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Chapter Text

It started with red.

Hermione awoke to the familiar dull ache in her lower belly. How her body still had the reserves to bleed was beyond her. Her once soft, supple body had become a thing of the distant past, one that felt like an entire lifetime ago. 

She supposed it was. 

The Hermione Granger who departed Hogwarts at the end of sixth year, shaken in the wake of Dumbledore's death, was not the same Hermione Granger who returned on on the second of May. Returning to bear witness to the final battle at Hogwarts.  

The day the Order fell.

The day Voldemort won.

The day Harry Potter died alone and afraid in the Forbidden Forest. 

That Hermione Granger had been lean, her small frame composed of nothing but muscle and bone. Calloused hands and strong thighs from almost a year on the run. 

What softness her body once held was eroded by war. Food rationing and months of camping in the woods had morphed her body into hard muscle. Her once round face hollowed out into sharp angles with dark under eyes and sun-kissed skin. 

That Hermione was full of hope, and hope was a dangerous thing.

It was her undoing. 

It was hope that kept her frozen, standing in the Hogwarts courtyard. 

She should have done something.

Anything. 

She could have fired the killing curse at Voldemort as he gave his grandiose speech. Or grabbed Ron and ran, living to fight another day. 

Instead, she stayed rooted in the spot. Gaze fixed on Harry’s unseeing green eyes, as Hagrid cradled and wept over his broken body. 

She wondered if he had held Harry the same way when he delivered the infant to Four Privet Drive all those years ago. 

The Boy Who Lived, what was supposed to be the saviour of the Wizarding World, looked so small and frail in Hagrid's large arms. Arms wrapped protectively around the boy as if to shield him from the carnage around them. 

As if he too, had hoped that those green eyes would suddenly fill with life. 

When Neville Longbottom sliced the head off Nagini, he raised the sword of Gryffindor in a scream of triumph. His roar was a battle cry that launched the last remaining members of the Order into action. And as they sped past her, wands out and hope still shining on their faces, Hermione stood still. Jets of red and flashes of green fired in all directions, yet she didn’t flinch. 

Blood. There was so much blood. 

How could one body produce so much of it? 

It coated his chest, dripping on the cobblestones below. Harry’s throat was slashed so deeply that if it wasn’t for Hagrid holding him together she thought his head would topple off. 

She hadn’t put much thought into how Harry would die. Only that he would. But in a clinical sense, she supposed Voldemort had learned his lesson. Harry had already survived the killing curse once. No matter how much she hoped, he would not survive this.

Blind hope, naive notions of good triumphing over evil, love over hate, were not going to be enough. She was the Brightest Witch Of Her Age and she knew that they had already lost. 

Their war was lost the moment Lord Voldemort killed Harry Potter. 

And her hope slowly died as her eyes stared at his. 

Pulled from her memories, Hermione rolled over on the filthy and stained cot that was her bed. A worn canvas stretched over a rusted frame, with no pillow and only a frayed, thin blanket to shield her from the chill in her cell. She cupped a hand under the waistband of her Azkaban-issued clothing and felt the wetness gathering there. Pulling her hand back up she stared at the bright red blood glistening on her fingertips. The only burst of colour in her damp, mouldy cell. 

She tenderly sat up, her bones screaming in protest as she cast aside what little warmth the blanket provided and padded across the room to relieve herself. 

The dim light that shone between the bars of her small window was the only indication it was morning. The positioning of the window, high up on the wall across from her cot, ensured what little warmth the light could grant her was always out of reach. And with the sky charmed around the prison to stay in a constant cloud, Hermione knew that the muted light would provide little comfort. 

Azkaban was not a place built for comfort. 

She returned to her cot, lying down to resume staring at the jagged rock wall across from her. 

She did not have the energy to do anything else.

So she simply stared, slept and occasionally got up to consume the slop that would magically appear in her cell three times a day.

Hermione existed in a catatonic state, without the need or desire to do anything other than nothing. Her fight had gone out, her body had given up and her heart was in pieces. Mercifully, for the first time in her life, her mind was quiet. 

The only images she was able to conjure were two sightless green eyes and a pool of Gryffindor red.

Time was a difficult thing to keep track of, but Hermione believed she’d managed to develop some semblance of a routine. 

She would wake and relieve herself on the grimy ring of what the prison wardens had deemed a toilet, before proceeding to try to clean herself up using the stained sink. With only one working tap that dribbled out icy, yellowing water she would begin the task of rinsing her three makeshift rags. Two, torn from the hem from the bottom of her Azkaban-issued trousers and one small scrap torn from her thin blanket. 

She didn’t dare try to make anymore. She couldn’t afford to take any more of the fabric that offered her the only shield from the chill. 

Besides, three was enough. 

One to wipe clean her face and body, one to use and rinse as a substitute for the lack of toilet paper, and one for her periods. A recurring pointless reminder she thought as if the passing of time held any relevance to her here. But she supposed, her body had yet to catch up to what her mind knew. Her time had already run out.

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger could not think of a way out of this. At least not without her wand or an army of Order members that no longer existed.

The international Wizarding community turned a blind eye to Lord Voldemort even before the Order fell, so she doubted they would be much help.

And even if they did, it’s not like they would waste the manpower and resources to rescue one muggle-born witch. 

Ron would try and probably fail, but she had thrown out that hope early on. Ron was gone. Either dead, captured or hidden away in a safe house somewhere. She hoped it was the latter. But it had been a long time now, at least it felt like that for her, he would have come for her if he could.   

If he even knew where she was. If he thought she was even alive.

She’s calculated her odds of escape from this cell. Including all possible scenarios and factors, it was low. Incredibly low.  And that wasn’t including getting off the island. 

The reality was, no one was coming for her. 

Her only chance for escape sat squarely on her shoulders. But she had already examined every inch of her cell, attempted to chip away at the stone walls with little success, she even tried to ram her door down using the frame of her cot.

In one desperate attempt, she tried to climb out her small barred window. Climbing up by using the uneven rocks on her wall as footholds. She’d only barely managed to pull herself up to the bars, unable to even squeeze her head through the tight gaps before a passing Dementor made her lose her footing.

In all her attempts, none proved even remotely successful and as time passed, she felt herself grow weaker until she didn’t even have the strength to try. The lack of food, warmth and light eroded what little resolve she had away. 

Even if she somehow managed to escape from Azkaban, she would have to travel outside the UK undetected with no magic and no help. 

Simply put, it was impossible.

It was easier not to think about it as she went about her daily grooming routine. Placing her rags on the edge of the sink in an attempt to dry them. The best result she could manage so far was turning them from sopping wet to heavily damp. 

Satisfied with her placement she began the daily struggle of combing her hair with her fingers.

Her hair was a wild tangle of curls even before imprisonment, now nothing more than a matted heap on her head. She had the privilege of being able to watch this transformation, thanks to the stained mirror magically sealed above her small sink. A mirror in Azkaban seemed like a joke at first, as if anyone would care what they looked like in this place. 

But as she began to watch her olive skin fade into a pale yellow, her jawline sharpening and her eyes shadowed with purple, she realised that this was a special breed of torture. 

Hermione thought about using one of the sharp rocks she pulled from the wall to cut off her matted, filthy hair. But it was the only thing that kept her neck and head from bracing the cold. 

She’d experienced cold before, on the run with Harry and Ron they spent many nights huddled in that tent. But the cold in this prison was unnatural. 

It seeped into her bones.

The floor was so icy, it burned the pads of her feet in its intensity. Numb purple fingers and stiff hands became a natural state for Hermione. Steam lingered in the air with each ragged exhale. Nothing could penetrate through the frigid entity that seemed to invade her blood.  

Cold like this should kill, no human body could survive this. Not even a magical one. 

And yet it did not claim her. 

Even on the nights when her bed frame rattled from the violence of her shakes. 

She concluded then, that this was the second breed of torture developed for the poor souls inhabiting Azkaban.

She finished her morbid self-inspection before padding back to her cot, exhausted after only a few minutes of standing. Climbing back in and wrapping the thin blanket tightly under her chin as she rubbed her feet together to try to circulate the blood back into her toes. 

And then she resumed staring at her wall.

The Dementors continued their circuit past her small window, coating the bars in ice. The frost branched out across the far wall like vines, before fading when they assessed her huddled in her cell. She watched them come and go, drifting past in an almost graceful manner. Hermione couldn’t decide if she was grateful or not that they had yet to enter. 

Longing for the dementor's kiss had started as an intrusive thought. Lately, she has turned it over in her mind more often than not. Insanity or death were the only reprieves she could hope to receive.

Perhaps those in the cells surrounding her were luckier. If they had no happy memories left, then maybe the bad ones wouldn’t seem so bad. The pain could be bearable if pain was all one knew. 

It was a cup that first alerted her to the Death Eater's presence inside the prison. 

Her food tray no longer appeared in her cell three times a day. Instead, those footsteps would approach her steel door, open the metal slate and drop a cup of slop down onto the floor before sliding shut. Its rancid contents spilled all over the dirty stone floor. 

She learned quickly that one cup was all she would get for the day.  

Some days it never arrived at all. 

So she would collect every drop she could back into its cup before licking what remained off the stone floor. 

There is no dignity in hunger.

The prison started to swell with sounds of life as more prisoners were brought in. A stark contrast to the eerie whispering of the wind.

Voices cackled and cursed in distant corridors. Their footsteps were long and unhurried as the Death Eaters patrolled the prison. Where those footsteps went, nightmares followed.

The creaking of steel doors became the worst of all sounds.

Because the screams always followed. 

She would cup her hands violently to her ears in a desperate bid to block out the other noises that burned into her consciousness. The pleading, the cracking of bones, the laughter, skin slapping against skin….

The horrors she heard made her heave the contents of her stomach. Retching until bile burned her throat raw.

When they would leave, doors slammed shut and chains tinkered. Mostly, silence followed. Other times sobs and unbridled wails rose like a haunted choir. 

The sobs were worse than the silence. Because she knew it wasn’t over. 

Eventually, they would come back. They always did.

Again and again and again.

And when silence finally fell she would cry in relief for them and wonder when she would be next.

Hermione grew used to the dark and the damp. She even started to develop a tolerance for the cold. 

But she never grew used to the screams.

When she couldn’t stand the sounds anymore she began to sing.

As a little girl, she would beg her mother to sing to her every night. She loved the feeling of being tucked tightly under her mother's arm, head resting on her chest. 

There was no greater comfort in the world than being rocked to sleep in her childhood bed. Maybe it was the love Hermione held for her mother, but she swore Jeanine Granger’s voice held magic greater than her own. 

Now, with Hermione’s wand taken and her magic trampled by cold and hunger, she clung to her mother's voice singing her to sleep.

We all live in a yellow submarine,

A yellow submarine,

A yellow submarine.

As a child, she had understood the concept of hell. Her parents would drag her to the church doors every Christmas for midnight mass, despite the fact she didn’t believe in God.

Hell was a story to scare Man into following the will of the Church. 

She always thought herself too clever to be scared of stories.

But as she sang herself hoarse, palms over ears, bottom and back blistering from rocking back and forth against stone, she realised Hell was not some metaphorical place below the earth. 

It was an island on the North Sea.

Her weight had dropped dangerously. 

The one meal she was granted was not enough to sustain all the energy her body was generating to try to keep her warm. The shivering had stopped weeks ago. Or was it days? She wasn’t sure. 

Her tattered uniform bottoms slung effortlessly off her protruding hip bones. And as she stepped out of them she noticed her knees and ankles jutted out sharply against the atrophied muscle in her legs. 

Her numb fingers fumbled on the buttons of her shirt and she only made it halfway before pulling the whole thing over her head and discarding it on the floor.

Reaching the sink she grabbed her sodden rag and began her bathing routine. It felt like no matter how hard she scrubbed, a thin layer of grime always clung to her body. But she found peace in the movements. Meticulous tracing the lines along her body with frayed cotton.

Back and forth. Back and forth. 

Rinse. Ring. 

Back and forth. Back and forth.

It was the only thing she could do for herself. The only thing that did anything to improve her situation. It made her feel human. Less like a filthy Mudblood, they thought her to be.   

It was the one thing she could control. 

She checked herself over in the mirror, ensuring she hadn’t missed a spot. She didn’t recognise the face peering back at her, she didn’t think it was possible, but her reflection became more horrifying every time she gathered the courage to look. Hollowed cheekbones and sunken eyes. Rib cage and sternum jutting out of her chest. She could count every vertebra on her spine now. 

Her eyes drifted to her forearm. She tried to avoid looking at it, but her eyes snapped to that spot on their own accord. The word MUDBLOOD stood out sharply. Its crude red lines are more prominent now against her sickly white skin, her natural olive tones long gone. 

A sick reminder of her time on the drawing room floor in Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix’s rank breath. Manic cackling. A blood-stained dagger. 

She tore her eyes away and examined the rest of her body. 

A faded scar on her left knee from a bike accident as a child. 

A small burn on the inside of her wrist from a straightening iron she’d tried out over school break. It had been her first and only attempt at taming her hair before she learnt of the wonders of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion at the start of her fourth year. 

Three pale scars dot her shoulder from the Weeping Willow, so faded now they are nearly invisible.

Dolohov left his mark under her left breast, the red raised skin splashing down her ribs. A reminder of her near death in fifth year at the Department of Mysteries. 

All marks she can account for, every one of them accompanying a memory she can revisit. 

Except for one.

Five digits were tattooed on the side of her neck. Two runes, representing ‘female’ and ‘prisoner’, followed by the numbers ‘331’. Utterly meaningless and yet forever etched into her skin. A new name was forced upon her, one to match her Mudblood scar. 

One moment she had been Hermione Granger fighting in a war. The next; wandless, helpless, hopeless. Reduced to nothing but her blood status and a number. 

There was a battle.

A stunning spell. 

The sensation of falling.

Then waking up here in this cell.  Dressed in Azkaban-issued clothing. Not one single thing she had in her possession with her. Not even her name.

Female Prisoner. 331.

She reached for her rag again and began cleaning the marks with a renewed frenzy. 

No matter how many times she scrubbed, both remained. 

In all her reading during her third year, she never came across any information regarding the structure of Azkaban.

She knew it to be located on an unknown island in the North Sea. An Unplottable fortress run by Dementors, designed to strip its prisoners of their happy memories, their minds and then their lives. 

Sirius Black was the only prisoner in recorded history to ever escape unaided. And as she was not an Animagus, she couldn’t shift and squeeze through the slat in her door the way Sirius had done. 

She did know from her minute research that Azkaban cells were almost always composed of steel walls, with clear access for Dementors to feed on its inhabitants. Her prison walls were composed of jagged rock with only a small inaccessible window. Hermione concluded that she must be being held in a cell separated from the main body of the prison. Carved into the rock face on one side of the prison to offer some protection from the Dementors. 

Other than their dark forms floating past her window, they had never once tried to claim their meal. As wardens of the prison for the past two centuries, they could easily come floating through her door. Yet the door had stayed shut the entire time she had been here. And until the Death Eaters had arrived, even her meal slot remained unmoved. It was clear that Lord Voldemort had instructed his shadowed pets to leave her be. As to why Hermione didn’t know. 

Other than herself and the footsteps that accompanied her next meal, there was no other movement surrounding her. 

They had to come for her eventually she thought. When they did she would fight. If she could just get a hold of a wand, she could take out as many Death Eaters as she could. It didn’t matter if she had no means of retreat. She would get to look them in the eye while she went down. It was the best death this place could offer her.

With a singular course of action, Hermione spent her time preparing. Time moved faster now that she had a purpose. She would stretch her frozen limbs before completing a circuit of push-ups, jumping jacks, lunges and sit-ups. Her weakened body stretched what should have been a twenty-minute workout into a two-hour affair. She would consume every drop of slop that spilled on her floor and fill the rest of her belly with water from the sink tap. It wouldn’t be enough to restore her strength, but she needed every edge she could get. 

Wandless magic proved impossible, she couldn’t even conjure a whisper of magic. So she practised her wand movements with an empty hand. Controlling her shivering limbs and shaking hands took immense difficulty due to the cold. But she was nothing if not a quick learner. At night she would lay in her cot and whisper her goodbyes to her parents, Ron, Crookshanks, Neville, Luna, Ginny and the rest of the Weasley family and her classmates. Even though she knew they couldn’t hear her, might not even be alive, it lulled her to sleep. 

When Hermione could complete her circuit within an hour she decided she was ready. She told herself that she’d prepared as much as she could. Her strength was weakening day by day, she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. It had to be now.

Hermione braced herself as she crouched against the steel cell door. Shoulder and ear kissing the metal, she listened for any indication of approaching footsteps. 

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Her knees were locked in, joints sealed and feet numb from the cold or the awkward position she couldn’t tell. 

When Hermione finally heard heavy footsteps her stomach dropped. Heart racing, she stood and positioned her body right beside the meal slate. The footsteps paused outside, blood rushed to her ears as she held her breath. 

The slate opened and a black-gloved hand tentatively reached out, its wrist almost brushing her nose. Hermione stared wide-eyed, frozen in disbelief as the hand wandlessly deposited the cup down to the cell floor, not spilling a single drop.

In the face of a change in routine, albeit minuscule, Hermione felt herself waver. The cup was always thrown to the floor. Always. Why had this changed? Why now? Her hesitation lingered. A part of her knew she was clinging to this divergence as a reason to wait. Waiting one more day meant another day of living. Another day of holding on to the memories of those she loved. 

But it also meant another day of cold and darkness and suffering. She was tired of feeling tired. And so, in the split second, before the hand passed back through the slate, she lunged.

Using all of her strength she snatched the hand back towards her, tugging it forward violently before biting down on the exposed forearm. The man on the other side of the door screamed. She bit down harder, through skin and flesh. Copper filled his mouth as she tore a chunk out of his arm and spat it to the side. It was only when she went in to bite again did she realise that she had bitten directly into his dark mark, gouging out the middle.

She latched her teeth into the same spot with renewed frenzy, hitting bone. The screams turned into animalistic roars and the arm flailed around desperately as she attacked. Pushing her body forward she wrenched the arm back towards the door, twisting it at an unnatural angle. A sickening crack rang out as the man attached to it screeched.

“STOP!” He begged as she bent his fingers back.

Then, just as she had hoped, his wand appeared through the slate, firing spells erratically. She dropped her assault on his arms and lunged for his other hand. Digging her nails into his knuckles she tried to tear his wand out of his vice-like grip.

“Stop! Let go!” He pleaded as they battled for his wand. She held fast between his two outstretched arms, one battered and broken, one unyielding. 

Hermione was feral, like a rat chewing through its leg to escape its trap. But so was he.

The hand she was tugging suddenly went limp, causing her to lose her balance. It was all he needed. As she lost her grip, he thrust his arms back through the slate and out of reach.

“NO!” She roared, shoving her outstretched hand out to follow his, “No, no, no, no!”

She thrust her arm out through the slate, clawing at the air. She felt her hand brush his robes and she gripped them tightly, tugging them towards her.

“Open the door, you bastard!” She wept, tears streaming down her face, “Open the fucking door!”

She tugged harder, tearing fabric. She was so close. 

So close so close so close.

“OPEN THE DOOR!” She wailed, sobbing uncontrollably. 

Hermione collapsed against the door, all anger gutting out as her sobs wracked her body. Still gripping his robes through the slate, the figure on the other side stood frozen. 

He remained motionless as her cries echoed around her cell. She couldn’t bring herself to let go. This was supposed to be her final moments, her last fight. She couldn’t bear the thought of continuing. 

“Please” she murmured, “please just kill me.”

The body attached to her grip stiffened.

“Granger?” He whispered.

Hermione paused, grip loosening. She heard his ragged breathing as a warm hand brushed hers.

“Hermione Granger, is that you?” He asked.

The sound of her name tore her out of her grief.

Oh god. He knows. No. Oh no. What have I done? 

“No” she replied, letting go of his robes and pulling her arm back into her cell, “Pernalope Clearwater”, she answered instinctively. 

She crouched stiffly and held her breath. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

There was no movement behind the door but she knew he remained standing there, mulling over her poorly made lie.

This was a mistake. 

Now he knew who was here, knew she was here. What she heard through the walls was nothing compared to what they would do to her. She was Harry Potter's best friend. She would be the example.

Her hopes of a quick death were dashed as she sat in a silent trial with the Death Eater behind the door. She didn’t consider surviving the attack, she should’ve. It would be much worse now.

Reckless. Rash. Stupid. 

She heard him swallow, shuffling his feet and grunting in pain. “I’ll be back” he promised, his voice betraying nothing.

She stayed sitting as his footsteps echoed away. 

She waited for the horrors she knew would come.  

She waited for her slow death.

She waited.

But he did not return.

Hermione Granger was not a religious person. She was born of flesh and logic.

Silly things like fate, destiny and God were just things humans used as a way to bring meaning to their mundane lives, scapegoats they could use to justify their worst attributes, and weapons they could wield to hold power over others. 

Her parents believed her outbursts of magic were some divine miracle. They were pragmatic people, but products of their upbringing. The gospel was passed down from their parents and their parents before them. But despite her parent's best efforts, God died with her. 

The only time she had questioned her lack of faith was when she stepped out onto the cobblestone path of Diagon Alley and entered the Wizarding World for the first time. It felt like every moment in her life had been leading up to this one. 

But as she learned quickly, magic had rules and laws and reasoning behind it. Something tangible that she could grasp and use to prove its existence. Magic, for the most part, always explained itself to Hermione.

God had yet to do so. 

So as she waited for the end in a dark cell, mad with hunger and cold and despair, Hermione Jean Granger began to pray.

She prayed to magic.

Chapter Text

A ruby red apple.

Hermione stared at the foreignness of it. That morning she had listened to the familiar sounds of her daily slop hitting the floor, head down, knees drawn together on her cot, cringing and hoping she would have no visitors when a faint thud rang out. The metal grate slammed shut as silence rang out and Hermione let out the breath she had been holding. Cautiously she shuffled over to her meal.

And there it was.

Unblemished. Pristine. Here.

Her hands snapped around it before her brain even had time to process it. Drawing its red skin to kiss her lips as logic broke through. As horror dawned on her, she hastily dropped it to the ground and stepped away.

Beautiful things don't belong in this place, she thought. They are brought here to be corrupted. Tainted.

Her mother read her the story about Snow White growing up. She knew how this would end.

It would be poisoned. It had to be.

Infused with Dark Magic to bubble her blood, turn her inside out or render her paralysed.

It could be anything.

It could be nothing.

She sat in a silent battle with the apple, weighing her options. If it was nothing, then she could eat- build up her strength again.

If it was poisoned she might get the quick death she had been longing for.

If it was infused with something else, well, she didn’t like to think about it.

Three options, two of which were in her favour, one with a high price.

She uttered a quick prayer and bit down before she could change her mind.

It was crisp, and tart with a hint of sweetness. Its juices dribbled down her chin as she devoured it, core and all.

She waited with bated breath, expecting the worst. But as the minutes passed, the only thing she registered was an uncomfortable feeling of fullness in her belly.

The worst never came.

So the next day, when an apple appeared again, she ate it slowly. Savouring each bite.

Another apple, green this time, appeared on the third.

And still, nothing happened.

Red, Red, Green, Red, Red, Red, Red, Red, Green.

She tried to find a pattern amongst the colours, but it seemed utterly meaningless and she gave up keeping track.

Time flitted by.

She washed, she prayed, and she waited.

And she enjoyed the brief moment of peace the apple brought her.

She heard voices outside her door.

Hermione wondered if they would kill her right here in her cell. Or maybe they would take her straight to Voldemort himself. Whatever the case, she knew it would not be over quickly.

She sat on her cot watching the door in a detached acceptance. Resigned to her fate. She didn’t fear death. She feared what her death would mean.

The Order did not know about the Horcruxes. If Voldemort had created another one since the battle then they had no hope.

That is if The Order was even capable of resuming the war.

If there was even an Order at all now.

She feared for Ron. How he would cope with her death on top of Harry’s. What he would do once the trio turned into one. For all she knew Ron was already gone and she was the last one left. But some part of her, deep in her gut, knew that he was out there breathing. She would know. Surely she would know if Ron was dead. She would feel it, she’s sure of it.

Most of all she feared for her parents. She was confident that the Death Eaters would never find them. But to think that she would die and they would never know that they lost a daughter terrified her more than anything. She didn’t want to be forgotten.

A part of her hoped that someday she would restore their memories. That they would remember every Christmas, every birthday. Her first steps, losing her first tooth, and her excitement at getting her first letter from Hogwarts. That her Dad would remember the movie nights curled up with hot chocolate. And that her Mum would remember all the times she sang her daughter to sleep. Hermione knew that when she died, all these memories would die with her.

It terrified her more than anything.

She was so lost in her thoughts she didn’t hear the key twist in the lock.

They burst through her door. One, three, six masked men storming over to her. Their black robes billow around them like capes as they swarm her.

She begins to stand, drawing breath to prepare herself for-

Crack.

The first man to reach her strikes her with the back of his hand, sending her careening into the wall. Her breath knocked out her lungs at the force of it. Stars exploding behind her eyes. Another grabs her head, pushing it into the rough stone and dragging down, shredding her face. She screams in agony as blood bursts free, coating her cheek.

Before she can even draw breath she’s pulled back by her hair and stuck again. Her head whips back as her teeth clamp down on her tongue. Copper fills her mouth as she slams to the floor.

Hermione can’t help the gurgled moan that escapes past her lips. Blood splattered down her chin. Steel-toed boots kick savagely into her sides. She tries to curl up as small as possible, covering her head as she’s beat mercifully.

She can hear them taunt her between kicks.

“Not so brave are you now Gryffindor!”

“Fucking Mudblood bitch”

“- should have been strung up like the others”

She hears resounding cracks over their words. With little flesh to keep her protected, her bones break under the force. The pain is excruciating. Radiating through her like molten metal.

Their laughter fades into the distance as her consciousness wavers. This was not how she thought she would go, beaten into a bloody pulp.

They didn’t even draw their wands.

Hermione’s body goes numb. The savage kicks now faint thumps. Her body jolts and twitches with each strike. A faint hum rings in her head, a tune her mother used to sing to her. How did it go again? She tries to form the words but her throat is raw and bloody. All she can manage is a small croak.

Just as the darkness begins to claim her, a hand grips her neck and she is thrown onto her cot. She hears the clink of a belt and the rustling of robes before there is a tugging around her hips.

She struggles to open her eyes. The world is spinning. Her trousers are dragged down to her ankles and then pulled free.

What are you doing? She tries to ask, but her tongue is a meaty chunk in her mouth.

She feels a warm weight press down on her, further cracking her broken ribs. She tries to scream again but she can barely draw breath.

As the fog begins to lift from her head, she realizes she’s naked from the waist down. Legs spread eagle wide while one of the masked men lines up their hips. His breath is hot in her ear as he whispers “Don’t worry Mudblood, you’ll enjoy this part”.

No, she cries

No no no no no no no

Anything but this. Please. Not this. Anything but this.

But all she can muster is a pitiful hoarse wail.

More animal than human.

She uses what little strength she has to thrash under him. Trying to break free, trying to get him to stop.

Please don’t.

Stop.

Please!

She tries to raise her arms to push him off, but one hangs limply out of her socket, while the other is held down by another masked man standing over them.

She begs him with her eyes, desperately seeking his. But his stare is cruel. Meeting hers in delight at what’s about to happen.

“Looks like you’ll have some pure blood in you after all” he taunted.

The man on top of her positions himself above her and she roars in desperation.

“NO!” she wails.

But in one sharp thrust, he enters her.

no.

Hermione leaves her body.

She hears the sound of his skin slapping against hers. Him panting in her ear. The rocking motion of her cot.

But she’s not there. Not really.

Things like this don’t happen to her.

Bad things happen, have happened. Torture, imprisonment and losing her friends. But not this.

She was supposed to be killed. She was to be struck down by the killing curse.

They didn’t even draw their wands.

The man above her finished with a groan. Another took his place.

She stared at her spot on the wall.

She tried to trace each stone from largest to smallest but was interrupted by strikes across her face.

Their jeers and taunts bubbled around her, never quite registering in her brain.

Another man took his turn.

She thought of Harry. His messy hair, stuck out from all angles as if he had just rolled out of bed. How his eyes lit up behind his glasses when he laughed. His gentle hands as they danced by the radio in their tent.

Another man. Then another.

She remembered the boy on the train when she was eleven. A boy who seemed so ordinary but was anything but. How free he looked on the Quidditch Pitch. Racing by in a streak of red. How he’d always pass her the honey at breakfast every morning because he knew she loved to stir it into her tea.

Another. Another.

She thought of nights curled by the fire in the Gryffindor common room. Her nose in a book, lifting up on occasion to watch Harry lose spectacularly to Ron. Rubbing his eyes under his glasses and staring intently at the board. As if the winning move would suddenly appear.

Another.

He would lose every time. Sometimes laughing it off and congratulating Ron. Other times storming away in a huff. Plopping himself on the couch down next to Hermione and prodding her leg with his to get her attention.

A hand began to constrict around her throat. Cutting off the air.

She would always try to ignore him, choosing to focus on her studies or a good book. But he would always nudge and prod until she eventually relented. Ron would try to coax another victim while they sat having quiet discussions. Usually about schoolwork, or Voldemort. But sometimes other things too. Like Harry’s trip to the zoo before his eleventh birthday. Or when Hermione’s parents berated her over the library bill from her overdue fees. Sometimes they would just sit silently by the fire. Perfectly content to just be in each other’s presence.

She swore she felt the warmth of his arm brushing hers as she slipped into the dark.

She awoke to the sound of her door closing. Laughter and footsteps faded down the hall. She dragged in gulps of air, lungs burning and throat raw. A rush of saliva was the only warning she got before violently retching down the side of her cot. The remnants of the morning's green apple now mixed with copper to paint a bloody mess on the stones below. She retched and spluttered, blood spraying out of her mouth. Choking on the air she desperately needed while her ribs stabbed sharply with every heave.

She hung limply off the side of her cot, ignoring the stickiness between her legs as she tried and failed to catch her breath. Spotting her bloodied blanket on the floor, she shakily reached for its tattered edges. Managing to pull it only mere centimetres closer to her cot.

She didn’t want to die spread out and exposed like this. Using all the strength she had left, she pulled the blanket off of the floor. Fumbling with it as she sat up and covered the lower half of her body. She felt a pop in her chest and warm liquid rush into her lungs. She collapsed onto her back, her throat rattling as she heaved for air that would not come.

Black crept into the edges of her vision as she drowned in her blood. Her body was ablaze with pain and the desperate urge to breathe.

And as she drifted away she heard lone footsteps approaching. The creek of her door.

She didn’t fight to stay awake to see who had come to finish her off. Thanking Merlin for the small mercy as she let the darkness carry her away.

*

Flashes and incantations flickered around her, blending seamlessly together in a kaleidoscope of sound and colours.

“Anapneo.” “Episkey.” “Brackium Emendo.” “Vulnera Sanentur.”

“Vulnera Sanentur.”

“Vulnera Sanentur.”

“VulneraSanenturVulneraSanenturVulneraSanentur.”

*

Gentle hands caressed her limbs, a herbal aroma penetrating the air. Soothing strokes lulled her back to the dark.

*

Featherlight fingers cupped her chin back as an acidic liquid burned her throat. She tried to pull away, teeth clinking against the glass.

“You need to drink this,” a voice begged.

As the vile mixture was brought back to her lips, Hermione obeyed.

*

A warm body shook as it held hers, droplets of saltwater hitting her face and dribbling down to her lips.

She wanted to tell Harry not to cry, but couldn’t find the strength. 

So she just gently took his hand, his palm warm against hers.

She let the light stroking of his fingertips on her knuckles lull her back to sleep.

Hermione woke up shivering. She grumbled as she tossed over in her stretcher, fumbling to find her sleeping bag. Bloody Ron forgot to close the tent flap again she thought. Huffing in irritation she sat upright and rubbed her eyes, preparing to berate that pesky little-

Her eyes adjusted to the dark cell. Confused, Hermione looked around to find Harry’s sleeping form. Scanning the rock walls it took her a moment to realise that Harry wasn’t here. He would never be here. Memories cascaded through her like a tidal wave as the horror of her situation rushed back.

“Don’t worry Mudblood, you’ll enjoy this part.”

She vomited violently into her lap. Heaving and retching as she scrambled desperately away from her blood-stained cot.

And as the last of the bile exited her throat she let out a raw, animalistic wail. Hot tears flooded her cheeks as she began to scream. Gripping her sides tightly as if she could hold the pieces of herself together.

They didn’t even use their fucking wands.

She screamed and roared in agony. Screaming for Harry. Screaming for Ron. Screaming for her parents. Screaming and screaming and screaming until her vocal cords shredded. Shredding and clawing at her skin, as if to remove them from her body.

They didn’t kill her. They had healed her.

Bringing her back from the brink so she could endure it all over again.

A chasm of hopelessness broke open within her. Her screams were barely a whisper as her body shuddered, convulsing in grief so consuming she felt she would die.

Merlin, she hoped she would die.

Hermione stayed there on the dirty floor until her sobs gutted out.

She did not get back up.

Footsteps. Creaking. Laughter. Pain.

Footsteps. Creaking. Laughter. Pain.

Footsteps. Creaking. Laughter. Pain.

They came back again and again.

She would kick and bite, thrash and scream, but it always ended the same way.

If she was lucky they would beat her first. Splitting her skin with their boots or fists, granting her the luxury of unconsciousness while they laid claim to her body. They never bet her as badly as they did the first time. Hurting her just enough so she couldn’t fight back, but not enough to succumb to her injuries. She was never healed again after, instead she grew used to the sting of her wounds and the aches of her bruises. The cold kept her numb, dulling the sharpness of the pain.

They mostly came in pairs or groups of three. One would rut on top of her while the others held her down. She would beg them to stop, her cries and screams of anguish falling on deaf ears. She began to plead for her death, begging them to draw their wands.

They never did.

Hermione left her rags unused. Choosing to remain in her dried blood and remnants of their filth. Her fingers itched for the facet. Yearning to scrub her skin raw. She granted herself the luxury of washing her hands. Only her hands. The rest she would leave dirty, she thought. They won’t touch her if she is dirty. Emboldened by her plan, Hermione began smearing the grime from her cell floor over her body, turning her pale sickly skin into a muddied mess.

As the days stretched on, the smell on her putrefied.

The taller of the masked men gripped her by her throat as soon as they arrived. Pulling her towards him as his other hand snaked around to pinch her behind. His cold mask bit into her shoulder before he suddenly gagged, recoiling away so quickly she collapsed at his feet. As she gasped in sweet lungfuls of air he waved his hands around his face, as if to wave away the stench.

“You filthy bitch!” He choked.

His companion, the stockier one with a protruding belly, sent a punishing kid to her back. The force slammed her chest to the ground before he resumed kicking her mercilessly.

As the edges of her vision began to waver she saw the first man regain his composure, burying the lower half of his face into the crook of his elbow as he withdrew his wand.

Finally, she thought.

Peace washed over her as she stared up at him between the flurry of kicks. Her eyes were transfixed by the wand that would be her salvation. She was finally going to be free. He aimed the tip of his wand at her as the other Death Eater stood back. She closed her eyes, a small smile ghosting her face, as she waited for those words and a jet of green.

“Scourgify!” He shouted.

Instantly the layer of grime that coated her skin dissipated. She stared up at him in confusion.

The stockier man stepped towards her before recoiling back. “Merlin she still fucking stinks!” He spat, beady eyes flickering over the caster in disgust.

The tall man raised his wand higher, “Scourgify!”

Another layer vanished, but the stench remained.

“For Fucksakes, I’ll do it”, the beady-eyed man snapped as he drew out his wand, “Scourgify!”

She could feel the blood, dirt and sweat strip off her in small increments. But the muck was in her hair, fused to her skin.

It was all around her, inside her.

Mud ran through her veins after all.

She began to chuckle at that, first a shaky inhale of air before building into a crescendo of hysteria.

She laughed like a mad woman, cackling between each strike of magic.

“It’s not going to come off” the pot-bellied man snapped, “and she’s not worth the filth”

“She’s fucking balmy” the other said before he raised his wand yet again, “guess we will go with Plan B”

The taller of the two grunted in agreement, “was fun while it lasted”.

She never saw which of them did it, her body doubled over in hysterics, but in the end, she supposed that it never really mattered.

“Crucio”

Laughter turned to screams. Screams turned to whispers.

Fire burned through mud.

Masks came and went.

Crucio

Apples appeared.

Crucio

Red, red, red, red, red, red, red-

She stopped eating. Leaving the slop to pile up on the floor and the apples untouched until they vanished a couple of hours later. She had yet to receive a green once since that morning the men first entered her room and her body.

Perhaps the green was a warning. Perhaps it was nothing at all.

Her blood was on fire.

They cast daily now, lining up and taking turns the way they had done with her on her cot.

But no one touched her now.

Filthy, disgusting Mudblood.

She screamed as another wave of Crucio washed over her.

Her muscles contracted, nerves fraying as she gripped and clawed at her skin.

Her time with Bellatrix seemed trivial now. At least with her, there had been breaks for questioning. There was a method to the madness, a reason for the cruelty.

There was no logic here. It was simply a matter of who got to break her first. Which caster would strike the final blow that would claim the mind of the Brightest Witch of Her Age?

It had yet to be determined.

Because she held on.

She used every scrape of strength she had and pressed it inwards, building a fortress around her mind. She would not break. This was all she had left.

So she prayed between casts, gurgling the words between mouthfuls of blood. She prayed to magic for protection and strength. She prayed for her sanity. She prayed for her soul.

And when they would leave for the day she would redraw the rune for protection above the wall on her bed. Dipping her fingers into the blood from her mouth, eyes and ears and smeared it into the stone.

“Hecate” she whispered reverently, “do ut des”

Hermione knelt, resting her elbows on the edge of her cot and facing her palms up towards the ceiling in a quiet offering.

“Give me strength, give me light, please-“ she choked back a sob, “please don’t let them take my mind”.

“Animam protege” she begged.

Hermione let the tears flow freely as she prayed, keeping her palms raised long after the blood had drained from her fingers.

“Please don’t let me disappear.”

Chapter Text

“Do it!” the masked Death Eater hissed at the young boy.

He shook violently, looking between his wand and Hermione as if to find a way out of the situation he found himself in.

“I- I can’t” he stammered, blue eyes shining in horror beneath his oversized mask.

But Hermione knew that he would. They always did in the end.

It wasn’t a common occurrence, but sometimes the Death Eaters would bring fresh recruits to her cell. She guessed it was a way for them to prove their worth, to weed out the weak.

The Dark Lord didn’t tolerate weakness.

The first boy, barely thirteen, had visited seven times before he was finally able to cast a decent Crucio. The next boy, twenty-three times, and even then his curse was so weak it felt like moderate muscle cramps.

She didn’t think that one would survive.

Some mastered it on the first visit, others usually took a few. But all of them succeeded eventually. It was her or them and they would always choose their own survival.

Between the sporadic testings and the regular visits from prison guards, Hermione had entirely lost track of the number of times she’d endured the Cruciatus Curse.

It didn’t get any easier or hurt any less, though strangely it had become a bit more… tolerable.

As she had come to learn first-hand, the human body was not anything if not adaptable.

It was how the human race had survived. Despite the absence of claws, sharp teeth and brute strength, humans prevailed for hundreds of thousands of years, eventually settling into their spot at the top of the food chain. Becoming the most deadly and brutal species to ever call the Earth home.

Mothers could labour for days, dislocating their hips and splitting wide open, only to get up and walk. Those who lost their sight would gain almost superhuman hearing, able to hear sounds others could not detect, and identify objects through touch alone.

And when magical creatures began to rise and prey on civilisations, somehow, inexplicably, humans adapted to that too. Giving birth to magical beings who would later tame the creatures, master their magic and establish the Wizarding World.

Hermione was no different. She had adapted to the cold, to the hunger and the filth.

She could handle the pain now.

“Crucio” the man sounded as his curse struck her chest.

She collapsed to the floor as fire ripped through her chest. Muscles tensing, she gritted her teeth at the onslaught of agony.

Hecate, give me strength.

Hermione fixed her eyes on her wall, blinking through tears as she prayed inwardly.

As the spell ended, she released the breath she had been holding.

“Now you try”, the man instructed.

Hermione tensed as she heard the boy's broken voice ring out “Cru- Crucio”.

The curse struck, shredding her nerve endings.

And another Death Eater was born.

Red again.

She had forgotten why the colour had meaning. Apples tended to be red, didn’t they?

She bit down into its flesh, consuming every last scrap and then resumed praying.

Hermione was restless. They hadn’t come again. Why hadn’t they come?

She paced frantically in her cell, clawing at her tattered uniform.

How many days had it been? Three? Four? They came every day. At least once. Always.

Her mind was scattered. Panic nestled in her throat. There was a structure, a routine she had grown used to. She did not like abrupt change.

The waiting was agonising, becoming more painful as her strength returned. Now she had the energy to think. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to think about anything other than the pain that had acted as a shield.

Pain protected her from remembering.

She didn’t want to remember the life she had. The life she could have had. The life he could have had.

She hadn’t slept, couldn’t sleep without the exhaustion the curse had granted her. She just lay there, remembering a dinner table of red hair, a library of books, and a tilted chair in a dentist's office.

Most of all she remembered the exact shade of green his eyes had held.

It was unbearable, suffocating, excruciating.

She couldn’t go on like this.

Her room slowly became too warm, too light, too much. She couldn’t concentrate on her prayers, couldn’t help but notice the way her mind would not stop fucking ticking.

She needed silence. She needed the dark and the cold and the pain. She needed familiarity.

She stumbled to the wall across her cell, running her hands along the rough stone as she frantically searched for anything loose. Clawing at the jagged rock, she tore into the wall. Her nails broken and bleeding as she dug and pulled, before finally grasping a sharp loose fragment.

Without hesitation, she slashed across her chest, right where the curse would have struck her.

The effect was instantaneous. Her mind silenced immediately as it registered the sharp sting across her sternum.

Another slash and her vision blurred and darkened.

Another, and she could hardly feel the blood trickle down her chest as the cold returned.

Hermione slumped down in relief, breathing heavily as she stared at the damage she had inflicted.

Deep but not deep enough to kill, three lines running cross-crossing between her left collarbone and her right breast.

She should feel horrified at what she had done. Should feel disgusted with herself. Ashamed. But the only thing she felt was exhaustion. Sweet oblivion.

She crawled to her cot and fell into a deep sleep. Her mind blissfully empty.

And so, Hermione took up a new routine of carving herself open. She did not remember her past or think about her future.

She just existed.

And when they finally returned and resumed their torture, she welcomed it.

They took turns trying to break her, none of them realising that she was already broken.

She could smell the liquor on their breath from across the room.

“No, no, you’re not doing it right!” One of the men behind the masks slurred, “See like this-“ he battered the outstretched arm of the Death Eater casting the curse before stepping in to take his place.

“Cruci-ooo” he hiccuped, red light erupting out of his wand and hitting Hermione.

Her body tensed, muscles convulsing as the curse rippled through.

But she remained standing.

He held the curse for several minutes before dropping his wand, exhausted.

“What the fuck?” One of them exclaimed.

“Try to get closer!” Another hedged.

The exhausted man turned round angrily, “she fucking stinks! You get closer if you think you can do it!”

The smallest of the five gathered round the door of her cell drifted towards her, his sleeve pressed against his mask to ward off the stench.

Hermione thought a Bubble Head Charm would have done the trick, though it seemed they weren’t very adept at basic problem-solving.

The Death Eaters running the prison were rudimentary at best. As time continued, Hermione continued to adapt, gaining the awareness of her captors as they carried out her torture.

She no longer drowned out their voices with her screams. Her vision didn’t fade, her body didn’t crumble.

And now, it seemed, her legs didn’t buckle.

She observed their demeanour, their casting, their robes. They were eager, their casting strong but their stamina weak. Their masks sat on their face, rather than moulded to it.

Most of all, she observed that the men before her were not the same ones who had held their place some time ago.

It seemed Voldemort’s army had a structure, and those at the bottom of it began their service here before moving up. 

It explained why the masked men at the beginning of her capture were more ruthless in their torture. Their curses did not burn they engulfed. Or maybe that was just because she was now accustomed to it? She couldn’t be sure.

The man before her pressed the tip of his wand to the centre of her chest, “See if you can handle this Mudblood” he mocked.

“Crucio!”

The pain was excruciating. It always was, that had never changed. But it was familiar now. Her body spasmed, her hands shook.

But so did his.

His bloodshot eyes narrowed as they met hers, his drunken gaze steeled with concentration. He pushed his magic harder, hand buckling as he dug the tip of his wand into the scars on her chest.

She stood and waited for his exhaustion to take over. Waited for his concentration to waver. Waited until his companions got bored and turned their attention back to their bottles.

Waited.

Wait.

There.

Like a bullet exploding out of its chamber she moved, snatching the wand right out of his shaking hand.

His eyes widened in shock for a split second as he struggled to comprehend what she had done. She would have liked to of held him there, suspended in that moment as horror dawned on him.

But she only had a brief window and she would not hesitate.

Not again.

“Avada Kadava” She hissed, green light bursting from his wand.

The rush of magic was intoxicating.

She had forgotten what it had felt like. The rush of magic in her veins, the buzzing energy that bubbled up in her chest.

As his body hit the floor, the four remaining captors whirled around, fumbling to raise their wands. Their movements were sluggish, childish, weak.

They had not learned to control shaking hands stiff from cold. They could not see subtle movements in her dark cell. They had not mastered fear.

But Hermione had.

She struck them all down in a single hex. Slashing their bodies in half and spewing their entrails across the stone floor. Their blood painted the wall, a beautiful mural that she destroyed a moment later with a powerful Bombarda.

The prison shook as stone rained down, and the crashing of metal rang out as her door crumpled. Hermione stepped through the blood and dust into the dim hallway.

She felt dizzy with power. More than that she was power. Magic ran flooded through her in torrents, consuming her so completely she could not distinguish whether it flowed from the wand into her or from her into the wand.

As the cloud settled she saw a flurry of black robes rush round the corner at the end of the hall, their footsteps pausing as they took in the view in front of them.

“It’s a prisoner!” She heard one shout, “prisoner escap-“

She silenced him with a wordless Avada.

The green light triggered a flurry of spell casting, curses and hex’s lit up the dark hall in bursts of blue, red and green. Their wand work was sloppy and she easily deflected most of their spells.

All of the magic that had been smothered deep within her sang with each spell she cast. A Confringo sent one man careening into the wall, shattering his skull. A Sectumsempra shredded another into ribbons.

“Avada Kadava!”

“Crucio!”

“Expelliamus!”

“Bombarada!”

Hermione cut each man down mercilessly, channelling all her rage and pain into each and every curse. She did not waiver, even as reinforcements arrived and crowded the blood-splattered hallway, stepping over the bodies of their comrades as they inched towards her.

She did not retreat as they drew closer, did not fumble as a Crucio struck her shoulder. She continued to curse and hex and block- focused only on the urge to kill. Kill. Kill.

She did not flinch as a Killing Curse narrowly missed her neck, did not react as stone rained down around her.

This was what she had been clinging to. What she had been waiting for, surviving for, adapting for. A shot at revenge, even though she knew it would be short-lived, even though it would cost her her life.

She would make them pay.

She struck another man down, a scream of agony bursting from his lips.

Another man gurgled as her hex slit his throat.

Another man fell.

Another. Another.

Another.

“Do not aim to kill!”, a voice boomed, “the Dark Lord wants her alive!”

The air left Hermione’s chest.

Voldemort wants her alive?

Those words cut through her bloodlust, sinking in for only a brief moment.

But a moment was all he needed.

The man who gave the command struck, disarming her with an Expelliamis and locking her in a binding curse before her wand had even finished sailing out of her hand.

Hermione collapsed onto her side, cracking her head on the floor. The roar of magic and blood faded into a high-pitched ringing. The torn bodies on the floor multiplied and overlapped in her vision, eventually settling on the lone pair of boots striding through the carnage towards her

“Get the fuck out of my way!” He commanded, storming past the sea of black.

Her world spun as he grasped the ropes binding her roughly, pulling her limp body off the ground by her chest and discarding her onto her knees.

He sheathed his wand and gripped her cheeks roughly, tugging her head side to side and scrambling what was left of her brain.

“What the fuck is this?” He hissed, fingers digging into the old scars on her face “Who did this?”

She tried to meet his eyes, but rivets of red clouded her vision. She had the words poised on the tip of her tongue, though they faded as a wave of nausea rushed over her. All she could manage was a weak groan.

Hermione swayed on her knees as the man released his iron grip, dark magic rolling off him in waves.

“She was supposed to be kept unharmed. Healthy!” he snapped, words laced with venom and leaving no room for doubt that this was a man in charge, “She is for the Dark Lord! Not a toy for you to fucking play with!”

“Sir” a voice responded weakly, “we apologise, we had no idea she was important to the Dark lord”

The man let out a humorous laugh, “What? Did you think her cell placement away from the Dementors was a courtesy? He's been saving her, saving her for something mere days away and this is the state I am supposed to bring her in?!”

He was met with silence, fear blanketed the air so thickly that Hermione swore she could taste it. The man unsheathed his wand, blasting the nearest man into a wall with a sickening crack. Hermione dropped her gaze back to the steadily growing pool of blood beneath her, her head too heavy to keep upright.

“You!” he barked, “answer me!”

“I- I'm so sorry Commander we didn't know!” a quivering voice replied, “The Warden never said-”

“The Warden was told to leave the girl alone over a year ago! That she was too important and too dangerous to make contact with, which is clearly evident from her near escape today!” the Commander roared.

“Please Commander, I'm sorry we didn't know” the man begged, “The Warden never told us, he said we could have the girl as long as we didn't-”

“How long has this been going on?” The Commander interrupted coldly, pulling the tension in the room taunt.

“I- ah, Sir?” the man replied confused.

“The instructions were made clear so when did this start up again?” he asked deadly calm.

“Sir it-” the man’s voice broke, “to my knowledge, it never stopped”

Silence.

The prison hung suspended in stillness, there was no rustling of robes or the shuffling of feet as the guards waited. No one dared move.

“Avada Kadava”

Hermione heard a thud. Dragonhide boots turned towards her.

The Commander loomed over her, pointing his wand to the exposed flesh above the waistband of her trousers. A searing pain erupted on her skin, the smell of burning flesh penetrating her nostrils. Hermione bit down a moan, twisting away from his wand to escape the heat.

As quickly as it began, the burning stopped. The Commander shifted his wand, muttering a quick healing spell to her head. As the pain faded and her vision began to settle, she chanced a quick glance up at the man who had both saved and doomed her, but all she gleamed was the familiar black hood and a silver mask.

“Increase her meals, I want her to be able to stand when I bring her to The Dark Lord” he ordered, “Remove the bodies, clean this shit up and return her back to her cell. I will be back to collect her in a few days”

He gestured to the mark on her exposed skin, “She is for the Dark Lord, any harm to her is a direct insult to him and you will end up like your comrades here” he illustrated with a sharp kick to one of the limp bodies on the floor.

“Now”, he said wiping her blood off his gloves onto the robes of a simpering guard “take me to the Warden”.

Hermione gingerly pulled down the waistband of her trousers to examine the mark, a lump forming in her throat as she laid her eyes on the ugly, vile thing seared into her flesh. It was more than just a brand, it was a claim. Voldemort had claimed her and in a few days, he would collect.

It had only been a day since she was returned back to her cell, the door and wall repaired, the blood and bodies vanished. Only a day since she had felt magic hum in her veins, feel the power that offered her a brief moment of freedom. Only a day with three untouched meals, no visitors and no pain.

She itched for pain. Pain erased all. She wouldn’t have to think about what Voldemort might want her for, or how close she had come to freedom, only for it to be taken away.

They had taken so much already. Her friends, her parents, her home. When she arrived here they took her freedom, her sanity, her fucking name. They turned her body into bone and then they took that too.

Her tears ran hot as grief turned into rage. She pulled herself up and out of her cot. she reached towards her wall, fumbling along the familiar stone until she found the familiar sharp fragment of rock. She wrenched it out before stumbling back over to the sink.

Her laboured breaths fogged up the mirror as she gripped the edges of the sink. Leaning heavily to keep herself upright as her torn nails dug into the porcelain. Her breathing ragged, from exhaustion or fury she couldn’t tell. Staring at her reflection she traced the sharp outlines of her battered body. Lingering on the marks. Their marks. The Mudblood carved on her forearm, Dolohov's curse on her ribs, the prison tattoo on her neck, the bruises, whelps and scars from her numerous beatings.

The only marks of comfort present were the ones crisscrossing across her chest. The ones she had carved herself in acts of desperation.

But her markings did not eclipse theirs.

Out of all of them, the brand of the Dark Mark stood out the most. Its large skull singed near her waist, the snake's head slithering down to her right hip. Burnt into her hip bone. Impossible to erase.

“She is for the Dark Lord”

She gripped the rock tighter, feeling the warm burst of blood as it bit into her palm. She was Hermione Granger. Brightest Witch Of Her Age. She was far more than a Mudblood. A prisoner. Property. She turned to look back at herself over her shoulder. Her back was bruised and grazed, but scarless. They had not marked her here.

Reaching over her shoulder she pressed the rocks sharp point between her shoulder blades without hesitation. The position was awkward as she pierced her skin.

Sweet pain burst forth, quieting her mind. She began to pray as if singing a lullaby long forgotten.

“Hoc est corpus meum, hic est sangria meus”

She started carving the top of the curve before switching positions to trace down her back. Her arm under her armpit, straining to connect slashes in her skin.

“Do it des”

She breathed heavily.

“Animam meam”

Blood dripped down her back, coating her hands and causing her to readjust her slick grip.

“Luce absente, obscuritas obtinet”

“Ego te provoco”

“Dele malum”

“Caedite eos”

She welcomed the pain, the heat from the wounds and the warmth from her blood. As her legs shook and her body trembled, her hand remained steady.

“Omria mea mecum porto”

“Sine nomine”

“Sine metu”

“Serviam”

Her prayer turned feverish, words spilling out unbridled as her rage grew.

“Semper fortis”

“Semper maior”

“Semper ardens!”

“Faciam quodilbet quod necesse est!”

She carved her mark deep, scraping bone and she travelled over her spine, not even uttering a whimper as she continued her chant.

“Protege dilectos meos”

“Requiem qeternam dona eris”

Tears streamed down her dirty cheeks, dripping down to meet the blood below.

“In manus tuas commendo spiritua meum”

“Nec spe, nec metu”

“Mors mihi lucrum”

Her strength began to waver as she carved the last of her flesh, but she did not stop.

“Post tenebras lux”

This was her claim.

“Non omnis morriar”

This was her reminder.

“Cedere nescio”

Her promise.

“Ab aeterno! Ab intra! Resurgam!”

Hers.

“Ex luce ad tenebras! Resurgam!”

She dropped the rock into the sink. Heaving deep breaths as she struggled to stay upright. She grabbed her long unused rags and began to tenderly wipe the sea of red on her back. Pressing the damp cloth to the wounds to stem the bleeding. She left rivers of blood streaking down her bottom and legs, simply clearing away what she could to see her wound. Appraising her work with morbid satisfaction, Hermione felt a sense of peace. She had regained some control back. Her body was still hers. It obeyed her commands, bent to her will. It was weaker, thinner, and more damaged. But it was still hers. They could violate it, break it even, but they could not take it.

She would not let Voldemort take it.

She collapsed onto the cold stone in exhaustion, or maybe it was the blood loss she thought. Either way, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She lay naked in a blanket of blood, surrendering to sleep.

The nightmares did not reach her that night.

Hermione could sense a vibrating energy roll through the prison. Activity had heightened since the Commander's visit. She could hear the endless clatter of footsteps, the cries of prisoners and the rattling of chains. It seemed like the entire prison was moving, preparing for something she could not see beyond her four walls.

She still had one day left. She had thought that she would perhaps spend it in peace, the calm before the storm. But that thought was snuffed out when four guards abruptly entered her cell.

Anticipation and excitement radiated from the men as they lunged towards her

“You killed our friends Mudblood” one of them hissed, “time to pay up”.

Dread knotted into a coiling mass and sunk to her stomach as they hoisted her to her feet.

They did not strike her. They did not paw at her flesh. This time, they marched her out of her cell.

Not to Voldemort, but to the Warden.

Minutes or hours later, Hermione was returned to her cell to wait for the Commander. Wait to be collected and passed off to Voldemort. Wait for something she knew would be worse than death.

There were a great deal many things worse than death.

She thought she’d experienced them all. She thought she had adapted to it. Thought that she could survive it.

She was wrong.

The Warden had taught her that.

When the guards left her cell, sealing her door shut once more, Hermione collapsed onto her cot.

As grief overtook her, the floodgates holding back the last pieces of her soul split open.

She screamed at the universe. At Magic. At God.

Unable to handle the pain in her mind, Hermione leapt into the dark, careening off the edge into the ether. She gathered up the last remaining pieces of Hermione Jean Granger, and let them go.

She felt something deep within herself shift as her soul died.

And then she felt nothing at all.

A wave of calm washed over her, silencing her sobs. Her ragged breathing and trembling hands stilled. A blanket of quiet draped warmly over her, leaving nothing but the faint high-pitched ring of silence.

Her brain began to hum with electricity. Static radiated out from her chest to her fingertips. The top of her head to the tips of her toes buzzing as she slowly stood from her crumpled position.

Hermione took slow, elegant steps towards the far wall. Her wall. The one she had examined almost every sleepless night and every drawn-out day. A spot that gave her comfort for no meaningful reason other than its familiarity. The jagged pattern of rock meeting rock she had traced so thoroughly, she could still see it when she closed her eyes. The patches of mold she watched grow and multiply. The droplets of water that gathered and fell sporadically down. Meeting the ground in a faint plop.

But no sound could reach her through the static in her ears. The resounding thump thump of each beat of her heart. She watched as her hand reached for the wall, seeking something she had no knowledge of as if she was a mere spectator. Her body was a puppet pulled on strings she was not connected to. As her palm closed around the familiar loose fragment of rock, she didn’t even feel it kiss her skin.

Hermione Granger was not a person. She was dead and buried in a small box, somewhere on another plane of existence. Now she was just a hollow body, filled with a powerful, violently consuming need. Reduced to an urge so primal it overrode the basic programming of the human body. Everything she ever was, is, or could be is crushed under its weight.

She watched her fingers grip the jagged stone. Holding the sharpest point to delicate flesh. She doesn’t even think as she slices the inside of her wrist. Unzipping her flesh from palm to elbow. Veins cleave and burst apart like engorged leeches. Arteries spew rivers or red. She watches it all in clinical detachment.

As she begins carving her other wrist, nerves spit fire. But it is not enough to jolt her out of her haze. There is nothing else. Nothing. Not a single thought or emotion in her head as she drags stone through skin. The line veers off to the side, unable to stay on a straight path as the hand wielding the tool flexes severed tendons.

The rock clammers to the floor below. A faint wet thump as it splashes into the rapidly expanding pool at her feet. She stares from afar as her arms hang limply at her sides. Watching as red soaks her trousers and splatters her toes.

A question flitted weakly in her mind.

Now what?

A tunnel with nothing on either side directed her to this final act, she hadn't thought beyond it.

Swaying on her feet, Hermione stumbled over to her cot, redrawing the protection rune with her blood on the stone wall above her bed.

A final prayer for the loved ones she would leave behind.

She snuggled under her blanket as her head swam in circles. Lowering her arms underneath on either side, she turned her mangled wrists palm up as a final offering. Exhaling a deep sigh of relief as she began to drift.

It was not the death she had planned for herself, one full of magic and rage and revenge, but perhaps this one would do. Slipping away quietly in the dark. Not in a blaze of glory, but in the final flicker of a candle burnt too low. A silent escape.

The quiet was cut through as her door burst open. A single Death Eater stormed over to her bedside. She watched the eyes behind the mask scan over her peaceful features, straining in the dark as he examined her.

She swore she saw a flash of something unreadable as her eyes drifted lazily up at his. But whatever lay there quickly steeled as they connected. The darkness in the room painted his eyes black, glittering dangerously as he drew himself up, appraising her with a bored look.

“I’m here to collect, Mudblood” the Commander announced.

Hermione didn’t move. His looming body over her cot didn’t bother her this time. There was nothing more he could do to her. Nothing they hadn’t already done.

Wakey wakey” he sang menacingly, “Rise and shine!”

His eyes shifted to the wall behind her. She didn’t even react as he leaned over her to inspect the sloppy protection rune inked in blood.

“Blood magic won’t work here Mudblood” he chuckled. “Especially not with that filthy muck that runs in your veins”.

He kicked the side of her cot as he whirled around. The rattling of the metal frames muted.

She was so tired.

The Commander began pacing around the room, muttering detection spells and examining the cramped space, “Disgusting” he muttered.

“Suppose you’ll be glad to get out of this place” he snorted as he poked around her cell walls, “Come on! Get a move on”

Hermione lay unmoving, his voice sounding far away. The metallic tang of blood no longer hung heavy in the air.

A pleasant warmth seemed to spread out from her chest.

She could smell spring.

We all live in a yellow submarine,

Bright spots danced in the corner of her vision. And she realised the hardness of her cot no longer dug painfully into her back.

A yellow submarine..

She distantly registered that he had stopped pacing. The sound of faint, wet droplets falling penetrated through the silence. Ringing out in the dark room.

His heavy footfalls paced back to her cot.

A yellow submarine.

He stood still, sniffing the air.

She heard a rustling of robes and the clang of something dropping to the floor. The sound of metal rolling on stone fading she began to float.

We all live in a yellow submarine,

Or maybe she was swimming. She used to love swimming as a kid. Her parents took her to the local pool every Saturday.

There was a sniff again. Longer this time.

Can they smell the chlorine?

A yellow submarine…

A voice sounded in the distance and a glow hovered over her.

She stared at the light through heavy eyelids, vaguely registering that a figure stood behind it with a wand outstretched. His mask was now absent, but his face was obscured by his wand light.

A yellow submarine.

“What the fuck have you done?” they hissed, Tearing her sodden blanket off her to reveal the blood-soaked cot.

“No,” they gasped. The sound strangled.

Swimming. She used to love swimming.

We all live..

Someone started ripping at her clothes. Cursing as they hastily tied the torn fabric to her arms. Magic coated the air as spell after spell was cast.

“No, no, no, no” they pleaded.

Maybe if she reached the deep end this time her parents would take her for ice cream.

“Gra- Herm-“

Strawberry or cookies and cream?

“I can’t- FUCK”

…in a yellow submarine..

“Stay with me ok?”

Such a beautiful day. The water was perfect.

“Getting help-“

Warm hands gripped her wrists tightly.

A yellow submarine…

“He’s coming. Help is coming ok? Just hold-“

She used to love swimming.

A yellow…

“DO SOMETHING!”

…submarine…

There was a flurry of movement above the pool.

Another voice spoke to the first.

…we all live….

The low tones were familiar.

Soothing.

“Let her go“

….in a…

Ripples of sunlight danced on the surface, fading further and further away.

Sobbing faded to a low hum.

She watched the last bubbles of air escape from her mouth as she began to sink.

….yellow…

Sink.

Sink.

Sink.

Until it was just her and the dark.

…..

Her back hit a warm, solid chest. Arms wrapped her in an embrace.

And then the world split in two.

Chapter Text

Three years later.

“Checkmate,” Hermione stated half-heartedly as she reached for the teaspoon representing the Rook. Knocking over the faded empty Coke can, she gave a weak smile to Darryl.

He remained as silent as ever, shrugging his shoulders as if to say, “yea ok I’ll give you that”.

She gathered up all the crude pieces of their poorly made chessboard, a simple chequered square carved on the stone floor of her cell. Illuminated only by her small cell window and the rusty lantern by her feet. As she set up the board to play again, she carefully took stock of her chess pieces. Two teaspoons, a coke can, a chipped mug, two teeth, four sweet wrappers, eight screws, an engagement ring, a small plastic Hercules, a McDonald’s chip packet and a whole bunch of seashells and coins. She began placing the items carefully down, ensuring to place Hercules in the Knight section of her dark square. Hermione was a creature of habit because win or lose, she always started the game with the Knight.

Darryl never seemed to mind that she would assume the first move, he was simply happy to play. Well, happy isn’t exactly the right word she supposed, seeing as he never outwardly displayed any emotion at all. Hermione wasn’t even sure that he could express his happiness, given that Darryl was a Dementor.

“You ready?” she asked him, gesturing to the game below.

His empty eye sockets stared into hers as he sat cross-legged across the board, robes billowing as he hovered just above the ground. He reached out his pointer finger towards her, exposing his scabbed, corpse-like wrist. Darryl rested his finger on her exposed knee, his slimy flesh making ice crystalise instantly where their skin met.

He peered down at her, eye sockets now fixed to her face as he nodded for Hermione to begin the game. She started with the Knight to H3 as usual, and they began to play at a slow and steady pace. Taking turns pondering and strategising their next moves as the board started to dwindle.

Darryl was a surprisingly intelligent creature.

Her first encounter with his kind in Third Year had been terrifying. It seemed that every description she had read about them paled in comparison to the real thing. The sense of doom and despair was overwhelming in their presence. The cold they radiated, slicing her to the bone. Darryl, on the other hand, merely dropped the temperature a few degrees when he visited her.

Then again, despair and cold had long since become her friend, and in time, so had Darryl. There were not many options for friendship in Azkaban seeing as they were it’s only occupants. The Death Eaters had left long ago, and with no other prisoners alive, the Dementors disappeared one by one.

As immortal beings they could not be killed. Instead of being born, they grew like a fungus in only the darkest of places, but no one knew if they could die naturally or not. Perhaps the reason they didn’t know is that no one had ever been close enough to observe Darryl’s kind in their natural environment. To be close was a commitment to death or insanity. Some days she wondered if Darryl existed at all, or if he was just a fabrication from her broken mind.

It was always assumed that they couldn’t see either, given the fact that they didn’t have eyes. Yet Darryl saw everything, she couldn’t put anything past him, especially not in chess. He had countless opportunities to feed on her happy memories. And yet, he never did. Perhaps it was because she had nothing left to give or maybe he truely did see her as a friend. Maybe it was both. But Hermione liked to think it was the latter.

Azkaban had once been a festering cesspool of suffering, torturing and feeding. Riddled with Dementors, prisoners and Death Eaters. Now, Azkaban was an empty, quiet building on an island in the North Sea.

With its sole prisoner and its original warden passing the time with Chess.

“Shit” Hermione said as Darryl took the engagement ring, holding it between his bony fingers and thrusting it into her face.

“I guess you win this round” she muttered as he placed her Queen into her lap.

She gave a weak smile at the gesture, remembering their first encounter.

On one of the many nights she spent cold and alone, she had woken to a plastic Hercules figurine laying down beside her. With no other occupants in the prison and no other rational explanation for how it ended up in her room, Hermione was baffled. Figuring she must have finally lost her mind until random objects began appearing in all corners of her cell while she slept. Bottle caps, fish hooks, another torn and dirty blanket, even a broken wand which she had tried and failed to repair.

It was the rattling that woke her that fateful night. Opening her eyes to a lantern above her head and an engagement ring shoved in her face. The black opal embedded in its centre flashed a kaleidoscope of colours as it reflected the light. Frozen in shock, she tentatively took the ring. He hovered over her for a moment, seemingly to make sure she had accepted his gift, before squeezing through the bars of her window.

He started to bring her all kinds of trinkets at all times of the day after that. Pausing to gauge her reaction before slinking away. Over time she began to expect his visits, and look forward to them.

She tried to put in requests.

“I need a pillow,” she told him. He remained unmoving. “Please,” she added.

The next day, he did. It was old and musty, but a pillow nonetheless.

“May I please get a toothbrush?” she later asked.

He brought her four of them as well as a broken comb. Noted, she thought. The comb was no match for the mangled dreads on her head however and broke into pieces on her first attempt.

She asked for a range of items. Some of which she got. Other times, he turned up with something else entirely. One such time he returned with a yellowing coupon for a place called ‘Darryl’s Donuts’. So Hermione decided to name him Darryl, choosing to refer to him as a “he”, even though she was pretty sure Dementors didn’t even have a gender or sex.

Darryl did not indicate dislike for his new name or gender identity, so the name stuck.

After some time, she finally built up the courage to ask for another wand. He came back with several more broken ones, to her frustration. She asked for a portkey, he gave her a pearl earring that was notably not a portkey. She asked for items to keep her warm like a thicker blanket, a jumper or a gas heater, but he returned with an old towel and a simple lantern, his head down in apology.

When Hermione had finished reading every book Darryl had collected for her, none of which were particularly useful, she did something she never thought she would do.

Hermione Granger burnt her books.

Ripping out one page at a time and burning it using her lantern's flame. Enjoying the brief moment of warmth and light before it was snuffed out. And when every page was gone she burnt the covers too. Anything could spare to burn, she burnt. But, short of paper, most things were too damp from years of mildew to even catch alight, so her pyromaniac phase was brief.

Eventually, Hermione figured out that he was collecting his books and gifts from within the prison. Gathering items from bodies of those captured or from long stay prisoners from before the war. Everything he thought she would need or want he would bring to her. Unfortunately, these were items that did little to improve her quality of life or help her gain her freedom. Azkaban was never a place that offered those small luxuries.

Prior to the war, prisoners arrived from the ministry cells with only the bare necessities. They came here for death, it was usually not for long-term stay. There were noticeable exceptions of course. Bellatrix Lestrange survived on account that she didn’t really have much of a soul to begin with, and Sirius Black largely due to his status as an unregistered Animagus.

Hermione supposed she was the newest member of the sad little group, though she wasn’t surviving for any particular reason. There was no cause she was holding out for, no person she was waiting to save, and no freedom awaiting her. That was all lost now. No, she was simply continuing to live purely out of habit. Her previous attempt had failed, she had woken healed, alone and forgotten.

She was grateful to have been forgotten. Her existence bordered on the fringes between life and death with no threat of torture, rape or having to witness the world Voldemort had established since Harry’s death. Here she could pretend the outside world was ok. Here she was safe. Here all she had to focus on was surviving.

But some sick, twisted part of her struggled to cope with a life without pain and purpose. On the days when feverish prayers and gifted trinkets weren’t enough, the burning would start. First in her chest, then spreading out to her fingertips. When the awareness seeped in and the dark and cold faded, she took that same jagged rock that had nearly ended her, and began carving on any unmarked skin she could find. And as the colour bled from the world with the blood from her body- only then did she feel like she could breathe again.

But the burning would always return.

One time, the carving wasn’t enough. No matter how much red she spilled she could still see green. So she grew desperate.

Merlin, she was desperate.

And the burning built and grew until surviving just out of habit didn’t seem like a good enough reason anymore.

So she asked Darryl for rope.

And on the day he returned from wherever it was he went to, he found her limp body. The rope coiled tightly around her neck, the metal framing of her cot holding the upper portion of her body up while her own weight crushed her windpipe. She could imagine what he would have seen. Lips blue, arms hanging limply by her side, legs sprayed out on the cold floor. Legs that could have simply stood up if she had wanted to. Arms that could have easily untied the noose that was draining her life away. She had just tethered her neck to the bed and sat down.

He cut the rope.

She did eventually wake, bursting into tears at her realisation that she was still breathing. Darryl was furious. It was the closest she had seen Darryl to acting like, well, a Dementor. He held the rope accusingly, breath rattling so loud it was like he was roaring, before shaking her violently while she cried.

It was the day she learned that Dementors did have emotions. Darryl was hurt at her betrayal. If she had known, she wouldn’t have done it. Because she realised then that he was her friend and to trick your friend into assisting your suicide is a callous thing to do. He took the rope with him when he left, as well as every sharp object he had given her.

Darryl didn’t return for a long time. Looking back she supposed he needed time to process it all and his unwilling role in it, but at the time she feared he was gone for good. She would clutch the ring he gave her and cry. Cry for her friend and the guilt he must feel, the guilt she felt. Cry for his pain. Cry for hers.

When he did finally return, Hermione had a gift ready to give to him. She had constructed their chessboard from memory of all those late nights watching Harry and Ron play. Watching but never playing because she didn’t have time for silly games. But she had plenty of time now and she wanted to sit down and finally play with a friend. He was a quick study and an excellent chess partner. Even after all this time, they are still match for match. Darryl likes to touch her when they play, just a small single point of contact. As if to reassure himself that she was still there.

As Hermione began to clear away their game he withdrew his finger, tucking it back snugly into his sleeves.

“Shall we practice?” She asked him.

He nodded, gently packing up the chess pieces and placing them against her wall. He stood to his full height, towering three metres tall. He seemed to envelop her tiny cell. Sometimes Hermione forgot what a terrifying creature he actually was, with a gaping hole for a mouth and a corpse-like stench that radiated out of his willowy body. Darryl was death personified. The darkest and most foul of all creatures.

Hermione considered what she remembered about their origins. Historians theorise that Azkaban's first resident Ekrizidis, an isolated dark wizard from the 15th century, created the creatures. A master of the Dark Arts, he built Azkaban to lure muggle sailors to their death. Conducting heinous experiments on them to further his craft. Whether he intended to create the Dementors or not is still a dividing topic amongst academics. After his death, his concealment charms faded and the Ministry made the unfortunate discovery of the wraith-like creatures.

Rightfully, the island remained empty for a couple of hundred years. But in the early 18th century, the elected Minister for Magic, Damocles Rowle, put them to work. Offering them the right to feed on the prisoners in exchange for guarding the prison. It was a barbaric arrangement in her opinion. The prisoners succumb to madness and death from the draining of happy memories. Dying in despair and terror.

The Dementor's role was simple. Keep the prisoners contained, unload food stock from the ministry to dole out to the prisoners and bury the dead on the island if no one came forward to claim their bodies. This system remained for over two hundred and fifty years. Hermione shuddered to think about how many bodies the island contained.

The system worked however, it kept the Dementors away from the rest of the world. That was until You-Know-Who brought them into his fold. Offering them a free reign of the population in exchange for their service. They joined willingly. And as Azkaban filled with prisoners from the war, their numbers grew exponentially. Festering and multiplying in the suffering inflicted within these walls. With no more prisoners left to feed on, the flock seemed to have vanished from the island. Off somewhere she did not know, never returning home.

Except for Darryl. Someone had to stay behind to guard her.

If the historians' accounts were accurate, Darryl should have been growing weaker by now. He hadn't fed on her once. Yet, the more time they spent together the larger he got. Perhaps the echoes of centuries of horror that the prison contained were more than enough to sustain him. Or maybe her despair was so great he didn’t even need to feed off her memories. Conceivably, Dementors may not need to feed off happy memories to stay alive at all. The Wizarding World was obviously wrong about their intelligence and ability to form attachments. They were also clearly incorrect about the Dementor's lack of sight, given the fact she was currently watching one examine a broken wand.

Holding it up to his face, Darryl lovingly stroked the wood's intricate detailing before placing it back down. Hovering his hand over the pile of wands, he drew out the one that would be used in today's lesson. A seven and three-quarter inch yew wood wand with a dragon heartstring core, his personal favourite for her. He’d even tied it with a neon yellow Chinese finger trap and an old shoelace to ensure the two halves stayed together.

With his decision made, Darryl drifted over to her and placed the wand in her outstretched palm. Hermione began to go through the movements of familiar spells, practising each movement to precision. She did not dare to limit herself in her exercise, taking special care to go over all the offensive spells she knew, including the Unforgivables.

Her friend was a supportive training partner. Whilst Darryl could not cast any spells of his own, he had a surprisingly keen eye for casting. He would regularly correct her on any fumbles of complex spells, gesturing the correct movement until she got it right. Without any actual magic, Hermione sometimes struggled to differentiate when she made a slight error. Her weakened body made her body tire easily. Her sluggish movements intensified by the faint tremor she carried. A side effect from years of cold and prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse.

Some days she could hardly stand, let alone have the energy for their practice sessions. With the Death Eaters gone and no food supply left from the Pre-War prison food reserves, Hermione was consistently at the cusp of starvation. When the reserves had run out and the slop no longer appeared in her cell, it was Darryl who brought her what little food he could find. Mostly dead rats and mushrooms. She ate what he gave her and never once complained. He would watch her stoically, ensuring she ate every bite as if he was afraid she would attempt to kill herself via hunger strike.

She wanted to tell him not to worry. The hunger and fatigue starved off the burning. Plus, she no longer had the urge to carve, now that she could train until exhaustion instead.

Darryl insisted on a short break from her exercises after a strong dizzy spell knocked her to her knees. He pressed a cup of frigid yellowing tap water to her chapped lips, urging her to drink. After a few mouthfuls, Hermione pushed the cup away.

“I’m fine” she insisted, swaying as she found her feet.

Darryl held on to her shoulder to steady her, his head bowed down in disapproval that said “you are absolutely not fine”.

She knew that. He knew that. She knew that he knew that she knew that. But there was nothing to be done about it, so why acknowledge it?

“Let’s practise the Invertous” she announced, pulling her shoulders back, “I haven’t nailed the wrist movement yet, it still needs more work”

Darryl stood still by her side, his hand resting on her shoulder, the cup still outstretched towards her lips.

Hermione pushed it away again in a huff, “I’m fine Darryl,” she snapped. “It was just a dizzy spell”.

The Dementor pushed down her outstretched wand, a firm gesture that clearly stated, “No.”

Hermione whirled to face her friend, heat building in her chest as she stared up at the towering cloaked figure.

“You said we could practice today!” She hissed, reaching on her tiptoes to prod his chest. “You promised!”

Darryl simply gave a small shake of his head.

“No!” She yelled, clenching her fists to hide the increasing tremors and the burning that had begun to spread. “We haven’t practised properly in weeks!”

He threw the cup down, smoke coiling around his body as his agitation grew. With firm movements he pointed to Hermione and then to her cot, urging her to rest.

“I will” she insisted, “I will, I promise- just please can you teach me this first? You’ll be gone for a while and I won’t have anything to do and I just- I just need this ok? I need to do something. Please Darryl.”

Hermione hated fighting with Darryl. She hated to guilt him more. But soon he would go, disappear somewhere she did not know, to do something he would not say. She couldn’t stand it when he was gone. Couldn’t stand the isolation or the waiting because every time he left she would wonder if he would come back. At least practising would give her something to do, something to focus on other than his absence.

Darryl rubbed his eye sockets in a very human-like gesture, almost as if he was cursing inwardly at her stubbornness, before leaning down to face her directly.

He held up all ten of his bony fingers and then tapped his wrist before pointing to her cot. The meaning was clear, “ten more minutes and then you rest”

Hermione exhaled in relief. “Ok” she grinned, “ok thank you that’s all I need”

She readied her stance and began the spell, taking extra care to announce “Invertous” as she flicked her wrist anti-clockwise. Darryl watched her as she repeated the spell again and again, stepping in to adjust her grip and angle her wrist lower.

After several minutes Hermione felt another wave of dizziness wash over her and she had to squeeze her eyes shut against vertigo. Darryl tentatively stepped behind her, letting her rest her head against his body while she waited for it to pass.

As nausea faded, Hermione opened her eyes and looked up at Darryl. “Can you show me again please?” She asked hoarsely, unable to hide her exhaustion any longer, “I almost had it”.

The creature sighed and cusped her jaw, stroking it absentmindedly before bending forward slowly, stopping when his mouth was mere inches away from hers.

Yet instead of pressing his shadowed mouth to her pale lips in a lover's kiss, or inhaling in her happy memories and remnants of her soul, he exhaled, transferring a tiny orb of light from his mouth into hers.

Hermione breathed in the cool glow and watched the world fall away around her and Darryl, leaving them standing in a small, cosy cottage.

The scent of blood and baked bread penetrated her nostrils as she looked around the quaint living room. The small dining table hosted an untouched meal, its chairs knocked over in haste as the occupants tried to escape their executioner.

“No please!” A man begged as he thrashed against his restraints, his contorted body lit by the glow of the fireplace. “Please not my girls! I’ll do anything! Not my girls!”

The two young girls in question clung together in the centre of the living room, sobbing hysterically as the intruder raised his wand towards them. The bloodied body of a woman, presumably their mother, lay still on the ground in front of them.

“Please!” Their father screamed.

“ Invertous ” the intruder cast, and Hermione took note of how he hissed the word towards the end.

The girls screams turned feral as their skin peeled back, muscle and tendons bursting free as bone pushed its way to the surface. Their cries gurgled out as their small bodies turned inside out, leaving only the anguished wailing of their father.

The intruder, a greasy giant of a man, chuckled and looked down at his wand in delight. Still euphoric from his success, he danced over to the bound father who still couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bodies of his family.

“Would you like to join them Muggle?” The intruder asked, grinning down at the man he had already destroyed.

The Muggle weakly raised his head and stared at the eyes of his family's killer. “Please” he whispered.

Hermione still couldn’t decide if he had been pleading for his life or his death.

Regardless, the end came anyway.

She watched the intruder's wand movement closely this time as he cast invertous, noticing how he flicked his wand slightly up before pointing down as he turned his wrist anti-clockwise.

Ah, so that is what Darryl had been trying to show her.

The intruder's laughter sang along with the screams of the father as the memory faded, leaving Hermione slumped against Darryl, watching the light travel back from her mouth and into his.

She’d seen this memory enough times now to know how it ended, yet it didn’t stop a tiny part of her from hoping that maybe this time the father and his family could’ve been saved.

The only comfort she could take away from it was that somehow, somewhere, this intruder had eventually crossed paths with her shadowed friend.

It was interesting to her to learn what happened to the memories the Dementors devoured. She had just assumed, as most had, that they were consumed, never to be seen again. But Darryl kept them, studied them, could pick ones out and bring them to the surface to show her. Teach her. Train her.

She had learnt a multitude of spells, potions and techniques from Darryl through the memories he had shown her. Many of which were as evil as the people he had stolen them from. His memories were a library that spanned a millennia, containing lost knowledge that had died along with its creators, disappearing from the Wizarding World only to be taught to a prisoner unable to practice any magic.

She would have thought it a waste if she weren’t so selfish. Hermione had little else to keep her sane, and she had always been hungry for knowledge. It was why she continued to push Darryl to continue their training even though she was growing weaker.

Rats were few and far between now, mushrooms didn’t grow as fast as she was consuming them and each day sleep kept her under a little bit longer.

It was making Darryl anxious. He seldom left her cell now, only leaving for the seven days he was called away each month. She knew that if he could get her out of here he would. But it seemed that he was as much a prisoner here as she was. Bound to the island and its prisoner, unable to leave to gather supplies, able to go only when summoned. Able to come and go as he pleased. Unable to take her with him. She wondered again where he went, and to whom. It was hard for her to grasp a creature like Darryl being enslaved to anyone, even someone as powerful as Voldemort.

She had tried and failed to get answers from him each time he returned. She would push and pry but he would simply shake his head and hold his palms up in surrender as if to say “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you”

She knew that. It just didn’t make it any easier when he was gone.

Hermione peered up at the familiar hollowed-out face still trained on hers, checking that she was ok after watching the intruder slaughter the Muggle family.

“Did you kill him?” She whispered.

He nodded.

“Good” she muttered, extending her arm and mimicking the spell exactly as she had seen in the memory.

She turned back to Darryl to await his critique but he merely tipped his head in approval.

She practised another few times before her shakes got the better of her and her knees buckled. Darryl was there to catch her, he always was.

He carried her over to her cot and gently tucked her in. Hermione grumbled in protest but was ultimately too exhausted to fight it.

She drifted off as he arranged her blankets, thanking Magic for the kindness the dark had granted her.

Hermione stood in the dark, ears poised in anticipation as goosebumps prickled across her flesh.

Someone was watching her.

She walked cautiously amongst the endless rows of orbs, light from her outstretched wand reflecting at her from the curved glass.

Whispers murmured as she passed, too weak to make out, but sending cold droplets of sweat down her spine. She ignored the dread pooling in her stomach, she had to keep looking. She had to find it. 

She wandered through the labyrinth of glass, growing more frantic with each minute that passed.

She needed more time. The whispers grew louder, incensed by her desperation.

Hermione started running, barreling around corners and leaving shattered glass in her wake. The whispers were deafening now, they penetrated the air around her, inside her- clogging the panicked gasps she drew in as she urged her legs to move faster.

She rounded another corner only to come face to face with a pair of yellow eyes, Hermione recoiled in terror, clumsily dropping her wand in the process and plunging the stacks into darkness. The whispers died instantly, leaving only an echo that reverberated through the dark. As it rang back, Hermione swore it sounded faintly like one of her prayers.

Breathing heavily, Hermione tentatively felt the ground for her wand. Fingertips coming into contact with familiar wood, Hermione clasped her wand tightly. The panic subsided as the whispers ceased.

“Lumos” she murmured.

Hermione crouched into a defensive stance as the light revealed the now familiar yellow eyes, set into the face of a large black dog. The dog stared at her with its muzzle tilted high, sniffing her as if appraising her.

“Sirius?” Hermione asked hesitantly, “Sirius is that you?”

The dog turned and padded away, pausing to look over its shoulder. Sensing he was leading her to what she was looking for, Hermione began to follow Sirius through the stacks.

His animagus form navigated silently, her heavy footfalls the only sound as they traveled out of the stacks and into a large, dimly lit room. In the centre of it, a crumpling archway stood tall on a dais. She pulled up short as she took in The Veil and watched as Sirius padded up to the spot where he died.

He sat and looked at her expectantly, prompting her to walk cautiously up onto the dais. Within the archway swirled a curtain of inky black, a stark contrast to the milky white mist she had seen in the battle at The Department of Mysteries. Unlike last time, Hermione felt a strong pull towards the Veil, her feet carrying her closer instinctively.

Sirius watched calmly as she passed him, stepping closer to the black curtain. A singular voice called to her from beyond the Veil.

“Hermione!”

“Harry” she breathed, and before she could even register what she was doing, Hermione ran and plunged herself through.

Shadows swirled around her as Hermione wadded through the darkness. Spotting a hint of flesh, she rushed forward, “Harry!” She cried.

Barreling through the black, Hermione reached out to the figure in front of her, grasping his hand in hers. But instead of the warm calloused hand she was familiar with, a cold soft palm gripped her tightly, its nails digging into the flesh. As the shadows cleared, Hermione found a pair of red eyes staring down at her.

Struggling against his grip, Hermione fought to tear herself away from Voldemort. He chuckled and tugged her closer, drawing her forward to whisper mockingly in her ear.

“Found you”

Darryl and Hermione

Chapter Text

It was her screams that drew Darryl to her side, gently stroking her cheek and clutching her tightly to his chest.

“Shh I got you, it’s ok,” his soothing strokes seemed to say.

When Hermione could finally speak through her sobs, she told Darryl what she had seen.

Hermione was no stranger to the faces that haunted her dreams, she had learned to accept their unwelcome visits. Nightmares were frequent and after they would tear her to shreds, Darryl was always there to pick up the pieces. Her shaking would slowly subside and she would collapse, exhausted into his embrace. The ice coating her skin from his touch enacted as a protective shield. Nothing could hurt her here, not when Darryl was with her.

But this time, she could not shake the feeling of dread that lingered.

“I was looking for something,” she hiccuped, “Something important.”

He handed her a cup of cold watery mushroom soup, watching her tentatively eat and rubbing soothing circles on her back.

Hermione drained her meal and continued, “It just felt so real this time. When he grabbed me I could feel it. I could, oh god, I could smell him and- and his eyes, Merlin they were exactly as I remember. Like he wasn’t looking at me but looking into me.”

If Darryl was concerned he didn’t show it, he merely picked up her empty bowl and began rinsing it in the sink.

“You know what the most unnerving part was?” She whispered, causing Darryl to look up. “I could feel someone watching me, right from the start. And I- I don’t think it was him. I don’t think it was Voldemort. There was someone else. Something else”

Darryl dropped the bowl in the sink and stared at her unmoving.

“- and even now, even here, I can still feel it watching me.”

Darryl launched himself at her with such ferocity Hermione recoiled in fear.

Ice split across the room like a bolt of lightning as he gripped her arms violently. The dread that had been steadily thrumming in Hermione’s veins spilled over into panic.

“Darryl what-“ she gasped, “What is it? What’s wrong!”

He opened and closed his mouth rapidly, small roars and moans bursting forth. Hermione struggled to make sense of the ineligible sounds, every bone in her body vibrating in danger danger danger.

“I don’t understand!” She cried, tears spilling down her cheeks, “Darryl please stop!”

But her cries just compounded his desperation, the ice under his hands coating her arms in painful shards of ice.

“Stop! Please stop it!” Hermione tried to tear herself away, “I don’t understand! You’re hurting me! Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!”

Darryl roared in frustration, letting go of her immediately, ice shattering as he ripped his hands away and dropped to the ground.

Using his index finger he began carving into the dirty floor. Hermione, still shaking in terror, looked down at the shadow creature as he desperately tried to communicate with her. Darryl only managed to draw what looked like a crescent moon before some invisible force prevented him from drawing more. Like a demon possessed, Darryl pushed forward, his hand shaking as he drew another few millimetres. He kept pushing, ferociously attempting to draw as if his life depended on it until his entire body was vibrating with the effort.

“Darryl” Hermione sobbed. “You have to stop. Its ok. Please stop.”

He ignored her, attempting to draw another curved line under the first before his index finger snapped from the exertion. An ear-splitting roar rang throughout her cell, and Hermione swore she felt the prison walls shake from the force of it. She tried to reach for him, to offer comfort or to somehow hold him down she didn’t know, but Darryl was up again in an instant, barrelling towards her door.

He threw himself at the locked door in a frenzy, roaring and shrieking as he tried to tear it down.

“Stop it! Please!” Hermione begged, “You know it won’t work, you’re just hurting yourself!”

But he continued to attack the door, ramming and clawing at it as if he could break the seal by brute force alone.

It wouldn’t work, they had tried years ago. The prison guard could not free the prisoner, the magic surrounding Azkaban would not allow it. Darryl was bound to the prison and therefore a slave to its magic. He was as much a prisoner as she was.

Changing tactics, Darryl began attacking her window in an attempt to bend the bars. As he tugged violently, Hermione stopped pleading, choosing to instead sink into herself. Tugging her knees to her chest she cried quietly. Darryl had tried to help her escape numerous times over the years, through their failures they had learned that it was impossible. They had accepted it, choosing instead to find some semblance of happiness with one another in their cold, calm little world.

But deep down a part of her knew that one day that world would end, and now it seemed Darryl did too. As she continued to sob Darryl fought a war in her cell, now clawing at her walls as if he could dig a way out.

Unable to bear it anymore Hermione ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist from behind. “It’s ok” she murmured. “It’s ok, it’ll all be ok.”

Gradually his strikes grew weaker as she continued to soothe him, offering words of comfort and promises she knew neither of them could keep.

“You’ve kept me safe, kept me alive, you’ve done everything you could. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me. But if I’m in danger there’s nothing more you can do” she whispered, voice breaking.

The battle raging on within Darryl gutted out and he collapsed to the floor. Hermione gathered him into her arms, trying to hold the large creature in its entirety but only managing to cradle his neck and head.

“It’s ok, I’ll be ok” she lied, pushing aside her terror to soothe her friend.

She had always been the one to take care of Harry and Ron, the one who broke off pieces of herself to give to others. When Darryl came into her life she had nothing left to give, so she took his acts of kindness, his comforting touch, his lessons. She took and she took until she no longer felt like an empty shell. But then she kept taking because she had forgotten what it felt like to give. She liked to be taken care of. Taken care of by him. But now it was her turn.

Hermione began to sing softly, stroking his head. She tried to pour all her love through her voice, her gratefulness through her touch. They stayed there for a long time, clinging together in the dark. She ignored the frigid burn of the ice crystallising on her skin, content just to remain in their calm world a little longer.

Snow crystals floated in the air around them, something she had never seen before. They moved gracefully in a mournful dance. The manifestation of a Dementor's grief, witnessed by human eyes for perhaps the first time.

She realised then, as they sat in their makeshift snow globe, that Darryl would have to leave in a couple of days. She wondered if she could hold on in her deteriorating state, without food or comfort for a week.

Or if he’d return to a shattered globe.

The remnants spilled out on the cold ground.

And an occupant long gone.

Hermione stared at her wall.

Four mushrooms. She had four mushrooms to get her through the week.

Darryl had spent his last night gathering any food he could before his departure while she slept. He found four small mushrooms.

Four.

He held them out, head down in apology. But it was the best he could do. It was all he could do.

Hermione traced the familiar stone with her eyes, every crack and crevice. She had it memorised years ago. It seemed no matter how her circumstances changed, that wall remained the same. It was her anchor.

She had been sleeping the entire two days before Darryl left, trying to preserve the resources her body did not have. She felt as if she had wasted precious time.

Darryl had woken her before he left, presenting her the four mushrooms, the engagement ring looped through string she now wore around her neck, and a memory.

It was the memory she tossed over in her mind as she lay unmoving on her cot, with no strength to get up and nothing to do but stare at her wall.

Darryl had tied the string around her neck, tilted her face up and then-

“Lucy! Wait for me!”

Hermione stood on the outskirts of a small village in the Irish countryside watching as a young curly-haired girl marched up the hill.

“Lucy!” A boy cried out after her, his features a striking resemblance to the girl.

His sister perhaps?

Hermione watched as the boy caught up to her, their matching auburn hair bouncing as they raced towards a small stream.

Once settled the girl, Lucy, tore off her boots, lifting her petticoat and skirts to wade into the water.

“Hurry up Des!” She yelled, “Ma wants us back before supper!”

Des followed his sister's lead, fumbling with his shoelaces before stepping into the stream. As Hermione got closer she noticed the two siblings were both carrying a bundle of sticks. The sister Lucy, while looking about the same age as Des, stood a full head taller. She looked around covertly over her brother's head before dropping down into a crouch, letting her skirts balloon out in the water. Placing her sticks gently onto the surface of the stream, she held out both her hands and squeezed her eyes shut. Hermione watched as the sticks transformed into a small wooden boat.

“Ok, now you try,” Lucy told her brother, checking her surroundings again.

The boy crouched down apprehensively, placing his sticks in the water as his sister had done. The boy held both hands out and squeezed his eyes shut, but the sticks remained floating in the water.

Lucy placed a gentle hand on her brother’s back, “Keep trying, picture the ship in your mind Desmond, let it travel out through your fingers and don’t forget to breathe ok?”

The boy nodded his head and tried again.  This time the sticks began to vibrate on the surface of the water.

“That’s good Des! Keep going” Lucy cried.

Desmond pushed harder, his young face turning beet red from the effort. It reminded Hermione of her younger self, perched on her bed in her childhood home attempting to make her book float in the air. Back when she had desperately tried to control her bouts of accidental magic. Before she received her Hogwarts letter and entered of the Wizarding world.

Hermione turned towards Darryl to share her thoughts but only empty space lingered where he usually stood.  Confused, Hermione glance around her surroundings, but she couldn’t see her shadowed friend anywhere.

Darryl was not in the memory with her.

“A little more Des” the sister urged encouragingly, pulling Hermione back towards the scene in front of her. “Push just a little bit harder!”

“I wouldn’t if I were you” a voice rang out, causing Desmond to drop his hands immediately. Lucy stepped protectively in front of her brother, her face warping in terror.

A raven-haired boy stepped out from underneath a nearby tree. Walking lazily towards the pair with his hands in his immaculately tailored clothes.

“You can’t just force the magic out” he drawled, “You need to let it flow through you naturally.”

The siblings shared a look, one Hermione recognised from her capture with Harry and Ron as they lay in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor.

“We don’t know what your talking about” Lucy hissed, “We were just playing. There’s no such thing as magic!”

The young intruder gestured amusingly towards her wooden boat, “Then what is that?” He asked.

Lucy blanched as she stared down at her creation before snatching the boat and grabbing her brother.

“Let’s go, Desmond!” She snapped, hauling the terrified boy out of the water, “This boy is insane!”

Grabbing their shoes, the pair began to hurry off. “Wait!” The black-haired boy yelled, his cool aristocratic demeanour dropping in an instant.

“Wait I- I wasn’t trying to scare you. You don’t need to- I - I can do magic too!” he stammered, pulling out his wand to show the pair.

The siblings turned round tentatively, eyeing the wand warily.

“What’s that?” Des asked, his face peeking out behind his sister's protective stance.

The boy stepped forward, causing the pair to hastily back away. He stopped, pleading with his eyes at the siblings as he explained. “A wand. Well, my Father’s wand. He doesn’t know I have it. He’s a wizard you see- and so am I. Though I’m not yet old enough for my wand yet. I turn eleven in the summer”.

Lucy stared at the boy in confusion, “A wizard?”

“Yes!” the boy chattered, “A person who can do magic. I think you’re one too,” he said, gesturing towards Des. “And you’re a witch, a strong one at that I think” he explained. “I’ve seen what you can do, impressive for a muggle-born”

“- A muggle-born?”

“- Have you been watching us?”

The pair asked at the same time, Lucy’s accusation caused the boy's hopeful expression to falter.

“No- I mean yes- but-“ the boy stammered. “I saw you two practising a few weeks ago but I wasn’t sure. Not until now at least”.

He turned towards Des, “And to answer your question, muggles are people without magic, and a muggle-born is someone who has no magical parents. They are pretty rare. That’s why I was surprised you can both do magic. I thought it was just you” he explained as he cast a nervous glance towards Lucy.

The pair exchanged a look. “We’re twins” Des replied carefully. “Could that be why?”

A relieved grin broke out on the babbling boy's face, his nerves receding as one of the pair seemed to accept his explanation. “It could-“

“Des be quiet” Lucy snapped, “Don’t tell him anything.”

Des turned to his sister guilty, “But Lucy this could be it! This could be why-“

“Enough!” She growled. “We are going home.”

Lucy grabbed her brother and began marching away again, leaving their shoes behind.

The dark-haired boy raced after them desperately. “Wait!” He cried, “I can prove it!”

The sister turned, her curls flying as she whirled on the stranger, storming towards him as her dress trailed mud.

“Fine!” She spat, “Go on then!”

The boy swallowed, eyes flicking to her brother standing anxiously behind.

Steeling himself, the boy tentatively raised his wand at the ruined hem on Lucy’s dress.

“Scrougify” he whispered.

Hermione cringed inwardly as nothing happened.

Lucy stared down at the boy, her brown eyes piercing as he fumbled to cast again.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” he said, clearer this time.

The thick clumps of mud on the end of Lucy’s dress began to levitate upwards and her face morphed from irritation to disbelief.

Hermione turned to look at Desmond who was now stumbling forward in unrestrained wonder.

The dark-hair boy continued to hold the spell, his hand shaking with effort. Hermione commended the boy for managing to cast a spell despite his age. Using his fathers wand no less.

Just as it seemed the boy couldn’t hold it any longer, Lucy stepped forward. With a shoving motion, she wandlessly threw the hovering mud into the boy's face.

“Lucy!” Desmond cried aghast, racing towards the boy now sprawled on the ground.

A pearl of laughter rang out as Lucy clutched her side, smiling down on the two boys below.

The boy wiped the mud off his face, revealing a matching grin as he let out a breathless chuckle of relief.

Hermione watched the three children with a sharp pang of longing. They collapsed in hysterics, reminding her of another trio.

“I’m Lucy” the girl announced, pulling the mud-covered boy to his feet. “Lucy Zirik. And this is my brother Desmond.”

“Older brother!” Desmond replied, wiping the mud from his knees before standing beside his sister.

Lucy rolled her eyes, “Yes because a couple of minutes makes such a difference”

The dark-haired boy’s face lit up, uncaring that his expensive clothes were now coated in mud. “

Ciaran O'Broin,” he said, stretching out his hand.

Lucy grasped his palm firmly, brown eyes meeting blue, “A pleasure”

As the memory collapsed, Hermione realised that she was alone. 

Darryl was gone.

Hermione shuffled to her cot in tears, angry that he hadn’t said goodbye.

She didn’t know what she was supposed to do with the memory. It was sweet and innocent, a far cry from the violent acts he usually showed her. What was she supposed to learn from it? What did he want her to know? Or had he just wanted to leave her with a happy memory, a truly happy memory to make her feel better about his absence?

Because it didn’t.

She hated to think which of the three children had crossed paths with Darryl.

She hated to think of him taking the memory, of how he took the memory.

She hated that he had left her a reminder of his true nature. She had let herself forget, telling herself that he wasn’t like the others, that he only hurt those who deserved it.

It was hard to think of any of those children being deserving. Then again, weren’t all dark wizards at one point children?

When did their innocence end and the darkness begin?

They were questions she could not ask.

So instead she turned them over in her mind as she stared at the wall, counting down the days until he returned.

Chapter Text

“Hermione? Hermione!”

Hermione sat up, staring in confusion at the eyes across from her.

“Hermione it’s your turn” Harry stated impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table in front of them.

“Huh?” She asked, taking in her surroundings.

“It’s your turn” Harry reminded her, gesturing towards the muggle chest set in front of them.

“Oh” she replied weakly, “Right, yea.”

She picked up the black knight, pausing at its heaviness in her palm, before placing it on one of the available black squares.

Harry raised his eyebrow at her in question before assessing the board, giving Hermione the opportunity to look around.

The Scottish countryside flittered past the window, her cushioned seat rattling softly as she took stock of their closed booth. She realised that they were on a train, both oddly familiar and yet disconcertingly different. The side that Harry sat on was pristine white. Everything from the cushions he was sitting on to the clothes he was wearing. The white stretched and cleaved cleanly down the table, meeting the black that covered Hermione’s half of the booth.

Harry, unaware or uncaring of their strange environment, placed one of his pawns down and looked up at her expectantly.

She was momentarily startled by the contrast of his blue eyes, her skin breaking out in goosebumps as she searched the smooth expanse of skin around his throat.

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she found herself surprised at the absence of another colour. Gold perhaps?

“Hermione” Harry sighed.

Hermione clumsily grasped her nearest pawn, “Right. Sorry” she muttered as she placed it down randomly on the board.

Harry renewed his assement of the board as he absentmindedly dipped his hand into a nearby paper bag, pulling foward a few soggy chips that he stuffed in his mouth.

Her gaze fell transfixed on the bright red packaging, a familiar logo stamped on the front. The words ‘Happy Meal’ stood out, pulling forward a memory that she couldn’t quite grasp.

A memory?

She tried to turn her attention back to the board, but the red paper packaging kept drawing her in. Why was it so red? Why was there so much of it?

“Oh right” Harry exclaimed, reaching over into bag and handing her a red box. “I forgot, this is for you.”

Hermione tentatively grabbed the paper box, feeling her unease grow. Harry once again turned back to the board, his finger’s drumming against the white wood as he chewed his lip in thought.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

“Harry” Hermione croaked, swallowing the lump in her throat, “Harry where are we going?”

His eyes flicked up to her in surprise before a Cheshire Cat grin broke out on his face. “You know what my dear? I actually don’t know.”

Hermione felt her stomach flip at his words, her blood run cold.

“Where would you like to go?” He asked.

Panic began to bubble up beneath her skin. “Home” she whispered through trembling lips. Unsure where her home even was.

He nodded knowingly, pushing his Rook foward to claim her pawn. Harry leaned his elbows forward casually on the table, propping his chin on his hands as he silently assessed her rigid stance.

“You’re turn” he sung before slurping his drink through a plastic straw.

Crossing her legs to hide their trembling, Hermione picked up her knight again. “Harry I- I don’t want to play anymore”

He frowned at her in confusion, though it felt disingenuous- like a child playing dumb after being caught.

“Hermione you’re not allowed to stop playing” he chided, “you have to finish the game.”

Hermione felt tears spill over. Everything felt wrong. She searched his expression for anything familiar, though she wasn’t sure what familiar was. Her eyes caught on the unmarked skin of his forehead and her face paled.

She shakily placed the knight down on the board, before opening the red box in front of her to escape his gaze. As she tore open the packaging she gasped in horror, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Don’t you like it?” Harry asked casually, as he leaned forward to clutch the item out of the box “I thought you were quite attached to it.”

Hermione shook violently as he gently turned over the plastic figurine, stroking its red hair in his hands. “Hercules” he murmured, “Killer of the Nemean Lion.”

Terror lurched through her body at the sight of the figurine, so out of place here on the train. It didn’t belong here. Not in this place. Not in his hands.

“Give it back” she whispered.

Harry stopped twirling the figurine, smirking as he dangled it in front of her. “But what if I want to keep it?” He replied teasingly.

Hermione wasn’t sure why, but she knew she couldn’t let him have it. Fury burst in her blood, hot and powerful.

He couldn’t take it.

“Give it back!” She snapped, diving for the figurine and clawing it from his grasp.

Her skin burned, cold fire spreading up her arm from where hand met his. She tried to pull away, but his other hand grasped firmly on her wrist, halting her moments.

“Hermione!” Harry gasped, the desperation in his voice slamming her gaze into his.

Harry stared at her wildly, green eyes blazing. “Hermione you have to run. He’s coming. He’s coming!”

The cold flames danced higher beneath her skin, burrowing into her chest. “Whose coming Harry?”

But Harry just gripped her harder, clinging to her with all his strength as his body spasmed and shook.

“ Hescominghescominghescoming ” he gurgled, his neck contorting to an unnatural angle.

Hermione screamed in terror as Harry’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. “Coming for what Harry!” She sobbed, “What does he want!”

Black eyes snapped back at her, Harry’s body lay still.

A chorus of whispers spilled from his bloodless lips.

“To collect.”

Hermione launched upright, an animalistic wail tearing through her throat.

She scrambled against foreign tiles, leaving streaks of mud and grime in her wake.

Squinting against the unbearable brightness in the room she frantically looked around, eyes landing on a steel drain against the tiles on the floor.

“Merlin!” A male voice exclaimed, causing her to shrink back away from the sound.

She threw herself against the closest wall, curling herself up against it to shield herself from the light. The faint sound of whimpering echoed around the barren room, dimly Hermione recognised it was coming from her.

Footfalls padded towards her. “Would you shut up?” The voice snapped. “Salazar’s sake if I knew you’d be this barmy I would’ve kept you unconscious”

Hermione held her breath, stealing a glance at familiar black dragon-hide boots. It had been a long time since she had seen another human and the presence of one, a male at that, alone with her in a room made her stomach roll. She turned her head to wretch on the floor, her body already preparing for what would come.

“Oh for fucksakes” he groaned, “Calm down alright? I’m not here to hurt you”

As she curled over to stop her stomach seizing, she glanced up from her crumpled position to see a man, no, a boy, clad in sinister looking Death Eater Robes.

He peered down at her maskless, a frown creasing between his brows and his wand firmly in his white knuckled grip as he watched her try to collect herself. The boy looked almost comical, his robes enveloping his small form. The look of disgust he was trying so hard to covey gave the impression of a child playing dress up.

This boy did not look like a threat. Though she knew more than any another that looks could be deceiving.

“What’s your name?” He asked harshly and she looked stiffened at the question. She had no name. They had stolen it a long time ago.

The boy pushed back his lanky brown hair impatiently, tapping his foot as he waited for a response she would not give.

He let out a long exhale, “Ok well whatever your name is, you need to come with me. The Dark Lord instructed me to collect a prisoner on this island and bring them in. I’m guessing that’s you?”

Again Hermione remained silent. She wasn’t sure she could speak, having been overwhelmed by the presence of another voice. The lack of silence felt deafening, the light burning her retinas.

The young Death Eater seemed to feel the opposite. He shuffled uncomfortably at her lack of answers, his mask of bravado slipping as she stared at him in terror and shock, giving way to an unsure child out of his depth.

“You were hard to find” he explained, assessing her questioningly, “I didn’t think the wards around the prison would let me in. No one else has been able to. My brother said he’d been brought in to practice on a prisoner a few years ago. Somewhere on the seventh floor. I didn’t think anyone would be there but sure enough there you were”. He paused, frown deepening, “ I thought you were dead at first, you were sleeping pretty deeply and I couldn’t wake you up. So I brought you here. Now that you’re awake though it should be easier”.

Hermione recoiled at his words, pressing herself further against the wall. She didn’t like to think what ‘easier’ meant.

Instinctively, Hermione scanned the room again, looking for anything she could use as a weapon or a means for escape. She recognised the iron bolt door at the end of the far wall, a twin to the one in her cell. Realising she was still within the prison in some sort of communal bathroom, she wondered if she could run for it. Maybe she could find another cell to barracate herself into while she waited for Darryl’s return.

How long had she been asleep for? A few hours? A few days?

Another horrifying thought sprung in her mind- what if Darryl never came back at all?

The Death Eater eyed her warily as she stood on shaking legs, her knees buckling as her withered frame prepared to bolt. Hermione managed a few stumbling steps before collapsing back to the ground, a weight round her neck throwing her off balance.

Tentatively she touched the cool metal around her throat, her fingertips tracing a scaled collar coiling around her neck. She peered wide eyed at the boy standing above her, his gaze flashing with pity.

“It’s a precaution” he murmured, swallowing hard, “It halts your magic, so you can’t find back.”

Hermione squashed down the urge to vomit again. He had touched her while she slept. He’d had his hands around her neck and she hadn’t even realised. She clawed at the collar desperately, trying to tear the foreign object from her skin.

“Hey! Stop” he snapped.

She snarled in response, spitting and kicking as she rithed on the floor, smearing grime and blood against the white tiles as her ragged nails tore at the skin on her throat. A rabid animal backed into a corner.

The Death Eater raised his wand in warning, “Oi!” He barked, “Stop it!”

Hermione began to scream in anguish. It wasn’t fucking fair. They had let her believe they wouldn’t come, that she could live and die in isolation, untouched by their bloodied hands. That she would die quietly, slipping away as starvation claimed her. It would have been peaceful. It would have felt safe.

She could hear the boy yelling, his voice breaking as he threatened her with curses and pain.

But the spell never came.

His wand lay dormant between his quivering fingers. He was out of his depth, and so she screamed into oblivion.

Tucked under the collar around her neck, Hermione felt the ring still wrapped securely around her throat. She clung to it tightly, the opal digging into her palm.

Her voice grew hoarse as she pictured her cell wall. She let the image ground her, building it up in her mind stone by stone. She pictured the layers of moss and mold, the droplets of moisture that dripped softly to the ground below, the cracks she could still feel under her fingertips.

She built her wall. Letting it block out the light and the sounds and the horror. Until the darkness and the cold wrapped her protectively in it’s cloak. Until there was nothing else.

Hermione opened her eyes, her gaze unfocused as she took in the boy still hovering over her. He looked lost. His shoulders slumped in defeat as he stared at her crumpled form, the sadness in his gaze ageing his otherwise youthful face. She wondered how a boy, barely fourteen, ended up in this situation. Why was he, out of all the others, sent to collect her for her death?

“You need to shower” he crocked, “He said you have to be presentable.”

Hermione swallowed, understanding.

She shakily rose to her feet. Obliging to his request. She knew when she was beaten.

What did it matter how her life ended? All that mattered was that it would. She had been surviving for so long, fighting for so long- and for what? Where had that gotten her? It would be a kindness for it all to finally end.

He gave her a long lingering look, one that reflected her own. He seemed so much smaller now that she stood.

“Episky” he murmured, pointing his wand to her neck. 

He stared down at his wand, chewing the inside of his cheek in thought.

“My name is Forsyth” he whispered in a rush, as if afraid someone was listening.

Hermione blinked in surprise. Death Eaters didn’t just give their names to their captives. They didn’t bother with any common courtesys. They were above it.

To give his name meant he saw her as human.

Shuffling awkwardly, the boy, Forsyth, turned and walked towards the rusty pipe fused to the wall. Tapping his wand against its spout, water began to rush foward, pooling around the drain on the floor.

“You’ll have to get undressed” he said, avoiding her questioning gaze, “you can wash and then- then we'll… go.”

He let the implication hang in the air.

Steeling herself, Hermione began to undress.

As the last of her tattered clothing was stripped from her body, she watched as the colour drained from his face.

Forsyth opened his mouth as if to speak but no sound came out. His eyes widened in shock and horror. Hermione swore she even saw fear flicker across his face.

“Wha-“ he began before the rest of the words failed him.

He stood staring, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “I- you- what, what is that?” He stammered, gesturing to her body.

Hermione didn’t know how to answer. She’d never anticipated someone laying eyes on her. Looking back, Hermione realised that seeing another person hadn’t even been a possibility for her. The future was some foreign entity she could not touch. Dwelling on it would only bring dread of things she could not control, or worse, hope for something better. Both scenarios brought nothing but anguish, so she instead focused on her life in the present. Finding little pieces of peace in the cold and the dark.

Hermione looked down at her frail naked body, finally able to see her waxy skin after years of low light.

The result was startling.

Ribs protruded out like wings, stretching so far out from her concaved waist she could probably fit her fist under her rib cage. Her hips, no, her pelvis she realised, her entire pelvis was visible, with her leg bones jutting out like reeds.

Hermione realised she should be disturbed. Instead, she viewed her body with detached curiosity. Unable to grasp that the body she’s examining is her own.

“Why? Who would-“ Forsyth began before falling silent. Hermione could see the various questions flashing in his eyes.

“What is that?” He choked. His voice trembled as he cycled back to his original question.

Hermione cast her eyes over the mirage of scars. So many they overlapped each other, puckering over one another in shiny lumps of red, pink and white. Evidence of the cruelty at the hands of her captors.

But Forsyth wasn’t staring at the scars of her pain, he was focused on the others. The intricate ones carved with surgical precision.

The ones she’d created.

“Prayers”, she whispered hoarsely. Unwilling and unsure of how to even begin to describe her reasoning for self-mutilation.

The answer seemed to slap awareness back into the young Death Eater. As if he hadn’t expected the walking corpse in front of him to respond.

He cleared his throat, “Shower” he ordered, lowering his gaze as he gestured to the pipe.

He stepped back as Hermione shuffled over to the frigid water.

Forsyth handed her a bar of soap as she stood unmoving under the freezing spray, her body long accustomed to the numbing sensation.

“Wash” he prompted. But Hermione remained still, refusing to raise the soap to her body.

“Merlin’s beard, you have to fucking wash!” He snapped.

It seemed, like her, he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. Sighing in frustration he grabbed her wrist and tugged her towards him.

A panicked cry burst out of Hermione instinctively. The boy reacted immediately, dropping her wrist and stepping back.

“I’m not- no, it’s not for-” he stammered, red flushing his cheeks.

“It’s not for…that” he rushed. “I haven’t- I wouldn’t do….but you need to be clean.”

Hermione cringed at the implications of his words.

He dropped his gaze solemnly. “No, no- they aren’t planning to… it’s not- you’re not there for… that”. He finished quietly, eyes trailing on the floor.

“Are they going to kill me?” She asked softly, her voice scratchy and raw.

The young Death Eater hesitated. “I-I’m not sure” he answered quietly, “Probably.”

“Would it be quick?” She murmured.

He looked at her then, the unspoken answer heavy in his eyes.

Hermione knew the answer already. She’d experienced most of it herself.

Forsyth stood there defeated, the bar of soap hanging limply by his side.

“I’m sorry” he whispered, “He’s holding my brother until I return.”

Pity stabbed her chest as she took in the boy's broken expression. A child forced to strip her and bring her to her death. Forced to carry out unspeakable acts in the name of his master. Hermione trusted he was telling the truth, his face hid nothing. The boy was still innocent. He wouldn’t last long, despite completing this task. Voldemort had no room for weakness.

“Ok,” she whispered. “Ok. Hand me the soap.”

Tentatively he passed it to her. His shaking fingers brushed hers. Warm fingertips meeting cold.

Forsyth stepped back once again to allow Hermione to wash. Turning his back to grant her some privacy. An act of foolishness or trust, she couldn’t decide. Either way, there was nowhere for her to run and with the collar and her physical state, she couldn’t fight.

It will be over soon. The nightmare was about to end.

Once she scrubbed herself as best she could, she stumbled over to the folded white bed sheet Forsyth had laid out.

As she picked it up, Hermione realised it was a white hooded robe. Pulling it over her matted wet curls she stroked the material. It was thick and silky to the touch, whatever it was, it felt expensive. A strange clothing choice to be executed in, but then again Voldemort had always been a man fixated on symbolism.

Dressed as a sacrificial lamb she announced she was ready to go.

Forsyth turned round to examine his offering to the Dark Lord, his eyes landing on the top of her head.

“Umm, your hair” he stammered, “I- I don’t know any hair charms”. He fiddled his wand nervously as if the state of her hair would seal his death.

Hermione didn’t have the heart to tell him that not even the most advanced hair charms and a tub of Sleekeazy could fix it.

“Just cut it off” she sighed, wondering why they were sitting here pondering over her hair as if she wasn’t about to become a corpse shortly. Though she could understand him wanting to do it right if his brother's life was on the line.

He fumbled with his wand before aiming it at her head. Incantating a shaving spell, hardened clumps of hair fell to her feet. As each lump fell, Hermione’s head began to feel lighter. The cool air kissed her bare scalp.

Satisfied with his work Forsyth lowered his wand and reached into his pocket. Pulling out a folded handkerchief, he gently unwrapped the edges, unveiling a silver arrowhead.

He paused, frowning.

She wondered what he was thinking. If he could, would he save her instead? Would he run? If given the choice, without the threat to his brother, would he have chosen light?

Instead, she asked “Where are we going?”gesturing to the port key in his outstretched palm.

“Just outside Hogsmeade” he replied softly. 

So, Hogwarts then, Hermione thought. Fitting her life would end at the place where this all began. Where she had discovered the wonder of magic, where she had made her first friends and where she had lost them.

Forsyth hesitated before grabbing her hand. Interlocking their fingers and giving her palm a light squeeze. It was an act of both comfort and apology. She gave him a weak smile as if to say “it’s ok” because she understood. If-

A roar split the air.

The bathroom tiles rattled around them, vibrating through the castle.

She knew that roar.

“What was that?” Forsyth cried, dropping the portkey in fright.

The roar sounded closer, the prison seeming to come alive with the sound. The ground shook as Forsyth crouched down, reaching for the portkey as he clutched her hand tightly.

“Wait!” Hermione cried, tugging him back.

“We have to fucking GO!” He screamed, pulling her back towards him. Terror shone in his eyes.

Hermione tried to wrench her hand away from his vice-like grip.

“Wait! Just let me say goodbye!” She pleaded, clawing at his arm to try to get away.

To get to him.

“Darryl!” She cried.

The roar became deafening, tiles shattered as the walls began to split open.

“DARRYL!” Hermione screamed.

He had come back in time. He had come back for her.

Forsyth pulled her to the ground, wrestling her desperately as he lunged for the silver arrow, just out of his reach. He cried out in terror as debris began to rain down around them.

The bathroom door exploded in a shower of metal and rock. Ice instantly branched out towards all corners of the room. Darryl loomed in the door frame, his robes billowing like black smoke.

Death incarnate.

Forsyth screamed as Darryl rushed towards them. Rushed towards her.

Hermione reached out towards her friend. Tears coated her cheeks. He was here. She could say goodbye.

But as her hand stretched out for his, white robes reaching for black, she felt the familiar tug at her navel.

Anguish washed over Hermione as she began to feel the bathroom swirl away. Screaming mixed with roaring as the portkey activated in Forsyth's hand.

“DARRYL!” She wailed as his bony fingertips fell a hair width short of hers. His black figure rapidly distorting as she pulled away from him and the home she’d come to know.

The world was a spinning whirl of colour as she’s dragged from one place to the next. She screams at the unfairness of it all. Hot rage boils her blood. She is hissing, hitting and pushing as she tries to peel her body away from Forsyth’s whilst they’re thrown wildly through the Ether. Hermione fights with all the strength she had left.

She had to get back to Darryl. 

Hermione lands hard on her back. The force knocking the air from her lungs. Something hot washes over her as she tries to draw breath. She tastes copper as wet thuds rained down around her.

She rolls over and is violently sick, throwing up bile from her empty stomach. Dimly she realises Forsyth is still clutching her hand. She tugs away forcefully.

Forsyth's hand moves easily with her, still gripping tight and somehow surprisingly light. Wiping to clear something sticky out of her eyes, Hermione finally glances down at the hand she is still holding.

It is not attached to a body.

Where the rest of Forsyth should be is just a meaty chunk that ends at what used to be his forearm.

Hermione frantically uses her other hand to pry Forsyth’s rigid fingers off hers. Casting his hand aside as she scrambles away in horror.

As she slides and stumbles on her hands and backside, she realises she isn’t lying on some muddy roadside outside of Hogsmeade.

She is lying in Forsyth.

Partially submerged in a large pile of blood and meaty pulp.

Hermione stares numbly at the horrific scene around her, utterly frozen in disbelief that the boy who was handing her soap mere minutes ago was now a pile of slop.

A low whistle sounded behind her.

She vacantly turned her head to see three blacked robed men donning the familiar silver masks.

“Well, look what we have here!” one chuckled. “Quite a mess you’ve made.”

Chapter Text

The roaring of the crowd grew louder as the carriage approached.

Hermione sat wedged between two Death Eaters, their elbows jostling her shoulders as the carriage climbed towards Hogwarts quidditch pitch.

Blood clung to her robes, saturating them from pristine white to red. She stared at the fragments of brain matter smeared on her sleeves, the clots under her fingernails. Green flashed briefly in her vision. She pushed it away, picturing her wall instead.

She let the stone carry the sound away until only a faint ringing in her ears remained. She sat silent as the carriage travelled past the castle, lights dotted the windows and she could almost picture the classmates she once knew sleeping soundly inside. Alive. Safe.

The moonless night blanketed the castle grounds in shadows, the lit Quidditch pitch shining like beckon. She pretended that she was travelling to another one of Gryfindoor's matches. She would arrive with a book in one hand and a thermos of hot chocolate in the other, taking her seat next to Ginny and Neville. Two brooms would streak past. A mop of red hair and a head of black.

The carriage jolted to a stop just outside the pitch. Rough hands gripped her tightly and lifted her out of the carriage.

A pot-bellied man with a large moustache stood at the entrance, a floating clipboard and a Quick-Quote Quill jotting behind him. He startled as he took in her attire.

“Blimey! What in Merlin’s name is this?” He exclaimed, nose wrinkling in disgust.

One of the masked men to her left snorted and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me, the boy turned up this way” he said gesturing to her with his thumb.

Relief rushed through her like a wave, so strong that if it was not for the men holding her she would have collapsed to the ground. They thought she was a boy. They didn’t know who she was.

The pot-bellied man sniffed, darting his eyes between the men as if she didn’t exist.

“Where’s his handler?” He asked, rummaging into his pockets to produce a small pouch. The tell-tale sound of coins jiggling in his hand.

Laughter broke out between the two men. Hermione tried not to cringe as the one on the right grabbed a fistful of her bloodied robes.

“Right here!” He howled.

The man’s moustache twitched as he glared at the two Death Eaters, missing the tasteless joke.

A gruff voice behind her replied from the head of the carriage, interrupting the hysterics of her captors. “The handlers dead, Atkinson. Splinched into a pulp. Your portkeys are shit”

The pot-bellied wizard, Atkinson glared over her head at the man behind her, “The portkeys are sound. No one else had any trouble”.

He tucked the pouch back into his pocket before turning his beady eyes to her, “Just put this one at the back where the Dark Lord can’t see him. It’s about to start.”

“Aye Aye Captain,” the Death Eater on her right said, giving a mock solute. “See you up top”

The two men dragged her towards the entrance at the base of one of the towers, passing the carriage and the beast towing it. The black skeletal creature was built like a horse with bat-like wings protruding from its back. She had seen drawings of Thestrals in her Care Of Magical Creatures textbook, though this was her first time being able to see them.

To see the creatures was to see death.

As Hermione was thrust past, she peered over her shoulder back at the creature, locking eyes with it. The Thestral recoiled as if she’d struck it, its white eyes widened with terror. A high-pitched whine burst from its mouth as it launched itself onto its hind legs, wings flapping as it buckled against its bridle.

She wondered if it could sense death, if it knew the fate of the person whose blood she wore like paint, or if it knew she was destined to die only a few hundred meters away.

“Easy! Easy!” The man on the carriage cried, flinging forward to grasp the reins.

Hands roughly pulled her bloodied hood up and over her face, wrenching her head forward and obscuring her view of the chaos unfolding behind her.

Hermione’s legs dragged uselessly along the ground, unable to keep up with the pace the men were demanding. They dragged her under one of the towers, the thrumming of a thousand footsteps hammered above her head.

“Best of luck kid” one of the men chuckled, before shoving her forward, sending her catapulting through the flaps of fabric beneath the tower.

The familiar zap of magic rippled through her as she fell past the wards surrounding the pitch and onto the wet grass below.

The crowd above was deafening, a chorus of shouts, jeers and roars. Hermione paused as she dug her fingers into the cool ground, marvelling at the feel of grass beneath her palms. Adding another layer of stone to the wall in her mind, Hermione slowly stood, pressing her back against the tower behind her. The wards shocked her shoulder, electricity dancing on her skin and forcing her to step forward.

There was nowhere to run.

She peeked through the gap beneath the hood, wiping droplets of Forsyth’s blood as they dripped onto her cheeks.

Despite her carefully constructed wall, the sight in front of her stole the air from her lungs.

A sea of black cloaks and silver masks stood on the viewing stands above, cheering at the spectacle below. They circled the entire pitch as if watching a Quidditch World Cup final. The sheer number of people made her feel as if she was boiling, each breath singeing her throat.

The wall in her mind rattled as she took in the view of the ground in front of her. A large dais sat erected in the centre of the pitch, surrounded by a mass of motionless white cloaks. They spread in front of her like pawns on a chessboard, robes identical to her own. Their hoods up and heads down, backs turned to her as they sobbed and shook.

An entire herd of sheep waiting to be slaughtered.

Heat continued to build inside Hermione as her horror grew. A stone tumbled off her wall, cracking on the ground below.

“Hecate” She whispered, raising her hands in prayer, “Miserere nobis-“

She prayed desperately as she turned her gaze towards the night sky, searching for the familiar darkness. A few stars winked back at her. Their light muted behind the harsh lanterns above the pitch, illuminating the spectacle below.

Hermione let the words travel through her, calming her racing heart. She closed her eyes against the light and pictured herself kneeling before her cell wall, solidifying it in her mind until the smell of mildew penetrated her nostrils.

As the heat dissipated, she opened her eyes to a large mirror hovering high above her. Her gaze followed it as it travelled slowly in the open air, meeting another impossibly large mirror before travelling lazily back. She scanned the night sky, counting thirteen more. Before she could ponder their purpose her head was pulled towards the dais by an unknown force.

The mass of white all turned their heads simultaneously, eerily in sync. Her collar began to hum against her skin as her eyes snapped to the figure in Slytherin green climbing up the steps. The only spot of colour in a black-and-white world.

A translucent projection of the dais burst forth above the pitch, making it seem as if the figure stared down at the masses below. His red eyes cut through the gaps between stones and she felt hot tears begin to form, spilling out to meet the blood on her cheeks.

A familiar cold voice, enhanced by a Sonorus charm, echoed around the pitch.

“Welcome my loyal followers”

Voldemort paused to take in the scene in front of him, a sadistic grin breaking out across his serpent-like features.

“Today is a celebration!” He cried, and the crowd thundered as he raised his arms in greeting.

As the whistles and shouts died down he began to walk forward, hands clasped in front of him in a false act of humility.

“Five years ago, on this day, I killed Harry Potter” he said with a sneer, “The chosen one.”

Laughter broke out in the stands above, drowned out by the roaring of her blood.

Five years. Five years. Five years.

Bit by bit, Hermione sealed the cracks and began contracting another wall next to it, one with a rusty sink and a clouded mirror.

Voldemort smirked, the enthusiasm of the crowd indulging him to bask in his power.

“Since then we have achieved victory after victory, purging the blood traitors, muggle sympathisers and Mudbloods from our world”.

A barred window. A leaky tap.

“And now, before you stands the very last remnants of The Order. Those who have been attacking our homes, bombing our streets, murdering our children”.

A festering lavatory.

“The last of the filth to be exterminated.”

A dirty cot with torn blankets.

“Today we will have justice!”

A steel door bolted shut. Nothing in. Nothing out.

“But” he paused, “Are we not better than our adversaries? We, more than anyone, understand the waste of magical blood that has been spilled.”

A crudely drawn chess piece. A plastic figurine. A ring.

“We killed for necessity, to further our cause, to better the world! We are not monsters. We are not our enemies.”

Coldness enveloped her, darkness wrapped her in its embrace.

“So today, I offer justice, yes, but I also offer mercy.”

Hermione rebuilt her cell in her mind, inch by inch, stone by stone. She bridged the gaps, sealing the room until it was impenetrable. She filled it with snow and songs about submarines before imprisoning her emotions into it and slamming the door shut.

“Today I also offer something else, something I know has been discussed in recent years”.

Nothing in. Nothing out.

“My successor.”

Hermione watched in detachment as a cluster of Death Eaters walked in uniform onto the dais, spreading out into a line behind Voldemort to face the roaring crowd.

“Before you stands my most devoted. They have proven themselves in both strength and skill. Each has been gifted an opportunity to one day stand in my place”.

With a flick of his hand, a pedestal rose from the stage. It’s top obscured by black fabric.

“They will need to compete for such an honour. Strength and skill are one thing, however, can they lead? Do they possess the power to take something weak and turn it into something more? Can they continue to change our world for the better?” Voldemort paused, a natural showman drawing out the attention of the crowd, “Let us test it.”

He ripped the fabric off the pedestal, revealing a simple wooden cup. Shadows poured out from within, spilling out down the sides of the pedestal onto the dais below. Even from her place far in the back, Hermione could sense dark magic radiating from its inky tendrils.

“The Goblet of Shadows! Formerly known as the Goblet of Fire, a promise of eternal glory for those selected to compete in the last Triwizard Tournament. It’s last champion- none other than Harry Potter.” Voldemort’s eyes twinkled with mirth, “How well that turned out for him.”

Nothing in. Nothing out.

“Unlike the last tournament, this one will have seven tasks.”

Voldemort gestured to the line of Death Eaters behind him, “This will weed out the weak and show which one of my Scions has the power to lead. Each will be given a Champion. They will train them, teach them, and turn them into something more.”

Hermione heard wails rise from within the white. The scent of fear hung heavy in the air, yet it did not touch her. She stood still, indifferent to the cries of those around her. She was in a cell in Azkaban. Nothing could touch her here.

Voldemort continued, his voice growing louder as the crowd surged with energy. “Today I offer justice. Today I offer mercy. The cup will choose fifteen Champions, one for each Scion. They will have a chance to earn their freedom. The Champion who wins will get to walk away, redeemed. A loved one safety at their side. Those who do not win are deemed unworthy of Magic herself and will be executed along with their Collateral.”

He smiled down at the quivering masses below, “That is, of course, if they survive that long.”

A shadow flickered in the corner of Hermione’s vision, though the collar prevented her from being able to look away from the dais, she felt a calming presence brush past her. Its large form weaved through the white robes unnoticed.

“The Scion whose Champion wins will be named my Successor. They will have proven themselves to be a true leader, one powerful enough to turn the enemy into an asset.”

He turned to the Death Eaters behind him, “You will each get one pass to enter a task and assist your Champion”.

Voldemort’s next command hissed in warning to the group, “Use it well.”

Voldemort pulled out his wand and cast a ring of green fire around himself and the cup, the flames licking his knees.

“Shall we meet our Champions?” He asked the crowd who roared in response.

As Voldemort called forth his first Scion, Greyback, into the ring of fire, the shadow that had been steadily weaving towards Hermione crossed in front of her.

The black dog stood still, staring directly at her through the gaps between the white. Hermione waited for the cries of alarm from the stands above but no one seemed to notice the large Grim in the centre of the pitch.

She wondered if Sirius had come to the land of the living to escort her to the other side. Slowly, forcefully she flicked her eyes to meet his yellow gaze. Sirius gave her one long saddened look, as if apologising, before padding behind one of the robed figures and disappearing.

The collar around her next began to hum as it willed her eyes back to the dais.

Greyback now stood in front of Voldemort, head down as Voldemort pulled a fluttering piece of parchment out of the shadows. Voldemort opened the paper, his brows flickering in surprise before travelling back to his lowest-ranking Scion.

“It seems the cup favours you Greyback,” he said as his lip curled up in distaste. “Ginevra Weasley!”

Greyback’s eyes widened for a split second before a triumphant sharp-toothed smile burst forth as he turned to meet his champion.

A woman with long red hair stiffly walked up the dais as she fought to resist the compulsion. Hermione caught a glimpse of the collar she wore around her neck, some kind of gold serpent. Its wearer stepped into the circle of fire, her eyes blazing with hatred as her hand reached out against her will.

There was no doubt that this was the real Ginny Weasley, spitting with disgust as her hand settled in the taloned grip of Fenrir Greyback.

Hermione looked at the events unfolding in front of her without a flicker of emotion. These were names and faces she recognised, though the memories of them were buried deep. Her cell door remained sealed in the recesses of her mind.

“Ginevra” Voldemort hissed with mock politeness “Welcome my girl, such a pleasure.”

Voldemort gestured to a group of white figures clustered below the dais, their faces too far for Hermione to make out.

“Please”, he said. “Pick your collateral.”

The projection zeroed in on Ginny’s furious gaze, her body quivering as she fought against the magic binding her.

“Fu-fuck y-y-you” she spat.

Voldemort tutted, red eyes flashing as the collar around Ginny’s neck began to tighten. Blood began to drip from the witch's mouth as she bit down her tongue to prevent herself from answering, however, the compulsion won out.

“Edward Remus Lupin” she gurgled.

The second she uttered his name a bolt struck out into the crowd below and the ring of green flames flared high- signalling the magic had taken hold. She collapsed onto the wooden floorboards, her collar now a gleaming silver snake, signifying her new status as Champion.

“Your life is tied to Mr Greybacks now my girl, and the boy's life is tied to yours. Die in the games and the boy will die with you. Kill your master and you and the boy will follow.” Voldemort explained coldly to the broken witch convulsing silently in pain.

He then turned his gaze to Greyback, his eyelids lowering in warning, “The Python now responds to you, master its wearer and you have yourself a formidable Champion. Dismissed.”

Greyback bowed low to his master before grabbing the stricken witch and dragging her back to the outside of the circle, awaiting his next instruction.

“Alecto Carrow!” Voldemort announced and the sister of the two Carrow twins stood proudly forward into the circle.

Hermione watched numbly as Parvati was called forth from the cup and tearfully selected Ernie Macmillan from the crowd below. As the flames rose in confirmation, she collapsed to the floor and screamed in agony as her collar turned silver. Hermione wondered why she hadn’t called for her sister.

Her question was shortly answered when Amycus stood up next and secured the second Patil sister, Padma.

She surmised that Voldemort already know who the cup would choose, purposely leaving a group of Collateral to choose from so they couldn’t choose another Champion. Padma chose her housemate Anthony Goldstein and when the circle returned to its low burn she too was dragged outside the flames to watch the remaining Scions receive their Champions.

“Astoria Greengrass” Voldemort announced, his voice teeming with affection. The blonde all but skipped forward, her angelic face absent of fear as she smiled sweetly at her Master.

Voldemort seemed to preen under her adoring gaze, “Astoria my darling, how exciting this is. Let’s hope you get a good one hmm?”

He spoke to her as a dotting father would and Hermione pondered what the witch had done to secure herself such obvious favour. She didn’t recall much about the young Slytherin, only that she was a pureblood and had family ties to the Dark Lord.

The cup spat a piece of parchment which Voldemort grasped out of the air. His eyebrows rose as he read the name, arching his eyebrow in exaggerated intrigue for the near-hysterical spectators.

“Theodore Nott!” He cried, flinging his arms wide as the crowd leapt to their feet, “The Great Betrayer!”

Astoria's pink lips popped open in shock and she squealed as she had just won a beauty pageant.

“Well done my girl, well done.” Voldemort congratulated the delighted witch sincerely.

Theodore Nott lazily walked up the stage, as if completely unaffected by the collars, the Python's, demands.

“Astoria. Dark Lord.” Theodore nodded politely, “Love the title, by the way, you really know how to make a guy feel special.”

Voldemort gave Theodore a tight-lipped smile. “If it wasn’t for your stupidity, you could have stood here today in a very different position. It’s almost disappointing, though I think you’ve found your rightful place” he sneered.

Theodore shrugged, unruffled by the Dark Lord’s ire. “Tomatoes, Potatoes, as the Muggles say” he mused, turning to face Astorias bewildered expression.

He flourished his hand out to his new slave master. The witch hesitated, baffled, before placing her hand in his with a grimace.

“And who is your Collateral?” Voldemort asked tensely.

Theodore turned his head to look below the dais, humming as he searched the faces Hermione could not see.

“Hmmm…” Theodore muttered, “Eenie, Meanie, Mionee… aha. Dudley Dursley!” He shouted confidently.

The fire flared in confirmation and a bolt shot out, colliding with the selected Collateral below. Theodore’s smirk morphed into a wince as he hissed in pain. Miraculously, albeit unsteady, he remained standing.

“A Muggle?” Voldemort laughed “What a waste.”

“Yea well,” Theodore inhaled through gritted teeth, “He is Harry Potter’s cousin…symbolism and…and all that” he panted, doubling over as another spasm of pain washed over him.

Voldemort ignored the heaving wizard, addressing Astoria in a fatherly tone, “There is work to do on this one, my dear. His magic is powerful but his heart is weak. Break him and I know you will make me proud.”

She nodded earnestly, leaving the circle at her master's gentle dismissal. With a few spells, she wrapped Theodore in a Body-Bind curse and levitated him towards her before sharply dropping him to the ground.

The next names flew past Hermione in a numbing haze. Rowle secured Cho Chang who selected Michael Corner as her Collateral. Macnair got a tear-streaked Susan Bones who chose Hannah Abbott. Selwyn received Gregory Goyle who fumbled up the stage.

Goyle tried to select Nott as his collateral, which earned him a sharp punch to the nose by Selwyn, who barked that other Champions couldn’t be selected. A studdering Goyle then selected Oliver Wood and he was promptly dragged over to the other Scoins and their Champions, now beginning to form a semi-circle outside of the ring.

Hermione felt the walls in her mind begin to shift as George Weasley was called up to submit to Avery. The once carefree expression he wore now withered with exhaustion. After a tear-filled deliberation, George selected Angelina Johnson, his dead twin’s girlfriend, and took his place among the others.

Nothing in. Nothing out.

Herdrian Parkinson punched the air triumphantly as he received Neville Longbottom. The once timid boy held his head high, broad shoulders straight as he took Parkinson’s hand and called for his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom.

Contrastingly, Dolohov growled in frustration at the announcement of Dennis Creevy, the younger brother of Colin Creevy who Hermione had last seen as a broken corpse at the Battle. Dennis called for Cormac Mclaggen and, like Theodore Nott, surprisingly stayed standing as the Python around his neck changed to silver.

Hermione began to notice a pattern in the Champions. All were young, with most selecting Collateral similar in age. Where were the older Order members like Kingsley, Mcgonagall and Andromeda Tonks?

Daphne Greengrass was called forward, her cold demeanour a sharp contrast to the warmth of her sister. She stood as if made of iron, an impenetrable fortress. It seemed Voldemort had been saving his top Scions for last. Hermione wondered what the eldest Greengrass had done to earn her spot and why her father wasn’t among the few remaining unchampioned Scions left.

“Ron Weasley” Voldemort declared and a sickening wave of heat washed over Hermione. She fought for control as the cell door buckled, the bolts shooting off the hinges as a torrent of emotions battered within the cell.

Nothing in. Nothing out. Nothing in. Nothing out.

Like Neville, Ron stood tall. Even under the Python's command, his long gait was heartbreakingly familiar.

Would he know she was here?

Would he call her name?

The metal door screeched as it rattled, deep dents pounded into its surface.

His face was different, older. His blue eyes, god his eyes, were devoid of warmth. They were cold. Calculating. Empty.

What had happened during the years they had been apart?

Tears stung her eyes as a gap punctured through the door. Fear, grief and horror seeped through, burning her chest.

Hermione flung her hands against the door in her mind, pressing her hands against the steadily heating metal.

Nothing in. Nothing out.

She began to pray, murmuring words against the buckling steel as she wrestled with the emotions inside. Frost began to spread from her palms, crystallising against the door until a thin sheen of ice coating it. Hermione focused on the soothing chill beneath her hands, praying until the door became completely obscured by a thick wall of ice.

The hammering behind the door stopped.

“Molly Weasley” Ron whispered, sealing his fate within the circle. The projection panned to George who slumped in relief at his mother's name.

Hermione did not feel disappointed at not being chosen. She felt nothing at all.

The Champions and Collateral were clustered close to the dais, signifying their importance. Her place at the back meant she was likely forgotten. Games and glory did not await her. Only death.

Justin Finch-Fletchly was called to Yaxley. He selected Zacharias Smith. Another perceived weak Champion for one of Voldemort’s supposed top Scions.

Only three Scions remained. Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange. The selection was almost over. Her time was almost up.

Zabini was called up next, when Voldemort announced the cup had chosen Luna Lovegood as his Champion, Zabinis head snapped sharply to Malfoy’s.

A silent exchange seemed to pass between the wizards, as if Zabini was surprised that Luna had been assigned to him and not Malfoy.

Zabini slipped back on his expressionless mask and thanked the Dark Lord before taking Luna’s hand. The projection zoomed in on her face, capturing her eyes as they flicked briefly to her left. Right where Hermione knew Malfoy was standing. Had she too, expected a different Master?

Had she known about the tournament?

Luna’s gentle voice called for Terry Boot, one of the boys Hermione could recall picking on Luna throughout their years at Hogwarts. An odd choice for an odd girl.

She was gently tugged by her elbow over to the others, willingly complying with the man who now controlled her. If Blaise Zabini was anything like his infamous Black Widowed mother, the gentle-natured Luna would not survive long.

“Bellatrix Lestrange” Voldemort beckoned.

The woman who had disfigured Hermione entered the circle and bowed formally to the Dark Lord, forward enough that her forehead almost touched her ankles.

A surprising ranking.

Hermione had thought that Bellatrix, out of all people, would have been Voldemort's leading successor, yet it was Draco Malfoy who stood alone behind Voldemort.

The shadows danced as Voldemort plucked the floating piece of parchment, his eyes lit up as he called the Champion.

“Seamus Finnegan.”

Bellatrix cackled in delight, whirling around to face her prize.

Seamus’s eyes held the same fire as Ginny’s as he climbed the dais rigidly. Content ravaged his once boyish features as he took Bellatrix’s hand.

“State your Collateral” Voldemort ordered, his voice carrying a note of mirth.

“Dean Finnegan” Seamus spat, shaking with fury or fear as he awaited the pain.

The fire stayed low. His Python remained gold.

Seamus frowned, “Dean Finnegan!”

Voldemort began to laugh, Bellatrix and the other Scions joining in immediately.

Confused, Seamus stared down below the dais. “Dean?” He asked warily.

Finally, the projection showcased the people just below the dais. The ones deemed most likely to be saved. The familiar faces stared upward at the dais, their faces a mix of anguish, fear and numb acceptance. Hermione recognised Viktor Krum, Lee Jordan, Romilda Vane, Penelope Clearwater and many other Hogwarts alumni.

As she had suspected, the majority couldn’t be under thirty and all looked utterly broken. Amongst them, Dean Thomas, now Dean Finnegan, stood with his head down. Heaving a deep sigh, he turned towards the stairs and began to walk.

Seamus watched Dean approach, brows dipped in confusion and fear as his husband walked fluidly, easily, towards him. Dean finally lifted his head as he stepped through the flames and the spectators above gasped in surprise.

Dean was not wearing a Python.

A mirage of surprise, denial and shock blanketed Seamus's features. “Dean?” He whispered, voice breaking.

But Dean did not look at his husband.

Instead he walked silently past, taking his place by Voldemort’s side. 

Chapter Text

“Dean what-“ Seamus choked, swallowing hard as looked between the two. “What the fuck is this?”

“Your husband and I”, Voldemort began smugly, placing his arm around the rigid wizard beside him, “Have an agreement.”

Bellatrix stifled a giggle, looking between the two with barely contained glee.

“Tell me, Mr Finnegan, how did you think we found every single one of your precious Order’s safe houses?” Voldemort taunted.

Colour drain from Seamus’s face. He shook his head in disbelief.

“No.” He whispered. “No! He wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t!”

Seamus whipped his head to Theodore Nott. “It must’ve been you! It had to of been! Tell them!”

Theodore just looked at Seamus sadly.

“TELL THEM!” Seamus screamed, his eyes misting over.

“Your husband came to me of his own free will. He offered his services in exchange for your life and freedom Mr Finnegan.” Voldemort lightly. Letting the words roll off his tongue as if they had no consequences. As if they hadn’t just shattered the man across from him.

Seamus inhaled sharply as tears slipped down his cheeks, “No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t”, he murmured weakly.

“Love is a powerful motivator Mr Finnegan-” Voldemort flicked his eyes towards Dean, “-and a great weakness.”

Voldemort glided over to the sobbing man and patted Seamus’s shoulder in mock sympathy.

”Did you truly believe my Bella would move her prisoner to such an easily escapable room? One with such close proximity to your wand?” Voldemort laughed softly, “Did you really think yourself that clever?”

Voldemort drifted over to Bellatrix and stroked her arm comfortingly. The witch melted at his touch.

“And after all the kindness, the mercy, Bella showed you. You responded by murdering her husband and brother. Yet here you are! Unharmed and untouched after every skirmish you’ve had with my men over the years. Not by luck, but by the vow your husband and I exchanged.”

Dean spoke hoarsely, “Seamus love, please I-“

“DON’T YOU DARE CALL ME THAT!” Seamus roared, “You fucking traitor!”

“It was the only way” Dean begged, “It was them or you. I chose you. I will always choose you!”

“SHUT UP!” Seamus spat.

“Gentlemen!” Voldemort exclaimed patronisingly, “There’s no need for a lovers quarrels. You will have your happily ever after.”

Voldemort nodded to a heartbroken Dean, “You have fulfilled your vow, Mr Finnegan. And you-“ Voldemort continued, facing Seamus once more “-will get to live and go free as promised. That is, If you survive the tournament” he smirked.

Dean inhaled sharply, “That is not what we agreed on!” he hissed.

“We agreed Mr Finnegan, that while you collected the contenders, neither myself nor my followers would harm your husband. And that once you had succeeded and the Tournament had ended, he would go free. I never said anything about him not competing.”

Dean trembled with rage, “You-“

“Mr Finnigan-” Voldemort interrupted Dean as he addressed Seamus, “-as you are guaranteed your freedom by simply surviving the tournament, regardless of whether you win or not, it would be unfair to give you Collateral. Your life is your prize, one your husband sort very hard to secure.”

Voldemort clasped his hands behind his back. “I will make you an offer,” he mused. “You and your husband can leave now with your lives and your freedom. Or-” He challenged, “You can help your fellow Champions and earn your freedom yourself, untainted by your husband's betrayal”.

Seamus lifted his tear-streaked gaze towards Voldemort as he processed the offer given.

A shield burst out behind Voldemort’s back, slamming into Dean and he rushed at the Dark Wizard.

“Don’t do it, Seamus!” He cried as he beat desperately against the barrier between him and his husband.

The selected Champions stared at Dean with a mirage of disgust, anger and pity. None had spoken out against the events unfolding between the couple. It was Seamus’s choice and his choice alone.

Hermione wondered if any of them had recognised the hidden catch in Voldemort’s vow.

Voldemort bent his head towards Seamus's ear, the Sononus amplifying his whisper in such a way that if felt like Voldemort was speaking directly beside her.

“All you have to do is grab her hand and say you accept” he hissed.

“Seamus!” Dean screamed. “Don’t!”

Seamus cast one last, broken look at his husband before turning to Bellatrix.

“SEAMUS PLEASE!” Dean roared.

Tear-filled eyes hardened to steel as Seamus roughly grabbed Bellatrix’s hand.

“I accept” he claimed coldly.

Fire eclipsed the four. The mob roared, drowning out Dean's screams.

It was done.

“Congratulations my boy!” Voldemort exclaimed over a quivering Seamus. “Excellent choice. You can go take your place with the others but first-“

Striking like a serpent Voldemort whipped out his wand and vanished the shield.

“The vow we made was for your husband's life and freedom. Not yours” he said calmly to Dean.

Seamus recoiled at the sight. “Wa-wait”he grunted, staring wide-eyed from his crumpled position.

Dean looked past Voldemort’s wand to his husband, voice breaking as he whispered “I’m s-“

Greenlight erupted from the tip of Voldemort’s wand, slamming into Dean and stealing his final words.

Dean's body collapsed backwards. Eyes empty.

Nothing in. Nothing out.

Hermione retreated even further into herself as Seamus’s wails echoed around the pitch. His cries a chasm of grief, claiming the last remnants of hope in the broken man.

Now he would never be free.

Hermione sat with her back against the ice wall coating the door in her mind. Taking solace from the world outside.

She didn’t hear Seamus’s screams as he was dragged out of the fire where his husband's body still lay.

She didn’t feel the thunderous applause of the masses above.

She didn’t see the parchment rocketing from the shadows as soon as Draco Malfoy stepped into the flames.

And she didn’t hear the stunned silence that followed as Voldemort called out her name.

“Hermione Jean Granger”

Ginny Weasley froze in shock as the name rang out. The leering crowd grew silent as You-Know-Who’s reptilian eyes scanned the huddled mass of white-robed contenders below.

Death Eaters and Champions alike swivelled their heads to see the famous Muggle-born step forward, but none of the figures below made any such move. Quiet muttering stirred amongst the sea of Death Eater supporters in stands above.

A mix of dread and hope swirled in Ginny’s chest. Equal parts wishing she would step forward, proving that she had somehow miraculously survived all these years, and yet also hoping she wouldn’t, because being dead was a far greater kindness than what lay ahead for them.

Ginny tried to make eye contact with Ron, but his eyes remained fixated on the crowd. Every inch of his body was tense, desperation etched into his eyes and he waited for any signs of movement. Ginny wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

“Hermione Jean Granger” You-Know-Who repeated. His voice abruptly shushed the crowd as if he’d cast a silencing charm over it.

There was a pungent pause as they all waited.

Theodore Nott stared blankly at the floor, looking as if he was going to be sick. Bellatrix Lestrange anxiously adjusted her robes. Even Greyback stood poised behind her, sniffing the air as if to smell the ghost of the Gryffindor Princess.

Malfoy stood dumbly, brows drawn in confusion as he stared at his Master, unable to comprehend how the Dark Lord could make such a momentous mistake.

Hermione Granger was dead.

She had died five years ago in the Battle of Hogwarts.

It was supposed to be Viktor. He was one of the best fighters they had left.

He was the one who had prior experience in the tournament.

He was the one who was the strongest competitor. The one who would be chosen for Voldemort’s highest-ranking Scion.

Not Hermione. It couldn’t be Hermione.

And yet, the smug look of satisfaction on You-Know-Who’s face had Ginny questioning her sanity.

Bellatrix looked around uncertainly before turning to her Master.

“My lord, there must be some kind of mistake” she whispered, barely audible to those around him.

Her nephew gave her a sharp look in warning.

“The Mudblood-“ Bellatrix began.

You-Know-Who cut her off with the wave of his hand.

“The cup doesn’t lie” he replied calmly, enunciating each syllable whilst he calmly turned the old parchment round to face the audience.

Ginny felt the air leave her lungs as she read the name burnt into paper.

Hermione Jean Granger.

A choked sob escaped from her throat, puncturing the heavy silence.

It was a mistake. It had to be. There was no way that-

A heavy palm smashed against the side of her head, sending her to the ground. Ginny’s jaw throbbed as her chin split open against the hardwood floors.

“Quiet” Greyback snapped harshly.

Her head swum as she grit her teeth against the stinging pain in her ear, hot blood gushing out of her chin. She could hear a commotion erupt over the ringing in her ears. George shouting followed by heavy thumps, Ron swearing and cursing, muffled sobs and cackling laughter.

Greyback pulled Ginny roughly back up by her shoulders, hard enough to give her whiplash. Seeing double as she took in Ron’s struggles against the binding curse emitted out of the Greengrass girl's wand. His mouth gagged and his eyes alight with fury as he stared at the beast behind her.

She tried to catch Ron’s eyes to remind him to stay calm. She needed him to stay in control, especially now. But then, she felt Greyback’s hand on her shoulder tense.

He sniffed the air. Once. Twice. Three times.

The Werewolf turned to stare at the crowd behind Ginny’s back.

Godric no.

Voldemort’s head snapped in the same  direction.

No, it can’t be.

She stayed facing ahead, unable to tear her gaze away as faces swivelled one-by-one to a point behind Ginny.

Her blood chilled in her veins as the pitch fell airily silent once more and she swore she felt her heart stop beating as Ron looked up.

She knew the moment Rons gaze sharpened behind her. 

His eyes widened before his face contorted in silent sobs. Tears spilled over his lashes as a mirage of emotion flashed across his eyes.

Pain. Hope. Love.

All emotions Ron had carried with him like shackles over the past five years. Forever bound and haunted by a witch long dead.

She watched Voldemort’s eyes light up in glee, his mouth twisting into a satisfied smirk. Draco Malfoy stared in confusion, blinking as if to wipe an illusion. Bellatrix looked stunned. The rest of the Death Eaters she could see all wore similar faces of disbelief.

Ginny didn’t want to look. She didn’t want to hope. If she didn’t look, then it wasn’t real. Hermione Granger was dead. She had to be. If she wasn’t that meant-

It meant-

It meant they left her.

Instead, Ginny stayed staring straight ahead, directly into the handsome face of Theodore Nott, whose olive complexion slowly drained of colour. Unlike Ron, Theodore did not have a kaleidoscope of emotion written on his face.

He only had one.

One that finally forced her to turn around.

Because in all the years she had known Theo, years full of battles and bloodshed and horror, she had never once seen him show what was now etched onto every fibre of his being.

Fear.

So, ever so slowly, Ginny turned to look.

A sea of white parted for a lone figure in red. Nearby torch lights flickered, the only sound present as they moved silently towards the dais. The flames illuminated the glossy red robe, casting the being beneath its hood in shadow. Ginny knelt transfixed, eyes tracked at the darkness, holding her breath for a glimpse of honey-coloured eyes.

Slowly, silently, the last Champion climbed the stairs, bare feet stepping silently on wood as they reached the top of the platform. It was then that Ginny realised the figure wasn’t wearing red at all.

It was blood.

Gallons of it. Soaking through what must have been the same robes she now wore. Red drenched almost every inch of it, only the barest patches remained as blood dripped onto the wooden floorboards at their feet. The small being walked steadily towards Voldemort, leaving a trail of bloodied footprints behind.

A wide, unnatural grin stretched over Voldemort’s face. He held his arms open wide, beckoning the figure forward.

“Welcome my dear, welcome!” He sang, “I have been waiting for you.”

The last Champion walked past Ginny, offering a glimpse of a small, pale chin underneath the hood and leaving a stretch of copper and decay in their wake.

Ginny could hear murmurs and sobbing around her, though it was muted. Her attention solely focused on the newcomer walking calmly towards Harry Potter’s killer. 

The newcomer paused at the threshold of the burning ring, as if considering the possibility of their falsehood, doomed to go up in flames if they crossed. All eyes zeroed in on the line separating the red and the Dark.

Ginny swore that even the Dark Lord himself held his breath as those bloodied feet stepped into the ring.

The flames remained green. Signifying to every Death Eater, prisoner, and spectator, that Hermione Jean Granger had entered the tournament.

She was real.

She was here.

She was alive.

“Miss Granger,” Voldemort said warmly, tipping his head in acknowledgement.

“Tom”, a feminine voice replied.

Ginny inhaled sharply at the sound. Whilst the voice was hoarse from misuse, it was unmistakable.

The Dark Lord merely chuckled at the insult, as if being referred to by his Muggle name was a slight jape, rather than a disrespect.

“Come forward my dear” Voldemort announced, ushering her forward with a performative sweeping gesture, “Let me look at you.”

The figure stepped forward carefully, unflinching as Voldemort drifted to meet them in the middle. With delicate hands he slowly pulled back the hood, revealing a shaven head. From Ginny’s vantage point, it almost looked like he’d revealed a replica of himself.

The Dark Lords' face shone as he stared down at his prize. Ginny strained to get a glimpse of their face as Voldemort inspected them, stroking their cheeks gently.

Ron, still kneeling across from her, sobbed openly. His bound form writhing as he struggled against his restraints. Next to him, Theo stared on in horror. His eyes transfixed on a face she had yet to see. Parvati bowed her head as if she couldn’t bare to look anymore.

Finishing his inspection, Voldemort stepped back to address his right hand. “Draco” he announced, “Come claim your Champion!”

Malfoy stepped towards Hermione, his face unreadable as held his hand out to his Champion. The shaven head turned, offering the profile of a face so familiar and yet unrecognisable.

Hermione paused before placing her small pale hand in Malfoy’s outstretched palm, as if accepting an invitation to dance.

It was her chin, her brows, her nose, all familiar aspects that made up the face of Hermione Granger. Though it looked wrong. Her cheeks were sunken in, her jawline sharp as it met her frail neck. Once sun-kissed skin was now corpse white, scars littering down the planes of her face, telling a story Ginny did not yet know.

Hermione Granger was a ghost come to life, but the most startling of all was not her emaciated appearance. It was her eyes. Black eclipsed honey, eroding what warmth they once held. Hermione stared at her new Master with an empty gaze. Eyes as lifeless as the body of Dean Finnegan still sprawled beneath her feet.

“Now Draco,” Voldemort began, “I know she’s a bit worse for wear-“

Malfoy remained expressionless as Death Eaters chuckled around them.

“-But, I do believe she will serve you well” Voldemort continued.

“Yes My Lord” Draco replied calmly, briefly flicking his gaze to Luna before returning steadfastly to Hermione’s.

Voldemort turned his red eyes to Hermione, “You, my dear, are a tricky one, hiding out at the very place we thought you dead and buried. A clever ploy. And yet, I found you” he hissed.

Hermione was at Hogwarts? No, she couldn’t have been. They had checked. They had been sure.

The witch did not respond to You-Know-Who’s taunt, instead she remained staring at Malfoy. Staring but not seeing, looking through him as if he wasn’t there.

Did she understand the danger she was in? Did she know how many lives the hand she held had taken? The pain he had inflicted to earn himself not only the title of Voldemort’s top Scion, but the name people whispered on the streets?

Mortifer.

Death Bringer.

The people didn’t dare speak his name in fear that uttering it would somehow bring death to their door. A name as taboo as Voldemort’s himself.

And he had earned it. Merlin, he had earned it. The Draco Malfoy she had known in Hogwarts died in the same battle as Hermione Granger, only to be reborn as a bearer of death.

A bearer now clutching the hand of a ghost.

“Miss Granger” Voldemort crooned, “please choose your collateral.”

The ghost stared down at the masses below, deciding their fate. Ginny let herself breathe just a little. Hermione had been close to Viktor Krum. She would choose him. If anyone could find a way out of this, it would be those two.

Silence suffocated the stands and she made her choice, all focus on the final Champion.

Hermione turned back to Malfoy, her eyes flashing with something that was almost, almost, reminiscent of the girl Ginny once knew.

A slight upturn of her lips was the only warning as she called for her Collateral.

“Draco Malfoy” she uttered.

The flames surrounding them burst high, green shooting towards the sky as the sea of black jumped to their feet.

The fire snuffed out, signalling an end to the selection process.

The cup had accepted her choice.

Draco Malfoy was both a Scion and Collateral.

If he died she would follow. If she died, so would he.

A perfect paradox, one of mutually assured destruction.

Hermione had just bested the game before it had even started.

Voldemort huffed a laugh in disbelief, appraising the witch in front of him with something akin to pride.

She stood tall, the slight tension in her posture and the gleaming silver around her neck the only indication she was enduring the agonising aftershocks of the bond.

Draco Malfoy too remained standing, though his body spasmed as he turned with wide eyes to face his Champion.

“You-“ he hissed, grunting as another wave of pain rippled through him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Voldemort cried, throwing his arms wide as he circled the dais. “What a show!”

The mob cheered in a frenzy, the flashes of cameras twinkling like stars in the stands. The thunderous applause roared along with the blood in Ginny’s ears.

Voldemort curled his fist as he continued his grand speech, “Keep your eyes and ears out as we finalise our judges. And for those watching at home-“ Voldemort explained, facing one of the large mirrors.

A two-way mirror Ginny realised. Showcasing the Selection to an untold number of wizards and witches elsewhere.

“- do remember to cast your bets before the Tournament begins” he noted.

Ginny whipped her attention away from Dark Wizard at Parvati’s horrified screech. She turned to the screaming witch, following her eyes to the sight below her.

One by one, the white robes fell.

Their finger’s clawed at their throats, faces purple as their gold Python’s squeezed their necks.

Viktor Krum stared directly at Ginny, his eyes bloodshot and bulging before he collapsed to the ground.

A scream tore itself out of Ginny’s throat, joining the chorus of wails and sobbing of her fellow champions.

Lee Jordan, Penelope Clearwater, Romilda Vane, Alicia Spinnet, Roger Davis, Arrabella Fig and countless other Order supporters, sympathisers and innocent Muggle-borns fell.

Until only the Collateral remained.

Ginny locked eyes with the terrified child amongst the carnage. She desperately tried to calm Teddy, mouthing words of comfort to him as his small frame wracked with heaving sobs.

Clusters of Death Eaters invaded the pitch, roughly grabbing the remaining Collateral and dragging them by their bronze collars. A piercing cry jolted Ginny forward towards the boy as he was carried away, his scruffy hair turning white with terror.

“Teddy!” Ginny screeched, though her cries fell short amongst the screaming on the grass below.

Sharp nails grabbed her hair roughly, pulling her head back towards a towering body.

“Shut up!” Greyback hissed, his rank breath caressing her ear.

Her Python hummed in response, forcing her to obey.

The other Champions fell silent as their Masters seized control of their Pythons, trapping their cries.

Voldemort continued his lazy pacing, bowing and basking in the applause and bloodshed.

Malfoy grabbed Hermione roughly, pulling her to him as he furiously whispered in her ear. The ghost did not react, eyes trained on the Dark Wizard in the centre stage.

Voldemort picked up the shadowed goblet, raising it high in the air.

“The Dark Tournament!” He bellowed. “Let the games begin!”

Chapter Text

“Female. Five-foot-five inches” the Healer droned, jostling down her vitals from the diagnostic charm projected above her hospital bed.

Hermione had once seen Madam Pomfrey use it after one of Harry’s many Quidditch injuries. The Hogwarts infirmary looked just how she remembered, except now instead of the rustling of sheets and groans of misfortunate students, the row of neat beds remained vacant and silent. Madam Pomfrey was also noticeably absent.  Hermione assumed she was probably dead by now.

Hermione lay unmoving as the mousy-looking man adjusted his spectacles. She didn’t think she had the strength to move, even without the Python’s demands forcing her to remain still. The breakneck pace in which Malfoy had dragged her from the dais to the infirmary almost drove her to lose consciousness. She hadn’t walked that far in years.

Five years.

What a strange thought.

Azkaban felt like an eon, a moment, a lifetime and a second all at once. Time was not a concept that existed in that place. She had been brought there. She was born there. She existed within its walls long before its construction.

“Late teens-”

“She’s twenty-two” Malfoy interrupted coldly.

He stood imposing over her hospital bed, watching her vitals flutter with a stoic expression. It was the first words he had spoken since he had barged through the infirmary doors.

“Of-of course,” the Healer stuttered, flinching at the remark.

If it had only been five years, if time truly had continued in the spaces outside those four cell walls, then Hermione deduced she was twenty-three. Though she didn’t have the energy to correct them. Instead, she turned her focus to the cold oasis in her mind.

Nothing in. Nothing out.

The Healer hesitated, “and her blood status?”

Interesting the diagnostic charm couldn’t pick up her lineage. Though she supposed it would only detect whether a person was magical or not. Physiologically, she was no different to the Death Eater next to her.

Malfoy turned towards her, mouth curled with disgust. “Mudblood” he sneered.

The Healer adjusted his spectacles once more, a nervous habit perhaps, before writing notes diligently and ceasing the spell.

“Well,” he began, “She’s severely malnourished. Dangerously so. Blood pressure is low. Heart rate well below the normal range. She’s hypothermic, anemic and deficient in almost every vitamin and mineral. Her muscle mass has essentially wasted away, as has the proper functioning of her organs. Her heart, lungs and ovaries have shrunk exponentially and her right kidney has all but ceased functioning.”

“And her magic?” Malfoy asked, his face blank.

“Surprisingly stable,” the Healer replied. “And her brain functions seem normal.”

Hermione fixed her unseeing gaze on the white curtains, pondering the Healer's assessment. She couldn’t quite figure out which one was more unexpected. The stability of her mind or her magical core.

She felt Malfoys eyes flicker back over to her, assessing.

“I need her ready in two weeks.”

The Healer blanched, “Mr Malf- Sir, please forgive me but I- that’s just not possible. In her current condition, she would need at least-“

“You have two weeks. If you cannot do it then I will find someone who can” Malfoy said calmly, the warning paling the jittering man.

“Y-yes Mortifer” the Healer stammered, bowing his head in submission. “I will do my best to ensure she is ready.”

Mortifer?

“Good. The elves will collect her potions and I will bring her to you myself each day for treatment.”

The man tremored slightly, sweat dotting his brow as he swallowed hard. “Sir, I would… recommend she remain here. I need to monitor her meals, administer the potions myself, check her vitals hourly and-“

“She is to be put with the others. I will not have her kept here where anyone can come in. Or would you rather I endanger her life and therefore mine?” He drawled nonchalantly- as if discussing where to store old furniture.

“No sir. Of course sir.”

Malfoy stepped towards the Healer, his demeanour relaxed and eyes noticeably blank despite his threat. “I will be personally checking every potion you make her. Any inconsistencies, any flaws, and I will rip you apart without even raising my wand. Am I understood?”

The trembling man breathed raggedly, eyes wide with terror as he stared at the floor. He hadn’t met Malfoy’s blank gaze once. “Yes sir” he whispered.

“Excellent” Malfoy replied, straightening the cowering man’s glasses.

Hermione stared at the high ceiling while the Healer busied himself gathering various potions. Malfoy took a seat next to her bed, stretching his legs out leisurely.

He seemed terribly unbothered for a man whose death she had all but sealed. Surely he did not think she had a chance of surviving, let alone winning, the tournament?

“Mark my words Mudblood. By the time you win this tournament, you’re not even going to want your freedom. I am going to fucking break you.”

The words echoed around her skull. She had let them wash over her as Voldemort closed his grandeur speech, dismissing them entirely. After all, how could he possibly break something that had already crumbled to dust?

Now though, she mulled them over. He seemed so sure of her victory, despite her current condition. So what did Draco Malfoy have up his sleeve to pull the odds in his favour?

Mortifer the healer had called him. Bearer of Death or Death Bringer in Latin. A rather arrogant title bestowed upon an arrogant man. She could almost imagine Malfoy sitting there under candlelight, pondering over a list of names to call himself. Anyone could choose an ominous name. Voldemort himself had done it. But to be the highest-ranking Scoin, Voldemort’s second in command? That was something that was earned.

So how did Draco Malfoy, the privileged, cowardly boy she remembered, secure his position?

“Here we are,” the Healer exclaimed nervously as he brought over a steaming bowl of porridge. “She’ll need to have a full stomach before we administer the potions.”

Malfoy waved him forward, plopping his chin on his hand in boredom.

Hermione sat idly as the Healer propped her up and began spoon-feeding her like a child. Unable to move, Hermione began to twitch uncomfortably.

Nothing in. Nothing out.

The hot porridge burned as it travelled down her throat, her stomach twisting painfully as it stretched to accommodate the foreign meal. The heating charms cast over her blankets began to burn. Her skin itching as it tried to adjust to the drastic change in temperature.

The ice-coated door in her mind began to drip.

She ached for Darryl and his calming presence. Could he leave Azkaban now that there were no prisoners? Would he come for her? Or was he doomed to live out his immortality, alone and isolated on the deserted island?

Her stomach recoiled as another spoon full of porridge was pushed forcefully between her lips. Her mouth salivated, the only warning before she vomited up the contents of her stomach on the Healers outstretched hand.

The man fumbled as she wretched and spluttered, the Python’s restrictions forcing her to remain still as she vomited down her front, coating her blood-soaked robes in the remains of her meal.

Malfoy watched her struggle and choke, a subtle smirk gracing his cold features.

“Oh dear,” the Healer exclaimed as he tugged down her now filthy blankets, “a bit too much I’m afraid.”

As her gagging subsided the timid man reached for her robes, “let’s get you out of these shall we?” He asked, addressing her for the first time.

As his clammy hand touched the front of her robes, the cell door in her mind lurched, shattering the thinning ice.

“Don’t worry Mudblood, you’ll enjoy this part.”

A prison cot. Rough hands holding her down. The sound of skin slapping and ragged breaths.

She sat upright abruptly, grabbing the Healer’s wrist as he yelped in surprise.

Slowly, her eyes focused on his startled expression, eyes widening as he stared back at her.

“Looks like you’ll have some pureblood in you after all.”

Hermione gripped his wrist harder, nails digging into his flesh as his hand spasmed with pain.

“Let go” Malfoy drawled calmly, unmoving by her bedside.

The Python hummed at his request, causing her body to vibrate with effort as it willed her to stop.

The Healer whimpered, his eyes frantically switching between her and her master.

She refused to let go. Her body seized as the Python constricted her throat, cutting off air. Blood began to trickle down her nostrils, staining her teeth red as she roared with exertion.

Black spots danced in her vision, and the world spun.

The Python suddenly went slack, allowing her to draw in one ragged gasp before another force seized her throat and slammed her down onto the bed.

Molten steel stared down at her.

“Give me the potion” Malfoy snapped.

The Healer obeyed frantically, passing potion after potion as Malfoy poured them down her throat. His firm hand stayed latched to her neck, the other covering her nose and mouth, forcing her to swallow before he let her draw breath.

The peppermint aftertaste of the Calming Draught soothed her ragged throat and she slumped limply against her pillow. Her body felt heavy, even after Malfoy released his grip. His voice muted as exhaustion seeped into her bones.

“- three times a day.”

“Yes, Mortifer.”

Malfoy was quiet beside her as he marched her through the empty castle. Her feet stumbled as he half dragged her past the empty portraits, the after-effects of the potions making her body sluggish.

She glanced at his side profile, wondering where he was taking her. His pointed features she had remembered from childhood had filled out. His high cheekbones and sharp jawline defining his clean-shaven face. He towered over her, broad shoulders relaxed despite his firm grip on her upper arm.

He was not the boy she remembered.

The only familiar aspect of the child she once knew was his white-blond hair, cut short and impossibly unruffled.

The sun began to set, casting shadows in the long hallways. She had spent the entire day in and out of consciousness. A multitude of potions shoved down her throat.

She didn’t feel any better for it. The spring air felt suffocating compared to the frigid temperatures she had grown used to.

He led her towards the dungeons, abruptly stopping at a bare stretch of stone wall. She waited apprehensively, catching her breath.

He turned to her, silver eyes glinting in the dimly lit corridor.

“This was originally the Slytherin Common room. It has been deemed a Champion-only quarters. You will be kept here until the first task. The elves will bring you your potions and meals,” Malfoy explained as he toyed with the Python around her neck. “This will ensure you obey my instructions. Resisting will only harm you, which under normal circumstances, I would thoroughly enjoy, however-“ he tightened his fist around her throat, “ I need you to perform. I may not be able to hurt you in your current state but I swear to you, pain is promised.”

Hermione stared up unblinking at her Master, the urge to giggle bubbling up in her throat. She longed for pain. It was all she had come to know. She was nothing without it.

“I will be back to collect you tomorrow” he drawled, releasing her neck as a large oak door appeared in the wall.

Apprehension built within her, thawing the ice in her mind.

“Enjoy your reunion Mudblood” Malfoy sneered as the door swung open, grabbing the back of her robes and shoving her through.

As the door clicked shut behind her, the cell in her mind burst open. Water cascaded off her cell door, her emotions flooding out with the torrent.

She collapse onto the ground below, colour exploding in her vision as her head roared.

Images of the Selection flashed forward. The screaming. The sobbing. The horror.

Ron. Ginny. Seamus. Luna. Neville. George. Dean. Oh god, Dean.

Hermione lay there unmoving, forced to process all the emotion she had imprisoned inside. It was too much.

She wanted to go back.

She wanted her real cell, not some fabrication in her mind.

She wanted Darryl.

Voices danced in the light at the end of the hallway, slicing through her thoughts. She focused on them, slowly packing away the debris and the shattered pieces of herself. Bit by wretched bit.

Her breathing steadied though she felt raw like her nerve endings were sticking out from her skin. Sweat dripped down her back, heat encompassing her without her fortress of ice.

Hermione gingerly sat up, blinking as she stumbled into the light.

The chatter of voices died the second Hermione stepped into the Slytherin Common Room. Eyes snapped to her, their faces illuminated by the glowing fireplace. Their stares a mix of bewilderment, shock, confusion and fear.

The group, now out of their white robes, stood clustered around a large dining room table that had been dragged into the centre of the common room. Sleek leather armchairs sat empty, books and scribbled notes lay scattered on the table, with all members gathered around a broad-shouldered figure with a familiar shock of red hair.

“Hermione!” Ron choked, the noise unfreezing the surrounding members who stepped back to allow him to scramble around the table.

“Hermione!” his voice broke as he rushed towards her. The movements were clumsy in his desperation to reach her. She stood frozen, eyes wide as his towering form collided with her. Sliding to his knees he wrapped his strong arms around her frail waist.

“Hermione, Hermione, Hermione” he sobbed, his voice muffled against her blood and vomit-soaked robes, unaware or uncaring that it smeared over his tear-stained cheeks.

His shoulders shuddered as he gripped her tightly. He whispered her name over and over like a prayer, seemingly unaware that her arms stood frozen by her sides and her body tensed in terror.

“I thought you were gone. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry Hermione I thought you were gone. I thought I lost you. I’m so sorry. Imsorryimsorryimsorry” he sobbed.

His arms gripped her like a vice and Hermione felt panic begin to bubble up into her chest. It was too tight. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

A croaked gasp escaped her mouth as her body began to tremble. Shakily she raised her hands and began to push against his shoulders. It was too much, she thought. Too loud. Too bright. Too close. She pushed him harder, wriggling in his grip and hitting his back.

“I know you're angry. I understand. I shouldn’t have left you. I’m so sorry” he cried.

Hermione struggled harder, panic spreading fire into her veins. A strangled scream broke through her throat as she thrashed and kicked.

“No!” she croaked, her voice hoarse and raw.

“Ron” another voice called out.

“No!” Hermione screamed.

“RON!” The other voice snapped.

This seemed to break Ron out of his trance and he suddenly released his grip, his arms going limp by her sides. No longer pushing at an unmoving force, his release sent Hermione tumbling to the floor. She scrambled frantically away, scurrying until her back hit the stone wall by the door. The cold of the stone kissed her back. It felt familiar. It felt safe.

Ron stared at her through damp eyelashes. His arms were still held out in an empty embrace. His blue eyes pleaded with hers, pain etched upon his face. Whatever boyish features she had associated with her childhood friend were long gone, stolen by a man who had been hardened by war. His jawline had grown sharper, with stubble coating the lower half of his face. Familiar blue eyes were set into strong brows and shadowed under eyes. The firelight behind him made his hair glow. With his arms stretched out in confusion and longing, she thought he almost looked like a fallen angel.

“Hermione” he whispered, tears streaking down his cheeks.

He began to reach slowly towards her, the movement startling her. Pushing her back harder into the wall she tried to edge as close as she could, hoping if she pushed hard enough the stone would swallow her whole.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t touch me! DON’T TOUCH ME!”

He dropped his arms by his side, defeated. His head bowed as he sobbed onto his chest.

Hermione tried to make herself as small as possible. Knees to her chest, her breathing coming out in ragged gasps as she clutched the stone wall for safety. Closing her eyes she willed herself to focus on her breathing.

Stone is here. Cold is here.

Stone is safe. Cold is safe.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Still trembling she opened her eyes to another figure now crouched beside Ron. She rubbed his back and spoke in soothing tones. Her curtain of red hair framed her face as she held him.

“It’s alright Ron. Give her a moment ok? She’s been through a lot” Ginny said. Her voice was soft and gentle as she consoled her brother.

“Fucking hell” Seamus muttered, his figure leaning against the fireplace. His hands gripping the back of his head as he looked between Hermione and the youngest Weasley siblings.

A quiet sob sounded from the other side of the room. Hermione saw the familiar chocolate eyes of Parvati Patil roaming over her face. Her sister, Padma, held her close as she sobbed silently.

Luna and Neville stared at her motionless, shock etched onto Neville's face, while Luna looked at Hermione with a knowing, gentle sadness.

Other familiar faces stared at the scene before them. George and Cho were the only members still standing by the table. Others had drifted further away, Susan Bones and Dennis Creevy stood sombre behind the cluster of leather couches that had been pushed to the side. Goyle nursed a bottle of Firewhisky quietly by a bookshelf.

It was Justin Finch-Fletchly who stood forward and interrupted the heavy silence.

“Ok guys,” He said. “Let's just take a step back and give her some space yea?”

Ginny pulled the still quietly sobbing Ron up to his feet, before lowering him onto an armchair. Crouching down she stoked the tears off his cheeks and whispered soothingly.

“This is so fucked. We are so fucked!” Seamus yelled, pacing in front of the fireplace.

“Enough Seamus.” Neville snapped.

“No one’s fucked, we just need to figure this out” Ginny added calmly.

“What?” Seamus said, wheeling around to face the group. “Figure what our exactly? Was I the only one who fucking bound us and murdered everyone? Murdered my husband!”

“We were all there Seamus” Padma chimed in softly.

Seamus laughed but there was no humour in it. “Oooh, good!” He sang, “So you got the part where No Nose himself bound us, with Dark Magic to fucking Death Eaters!”

“Give it a rest Seamus, we know the situation!” Ginny exclaimed.

Seamus whirled round to face the group, eyes bloodshot and swollen, “Then you understand we are fucked! They got to- they got-“ his voice broke. “They got to Dean,” he sobbed, “if they got him then how long until they get us too? Even if one of us wins there’s nowhere to go. Everyone we know is dead. All of us are going to die.

“Then we just have to focus on staying alive for now Seamus,” Neville reassured. “We work together, we get through the tasks and we survive long enough to figure out a plan.”

Seamus slumped defeatedly against the wall at the corner of the room. “And how are we supposed to trust each other to do that? They had Dean all this time, how do we know there’s not another mole?”

“We don’t” Ginny replied firmly as she stood behind Ron, “but we can figure this out. We have before and we can do it again. We have Hermione now and she’s the Bright-“

“Hermione?” Seamus chuckled. “That thing over there? Fuck just look at her!” he cried pointing at Hermione. “She survived five fucking years with those fucks and clearly she couldn’t think her way out! Hermione Granger is dead! that’s just some empty, fucking-”

“SHUT UP!” Ron roared, launching himself to his feet.

“Enough” a voice boomed as Theodore Nott appeared at the bottom of the staircase. “Some of us are trying to get some sleep.”

The room went quiet and he dragged a hand down his face in exhaustion. “It’s late. Everyone go to bed, you’re no use to anyone if you’re exhausted.”

Neville nodded, “I’ll take the first watch.”

Murmurs and rustling followed as the common room began to fill out. Ginny tugged Ron up the staircase, Hermione felt herself relax slightly as his heartbroken gaze shifted out of view.

Goyle passed the Firewhisky to Seamus, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he swallowed a large gulp.

“Cho,” Justin began, “Could you please take Hermione to her room?”

Hermione shrunk away as Cho tentatively approached, crouching down to extend her hand.

“You’re safe Hermione” she whispered, “No one will hurt you here.”

Hermione hated herself in that moment. Cowering against a wall to shield herself from old friends. It had been a long time since she’d interacted with so many people, longer still since she’d encountered kindness from them.

She missed the isolation. The dark, silent presence that Darryl provided. It was easier then, to go about each day knowing it would be the same as the last.

Here was an unknown.

Hermione did not reach for Cho’s outstretched hand, instead choosing to pull inwards as she hobbled to her feet. Keeping her head down, Hermione shuffled past pitying looks and whispers, trailing Cho up the stairs to the rooms.

She clutched her hands to her chest as she walked as if she could physically hold in the emotions threatening to spill out. Her mind lay in rubble and ruin, stones spilling out across all corners. Suffocating heat coursed through her veins as she tried and failed to close a door no longer attached to its hinges.

“Here we are,” Cho announced softly, opening one of the many doors in a long hallway, “this one is yours. We each have our own, so no one will bother you if you don’t want them to”.

Hermione stepped into the softly lit room, a four-poster bed stood in its centre, emerald green sheets draping lavishly over the large frame. A simple desk and bedside table lay empty on either side, with a door leading to a well-stocked ensuite.

Hermione fixed her gaze on the far wall, finding comfort in it. It was dry, unblemished by mould and filth, but it was stone. Stone was safe.

Cho tentatively crossed the room, opening a wardrobe stocked with black robes. “You can get a change of clothes from here and there’s a bath you can use to wash up” she explained, eyes flicking to her tarnished robes.

“It gets a bit cold at night but the elves can bring you extra blankets”, Cho hesitated, wringing her hands nervously, “it's…nice here. Private. The elves said this entire common room is Champions only, that we would be safe here.”

The unspoken “for now” lingered between the two women.

Hermione kept her gaze fixed on the wall behind Cho, still unaccustomed to living eyes staring back at her instead of shadowed sockets. She had forgotten how intrusive a human stare could be.

How a single look could portray so much.

Cho cleared her throat uncomfortably, trailing back to her door. “Right. Well. I guess I will leave you to get some sleep” she stammered, hand turning the doorknob before pausing.

“Hermione?” She whispered, gaze burning into Hermione’s back.

Hermione tensed.

“Why-“ Cho began, swallowing hard. “Why choose Malfoy? Why not Viktor?” She asked quietly.

Hermione kept her gaze fixed ahead, unable to bring herself to answer as she swallowed back the sobs that threatened to choke her.

Silence hung heavy in the air, crushing the remnants of Hermione’s resolve until Cho finally broke it.

“I’m sorry” she rushed, “you don’t have to answer that- I will- I’ll just let you sleep. Good night Hermione.”

The door closed behind Hermione with an audible click and only then, when the footsteps faded and the only sound remaining was her ragged breathing, did Hermione shatter for a second time.

She knelt on the cold floor below, raking her nails across it to ground herself. Copper burst on her tongue as sobs wracked her body, biting down screams she desperately wanted to hurl at the universe.

She crumpled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth as she sang, prayed and cried. Desperately trying to expel the heat burning her from the inside out.

Hermione stayed there until the fire burnt to embers, drawing comfort from the hard floor and leaving the bed untouched.

Only when her candle had snuffed out, plunging her room into darkness and the cold leeched the life out of her body did she finally have the strength to rebuild.

She reached into her mind and grabbed a fragment of jagged rock and slowly, bit by bit, she began to rebuild her wall.

Chapter Text

Prison walls couldn’t keep out nightmares. Hermione learnt that the hard way.

In the few days she had been at Hogwarts her dreams had become riddled with violence, making it difficult for her to adjust back to reality when she woke.

Her reality wasn't much worse than the nightmares, and she couldn’t stomach the thought of facing it any more than she had to. So she had chosen to stay in her room for the most part, only leaving the safety of her four walls when Malfoy beckoned her to the common room entrance.

Her Python would hum, dragging her feet towards him despite her protests. The lack of sleep and abrupt changes in her environment make it difficult for her to grasp control. Hermione had to scramble each time she was summoned, slamming up her stone walls, locking her cell door and encasing it in ice before she reached the long stretch of ground between the stairs and the exit. Shielding her emotions from the wary looks of her fellow champions and Malfoy’s closed expression.

They would walk silently, his hand always latched to her upper arm to prevent her from running. It’s not as if she had the strength to try, most days his grip was the only thing keeping her upright.

At the infirmary runes would chime and buzz above her, too warm foods and potions forced down her throat. Her unmoving form lay bound to a stretcher in an endless row of empty beds as the Healer fumbled and stammered over her slow progress.

And then Malfoy would return her, parading her through the green-draped castle, all evidence of the other three houses thoroughly erased, before depositing her at the door without a word. She had yet to experience the so-called pain he had promised, it seemed the only damage he had done to her so far was force her to be in his presence each day.

The most excruciating part of her routine was releasing the parts of herself that had built up in her cell throughout the day. She could only hold it so long, and she didn’t want to risk it collapsing in front of anyone. 

Like a cat sneaking away from its home, Hermione waited to die in private.

The onslaught of emotions battered her, leaving her burnt and flayed open, her organs scorching under the hot sun. That pain didn’t calm her the way physical pain did, it didn’t quiet the world it made it louder. Shame and guilt buzzed in her ears like a persistent fly, anger burning her retinas, grief sizzling through her blood. It would take most of the night just to wrangle it under control, and even then it spilled over into her dreams, poisoning her thoughts and leaving her shaking and exhausted.

And then she would have to do it all over again the next day. Try to get through it without Malfoy or Ron or anyone seeing a sliver of her humanity.

She didn’t want to be human anymore.

She didn’t want to exist.

Winky had appeared in her room that first night, bringing her a tray of bland chicken, rice and broccoli. Her Python forced her to choke it down, vomiting between bites as the elf watched on nervously, flinching at every retch and cough.

The elf didn’t say a word, simply vanishing the sick and apparating with an audible pop. Hermione was almost violently jealous of the elf, to be able to come and go- immune to the castle's magic that prevented Hermione from apparating far away. Though she supposed if given the choice, Winky wouldn’t go anyway. She was no longer free, her tattered rags were a testament to that. She would stay with her master, whoever that may be.

In Winky's haste to leave, she had forgotten to collect the fork left behind in Hermione’s withered fingers. Hermione immediately set to work, aiming to skewer the instrument into her left thigh.

Gods she needed the fucking quiet.

Frustratingly, her hand stilled right before she could make contact. The snake round her neck humming mockingly. She stabbed again and again, falling short each time until the blood ran from her ears and nose, dripping onto her lap below. She roared in frustration, flinging it across the room before curling onto the floor, hoping to absorb the chill from the stones below into her burning body.

When she had met Malfoy for her second visit the next day, he had eyed her up and down with an air of smugness around him.

Fucking prick.

What was the point in preventing her from harming herself if she wasn’t going to live much longer anyway?

It was the only thing that kept her relatively sane, knowing this would all be over soon. She just had to hold on a little longer. Stick with her plan. Keep away from the others.

The last part was surprisingly easy, no Champion had tried to approach her since her spectacular breakdown on her arrival.

She could feel their stares and she came and went, could hear the footsteps that paced restlessly outside her door. Sometimes she could even hear their whispers in the hallways.

“- wrong with her?”

“Imposter”

“Hermione is dead”

“-damaged”

It hurt. Of course it did. But it made things easier for her. She couldn’t handle their presence on top of everything else.

Interacting with people was profoundly unsettling, she had grown used to shadows and she refused to part from them by stepping into the light.

That was of course until she made the unfortunate mistake of leaving her room late one night.

She had dreamt of Forsyth, of the terror on his young face as Darryl barreled towards them. Yet as Hermione turned, instead of the familiar wrath-like creature, she saw herself standing in the bathroom doorway. Black veins billowed across her face like cobwebs, eyes so dark they looked like they had been carved out. She watched herself raise her hands, a delighted grin stretching over her waxy skin as she wandlessly tore Forsyth apart. The boy screamed as he expanded and splintered slowly into pieces.

Hermione woke covered in sweat, thoroughly shaken at the vividness of it. The cold floor had done little to draw out the heat, though the soreness of her joints against the hard surface offered comfort.

Her bed remained untouched.

She stood to go to her wardrobe, intent to finally change out of her robes. The blood of the boy from her dreams now dried and crusted on her body. But as she reached for the rows of black silken fabric, she couldn’t bring herself to take it off.

The what if echoed around her muddied brain, causing her to pull back her fingertips.

They wouldn’t touch her if she was dirty.

So she would stay in the filth.

She slipped out of her door then, creeping down the hallway to the stairs. Already she felt lighter, the slight draft cool against the sweat on her skin.

Hermione drifted down until she reached the empty common room, dark and cold against the dying embers in the abandoned fireplace. She paused at the large windows, illuminated by a faint green-tinged glow of the water beneath the Black Lake.

She pressed her forehead against the glass, imagining the stillness of the water absorbing into her mind. She lost herself there, letting the lazy movements of the occasional fish lull her as she breathed easy for the first time in days.

How wonderful it would be to sink beneath the water. To disappear into the darkness, submerged in silence like a submarine.

A faint clink jolted her back to awareness, the sound seemingly deafening in the stillness of the night. Hermione flinched, jumping to face the source instinctively and pressing her back against the window.

She saw a figure then, slumped over the table with a glass of whisky swirling in their loose grip. Hermione must’ve missed them in her descent, too enthralled by the water.

Stupid.

“Granger,” a hoarse voice greeted. His rich baritone both smooth and raw, drawing her attention to his mouth as he took a large gulp.

He sat the glass down abruptly, causing her to jump.

Hermione didn’t trust men and whisky.

“Welcome back,” he drawled, “I must admit, you made quite the entrance.”

Every muscle in Hermione’s body screamed at her to run, yet her feet remained rooted to the floor. She hadn’t prepared for this. Hadn’t even thought about putting up her walls.

And now it was too late.

She was paralysed under his gaze, the whites of his eyes illuminated by the lake. He was looking at her, through her, scrambling her mind into a flurry of dust.

But Theodore Nott blinked, and suddenly his stare shifted from invasive to appraising, looking at her curiously as she moulded herself against the window.

He refilled his glass, “Come on now Granger I know you know me. Remember Potion's Fourth Year? Or Ancient Runes in Fifth? Surely you remember knocking me on my ass in Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

Hermione pressed her hands behind her back to hide their shaking. Of course she did. How could one forget Theodore Nott?

He was the only Slytherin to have ever willingly partnered with her, insisting he needed the grades. Yet despite the jeers from his fellow Slytherin classmates, he had never been anything but respectful.

Yes, he would get under her skin, endlessly chattering about trivial gossip or shamelessly flirting to avoid contributing to their class work. But he was reliable, entertaining and even helpful at times. She thought they could have even been friends, if not for their rival friend groups. His closeness with Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins made sense- he was one of them after all. But she couldn’t help but feel that his choice of friends made him feel disingenuous- like she was a pet or a project. As if he was only pretending to tolerate her as a joke, and the punchline would be revealed soon.

A pureblood like him had no innocent reason for befriending a Mudblood like her.

So while she entertained him begrudgingly in class, Theodore Nott was kept at arm's length. An acquaintance at best. She would do her best to ignore him entirely outside of anything school-work related. He could not be trusted. None of the Sacred Twenty-Eight could.

But here he was.

A Champion, a prisoner- just like her.

She wondered what he had done to get such a punishment. If he had switched sides or if he had even stood with Voldemort to begin with. She couldn’t recall  seeing him at the battle, though it wasn’t like she was looking.

She was looking now, zeroing in on every flex of his knuckles, the slight bobbing of his throat.

“I must admit, I was surprised to find my hidden stash of Firewhisky still here. Bloody impressive we’ve managed to get through the lot of it.” He drawled, pulling out the chair next to him. “You wouldn’t want to miss out Granger, come take a seat.”

He poured an empty glass, shifting it to the vacant space. “This is the last of it,” he explained, staring expectantly at the frozen witch.

Hermione stayed silent.

“No? Suit yourself” he shrugged, downing the glass before chewing his lip thoughtfully.

She recognised the habit. One she had witnessed countless times in various classrooms. He tended to do it most when studying something particularly difficult, his eyes skewered in concentration, quill scribbling on parchment. The weeks leading up to their O.W.L.S left his rosebud lips cracked and bleeding, to the point where she would scold him if she caught him doing it in class. But he refused to stop. Couldn’t really, he never even realised he was doing it until she pointed it out.

Hermione knew all the unique mannerisms of each of her classmates. Their year was small. Not many people wanted to bring children into the middle of the First Wizarding War.

It was an intimacy born from proximity, from time, from a half-filled classroom.

She knew how each of them preferred their tea, the scrawl of their handwriting, the sounds of their coughs and sneezes, never needing to pinpoint who she had to shush.

But she didn’t know them. Not really.

She didn’t know the nuances of the Ravenclaw boy's friendship group, despite observing they always tended to have a fallout right before Christmas break.

She didn’t understand why Susan insisted on washing her hands before every meal but yet knowing she spent no less than three minutes doing it.

She was never privy to the reasons why Theo would play the role of an idiot, pretending to not know concepts she knew he excelled in.

With the exception of Ron and Harry, she wasn’t sure if she truly knew anyone. She was familiar with Ginny, Neville and at times Luna. But knowing them was different than knowing them.

The trio's friendship was intrinsic, with various limbs attached to a single body. She knew them more intimately than she knew herself.

Perhaps that’s why she felt as if she’d died when Harry did.

Ron knew her, but Harry understood her. A singular, crucial difference. He was the first and only one who ever did.

But as she stood there, staring at Theodore Nott, she realised that no one knew her now. Not even a little.

Time had changed them all.

Despite the familiar mannerisms she had memorised from eleven, she now knew nothing about their lives the past five years or how the war had crafted the adults they had grown into.

And that gap would never close. She would die not knowing them.

She would die unknown.

“Granger?” Theodore probed, pulling her from her thoughts.

He stood carefully, keeping his movements slow as not to startle her. “Are you in there?”

Hermione began to itch. There was not enough to fit all of her under her skin.

“Did-“ he began tentatively, “did they torture you? When you were captured?”

He gestured to her bloody robes, “Is it yours? Someone else’s? Do you not have robes you can change into?”

He was whispering. Speaking to her in soothing tones. But the questions felt like screams.

His voice pulled her skin tighter, constricting her lungs.

Stop it. Stop talking.

“We were all interrogated on arrival. If you are injured the elves can bring you potions to-“

She could see him inch closer, his eyes trained on her. Why did he keep staring at her? Why did everyone fucking stare?

“- me help you. I can-“

She should have stayed in her room.

“-need space but-“

He was talking.

He was staring.

He was chewing his lip again. Chewing as he looked at her.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

He reached for her. Stretched out his hand even though he was still far away. As if he could somehow close the gap between them. As if he could try to know her.

So she fled.

“Are you going to finish that?” Harry asked, pointing at her half-eaten glazed doughnut.

She stared at it, wondering when she had become full. “Um no,” she shook her head to clear it, “no you can have it.”

“Thanks” he grinned, plopping it into his mouth and leaning back against the checkered blanket.

The sunlight dappling through the leaves cast a pattern across his content face. Shadows danced on his cheeks as he devoured the treat.

Hermione lay back down with him, staring at the canopy above as she listened to the gentle lapping of the Black Lake.

They sat in silence, content in one another’s company. Spring air blew tendrils of her errant curls across her face, tickling her nose. She raised her fingers to move them when another cool hand brushed them away, tucking it behind her ear.

She opened an eye to Harry’s smothered grin, mirth dancing in his blue irises.

“You need a haircut,” he laughed.

Hermione eyed the mop of black hair falling onto his face. “So do you” she quipped, despite secretly favouring the style he now wore.

She battered his hand away and sat up, taking in the expanse of the lake, the sprawling hills and the castle that was her home.

Harry sighed contentedly beside her, stretching out lazily across their makeshift picnic.

A wayward leg knocked over the basket, spilling several apples out. They rolled towards Hermione, stopping at her propped-up elbow.

Hermione froze.

“It’s perfect,” Harry muttered, closing his eyes against the sunlight.

She hummed in response. Eyes fixed on the apple's green skin.

Something about it felt wrong.

“Harry?” she asked, “when did we get here?”

“Hmm?” He grunted, “I don’t know Hermione. Midday maybe?”

She ran a hand over the apple, stroking its smooth skin.

So green. But apples tended to be red didn’t they?

Something nagged in the recesses of her mind.

“Harry,” she prodded, a hint of panic flaring in her gut. “Harry, how did we get here?”

He opened his eyes at that, staring up at her through her black fringe. He squinted, b lue eyes assessing her tense posture.

“Hermione,” he sighed. “Don’t question it ok? Come lie back down. Enjoy the sun.”

She shook her head. “But I-“

“Hermione,” he snapped, tugging her towards him. “Just relax ok? Everything is fine.”

Harry pulled her back down beside him, tucking his arm around her so she folded against his chest.

“Everything will be alright,” he murmured, shifting his chin above her head.

Her breathing slowed as he dragged his fingers soothingly down her back, tracing a pattern she did not know.

Fear and apples faded away.

It was just the two of them, basking in the silence.

She could still feel his touch when she woke and god did his absence ache.

The humming on her neck grew hot. Malfoy was waiting.

She pulled herself off the ground, preparing to establish her walls when she spied Darryl in the corner of her eye.

As tall and as dark and as comforting as she remembered.

She snapped her gaze towards him, her heart launching into her throat.

But all she saw was an open wardrobe surrounded by empty space.

One of the black robes spilled out from it, mocking her.

The ache intensified.

Her Python grew hotter, urging her to get back to the task at hand.

She conjured ice and stone, building her prison.

But right before she sealed the door shut, a thought popped into her head.

Unbridled and loving and hopeful.

She couldn’t believe she had forgotten it.

Darryl knew her. Darryl understood her.

He was the one person, the one thing still alive that did.

She locked the door. Sealed it behind the ice. Walked down to the stares and the whispers and the Death Eater waiting outside for her.

But through it all, her walls never wavered. 

Because Hermione had someone again who knew her better than she knew herself.

And when she died, she would die known.

Chapter Text

Ginny, Ron, Neville and Theo congregated in Ginny’s assigned bedroom, away from the prying eyes of other Order Members in the Common room below.

During the war the three Gryffindors had unwittingly become the next Golden Trio, trying to take on the roles the other two had left behind. After Kingsleys death only a few months after the Battle, they stepped in to be the kind of leaders their dead friends would have been.

But there was only one Hermione and one Harry and despite how hard Ginny tried, she had never been able to fill the hole their deaths had left.

Neville and Ron had bonded over their shared grief, quickly becoming close friends during the years of hunger and fear. But loss had opened a chasm between the two siblings, and despite how hard Ginny had tried to bridge it, Ron had never allowed her to get as close as they once were.

Ginny had thought it impossible to suffer more than she already had. The loss of her first love, her friend and her brother was unbearable. If grief had a threshold she had long surpassed it.

But it seemed Death didn’t care for her pain. He would come to collect regardless.

Percy died not long after. Then Dad.

Bill was missing, following their mother's advice to grab his wife and child and hide. Charlie had been in Romania when the Order had fallen, and the borders surrounding Britain had been closed, preventing him from seeking out his family. They hadn’t been able to get out in time. Ron refused to leave, not without Hermione. So her parents had stayed and Ginny with them.

She had tried everything to get him to see reason. But Ron was blinded by his grief. He went on every raid, every mission, hoping to find a whisper of the girl he once loved.

There was nothing.

It was then that Ginny learned that hope was more dangerous than fear. More powerful than love and hate. It was hope that drove people to insanity, to the ends of the earth and over the edge. Ron’s hope had killed. Either by his own hands or the loved ones who followed him to the world's end.

They had lost Percy on a failed sweep of the Hogwarts ground during the first year after the war. Ron had been insistent that Voldemort had hidden Hermione there. That she was a priority for the Order. That her mind would save them all, so to risk a few was worth it.

Mum and Dad had crumpled under the loss of another son, but still, they sought a method to Ron’s madness. To admit Ron was wrong was to admit that their son had died for nothing.

So they told Ron to hold on to hope. They thought he would be lost without it. Only Ginny could see that he was already lost, lost in a fantasy that had no hope of coming to fruition.

Dad had succumbed to his injuries, two years after the initial curse during the battle. They hadn’t had the resources nor the skill to cure it. Instead, they tried to halt the festering Dark Magic ravaging his body. By the time her father had died, he had been begging for relief. Mum, Ron and George had tried to keep him there, suspended in agony, unwilling to let him go.

They thought that while there was life there was hope.

But Ginny knew hope had died long ago, and that death was more forgiving than life ever could be.

So late one night, when Ginny couldn’t stand her father's cries of agony any longer, she snuck into his room and placed a pillow over his head.

Even in his ravaged state, Arthur Weasley's eyes were clear.

He knew what was coming.

But he didn’t struggle. Didn’t make a sound.

And when his body fell limp and his chest grew still, she placed the pillow back beneath his head. It was the most at peace she had seen him in years. A soft smile blanketed his unmoving features.

She never told anyone what she had done.

Later that night she walked away from her father's corpse into Neville’s room for the first time. She woke the bewildered wizard before stripping off his clothes and losing herself in the feel of his skin.

It became a common occurrence. Sometimes she would close her eyes and imagine he was Harry.

She never told anyone that either, though a part of her thinks Neville knew that she wasn’t the only Weasley chasing a ghost.

Ginny loved her brother- fiercely. But sometimes she felt as if she was fighting two battles. One against the Dark Lord and one against her family. They didn’t understand her insistence to give up. They wanted to fight blindly, regardless of the cost. The Cause took precedence over all.

But Ginny was selfish. She wanted to live. She wanted them to live.

They became rats backed into a corner, living off scraps, fighting for nothing. The older fighters they had were picked off quickly, taking the Unforgivables that only seemed to be cast in their direction. Ginny couldn’t understand why the younger ones were being spared.

Luna was the first to be taken. Then Seamus. Then Viktor. One by one the best of their fighters were whisked away. Every time they left the safe house, fewer and fewer would return.

But Ron was insistent that they keep going, keep fighting. Painting his insane quest to find Hermione as a campaign of poorly thought-out missions.

The others all followed him into the fray. Trusting the last remaining member of the original Trio to lead, thinking he knew what was best for the Cause.

Ginny began to hate her brother.

As their safe houses grew more empty, they became more desperate. During those damning few months, they had fought the hardest. Every curse aimed to kill, every explosion set to take as many of them as possible, regardless of the innocent lives lost in the crossfire. They became rabid animals, killing and maiming, leaving a wake of destruction and bodies. Humanity was a construct they couldn’t afford.

They told themselves they didn’t have a choice, as if Ron hadn’t made the choice for them.

There was a moment during one battle when Ron had gotten close to Bellatrix. He had lost his wand and had taken to pinning the witch down, distracting her. But Ron was too close. Ginny had raised her wand anyway and for a split second, a moment, she had considered it.

The madness would end if he was gone too.

Neville had beat her to it, managing to separate the two before Bellatrix disappeared in a crack of apparition.

When they returned to the safe house, Ginny had thrown herself at George, sobbing through his shirt. He hadn’t asked what happened. Instead, he abandoned his work, leaving the sketches and muggle contractions laid strewn across his desk and spent the night with her under an old blanket stretched across two sofas. It was there that he told stories, casting stars and oceans and life in their makeshift fort like he and Fred used to do when she was little. And for the first time in two years, Ginny had felt safe. Like there wasn’t a war raging outside their small cocoon of safety or inside her heart.

It made the next few weeks bearable, knowing that soon everyone she had loved would be captured or killed. That the Order was about to die alongside Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

It was almost a relief to think it was over.

Yet, impossibly, Luna returned. Stumbling onto their doorstep late one evening in the arms of Theodore Nott. He had disappeared into the night, appearing again with Susan Bones and Terry Boot.

Like a stork, he carried back those they thought were lost. Viktor Krum, Cho Chang, Justin Finch-Fletchy. Again and again and again. Thirty-two prisoners, all in various states of malnourishment and injury arrived that night. The night of miracles they later called it.

In the early hours of the morning, he came once more, covered in blood and dirt, arm in arm with Gregory Goyle.

They had interrogated him with their small supply of Veritaserum, subjecting him to days of questioning. Each prisoner vouched for him, telling similar stories about he had freed them from their captors, apparating them away from warehouses, manors and dungeons where they had been kept.

With Theodore Nott, they could go on and Ginny couldn’t help the small part of her that resented him for it.

Seamus returned on his own a few days after the night of miracles, much to Dean's relief. They hadn’t questioned it then. They should’ve. Maybe if they had they wouldn’t be where they are today.

Theo brought more than just prisoners back that night. He brought knowledge. With him, they were able to learn the countercurses to obscure dark magic, draw detailed maps of high Ranking Death Eater manors, and learn strategies and routines regularly used by the other side.

He also brought news of Hermione’s death, confirming she had been killed during the Battle of Hogwarts and shattering Ron’s hope into splinters. The years he had spent searching, wasted. He was never the same after that, but at least he finally stopped. He planned strategies with more care, instead of throwing himself and others recklessly into the fray.

Ginny was grateful to Theo for that. But she never quite forgave Ron for the damage his hope had caused.

Causalities declined drastically, and morale improved. They developed a system, one that gave a semblance of life rather than survival.

They weren’t able to touch the higher members, as they had stopped aiding skirmishes. Under Voldemort's reign, they now had fresh meat to do their dirty work for them.

Malfoy was the only notable figure they encountered, one they had quickly learned to fear. Unlike the others, he never wore a mask. He liked that people knew who was about to kill them.

But it wasn’t the ferocious way in which he duelled or the way he cut down person after person with a burst of green light. It was his eyes they learnt to fear.

Professor McGonagall, despite being the oldest fighter they had left, was the only one to walk away from Malfoy alive. They had thought he could be beaten, that a powerful mind of the Head of Gryffindor house could match the young Slytherin.

But later that night, Minerva McGonagall had travelled from safe house to safe house, slaughtering Andromeda and others as they slept, before killing herself.

A sleeper agent, created from a look.

From that moment on, whenever Malfoy appeared on the battlefield they ran.

Ginny took to looking after Teddy, despite being wholly unequipped to raise a child.

She had been unable to stay away, inexplicably drawn to the toddler who was her last tie to Harry.

Love grew quickly. She often forgot that he was not born of her flesh and blood.

Ginny would die before she let anything happen to him.

Theo turned their trio into a group of four, and for the most part, things were going ok. Cho and Parvati started dating, Mum seemed to come back to herself as Ron subdued, and George utilised his research into muggle weapons to give them an edge.

Justin became their head healer, focusing on the mind as much as the body. Dean and Seamus got married. Luna was, well, Luna.

Neville and Ginny kept sleeping together, though they never voiced how they felt.

Ginny knew he loved her. And she loved him. But he could never compare to the raven-haired boy she had lost, so they never spoke of it.

The four of them, Ron, Neville, Theo and her, began looking for the Horcruxes Voldemort had undoubtedly made since Harry’s death. He was too powerful not to have, Theo testified to that.

They never shared their secret with the rest of the Order. It was too risky, too important. So they worked quietly in small locked rooms and secret meetings.

Even in their new status as Champions and captives, that had remained unchanged.

“- got to be something,” Neville explained.

Theo leaned against the bedpost, picking at his nails in boredom, “I doubt it,” he scoffed, “You Know Who wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a Horcrux in the castle with a bunch of us holed up in here.”

“I still think one of his Scions will have it. Bellatrix had the cup. Lucius Malfoy had the diary. It makes the most sense” Ron chimed in.

“Yea and they’re both destroyed. He’s not going to make the same mistake again” Theo countered.

“For Godricks sake Theo do you have anything helpful to add?” Ginny snapped.

Theo clutched his chest in mock agony, “Ginerva!” he gasped.

Ginny rolled her eyes, not in the mood for the Slytherin’s antics.

“Theo be serious,” Neville chided, “we have to utilise this opportunity to find out where he’s hiding it.”

“Opportunity?” Theo snorted, “I hardly think Horcrux hunting is the most pressing concern as of late.”

A heavy silence settled over the group.

“What if it’s Hermione?” Ron murmured quietly.

Ginny blinked at her brother, “What do you mean?”

Ron exhaled, slumping forward. “What if Hermione is the Horcrux?”

Neville and Ginny shared a look, looking to one another to gauge if her brother's word held any merit.

“People can’t be Horcruxes Ron,” Theo explained softly.

“How do you know? You don’t know that.” Ron replied.

“It’s never been done.” Theo countered, “The body wouldn’t be able to live with that much dark magic. It would have killed her.”

“Fuck” Ron breathed, running his hands through his head. “Hermione knew so much more about this stuff, if we could just ask-“

“You can’t do that Ron” Ginny snapped. “It’s only been a week. Justin said we need to stay away, we don’t know what she’s been through. We don’t want to set her off again. We don’t even know if she’s even still in there.”

“She’s in there!” Ron barked, standing up with clenched fists.

Ginny bit down her retort, swallowing the flair of anger. She had lost her brother and father to the idea of Hermione Granger, and the killing only stopped when he had accepted her death. And now that she was back, the cycle had started all over again. This time to chase the idea that Hermione was still the person she once was.

Ginny wanted to believe her brother would be right again, but she also knew that the truth didn’t matter. Whether Hermione was in there or not had no consequence, he would pursue the fantasy regardless- despite all evidence otherwise.

She didn’t want to be dragged to the edge of the world again.

Ginny wished Hermione Granger had stayed dead.

“I hope you’re right Ron,” Neville patted Ron’s back reassuringly, “I hope it’s really her.”

“It’s her,” Theo whispered, staring at the ground. “The Selection would have killed her if she were a fraud.”

Ginny knew the same, though it was still hard to hear from the Orders only Dark Magic expert. Theo had a lifetime of experience, having grown up with a Death Eater father and serving as one of Voldemort's top generals before he defected.

“Either way, if she’s in there we can’t draw her out. Justin said to give her space, so we give her space.” Ginny intoned, staring pointedly at Ron.

He huffed in frustration, everything he had ever wanted was within reach yet he could not touch it. “Fine” he snapped.

“And that means stop hanging outside her door every night” she pressed.

Ron opened his mouth to retort when Neville interrupted him.

“Actually I think it’s a good idea” he hedged, throwing an apologetic look to Ginny. “We need to keep an eye on her. We don’t know what Malfoy is doing to her, or where he takes her each day. We can’t risk a repeat of Professor McGonagall.”

Theo shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t hurt her. And anyway, Champions can’t kill other Champions outside of tasks.”

“And how would you know?” Ginny asked.

Theo his hands up in the air in frustration, “I don’t know Ginny it would make sense, wouldn’t it? Voldemorts is a showman and wants a spectacle. Us killing each other off before we even reach the final task would not be good entertainment. He wants the world to watch us die, horribly. It shows his power.”

“But what about Hermione? How do we know Malfoy isn’t in her head?” Ron asked no one in particular. Ginny bristled at the question.

Hermione. Always Hermione. Never mind the fact that everyone else he loved was in danger too.

“We don’t. For all we know he could be in there already. He could have done it years ago. We have no idea what Voldemorts has done with her. Even Theo was told she was killed.” Neville explained.

Ron stared at Theo accusing. No doubt angry that he could’ve wasted more lives trying to get the witch back.

Theo raised his hands in mock surrender, “Hey don’t curse the messenger. I had no idea she was alive.”

“Voldemort said something about dead and buried. I think she may have been at Hogwarts.” Ginny said, lying back on the bed. Ten minutes into this conversation and she was already exhausted. There was too much they didn’t know.

She tuned out the boys bickering back and forth. Pointlessly asking questions to the group that none of them knew the answer to. Hermione didn’t speak, didn’t bathe, didn’t give any indication of where she goes when she’s summoned out of the common room or if she was working with the Death Eaters. She would just appear in those same blood-crusted robes, walk silently up the steps with those empty, dead eyes and lock herself in her room. Only to reappear again to leave, never speaking to anyone, never looking up from the floor. Ginny didn’t even know if the witch ate or slept. She was like a corpse whose movements only served to remind Ginny of the passing of time.

“- why didn’t she choose Voldemort? Why choose Malfoy?”

“- probably knows he has another Horcrux, what would be the point?”

“- the cup wouldn’t have allowed her to choose the Tournaments creator-“

“- secret plan with the Dark Lord-“

“- that’s fucking stupid-“

“- You’re stupid!”

“- Viktor-“

Around and around and around. Ginny had been free of speculation over the whereabouts and well-being of Hermione Granger for three years. To be thrust back into Ron’s obsession, and the encouragement of their peers made her nauseous.

Why couldn’t he just let her go? Focus on the tournament. On saving Mum or Teddy or George.

She knew the answer already. It was the same reason she stumbled at every head of messy black hair, or found herself staring at Theo’s piercing green eyes just a little too long.

What would she do if Harry Potter returned from the dead?

She wouldn’t put him over Teddy. That she was certain of. Being separated from the boy was painful like a palpable hook was being skewered from her chest. She wondered where he was now, if he was ok. If he saw Viktor die.

He had adored Viktor. Seeking him out despite Neville’s numerous attempts to gain favour over the young metamorphosis. Teddy had it in his head that Viktor was his dad. He didn’t remember Remus and had been raised by women his entire life. He’d never had a father figure and so when he spied Viktor catapulting on his broom that was it. He chose him.

And Viktor had been so good to him. He was standoffish and quiet, but around Teddy, he was gentle, loving, loud. He’d become one of Ginny’s closest friends. One she could laugh with, be silly with, free from discussions of war and Horcruxes and Hermione Granger.

And now he was gone. Just like that.

For reasons Ginny didn’t understand, Hermione did not choose him.

Ginny forcibly drew her attention back to the conversation. She didn’t have time to grieve right now. She had to find a way to save Teddy.

“What about the Pigeon?” She interrupted.

The three men exchanged a look.

“I haven’t heard anything since we were captured, have you?” Neville asked.

The three of them shook their heads.

The Pigeon had been feeding the Order information for years. No one knew who they were. Their intel had saved their lives more times than she could count. The small, unassuming patronus appeared with warnings about upcoming raids or transported prisoners.

They didn’t even know if it was a man or a woman, the voice changed each time it appeared. Casting a Patronus was difficult enough, incorporating a voice-altering charm into it was another level entirely. When McGonagall had been alive, not even she could replicate it.

They had thought it was Theo when he first arrived, but still, the bird came. He didn’t know who it could be either, but they figured based on the information that it must have been someone in Voldemort's inner circle.

“It has to be one of the Scions” Theo announced.

Neville snorted, “I doubt any of them would be able to cast a Patronus.”

“Snape could” Ron countered, “Harry told us right before he died. His Patronus was a doe, the same as Harry’s mum. He loved her.”

“He was obsessed with her,” Ginny snapped. “That’s not the same.”

“Well if any of you have any Death Eaters obsessed with you, I for one would love to know. It would narrow things down.” Theo drawled.

Ron grimaced, “That’s disgusting.”

“Oh I’m sorry, not all of us are bad, you know. Greg and I have been quite helpful if you’d recall” Theo grumbled.

Ron at least had the decency to look chagrined.

“Anyone you have in mind?” Neville asked Theo.

“Maybe. Astoria is a possibility, she has always been a bit softer than the others. Daphne absolutely not. Blaise is a sadist so he’s out. Herdrian Parkinson is a bit of a cunt, though he is cunning. If the aligning with the Dark Lord wasn’t beneficial to him anymore he would have no qualms about switching sides. The rest are a lost cause.”

“Ok,” Ginny said, mulling over their options. “Neville, you’re Parkinson’s champion, so it shouldn’t be hard for you to get close enough to him to find out. Theo, you’re with Astoria, so that’s easy. Ron you have Daphne, you could look into her and her sister's parents. See if any of them seem suspicious. I have-“ Ginny faltered, “I have Greyback. I can listen to who he talks to. Maybe I’ll be able to gain another lead, or find where You Know Who is hiding his Horcruxes.”

Ron nodded solemnly, “We can look out for those too.”

Ginny swallowed, fixing her eyes back to the ceiling. She could feel Neville’s eyes burning into her. He had tried to talk to her about it, see how she feels about being assigned to Greyback but she brushed him off. She didn’t want to think about it.

She’s seen the scars on his victims. The naked, mutilated corpses of women. She knows what’s coming.

Dwelling on it is no help to anyone.

“Ginny,” Theo began tentatively, “It’ll be ok. He-“

Whatever false reassurances Theo was about to make was cut off by Padma bursting through the door.

“They took them!” She heaved, “Seamus, Susan and Cho. Their collars forced them out the door. We tried to grab them, we tried-“ Padma broke into sobs, “We couldn’t help them. They’re gone.”

Ginny was up in an instant, barreling down the steps. Thoughts of werewolves and pigeons and ghosts vanished, replaced by steadily building dread.

Parvati, Greg and Justin were throwing themselves at the entrance, trying to get to their fellow Champions.

Dennis watched helplessly, looking around the room as if he could find the answer hidden in the walls or couch cushions.

George pulled Ginny into a bruising hug as she approached, holding on to her as if she would disappear if he let go.

They could be summoned out at any moment, pulled away to somewhere they don’t know, for reasons they didn’t want to think about. And they would have no choice but to obey. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

All they could do was wait.

Chapter Text

“You got it!” Lucy exclaimed, barreling Ciaran into a crushing hug.

The boy stumbled back, laughing openly in the thick woods Hermione had remembered from their initial meeting.

Lucy’s hair hung towards her waist, both boys now a full head taller that the witch.

“Let me see!” Desmond cried, clambering forward to Ciaran's outstretched hand.

Desmond plucked the wand from Ciaran, bringing it close to his face to examine it.

“Seven and a half inches, Dragon Heartstring and Elmwood” Ciaran exclaimed proudly, “My father took me to Ravenstone Place yesterday.”

Lucy huffed, snatching the wand from her brother to see for herself.

“Wow” Desmond breathed, “I can’t wait till I get mine.”

Ciaran nodded, excitement subdued as he took in his two friends. “Well,” he began, “in ten months time, I can take you to get yours.”

Lucy arched her eyebrow at the raven-haired boy, “And how are you going to do that?” She asked, placing his wand back in his hand. “Furthermore, if you do somehow manage to take us to Ravenstone, how on earth are we supposed to afford something like this?”

Ciaran tightened his hand around Lucy’s as she released his wand, an earnest look blanketing his face.

“We will go to my Father” he replied assuredly.

Desmond sat back, leaning his weight on his palms in apprehension. “Does that mean you’re going to finally introduce us?” He asked.

“I thought you said he wouldn’t approve?” Lucy chimed in sceptically.

Cirian shuffled uncomfortably. “Well he’s understandably hesitant around Muggles” he murmured, shying from Lucy’s gaze as it flashed with pity, “But you two are magical. You belong in the Wizarding world. He cannot deny you that. Plus it’s not as if there are other kids around my age that I can train with. I think he would like it if I had-“

“-Friends” Desmond finished.

Ciaran flushed red, “Yes, friends.”

The memory slipped into Hermione’s consciousness on one of her many trips to and from the infirmary.

A week was not enough to do years worth of damage. Not even Malfoys prestige could earn him that.

Malfoy flicked his wand to open the infirmary doors as she felt it stir. The memory bubbled to the surface as if it had always been there and she had just forgotten it.

Instinctively she drew to a halt, scanning the lone corridor for her friend. Her eyes raked over the shadows cast from the sunlit window as if Darryl was burrowing there in the gaps between tapestries and abandoned portraits.

There was nothing.

Malfoy tugged her forward irritably into the infirmary, shoving her onto pristine sheets for another long check-up.

They were soiled instantaneously. Her robes were stiff and putrid from the days unwashed. She had refused to take them off. Refused to bathe. Despite the elves' protest and the unnerving looks from her fellow Champions.

The filth was her armour. It was the only protection she had. The only thing left at her disposal that she could control.

Hermione needed control.

“- iron levels have improved.”

Since her run-in with Theodore Nott, she took greater care in avoiding the other Champions. Hermione couldn’t deal with the questions, could not trust herself to stay standing if she let them in. She could not afford their pitying stares to penetrate through her carefully constructed wall.

It took everything she had to keep her walls up throughout her daily trips to the infirmary.

She would not give Malfoy the satisfaction of seeing how utterly broken she was.

“- temperature still low.”

Hermione was still successfully keeping her emotions locked away, only releasing them in the privacy of her room. Despite the potions, she hadn’t the strength yet to keep them up for an extended period of time, and she didn’t want Ron to see her crumble.

He’s been blaming himself. She knows this. Heard his familiar lumbering footsteps approach her door each night, breathing poised as he drew strength to knock.

He never did.

She knows he’s caught between wanting to help and not wanting to damage her further with his presence. But she can’t bring herself to explain, to step out and tell him it’s not his fault.

Because if she does that, if she allows Ron to get close- she won’t be able to keep it together.

She won’t be able to go through with what she needs to do.

He can’t get her back only to lose her again. He wouldn’t survive it.

So she’s made the choice for him. She will remain a ghost. Out of reach, detached, cold.

And then when she throws the first task away, taking her life and Malfoys with her, Ron will grieve.

But the grief won’t suffocate him. It won’t consume him the way Harry’s death had paralysed her.

He would be able to go on. He would win.

He would be free.

“I’ll get the elves to increase the heat in her room,” Malfoy intoned.

The healer adjusted his glasses, casting a quick sympathetic look at his patient, “It would help… if she was permitted a change of clothes.”

Malfoy scoffed, “She has plenty. If she wants to remain in her own filth that’s her choice.”

The healer frowned, puzzling over her decision.

Of course the healer would be confused. He was not born in a woman’s body. He could not fathom the danger placed on her for the sole crime of being born a girl.

But a sliver of anger slipped through the cracks of her door anyway, for not being able to see it. Women always paid the highest price in war. Conquered by their conquerors. It was like he was intentionally choosing to be blind to it all. The idea is so far out of his scope that it doesn’t even register. As if the answer wasn’t right there in front of him. As if a conqueror wasn’t standing beside him.

A warm greeting echoed around the infirmary, pulling the two men’s attention towards the sound.

“Draco,” the glamorous woman cooed, lifting on her toes to kiss Malfoy on the cheek. Her golden hair was pinned in a stylish updo, complimenting her immaculate robes.

“Mother,” Malfoy replied, his formal tone containing a hint of surprise, “What are you doing here?”

“Your father is in need of your assistance”, she gave him a pointed stare. “You’re needed at the manor.”

Draco sighed, “Can it wait?”

Her gaze softened, “Not this time I’m afraid”

Hermione smothered the satisfied grin that threatened to break free. The great Mortifer- still his daddy’s lap dog.

Malfoys gaze sharpened on Hermione, “I can’t leave her unattended, she needs to be-“

“I’ll do it” his mother, Narcissa, replied smoothly. “I can bring her back to the others when Healer Lewis is done here.”

Malfoy bit the inside of his cheek in thought. “Fine,” he bit, “no detours.”

“Of course” Narcissa agreed.

With a sweep of his black robes, Malfoy eased the Python's restrictions, allowing Hermione to move and flex the kink in her neck.

He gave her a look in warning, one that screamed ‘don’t you dare try anything”, before storming out of the infirmary, leaving the Malfoy Matriach standing haughtily over her bedside.

“Miss Granger,” she greeted, lips pressed into a thin line as she took a seat.

Narcissa sat quietly next to Hermione as Healer Lewis pushed more potions down her throat, checking diagnostic charms as he worked.

“You've been taking the potions and meals that have been sent to your room, yes?” He asked her, a slight frown creasing between his brows as he noted down his findings.

Hermione stayed silent. She had been of course, not by choice. The Python would burn hotter the longer she withheld from swallowing the wretched bottles. Blistering the skin on her neck when she turned away from the meals the elves silently delivered.

It wasn’t the pain that made her give in. She could handle pain, welcomed it even. It was the heat she couldn’t stand. The scorching metal prevented her from reconstructing her walls, and melted the ice off her door. Burned through the protective shields, making her feel, lose control.

She had to stay in control.

So she took everything the elves gave her. Though he didn’t need to hear that from her.

The healer sighed in frustration at her silence, busying himself back in his work.

Hermione could feel Mrs Malfoy’s eyes burrowing into the side of her head as she sat there unmoving, despite the lack of restrictions from her Python.

When Healer Lewis announced they were done for the day, Hermione stood stiffly, startling the mousey man.

Narcissa drew out her wand, pointing it at Hermione’s chest. “Let’s go,” she said coldly, gesturing for Hermione to go first.

The walk back was tense, Hermione could feel the wand digging into her spine. The witch was clearly on edge as Hermione casually walked through the castle.

To her annoyance, Hermione found she could walk further and further each day before stopping to catch her breath. Today she paused outside what used to be the Muggle Studies classroom, leaning heavily against the opposite wall.

She wondered what kind of teachings went on inside that classroom now, if students even still attended Hogwarts.

As if reading her thoughts, Mrs Malfoy broke their weighted silence.

“The students have been sent home while the preparations are being made for the Tournament. They’ll be back after the first task.” She stated plainly, tucking her wand into her robes.

Hermione eyed the witch, unsure why she was giving information so freely. Malfoy had not said a single word each time she stopped to catch her breath. He just huffed impatiently, sneering in disgust as she wheezed and doubled over.

His mother on the other hand merely eyed her with boredom.

“You’ll need to get in better shape if you want to get a good ranking” she sniffed.

Hermione almost snorted at the comment. As if she cared what place she scored in the First Task. As if she would even survive it.

The Matriarch stared resolutely over Hermione’s head, poised and refined. A perfect, pureblood witch, untainted by the filth across from her.

“I doubt you’ll have time to prepare in your condition,” she drawled, “Though Draco told me you were somewhat of a decent student during your time at Hogwarts.” Her lip curled in distaste, “Especially for a Mudblood.”

Hermione ignored the prodding witch, focusing instead on her aching legs and heavy breathing.

Nothing in. Nothing out.

“- I expect you to at least try this Sunday if you have any hope at all of completing the First Task”

Hermione’s eyes snapped at the witch, confused by her statement.

“This Sunday?” Hermione croaked.

“I’ll need her ready in two weeks” Malfoy had said. Two weeks. This Sunday.

“Yes,” the older witch replied, “The trials are this Sunday. They’ll determine which of the Champions rank the highest. The top three of which will receive a clue for the first task.”

Hermione raked her brain, trying to remember if Harry had mentioned anything about trials and rankings back in Fourth Year.

“Why?” Hermione asked, voice cracking from misuse.

Mrs Malfoy glowered at the witch as if insulted by such a stupid question. “For entertainment,” she snapped, “the whole world will be watching, speculating, betting. This is about justice, the next successor. The public has a vested interest in the games, my son and therefore you. So if you wish to survive you cannot just win the tasks you’ll have to perform. My son will show the world that with his leadership even someone like you can achieve greatness. He is the best choice to take the Dark Lords place and I will not have some broken, withered-down thing ruin his chances.”

Hermione tucked the information away in the dark recesses of her mind. Her memories of Narcissa Malfoy were muddled with time, but she could recall the witch leaving her feeling small and intimidated during her brief encounter in Diagon Ally at the start of her Second Year. A sharp contrast to the frantic, shaken witch she saw at the Battle, eyes desperately searching the crowd for her only son.

It seemed Mrs Malfoy had rebuilt her armour during Voldemort's reign.

“And what if don’t?” Hermione replied, a spark of satisfaction flaring as she watched the Matriarch's haughty expression falter.

“Don’t what?” Mrs Malfoy snapped, her expression hardening once more.

Hermione placed a soft smile on her face as she met her gaze, “Don’t wish to survive?”

Mrs Malfoy closed the space between them in an instant, slapping her sharply across the face.

“You stupid girl!” She hissed, “You may think you’ve won by choosing my son as you’re Collateral but I will not let you take him from me.”

The witch gripped her tightly, pushing her against the classroom door. “Throw away the games and I swear to you I will destroy everything you hold dear. I will hunt down and kill everyone you love myself!” She spat.

A pointless threat. Everyone she had left would be competing against her in the Tournament. Why would she fight for freedom when she didn’t want to be free? Why would she even try, when her failure is the only thing that could possibly help Ron win?

Why would she live, when her death would take Voldemort's top Scion with her?

The match had already been set. All she had to do now was take the King.

Standing on her tiptoes, Hermione brushed her cold lips against the shell of Mrs Malfoy’s ear.

“They’re already dead,” she whispered.

Tugging away from the witch, Hermione glided down the hallway, feeling light for the first time in years as the Matriarch stared daggers into her back.

She could tell something was wrong the moment she set foot in the common room. Narcissa had trailed her from behind, casting stinging hexes every time Hermione had paused, forcing her to trudge down to the dungeons exhausted. The older witch hadn’t said another word, watching her son's Champion enter the magically appearing door before whirling around and storming off.

The sweetness of seeing the Matriach so thoroughly rattled turned sour as the door closed behind Hermione.

The air felt heavy. Charged.

Hermione steeled herself, checking each stone was in place before stepping into the commotion in the common room, halting the shouting match that had broken out between Parvati and Ron.

Her old dorm-mate turned her tear streak gaze towards Hermione, eyes hardening.

“Parvati!” Ron barked, gripping her arm and pulling the witch back. “Don’t.”

She ignored him, tearing her arm away before storming over to Hermione.

“Where is she?” Parvati hissed, the venom in her words slicing through ice.

Hermione remained silent, casting her gaze over to the other Champions scattered throughout the common room.

“Where is she!” Parvati shouted, close enough that spit sprayed across her face. Hermione couldn’t help but flinch under her piercing gaze.

Parvati and Hermione had never quite gotten along at Hogwarts but never had Hermione seen the witch so murderous.

Parvati stepped forward closer, pink staining her cheeks, “Where the fuck is she!” She screamed

“Parvati!” Ron began.

“Where is Cho!” Parvati boomed, voice cracking.

Hermione blinked, “I- I don’t know” she uttered, the first words she had spoken to her fellow Champions since the night of her arrival.

Ron sharply inhaled at the three simple words, quickly glancing at Justin.

“You must know!” Parvati pressed, “You’re the only one who leaves this place.”

“Parvati-“ Justin began, stepping forward.

“No!” Parvati cried, “She can handle it! I know you said she needs time but we don’t have it! Cho doesn’t have it! I need-“ Parvati’s voice faltered, a fresh set of tears spilling from her bloodshot eyes. “I need to know” she croaked.

Hermione’s grip on her emotions was faltering with every passing second she spent under the scrutiny of her peers.

“I don’t know”, Hermione choked, edging her way past the witch to the safety of her rooms. “I didn’t see her.”

“You’re lying!” Parvati shouted, gripping the back of her robes.

Nothing in. Nothing out.

Heat bubbled under her skin, her lungs began to burn.

“Where have they taken her? Tell me!”

Nothinginnothingoutnothinginnothingout-

A figure stood in front of Hermione, pulling her away. Green eyes locked on hers, splitting the walls in her cell.

They looked so much like Harry’s.

“Go” Theodore Nott whispered, nodding towards the steps.

Ron stepped behind her, blocking the path of the sobbing witch chasing Hermione.

“Please, Parvati she doesn’t know. Leave her.” He begged.

Hermione raced towards the stairs, away from the noise and the lights and the heat.

“- Lavender,” Parvati's sobs echoed. “I can’t lose her too.”

“She’ll be back. He won’t hurt her. He needs her. She’ll be back I promise” Padma's soft voice soothed, convincing herself as much as her sister.

The steps wavered, her hands catching the sides of the wall as Hermione ran away from the devastation behind her.

She stumbled into the hall, panicked gasps spilling from her lips.

“Hermione?” A voice tentatively asked.

Hermione glanced up, catching a glimpse of long red hair before throwing herself against her door. She burst into her room, slamming the door shut behind her and collapsing against it.

She couldn’t do this.

No no no no no.

Her prison evaporated, flooding Hermione with fire.

She opened her mouth in desperation, calling out in a last-ditch effort before she lost herself.

“Winky!” She heaved.

The elf appeared in an instant, wringing her hands in confusion at being summoned. 

“S-silencing charm” she gasped, pleading with the wide-eyed elf.

Winky waved her hands obediently, nodding to confirm it had been done.

Hermione tried to thank her, tried to keep it in for a second longer- but a scream tore itself out of her throat.

Winky shook in the centre of the room, flinching at the sound.

Burning. She was burning.

Hermione screamed and screamed and screamed at the onslaught of emotions sizzling through her.

She clawed at her skin, at the walls, at the ground. Clawing as if she could dig a hole deep enough to bury herself inside it.

Checkered squares. White robes. Green eyes. Green eyes. Green eyes.

Green. Green. Red. Green. Red. Red. Red.

Redredredredredredred.

Chapter Text

Malfoy was waiting with a thunderous expression.

“Can you do as you're told for once in your fucking life?” He sneered, snatching her wrist and shoving forward.

His pace was punishing as they travelled the familiar route to the infirmary. The late afternoon sun assaulted her vision as he dragged her towards another day of medical torture.

If Malfoy noticed the horrific burns on her neck, he didn’t say anything. Hermione had managed to resist the Python’s compulsion for a full hour, ignoring his summons. To make Malfoy wait was almost worth every second of agony she endured.

It had been much more difficult to conjure the ice today, the heated confrontation with Parvati last night playing over in her mind in an endless loop. The three Champions had yet to return, all Hermione could do was hope that when they did they were unharmed.

But Death Eaters were notorious for breaking their toys.

Malfoy repeated his routine, tossing her onto the bed before commanding her to stay still, locking her limbs in place. Hermione resumed her inspection of the ceiling, counting the beams and cobwebs as Malfoy lounged beside her.

She wondered if the infirmary ceiling was as familiar to her now as it was for Harry. God knows he spent plenty of time here, either from his encounters with Voldemort, rough plays during quidditch or the fights that broke out in hallways whenever the ‘blonde git’ provoked him.

Perhaps he lay in this very bed, bleeding out on the mattress beneath her. It felt wrong for Hermione to be here alone, in a place she had so heavily associated with her best friend. It was moments like these where he felt so close yet just out of reach. A melody with lyrics she couldn’t seem to remember.

Hogwarts and Harry Potter were synonymous. How dare the castle remain when he was no longer in it?

It had almost been easy to pretend Harry still lived while she was in Azkaban. But now that she was here, haunted by the memories of him, Harry’s absence was tangible. Everything reminded her that he was dead, that he exists now only in her dreams. Her grief was as brutal as the days following his death, as if no time had passed at all.

Harry Potter was dead and she was still here. What an unfathomably cruel concept. 

A question struck her like a sledgehammer, dropping like lead in her stomach. Where was Harry’s body? Was it still here on the grounds or burnt to ash?

What had Voldemort done with his remains?

It was too sickening to think about. So Hermione gathered her memories and her grief and her love for Harry Potter and pushed it beneath the ice. If he only existed in her mind, then she would protect him. She would save him this time.

She burrowed deeper as Healer Lewis worked above her. Utterly disconnected. He did not try to touch her, not since her first visit. The most he would do is cusp her chin gently as he watched her swallow, brows furrowed in concentration.

Hermione hovered between the land of consciousness and dreams, vaguely aware of the rustling of papers and clinking of bottles. If she tried hard enough, she could almost pretend she was back in her parent’s dentist office. Napping on the chair whilst her parents closed up for the day.

Malfoy stood abruptly by her bedside, shattering her makeshift illusion.

“My Lord” he greeted, his robes swooshing as he bowed to his master.

Hermione begrudgingly opened her eyes, taking in the figure standing at the edge of the bed.

Voldemort’s gaze roamed over her, his red eyes glinting with fascination. He seemed shorter than he had on the dais, as if he needed the smoke and the death to make himself seem large.

Dark Magic radiated off him, the stench of his power arousing goosebumps on her skin. But whilst he looked every bit like the monster she had remembered he still seemed…human. Perhaps monsters weren’t as frightening when you no longer cared what happened to you. He was just a man running from death.

Hermione ran straight towards it.

“Draco,” Voldemort nodded in reply, though his eyes remained fixed on hers. “I’ve come to examine your Champion.”

Malfoy stood unmoving, “I appreciate your concern My Lord, though I’m afraid she’s still too weak for more…invasive measures.”

Voldemort curled his lip.

“You!” He barked, prompting Healer Lewis to scamper forwards and fall to his knees. “The girl, what is her condition?”

Healer Lewis paled considerably, his shoulders shaking beneath Voldemort’s feet.

“She’s mu- much improved, My Lord. Her blood pressure is more stable, as is her white blood count. H-her organs are still in poor condition, though her kidney is starting to grow back to its original size. She still displays signs of hypothermia but is eating well and it seems-“

“-Her mind,” Voldemort snapped, “How is her mind?”

“Her brain function looks normal. Healthy.” Healer Lewis whimpered.

Voldemort once again stared at her. “Excellent” he mused before kicking the shivering man beneath him. “Leave us.”

The white curtains surrounding her bed flicked shut, blocking her view of the retreating Healer.

“Well?” Voldemort hissed, “I think it’s about time we find out the circumstances of Miss Granger's miraculous survival, don’t you?”

Malfoy bowed his head submissively, “Yes, My Lord.”

Hermione tried to fortify her walls, add another layer of ice before Voldemort drew his wand. But before she could draw breath she felt his blood-red eyes shoot through her.

A slight pressure at her temples was the only warning before she felt the tendrils of his magic slip past her defences. Thick smoke coiled inside her head, weaving through the darkness of her mind until she saw him materialise in front of her cell door.

The pressure intensified to pain as he examined her prone form sitting cross-legged in front of the ice.

“Interesting” he hissed inside her mind.

Striking like a serpent he lashed at the ice, above her head. Fragments broke off onto her lap below as he chipped away at the wall.

Chip. Chip. Chip.

His breathing grew laboured.

Chip. Chip.

Pain dulled back to pressure.

Chip.

He stopped.

The ice fragments surrounding her began to melt into water, morphing together in rivulets as they travelled back to the break above her head.

Voldemort watched transfixed as the water patched the hole, freezing over once more and rendering her protective shield intact.

Voldemort crouched down towards her, his breath ghosting her cheeks.

“Remarkable.”

As if possessed by a foreign entity, Hermione bravely placed her hand against his chest. Surprised by the warmth beneath her palm.

“Get the fuck out of my head Tom” she snapped, pushing against his ribs.

Voldemort flung out into the darkness as if cursed. A tugging sensation launched her forward as the smoke streamed out of her mind.

Hermione heaved in a lungful of air, blinking against the brightness of the infirmary.

“My Lord?” Malfoy exclaimed, rushing towards his master kneed over on her lap.

Hermione focused on the white curtains, realising she was no longer on her back and instead sitting upright on her bed.

Voldemort battered Malfoy’s outstretched hand away, chuckling as he gingerly stood upright.

“A natural.” He laughed, “The irony!”

Malfoy tensed, his impossibly unruffled demeanour creasing in confusion, “Sir I don’t understand.”

The still hysterical Dark Lord clapped his hands with glee, “ The Mudblood is a natural Occulems. How rare! How special.”

The blonde flicked his gaze to her as if finally seeing her for the first time. “That’s not possible” he stated calmly, despite the paling of his complexion, “there has not been a recorded natural for centuries.”

“Recorded no, but they do exist”, Voldemort sang, “Most tend to remain unaware of their gifts and by the time they discover it, it’s usually too late.”

Hermione struggled to reconcile with what Voldemort was saying when he abruptly changed the subject.

“Did you know Severus had an Aunt?”

Malfoy stared impassively at his master, his face carefully blank.

The Dark Lord grinned. “I take it he didn’t tell you” he intoned.

“Georgina Prince, His mother's older sister. Brilliant witch. Exceptionally talented. A talent for Occlumency has always run in the Prince line, but Georgina was a natural. Beyond anything either of us could imagine.”

His reptilian gaze flicked to her, relishing in Hermione’s undivided attention.

“She was found hanging in her parent's cellar at only fifteen years old. Her parents covered it up, of course, claimed it was an accident and all but erased her existence. They couldn’t afford such a scandal. But young Severus grew up hearing stories of his mad aunt Georgina. A cautionary tale.”

Malfoy stiffened.

”A natural has the power to rewrite their own minds, though they end up causing more harm than good. They all succumb to madness in the end. In all my years I have never heard of one surviving to adulthood. Let alone a Mudblood.”

Hermione sat unbelieving. Pushing Voldemort out of her head didn’t mean she was a natural. She was rubbish at Occluemency. Harry had tried to teach her since fifth year and she failed spectacularly. She had no control over her mind. It was too chaotic, too busy. A far cry from the intense organisation required to block memories.

She had a good memory, yes, but that meant nothing. If she was an Occluemens she would know.

She would know.

Wouldn’t she?

“When will the madness set it?” Malfoy asked numbly.

“It already has. She has completely gutted her mind. Any memories she has are compromised. Even she herself will be unable to differentiate between reality and fabrication.”

No.

No.

She wasn’t mad. He was trying to scare her, to get under her skin. She could admit she was broken yes, but she knew who she was. She knew her memories. She knew her mind.

But she also knew that insane people didn’t know they were insane.

“- Verserium won’t work on an Occlumens.”

Her ears began to ring as she slipped away into her mind. She flicked through her memories, trying to distinguish which of them, if any, were false.

“I can do it, my lord.”

Her memories were clear right up until her imprisonment. But that was normal, wasn’t it? She had been grieving. 

“- in no state for torture, we will have to wait. I wouldn’t want you killed by the bond before the game even starts my boy.”

Azkaban. Real.

Guards. Real.

The Commander. Real.

The Warden. Real?

Darryl?

Darryl.

“- Let me search her mind, My Lord. I can find it.”

Darryl was most certainly real. He had given her the ring she now wore around her neck. He taught her spells.

Forsyth had seen him.

He had seen him, hadn’t he?

Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t realise Malfoy had slipped into her mind until he manifested in front of her, taking his place where the Dark Lord had stood.

He looked down at her, his brows flickering in surprise as she moulded herself against the ice.

“Natural or not, Mudblood. I will find your secrets” he threatened, before slashing at the ice. The wall shattered, splintering in seconds and raining down on Hermione.

She stood, intent to stop him, but he swatted her aside easily. His movements were fluid, precise. He deconstructed her fortress as if it was made of paper.

There was no physical indication of his destruction of her mind. No pain, no pressure, not even a whisper. If she wasn’t guarding her cell she would have had no idea he was in her mind at all.

She had never been afraid of Malfoy, but in that moment, she understood how he had earned the title Healer Lewis whispered in fear.

Somehow, Malfoy had grown frighteningly powerful.

She watched helplessly as he tore the doors off its hinges and barrelled into her cell. She followed him in, intent to push him out, reclaim her safety, do something, but instead of stone walls and remnants of her humanity, she found herself standing on a grass-covered hill.

“Lucy! Wait for me!” Desmond cried, his little legs bounding up the hill away from their village.

“Lucy!” He repeated.

“Hurry up Des!” Lucy yelled as she waded into the stream, “Ma wants us back before supper!”

Malfoy stood across from her, watching the children intently as Lucy coached Desmond in transfiguring his sticks into a boat.

It was the same memory as the one Darryl had first left her, Hermione couldn’t understand why Malfoy had chosen to watch this one over all the others.

He said nothing as Cirian introduced himself to the shocked pair and the subsequent mud fight that broke out.

“What do you think you’re going to find?” Hermione spat, frustrated that she had been unable to push him out.

He stared at her quizzically but made no move to retaliate.

The scene quickly shifted, showing the three children once again chattering by the stream.

She watched Lucy pull Cirian into a crushing hug. The pair examined the dark-haired boy's wand as he described his trip to Ravenstone Place with his father, and his promise to take them there.

“Does that mean you’re going to finally introduce us?” Desmond asked.

Malfoy circled the three, analysing something she didn’t understand.

The scene shifted again, this time it was just her and Malfoy alone inside her cell. Hermione braced herself, wondering which horrific memory would play out, but nothing came.

It was just an empty room with stone walls and a leaky tap, with all evidence of her presence erased. None of the personal effects Darryl had given her occupied the space. The only evidence that the room was hers was the blood-soaked cot.

They were in her mind, in her sanctuary.

So why was there nothing in it?

All the things she thought she was protecting were gone. She had been guarding an empty room.

Malfoy tore through her cell, pausing only briefly at the bloodstain on her filthy sheets before raising his hands and decimating the entire left side of the room.

Rubble collapse around her as the last of her shield fell apart with the stone, until it was just the two of them standing in the infinite darkness.

There was a split second of calm, a stillness that resonated with Hermione. The black void felt like coming home.

But, as Hermione had learned, things she held dear had a habit of becoming broken. So she didn’t fight when Malfoy fractured the peace, withdrawing from her mind and pulling her with him.

She entered the world of light and heat, baptised in fire. Her emotions burned freely through her, now free from her decimated prison. Mercifully it was duller than the night before. The confrontation with Parvati chewing through the kindling to her fire. It burned but did not engulf, allowing Hermione to hold her grip on reality as she was thrust back into the infirmary.

“- Prison cell, no memories of who established the wards,” Malfoy explained.

“Well done Draco,” Voldemort replied, “It’s fortunate you inherited your Legilimency from your father. It is far more useful in your hands than it was in his. Find her memories, look for anything she seems protective of.”

Malfoy hesitated, “Actually My Lord, I discovered two memories as soon as I broke through the ice.”

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his face souring at the reminder that one of his Scions was able to do what he couldn’t. “And?” He hissed.

“It was…children my lord. Two mudblood peasants and what looks to be a pureblood. I believe he was trying to teach them about magic in both memories. Though their clothing was- odd. As if from a different time. A false fantasy I believe. Granger wasn’t even in it.”

Hermione stared back at the ceiling, pretending not to hear the two Dark Wizards discuss her like she wasn’t there. They believed her to be insane. She could use that to her advantage.

“Fascinating” the Dark Lord mused, reminding Hermione that before his rise to power, he was a scholar. He sort power yes, but in his pursuit he chased knowledge. He had created his first Horcrux at only sixteen years old. A vile act, but an academic feat. If Voldemort found her intriguing and thought she was worth studying, then Hermione was in a very dangerous position.

He wouldn’t let her die if he deemed her valuable.

“There’s more, my lord,” Malfoy continued, “The children in the memory spoke Gaelic. I know some, but I will need to study the memories again to accurately translate.”

Hermione tensed at the revelation, forcibly holding herself back from flinching. The children spoke perfect English. She could understand every goddamn word of it.

“- she was there with me, watching the memories. She turned to me, she knew I was there. She- she spoke to me, My Lord.”

Silence hung in the air, Hermione held her breath.

“And what did she say?” Voldemort demanded softly, his voice carrying a hint of excitement.

Malfoy swallowed, “I couldn’t understand. She spoke in Gaelic.”

No.

No no no no no.

He was lying. He was lying. Hermione didn’t even speak Gaelic. This was a farce. A clever ploy to have her question her sanity. To break her. She wasn’t mad, she wasn’t.

Panic bubbles in her chest regardless. She swallowed it down, forcing herself to lie still.

“- Azkaban places a stasis on magic, she would not have been able to Occlude during her time there. She will continue to deteriorate now that she’s returned to the magical world. I need you to decipher her madness before she’s too far gone. Keep looking. Someone had to have kept her alive and hidden beneath the wards. Find them.” Voldemort hissed.

“Of course my Lord.”

“Good. I trust you’ll keep her alive long enough in the games to find out. Such an unfortunate hand you’ve been dealt. It would be a pity to lose a Natural-born Occluemens and a Natural Legillimes before you’ve reached your full potential.”

“My Lord if there’s any way-“

“-There isn’t. Valuable as you may be Draco there are no exceptions. A Champion cannot withdraw from the tournament when the cup has chosen. And as it accepted you as Collateral there is little I can do and frankly, I have more pressing matters to attend to. The best will win. So win.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Good. The trials are soon, see to it that she bathes. I will not have her stench defiling my presence again.”

“My apologies My Lord, I will-“

The sound of curtains being drawn interrupted Malfoy’s apology. The metallic tang of dark magic faded as Voldemort's footsteps retreated.

Hermione and Malfoy were alone in the silence once more.

She waited for him to signal her to get up. To leave now that her audience with the Dark Lord was over. But he simply sat back down, every bit the pureblood prince she remembered him to be.

She met his eyes, briefly- what was supposed to be a pacing glance to assess his intent- but those silver eyes pulled her in and she found herself standing amongst the rubble of her cell once more.

He stood across from her on top of the mountain of stone, unsurprised to see her with him.

“Who put up the wards?” He drawled, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed.

She felt exposed without her walls, cut open and bleeding.

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.

He scoffed, “So you speak English now?”

“Apparently” she replied numbly, unknowing how to proceed.

“Could’ve fooled me” he mused.

She watched Malfoy sift through the dregs of her mind, summoning stone, metal and dirt to inspect before tossing it away.

He was trying to find an opening into her memories.

She couldn’t understand what Voldemort meant when he talked about Malfoy being a Natural Legillimes. As far as she could remember Malfoy had never been able to read minds, it would have made her school years a hell of a lot harder if he had.

He was adept at breaking things, as she witnessed his continuous destruction she could almost say she was impressed by the fluidity of his movements.

But he couldn’t find her memories.

They were here somewhere, she knew she had them. Could recall and account for each and every one of them, false or not. She just didn’t know where she had put them.

They were supposed to be in her cell.

Now that she knew they were not, perhaps she had instead stored them in the darkness surrounding them.

“Where are they?” He spat, the beginnings of frustration hurrying his movements.

It almost made her smile. “Where’s what?” She replied dumbly.

He narrowed his eyes. “Your memories”

A good question. She had no idea.

“They’re right here,” she lied.

He looked her over. Once. Twice. Before returning to his search. “Merlin, you are mad.”

Hermione was beginning to think he was right.

“Perhaps” she whispered.

Time flitted by as he continued his methodical inspection, combing through every stone before going back and sifting through it all again.

She thought it would’ve started to hurt by now, that she would feel tired. But all she felt was empty.

The various colours painted her emotions had bled together, clashing and churning until only a flat brown remained.

Malfoy paused, picking up a loose stone in his hands and turning it over. She recognised the hastily drawn protection rune scrawled on its back, crimson blood faded to brown. As dull and lifeless as she felt.

He stared at the rune. Tracing his fingertip down its markings, uncaring that he touched her muddied blood.

“You could’ve saved Krum.” He drawled, “I thought you two were close.”

He put the stone back down gently, the action surprising given she had been watching her fling rocks around for over an hour.

Hermione intended not to reply, but the truth spilled out against her will. “I want you to die more than I wanted him to live” she whispered, waiting for his bite of anger.

Instead, he just smiled coldly, unruffled as always. “I’m surprised you can even remember me with this head of yours. Honestly, I’m touched.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response and he didn’t wait for one.

Malfoy roamed around the black space in her mind, forcing her to follow him lest he finds whatever it was he was looking for.

They said nothing as she trailed behind in the dark, unable to see him and yet knowing he was there.

He prodded at the edges of her mind, testing to see if there were any hidden alcoves or doors.

There was nothing.

They had been walking for so long in silence that his sudden voice made her flinch.

“You realise that if I die then so do you?” He droned matter of factly.

Of course she did. That was the whole point.

“Yes.”

He chuckled quietly, “A heroic sacrifice then?”

She could see how he thought it that way. His death would be a blow to Voldemort's army. But the truth is she hadn’t known his position or his power when she was called up to make her choice. All she knew was that she didn’t want to have to keep fighting for survival she didn’t want.

She wanted it to be over, but she didn’t want to carry the guilt of taking someone with her. Someone undeserving, someone good, like Viktor had been.

Viktor was doomed the moment the cup spat out her name instead of his.

Hermione hadn’t even anticipated that the cup would accept her choice, she just called out the name of the Death Eater closest to her, which just happened to be Malfoy.

In all honesty, she should have chosen Voldemort, but she hadn’t had the time to formulate much of a plan and she doubted the cup would have accepted it if she had chosen its Game Master.

In hindsight, even if it had, it would have been a waste. Voldemort had surely made himself another Horcrux by now.

No, she had made the right choice. Viktor died quickly, sparing him the horrors of a prolonged capture. She could let herself die without a guilty conscience, talking Malfoy with her.

A suicide disguised as an act of heroism.

“No” she replied simply. And that word told Malfoy everything.

She couldn’t see him, but she could feel his breath catch. The realisation of what she had done and what she planned to do hit him like a bludger in the stomach.

“You let Krum die for nothing. You’re going to win.” He snapped darkly, his voice shaking with restrained rage.

As if she was going to try. As if he could stop her.

“The odds aren’t in your favour” she murmured.

She was met with silence one more, stretched long and taunt.

“We’ll see.”

He said it as if it was a promise.

Chapter Text

Pansy was on another one of her drunken rants again.

“- No fucking way I can get two hundred mirrors to America in less than a week. Do you have any idea how hard that shit is to make? Goblins are greedy fucks you know, they’re not just going to whip them out their ass for cheap. And anyway why is it even my job to organise this shit? I’m doing the event planning and costume design- not manufacturing and exporting. So why the fuck-“

Pansy paused to gulp back her glass, a droplet of red dripping down her chin and staining her clean-pressed sage dress.

“Am I-“ Pansy exhaled, “-doing Skeeters job for her! She’s the one in charge of media and last I checked, two-way mirrors fall under media!”

The irate witch began pouring herself another glass, chugging through the Malfoy’s fifty-year-old elf-made wine as if it was water.

“That’s appalling, I cannot believe she would do such a thing” Blaise drawled sarcastically, nursing his glass of Firewhisky.

The jest sailed over her head, “Thank you!” Pansy exclaimed. “Typical fucking Americans. Threatening war with us a few months ago, only to turn round and purchase two hundred bloody mirrors the second the Tournament was announced!”

Blaise nodded half-heartedly. Astoria spent enough time with the wizard to recognise the glazed-over look in his eyes when he was no longer paying attention. If activities didn’t involve fucking, killing or torturing, Blaise tended to lose interest quickly.

“- so I told Skeeter-“

Astoria began to tune out, absentmindedly plucking the split ends out of her hair.

Weekly bleaching had sucked up all the moisture in her once honey curls, but the Dark Lord preferred light blondes. So light blonde she stayed.

Anyone could earn the Dark Lords' favour. Maintaining it was the hard part. Astoria took every necessary step to ensure she stayed on that pedestal.

Even if it meant ruining her hair.

“Pansy, would you shut the fuck up?” Daphne snapped. “Some of us have harder jobs than working with Rita fucking Skeeter.”

Astoria snorted, “Debateable.”

Daphne glared at her younger sister. Astoria responded with a shrug. It was a half-truth. Rita Skeeter was a right fucking cow.

Pansy merely rolled her eyes at the insult, “Oh please. You’re Champion is Ron Weasley, the King of the Order. You don’t even have to do anything for him to win.”

“Weasley is a fucking idiot, without his friends helping him he’s going to flounder in the First Task” Daphne replied, delicately sipping her gin and tonic.

It was annoying how perfect her sister was. When Astoria was younger, she would watch her sister to see how she acted when she thought no one was watching. It didn’t seem fair that the eldest Greengrass could remain so poised and proper, every bit the pureblood witch their parents made them to be- even behind closed doors. Astoria had been convinced it was an act and that, like her, she would slouch like the rest of them in private.

She didn’t.

Daphne was the epitome of perfection. Beautiful. Cold. Every move she made was deliberate. It’s what made her so deadly in the field.

When their parents died and the sisters were forced to step in their father's place, they had sworn to protect each other. To make themselves valuable so they could keep what was left of their family together.

Daphne used her actions. Astoria used her words.

Unlike her sister, Astoria was rubbish in school. Not because she wasn’t intelligent, but rather because she lacked the drive to do anything about it. She hated studying and didn’t care enough to even try. She was even worse at duelling, the sight of blood make her feel ill.

She was the spare sister, the one her parents never intended to make. Perhaps that’s why she came out as such a colossal fuck up.

Because while Daphne was climbing her way up the ranks, Astoria fell short. It was only a matter of time before she would share her parent's fate.

So, for the first time in her life, she studied. Studied him. Turns out people were much easier to decipher than smelly old books. Duelling was predictable when one sparred with words instead of hexes.

And Astoria always had one thing her sister never did.

Charm.

Astoria was a pretty girl. She was warm. Charismatic. Fun. All the things that a Death Eater could never be.

So she didn’t try to act like one.

Instead, she became a fan.

Because if she had learned anything from studying the Dark Lord, there was only one thing he liked more than being feared.

It was revered.

So she worshipped him. Fawned over him. Cooed at the right passages in his speech, filled her blue eyes with adoration every time she made eye contact. She treated him as a god and remade herself in his image.

And when he grew complacent in her love, expectant as he waited for her cheers, addicted to the looks she gave him- she pulled away.

Despite knowing why, or who held the power, the Dark Lord chased her. It was instinctual. He needed the high and she was his fix.

So when he displayed the right behaviours, like sending Daphne home to her for Christmas, she would reward him with her reverence.

And when he treated her with disrespect or disapproval, she would fall to her knees in apology, but dim the shine in her eyes.

She trained him over time. Trained him to seek her approval, her admiration, her words, without even realising it.

Her love was conditional, it needed to be earned. So he bought her expensive clothes and jewellery, refurbished their manor, protected her sister.

A decision he told himself was purely his own, one he rationalised as a gift for her loyalty. Unassuming that the greatest Dark Wizard of their time was being conditioned by a ditsy, dim-witted schoolgirl.

People treasured what was earned over what was given. And so she became his crown jewel.

She knew that the Dark Lord wasn’t capable of love, he didn’t understand it. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t enjoy the way other's love stroked his ego.

And Astoria was the closest thing to love he had.

She became untouchable. Prized. So blatantly his favourite that he put her forward as one of her Scions, even though she had never been in real combat or contributed to the war effort.

She was his pretty, stupid little fan girl.

And she had him wrapped around her fucking finger.

“Hey Blaise, want to swap?” Daphne teased.

Blaise snorted, “Absolutely not. I’ll stick with Looney thanks.”

A fair statement. Looney was fucking lethal.

“Can you even do that?” Pansy chimed in, “like make a trade? I don’t want Longbottom stinking up my house.”

Unlike the rest of them, Pansy benefited from having a living male heir to take the Mark. Her father carried that honour, though it would pass to her when he died. Every male had to serve the war effort, especially purebloods. Women could volunteer but men were mandatory. They were the priority, though if a family had none to offer, that responsibility fell on the daughters.

Astoria wondered if Pansy even realised how lucky she was.

“Of course not,” Astoria replied airily. “The cup chooses the best Champion for you. It’s fate.”

She didn’t know that for certain. But it sounded about right. Fate was cruel. Why else would she have been paired with Theo?

Pansy combed her hands through her slick black bob, “Seems like luck to me. All of you managed to score yourself decent fighters, know anything about that?” The witch asked, staring pointedly at Astoria.

Astoria shrugged, “Vord and I didn’t come to an arrangement if that’s what you’re implying. He likes to keep things fair.”

“Oh it’s Vord now” Blaise grinned.

“Yes,” she snapped primly, “Lord Voldemort is quite a mouthful. Combining them is much easier.”

Daphne raised her eyebrow disapprovingly, “And does the Dark Lord know of his new nickname?”

Of course he didn’t, Astoria wasn’t stupid. He let her away with a lot, that was true, but he wouldn’t tolerate the disrespect.

“Vord is stupid” Pansy slurred, emptying yet another glass. “Vold makes much more sense.”

“And what’s that a combination of?” Blaise chuckled, “Vaginal fold?”

“No you wanker, it’s short for Voldemort “ Pansy chided.

Daphne huffed, ever the serious one “You should refer to him as The Dark Lord, privately or otherwise, anything else could get you into trouble.”

“But that’s like, three whole syllables,” Astoria whined, “Vord is only one.”

“So is Vold”, Pansy added.

Daphne narrowed her eyes. “So is dead.”

The four fell quiet at that, tentatively sipping their drinks. Honestly, Daphne could be such a buzzkill sometimes.

Astoria scanned their little club hangout. The living quarters in Draco’s room at Malfoy Manor had become their regular refuge for late-night drinks. The group much preferred the privacy of his rooms to the large expanse in the main lounge below.

Anyone could exit the floo and overhear the Slytherins, Draco’s private floo at least was well warded, connecting only to each of the fours private floos in their chambers at their respective manors.

It used to be five, but the Nott manor had long since been abandoned.

Sometimes Astoria missed Theo when she forgot the sting of his betrayal. He at least could fill in the heavy silence that hung over the group.

It was Pansy who caved in first, she had never been one to keep her mouth shut.

“Tori, where’s your fiancé?” She asked, no venom leaking into her words. She had long since gotten over her schoolgirl crush. 

“Betrothed,” Astoria corrected.

Blaise raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Pansy replied.

“Fiancé implies that their marriage is anything but a political alliance” Daphne drawled.

The sisters have had this same conversation numerous times. No matter how hard Daphne had pushed the two, neither of them had progressed their feelings past friendship.

“Alright,” Pansy smirked, “where’s your political alliance off to then?”

Astoria sighed, “Off fucking spiders or something, I don’t know Pansy, why the fuck would he tell me?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting married this year?”

“We were yes, but Vord, Vold, fucking Dead, has pushed it out to next year.”

Blaise snapped her eyes to the blonde at that, “Again?” He exclaimed.

Astoria turned away from her sister's accusing stare, she hadn’t yet gotten around to informing her sister yet.

“Well yes,” Astoria mumbled, “Things are a bit busy with the Tournament and all. He wanted to wait until after, so the wedding would have the world's full attention.”

“Seems like he doesn’t want you getting married at all” Pansy muttered.

Astoria bristled at that. She was many things, but the Dark Lords whore wasn’t one of them. That job was already filled. He saw himself as a father figure, not a lover.

Daphne's stare was burning, so Astoria took a quick swig of her Pinot Gris and changed the subject.

“I think Draco is at Hogwarts, training Granger or something.”

“Training isn’t quite the word I’d use” Blaise scoffed, “the bitch can hardly stand.”

“Shouldn’t you all be off training your Champions as well then?” Pansy pressed.

Daphne curled her lip in distaste, “I would rather spend as little time as possible with Weasley thanks. Besides, there’s no point. Draco is going to win.”

Blaise and Astoria nodded their heads in agreement. It was an unspoken rule between them. Draco had to win. He was the one whose life was on the line. They would do just enough to avoid suspicion, but ultimately they would leave their Champions wholly unprepared for the tournament.

All of the Champions had to die so Granger could win. Even Theo.

Pansy fell quiet after that. With the exception of her father, Draco was the next closest thing to family she had. She would do anything to protect him, even if it meant sabotaging her father's chance at succession.

Draco was the thread that tied them all together. They were prepared to sacrifice anything. Even if he was an entirely different person from the one they once knew.

Even if he was a monster.

“Do you really think Granger can win?” Astoria asked the group, if only for reassurance.

Blaise sighed softly, “She survived five years in Azkaban didn’t she? Must’ve done something right.”

“We don’t even know if she was even in Azkaban this whole time. Whoever warded it could have placed her back in their right before that kid picked her up” Daphne countered.

“Yes but why? Why go through all that effort just to let her be captured again?” Blaise argued.

“Timing. Don’t you think it’s a coincidence that a fourteen-year-old managed to somehow breach the wards moments before the Selection?” Daphne responded. “Not even the Dark Lord himself could get in. Three years of this impenetrable barrier and all of a sudden this kid gets in and the wards collapse moments after he pulls Granger out. They wanted us to have her.”

Blaise stretched his neck, “Well, that’s just you’re assessment based on the information we were told. You know the Dark Lord loves his little games. For all we know he could have put those wards up himself to keep Granger for the right moment.”

“Maybe Granger did it?” Pansy asked unhelpfully, hiccuping into her glass.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pansy. You didn’t see her at the Selection. I doubt she could even cast a Lumos.” Daphne muttered.

“Tori, did the Dark Lord say anything to you?” Blaise asked.

Astoria thought back. It was no secret that the Dark Lord thought Granger dead like the rest of him. His renewed frenzy to break the wards before the selection led her to believe he had only recently discovered her survival. But how he knew was a different question entirely, one that Astoria was determined to find out.

“I’m not sure” she answered truthfully. “I know after the Selection he went to search the prison to find out what happened to the old guards. The ones who were still trapped in Azkaban when the wards went up.”

“And?” Blaise prompted.

Astoria took a deep breath, she hadn’t told anyone this yet. “Dead.”

“How?” Pansy gasped. “Starvation?”

Astoria deliberated on how much information to give. Blaise knew some, Daphne and Draco knew more. Pansy had only an idea of what went on. The witch was a notorious gossip, but she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

Daphne nodded once at Astoria, signalling to her that it was ok to talk in front of Pansy.

“No. It looks like they were killed,” Astoria explained. “Their bones were scattered all over the place, I think they’re still trying to identify who was who, but it looks like they died a long time ago. Probably around the time the wards went up.”

Blaise nodded solemnly, “Did they find all thirteen?”

Astoria shook off the chill that travelled down her spine. It was not the thought of the thirteen murdered guards that kept her up at night. Truthfully, they probably had it coming.

What kept her awake was who could have done it.

From what the Dark Lord had told her, Azkaban was strictly monitored. Only select guards could travel in and out. In the days before the wards went up, the prison was all but empty. Most of the prisoners had already succumbed to a mirage of injuries and infections.

The rest were killed shortly after. She didn’t know the specifics, only that Voldemort was pissed about it when he found out later, he had been planning to use them for something.

Azkaban was being prepared to be vacated. The guards were simply overseeing the Dementors, making sure they buried all the bodies before they left. Probably to cover their tracks, as if the Dark Lord wasn’t going to find out they had butchered his prisoners. A few prisoners dying from disease was not uncommon, a few hundred was an outright farce. They would have been strung up the moment they left the prison.

But they never did. The wards went up and no one had been able to get to them. Not for three years.

Initially, they thought it was to escape the Dark Lord’s wrath. But the magical signature surrounding the wards was singular. None of the men was reported to be skilled enough to cast it.

And now to find out they had been dismembered, brutally ripped apart without any indication of who could have done it was frightening. The sheer power they must wield, to break into Azkaban and kill all guards in such a way. To erect such powerful wards, without the need to maintain it. The Magic required was profound. Enough to rival that of the Dark Lords.

But no one knew what really had happened on the island. Guards rotated every six months and the ones who perished were nearing the end of their service.

The Dark Lord and higher-ranking Death Eaters had never bothered themselves with such novice work. The only reason the Dark Lord knew about the prisoners' deaths was because one of the guards was stupid enough to tell his wife as he went to work the morning the wards went up.

But what had happened on the island in the months leading up to the mysterious wards was an insidious question mark.

Everyone who may have known the answer is dead.

Everyone except Hermione Granger it seems.

Astoria had heard the whispers. Whilst Granger's body had never been recovered, it was widely accepted that she had died during the initial battle.

Her existence at Azkaban was a well-guarded secret, one that the Dark Lord had confided in Astoria a year after the appearance of the wards. She never told any of the others at the time, the circumstances of her death were unimportant

So the Gryffindor died a couple of years later than was originally thought? Who cares?

Except she didn’t.

Somehow, Granger had escaped death twice.

There was still too much Astoria didn’t know. Too many things that didn’t add up. It made her fucking brain hurt.

She studied the Dark Lord, that’s what she was good at. Picking up another subject of interest just gave her a headache.

“No,” Astoria answered finally. “One body was missing.”

Daphne finished her glass, placing it on the table and leaning forward. “Who?”

Astoria swallowed, “The Warden.”

Blaise's eyes flashed with interest, his glass paused on its ascent to his lips. He inhaled as if to say something when the rush of flames roared from the fireplace.

Draco stormed out, his gait stiff and eyes molten as he stalked to the alcohol cabinet and poured himself a generous glass of Firewhisky.

Astoria couldn’t help but tense as anger radiated from the wizard. He was her betrothed, her friend. But fuck if he didn’t scare her sometimes. She knew what he could do, she’d seen the people he had destroyed. He was a finely tuned weapon, like Blaise and her sister.

But unlike them, he could hurt her without her even knowing.

She forced herself to look into his eyes anyway, he had promised he wouldn’t look inside her head without her permission. He had even gone so far as to place blockades inside their minds, so the late-night discussions they held stayed between them. It had always bothered her that she had never been able to find where he had put it.

Draco looked exhausted, strung out and furious. She hadn’t seen so much emotion on his face in years.

He knocked back his drinks in quick succession, silently pacing as the four of them sat frozen on the couches, waiting for the cord to snap.

The glass sailed out of his hand into a nearby wall, shattering on impact and causing Pansy to flinch.

“She’s a fucking Occlumens!” Draco roared, shrugging off his cloak in frustration.

“Who?” Pansy mouthed.

“Granger I think” Astoria mouthed back.

Daphne and Blaise shared a look, arguing silently over which one would say something and take the hit. Blaise won out.

“And?” Daphne replied, “When has that stopped you before?”

Sure enough, Draco spun round to take out his ire on the one who spoke. It was moments like these that Astoria was grateful she was a coward.

“So,” Draco spat, “she’s a Natural-born Occlumens.”

Astorias heart sank into her stomach.

Daphne paled.

Blaise gripped his glass so tightly she was sure it would shatter.

“Wh-what does that mean?” Pansy frantically asked, looking around the room at their ashen faces.

If Granger was a Natural-born Occlumens then they would never know what happened at Azkaban. They would never find the threat. The carefully constructed network of safety they had built for themselves was about to unravel. Because without Draco shielding their minds, they were exposed.

Because Draco depended on using his Legillimency to turn Granger into a weapon.

Because without his manipulation, Granger was never going to win.

Because his life was tied to hers and theirs depended on his.

“It means I’m dead” Draco hissed.

And with those words, Astoria wished, for the first time in years, that she had been born like her sister. That she had been created to use action, rather than words.

Because words sure as shit couldn’t save her now.

Chapter Text

Ginny thought she would be relieved when her friends came back alive, but the coiled knot of anxiety only curled tighter.

Cho was the first to return, barreling into the arms of Parvati as she burst into sobs. The two witches disappeared upstairs to the privacy of their rooms, leaving a trail of uncertainty and dread in their wake.

Susan came in shortly after. Robes torn. Eyes vacant. She had sat on the sofa closest to the fireplace, unresponsive to the heat slowly painting her skin red. She curled as close to the flames as possible, as if she could burn parts of herself away.

Dennis and Justin rushed to her side, offering comfort.

Ginny didn’t know if Susan even knew they were there.

Seamus arrived last. He barely made it through the door, collapsing in a heap of shudders and twitches. Blood poured out of his nostrils and ears, urine soaking the front of his robes.

Justin was working on him now, snapping orders at elves for an array of potions to stabilize his trembling muscles.

Each of them was intimately familiar with the Crutiatus Curse, having endured days of interrogation upon their capture. Though the level at which Seamus still thrashed with aftershocks was hard to stomach.

Ginny felt powerless.

Her role had always been that of a soldier. Her reason for existence lay between the beginning and end of each battle.

Ginny took lives, she didn’t save them.

She didn’t know what to do in the aftermath.

She didn’t know how to act when there were no battles at all.

“Seamus,” Justin stated calmly, “Seamus, can you hear me?”

The convulsing wizard groaned in response, his mouth opening and closing as he attempted to speak.

They had laid him on the table, scattering parchment of hastily made strategies and a map of the castle George had drawn from memory.

Luna held his head stable, unwavering amongst the chaos unfolding around her.

Greg, George and Neville murmured quietly, her brother nodding his head as the Slytherin explained something she couldn’t hear.

Ron watched the door, waiting for Hermione’s arrival.

Theo watched him watching.

Ginny watched everyone else.

It took a few hours for Seamus to regain consciousness, his body still twitching periodically as he nursed the cup of tea Luna had made him.

“Peppermint, for the Dolormorgels” she explained.

Susan remained by the fire. She had yet to speak.

It was Cho who explained the events that had transpired, bracketed by the two Patil sisters on the couch.

“We were together at first,” she whispered, gripping Parvati’s hand tightly. “They interrogated us- tortured us. They wanted to know what we had done for the Order. What we were good at.”

She hesitated, a fresh set of tears welling spilling across her cheeks. “Th-then they wanted to know about all of you. What your strengths were. What your weaknesses are.” 

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, “we didn’t want to tell them. We held on as long as we could.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for” Parvati assured, stroking her girlfriend’s back.

Ginny nodded in agreement. There was only so much torture a person could take.

Cho inhaled, “Bellatrix did most of it. She, Macnair and Rowle kept talking about some kind of trial. Said we had to perform. That they would hurt Michael and Hannah if we didn’t.”

The thought of Teddy with Greyback twisted her gut. Her precious boy was trapped in the hands of a monster.

“Rowle took me away from the others after that. Made me run drills while he threw hexes at me. I think he was trying to train me, though I was useless without a wand.” Cho sniffed.

Theo eyed the witch intently, chewing his lip in thought.

George sighed, running a hand down his face. “How in the hell do they expect us to compete without magic?”

“They’ll give us something,” Theo replied. “It’ll be limited though, wouldn’t want us going around killing people.”

“Isn’t that exactly what they want us to do?” Greg countered, “kill each other?”

Theo frowned, “By people I meant other Death Eaters. Merlin knows they don’t see us as people.”

“Wait,” Dennis stammered, “Surely they won’t make us kill each other? They never had to do that in the last Tournament. I thought we just had to beat the tasks?”

“This isn’t like the last Tournament” Theo intoned. “The tasks might demand that we have to.”

Justin stood suddenly. “Well, I’m not doing that! No way! I’d rather die.”

“And let Zacharias die with you?” Theo scoffed. “The Collateral aren’t there so we have a buddy we can run off with if we win. They’re there to ensure we do what is forced of us.”

Justin paled.

Ginny felt as if she was going to be sick. To save Teddy could she kill Neville? Her brothers? And by extension- Neville’s grandmother, Angela and Mum.

Six lives to save one.

Would she wipe out what was left of her family to save a child that was not her blood?

Ron paced obsessively by the entrance, barely paying attention to the earth-shattering conversation in front of him.

Hermione was late. She should have been back by now.

“I have no one left to lose,” Seamus chuckled darkly, his voice hoarse from screaming. “So you don’t need to worry about me killing you.”

Padma eyed her twin, a silent conversation playing out between the two. They wouldn’t kill each other for anyone, not even to save themselves.

Ginny couldn’t say the same for her family.

“Seamus what- um- what happened with you?” Greg asked trepidatiously, ignoring the warning look Justin cast his way.

The wizard twitched his eyes glazing over. “It’s hazy,” he murmured. “Torturing mostly. Macnair took Susan away at some point. I’m not sure where.”

The group turned to look at the witch, she still sat silently by the fire. Nausea stirred in Ginny’s gut. She pushed it away. Hoped that her fears were wrong.

But a part of her knew. Knew what had been done.

Women always knew.

The silence gave it away. The silence was as clear and as guttural as screams.

The men could turn away from it, choose not to hear how loud the silence called. But Ginny, Cho, Luna, Susan and the Patil sisters could tell.

Ginny could see it in the way they looked at Susan’s turned back.

It hung on the girl, an echo they all could pick up.

They had sensed it that first night, the way that Hermione had wrenched herself away from Ron’s touch.

Ginny didn’t know when, or who, or how often or if it was recent.

But she knew that at some point, someone had hurt Hermione in ways only a man could.

Justin knew as well, he had dealt with enough of Greyback's victims to see the signs. It’s why he asked Cho to take over. She needed a female presence. Someone safe. Someone calm.

Cho knew what it felt like, she had worn the echo since childhood. She was the best to help.

The others didn’t know. Ron definitely didn’t, no one would ever dare tell him. It was not their place. The only one who could refused to even look at him.

Whatever damage had been done to Hermione was far too great. She needed time, needed space. Needed to come to them when she felt ready.

But Ginny didn’t think that time would come.

“She kept asking me about you guys,” Seamus continued, “about some ward at Azkaban. But mostly she asked about Hermione.”

Ron snapped his head at that, “Hermione?”

Seamus frowned. “Yea she wanted to know what she was planning. Why the Dark Lord visited her today.”

“Voldemort came to see Hermione?” Ron asked, his face slowly draining of colour.

Ginny’s mind spun. She gripped the arm of her chair, bracing herself.

If something had happened to Hermione, there would be no coming back for Ron. Not again.

“That would make sense wouldn’t it?” Neville announced confidentiality. “He probably wanted to question her.”

“Yea! To find out where she’s been” Padma added helpfully, nodding reassuringly to Ron.

Ron swallowed, looking around at the hopeful faces directed at him. Ginny knew he wanted to believe them. Wanted to hope.

She couldn’t understand how they could still enable it. How none of them could give him the reality check he so desperately needed. Hadn’t his hope done enough? Had they learned nothing from his last crusade to the edge of the world?

“No” Seamus snapped, his eye twitching as another spasm ran through him. “No, I’m telling you it’s different. Something is wrong with her. She’s- you’ve seen her. She’s wrong. She’s dangerous.”

“Seamus” Justin warned.

“No! I’m bloody telling you there’s something up!” He cried. “You’ve seen it! You’ve all seen it! She leaves every fucking day and comes back fine! Better even! We leave once and look at what happened!”

Pink began to colour Ron’s cheeks. “None of us know where she goes or what they’ve-“

“I do!” Seamus roared. “Bellatrix told me! You know where she goes each day? The fucking hospital wing. They patch her up, nice and pretty. Seems awfully odd that they beat the rest of us but cater to her isn’t it?”

“That’s because she chose Malfoy!” Ron cried.

“EXACTLY!” Seamus howled, launching himself to his feet. “She chose Malfoy! She let Viktor die!”

Ron stepped towards Seamus, his face murderous.

Justin put himself between the two. “Guys-“

“You can’t trust a fucking word Bellatrix says!” Ron spat. “She’s evil! She knows nothing about Hermione!”

“She knows more than you!” Seamus cried, arms shuddering violently by his side. Neville stepped behind him, ready to catch the trembling wizard.

But despite Seamus’s weakening stance, he didn’t stop. “She knows Hermione has been in Azkaban this whole time. Did you know that?” He hissed. “Did you know Voldemort knew she was there? They’ve had her for five fucking years Ron! She’s gone! If Malfoy wasn’t already in her head he sure as shit is now! She’s one of them!”

Ginny couldn’t help but find a flicker of truth in his words. She hated herself for it. Hated that a part of her hoped it was true. If Hermione had lost herself then that was a kindness. She could disappear into the silence, the past wouldn’t haunt her there.

It would be easier for Ron if she was. Easier for all of them.

But Ron would never let Hermione go. Not when he thought he finally got her back.

“That’s a fucking lie!” Ron roared, pushing his way past Justin.

“Just cause you don’t want to see the truth doesn’t mean it’s not there!” Seamus fired back. “She wears the truth on her every fucking day! The blood!”

“Stop” Theo hissed, grabbing Ron to pull him back. She didn’t know which wizard he was talking to.

“A kid! She killed a kid! That’s whose blood she wears!” Seamus screamed. “They sent a kid to get her and she killed him!”

Ron went bright red, thrashing against the wizards restraining him. “YOU LIAR!”

“She wears it because she’s proud! She’s sick!”

Neville and Greg grabbed Seamus, pulling him towards the stairs. He convulsed and spasmed between them. Hurling Bellatrix’s words at the group.

“You know it’s true!” He shrieked. “She’s gone!”

Seamus disappeared, carried away by the wizards cursing and screaming.

Ron collapsed back against Theo, wailing as he had the night the Slytherin had brought news of her death.

George went to Ron.

Cho, Susan and Parvati retreated up the stairs.

Dennis and Justin went back to Susan who still, despite everything, had yet to move away from the flames.

Luna watched Theo.

Ginny watched everyone else.

She was a soldier. She took lives, she didn’t know how to save them.

She didn’t know how to save someone who, in all ways but physically, was already dead.

She existed between the beginning and end of a battle.

She was lost in the aftermath.

Hermione didn’t return until the early hours of the morning. She had spent most of the night under Healer Lewis’s care as he attempted to stem the blood from her eyes, nose and ears.

Malfoy’s exit from her mind had been brutal. A punishment. It would have left her mindless if she had one to begin with.

The blonde stormed out, leaving her unattended. She didn’t know how long he was gone, her memories hazy between the pain and the potions.

Healer Lewis seemed to relax slightly, his hands lost their tremor and he carried himself a little straighter.

They didn’t exchange words. There was nothing to say.

Her walls remained in shambles, she hadn’t the strength to rebuild yet. She felt empty, her emotions dull. It was nice not to have to exert herself on keeping them locked away.

Her evening was as close to pleasant as she could hope for. It reminded her of the many nights Darryl had spent fussing over her. She missed that stupid creature.

Hermione hoped she could get the goodbye that was stolen from them.

She drifted in the land of dreams. Floating between glimpses of plastic figurines, apples and submarines. There were flashes of green. Flashes of red. Flashes of black. A chorus of voices whispering, singing, praying. Her subconscious a mix of everything and nothing.

Malfoy woke her sharply.

He dragged her out of bed. Through the lines of empty hospital beds. Through the long corridors and impossibly high staircases.

He didn’t speak. She didn’t stop.

It was over quickly. An uneventful trip, yet a physical feat for her.

She entered the dark Common Room, instantly calmed by the stillness of the night.

The couches lay empty, paper scattered on the ground. The smell of copper filled the air.

Checking that she was indeed alone, Hermione carefully approached the steps, taking great care not to wake the others and endure any further encounters today.

But luck had never been on her side, and as she neared the top of the stairs she encountered Susan Bones gripping the banister tightly.

Hermione froze.

Susan was back. That was good.

So why was she crying?

As if her legs moved on their own accord, Susan took another step down and wrapped her arms around the banister to hold herself in place.

“Help me” Susan whispered.

Another step. A whimper.

The smell of burning flesh and a faint humming.

The witch was being summoned again.

Susan lost her grip, her upper body sliding down the banister as she clawed at the wood.

“Hermione help me” she sobbed.

Hermione froze. She didn’t know what to do.

The humming grew more persistent and Susan was forced down several steps.

“Hermione please,” she begged. “I don’t want to go. I can’t. He’s going to-“ her small form shuddered with sobs.

“He’s- he” Susan couldn’t finish her sentence, her cries unbridled now.

As she got closer, Hermione took in the woman’s torn robes, the haunted look in her eyes.

She recognised eyes like that. Saw them in her own reflection when the men first started visiting her cell.

She knew what had happened to Susan. What would come.

Susan let out another strangled cry, one that launched Hermione into action.

She pulled the witch tightly into her arms, running her filthy sleeves across the witch's robes, face and hair.

Susan tried to push her away, “What are you-“

“We don’t have much time” Hermione snapped.

She grabbed the witch’s face more forcefully and pushed it into her chest, where the worst of the filth lay.

“Stop it!” Susan gagged, “What are you doing I-“

Hermione pulled the woman’s face close to hers, uncaring that she looked like a rabid animal.

“You need to be dirty. They won’t touch you if you're dirty.” Hermione insisted.

Susan’s wide eyes morphed from one of terror to one of understanding. She glanced down at Hermione’s robes, “that’s why isn’t it? You-“

Another buzz of her Python made the witch cry out and she careened down to the bottom of the steps.

The witch began stumbling towards the entrance, a puppet on strings. Her upper body twisted around to grab something, anything.

Hermione ran to Susan, knocking her over onto the floor.

“Do you trust me?” Hermione heaved.

“No- I- yes I- please help me” Susan cried, the commands already forcing the witch to crawl towards the door.

“I’m sorry about this” Hermione breathed before forcing her fingers down Susan’s throat. The witch thrashed and struggled beneath her as she began to choke.

As she began to gag Hermione withdrew her fingers, pulling the witch up by her shoulders so she could vomit down her front.

“Good that’s good Susan. I’m so sorry. You’re doing so well.” She reassured as the witch spluttered and spewed down her robes.

Susan took in a lungful of air “Hermione what the fu-“

“You need to be dirty” Hermione repeated, frantically gathering the vomit from Susan’s chest and smearing it across the sobbing witch’s face.

With resolute despair Susan began to help, smearing the sour contents down her neck and between her thighs.

She sobbed in humiliation and Hermione’s heart broke for her.

She knew Susan had fixations on cleanliness and hygiene. To be violated the way she had, to resort to these measures for her safety, was devastating.

“You’re doing great Susan” Hermione pleaded. “I promise it’ll be ok.”

The witch pulled herself to her feet, legs shaking as she stumbled to the door once more.

Susan gripped Hermione’s hand tightly as she thrashed against the Pythons compulsion, blood spilling down her nostrils.

“Hermione please” she sobbed, “please don’t let him take me.”

They were nearly at the door, Hermione pulled the witch back but her strength was wavering.

“Susan listen to me-“

“I can’t. I can’t. Please-“

“Listen!”

Hermione pressed her back to the door, the last barricade between Susan and her fate.

She grabbed the pleading witch's head, staring directly into her eyes. Even though it was invasive for Hermione, painful, she needed Susan to understand.

“Fight back. Try to take a beating. He might tire himself out or the blood might put him off further. If he keeps trying to- to enter you, you need to wet yourself ok? Or soil yourself if you can. You want to put him off so he doesn’t touch you, so he never wants to touch you again. Do you understand?”

“I can’t-“

“You must.”

Susan nodded, determination and shame and terror shining on her face.

With one last squeeze, Susan pushed Hermione aside and walked out the door.

The silence that followed brought no comfort. Hermione would give anything to hear noise.

She slumped onto the floor, defeated.

Please please let her be ok.

Hermione knelt, raising her palms face up to the ceiling and began her prayers.

“Hecate-” she whispered reverently, “-do ut des.”

Hermione drew strength from the cold ground below, channelling it into her words.

“Animam protege.”

It wasn’t the same without the sting of her cuts, without her offering, but she stayed there all the same. Letting the words flow through her. A melody to magic, suspended in time.

She prayed until her voice grew hoarse.

She prayed until her arms shook.

She prayed until the entrance opened, Susan stumbling into her arms.

The witches clung to each other on the ground, a mess of relief and filth and understanding.

“I’m so sorry” Hermione whimpered, hugging the witch as her shoulders shook.

All thoughts of distance and rational plans evaporated as she embraced Susan. Hermione would rebuild her walls when the sun went up, stay distant, keep the others safe from heartbreak.

But for now, for just a moment, she would feel.

Susan shuddered and wept against her chest.

As Hermione pulled back she took in the fresh bruises smattered across the girl's face, paired with a black eye and skewered nose.

But although Susan’s eyes were clouded with tears, warmth still shone through.

“It worked,” Susan sobbed.

Relief courses through Hermione, “it worked?”

Susan smiled, nodding as fresh tears spilled down her dirty cheeks. “It worked.”

Hermione inhaled shakily, her own tears threatening to fall. “Are you ok?”

The witch shuddered, “No, no I’m not but- he didn’t touch me this time. He was so angry,” a small smile ghosted her face, “especially when I peed on him.”

Hermione breathed a laugh. A single exhale. But it was as close to joy as she’d come in years.

Susan pulled Hermione into another hug. “Thank you” she murmured, voice breaking.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him” Hermione whispered.

“You did enough. I would rather have the bruises. It shows that I won.”

Hermione nodded in agreement, savouring the last moments of Susan’s warmth, of human touch, before pulling away.

“I have to go to bed,” she lied. “Ask for Winky to get you something for the pain and- try to get some rest.”

Susan frowned. “Hermione wait. I-“ she hesitated, “I have so many questions. What- did- are you ok? Where-“

“Later” Hermione replied, the lie souring her tongue. “I’ll tell you everything later.”

A wave of regret began to wash over her. She shouldn’t have let Susan in, should have left when the witch disappeared instead of waiting.

But she had to know. Had to see that she was ok.

Susan nodded. “Ok,” she breathed. “Ok yea. We will talk soon ok? Promise?”

“I-“

“Hermione?” A lithe voice rang out, freezing the two.

Hermione turned to face the newcomer, blinking up at Luna’s fae-like face.

The witch stared down at the two women, neck cocked oddly, a bird registering a call.

“Susan, are you feeling better?” She hummed softly.

“I’m… ok. I’ll be ok” Susan sniffed.

Luna helped Susan to her feet, “it’s probable, but things have a habit of changing quickly.”

Susan opened and closed her mouth, unsure how to reply to the odd witch.

“Let’s get you to bed” Luna continued, “before the sun wakes the others.”

Hermione clambered to her feet, unable to stomach the thought of being out in the open a moment longer.

Luna caught Hermione’s elbow as she passed, halting the increasingly anxious witch.

“Hermione,” she breathed, blue eyes searching hers as if looking at something deep within. “It’s nice to have you back.”

Hermione gently freed her arm, retreating slowly from the two women. The steady thrum of blood rushed in her ears.

Susan nodded at Hermione, both a thank you and confirmation that it was ok to leave. Her eyes flashed with questions, a look promising to speak later in private.

Hermione lowered her gaze and turned towards the stairs. There would be no more talking. She had already crossed the line she had drawn for herself. It couldn’t happen again.

She didn’t regret helping Susan, but she didn’t want the witch to think they were friends. She would be leaving enough friends behind soon, she couldn’t afford another one.

Hermione could feel Luna’s eyes trailing her as she climbed the steps. Their voices murmuring as she disappeared down the corridor.

She had made a mess of it now, revealed too much.

Now not one, but two people knew a part of Hermione Granger still lived. Fostering the dangerous idea that she could still be saved. Blaming themself when they couldn’t, even though there was nothing they could do.

She was already damned.

Chapter Text

“Gin? Ginny!”

Ginny stirred groggily from her restless sleep, blinking in confusion as Neville shook half-naked at the end of the bed.

Turning in sweat soaked sheets, she registered the urgency in which he had called her name.

“Wha-“

“I’m being summoned,” Neville grunted, tugging his neck.

The shroud of sleep vanished instantly, pulling Ginny upright. Her stomach flipped, sending heat up her spine.

“Nev-“

“It’s alright. I’ll be fine,” Neville exhaled, trying to hide the tremor of his hands as he hastily pulled on his robes.

Sweat dripped down Ginny’s back as her heart hammered.

No.

Ginny stood, panic rising as her throat constricted.

“Neville-“

“Gin I swear it’ll be fine. Just-“

“Neville” Ginny snapped, freezing the wizard.

She inhaled shakily, trying to swallow the terror threatening to devour her.

“I’m being summoned too.”

The group was quiet as they made their way through the castle, restrained horror crackling in the air.

All the Champions were being ushered by their Masters towards the unknown, masked Death Eaters flanking the walls of the castle, lest any of them try to escape.

Ginny wondered if this was it. If they were being herded towards the First Task, sheep to the slaughterhouse.

She tried to look back, catch Neville’s eye as he trailed behind her in the line, but Greyback grabbed her chin roughly.

“Eyes ahead Little Red,” he chuckled, taking the opportunity to lean into her. He sniffed her hair, sharp nails digging into her cheeks, “We have a surprise for you.”

Ginny knew whatever the Scions had planned for them- it wouldn’t be good.

The Champions had descended into a panic when they had realised they were all being summoned. Shouting and screaming and scrambling suffocating the relative safety of their quarters.

Only Luna seemed relatively calm, standing quietly beside Susan.

Ginny didn’t know what had happened to Susan after they had all retired to bed the night before. The witch was battered and bruised, coated in vomit and piss and yet- her eyes held a fire that hadn’t been present earlier. The hundred yard stare that had echoed through the witch shortened into something closer, something she could see clearer.

Greyback pressed behind Ginny, forcing her into the Great Hall. The last time she had been in this room she had wept over the body of her brother. Uncaring about the whereabouts of Harry Potter, not knowing that she would never see him alive again.

She wondered what they had done with Fred’s body, there hadn’t been time to get him. Did they burn them all, bury them, or leave them outside to rot?

Her question was answered immediately.

A throne stood at the end of the room, right where her favourite professors had sat and ate and laughed at their shared table. The room was almost entirely empty, except for the banners of the Slytherin House and draping black fabric sealed with the Dark Mark.

A withered man stood unsteadily next to a woman in pink in the centre of the hall. But Ginny hardly paid them any attention. It was the throne that branded itself into the forefront of her vision.

It was entirely made of bones. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Piled high into a grand structure. Skulls stood on spikes of spines and femurs at the back, fanning out in a horrifying display. A peacock of decay.

Her brothers body was in there somewhere. His bones bleached and propped up in a sick construction from an evil man. Lavender would be there. Colin too.

And the skull at the top, empty eye sockets staring right at her, she knew to be Harry’s. 

Someone cried out. Someone heaved the remnants of their breakfast onto the floor below. Someone collapsed.

She didn’t know who. Didn’t care.

She just saw bones.

“Now now,” Umbridge chastised, “no need for such nonsense. This will be brief, so let’s all behave so we can resume our day shall we?”

The vile woman was annoyingly upbeat, reprimanding them as they were naughty children like she had back in her fourth year. As if the bodies of their loved ones weren’t behind her.

As if they didn’t have a right to scream.

“Tomorrow the trials will take place. Scions I’m sure you have done your very best to ensure they are prepared.”

Ginny glanced at her fellow champions, their confusion mirrored.

Greyback bristled beside her, a low growl rumbled in his chest. It seems he didn’t know about the trials either.

“Champions!” Umbridge announced jovially, “you will be judged and ranked according to your performance and your abilities. The top three Champions will secure a clue for the First Task.”

She paused as if waiting for applause, tsking at the silent crowd.

“As one of the judges, I will have the pleasure of overseeing these trials,” she continued. “There will be three sections that you will be graded on. Skill. Mental fortitude-“ Umbridge clasped her hands together in excitement, “-and fear!”

Ginny’s stomach flipped.

“Scions! You will need to be present for your Champions trial, however you are more than welcome to watch your competitors if you wish. It will be an excellent opportunity to observe the weaknesses of your Champion’s opponents.”

Greyback shuffled irritably. Umbridge was known for her hatred of magical creatures, it seemed even one of Voldemort’s Scions was no exception. From the tightened grip on her arm, Ginny deduced the feeling was mutual.

“Well let’s get this underway shall we?” Umbridge exclaimed brightly, “Champions, you may collect your wand!”

Dennis, the furtherest Champion on the left, was pushed forward by his Scion, Dolohov. The wizard halted, unsure of himself before he walked cautiously over to Umbridge.

The old haggard man exchanged quiet words with the young wizard, gesturing to the wands on display before Dennis tentatively picked one up. A gust of wind followed, licking the ends of the wizards mousy brown hair, before he turned and walked stiffly back to his spot.

Ginny watched intently as one by one, each of the Champions approached the small table to retrieve their wand, various outbursts of wind and crackles of light eclipsing them as they were reunited with magic for the first time since their capture.

How long had it been for Ginny? A couple weeks? A month? The days of interrogation merged together, skewing her perception of time. She had thought Malfoy the one to do it, it would have made things far easier. However instead she was greeted with the traditional torture Death Eaters were known for, far less creative than she had anticipated. The unfamiliar men got their answers, eventually. Though they hadn’t asked many. They hadn’t particularly cared. Malfoy visited her on the last day, the day before the Selection. She had been healed up and left waiting. Ginny made the mistake of looking up when she heard the creek of the dungeons door, eyes meeting silver.

He approached, looked her up and down, and left.

Ginny still didn’t know if he had looked inside her head. It terrified her that she couldn’t tell.

Every waking moment it weighed on her, a snake waiting to strike. She could switch at any moment. Throw the games. Kill her loved ones. Kill herself.

The only thing that kept her sane was the knowledge that Malfoy hadn’t known which one would become his Champion. That he wouldn’t have set them up for suicide in case they ended up with him.

She told herself this. Over and over and over again. But the fear still lingered. The doubt still hung heavy in her gut.

She kept her eyes straight regardless as she was pushed forward, lest she accidentally make eye contact with Malfoy.

Ginny approached the table next to the toad-like woman, sending her a hate-fueled glare before focusing on the elderly man in front of her.

His long greasy hair hung down in tendril’s over his gaunt face, but his pale blue eyes were startlingly clear. With a jolt of recognition, she realised the man was Mr Ollivander. A wizard the Order thought long dead. How many others had they hidden all these years?

His intelligent gaze pierced through her, “Ginevra Weasley” he rasped. “Ten inches. Yew wood. Dragon Heartstring.”

The wand he had given her when she was eleven. The one they had taken from her.

Ollivander gestured towards the rows of wands on the table below. None of which she recognised.

“Choose one” he breathed.

Ginny realised then that it didn’t matter what wand she chose. If she had to choose the wand instead of letting the wand chose her, then none of them would be right for her. The rows of wood pulsated with Dark Magic, demanding her claim.

She grabbed the one closest to her, the familiar rush of Magic rushing beneath her skin. But it felt different. Sour. Tainted. Even so, she couldn’t deny the euphoria that coursed through her as she was finally reunited with magic.

Ollivander nodded as if she had made the right choice. “Aspen wood. Ten and a half inches-“ he paused, “Werewolf hair core.”

Ginny’s hand spasmed around the wand, feeling Greybacks eyes burn into her back, his advanced hearing no doubt picking up every word of the exchange.

This was not a wand that should exist. Werewolves for notoriously territorial. They would never willingly part with any piece of themselves, no matter how small, to benefit an unknown witch or wizard. And to get close enough to grab enough hairs for a wand core would be suicide, a living Werewolf would have torn the gatherer apart.

No, this hair was stolen. Hunted. Whoever’s hair she held in this wand had been killed for it.

This wand was made from death. It was wicked. Evil.

And it was hers.

“How….fitting” Umbridge grinned. “It is limited of course. And under no circumstances can it be used against someone bearing the Dark Mark. You’ll be able to access basic spells, your master will be able to grant access for more advanced ones during training. Assuming you behave.” The witch gave her a disapproving look. “And you shall have total access during tasks.”

Ginny frowned at the wand, trying to make sense of it all.

“Back you go!” Umbridge shooed.

Ginny obeyed, still reeling as she took her place next to Greyback. He stared down at the wand in disgust, probably thinking of all the ways he could punish her for choosing such an offensive wand.

She watched as Luna chose her wand. Then Ron.

Seamus went next, trying unsuccessfully to cast a curse at Umbridge as soon as he grabbed his wand. The wand recoiled, sending the wizard into a fit of electrical shocks.

“Ah ah ah,” Umbridge tutted, “what did I just tell you?”

Bellatrix had to come grab her still spasming Champion, cackling as she dragged the wizard by his hair.

Ginny just wanted it all to be over.

Hermione went last, forced to choose from the few remaining wands. Umbridge wrinkled her nose at the witch and coughed obnoxiously, taking several steps back from the table with an air of disgust.

Ginny watched Hermione reach for the wand closest to her, her hand hovering above it before turning her head slightly as if she was listening.

She slowly shifted her hand, reaching for the smallest wand at the edge of the table. 

Chaos unfolded the second the wand touched her skin.

An explosion of air and splintered wood burst forward with a resounding crack.

Ginny saw Malfoy rush towards his Champion, the blast sent him sailing through the air. Shockwaves collided with Ginny, throwing her and the other Champions to the floor.

Panicked shouts and screams danced between the ringing in her eyes, swirling together into white noise. Ginny blinked against the cloud of dust, her movements sluggish as she crawled onto all fours.

Carnage eclipsed the Great Hall. The Death Eaters waiting outside rushed in, trampling over shattered glass from blown out windows.

Umbridge lay face down, a large splinter of wood protruding from her back.

Malfoy stood on wobbly legs, his immaculate robes coated in a layer of dust as he made his way towards the wreckage. 

Cracks in the stone floor branched out like lightning, tracing a pattern towards the witch standing in the centre of it all.

Hermione stood alone, staring down at her wand in shock.

The table and remaining wands were gone, blasted into nothingness and yet the witch who had stood over it mere seconds ago was miraculously unharmed.

Ginny frantically scanned the receding dust cloud for the famed wand maker, before her eyes landed on the burst of colour at Hermione’s feet.

Blood, entrails and bone fragments painted the floor. Painted her skin.

A parallel to her entrance at the Selection.

Ginny looked at Seamus then, the wizard glared at the witch as Malfoy approached, patting down his numb Champion as he assessed her for injuries.

“Get them out!” Malfoy barked, “Take them back to their quarters!”

Lower ranking Death Eaters swarmed Umbridge, running diagnostic spells as she groaned in pain.

Greyback hoisted Ginny to her feet, “Let’s go Little Red” he growled.

The Scions herded the Champions away from the destruction, jostling them towards the doors.

Ginny chanced a look back, her eyes meeting Seamus’s as Bellatrix tugged him along.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. His eyes told her everything she didn’t already and didn’t want to know.

I told you so.

Silence fell as soon as Hermione walked into the common room.

She had grown tired of this. Lately, she had become more on edge entering the Champions quarters than she was leaving it.

They stared and they whispered and they judged.

Fear. Pity. It was all the same. Emotions directed at her that she couldn’t handle on her already turmoltuous pile of grief. Her very presence seemed to extinguish the safety of the room.

She had to get reminding herself that this was her choice. That it was easier this way. But it didn’t dull the sting that lingered with every stare.

Seamus looked at her with outright hatred. Parvati with distrust. Theo with contemplation.

Ron just looked in pain. As if the sight of her twisted a knife within him.

The sooner she was gone the better.

She moved quickly to the stairs, Ron quickly following her.

“Hermione!”

She ignored him, forcing her legs to move faster.

“Hermione, wait!”

Nothing in. Nothing out.

“Hermione please just talk to me-“

She slammed the door on him. Breathing heavily with her head against the frame.

Hermione cursed. She hadn’t been able to rebuild her prison since Malfoy decimated it. The most she had been able to accomplish was a haphazard pile of rock.

It had made today particularly difficult, almost unbearable.

She had killed someone today.

It was difficult for her to process. The wand had called her. She answered. Skin touched wood and then-

Magic. Power.

It had felt like coming home.

There was a dizzying rush. A burning cold. A spray of red-

And then there was Malfoy, looking at her with something almost like concern.

He had taken to the infirmary again, insisting Healer Lewis check her for injury despite Umbridge’s wails of agony a few beds over.

“- Perfectly fine. She’s had five years without magic, the build up would be strong. Particularly in powerful witches and wizards.”

Malfoy didn’t contradict the implied compliment, instead demanding he run the tests again.

The results were the same. Magic stable.

She didn’t feel stable.

Something felt different. Alive. There was a buzzing in her blood that hadn’t been there before. Her magic didn’t feel like this, had never felt like this. This magic was tangible- impossible to ignore.

She could feel it even now, a beast circling.

She couldn’t tell if she was the predator or the prey.

The sound of water splashing pulled her out of her thoughts. She followed the sound to her bathroom door, light shining from underneath.

Hermione pushed it open to find Susan kneeling next to her tub, her hand submerged as she checked the water’s temperature.

“Good your back” Susan murmured as she turned around. “Get in.”

Hermione blinked at the witch. “Susan, not now. Just go-“

“I wasn’t asking,” she snapped. “You may not care about yourself but I do. We do. I get why you do it now. I understand. But the others don’t. Sure, people like Cho and Justin may have some idea, but for the rest of them? They think you’re a killer.”

“I am.”

Susan sniffed, “I don’t believe that.”

“You just saw it,” Hermione whispered.

“An accident, Hermione. That’s all it was.”

“I’ve killed before.”

“So have I. We all have. But killing someone doesn’t make you a killer.”

“Then what does?”

Susan paused. A heartbeat. Two.

“Intent. Taking Innocent lives.”

Hermione thought of all the Death Eaters she had cut down at Azkaban. Some she knew to be evil, others she didn’t know at all. She had killed them indiscriminately, hadn’t given it a second thought.

“And who are we to decide who is innocent or not?” Hermione hissed.

Four heartbeats. Five.

Finally, she asked, “Did you kill that boy Hermione?”

“What boy?”

“The one Seamus said collected you from Azkaban.”

Hermione wavered, eyes misting as she swallowed hard. “No. He splinched as we portkeyed out but- I struggled against him. It was my fault.”

Susan nodded, her face draining of anger, revealing an exhausted witch beneath. She looked so young.

“Get in the bath Hermione” she whispered.

Hermione shook her head. “I can’t. Malfoy-“

“-Will not touch you. He’s a pureblood and holds himself in high standing. He’s not going to sully himself with you.” Susan softened, “No offence.”

“It's not just him I’m worried about” Hermione croaked, a lump forming in her throat.

“Hermione, you're bonded with the Mortifer” Susan insisted. “No one would dare touch you. Not when his life is dependent on yours. He would kill them for even looking at you.”

Hermione doubled down. “All the same. I can’t do it. I won’t.”

“I get it,” Susan sighed, climbing to her feet. “You think you're holding onto control. But you cannot control what happens to you, Hermione. Not here. If you're so afraid of men taking advantage of you that you choose to stay like this, are you really in control? Or does your fear control you?”

Eight heartbeats. Hermione didn’t trust herself to speak.

Finally, she rasped “You’re still wearing your robes.”

“I am actually a target out there. You-” Susan prodded her chest. “-You are a target in here. Don’t pretend you can’t see it happening. You’re not doing anything to help yourself! You’re not letting them see that Hermione Granger is still in there!”

Susan grabbed her shoulders, her eyes pleading. “You helped me. Let me help you.”

Twelve heartbeats.

Hermione shook herself, but a lone tear tracked down her cheek anyway. “I don’t want help” she whispered, voice surprisingly cold. “I just want you to leave.”

Susan tore herself away in frustration.

“Get in the bath” She snapped coldly.

“Helping me isn’t going to make you feel any better Susan. It isn’t going to change what happened to you.”

“Get in the bath!” She roared.

“No.”

Susan stalked towards her, voice low. “Get in or I’ll tell them what I saw at the battle.”

“I don’t know what you're talking about.”

“I saw you Hermione”

Hermione felt as if her heart stopped beating entirely.

“I saw what you did” Susan breathed.

A choked sob burst forth, her shoulders shaking.

Susan gently grasped her face, pulling her eyes towards her. “Get in the bath Hermione” she whispered, her own tears spilling over. “Put an end to this. And then I promise- I promise what I saw will die with me.”

Hermione wept, heaving in lungfuls of air as Susan pulled her into an embrace.

“Ok.”

Susan began to undress her, maneuvering the blood-crusted robes whilst whispering words of encouragement. It didn’t feel like blackmail or coercion. It felt like kindness. Understanding. Love.

The kind of divine feminine connection that only existed between women. Something platonic, a close friendship, and yet, it went deeper than that. Deeper than a romantic relationship between a man and a woman. Because there was a shared experience. A life lived. Moments that occurred throughout their varied existence, that were somehow- inexplicably and devastatingly-the same.

Two women, who had survived in a world not built for them, connected through their pain in such a way that it was hard to distinguish where one ended and the other began.

Hermione had been ruined, but it wasn’t until Susan removed her robes and broke down in sobs that she became aware of how much.

She had thought it once, listening to the cries of prisoners and the rattling of dementors passing her cell window.

Pain could be bearable, if pain was all one knew.

And it had.

She had carried it. Relied on it. Used it to wrap herself up in its protective shield and erase herself in its embrace.

But human connection, human touch, had disrupted the safety she had built around it all. The absence of control unraveling the tightly coiled knots holding the pieces of her together

Hermione spilled over onto the bathroom tiles. Keening and wailing as she let it all go.

Susan was there through it all, clutching her naked body to her chest, a mother and a babe.

The witch rubbed gentle circles on her back, uncaring of the scarred flesh beneath her fingertips, the coldness of her skin, the grime and the filth.

Their pain was one. And together they grieved for their loss of innocence.

Later, when Hermione had all but passed out from exhaustion, Susan used her new wand to levitate her into the now lukewarm bath.

The scent of lavender filled the air, a washcloth made from cotton, not a torn bedsheet, scrubbing her skin.

Susan drained and refilled the tub three times, each one a little colder than the one before, at Hermione’s whispered request.

The last bath was frigid, soothing her aching muscles and silencing her sobs. The cold brought her quiet. True quiet. Not from walls in her mind, but by the soothing of the soul.

There was no Occlumency, just peace.

And when the last of the water was drained and she was wrapped in a thick black robe, Hermione felt reborn.

A sinner baptised.

She wasn’t whole, not even close, but the jagged edges of herself had been sanded down into something that could maybe one day fit together.

Susan sang her to sleep, a wizarding lullaby unfamiliar to Hermione.

But right at the precipice between the real world and the land of dreams, Hermione could have sworn she heard her mother sing.

Chapter Text

Astoria took her seat behind the protective shield in the Viaduct Courtyard. Sipping her champagne, she took in the impressive dome eclipsing the outdoor space- separating the spectators from the Champions.

Anyone who was anyone was here. The Scions, members of the Wizengamot, esteemed pureblood families and the press. Floating trays loaded with imported oysters drifted in between the mass of colourful robes and expensive gowns, a complete contrast to the black-robed figures preparing the trials below.

The Dark Lord was here, placing himself in the centre of his adoring and fearful subjects. Astoria stayed seated next to her sister.

She didn’t need to get up to greet him. He would come to her.

“How long is this going to take?” Astoria huffed, making a show of checking her nails to hide her anxiety.

“As long as necessary” her sister chided, looking exquisite in her ivory gown.

Astoria remained silent, staring intently as Umbridge barked orders at the men in black. A large chest was levitated into the arena, floating precariously over the toad’s head.

She wished it would drop on her head. She wished Granger had killed her. 

Pansy appeared suddenly, an amused Blaise trailing behind.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” she hissed, snatching the champagne out of Astoria’s hand and downing it in one go.

“It hasn’t even started yet and we are already running low on the focaccia. No one has even touched the ciabatta and we have almost run out of gouda!” Pansy rushed, the end of her sentence bordering a shriek.

“I told you it’s fine Pansy,” Blaise chuckled. “There are mountains of bread and cheese to go around.”

“And what if the Dark Lord likes Gouda on his focaccia Blaise huh? What then?” Pansy snapped, tugging at the straps on her emerald down.

“He prefers Gorgonzola” Astoria added helpfully, “and he prefers crackers to bread.”

Pansy’s eyes widened, “Crackers. Shit! We need crackers!” And with that, she disappeared back into the crowd.

“That wasn’t very nice” Daphne chided, knowing full well the Dark Lord stuck to a strictly carnivorous diet. The slight upturn of her mouth gave away her amusement.

Astoria shrugged. “What? It’s not like he’s going to kill her over cheese.”

“I would definitely kill for cheese,” Blaise added.

“You would kill over anything Blaise” Daphne replied.

“Fine,” Blaise smiled, crossing his hand over his chest in mock seriousness. “I would die for cheese.”

“A noble sacrifice. We shall build statues in your honour” Astoria quipped.

Their laughter died as the Dark Lord approached. The group stood and bowed formally.

“Astoria my dear you look exquisite” he drawled, kissing her hand.

Astoria forced a blush to her cheeks, batting her eyelashes bashfully. “You are too kind My Lord.”

Draco approached from behind, the Dark Lord's Shadow. They exchanged pleasantries, as expected of two individuals engaged to be married. She didn’t miss the slight narrowing in the Dark Lord's red gaze as Draco kissed her cheek.

With a wave of his hand, their leader gestured for them to sit. Draco to his right, Astoria to his left as was customary. Astoria already felt the eyes of Bellatrix burn into her back.

Umbridge and Ludo Bagman took their seats along the same row, though were pushed to its edges. They were judges for appearances and announcements- the true judge was the man sitting beside her. And she supposed, in a way, the public.

The other members took their seats in the rows behind, chattering excitedly between them. Floating trays of champagne drifted between rows, and Astoria snatched a glass greedily.

Merlin knows she needs it.

Astoria tried to concentrate as Umbridge stood and welcomed the Wizarding elite, outlining the three elements that made up the trials.

It was relatively simple. Trial one, skill. Champions will be judged based on how well they bested their attackers, the skill of the caster and the time taken to win the battle. She noted a group of twenty or so statues standing in line at the far left end of the courtyard, a large semi-circle of black salt fanning out around them.

Tight quarters to fight in. She knew whatever the salt was would ward the Champion to remain within the circle until the task was complete.

They would have nowhere to run.

Trial two was mental fortitude, and Astoria had to hide her grimace behind her glass as Umbridge delightedly highlighted the details of the trial. The same black salt lined the centre of the courtyard, this time in the shape of a figure eight. A pulsing black stone stood on a pedestal where the lines crossed in the centre.

With a giggle, the woman in pink exclaimed that the Champions had a choice- place their hand on the stone and endure a curse similar to that of the Cruciatus, or let go and force their Collateral to take the curse. This one had a five-minute time limit at least, so Astoria didn’t think anyone would be killed.

But five minutes would feel like an eternity when one’s nerve endings were being burned alive.

Still, she didn’t think it a question of if the Champions would let go, but when. Because the body doesn’t always obey the mind's will. Sooner or later, instinct will pull their hand away.

Umbridge did not discuss how the points would be calculated for this task, or what was deemed as a pass or fail.

Perhaps it didn’t matter.

Daphne gave her hand a light squeeze, sensing her rising nausea. Astoria was not suited to witnessing torture.

Some would say that’s due to trauma, she liked to think it was just pure fucking decency.

Despite her closeness to the Dark Lord, she hasn’t seen many people tortured in the past three years. Part of her thinks it’s because the Dark Lord wishes to keep her sheltered. Seeing her as too delicate to stomach such things. The other part, the one she keeps close- thinks that he doesn’t want her to see him as the monster he truly is. As if she didn’t already fucking know.

She gets a twisted sense of satisfaction at the knowledge that he may care what she thinks of him. She had conditioned him that way after all.

Unlike her sister, Astoria had managed to keep her hands clean. She didn’t need to serve by enacting bloodshed, she served by admiration.

It was difficult to muster admiration in the face of torture.

Her glass was empty by the time Umbridge explained the final task. A trial of fear. Another semicircle of black salt on the far right. A locked chest at its centre. A Boggart.

How stunningly original.

The Champions had two minutes to lock the Boggart back in the box, though they were unable to cast the Riddikulus charm- the only spell known to defend against the creature.

It was a pass or fail and ultimately a sham. This was an excuse to see the fears of their Champions competitors so they could use it against them.

Astoria didn’t care much for any of this, but she sat up straighter anyway, knowing that Draco needed every bit of intel he could get to improve Granger's chances.

“What do you think my dear?” The Dark Lord’s slimy hiss caressing her ear.

She relaxed into his shoulder, forcing a radiant smile. “It’s exciting isn’t it?” She whispered excitedly.

He swiped her cheek affectionately, sharp nails dragging along her skin. “I’m glad you think so.” He mused, leaning back to sip his wine.

Astoria angled her body near him while he whispered to Draco, straining to catch the words.

Her attempts were interrupted by the announcement of the first Champion, Dennis Creevy.

Her heart shuddered.

Dennis was in the same year she was at Hogwarts. They took Care of Magical Creatures together. In third year they were studying one of Hagrid’s Threstrals- a pregnant mare that none of them could see.

Astoria thought there may have been no mare at all, a joke being played on the students by the half-giant. But one day class was cancelled and Hagrid disappeared for an entire week. When he returned, he tearfully announced that the mare had a stillbirth and that unfortunately, their upcoming assessment on the foal was no longer needed.

Everyone in the class was delighted that their assessment was cancelled. Everyone except Dennis, who broke down and cried uncontrollably.

At the time, Astoria struggled to understand why the boy grieved for a creature he couldn’t see, and a baby that never lived. Astoria had never known people could be that compassionate.

She saw none of that compassion as Dennis first entered the courtyard. He was a man now, tall and scruffy. Riddled with nerves and yet his eyes held a sharpness in them that looked foreign on his youthful face.

Dolohov entered the Courtyard, whispering aggressively to his Champion as he activated the Dennis’s wand.

It all happened so quickly.

The moment Dolohov exited the courtyard the statues came to life and began their assault on Dennis.

The wizard moved clumsily at first, caught off guard by the sheer number of them, before settling into a rhythm. He ducked and weaved curses, firing hexes and spells in rapid succession.

He was good, better than her at least. Though Astoria was not the best judge. Her sister watched on with boredom, Blaise stretched his neck and Voldemort didn’t even glance up from his continued conversation with Draco.

When the last statue fell, Dennis wobbled on his feet. His robes were torn and a gash wept on his forehead, but he was still standing nevertheless.

A pass then.

Astoria kept her eyes down for the next part, bile rising in her throat. She tried to look at anything, anywhere. Anything but the boy she knew in front of her, screaming as his hand made contact with the stone. He held on as long as he could, saw it in the way he gripped the dark surface with all his strength. But his legs gave way, pulling his hand from the stone. Another scream rose up- his Collateral, Cormac Mclaggen.

Despite being no longer under torture, Dennis continued to scream as he watched his Collateral suffer for his failures.

For Dennis, poor compassionate Dennis, this was the real torture.

The crowd cheered and clapped as the screaming stopped, roused up by the violence. Astoria clapped along politely, wondering how on earth she was supposed to sit through fourteen more of those.

Another tray whisked past. Another glass locked in her grasp.

Dennis entered the last task still sobbing, Cormac's limp form being dragged out of the courtyard.

The Boggart morphed quickly, changing into bodies she did not recognise. A blond boy with a broken camera. A woman whose lower half was missing. The mutilated corpse of another Champion, the girl with the dull auburn hair, rising from a grave to accuse the wizard of failing to save her.

The wizard just sobbed in a crumpled heap until the time was up. He didn’t even look up as his wand was taken and he was dragged away.

The Dark Lord rose, gesturing for Umbridge and Bagman to join him in the far corner. Their heads bowed in submission as he whispered to them out of earshot.

Pansy came over in a rush, “Ok I got the elves to get some crackers” she blurted. “How’s the wine? Do we need more? Which one is he-“

“Shut up Pansy,” Daphne interrupted coldly.

Pansy blanched. “Excuse me?”

The witch's face shifted from indignation to anger to shock as she stared down at her friends. Upon seeing their serious expression she stepped back, suddenly unsure of herself.

“That bad?” Pansy asked, glancing behind her at the empty courtyard.

Astoria closed her eyes, fighting against Dennis’s screams echoing on loop in her mind.

“Pans?” Astoria murmured gently. “Why don’t you go sit in the kitchen with the elves? You don’t need to be here.”

Pansy shifted on her feet, eyes flashing. “No” she replied, raising her chin in defiance. “I’ll stay here with you.”

“Pans” Blaise warned.

“No” Pansy snapped. “I’m sick of you four leaving me out. Just cause I’m not a Scion doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to be here.”

Astoria sighed. “It’s not that. This isn’t-“

“Pansy, go sit at the back” Draco interrupted, his voice leaving no room for discussion.

“But-“

“That’s an order” he snapped.

Pansy’s eyes filled with tears. “Fine” she hissed, storming off in a huff.

Astoria bit her tongue to prevent her from calling after her. She wanted nothing more than to chase the witch and console her. Leave this place and argue over silly things like crackers and cheese.

But she had a duty to be here. Pansy didn’t.

Pansy had the freedom to leave.

The trials resumed in earnest and all Astoria could do was sit and watch. A practised smile sat stiffly on her face, causing her cheeks to ache.

Seamus Finnegan went next. Then Padma, or was it Parvati? Followed by George Weasley.

All duelled ferociously, using a mix of light and dark magic.

Their second trial passed in a chorus of wails and screams- none were able to even pass the three-minute mark.

Seamus was forced to touch the stone anyway, despite having no Collateral to be used against him. Whatever Bellatrix had threatened him with as she’d handed him back his wand must have been motivation enough.

Astoria put most of her focus on the last trial, the one that offered the most insight. She noticed the other Scions, and the Dark Lord himself, halt their chatter to watch intently.

No one was willing to waste the opportunity to find out the Champion's weaknesses.

Seamus was relatively predictable- the recurring vision of Dean Thomas being lit up in green.

The twin, Padma apparently, stared down a man with eyes just like hers. Though they were cold and empty as he threw tumblers and empty bottles in a rage.

George Weasleys was the most disturbing so far. Across from him stood burning children with torn limbs. They didn’t speak, didn’t even move. Just watched him watching them burn.

They all failed to defeat the boggart.

By the time the next Champion was called forth, Astoria was dizzy with nausea. The mix of champagne and dread decimating her stomach.

She couldn’t understand how Daphne did it. How she could look so bored. How she could watch without consequence. Without conscience.

Had she really become so desensitized over the years? How had she not seen it?

She thought her sister was strong. She thought Daphne hid her horror from her, that she broke behind closed doors like the rest of them.

But perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps Astoria was wrong.

Perhaps Daphne was as she always presented. Perfect and poised. Her back straight even when no one was watching, just as Astoria had seen when she was little.

Eye sockets dry as she watched people break.

Astoria couldn’t tear her gaze away as the fifth Champion entered. The one from Dennis’s boggart, a young woman named Susan.

Astoria had never heard of the witch before the tournament, a lower-level member of The Order. But she must’ve had something about her if the Goblet had chosen her name.

As her trial began, Astoria realized that almost no one- except herself and Macnair- were paying attention. The chatter grew increasingly loud, wizards and witches getting out of their seats to mingle and eat.

It was like they had tuned out already.

Susan to her credit, completed her trials with excellence. The best Astoria had seen so far. The witch used the barrier to deflect spells during her duel, curses ricocheting and hitting the statues without warning.

She lasted three minutes and twenty seconds on the stone. Almost a full minute ahead of the others.

She even managed to defeat her boggart, using a binding spell to wrestle the copy of the Dark Lord, before levitating it back into the chest.

And yet, no one seemed to care.

The witch was unrecognisable and unimportant. And with a lower-ranked Scion like Macnair, she wasn’t a serious contender for the Tournament.

The Dark Lord merely glanced in her direction as she bested his lookalike.

“All right?” Draco hedged as Susan was escorted out.

“Fine” Astoria muttered, raising her glass only to find it empty.

He gave her a doubtful look but mercifully stayed silent.

“Champion, Theodore Nott. Scion, Astoria Greengrass” Umbridge announced.

A pit opened up in her chest and Astoria very nearly fell through.

Daphne stiffened beside her as their childhood friend entered the courtyard. Blaise remained impressively blank, eyes tracking the figure as he approached.

The Dark Lord turned warmly, smiling at her in encouragement as all heads turned towards her expectantly.

Astoria stood on wobbly legs, Draco’s hand gently nudging her back.

“You can do this” he murmured quietly.

Drowning in dread, Astoria passed through the barrier and walked towards Theodore Nott.

Whilst outwardly, she knew she looked calm, inside she was screaming. Her nerves blurred her vision and Astoria couldn’t even bring herself to make eye contact with her Champion and he held out his wand.

She stared at his outstretched hand, scars dusting his knuckles. She wondered when that had happened, how he had got them. If they first appeared mere months ago or the day he had left.

There were no warning signs that she had seen. That same morning they had eaten breakfast together, debating the proper sugar-to-tea ratio at the same table as her parents. He seemed fine. Happy even.

She wondered if he had already planned to leave that night- if he knew that it was the last time he’d see her.

How had she not known?

She snatched the wand out of his hands, movements hurried as she muttered the incantation to unrestrict his wand. The bond tethering his Python and wand to her hummed, a rush of magic whizzing through her.

Wanting to leave, Astoria thrust the wand back into his hand, her thumb brushing his palm. A small jolt passed between them where their skin made contact and Astoria had to bite down a gasp.

“Thank you” Theo intoned politely. His voice was soft but it cut her like a knife. The familiarity.

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Astoria returned to her seat. Heart heavy and head spinning.

He smelled the same. How could he still smell the same?

Oak and freshly washed linen. Dull notes of singed wood and firewhisky. A warmth that lingered long after the source was gone.

And Merlin did it hurt.

Astoria did not react as the Dark Lord guided her back to her seat, his cold hand scratchy against the thin fabric of her dress.

He sat next to her, chin tipped in haughtiness. She belongs to me, it said. His little pet.

A hush fell over the crowd as Theo stepped into the first circle. He palmed his wand lazily, an air of indifference circulating around his body. There were plenty here that had seen the Champion in action. Even more that had heard the stories.

Theo was infamous long before his betrayal. It had only taken him a year to break into the Dark Lords inner circle, and another three months to be promoted to a Silver Ring. An astounding feat for one so young. The ink on his wrist had barely dried when he made his first kill.

There were only ever five within the Silver Rings. The Dark Lord's most ruthless fighters. Bellatrix was promoted first. Followed by Nott Senior and Rodolphus Lestrange. Draco came next, surprising everyone at the time.

And then finally, Theo.

“Begin” Umbridge announced.

Theo struck before the statues even took a step. He was a blur, twisting and turning as sparks flew out his wand.

“Bombarda!” “Aguamenti” “Confringo!”

He was faster than she remembered. Stronger. He weaved spells she didn’t even recognise, cast curses without uttering them out loud.

The statues were obliterated in less than a minute, leaving nothing but a pile of rocks.

The wizard swiped at a lock of hair that had fallen in front of his face, breathing steady as he twirled his wand.

He tapped his foot impatiently as the crowd murmured, eyes searching before landing on her.

He smiled.

He smiled like nothing had changed. Like they were friends. Like he hadn’t just destroyed her all over again.

“Prick” Daphne muttered.

Blaise raised his glass in agreement, tipping the remaining contents down his throat.

Astoria managed to turn her eyes away from her Champion, a lump in her throat. She cast a quick look to the Dark Lord beside her only to find him watching her intently.

She offered a quick smile and an eye roll. Dismissing Theo’s smile as if it was nothing more than a poor show of intimidation.

The Dark Lord maintained her gaze for several seconds, before turning back to the courtyard. She held in her sigh of relief. Whatever test that had been, she’d passed. 

At Umbridge’s command, Theo entered the figure eight to begin the second trial, turning to face a quivering muggle. From her vantage point, Astoria couldn’t see his face- but his shuddering shoulders and trembling legs told her that he was crying.

If she hadn’t been told that this man was Harry Potter's cousin she would never have guessed. He was opposite to Potter in every way. Short, pudgy- clearly a coward. As he fell to his knees and pleaded with Theo she realized not even dignity resided in his muggle blood.

Theo did not hesitate when the trial commenced. He marched towards the stone, arms outstretched, and Astoria swore her heart stop.

His index finger grazed the stone, his arm twitched and then fell back to his side once more. Astoria thought he must have moved it at the last second, needing a moment to collect himself. But the muggles screams pierced the air.

Theo had touch the stone, but only for a second.

He was content to wait out the remaining time watching the torture of the man he’d condemned

Laughter broke out in the rows behind her as they revelled in the Muggles torture. Astoria saw grins all round, some rushing forward to get a closer look. She forced a chuckle from her own throat and it tasted like bile.

Most of the Scions remained silent, having witnessed torture almost everyday had the tendency to suck the fun out of things.

Only a handful of faces, press and visiting pureblood families mostly, turned a slight shade of green.

They were not used to the torture.

Neither was she, but she had a part to play. So she finished her drink and forced herself to watch the depravity.

The muggle lost consciousness around the two minute mark, a wet stain spreading across his trousers.

Theo just stood there. Hands in pockets. Head cocked to the side.

Watching.

Astoria didn’t know why that in itself disturbed her more than anything. It was so far removed from the Theo she had known. He was a boy full of warmth . Preferring books over quidditch, words over fists, kindness over cruelty.

He was never a monster. Not to her.

She had heard all about his efficiency in battle. Seen the blood on his robes. She was even present at his inauguration into the Silver Rings.

Yet these events did not correlate in her mind. There was a disconnect. A split.

There was the Theo that she knew and the Theo that she didn’t.

But she got the real one, the other wasn’t real. She didn’t see it so it didn’t exist.

Theo was kind.

Even after his betrayal, she held onto the belief that he would be back. It was all just some big misunderstanding.

He was kind.

He wouldn’t leave them. He wouldn’t abandon her.

He was kind.

It was the other Theo that had left. Her Theo would come back. He would come back. He would come back.

But he didn’t.

And it had cost them everything.

It had taken her a long, long time to reconcile with that fact. Yet a part of her still held on to the belief that he had a good reason.

Because Theo was kind.

But when the trial ended and he walked to the final circle, Theo didn’t look back. Not even when the muggle's unconscious body was dragged away, blood gushing from his nose and ears.

He didn’t look back.

Astoria shrunk into herself then, letting the sounds and images blur into muted colours and white noise.

She felt nothing as the latched lifted and the Boggart burst forth. Did not hear the cries of surprise as her Champion casted a spell that plunged himself and his still shifting Boggart into a cloud of darkness. Did not react as the black cleared, revealing the wizard perched on the now sealed trunk.

Groans of disappointment echoed far away as she entered the courtyard. He passed her his wand, she muttered the spell. She thought she heard him say something.

Did he say something?

She ignored it and passed him back his now restricted wand, taking care not to touch him this time.

She turned and walked away as the guards came to collect him.

She didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Longbottom. Chang. Finch-Fletchley.

First Trial. Pass.

Second Trial. Fail.

Third Trial. Fail.

Fighting. Torture. Tears.

Cries of guilt and morphing faces of dead and dying loved ones.

Astoria didn’t think she could handle much more.

Lovegood came and went, turning the statues into rotting wood one by one. An unfamiliar spell she repeated until there were no more left. Boring, but effective.

The witch had adopted the same approach as Theo, despite not seeing any of the Champions who came before her. She at least had the decency to place her whole palm on the stone before rapidly drawing it away.

The third trial was extraordinary. What strength she had saved from abstaining from the second trial meant she could cast a ferocious Incendio. So powerful Astoria had initially thought it was Fiendfyre. The Boggart was struck by the wave of heat as soon as the lid lifted, prompting the creature to smartly drop the lid back down- as if it couldn’t be bothered to even attempt to frighten the witch.

But the lid had opened. The witch had passed.

Ginny Weasley came next. It was difficult for Astoria to grasp the concept that the witch was mere feet away from her. Ginny Weasley had become something of a living legend. Lover of Harry Potter. Killer of men. Ruthless on the battlefield.

Astoria had never seen her fight of course, but she had heard the rumours.

Ginny Weasley was merciless.

The witch quickly confirmed that it was true. She wielded her wand as if it was an extension of herself, effortlessly cursing and hexing the statues with fluid movements. Her spellwork was less showy than Theo’s, but she didn’t need to perform. Dispatching her opponents with nothing but the basics, Weasley dueled with razor-sharp focus. She could have perhaps rivalled even Draco, if not for his advantage as a Legilimens.

It was over quickly.

Astoria cast a look at Greyback, who looked on smugly. It was almost a given now that his Champion would score in the top three.

Astoria thought the werewolf must be feeling a little smug. He had been the next pick to replace Theo in the Silver Rings after his betrayal. But the Dark Lord had left the spot vacated, opting to leave Greyback behind in the outer edges of the inner circle, despite the years of service.

The wolf was furious, though she didn’t know why he was surprised. He was a creature. Creatures did not stand above wizards. The Dark Lord would never have allowed him to lead his followers.

The Tournament was Greybacks way in, and Ginny Weasley was his golden ticket.

A high-pitched cry pulled Astoria’s attention back towards the courtyard. Guards dragged in a tiny body with shifting coloured hair, his little legs kicking wildly as they tossed him into the figure eight.

“Teddy!” Weasley screamed, rushing towards him.

Oh no. Oh no no no no.

“Ma!” The boy sobbed, banging his little fist against the invisible barrier separating them.

The witch fought desperately to get to him, but the shield was immune to every spell she cast.

To her growing horror, Umbridge announced the rules for the second trial.

The witch collapsed sobbing, ranking her nails into the ground as she tried to dig her way beneath the barrier.

Astoria had never seen such a desperate act. A witch, with a full understanding of the laws of magic, resorting to primitive muggle means.

Magical barriers could not be dug out. Weasley knew this.

Yet she clawed at the stone floor anyway. Clawed until her fingers bled.

Clawed at nothing as Umbridge levitated her into the other end of the figure eight.

Astoria couldn’t do it. Not this. Not a kid.

“Mama!”

Her body moved without thinking, an unknown force driving her upwards.

“What are you doing” Daphne hissed, clutching her dress to pull her back down.

But Astoria stood, finding herself not the only one.

Several foreign dignitaries rushed out of the viewing room, faces ashen as they clutched their stomachs. Other spectators cried out in protest, pleading for the trial not to go ahead.

Their shouts overlapped each other, a steady stream of opposition merging with the cries of the doomed child.

“You cannot do this!”

“He’s just a child-”

“Stop! Stop this-”

One woman screaming obscenities was snatched by two guards who dragged her forcefully from the room. Another took her place, her cries cut short as her husband clamped his palm over her mouth. His eyes bludged with panic as more guards approached and he clumsily pulled his wife behind him.

“She didn’t mean it!” He stammered in a thick German accent.

But the damage was done.

One by one, every witch and wizard who uttered a sound was pulled away, until it was only Astoria who remained standing.

Weasley and the boy kept screaming for one another, the trial mere seconds away.

Astoria turned slowly, a wayward tear slipping down her cheek. She looked down at him then, the monster she had tamed, and breathed a single word.

“Please.”

The Dark Lord's gaze was empty as he stared back at her and Astoria felt the lungs of all remaining occupants hold their breath.

Saying nothing, he turned his head back to the courtyard. The message clear.

Dismissed.

The witch heard her sister's sharp exhale as her hand let go of the bunched fabric of Astorias dress.

Daphne did not look at her as she walked away. To side with her sister was a death sentence. She did not carry the same luxury of favour that Astoria did.

Blaise twitched as she turned as if he wanted to reach for her.

Draco remained still as stone. His eyes were as vacant as his master’s.

With her back straight and legs wobbling, Astoria shakily made her exit. She eyed the remaining guards who watched her pass impassively. With tense shoulders, she waited for them to pounce. The Dark Lord to give a signal. A jet of red.

Anything.

But she fled intact, sidestepping at the last minute to narrowly avoid Narcissa Malfoy watching silently by the door. The witch was almost a shadow, blending in with the archway.

The Matriarch lived with her back against walls these days, as if afraid someone would come up behind her. What was once the jewel of high society was now a fallen woman. Astoria could not remember the last time the witch had drawn any kind of attention to herself.

Their eyes locked for a moment, a mirror image of what once was and what could be, before Astoria dipped out of sight.

Finally, able to breathe, Astoria stumbled along the hallway. The boys sobs getting further away. The cries of those taken getting louder.

A woman screaming in agony.

Astoria didn’t know where to go.

She rounded the corner to see a familiar door, one that led to the girl's lavatory. She had cried in there once, having found out that her year had not met the age requirements to attend the Yule Ball.

Such a trivial thing to cry about.

Barging through the doors, she hurried over to the bathroom sink and plunged her hands into the cold water. She splashed her face repeatedly as if she could wash away the things she had seen. The sounds that followed her.

The clink of a glass echoed behind her and she turned around, startled.

“Didn’t think you would join me” Pansy slurred, a bottle of red in her hand as she perched next to the basin.

The witch was obviously drunk. Again.

Pansy’s sleek bob was ruffled as if she had raked her hands through her scalp. It was the only indication that the witch was off-kilter, her makeup as pristine as it always was.

She patted the spot beside her, bottle outstretched.

“Had enough did you?” She smirked, though it wavered on her face.

Astoria took the bottle, chugging it back before hiking her skirts up and perching beside the drunk woman.

She thought she heard coughing come from one of the bathroom stalls. The sound of wet chunks meeting water echoed through the large bathroom.

The two sat in silence for a while, passing the bottle back and forth as the mystery occupant continued to heave up the contents of their stomach.

Pansy broke the silence.

“They brought out the kid didn’t they?” She asked, her voice serious.

Astoria nodded, unable to put it into words.

The retching grew louder, its source choking and spluttering.

“Who is that?” She asked.

Pansy just shrugged. “No idea. Been in there a while.”

Astoria swallowed her hum with a hearty swallow, tilting the bottle towards the ceiling. Warmth bubbled in her belly, the buzz of alcohol numbing the emotional wound left by the trials.

She cursed her Master for choosing her as a Scion. The witch could be influential but she was no leader. Surely he knew that.

So why was she here? Why, after all these years, had he decided that now was the time for her to join the fray? To stain her with red after taking such care in keeping her clean?

If this was another test, she knew she would fail it.

With a wave of her hand, Pansy summoned a platter of cheese and crackers and held out the tray.

Astoria huffed a laugh. “You know that the Dark Lord doesn’t like cheese, right?”

The witch leant back in a faux show of indignation, barely contained mirth brightening her eyes. “You bitch” she gasped. “He could have killed me for that you know.”

“What, for adding more cheese to the buffet?”

“And crackers” Pansy whispered like it was some dirty secret.

The girls fell into a fit of drunken hysterics, doubling over and clutching their stomachs. Tears streamed down Astoria’s face, her body shuddering.

It took her several moments to realise that sometime in between her laughter she had begun to cry.

Pansy fell silent beside her, a soft hand rubbing circles into her back.

“I don’t think I can do this” Astoria choked, and she hated herself for it. For not being able to sit through a few hours of what the others had endured for years. For growing soft under his favour.

“You can” Pansy reassured her simply as if she truly believed it.

They fell into silence once more, guilt clinging to them like stale smoke. Down the hallway their schoolmates, a child, were being tortured publicly- while they had hid in the bathroom drowning in wine.

A heiress who has been shielded by her father comforting what is arguably the most privileged woman in all of Britain, crying over precarious positions others would kill for.

Turning their heads from the reality of the world they helped build.

The sound of a rusted lock turning snapped the girls to attention, and there- at the far end of the bathroom- shuffled a pale and dishevelled Rita Skeeter.

The infamous reporter quietly approached the basin next to Pansy and began washing her hands. They tremored faintly beneath the water, the usually perky witch keeping her head down as her hands lay limp, Rita’s mind clearly elsewhere.

Astoria couldn’t help but stare at the streak of vomit soaked into her sleeve.

It seemed the girls were not the only ones who were caught off guard by the horrors of the trials.

Pansy sighed softly before holding out a dry cracker towards the vacant witch. A peace offering of sorts.

“It will help settle your stomach” she insisted, uncharacteristically caring towards the witch she had deemed her professional nemesis.

Rita took the offering and nibbled on it lightly, her smeared lipstick staining its surface. When she had finished, Pansy gave her another and conjured a glass of water.

The three women anchored themselves there between the sinks as the hours went by. Two perched on the counter, one leaning against it. Alternating offerings of wine, water and cheese-covered crackers.

Pass and swallow, pass and swallow.

Perhaps if they consumed enough they might feel whole.

“Astoria” a sharp voice called from the entrance.

The witch hopped off the counter quickly, recognising the voice but not the tone.

Narcissa Malfoy stood in the entrance, a step to the side and her back to the wall. Hands folded and chin high.

“Time to return” she coaxed, her words louder and more commanding than she had heard before.

“Are the trails over?” Astoria asked hopefully.

The witch shook her head.

Astoria blinked in confusion. “I- has he asked for me Mrs Malfoy?”

Narcissa, warm loving Narcissa, stared down coldly at the witch.“Not to my knowledge no. But you will return anyway and beg for his forgiveness.”

“I can’t,” Astoria replied automatically, defensive without really understanding why.

Narcissa never spoke to her this way. Not to anyone. Not in years.

“You can and you will” the matriarch snapped.

Astoria shook her head. “I cannot stomach it. I can’t watch-“

“There are many in that room that cannot stomach the things we have seen. Not all of us have the luxury to simply leave during acts we deem offensive.” Narcissa interrupted coldly.

“The boy-“

“The boy is fine. When the Weasley girl collapsed he was not harmed. The curse was not passed on. Whether this exception was granted before the trial began or because of your request I do not know. But just in case it is the latter, you will return” she hissed with conviction. “You will beg for the Dark Lords' forgiveness and you will sit and watch with all the others as Miss Granger is called forth.”

Astoria laughed in disbelief. “You honestly think that I can sway the Dark Lord to- what? Better Grangers chances?”

“To request the things only you can ask.”

“You more than anyone knows that the Dark Lord does not offer mercy,” Astoria snapped, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth.

Narcissa’s blue eyes turned to winter. “I know that the metamorphosis boy was spared, a miracle that was only brought about when you stood.”

Astoria heaved a sigh, already feeling herself faltering under the witches penetrating stare. “My influence only extends so far.”

“You have been fortunate enough to avoid getting your hands dirty throughout this war Miss Greengrass” Narcissa chastised. “But if Draco is to win, and I know you want him to win- you are going to have to do more than-“

“Everything alright here?” Pansy called. Astoria turned to find her friend standing with her arms crossed. Rita took a position beside her.

“Yes,” Astoria reassured. “Yes, I was just leaving.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Where are you going?”

Astoria stole a glance at Narcissa, a woman whose fire had returned from the brink of extinction. A witch with only one thing left to lose.

A mother protecting her son.

Astoria was already exiting the bathroom when she spoke.

“Granger’s Trial.”

Chapter Text

Hermione’s nausea increased tenfold as the guards opened the door to the courtyard. She took in the ineligible chatter and pearls of laughter, watching the colourful crowd mix and mingle with confusion.

She had stumbled into a party, not a trial.

The guards escorted her to stand in front of a line of statues before quickly exiting the dome.

Hermione waited.

After several moments, she heard Umbridge’s high-pitched announcement muffled on the other side of the dome.

“Champion, Hermione Granger. Scion, Draco Malfoy.”

The crowd parted for Malfoy as he strode forth and passed seamlessly through the dome’s translucent barrier. The wizard stalked towards her in his black formal robes, face neutral as he zeroed in on his Champion.

He looked as put together as he usually did, though his under-eyes bled the faintest shade of purple. Somehow, it made him look more human. As if he was as tired as she was. Already exhausted by a game that hadn’t even begun.

“Wand” he snapped, hand outstretched.

She stared at his palm blankly.

“Merlin’s sake” he muttered, wandlessly summoning her wand from her robe pocket.

She watched numbly as he murmured an incantation under his breath, casting her wand in a faint green glow before extending it back to her.

It seemed so small. Simple. Unassuming in his large hands. But she knew what power that wand had wielded in her hands. The life it had taken.

She didn’t want to touch it.

This wand was useless against the enemy. Against Malfoy and the barrier protecting her captors. Its danger was only directed at her fellow champions. Those not bearing the Dark Mark. Innocents.

It represented everything she hated about them. About herself.

No. She wouldn’t touch it.

Malfoy glowered at her with thinly veiled frustration.

“Granger” he snapped, pushing the wand to her chest.

She left her hands by her side as the wand dropped to her feet.

He exhaled through his nostrils, closing his eyes. When he opened them, his face was once against a placid mask. It was only then, that he took in her clean face and dark robes.

She could have sworn he looked at her with something close to approval.

“Suit yourself” he drawled, before exiting the arena.

She tracked his movements, watching as he returned to his seat next to Voldemort and the Greengrass sisters.

Voldemort returned her stare as the younger sister whispered in his ear. He eyed her with anticipation, waiting for her to put on a show. A monkey in a circus.

Anger rushed through her, and she tampered down the flair of magic that threatened to spill out.

If it was a show he wanted then she would not give him one.

“Miss Granger, your first trial is skill. Your magical restrictions have been temporarily lifted. Points will be rewarded based on your duelling ability and the time it takes for you to eradicate your attackers” Umbridge explained.

“Begin.”

She heard the creak of stone as the statues came to life, but she did not turn to face them.

The first hex caught her off guard, slicing into her shoulder and causing her to stumble half a step forward. She righted her footing and remained upright, fixing her gaze to the red eyes in the crowd.

A flurry of hexes and curses struck her exposed back, the smell of burning flesh and copper filled her nostrils. She felt warmth drip down her shoulders to her legs, sticking the robes to her backside.

Still, she did not break her stare.

It was almost cathartic, the physical pain alleviating the gaping emotional wound Susan had opened last night. She had been forced to recognise the hole in her soul, its torn chasm undeniable and festering. She didn’t quite know what to do with it yet, how she would even go about sewing it back together. For so long she had just patched it haphazardly with pain and filth and cold. She didn’t know what to do, who she was, without it.

But she had promised Susan she would try. It would ensure, at the very least, that she would die as herself and not some empty shell of a human being.

The repeated assault from the statues made her question that promise. She was an addict and the injuries they were inflicting were her fix. The quiet the pain brought her bordered on bliss. There was nothing else. No fear, no grief, no Hermione Granger.

Just pain and a pair of red eyes.

Time began to bleed together. There were moments when a particularly strong curse threw her to the ground. But each time she would get up without a sound, resume her position. Stare.

She could easily cast a shield charm if she wanted to, or turn around and end this assault. But that was just it- she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to pick up her wand. She didn’t want to stop the attack. She didn’t want to play the game.

Voldemort's stare slowly morphed from excitement to curiosity to rage. No doubt frustrated at her defiance.

With the slash of his hands, the statues stopped, leaving Hermione in the stillness, her ragged breathing echoing with the blood roaring in her ears.

She watched as he summoned Malfoy to his side, speaking quietly.

Malfoy’s face appeared made of stone as he nodded submissively, bowing low before striding towards her once again.

The Greengrass girl- Astoria- clutched at her Master's arm desperately, her wide eyes pleading as she gestured to Malfoy’s retreating form. Voldemort shook the girl off, returning to his seat haughtily. A king on his throne.

Malfoy took position at one end of a figure eight composed entirely of black salt on the ground below, back facing the crowd.

With his shoulders back in resignation, he gestured for her to approach him. Hermione stumbled as her Python compelled her towards her master until she crossed the salt threshold.

A deep sense of foreboding flared in her chest, making her skin prickle with heat. Dark magic seemed to radiate from the ground, increasing in its intensity as she stood closer to the large crystallised rock at its centre.

Umbridge’s plump form huddled next to Voldemort, beady eyes bright with excitement as she nodded eagerly at the Dark Lords' words. Malfoy didn’t even bother to turn around, his steel gaze fixated intently on the rock between them as if waiting for it to strike.

He didn’t look at her either.

After what felt like eons, Umbridge’s bright voice echoed through the barrier.

“Despite the unique nature of Mr Malfoy’s status as both Scion and Collateral, we have decided to proceed with this trial as usual.”

Malfoy swallowed.

“Miss Granger, you will place your hand upon the Crutiorc. In doing so, it will simulate the Crutiatus Curse. This is a test of mental fortitude, the longer you keep your hand on the stone, the higher your score. This trial is five minutes in total. Removal of your hand before the time is up will switch the curse to your Collateral for the time remaining.”

Hermione blinked at the instructions. She could endure torture or let Malfoy endure it for her. Why would Voldemort give her this choice? Her decision was obvious.

“Current high score is four minutes, thirty-eight seconds.”

Hermione glanced between the ominous black rock and Malfoy. She could touch it for only a second and he would have to suffer for the remainder. It was almost laughable how easy it was.

“Begin.”

She stepped towards the rock, hand outstretched. Malfoy flinched- a minuscule movement. A twitch of his hand, a slight intake of breath, as her fingers hovered above the dark surface.

She paused.

Slowly raising her head, she locked eyes with Malfoy. She had expected to see anger, fear, a promise of retribution- but he just looked at her with calm acceptance.

It was enough to waver her. Enough to make her look at the pair of eyes over his shoulder.

Voldemort watched smugly, pleased with the whole affair despite his favourite protégé weeping silently beside him. His grin widened as their eyes met, a parent watching their child unwrap their gift on Christmas morning.

He, of all people, was not merciful. And she, the least deserving in his eyes.

No this was not about rewarding her. This was a punishment for Malfoy. For her refusal. For his inability to control his Champion.

But most of all, it was an exercise in his complete control. A display, a warning to everyone watching. His power was so absolute, even the great Mortifer would willingly agree to torture, simply because the Dark Lord commanded it.

It was a show of strength and she had very nearly pulled back the red curtains.

Always a stage. Always the showman.

And she, the puppet performing on strings.

With little time to think it through, Hermione slammed her hand down onto the stone.

Pain.

It was everywhere. Everything.

One second. Two. A year. A millenia.

Time meant nothing.

She forgot where she was, who she was, why this was happening. There was only this. Only pain.

Agonising, engulfing, glorious.

Hermione was full of flames. She was empty. She was everything in between.

Her limbs stiffened and shook, her lungs constructed. Blood roared.

The curse invaded her body. A virus tearing her apart cell by cell.

But she had overcome this sickness before.

Her body remembered it, her mind intimately familiar.

Humans were adaptable creatures after all.

“Four minutes remaining.”

Her spasming limbs subsided into tremors.

Her back straightened.

Her breathing steadied.

Slowly, Hermione opened her eyes.

Malfoy stared at her with bewilderment. Words echoed in her mind rapidly. Frantic.

The ringing in her ears faded.

“- the fuck are you doing!” Malfoy exclaimed, though his mouth did not move. His expression blank.

Hermione blinked at him, her muddied mind slowly clearing.

“Let go” he hissed and she realised then he was speaking inside her mind.

She glanced back down at the stone, dwarfing her rigid hand. Black veins weaved beneath her skin, trailing up her arms before disappearing beneath her flesh.

It was almost disturbing, if not for her reluctant fascination with such unique magic.

Had this stone already existed? Or was it made for this trial?

“- Granger!”

Her outstretched arm was dotted with red.

“Three minutes remaining.”

Dots became splatters which became rivulets.

She vacantly realised her nose was bleeding. Gushing. The wounds on her back tearing with each wave of magic coursing through her. The colour a stark contrast against her pale skin.

Red. How can one body produce so much of it?

“- let GO!”

She blinked back at Malfoy whose usual pale cheeks were tinged with pink. Outrage, confusion and a plea flickered rapidly across his face before smoothing into nothingness.

Understanding seeped through her.

Whatever strength the potions had given her, whatever improvements Healer Lewis had made were unravelling with each second her palm remained clasped to this rock.

She would be too weak to compete.

She would lose.

She would die. Malfoy would die.

Holding his gaze, she smiled at him. A wretched, crooked thing.

A hand left unshaken. A gloat to the losing team. Urine on a grave.

“Granger! Enough!”

Was she dying now?

She began to laugh. An uncontrollable, gurgling cackle.

“Two minutes remaining!”

Black spotted her vision, clouding the see of colour behind the barrier. The figures were on their feet. Silent. Bewitched.

Faces blurred together. Red eyes stared down at her murderously.

Red, red, red-

“- killing you. You have to let go.”

She couldn’t let go. How could she let go of them?

“One minute!”

The pain began to fade away. Her body floated.

Chessboards and rings and toothpaste and tents and brooms and baths-

Red morphed into green.

Someone was screaming. Or was it singing?

Swimming and walls and ice and prayers and red and green and red and green and red and red and red and-

“Time!”

Black.

.

.

.

.

Black.

.