Chapter Text
I hear the rustling of footsteps in the leaves - footsteps that are not my own. I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks into place. My breath turns shallow, my pulse spikes.
"Nox," I whisper, and the faint glow at the tip of my wand vanishes. The world around me dissolves into shifting shadows, swallowed by an ocean of black.
I strain my ears, focusing all my willpower on pinpointing the direction where I think I heard the noise.
Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. It wouldn’t be the first time. Being alone on patrol in the forest can do that to you.
Eyes closed, I block out everything else and listen. Branches above groan and creak with each movement, a steady, mournful lament. Far in the distance, I think I hear the cry of an owl, the sound fading into the black void around me.
My own breath, shaky with adrenaline, echoes unnaturally loud in my ears. I push it aside.
Then I hear it again. A rustling, rhythmic and deliberate. This time, I’m sure. Someone is out there, and I know it cannot be anyone from the Order. This path, skirting what remains of Hogwarts, sees almost only me. Harry and I seem the only ones who even bother to check in here. I refuse to think about why. I shove that particular drawer in my mind shut with all my strength.
Now is not the time for overthinking or getting emotional.
I’m far beyond the reinforced protection zone around Hogsmeade. Again. Even Harry would probably scold me for being this reckless. If things weren’t so tense, I imagine he’d be out here with me. But Harry is too important to the Order. He can’t just wander off alone, let alone stray from the designated patrol routes.
No one watches my every step like they do his. Of course, I matter - we all do - but I’m not the Chosen One.
I push that thought away, too.
None of it matters right now.
I empty my mind, shutting out everything that isn’t directly connected to this moment. Right now, there is only me, the wand in my hand, the dim half-light of the forest, and the unmistakable feeling of approaching danger. A prickling sensation creeps up the back of my neck.
I count ten slow, measured breaths as the sound of footsteps grows louder. By the time I no longer suspect another presence but feel it, my wand gives a faint tremor in my hand.
Someone has breached the carefully hidden perimeter of my detection spell. Whoever they are, they either feel confident enough to be careless or overestimate their own skills. A mistake that has cost many lives in this war.
I swallow hard.
A mistake I have no intention of making.
With a sharp flick of my wand, I cast a Disillusionment Charm over myself. Under the cover of night, I am now nearly invisible. Almost like wearing Harry’s Invisibility Cloak.
Almost.
Except Harry’s cloak doesn’t feel like being doused in cold, slimy sludge.
Not that using the cloak was ever an option.
Not for something as ridiculously sentimental as this little stroll.
Tense, I press my back against the nearest tree, careful not to make a sound. The rough bark scrapes against my cheek as I turn my head toward the direction where I can still unmistakably hear footsteps approaching. With narrowed eyes, I stare into the darkness. The sound grows louder - so loud that I think the person must appear right in front of me at any moment. Yet I still see nothing in the black of the night.
The part of the forest I’m in isn’t officially considered the Forbidden Forest - but the trees stand just as close together. Even though the moon should be high in the sky by now, barely any light reaches the forest floor. The surroundings are mostly made up of lighter and darker shapes, vague outlines of trees and their roots, ferns, and bushes. The uneven ground and puddles directly in front of me are just visible enough to avoid crashing into the nearest tree or breaking my neck in a ditch while walking. Still, the steady sound of approaching footsteps tells me that by now, I should at least be able to see something.
My own thought from just moments ago comes back to me. My lips twitch. Another Disillusionment Charm.
I focus my gaze on the ground. It has rained and stormed in the past few days. Leaves are scattered everywhere - hence the rustling - and the earth is damp. In many places, the soil is muddy. I’ve done my best to leave as few tracks as possible in the soft ground - but maybe my uninvited follower is less refined. The Disillusionment Charm is a tried-and-true concealment method, but it has its weaknesses. One of them is that it merely mimics the surroundings rather than providing true invisibility. If one moves without enough care, an attentive observer can catch the shimmer of the spell around the body.
But since it’s too dark for that, I focus on the second major flaw of this type of magic: it doesn’t make you weightless. Not even Harry’s Invisibility Cloak can do that.
Systematically, I let my eyes wander over the ground. I should be able to -
The rhythmic steps are suddenly interrupted by an almost deafening splash. My gaze instantly snaps to where I estimate the source of the sound to be.
Gotcha!
A small unevenness in the forest floor must have filled with water. I can clearly make out the imprint of a foot that has landed directly in this inconspicuous little puddle. The sight of a foot-shaped gap in the water is grotesque. The way the edges blur due to the Disillusionment Charm does nothing to diminish my sense of grim satisfaction.
As I said - these spells have their weaknesses.
We - my uninvited company and I - are only a few meters apart now, as I quickly gauge the distance. He or she has stopped, their foot still in the puddle. I recognize the intent behind it and picture them standing tense in the darkness, listening intently. Their wand at the ready - just like mine.
They must realize that anyone within a dozen meters now knows someone else is out here. While the rustling of footsteps might have blended somewhat into the ambient noise, the splash of water was an unmistakable signal. No creature native to British forests - magical or not - blunders around like that. The expectation of imminent exposure has turned them to stone.
The forest around us seems to hold its breath, waiting. The silence is suddenly almost eerie. But that could also be the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
My eyes remain locked on the nearly invisible foot. The tip of my wand points at where I assume the rest of the body to be. I can immediately think of at least two people who would already be throwing curses left and right.
But I am patient. I wait for the moment when I can hear my unsuspecting opponent release a quiet breath.
I grant them exactly one heartbeat of relief.
My Stunning Spell is silent. And a direct hit.
Accompanied by a groan - one that sounds male to my ears - my target is flung against the nearest tree. Leaves and mud scatter through the air.
A red flash of light whizzes past me, missing by mere inches.
This is no amateur. Casting a spell while still reeling from a shock is impossible for the average wizard. And if he managed to locate me so easily based on the direction of my attack, I must be dealing with a seasoned fighter.
I respond with a Finite Charm. The shimmering blue flicker of a Protego tells me that my opponent is definitely experienced. I feel my pulse skyrocket, but I force myself to breathe steadily, calmly. Focus is crucial.
Through the magical shield, I watch as the Disillusionment melts off the now crouching figure like thick, viscous wax. He has obviously decided - without my forced revelation - to channel his concentration and magic elsewhere.
Thanks to the blue glow of his shield, I can make out how he - his frame confirming that he is, in fact, a man - pushes himself back to his feet, albeit with some difficulty. The fact that he’s able to do so this quickly surprises me. He must be strong, because my Stunning Spell was anything but weak.
With a swift movement, I slip around the tree trunk that has served as my cover and crouch behind a young pine sapling. The scent of damp needles fills my nose.
“Finite,” I whisper, and the Disillusionment surrounding my body dissolves. I, too, need my concentration for more important spells now.
Through the thin branches, I observe the Death Eater. The black clothing, which makes his long, athletic frame nearly merge with the night, is unmistakable. As is the silver mask dangling loosely from his belt. The hood of his cloak is drawn deep enough over his face that I wouldn’t be able to recognize him even in better lighting.
It could be anyone.
I quickly run through my options in my head. In the span of a heartbeat, I try to recall everything I know about the male Death Eaters who, to our knowledge, are still alive. Some names I dismiss outright - those who are too important to the Dark Lord to be left wandering aimlessly through the forest.
After all, there is nothing of interest out here. Not anymore.
Even as I think, I don’t take my eyes off my opponent. He has let go of his shield, the blue glow around him fading. His wand tip moves in slow, searching motions. He has started moving again. Carefully, deliberately, he makes his way in my general direction. His steps form an arc - an attempt to catch me from a more advantageous angle. Ironically, he moves far more silently now than before - smooth, controlled. Like a predator on the hunt, the thought shoots through my mind.
And I am his prey.
I cannot let it come to that.
I assess my options with cold precision. They are limited: fight or retreat.
The Order’s protocols dictate that, upon contact with a Death Eater, I must take the first available opportunity to escape. There’s a clear strategy: use defensive spells until my opponent feels secure, then catch him off guard - stunning him long enough for me to apparate.
But I have already broken the first rule. If an Order member spots a Death Eater, we are not to engage. We are to remain unseen.
Moody will have my head when he finds out I attacked first. I was there when we laid out all these tactics and strategies. Death Eaters usually operate in groups during their attacks. That means, on our patrols, they often outnumber us.
But this one is alone.
Within the span of a single heartbeat, I have made my decision.
With a decisive flick of my wrist, I send a Confringo hurtling toward my opponent. He deflects it with an almost playful motion. The spell rockets into the treetops, the explosion tearing a gap in the canopy above. Leaves and chunks of wood rain down around us, some branches smoldering faintly. They hiss and crackle as they burn on the damp forest floor. The acrid scent of scorched wood fills my lungs, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue.
Silvery moonlight pours through the opening, easing my vision. The Death Eater stands in the center of the pale shaft of light, his black robe a stark contrast to the glow.
Unfortunately, it’s also bright enough now for him to spot me behind my cover. Sinisterly, he turns fully toward me, and I brace for his attack.
From the tip of his wand, a fireball streaks toward me. My own Protego is already ready in my mind.
The flames lick the blue magical barrier with crackling heat. I feel the prickling warmth on my cheeks. Again, the scent of burned wood hits me.
Before the fire dies out completely, I have shifted my position. Hastily, I retreat, putting distance between myself and the Death Eater, and launch two more Stunning Spells in his general direction.
The static crackle of spells hitting a shield reaches my ears. Instinctively, I duck as a bright flash hisses just above me. There’s no time to pause for elaborate strategy.
Because losing sight of an opponent is never wise, I lift my head once the curses have faded somewhere behind me in the forest. My eyes lock onto the black - clad figure again.
I snort at the sight.
Clearly, I’m not just facing a skilled fighter, but someone with an ego to match. The damn fool still stands like Lucifer himself in the cursed moonbeam. Smoke curls around his form; tall, athletic, at least a head above me, his posture almost arrogant.
Sliding - mud making it hard to find proper footing - I circle a thick tree trunk. With a vigorous gesture, I unleash my latest favourite combination on him: a double spell, an obvious Stupefy paired with a follow - up Depulso.
With satisfaction, I watch as he lazily deflects the Stupefy like the Confringo before it, but the hidden spell behind it seems to catch him off guard.
He hastily raises a Protego, but the impact still pushes him back half a meter. I hear his startled groan. His shoes leave furrows in the wet soil. The shield fades.
I give him no chance to counterattack and aim my wand tip directly at his head. My Glacius barely misses him; he ducks at the last moment. The icy - blue spell grazes his cloak, instantly frosting its edges.
The frozen hood slips from his head - and my heart drops into my stomach.
Platinum blond.
My hand trembles. My wand trembles with it.
Fuck.
Of all the people I could have run into out here - it had to be him.
My heart is pounding in my throat.
I am so shocked at the sight of him that I forget to focus on nonverbal magic.
“Expelliarmus!” My own voice sounds strange in my ears.
“Granger?!” The motion he uses to dismiss my spell is noticeably more forceful this time. So, there are emotions still in him, after all.
“Hello, Draco,” I say icily. His name falls from my lips like an unwelcome toy slipping from a child’s hands.
How long has it been since I last saw him? Six months, a year? Time has become a strange construct. Sometimes it slips through my fingers like sand in an hourglass, and then it thickens, sluggish as frozen honey. This is one of those moments.
“What are you doing out here?” He has the audacity to ask.
Shock and something else - something I forbid myself from exploring - gleam in his eyes. I snort derisively. As if that’s any of his business. Ever since he chose to be the Dark Lord’s lapdog, trivialities like my whereabouts ceased to concern him.
Under his feet, the leaves crackle as he responds to my icy silence with a step toward me.
Relentlessly, I aim my wand at the ground before him. Hissing and crackling, a line of fire stretches between us. My opponent halts, surprised. The flames leap high enough to obscure his legs entirely.
“Not another step,” I threaten, unnecessarily. The gesture alone says enough. My voice feels rougher than usual in my own ears. I straighten my shoulders. In my head echoes the advice I’ve often given Harry: never let emotion guide you in a fight. Apparently, I’m very good at ignoring my own counsel.
The flickering firelight casts wild shadows across his angular cheekbones. His eyebrows lift in that familiar way - sceptical and arrogant at once.
“Still so dramatic…” Is that a sigh or a groan? My eyes narrow.
For the second time this night, heat rises to my face. But I’m not sure it’s only the flames flickering between us. The fury I have so carefully locked away begins to smoulder.
“Better dramatic than cowardly,” I hiss before I can rein in the words.
“Better clever than dead,” he retorts arrogantly. Pain shoots through me.
I freeze. My body turns to stone, my heart to ice. The smouldering ashes in my gut ignite into a roaring flame.
“Sectumsempra,” I hiss, watching the spell fly toward him. I rarely use it, still believing that unnecessary suffering should be avoided. And killing someone with Sectumsempra in the heat of a duel takes too long anyway.
But here, where there is nothing but Malfoy, my uncontrollable anger, and the forest’s isolation, it is the first spell I think of.
Unfortunately, Malfoy anticipates the attack this time. His Protego is fast and sturdy. There must be a reason no one in the Order has managed to kill him yet. The damn twitch of his mouth blurs the edges of my vision.
“Potter’s taught you a lot since -”
“Shut up!” I shout, though I know better.
With a casual flick of his wrist, he sends an Aquamenti at the remnants of my fiery barrier. Hissing and steaming, the flames die.
In the resulting mist, his form blurs with the diffuse moonlight. He is now only a dark silhouette within a cloud of silvery droplets.
The outline of his form grows as he approaches. I take two hasty steps back. Leaves rustle under my feet.
A tree behind me halts my retreat. I slam against it, exhaling sharply.
“I know why you’re here,” his cold voice says.
I extend my wand and fire a Stunning Spell at him. The bastard has the audacity to laugh as he deflects it. The mist begins to disperse, and I spot the twitch of his wand just in time to raise my shield.
The blue flash of a Disarming Charm ricochets off. His mouth twitches.
I lift my chin defiantly. Objectively, our duelling skills are roughly equal. If the rumours I’ve heard are true, he is a direct and brutal fighter. I am strategic, using the environment whenever possible to my advantage. Even if the Order would never place me in the front line, I’ve already turned several battles to our favour. But a direct duel against Draco Malfoy cannot be won on skill alone.
“You know nothing about me or my reasons,” I say through gritted teeth. Still behind my protective Protego, I take two deep breaths to regain control of my emotions. I’ve noticed he hasn’t launched a single truly dangerous spell yet. Everything so far would have caused at most discomfort or humiliation.
About three meters away, he stops and tilts his head. He studies me like a raptor examining its prey, perplexed by its behavior. As if I were a rabbit that decided to bite the snake in the tail.
“You shouldn’t tell lies,” he murmurs in a dark voice. How I loathe these words. I still see the scars on Harry’s hand. On my own. And on…
Pain and emptiness. I swallow the memory.
I stare into the Death Eater’s silver-grey eyes. Moonlight fractures within them, making them sparkle. Pressure tightens on my chest. My heart feels trapped in an iron maiden, closing around it.
I do the dumbest thing and look away. Two heartbeats I struggle to regain composure.
“Forgot entirely that lying’s your specialty.” Again, I cannot restrain my cheeky tongue. Quickly, I lift my gaze and my wand.
The Disarming Charm sticks in my throat as our eyes meet again. Something flickers in the silver storm of his gaze. It startles me as much as it makes my heart leap.
“Hermione…” His voice sounds strained. And yet something hums inside me. I curse my stupid heart. He’s said only my damned name.
“You shall -!”
The distant pop of an Apparition spell, followed by two more, makes me freeze. The reminder that I’d told him to keep his mouth shut dissolves before I can voice it.
Instead, my gaze flicks anxiously over our surroundings. I’m almost certain it can’t be anyone from the Order. I was foolish enough not to tell a soul where I patrol tonight.
Even Draco seems unsettled now suddenly.
“Get out of here,” he hisses. His obvious unease only sharpens my curiosity. It’s strange how determined he is to send me away.
“Who’s coming?” I hear myself ask. A deep furrow appears between Malfoy’s brows.
“No one you want to meet.” That much I’d already gathered. What I don’t understand is why the thought of Death Eater reinforcements rattles him so badly. He should be preening, wand raised, calling the others over. After all, it’s me standing in front of him - Harry Potter’s best friend. The brightest witch of our age, as some like to say. From the Death Eaters’ point of view, I’m Public Enemy Number Two, second only to Harry in Voldemort’s hatred.
The Dark Lord would reward him handsomely for delivering me bound at his feet. He should be making sure I don’t get the chance to run. The fact that he isn’t is completely incomprehensible.
Why I’m still rooted to the spot - clearly not thinking straight, practically inviting to be captured by my most dangerous enemy - is just as baffling. My survival instinct seems to have taken a brief holiday. I’ll definitely have to examine that later.
His exasperated groan pulls me back to a classroom somewhere in the dungeons at Hogwarts. He sounds eerily like he used to whenever I raised my hand and ruined his attempt at looking superior.
And then, suddenly, he’s right beside me. Too close.
His body pins me against the tree trunk. I inhale sharply, overwhelmed by his scent - smoke, pine sap, and the faint trace of something woody and expensive.
“Not a sound,” he murmurs, his hoarse voice brushing the skin at my neck. I shiver. Merlin. Of all possible moments.
Footsteps approach through the undergrowth, quick and purposeful, and for once I obey without protest. I stay perfectly still, trapped between his body and the tree.
Draco lifts his wand and lightly taps the crown of my head. The cool, familiar wash of a Disillusionment Charm spreads over my skin. Within seconds, his body disappears from view as well.
For a heartbeat, we both go rigid.
“Did the Tracking Charm really work here?” A man pushes through the brush only a few metres away. He’s dressed like Draco, hood casting his face in shadow.
“He definitely spoke the name,” another man replies. The accent is unmistakable. Dolohov.
“Spread out. Potter’s little Mudblood has to be here somewhere.”
Oh Fuck.
The nausea hits instantly. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
Bellatrix is here.
My lips part in a sharp breath - but a warm hand clamps over my mouth, smothering the sound. I barely register the touch. My fingers are ice-cold. My hands won’t stop trembling. I haven’t seen the mad witch since the Battle of Hogwarts. I’d always assumed Voldemort had grown more cautious about where he unleashed her.
Her thin, skeletal, wiry silhouette comes into view. Like something dragged from a nightmare, she stands in the moonlight, slowly turning in a circle. She looks exactly as I remember - wild curls, black gown, and that unhinged glitter in her dark eyes, visible even from here.
Tremors sweep through my entire body. My knees feel as though they might buckle at any second, soft and unreliable beneath me. My heart slams against my ribs, as if it could tear free.
Draco presses his warm body even closer in response. The pressure of his hand over my mouth increases. He must think I’ll betray us with a single misplaced breath.
“Where the hell is the little Malfoy?” Dolohov’s irritated voice cuts through the darkness somewhere to my left. I’d been so fixated on Bellatrix that I hadn’t even registered where the others had gone.
“Did he take the Mudblood with him? Heard he’s had a weakness for her for some time…” Dolohov again -impatient, sneering.
The pressure over my mouth eases slightly. I seal my lips shut on instinct. The Death Eaters are well-informed - far too well.
“Maybe he’s entertaining himself with her somewhere,” another voice adds, low and unfamiliar.
Bellatrix’s shrill laughter slices through the night, needling straight into my bones. I clutch the fabric of Draco’s cloak, grounding myself in its coarse folds.
“Draco knows better than to withhold such a prize from the Dark Lord,” she drawls.
“Yet you didn’t tell him nothing about the Tracking Charm,” Dolohov fires back.
This time it’s Draco whose body stiffens. I feel it instantly - the tension snapping through him. My brow furrows, trying to make sense of his reaction. Why does that unsettle him?
“A little lesson in loyalty,” Bellatrix replies lightly. “Draco should never forget that the Dark Lord permits no… side interests.” She giggles to herself again, pleased.
“And what better way to teach him than by using his misguided little hopes?” A guttural laugh rises from the right, tangling with her manic delight.
“It was only a matter of time before he ran into her here… She and Potter are still searching for the red-haired blood traitor.”
My breath catches. Time freezes around me.
Ron.
They’re talking about Ron.
Blood roars in my ears, drowning out all other sounds. My thoughts spin and splinter as meaning crashes down around me. Why are they talking about Ron?
For a heartbeat I’m back at Hogwarts, searching among the rubble of the battlefield - scrambling over shattered stone, screaming his name again and again, my voice raw, breaking, swallowed by smoke and silence. My only response being deafening, ice-cold silence. All I found that day was ruin. Cold, merciless ruin.
Dolohov’s voice reaches me, muffled as if through water, dragging me back to the present.
“No one looks for a dead man this long. Maybe they noticed something…” There’s genuine doubt in his tone.
The giggling stops.
My fingers ache from how tightly I’m gripping Draco’s cloak. I still see it - the flock of red hair beneath the fallen bridge, blood smeared across broken stones. My eyes burn. I blink frantically, forcing the tears back.
Draco’s grip tightens around me in silent warning.
I hold my breath, swallow every rising emotion. I have to listen. I can’t miss a single word.
“Absurd. The illusion is flawless. The Dark Lord does not make mistakes.” Bellatrix’s voice slices cleanly through the night. As always, there is no room for doubt where Voldemort is concerned.
“It could—”
The word is severed mid-breath.
“Crucio!”
Bellatrix’s wand flashes toward Dolohov. He crumples instantly, writhing on the forest floor, a strangled groan tearing from him.
Shock roots me in place. Through the shimmer of Draco’s Disillusionment, I watch the scene unfold in the pale wash of moonlight. The Order would never do this - never attack, let alone torture, one of their own.
“That’s enough, Bella. He won’t question the Dark Lord again anytime soon.”
The familiarity in the address makes my stomach twist. The third man must be Rodolphus Lestrange.
Bellatrix lowers her wand with a satisfied smile. Perfectly devoted. Perfectly mad.
Dolohov staggers upright, hood fallen back, fury blazing in his eyes. His wand hand twitches - but he doesn’t retaliate.
Instead, his gaze shifts upward to the torn gap in the canopy where my Confringo ripped through the leaves, moonlight still pouring down.
“A fight happened here,” he says flatly.
Draco stiffens again. The hand holding his wand against my shoulder trembles almost imperceptibly. I tighten my grip on my own wand.
“So not exactly amusing himself with his Mudblood,” Rodolphus remarks dryly.
Draco shifts, trying to angle his head for a better view, his hair brushing my cheek. Now I am the one pressing a warning hand to his shoulder, keeping him still.
“Maybe she took him with her,” Dolohov suggests.
Bellatrix taps her wand thoughtfully against her chin, as if weighing whether her nephew might truly have failed to capture me.
“The Dark Lord won’t be pleased if the Malfoy boy allowed himself to be taken…”
“If the Mudblood was foolish enough to take him,” Rodolphus says, strolling into clearer view, “the Dark Lord can track him.”
“And wherever his Mudblood is,” Bellatrix breathes, excitement threading her voice, “the Potter boy won’t be far.” I can almost feel her anticipation.
“Oh, the Dark Lord will be delighted!” she shrieks, waving her wand in manic triumph. With a sharp crack, she vanishes.
Another crack - Rodolphus is gone.
“And if we’re wrong,” Dolohov mutters darkly, “the Dark Lord will make sure we regret it.”
Then he, too, disapparates, leaving the forest in stunned silence.