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His heart rate barely even fluttered when mice squeaked in rushed agitation ahead of him. He had turned into darkness itself, and all its layers of defensive threats were but his faithful companions.

That didn’t mean he appreciated spending time in the putrid abyss of a dungeon.

“This better be worth my while, Bellatrix.”

The rim of his silken robes was dragged along the crusty floor, turning his normally impassive expression into a grimace. His followers oh so loved to disturb him—summoning him to the foulest of locations for the most absurd of reasons.

“It is, my lord.” She bowed. “We found—well, the snatchers did, really, but we believe it’s the mudblood.”

He raised a non-existent eyebrow. “You made me come all this way because you captured a mudblood?” His rage began to tingle, turning the air around them into furious static.

“N-Not just any mudblood, my lord.” Bellatrix quickly added. “The Mudblood. Potter’s friend.”

Well. That was indeed something he could work with.

Mood lifted, he allowed himself a brief smile. “Excellent. Take me to her, then.”

“Yes, right away, sir.” Bellatrix bowed, staring reverently at the floor he walked over. “There is just—well, I should just warn you…”

He inhaled deeply as he waited for her to finish. “Yes?”

“She cast a Silencio Totalis before we could block her magic. It’s quite strong.” The woman swallowed. “Not that I don’t trust your skills in overcoming it, my lord. But I just thought you should know.”

They reached a cell, completely covered in debris and the remains of human agony.

“Thank you, Bellatrix. You may go.” It was a dismissal, not a request.

Hmm. That particular charm certainly complicated matters. It could only be removed by the original caster, and it silenced both one’s outer and inner voice. It was rare for one to use it on themselves since they had no way of reversing it through traditional means.

That meant Miss Granger either had something to hide she would sacrifice her voice for, or she was an extremely skilled witch with non-verbal magic, one that could undo a powerful spell on will alone. Either way, she was interesting enough to spend the afternoon with. Before he could feast on her spilled blood.

He nudged the door open so it hinged slowly, a long shrieking note announcing a new arrival.

He enjoyed taking his time when entering the vicinity of his victims. True, his time was not something he enjoyed wasting, but there was a delightful sort of pleasure in watching the anticipation of those kneeling before him take control over their entire bodies.

Hermione Jean Granger wore her fear like an unflattering birthmark; it was there, she acknowledged it, but somehow it was just a piece of her—not a defining trait. Even bound and alone she refused to accept her real place in the magical wizarding world. He could appreciate the courage, if her existence didn’t irk him so.

“How do you converse with one who can’t talk back?” He began, not bothering with greetings or introductions.

There was dirt smudged on the high points of her face and cuts spilling red droplets down her neck. A real mudblood. He smirked.

She in turn raised her chin in defiance. Her whole body erupted in goosebumps, yet she still tried to hold herself together.

Her shoulders moved up and down in a shrug, indicating she didn’t have an answer for him.

“It’s easy, Miss Granger,” He approached tentatively, bringing a single finger to her jawbone and stroking it roughly, brushing over the warmth of her rage. “You force the answers out, no matter what shape they come in.”

He took hold of her neck and interlaced both his hands around it, holding her gaze with a necklace of his strenght.

He knew Legimency would be futile. Without an inner voice, it would mostly be a bunch of images interlaced and jumbled like a photo album cut into tiny pieces and thrown into a pile.

But he also knew having one’s mind invaded by magic hurt. And by Slytherin, he wanted to see the little witch’s eyes contort in pain. Even if he wouldn’t have the pleasure of listening to her agonized screams as he tortured the insides of her rotten body.

He focused on her irises and zoomed in, casting nonverbally. Frames became available to him, though there was no stream of consciousness for him to hold on to. He just shattered whatever he came in contact with, trying to look for those who appeared more than once in her memories.

Two muggles wearing aprons and disgusting grins.

Potter.

The orange one.

Three brothers made of shadows, encountering death.

A beastly looking cat.

He pressed into her fragile skin, feeding off the veins popping out in her forehead. Her weak frame fell forward once he let her go, but he gave her little more than a second before pulling on a chunk of her hair, forcing her head to rise back in his direction.

“Do you see what happens when there is no voice to help shepherd your thoughts?” He tsked, shaking his head as he did so. “Fictional stories get mixed with reality, and it gets hard for one to discern between them.” A brief pause. “Hard, but not impossible.”

He was, of course, no ordinary wizard. She should already know that Lord Voldemort was able to do what most couldn’t.

“Now, mudblood, I will give you one chance to prove to me you haven’t lost your sanity yet.” He pointed a finger in her direction. “Your past memories are stored as they occurred, meaning that if I extract them to be observed in a Pensieve, I will be able to hear them as you recall them.”

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Why would I do that?’ her brown eyes seemed to scream.

“I could kill you on the spot at any time. Strip your body of life and raise the carcass high, making dear old Harry watch every single step of the process.” A fond smile broke through his features at the visual. “But for every worthy memory you show me, I shall grant you a reward in return. I can feed you. Accommodate you.” He placed a clawed, scaly hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

She bit her lip, hard enough to pierce it. No, that wasn’t right—only he was supposed to make her bleed.

He rubbed a single digit upwards from the hollow of her collarbone up until the tip of her chin. “Now think carefully: where is Harry Potter?” His eyes burned in elated crimson, looking down at how she squirmed in his proximity.

The mudblood closed her eyes, and he dug his wand deep into her temple before pulling the memory from her.

“Bottom’s up!” He joked before pouring her liquified thoughts into the Pensieve he had summoned and gently placing his head inside.

~♧~

The room spun and the backdrop she found herself against felt muffled and distant. It wasn’t a surprise, though: parties would often lead her to a state of mild dissociation.

She knew where her body was, she had control over her own limbs, but everything was muddled under a dream-like silken wrapping.

The clinks of crystal rang ding ding ding one after the other, making her dizzy as they got mixed up with chatter and music.

It was often too much, and always too loud. Sounds swirling around and fighting each other viciously in a jarring combat, encouraged by the bubbly push of champagne and the appealing pull of collective hysteria.

Hermione aimlessly searched for a silent room as if lost in a maze, yet the place that overwhelmed her the least was James Potter’s study—though it was far from being quiet.

Harry and Ron were there, downing dry fire whisky in glutinous gulps and attempting not to retch as it punched through their stomachs. Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott, flirting shamelessly under the guise of playing exploding snap, the cards blowing pop pop pop directly into her eardrums and hammering pow pow pow right into her brain. Marieta Edgecombe, Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory, chewing on bonbons and outdated jokes. Malfoy was there too, a cuban dangling from his lips, shadowed by his statuesque footman wiping invisible dust from his perfectly cut tuxedo.

You couldn’t make out the voices from the string instruments in the parlor, the forced laughter from  drunken half slurred entertainment spells.

But when the gun was fired, it splintered all other noise into bitter ash.

And then the lights went out.

“W-What was that?” Neville asked, voice shivering with uncertainty.

They may have been ignorant of the sound, but the aftermath of danger was unmistakable. In the dark, the drums of death were always stronger. Perhaps that was why it felt natural to her that an anguished scream should follow the commotion.

“Lumos,” she cast at the chandelier, and the sight made her wish she was cloaked by darkness once more.

Harry lay in a pool of crimson, face grimaced, breaths shallow. Blood poured from a wound in his stomach, which he feebly tried to contain by pressing his trembling palms into.

James and Lily came rushing into the room, love and fear leaking from their eyes.

~♧~

He brought himself back to the surface, feeling oddly benevolent. So, she was showing him something that never happened, but at no point did she try to conceal that she was telling him a fictional tale.

After all, Potter’s parents had long ago met their demise, as did the Diggory boy. Malfoy would never have attended that party, and he, well… he was also...

She had defied and disobeyed him, and yet he couldn’t help but grin. Lord Voldemort was impressed. And, more dangerously, he was curious. An injured Harry Potter? A murderous ploy?

Chuckling to himself, he took one last look at the girl tied to his chains. She may have thought she had outsmarted him, but every lie hid a morsel of honesty, and he was positive he could learn enough about his enemies by peering into her creativity.

Plus, he wanted to know what happened next. He could indulge her a bit before watching the life ooze out of her body.

He sighed and dived in once more.

~♧~

“We need to get him to St Mungus!” James Potter pleaded, but Lily shook her head.

“This is a bullet wound, my love. We need to get him to a muggle hospital. He is too frail to apparate, though.”

And so they went on the Weasley’s Ford Anglia, ignoring the scattered remains of their celebration—guests knew the night had come to an abrupt end.

But a heavy mist lay over them, one Hermione had no choice but to single out. “A long distance shot wouldn’t inflict that much damage.”

People stared at her as if breaking the tangible silence had been a mortal sin. Still, it didn’t take long after her comment for the room to erupt in gasps and whispers.

“You would know all about those muggle toys, wouldn’t you, Granger?”

Hermione glared at Malfoy, but tried to pay him no mind. “Harry was shot. Someone tried to hurt—maybe even kill him.” She took a deep breath. “And it had to have been someone in this room.”

At that moment, amidst chaos and destruction, she felt more whole than she had the entire evening.

Moody, having heard the commotion, was already surveying the study from the hallway. “This is a serious accusation, Hermione. Are you absolutely positive?”

She nodded.

“Well then,” he continued, “I guess you all should stay here until the Aurors can sort out this mess. Lupin already sent a Patronus, so they must be on their way. I will see the rest of the guests out.”

Malfoy, however, huffed and made his way to the door. “I am not going to stand here a minute longer.” He snapped his fingers, and his servant trailed behind him. “You will be hearing from my family’s representatives. Adieu.”

Hermione tried to block his path by wheeling out the bar cart, delicately covered by one of Lily’s hand stitched lace towels, but it was far too heavy—or maybe she was far too weak.

So she had to resort to magic, locking the door right as Draco reached the threshold of the doorframe.

“What is the meaning of this? Let me out right now, Granger, or I will be going after you and your mudblood family so fast you—”

Ron crunched the bridge of his nose before he could finish. 

“Call her that one more time and there will be another murder attempt tonight, you bloody ferret. Only this one will succeed.”

“Yeah, why are you so eager to run away?” Neville inquired, one arm protectively over Hannah, who was sobbing uncontrollably. “Something you need to hide?”

“If I wanted someone dead they would be dead, you idiot,” Malfoy mumbled, trying to prevent any bloodstains from smearing his clothes. “And I would never resort to disgusting muggle ways, unlike some of you.”

Ron gladly took the bait and lunged for him, but Cedric and Hermione were able to hold him down. Malfoy’s footman dragged his master to the couch, inspecting his face and dabbing it delicately with a velvety piece of cloth.

The man was quite handsome, Hermione noticed. He had a strong jaw and a perfectly diagramed face, with high cheekbones and a sharp nose. Not a single hair was out of place as he assisted his employer, who pathetically moaned as if mortally wounded.

“The fact remains,” Cho tried, forcing herself to speak calmly, “that Harry is wounded. And if Hermione is right, that means only one of us could have done it.”

Hermione had to keep the whirlwind of possibilities flooding her mind in check. She decided to give herself a task and get some ice from the bar so that Ron could alleviate some of the soreness of hitting Draco’s thick skull.

“We all know it was Malfoy,” Marieta uttered, rolling her eyes. “Who else could it be?”

“Sod off, you disgusting—ouch! Do your job properly, you idiot.” The footman apologized as he put a pillow under Draco’s head for him to rest.

“What? Did anyone else here have beef with Harry? Just ‘fess up, Malfoy!”

“I would never touch a filthy muggle firearm!”

Hermione blocked out the noise as she stared at the drinks in front of her. A half-opened flask in particular caught her attention, the foul aroma invading her senses.

“N-No one else here would b-benefit from harming Harry.” Hannah whispered, diamond tears still clinging to her temples.

The room murmured in agreement with progressive violence, causing Hermione to finally show the group the vial in her hand.

“What?” Marieta sneered, “are you an alcoholic or something?”

“It’s Polyjuice. Once you brew it successfully, you can never forget how it smells.”

“So? Good for you, Hermione. You’re smart.” 

“It means,” she continued, ignoring the jab, “that someone in this room may not be who they appear to be. They could be impersonating one of us.”

“Well, we can discard Weasley.” Malfoy snorted. “No one would ever willingly choose to look like that.”

Ron tried to charge in his direction, but Cedric had a firm grip of his forearms. “Ignore him, Weasley. It’s what we always do, anyway.”

“Why would someone pretend to be one of us?” Cho pondered, crashing down onto a leather armchair.

But it was a question they all knew the answer to. It stood damp and coppery in one big stain, then splattered all over the room’s carpet.

“But it was Malfoy, obviously. Did he forget to drink it or something?” Marieta took deep breaths, attempting and failing to appear calmer than she actually was.

“Or,” Draco said, extending his palm to request another cigar, “maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was someone who actually knew how muggle shite worked, and who is still disguised right now.” His footman conjured a small flame at the tip of his index finger, lighting the end for Malfoy. His laughter made the smoke leave his mouth abruptly and disorganizedly. “As far as I can tell, I am the least likely suspect here.”

“Like hell you are!” Neville raised his wand. “You probably brew the potion yourself, to throw us off. With your hair and everything.”

Malfoy inhaled, a sunset-tinted blaze consuming his cigar. “Yeah? If you are so sure, why don’t you drink it?”

“W-What?”

“You heard me, idiots. Take a sip from the potion if you are so certain that it’s me. Then again, maybe you will see yourself getting transformed into Weaselbee. Or Longbottom. Go ahead, let’s see which of you is the impostor.”

“B-But what if it’s poisoned?” Hannah tried, keeping Neville by her side.

“Yeah, that’s right! No one drinks anything. He is probably trying to get us all killed.”

“Why don’t you want them to drink it, Edgecombe? Scared you’ll look at several clones? Who are you really, under this fucking disguise? ‘Cause I don’t think I’ve ever even heard you speak before today.”

“I’m n-not, you are—”

“Shut up, Malfoy! You are obviously guilty here.” Ron took the flask from Hermione’s hands. “This has to be poison.”

She sighed as she pulled it back from his grip, stealing all the attention from the room.

“Why, Granger, is there anything you want to add?”

She narrowed her eyes before speaking. “If Malfoy had access to poison, why would he use a gun? Why disguise it as Polyjuice?”

Marieta raised her hands up in the air. “To throw us off!”

“And bring even more attention to himself? I don’t think so.”

Silence brewed with a bitter aftertaste.

Ron’s eyes stared bewilderingly at her, a storm in cyan. “Then who hurt Harry?”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know. Let’s just wait for the Aurors so that they can conduct a proper investigation.”

“And be stuck in here with a violent lunatic? No, thanks. We’re leaving.” Malfoy pointed to the door, urging his servant to come along.

“Just because it isn’t logical for you to have done it, it doesn’t mean you are free to go, Draco,” Cho started, blocking his path.

“It also doesn’t mean you didn’t do it!”

“Yeah, Edgecombe? Then why don’t you drink the potion already? We’ll see who you transform into, find the culprit and be done with it.”

“I—why don’t you?”

“Sure.” He opened his palm. “Give it to me. If I die, at least I won’t have to endure you lot any longer.”

“Wait a minute. If you are the impostor, the potion is just gonna make you look like you do now for more time. Someone else has to drink it, too.” Cedric said, approaching Draco from behind. “Just so that we are certain.”

“Fine with me. Are you volunteering, pretty boy?”

“Well, I—”

“No one should drink it.” Hannah finally unstuck herself from Neville’s arms. “Hermione is right—we should wait for the Ministry’s response.”

“If Malfoy wants to drink it, let him. I don’t see what the problem is.” Ron poured himself a glass of fairy brandy. “By Merlin, just do it fast so we can close the lid on that Polyjuice flask, will you? It smells absolutely rotten.”

“I still think we shouldn’t drink anything.”

“Why is that, Hannah? Afraid of what form Draco will shift into?” Marieta sneered.

Neville glared at her. “You were convinced it was a bad idea to ingest the potion five seconds ago. Now you want to throw accusations?”

“I don’t want to gamble my life to catch Harry’s attacker. If Malfoy wants to do it, though, I have no objections.”

“He could die!” Hannah exclaimed, and Ron placed a hand on her shoulder, attempting to soothe her as he said “well, win-win.”

Angrily, Hannah marched away to a corner, one with a built-in shelf filled to the brim with a kaleidoscope of books.

“Since when do you care about Malfoy that much, Abbott?” Cedric asked, causing Hermione’s pulse to race. She could feel the energy shifting like sunrays slowly fading to give way to a storm.

“W-What?”

“You heard me.”

“I think,” Hermione tried, the words dry and raspy in her tongue, “that we should not be playing detective or grand-judge before a proper investigation is conducted.”

“Well, I think Hannah should drink the Polyjuice if she is as innocent as she claims. Because it is starting to feel as if she doesn’t want us to discover who the impostor is.”

“W-We don’t even k-know that it is Polyjuice!”

“Yet it is perfectly fine for me to drink it, eh?” Malfoy barked bitterly.

“No one should drink it.” Neville said firmly, shielding Hannah from sharp glares. “Not until the Aurors get here.”

A brief silence took over the room, broken only by the circular tapping of Oxfords on the wooden floorboards.

It took a couple of minutes for voices to rise up again. “Since when is Longbottom this fucking loud?” Draco laughed, stubbing the end of his cigar on an ashtray held by his servant.

Neville let go of Hannah’s form. “What the hell are you on about, you fucking ferret?”

Hermione couldn’t deny she had never seen Neville that angry. The real one was so frail and forgiving—

No. She could not afford to let them get into her head. Neville was simply trying to impress the girl he liked. Pheromones and testosterone, that was it, a perfectly reasonable explanation. Right? 

But if someone drank the Polyjuice she would be certain, a dark voice whispered inside her.

As small as she tried to make the doubts in her body, the shadowed echoes were already spreading throughout. “You are acting odd today, Neville. Your whole posture is different.” Cedric confessed while holding on tightly to his wand.

Neville clutched his chest, opening and closing his mouth twice before speaking. “Well, what about Ron? He has been quieter than usual.”

“What in the bloody name of Albus Dumbledore is that supposed to mean?”

“He is right, Weasel. The real you would have already said something laughably stupid by now.” Draco barked, a smirk breaking into his face.

His face? But was it really?

No, she couldn’t go there. She wouldn’t. “We can’t keep accusing each other like this. And we can’t drink a potion without knowing who prepared it. It is dangerous.”

“You were the one to identify it as Polyjuice!” Marieta pointed a finger her way.

“Yes, that’s what it looks and smells like. But there could also be poison in it. Or a love potion. Or Veritaserum.”

“Well, some Veritaserum would be perfect just about now. Why would you want to keep anyone from taking it, Hermione?”

“And we only have your word for it that it even is Polyjuice.” Cho rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, except she successfully made that potion when she was half your age.” Ron positioned himself in front of Hermione, shielding her from the Ravenclaws’ accusations. “I trust her, and her opinion.”

“Why don’t you drink it then? Better yet, why doesn’t she want any of us to drink and find out who the liar is?”

“Because you shouldn’t drink random beverages left unattended under mysterious circumstances!” Hermione slammed her hands against the drinks cart, which remained still as a stone while bottles shook with her frustration. 

Marieta tilted her lips. “Perhaps you don’t want people to see through your disguise.” She approached her tentatively, deliberate cruelty in every stride. “Or maybe,” she whispered, “you don’t want to find out you were wrong, for once. So which is it, Granger? Are you a devious stranger or a selfish coward?”

“Enough, Marieta—” Ron tried, but it was muffled by the shifting atmosphere in the room.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“—should just drink it, though.”

“And we are just gonna let Malfoy walk away?”

“You have been acting weird all day…”

“Why would it be poisonous? She is definitely lying. She is the imposter.”

“She has been an imposter from the moment she decided to invade my school and study to become a witch.”

“—only one to know how to use a gun.”

“Enough!”

“Why are you here? Nobody likes you. You probably hurt Harry, and you didn’t even need a disguise to do so.”

“Then why the potion, genius?”

“Keep us running in circles again and again. It’s all your fucking fault.”

“—abomination, a disgrace to the honored memory of our school.”

“What would you know about honor, you piece of shit blonde pig?”

“—made my mom lose her job, too. She has been faking this for a long time, obviously!”

“Stop it!”

“Who cares about your mummy? Piss off, Harry could die—”

“Then maybe we might at last have a proper functional year without dramatic interruptions.”

“What did you just say?”

“Oh, stop crying Hannah! You are not a child, damn it.”

“Oi, watch it Diggory!”

“Since when are you all sensitive and jumpy?”

“Since when are you an absolute asshole?”

“Who the hell are you, really, mate?”

“Get the fuck away from me!”

It happened too fast. Far too fast, as disasters often do. A pang, a crash, and Cedric roughly spread out on the floor—framed by scattered glass shards and a halo of blood.

“What did you do, you snivelling oaf?”

The smell of cognac pierced through her nostrils with brute savagery, yet the unmoving eyes of her schoolmate were what seemed to rip apart every organ in her body.

“H-He was coming towards me!” Neville stuttered, the neck of the bottle still tight within his grip.

“Cedric wouldn’t hurt a pixie. How dare you! Murderer!”

“First Potter, and now this. Why did you do it, Longbottom?”

“I-I didn’t!”

“How long before the potion’s effect is through, Granger? Who is this fucker, really? I knew it. I knew it was him!”

Hermione could barely make out her flesh from the heavy fabric of her dress. “Let’s check his pulse first. Or wait for healers to assess him.”

“What for? Let’s get the killer before he strikes again. He is right there!”

In. Out. “Pointing fingers really isn’t the—”

“Why sh-shouldn’t we try to s-save Cedric?”

“Because he is gone!”

“Says who? L-Let’s pick him up. Enervate!”

“Do not point your wand at him.”

“Episkey!”

“Stop using magic on him, we don’t know the extent—”

“Enervate! Enervate!”

Violence begets violence, much like kindness awakens compassion when freely given.

Hermione didn’t know what tipped the blocks forward, but once the pieces began falling it was impossible to contain the chain reaction that kept them tumbling down one after the other.

Spells flew about and connected with idle fists, powered by fear and paranoia. Blades sliced together with sharp words, a black hole of destruction consuming the room and drowning it in brutality.

Smash. Crack. Pow.

Screams and gasps and drops of blood.

“Stop—” Hermione tried once again, but something struck her in the ribs and she crashed forward, flying towards the couch.

Her head spun, the edges of her vision blurry. 

She didn’t know how long she stayed there, splattered on the cold hard floor like a broken figurine. There was no strength left in her, no energy, no voice.

Just the images her mind conjured up to fill in the blanks of the deadly uproar she kept hearing. The grunts, the crashes, the silence after a bright light.

It took a contained eternity of agony, but she managed to drag herself to a half-sitting position, her body damp and battered. The room was all red smoak, reeking of barbaric rebellion. The bodies that weren’t convulsing in pain were chillingly still, and Hermione couldn’t tell which was most disturbing to watch.

Everything was deafening, even the quiet. She was lost in the intensity of what had transpired—terrified at the speed in which things had gone so terribly awry.

Her legs trembled of their own accord as Hermione attempted to pull them closer to her chest, if only to emulate some sort of embrace. She felt so, so alone.

The click of a lighter being activated to her right made her turn her head in a dangerously abrupt manner. Soon, the smell of Draco’s imported cigars circled the path between mysterious ivory fingers and her shivering form.

“Wasn’t that just… spectacular?” A voice purred adoringly, and finally the dizziness in her head cleared enough for her to fully recognize the person standing next to her.

Malfoy’s footman. The invisible, quiet servant whose name no one had bothered learning. 

“Y-You? Who-who are—w-why—”

“Shh,” he kneeled down so he was at eye level with her, blowing the mainstream smoke directly into her face. “You are obviously too weak to waste your energy on such silly questions.”

Hermione couldn’t hold in the rich inhale of the bouquet and coughed as a response, her ribs throbbing with each single contraction.

“Aww, you really are all sugar and glass, aren’t you?” He stubbed the sunset-y end on her arm, causing her to wince. “A sweet old thing, fragile to the touch.”

“Are they—a-all of them…?”

“If not, they will be soon.” He threw the burnt remains at her feet, the ash seductively taking hold of every hair in her body. “Though hopefully not before—” he rose, voice trailing as he seemed to look for something. “Ah, there. The young master,” he said with a chuckle. “He will do.”

He strode elegantly away from her line of sight, though only for a few seconds. Then the click click click as he reapproached, dragging a desperate Malfoy as if he were discarded luggage by the collar of his handstitched shirt.

The pale shade of blonde on his head was tainted burgundy, much like the spots dancing around Hermione’s vision.

“I’m a meticulous planner, Miss Granger, and people are entirely too predictable.” The footman grabbed the flask of potion on top of the bar and twirled it upwards in mid-air, catching it flawlessly. “Human kind is gullible and impulsive. Let it stir with death and uncertainty and kaboom—as soon as you blink there is a knife to your back.”

He roughly grabbed Malfoy’s jaw and had him swallow the contents of the container in his hand. “It’s funny, but the one variable I didn’t account for was someone as smart as you figuring out there was a deceiver in this ploy.” He returned to her side, an eerie smile breaking into his face. “Even then, it only made distrust between you all grow. Are you ready to find out who the pretender is?” 

He sat down next to her, reaching for her hand and stroking the peachy soft skin at the back of it. Her eyes were trained on Malfoy as his face shifted, and shifted, and—by Merlin—

~♧~

That was it. The memory stopped.

“My lord,” he felt a gentle touch on his upper arm, startling him back into reality.

There stood Bellatrix, his loyal, faithful, obedient servant.

He wanted to throttle her.

“How dare you interrupt me when I’m with a prisoner?"

She bowed so low the ends of her hair scraped the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry my lord. But the werewolves can’t wait much longer, and it is the last night before a full moon.”

He curled his hands into fists.

The mudblood was supposed to die that evening. Harry Potter should spend the dark hours before dawn weeping over the graphic butchering of his best friend. But if he killed her now…

He wouldn’t know the end of the tale. He wouldn’t know who the potion would turn Malfoy into, nor what the footman did afterwards. The footman, who looked so much like him when he was younger.

He supposed he could—

Yes, he could wait another day. It would only make her death that much more appetizing. He smiled, eyes fixated on his little war spoil.

“Lead the way then, Bella. Just give me one more second.”

His frustration was camouflaged into elegance as he walked towards his captive. He kneeled down before the girl, capturing her attention with his mere presence.

“Well played, Hermione Granger. We shall meet again tomorrow,” he conceded. “Show me the truth, or entertain me—if you dare. Fail to do so, however, and there won’t be much cohesive thinking left in that pretty brain of yours once I’m through with you.”

He left her to be haunted by his words and shut the door.