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Chapter Text

Part one: The Hidden Place

Crimson droplets formed a stream of blood that started from the right corner of Hermione’s mouth and traveled down her neck. There were locks of hair stuck onto the side of her cheek with sweat, and the garments she wore, a beige jumper and denim trousers, were disheveled and torn. It could have been minutes, hours — even days since the torture began.

When she awoke, she became aware of the sensation of cold hardwood flooring against her back. It was uncomfortable enough to wake her. As she inhaled deeply to refill her lungs, a strangled noise escaped her throat in response, and each following breath was comparable to swallowing needles.

Hermione’s dilated eyes sprang open and focused on the high ceiling above her. Immediately, she closed them as she felt the echoes of her screams throughout her body.

Lifting her head, she stared down at her form to find that her arms and legs were extended in awkward, unnatural angles. She attempted to stretch her legs, but it triggered a bolt of pain that ran through her chest to her knees — so she paused.

She began to sway her lower limbs in small movements to loosen her tense muscles. It was a slow process, but eventually, she was able to lower her legs until they were flat against the floor; she repeated these steps until her arms rested on the ground.

With consciousness came a splitting headache that reminded her of the unrelenting assault she had endured, and it was further aggravated by the questions plaguing her mind. Inside her chest, a wail began to collect, but she held it in, stifling the sob, and swallowing it. Every second of her torture had been agony, and now her entire being was begging to cry out. But she wouldn’t dare until she was safe.

Craning her head up slightly, she noticed the drawing room was unlit and deserted. The little light in the room was moonlight let in from the diamond-paned windows; it reflected off a pair of exquisite crystalline chandeliers. The rest of the room had been cleared. All of the furniture, including a long table and a pipe organ, had been pushed against the walls. The door at the far end of the room was shut.

A heavy silence filled the room with a false sense of quietude. Any minute, Bellatrix could return and end the stillness; perhaps, she could even end her. Time was slipping away like sand through an hourglass, and she couldn’t be sure how long she had already been left alone.

The cold air prickled up her spine as Hermione sat up, incidentally digging her tailbone into the floor, and causing the back of her legs to collide against the hard material. A burst of energy coursed through her as she considered her next move.

Webs of thought wove together as she vigilantly recalled spells that she had spent endless hours poring over in preparation for the possibility of their capture. The information she had gathered came from many sources: borrowed from the Hogwarts collection, purchased from Flourish & Blott's over the years, lent to her from discreet sources in the wizarding world, and stolen from sources unmentionable.

According to several texts she had consulted, in case of the likely event that they were taken to a Death Eater’s residence, Malfoy Manor, just like many other traditional wizarding homes, was protected by complex blood-wards, rendering it nearly impenetrable to outsiders trying to access the grounds through most means of magical travel. But she had a strong inclination to believe that one method of transportation would remain viable if she could gain access or that at the very least, she could seek an alternative path of escape if there was one to be found.

Hermione’s research on the topic of elusion encompassed a multitude of subjects: established techniques of discerning traces of magical activity, approaches to detecting magical objects and artefacts, methods of discovering hidden passageways, the intricacies of magical transportation, and of course, the blood magic involved in the creation of familial wards.

During one of these study sessions in fifth year, she came across the topic of apertumency—a branch of magic related to occlumency. It was a rare skill among wizarding kind because of its time-consuming nature to master, and few authors went into detail about the practice, but she saw incredible potential in its use if she could get it right.

While occlumency closed off the mind from attack, the practice of apertumency sought the inverse effect. Unlike legilimency, the magic didn’t seek a particular objective outside of the mental boundaries of the user; if legilmency was like charging through the front line of an army, then apertumency was like leaving the earth’s gravity. To put it simply, an individual could learn to use apertumency to sense the frequency of magic in the atmosphere by reaching beyond the mind.

Several sources on these metaphysical forms of magic recommended that aspiring practitioners of apertumency become both legilimens and occlumens to lay the foundation for the mental fortitude that this skill demanded. As luck would have it, her knowledge wouldn’t remain theoretical. Last summer, Harry volunteered to share his limited knowledge and practice what he knew with her, and Hermione, the talented witch she was, caught on fast and outpaced him. Quickly, she became familiar with the rudimentary boundaries of her mind. She was no Severus Snape but sharpening one’s mind was essential to their survival if they ever got caught. And so, she built an endless library in her mind as she progressed as an occlumens.

When Hermione had finally begun attempting apertumency, it was not easy by any means, she spent most of her Christmas holiday in sixth year desperately trying to escape the confines of her mind. Eventually, she found the passage to the outside world.

Hermione had been profoundly determined that particular day, stalking through the maze, but there was no luck to be had so far until she saw a flash of bronze at the end of the room. As she got closer, her mind increasingly became consumed by the desire to exit the library, so by the time she reached the wall, a slim door with a polished handle appeared before her. It was locked. She muttered, "Alohomora" under her breath before opening the door to a room that served as an entrance to a turret.

Bounding up the staircase in excitement, Hermione quickly reached the top to find an empty room with a narrow window. Confusion took over her mind as she realized there was no other opening. Was she expected to go through there of all places? Nevertheless, she had a good feeling about this; something in her knew this was the place to be. The window was just big enough for her to fit through, so she pushed it open with all her strength.

Outside there was an endless expanse of onyx sky and a canopy of trees below. A biting wind blew through her hair, scattering the strands in all directions, across her face, causing her eyes to water. Climbing out of the window to sit on the ledge, she concentrated on opening her mind before uttering the words — Detego Exponentia. Then she let her mind drift into the wind as she fell.

It was unlike any feeling she had before; a part of her consciousness transcended beyond the physical as it sought out the frequency of magic. First, there was darkness and then the low hum of magic that existed throughout Grimmauld Place revealed itself. It was indiscernible at first, but eventually, Hermione learned the distinct frequency at which different curses, charms, and even potions existed in their natural states. In those early days, she used the existing magic within the house to learn.

So Hermione tilted her head back and once again found herself in the labyrinth. This time she landed amongst the shelves containing an extensive collection of tragedies. Her feet pounded down the plush Persian rug, and soon her hand reached out to grab the familiar door handle. Twisting roughly, she hurried up the spiral staircase despite her aching legs. She’d done this enough times, so when she finally reached the top of the staircase, she could leave without the hassle of jumping out of the window. Maybe one day she wouldn’t need this library.

Meanwhile down below, Hermione’s eyes had glazed over and lost all their color.

The surrounding space seemed to expand, darken, and then illuminate in the crevices that beat with the rhythm of magic; The walls and windows pulsed under the protection of the blood-wards, old portrait magic swirled in the same manner as a whirlpool, and the front door was shut by a simple locking charm.

Soundlessly, with a slight bend of the wrist an unlocking charm came to life. The sound of the gears turning was not unobtrusive in the least, however; wherever the death eaters were located, she doubted that would be the reason they came back for her.

Beyond the drawing room, the manor was a vast fortress. Four wings encompassed well-kept grounds, a complex system of staircases and lifts joined six floors, some above ground and others down below. Steadily, her mind roamed the main corridors in search of the unique vibration attributed to witches and wizards, alike.

Near the corridor leading to the cellar and main entryway there was a concentrated force of energy that lit up the space like constellations, dotting the pitch-black sky. The wizards were arranged in two flocks facing one another.

Soundlessly, Hermione thought: Audi Magnificare.

Instantly, the strangled, tense voices of the death eaters and snatchers swiftly came into focus.

“— Your place! A mongrel such as yourself has no grounds to demand payment from the Dark Lord’s most trusted followers,” echoed the voice of Lucius Malfoy.

A series of howls that mimicked laughter came from the werewolf. “Play nicely, Lucius,” replied the menacing voice of Greyback. The snatchers beside him guffawed and he continued slickly, “Did we not surrender the boy, his accomplices, and the sword? Did we not lock them up in the cellar without complaint?”

“We even left you the mudblood girl. You know how ‘e likes ‘em,” Scabior chimed in.

It would only be a matter of minutes before this argument caused a scuffle to break out.

“FILTHY HALF-BLOOD!!! You imbeciles know not what you speak of — how tenuous the situation is! There is no such prize regardless, but especially not if calling the Dark Lord sets his rage upon us! I must know where the sword came from,” said Bellatrix.

Narcissa stepped closer to Bellatrix and whispered, “Bella, perhaps the goblin could be of use. Draco could bring him to us.”

“Right you are, Cissy,” she paused. “Off you go then,” she hissed in the direction of her nephew.

The sound of footsteps retreated down the corridor. This was the time to seek a way out. There was no certainty that the compartment beneath the cellar hiding the Malfoy’s illegal artefacts would contain anything useful for her escape.

Greyback stepped forward, whilst his comrades flanked him, and growled lowly. “Frankly, I could give a dozen blast-ended skrewts about what you hoped to find out from the mudblood. It has nothing to do with us.”

It could even be possible that what had been hidden in the chamber had been stored elsewhere in the years that have passed since Draco had revealed that little tidbit to the polyjuiced boys in second year.

Bellatrix seemingly ignored Greyback’s insubordination, as if it was beneath her notice, and groaned in frustration. "You wouldn’t want her anyway Greyback, she’s broken! I tried to read her mind, but she hasn’t got one!” Then she giggled maniacally, impressed by her own sense of humour.

Withdrawing the focus from the main entrance, the hum of magic in the room grew louder. Focusing on the floorboards beneath her body, she sensed a faint thud that originated from the far end of the room, opposite the marble fireplace.

“Shut it, you lunatic!” Greyback howled. “We may be unaware of what the sword’s true purpose is or why it’s so important — but what we do know — is that you are afraid of him finding out that it was not where it was supposed to be. You lot will be blamed, not us. We will let him know of your incompetence if you don’t hand over twice the reward in gold.”

Thud.Thud.Thud. The frequency increased, like a heartbeat, as her mind slipped past the defenses of the solid floor. Underneath, there was an antechamber leading to a larger vault. There was an entire level beneath this one separating the drawing room from the cellar.

“Absolutely not! —” snarled Lucius.

Bellatrix cackled, interrupting him. “This is too good. Do you dare to threaten me? ME! His most trusted loyal servant. A fearsome pureblood witch from the noble and most ancient house of black — and you — well you’re a tool — a means to an end. How tragic.” Then there was a pause.

“Oh, there you are Draco. Place him there…before me at my feet so I can show you all how it’s done.” The sound of a smack resounded as a body hit the floor followed by a garbled screech.

An incredibly vast and formidable force of energy emanated from the chamber. The room below was filled with treasures, rows of charmed trinkets, and cursed objects, placed on shelves. There was so much to examine: a bracelet imbued with bonding spells, a blade inlaid with matrimonial charms and an emerald ring with an unknown purpose. They called out to her, practically begging to be studied, even as the strain of focusing on the task at hand became more strenuous.

Greyback responded icily, “That’s quite enough, Bellatrix. I’m not intimidated by you. I’ve been at large for quite a long time since you were a wee schoolgirl in skirts. Oh, I’m famished just thinking about it.”

Why had she been left alone? A sense of urgency overtook her as she realized they might have left her in a hurry, distracted by whatever commotion Greyback stirred, but they would soon realize their mistake. This was Hermione’s only chance to escape without drawing attention, but she couldn’t find it.

Bellatrix screeched in frustration. "Stop interrupting me! The show is just about to start!”

Her hands were shaking, and a bead of sweat ran down her forehead. What she sought was important and most likely wouldn’t have been left out in the open, so she abandoned her search on the third row of shelves. Perhaps, it was in a dark corner or a bottom shelf in the back.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to do this the hard way,” replied the werewolf.

At the very end of the vault, there was a familiar energy radiating from the bottom of a cabinet placed in the left corner. The energy was vivacious, pulsing, and extraordinary. It had to be a —

“You are the one who should be afraid,” Lucius broke in.

A portkey; that’s what she had been searching for; the perfect way to escape the manor without having to break any wards and trigger Voldemort’s followers. It was mere dumb luck that it was located amongst the Malfoy’s precious keepsakes in the chamber.

“Luring us out here, causing a ruckus, and that’s what you wanted all along?” Bellatrix cried.

In the din, Narcissa whispered, “Draco… leave now. She’s been left alone too long. Keep an eye on her.” Sharp footsteps started in the direction leading to the drawing room.

“A DUEL!” Bellatrix exclaimed incredulously as if her opponents were so far beneath her that she would never have expected such a request.

Adrenaline rushed into her body and made her heartbeat faster. Any minute now he would open the door.

“We didn’t come here to spar, but since you’re offering,” said one of the unnamed snatchers eagerly.

It suddenly felt hard to breathe and it was hard to think, but she lifted one hand and called out, “Accio portkey.”

“If you were willing to play fair, we could’ve gotten on just fine, don’t you think?” said another snatcher.

The relief that flooded her mind was instantaneous, and the magic was just as quick as the dense object forced its way out of the drawer and zoomed across the room toward the opening of the antechamber.

“You’re gravely mistaken!” Narcissa called out.

Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound could have been her own heartbeat, the portkey clanging against the floorboards, or even the ringing of his dress shoes against the marble floor, drawing closer and closer to the drawing room.

Lucius whispered, “Step behind me Cissa.”

Her fingers curled hard into a fist, turning her skin pink, and cutting off the circulation as she went through numerous spells mentally in a checklist: Alohomora, Bombarda, Aberto…No...No...No. The portkey continued to levitate right underneath the trap door. Of course, the vault was warded against mundane magic to keep intruders from procuring the treasures in the room. She broke the spell and let the enchanted object gently land on the floor.

“Have it your way then!” said Bellatrix. Suddenly, chaos broke out and explosive magic was emanating from wand cores in all directions.

Click clack. Click clack. Click clack. Hermione could hear the footsteps of her classmate echoing against the smooth stone floors down the hall. It was about time. The manor did take a considerable amount of time to navigate, but it seemed as if he was taking his sweet time, leisurely strolling through his own home.

Her mind began to spiral as she realized that this mission was at the end of its short lifespan. The best chance to get Ron, Harry, and herself out of captivity was to find a way out unseen and unheard. She wanted to yell in frustration, but instead, she sighed in disappointment, sagged her tense shoulders, and closed her eyes.

Malfoy’s footsteps gradually increased in volume as they neared the door. Outside, the voices at odds with one another seemed to dim in comparison to her labored breaths and the thud, thud, thud of his final footsteps before they fell silent. He waited far too long for Hermione’s liking.

The knob of the door twisted in one smooth, barely audible mechanical motion. A low, whining creak rang throughout the room as the door was pushed open just wide enough for him to slip through. One. Two. Three. The steel tip of his shoe met the marble floor, and the sound was sharp and loud. The footsteps ended there for what seemed like an eternity, as he indecisively calculated his next move.

She was sprawled on the floor, wild hair sticking out every which way, with a face as bloodless as a ghost. It was worth considering whether she was unconscious or not, so he headed in her direction to get a closer look.

Outside, the voices were indistinguishable from this distance, but the sound of explosions and voices roaring indicated they were preoccupied. His gait was steady, measured, and sure as the steel bottoms of his shoes. His steps continued to escalate in volume until the noise was so unbearable that she struggled not to flinch. She could hear his breath at this distance.

A presence loomed above her, and his stare punctured through her, pinning her in place. He cleared his throat, then surprisingly spoke to her, “Not so smart are you now, Granger?” Malfoy’s voice carried the same pompous tone that he used at Hogwarts with anyone he deemed below him. That was when a BANG rang throughout the manor from the corridor.

His body twisted away from her at that second, acting on instinct in response to the noise. Opening her eyes, she sat up on her knees, as quickly as her body would allow her, just as he was about to turn his head to look back at the source of the scuffling sound of her knees and sneakers grinding against the floor.

Raising a hand, an automatic movement left over from the familiarity of using a wand; she said forcefully, “Flipendo Maxima.”

For one moment, his back was to her, and he was still a silhouette clad in head-to-toe black: patent leather dress shoes, trousers, and a fitted coat with a dress shirt underneath as if it was any other day in his uppity life. His white-blonde hair — not as neat as it usually was. The next moment he was flung through the air backward, no noise coming out his mouth, as the oxygen was presumably knocked out his lungs, until his body landed on the ground with a sickening crunch as his head, back, and arms collided with the stone with a smack.

The expression on his face settled into a contorted expression as he landed painfully, limbs sprawled, without the breath to summon a cry. When his chest filled with air, a coughing fit began, and a trickle of blood appeared at the side of his mouth, which he promptly tried to wipe away. The heaving noise of his body attempting to regain a supply of oxygen echoed throughout the room, almost causing Hermione to flinch. A wet patch of red appeared on the side of his head; perhaps she didn’t intend for that much damage to be caused.

Walking steadily in his direction, with all the determination of an avenging angel, she stopped and peered down at him with a detached expression, just as he had done moments before. He was in anguish and she was a spectator; they had traded places as was fair, she thought. His coughing paused and gave him respite, then he looked up at her with a piercing glare and a scowl marring his features.

“For fuck’s —” he begins but ends up coughing again. “— Sake,” he spits out. “What was that —” he attempted to continue, but Hermione never let him finish.

“Locomotor Mortis,” she spoke over him with the clear intention of immobilizing his limbs. His legs came together and locked in position, while his arms joined together at the wrists above his head as if they were bound together by an invisible rope.

Malfoy’s brow furrowed as he gave her the most scathing look possible. “You’re out of your bloody mind!” he said.

“I’m in exactly the right state of mind, Malfoy. Now, shut it. You’re going to tell me how to open up the chamber underneath this room.”

“How do you? — never mind — Why would I tell you that?” he jeered. In a quieter tone, she could hear him say, “Savage mudblood.”

This time she bent down to her knees and gripped his lower face in her hand with enough pressure to cause him to grimace. “Listen, you absolute low-life. You’ll tell me because they cannot hear you, I made sure of that, mummy and daddy aren’t coming to save your pathetic arse, and I promise it will be worse if you do not comply.” It was true; just moments before she had casted a nonverbal muffiato in preparation for this confrontation.

For the moment his familiar expression of arrogance remained until a bit of fear crept into his eyes. Of course, he knew Hermione Granger had a demented streak, but she was his old classmate, she wouldn’t do anything too bad to him. Still, the last few years had warped his sense of safety, and he couldn’t trust that she wasn’t capable of monstrous actions as well.

Malfoy persisted, “I don’t know.”

“You do know.”

“What if I forgot?” he responded mockingly.

A rush of adrenaline entered her body wrought by rage. Clumsily, she dug out a pocket knife from her trousers, holding it unsteadily in her right hand, and she moved closer to his face, bringing down her left palm over his mouth. Panic entered his eyes once he realized what she was doing. He shook his head in a futile attempt to shake her off.

She ignored this and told him, “Useless as usual. We’ll have to experiment a little then.” As if they were talking about the best method of extracting juice from a sopophorous bean.

His protests were muffled as she pulled up his shirt sleeve from his left forearm and brought the sharp point of the blade to the fleshy part, away from any major veins and arteries, and nicked him, producing a vertical cut about an inch lengthwise.

The blood instantly flowed and dripped onto the shiny floors beneath them. As a droplet made contact with the floor, a two by two opening a few feet away was revealed as the floorboards rearranged themselves.

In awe of this magic, she let out a gasp, before bracing herself as she brought her will into existence by casting a summoning charm. The portkey sped towards her from the chamber underneath their feet and levitated above her outstretched hand. It was a magnificent silver box.

Distracted by this feat, her hand had lost its grip on his mouth, so he was able to bite down hard on her finger. She yelped, shuffling her feet backward. The portkey dropped with a clang and slid away from them with momentum. Malfoy was on his knees in the next second. Somehow the curse had worn off; either her magical strength had wavered, or he had found a way to counteract the spell nonverbally.

Hermione was already on her feet before she could stop herself, running towards the portkey on instinct before she could think accio. She pounced in the direction of the charmed object and clutched it in her hand victoriously before she realized that there was a strong grip wrapped around her upper arm; before she realized what she’d done.

They had already disappeared in the blink of an eye, hurdling through space, by the time the recognizable sensation of her stomach plummeting to the floor had registered.

Chapter Text

The bleak palette of the room blurred into grey, then shifted into a variety of colours as they accelerated. Bile had begun to burn Hermione’s throat, and an offensive wind dried her eyes of any moisture. A hand was wrapped securely around her upper left arm, stretching it to a painful degree behind her body; meanwhile, her other arm was preoccupied with clutching the portkey.

Earth approached rapidly as the weight of the unwanted passenger caused her to tip forward until she was diving down headfirst. Attempting to shield herself, she lifted her disengaged forearm to protect her head. Hermione collided brutally with the ground. The impact of the flooring against her chest took the majority of the blow. In this moment, pain was white lightning across the sky, blinding her to all other sights, and as all-encompassing as the sea.

Sometime later, she became aware that her right wrist throbbed angrily. It was bent at the joint; clearly, due to the collision. Had her bones been broken upon impact? She couldn’t know the full extent of her injuries at the moment, and that terrified her. Worst of all, she was struggling to breathe. She was pinned underneath something … no…someone. It was dark, and he was so heavy. It was only a matter of time before she began hyperventilating, if she couldn’t move him off her.

Summoning the will, she attempted to get him to move by shifting her body underneath him, but to no avail. “Get…off...me,” she hissed between her teeth. There was no response. Jamming one of her elbows into what she presumed was his side, he cried out, then rolled off her, landing in a heap with a loud thud.

The respite she had longed for came as she took the opportunity to take a deep breath. She carefully rolled over onto her back. The relief wouldn’t last long as she began to feel the damage sustained from the fall. A tear leaked from the side of her eye, but she refused to vocalize her pain in front of him. All she saw was a dark ceiling, but she heard Malfoy groaning from across the room.

It was completely silent in the room until she scoffed and said, “What are you moaning about? I broke your fall.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he hissed between his teeth.

“Of course, I did. I…couldn’t …breathe.” She broke into a coughing fit.

“I was going to get off in a second. Need I remind you that you assaulted me?” He sounded angry.

Hermione dismissed this. “Oh, please, I would have suffocated before then.”

In a low, irritated tone, he said, "Just shut up, Granger, let me be.”

Malfoy seemingly resumed his groaning and self-pitying in his corner of the room. So Hermione let him continue to do so and didn’t respond because this argument wasn’t getting them anywhere. They were both injured in an unknown place and scarcely had their wits about them to figure out where they were.

A few feet away in the dim light, she could scarcely make out the form of a woven straw bag. She grabbed the drawstring with one finger, straining her muscles to bring it closer. Grasping the handle, she brought the bag to her chest, toward her eyeline, and rummaged through the items with her uninjured arm.

In the darkness, she could see a sapphire blue bottle filled with essence of dittany. That would hardly be useful. Next to the dittany were bandages, iodine, and a bottle of painkillers. Hermione unscrewed the lid, placed three bitter pills on her tongue, and cast an Aguamenti charm to wash them down. It wouldn’t have any immediate effect at the current moment, but at least it was something; she was desperate at this point to relieve the pain.

The second bottle she pulled out from the bag contained a dreamless sleep potion. Admittedly, that would be quite useful to keep in mind for later. A graduated cylinder with a stopper full of basilisk venom came into view as she continued to scan the magical bag. Harry and Ron didn’t like her answer when they asked why she had brought that along.

A long sigh was released when she felt her hands wrap around the ridges of a bottle of Skele-Gro. She took it out of the bag, along with the bandages, and wrapped it around her wrist to create a makeshift splint. A diagnostic spell confirmed what she initially thought; it was a Colles fracture. She unscrewed the lid from the Skele-Gro bottle and squeezed a few drops of the potion onto her tongue. It would take hours to repair the fracture caused by the fall, but this was all she could accomplish now. She wasn’t a medi-witch. She was a teenager on a mission to kill the most evil dark wizard of their time.

The medicine, sour on her tongue, continued to linger well after she consumed it. Well, she had done the best she could for now. Carefully, she held her fractured wrist up to her chest, then she sat up. The room was wide and spacious. A sitting area was laid out in front of a brick-stone fireplace. On the opposite side of the room was a queen-sized bed draped in white, pristine ruffled bedding; Malfoy was huddled on the floor beneath it.

In the darkness, the only source of light came from the windows that displayed a darkening sky and stars that turned on slowly, one by one. There was just enough illumination for her to make out a sandy beach, and if she concentrated, she could hear the roaring of the ocean.

Adrenaline flooded her veins at the sound of the sea, merely a stone’s throw away. Wiltshire was in the uplands of south-west England, nowhere near the coastline. They had traveled far; who was to say that they were still in the country? This particular portkey had been created illegally: Meaning it had never been registered with the ministry, so it was not subject to the regular laws of international travel. They could be in the Caribbean for all she knew, and there would be no one the wiser about it.

Hermione paced across the room, ignoring the tremendous pain in her ankle every time she stepped forward, and reached the windowpane. Her hands turned pink as she gripped the edges, straining against the latch to lift it open. It wouldn’t budge a centimeter. She paced across the room again towards the window near the general area where she had landed. There she was met with the same problem.

Heat rose in her face as it flushed in rage. She whipped out her wand swiftly from its place tucked in the gap between the waistband of her trousers and pointed it towards a window. “BOMBARDA,” she yelled. Her strained voice sounded far away, as if it were not her own. If only that meant she was not really there at all.

The silence that followed was humiliating. The only noises in the room came from the waves gently crashing against the seashore and the collective sounds of their breathing. Malfoy didn’t react at all. There he was, still curled up in the corner like a coward, barely stirring. Was he asleep? Irritation fueled the flames of anger that had already been lit within her.

Pivoting on her foot, she locked in on her next target to the left.

“BOMBARDA MAXIMA!”

Sparks flew from her wand, then exploded into a puff of smoke. When the smoke cleared, the glass was completely intact.

She turned again in the direction of the bed. “EXPULSO,” she commanded. The following silence was maddening.

“REDUCTO! CONFRINGO!”

Again and again, she pivoted on the spot and went through every curse that could contain the force needed to blast the window open. A cold sweat had broken out on her scalp that seeped into her curls and caused them to stick to her forehead. Her back and underarms were drenched to an uncomfortable degree.

The sensation of coolness from the air meeting her wet skin contrasted with the rising heat in her face. She was a red-faced, pathetic fool, she thought. Hermione felt powerless at that moment. Humiliated in front of the enemy. Reduced to a muggle with all the good her magic did her at that moment.

Summoning a deep breath, she tried again. “ALOHOMORA!,” she cried. The blast of magic jetted forward and dissolved upon contact with the surface of the glass. As if whatever curse was holding them within this cage was absorbing the magic. Not reflecting, but absorbing. Interesting.

But not interesting enough to ruminate over the physics of it all. Letting out an earsplitting shriek, she marched across the room and blasted open the door to the left that led out of the room. The hinges creaked with the force of the spell. Behind the door was a small kitchenette complete with a gas stove, solid stone worktops, wooden cabinets, a decent-sized pantry, and a rounded dining table.

No exit was in sight, but there was a door to the left; It creaked open, surrendering to her magic. It led to a large bathroom with a ceramic tub, a shower, and a sink with a large glittering mirror. She saw her reflection in the dim light of the kitchen for the first time in months.

In the woods with Ron and Harry, the only time she saw her reflection was when wading through rivers to catch fish and gather water to drink. Well, she carried a tiny compact mirror that had once been her mother’s – a keepsake she had taken. But it was nothing compared to seeing her whole appearance.

Hermione’s face appeared less soft than it had been even a few months ago before she left Hogwarts. The hollows of her cheeks had begun to cave, and her cheekbones stood out more. Her undereyes appeared dark, and developed lines that reflected the lack of sleep and hydration that she had endured on the run. Her mouth was thinner; the lines of her face set in a frown.

She turned her back on the reflection of the tired woman. Leaving the bathroom and the kitchenette in a hurry, she stumbled back out to the vast room they had landed in. Hermione quickly scanned the room, desperate to find an exit, until her eyes landed on the wall to the left that led into darkness. Blood rushed to her ears as she followed this path down into a hallway that led to another door, presumably the front main entrance.

Leaning against the wall for support was all she could do to avoid stumbling over her feet— then she reached a dead end. Reaching forward, she felt a cool metal doorknob in her grip. It was locked. Of bloody course it was. Grabbing her wand tightly, she felt a pulse of magic run through her arm and out of the wand in the form of wicked blue lightning. And like all the other times she had tried to escape this hell, the magic disappeared upon contact with the door’s surface.

All of this was enough to drive her into a tempestuous rage. Hermione could hardly feel the pain as she kicked the door and slammed her fists into it with all her strength. It caused a ruckus, that’s for sure. Vision turning red, she emerged, stomping from the hallway. She hissed expletives under her breath, but she paused when she focused her gaze upon her only companion.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING???” she shrieked.

Malfoy was soundly asleep on the floor, with one arm propped beneath his head like a pillow. While she had been scouring the house like a madman, searching for an escape route, he had decided to do nothing in response.

“GET UP NOW OR I’LL HEX YOU,” Hermione shouted at him.

At that moment, as her voice filled the room, she felt the hairs on the back of her arms and neck stand up in response to static filling the space. The lights in the room, which had previously been hidden from her sight, flickered on and off before erupting into sparks and burning out. One of the light fixtures, close to his proximity, detached from the ceiling and smashed against the floor, scattering shards of glass in every direction.

Malfoy awoke with a startled expression. In the next second, he was on his hands and knees, pushing himself up and walking backward until he was supporting his weight against the bed. “What the fuck! Granger?” he said, as his chest heaved to catch his breath. His pupils were dilated, and his face had a wild, wide-eyed expression. Hermione didn’t hesitate. She crossed the distance between them.

“You’re going to tell me, where the bloody hell we are, Malfoy!” she said, holding the tip of her wand to his Adam’s apple.

“I don’t —” he began, nostrils flaring.

Hermione screamed like a banshee, “WHERE ARE WE?”

“I DON’T KNOW,” he shouted. His voice was dripping with aggressive insistence, as if he truly believed this to be the case.

“You have to know something! It was your family’s portkey!” Her voice started to go higher in pitch as it always did when she was angry. Did he think her to be so daft as to take his word for it?

He squinted his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. “You think my father tells me everything?” he said crossly.

She gestured wildly to the room that held them prisoner and stomped her heels for emphasis. “We’re trapped here! And it’s you’re fault. You should’ve let me go! Then we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

His gaze turned to steel. “As you said, it’s my family’s portkey. You shouldn’t be taking things that don’t belong to you, Granger,” he said menacingly, teeth bared.

He paused for a second, choosing his next words with great care, and then continued in a quieter tone. “ I went after you because it’s of considerable value to us. Essentially, it was created for us as a fail-safe. In case anything goes south, I don’t know any further information. My father is a discreet man.”

She sighed in exasperation. “Fine, then. If you truly know nothing, then you should be looking for a way out instead of wasting time taking a kip.”

“Why should I?” Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her. The nerve of him.

“If you don’t recall, I have to rejoin Harry and Ron, and I hardly think you want to be in solitary confinement with yours truly.” If she had to speak to him like a child, then so be it.

“Why should I be concerned with Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum? And you’re right for once. I’d prefer more…well-mannered company, but I’m doing quite fine here, thank you.”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to raise a brow at his reasoning. Wasn’t he concerned with the consequences he might face if his master found out he was no longer serving him, whether that was by doing his bidding at Malfoy Manor or carrying out his orders at Hogwarts? But, she wouldn’t prod him further. She chalked it up to laziness and plain cowardice. Of course, he would rather wait out the war to see which side was the winner, then he would surely kiss up to the victor.

She rolled her eyes and ground her teeth. “You can stay here then. But, it would be in your best interest to have the ability to leave if necessary.”

“Or I could lie back down —” he said, objecting to her demands. Then she berated him again because she wouldn’t go down without a fight. “Don’t you dare!” she said, her voice ringing loud and clear. The tip of her wand dug deeper into his flesh.

For a second, she could have sworn devilish mirth had entered his eyes; a look that reminded Hermione of their childhood, but it was gone the next. In its place entered the cool, detached expression he had plastered on his face since sixth year.

“Fine then, I’ll see what I can do if you’ll just shut up!” He snapped. And with those final words, he grasped the end of her wand and forced it away from his neck, then turned his back to her and walked away towards the far wall opposite the bed.

Hermione followed his figure with her scornful gaze; Malfoy pulled out his wand from a hidden pocket in his suit jacket. Then she heard his voice, low and quiet, muttering spells she couldn’t decipher from this distance. His wand hovered over the wall, moving side to side, as he carefully examined the wards.

Placated enough, she turned away from him and began to pursue her analysis of the wards on the opposite end of the room, where her few belongings lay in a heap. Kneeling, she hugged her knees and buried her head into her lap. This she knew to be true: The exits had been sealed by spellwork — although she couldn’t be completely sure they were impenetrable by force — and the inside of their abode was immune to simple charms.

Perhaps the magic holding them hostage was a more sinister variation of the blood wards of Malfoy Manor. But surely, that didn’t make sense. Why would blood wards seek to contain the occupants? They were created to keep out those who didn’t belong. Surely, she wouldn’t have been able to enter the safehouse if this were the circumstance, at least not without permission. But, it crossed her mind that they should at least rule out the possibility of these wards being similar to those she encountered by the vault — for that she would need more of his blood. Hermion filed away this suggestion, for now, if only to keep their tentative truce, until she gathered more information.

Besides, Hermione could hear Malfoy in the background of her thoughts, muttering expletives under his breath, growing more frustrated at his attempts to perform diagnostic spells; If it were really that easy, he would’ve cut into his flesh and spilled the blood himself. And the wards certainly would not resist his magic to this degree if Lucius had warded this place with blood magic.

She blinked the darkness out of her eyes, stood up in one fluid motion, and peered out of the glass window into the dark blue of the outside world. To do this, she would have to clear her thoughts. The issue was that the rational part of her mind wanted to run through every possible solution to this conundrum. So, Hermione began to focus on her breathing, counting every inhale and exhale, just like her parents taught her to do whenever she was anxious. She began to recount those instances: on the day Minerva McGonagall revealed to her that she was indeed a witch, when she awaited the train to Hogwarts at platform nine and three quarters, and once in line for a roller coaster at Alton Towers in the middle of July — the hottest month of the year.

The sound of the waves against the rocks of the seashore began to lull her into a state of calmness; her galloping heart rate slowed down, the tension in her shoulders began to ease, and she could shut her eyes and begin the process. Moving swiftly through the elaborate maze, she found the exit, pushing past her mental barriers to reach the wards surrounding them.

When the tendrils of her subconsciousness touched them, she felt the sort of magic she’d only ever read about in her dizziest daydreams. She had thought she felt astounded when she sensed the old, powerful, and complex interlocking chains that gave the fidelius charm its abilities to conceal an entire building, or when she encountered the branching stems of blood magic that symbolized the continuation of the Malfoy line.

This was different. The barrier between her and the outside world was solid and dense, cutting off the flow of energy and encapsulating them in an unbreakable shell. The magic, she decided, was not merely old, but primordial; As if it had always existed since the beginning of time, before wizarding kind utilised language to summon the power to change physical reality. Beyond these characteristics, she knew nothing of the spells that created this impenetrable barrier — much less how they could figure out a way to exit safely.

Disappointed at the crushing reality that this search for answers would by no means be easy, she opened her eyes and resigned herself to continue her previous task — she would not rest until she tried everything within her power to escape.

That’s when she heard the aggravating sound of steel against wood; It was Malfoy, kicking his heels against the glass in a vain attempt to break the window. He had lost his temper quickly, growing increasingly frustrated, his mutterings becoming more and more aggressive, until he lost all inhibitions and decided to use brute force — something so indecent, so muggle, that he would regret it later.

He was met with equal force, only succeeding at embarrassing himself and adding further injuries to his already growing list of afflictions. “Fuck!” he said, bracing his leg in his hands as the pain caused him to wince. Hermione had been peering at him through her thick curls, then thought better of it and turned around to avoid catching his eye. She had no desire to engage in another argument with him for tonight. Now that she thought about it — these were the most words they had ever exchanged, and while he was as unpleasant as ever, a part of her was surprised he was cooperating even a little.

Instead, Hermione Granger tuned him out and reviewed the extensive list of spells in her repertoire, choosing the ones with potential, like picking the ripest fruit from a tree. “Finestra!” she exclaimed viciously, envisioning shards of glass catapulting through the air. She bit the inside of her lip and waved her wand again. Quickly, she shot out one spell after another; “Deprimo! Defodio!” She wouldn’t give up so easily.

She continued, slicing through the air with her wand for what felt like hours. Beads of sweat popped on her brow, and her muscles began to burn as she cast spell after spell. Wiping the dampness from her forehead, Hermione looked out the window again, trying to decipher how long she had been at this. The only clues were the weariness in her arms, the deep ache of her muscles, and the midnight black sky outside.

As she continued, her gaze began to shift to the stars. They twinkled brightly, and this led her to wonder if Harry and Ron were staring at the night sky just as she was now — contemplating the same questions she was. Did they escape Malfoy Manor? Truly, she wanted to believe they did; after all, Harry had the most spectacular ability to come away unscathed from the most lethal traps. She shivered; she couldn’t help but consider that Harry and Ron could be chained in the dungeons, far beneath the surface and nowhere near enough to set eyes on this captivating sky.

She blinked, pulling herself out of her thoughts once she realized she had paused for several moments, so immersed in her musings that she had come to a standstill before the window. Reluctantly, she was brought down to earth again, where she could hear Malfoy pacing ferociously and cursing up a storm. He was highlighted by the moonlight; he was in his shirtsleeves, his jacket tossed to the side, and he wore an unpleasant grimace as he frantically attempted to break through the wards. At least he was as stressed as she was.

Biting down on her lip until she tasted blood, she struggled to find it in herself to concentrate, but despite her exhaustion, she waved her wand again. The minutes seemed to meld together, as thick as treacle, as every flick of her wrist became more tedious, and Hermione was no stranger to the manipulation of time, and this certainly felt like it. Perhaps, she was simply too weak and woozy to keep track of the passage of time.

At some point, she realized it must be the middle of the night, and she was getting nowhere with offensive magic. Her curls were drenched in sweat, and she had taken off her sweater ages ago, leaving only a thin white t-shirt. All this with nothing to show for it. A smoldering rage began to build in her chest. Hermione believed that she could solve anything through knowledge and effort, neither of which she lacked, but this situation was at odds with her convictions.

She cast curses with foul intentions in succession, striking any surface protected by the wards that she could. The sound of glass cracking, metal decorations hitting the floor, and wood splintering filled the room, but she did not hear it, and she didn’t care if anyone did.

As quickly as this final flame of energy had invigorated her, it vanished. Hermione stopped all movement and just stared down at her trainers. She was too incoherent to remember deciding to retire for the night, but in the semi-darkness, she lay down on the rough wooden flooring and curled up beneath her sweater, slipping into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

The raspy morning calls of seabirds woke Hermione the following morning. Bright sunlight filtered in through the windows, shining upon her until she was uncomfortably warm. She shifted her body to avoid the rays of light and opened her eyes, squinting as they adjusted to the lighting.

Hermione sat up, immediately regretting it. Her mouth was unbearably dry, a headache was forming at the base of her skull, and stars danced across her vision. Yesterday, she’d felt capable of any feat, but now she was overcome by the weakened state of her body. Adrenaline had merely delayed the effects of the cruciatus curse.

Regardless of how she felt, she refused to succumb to fatigue. Turning over onto her knees, she attempted to rise and failed to do so, her leg muscles quivering beneath her. The contents of her stomach roiled from the motion, and clear vomit made its way from her mouth, coating the floor in a sticky layer. She retched over and over again. Her body heaved in spasms until there were no fluids left to expel. It was a good thing she hadn’t eaten much the day before.

“Evanesco,” she whispered, watching the filth vanish into thin air. She crawled forward, on her hands and knees, towards the source of sunshine. Leaning against the wall, she gained leverage and pushed herself up, gripping onto the windowpane for support.

The sight took her breath away: An azure sky, a velvety stretch of sandy beach, rocky outcroppings, and Caribbean blue waters. Greenery lush with yellow flowers swayed in the fresh wind. Birds with orange plumage floated lazily. She stared for a long while, drinking the loveliness in like a cool glass of water.

They were in a single-room cottage along a sunny coastline, or perhaps on an island with a temperate climate. There were no other signs that indicated their exact location — at least not any she was familiar with. This wasn’t a place she’d been before.

Turning away, she glanced around the room. Malfoy wasn’t there, but the sounds of running water from the bathroom indicated where he was. That’s good; she wouldn’t have to deal with him just yet. If she could just get to the kitchenette, she could relieve her thirst and get some medication in her system. Then everything would be alright for now.

She gradually walked to the door on unsteady legs. Halfway, she held onto the back of the sofa to ease her vertigo. The last few feet were unbearable without anything to lean against. Once she reached the door, she leaned on the frame and closed her eyes for a minute, letting the rhythm of blood pumping through her veins soothe her.

The sounds of the shower were magnified as she opened the door to the kitchenette. A light could be seen from underneath the door where steam escaped. Sunshine filtered in through a window above the sink, casting the room in natural light.

Stumbling her way through the room, she reached the stone worktops and leaned against them, already winded. She knew that it was crucial for her to rehydrate after vomiting. In the cupboard, she found drinking glasses and filled one up to the brim with water from the sink. Her hand trembled as she held the cup underneath the faucet, splashing water all over her front.

She sat down at the table, slowly sipping the water. In the bag still across her chest, she found multi-colored antacid tablets that tasted like sweets. A swig of the water washed down the remaining powder that clung to her tongue. Her stomach already felt like it had started to settle.

Standing up, she went to refill her glass. She thought about going through the fridge and pantry for food, but decided not to. A few hours would have to pass for her to be able to digest the food properly. Her glass was full to the brim when she heard the sound of the bathroom door open. Instinctively, she whipped around towards the source of the noise.

Malfoy looked brand new. He looked healthy, fully well-rested, without any shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks and lips were flushed. His signature black suit was pressed and blemish-free as if he were still walking the halls of Malfoy Manor. The only detail out of order was his hair. It was still wet and stuck out everywhere.

Glassy grey eyes pinned her in place with a look of contempt. A frown settled onto his face as he took in her gnarled hair, stained clothing, and palid complexion. Compared to him, she was a mess. Not that she held his opinion of her in high regard, but still, only the people she was closest to were the sort that she wanted around when she was in a state like this.

Hermione just stared back in return without an expression, refusing to show the self-consciousness she felt on the inside. She’d wait for him to get bored. For a minute, it seemed like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He slipped away into the living area without a word.

Once he was gone, she let out a long breath, relaxing her shoulders. Sitting down in the chair, she took out an ink pen and a piece of parchment paper she’d stored in her bag. She started writing down the things she definitely knew. If she were to be stuck here for an indefinite amount of time, she needed to record everything to keep the facts straight in her head.

It was April 1st of 1998. One day after escaping Malfoy Manor without Harry and Ron. She didn’t know what time it was, but by the position of the sun, she guessed it was early in the afternoon. She briefly wrote down a description of the one-room cottage they’d landed in and its surroundings, making sure to describe the plants, animals, and beach in detail.

Now and then, she went up to fill her water glass again, sipping as she contemplated what she wrote in her expressive, swooping handwriting. Hermione made sure to write down what spells she had attempted to use to break the wards. Then, she tucked away her notes and decided to clean herself up. It was the only thing she could do to help herself feel even a bit better.

Inside the bathroom, she was surprised to find towels and bars of soap in the cabinet underneath the sink. She already had toiletries in her bag that she carried around with her in case she had the opportunity to clean up near a stream or public restroom. These were right in front of her, so she wouldn’t bother with digging around in the magically enlarged bag.

The tap poured out hot water and filled up the bath quickly. It would be much easier for her to sit and wash up rather than struggle with any mobility issues she might have due to her various injuries. A bubble enchantment she cast filled the bath with fizzy soap suds. Carefully peeling off the dirty layers of clothing, she peeled off all her clothes and gritted her teeth as the cold air hit her naked skin.

She felt raw and exposed, like a plucked chicken ready for roasting. Gently, she put one leg at a time into the hot bath and sank until her entire torso was underneath the water. It felt splendid to feel her muscles relax after the stress of the past twenty-four hours. She didn’t want to think; she just wanted to lie there forever.

But, too soon, the troublesome thoughts that plagued her began to knock upon the door of her mind. Quickly, she grabbed the soap bar and cloth and began to scrub furiously at her skin. She scrubbed her legs until she felt the layers of dead skin and dirt slough off. If she just kept her concentration on the task at hand, she wouldn’t have to think.

A stinging sensation stopped her movements. Looking down, she saw that the cloth had grazed the inside of her forearm. She let out a loud, sharp cry and bit down on her tongue to silence herself. A large, hideous laceration on her forearm was carved into her skin, spelling out mudblood. It all came back to her. The torture. The screaming. The wound had scabbed over in the past twenty-four hours, providing a layer of protection. She wasn’t sure how the pain had disappeared into white noise, but it had until now.

Tears ran down Hermione’s face. She covered her face and sobbed silently. Malfoy wouldn’t get to enjoy her suffering, she thought. She wrestled with the revelation that there could potentially be a permanent reminder of yesterday decorating her body. Even if it healed with the progress of time, she knew without a doubt that a scar would remain. That’s the best she could hope for if the blade wasn’t cursed, but it probably was.

Once she started crying, she couldn’t stop. She cried because she didn’t know the fate of her friends. She cried because she missed her parents. She cried because she was alone here with Malfoy, and what did she truly know about him anyway? She never gave it much thought before, but she hardly knew him. He was practically a stranger. Before this, she couldn’t care less about his existence. He’d show up in their vicinity once in a blue moon to stir the pot with Harry, but that was it. Then he’d slink off into his daily life in Slytherin society. Back then, if someone asked her what she knew about him, she’d simply say, “I know enough.”

It wasn’t enough now that she lived under the same roof as him. Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater: a murderer and a devout cult follower. Narcissa was a pompous, intolerant socialite who stood by her husband’s side. Who was their son besides a boy who parroted their beliefs? It mattered to Hermione because it concerned her safety as of yesterday.

If he was what she presumed him to be —- an awful twat, perhaps, and certainly a coward, but never dangerous —- then she wouldn’t have anything to worry about. She couldn’t afford to be wrong. It could cost her everything she worked for. She’d never been frightened of him, but her mind couldn’t help wander into dark waters. Like all women, she’d learned quickly that she wasn’t safe in this world. She’d been asleep last night on the floor without any precautions. He could’ve hurt her if he wanted. Hermione would have to be vigilant from now on.

Her thoughts spiraled until she was free-falling into the abyss of her mind. Images of Harry and Ron, imprisoned in the dungeons, facing torture and execution, intruded without mercy. Death Eaters surrounding her parents’ home in Australia — ready to burn it to the ground. That was too much. Hermione plunged face down into the water and held her breath as long as she could. Some of the water made its way up her nasal cavity. She punctured the surface of the water, coughing it up.

She breathed in and out, staring at the white chipped ceiling. After some time, she picked up a slippery bar of soap and rubbed it between her hands to form a lather. The disgusting sensation of uncleanliness dissipated as she massaged her scalp. It was deeply satisfying. She rinsed out the suds from her hair with clear water from the bathtub faucet.

Hermione lay there for a while. At one point, she dozed off with her head propped up on the rim of the bathtub. When her fingers wrinkled, she stood up and wrapped a towel around her shivering body. She dried off her skin and hair as best she could and cast a warming charm to ease her discomfort.

The warmth left her body, her blood running cold, when she removed her clothes from the floor. A long black hair was stuck onto her shirt. Of course, she knew who it belonged to. Hermione wanted to throw up again. She built mental walls and refused to let the images flood her brain. Gingerly, she plucked the hair off the shirt and wrapped it into a clean bandage before packing the bundle away into her bag. Then she blinked the tears from her eyes. In war, you had to use all the tools available at your disposal.

Molly’s laundering spell worked wonders. With the wave of a wand, the clothes she wore the day before smelled of lavender detergent. Before slipping on her sweater, she disinfected the wound and tied the gauze bandages snugly around her forearm. Hermione dug around the spacious bag for the remaining toiletries she needed at the moment. She used a wide-tooth wooden comb to detangle her knotted curls the best she could, and she brushed her teeth thoroughly, rinsing away the acidic taste in her mouth.

Hermione drained the tub, hung the towels to dry, and grabbed her bag before stepping out into the kitchen area, shutting the door behind her. It was chilly now in comparison to the warm bathroom. She felt famished and weak, but she knew her stomach couldn’t handle any solid food.

The kitchenette was quiet, and the late afternoon sunlight was pouring in with a strong intensity. She decided to go through the cupboards and pantry. If they didn’t have access to food, that would be another problem she didn’t want to think about.

Hermione’s heart beat loudly in her chest as she opened the hinges of the bottom cupboard. She released a long pent-up breath. An assortment of dried and canned goods lay there neatly: bags of lentils, rice, and pasta; tins of fruits, vegetables, legumes, and soups; breakfast cereals and porridge oats. There were even household staples like sugar, salt, oil, coffee, and tea. Whomever had set this place up thought of everything.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek when she thought about who must’ve put the care into preparing all these rations. Certainly not Lucius and Narcissa. In another cupboard, she found basic appliances: a kettle, a pot, and several pans. A small drawer contained utensils, knives, a cutting board, and wooden spoons. Adjacent to the cupboard, where she found drinking glasses, was an assortment of decorative plates and bowls. With each discovery, she felt the tension in her muscles ease. They could easily survive here for a month at the very least.

What she had previously thought was a pantry was, in actuality, an old-fashioned icebox. Hermione huffed. Who in their right mind would use one of these dinosaurs when fridges have existed for over half a century?

She hugged herself in response to the cool air of the icebox hitting her skin. But when she looked to see where the source of cold air came from, she found no ice. It must’ve been charmed to keep the air at a certain temperature. Inside, she found everything she could’ve thought of: milk, butter, eggs, fresh vegetables, cheese, and an assortment of meats. A stasis charm must come in handy as well.

Hermione shut the icebox door and grabbed the kettle, teabags, and a bag of sugar. A strong cuppa would have to do. She hummed a quiet tune, filled the kettle from the faucet, conjured a flame, and waited for it to boil. The melody resembled one her mother would sing. When she was younger, softer, and so alive with love. An image came to mind of her mum in the kitchen with her long, straight hair over one shoulder. She felt tears burning the corners of her eyes again. The long whistle of the kettle pierced the air.

She found a ceramic mug in the cupboard, pouring in the piping hot water with shaky hands. Then she scooped a spoonful of sugar into the dark brew and let it dissolve. Hot and sweet. That’s how she liked her tea. No milk or cream. The first sip burned her tongue, but it felt good. She grabbed the mug, using her sleeves to muffle the heat, and entered the main room to find a more comfortable seat.

Malfoy was fast asleep on the bed. The tension in her stomach eased a bit. She couldn’t avoid him for long, but for now, she could. Sitting on a velvety plum couch, she called out, “Lumos”. A lamp in the corner of the room was turned on, lighting up the sitting area. She could better see the coffee table in front of her, where she saw a vase filled with lavender. It was fresh. As if it had been plucked from the earth and placed there not too long ago.

Hermione sipped the hot tea and sank into the cushions. She admired the waves clinging to the sand before drawing backward into the sea. She didn’t know how much time had passed as she watched. But, eventually, her eyelids grew heavier. The calming rhythm of the sea beckoned her to lie down. So she did. There wasn’t much left for her to do. She was weak but couldn’t eat. Lost but couldn’t be found. Desired to escape but couldn’t leave.

Sleep brought darkness and quiet to her mind. Until it didn’t. Faint voices could be heard speaking in hushed tones. They came into focus. It was Harry’s voice rising in volume. He sounded aggravated when he said, “He’s replaced his father as a death eater!” Hermione dismissed him, “It seems very unlikely, Harry.”

The scenery shifted from the Hogwarts Express to the library. “So why couldn’t Malfoy have brought the necklace into the school?” Harry asked. She wouldn’t consider it. She said, “Oh, Harry…not that again…”

They were in the common room after Christmas break. They had been discussing Snape and Malfoy’s conversation. Hermione had pressed Harry for further context. “Hmm…did either of them actually mention Voldemort’s name?” Harry frowned, “...Snape definitely said ‘your master’, and who else would that be?” Hermione struggled to find a plausible reason — one that would lead Harry away from this ludicrous idea. In turn, she was the one who sounded absurd. “I don’t know…maybe his father?”

Then she could hear her voice echoing the same phrase — the dark mark we don’t know exists. The dark mark we don’t know exists — until she felt someone’s cold hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake. She felt her mind lift from the fog, against her will, and she awoke. The cold air hit her like a bucket of water. It was past sunset, and the room was cast in dim evening light. Sweat ran down her forehead and burned her eyes. Her pulse was thundering in her chest. She flinched away from the touch, crawling backwards until her back hit the arm of the sofa.

Malfoy was staring at her in the darkness. He was seated on the sofa, casually. His wide, grey eyes bore into her unflinchingly. “Don’t touch me,” she said. She meant for it to sound hostile, but it sounded weak. It sounded like she was afraid.

He didn’t respond. There was no emotion written on his face. He was staring at her as if she were an animal.“What do you want?” she said. He looked down at his lap, as if he couldn’t look at her while forming the words he would say next.

“I have something you need,” he said smoothly, lifting his gaze. That wasn’t what she expected.

Hermione snorted. “I doubt it.”

“The cruciatus leaves after effects,” he said matter-of-factly.

Hermione’s heart rate galloped. Was Malfoy baiting her? “I’ll be fine. It’s nothing rest can’t fix.” Then she went for the offense. “Which you interrupted.”

He looked doubtful. “Your hands were shaking. I saw you in the kitchen. You were spilling water all over.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Well, go on, spit it out.”

“I have a proposition for you. A trade of sorts. Not a favour,” he said brusquely. His tone was business-like, without the pretense of allyship.

Hermione stayed quiet and waited for him to continue. Malfoy pulled out a delicate flask from his coat pocket. “A nifty concoction I whisked together. Nelumbo Nucifera. Sanguinaria canadensis. Lotus infusion and powdered bloodroot. A few other ingredients to harmonize the potion. It’s a mild sedative. Purifies the magical core. Combats the lingering effects of dark magic. It will speed up the process of recovery so you can be on your merry way.”

He said this without his usual bravado. It was clear-cut and clinical. Like he was giving a boring lecture. To Hermione, it still sounded pretentious and far-fetched. She stared at him like he had sprouted multiple heads.

“Why should I take your word for it?” she said, staring at the flask as if it were filled with venom. Malfoy kept his poker face. “You don’t have to. Either take it or don’t,” he shrugged.

Hermione frowned. “Drink some first,” she said, watching him intently.

He rolled his eyes. Then, without complaint, he took a swig. He appeared unaffected until a cough escaped his mouth. He bent over as the coughing fit continued. Tears leaked into his eyes, and his face turned red. Hermione jumped off the sofa and reached for him. The coughs subsided just then. Then he turned his face, his gaze boring into her as his mouth lifted into a Cheshire-like smile. “Fell for it,” he said, fully satisfied.

Hermione sank back into the cushions, fighting the impulse to launch herself at him and scratch until she drew blood. That’s what he wanted. She could tell from the way his eyes taunted hers that he wanted nothing more than to see her stoop as low as he did. To unravel her. To see her reduced to a caricature of herself.

“Why would you need — ” the question died on her lips halfway as her mouth became dry. An oppressive quiet filled the room with tension. Malfoy didn’t flinch, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Never you mind, Granger,” he said without decoration. Then a long pause. “Is that a yes, or a no?” Malfoy broke the silence. Then he held out the tincture in the palm of his hand.

Hermione’s hand darted forward to grab the flask, but was swiftly smacked away by Malfoy. “Excuse me!” she said haughtily. He’d been the one to insist in the first place. For all she knew, this potion had about as many magical properties as pumpkin juice.

Malfoy continued without acknowledging her objection. “Impatient, now are we? Agree to my request, and this is all yours.”

Frustrated, she asked, “What do you want?” He cast his eyes to the side. At least he had some shame left.

His gaze shifted to the bandages wrapped around her forearm. Her sweater had ridden up in her sleep, exposing them. Malfoy gestured towards the dressed wound with his chin. “You have healing supplies. I’m wounded. Patch me up and I won’t be in your hair anymore.”

Relieved, she let out a breath. This was doable. Hermione nodded, then, cautiously, she said, “Where is it then?” Without bothering with words, he shrugged off his coat. His hands went up to the collar of his shirt, then worked their way down, undoing the buttons as a pianist would play a melody. Hermione felt a flush sting her cheeks in mortification. Malfoy’s bare porcelain skin came into view. His form was solid and well-fed. Not sinewy and lean like Harry and Ron’s from the lack of rich food.

She’d walked in on her friends without shirts or trousers any number of times. Not on purpose, of course. But, in the natural way that living together brings about these situations. It had never inspired this feeling of shame. Perhaps because they were her family, and Malfoy was something undefinable. Neither friend nor foe.

He turned around to give her an unobstructed view of his back. Maroon bruises were scattered across his alabaster skin like an abstract painting. Scabs had formed over the abrasions where the skin had peeled back and bled upon impact.

She pursed her lips together. “Bring me a bowl of warm water and a cup of ice. A few wash cloths. They’re beneath the sink. Er — liquid soap, if you can find any. That’s all.. I think,” she said, biting her lip.

He didn’t argue this time. The door closed behind him, leaving the room to be filled with nothing but Hermione’s buzzing thoughts. She dug her nails into her wrist, leaving half-moon-shaped marks imprinted on her skin. Malfoy returned a moment later. In his hands was a tray laden with all the supplies she requested. Surprisingly, he got everything she’d asked for.

He set the tray on the table and sat with his back facing her. “I’m ready,” he said. He turned back to look at her over his shoulder, nodding his head in consent. Hermione blinked at him. Once. Twice. She was frozen for a moment. Then she broke out of the spell.

“Right…” she said shakily. She breathed in and out to focus on the task. Leaning forward, she took the cup of ice from the tray and handed it to him. “Keep it chilled,” she told him. “I’ll rinse the wounds first. It’ll be cold,” she warned him.

A miniature jet of clear water poured from the tip of her wand. She focused the stream on the abrasions and watched him shudder in response to the cool water hitting his skin. He winced at the pressure against his open wounds. She cast a hot air charm that evaporated the water travelling down the valley of his spine before it dripped onto the furniture.

Hermione poured a few drops of the soap into the bowl and stirred it to dilute the soap. After drenching the cloth in the water, she rung out the excess water. Tentatively, she began the tedious process of cleaning around the wound, brushing the damp cloth against the broken skin with great care. Even so, every time she grazed his skin, she saw his shoulder muscles tense.

“Lumos,” she whispered. An orb of light lit up the space in front of her as she surveyed the open wounds for debris. It was clear. Looking through her supplies, she found what she needed to finish the job.

A pleasant sensation of coolness settled into her palms as she rubbed in a pump of hand sanitizer to disinfect her hands. Holding the end of a tube of antibiotic ointment, she squeezed out the sticky salve onto the back of her hand and smeared the congealed medicine onto the open skin. Plenty of the rolled gauze remained, so she settled the end of it on his left side and began to wrap it around his torso.

She leaned in closer as she concentrated on this task, smelling the faint aroma of green apples that came off his skin. The afternotes smelled of parchment and ink. It was unexpected. Someone like him should smell unpleasantly overpowering, like heavy cologne and shoe polish.

She could sense Malfoy’s discomfort as she leaned over him, peering over his shoulder to wrap the bandages snugly around his torso. His muscles tensed as she drew close, his spatial awareness allowing him to sense that she was uncomfortably close, but he complied, raising his arms to allow her to accomplish the task easily. She could not pretend; she was uncomfortable being this close to him, too. It wasn’t the proximity of their bodies that caused this discomfort, but rather the intimacy of the situation. In this moment, she was his caretaker, and that was unnerving for them both.

A stray lock of Hermione’s hair brushed the side of his neck. Her gut twisted, but she pushed it down and continued to knot the ends of the gauze once she was satisfied with the placement. She repeated this process, winding the bandages diagonally from his mid-back to his shoulders on either side. By the time she was finished, her hands were shaking, making it difficult to tie the final knots.

Relief flooded her body as she pulled away from him to examine her work. “Done,” she said. Her voice sounded hoarse. She gestured towards the cup of ice he held. “I need that,” she told him, opening her palm. He handed it over, and she poured the ice cubes onto a cloth, forming a bundle. Malfoy winced when she held the ice pack to his back.

“Ow,” he exclaimed, then relaxed as his body adjusted to the temperature. In a pragmatic tone, she explained, “This will reduce the swelling. Sleep on your stomach if you can, so you won’t have to hold it up. Tomorrow you’ll need to apply heat. Soak the wash cloths in hot water and lay them on the bruised areas. That should help.” Then she remembered something and began to dig through her bag. She fished out a few capsules and handed them to him. “Take one of these with water every six hours. That should relieve some of the worst pain for a day or —”

The words died on the roof of her mouth as she caught sight of the tattoo on his forearm. It was huge, dark, and hideous like spilled ink on a page. It marred his otherwise spotless complexion. And it reminded her of everything that had occurred in the past year. When she insisted that she wasn’t scared of him, she was referring to the vain, insecure boy she’d lived in the same castle with for years, not the coward who’d nearly murdered a dying old man to save his skin. Katie spent half the year at St. Mungo’s. Ron was one antidote away from death. Gods, was she stupid. This is who he really was.

“Put that away, would you?” she said in a voice that was much steadier than she felt. Because at this very moment, all she could see was that very same vile insignia branded into Bellatrix’s forearm as she carved into her own tender flesh with a sharp, wicked blade. Her stomach turned in revulsion, and she began to break out in a sweat as her breathing became shallow.

Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. He looked taken aback. His brows narrowed in confusion as he tried to figure out what she was talking about. His eyes landed on his exposed dark mark. He put two and two together. “Er— why?” he said, raising his brow. “Put it away,” Hermione repeated.

The befuddled expression on his face faded, replaced by understanding; then his lips tilted up in amusement. “Any particular reason why?” he repeated. He knew she wouldn’t answer with candor, but he wanted to add salt to the wound. Hermione just stared at him — hard — hoping he would shatter like glass. The tilt of his mouth opened as a snigger poured from his mouth. “Really…,” he said, scoffing at her. “That’s…I didn’t… expect this from you.”

Malfoy stood there for a second, waiting for a response, but she was as silent as a stone. He shook his head, clucking his tongue and turning his head to the side, in mock disappointment. It looked like he was just about to leave, pivoting his body away from her, when he turned to face her. Then he addressed her again, as if he had to free himself from the thoughts swimming in his head. “You know what, Granger? I won’t defend what I did, but I’m not going to feel bad. I’m not going to grovel on my knees — begging for absolution. I did what I had to do. ”

Wrath was stirring in her gut. It burned her insides until she could feel the acid dripping from her lips in the form of words. “You did what you had to do!?” she fumed.

His eyes were empty when he said, “Yes.”

“Well, you should!” she cried. “You should feel terrible, wretched inside, awful!”

“What good would that do anyone?”

She ignored his response, lost amid her fury. “Have you ever considered that you should grovel, you should beg for forgiveness! Do you ever think about Katie? Madam Rosemerta? About anyone else you could’ve killed? Could’ve affected? If you weren’t so lucky, you would’ve had those lives on your shoulders for the rest of your life.”

“What makes you think I hadn’t considered the consequences. What exactly were you expecting? You know what my family and I believe in. If I didn’t do as he said, he would’ve killed me,” he said, sounding more agitated with every word.

“You could’ve gotten help! You could’ve tried! Dumbledore offered to protect you that night on the roof. Harry told me. If you had spoken to him earlier in the year, he would’ve protected you from him. I don’t know what I—but I didn’t think you’d turn into this.”

“What?” he scoffed, momentarily at a loss for words. “I wasn’t going to put my parents’ lives on the line for the sake of moral superiority…or comfort. It was the only choice.”

“That’s not true,” she said, her voice quavering. Because she knew she wasn’t being completely fair. Some of what he said was partially true. But she was so angry. Just brimming with hate and fear. Hatred towards the circumstances that led them to be against one another in this war. Fear that they could never be more than what had been predestined for them, so she’d take it out on him.

“You only think that,” she continued, “Because you’re not willing to take a risk. It was an option, but you lack courage.”

An ugly sneer came over his features when he said, “I don’t lack for anything. I’m practical and realistic, unlike you and your friends. Even on the off-chance Dumbledore could have hidden me. Bloody hell! Let’s even add my parents to that. He would’ve hunted me down like Karkaroff. You know what he does to traitors.” He emphasized the word traitors with disgust in his voice as if they were gum beneath his shoe.

“There’s nothing worth it in life that comes easy,” she insisted, regardless of how much he made sense.

“You know what?” Malfoy exclaimed, practically yelling as his voice continued to rise in anger. “It’s easy for you to preach…when you’re not the one in my position. You’re not making that choice. You wouldn’t have to betray your family to save yourself...and for what? For people who are nothing to me. ” She could feel his breath as he spoke. They were closer than ever, face to face. Had she walked toward him in her anger, or had he? Or was it both?

Provoked by his outburst, she couldn’t help but let her mask slip in the moment, “That’s where you’re wrong! I’ve sacrificed all of myself for this war. To keep my Muggle parents safe, I’ve made choices you wouldn’t have the stomach for."

A sardonic smile lit up his face. “Oh, I see then,” he said, “Are you upset because I won’t be a martyr for your cause, or because you’re more like me than you want to be?” He went in for the kill this time.

“I’m nothing like you —,” she started.

But Malfoy wouldn’t let her finish. “You’d do anything for your parents, wouldn’t you? You’re scared that if you were in my shoes, you’d do the same as me.” When he said this, he sounded so sure of himself, and it made her livid. He thought he’d solved her like a puzzle.

So she pointed out what she knew would hurt him — “All that and you still failed.”

He pressed his lips together in a grimace. “Get out of my face, Granger,” he spat in a low, treacherous tone. Then he walked off, leaving her alone in the dark.

Chapter Text

“Incendio,” she whispered in the quiet before the break of day. The flames licked the edges of the rolled-up newspaper she held, consuming the script, which read, “Golden Snidget spotted nesting in Muggle woman’s hair!” Stretching her arm towards the fireplace, Hermione let the flame catch on the tinder she’d fashioned out of cut-up strips of the Daily Prophet. Sparks crackled as the fire grew, spreading from the tinder to the firewood, and then to the kindling at the very top of the pile. The blaze roared to life, providing a warm halo of steady heat.

Pleased, Hermione lifted the corner of her mouth smugly. With one puff, she extinguished the flames from the newspaper and then set it aside near the grate. She arranged the plates of food on the hearth, grabbed a fork and knife, and dug in. Creamy salty eggs and sweet tomatoes splashed across her tongue. Hermione went in for another bite, this time biting into a savoury sausage, and savored the flavor. Then she grabbed a knife and spread butter across a piece of toast before taking huge bites that left crumbs all over her shirt front.

Perhaps for her first meal in days, she should’ve laid off the rich stuff, but she couldn’t help it; she had been positively famished. That morning, her appetite had returned after taking Malfoy’s potion. He had left the flask on the table last night before stomping off. Surprisingly, it had worked. She felt remarkably better. But Hermione wouldn’t say anything about it when he woke up. She wouldn’t thank him for fulfilling his end of the deal. He was patched up, wasn’t he?

The room had still been cloaked in darkness when she had woken up. The first thing she did was take a hot bath, not because she was dirty, but because she could feel Bellatrix on her skin after the nightmares. By the time she was finished, her stomach was gnawing away at itself, so she cooked herself up a fry-up as fast as she could.

Within minutes, she licked her plates clean until they gleamed. The inevitable indigestion that would follow would be dealt with later. She took the mug of hot tea in her hands and let the warmth seep into her palms, gazing at the flames as she sipped the bitter liquid until it was empty. Scooping up a stack of plates with one hand and the empty mug in another, she returned the dishes to the kitchen, quietly tiptoeing past his bed. Not because she cared about his sleep, but because she didn’t want to speak to him.

Today, she’d focus her renewed energy on investigating the wards — no distractions.

Bending over the sink, with damp hair over one shoulder, Hermione set about scrubbing the dishes with scalding hot water and soap, before drying them and putting them away one by one. Then she sat at the table, ripped out a piece of paper from her notebook, and drafted what she’d been thinking about — a calendar.

There were thirty days in April. Today was April 2nd. They had arrived here on March 31st. The last time Harry, Ron, and Hermione had gathered around to tune into Potterwatch, it had been a Tuesday evening. With this information in mind, she carefully drew six lines down and four across, marked the days with numbers, and crossed off the first day of the month that had already passed.

Then she slipped out of the kitchen into the main space. The sunrise spilled colors across the sky like watercolors across a canvas. Gentle light streamed in and illuminated the space. Malfoy was still fast asleep on the bed — buried under the sheets this time. She walked carefully, tip-toeing like a ballerina, and set down the calendar where the rest of her belongings lay on the coffee table.

Then she walked off in the direction of the front door of the cottage. She’d formed her strategy in the bath. That first day that she’d arrived, she was too ill to give the place a proper look. But when she had woken up that morning, she noticed elements of the space that she hadn’t seen the previous day: the oak cabinets that lined the walls, a pair of antique dressers by the bed, a coat closet by the entrance, and a hidden storage room adjacent to the bathroom.

These discoveries led her to be even more determined to look through every shelf, every drawer, and every crevice of this cottage for a route of escape. The coat closet would be the first place she would look. It just made sense in her mind to start from the entrance and work her way through the place methodically.

The closet door squeaked on its hinges as she pulled it open. Then the cloying smell hit her. It smelled like an herbalist’s shop and a bar mixed in one. Hanging in the closet were cloaks of all sizes and shades: powder blue, royal purple, sunset orange, and even midnight black, adorned with diamonds that resembled the constellations. A variety of furs were on display as well: pelts fashioned into coats, fur-lined leather gloves, ushankas, and shawls.

Hermione couldn’t help but pick up an exquisite silver-grey fur stole and admire the glossy pelt, running her hands over the soft, luxurious material. “Rich people can sod it,” she scoffed, spotting a diamond brooch, nearly the size of her fist, clipped onto the front. She set it down, biting her lip in worry, as it occurred to her that once she got out, she would need a cloak to conceal herself.

Brushing her fingers over the garments, she felt cool silk, dense wool, and plush fleece beneath her fingertips. She quieted her breathing, listening for the footsteps of the other occupant of the house. Just a minute ago, she’d heard him stirring and pattering around the room. The creak of the door signified he’d entered another room. She snatched a plain black wool cloak and quickly shoved it into her bag. They’d never notice it was gone anyway.

Her eyes scanned the rest of the closet in search of anything else that could be of use. Beneath the cloaks, lined up in a row, there were boots of various styles and sizes. Her sneakers were beat up and worn, threatening to fall apart at the seams. So, she grabbed a pair of dainty dragonhide boots that she guessed were Narcissa’s and tucked them away.

Hermione had to unapologetically admit to herself that she enjoyed taking things from the Malfoys.

Then she bent down and parted the cloaks to see further in. From the outside, the closet didn’t look spacious, but from this angle, she could see that the closet extended further than she anticipated. In the low light, she could barely make out what looked to be wooden chests.

Hermione pulled one of these chests out, grasping onto the golden handle, and opened it to find stacks of parchment. Upon closer inspection, she found that many of them appeared to be deeds and contracts to plots of land. She brought the other two out of the depths of the closet to find the same thing — stacks of paperwork.

She huffed in exasperation, thinking of all the time it would take to go through everything she’d found, but then relief settled in. There was nothing but time on her hands right now with nothing to fill it. It would be one step closer in the right direction. Hermione sorely doubted that the Malfoys were daft enough to create a security system and not leave behind any sort of instructions to deactivate it.

One of the deeds allocated a property in the French countryside to Lucius from Abraxas upon the birth of his firstborn heir. The estate was located just beyond a hillside muggle village, less than an hour away from Nice, Monaco, and Cannes, and consisted of a nine thousand square foot provencal style main house surrounded by twenty acres of fertile land. Along with a beautiful garden, it sported its very own truffle farm and an olive grove.

A majority of the document was filled with mundane legal verbiage detailing the current condition of the property, the maintenance required to upkeep the structure, the wards that surrounded the grounds, and any other traces of magic. The wards were nearly identical to the ones that protected Malfoy Manor.

Sighing in disappointment, she nearly put the document away to pick up the next one when she saw a clause in the document that piqued her interest. According to this paragraph, the transfer of the deed could only be fulfilled if the heir was of pureblood status. Hermione wasn’t too surprised, but a heavy cold feeling arose in her stomach, like a stone settling at the bottom of a river bed.

Despite what she would like to believe, the prejudice in their society was not merely composed of piercing words like daggers; they were formally sanctioned through legal documents passed from one generation to another. They were legislated in the ministry through laws that created a hierarchy of magical beings. And even before Voldemort’s return to power, she was keenly aware that the lack of socio-political ties she had due to her Muggle parentage would put her at a disadvantage career-wise.

Hermione set the document aside, brushing off her discomfort, and picked up the next deed. This one in particular outlined a Spanish villa situated in the rugged terrain of the Andalusian mountains. The vacation home was a wedding gift from the Malfoy patriarch upon the nuptial ceremony between Narcissa and Lucius.

Even more various properties were scattered across the European continent: a luxurious apartment in Rome, a modernized Scandinavian log cabin near an exclusive Norwegian ski resort, a penthouse suite overlooking the architectural marvels of Budapest, and an equally splendid, but more modest residence in the Scottish Highlands. The last one was not too far from Hogwarts, which made practical sense as Lucius was often seen on the school grounds as Chairman of the Board of Governors.

Painstakingly, she worked her way through the pile, coming upon letters detailing renovations and maintenance of the estate. Tax forms from the local Ministries of Magic and stacks of bills and receipts from a variety of businesses were found as well. By the time she reached the bottom of the stack, it felt like hours had passed. Her eyes were heavy and threatening to slip into sleep, and her neck was stiff from bending down for hours.

From the closet, Hermione could hear the noise of running water coming from the shower. So she stood up on cramped legs and made her way to the kitchenette. The water boiled while she assembled a ham and cheese sandwich, then she poured the hot water over instant coffee grounds, and added plenty of cream and sugar. Then she promptly took her mug and plate with her and scampered off to the closet again.

Between bites of food, she started searching through another storage chest. This one in particular contained letters of correspondence addressed to Lucius from political allies promising favours in return for financial sponsorship, and some others were from political opponents attempting to negotiate a deal to avoid a smear campaign. No author was directly named, and a number of them used aliases to disguise their identity. The contents were vague and referred to unknown individuals, such as a Mr.Billywig.

Several letters from Cornelius Fudge thanked Mr.Malfoy for his generous donations to Ministry projects, and on one occasion, the previous Minister for Magic wrote to Lucius professing that he agreed that Hagrid posed a danger to the school and assured him that he would have him sent off to Azkaban.

Another letter from the spineless nitwit emphasized how sorry he was to hear that Mr.Malfoy’s son had been injured. He assured him that Buckbeak would get taken care of by the Committee for Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, but that, nonetheless, he was saddened to witness such a rare magical beast turn rabid. The last line expressed his belief that magical beasts knew not what harm they caused because they did not possess the intellect of wizarding kind. Fudge had always been in his pocket. That much was clear.

She tossed it aside in disgust and had just started in on the third stack of papers when she spotted a letter that spurred her curiosity. Dumbledore had written to Narcissa last year, and it read as follows:

Dear Mrs. Malfoy,

I regret to inform you that several of our beloved Hogwarts professors have recently brought an issue concerning your son to my attention with the utmost discretion and care. It appears that Draco’s marks have indeed fallen significantly below his usual performance. Moreover, he has been observed by both staff and students to appear both tired and socially withdrawn among his peers.

Draco is technically passing his sixth year courses, but this is concerning, as he has always been a proficient student with a particular gift for potioneering. Every inquiry by a professor has been ignored by Draco, and he has blatantly refused to ask for help. I am aware that there must be some difficulties at home this year, and that these circumstances may have contributed to his struggle with academics.

If I can offer any support to the Malfoy family during this time, I would be jubilant to do so.

Yours truly, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

A bitter taste settled in her mouth as she read the words across the page that confirmed her suspicions. Dumbledore had offered help, but both Narcissa and Malfoy were beyond his reach by then, as they had long ago tied their fates to Lucius and refused to let go, and they suffered for it.

Her lunch had curdled in her stomach, but she pressed on, going through the final stacks for what seemed like hours. By the time she was done, she had nothing to show for it. Curiously, there was no deed for a property owned by the Malfoy family on an island or a coastline. There was no evidence this cottage ever existed, much less any information on the wards that contained them.

Hermione stood up, stretching her arms, and looked out of the hallway to see that it looked to be afternoon. The sun was blazing, and the room was stuffy. She rolled up her shirt sleeves and stood up on one of the wooden chests, reaching the top shelf — the last corner of the closet that she’d left unexplored. Polished broomsticks lay on top of one another, but otherwise, there was nothing of interest on the closet shelf. She shifted a few of them to see if there was anything in the crevices underneath. That’s when she saw a small object nestled in the corner.

Hermione strained her arm to reach it, nearly slipping from her position on the chest, and found that it was a portable radio not too unlike the one that Ron had brought with him. Carefully, she turned what she assumed was the power button on and began to turn the dial. Loud static blared out of the speakers. The crooning voice of Celestina Warbeck blared to life, filling the room with her lesser-known hit, “You’re Amortentia, My Darling!” She’d spent too much time around Molly.

She’d just started to turn the dial again when she heard Malfoy’s sharp voice call out, “What are you doing?” Hermione lost her footing and nearly tumbled backward until she felt firm hands at her hips, keeping her upright. Once she regained her balance, he let go.

“Uncoordinated as ever, I see,” he quipped as she stepped down onto the ground.

Embarrassment swept over her like a tidal wave, causing a flush to stain her cheeks pink, because he’d caught her off guard the way he laid his hands on her like they were familiar. She hardly liked anyone touching her without permission, much less Malfoy. She thought it would have been preferable if he’d let her fall on her arse. Now the sensation of the cool pressure of his hands through her shirt would linger in her mind, and it repulsed her.

When she gathered the nerve to face him, Malfoy was standing over her with a slight frown painted on his face, his hair lit by the sun like a halo, dressed in only his shirtsleeves and slacks. “Pardon?” she replied with false ease. Inwardly, she was groaning because she’d been hoping to avoid him indefinitely.

He gave her a sardonic smile. “You’re awful on a broom, you know? It’s like watching a bludger soar through the sky.” For a moment, she’d thought he was being decent, not letting her fall and all, but he was as callous as usual.

“I get by when I need to,” she huffed at him. “ Humans aren’t meant to fly, it’s unnatural,” she added.

Malfoy chuckled. “Muggles, perhaps.”

Her finger dug into her wrist, and she could feel acid burning in her stomach, but she had better things to do than let his prejudice get under her skin.“Sod off, Malfoy,” she told him.

He paused like he was considering her request. “Not until you turn that thing off,” he demanded. “If I have to hear that tone deaf hag sing a ’A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love’ one more time, I’ll smash it to pieces myself.”

There it was again – that playful glint in his eye; a childish sense of humor that contrasted with his usual haunted, sullen mannerisms that he wore like a coat nowadays.

“Absolutely not. I’ll need it to keep up with current events while we’re here...for however long that is.” Her voice tapered off as her mind considered the possibility that they could be trapped here indefinitely.

“Sure thing,” Malfoy drawled, “It’s not like the Dark Lord controls the WWN news station these days — sacked nearly half the staff and installed his puppets.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as she said, “I meant another radio station…that only a select few know about.”

“Whatever, then. Carry on. As long as you don’t play any bloody ballads,” he sneered. At last, he turned away and stalked off to his side of the room. She could have sworn she heard him say under his breath, “Could’ve said thank you, at least.” This earned another roll of her eyes. It’s not like he was being kind; he probably wanted to make her uncomfortable.

By then, the sun was setting and an array of colors bloomed across the sky: lavender, apricot, sunshine yellow, cornflower blue. She put the chest back in its place and closed the door behind her, levitating the plates in one hand and the radio in another. Hermione took the radio back to the plum sofa on the couch where she slept, setting it down on the coffee table, and then went into the kitchen to wash up her plates before preparing for bedtime in the bathroom.

When she returned to the living space, she saw Malfoy surrounded by books, tomes, and scrolls. He was scanning one with intense focus and writing notes with a quick-notes quill. As long as he was putting himself to use, she would let him be.

For the rest of the evening, she tinkered with the dials on the radio, tapping her wand against it just as Ron did in simple rhythms. Potterwatch changed passwords every day, and she’d already missed two broadcasts so far, so it would be a guessing game to figure it out. So she spoke every word she could think of under the sun until the room was cloaked in darkness, and all she could do was surrender to it.

Chapter Text

Steam was rising from the pot, bubbles rising to the surface, as Hermione stirred the porridge in a clockwise motion. She kept a close watch, but her mind, without fail, decided to wander off to the subject of Harry and Ron. Mostly Ron. Would they finally be something tangible, something unwavering after the war?

It was juvenile to ponder romance amidst the world decaying around them, but it was a familiar foe to face. Any other topic was too morbid for her to touch with a ten-foot pole, and just thinking of her current circumstances made her skin itch.

Why was she questioning their fates again? Weren’t they as inevitable as the morning dew on blades of grass? That’s why they’d been pushing and pulling against one another, like magnets, for years, fighting for –

“Oy, earth to Granger!” Malfoy called out from behind her. Hermione snapped out of her reverie, turning off the flame as the milk had just started to boil over, expanding and then spilling down the sides of the pot. The frothy milk deflated just in time.

She was ignoring his presence, furiously cleaning up the rim of the pot when she heard him say, “Can’t even muggle right.” Hermione whipped around and leveled a death stare at him. Malfoy was sitting at the table, digging a mystery stew out of a can with a spoon. She’d almost forgotten he’d been there all along.

“Muggle isn’t a verb,” she sneered at him meanly, making sure to give him a judgmental glare for his putrid taste in breakfast fare. He put another spoonful of the mush in his mouth, unbothered by her disgust. Then he levelled an amused expression at her. “Language is mutable; a know-it-all like you should know that.”

She scoffed, turning away from him, and scooped out the porridge into a bowl, blowing on it to cool it down. He’d been like that all morning; annoying, that is. From him, she expected stony silence or untethered rage. Today, he’d chosen to chip away at her nerves, following her around from room to room, taking digs at her with his insolent commentary.

Well, he wasn’t following her, exactly. He’d just pop up in the same room she was in eventually. Not that there were many rooms, but still, she’d thought they nonverbally agreed to avoid one another.

It all started when Hermione had woken up late that morning, Malfoy had walked in on her rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, and lamented, “Slothful as that fat cat of yours.” Later on, outside the bathroom mid-shower, she could hear him whinging, “Oy! There’s no out-of-your-league Quidditch star to escort you to the ball here! What’s taking you so long?” So, she took extra long just to aggravate him.

What had gotten into him? She couldn’t say. It was like he’d forgotten their row from the day before. He had stayed out of her way yesterday, so what had changed? Maybe he couldn’t handle his ego being ignored for more than forty-eight hours at a time.

Her blood boiled at the thought of letting him have the last word; she’d had enough of being the bigger person. She turned around again, catching him mid-bite, “That’s repulsive, you know. You could at least heat that up,” she said. Her tone dripped with condescension.

Malfoy drawled, “I’m not a house-elf, Granger. Would you like to volunteer?”

Her face twisted in distaste at the idea. “I would rather eat a handful of snot-flavoured Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans,” she responded.

Nonplussed, he took another bite of his canned breakfast, then said to her, “It’s not too bad. Better than Hogwarts gruel.”

“I was under the impression that the rich were supposed to have class,” Hermione retorted in her best impression of the know-it-all he claimed she was.

“That’s rich, coming from you. How did you lot survive in the woods for all those months? No, no, no. Don’t tell me. Probably resorted to hunting toads in the bogs like barbarians.”

Hands on her hips, she decided to put him in his place. “Not all of us have the luxury of waiting out this war within the confines of four walls, Malfoy.”

That’s when she saw his face visibly change from amusement to bitter anger, veiled thinly by his blank expression. Malfoy said coldly, “The luxury? That’s what you think…hmmm.” Then he pivoted on his foot and let the door slam shut behind him.

Let him walk off if he wanted to. That had been her goal. She wanted him as far away as possible before she throttled him out of sheer annoyance. Hermione returned to her meal and picked at her porridge. Her appetite had completely disappeared.

Perhaps what she said had been harsh, but he deserved to have it dished out back to him. She shoveled the food in her mouth forcefully, not caring if she wasn’t hungry, and left the kitchen reluctantly. When she stepped out, she could see him sitting on the other side of the room, in a lounge chair overlooking the brilliant view of the beach outside. She could only see the back of his white-blonde head and the slouched set of his shoulders. As long as he left her alone, she didn’t care for now.

The morning hours slipped by, while Hermione sat on her knees, dust collecting on her trousers, digging out items from the cabinets lining the walls. There were bottles of gin, rum, and brandy with glass stoppers; parchment, quills, and ink; and magical trinkets that cast quirky, but harmless charms. Books of all kinds lined the shelves of all genres, both fiction and non-fiction, all written by pureblood wizards, of course.

There was anything from “Love Magik in the ruins of the Roman Empire” and “101 Spells to de-gnome your garden!” She stacked them in piles by category and picked out the ones she thought she might glean some information from. When the sun reached its peak in the afternoon, Hermione was still in the same position, scanning through a dense tome comparing the usage of aged versus fresh ingredients in potions. She flicked through the pages, huffed, and tossed it aside into the “not-useful” pile in frustration.

For a brief moment, Hermione’s eyes drifted across the room to Draco, who sat hunched over, looking at a scroll. He wore an intense look in his eyes as he read, his eyebrows scrunching over as if he were agitated. It was then that he tilted his chin up and, feeling her gaze, met her stare head-on, as if daring her to look away.

Hermione swiftly turned away, feeling sheepish once she registered that she had been caught staring. Really, it was rather hard not to stare, considering that he was the only other living being in her vicinity. She found it difficult to return to concentrating on her task; her eyes becoming wearier with every line read. She was done with this. With a thump, she dropped the heavy text on the floor, causing some of the dust collected on the floor to scatter like fine mist. She stood up, brushing off the dust accumulated on the kneecaps of her trousers.

Then she began to tinker with the radio she had found the day before, tapping her wand against the metal. In succession, she attempted any number of spells, magical beasts, and famous wizards, and was disappointed when it appeared that none of them was the password to Potterwatch. The sun was starting to set, receding into the east in a pool of vibrant gold and russet orange, when it occurred to her that there could be a method to the madness, a pattern that linked them all together.

What did Albus Dumbledore and Mad-Eye Moody have in common? They were both members of the Order of the Phoenix. Notably, they were deceased members. She let out a deep breath she’d been holding in. Everything could be solved with logic, and this comforted her, like a warm blanket settled on her shoulders.

“Prewett,” Hermione declared. The radio blared to life with static, and then the lively voice of Fred Weasley filled the room.

“Good evening, River!” Fred greeted.

“Evening, Rapier!” boomed the voice of Lee Jordan.

“Blimey! Got it right this time, mate!”

“Third time’s the charm, I hear.”

From the corner of her eye, Hermione could’ve sworn she saw Malfoy move a bit closer to the radio.

Fred continued, “Speaking of what you’ve heard, do you have any news for our expectant audience sitting patiently at home tonight?”

“Certainly,” responded Lee. “I’m pleased to be the bearer of glad tidings for those who sympathize with The Boy Who Lived: There were no deaths to report today. Before we get out the butterbeer and celebrate tonight, I’d like everyone to remember our dearly departed loved ones, not as they left the world, but at their greatest moments. Those memories will be a reminder of what we must protect, and that will be the ultimate source of our strength. And let us remember that in the dark, there is also light.”

“Hear, hear!” Fred hollered. “River, that was an exquisite message for our lovely listeners. Though there are no deaths to report today, many of our comrades were injured in the service of our cause outside of the Ministry of Magic headquarters in Whitehall. We sincerely hope everyone listening is safe and makes a speedy recovery. Now it appears our guests, Royal and Romolus, have arrived.”

“Greetings, Gentlemen,” Kingsley said in his familiar, authoritative tone. “I apologize for our late arrival. The day has been hectic, and with the war raging and coming to a head, I don’t presume our punctuality will get any better with time.”

“No worries, Royal,” Fred assured him. “You’re right on time for your segment. We just finished up. It’s not like we’re any better. Really, nobody ever knows when we’ll be on air! It’s the luck of the draw, truly.” He took a pause. Hermione leaned in closer, nails digging into the skin of her palms. She just needed to know if they were alright.

“Well, we’re all curious, how are Muggle-Wizard relations faring as of late?” Fred asked Kingsley.

“As our listeners are aware, there has been an increase in Muggle casualties as of late. In response to this, we’ve urged our allies to extend their protection to the muggles closest to wizarding communities, as they are the most vulnerable at the moment. Luckily, there were no fatalities today. However, we were informed that there were reports out of Wiltshire of scores of Muggle residents found in a comatose state. They were transported to the community hospital, and news spread of this affliction across the county. Notably, it caused its victims irreversible psychological damage, tremors, and nerve pain. Sound familiar, anyone?”

Hermione felt her blood run as cold as ice, and she sucked in her breath in response.

“The Cruciatus curse,” Fred replied in a hushed voice that was as careful as a hunter avoiding the snap of leaves beneath their boots. A loud, oppressive silence filled the air as everyone processed the weight of this revelation.

“That’s right, Rapier,” affirmed Kingsley. “There have been countless high-profile cases of Muggles tortured and killed at the hands of Death Eaters since the start of the war, but never all at once in this quantity. I’ve organized a task force to tackle this crisis. We’ve taken action to send our healers to tend to the victims once they’ve been released from the hospital. Our obliviators were sent to ease the minds of the victims and their families after treatment. The psychological stress the victims underwent is enough for them without them questioning their sanity as well. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s the best we could do for now.”

“I commend your ability to stay calm and cool under pressure, Royal. I am truly appalled at the news of this brutal crime against humanity. I don’t mean to imply that there is any rhyme or reason for terrorizing innocents, but was there any reason to suspect that this mass attack was part of a larger strategy?” Lee chimed in.

“Yes,” Kingsley agreed. “When we sent our task force to Wiltshire, we did our fair share of investigating. It seemed only rational to assume that they expected our arrival, so we brought along our best fighters on the mission. Our hypothesis was proven wrong. The attack was not part of a scheme to lure our forces out of hiding and into battle. No Death Eaters showed up.”

“Most curious, indeed. Clearly, it was not a coordinated attack. What did you conclude from the investigation?” asked Lee.

“Upon arrival, we quickly found that some of the victims were coherent enough to talk and shared with us that they had all heard what they perceived as gunshots from the nearest estate. That would be Malfoy Manor, of course. Hours later, they were attacked in the middle of the night. As most of us are aware, the Malfoys are pureblood loyalists, and the patriarch of the family, Lucius Malfoy, is a convicted Death Eater. We can assume that this attack could’ve been a response from You-Know-Who and his allies as retaliation.”

“Retaliation in response to whom?” asked Fred, in a voice dripping with vested interest.

“I’ll hand off this one to Romolus,” replied Kingsley. “He has more detailed information about what transpired that night at Malfoy Manor.”

“Thank you for that smooth introduction, Royal,” answered a new voice. It was Lupin’s calm, gentle cadence. “It has come to my attention, through a clandestine source, that on March 31st, there was a breakout of prisoners of war held at Malfoy Manor. Among these prisoners was Luna Lovegood, who had been missing since the Christmas holidays, and Garrick Ollivander, who had been missing since July of 1996. Another notable escapee was the Muggle-born Dean Thomas, who had been traveling with Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell. He had been captured by snatchers along with a goblin following their deaths. How did they manage to escape under heavy surveillance, you might ask?”

There was a pause in his narrative as he took a breath to conclude the story. Hermione looked up to see Malfoy not even pretending to be disinterested. His face was set in a grimace that showed his displeasure. Predictable of a junior Death Eater.

“Well, that night, the snatchers captured three young wizards going by the names Vernon Dudley, Penelope Clearwater, and Barney Weasley,” continued Lupin. “They suspected them to be Harry Potter and his companions, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. If this is true, then we have strong evidence to assume that they escaped and released the prisoners. To everyone listening tonight, know that Harry is out there, fighting for our cause. Wherever he and his friends are tonight, I wish them a safe journey and applaud their bravery and fortitude.”

“That brings us all hope, right now,” Lee answered. “Don’t you think, Rapier? Well, that concludes our news segment for tonight. Our guests, Royal and Romolus, will be taking their leave to attend to urgent matters. Our next broadcast’s password will be “Dearborn.” But hold on, Ladies and Gentlemen, since our broadcast was on the short side today, we thought we would extend tonight’s program to include an entertainment segment before we go off air. Our favorite dynamic duo, Tentacula and Rapier, will be taking over.”

The rest of the broadcast fizzled out to background noise as Hermione processed what she’d just heard. Fred and George were jesting, trying to one-up one another in wit and humour. But all she could focus on was how her heart soared to life as she realized that all of her friends were safe and alive and probably far, far away from Malfoy Manor by now.

Before she could stop herself, she was saying it out loud. “Harry and Ron. Dean. Luna. Ollivander…They’re alive,” Hermione said in a raspy voice that sounded out of breath.

Malfoy’s irritated, unpleasant drawl filled the air between them. “What? Did you seriously think they weren’t, Granger? You lot are harder to get rid of than cockroaches,” he said. She realized that he replied a moment later and looked up to see a hideous smirk smeared across his face.

She was just so happy that everyone she loved was okay, and she didn’t want to let go of that feeling. She wouldn’t let him take her joy when it was all she had right now. Hermione held onto her smile, before he could wipe it away, stood up shakily, and let the kitchen door close behind her with a bang.