Chapter 17

i sealed my fate

"Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like."
― Lemony Snicket

The sharp pre-dawn breeze off the coast stung Hermione's cheeks as she, Harry, and Ron staggered through the front door of Shell Cottage. Every muscle in her body ached from their escape from Gringotts on the dragon, but the emotional strain, the vivid memory of being nearly caught again, weighed on her most.

Upon entering, Fleur's eyes widened in relief and alarm as she spotted them in the kitchen.

"Mon Dieu… you all look terrible." She set down the cup of tea in her hand and rushed over.

"Just another day breaking into the world's most secure bank," Ron said with a tired grin, wincing as he lowered himself onto a chair.

"We got it, though." Harry sank beside him, wiping grime from his face.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out Hufflepuff's cup. The gold surface was smeared with dirt from their mad scramble through Gringotts. He set the cup on the table, his hand resting almost protectively beside it.

"Right," Hermione said, her voice thick with fatigue as she collapsed into a chair opposite them. Her eyes drifted to the cup. "But we still don't have the sword."

She hated how bitter the words sounded, but it was the truth. The blade that could destroy these cursed objects had been their lifeline, and now it was gone.

"So we're back to square one on destroying these things?" Ron asked, the frustration evident in his voice. "How are we supposed to get rid of it?"

"Basilisk venom," Harry said. "There are fangs in the Chamber of Secrets. It's just… getting them, that's the problem."

"Right," Hermione nodded, though a slight pang of anxiety flickered within her. "Entering Hogwarts and reaching the Chamber is one thing, but what about the remaining horcruxes? One must be something of Ravenclaw's." She glanced between the two boys. "Hufflepuff's cup, Slytherin's locket… There's a pattern."

"Something of Ravenclaw's," Harry repeated thoughtfully. "But what could it be? It's not like she left loads of artifacts behind."

Ron shifted, looking uneasily at the cup. "Then we've got no choice but to go back, haven't we? To Hogwarts."

The weight of that suggestion settled over them. Hermione's heart raced, a strange cocktail of dread and anticipation swirling within her. She could feel her heart urging her toward Hogwarts—toward the answers they desperately needed. And yet, the thought of returning to the place she'd once loved, now a dark fortress under Voldemort's regime, made her stomach twist.

"But we can't just barge in," she said. "We're all… we're exhausted. Injured." She glanced down at the fresh bruises on her arms from Gringotts and the cut that stretched along Harry's cheek. "We need to recover. We'll be no use if we stumble into Hogwarts half-dead."

Harry nodded reluctantly. "She's right. If we're going to pull this off, we need to be at our best. We'll take a few days. Just a few," he added, his gaze flickering to the cup, a reminder of the urgency pressing down on them. We have a timeline, though it's more flexible than the cup's."

Ron looked torn, his fingers tapping anxiously on the table. "I hate waiting, but… yeah. Just a couple of days."

Hermione forced a small smile to hide the guilt coiling in her gut. She wanted this time—no, needed it. It meant she could see Draco, let him know what they'd done, and reassure him they were one step closer to ending this nightmare.

She stood up, the scrape of the chair against the floor sounding louder than she intended.

"I'll, um, I'll be back in a few days." She felt the boys' eyes on her. "I… I need to check on something."

Ron furrowed his brow. "Check on what, 'Mione?"

"Her husband, you wanker." Harry rolled his eyes at Ron's obliviousness. "She has another dragon to ride tonight."

Hermione blushed so deeply that she was sure she looked like a tomato. Harry laughed and smacked Ron on the back, the latter gobsmacked.

Shaking her head, Hermione strode toward the door. Harry caught her arm as she passed by.

"Be careful, yeah? We can't afford to lose you."

"I will," she promised.

Grange Manor welcomed her home as Hermione stumbled through the door, her body aching from fighting flooding gold, duelling wizards and goblins, and hanging tight to dragon scales. Her robes were torn and singed, streaked with dirt and soot, and her wand hung limply in her hand. She dropped it on a side table as she passed, too weary to care about where it landed.

Her steps faltered in the dim hallway, the only light coming from the faint glow of a wall-mounted sconce. She braced herself against the cool wall, her breath in shallow gasps. Her mind was still racing—the dragon's roar, the panicked screams of goblins, the endless flood of cursed gold threatening to bury them alive. It was all too much.

The bedroom door loomed ahead, slightly ajar, and she pushed it open with little strength. The room was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains. Draco lay sprawled across the bed. His sharp features softened in sleep. The sight of him—calm, untroubled—made her chest ache.

Hermione didn't bother changing or cleaning up. She crossed the room in silence, her knees almost buckling as she reached the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight as she sat, her hands trembling as she unfastened her boots and kicked them off. Each movement felt like an insurmountable task, her body protesting every action.

She slid under the covers with a sigh, the cool sheets brushing against her overheated skin. As she turned onto her side, her back to Draco, the bed shifted slightly, and she felt his warmth as he stirred. A hand brushed her arm, tentative but grounding.

"You're back." Draco's voice was thick with sleep.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. "Yes."

His fingers curled lightly around her wrist. A silent question. She couldn't bring herself to answer, couldn't put into words the chaos she had just survived. Instead, she turned toward him, burying her face in his chest. His familiar scent—citrus and cedar—washed over her, soothing the raw edges of her nerves.

Draco didn't press for details. His arm came around her, pulling her closer, and his hand stroked her hair in slow, steady motions.

For the first time since stepping into Gringotts, Hermione felt herself begin to relax, the tension draining from her muscles.

This was what safety felt like.

"Whatever happened," Draco said, his lips brushing against her hair, "you made it through."

Hermione closed her eyes, tears pricking at the corners. She didn't trust herself to speak, so she only nodded, clutching his shirt like a lifeline. His steady heartbeat under her ear was the only thing anchoring her to the moment, keeping her from falling into the memory of suffocating gold and fire.

Exhaustion finally claimed her, and she drifted off with Draco's warmth surrounding her, his steady breathing a balm for her frayed nerves. She could answer questions and make plans tomorrow, but she let herself rest for now.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting pale streaks of gold across the room. Hermione sat at the small table by the window, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea as she watched the waves rolling in the bay. The window was notched open, the sea-salt air mixing with the fresh, damp earth of early spring.

Draco emerged from the bathroom, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. His face was paler than usual, and Hermione knew he had taken one of his potions before showering. She'd still been asleep when he slipped out of bed.

He paused when he saw her, a flicker of relief crossing his face before his usual composure masked it. "You could have joined me."

Hermione smiled at him. "I think I'll soak in a bath as soon as I finish my tea."

"Damn. I should have waited." He smirked, adding a bit of levity before sighing, running his hand through his wet locks. "Did you get what you needed?"

Hermione nodded, taking another long sip of her tea. "Did you doubt me?"

"Never. If anyone can break out of Gringotts, it's my wife."

Hermione laughed, shooting him a quick grin. He always felt she was capable of miracles.

"And now you're back?" He hedged.

"For now," Hermione said, her voice laced with exhaustion.

She stared into her mug, watching tea leaves swirl at the bottom. Her thoughts raced, calculating, planning, always planning.

Draco crossed the room in a few strides and leaned against the table's edge, his arms crossed. His pale eyes searched her face, looking for answers she wasn't ready to give.

"What's next?" he asked.

Hermione exhaled, setting the mug down with a soft clink. She met his gaze, her shoulders straightening despite the fatigue weighing her down. "Hogwarts."

Draco stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Hogwarts?"

The word fell between them like a stone.

"I have to." Hermione stood, the chair scraping softly against the floor. "There's something crucial there that we require to finish this."

Draco's expression darkened, his concern evident despite his attempt to remain stoic. "You've already risked your life once. Yesterday—Gringotts—you could have been killed. And now Hogwarts? You know what it is now, what he's turned it into. The Carrows are menaces, and Snape does nothing to reign them in. It's a house of terror and horror now, not a school."

"I know. You've told me." Hermione was too tired to argue. "And you know my reasons for going."

Draco looked away, his gaze falling to the floor. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he struggled to find the right words.

"You're too important to lose."

She placed a hand on his arm, over his mark, her touch gentle but insistent. "We're all important, Draco. And we're all in danger until he's gone."

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. "When do you leave?"

"A few days. We agreed to get some rest after last night."

"That's the first decent plan I've heard from you three," Draco said, though the tension in his posture didn't ease. "I'll start your bath. Feel free to recount everything from last night as you soak."

As he moved around her, Hermione caught his hand, stopping him. "Draco, I'll be fine."

"You'd better be," Draco replied, his tone attempting levity but not quite succeeding. "I don't fancy storming Hogwarts to drag you out."

Draco lay slumped on the couch in the living room, the window overlooking the bay, his skin pale and damp with sweat. The potion continued to take its toll. His breathing was shallow, his eyes half-closed, and he was too exhausted even to move. Hermione sat beside him, a cool cloth in her hand, gently dabbing his forehead. She watched his face, noting how pain twisted his features even in rest and how his brow furrowed with each spike of discomfort.

"You're going to get through this." Her thumb brushed along his cheekbone. "Maybe it will get better with time. Like growing immunity."

Draco managed a weak chuckle, his lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile. "You sound so optimistic, love. Next, you'll be telling me it's good for me."

"Well, if it comes to that, I'll be sure to use all my powers of persuasion." She ran her fingers through his hair. It was damp but soft, and he closed his eyes, leaning slightly into her touch.

"Who could have guessed you would excel as a nurturing housewife?" His tone was teasing, but there was something wistful in his eyes. His fingers brushed over her hand. "You're pretty good at this."

She knew what he meant—what life might be like if they weren't living under the shadow of war and fear if they didn't have to look over their shoulders constantly. She could almost picture it: simple mornings, small gestures, a life filled with moments like these, untouched by the terror outside their walls.

"Don't push it, Malfoy. We both know I'll be the one with the career, and you'll be my pretty househusband."

"Hm." He leaned into her touch. "You're right, as always. You do whatever you like, my love, and I'll support you in every way I can."

He was exhausted, and Hermione couldn't bear to see him like this, even when he promised her the world in his delirium. Setting down the cloth, Hermione picked up a mug of tea, carefully coaxing him to take a sip. He couldn't keep anything else down, not even broth. Draco winced at the taste but obeyed, his gaze locked on her, something unreadable simmering beneath his exhaustion.

"That's bitter enough to be one of Snape's experiments." He pulled a face.

She laughed, setting the mug aside. "Well, it's no pumpkin juice, but it's supposed to help."

"Do you ever think about it?" Draco leaned back, his eyes half-lidded as he looked up at her. "Imagine a life where things were different. What would it be like?"

Hermione hesitated, her fingers stilling against his forehead. The question tugged at her heart, raw and delicate, a thread she hadn't dared to pull on. She'd thought about it, of course. She'd let herself dream of a world where they could be together openly without worrying about losing him or anyone else she loved. But the thought was dangerous—too tempting.

Too easy to fall into despair from the lack of it.

"Sometimes," she admitted, looking down at her hands as if they held the answer. "Sometimes I let myself think about it. Just for a moment."

He watched her, studied her with careful eyes. "And…what do you see?"

Hermione smiled sadly, running her fingers through his hair again. "I see mornings like this. No war, no potions, no fear. Just us. Together."

Draco's hand moved to hers, his fingers curling around hers with surprising strength given his current state. "You mean you wouldn't be sneaking around under cover of darkness just to take care of me?"

She laughed, but it was a bittersweet sound. "No, I think I'd prefer to do it in daylight. No sneaking around, no hiding. Just…living."

"Merlin, Hermione," he said after a moment. Draco's gaze softened as his usually guarded expression faded, leaving something raw and tender. "What did I do to deserve you?"

Hermione's heart ached, and she leaned down, kissing his forehead softly. "You don't have to earn this, Draco. We both just…found each other. Right when we needed each other most."

"It's so bloody unfair, isn't it?" He closed his eyes, a shadow crossing his face. "What was the purpose of it all if we end up losing each other in the end?"

The question hung between them, heavy and unspeakable. She swallowed hard, the fear coiling in her chest.

"We won't lose each other. I won't let that happen." Her voice was firm, even if she wasn't entirely sure she believed it.

Draco reached up, his hand cupping her face, his thumb brushing her cheek.

"If there's any truth in the world, it's that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he said, a sad smile on his lips. "If things were different…if they were normal…I'd spend every day proving it to you."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat, and she leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, pouring everything she couldn't say into that single, precious touch. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed.

"When this ends, I'll hold you to that promise."

Draco closed his eyes, and a shuddering sigh escaped him as he gave in to his exhaustion.

Draco's expression softened in sleep, the tension finally easing from his features as he drifted into a fitful rest. His arms lay limp at his sides, his breath deep and uneven. Hermione watched him, her heart aching as she took in the faint lines of pain still etched across his face. Every so often, he would shift uncomfortably, a soft moan slipping from his lips, pulling her gaze away from the pages of the book she was pretending to read in the chair opposite. Each sound caught her attention, tugging at her heart as she strained to gauge his pain level, helpless in the face of his suffering.

She needed to get him off of that potion.

She glanced down at the notes again, but the words blurred together, meaningless. How could she sit here, idle and comfortable, while he endured the punishing potion—taking on another burden to keep them safe? Her fingers clenched around the book's spine, her chest tightening with a wave of anger that simmered beneath the surface, aimed at Voldemort, the Dark Mark, and the cruel reality they were trapped in.

Standing, Hermione went to the kitchen, where she had left her notes organized along the kitchen table. They took up so much space that she and Draco started to eat at the island on the bar stools instead.

She heard Draco's shallow, rhythmic breathing through the door to the adjoining living room. The potion he'd taken had left him pale and weak. His magical core muted like a melody gone silent. The memory of his fragile smile before he drifted to sleep played over and over in her mind, igniting a simmering frustration in her chest.

She hated this—being unable to act, feeling powerless while the clock ticked toward their next impossible battle.

The Dark Mark wasn't just a brand but a parasitic link to Voldemort, tethered to Draco's magical core. Severing it required more than brute force—it needed precision and understanding. The Mark had to be isolated, treated as a foreign invader, and dismantled piece by piece without destroying Draco's magic.

Her chest tightened as she thought about creating the approach. Training Draco's magic to reject the Dark Mark, his skin to react to it like a rash, a virus.

The methodology's basic idea earned Lucius' approval. It could work.

Her gaze fell on the parchment beside her—a list of book titles scrawled in Lucius' distinctive script. He'd sent it while she was at Gringotts, battling goblins and riding dragons. She'd read the names a dozen times since returning, each one a possible lifeline: Sigillum et Vinculum Magicae, Magiae Vincula, and others she hadn't been able to find elsewhere.

She needed a spell. A spell to identify and isolate a magical signature—and the required details weren't in her current resources.

She sat back, rubbing her temples as the realization solidified. The knowledge she needed might only be found in one place.

The Black Library.

Grimmauld Place, she knew, might hold the answers. But just the thought of leaving Draco, of stepping into danger without him knowing, made her stomach twist.

Her eyes flicked toward the door again. The sight of him earlier, fighting to stand upright as the potion drained his strength, was seared into her memory. His resilience was as maddening as admirable, and the reminder spurred her into motion.

With a sharp breath, Hermione gathered her notes into her bag, folding Lucius' list atop them. Her hands trembled, not with fear, but with determination.

Grimmauld Place was technically Harry's now, and as a Black family property, it was steeped in centuries of protective enchantments. Hermione's access to the house was permitted through Harry's inheritance, but her marriage to Draco granted her a magical claim. Being his wife, part of the Black family by law, even Kreacher would be forced to acknowledge her authority, even if he did so with vile mutterings and venomous glances.

The thought of Kreacher filled her with distaste. The little house-elf was everything she loathed about wizarding society's deep-seated inequalities, a reminder of the parts of the magical world she found so twisted and unjust. But watching Draco suffer like this, each wave of pain clawing through him, was worse. Kreacher would be key to quickly accessing the knowledge that could free Draco from this hellish Mark.

She hated using house-elves, even one like Kreacher, but in this case it was necessary.

If the knowledge she needed existed, she would find it.

Hermione's gaze drifted back to Draco, her resolve hardening. He would be furious when he found out. A part of her almost wanted to wake him, tell him what she was about to do, hear his voice again, and see the flash of fire in his eyes, even if only for a moment.

But he needed rest more than he needed to argue with her.

She'd only be gone for ten to twenty minutes. Then, when Draco woke, she would be one step closer to the solution to the Dark Mark that he desperately needed.

Hermione's gaze flicked to Draco again, her heart heavy with a thousand unspoken fears.

This risked going terribly wrong. But she had no choice.

She tiptoed toward the bedroom, her mind racing with the risks and the odds of success, yet resolute in her decision. In a swift, silent movement, she apparated away.

The moment Hermione apparated onto the cobblestones outside Grimmauld Place, an unnatural silence settled around her, dense and oppressive. Her heart hammered, each beat reverberating against the suffocating quiet as she cast a disillusionment charm over herself. Narcissa's wand flickered under her hand, and she held her breath, praying the spell would hold as the house's shadows stretched toward her like dark claws.

Grimmauld loomed ahead, cold and menacing, as though it were watching her with countless, unseen eyes. A chill ran down her spine, but she pushed forward, crossing the threshold with a muttered spell to lock the door behind her. She set a caterwauling charm and a few other protective wards quickly.

Every instinct told her to turn back, to leave, but the image of Draco's pale, haunted face pushed her on.

"Kreacher!" Hermione called out.

The silence stretched, pressing down on her like a weight, until—crack—the elf appeared, his slouched figure framed by the dim light filtering through the narrow windows. His eyes glistened with malice as he took in her presence, his lip curling back.

"Mistress Malfoy," Kreacher spat, his voice laced with scorn. The title dripped from his tongue like venom, twisting the words until they felt more like a curse than a name.

"I need these books." Hermione ignored the way Kreacher's eyes narrowed, his hatred like a living thing in the air. She copied the list Lucius sent and handed it to Kreacher. "Do we have them here?"

Kreacher's eyes narrowed at the list.

"Yes." he hissed, his voice filled with pure, undiluted contempt. "The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black would never suffer a Mudblood married to its heir,"

Hermione's skin prickled, but she held her ground, her fingers tightening around the wand. "I don't care, Kreacher. Just get me the books."

Kreacher's beady eyes flashed with disdain, but he turned with a muttered curse and shuffled down the hallway, leading her deeper into the dark, winding corridors of Grimmauld Place. Every step felt like a descent into a hidden tomb, the faded portraits on the walls glaring down with accusing stares as though they could sense the trespass in her blood. She kept her wand raised, alert, half-expecting something to leap from the shadows.

As they entered the vast library, Hermione's breath caught. It was larger than she remembered, and the smell of dust and decay hung thick in the air. Shadows danced along the towering shelves as if something unseen were shifting in the darkness.

"Hurry," she said, her voice tight, her every nerve alight with the sense of something lurking just beyond the edge of sight.

With a grudging wave, Kreacher summoned the books from their shelves. They fell before her in a neat stack, the cracked, leather-bound spines catching the dim light. They were thinner than she'd imagined, the ancient magic flowing from their worn edges.

Hermione opened her beaded bag and swept the books into its enchanted depths.

"Foul invader… Mudblood thief… disgracing the legacy of the House of Black," Kreacher muttered under his breath, his voice a hateful hiss.

Just then, the screech of Walburga Black's portrait erupted through the house. "MUDBLOOD FILTH! HOW DARE YOU DESECRATE THIS SACRED PLACE! FILTHY LITTLE—"

Hermione's heart pounded as she closed her bag, barely paying any mind to the portrait's shrieking. The voice grew louder, echoing through the dark hallways, ringing with pure, venomous rage.

She was just about to exit the library when the high, shrill sound of her ward alarm blared through the house, making her blood run cold.

Someone was here.

She shot to her feet, her hand frozen in place as terror surged through her, quick and cold as ice.

She tried to apparate but couldn't. Someone had placed an anti-apparation ward on the house. Her blood ran cold.

"Kreacher, someone's here!" she hissed, her voice barely audible over the screaming portrait. "Stop them."

But Kreacher merely sneered, his lip curling back in something disturbingly close to a grin.

"Kreacher obeys the House of Black," he said, his voice dripping with malicious satisfaction. "Kreacher will not stop a Black from entering this most noble home."

A Black. Limited options remained. Narcissa. Draco. The estranged sister, Andromeda. Or, the most likely culprit, Bellatrix Lestrange.

The scar on Hermione's arm shot a bolt of pain through her at the thought.

Panic clawed at Hermione's throat, but she had no time to argue with the house-elf. Her hand shook as she pointed her wand at her bag.

"Avifors." The bag transformed into a beautiful kingfisher, matching the bag's colours. "Find Draco. Stay with him."

Every second felt heavier, her mind racing, realizing she might not escape in time.

The bird floated toward the window, trapped inside the library like her.

"Kreacher. Open the window. Now."

The house-elf spat a slur at her but opened the window, unable to disobey a direct order from his would-be mistress.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway—quick, deliberate, and heavy. Her heart stilled as a voice, cold and cruel, reached her ears, ringing with twisted glee.

"Where is she?" Bellatrix's voice cut through the silence, icy and filled with malice. "I can smell her… filthy little Mudblood… in my family's sacred home…"

Hermione's breath hitched, her mind a frenzied storm of fear and desperation. Her hands moved on instinct as she readied her wand, her heart thundering in her chest. She could feel Bellatrix drawing closer, her presence radiating like a dark, poisonous cloud, and Hermione knew she had only seconds left.

Taking one last, desperate look around the library, Hermione hid. Bellatrix burst into the room, her eyes gleaming with murderous fury, her wand raised.

"Come out, come out, little Mudblood!" Bellatrix screeched, her eyes alight with unhinged glee as she scoured the room.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat, her pulse roaring like a drumbeat in her ears. She didn't have time to think. She held her breath, willing herself to become invisible, her mind racing through every defensive spell she knew. But she knew Bellatrix was dangerous, relentless. Hermione was no match for the witch in duelling.

Footsteps echoed in the library, drawing closer, slow and taunting. Bellatrix moved with deliberate ease, her voice lilting in a singsong.

"Oh, little Mudblood, come out and play! I know you're in here…" Bellatrix's cackle cut through the silence, slicing through Hermione's dwindling courage. "Such a filthy little creature, scurrying around in my family's house! A Malfoy's little pet, are we?"

Hermione's body was frozen in place, like a statue. Bellatrix's voice taunting her was as powerful as a Petrificus Totalus. Her body was not her own, would not listen to her.

Bellatrix prowled forward, her wand sweeping the air in anticipation. Hermione could feel her presence pressing in, suffocating, tainting the air. Each footstep drew Bellatrix closer until Hermione could almost feel her hot, twisted breath just on the other side of the bookshelf.

Just when Hermione thought she might still have a chance to disapparate, a hand shot out from between the shelves and clamped around her wrist, wrenching her out of her hiding place. Hermione gasped as she was dragged forward, her feet scraping against the stone floor, the sharp nails digging into her skin like claws. Bellatrix's face loomed close, her eyes wild with fury and delight.

"Well, well," Bellatrix purred, her voice dripping with venom. "The little Mudblood, right here under my nose. How sweet of you to make this so easy for me."

Hermione raised her wand, but Bellatrix was faster. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the wand flying from Hermione's grip, the clatter of it against the floor echoing through the room. Hermione's stomach dropped as her last line of defence was stripped from her, leaving her helpless under Bellatrix's savage grin.

"Going somewhere?" Bellatrix sneered, shoving Hermione against the wall with a force that left her head spinning. "Did you think you could just stroll in here and defile my family's home, little girl? Oh, I don't think so."

Hermione's mind screamed at her to fight back, to do something, but fear had taken root, paralyzing her. She tried to twist away, but Bellatrix's grip was like iron, and her laughter grew louder, more manic, filling the space between them.

"I know all about you," Bellatrix hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "So clever, aren't you? Always at the heels of Potter, always trying to play hero."

Hermione's breaths came in shallow gasps, her mind racing to block out the rising terror. She couldn't give Bellatrix the satisfaction of seeing her fear. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to speak to keep the panic at bay.

"Maybe… maybe I just don't think you're that scary," she forced out, her voice wavering despite her attempt at defiance.

Bellatrix's expression twisted with rage. She yanked Hermione closer, her grip so tight that Hermione thought her bones might snap.

"Oh, but you should be afraid," Bellatrix murmured, her voice dark and smooth as velvet. "There are fates worse than death, Mudblood. And I am very creative."

Hermione's stomach lurched, and absolute, visceral terror washed over her. She knew Bellatrix meant every word. Her mind flashed to Harry and Ron, to Draco—to everyone who mattered to her. The thought of never seeing them again was a sharp, searing pain that twisted inside her. But she couldn't let it end like this. She wouldn't.

Bellatrix seemed to sense her defiance, and her grin widened, pleased. She grabbed Hermione by the hair, dragging her forward, out of the library, and into the hall. Shadows loomed, casting everything in eerie, flickering darkness.

"You won't get away with this." Hermione stumbled, her hair still clamped in Bellatrix's grip, her heart pounding so loud she thought it would burst.

Bellatrix only laughed, a sound that rang with hollow cruelty.

"Oh, but that's the beauty of it, Mudblood," Bellatrix sneered. "I already have."