Chapter 13
last drops of an ink pen
"In dealing with those who are undergoing great suffering, if you feel "burnout" setting in, if you feel demoralized and exhausted, it is best, for the sake of everyone, to withdraw and restore yourself. The point is to have a long-term perspective."
— Dalai Lama XIV
HERMIONE
Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor of the small section of the tent she carved for herself and added a privacy barrier to. After months of being in the tent with two boys, and even just Harry, Hermione knew they all needed their own space occasionally. Or else, like siblings, they'd start to quarrel.
Harry was napping, still healing from the venomous bite of Nagini.
Draco's anti-venom, coupled with the litany of supplies he dropped off, ensured Harry healed quickly. Harry didn't ask questions when she told him a blood replenisher and Dittany did the trick. He wasn't precisely a healer or in any state of mind to ask questions at the time.
Hermione thumbed through The Tales of Beedle the Bard. But her focus was elsewhere, her mind spiralling with possibilities.
The Dark Mark.
She'd thought back to her initial research time and again while they were hunting horcruxes. She'd even jotted note a note or two when inspiration struck.
Hermione couldn't stop thinking about it—the magic, ancient and parasitic, woven into the core of the Mark.
No one had ever removed one, and it gnawed at her.
She flipped to a blank page in her journal, quill poised, her thoughts sharp and restless. All attempts to remove the Mark had relied solely on magical remedies: counterspells, cleansing curses, and even dark rituals meant to sever the bond. But the results were always the same—failure.
Harry mumbled in his sleep, which was a relief. After seeing him so close to death, any time he was silent for too long, Hermione had the urge to check on him. To ensure he was still there, still breathing.
The notes she'd copied from the Restricted Section lay before her, marked with underlines and side notes as she worked through the puzzle.
Why hadn't magic removed it? What was everyone missing?
"What if…" she murmured, her brow furrowing.
What if the magical immune system—the body's inherent magical field—wasn't recognizing the Mark as a threat? What if it had adapted to the Mark's presence instead, treating it like an essential part of its system?
If the magical core, if the body, recognized it as part of the system… then counter-curses and cleansings wouldn't help. It would be like trying to cleanse the body of its own core, of its own blood and nervous system.
The idea sparked fire, and her quill scratched furiously across the page.
She began to think about parallels between Muggle and magical biology, something she'd studied extensively in her downtime since Muggle medicine seemed more logical and scientific than its Wizarding counterparts. Hermione secretly loved biology, learning the puzzle of how living organisms worked inside and out, something that wasn't taught at Hogwarts.
Muggle medicine successfully treated invasive diseases by teaching the immune system to fight back. Vaccines, for instance, train the immune system to identify and fight certain foreign viruses and diseases.
Immunotherapy.
Hermione's heart raced as the pieces started to click.
If she could create a potion that mimicked magical cytokines—the body's chemical signals for fighting foreign invaders—she could potentially trick the magical core into attacking the Mark.
Her mind raced through ingredients, scribbling furiously with her quill and wishing she had a ballpoint pen.
Powdered mandrake root was known for stimulating magical fields. Bezoars neutralized toxins and could stabilize the immune response. Combined with a binding agent, they might replicate the process Muggles used to create immune system triggers.
But how to test it?
She glanced nervously toward the area where Harry slept. There was no way she could explain this to him—not now. Not while they were so focused on the horcruxes.
And yet, the challenge persisted.
Even if she brewed the potion secretly, she had no way to test it. She needed someone with a Mark. Someone willing to take the risk. And access to them. All impossible feats at the moment.
Her stomach twisted, the weight of her secret pressing harder. She didn't want Harry to think she was distracted. She didn't want to admit why she was doing this—not entirely.
This wasn't just research. It was hope.
Hope that when the war ends, she might find a way to heal more than just herself. Hope for him.
Draco.
She bit her lip, forcing herself to focus. The potion itself was only the first step. Testing it—proving it could work without causing harm—was another obstacle.
Her fingers trembled as she sketched out a recipe. The mandrake root would need to be finely ground. The bezoar dissolved into a base of phoenix feather-infused water to amplify its magical resonance. Each step had to be perfect.
Her head snapped up at the sound of Harry shifting, and she quickly shut her journal, heart pounding as she waved her wand, shuffling her papers away.
For now, this was her burden to bear.
Harry had wandered from camp when Hermione was focused on re-reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard for the umpteenth time to decode whatever the deceased wizard wanted her to find.
Because just writing her a letter would have been too easy, of course.
She figured Harry needed to relieve himself and didn't think much of it. She didn't notice the passing of time.
Until Ron and Harry returned together with the Sword of Gryffindor, which they promptly used to destroy that damn insidious locket. The horcrux hissed, writhed, and screamed in obliteration. The air lightened around them. But that fleeting sense of victory did nothing to settle the storm inside Hermione.
Ron returned, and despite everything that had happened, even though he had abandoned them in their time of need, Harry welcomed him back like a long-lost brother.
Ron seemed to expect a hero's welcome—a joyous reunion, applause, and open arms.
Yet, Hermione didn't feel any of that.
She stood rooted in place, her body tense, and her hands balled into fists. Her breath came in shallow, measured bursts as she tried to control the torrent of emotions swirling within her—anger, betrayal, relief, confusion—each fighting for dominance.
How could he waltz back in as if nothing had happened? As if he hadn't left them in the middle of a war? As if he hadn't walked out on them like they meant nothing?
Ron's eyes flickered to her, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips as if he expected her to run into his arms. But Ron was met with a frosty glare from Hermione Malfoy.
The more Ron spoke of his time away, the more Hermione could feel her tension radiating through her body like a poison. She wanted to explode. She wanted to erupt and tell Ron what she thought of his whimshere, when he feels like it; gone when it's too hard.
Yet, she understood it was not helpful at the moment.
Not when they were still celebrating the destruction of a horcrux.
Excitement and relief filled the tent after the locket's destruction. Harry's face lit up with a rare, genuine smile. Ron basked in the glory of his return, acting as if his departure had been some heroic sacrifice rather than an abandonment. Like his return was a boon and not a slap in the face.
Hermione sat in the corner, her jaw clenched, her hands gripping her knees until her knuckles turned white.
Ron was speaking animatedly, recounting he and Harry finding the Sword of Gryffindor at the Lake for the umpteenth time. He expected Hermione to be overjoyed and forgive him instantly, like Harry.
But every word that left his mouth grated on her nerves and frayed her already worn patience. She tried to focus on Harry and remind herself that this was a victory, that they'd destroyed another piece of Voldemort.
But her mind kept drifting back to those endless nights of waiting, the days filled with tension and fear. And Harry, nearly dying from a snake bite—Ron had no idea how close they'd come to losing him.
Harry would be dead if it weren't for Draco.
Her blood boiled at the thought. She wanted to shout it at Ron, to witness his face when he learned Draco saved Harry. That his enemy had stepped up when Ron had abandoned them.
But it would solve nothing. It would only cause more problems.
"Oi, Hermione," Ron said suddenly, breaking her out of her thoughts. He was grinning at her. "I brought you back some of your favourite biscuits from Mum's pantry. Figured you'd be missing them."
The world around her sharpened, and she momentarily lost herself in the absurdity of his words.
Biscuits.
After everything that had happened, he thought she'd be mollified with biscuits.
She could feel something unraveling inside her, something dark and twisted that she hadn't let herself acknowledge. A bitterness that burned like acid in her veins.
"I'm… going to get some air," she said, standing abruptly.
Not waiting for a response, Hermione didn't care to hear whatever flippant comment Ron would throw her way. She pushed through the tent flap into the cold, biting air outside.
Her breath came in sharp bursts, her mind spinning as she marched away from the tent. She needed to get away, needed to put distance between herself and everything, everyone. Once she reached a secluded area deep in the trees, she stopped. Far enough away that no one could hear her.
Hermione slammed her fist into a tree, sending a sharp jolt of pain up her arm, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to drown out the storm raging inside her.
She wanted to tear her hair out, to rip apart the world around her. Wanted to scream until her voice gave out, until she couldn't feel anything anymore.
All she could see was Harry lying there, pale and broken, his life slipping away in her hands while she couldn't do anything to stop it.
All she could hear were Ron's self-congratulatory words, lauding himself over the bare fucking minimum.
She'd held everything together for so long, kept herself composed, strong, focused. Alone in the woods, everything crumbled.
She thought of her parents, the memories she'd stolen from them, the life she'd erased to keep them safe. She thought of Draco, the way he'd risked everything to save Harry, to help her.
Her hands were bleeding now, her nails digging into her palms, but she welcomed the pain. Amidst everything slipping away, it was a real, tangible thing she could hold on to.
The wind howled through the trees, the cold biting into her skin, but she barely noticed. Lost in fury and sorrow, she couldn't find a way out.
Hermione could feel herself teetering on the edge, her mind slipping into a dark, dangerous place where reason and logic didn't exist. She wanted to let go, to give in to the madness that beckoned to her like a siren's song. To just let the world burn.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, and her vision blurred with tears and exhaustion. She couldn't see through the haze and couldn't feel the cold anymore. She felt like she was disappearing, fading into nothing.
Amidst the darkness, she sensed something, someone—a steady and familiar presence. She turned her head, looking around her but finding no one.
The necklace Draco gave her for Christmas pulsed at the hollow of her throat, a soothing wave of tranquillity enveloping her whole body. Reminding her that she wasn't alone.
It started quietly, as so many storms do. They'd been in the tent, and the three huddled around the map, discussing their next steps. Ron made an offhanded comment about how at least they had a whole team again.
Hermione's jaw clenched, the words hitting her like cold water. She looked over at Harry, who darted a cautious glance her way, sensing her sudden rise in temper. But, oblivious, Ron kept talking about strategies and the Horcruxes, unaware of the knot of resentment twisting tighter in her chest.
"What do you think about Godric's Hollow, then? Could be worth a look, right?"
Hermione scoffed at his suggestion to go to Godric's Hollow, a spark to the tinder of the argument waiting to explode. "We've already been there, Ron."
He blinked, flustered. "Oh. Right, I didn't realize…"
Sensing the tension building like a storm, Harry tried to jump in.
"Yeah, we went over Christmas," he said, his tone careful. "It was… it was a tough night."
But he didn't elaborate, and Hermione felt the frustration bubble up even more. He had no idea, couldn't fathom, how close Harry came to death.
Ron's face flushed in embarrassment, and he cleared his throat.
"Well, then, maybe…" he faltered.
"Maybe what, Ron?" Hermione asked, her voice sharp as steel.
"Look, I know it was hard when I left," he said defensively as he geared up for the conversation. "But I came back, didn't I? So can we… move on?"
The abruptness of his words made Hermione's hand pause mid-scribble, the tension in her body coiling like a viper readying to strike. She looked up, meeting his eyes with a controlled expression that belied the spark of anger flickering inside her.
"Move on?" she echoed, her voice cold. "Just like that?"
Ron frowned, shifting. "Yeah. I mean, what's the point of dragging it out? I left, I came back, end of the story. I don't see why you're so angry about it."
Harry winced, glancing between the two of them, his discomfort evident. Hermione clenched her jaw, her fingers curling around the edge of the map.
"You don't see why I'm angry?" she repeated, incredulous. "Ron, you abandoned us. You left, and we didn't know if you were coming back. Do you have any idea what that felt like?"
"I know I made a mistake, alright?" he snapped back, his frustration starting to show. "But I had my reasons! And it's not like it was easy for me, either. Being out here with no progress, no food… nothing. It felt like we were doing all this for nothing!"
Harry cursed under his breath as he stared wide-eyed at Hermione.
"We're doing it to stay alive!" she shot back, her voice rising. "To stop You Know Who. Or have you forgotten that?"
Ron's face reddened further, becoming blotchy, and he sat up straighter, his eyes flashing. "Of course I haven't forgotten that! But you weren't the only one struggling, Hermione. I was starving and tired, and… it felt like you were both ignoring me. Like I didn't matter. You didn't even notice I was struggling."
"Each day has been a struggle, Ron. And you just… you walked out because it was too hard? Because we didn't coddle you?"
Anger replaced Ron's embarrassment, his eyes growing fiery.
"You think that I just left because I was bored?" His voice grew louder, frustration spilling over. "I was scared, alright? I don't have a bloody prophecy scar giving me hints, and I'm not some genius with a plan for every damn situation!"
"Even helping us survive meant something," she accused, biting back. "Although, I guess that wasn't enough for you. Merely being present and offering support wasn't sufficient; it was not heroic enough. But this is about not losing any more people we care about. And if you can't see that—"
"Oh, don't lecture me about caring!" Ron's voice grew louder, angrier. "You think I don't care? I have more to lose than anyone else in this tent. The Order includes nearly all my family members. Don't lecture me about losing people!"
Hermione's mind flashed to Draco, of his dire warnings of what was happening at the Manor. Of the news they received about the current state of Hogwarts when they could manage it. They still had friends at Hogwarts, under the vicious rule of Snape and the torment of the Carrows.
And they had each other. Harry, Ron, Hermione. It had always been the three of them. Losing either of them would feel like losing a limb.
She stared at Ron, anger flaring, not just because he'd left, but because he genuinely didn't understand why she was so hurt. He couldn't see the worry, the fear, the way she'd barely slept since he'd gone.
"You're not getting it, are you?" Her voice was a mix of anger and disappointment.
Harry shifted beside her as if trying to disappear into the shadows, but neither of them paid him any mind. This argument had been brewing since Ron's return, accusations hanging in the air, waiting to erupt.
Night had long fallen, and the shadows thrown by their small lantern flickered across Ron's face as he looked at Hermione, brows knitted together in frustration.
"Look, Hermione, I know you're still mad. I get it." Ron's voice was low, laced with defensiveness. He ran a hand through his hair, puzzled by her inability to let it go. "I made a mistake, alright?"
Hermione's hands shook, and she forced them into fists to hide the tremor, nails digging into her palms.
He had admitted to his regret that he'd left. But he hadn't apologized for it yet. Hadn't even said sorry. Not even to Harry.
"Yes, you came back," she spat, struggling to keep her voice steady. "But you also abandoned us, Ron. You left us out here to fight for our lives."
"Merlin, Hermione, don't you think you're blowing this a bit out of proportion?" He crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. "I was fed up, alright? Everything was bloody hopeless!"
"Hopeless?" Her voice was a whisper, her anger more dangerous for its quietness. "You think I didn't feel hopeless? Do you think I wasn't terrified every single night? We had to sleep in shifts, Ron. Nagini almost killed Harry on Christmas, and every time I close my eyes, I see it happening again. That… that bite almost killed him, and you were gone. It was just the two of us. I was terrified and alone." Her voice broke, and she swallowed, forcing herself to steady, to be strong.
A silence fell as the weight of her words settled in the tent, and Harry shifted, looking between his two best friends with wide, cautious eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione continued before he could, her words tumbling like she'd been holding them in too long.
"Can you imagine how it felt? Every step forward, not knowing what we'd run into? Not knowing if you were coming back? And then… and then you waltz in, expecting everything to return to how it was?"
Ron threw his hands up, exasperated.
"And what am I supposed to do? Apologize on my knees? Admit I messed up? I already did that, Hermione! I made the right choice in the end. You should just forgive me."
Hermione's laugh was humourless, bitter. When had he apologized on his knees? Never. Not for anything in their lives.
"You don't understand me anymore if you think I can just… forget everything that happened." She held his gaze.
"I don't." Ron looked away, and she noticed the hurt in his eyes. "I don't understand you, Hermione. You've been different… since I got back. Maybe even before that. I don't know, you've changed."
Her heart clenched. He wasn't wrong, but she wasn't ready to face why. Not ready to confront how this war was changing her, stripping away parts of herself she'd always relied on.
And Draco. He'd changed her as well. They had changed each other. And she would never regret that.
"And maybe that's not the worst thing, Ron," she replied. "Growing isn't something to apologize for."
Harry cleared his throat, casting her a worried glance before turning to Ron.
"Ron, look," he said, trying to keep the peace. "Hermione's been through a lot. We all have. Let's… try to get through this together, alright? No more fighting. We're all here now, and that's what matters."
Ron looked like he was about to protest, but stopped himself. He let out a heavy sigh and stared at the ground.
"Fine. But I don't understand why you both act like I don't care. I left, yeah, but it's not like it was an easy choice for me. I did come back." He looked up at Hermione, his eyes softer, almost pleading. "You know I'd never abandon you, not really. You know that, right?"
Hermione's anger softened slightly, her gaze falling. Despite her longing to believe and let go, the raw hurt persisted. "I'm trying, Ron. You can't expect forgiveness without allowing me time to process."
They momentarily held each other's gaze, a tenuous understanding passing between them. The anger wasn't entirely gone but tempered, softened by the memory of the friendship they'd shared for so long.
"Alright," Ron said. "I'll give you time. But… let's not tear each other apart while we're at it, yeah? We've got enough to deal with."
"Agreed." Hermione crossed her arms, her shoulders dropping even as her heart remained heavy.
Harry gave them a tentative smile, relief evident on his face.
"Alright then," he said, a note of hope in his voice. "Together, yeah? Like always?"
They both nodded, exchanging a small, fragile smile as they held each other's gaze, a shaky truce in place for now. Their survival relied on each other, and their bond remained unbroken despite challenges.
They visited Xenophilius Lovegood's home to learn about the Deathly Hallows, powerful relics mentioned in Dumbledore's copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, which he left for Hermione after his death. It was their only lead and seemed simple enough.
Hermione should have known by now that nothing was simple anymore.
Mr. Lovegood had sold them out.
The realization hit her like a physical blow, a bitter pill that burned its way down and settled like a heavy stone in her stomach. Her mind was racing, piecing everything together in a haze of betrayal and desperation. It hadn't been obvious at first—Mr. Lovegood had seemed distracted, frazzled even, but that wasn't unusual for him.
But when the Death Eater's symbol appeared in the sky, and the sound of their approaching boots grew louder, everything fell into place.
How could he have done it?
But then, how could she blame him? The Death Eaters had captured Luna. Sweet, dreamy Luna, who saw the world in colours most people were blind to. Hermione's breath hitched as she thought of Luna locked up somewhere, perhaps tortured, her wide, unblinking eyes seeing horrors no one should ever witness. The thought made Hermione's blood run cold, a sharp pang of guilt stabbing at her heart.
She knew she might have done the same if their positions were reversed. She might have bent the rules, broken the laws, or even thrown her morality into the fire for those she loved. For Harry, for Ron… for Draco.
Still, knowing that didn't stop the anger from bubbling up inside her, hot and furious. Hermione trembled with its force, her hands clenched. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving half-moon crescents in her skin.
She wasn't angry at Mr. Lovegood, not really.
She was angry at the whole bloody world.
Angry at the Death Eaters, Voldemort, and the twisted, cursed mess they were all caught up in. Angry that Luna was gone, Ron left, and Harry was attacked and hurt. Furious that she needed to keep Draco like her dirty little secret.
Above all, she felt anger towards herself. She was meant to be the clever one, the prepared one. The one who anticipated what happened next.
They apparated to their tent in the Forest of Dean.
"What the hell was that?" Ron kicked over a bucket nearby. "You can't trust anyone anymore."
"Ron," Hermione said. "They took Luna."
"Why would Voldemort even want?"
Sharp cracks cut off Harry's question as a group of snatchers apparated to their campsite.
Fuck!
"Run!" Harry yelled as they scrambled for the cover of trees.
The wet, spring air burned in Hermione's lungs as she tried to catch her breath, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. "We have to keep moving. They're coming!"
Harry nodded, his face pale and drawn, his grip on his wand white-knuckled.
"I know." Harry panted for breath, looking around wildly as though trying to spot an escape route in the dense forest. His eyes, wide with panic, met hers for a split second, and Hermione could see the fear in them, the same fear that gnawed at her insides.
Ron was a step behind them, his eyes flicking over his shoulder. "Fuck. They're gaining on us."
Hermione bit her lip. They couldn't afford to break—not now.
"Over there," Harry said, pointing toward a denser part of the forest, where the trees clustered together and cast long shadows. "We can hide in there."
"We need to keep going," Hermione replied. "If they find us, it's over. We need more time."
Time. Time that they didn't have.
They wove between the trees, their feet sludging through the early spring muck, still half-frozen. Every snap of a twig sent Hermione's heart into overdrive, her mind racing with possibilities, plans, and escape routes. She could hear the distant shouts of the Death Eaters as they closed in, their voices growing louder with each passing second.
A loud crack split the air, and before any of them could react, the impact of a powerful hex sent them sprawling to the ground, the earth trembling beneath them. Disoriented, Hermione gasped for breath, her pulse racing as the world tilted around her. Snatchers appeared suddenly as she blinked away the dizziness. Hermione twisted on the cold, hard ground, instinct driving her as she raised her wand, her hand shaking but steadying as adrenaline coursed through her.
"Well, well," Fenrir Greyback, a tall man with wild, matted hair and a nasty grin, stepped forward, eyeing the trio like a predator sizing up its prey. "What do we have here?"
Heart pounding, Hermione stood up, locking eyes with Greyback, desperately racking her brain for an escape plan. Her mind blurred with fear and pain, unable to formulate a course of action. Hermione gripped her wand, ready to fight if necessary.
"We're… just travelers," she said, her voice shaking but firm. "Lost in the forest."
The Snatcher laughed, a harsh barking sound that sent chills down her spine.
"Travelers, eh?" His eyes narrowed, and Hermione saw the recognition dawning on his face. "You look a bit too… familiar."
"Run." Harry stepped before her, blocking her from sight, his wand already raised.
But it was too late.
Greyback raised his wand, and before any of them could move, a jet of red light shot through the air, hitting Ron squarely in the chest and sending him crashing to the ground with a thud.
"Ron!" Hermione screamed, lunging forward, but Harry grabbed her arm, pulling her back.
"Don't," he said, his voice tight with panic. "Don't let them take you, too. Run."
Fear gripped Hermione as the Snatchers closed in, leaving no escape this time.
They were caught.
They were going to take them. Take Harry. They had to recognize him. Undesirable posters with his face were everywhere in the Wizarding World and the Daily Prophet.
There was no getting away from this.
So, she did her best in the worst situation and sent a wordless stinging hex at Harry.
The snatchers quickly grabbed them, Ron unconscious and limp and Harry's face swelling into something unrecognizable. Hermione struggled as they grabbed her by the arms, forcefully holding them behind her back while they laughed.
She was so angry. At the whole bloody world. And most of all, at herself.
At Malfoy Manor's gates, they faced a grand estate that dominated the Wiltshire landscape like a midnight apparition. Its gothic architecture, with its soaring turrets and spires, seemed to claw at the sky, the entire mansion draped in a permanent shadow. The black stone facade of the Manor was imposing, almost menacing, broken only by rows of tall, arched windows that glinted like a thousand eyes watching them as they approached.
Despite the distance, Hermione sensed the history and ancient magic lingering in the place as if the stones whispered secrets of past generations.
And yet… it almost felt welcoming.
The iron-wrought gates stood tall and forbidding, twisted into the shape of a grotesque face that sneered at them as they approached. The metallic voice grated through the air when it spoke, deep and unnatural: "State your purpose!"
"We've captured Harry Potter!" Greyback's voice was rough and triumphant, his grin revealing yellowed, jagged teeth that spoke of violence and cruelty. The snatchers with him grinned, their eyes alight with greed and anticipation as they shoved their prisoners closer to the gates.
Hermione's heart pounded in her chest, her body trembling with a fear she couldn't control. Her mind seemed distant and detached, like a distant observer.
Draco had warned her to stay away from the Manor, that it wasn't safe. His voice echoed in her head, a frantic, desperate plea. Yet here she was, almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Luckily, he was at Hogwarts. He didn't need to witness what was about to occur.
Stiff wind, harsh voices, and rough hands blurred the world around her. Her gaze flicked over the grounds, catching sight of a few shapes moving against the dark, manicured lawns.
Peacocks, she realized with a strange sense of detachment.
One, in particular, was pure albino, its feathers like a ghost among shadows. The Malfoy family would keep something so ostentatious in this darkness.
The snatchers shoved them toward the front door—a massive wooden slab reinforced with iron, with twisted, thorn-like metal embellishments protruding from it. It appeared more like a fortress entrance than a home.
The door opened. Narcissa Malfoy stood framed in the doorway, her expression as cold and severe as a midwinter frost. Her icy gaze swept over the group, settling on Greyback with thinly veiled disdain. She looked every inch like a queen defending her castle, her posture rigid, her chin tilted upward as if, even in captivity, she would bow to no one.
"What is this?" Narcissa's voice cut through the frigid air like a blade, each word measured, cold as ice. She regarded Greyback with a look that could freeze fire, her distaste palpable.
"We're here to see He Who Must Not Be Named," Greyback announced, his tone turning haughty as he puffed out his chest.
"And you are?" Narcissa's lips curled slightly, and the disdain in her eyes was unmistakable, as if she were looking at dirt tracked across her pristine marble floors.
"You know me!" Greyback said, his voice guttural, more beast than man. "Fenrir Greyback. We've caught Harry Potter."
A flicker of surprise broke through Narcissa's frosty demeanour, her eyes widening just enough to betray a crack in her composure. Her gaze shifted, sweeping over Ron and Harry's faces and landing on Hermione. Hermione could see the quick tightening of her lips, a subtle swallow, almost imperceptible—but Hermione saw it. And in that moment, a strange sense of appreciation stirred within her.
Narcissa Malfoy, captive in her own home, facing down a murderous werewolf and a host of thugs, still treated them all as if they were beneath her notice. The strength in that coldness was unmistakable.
"Bring them in," she said, her voice steady, almost bored. She turned on her heel and disappeared into the depths of the Manor, the door yawning open like a mouth ready to swallow them whole.
As they crossed the threshold of the grand manor, Hermione's breath caught in her throat. The opulence of Malfoy Manor was overwhelming. Marble floors gleamed underfoot, polished to a shine that reflected the flickering light of the chandeliers hanging above. The walls were covered in deep green silk, accented with intricate, hand-carved mouldings, and lined with portraits of austere, pale-faced ancestors. The figures within the frames seemed to shift and whisper to one another, their painted eyes following every movement with disapproval.
Narcissa led the group down a long, imposing hallway, her robes trailing regally behind her. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, and the scent of expensive wood polish and ancient stone filled Hermione's nose. She kept her head low, her heart hammering in her chest, and tried to ignore the cool stares from the portraits above.
Narcissa ushered the group into a drawing room that breathed with dark elegance. Rich emerald drapes framed tall windows, their heavy fabric unmoving despite a draft that wound through the space. Two massive, glittering crystal chandeliers dangled from the high ceilings, their countless facets throwing scattered shards of light across the room. The room felt both grand and suffocating, a mausoleum for the living. Two figures stood by the grand fireplace, casting long shadows against the wall, their postures tense.
Hermione's stomach dropped to the floor.
She knew Voldemort had liberated Death Eaters from Azkaban following his intrusion at the Ministry of Magic. However, she was not ready to encounter Lucius Malfoy after their last encounter at the Department of Mysteries.
Lucius, always impeccably dressed, now appeared worn and frayed at the edges. He leaned heavily on his snake-headed walking stick, his shoulders slumped. The cane, previously a symbol of status, now looked like it served a genuine purpose. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and a few days' worth of stubble roughened his usually smooth, aristocratic face. With a nervous energy, his hollow gaze darted around the room.
Beside him stood Draco, almost his mirror image but for the youth still clinging to his features.
Her husband.
Hermione's breath hitched at the sight of him. She hadn't seen Draco since Christmas, and no matter how she tried to steel herself, her eyes locked on him and refused to move.
Draco was supposed to be at Hogwarts. Why was he here?
Her stomach churned.
Draco's eyes scanned the group with a mixture of alarm and calculation, catching hers for the briefest of moments before he closed them. His jaw tightened, and she could tell by the slight shift in his expression that he was starting to occlude. A defence mechanism. She supposed it was for the best—any slip, any emotion, could doom them all.
Sadly, her occlumency skills were never good. Anyone who was even remotely adept at legilimency would have free access to her secrets. To her relationship with Draco.
Glancing around, she tried to remember who the Order reported as legilimens. Snape, for sure. Bellatrix, undoubtedly. Voldemort was skilled in the art, too. None of them were in the room.
"My son, Draco, is home for the Easter holidays," Narcissa announced her voice like silk over ice. "If this is Harry Potter, he will know for certain. They were classmates, after all."
Narcissa made a dismissive gesture toward Draco as if this were a trivial matter.
The Easter Holidays. Hermione had lost track of time. Had it been that long?
"They say they have Potter?" Lucius's voice was strained, a hint of desperation leaking through his aristocratic facade. He stepped forward, his eyes wild as they darted to the prisoners. When they landed on Hermione's face, he froze. His mouth opened in surprise, and he glanced back at his wife, uncertainty clouding his features.
"That's what they say," Narcissa said, sounding every bit the skeptic who did not suffer fools gladly. Her eyes swept the snatchers with disdain, her expression that of a woman tolerating an unpleasant but necessary inconvenience. "Draco, come here."
Draco's face was ashen against his dark clothing. His usual haughtiness was replaced with a tension that made him seem older, weary beyond his years. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the group, his body rigid.
Hermione shut her eyes momentarily, fighting the instinct to go to Draco. To throw her arms around him and sob with relief that he was still okay, that whatever mission he'd had didn't destroy him.
But she couldn't. If anyone suspected their connection, it would doom them all.
"Well, boy?" Greyback's raspy growl broke the silence, his yellowed eyes narrowing.
Hermione's breath came shallow and quick, her hands trembling at her sides. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears.
Draco's only allegiance was to himself, his family and her. She understood that everyone else was on the chopping block in his mind–including Harry. She wasn't sure how he would react when faced with everyone he loved in imminent danger.
Hermione stared straight ahead, trying to control every emotion that crossed her face.
"I can't—I can't be sure," Draco stammered.
Hermione's eyes flew towards him, finding him from across the room. He stood farther away than necessary, his gaze not settling on anyone. His eyes were almost unnervingly vacant, his face too calm.
Lucius, his patience wearing thin, strode toward Harry, his cane tapping against the polished floor. He leaned down, his nose almost touching Harry's face, scrutinizing the swollen, bruised features.
"What did you do to him? How did he get in this state?" His voice was sharp, accusatory.
"That wasn't us," a snatcher replied under his breath.
Hermione thanked her last-minute decision to hex Harry's face beyond recognition. However, it wouldn't last indefinitely.
They were exhausted and unfed, and Ron was only coming to consciousness. Even if Hermione could grab them, she wouldn't have enough energy to Apparate somewhere without splinching. They had nowhere to go. She was confident that Malfoy Manor had anti-apparation wards.
Lucius tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he scanned Harry's forehead. "I can't tell if there is anything there or not. Draco, come closer and look properly. What do you think?"
"I don't know." Draco's voice was flat and distant. He moved back towards the fireplace, his face turned away from the group, his eyes locked on the flames as if he could disappear within them.
Hermione wanted to go to him. The inability to acknowledge him was torturous. She struggled to avert her gaze.
"We must be certain, Lucius," Narcissa spoke with the cold authority of someone born to it. "Remember what happened to Rowle and Dolohov? We cannot summon the Dark Lord unless we are absolutely certain."
Greyback's growl seemed to reverberate through the room, low and menacing. "What about the Mudblood, then?"
The words hit Hermione like a physical blow, and she felt every muscle tense in response. Her eyes snapped to the werewolf, wide with fear. She could feel every gaze turning to her, like a dozen arrows aimed at her heart. Forcing herself to remain steady, she drew in a slow, controlled breath, her chin lifting in defiance. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs.
Narcissa's voice held a calm, almost bored cadence.
"I saw her picture in the Prophet," she casually mentioned. Her eyes drifted over Hermione as if she were a mere curiosity. "Draco, is that the Granger girl?"
Hermione's eyes flicked back to Draco, searching his face. She caught a flicker of emotion there—something that moved too quickly to pin down: fear, regret, determination? She couldn't be sure. Whatever it was, it disappeared as swiftly as it had materialized, replaced by a chilly, aloof expression. Her throat tightened, and she fought the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She squared her shoulders, desperately clinging to the shreds of her composure.
Draco's response was flat, emotionless.
"I can't say that's Granger," he replied in a practiced monotone as he turned back to the fireplace. The implication lingered.
No. She wasn't a Granger. She was a Malfoy.
The acceptance washed over her skin like a cool, billowy breeze on a hot day. A sense of ease floated through her chest, something settling deep within her. The necklace at her throat warmed a soft comfort in the face of peril. She almost heard a faint whisper in her ear, a placation she couldn't quite make out.
Lucius shifted the focus from her.
"But that must be the Weasley boy," he said, his gaze locking onto Ron with a predatory glint. His hand gestured in Ron's direction. "Arthur Weasley's son, right?"
Draco didn't turn around. He didn't so much as glance in their direction. His posture was rigid, his back stiff as a board, as he stared into the flickering flames in the hearth.
"Yeah," he said, almost thoughtfully. "I suppose it could be. All those Weasleys look the same to me, I'm afraid."
Hermione could almost feel the collective breath of the room, taut and strained.
Cutting through the silence, the door behind them creaked open like a knife. The sound was slow, deliberate, and unsettling, dragging out the unbearable tension. Eerie stillness gripped the room, and the walls listened, waiting.
"What is this? What's happened, Cissy?" Bellatrix's shrill voice sliced through the tense air.
Hermione's muscles clenched, her whole body rigid as though a full-body binding charm had taken hold. Bellatrix Lestrange was not only an ardent supporter of Voldemort, but she was psychopathic at best and a highly skilled legilimens.
No one dared to answer. The echo of Bellatrix's heels broke the silence, clicking on the polished marble floor—each step a death toll that sent chills down Hermione's spine. Bellatrix stalked around the group, her dark eyes flicking over each prisoner like a predator assessing its prey. She stopped before Hermione, her gaze narrowing, her mouth twisting into a cruel smile.
"Surely," Bellatrix said, her voice deceptively soft, "this is Potter's Mudblood, yes?"
"But beside her is Potter, we think!" Lucius interjected, desperate to draw Bellatrix's attention away from Hermione and back to Harry.
Bellatrix whirled around, her eyes lighting up with a deranged delight.
"Potter?" she squealed, the pitch of her voice ratcheting up. "Potter!" She moved in closer, her eyes wide with manic excitement.
The room devolved into a cacophony as Bellatrix, Lucius, and Greyback argued with rising fervour over who would have the honour of calling the Dark Lord, who would claim credit for capturing Harry Potter. Their words overlapped, growing louder, each trying to outshout the other in a frenzy of greed and desperation.
Hermione's heart pounded in her ears, muting the chaos. She forced herself to scan the room, her mind racing. She took in the ornate ceilings, the cold marble floors, and the glint of fear in Narcissa's eyes. Her gaze landed on Draco, who had his back to her. His posture was tense, his shoulders squared and taut like a bowstring. Narcissa placed a pale, trembling hand on his arm, a rare show of maternal comfort that betrayed her anxiety.
"Stop!" Bellatrix's shriek cut through the noise, silencing the room instantly. She pointed, her eyes locking on the discarded sword on the floor. "What is that?"
"We found it with them," Greyback said, his eyes shifting. "In their tent."
"No one call for the Dark Lord." Bellatrix's voice now low and serious. Her eyes were wide, her face pale with a sudden, terrible realization. "Or we all shall perish."
With a swift motion, Bellatrix raised her wand, firing off Stupefy spells in rapid succession. The Snatchers collapsed to the ground, leaving only Greyback standing, his eyes darting between her and the prisoners.
"Bella, what—?" Narcissa started, her composure slipping just a bit as confusion clouded her face.
"Draco, move these scum outside. If you don't have the guts to finish them, I'll take care of them later," Bellatrix snapped, her nerves fraying.
"Don't you dare speak to Draco like that," Narcissa shot back, her voice low and dangerous, a protective mother's fury igniting in her eyes.
"You have no idea how grave our situation currently is, Cissy!" Bellatrix shrieked, her voice growing hysterical. "We have a very serious problem."
Bellatrix began muttering to herself, her pacing frantic and erratic. Hermione's eyes darted to the Malfoys, all three standing rigid, on edge. They watched Bellatrix as though she were a feral animal ready to pounce, tension radiating off them like a heatwave.
"I need to think!" Bellatrix said through gritted teeth, her movements growing more erratic. "Take the prisoners to the cellar!"
"This is my house, Bella. You don't give orders in—"
"Do it!" Bellatrix screamed again, her voice a piercing cry that echoed off the stone walls. "You have no idea the danger we're in!"
For a brief moment, Narcissa hesitated, her elegant mask slipping to reveal a flicker of uncertainty.
Narcissa nodded to Draco, who lifted the snatchers with his wand and floated them out of the room. The one who held Hermione had his head smashed on the doorjamb while leaving, an unnoticed accident.
After Draco and the snatchers disappeared, Narcissa assessed the trio once more. "Greyback, take the prisoners to the cellar."
"Wait." Bellatrix's head shot up, a manic gleam in her eyes. "All except for the Mudblood."
A wave of dread washed over Hermione, cold and suffocating. Ron's shouting echoed somewhere behind her, but Bellatrix's hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Hermione's hair and dragging her to the centre of the room. Hermione let out a startled grunt at the harsh tug, but she bit down on her lip, refusing to cry out, determined not to give Bellatrix the satisfaction.
"Where did you get that sword?" Bellatrix's face contorted with fury as she flung Hermione to the cold, hard floor.
Confused, Hermione could do nothing but stare at Bellatrix with confused horror. Why did she care about where they got the Sword of Gryffindor? Did she know about the Horcruxes? Was she aware that the sword had basilisk blood and could be used to destroy the Horcruxes? Hermione doubted Voldemort would share that information with even his most trusted Death Eaters.
"Where?" Bellatrix shrieked, moving in on Hermione until she could smell her foul, rancid breath.
"We—found it," Hermione gasped, struggling to plan amidst the terror.
"Liar!" Bellatrix's scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged. "CRUCIO!"
Hermione braced herself, every muscle in her body tensing, waiting for the agony to consume her. But nothing happened. She opened her eyes, seeing Bellatrix's wide, disbelieving stare.
"How—?" A confused look crossed Bellatrix's face as she looked between Hermione and her wand like she couldn't believe the spell hadn't worked.
"I—I didn't—!"
"Crucio!"
Again, nothing.
Hermione observed the curse fizzle and disperse before her, like what had happened with Nagini.
Bellatrix's face twisted into a snarl. "What ancient magic did you steal, you filthy Mudblood? Did you steal it from my vault? Tell the truth! Tell the truth!"
Her vault? What made Bellatrix believe Hermione had been in her vault?
The question escaped Hermione's consideration. Bellatrix's eyes blazed with madness. She lunged at Hermione with a feral growl, her hands clawing as she pinned Hermione down.
"Where did you come by this magic?" Bellatrix hissed, her face inches from Hermione's, her breath hot and foul. "It doesn't belong to your kind."
Hermione twisted beneath Bellatrix, panic searing through her veins like fire, every nerve in her body screaming for freedom. Her wrists were raw from her struggles, but Bellatrix's grip was unbreakable, her fingers digging in like claws. Hermione could feel the woman's unhinged excitement, her breath hot and rank against her skin, making her stomach churn with disgust and dread.
"Wait…" Bellatrix's voice was a twisted lull, deceptively soft, though her eyes gleamed with manic triumph. "I think I do know where you got this magic."
Hermione's heart plummeted, her mind racing, the terror almost paralyzing as Bellatrix's wand traced lazily down her cheek and then stopped, poised and predatory.
"Finite Incantatem."
The spell snapped, and she felt the magic slip away like a thin veil. The disillusionment charm she'd been clinging to vanished, leaving her exposed. Hermione's breath came in rapid, shallow bursts, her body frozen in a horrified realization. The ring on her finger—Draco's ring, ancient and imbued with protections she barely understood—now glistened in the dim light, glaringly obvious against her skin.
Hermione watched, helpless, as Bellatrix's face twisted into a wide, malicious grin, her eyes narrowing with a vicious glee. She yanked Hermione's left hand forward, her nails pressing into her skin, and raised it to examine the ring with a cruel mockery of admiration.
The scene was a grotesque echo of the gentleness with which Draco had done the same. The memory of his touch, calling her his wife for the first time, came rushing back, making her heartache with a sudden, desperate longing for him, for safety. But there was no escape now.
"Draco," Bellatrix called, her voice cutting through the air, dripping with triumph. "It looks like I've found your missing ring. But didn't you already give one to the Dark Lord?"
Hermione's hand dropped from Bellatrix's grasp, and she struggled again, heart pounding with a new, frenzied urgency. This couldn't be happening—she had to find a way out of this.
Draco looked to his mother, who stepped forward. "Clearly, the girl has used some kind of magic to duplicate it. The ring Draco gave to the Dark Lord was genuine. It has held up to all the magical tests."
"Hm… so far." Bellatrix's twisted smile.
Bellatrix turned her attention back to Hermione, enjoying futile attempts to free herself, her gaze glinting with malice. She leaned in, almost as if she were savouring the fear that radiated from Hermione, her wand held up in an almost reverent stillness.
"No matter." Bellatrix's voice dripped with mockery, and her eyes lit with a cruel satisfaction. "These magical objects always have a limit on what they can do. For example"—she paused, her grin spreading even wider as if the very thought delighted her—"I bet it wouldn't be powerful enough to protect you from the Killing Curse."
The tip of Bellatrix's wand glowed an ominous green.
"I thought we needed information from her about something that put all of us in danger?" Narcissa interjected, her voice cold and steady, though Hermione detected a flicker of panic behind her eyes.
"I forgot myself. Forgive me, Cissy. You're right." Bellatrix's face twisted into an unsettling smile as she looked back at Hermione. "Without the Cruciatus Curse, I'll have to handle this another way."
Bellatrix's eyes glimmered in delight as she pressed the tip of her wand to Hermione's temple. "I can make this painless, but where's the fun in that?"
Hermione's heartbeat sounded in her ears as she stared into the wild eyes of the monster on top of her. This was it.
From the corner of her eye, Hermione spotted Draco slip back in, having disposed of the snatchers. She couldn't bring herself to care whether he had killed them.
She wished she'd gotten to speak to him before Bellatrix ripped through her mind. It was unlikely that she'd leave it unscathed.
Lucius gripped Draco's arm, Narcissa the other.
"Legilimens." Bellatrix's smile was cruel.
Bracing for an intrusion into her mind, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, ready to feel the pain and violation of the intruder.
Instead, like the cruciatus, she felt… nothing.
Opening her eyes, Hermione stared at Bellatrix as dawning horror grew on her face. Hermione didn't dare glance back at her husband again, not when his aunt was so close and perceptive.
Bellatrix shrieked like a banshee. The woman began tearing at Hermione's clothing, exposing her neck where the crescent necklace Draco had given her sat at the base of her throat.
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed on the charm. Her gaze moved towards the Malfoys on the room's opposite side.
"Nephew, I found your ring on Potter's Mudblood." She tested. Draco's jaw clenched as he stared at his aunt but gave nothing else away. "But you don't seem that surprised, do you?"
Narcissa shifted in front of Draco, blocking him from view.
"And where," Bellatrix's voice was now low and menacing, cracking from her screaming, "did the Mudblood get our mother's necklace, Cissy?"
Narcissa looked unfazed.
"I couldn't tell you, Bella," she lied with practised ease. "I put it in the Black family vault while you were in Azkaban. Lucius had given me a Malfoy heirloom that had similar effects, and you know I don't need protection from legilimency."
Protection from legilimency. Draco had given her an heirloom to protect her mind. A wave of calm washed over her. Bellatrix couldn't access her mind. Whatever else she did, Draco was safe.
Draco was safe from her. She wouldn't cause his demise. She held back a smile.
"And Potter inherited the Black vaults, as you well know, Bellatrix," Lucius drawled, keeping her attention. "She could have easily gotten it from him."
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through Hermione's stomach at the maniacal look that overcame Bellatrix's face.
"Without legilimency or the cruciatus curse, we must resort to the hard way. The hard path often proves to be the superior one." Bellatrix produced a large, glinting knife from her tattered robes. "I'll ask you again. Where did you get the sword?"
"It isn't the real sword! It's a copy—a fake!" Hermione exclaimed.
Hermione wasn't sure why she lied. She hid the truth about finding it in a lake. Perhaps, if Bellatrix believed the sword was fake, they could retrieve it during their escape.
If they escaped.
"We can determine that easily enough," Lucius cut in, his voice sharp. "Draco, fetch the goblin from the cellar. He can tell us if the sword is genuine or not."
Draco hesitated, his face pale and eyes wide, his gaze fixed on Hermione, pinned to the floor by his aunt. She could see the cracks in his Occlumency. His jaw clenched, his hands fisted at his sides, and he took a half-step toward her, nostrils flaring in agitation.
"Now, Draco." Narcissa's command snapped him out of his trance.
Draco nodded and exited the room, fighting the temptation to sprint.
Bellatrix's grin widened. "While we're waiting, why don't we have a little fun, hmm?" she cooed, gripping Hermione's left arm, her knife poised over the forearm. "Where did you get that Malfoy ring? And the stolen necklace?"
The blade pierced her skin, and Hermione felt fire sear through her nerves as Bellatrix dragged the knife down her arm, carving deep into her flesh.
"Tell me," Bellatrix said. "Then I will retrieve my family's heirloom. If you don't remove the necklace, I'll have to remove your head. I don't have a problem with that."
The knife pierced the skin, trailing white-hot fire as it movedas Bellatrix dragged it through layers of epidermis.
Hermione broke, screaming and writhing from the pain. Agony engulfed her body, muscles seizing as the knife moved. It felt like her bones were on fire, her muscles seizing with agony. She couldn't tell if seconds or hours had passed.
Even if she wanted to give Bellatrix an answer, she couldn't. Not through the layers of agony that shot through her arm and down her entire body.
Endless pain was all there was. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. All she could do was scream until her voice was hoarse and faint.
A fierce, bone-crushing impact ripped Bellatrix off of Hermione, the force throwing her to the side before she had a chance to scream. Hermione's vision spun, her head swimming with the haze of pain and shock, but she clung to one detail: the furious voice that cut through the chaos like a blade.
"Don't touch my wife."
Venom laced Draco's words as his face displayed unrestrained rage. He levelled his wand at Bellatrix, fixing his gaze on her like a hawk sizing up its prey.
He knew the farce was up when she found the Black necklace and the Malfoy ring with Hermione. Draco had only left to the cellars to pass the key to Luna, knowing the protective amulets would protect his wife from most magical attacks.
He hadn't expected his psycho aunt to start carving into Hermione with a fucking butcher knife.
The curse Draco had thrown blasted Bellatrix across the room. With a twisted snarl, she staggered to her feet, brushing dust from her robes. Hermione couldn't process the horror of it before Draco stood before her, his tall, slim figure blocking her view of his aunt. She watched, her heart thudding as he squared his shoulders, the lines of his jaw tense and defiant. He was ready to defend her, no matter what it cost him.
"Do you think you can win a duel with me, Draco?" Bellatrix's voice was a taunting drawl as she rose to her full height, her wand already pointed toward him. Her face twisted into a ghastly grin, her eyes gleaming with the prospect of destruction.
But a smooth, steely voice answered instead.
"No," Narcissa said, stepping forward, her tone deadly calm as she moved before her son. "But I can, Bella."
A look of betrayal flashed across Bellatrix's face for a split second. "Cissy?"
"You will not harm my son, Bella. Not him."
Bellatrix's face contorted with a snarl, her fury turning toward Hermione. "Then stand him aside so I can take care of that filthy Mudblood behind him!"
A glint of fierce pride flickered in Narcissa's eye. "Malfoys do not give up their own."
Lucius's voice rang out next, authoritative and resolute, the former power he once held coming back in a rush as he took his place beside his wife, his cane clutched tightly in his hand. "You'd do well to remember that, Bellatrix."
Bellatrix's face twisted further, her lips curling into a furious sneer as she looked at the three of them.
"You're all blood traitors! Your son married a Mudblood!" Her voice was shrill and venomous, echoing around the room with a hatred reminiscent of Walburga Black. Hermione flinched, still clinging to the thought that this couldn't be real—that she was standing behind the Malfoys, and they were fighting for her.
"So did Andromeda, Bella." Narcissa's jaw tightened, her voice laced with an edge of danger. "And we didn't murder her."
Bellatrix exploded.
"Don't speak of her to me!" Her shriek shattered the tense silence, and with a wave of her wand, she unleashed a torrent of hexes, curses flying toward them in a blur of flashing lights. Narcissa and Lucius sprang into action, countering and dodging each curse with precision, their movements coordinated, their faces set doggedly.
Hermione stood in shocked silence, blood still dripping down her arm, her body a mix of pain and awe as she watched the scene unfold. She'd known that Draco believed in the unity of his family and that Malfoys stood together no matter what. But seeing it now, feeling the weight of their protection, was something else entirely. The way they'd come together, shielding her from Bellatrix's wrath.
The realization crashed over her like a wave—Draco's family was fighting for her. Not just defending their own but fighting for her and her safety. At that moment, she was one of them.
It was surreal.
Draco's mind churned, every instinct screaming to take Hermione and run, to shield her from the war that had seeped into every corner of their lives. But he knew that Bellatrix was relentless. Until they defeated her, she would hunt them forever. So he stood, body tense and ready, willing every ounce of strength to protect her.
He kept his eyes on Hermione, their silent exchange conveying everything he couldn't say aloud: we will not let her hurt you again.
Bellatrix's hexes flew through the air, crackling with dark magic. Lucius blocked with a fluid flick of his wand, deflecting it against the stone wall, sparks scattering like embers. Narcissa was a second faster, her shield charm shimmering around her as she closed in, her expression one of steely determination.
Bellatrix cackled, her eyes wild as she sent another curse toward Narcissa. But Narcissa was ready, sidestepping with practiced grace and casting a silent stupefy. Bellatrix twisted, dodging it just in time, her gaze alight with manic glee.
"Is that all you've got, Cissy?" Bellatrix taunted, sending another curse Narcissa's way, the red light illuminating the room.
Lucius seized the moment. With his wand raised, he cast Expulso, aiming at Bellatrix's feet. The blast threw her back, staggering her as she lost her footing on the cracked marble floor. Bellatrix snarled, but Narcissa was already moving, her wand slicing through the air with precision.
"Incarcerous!" she commanded, her voice cold and unyielding. Thick ropes shot out from her wand, wrapping around Bellatrix's arms and legs, binding her in place.
Bellatrix's fury intensified as she struggled against her bonds, but Lucius wasn't finished. With a swift, almost merciless flick of his wand, he cast Stupefy at close range. The red light slammed into Bellatrix's chest, and her head snapped back as she fell, her body hitting the ground with a final, echoing thud.
Lucius kept his wand trained on Bellatrix's still form, breathing heavily but standing firm. Narcissa exchanged a glance with him, nodding, his expression a mixture of grim satisfaction and relief.
Narcissa appeared before Hermione, her expression cold but her movements quick. Hermione's arm hung at her side, blood trickling down her fingers, but her mind was spinning too fast to register the pain.
Greyback had returned at some point during the torture. Lucius made quick work of him, stunning Greyback and sending the werewolf crashing to the floor.
"Whwhat?" Hermione leaned against Narcissa, disoriented and struggling to stay upright.
"Malfoys protect our own," Narcissa said, her eyes flicking toward Bellatrix. "We must hurry, Draco. We don't have much time."
"I—what?" Draco's face was a mask of confusion, his mind struggling to process what happened. It looked like he was starting to come out of shock.
Narcissa leaned close to Hermione, her lips barely moving as she whispered, "Grange Manor, Salcombe."
Confusion filled Hermione's eyes as the door to the drawing room burst open.
"Let her go!" Ron aimed his wand squarely at Narcissa, jumping between her and Draco.
Narcissa stepped back, her wand at the ready.
With a loud crack, Dobby appeared by Ron and Harry across the room. Hermione's head spun, trying to keep up with everything happening simultaneously.
Ron fired a Stunning Spell at Lucius, sending him tumbling backward over his chair. Harry sent a Disarming Charm flying, wrenching Draco's wand from his hand.
Draco growled, a flash of anger crossing his face as he lunged forward.
Narcissa's hand shot out, grabbing his arm, and Hermione caught the subtle movement as she slipped her wand into his grasp.
Dobby dropped the chandelier from the ceiling, shattering it a few feet away, sending shards of glass scattering. Draco grabbed Hermione, turning his body to shield her from the debris.
"Draco, go!" Narcissa hissed. "Now!"
Draco hesitated, looking at both of his parents—one wandless, the other unconscious by the fireplace. If he left them there, left them now, there would be no going back. The likelihood they all got out of this alive was slim.
"Now," Narcissa said again, this time pleading.
Without another word, Draco tightened his hold on Hermione and, with a loud crack, Apparated them both away.