I breathe? Why can't I —?
Her eyes darted around, desperate for something—anything—to focus on, to anchor herself. But the walls seemed to warp and stretch, and the air felt heavy, suffocating. She stumbled forward, feeling like she was moving through water, each step harder than the last.
Her skin was too hot, prickling with panic, and her thoughts splintering, scattering in thousands of directions.
She felt like she was falling, like the ground was slipping away beneath her.
And she couldn't—she couldn't hold on.
She was dying. This felt like dying.
Tears pricked at her eyes, her breath hitching as she fought to keep herself together, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with her bare hands. Her vision narrowed, darkness creeping in at the edges, and she felt her legs buckle, her body sliding down the wall as she sank to the floor.
Her head fell forward, and she clutched at her knees, trying to make herself as small as possible, trying to disappear, to escape the crushing weight that had settled over her.
She couldn't stop shaking.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, and all she could think was, make it stop. Make it stop.
Curled up on the cold stone floor, Hermione felt like she was breaking apart, piece by piece, powerless to stop it.
This was a curse. Failing an O.W.L. exam meant suffocating in the hallway under a hex.
A voice called out to her. But how was she meant to hear it over the pounding of her pulse in her head, her heart ready to explode?
"Granger!" Malfoy's voice funnelled through her ears, his face taking up all the space in her vision as he knelt before her.
She still couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move.
Malfoy's eyes roamed over her face frantically, looking for some injury.
But couldn't he see it written on her face?
She was a failure.
The school bell chimed, signalling the end of the period for all students not writing O.W.L.s. Soon, the corridor would be filled with peers moving to their next location.
Hermione's eyes darted back and forth like hunted prey, waiting for the influx of people to swallow her whole. To eat her up and trample all over her.
She gasped as she struggled for breath.
Malfoy cursed and took Hermione's face in his warm hands, turning it towards him. "Hey, look at me. Just look at me."
Hermione's eyes found his, focusing on his straight, aristocratic nose. His clear, grey eyes.
Malfoy looked away for a moment, scanning their surroundings. He effortlessly lifted her, then strode down the corridor and through a door. The door slammed shut, reverberating in the dark room.
He set her down before removing his wand and locked the door.
"Lumos." Light filled the tip of his wand, illuminating the small but tidy supply closet.
Away from the confusion the corridor caused, Hermione sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest as she tried to regain control of her body.
Everything was spiralling into an abyss of chaos and death.
Malfoy appeared before her again, kneeling beside her with his wand discarded after he found a few candles to light. Their candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows over his face.
"What do you need?" He asked. "Tell me what to do for you."
"II can't," Hermione choked, wheezing and raspy. "I can't breathe."
Malfoy swallowed hard and nodded, almost to himself, his nose flaring. He undid the top half of the buttons of his uniform before reaching out and taking Hermione's cold, shaking hands in his own and bringing them to his chest. He flattened his hands over hers, forcing the tight fists to unfurl under his palms.
"I can help," Malfoy said. "Just focus on me. Match my breathing, in and out. Just like this."
He breathed deep, exhaling slowly, keeping her gaze on his.
Hermione steeled herself, sure that she was going to suffocate, regardless. She would fall unconscious and die in his arms.
Slowly, she watched Malfoy's breathing and adjusted her own to his. The first few attempts were rattling and vicious, like scraping nails through her lungs.
"Good," Malfoy encouraged. "That's perfect. Keep going."
The next few breaths were easier. The drumming of her heart in her ears slowed and faded.
Just as she felt like she may have control of her body once more, she reminded herself that it was a lie.
She wasn't in control of anything, especially herself.
Malfoy seemed to catch the errant thought and rushed closer to her. Hermione's hands were still pushed against his firm chest as he leaned in and towered over her, creating a cocoon around her with his arms, heat, and smell.
Draco Malfoy engulfed her entire world.
"You're safe. I have you." He reached out and caressed her face.
The touch of a lover, not an enemy.
Hermione had to resist the urge to throw her arms around his neck, instead choosing to focus on her breathing again.
"You have control of this, Granger," Malfoy growled. "Don't let that impressive brain trick you into thinking you don't. You do."
He was right.
She was Hermione Jean Granger. She was in control of this.
Trembling, she became more aware of where she was.
In a dimly lit, locked supply closet.
Malfoy leaned over her with his shirt half off, her hands pressed firmly against him. Against his bare chest.
She pulled her hands back, holding them tight against her own as she gasped. He chuckled and sat backwards, giving her the space she needed but unsure if she wanted.
"How often does that happen?" He asked, after a few long moments of sustained pause as she regained her bearings.
"Rarely," she replied, her voice still hoarse. Malfoy frowned and summoned a glass of water, passing it to her. She downed it. "I've had attacks since I was young, but I haven't had one this bad for a long time."
"What did you expect?" The empty goblet vanished with a wand flick as Draco leaned back on his arms and studied her. "What caused the panic?"
"I-I'm not sure." Hermione turned red. The exam seemed insignificant now.
Malfoy hummed like he didn't quite believe her, but he let it go.
"Thank you," she said. "For helping me. I'm not sure what would have happened if you didn't."
"You don't have to thank me, Granger."
"I do," she insisted. "Magic only erupts when furious or during a panic attack. I meant it when I said I'm not sure what would have happened if you hadn't noticed."
"Maybe you would have set off like a firework and saved everyone from having to finish their O.W.L.s," Malfoy teased, testing to see if she was truly feeling better.
"Better yet, maybe I could have set Umbridge on fire," Hermione muttered.
Malfoy laughed, imagining the pink toad engulfed in flames, screaming like a yowling cat.
"Know what I think, Granger?" She tilted her head to the side before Malfoy continued. "I think you are more diabolical than people credit you for."
She smirked back at him.
"You don't even know the half of it, Draco Malfoy."
Hermione wondered how Malfoy would react if he knew the plan she had quickly formed to save Harry from Umbridge. He was in the room when Hermione hatched the plot after Harry was found using the Floo in Umbridge's office to contact Sirius.
Harry, of course, was caught. Then she, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna and Neville were held in Umbridge's tacky, pink office by the members of the Inquisitorial Squad-Malfoy included.
When she threatened Harry with the cruciatus curse, Hermione understood there was no level Umbridge wouldn't stoop to.
And so, she decided it was well past due that she matched that energy.
No matter how often she tried to warn Harry, he never listened to common sense and always had to be bailed out—especially by Hermione.
So, she reasoned, he was partially to blame for her needing to resort to violence.
Hermione was still seething. Several reasons fuelled her desire for revenge against the woman. Interfering with her studies was not the least common among them. Hermione, in her nature, was a bit vindictive.
Malfoy thought Hermione was diabolical. She would show him just how wicked she could be.
Luckily, Umbridge wore her weaknesses on her sleeve and wrote them on the walls of the sacred halls of Hogwarts.
Umbridge felt inferior to Albus Dumbledore, and anytime he was brought up, she would cease to see reason and logic. Hermione doubted the woman possessed much of either.
A quick, off-handed comment about a secret weapon. Dumbledore's secret weapon. Hidden in the Forbidden Forest, where only Hermione and Harry could find it.
With that small lie, Hermione knew she'd sealed Umbridge's doom.
Malfoy's eyes widened, his pale complexion growing paler as Hermione swept out of the office, her grip firm around Harry's arm. His mouth opened, but no words came. He struggled to process what he saw. His gaze darted between Hermione's determined stride, Harry's confused frown, and Umbridge's furious, tight-lipped scowl.
Malfoy's usual smug composure cracked, revealing a flicker of disbelief and apprehension.
Hermione wished she could tell him. If everything goes as planned, he'll find it hilarious.
He might even kiss her again.
Umbridge couldn't stop herself from talking, filling the forest with her voice. Hermione wondered off-handedly if it were nerves.
Regardless, it served a purpose. Umbridge didn't notice when the forest's usual noise became quiet, a sure sign that something dangerous was afoot.
Hermione resisted the urge to smirk, and Harry shot her a nervous look.
Another of Umbridge's weaknesses: she thought magical creatures were inferior to wizards.
The centaurs appeared quickly. In even less time, Umbridge did what Hermione bet on, opened her toad-like mouth, and started spewing hatred and prejudice. As expected, the centaurs attacked and dragged Umbridge deeper into the forest.
She croaked when scared, right before screaming. It seemed fitting.
Hermione briefly wondered if setting her on fire would have been more merciful.
Her heart lurched as the ground trembled beneath her feet, each heavy thud growing louder and closer. She hadn't accounted for Grawp, Hagrid's giant half-brother, who was crashing through the trees like a force of nature, a massive club swinging in his enormous hand. Branches snapped like twigs under his weight, and his bellowing roars filled the air, sending birds screeching into the sky.
"Look, Hermione!" Harry's urgent shout broke through her haze of panic.
She whipped her head around to see him pointing frantically toward the edge of the clearing. A flood of movement caught her eye—the other members of the DA who had been detained, sprinting toward them, free from the Inquisitorial Squad's clutches. Behind them, thestrals galloped forward, their skeletal wings outstretched, their eerie, hollow eyes locked on the chaos unfolding.
Hermione's stomach twisted, a wave of nausea clawing up her throat. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, her body tightening with a familiar, bone-deep dread. Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed hard, fighting the urge to heave.
She hated flying.
Hermione could rely on one thing: Harry almost always came armed with half-truths and assumptions.
Kreacher lied to him. Harry didn't even double-check that the cantankerous old house-elf, who cursed and berated him all summer, was telling the truth.
Sirius Black was not at the Department of Mysteries.
But the Death Eaters were. They arrived shrouded in their dark cloaks and gleaming, terrifying silver masks.
Harry was holding the prophecy-the prophecy of the downfall of Voldemort. The reason, presumably, why his parents were murdered. The reason that they were at the Ministry staring down half a dozen Death Eaters, all ready and more than willing to use Unforgiveable and dark magic on the group of teens.
Fucking divination.
They were out of their depth with no backup in sight.
Hermione recognized a few of the Death Eaters-most notably Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius Malfoy. Currently taunting Harry about the prophetic orb he clung to.
Ginny pulled up her wand, pointing it at the Death Eaters.
Harry shot out a hand to halt her. "Don't do anything. Not yet—"
"You hear him? You hear him?" Bellatrix accused, pointing a finger at Harry. "Giving instructions to the other children as though he thinks of fighting us!"
"Oh, you don't know Potter as I do, Bellatrix." Lucius sneered. "He has a great weakness for heroics; the Dark Lord understands this about him. Now give me the prophecy, Potter."
"Yeah, right!" Harry snapped. "I give you this—prophecy, is it? And you'll just let us skip off home, will you?"
Malfoy looked so much like his father; it was almost alarming. She sized the man up while Lucius and Bellatrix bickered like siblings.
Would Malfoy forgive her if she killed his father to escape these Death Eaters? Would he even find out it was she who cast the curse?
Surely anything she could do wouldn't be as bad as what the Death Eaters would do if they got their hands on her-Potter's Mudblood, they'd called her.
Harry gave a signal, the same as during their training in Dumbledore's Army.
Reducto.
Hermione glanced at Ginny, who met her eyes with a fierce nod, her jaw clenched, eyes blazing with resolve. In perfect synchrony, they raised their wands, their movements sharp and purposeful. With a flick and a powerful cry of incantations, a jet of light shot from their wands, colliding with the towering shelves that held the fragile orbs of prophecy.
The chamber erupted into chaos. Thousands of glass orbs exploded, cascading into a storm of glittering shards that caught the dim light, filling the air with a rain of silvery fragments. A chorus of eerie, disembodied voices burst forth, overlapping in a haunting symphony of cryptic warnings and fading whispers that echoed off the cold stone walls. A wave of sound, deafening and inescapable, crashed upon them.
Hermione felt a wild, exhilarating rush through her veins, a dark satisfaction thrumming in her chest.
Take that, Divination.
She might have fumbled her O.W.L.s in that ridiculous subject, but the job market for divination specialists at the Ministry had just been cut down dramatically.
The thought was almost enough to make her laugh, but her breath was already ragged, her lungs searing from the frantic sprint for safety.
They darted through the shattered remnants of glass and glowing mist, dodging and weaving as the shouts of Death Eaters and the crash of falling shelves filled the chamber. She could feel the sting of the sharp fragments cutting at her cheeks and arms, the air thick with dust and confusion.
The group splintered in the chaos—bodies darting in different directions, shouts and cries becoming distant and fragmented. Hermione twisted around, searching for familiar faces, her heart thudding against her ribs as she realized they were getting separated. She gritted her teeth, forcing her legs to pump faster, pushing through the debris, her eyes darting through the haze for any sign of her friends.
That's how Harry, Hermione and Neville ended up in a strange room.
Two death Eaters barged in after them.
"Stupefy!" Harry incapacitated one.
Hermione turned to the other, the tip of his wand glowing green, the death curse at the ready. She could do nothing but widen her eyes in alarm as she faced down her death.
Before the spell could be uttered, Harry tackled the Death Eater to the ground like the star athlete he was.
Neville threw out an expelliarmus, accidentally disarming Harry and the Death Eater on the floor as they wrestled. Alarmed, they glanced at each other before each shuffled after their wands.
"Stupefy!" Hermione sent out a powerful blast, hitting the Death Eater and knocking him into a glass bell as he fell over.
Neville collected Harry's wand and passed it back to him with an apologetic look. Harry accepted, motioning towards the door on their left.
The moment the trio burst into the next room, chaos erupted. Spells flew at them rapidly, streaks of violet light crisscrossing the air as Antonin Dolohov and another Death Eater unleashed a barrage of hexes. The trio scattered, diving behind stone pillars and overturned desks as curses slammed into the walls, sending chunks of stone and debris flying.
Hermione's breath came in sharp gasps, her mind racing. She knew they were after Harry—he was always the target. Peeking around her cover, she spotted Dolohov's wand moving, his lips forming the incantation to summon reinforcements.
She jabbed her wand forward without a second thought, sending a Silencing Charm hurtling toward him. The spell hit its mark, cutting him off mid-word, his mouth still moving, but no sound coming out.
Harry blurred across the room, dodging a Stunner. With a swift flick of his wand, he sent a full-body bind crashing into his opponent. The Death Eater stiffened, toppling over with a dull thud, immobilized.
Hermione allowed herself a moment of relief—until she caught sight of Dolohov's furious eyes locking onto her.
Dolohov spun to face her, his face twisted with rage, his wand moving in a quick, fluid motion. His eyes burned with a dangerous intensity as he conjured a flaming whip, its bright purple flames flickering ominously in the dim light. His spellwork had a terrifying elegance—silent, precise, deadly. Hermione's heart lurched; she might have admired the skill in other circumstances.
The whip of flame lashed out faster than she could react.
It struck her square across the chest, and she felt the world drop away.
The force of the blow sent her hurtling backward, her body slamming into a wall with a bone-jarring impact. Pain exploded through her, her vision going white with the shock of it. Her head snapped back, and she could barely register the searing agony that tore through her chest as she heard the sickening sizzle of fabric and smelled the acrid stench of burning flesh.
She crumpled to the ground, her limbs heavy and unresponsive, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Her mind swam, trying to push past the pain, the edges of her vision darkening as she fought to stay conscious.
She had to get up.
She had to keep fighting.
But her body felt on fire, the purple flames of Dolohov's spell still licking at her skin.
She may have been dying.
Before the darkness carried her away, she wondered if anyone would let Malfoy see her body before they put her in her grave.
Hermione awoke suddenly and in pain, her eyes shooting open as she screamed.
A draught was poured down her throat by Madame Pomphrey, who meticulously read her health status from the spell she cast.
Hermione spluttered and coughed, only half swallowing the potion while the remaining portion coated her ruined shirt.
Pomphrey's eyes widened in alarm as she continued scanning the readings from the spell.
"My dear," Pomphrey said in a quiet disbelief. "You are lucky to be alive."
"It doesn't feel that way right now," Hermione moaned as she laid back in bed.
Whatever the healer gave her was taking effect. The burning sensation was dulling to a mild irritant, and the sting of pain coursing through her veins dimmed to a cold numbing, like pins and needles.
"I'm sure it doesn't feel tolerable right now, but I should be able to fix you up," Pomphrey promised. "It won't be simple, though. I'll be brewing dittany and mixing salves for you for days."
Hermione closed her eyes against the healer's intense stare, scared to look down at the damage to her chest.
Perhaps she wouldn't have to acknowledge it if she didn't look.
"The others?" She asked instead.
"All returned, all with various states of injuries." Pomphrey sounded irritated now. "They'll live. I wish Dumbledore would remember that I am only a school healer, not St. Mungo's. Your wounds are grave enough to be there, Miss Granger."
"And Harry?"
"Harry Potter is just fine. He's got more lives than a cat," Pomphrey said, a small smile gracing her face. Harry had charmed the healer, no doubt about it. "He's visited already and just left to speak with the headmaster."
"Headmaster?"
"Dumbledore is reinstated, rightfully so. Never should have been chased out."
Confused, Hermione paused. A throat cleared.
Draco Malfoy stood there, both bored and irritated at having been kept waiting.
"Ah, yes," Pomphrey frowned. "Mr. Malfoy has requested to be allowed to see you. I told him he had to wait until you woke to provide permission."
"Yes, thank you. It's fine." Hermione replied without taking her eyes off Malfoy.
Pomphrey moved out of the way. Malfoy walked over, clearly infuriated, as he tried to make it look casual.
"I'll leave you to it," Pomphrey said. She turned to Malfoy. "She needs rest. Don't keep her too long."
The curtain closed, leaving them a bit of privacy.
"She let Weasley and Potter see you without waiting for your permission," Malfoy spat. "They also didn't get warnings not to stay long."
Hermione signed, trying to hold back a grin. "They've been my best friends since our first year, Malfoy. We've been in the hospital wing together more times than not. She was safe to assume they're permitted to visit me."
Malfoy gave an angry huff, sitting in the chair beside her bed. He glanced at the flowers beside her bed, then back at her.
All the anger seemed to dissipate as he studied her face. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a strange fiery hex hit me in the form of a whip," Hermione groaned.
Malfoy's eyebrows shot up in alarm. "Dolohov hit you?"
"This must be his specialty, then. I'm flattered." Hermione tried to shift, the movement pulling on the charred edges of her skin. She gritted her teeth in pain as Malfoy reached out and helped her settle.
"You're lucky to be alive," he breathed, his face inches from her as he carefully positioned her on the bed.
"Pomphrey said the same thing," Hermione admitted as Malfoy settled back into the chair. "And I'll echo the sentiment that I certainly don't feel lucky."
"Don't say that." Malfoy's eyes darkened. "What were you thinking, Granger?"
Hermione looked away, tracing the patterns on the dated curtains with her eyes. "Harry thought Sirius was captured and injured, or worse. He wanted to save him. We didn't realize it was a trap."
"Of course you didn't," Malfoy laughed humourlessly.
Hermione turned back towards him, watching him run his long fingers through his platinum hair in frustration.
She remembered being in the Department of Mysteries. She remembered Lucius led the fray, and Malfoy's aunt Bellatrix had also been there.
Dumbledore's return and Harry's safety-what did that mean for the Malfoys?
What did it mean for her Malfoy?
"Draco," she said. He looked up at her, alarmed at the use of his first name. "What happened at the Ministry?"
"Sirius Black is dead," Malfoy swallowed hard and deeply breathed. "And the Dark Lord has risen."
Shivers ran down Hermione's spine at the use of that moniker.
And Sirius. Merlin, Sirius. Harry would be a wreck.
Clearing her mind, Hermione focused on the important information, scrambling to make plans.
"We knew he came back," she said about Voldemort. "We knew that last year."
"Dumbledore battled him at the Ministry. The Minister of Magic and several Aurors saw him and watched the battle. He's no longer in hiding."
"Then we're at war now," Hermione surmised.
Malfoy nodded, taking one of her hands in his own. His eyes trailed down to her chest, which she could feel covered in bandages.
It had to be bad if some dittany and Pomphrey couldn't heal it. Hermione was administered an industrial-strength pain potion that could kill a small animal.
Still, she refused to look down.
"What… what about your father?" Hermione changed the subject.
Malfoy frowned and looked away. "He's been detained and is awaiting trial."
"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered.
Hermione's chest tightened, the pain etched in Malfoy's expression striking a chord deep within her. She didn't regret the arrest; his father deserved every ounce of justice. But seeing how it weighed on Malfoy—his shoulders heavy with shame and the faint tremor in his hand he tried to conceal—made her stomach twist.
It wasn't sympathy for Lucius, but the raw ache of knowing this fractured his world and could negatively affect his life.
"What does that mean for you?"
What does it mean for us?
"I'm not sure," he replied. "I'm not kept in the loop and prefer it that way. But his failure will have consequences."
Hermione squeezed Malfoy's hand.
He pulled hers up and gently kissed the back of it. "I'm glad he failed."
They sat for a moment, neither wanting to break the tentative truce between them. She didn't want to look at the damage on her chest. Or ask where they stand now.
If they stood anywhere.
Since they broke it off weeks ago, they barely spoke. Now, it seemed they had formed some uncertain friendship.
"We're at war," Hermione repeated, the statement sinking into her with dread.
Logically, she'd known that the war was coming. The reality of it seemed to hit her drug-addled mind like a freight train. Her eyes moved back and forth as she processed, thinking of all the potential outcomes and problems. Each scenario was grimmer than the last, and they played on repeat.
"Hey," Malfoy caught her attention, her eyes shifting to him. "No more thinking up war strategies. Not when you're meant to be resting. Healing."
"To have more time to plan yours?"
Malfoy tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. "My only allegiances are for you and my family."
"Me?"
"Yes, you." Malfoy leaned over and kissed her forehead. "You cunning witch. If there's war, then I'm taking whatever I can get whenever I can get it. Try as I might to stay away; you've seeped into my bones. You've bewitched me."
"I warned you not to underestimate me," she grinned.
"Consider myself properly chastised." Malfoy rubbed gentle circles on her hand.
"What does this mean for us?"
"I don't know," he replied, his jaw tightening. "But we've both clever. We'll figure it out."
"Speaking of clever," Hermione smiled as she felt the tendrils of sleep pulling at her again. "I have something to tell you."
"Then tell me, my brilliant witch."
"Remember when Umbridge followed Harry and me into the Forbidden Forest?" Hermione mumbled, her eyes slowly closing. She saw Malfoy nod. "I set a trap and set the centaurs on her."
Hermione fell asleep to Malfoy's deep belly laugh.
Dread filled Draco as he walked into the Manor after his father's trial.
Azkaban awaited Lucius, sending a message to Death Eaters: the Ministry wouldn't be lenient as another war loomed.
Draco's mother, Narcissa, summoned him home immediately.
The Dark Lord was coming to their manor and requested Draco's presence, specifically. Draco didn't know what awaited him but understood it was revenge for his father's failures.
Draco heard and learned enough about the Dark Lord from their circles to know he was a petty, angry master prone to fits of temper and fury when met with failure.
What prompted some of the most revered Sacred Twenty-Eight to align themselves with such a deranged figure?
Draco's grandfather and father included. Men known for their intelligence. They held prestige, money, and power in their own right. Yet, they were drawn in by this puritanical warmonger.
How?
It's possible his charm was more pronounced before he lost his nose.
"Ah, young Mr. Malfoy," the Dark Lord greeted Draco as he entered the drawing room.
The Dark Lord was perched on one of their antique chairs near the fireplace. He looked ghastly in the light.
Narcissa stood, stone-still and petrified, before the Dark Lord. Snape, ever the loyal dog, stood beside her. Bellatrix was pacing the room, clearly able to save her hide from another excursion to Azkaban.
"You called, Master?" Draco said as he fell to a knee before the Dark Lord.
He hadn't yet taken the Dark Mark, but knew he was expected to show reverence.
"Yes. I am sure by now you've heard about your father. What a terrible disappointment." The Dark Lord waved an ambivalent arm like lazily swatting away a fly.
"Yes, Milord." Draco looked down at his feet, not trusting himself to keep his face perfectly neutral.
"I had such hope for the Malfoy line, such a pure and strong testament to the sanctity of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I'm sure you can understand why I am so let down." The Dark Lord stood, and Draco stopped breathing. "That's why I am going to give you another chance. A chance to prove yourself where your father could not. To bring honour back to your family name."
"And what is that, Milord?" Draco asked, chancing glance.
The Dark Lord smiled a wicked, malicious grin at Draco-like he'd just walked into a den of vipers, set up as a trap.
"You're going to take the Dark Mark-tonight. Then, you will kill Albus Dumbledore when you return to school."
Draco's heart stopped. His stomach dropped like a stone, and he could feel the blood drain from his face. He expected something terrible, but not this.
Never this.
He had seen the mark on his father's arm countless times; the skull and snake burned into his flesh like a brand, a promise of loyalty sealed in pain and blood.
That ominous fate loomed over him, inescapable.
He yearned to fight back, to break free, to do anything but submit. But he knew better. His father's mistakes had left the Malfoy family dangling on a precipice, and any defiance would see them fall.
Worse still, he knew that if he refused, his mother would pay the price.
Or Hermione.
The thought of her crossed his mind like a knife's edge, sharp and unforgiving.
He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.
"Yes, Milord," Draco said, forcing the words out as his throat tightened with fear. "I… I am honoured, Milord."
The Dark Lord's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory satisfaction.
"Good boy," he said, almost mockingly. "Come here."
With leaden legs, Draco stood, mind screaming for escape, to run, to do anything but move closer. But he knew there was no choice. No other option. He took a shaky breath and moved forward, his steps unsteady as he approached the Dark Lord.
"Hold out your left arm," Voldemort commanded, his voice a low hiss that sent chills down Draco's spine.
Draco's hand trembled as he raised his arm, his sleeve slipping back to reveal his pale, unmarked skin. He tried to steel himself, tried to keep his face neutral, but he could feel his fear bubbling just below the surface, threatening to break through. He couldn't afford that. Not now.
Voldemort's cold, thin fingers wrapped around his wrist, and Draco shuddered at the touch. It was like being gripped by ice, a chill that seeped into his bones and made his skin crawl. The Dark Lord raised his wand, pointing it directly at the tender flesh of Draco's forearm.
"This will hurt, Draco," Voldemort said, his tone almost amused. "But pain is a powerful teacher."
Draco's heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum.
He closed his eyes, bracing himself.
For his mother, he told himself.
For her. For Granger.
And then the pain hit.
It was like nothing he'd ever felt before, a searing, burning agony that tore through his arm and spread like wildfire throughout his entire body. His eyes flew open, a choked scream escaping his lips as the Dark Lord's wand pressed harder into his skin. He could see the tendrils of dark magic snaking down his arm, twisting and writhing like living things, like snakes biting into his flesh. His knees buckled, and he would have collapsed without Voldemort's unyielding grip.
Draco's vision blurred as the pain intensified, tears streaming down his face despite his efforts to hold them back. He could feel his skin splitting, the dark ink of the Mark burning its way into his veins, twisting and coiling like a serpent. It was like his arm was being torn apart from the inside out, every nerve screaming in protest. His breath came in shallow, panicked gasps, and he could feel his strength waning, his body threatening to give out.
"Please," he choked out, unable to stop himself. "Please, stop—"
The Dark Lord's grip tightened, his smile widening.
"Oh, Draco," he crooned. "We're not done yet."
The pain grew worse, spreading up his arm and into his shoulder, his chest, and his heart. It was unbearable, every muscle convulsing, every bone feeling like it was being crushed. His legs gave way, and he crumpled to the floor, but Voldemort didn't let go. He kept the wand pressed against Draco's skin, the Mark burning deeper and deeper, carving itself into his soul.
Draco's vision went black at the edges, his body trembling violently as he fought to stay conscious. He couldn't pass out. He couldn't show weakness. Not here. Not now. He bit down hard on his lip, tasting blood, using the pain to ground himself, to keep himself from falling apart completely.
At his breaking point, when he felt ready to crumble, the pain subsided. It didn't vanish, not entirely, but it dulled, becoming a throbbing, aching burn that settled deep in his bones. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body drenched in sweat, his limbs heavy and numb.
The Dark Lord finally released him, and Draco slumped to the floor, clutching his newly marked arm to his chest. Despite the pain and exhaustion, he knew it was there.
The Dark Mark.
His skin was still smoking, the lines of the skull and snake etched into his flesh, raw and red.
"Congratulations, Draco," Voldemort purred, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "You are now one of us. A true Death Eater."
Draco couldn't speak. His throat felt raw, his body shaking uncontrollably. All he could do was nod, his head spinning with a mixture of fear, hatred, and a deep, suffocating despair.
"But remember," the Dark Lord continued, his tone darkening, "you have a task to complete. Fail, and I will make you wish for death."
Draco swallowed, his mouth dry, his body screaming in protest as he tried to force himself to his knees again.
"Yes, Milord," he whispered, his voice a rasp. "I will… I will not fail."
The Dark Lord watched him, his red eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "See that you don't. Now, get out of my sight."
Draco staggered to his feet, his arm hanging limply at his side, every step a battle against the pain radiating through his body. He bowed as deeply as he could manage, his legs threatening to give way beneath him.
Turning to leave, he saw his mother. Pale, stricken, eyes wide with guilt.
Draco's lips pressed into a thin line, his heart hardening. His father had brought them to this and had allowed this nightmare to become their reality. There was no room for weakness now. No room for doubt.
He staggered to his bedroom, his mind whirling, his body on fire. Drunk on pain.
There was no going back now.