Chapter Text
September 19th, 2009
Dear Diary,
Happy Birthday. I am thirty years old today—and this day is nothing like what I once dreamed for myself, back when I used to imagine the future.
It has been two years now—two years since the war began, and the world I once knew is gone. I am petrified, scarred, aching. I don’t think life will ever feel the same again.
A year ago, they turned on the Muggles. The Pact of Thorns grew stronger—vampires, werewolves, goblins, giants, and more all fell in line behind them. Only the centaurs stayed with us, but we are so few compared to what we face. We are still hunted. At least the extraction rituals are different now. Not the swift executions they once were. Instead, they tear the magic from us slowly, leaving us alive just enough to serve as slaves in their manors.
The pure-bloods have never been richer. Millionaires. They funnel money through Muggles—ironic, when they claim Muggles are unworthy of life. Unworthy, yet still useful for their wealth. Some communities remain hidden, small pockets of safety scattered across the world.
Shacklebolt made that possible. He wove protective bubbles in secret places, shields no one else can replicate. No one knows where they are anymore—not even us. He vanished on a mission, and most believe the High Reeves killed him. Harry has taken his place, but every day we lose a little more ground. It isn’t Harry’s fault—the Pact’s violence is too great, too merciless—but the truth is, our strategy is no longer working. We cannot surrender. We know what surrender means. It means death for all of us.
The Resistance is breaking. I hear it in their voices, see it in their eyes. Too much loss. Too much grief. Some might still be alive out there, trapped, waiting. Others… I know they are gone. And then there are the whispers—the rumors of those who once fought beside us, now surrendering around the globe. They have accepted that we are losing. They beg for pardon, hoping for a chance to survive when we are finally crushed.
Two years since Ron disappeared. No body. No truth. Only raids that led us nowhere, each time leaving us with hope a little more frayed, a little more broken.
Harry is still free, still uncaptured, but always shielded. As I am. I cannot leave the medical shelter—not for an instant. The walls are my prison. I feel like I am dying for the chance to walk anywhere else.
So far, no one has betrayed us. No one has breached the secret location of this hospital I run in England. But who can say how long that will last? One day, someone may trade our sanctuary for a lighter sentence… and then everything will be lost.
And I am so very, very tired...
***
Hermione pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes, trying to release the tension that had accumulated over the past years. Slowly, her hand slid down to her cheek, then to the back of her neck. The laboratory was humid as she brewed a Calming Draught for the hospital patients, and she pushed her hair up into a bun. She needed a day of rest, but that was almost impossible. She wasn’t running the hospital alone, but she was the most experienced healer—trained in both Muggle and magical medicine—which had saved countless lives in the past two years.
The Pact was using Muggle weapons, enchanted with deadly curses. The contradiction still burned her. They despised Muggles and yet relied on their inventions to slaughter them.
A commotion echoed from the hallway. Hermione’s fatigue vanished. She rose quickly and peered out the doorway. Neville and Dean were half-carrying a frail figure between them. For one suspended heartbeat, the world froze.
Luna.
Hermione’s chest clenched. Luna had been kidnapped three months ago—stunned and taken. They had not found her. Until now.
Hermione ran forward, issuing orders as she did.
“Bring her to the operating table. Fetch my kit—now! Hot water, clean sheets—quickly!”
Luna’s bare skin was visible beneath tattered rags, so Hermione cut the cloth to cover her lower half and shield her dignity. Blood soaked her body, grime caked her hair and skin. Hermione’s quick examination made her stomach turn. Bruises mottled Luna’s head, neck, chest, and abdomen. One nipple had been torn away. Her skull bore a severe trauma, likely from being struck against something hard. Her belly was swollen—internal bleeding, perhaps. Blood streaked down her thighs. She was unconscious.
“Where did you find her?” Hermione demanded.
“We were lucky,” Neville muttered, his voice tight. She was in the forest, hided.
Hermione’s gaze snapped to him. “Alone? Did she speak at all?”
Dean shook his head. “She hasn’t woken since we carried her out.”
Hermione nodded sharply. “Find George Weasley. He needs to know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hermione pulled the curtain around the table to give Luna privacy. When she peeled away the last of the filthy rags, she gasped—horror locking her chest. Luna had been through hell at the hands of the Pact.
Hermione forced her breathing steady and set to work. She cast healing charms, applied poultices, disinfected wounds with Muggle antiseptics. Her hands moved with practiced precision, but when she examined further, bile rose in her throat. Luna’s most intimate parts had been torn apart. The truth was undeniable—she had been raped, again and again.
On her left thigh, a golden tattoo gleamed. At first it looked delicate, a word etched in elegant calligraphy. Traitor . But the letters had been burned deep into her flesh, the raw wound seared over with molten gold. It must have hurt beyond imagining.
Hermione had to turn her face away for a heartbeat, her stomach heaving—not from Luna, never from her—but from the cruelty carved into her body.
Instinctively, her hand went to her own scar. She had seen bodies returned in the same way—Angelina, Padma, who was likely killed by her own sister after Parvati joined the Pact, and countless others. Mutilated. Discarded. Left like garbage in the forest.
Every witch they had found was always drained of magic, their bodies hollowed out, emptied. But this was the first time someone had been left alive—marked instead with that cruel gold brand. That was new. That was dangerous.
Hermione forced herself back to the present. Luna needed surgery, and soon—her blood loss was critical.
Suddenly Luna gasped, her eyes fluttering open. Panic flared across her face, her breathing ragged. Hermione pressed a steadying hand against her chest.
“You’re safe now, Luna. You’re home.”
But Luna’s eyes were vacant, stripped of the whimsical light that had always made her seem half-dreaming, half-seeing some world beyond. This wasn’t dreaminess anymore. It was absence. As if her very soul had been torn away.
Her lips moved—a whisper, fragile as ash.
“Ron… Ron was there. He helped me. I’ve lost my magic. I’m doomed. I cannot stay here, move me out! Now!”
Hermione pressed a steadying hand to Luna’s shoulder, trying to soothe her, but before she could answer, Luna’s eyes rolled back and she slipped once more into unconsciousness.
Hermione’s vision blurred with tears. Ron. He had survived. For months they had searched, prayed, hoped—and now Luna’s words cracked open the possibility that he was still out there, alive, helping captives to escape. Hermione pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, forcing her thoughts into order. Later. She would think later. For now, she had to keep Luna alive…
Later that night, Hermione stood on the porch of the hospital, letting the cool wind brush her cheek. She closed her eyes for just a moment—until the sharp smell of cigarettes reached her. George Weasley.
He stood close, his eyes heavy with grief. Hermione felt it radiating from him. He had already lost his twin Fred, his older brother Percy, his little brother was taken and now Luna—his love—had been returned broken. No wonder he drank and smoked more and more.
“Thanks for saving her,” George muttered, exhaling smoke. He dropped the cigarette and stared at the glowing ash. “They butchered her pretty badly, didn’t they?”
It sounded like a question, but Hermione knew it was not. It was a confession of pain.
“She has no magic left,” Hermione said quietly. “They stripped it from her. I didn’t have time for a full diagnostic, but… they tore away everything that made her Luna, our Luna”.
George’s jaw clenched. He lit another cigarette, inhaling with a ragged sound.
“Bastards. We went to school with them.”
Hermione reached out and rested her hand on his forearm.
“She’ll be scarred, George.”
“I don’t care. I love her.”
“I know. But listen to me—I don’t mean scars you can see. Losing magic can… hollow someone. Leave them an empty shell. She might not laugh the same way, or even love…”
“Don’t,” George snapped, yanking his arm back. His face twisted with anger. “Don’t say that. She loves me. We love each other. That won’t change.”
Hermione swallowed and nodded. “I understand. Just... Don’t push. She was the first to escape them. Alive. She said Ron helped her. If she can recover, we’ll learn more.”
George finished his cigarette, dropped it, and walked away without looking back. She wasn't mad at him, she understood. He was in pain, the Weasley had their share of pain since the second wizard war.
Hermione turned toward the street. Empty—yet the sight still chilled her. The wards cloaked them well; she had watched Snatchers, Death Eaters, even Pact members pass by without the faintest suspicion. But the memory of the first time the Snatchers cornered her in the Forest of Dean still lived inside her, a claw hooked deep in her belly.
She could feel Scabior’s breath as if it were yesterday, the way he had leaned close, sniffing at her like a hound catching scent, grinning as though she were nothing more than prey. He had smelled her perfume. Since that night, she had never worn it again—only soap, plain and clean, the one scent that didn’t betray her. Still, the stink of damp leather, sweat, and mud clung to the memory, sour in her throat. Years had passed, but that moment was carved into her bones.
Tonight, the silence of the street carried the same weight. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, and turned back inside the hospital.
The hospital was quiet tonight, and Hermione decided to make her rounds. She wanted to see each of her patients, to be sure everyone was stable. When she reached Luna’s bed, she lingered. Earlier, after she had finally managed to stop the hemorrhage, she had cast a full diagnostic. The results had shaken her. Luna was in critical condition, stripped entirely of her magic. They had taken it all.
And yet… she had escaped.
Hermione’s mind kept circling the puzzle. Had Ron helped her? Had he Apparated her out, left her somewhere safe, then gone back into captivity? It made no sense. Hermione had worked tirelessly to stabilize Luna, but though her body might survive, Hermione feared her mind was shattered. Luna was the first victim to return alive. Others had only been found dead—mutilated.
Hermione brushed a strand of hair from Luna’s pale face, trying to make sense of it all: the tattoo, Ron’s name on her lips, Luna’s escape without magic. Something didn’t add up. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, her gaze fell to her own forearm.
Her stomach dropped.
She pushed back the sheets covering Luna’s thigh and froze. The tattoo wasn’t decorative at all—it was a Mark. A Death Mark. Traceable. Just like Malfoy’s, just like every Death Eater carried.
Her heart pounded as she carefully replaced the sheet. Then she turned and walked quickly down the aisle to her office. For one long moment she gathered her thoughts, then sent her silver otter Patronus to Harry, explaining everything: they had to begin evacuation immediately. Minutes later, an answer came. Harry agreed—support and Portkeys would arrive shortly.
Hermione’s relief was brief. The question of Luna gnawed at her. With that Mark, she would be detected anywhere they brought her. Apparition, broom, car—none of it mattered. The Pact would find her.
Her mind raced. Could the Mark be cut away? Could her leg be amputated? Would Luna survive the blood loss? Hermione remembered whispers: Death Eaters who tried to cut their arms had bled until they died. Was this the same? She couldn’t be sure. But her gut told her the truth—Luna’s Mark had to go, or the Resistance would be doomed.
She sent another Patronus to Harry with her suspicion. Within minutes, Molly and Arthur Weasley Apparated into her office. They had come to speak to George. This night was already cruel enough for him, and now the choice might break him entirely.
Hermione laid out her plan. Molly gasped, her hand clutched tightly in Arthur’s.
“We promised her father we would care for her,” Molly whispered through tears. “And we failed.”
Hermione steadied her voice. “Luna is strong. She chose to keep fighting. This wasn’t forced on her—her choices matter. The Pact alone is to blame for what has been done to her.”
Arthur’s face was grave. “Are you certain they’re tracking her?”
“No,” Hermione admitted. “To prove it would take time. If they are tracking her, they’ll come whenever they wish—tonight, tomorrow—it doesn’t matter.”
Arthur pressed further. “And if we amputate and it wasn’t necessary?”
“That is the risk,” Hermione said quietly. “Which is why I ask your counsel. I don’t want to make this choice alone.”
Arthur only nodded, his silence heavy.
“And George?” Molly asked.
Hermione sank into her chair, exhaustion dragging at her bones. “I haven’t told him. He’s in love with her—madly, blindly. He refuses to see how broken she is. I fear he won’t think rationally. But if she keeps that Mark, none of us are safe.”
Molly and Arthur exchanged a pained glance.
“Can you even perform the operation?” Molly asked.
“I think so,” Hermione answered. “Using both magical and Muggle methods. I’ve prepared a plan, but there are a hundred ways it could go wrong.”
Molly’s eyes welled again. “Then George has to know.”
Hermione nodded. “I agree.”
Silence stretched between them until a knock startled them. Lollie, the house-elf who had been helping Hermione for months, peeked in.
“Healer Granger—emergency. Patient Longbottom requires stitches.”
Hermione stood at once. “We’ll operate on Luna tonight. The evacuation has already begun, but she cannot be moved while carrying that mark. And she knows about Ron—she said he helped her escape. We have to keep her alive long enough to tell us what she remembers.”
Molly rose, her face pale but determined. She laid a hand on Hermione’s arm.
“Do what you must. I’ll speak to George.”
Hermione nodded her thanks and left with Lollie.
In the operating room, Hermione worked quickly. Time was short, and she wasn’t even sure if she was right. Her hands trembled as she prepared her instruments. What would Kingsley have done?
She examined the mark again. At first glance, it was beautiful—calligraphic, delicate, almost lace-like. The word Traitor burned into Luna’s thigh, seared and then tattooed, woven into her skin like filigree. It wasn’t ink—it was a living scar.
Hermione checked the rest of Luna’s body for further markings and exhaled in relief when she found none. At least there was only one.
She prepared Luna with what vampire blood she had left, combined with the essence of Lilliath, and induced a deep coma. The last thing she wanted was Luna waking mid-procedure.
Then she picked up the scalpel.
The moment her blade touched the edge of the Mark, it flared—dark veins spreading like fire through Luna’s skin. Hermione gritted her teeth and pressed on. When the knife could go no further, she reached for the saw and began cutting through bone. Her throat tightened with grief, but she forced it down. She could not afford to be Hermione right now. She had to be the healer, the surgeon. And this was her patient.
The smell of burning filled the room as she cauterized the wound with unicorn blood. The bleeding slowed—miraculously. The mark hadn’t poisoned her, hadn’t cursed her into an instant death trap. For once, fortune was on their side. However, she had lost a lot of blood and even if the wound was less bleeding, she needed to provide more of the unicorn blood as they go, she probably had for another hour of providing the wound with unicorn blood to stabilize it or Luna will die.
Hermione’s hands moved steadily, but her heart was raw. They had saved Luna’s life—for now. She was just about to finish the bandages around her thigh when a thunderous sound tore through the ward. Glass shattered. The ground trembled. It was loud, horrific—unmistakable. They’d been found.
She didn’t let herself stop. It was impossible for her to leave Luna half-tended. Her fingers kept working, wrapping the bandage with meticulous care even as her chest tightened with dread. “Lollie, apparate!” she barked, but the house-elf shook her head, terrified. Hermione didn’t argue. They had no time.
She reached for a small satchel and filled it quickly: unicorn blood, blood-replenishing potion, Lilliath’s essence, seringue, bandages—everything Luna would need to survive. The door creaked open and Hermione spun, wand raised.
“George!” Relief flooded her for a split second before the panic returned. “You scared me. Please—we need to go. Take her. Bring her somewhere safe. I’ve cleared everything, but we can’t expose another shelter.”
George nodded grimly, lifting Luna into his arms. But before they could move, the double doors burst off their hinges with a roar. Hermione whirled back, wand at the ready. She shouted, “Stupefy!” but the jet of red light missed its mark by less than an inch. A sickly green curse flared past George, close enough to sear the air.
“Go!” Hermione screamed, her voice raw. “Take her! She’s the only chance we have of finding Ron!”
The laughter that answered her was shrill, mad, echoing through the hallway.
“I’ll hold them back! Please—just go! Take Lollie with you, she will help you take care of Luna’s wound.” Hermione shouted.
“Okay—thanks. My parents are up front. If you can reach them, they’ll help you—” George tried to apparate, Luna in his arms and the medical kit clutched in one hand with Lollie touching his legs. But the spell rebounded violently, sparks cracking in the air.
“The bastards—they’ve warded it!” George shouted.
“For Merlin’s sake!” Hermione snapped, her eyes darting wildly for another escape. From the corridor came more screams, more footsteps. Whoever was here wasn’t alone. They had tracked Luna.
Hermione rose, but another flash of green seared past her, grazing her shoulder by barely a quarter inch. She dove aside, slamming into a table, breath ragged. Forcing herself up, she snapped her wand forward. “Protego!” The shield flared, wrapping George and Luna in a brief cocoon of safety.
Without waiting, she hurled a Stupefy down the corridor, praying it would hit something—anything. Her mind raced. They needed a way out. Fast.
Her fingers brushed against the small mirror pendant hanging at her throat. Mrs. Lapierre’s gift. Of course. With shaking hands, she tore it free and thrust it toward George. He stared at her, puzzled, panic flashing in his eyes.
“Trust me. We don’t have time.”
Before he could argue, she spun, aimed her wand at him, Luna and Lollie and whispered the shrinking charm.
“Through the mirror,” she ordered. “Now.”
George gave a small, tight nod, clutching Luna and the kit. Lollie’s eyes flicked to hers, desperate. “Lollie is worrie about Healer Granger, you will follow?”
“I’ll follow right after you!” Hermione lied, her voice sharp. There was no time for explanations.
Lollie leapt into the pendant, and Hermione cried, “Speculomotus!” The mirror flared silver, swallowing their shrunken forms into its depths—then fractured, the glass splintering with a sharp crack, sealing the passage and leaving no way for anyone to follow.
Hermione turned, ready to leave the room —but a witch burst from the shadows, wand already raised.
“Protego!” Hermione snapped, shield erupting in front of her. It shattered an instant later under a vicious counter-curse. Sparks bit her skin, heat searing. Snarling, she struck back. Red light blazed from her wand, colliding with the witch’s spell midair. Sparks rained, smoke thickened, the world narrowing into nothing but speed and survival.
Through the haze, Hermione caught sight of her attacker’s face. That sneer. That cold, amused gleam.
Daphne Greengrass.
Hermione’s stomach dropped. “You—”
Daphne was spectacular. Her hair was long and golden, gleaming with health, her black-painted nails sharp as claws. She wore combat gear that looked almost enchanted—stitched with dragon hide, unicorn hair, maybe even fairy dust. Muggle weapons were strapped across her chest, gleaming under the torchlight.
She looked nothing like the people Hermione had been tending for two years—starving, unwashed, surviving on scraps of medicine and hope. Daphne radiated power, privilege, and victory. And in that moment, it struck Hermione like a blade: they had already lost this war.
She flung an immobilizing spell, but Daphne was quick, darting aside. The blonde witch raised her wand, lips shaping the beginnings of an Unforgivable. Hermione didn’t wait. She spun, forcing herself through the wreckage toward the door. But the walls rippled. The exits were gone. The bastards had sealed the place, twisting the environment with magic. Was it all an illusion? Her head spun.
She ran anyway, firing hexes over her shoulder, the cackle of witch chasing her like knives in the dark. That laugh—it was hers. It was Daphne’s.
“Merlin,” Hermione hissed, breathless. Where was everyone? Screams echoed, curses cracked through the air, spells slammed into walls—but not a single figure was in sight.
She forced herself to think. If she could just reach the far end of the corridor, there was a trapdoor leading into the hospital’s small kitchen. With luck, it would be empty. From there, she might make it outside.
She could feel the pursuit behind her, but she was faster. Her lungs burned as she reached the door, wrenched it open, and slipped inside. Slamming it shut, she locked it with a flick of her wand, layering it with a resistance charm. Then she turned toward the narrow staircase that would take her to the back door—and freedom. Maybe even back to the others outside.
But she had barely taken a step when the door behind her exploded. Dust and splinters rained down, stinging her skin. Hermione spun, wand raised, just as Daphne’s lips curled around the beginnings of an Unforgivable. She braced, ready to counter—
—and then froze.
She felt it before she saw it: an impact, heavy and unyielding, a hand clamping around her waist. Her breath caught. A shadow loomed over her, immense, suffocating.
Her gaze flicked upward.
A Death Eater. Towering, draped in black combat gear, Muggle weapons strapped across his chest. The mask he wore was strange—cut in half, silver hiding one eye while the other gleamed out at her, mouth visible beneath the edge. The hood sank the rest into shadow.
She shouldn’t have recognized him. Not like this. And yet she did. The way he moved. The breadth of him. The cold weight of his touch.
Her stomach lurched.
Hermione shoved hard against him, panic flaring, but he didn’t even shift. With the smallest flick of his hand, he deflected Daphne’s curse as if brushing away smoke.
“Enough,” he said.
The sound of his voice turned her blood to ice.
Two years. Two years since she had last seen him. Two years since she had prayed she never would. And now—
Draco Malfoy. The second-in-command. The right hand of Greengrass.
Her gasp tore from her throat before she could stop it, horror clawing up her chest as his lips tightened, his gaze locked on hers.
Behind her, Daphne sneered something cruel—an insult, a promise of a Cruciatus for everything Hermione had ever done.
“ Enough, I said. They want her alive,” he cut across, voice low, gaze never leaving hers.
Hermione couldn’t look away. Those pale grey eyes—cold as steel. His voice was almost unchanged, but… different. She forced herself to study him. One of his eyes seemed badly damaged; redness bled from beneath the mask, down his cheek to the corner of his mouth, disappearing toward his temple. Her gaze slid lower, to his lips—tight, controlled.
He must have felt her scrutiny, because he turned her sharply, pressing her back against his chest, his hand firm against her belly. She felt small against him, diminished. Malnourished, fragile—her body whittled down by years of war—while he felt like something reforged, a Malfoy 2.0, who had missed nothing, not even in ruin.
Hermione shut her eyes for a heartbeat, let her weight fall back into him as though surrendering. She felt the subtle hitch in his grip—surprise. It was enough.
Her fingers slid to the knife she always carried. She remembered what he had once told her—three vulnerable points: neck, ribs, thigh. The thigh was the only target she could reach. Without hesitation, she drove the blade in with all her strength.
He released her instantly—more from shock than pain.
“ Fucking mudblood! ” someone spat.
Hermione didn’t wait to see who. She bolted for the stairs, feet pounding upward. She had barely reached the first step when a curse slammed into the back of her neck. Fire erupted under her skin. She screamed, collapsing forward—
—before the same dark figure caught her again.
Her vision blurred. Panic surged—her body fought to stay awake—but darkness flooded in, swallowing her whole.