Chapter Text
Day 40 / Day 1
Branches whip at her face as she runs, tripping over roots and dodging limbs.
A curse scorches past her shoulder—too close.
"Don't!—Don't say it again—" she snaps, breath tearing from her throat.
Harry stumbles just behind her, Blackthorn wand sparking wrong in his grip.
Ron barrels after him.
Too many voices—
Too many—
They're closing in.
Hermione turns to Harry, sharp.
"I'm sorry—"
A white light spits from her wand. Harry cries out as the jinx hits him square in the face, his features swelling into something unrecognizable.
It's just in time.
A red light, and Harry goes down.
Hermione watches him fall—then smacks into the snatcher ahead of her.
Her vision swims—
Hot, rank breath curls into her nostrils.
"And what might your name be, pet?"
Hermione scowls as they are shoved down the long walk, trying to determine their location. After peering closely at Harry's swollen face, the Snatcher holding him had decided they wouldn't be going to the Ministry with the other captures.
She's sure wherever they're headed is much worse. The ropes at her wrists dig painfully into her skin, and Hermione stumbles, trying to keep up with the snatcher's pace. He jerks her upright, causing her to cry out.
"Don't you fucking touch her," Ron seethes at her other side, earning a sharp blow to the head.
Harry is smart enough to stay quiet.
Ron.
She could kill him for saying the taboo. They'd been arguing—Ron and Harry—after the disaster at Luna's house. He said they could get to the wand first. Harry insisted Voldemort already has it.
Ron said the name—
"Brilliant, Ronald," she hisses under her breath as they walk.
"How was I supposed to—"
She exhales sharply. "You weren't."
Her mind is suddenly dragged backwards without her permission. Piercing grey eyes. Pale hair.
Draco had warned them of the taboo. It's been over a month since he disappeared, and their time together almost feels like a dream. The emptiness in her chest proves it wasn't.
Ron glares at the snatcher gripping his shirt sleeve.
"Not so fucking close you stinking arsehole." He bucks against the snatcher, who only grips him tighter, jerking him roughly. Ron stumbles, and the snatcher chuckles.
Suddenly the walk ahead narrows, ending at a tall, ornate iron gate. In the distance behind it looms a sprawling mansion—partially obscured by morning mist. White stone, stark against the dark foliage surrounding it. Trees line the path on either side, as if leading the way to a certain doom—and Hermione is sure she will die here, one way or another.
Dread and excitement coil into a nauseating brew at the pit of her stomach as she stares at their destination. One she's never visited, but knows, all the same. His home.
Malfoy Manor.
They're dragged inside at wandpoint and forced to their knees on the cold, checkered marble. Hermione recognizes the sleek, blonde profile of Lucius Malfoy near the mantle. His wife, Narcissa, hovers beside him.
Another witch suddenly appears in Hermione's line of sight—dark, tangled curls. Wide, wild eyes.
Bellatrix Lestrange.
"Well," she says to the snatchers. "What have you brought us?"
"We think it's Potter," the one behind Hermione says with a sneer.
"Ugly, bastard," he adds, inclining his chin at Harry.
The snatcher beside her jerks Harry's head back by his hair. Bellatrix leans in close, eyeing his forehead.
Lucius takes a few steps closer.
"We must be sure, Bella."
"Get Draco," she says, almost a whisper. Hermione's heart falls into her stomach.
Time stills as footsteps click steadily across the marble and expensive dragonhide shoes come into view. Hermione's gaze drifts upward over snappy trousers, then a crisp button up, finally landing on sharp grey eyes. Her pulse pounds.
Draco meets her gaze for only a breath. A flash of something—then it shutters. His eyes slide to Harry.
He looks at them as if they are strangers, and her heart sinks.
"Is it Potter?" Bellatrix asks.
Draco's jaw is tight.
"Well?" she demands.
He squints at Harry, who juts his chin defiantly.
"I can't be sure," Draco replies. His voice is more hollow than Hermione remembers. Too even and empty. Something in it gives her pause. Lucius steps in beside him, pushing him forward until he's almost nose to nose with Harry.
"Look again, Draco."
Harry goes still.
Ron quietly seethes from Hermione's other side.
She holds her breath—looking at Draco is like looking at a statue.
"I don't think so," he says after a moment.
Lucius scoffs. "Useless."
Bellatrix growls, then yanks on Hermione's hair. Hard.
Hermione hisses at the sharp sting.
"What about the girl?" Bellatrix demands, eyeing him carefully.
"Is it Potter's Mudblood?"
Hermione glares at the witch. Her gaze darts to Draco, but she can't read him.
The tent flashes in her mind. Hands. Lips. Skin. Quiet words in the dark.
Heat pricks behind her eyes, and she blinks it away.
"I—Maybe," he says. "Yes."
Hermione exhales, defeated. Bellatrix's gaze sharpens on Draco, lingering a moment too long.
"Let's have a little chat with her then, shall we?"
Draco straightens, shoulders tight. But he nods.
Lucius and Narcissa move off to the side, as Bellatrix circles the captives like a predator. In a flash, her wand rises—
A red burst. Crucio.
The spell sears through Hermione's skin like white lightning, every bone and fiber threatening to tear apart. Someone screams, a sharp jagged sound ripped from deep within their throat.
Vaguely, Hermione registers that the sound comes from her own chest.
Something flashes in Draco's eyes—anything but empty. It's gone just as fast, dissolving just as the curse lifts.
Bellatrix eyes him again. She pauses.
Ron is shouting, livid. Harry lunges with a growl but he's yanked backward, yelping as his shoulder is wrenched loose from its socket. It hangs sickeningly at his side.
"Take them to the dungeons," Bellatrix orders.
The snatchers roughly drag Ron and Harry from the room, and Lucius follows, mumbling something about incompetence. As soon as he's gone, Bellatrix circles Hermione again, finally coming to a stop in front of her.
Her black gaze shifts to Draco.
"Go on, Nephew," she coos. "She's nothing—you can't break her. Give her a little taste. Let's see what she knows."
His gaze hardens.
Hermione braces for the pain, feeling her heart start to break.
Draco lifts his wand—
Something brushes her mind.
React.
It's nothing more than a breath of thought, then the spell hits her. Pain prickles over her skin, but it's only a fraction of the sharp torture she just endured.
Draco's eyes flick to hers—
Now.
She screams.
The sharp wail rips from her lungs, and she stiffens, putting every ounce of effort into the farce. Draco angles his wand, holding the spell just long enough to satisfy, then it subsides.
"Tell me, little Mudblood," Bellatrix purrs. "It is Mr. Potter. Isn't it?"
She tilts her head. "Was that your handiwork?"
Hermione glares back, biting her tongue.
"Again, Draco."
From the corner of her eye, she sees Narcissa shift uncomfortably. Draco lifts his wand, uttering the words, and Hermione is hit again. The same sharp prickle. Wrong. Her throat burns from screaming, voice cracking and raw.
The spell dissolves again. Hermione falls onto her palms, panting, unable to look at Draco lest she give him away.
But it's not enough.
Bellatrix kneels beside her, voice low at her ear.
"You'll answer me, bitch." She pulls a jagged dagger from her robes. The handle is dark stone, carved with intricate swirls. The blade glints in the light.
"Let's try something simpler."
Before Hermione can react—the blade slices her neck. She gasps, air choking behind her ribs.
"Bella—" Narcissa warns.
Draco's teeth clench. He steps forward, but Narcissa reaches out, a hand at his wrist.
Warm liquid trickles down the column of Hermione's throat, and she lifts her arms, jerking against the ropes at her wrist, trying to feel the wound—
Everything happens at once.
Footsteps pound, trainers squeaking against the marble as Harry and Ron impossibly burst back into the room. Harry shouts, firing hexes at Bellatrix and then backwards at Lucius, the spells flying wild and unsteady, clipping the chandelier overhead.
It crashes, glass shards spraying out like a thousand daggers.
Draco's eyes go wide and he pushes Narcissa out of the way. Ron spins, hitting Draco with an expelliarmus, and the hawthorn wand skids across the floor toward Ron. His hand closes around it.
"Got him!" he shouts, turning his aim on Hermione. His wand waves sharply, and the ropes snap at her wrist. They dodge dark curses and Harry's wild spells—ricocheting into priceless antiques.
Ron tosses her a wand. Her wand.
Draco stands Frozen, wandless. Narcissa moves in front of him, raising her wand at Harry.
But Hermione's mind is suddenly crystal clear.
Her eyes meet Draco's—there's nothing left to decide. She slings two spells, back to back. Narcissa is flung backward into the mantle in a blue flash of light. Her head connects wit the wood, and she hits the ground, unconscious.
The red burst hits Draco. He drops like a stone.
Hermione dives forward—as if in slow motion—fingers closing around Draco's ankle.
She screams for Harry and Ron. They tumble into the mix, grabbing hold of her as their forms start to waver.
Her eyes lock on the dagger, light glinting off the steel, spinning toward them.
Closer.
And they're gone.
They crash onto a strip of sand below a small cottage. The sun shines overhead, long grasses blowing in a light breeze, just beyond the beach where the waves roll in.
Hermione sucks in a sharp breath of air from the impact, the others landing on top of her in a tangle of limbs. They peel off quickly, and Hermione swishes her wand at Harry, righting his arm with a sharp pop.
He grunts.
On instinct, her head snaps to Draco. He's propped up on his elbows, eyes open and guarded, her spell having already worn off. Bellatrix's blood-soaked knife lies discarded at his side, and a deep gash gushes crimson from his shoulder.
Her breath catches, hard.
She starts to move—
Two wands fly up, both leveled at Draco.
"Move," Ron spits, angling his wand past her shoulder.
Hermione turns to him fully, putting herself between the pair and Draco.
"Don't—"
Harry goes still.
His eyes dart between her and Draco on the ground. Something catches in his gaze, and his grip loosens on the Blackthorn, still held aloft.
He doesn't move. Ron steps forward again.
"No." Her voice is low and dangerous. Draco is a Death Eater, but he's still hers.
She levels her wand at Ron, and his eyes go wide.
He freezes, stunned.
Slowly, she steps backward. Once. Twice. Never lowering her arm.
Off in the distance, a tall ginger man bursts through the cottage door—a blonde close behind. Bill and Fleur.
The pair rush toward them.
Hermione doesn't wait. She turns, crouching beside Draco and tears his shirt away from his shoulder, casting healing charms on the wound—her own forgotten. The skin nits together slowly—not quite healed, but no longer bleeding.
She'll need dittany to keep it from scarring.
Silence tightens around them, and her gaze pulls upward.
Draco is watching her with a curious expression. Slowly, his hand lifts to the wound at her neck, brushing away a trickle of clotting crimson, smearing it between his thumb and finger. Her breath hitches.
Behind her, Harry says nothing.
She can feel Ron's eyes burning into her back.
"Ron? Harry?" Bill calls as he nears. On instinct, Hermione rises, stepping in front of Draco.
"Is everyone okay?" Fleur asks, skidding to a stop beside Bill. Her blue eyes flash with concern.
Ron's face twists.
Harry still hasn't moved.
"What is he doing here?" Bill blurts, finally noticing Draco.
The Slytherin doesn't try to speak. He slowly pushes himself to a stand, and Hermione shifts closer to him without thinking.
Ron's eyes go round.
"Mione brought him here," he says, with a huff of disbelief. "Stunned him, then dragged him with us as we escaped."
He turns, gaze narrowing on her. "And then she fucking healed him."
Bill's head jerks. "Escaped? From where?"
"This git's house," Ron sneers, pointing at Draco. "His Death Eater daddy and crazy aunt planned to turn us over to You-Know-Who."
"And they tortured Hermione." His glare narrows further. "Malfoy Crucio'd her."
Harry says nothing. It's as if he's seen a ghost. Maybe he has.
But Draco is here with them. He's safe.
He helped her.
"Hermione?" Fleur says, brows pulling tight.
Hermione's jaw tightens, and her shoulders set.
"He's not leaving."
Ron's gaze snaps up. "What—? Mione, he's a Death Eater!"
He turns to Harry, but Harry's gaze is locked on grey.
"Hermione—" Bill begins.
"No."
She takes another step back, stopping directly beside Draco. "If he leaves—so do I."
Draco's knuckle brushes the back of her hand.
Or maybe she imagined it.
No one moves.
Bill's wand is still half-raised, and Ron is ready to hex them both.
And Harry—he doesn't blink.