Hermione Granger: A Hill to Die On

Girlishly skipping, leaping their little leaps from rock to rock.

-Goats, by Eugenio de Andrade

Hermione Granger

The black-cloaked figure had returned. He shuffled between the fallen stones of Hogwarts, stopping often to lean against them. When his way was blocked, he brandished his wand and moved the massive stones aside rather than pick his way over them. It took quite a long time before he reached the main entrance and disappeared inside.

Hermione turned away. He always stayed for hours. He was the only one who ever visited Hogwarts now. The hunched profile indicated an elderly but powerful wizard—or witch. She'd thought for a while it might be Aberforth, but Aberforth walked with a strong gait, his shoulders thrown back. Or perhaps McGonagall? She disappeared after they'd broken out of the prison camp, and Hermione often hoped that she'd survived, somehow.

If only she could get a closer look. The highlands overlooked Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, but the figure was little more than a small shape against the tall brown grass. A quick trip downhill would get her close enough to gauge height, at least.

But she couldn't leave. Aberforth had latched the pasture gate. She flicked her tail in irritation and trotted off.

Brigadoon had settled into the highlands above Hogsmeade as if it had always been there. Shops, houses, and cobblestone streets clustered on the plateaus and dotted the slopes, wedged stone foundations keeping them level. Raised arches stood at the end of each section, residents disappearing through one and exiting through another several crests over. Brown and white owls wheeled back and forth.

She'd gone over any mention in a history text where a witch or wizard had been transformed into an animal and had been able—without a wand, or even hands—to transform themselves back. Such an ability was rare, and no amount of visualizing such a transformation had helped her.

There wasn't any more research she could do. No books she could read, no way to study possible solutions. And she felt…

Don't think it.

She felt…

No.

…relieved. There was nothing she could do. She'd gotten caught in this strange contract whilst Molly and Ron had escaped, and they and Bill and Charlie would have to continue on without her, building up the resistance again and finding new battles to fight. Her part was over.

She tossed her head, shocked to hear a resigned bleat escape her mouth. She'd tried to maintain her dignity and presence of mind, but something she could only describe as goatiness crept into her. How could she mull over passages in old books when the crisp air enticed her to run, when the steep incline begged her to climb and leap?

She looked for Malfoy, only to find a pale-haired, depressed looking goat looking back at her. Didn't he feel it? Didn't he want to move this sturdy little body that somehow felt so right? How had she stumbled around on only two legs for so long? A burst of energy overcame her, and she ran to Malfoy and gave a few false starts, inviting him to race.

Malfoy backed away, his ears and tail drooping. Spoilsport.

A farmhouse stood just beyond the pasture fence. Hints of tobacco wafted through the air, and a small cloud of smoke rose from behind a shed. Aberforth emerged soon after, smoking a pipe. The other goats gathered around him, bleating and hopping. A grey cat trailed after him, its ears perked as he grumbled about something or other.

She eyed the sedge below her and nibbled. Tangy and tender. She munched heartily, then found a small hawthorn shrub for a satisfying crunch.

Every day she wandered and watched and foraged, as clusters of aspen and oak on the lower ridges lost their foliage, as autumn winds turned colder and the naked branches danced against the shaggy pines. Gold and russet leaves blanketed the slopes and scattered rooftops, giving the air a musky-sweet scent.

The gold-russet land darkened to brown, the skies turned grey, and her coat grew long. But every day held troughs of fresh hay, new things to jump over, and gentle scratches from the old man who came to visit and check her coat. He had a name, and he'd done something that had made her angry. Sometimes she almost remembered, and when he turned away, she gave him a forceful butt that sent him face-first into the cold mud. Then he shook his fist and said loud words while she skipped away, out of reach.

The other goats came and went. The old man led them out of the pasture and she worried about their fate until he led them back, none the worse for wear. Sometimes she spotted them on other hillsides, clattering down the cobblestone streets. None of the residents seemed to mind.

She tried to keep her mind on things. She did. Mind over body. But the grass was so fresh and the air so clear that her nimble legs grew restless. She found she could leap in great bounds over the emerald-green hill, that the rain and wind barely bothered her. How tedious it had been before, to shiver at every breeze and to feel every bit of rain and mud against one's bare skin.

She spent her days running and jumping, tasting the field greens fresh with frost. Everything changed and nothing changed. The sun rose and set, the skies glowed, brightened and darkened, and the stars turned above. Her dreams were of blue skies and rolling hills, and she slept deeply. The castle and village below were steady, comforting presences. She thought of little else but the cold water in the stream and the grasses beneath her. The days and nights flowed into one another until she woke on a morning that had the sharp bite of winter.

A pale-haired goat bleated, looking at her with doleful eyes. She knew him, somehow. From before? Was there a before?

The goat bleated again, and she could almost hear his voice, demanding, cajoling.

Anger and frustration welled up in her, and she felt the irresistible urge to smack him on the head. She reared up and barreled towards him. There was a split second where his eyes widened in fear, and then, clack! She butted him directly on the head. He toppled head over hooves and rolled down the hill until he landed in a heap at the bottom. After a moment of stunned silence, he bounced back up and bleated at her indignantly. She bleated back joyfully. If she spent the rest of her life eating clover, it might be worth it just for that. She ran after him again.

He bleated in alarm and scampered away. She discovered she could bounce faster than she could run. She sprung over the other grazing goats as the pale goat zigzagged across a field. He came to a halt, and she crashed into his rear end, toppling them both over.

She'd hopped back up when a low rumble froze her in place. It grew in pitch and intensity until it ended in a shriek, as if the mountains themselves were screaming. Massive dark shapes passed overhead, blotting out the sun. Vast walls of gleaming mosaics glided by, diamond-shaped tiles creating abstract patterns in red and green and blue.

No, not tiles—scales. Scaled dragon bellies swooped over her. Immense flying leviathans swept their wings like rolling thunder, the wind in their wake battering her body. Circling the pasture, they eyed the goats below.

Instinct kicked in, and she searched frantically for shelter. There was a stable on the other side of the pasture, too far away. And the pale goat still lay on the ground, completely helpless. They could snatch him up. She stood over him and shook her head. Her horns were no bigger than one of their talon-tipped toes, but she wouldn't back down.

Hisses, gargles, and snaps passed between them, a green dragon snarling and tossing its head until a massive red one roared, shooting flame across the sky. The rest fell silent, and the red dragon wheeled away, the others following. But dragons weren't capable of speech—were they?

They flew towards the mountains. The wind settled into a breeze that rustled the grass and made her blink away the swirling dust. She watched until they disappeared into the distance.

The pale goat was still on his back, legs dangling in the air. Righting himself, he shied away from her, but he was cornered by the fence. He hung his head.

Poor thing. All the other goats avoided him, nipping at his flanks if he got too close. He spent most of his days on the far side of the pasture, nibbling around the spots the others had left bare.

She gave him a friendly nudge and hopped ahead of him, offering a playful bleat.

He stepped tentatively towards her.

She bolted ahead as if chased by a rabid bull, then circled back in a series of happy hops.

He gradually picked up the chasing game, starting with a few skips, then quick gallops, until they were bolting across the pasture, leaping over the other goats and tearing up bits of sod as they ran. It made her want to do something she only vaguely remembered, something that bubbled up inside her, but the only thing that came out was another bleat. She paused, trying to put it together, but then the pale goat approached and nuzzled her, and the feel of a warm body was nice, too.

It wasn't until they'd raced to the fence a third time that she saw the figure again. Still cloaked, pacing in front of the castle. He moved with terrible agitation, whipping out his wand and cursing the surrounding ground, withering the grass into a blackened circle. Then he fired a spell into the air, killing a bird mid-flight. It made her shiver. Perhaps—

She hadn't completed the thought when someone hooked a hand under her chin and turned her towards the gate. The coat rustling next to her smelled of tobacco and cheese. She was inclined to give the man a good kick and bolt away, but this was the first time he had led her out of the pasture and towards the farmhouse.

He guided her to a shed next to the house and eyed her up and down. A few flicks of his wand caused a full-body tingle, and then the long hair drooping to her knees fell to the floor. He levitated it to a scale, nodded, and pulled a bundle wrapped in brown paper and string from a top shelf.

"Six kilos. Contract's been fulfilled." He made a cross-like movement with his wand. "I repaired your clothes. Come inside when you're ready. We'll be waiting." With a curt nod, he left, closing the door behind him.

She had a moment of panic as her hooves tingled. Her body twisted and stretched, and she found herself back in human form, sitting on the wood floor, bare as the day she'd been born. The shed was now uncomfortably cold. But she found her clothes in the paper bundle.

It took a few attempts, as her fingers remembered how to be fingers and nudged buttons into buttonholes. But soon enough, she'd dressed and stood on the farmhouse's front porch. She thought about knocking, but decided Aberforth had taken more than enough liberties without her say-so and she could, too. The door opened to a bare hallway, which led to a cozier sitting room with windows draped in gingham greens and a roaring fireplace. Aberforth sat in a rocking chair, stroking a grey cat in his lap. He peered intently at a spotted goat that stood before him.

Hermione felt more outraged than confused. "Why does this one get to stay inside and I had to be in the pasture?"

Aberforth picked up his pipe and drew on it, letting out a stream of smoke. "You liked the pasture. And the fresh air was good for you. Helps your coat grow."

"I…" Well, she had liked the pasture. "I could've been eaten by dragons! You could've told me what you planned."

Aberforth waved his hand dismissively. "Dragons are attracted to Brigadoon's magic. The village has always been protected by dragons. That's the legend, anyway. Mostly they just hang about. Bit of a nuisance, but I haven't lost a goat to them yet." He pulled on his beard. "And it wasn't time. Once you signed the contract, I couldn't go against the village's magic."

The goat bleated, as if in agreement.

"Sorry about that," Aberforth said.

She sighed. "I suppose it's all right."

Aberforth harrumphed. "I was talking to the goat. Haven't introduced you yet. He finds it a terrible breach in manners."

"I've seen him," she said irritably, recalling how the spotted goat had often been at Aberforth's heels as he moved around the farm. Many wizards had a fondness for an animal, but Aberforth took things too far.

"You didn't think you were the only one, did you?"

She frowned. "The only one what?"

Aberforth took out his wand and repeated the cross-motion gesture. The goat stepped behind the rocking chair as his back rippled. Soon a hand reached out, and Aberforth passed him a robe. Blaise Zabini emerged, his head held high, as if he hadn't been bleating at her just a moment ago.

Hermione eyed him warily. His mother hadn't joined the Death Eaters, but she'd negotiated with the current Ministry, even going so far as to date a few ministry officials. As far as she was concerned, he was the enemy. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to give you pointers," he said haughtily. Our resistance movement hasn't fallen apart."

Soon, Hermione was surrounded by newly transfigured Slytherins. It had been years, but she remembered a few. Blaise, of course. Pansy Parkinson. And… Daphne something? Millicent soon joined them, looking completely unrepentant for her role in all this.

Hermione looked at Aberforth. "I wasn't sure you were going to transform me back."

"Wasn't sure myself," Aberforth replied. "Been asking around. You've got a price on your head. Dangerous to have you here."

"Is this what you've been doing? A secret group of Slytherin goats?"

He shrugged. "It's more their group than mine. Not for everyone, this Death Eater business."

Hermione nodded. "It's nice to hear someone's still fighting for a better world."

"Been rough out there, has it?"

"To be honest, being a goat was rather a pleasant change of pace."

Aberforth smiled. "Finally, someone who understands."

"What about the other Slytherin students?"

"Some still tow the party line. Some disappeared to parts unknown." He nodded at Blaise. "To be honest, I thought you'd be one of the latter. Your mother has enough foreign connections to make it happen."

Blaise gave a lazy shrug. "Dictatorships are bad for business. And I like good old England. The country deserves better than the heavy-handed rule of Death Eaters. Their sense of fun is rather… Distasteful."

That was one way to put it. "What has your group found out? Any news?"

"Nothing good. You've heard about the goblins, I'm sure."

Hermione nodded, newly depressed about that betrayal, despite it being weeks ago. Or…? "How long has it been? How long have I been…" She mimicked a goat's horns with her fingers.

"Two months." Aberforth stroked the cat curled on his lap.

"Two months? It couldn't have been!" She recalled the fallen leaves and the morning frost, and the terribly chilly walk from the shed to the house. "It's December?"

"Buone feste," Blaise said. "You should see casa mia. Three-meter Christmas tree with silver-plated ornaments. You'd think it would be ostentatious, but it's quite tasteful."

"Your house?" Hermione frowned. "But you're running a resistance, fighting Death Eaters."

"That doesn't mean we can't have the comforts of home." He gestured around the room. "We're all going home for the holidays."

"But that's…" Hermione stopped, then started again. "Doesn't anyone know you're in a resistance?"

"Well, of course not. We're not idiots."

"I'm not an idiot." Hermione kept her voice even, sensing that Blaise had little respect for outbursts. "I didn't have the luxury of hiding. Not with my background." She shook her head. "How can you hide from your parents that you're fighting Death Eaters?"

"The Death Eaters are our parents," Pansy replied. She glanced at Blaise. "Some of our parents, anyway. We can't fight them."

Hermione scoffed. "It doesn't sound like much of a resistance."

"They gather information," Aberforth said. "Either by listening in on their parents' conversations, or going to the right places, disguised as goats. They know about the goblins, about the Dark Lord's recent long absences from the Ministry. And they learnt where Ron and Molly Weasley were sent after they were captured."

A shudder passed through her. "Captured."

For the first time, Aberforth looked contrite. "I did tell you. But it takes practice to pay attention to human speech when you're in goat form." He paused awkwardly. "I'd better put the tea on. You look like you could use it."

The grey cat landed nimbly on the floor as Aberforth stood. It leapt onto Hermione's lap, its large eyes peering intently at her. She scratched its ears as the Slytherins informed her of the fate of Molly and Ron. She pulled the cat closer and cuddled it, missing Crookshanks. The cat purred, rumbling against her chest.

Bill and Charlie were still out there, but it would take time to contact them. She had no hope of getting Ron out of Azkaban, or even getting Molly out of that prison camp. It was the same problem with the Phoenix. Plenty of information and nothing that she could do with it. Not unless she could convince the Slytherins that there was more to a resistance than listening and reporting. She scanned the room, trying to put names to faces. One young woman with light brown hair leaned against the armchair occupied by Blaise. "It's Daphne Greengrass, isn't it?"

She glanced briefly at Hermione and nodded.

Breaking the ice wouldn't be easy. "You have a sister, don't you? Astoria? I remember you two were always together in the Great Hall."

Daphne raised her head, firmly meeting Hermione's gaze this time. "She's dead now."

It was rare that she met anyone these days who wasn't grieving. Her eyes stung in sympathy every time. "How did you lose her?"

Daphne's eyes softened a bit. "Blood malediction. It had always made her frail. But she was the one who wanted to get out, away from the Dark Lord. Met with her healer every week, hoping to get her strength up. He was really helping her. But he was muggle-born. One day, he disappeared. Moved to South Africa, or so they said. And her condition deteriorated." Daphne shook her head.

The others had similar stories, of wanting to get out, of losing people they cared about. Sometimes through death. Sometimes, it was through watching their loved ones slowly grow colder and more ruthless, denouncing so-called mudbloods and blood traitors, until they barely recognized the person they'd once known.

"We'd drop hints when we saw each other, suggesting how we felt without saying it. And eventually, someone would introduce us to Aberforth. We've stayed out of prison by being cautious. And now have even more reason to stay hidden, since your resistance group is destroyed."

Hermione's heart constricted. "Ron and Sirius and Ginny are all in Azkaban. How can we… I can't just leave them there."

Blaise's impenetrable face gentled. "We've all left people behind. I know you Gryffindors love to jump into things with a wing and a prayer, but look at the reality of the situation. The resistance consists entirely of the people in this room."

She wanted to argue. But her rational mind was already working the numbers. They barely had enough people for a study group, let alone a fighting force. Maybe gathering intel was all they could do. "Doesn't anyone question a goat wandering about town?"

"Everyone in Brigadoon is used to his eccentricities." Blaise nodded at Aberforth, who'd returned with the tea and another goat in tow. The Slytherins then glanced at each other, their cheeks flaring red. "As for London… Aberforth bought a shop in Diagon Alley. Ministry officials bring their younger children sometimes."

"What shop?"

"Well…" Blaise's voice sounded strained. "It's a sort of animal shop. Where you can see various species, and… scratch them behind the ears and whatnot."

Hermione smiled. "A petting zoo?"

Blaise sighed. "I suppose it is."

Daphne cleared her throat. "It's quite effective, actually. People can be lulled into a feeling of comfort and complacency when they're petting a soft, fuzzy animal."

"Can they?" She froze and looked down at the purring cat. The pale grey fur had darkened in places, and now it looked almost like the pattern of a tabby cat. Hope tightened her throat as she addressed the cat. "Can they?"

The cat slow-blinked at her, then slid off her lap with effortless grace. It twitched its tail and whirled in a flurry of fur until Minerva McGonagall stood before her in tartan robes. She flicked her wand, and a cup of tea rose and settled in her palm.

"Oh, Professor. " Hermione's voice cracked. Trust and familiarity flooded her. McGonagall's face was a balm she hadn't realized she'd needed. "I haven't seen you since—"

"I know, my dear. I'm sorry I couldn't join you. Couldn't remove these." She pulled back her sleeve, revealing the tattoos she'd gotten at the prison camp that prevented her from using magic. "Miss Bulstrode helped adjust them so I can change into my animagus form, but that's all we've managed." She put her hands on her hips, her wand twitching like an angry tail. "The longer I stay in human form, the stronger they get. Nasty bit of business."

Hermione nodded, irrationally wishing she could both talk to the professor and cuddle her cat form at the same time. She missed that warm, purring presence. "I'm sorry."

"It's not as bad as all that." She crossed the room to Aberforth and rubbed his shoulder fondly. "I've made some new friends. And Miss Bulstrode is still working on it. She's terribly talented, and I wish I'd encouraged her interests more at Hogwarts."

Millicent shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

"And my former students have created quite a network. Very little goes on that they don't know about. Even if they refuse all of my suggestions."

"Not all of them," Millicent protested. "We're actually spying now and tracking the information. Before that, we mostly just eavesdropped on our parents and complained about how we're all going to die."

"I picked up some ideas from an old friend." McGonagall never looked more like a cat that had caught the canary. "Everyone took to it like fish to water."

"Goats to pasture," Aberforth corrected, and McGonagall gave him a pat that was both fond and annoyed.

"Personally," Blaise said, crossing his arms, "You could take a page or two from Slytherins. Especially when you're outnumbered. Gather information and allies rather than looking for another way to fight."

Hermione resisted the urge to argue and took a moment to think about what he was saying. He was right. Time to put aside old animosities. "What would you recommend?"

Blaise looked taken aback a moment, then pleased. "Use their strengths against them. They see themselves as superior, and now they think they've won. Overconfidence. Find powerful allies you've never considered before that can strike without warning."

She didn't know about powerful allies. But there was information she could gather. She looked over at Aberforth. "I think it's time for another of your transfiguration spells."

xx

Watching Draco transform back into a human made her realize her own transformation had gone rather smoothly. Draco groaned and moaned and occasionally yelped as his head shrank and his limbs grew.

"Is he in pain?" she asked Aberforth.

He shook his head. "Just uncomfortable."

His sheared hair became even patchier as pink skin appeared over his body. He rolled around on the shed floor as the hooves became feet and hands again. The plaintive bleating, however, remained the same.

"Merlin's balls," Aberforth said. "There must be something wrong with the spell."

"No," Hermione replied. "He's always sounded like that."

Draco, now in a foetal position, looked up at them, his eyebrow cocked. "I'll have you know that was an extremely unpleasant experience." He started to uncurl, but realized he was in a rather revealing state of undress.

Hermione turned around politely.

"Figured you didn't want your yellow prisoner robes back," Aberforth said behind her. "Found something I think will fit."

Draco grumbled over the sound of zippers and rustling linen. "Is this muggle clothing?"

"It's what I've got," Aberforth replied. "I can take it back, if you like."

"It's fine," Draco said quickly. "Better than the alternative. Merlin, I ate plants growing out of the filthy ground! And a trough! I think I've still got hay stuck in my teeth. I chewed on shrubbery! It seemed delicious at the time, but—"

"It sounds very difficult," Hermione replied.

The rustling stopped, and Draco, still buttoning his shirt, rounded on her. "You're being awfully nice to me all of a sudden."

"I've found some friends of yours. Perhaps you're not a completely lost cause. If they can fight what's happening to this world, so can you." She eyed him. "Theoretically."

He frowned. "Friends?"

"As hard as it is to believe you actually have friends, yes. Your old Slytherin chums. Aberforth's been hiding them as goats, too. They've got a whole spy network."

"Oh. Them." Draco avoided her gaze as he fixed his collar. "I'm not interested in fighting anything. I just want to settle down someplace quiet. And not think about this war."

"I want that, too," Hermione murmured. She wanted it so badly it ached. But it wouldn't happen by pretending the bad things in this world didn't exist.

"Then go, Granger. You can't do anything here, anyway. You'd be an idiot for trying."

She closed her eyes, refusing to listen. Never taking responsibility was certainly an easy way to live—all you needed were excuses to recite whenever anyone called you out on it. Maybe it came from being rich and spoilt.

She hadn't been destitute growing up, but not acting in the face of injustice made her twitch. It was a shame, really. Malfoy had a perfectly good head on perfectly good shoulders, but never used it for anything useful.

Malfoy's lack of enthusiasm made more sense once they returned to the sitting room. All the Slytherins gave Malfoy stony stares. Even McGonagall, back in her cat form, gazed at him narrowly as her whiskers pulled back.

"Thought you'd be dead by now," Blaise said mildly. "Kept waiting to hear news of your execution."

"Well, excuse me for not being able to prance around with no one recognizing me. Been having fun, have you?" He stared at each of them in turn, his gaze landing on the remaining goat. "And who's this? Gregg? Vince? You wouldn't even return my messages when I got in trouble. And now I find you here, of all places?" His voice trembled. "You said you were honored to be my friends. Honored! Didn't that mean anything? Was it all just about my family? My connections? Well, don't expect any help when I'm back on top!" He pointed his finger accusingly.

"Draco," Millicent said. "That's just a goat."

"Female goat," Aberforth added, pointing at the visible udders. "I like my tea with fresh milk."

Malfoy sank into a chair. "These animals have driven me round the bend. I've completely lost it."

"Probably," Millicent said. "But no one's keeping you here now. Feel free to shove off any time." She pointed towards the back door. "Closest path beyond the anti-apparation border is that way."

Malfoy pushed his sleeve up. There was the broken Dark Mark, and next to it, something new. A prisoner's anti-apparation mark. Malfoy wouldn't be apparating anywhere.

Millicent grabbed his arm but only studied the Mark. "Not my best work," she admitted. "But it's held up."

"You said there wouldn't be a visible difference," Draco grumbled. "That I couldn't be called or tracked, but still be seen as a Death Eater to the average wizard. But a few weeks later, that slash appeared. I had to use a glamor or everyone would know I've a price on my head."

"Oops," Millicent said, looking smug.

"Wait," Hermione said. "You nullified the Mark?" She turned to Malfoy. "I thought you'd been exiled."

"How many exiled Death Eaters do you see walking about? There's no exiled. Just loyal or dead."

"My parents aren't officially Death Eaters, but they're… affiliated." Millicent let go of Draco's arm and clenched her hands. "I'd stay up, eavesdropping on meetings. And I saw someone given the Mark. Made me interested in runes and symbols. I even specialized in dark symbols and tattoos in my independent study before my NEWTs." She shrugged. "And Draco promised he'd join us if I overrode the Mark's magic, so I put together all my knowledge and research, and found a way." She glared at him. "Then he disappeared."

"I wouldn't have been any use to you, anyway. Maybe the rest of you are brilliant at being goats, but I could barely remember my name after a while. And I can't spy as a human, either. The second I show my face, the Dark Lord will be after me again."

"But why?" Hermione asked. "What's so special about you?"

Malfoy looked balefully at her.

"No offense," she added. "But you're not exactly… I mean, you seem perfectly happy to repeat the party doctrine. Besides antagonizing me and my friends, you don't like to make waves." You're perfectly happy to go along with any system that benefits you, no matter how unjust. "You're not a person I would expect to break from Death Eater circles. Why do they want you dead?"

"Not them. Him. The Dark Lord. The rest are just following orders." Malfoy scrubbed at his hair. Between his time as a prisoner and his time as a goat, the gunk had worn off, and his hair flopped messily down to his ears. "I can't tell you."

"What's the point of keeping secrets now?" Blaise asked. "It's not as though your reputation will suffer. Everyone in this room thinks you're a turncoat and a fair-weather friend." He tilted his head. "Although you still retain some respect for your wealth."

Millicent nodded to Hermione. "You should ask him about the dragons. He used to brag about his father buying him a special breed as a pet. What was it? Mongolian Moon Pies?"

"Siberian Night Eyes," Malfoy grumbled.

Hermione vaguely recalled Viktor mentioning the breed. He was grateful the Siberian breeders hadn't lent any out for the Triwizard Tournament. Meant to be guards during the long Siberian winters, they were sharply intelligent and had night vision. They were even rumored to have a rudimentary—

"Language," Hermione whispered. She stared at Blaise. "Those dragons over the pasture—they were Night Eyes?"

Blaise snorted. "Impossible. They're outrageously expensive. They wouldn't just fly about Scotland like a common pigeon."

She glanced at Malfoy.

"I don't know." He huffed. "It's not like I still have my dragon. I'd have flown out of here if I had."

Blaise leaned towards Malfoy, his eyes bright. "Oh? Did your family sell it? Having a bit of a cash flow problem? Is that why the Dark Lord's after you? I've heard he can be rather demanding when he needs war funds."

Malfoy gave him a haughty look. "It's not as though I'm a pauper." He deflated. "Although it's tricky to get funds at the moment. I can't tell you why the Dark Lord is after me because I… can't." He rubbed his temples. "I can't remember."

"You can't remember," Hermione repeated flatly.

"Look, I know he's after me. Obviously, he's after me. I've had more than enough close calls, and if you hadn't disrupted that prisoner transport…" He shuddered. "But why he's after me is a blank."

Hermione glanced at the others. "Obliviation?"

"No, I've got the memories," Malfoy said.

"You've got the memories, but you don't remember?"

"No, I've got them. I extracted them and stored them. My aunt showed me how. I only know I did it because I wrote a note to myself. Normally, you still retain the knowledge, even if you don't have the actual memory. But they're just gone. I'll need to return them." He tapped his head. "Or at least view them in a pensieve."

"We've got a pensieve," Aberforth said. "Where'd you store the memories?"

"Someplace safe." He shrugged. "A private family vault in Scotland."

"Not Gringotts?" Hermione asked.

"No, but…" He looked up in realization. "The goblins are authorized to pull funds from our private vaults when needed."

"And the goblins have sided with Voldemort." She looked at him in alarm. "So they might transfer the memories to Gringotts? Does your father know to keep them safe?"

Malfoy shook his head. "He doesn't know about the memories at all. I didn't have time–"

"We'll look into it," Blaise said. "We have connections." He shrugged nonchalantly. "It's what we do."

After the meeting broke up—the Slytherins going off on two or four legs to gather more intel, and Aberforth heading to his shop with McGonagall in tow—Hermione took a walk outside to clear her head.

It wasn't long before her feet found their way to the pasture—it had been home for a while, after all. She delighted in unlatching the gate with nimble fingers.

Inside stood a familiar blond figure, kicking at the grass.

"I thought you hated being a goat," she said.

He gave her the barest glance. "I did. But standing in the mud is actually more comfortable than…"

"Than being with your friends?"

He huffed. "Millicent seemed especially pleased about keeping me outside. And after covering for her and Pansy all that time."

She frowned. "Covering? What've they been up to?"

"Dear Merlin, I didn't ask. Pansy understands the gift of innuendo, but Millicent spares no details." He studied her face. "You didn't know?"

"I thought… You and Pansy—"

"Oh, we were together. Engaged, even." He looked at her again and smiled wickedly. "Engagements are a distinct thing among the pureblooded. If one is expected to marry another pureblood and have pureblood children…well, there are only so many possibilities. These things are arranged."

"Arranged marriages have been illegal since the Winsickle Proclamation of 1805."

He waved his hand, as if to say, What are laws?

"So Pansy hanging off of you, cooing over you. That was—"

"For play. For show. Enough to satisfy the parents and grandparents who know what's really going on but pretend they don't." He sighed. "It all fell apart after I transferred to Durmstrang, and Millicent and Pansy stayed here for independent study. Millicent had more time for her, and the war meant no one was paying attention to them. Pansy got a taste of what being a proper couple was like, and didn't want to go back to the sham when I returned to England."

"Millicent cut off contact with her parents. At least, that's what she told me."

"They wanted her married to some pureblooded Hufflepuff. They had a date set and frilly dress robes tailored. Can you even imagine?"

Hermione tried to picture Millicent dressed in white fluff, standing next to some earnest Hufflepuff boy. The best she could manage was a cartoon version of Millicent picking up the groom and breaking him over her knee. "Not really. But she must have a sensitive side, if she's that smitten with Pansy."

Draco gave a half-shrug. "The only time I ever saw her cry was when the date was set for our wedding." He paused. "Perhaps that's overstating it. Her lip quivered once. That's the Millicent version of weeping buckets."

She'd never given much thought to how wizards and witches navigated pureblood marriages when they weren't interested in the opposite sex. "I take it the marriage is off."

"Even if Pansy were willing, no sensible parent would want her marrying someone out of favor with the Dark Lord. No matter how esteemed the Malfoy bloodline is. My only hope is some family willing to risk it for the financial gain."

"Things might be different if Voldemort were defeated."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Yes, well. I'll take my chances with a hasty retreat."

She stared at him. "You're still going to run away? After all this?"

"After all what? Nothing's changed. The Dark Lord is still after me. If I'm caught, the best I can hope for is a quick execution."

"Your friends are all fighting against Voldemort. And you have a memory he wants, that might reveal a vulnerability. And I saved you from execution. Doesn't that merit anything?"

He looked taken aback. "What do you want? A parade?"

She'd had enough of his rich-boy blinders. "I want you to care about something other than yourself. Maybe you'll never care about doing what's right, but don't you care about Pansy and Millicent and all the others who are risking their lives in a war you're running away from?"

Malfoy shook his head. "Granger, I'm not…"

"Not Gryffindor." She sighed. "I'm aware."

He looked troubled. "That's not what I was going to say."

She didn't get a chance to ask him more, because, at that moment, a scream echoed up from the valley. The dark figure had reappeared, stumbling out of the castle. He screamed again, pointing his wand, and one of the large fallen stones pulverized.

Malfoy seemed frozen, all color drained from his face. "What's he doing here?"

She glanced from Malfoy to the figure. "You know who that is?"

Malfoy nodded. "I'd know that gait anywhere." He swallowed. "That's the Dark Lord."

Her whole body grew cold. But in a rush of realization, she understood. All the visits over the past few weeks. Maybe more before that. He'd been searching for the horcrux he'd hidden in the castle. The one she'd destroyed.

It would have taken him a while to confirm it—the Room of Requirement was damaged and difficult to access, and whatever hiding place he'd had among the piles had been lost when she'd rearranged everything. But clearly, he knew now. That scream was full of rage.

Malfoy grabbed her arm and dragged her back until the ridge hid them. "Don't let him see us," he hissed.

She resisted his pull. "Us," she scoffed. "You mean you. You couldn't give a toss about me or anyone else. Go on, then." She flicked her hand. "Run away."

"Excuse me for not being an idiot like the rest of you," he snarled. "Sometimes fear is the correct response, Granger."

"With you, it's the only response. Oh, wait, I forgot. Sometimes you change it up with nastiness and whining."

"Suit yourself. If you want to be target practice for the unforgivables, then—"

The ground jolted and shuddered. It was as if some deep layer of the earth had liquefied, and the surface rolled like the sea. She stumbled, crashing into Malfoy, and they both fell. A resounding boom battered her ears and left them ringing. Wind blasted over the ridge, hot and blackened with ash.

For a moment, she thought the dragons had returned. But she'd seen no sign of them. This was something else—something worse. Then she remembered what Voldemort had done to Azkaban.

Dread settled on her, pressing her into the ground. No, it was impossible. She lay on her back and stared up, unblinking, trying to convince herself. A cloud of ash swept over the darkening sky. The ash floated down, staining her clothes and stinging her eyes until she was forced to move. Slowly turning over, she crawled up the ridge.

Hogsmeade had been flattened. Only the skeletal remains of a few buildings on the edge still stood. Shredded debris buried the once-familiar streets. Beyond the town, thick clouds of smoke shrouded the school grounds. She searched the swirling cover, hoping for part of a wall, a tower, anything. But as the wind pulled apart the smoke, it revealed only scorched earth and a gaping crater.

It couldn't be destroyed. It couldn't be. Dumbledore had reassured her… Oh, God. Dumbledore. His portrait. She stared at the crater, willing it to be a hallucination, a dream, something. But the choking ash was real. She got to her feet. Maybe the portrait had survived. Maybe her watering eyes were seeing things. She should go down there and check.

But something held her back. A strange tightness on her arm. She glanced down. Malfoy gripped her by the elbow. Black grit masked his face, leaving his eyes shockingly pale and wide. He shook his head slowly. "It's gone."

Somehow, that made it more real than everything else. She tried to speak, but only a thin sound emerged.

"It's only a building," he said hesitantly.

But it wasn't. It was her last link to Dumbledore, to her childhood. Her parents were unreachable, but she'd still had Dumbledore. She'd still had one place she could always go when she needed to feel safe.

It could've been restored. Some pieces were missing, but it wasn't so bad. Levitate the stones back into place. A bit of mending here and there. She'd been looking forwards to seeing it rebuilt.

Only a building. But Malfoy was still clutching her arm as if he were afraid she'd tumble away.

She'd thought the war couldn't take anything more from her, but it had. Nothing made sense. The pasture splintered into pieces, fragments of half-remembered sensations. The browning grass, the scent of fresh hay. She wanted to feel the simple joys she'd known these past few weeks. A warm body to lean against, bringing comfort without words. Something to tell her she wasn't alone.

Her heart settled, but the cold lick of terror remained. Who or what would he destroy next? Aberforth? McGonagall? Brigadoon itself? He wouldn't stop. He'd never stop, until someone stopped him, and she had nothing to fight him with. Just once, she'd like to terrorize him. Take something precious from him.

But she had, hadn't she? That scream of rage—it had also been a scream of fear. She'd made him afraid, and he'd reacted with violence.

"Granger?"

Pulling back, she realized she'd been leaning against Malfoy's shoulder. His eyes were still wide, and pale tracks ran down his face.

She followed the track, caught a teardrop on her fingertip, and held it up. "Only a building?"

"It's not my fault you slobbered all over me." But his voice was distant and lacked bite, and his gaze focused on the valley. "Generations of Malfoys have gone to Hogwarts. It's a part of my history." He shook his head. "He's won. Why doesn't he stop?"

"Winning hasn't made him less afraid." She glanced at Malfoy. If Voldemort had been pursuing him so single-mindedly, he must be afraid of whatever Malfoy knew—or used to know. "We need those memories of yours."

He swallowed. "I'm not even sure they're still in my private vault. I haven't dared go back there, and I can't pop over to Gringotts to check my holdings."

"We'll find it. The others are looking into it."

"And then what?" He gestured at the ruins below, and she understood. What hope did they have against magic like that, with no resources and no firepower?

Firepower. Her gaze followed the billowing smoke into the sky. A plan formed in her mind. But she'd need to convince the others, draw up plans, and organize the mission.

"Oh no," Hermione said to herself. She'd thought she gotten out of her leading-people thing. She should get out of it. Making the wrong decisions, second-guessing herself when she oughtn't, and ploughing ahead when she should have reconsidered. But she knew she had to step up. Because she could.

She really would have preferred being a goat.

Malfoy eyed her, shoulders hunching. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking," she said, "that we'll need to fight fire with fire."