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Chapter Text

Theodore Nott cursed as he descended the narrow stairs to the Nott family dungeons. The Notts lived in a proper castle, so they had proper dungeons, not like Malfoy Manor which converted its stellar wine cellar into a place to hold the Dark Lord’s victims.

Why was he even adhering to anything Draco Malfoy requested? He had barely spoken to the tosser since Second Year when his former best mate decided to throw around the word Mudblood like it wasn’t the very type of blood prejudice that had gotten Theo’s own mother murdered–by his own father, no less.

Still, something about Draco’s desperation had made him pause and listen.

“It’s a breeding program. The Dark Lord is establishing a breeding program. Integrate the rebels into Pureblood families, have them produce children.”

Theo had scoffed. “What’s that got to do with me? It will just let my father have a ‘less disappointing’ heir.”

A bitter smile crossed Draco’s face. “The Dark Lord is actually trying to make it so no one is Pureblooded because he’s a Half-Blood.”

Theo’s mouth had dropped open in shock. 

Draco had continued to explain, “So he’s going to look like he’s rewarding your father by gifting him a Pureblood. But he won’t give her to your father. He’ll give her to you because you’re not a Pureblood, and he knows that.  And I know there’s a Patil down there–I just didn’t see which one. And, if it’s the Good Patil, I want you to ask for her.”

Theo’s head was swimming with the information. “Why?”

Draco swallowed. “Because I trust you not to hurt her.”

“Why do you even–” Theo broke off and shook his head. “Why don’t you just ask for her yourself?”

Draco sniffed. “I just told you, he’s trying to break up the Purebloods. Even though she’s not Sacred Twenty-Eight or even British, she’s still a Pureblood. Besides, the Malfoys are not in favour. We are constant disappointments. We are likely to be punished with a Muggleborn.” 

Theo had blinked at his former best friend for a moment before snorting. “Granger. You’ve been fucking up on purpose to make sure you got Granger.”

His former friend had only ground his jaw.

“What’s Patil to you?”

Draco’s jaw tightened again and he looked away. “She’s a friend, I guess. Of sorts. I’m not sure how much she likes me right now, actually. I know she’s disappointed in me. She’s just–she’s a good person, and I don’t want her going to someone like Rowle or Dolohov or even Rabastan. He’s going to give some Purebloods to Death Eaters, otherwise it will be obvious what he’s doing, and people will begin to wonder what motivation he has for doing it.”

Theo had huffed. The whole thing made his stomach roil; but, if what Draco said was true, he could help shield at least someone from horror. “Which one is the good one?”

Draco had levelled Theo with a glare. “You have to ask?”

It took a very brief moment for Theo to decide which one: the one in the NEWT classes with them, the quiet one, the serious one–the Ravenclaw. He nodded. “Alright.” He looked into his former friend’s face. “And what if it’s the other one?”

Draco’s face darkened and he spat viciously,  “She can get fucked six ways to next Tuesday by twenty different men, and I wouldn’t care.”

That was–that was quite the reaction for Draco. Ok, no Gryffindor Patil then. He would see who else he could save.

So, here he was, sneaking down to the dungeons of his own home to determine which Patil was down there.

He cast lumos as he got to the bottom of the stairs. His father had segregated the women from the men, so he didn’t even look to the left side of the dungeon.

His light passed over Granger who looked up at him with more curiosity than fear. The Weasley girl glared at him, and the Abbott girl did look up with fear. Finally his light caught on long, dark hair and brown skin. Her head rested on her arms which, in turn, rested on her knees. Her uniform was tattered, though, so he couldn’t tell which House she was from.

He kneeled in front of the bars. “Patil,” he whispered.

She lifted her head and blinked in his light. Her face remained impassive.

Damn, what was the Good Patil’s name? They had shared Arithmancy and Runes for five years, but the professors always called her by her last name. He tried to think of what her friends called her, but he couldn’t remember her with anyone except Draco in class–and he called her Patil as well.

Perhaps he should just ask if she was the Ravenclaw. What came out instead was, “Are you the Good Patil?”

An odd look crossed her face. Finally, she shook her head and said, “No, that’s Parvati.” She put her head back on her arms.

What a strange thing to acknowledge about yourself, that you were the Bad Twin. But, wait, he was sure the Gryffindor one was called Parvati. He was sure he had heard one of her friends call her that. “You’re the Gryffindor?”

She lifted her head again and looked up at him with confusion. “No, that’s Parvati. I’m Padma.”

“The Ravenclaw?” Theo confirmed.

She nodded. 

He blew out a breath and raked his hand through his hair. “Alright, look, I’m going to do my best to keep you safe. I promise I won’t hurt you. I won’t make you do anything unless you decide to do it on your own. Ok?”

Her confusion didn’t lift as she nodded again.

He nodded back at her, stood, and hurried back up the stairs.

Hermione watched as Padma continued to stare after Nott in confusion.

“What was that about?” Padma finally murmured.

“The breeding program,” Hermione answered quietly.

“The WHAT?” Ginny squawked.

Hermione closed her eyes as she relived the revelation that happened, Good Lord, was that only just yesterday?

She, Harry, and Ron had watched the exchange between Voldemort and Snape in the Shrieking Shack. For a moment, it looked as if Voldemort had contemplated killing Snape.

“No,” Voldemort had mused, “Dumbledore did not kill Grindelwald, and you’ve been such a useful servant. Your death would be a waste.”

“My lord?” Snape had stuttered.

“Prepare to duel, Severus. And defend yourself well, or I may just change my mind.”

The duel was nearly as breathtaking as what Harry had described about Voldemort and Dumbledore’s duel. But, in the end, Voldemort had cast both Incarcerous and Expelliarmus on Snape then left him on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

“Damn it,” Snape had sworn. “It will all be meaningless if Potter doesn’t know.”

Harry had taken off the invisibility cloak and approached the man. “What is it I need to know?”

Snape had the audacity to roll his eyes when he was trussed up on the floor. “Of course you would be spying with your cloak.”

Harry had released Snape who stood and brushed his robes off and started toward his wand that had arced across the room. Ron had pointed his wand at Snape and snarled, “Don’t even think about it,” while Harry had retrieved Snape’s wand.

“Fine, though I think it would be better if I could give you the memory, Potter.” He had levelled Harry with a stare that softened for a moment into pity. “You have to die, Potter. In order to defeat the Dark Lord, you must die. As long as you live, so will the Dark Lord. You have a piece of his soul in you.”

“No,” Hermione had protested though she knew it made sense–his parseltongue, his connection to Voldemort. 

“How am I supposed to believe the man who murdered Dumbledore?” Harry had retorted.

“If you won’t believe me, believe the girl, then,” Snape had replied as he nodded at Hermione.

Hermione had been just as confused as Harry.

Snape had sighed in frustration. “The memories she gave you last year, what did you do with them?” 

“I–I gave them to my elf.”

“Then call your elf,” Snape had snapped.

When Kreacher handed over the bottle of memories to Harry, he handed it to Hermione who was astonished to find her own handwriting pleading with Harry to keep the memories safe and to watch them only if she didn’t make it but before the Death Eater trials. She remembered giving him a bottle of memories, but she thought they were from McGonagall.

Snape had given Ron an odd look and said, “Perhaps just Potter and Granger should watch them. The less people who know the details, the better for those in the memories. May I have my wand to extract my memory?” When Harry hesitated, Snape lifted his eyes to the ceiling in annoyance and said, “I have three wands pointed at me. I remember clearly what happened the last time that occurred in this room.”

Harry had handed over the wand reluctantly and Snape conjured a flask and extracted the memory from his head. “Go back to the castle. The password to my office is ‘Dumbledore.’ The Pensieve is there.”

And she had to endure Harry watching as, well, not an affair exactly, more a series of encounters really, involving Draco Malfoy unfolded. Hermione flushed in embarrassment while reliving the memory of Harry watching her kissing the Slytherin and, worse, watching Malfoy giving her an orgasm. Harry was angrily smug. “I knew it–that handkerchief you dragged everywhere saying it was your grandmother’s–yeah, like I don’t know DLM means Draco Malfoy.”

And then they had watched as Snape revealed to Hermione that Dumbledore had arranged for Snape to kill him.

But it was Snape's further revelation of the consequences for Voldemort winning that allowed Hermione to answer Ginny and Padma now. 

“We’re going to be given to the Death Eaters as rewards to breed to increase the magical population.”

“Like concubines?” Padma asked. 

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know all the details. I know just that some of us will be considered rewards and others, like myself, are meant to be punishments.”

Ginny scoffed. “So, whoever pissed Voldy off the most gets to be your rapist?”

“If all went to plan,” Hermione answered, “then it won’t be rape, well, no more than any mandate to have sex already is.”

“What do you mean?” Ginny asked suspiciously.

Hermione winced. “I think I’ll be given to Malfoy.”

Ginny snorted. “And you think Draco Malfoy won’t rape you if it comes down to him or you?”

Hermione shook her head. “He won’t hurt me.”

“Draco Malfoy won’t hurt you?” Ginny demanded incredulously. “The arse who called you Mudblood for years?”

“He won’t,” Hermione insisted. She couldn’t tell Ginny that he was in love with her–that would put him at risk and Ginny wouldn’t understand. 

“So, what, you’ll just voluntarily have sex with him, then? Have his spawn? You’re giving up?”

“I am not giving up. Never. But there might be sacrifices we will have to make to win.”

“And willingly spreading your legs for Draco Malfoy is one of those sacrifices, Hermione?”

“That is the best case scenario for me, Ginny–because Dolohov and Greyback are asking for me, and they have gruesome plans.”

Padma interjected, “So, that was Nott telling me he wasn’t going to rape me, then?”

Hermione looked over. “It seems like it.”

“You think he’ll be rewarded, though, to even be able to ask for me? I don’t think he fought for Voldemort. He wasn’t really like any of the other Slytherins,” Padma clarified.

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know who everyone is supposed to go to or who Voldemort thinks to reward or punish. These are all just Snape’s speculations, but–”

“Snape,” Ginny snarled. “The man who killed Dumbledore?”

Hermione lowered her voice. “It’s not like we thought, Ginny. And when Harry died,” she gulped over those words, “he had put his trust in Severus Snape again. And you’re going to need to also because likely that is who you’ll be with.”

Ginny reared back in disgust. “No, absolutely not. I cannot have sex with him–carry his child? Ugh, I think I’m going to be ill.”

“He doesn’t like the idea either, Ginny. He’s clever, though. I think he’ll figure out a way to avoid it. And Ginny, if it’s not him, it will be Voldemort.”

Ginny hadn’t broken yet, not through Percy’s or Harry’s death, but now she crumpled. “No, no, I will kill myself first.”

“It won’t come to that,” Hermione comforted. “Trust in Snape. He’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

“What about me?” Hannah asked. 

Hermione grimaced. “I don’t know. He told me only about myself and Ginny and–” she gulped again “--and Neville.”

“Who is going to get him?”

Hermione swallowed. “Snape thinks Bellatrix.”

Ginny screamed. “No!”

“Ginny! Are you alright?” came the panicked voice of the very person they were discussing. The cell the boys were in was down a corridor that faced them. The girls couldn’t see them, but if they yelled they could hear each other.

Ginny drew in a calming breath and called back, “Yeah, Nev, there was a rat.”

“Since when were you afraid of rats, Gin?” Ron’s voice called back.

Ginny ignored him and turned back to Hermione, “Please tell me there’s some hope for him.”

Hermione nodded. “If Voldemort is still angry with Bellatrix over the escape from Malfoy Manor and the loss of Hufflepuff’s cup, maybe. Then Pansy is going to ask for him. I suspect her yelling out to grab Harry will help with that. Though, it likely won’t be terribly better with Pansy. She always bullied him.”

Ginny scoffed. “No, that will be the safest place for him. She’s in love with him,” she spat.

Hermione wondered at the vitriol in Ginny’s voice. Wouldn’t it be better if Neville was with someone who loved him? He would essentially be in the same position as Hermione.

Pansy Parkinson was so grateful to Draco’s occlumency lessons over the last year. The skill was the only thing keeping her from shaking with fear at the Dark Lord’s victory celebration. The Parkinsons had never been part of the evil wizard’s inner circle, but her father’s fighting at the Final Battle and Pansy’s own demand to hand Potter over in the Great Hall had earned them both an invite to this more intimate gathering. “You’re to be rewarded, daughter,” her father had crooned at her more lovingly than he had ever done in her life. “It turns out you’re not worthless after all.”

Calling out to hand over Potter hadn’t been some cunning act to curry the Dark Lord’s favour. It was a move of desperation, a move to keep Voldemort away from the boy she had been pining for for she didn’t know how long. She had spent the entire year keeping him and his redheaded slag safe. She wasn’t about to watch Voldemort or, worse, Bellatrix come for him. But, as long as the war raged, as long as Harry Potter was alive to rally behind, Neville Longbottom would fight. And Pansy would trade a dozen Harry Potters for one Neville Longbottom.

She wasn’t sure when she stopped looking at him as a bumbling, fat, crybaby and started to see him as someone strong who just wouldn’t be bullied (unless that bully had a hook nose and greasy curtains for hair). He had more loyalty to his friends than any Hufflepuff and every bit as much courage as Harry fucking Potter. How many times had she covered for his nonsense? And he had never once bent to the Carrows.

Now was when she saw whether her spur of the moment act in the Great Hall would pay off.

The Dark Lord sat on a dais in the Nott family ballroom. Two tables sat perpendicular to the dais filled with Death Eaters and others prominent at the Final Battle. Voldemort’s snake sat coiled at his feet. Pansy repressed another shudder as she remembered Longbottom trying to take out that snake with the sword. It was only the Dark Lord’s own blind rage that made him miss Neville with the Avada.

As the hosts, Theo and his father sat the closest to the Dark Lord on his left. And as the most favoured Death Eater, Headmaster Snape sat closest to him on his right. It was a statement of favour not lost on anyone in the room. In contrast, the Malfoys were the furthest down the left side of the table and the Greengrasses, who had joined the Dark Lord only in the last moments of the Final Battle, were furthest down the right.

Pansy and her father sat in the middle of the right hand side.

The Dark Lord raised his goblet. “To Harry Potter.”

The Death Eaters shuffled and glanced at each other in confusion.

The side of the dark wizard’s mouth ticked up. “May he stay dead.”

The witches and wizards in the room laughed uncomfortably. No one would dare mention that Harry Potter’s body had not been found, but it was on everyone’s mind. The fact that the Dark Lord saw fit to joke about it made them hesitate even more. Was he looking for those who doubted his victory? One never knew with this psychopath.

Everyone lifted their goblets after the Dark Lord took a full drink.

“However, it is not enough to simply vanquish the Mudbloods and Blood Traitors,” the Dark Lord continued. “Though they are despicable, they still have magic and the Muggles outnumber us. We must do our best to reintegrate them into our folds and increase our population.”

Several people exchanged horrified looks and shuffled in their chairs. 

“And look,” the noseless bastard went on, “we already have some on hand with which to work.” He waved his hand and a list of names appeared above their heads. 

Pansy scanned the names and her heart plummeted. Godsdammit. She knew it. Neville Fucking Longbottom. 

There, shimmering, were names and blood statuses.

Abbott, Hannah–Pureblood

Creevey, Dennis–Mudblood

Finch-Fletchley, Justin–Mudblood

Granger, Hermione–Mudblood

Longbottom, Neville–Pureblood

Macmillan, Ernest–Pureblood

Patil, ?–Pureblood

Spinnet, Alicia–Half-Blood

Weasley, Ginevra–Pureblood

Weasley, Ronald–Pureblood

“I promised you rewards and punishments for your service, didn’t I? Let me be clear, should you spurn my gift or avoid my punishment, I do not need you in my service. And we all know what happens to those the Dark Lord no longer needs, don’t we?”

“Yes, my lord,” everyone, including Pansy, dutifully murmured.

“They are to be integrated into your family. It is your duty to teach them our ways, your duty to impregnate them or bear their children, your duty to ensure they become loyal servants to me. If, at the end of one year, you have not created a new future wizarding life and you are both seen to be fertile, you will be deemed unnecessary. Your spouse–because yes you will marry, I suffer no bastards–your spouse will pass to another worthy witch or wizard.”

More shuffling. Pansy occluded harder so as not to laugh. These motherfuckers had thought they were going to get concubines, playthings. She also internally sighed in relief. Neville wouldn’t go to Bellatrix, then. She was already married.

The Dark Lord looked around the dining room and focused his eyes on Draco. “Young Draco.”

Draco gulped. “Yes, my lord?”

“Such a disappointment,” the Dark Lord sibilated. 

“I am sorry, my lord, I have tried.”

“And yet, when others of your House came to join me and fight for me, you remained behind with Harry Potter.”

Draco shook his head. “Only to try to capture Potter, my lord.”

What passed for nostrils on the resurrected wizard’s face flared. “And you failed. I warned you, didn’t I? Did you think your wealth and lineage would shield you from my wrath?”

“No, no, my lord.” Draco seemed to vibrate.

Pansy knew that most in the dining room likely thought the vibrations were caused by fear. But Pansy had known Draco since they were in nappies. He was vibrating in anticipation. All of his maneuvers looked to have come to fruition.

“Perhaps the time your lineage was humbled is past due,” the Dark Lord said. He looked up at the names shimmering in the air. “Potter’s Mudblood.”

Dolohov whined, “But, master, I would like–”

With a lazy flick, Dolohov fell to the ground writhing against a nonverbal crucio. 

“You dare question my dictates?” The Dark Lord lifted his wand and Dolohov lay on the ground gasping. “Your plans do not fit mine, Antonin. But, should Draco fail me yet again, I’ll let you have your fun.” He turned back to Draco. “And I’m sure Theophilus would like you to remove the filth from his home as soon as possible.” 

Draco stood with alacrity and Pansy winced. He had been doing so well, and now he practically gave the game away. She shot a look around the dining room, but no one else seemed to notice his eagerness.

“Yes, my lord.”

He hurried from the room.

“Ogbert,” the Dark Lord enunciated slowly.

“Yes, my lord,” the Greengrass patriarch stuttered.

“You fought for me at Hogwarts.”

The balding man nodded eagerly. “I did. Yes, I did, my lord.” 

“Yet, it was the first you ever joined me.”

“I-”

“I invited you to my side many times,” the Dark Lord continued to intone lazily. Then his eyes pierced Ogbert’s own gaze. “Yet you did not come to my side until my victory was all but guaranteed.”

“My–my lor–”

“Don’t you have two daughters?” the Dark Lord inquired. “Where is the other?”

“She–she was lost in the battle, my lord.”

“Lost in the battle,” the Dark Lord said almost as if tasting the words. “It sounds almost as if she died. But I have reports that she fled.”

Yes, that sounded like Daphne. Like Theo and Tracey Davis, Daphne had remained quiet and small, never getting involved in Pureblood bullying of those with lesser blood. Pansy looked down the table at Astoria who was shaking and would not lift her eyes. Pansy was sure Astoria would have done the same if she wasn’t underage and didn’t have the Trace.

The Dark Lord gazed up at the list in contemplation. “Hmm, Dennis Creevey is quite young, isn’t he?”

“So is Astoria, my lord,” Greengrass interjected. “Far too young for marriage.”

The Dark Lord smiled. It was ghastly. “But not too young for a betrothal. Now, do be the loyal servants you pretend to be, and remove the filth from Theophilus’s home.” He dismissed the Greengrass family with a gesture. He turned to the right side of the table again. “Millicent,” in another sibilation. “Your father has been quite loyal, but you–” he shook his head as if at a naughty child, “the Carrows tell me you just couldn’t stomach administering the cruciatus curse. So disappointing.” He looked up again. “There’s one more Muggleborn up there for you.”

Millie looked positively green. Pansy knew it wasn’t from blood prejudice. In fact, Pansy was sure Millie was gay. Forcing her to have sex with any man was torture in itself. Forcing her to carry a child–an endeavor Pansy was certain Millie had no interest in–must be nauseating.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” the Dark Lord snapped. “Get it out of this castle.”

Millie stumbled up and her chair clattered to the floor. Shakily, she hastened to the door.

“My lord,” her father began, “I have been loyal to you. My bloodline–”

“Is already polluted, Bulstrode, with an apparent blood traitor. I must wonder what you taught her.”

Bulstrode shook his head.

“And did you think you could hide your wife’s Muggleborn mother?” the Dark Lord continued. He shook his head as if in disappointment. “Perhaps it would be best if you followed your daughter.”

Bulstrode stood with alacrity and fled.

The Dark Lord turned his head to his left. “Selwyn.”

“Yes, my lord,” the wizard stuttered. 

“You lack an heir.”

“I, yes, that is correct.”

The Dark Lord hummed. “I remain so dissatisfied with your failure to capture Harry Potter at Lovegood’s. You have no idea what that gaffe has really cost me, do you?”

“I am sorry, my lord, Travers–”

Pansy almost snickered. Of course he would try to lay blame on someone else.

“--will face the consequences too,” the Dark Lord finished. “Eventually. Today, though, is your lucky day. Take the Half-Blood and go.”

“I, yes, my lord. Thank you my lord.” Selwyn scurried from the room.

The Dark Lord's eyes moved up the table. “Young Theodore.”

“Yes, my lord,” Theo answered shakily.

Pansy winced. This was not the place for Theo. He wasn’t hard like the rest of them.

“This is your first time with us.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Your father has served me long and well.”

Theo bobbed his head. “I am aware, my lord.”

“Yet, you seem unremarkable. Alecto and Amycus were barely aware you even attended Hogwarts. So, you must have a remarkable capability for stealth. I could use such a skill. Our enemies are still out there. As a mark of my goodwill, and as a reward to your father, I will give you your choice of Pureblood prizes. Not Ginevra, though. I have plans for her.”

“My lord,” Theophilus interjected, “I assure you, Theodore is a most disappointing heir. If you would really like to reward me, perhaps I could–”

“Tch, tch,” the Dark Lord interrupted in turn. “Don’t be greedy, now, Nott. Though a disappointment, you do, indeed, have an heir. Let’s make a compromise. If Theodore remains the disappointment you say and fails to appreciate my favour, you may have the girl.”

Pansy almost laughed. Unlike with Millie’s grandmother, only Draco and Pansy knew that Theo’s mother had been a Half-Blood. His great-grandparents had raised his mother as their “miracle child” and hid away the shame of their daughter and her Muggle lover. When Theophilus had discovered the secret, he had murdered his wife in front of his son. Theo was five. It was why he could see thestrals. Well, she supposed most of them could see thestrals now.

Pansy suspected the Dark Lord knew this secret as well if what Draco had told her about the madman’s plans for Purebloods was true. Theophilus had obviously hoped that he would be awarded a Pureblood broodmare to restore his line’s purity. And then Theo would likely go the way of his mother.

She watched as Theophilus struggled to smother his displeasure and said, “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

“Theodore, what is your choice?”

Theo didn’t even look up at the shimmering letters. He answered decisively, “Patil, my lord.”

Well, that was a gamble since they didn’t know which one was down there. Pansy supposed it would be a good bet if it turned out to be the Ravenclaw. Two quiet swots? Yes, they would suit. But if it was the Gryffindor … what a nightmare.

The Dark Lord nodded. “I understand she’s very pretty. Lucius, weren’t you once inquiring about one of them for Draco? That was before your unfortunate failure in the Department of Mysteries.”

What? Draco started marriage negotiations with a Patil while still in marriage negotiations with Pansy? Well, that was just rude.

“Uh, yes, yes, my lord. The Patils rejected the offer after–”

“After your failure. I cannot say I blame them. Hopefully Theodore will make them a much better son-in-law.” He turned back to Theo. “You may remain for the rest of the meal, Theodore. Your bride can wait another hour for better accommodations.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Theo replied. “Thank you.”

The Dark Lord smiled pleasantly, which itself was terrifying, before swinging his gaze to the Goyles. “Gregory, your father has also served me well, and Amycus and Alecto have nothing but praise for your– enthusiasm.”

Pansy almost snorted because they certainly wouldn’t have praise for his skill. The yob could cast the cruciatus about as well as a Hufflepuff first year.

“You may take the other Pureblood girl,” the Dark Lord waved magnanimously. 

Goyle Sr. elbowed his son who stood abruptly and shambled toward the door. Goyle Sr. hissed, “Say thank you.”

Greg turned back and mumbled, “Thank you, my lord.”

The Dark Lord actually chuckled. That was terrifying. Even more terrifying was when his eyes moved to Pansy’s. “Pansy, dear.”

She held onto her occlusion with everything she had. “Yes, my lord?”

“You were the only student outspoken for me. Good girl.”

She bowed her head. “My loyalty has never wavered.” That was true, but who the recipient of that loyalty was was quite different than she implied.

“Who would you like as a reward?” He waved at the few names still left shimmering above them.

Pansy looked up and bit her lip as if attempting to pick the least bad option. After supposedly deliberating for nearly a minute, she answered, “Longbottom, my lord.”

“Ah, hmm. Bella, didn’t you express an interest in the boy?”

The woman practically melted toward the Dark Lord. “Yes, my lord. I have plans for him.”

Pansy couldn’t help it. She blurted, “But she’s already married, my lord.”

“So, she is,” he mused. “I sometimes forget. That’s easily remedied. Avada Kedavra.”

Rodolphus thumped to the ground, dead. Rabastan looked down at his brother aghast.

“I understand he was impotent anyway. Now Bella may have a child after all.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the matted-haired bitch purred.

Pansy thought she might break. Draco had warned her this may happen, but she hadn’t believed it, especially not after the Dark Lord had declared they would need to marry their “reward.” She bit her lip to keep from crying, or worse, screaming. She looked back up at the two remaining male names floating above.

She could barely think, but she had to. Macmillan or Weasley, equally ghastly choices. Macmillan was a pompous numpty and Weasley was a–well, a Weasley. 

She needed an ally if she had any chance of rescuing Neville–because he was not staying with that bitch.

Wasn’t there something about chess in First Year? Chess took strategy. And if Pansy was kind to Granger’s beloved, perhaps Granger would help with the rescue as well. It would be easy to enlist her since Pansy and Draco were well known friends. Pansy could show Granger her man healthy and whole. That would certainly mean something to the swot, wouldn’t it?

Pansy released her lip from her teeth and answered, “Ronald Weasley, my lord.”

“Will you be able to control him, Pansy, dear? The Weasleys are already an unruly family, but this one was Potter’s constant companion.”

Pansy tossed her head. “I will control him, my lord. I look forward to breaking him.”

The Dark Lord grinned again and Pansy suppressed her shudder. 

“Go collect your prize then, my dear.”

Pansy stood and did her best to walk calmly and not flee the room. She held her tears at bay until she crossed the threshold.

Severus Snape watched as Pansy Parkinson left the room. He was impressed with how she had held onto her occlusion. Draco must be a better teacher than Severus would have given him credit for. It was wise to choose Weasley. Should the Order ever triumph, her decision might guarantee her safety.

He returned his attention to Voldemort who was saying, “We have a prize left. Who should receive him?” 

Severus held back a smirk. The room was a sausage fest aside from a wife here and there. The only three young ladies had already left the room. Who, indeed, would Macmillan go to?

“Rookwood, don’t you have a daughter?” 

Rookwood sat up straight. “Uh, yes, my lord. She’s well out of Hogwarts, though.”

“Is she married?”

“No, my lord. My wife was not able to secure her a contract before your return.”

The Dark Lord nodded as if in sympathy. “Ah, because it wasn’t politically done to link oneself to Lord Voldemort’s spy, I suppose.”

Severus restrained another smirk. Also because she had the face like the back end of a bus and was several ingredients short of a First Year potion.

“Congratulations, then,” Voldemort continued, “you have just secured your daughter a husband.”

Rookwood stood and bowed. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Don’t let your daughter wait another minute, now.” He made a shooing motion, and Rookwood hastened from the room.

The Dark Lord picked his goblet up again and took a sip. He returned to his meal. 

Several hungry eyes did not follow suit and return to their plates but instead lingered on the one name that remained floating above them.

Finally, Greyback ventured, “My lord, Ginevra–”

Voldemort’s eyes snapped up with venom. “Certainly you did not expect to get the girl. Do you think I would let a half-breed have pups with a Pureblood? The Lupin abomination is bad enough, isn’t that right, Narcissa?”

Narcissa had been quiet the entire evening. Her occlusion was beyond anything anyone could achieve. At least one Black every generation was a natural Occlumens. In Narcissa’s it was herself, her sister Andromeda, and her cousin Regulus. Bellatrix and Sirius were too high strung to have mastered the art, though Bellatrix fancied herself proficient. She had even taken it upon herself to teach Draco a different form from that which Severus had already been teaching him. It had barely held against Severus.

So, Severus was not surprised when Narcissa looked up calmly and said, “It is a shame upon our family.”

“Indeed.” The Dark Lord looked around the room. “Who of you thinks you are worthy to have this Pureblood witch of such prolific bloodlines?”

No one answered. Many eyes dropped.

“No one? So humble. But I, thankfully, can think of someone worthy. I had thought to keep her for myself for a time, but who needs heirs when you cannot die? No, I think I shall give her to my most useful servant, the servant who has never failed me.” He paused dramatically. The man, if he could be called that, loved his dramatics. “Severus,” he drawled.

Fuck.

“Thank you, my lord. I fear I am not worthy of your favour.”

The noseless sociopath smiled, and Severus’s stomach turned. He’d never seen the man smile so much, and he hoped to never see it again.

“Pssh, now Severus. I once promised you another girl, of purer blood. I have delivered on my promise.”

“You are too generous, my lord.” As if all it took to replace Lily was to hand him another redhead in love with a Potter. Severus swallowed back the sick that threatened to spew onto his plate.

When Voldemort dismissed his followers, Bellatrix scurried off to obtain her prize, stepping over the corpse of her husband on the way. Theodore made his way more slowly to the door that led to the dungeons. Severus lingered.

“You wish to speak with me, Severus.”

“Yes, my lord. I would like two favours, my lord.”

“Two, Severus? When I’ve already given you a great gift this evening? Don’t tell me you’re as greedy as our friend, Nott.”

Severus shook his head. “No, no. One is regarding that gift, actually. Ginevra will not be seventeen for three more months and–”

The Dark Lord waved his hand lazily. “Yes, yes, you have always been more circumspect than many of my other Death Eaters. I’ve always admired that about you, Severus. You are a man of the brain and not the body. I imagine it is repugnant to you to impregnate someone not of age.”

“Yes, my lord, you understand me well. I also would prefer that the mother of my children is educated.”

Voldemort leaned back in his chair. “And it would be difficult for her to complete her education while pregnant.”

“Precisely, my lord.”

“Alright, Severus, the year time limit does not apply to you. You must still keep her close. She is a rabble-rouser. Letting her mix with the other students would be unwise. She is still to sleep in your chambers and eat at your side in the Great Hall. And, of course, you can enjoy her without impregnating her. There are potions for that, of course,” he finished with a sardonic smile. 

Severus occluded harder to keep his dinner from coming back up. “Of course.”

“And the second favour?”

“I would like to replace the Carrows. They are insufficient teachers and incapable of keeping the students in line.”

Voldemort sat back and gave Severus another mocking smile. “Perhaps you miss teaching the Dark Arts, yourself, Severus.”

Severus gave a short nod in acquiescence. “Like you, it is my favourite subject. After years of applying for it, I was able to teach it for only one year.”

“But you have other positions to fill, now that some of your professors have shown their true colours.”

“Yes, but Amycus couldn’t transfigure himself out of a paper bag, and Alecto thinks Charms are an awkward sort of flirting.”

The Dark Lord snorted. Severus was impressed. He didn’t think someone could snort without a nose.

Again, the magnanimous handwave. “I am in a pleasant mood this evening, and your contributions to my cause have been extensive. Yes, Severus, staff your school as you wish.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Severus stood and bowed, following the others to the door that led to the dungeons to collect his “prize.”

The girls all (well, not Alicia) looked up when they heard the commotion overhead. The Notts owned a castle, so sound didn’t easily travel down into the dungeon; but 40 people moving about collectively couldn’t exactly be quiet.

“What do you think is happening?” Ginny asked. It was their second night in the dungeon and Ginny’s forced inactivity was getting to her. She stood up and began pacing.

“Celebrating, likely. Divvying us up,” Hermione replied wearily.

Ginny turned on her friend. “How can you sit there and be so complacent? Why aren’t you angry? Why aren’t you–I don’t know, trying to get us out of here?”

Finally, Hermione showed some of her usual spirit. “Get us out of here? What have you done, Ginny? I examined all of the bars and stones in this hole within the first two hours here, and I realised that without a wand I was stuck. My wandless magic is getting better, but it is not enough to break us all out of a dungeon and get us past dozens of fully grown, experienced wizards–because if it was, then maybe I wouldn’t be sitting here in this dungeon arguing with you! And, if it seems that I’m a little defeated, well, maybe it’s because my best friend, the person I have sacrificed everything for, is dead!”

Now Ginny bristled. “You think I don’t care that Harry is dead? I was in love with him! You cannot understand what that feels like to lose.” 

Hermione now stood as well, and Ginny noticed her hair seeming to spark. “No, I guess I can’t understand what a girlish infatuation and a few months of dating are against seven years of deep friendship, of months together alone, of being all each other had. You don’t know what that does to people, Ginny. You could never understand the depths of my feelings for Harry.”

What, exactly, was Hermione implying? 

Rage roiled through Ginny and she started toward Hermione but was quickly grabbed from behind. She whirled toward the person holding her about to bark at them when she noticed it was Padma. She had long written Padma Patil off as “Parvati’s sister in Ravenclaw,” because it seemed like it was her only character trait. But this year, Padma had worked closely with Ginny, Neville, and Luna, and Ginny had grown to appreciate Padma’s cool demeanor though it did not match her own. Padma was intelligent and thought every action through. It was probably why the Carrows never caught her even though she was the one who brought the Muggle spray paint and ran through the castle writing “Dumbledore’s Army: Still Recruiting” on the walls.

Padma shook her head. “Don’t do this. You both loved Harry. And you love each other. We might never see each other again. Don’t let these be the last words you say to each other.”

Ginny broke then. It was awful. Everything was awful. Ron and Neville were both captured too, and Neville, the boy she loved second-most in all the world, may have the worst fate of all of them. She had no idea what had become of the rest of her family except Percy, who was dead. She’d never be able to reconcile with him. And, worst of all, Harry was dead.

She began sobbing. Padma hugged her. From behind, she felt another set of arms envelop her. From the hair smothering her, she knew it was Hermione. 

They jumped apart when they heard the clomping footsteps that presaged MacNair upon the stairs. They had gotten used to him coming to give them food and empty the chamber pots since they didn’t have wands to vanish the mess.

There was a second set of steps, and Draco Malfoy’ white-blond hair appeared behind the broad-backed oaf. Ginny saw all the tension drain from Hermione’s body. It was relief. She was relieved that she was going to be Draco Malfoy’s whore!

“Get back, the lot of you,” MacNair snarled as he always did when he delivered the food or removed the slops. 

The girls crowded into the corner furthest from the door. 

MacNair clanged the door open, and Malfoy stepped forward beyond MacNair. “You’re with me, Granger,” he said haughtily, but his face softened as he looked at Hermione.

Ginny’s jaw dropped open. What the fuck?

“Just let me say goodbye,” Hermione whispered. She turned to Ginny and hugged her fiercely. “I’m sorry. I love you, Ginny. We’ll figure this out. This isn’t the end. I promise.”

“Come on, Granger,” Malfoy snarled. He strode into the cell and grabbed Hermione but leaned down and whispered, “This isn’t goodbye. You’ll see each other again. I’ll make sure of it.” He extricated Hermione from Ginny’s grasp. Ginny couldn’t help but notice that Hermione leaned into the ferret as if for protection and comfort.

The bars clanged shut again. She looked around the cell to see how the others felt about Hermione’s prediction seeming to come true. Her eyes stuttered to a stop as she noticed Padma’s usually stoic face set into envy, despair, and … longing.

“Bloody, hell, Padma, not you too.”

Padma startled and looked at Ginny. “What?”

“You’re making moon-eyes at Malfoy.”

Padma’s face regained her stoicism and she swished her hair. Ginny had always noticed that Padma swished her hair where other people would sniff in contempt. “He’s the reason I never got caught this year. He would hide me from Filch and the Carrows. He’s my friend.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “What alternate universe have I landed in where Draco Malfoy is everyone’s bloody hero?”

Padma’s voice was hard as she retorted, “According to Neville, he was your hero too. How many times did he save you from being tortured by the Carrows?”

Ginny stopped her pacing. Right, he had done that. He and Pansy both had pretended to cast the cruciatus at them when they really cast a tickling charm. Pansy made sense since she was in love with Neville, but Malfoy had had no reason to help Neville or Ginny.

Perhaps Ginny needed to think a little more like Padma and Hermione if she was going to figure a way out of this mess. 

MacNair’s steps returned again, but this time a slight brunette girl trudged along behind him. She looked every bit as terrified as those in the cell. MacNair turned up the corridor perpendicular to the cell; and, a few moments later, Dennis came out trailing after the girl.

“But they’re so young,” Hannah whispered. “That’s just wrong.”

Wrong? No, it was sick, was what it was.

Just as their footsteps stopped echoing on the stairs, Ron called out, “Ginny! Hermione! What’s happening? They’ve just taken Dennis.”

“Yes, we know Ron,” Ginny called back. “We can see everyone who comes in and out.”

“What do you think is happening, Hermione?” Ron paused. “Hermione?”

Padma and Ginny exchanged glances until Ginny yelled back, “They’ve already taken Hermione.”

“What? No! Are they killing the Muggleborns?”

“Am I next?” Justin’s voice called with fear.

“No, no, they’re–”

“We separated you for a reason,” MacNair snarled.

They hadn’t heard his returning steps because of their yelling.

Millicent Bulstrode followed behind MacNair looking more unsure and frightened than Ginny had ever seen the usually snarly girl. 

“She looks like she’s going to be ill,” Hannah whispered.

“Probably sick that she has to fuck a Mudblood,” Ginny spit back.

Padma shook her head. “No, she’s shaking.” 

Justin came out a few minutes later looking just as shaken and green as Bulstrode.

Ron’s voice whined with panic. “And now Justin! They’re killing the Muggleborns. Hermione! Hermione!”

“Fuck, I wish I could stun him,” Ginny muttered. 

Padma laughed. “I regularly dream of stunning Ronald Weasley.”

Ginny giggled. She couldn’t believe she was having a fit of giggles in this situation.

There were more footsteps again, but this time an adult trailed behind MacNair.

“Who is that?” Padma whispered.

“Selwyn,” Hannah whispered back.

The man called Selwyn shuffled up to the bars and snarled, “Which one of you is Spinnet?”

Alicia didn’t say anything. She simply lay in the corner and stared just as she had done ever since they brought her into the cell. Nothing anyone could do could get her to acknowledge her surroundings.

“Well?” Selwyn demanded.

“That’s Alicia,” Hannah finally volunteered. 

MacNair let him in and he snapped at Alicia to get up. She continued to lay there.

“What’s wrong with her? What did you do to her?”

Ginny sniped back, “She’s been like that since she arrived.”

“Salazar, it will be like fucking a corpse,” Selwyn grumbled.

Now Ginny was almost sick.

Selwyn hoisted Alicia up, but she was slack in his arms. The bars clanged shut again.

“What’s happening now?” Ron called.

“They’ve taken Alicia,” Ginny called back.

Some time went by before two heavy treads sounded down the stairs. 

Gregory Goyle shuffled in front of the bars and looked at them with befuddlement. “Er, I’m supposed to take the ‘other Pureblood.’”

“Other Pureblood than what?” Ginny asked. 

He scratched his head and seemed to at least attempt to think. It was a process. It took some time. “Er, the one Draco wanted to marry? I think? Theo’s got her.”

Padma looked both shocked and stricken. Well, if Draco Malfoy had wanted to marry her, she didn’t seem to be aware of it.

“Was it Patil?” Ginny asked.

Goyle’s eyes widened. “Yeah, that one. And then the other one had a funny name like some sort of spirit.”

“Was it Ginny?” Ginny whispered.

Goyle shook his head. “No, weirder than that. It did sound like gin, though.”

“Ginevra,” Ginny prompted.

Goyle brightened. “Yeah, that’s it. So I have the other one.”

Hannah stepped forward bravely. Hufflepuffs really didn’t get enough credit. “That would be me, then.”

Goyle nodded like a dog. Godric, no wonder Malfoy kept him around. “You look nice,” he said. “That’s nice. I’ve always wanted a nice wife. My mother’s not nice.”

“Rowena,” Padma murmured, “does he know any other adjectives than ‘nice?’”

Ginny would have snorted in response if Goyle’s comment about a wife hadn’t caught her attention. They weren’t just raping them. They were bonding them. And marriage bonds were very hard to break.

Hannah followed Goyle without comment.

Padma stared after them. “Neither of them talk much. Maybe it will work?”

Now, Ginny did snort.

Several minutes later, Parkinson followed MacNair into the dungeon. Ginny couldn’t read anything in her face. She looked even more stoic than Padma. When she emerged a few moments later with Ron, Ginny screamed in anguish.

Ginny reached as far as she could between the bars and grabbed the sleeve of Parkinson’s robe. She yanked the older girl toward the bars. “What about Neville?”

Parkinson’s mask broke, and heartbreak and despair skittered across her face. Ginny realised that she was looking into the face, not of an enemy, but just of another girl who cared deeply about the same boy Ginny did. After a year of mutual sneers, they were allies–they would both do anything in the world to keep that boy safe.

Parkinson gulped. “I tried. I tried. But I couldn’t prevent it.”

Ginny shook Parkinson’s robes again. “Bellatrix?”

Utter misery overtook Parkinson’s face as she nodded. But then her face took on a fierceness that Ginny associated much more with Parkinson. “I will get him out even if I have to die doing it.”

“Not very Slytherin of you,” Ginny answered as she moved her hand from Parkinson’s sleeve to her hand, giving it a squeeze.

Parkinson’s mouth quirked. “Gryffindors are terrible influences.”

Ginny gave Parkinson’s hand another squeeze. “Take care of my brother, Parkinson.”

Parkinson squeezed back. “That’s the plan, Weaselette.”

No one else came for quite some time. 

“Ginny!”

“Yeah, Nev?”

“Are we the only ones left?”

“I’m still here,” Padma called.

“Do you know what’s happening?” Neville called back.

“They’re marrying us off,” Ginny yelled.

“But Dennis is fifteen!”

“And I’m sixteen!” Ginny shouted back.

“And Justin is gay!”

Ginny looked over at Padma. “Justin’s gay?”

Padma shrugged and shook her head.

“Who took Hermione?”

“Malfoy,” Ginny shouted.

“Thank Godric,” Neville said audibly, but it wasn’t shouted.

There was a clattering on the stairs and Ginny grasped Padma for support. The crazed bitch had come into the dungeon and looked around in eager anticipation. MacNair trailed after her attempting to maintain the semblance that he was in control. She hurtled down the corridor. Ginny could hear her croon, “Hello, precious.”

Apparently, Neville put up a fight as there were shouts and the reverberations of spells echoing down the corridor. Finally, Bellatrix emerged trailing a levitated, incarceroused, stunned Neville behind her. Ginny almost grinned maniacally at Bellatrix that Neville had made her work that hard to subdue him.

Just as they left, Theodore Nott entered the dungeon. His footfalls were soft and measured. He simply waved his hand and the bars sprang open. That would make sense. Everything here would be warded to a Nott.

“Hey, Padma. I have a nicer room for you. I have the elves bringing you dinner and preparing a bath too.”

Padma nodded and took a step forward. Before she left the cell, though, she turned back to Ginny and embraced her in a show of emotion Ginny was unused to from the Ravenclaw. “Thank you for being my friend this year.”

And then Ginny was alone.

No one came for her.

And, as the minutes grew longer, Ginny began to fear that Voldemort had claimed her after all. She had experienced so many emotions in the last two days: heartbreak, despair, anger, sadness, and jealousy. But not once had she felt the abject fear that she did in those long moments.

Finally, soft, unaccompanied footsteps sounded on the stairs.

She straightened up, drew her arms across her chest, and held herself tight.

And when the greasy curtains of hair came into view, Ginny understood Hermione’s look of relief when spotting Malfoy.

Parvati Patil felt as if her heart had been split–not down the middle, no, but in several pieces.

She had lost track of her sister during the battle. Even though she was the younger twin, she had always felt responsible for Padma. Padma never fit in, no matter how much Parvati tried to help her.

Parvati remembered when they were little and she found Padma looking at a book with a Muggle boy at the park near their home. He looked restless even as he turned the pages with her. Padma never noticed those sorts of things, especially if she had a book. Parvati had told her to “put the book away, you little swot, and come play.” But she didn’t. So Parvati played with the boy instead, taking turns pushing each other on the swing and getting dizzy on the merry-go-round. The next day, Padma came back to their house and said that the boy asked for her. So, she went. Padma came to the park too, but she just stood under the tree looking on sadly.

Lavender’s birthday party was the worst. Padma had given Lavender a book. It was Lavender!  (Parvati’s heart ached–that was one of the heart pieces–as the image hit her of Lavender murdered in the most gruesome way). And worse, Padma began spewing all the facts in the book right in the middle of the party. Parvati watched as knowing glances went around their friends and broke in with “Padma, no one will care to read the book if you tell them what’s in it,” and changed the subject before Mandy Brocklehurst (the two-faced bitch) said something really cruel.

Parvati worried when they were split up by the Sorting Hat, but she hoped Padma would do better in Ravenclaw–after all, swot called to swot, didn’t it? But after the first week, Padma sat alone at meals with a book, just as she always had.

In their third year, Parvati stumbled on Padma in the library with a somewhat fit Fifth Year. He was clearly flirting with her, but Padma seemed not to notice at all, just kept quizzing the bloke and going on about some colour-coding. She needed help. Padma ran over and laughed, “Padma’s always creating some new way to study! Oh, is that the article on the Necromancers in Knickers? I love their new single!” She widened her eyes at her sister encouraging her to jump in, but Padma just sat back and went quiet. Why did she always do that?

She had thought things were better when Padma went off with the boy from Beauxbatons and came back looking thoroughly kissed, but then the boy asked his friend in French (Padma and Parvati spoke French, as well as Portuguese and Konkani) why he got the boring girl. Parvati wished she had been the boring one that night. She hadn’t said no, not exactly, that is, but she hadn’t said yes either. When he seemed to want to continue seeing her, she acquiesced more fully since surely he would send a marriage contract.

Many marriage contracts came that summer, but not from her Beauxbatons boyfriend. No, all were from men who were contacts of her father who had met her at parties. And almost all were widowers close to her father’s age. Padma had received just one marriage contract, and it wasn’t really a true offer, just an offer for a possible offer. But it at least was with a boy their age–and yes, Draco Malfoy was a prat, but–no, Parvati didn’t think about Draco Malfoy. She gasped as she always did when the shame and guilt came over her. She shook her head again and put Draco Malfoy from her mind.

Parvati hoped that Padma might make friends in the DA in Fifth Year, but it seemed that she existed for everyone as “Parvati’s sister in Ravenclaw.”

Finally, in their Seventh Year, Padma seemed to find her place. She was the spray-painting bandit roaming the castle recruiting for the DA. She never got caught. Neville, Ginny, and Luna even invited her to sit with them sometimes.

And now, Padma could be dead or captured–Parvati didn’t know. She didn’t know because she had been focused on someone else instead. 

The boy she had loved since he had saved Neville’s Remembrall in First Year.

The boy everyone thought was dead.

She hadn’t been able to take her eyes from his body, not even when Voldemort set the Sorting Hat on Neville’s head on fire, or when Neville had failed to kill the giant snake, or when pandemonium broke out in the aftermath. So, she was the only one who saw him move, who saw him draw a cloak from beneath him, saw him unfurl it and grab his wand. She had stunned him just as he threw the invisibility cloak over himself. She had had to use a levitation charm to get him to the cave Firenze had once described to her. 

Parvati bent over the stunned form on the floor of the cave deep in The Forbidden Forest and brushed the messy black hair back from his forehead. 

“Please don’t hate me, Harry, I just couldn’t see you die again.”

Chapter Text

Harry Potter leapt to his feet and reached for his wand. Then paused.

He had been about to cast a shield at Neville. He had been in the midst of a battle. But everything was silent except for the crackle of a fire–a fire that was casting shadows and light upon a wall. A wall? No, he had been before Hogwarts. Where the fuck was he? 

He lowered his wand and examined the walls around him. This looked like a cave. What cave? Where? How did he get here?

He put his wand back up, cast a lumos, and whirled. He dropped his wand to his side. “Parvati?”

His classmate was balled up in a corner with eyes wide with something like nervousness. 

He rushed toward her and crouched down. “Parvati! Are you alright? Where are we? Are we being held by someone?”

“H-held?” she stuttered. 

“Yeah, does someone have us captive?”

She bit her lip and kept her wide gaze on him and shook her head.

He drew his brows together. “Okay … do you know where we are?”

She nodded.

She looked truly frightened, so he restrained his frustration at her lack of answers. “Alright. Where then?”

“A cave in the Forbidden Forest,” she whispered.

“Do you know how we ended up here? What happened in the battle?”

She darted her eyes away and shrugged. 

Parvati had never been better than ok as an aquaintance, probably the best when he had to talk to her while Ron and Lavender were lip-locked. He had no idea how to talk to her, but she seemed to be the only one he had. It wouldn’t do to yell at her–as much as he wanted to.

“So, you don’t know how we ended up here? Or you don’t know what happened in the battle?”

She sucked in a breath and looked away from him for the first time. He was somewhat grateful. The wide, scared eyes made him feel like a monster. 

“I don’t know what happened in the battle. The noises only stopped a few hours ago. I think–I think we lost.”

Harry groaned. He had had his chance. Yes, he still needed to kill the snake, but this was his chance to face off against Voldemort, and he’d lost it. But how?

“How did I get here?”

“I–” she gulped. “You were stunned. I thought I should hide you.”

He gaped. “Why didn’t you just cast Renervate?”

She bit her lip again.

Right. She wasn’t quick in tough situations like Ron or like how Hermione had become. They had had years of practice. Parvati couldn’t even cast a corporeal patronus. She probably did the best she could think of in the moment.

He thrust his fingers through his hair and began thinking aloud. “Alright, we have to get off Hogwarts grounds, obviously. Then, I guess, well, I think the only place where I might find someone and where we might be safe is Shell Cottage. They probably have the caterwalling charm off of Hogsmeade by now, so we should be ok.” He looked back up at Parvati who had lost a small amount of her terror. “It will be alright, Parvati. I’m still here, and I won’t give up. We’ll defeat him. I promise.”

She gave him a guarded nod.

No wonder. She’d watched her best mate brutally murdered, and she had to be worried sick for her sister. He extended his hand to bring her to her feet and she did not hesitate to put hers in his. For good measure, he swung the invisibility cloak about them. “Some of the creatures in here will still be able to smell us, but at least we’ll be hidden somewhat.”

It was a long, slow trek out of the forest and through the gates to Hogsmeade, but once they were past the anti-apparition wards, Harry apparated them to the beach of Shell Cottage. 

As they trudged toward the cottage, Parvati finally spoke. “Where are we going?”

“Right, you probably can’t see it. This is where Ron, Hermione, and I escaped after we got out of Malfoy Manor, though you probably wouldn’t know about that either. There’s a lot of stories, Parvati. Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

“Who did you come to my wedding as?” a voice barked.

Harry looked up with relief. “Barney, a Weasley cousin.” Still, he asked in turn, “Who first brought me here?”

Bill grinned. “Dobby, the house-elf.” He strode toward Harry and pulled him into a rough hug. “We thought you’d died. How did you survive?”

“I should probably tell everyone at the same time or I’ll just be repeating myself a dozen times. I hate that.”

“Right, yeah.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who is this?”

“This is Parvati, another Gryffindor. She rescued me, I guess.” Harry knew that’s what she had believed herself to be doing, in any case.

“Are you sure it’s her?”

“Yeah, if it was Polyjuice, it would have worn off by now.”

Bill nodded. “Alright. This is Shell Cottage.”

Her eyes widened as she took in the house behind Bill.

“It’s a bit crowded, right now,” Bill explained. “My parents’ house is off limits, and Fred and George have been on the run for a while. Then, we’re having an Order meeting right now assessing what we know and don’t.”

When Harry appeared through the doorway of the cottage, he was greeted by cries, sobs, and whoops. He was suffocated by a sobbing embrace.

“Oh Harry, we thought you were dead. How did you survive?”

“Mrs. Weasley, I’m so glad you’re ok. What about Ginny, Ron, Hermione? Are they here?”

The room went silent. 

Fred looked especially bleak. He had already lost one sibling before his very eyes when Percy had shoved him away from the exploding wall.

Finally, Mr. Weasley answered, “They’ve been captured, Harry. We’re not sure exactly where they are, but we think they’ve been taken to Nott Castle. What they mean to do with them, we don’t know.”

Harry gulped. He knew from the memory of Hermione’s that he had watched what the plan was. “I do.”

“You do?” “What?” “Tell us Harry!”

“Quiet everyone!” McGonagall commanded in her best Deputy Headmistress voice. She then turned to Harry and said, “Potter, I think it best that you start by telling us how you survived the killing curse, yet again.”

“Right, well, it turns out I was a–wait, I think I have to begin from the beginning. You-Know-
Who had been able to survive the rebounded killing curse when I was a child because he had created Horcruxes.”

A few older witches and wizards gasped but most were confused, like Luna, who asked, “What’s a Horcrux?”

Harry beamed at her. Christ, he was glad she was safe.

“A witch or wizard creates a Horcrux by splitting his soul, which can only happen if they’ve killed someone. Then the split piece of soul is put in another object. That’s what Ron, Hermione, and I have been hunting all year. You-Know-Who split his soul into seven pieces–at least he thought so–and hid them in different objects. We destroyed them all except Nagini, his snake. And he destroyed his unintentional horcrux when he cast the killing curse at me. In a way, his soul saved me. When he tried to kill me when I was a baby and it rebounded, a piece of his soul entered me–and that’s why I’m a parselmouth and why I could see into his thoughts–I won’t be able to do that anymore. I’m not sure if I’m still a parselmouth or not.”

Everyone looked gape-mouthed at him. 

Finally, Flitwick said, “But we all saw you dead, Mr. Potter. You-Know-Who even cast spells at you.”

“Yeah, so that’s because his wand is actually mine and won’t work well against me.”

“What do you mean his wand is actually yours?” Bill asked.

“Right, so Dumbledore was master of the Elder wand–”

“The wand of legend? The unbeatable wand?” Kingsley interrupted.

“Right, though technically it is beatable. Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald and gained the wand. Then Draco Malfoy defeated Dumbledore atop the Astronomy tower.”

“But it was Snape who killed him,” George said.

Harry nodded. “Right, but Malfoy had disarmed him. So he became master of the wand. And then I stole this wand” he held it up for everyone to see “–the one that beat the Elder wand from Malfoy. It’s all really confusing to be honest. Ollivander could explain it better. So now I’m master of the wand.”

Another gape-mouthed moment.

McGonagall was the first to recover. “Alright, and what is this you know of You-Know-Who’s plans for the hostages?”

“Well, it turns out Snape obliviated Hermione in Sixth Year. She gave me the memories with instructions to watch them if she didn’t make it through the war, but to show them to her if she did.”

“She gave you ze memories?” Fleur interjected. “So, she must have agreed to ze obliviation.”

Harry nodded. “She did, yeah. She was protecting someone.”

“Snape?” Kingsley snarled.

“No, yeah, maybe a little. I’ll get to that in a minute. Actually, it was Malfoy. He told her he had the Mark but didn’t want it. There was a lot in there that would have gotten him in trouble with his family and Riddle, that’s his real name, by the way.”

“Like what?” Fred asked suspiciously.

“It really doesn’t matter,” Harry clipped. Ugh, he wanted to retch when he thought of Hermione and Malfoy snogging. And the Ferret had given her her first orgasm! He nearly boiled over with rage at that. “What matters is all the things Snape told her before he obliviated her. First, he and Dumbledore arranged for Snape to kill Dumbledore.”

McGonagall gasped. “No! Are you sure? But why?”

Harry sighed. “It turns out Dumbledore was dying anyway. You all saw his hand. Dumbledore thought it would be better if Snape did it so that Malfoy didn’t have to. Snape had already told Dumbledore about Malfoy’s mission to kill him–he knew that whole year. Dumbledore also wanted Snape to do it so he could become Voldemort’s most trusted Death Eater and so that Snape would be installed at Hogwarts to protect the children.”

“A fat lot of protecting he did,” Mr. Weasely said. “Ginny’s told me stories of the Carrows.”

“No, but to be fair,” Flitwick interrupted, “if Severus doled out punishments, they looked frightening on the surface but never were.”

“What else did he tell Hermione?” Fred asked grimly.

Harry sucked in a deep breath. “Riddle plans on a breeding program. Those who displease him will get Muggleborns and those he favours will get Purebloods, but especially Weasleys. If Snape is right, then Malfoy will get Hermione–”

Mrs. Weasley shrieked “No!”

Harry shook his head. “She’ll be safe there. He’s–” ugh, Harry couldn’t believe what he was about to say, “he’s in love with her.”

George protested, “But he called her Mudblood. All the time.”

“And then he didn’t–I don’t know. I think it’s bloody weird too, alright. Ginny’s going to go to Snape.”

“Easy, then,” Fred said. “We find out where he lives and take her back before she gets to Hogwarts.”

Harry shook his head. “No, she’ll be safe there, and it will wreck everything he’s done to get in with Riddle.”

“It’s a breeding program, Harry. He’ll have to impregnate her,” George protested.

Harry shook his head again. “He won’t. He doesn’t want to touch her at all. He’s clever. Look, he had us all fooled that he was Voldy’s man and it turns out he’s been helping us all along. God, he helped me destroy one of the Horcruxes. We need him to keep spying for us, and he won’t know as much if we don’t keep him as Riddle’s favourite Death Eater. And that’s what will happen if we get Ginny out of there.”

“I agree with Harry,” Charlie said. He had been quiet and observant up to that point.

“How could you Charlie?” Mrs. Weasley gasped. “Your own sister!”

“Because we need every advantage we can get,” Charlie replied. Then he grinned. “Besides, Ginny will drive him mad. I’d almost like to watch it.”

The rest of the Weasley brothers also grinned.

“It’s Ron and Hermione I need most anyway. It won’t matter if Hermione gets away from Malfoy. The Malfoys are already disgraced. Narcissa did lie to Riddle, though, about me being dead, so I guess I owe her. But still, I need Hermione. She keeps me on track when I decide to get impulsive. And Ron still has a good head for strategy. Damn, and we have to get Neville out too. Snape thinks he’s going to Bellatrix.”

“No!” Luna exclaimed.

“Parkinson is going to ask for him–ha, maybe that’s why she tried to give me up–but yeah, it will likely be Bellatrix.”

There was a grim silence. 

“But, the biggest priority is to kill Nagini. We won’t defeat him for real until we have.”

Parvati listened in silence, hating that Harry was going to be putting himself in danger again. Why couldn’t he just flee and make a life somewhere else? You-Know-Who thought he was dead!

No one paid her any mind.  It seemed everyone had forgotten about her. 

She was grateful now for every time Padma had given her lectures on using passive voice on her assignments: “No, Parvati, only barristers should use that: ‘When the victim was avada’d,” because he doesn’t want to say ‘why my client avada’d the victim.’ But there’s nothing passive about essays. At least, there shouldn’t be.”

And so, when Harry asked how he’d gotten to the cave, instead of saying “I stunned you,” she channelled her inner barrister and said, “You were stunned.”

So, she winced when Harry came over to her and said, “Thanks, Parvati, for saving me last night. That was very brave.”

Draco Malfoy apparated Granger and himself right outside the gates of Malfoy Manor. He hated that he had to bring her here the same way she had entered, terrified, just a few weeks before. But, she wasn’t a Malfoy yet, and she hadn’t been added to the wards. After Dobby was able to get everyone out, the wards had been significantly adjusted. Draco couldn’t call Kreacher in anymore, and anyone who apparated in or out, even with side-along, would be splinched if they weren’t keyed in by the wards. 

He looked over at her to make sure she wasn’t too frightened, but she looked around with curiosity. 

“It’s not as cold and misty this time,” she said. 

“The dementors are gone.”

She nodded. “Makes sense, then.”

He led her through the entry hall and hurried past the drawing room and led her up the sweeping staircase. He led her past many curious portraits, some of whom he now knew had actually been Muggle-born or even Muggles. He wondered if his grandfather had ever told his father that. Maybe he would have been less of a bigot, then.

He opened a door and gestured inside. She entered and looked around. Like all the rooms in the manor, it was tastefully decorated with a blend of old furniture but modern draperies and fabrics. The canopied bed was a deep shade of blue. 

“It’s very pretty. Is this my room?”

“Yes.”

“What’s through this door?”

“The bath. You can use it, but I haven’t any clothes for you yet. You can wear mine, I suppose, until then.”

“Yes, because you and I are the same size,” she retorted cheekily. 

Draco cocked his head. She didn’t seem a bit afraid at being back at the manor or being held prisoner by him. Did she remember?

“And what’s that door?” She gestured with her chin.

“That links to my room,” he answered quietly.

She gazed at him searchingly. “Are you occluding?”

“Yes,” he clipped.

“Why?” she asked.

“None of your business, Granger,” he spat. “Take a bath. Teensy will be in with clothes for you.” He yanked open the door to his room and slammed it shut behind him. He leaned back and knocked his head against the door in frustration. 

He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t be able to rape her, not even to keep her safe from Dolohov and Greyback. He would rather die than hurt her. And that’s what he would do. He would let her go. He’d find Potter and get her to him. Draco knew with certainty what only some of the Death Eaters suspected but would not say: Potter was alive. Draco’s mother had lied to Riddle.

The Malfoys were as good as dead the moment Riddle found out for sure, so Draco might as well get Granger someplace safe so that his death would have some meaning.

Hermione gazed in confusion at Malfoy’s slammed door. He didn’t seem like a boy pining for her. He seemed like a boy punished by her.

She thought she might have liked the boy from her memories. She had seemed to a little bit, at least. Enough to let him give her an orgasm. She blushed again at that–and at the fantasies that had plagued her ever since. She hadn’t known where they had come from until she had seen the memories. But, even without the memories, the only times she had been able to get herself off was when thinking about Draco Malfoy roughly fucking her–which was completely opposite to what he had done, which was simply touch her and only after asking her permission. The reverence she had seen on his face was completely different from the cold young man who had walked through the adjoining door. 

She entered the bathroom and nearly groaned. It was like one of the baths at the luxury resorts her parents would book. It was entirely too large and marble was everywhere. There was a massive clawfoot tub that also had jets in it. There were multiple taps like the prefect’s bath. She turned a few until she found one that made her feel like she was in a warm embrace–like nothing bad could happen when smelling that scent. It reminded her of a hug from her grandmother. Oh God, it was her perfume, the same one her grandmother wore. She wore it whenever she was nervous because it helped calm her. It was also the perfume Malfoy had told her in a memory that he loved. 

Well, then, he must be still in love with her after all if he made a bath tap of her perfume. 

She ran the bath with those bubbles because if there was ever a time to feel the calming effects of scent, it was then. She divested herself of the clothes that had made it through Gringotts, the Battle of Hogwarts, and two days in a dungeon. Good lord, they probably needed to be burned.

After she steeped herself until she was entirely pruned, she wrapped the largest, fluffiest towel around herself and tiptoed back into her new room to find the most excited house elf she had ever seen. The little thing was wearing more doilies than Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink. She bowed enthusiastically.

“Hello Mistress Hermione. My name is Teensy. I am so excited to serve you!”

Of course there was a house-elf–though this one didn’t follow what she expected: no dirty tea-towel, no multiple wounds or plasters.

“It’s very nice to meet you Teensy, but I’m not your mistress.”

“Oh, but you will be! Once you’ve married Master Draco, you will be my mistress. I am still mostly Mistress Malfoy’s elf, but she knows I become yours once you have Master Draco’s heirs. I raised Mistress Cissy–” she giggled, “I mean Mistress Malfoy, and I raised Master Draco, and I will raise Master Scorpius too.”

“Scorpius? They’ve already picked a name? And how do you know it will be a boy?”

The little elf waved her off. “The Malfoys always have boys first. It was a spell.” She puffed up with pride. “And I picked the name. Master Draco said that when he had his heir I get to name him. I just have to pick from the constellations–as if I would ever do anything different, it is a Black family tradition–though Cissy’s name is pretty too, of course. So I chose Scorpius to sting the family’s enemies.”

Hermione just blinked at the little elf. Well, certainly, if she and Malfoy were to have a child, she wouldn’t deny a house elf the privilege of naming the child. She was more surprised that Malfoy would allow it. Something else stood out. “So, you’re a Black family elf?” This might explain things. The Black family elves seemed especially loyal to their owners.

“Yes, my family has always been. But when the children get married, we choose if we want to go with them and their new family or stay with our original family. I decided to go with Mistress Cissy. I would have gone with Mistress Dromy too, but when families are disowning the magic goes weak.”

“The magic? What magic?”

“The magic that gives us strength–family or property. The Hogwarts elves are very powerful as one of the oldest buildings. The Nott Castle is older, but that family is very bad and broke the bond by being cruel, so the elf magic is weaker there.”

Hermione was overwhelmed. “But what about Malfoy Manor? Dobby?”

The elf’s ears drooped. She leaned forward and whispered as if telling a shameful secret, “But miss, Dobby was purchased.”

Hermione bridled. “That’s exactly why elves should be free. They shouldn’t be sold like goods!”

“No, they shouldn’t,” Teensy agreed then wagged her finger at Hermione, “but they shouldn’t be forced to be free either. Clothes are an insult, miss. An insult! It means you’re not family now, to be paid. Paid are what servants do. Family takes care of one another, they do.” She sniffed. “Mr. Malfoy” Hermione registered the distinction in the way of address “was jealous of Mistress Cissy having a house elf. The Malfoys had married an American Half-Blood over a hundred years ago, and she talked all about chattel slavery and freed all the Malfoy elves. Some were so distraught, like my grandmother. She was so happy when the Black family agreed to bond with her. And now I am a Malfoy house elf too, though I serve only Mistress Cissy, Master Draco, and you, now miss. Mr. Malfoy doesn’t command me.” The doilied elf beamed at her. “But I’ll be a real Malfoy elf once Master Draco becomes the real master here.”

Hermione was dumbfounded. This information was too much for her in this moment. So, instead of asking more questions she was sure she wouldn’t understand the answer to, she asked, “Um, are there clothes for me?”

Teensy jumped. “Um, yes, miss! Sorry, I always do be chattering. Here you go.” She held out a set of silk pyjamas (of course they were silk) and Hermione took them automatically. 

Teensy left and Hermione slipped on the pyjamas. Malfoy had obviously shrunk them down to sort of fit her, but she felt like the sleeves and legs were still a tad too long. But their scent–new parchment, freshly mown grass, and something she couldn’t identify–no, she could, something about the scent of Malfoy. Really? He was her Amortentia?

Teensy reappeared a few minutes later with a tray piled with food: roasted quail with currant sauce, asparagus, and mashed potatoes. Hermione fell upon it ravenously. She hoped wherever Ron ended up, he was eating as well. Aside from the slop that MacNair had given them that morning and the night before, she hadn’t eaten since before they had robbed Gringotts, and with their months on the run, this meal seemed a positive feast.

Once she was done, exhaustion overtook her: the physical exhaustion, of course, but the mental too. She had lived the last three days in a constantly adrenaline-fueled state. She climbed in the bed and sighed with pleasure. It was the most comfortable bed she had been in since she left her own home the summer before. No, it was more comfortable. The sheets were silk, of course. And the down of the pillows was the perfect balance of firm and soft.

She closed her eyes. 

No sleep came. Instead, behind her closed lids, the image of Hagrid carrying Harry’s body would not disappear. Harry was dead. Her best friend, the person she loved most in the world, even more than Ron, was dead. How was she supposed to go on?

She sobbed.

She couldn’t stop–loud, choking sobs poured from her. She curled up on herself.

She didn’t know how much later, the covers were thrown back and another body slipped in beside her. Long arms encased her, and a low voice soothed, “Shh, Hermione, you’re safe. I promise nothing bad will happen to you. You’re safe. Go to sleep.”

Her eyes flew open and she gasped. It was the same voice that she thought she had hallucinated when Bellatrix had her under the cruciatus curse. It had said, “Shh, Hermione, you’re in the Hogwarts library completing the essay for Binns. But you’re so tired. Go to sleep. You’re safe. Go to sleep.” 

It had come just when she was sure she was going to lose her mind and end up on the Janus Thickery ward with the Longbottoms. Instead, she had slipped into unconsciousness and felt nothing again until she was in Shell Cottage.

When she thought that he had just stood there watching, doing nothing, he had done the one thing he could do: he had saved her mind.

Still, even with that realisation, she couldn’t stop her sobbing.

“I will never hurt you. I promise, Hermione. I will take care of you.”

She choked out, “H-Harry.”

His arms tightened around her. “He’s alive Granger.”

She bolted up and whirled to him. “What?”

He sat up too, his hair glowing silver in the moonlight as he dragged his hand through it. He blew out a breath. “The Dark Lord instructed my mother to check whether Potter was really dead. But he was alive. They even exchanged words.”

She shook her head disbelievingly, not wanting to give into hope to have it crushed. “No. No, Harry wouldn’t have left in the middle of the battle. He would have fought with us.”

Malfoy shrugged. “I can only tell you what my mother told me. He was alive. He told her I was still in the castle. And then she lied to the Dark Lord.”

“Oh my God,” she breathed. 

“Yeah, so, no need to cry, alright?”

She nodded.

“Good night, Granger.” He stood.

She reached out and grabbed his hand. “No, please stay.”

His eyes went wide. “Are you sure?”

She nodded again. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

When he slid back into the bed, she curled into him and lay on his shoulder like she had done with Harry when Ron abandoned them. And, for the first time in months, she felt safe.

“What the fuck is happening, Parkinson? Where are you taking me?” They were outside Nott castle, trudging their way to what Ronald Weasley assumed was the end of the wards. He had expected to be taken somewhere to be tortured for information, not to have Pansy Parkinson’s talons dug into his arm as she pulled him along. 

She was a tiny thing–short, skin and bones as if she had been the one on the run for months; yet her grip was vice-like. 

Of course she didn’t answer him. Godric, she was infuriating. He stopped dead and she nearly toppled at her momentum. He might be thin and wiry, but 6’4” was going to carry more weight than 5’2” any day. 

She whirled at him and glared.

He shook her off and crossed his arms. “I’m not taking another step until you tell me what’s happening.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You seem to forget which of us is holding a wand, Weasley.”

He just continued to glare. 

She sighed loudly. “Fine. Where do you want to start?”

“First, where’s Hermione?”

She rolled her eyes. “Probably the safest place she could be.”

He raised a brow. “And where’s that?”

“With Draco.”

Ron shouted, “At Malfoy Manor? Where she was tortured? You think she’s safe there?”

Parkinson sniffed. “I don’t know about the torture, but that’s unlikely to happen now considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering she’s soon to be popping out little Malfoy heirs.”

Ron was going to be ill. “No, you’re joking. The Malfoys would never–”

“They will if it's that or see the other end of the Dark Lord’s Avada. And Granger will unless she’d rather be handed off to Dolohov or Greyback.”

“And you think I’d think she was safe getting raped by Malfoy?”

Parkinson rolled her eyes again. Ron had never wanted to hit a girl before–ok, well, maybe Ginny–but he was quite close to punching Parkinson. How dare she be so casual about another girl being raped? She was a girl, too. Shouldn’t she hate the very idea?

“She’s not going to be raped.”

Ron gaped at her. “You think Hermione is just going to have sex with him?” He pitched his voice higher, “‘Oh, yes Malfoy, I’d love to ride your cock!’” He dropped down to his normal voice, “Not bloody likely.” 

Parkinson snorted. “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Draco can be quite persuasive. Probably even more so when he’s in love.”

Ron was losing his mind. He had to be. No, no it was Parkinson who had lost hers. “You’ve gone barmy.”

Parkinson sighed as if dealing with a toddler. “Draco has been in love with Granger since Fourth Year, maybe longer. He won’t hurt her. I promise you, she couldn’t be anywhere safer.”

“What about my sister? Is the same thing going to happen to her?”

Now, Parkinson did look uncomfortable. She gave a small jerk to her head that Ron thought was supposed to be a nod. “She’s considered a prize–a particularly fecund Pureblood, there aren’t many of those going around. The highest reward for the best Death Eater. Hopefully.”

Ron wanted to ask what “fecund” meant, but he got stuck on the “hopefully.” “What do you mean, ‘hopefully?’”

Again, the uncomfortable look. Actually, no, Parkinson looked like she might get sick. “The Dark Lord told his followers he was going to keep her.”

Ron then did bend over and retch. There was very little to come up since MacNair had forgotten to feed them that evening, but whatever there was in his stomach came up on the Nott family’s grounds. “No,” he breathed. “No.”

He was surprised to feel a small hand rubbing gentle circles on his back. He wiped his mouth and straightened. For the first time since he had met her, Pansy Parkinson wore a sympathetic look. He remembered that odd exchange with Ginny in the dungeons where Parkinson had told Ginny she would take care of him. The two girls had looked almost like friends.

“Professor Snape thinks he said that to keep anyone from asking for her. He thinks that she’ll actually go to him.”

Ron snorted. “She won’t fuck him. Godric is she going to make him wish he was never born. Though, turns out he was on our side all along, so I guess that’s the best place for her.” He grinned. “Blimey, I wish I could be a fly on the wall in the Snape house.”

Parkinson smirked as well. It was an odd moment of solidarity–until something dawned on him. “Wait, so does that mean,” he pointed between the two of them, “we have to–” When she grimaced, he blurted, “No!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to fuck you either, Weasley. But I will if it means I survive. And if I’m going to get Neville away from that bitch–”

“What bitch?”

“Bellatrix.”

Ron’s mouth fell open. “No,” he whispered in horror. That’s what that exchange with Ginny had been about. Ron felt a little hurt that Ginny had been more concerned for Neville than himself.

“Yes,” Parkinson answered, “and I will do anything to get him out–even fuck you and bear little freckled, red-headed spawn. Now, have I answered your questions? Can we be on our way? I would like to be in bed sometime before midnight.”

The last three days had been too much for Ronald Weasley. With bone weariness, he replied, “Yeah, Parkinson, let’s go.”

She took his arm again and dragged him a few feet further. The only warning she gave him was a clipped, “Apparating now.”

They landed a moment later in front of a large stone house–nothing as big as Malfoy Manor, but certainly far grander than the Burrow. She led them up a gravel walk past well-manicured gardens and to a grand entryway. Parkinson waved her wand and the doors snapped open.

They had gone only a few steps in when a voice called, “Pansy, is that you? What was your reward?” A tiny, bird-like woman who looked almost as starved as Parkinson bustled into the room and stopped dead at the sight of Ron.

With a flourish, Parkinson replied, “You’re looking at him.”

The older woman’s mouth popped open. “No.” She darted a look at her daughter. “Are you meant to–?”

“Exactly what you think. Yes.”

She seemed to pull herself together. “Well, at least the Weasleys and Prewitts are particularly fecund. And so many boys too. One could take the Parkinson name. It’s a shame about the colouring, though.”

“Hello, I am a person standing right here, not some sort of horse out to stud–”

“No, dear, you’re certainly no stallion,” Mrs. Parkinson interrupted.

Parkinson junior barked a laugh.

Ron shot her a disgruntled look. “And what the fuck does ‘fecund’ mean, and why do you keep using it about my family?”

Mrs. Parkinson tsked. “Language, Mr. Weasley. Oh my, Pansy didn’t pick you for your smarts, did she?”

“Actually, I did.” Parkinson replied.

Both Ron and her mother looked at her with surprise. 

She griped, “Obviously I was wrong about that.”

“Yes, obviously,” her mother agreed.

“Hey!” Ron disagreed.

Very patiently, as if to a small toddler, (now Ron knew where Parkinson got it from), Mrs. Parkinson continued, “‘Fecund’ means particularly fertile.”

Ron frowned. It was like he was a horse out to stud.

Mrs. Parkinson crinkled her nose. “Pansy, do get him a bath. Those clothes need burning as well. I think Draco left something behind last summer that he could wear.”

“I’m not wearing Malfoy’s clothes,” Ron protested. 

Parkinson shrugged. “Go naked then. It will be easier to see what I’ll be working with that way.”

“Don’t be crass, Pansy.” Mrs. Parkinson said again in that patronising tone, “It’s only for one night, Mr. Weasley. We’ll get you some clothes befitting your new station tomorrow.”

Parkinson barked, “Come on Weasley. Time to go.”

He followed her up a wide staircase and into a corridor. After passing several doors, she swung one open and gestured inside. Of course the whole thing was done in green. The room was four times the size of his at the Burrow and the bed was three times as large. 

“The bath’s through there,” Parkinson gestured.

“My own bath, too. La-dee-da.”

“I should have chosen Macmillan,” he heard her mutter as she snapped his door closed.

He shucked his clothes from himself and entered the bath. It was the size of his bedroom back home. There was a massive tub and a shower that had jets at several different heights, including some naughtily adjusted ones. The shower and bath had every kind of toiletry imaginable, like the prefect bath all over. Ron didn’t care, he just grabbed the first body wash type of thing he could and scrubbed the grime of three days from himself. It did feel good to get clean.

When he re-entered the bedroom, laying across the bed was a set of deep green robes. “Ergh.” Still, he drew them on, fortunately just as Parkinson snapped the door open. 

“Huh,” she said.

“What?” he snarled. 

“Green suits you. Much better than red. You don’t look all orange now.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’d love to return the compliment, but yeah, I can’t. Sorry.”

“Fuck you, Weasley.”

“Fuck you too, Parkinson.”

She grimaced at him. “That is the plan.”

Padma Patil looked about her with curiosity as she followed Theo through the castle. She had never seen any place so filled with darkness, literally and figuratively. Few candles dotted the way, and nearly every artifact they passed pulsed with a feeling of malevolence.

Padma looked at Theo again. She liked that he was tall, even taller than Ronald Weasley. She just wished Theo didn’t slouch so much. Draco looked taller than both of them because they always slouched and he held himself erect, but she knew both young men had a few inches on her friend. Theo was quite slim too, wiry, like Draco. She liked wiry. His hair was a sort of floppy brown mess, but it suited him. It was as soft as his personality had always seemed to be. His eyes were a sort of blue hazel too. She’d noticed that one day in Ancient Runes when Mandy Brocklehurst had stolen her usual seat with Draco so Padma had to sit with Theo. She liked lighter eyes.

She liked that he was quiet and intelligent.

She decided that she liked him.

He stopped before a door and pushed it open. “I had the elves put this together quickly, so let me know if you need anything. There’s a bath through there. I’ll get you some pyjamas. They’ll fit oddly because I’m a lot bigger than you in some ways and you’re a bit bigger than me in other ways.” His eyes dropped quickly to her breasts and then skittered away. He seemed to be blushing.

“Thank you, Theo.”

He ran his hand through his curls. “I need to talk to you too–about things.”

She nodded at him.

The castle was a castle, yes, but the bath wasn’t as nice as hers at home. Hers was bright and marbled with veins of pink and grey. The tub was recessed and about half the size of the prefects bath. But the Nott castle bath had a simple claw tub on tile floors. The soap and shampoos were plain, and there wasn’t any of the fragranced hair oils she was used to. Still it was nice to be clean after the dungeon and the battle.

She came out of the bath in a towel and found Theo muttering incantations at her door. He dropped his wand and turned to her. He blushed heavily again at her near state of nakedness. 

“Are you warding my door?”

His blush deepened. “Yes. Look, my father isn’t a nice man–no, that’s not right. My father is an evil man. If it weren’t for Voldy, my father might be the worst man. And he’s going to try to get in here to you. He doesn’t know these wards; I invented them myself. I use them on my door too, and he’s never been able to get in. And, I promise you, he’s tried. The problem is, you can’t get out either unless I take them down. But I don’t know how else to keep you safe. I’d give you a wand and set you free if I thought you could get very far, but I don’t. I don’t know any place that’s safe for you to go right now. I’ve been tinkering with creating portkeys, but I’m not there yet. When I do get one right, I’ll get you one to India. But for right now, you’re safest here with me.” He sighed and looked utterly defeated.

“Theo?”

He looked up, startled. 

“Maybe I could get dressed and then we have that talk?”

He was now nearly purple with embarrassment. “Ah, yeah, sorry.” He scurried toward a connecting door that she realised must be his room.

She looked around the room. It was decorated in soft purples. The bed was large and solid, declaring itself as a utilitarian thing. She preferred her slim and graceful canopy, but the mattress seemed soft. She picked up the clothes laid out on the bed and laughed at the size. She put on the top first. It dropped to nearly her knees but pulled tight against her breasts. She tried to pull the bottoms on, but they wouldn’t move past her hips. She had a tiny waist, but an hourglass has curves, no matter how small the middle. She wrapped the towel around herself and knocked on the adjoining door. 

Theo opened the door quickly and widened his eyes at the stretched top and the toweled bottom. 

“Um,” she said. “They don’t fit.”

“A dressing gown!” he cried out in a strangled voice. He ran back into his room and ran back to her a moment later. He practically threw the dressing gown at her. She caught it on instinct. He ran out the door, and she dropped the towel and wrapped the dressing gown around her. It was soft and thick terry. It smelled faintly of sage, eucalyptus, and cardamom. She took another big sniff. She loved cardamom. It reminded her of drinking tea and reading with her father, who had instilled in her the love of books.

She knocked on his door again and said, “You said we needed to talk.”

“Right, yeah.” He looked anywhere other than at her. He ruffled his hand through his curls again. “Uh, you’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

“For the breeding program,” she answered automatically.

His head snapped to her. “Uh, yeah. But look, Padma, we don’t have to do that. We’ll still have to go through with the marriage to make it look good, but–”

She straightened. “Marriage?”

“Er, yeah, Voldy says we’ve got to get married before we have sex.”

Parvati had had dozens of marriage contracts sent to their home, but Padma had had none. Perhaps Draco had sent one, but her parents had never told her so. Her heart ached at that. That would have been her dream–it had been ever since Fourth Year’s Charms project. They’d gotten an O on that assignment and studied together after that. She had even helped him with the “Potter Stinks” badges though she’d never told Parvati of that. She’d been sure he liked her back–until he didn’t ask her to the Yule Ball and then stared at Granger all night. Goyle saying that Draco had wanted to marry Padma had given her a little bit of her pride back. He might not feel for her what she did for him, but he at least thought she was a worthy partner in life. And that meant more to her than anything–because no one had ever wanted her before. They wanted Parvati–who looked just like her. Or they wanted Granger–who acted a lot like her. But no one wanted her. Except Draco–a little bit, at least.

But now, the evilest wizard she had ever known had gifted her a husband she could like. “Alright.”

Theo gaped at her. “What?”

“We can get married.”

He blinked at her in confusion. “But–my family is evil, Padma. You’re too good for us.”

She cocked her head at him. “Are you like your father? You don’t seem to be.”

He waved his hands at her. “No! I would never be.”

“I’m marrying you, not your family.”

“But you don’t even know me!”

She shrugged. “Arranged marriages are very common in my culture. In yours too, so it’s alright.” She went cold. He was making a lot of excuses. She bit her lip and tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s alright, though, if you don’t want to.” She gave a placating smile. “I know I’m not what most boys like.”

His eyes widened. “No! That’s not it.” He growled and thrust his fingers through his curls again. “You’re bloody gorgeous, Patil. I can’t even look at you right now knowing you’re practically naked under my dressing gown. It’s just, I don’t want to force you.”

She scrunched her brow. “But I just agreed. That’s not forcing me.”

“Patil,” he said with obvious frustration, “we’d have to consummate the marriage.”

The coldness was back. “Oh, right. I know I’m very boring to most people. Or cold. They say that too. But I will try. You could teach me; I’m a good learner.”

He drew both of his hands over his face and left them over his nose and mouth for several seconds while staring at her perplexed. 

She never got anything with people right. They just didn’t like her. Draco had been her only friend until this year when Neville, Ginny, and Luna had accepted her. But she knew that was just because she was useful. As Head Girl, she could travel through the castle at odd times unhindered. So, she was the one writing the messages about Dumbledore’s Army recruiting. But if they hadn’t needed her, she’d have been all alone like always. Parvati and Mandy had made sure of that.

She hung her head. “Nevermind,” she whispered. “It’s alright. You don’t have to.”

“Ergh! Patil! There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s just, I can’t teach you anything because I haven’t a clue what I’m doing either. I’ve kissed only one girl, and that was just a friend where we decided to see what kissing was all about.”

“Oh.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Oh. So I’d just be some fumbling virgin pawing at you. You don’t want that.”

She quirked her lips. “But if we’re bad, we won’t really know it, will we?”

He laughed and shook his head. Then, a mischievous look crossed his face. He dropped to his knees. “Oh Padma, will you bestow your hand upon this lowly supplicant?”

She laughed and placed her hand in his. “Gladly, kind sir.”

Ginny looked around the dilapidated entryway before returning her gaze to the silent man beside her. “So, when does the raping begin?”

Snape blanched and jerked towards her. “I would never touch you unless you asked me to, and even then–” it seemed as if he repressed a shudder. He took a fortifying breath. “I have negotiated that I need not–” his lips twisted with disgust– “impregnate you until you have finished your studies at Hogwarts. And, hopefully, by then Potter will have extracted his head from his rectum and ended this war.”

The world misted red before Ginny and she hissed, “How dare you?” She stalked toward him with her hand raised. She had never thought to strike a professor before, not even Umbridge, but she could not let him mock Harry or his death like that.

He grabbed her wrist and growled. “There was no body, you silly girl. Don’t you think that if there was one, the Dark Lord would be desecrating and displaying it? Potter is alive. And several members of the Order and your juvenile army–including your two menaces of brothers–have escaped too. Do you think Potter will just hide away while his two best friends and his little girlfriend are in captivity? He is our only hope to save us from this revolting farce.”

“Hermione said to trust you, but–”

“When will the lot of you realise that listening to the insufferable know-it-all is often a good idea?”

She pursed her lips and yanked her arm back. “Alright, where am I to be staying then? What’s the terms of my captivity? Will I ever get to use a wand again?”

Snape rolled his eyes and proceeded into the parlour beyond. Aside from a relatively plain green sofa, a leather armchair, and one spindly table covered in books, the entire room was taken up with bookshelves. 

“Hermione would love this place.” Ginny crossed to the sofa and flopped down. “A little lumpy, but it sure beats a dungeon floor.”

Snape lowered himself into the armchair and contemplated her.

Ginny gave him a “get on with it” motion at Snape and his look of contemplation morphed into one of irritation. He answered her questions in order. “There is a spare room. I will need time to prepare it since I hadn’t expected a house guest. The terms of your captivity, as you call it, are simple: you need to keep your head down. I’m responsible for your actions, so I have to account for all your movements. Of course you will be able to use your wand again. You would not be able to do so now, anyway, since you are not of age for another three months and still have the Trace. In Hogwarts, you will be able–publicly at least–to use your wand only when supervised by a professor or myself. In practice, once your Trace has broken, I will give you your wand. I made sure to collect it before I collected you. You will need it for the skills I need to teach you.”

“Why not just let me go, then?”

“I did not endure cruciatus curses any time the madman was in a foul mood, kill Dumbledore and become the Dark Lord’s favourite, and have everyone I respect loathe me to lose all the advantage I have to the Order now. I would be nothing more than a worthless spy. If you ‘escape,’ then everything I have done to defeat the Dark Lord might as well be thrown into the privy.”

“How can you spy for the Order if no one will listen to you?”

Snape gave her a thoroughly unimpressed look. “I am not completely hapless. I know you’re unused to that in Gryffindor.”

Ginny almost threw two fingers up at him.

He continued, “I am thirty-eight years old and have been spying for the Order for eighteen years. Somehow, I am not only still alive and the Dark Lord’s most trusted follower, I also managed to keep Harry Potter alive despite his best efforts to die.”

Ginny bristled and sat bolt upright. “That has just as much to do with Harry, Hermione, and Ron as it does you.”

He flattened his lips. “Perhaps. He is the Chosen One, after all.” 

Merlin, he was insufferable. 

Ginny’s stomach gave a loud growl. When he raised his eyebrows, she barked, “What? MacNair forgot to feed us before your little party.”

Snape sighed. “Admittedly, I didn’t have the stomach for much food either. I will make us dinner. You should probably clean up.”

“Why, do I stink?”

His eyelids sunk into something approaching an unimpressed glare. “You spent two days ago running around and sweating in a battle, then the last two days in a dungeon without soap and water. Of course you stink.”

“Damn, Snape, you really know how to entice a girl into your bed.”

Now, he did glare. He shot to his feet and started up the stairs. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Ginny sighed and hauled herself up. At the top of the stairs, she looked into the open doorway to the spartan bedroom beyond. Snape was rummaging in a dresser. He turned around and came to the door thrusting material at her. 

“I’ll have your trunk delivered from Hogwarts tomorrow. Gryffindor Tower was not damaged, so I imagine it is still safe in your dormitory.”

Ginny instinctively took the material and clutched it to her chest.

Snape brushed past her and started down the hall. He wrenched open a door and yanked a towel out and thrust it at her too. She shuffled to grab it before it tumbled to the ground. He stalked away, and she hustled to catch up. He opened a door and gestured inside. 

She entered the bathroom and he snapped the door shut behind her.

“Real talkative, that one,” she murmured. 

Still, she groaned underneath the spray. The hot water felt so good. And, for the first time since Snape said it, Ginny processed that Harry was alive. So much of the tension in her body loosened, and she let out a sob of relief. The relief for Harry quickly dissipated in the worry for Neville. She had seen Harry only once in almost a year, and it was in the midst of a battle. But Neville had been her everything for almost seven months until her parents kept her back from school after Ron was recognized on the run with Harry. There were ways in which Neville was more to her than even Harry was. Harry was somewhere safe, presumably, but Neville was in the worst possible place he could be except with Voldemort himself.

She picked up the soap and scrubbed at her body vigorously as if she could scrub the worry away. The soap was unscented, which matched her crabby professor.

When she toweled off and donned the pyjamas, they were ridiculously sized. Both she and Snape were thin, but he was so much taller than she was. He was tall for a man–maybe just over six feet–and she was under average sized for a woman at 5’2”. She rolled the sleeves and legs several times to not completely swim in them.

She was pleasantly surprised by the calming smell coming from them. She had expected acrid smells like powdered bicorn. She lifted the neck of the top up and took a deep inhale. The top note was dark and spicy, then she got a whiff of something citrusy and herbal, and the whole scent finished with a faint scent of honeysuckle. She breathed it in deeply again before descending the stairs in favour of food.

Ginevra Weasley was going to be the death of him.

He had (unfortunately) survived Lily’s death , years of contempt from his peers and students, numerous cruciatus curses, and realising that the only pawn lowlier than himself on Dumbledore’s chessboard was Potter. But he didn’t think he would be able to survive the absolute contrariness that was Ginevra Weasley.

He sighed heavily and entered his kitchen, which was still very Muggle. The fridge hummed. He drew out the mushrooms, chicken, and butter. After rummaging in the cabinet for the pasta, flour, and Marsala, he turned back to the stove.

This–this dissipated the tension. He drew in a great breath as he cracked the marsala open. Peace had come so infrequently to the Snape household when he was a child. But, one night, his father had had a good turn at his place of employment and took his family out to celebrate. He had fallen so in love with a dish that Severus’s mother had worked tirelessly to recreate it exactly. On nights where she would serve Chicken Marsala, his father would actually smile at them. He did not yell or hit or otherwise denigrate them. More than anything else, the scents of Chicken Marsala made Severus feel safe. Nothing terrible could happen after eating such a dish. It wasn’t on the menu at Hogwarts. Was it any wonder he lived in a perpetual state of foul mood?

He heard the inelegant clomps on the stairs and sighed, steeling himself to deal with Potter’s little girlfriend.

“Mmm, smells good.”

He darted a look at her and almost laughed. She was positively swimming in his clothes. He lifted his wand and wordlessly shrunk the pyjamas to a size that fit her.

She sighed. “Thank Godric.”

She threw herself into a chair at a table in the kitchen. The girl had no grace. He placed a plate of pasta in front of her and she began to shovel her food in the manner her older brother had. Severus shivered in disgust.

She groaned. “Fuuuck, this is really good.”

He could feel his brows shoot into his hairline.

She rolled her eyes at him. “We’re not at Hogwarts. This is how real teenagers speak, you know. Stop being a prude and take the compliment instead.” She shovelled another mouthful and said while chewing, “How did you get so good at cooking?”

He sniffed and took an appropriately-sized bite, chewed it thoroughly, swallowed, and answered, “Potions and cookery are not terribly different.”

“Hmph. Makes sense. Fred and George say my cooking tastes like vomit.”

Severus tamped down a laugh. He settled for the slightest quirk of the corner of his mouth. “Well, considering I remember you being abysmal at potions–”

She huffed and waved him off. “Yes, yes, not useful for quidditch at all.”

His chin met his chest as he shook his head. “Just eat, Ginevra.” 

Chapter Text

Hermione moaned in contentment. She was warmer and more comfortable than she had been in months. The bed beneath her was soft and the sheets silky. She burrowed into the chest her head lay upon and murmured, “Harry?”

A groggy drawl answered, “Granger, you did not just confuse me with Potter, did you?”

She gasped and sat up, “Malfoy?”

He stretched languidly. “That would be me, yes.”

She stared down at him, taking him in truly for the first time not in a memory. Her memory self, at least, had said he was beautiful. She couldn’t look properly at the time, what with Harry in the Pensieve with her judging everything she did. So, she looked at him now. Even in the obliviated memories, she had stated that she had always loved his hair–the colour especially. She remembered that it was one of the first things she had noted about him on the Hogwarts Express when they met so many years ago–when he had been friendly because he hadn’t known she was a Muggleborn and tried to convince her to join Slytherin. 

His white blonde hair was bright silver in the midmorning sunlight and his eyelashes seemed to stand out by being equally as pale. His eyebrows were only a shade lighter than his hair and lashes.

Someone so light-skinned should have a plethora of freckles, but Hermione found only one on the corner of his left eye and another near his left hairline. How was that possible? Was there some spell or special Pureblood potion?

His grey eyes blinked up at her. The only eyes less common than grey eyes were green like Harry’s. The grey next to the white lashes and pale skin was startling.

Her eyes travelled down past his sharp cheekbones and the straightness of his nose to his lips which were full and dark pink. 

She agreed with her former self. He was beautiful. 

He grew uncomfortable under her scrutiny and rolled away from her, dropping his legs over the side of the bed. He dropped his head in his hands for a moment and sighed audibly.

She realised how strange it must seem that she hasn’t asked him any questions about what she is doing here or why he is treating her so well or why she seems to trust him–unless Snape told him she watched the memories.

“Did Snape tell you?”

He turned to her quickly. “Tell me what?”

She bit her lip. “Oh, I guess he didn’t, then.”

“Tell me what, Granger,” he repeated with a snarl.

He seemed to veer quickly between gentleness and cruelty. “Are you not in love with me anymore, then?” She hadn’t meant to ask that out loud.

His eyes went wide. “You–you watched the memories?”

She nodded. “Do you think I would have let you near me if I hadn’t? Without them, I would have thought you’d brought me here to finish what Bellatrix started.”

He swallowed as a look of devastation crossed his face. “I’m sorry. I was terrified that if I tried to help you, she would kill you.”

“You did help me, though, didn’t you? That was you in my mind, right?”

He nodded slowly, holding her eyes.

“Thank you.”

He snarled again. “Do not fucking thank me!”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, good, you’re back to normal Malfoy. The especially nice, huggy version is just so strange. I could tell my younger self thought so too.”

He glared at her. “Yet it was the nice, huggy version whose hands you let up your skirts.”

She refrained from cringing and sniffed haughtily instead. “That’s because you’d just been sobbing.”

His mouth popped open. “Are you trying to tell me that was a ‘mercy fingering?’ What exactly did I get out of it, then?”

“The crowing rights to being the first one to give me an orgasm–which I’m sure you’ll throw into the face of anyone I date in the future.”

Anger suffused his face. That was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say.

Possessive rage filled Draco. “Anyone you d–do you know why you’re here, Granger?”

She answered hesitantly, perhaps put off by his demeanor. “As your punishment–to have Half-Blood heirs?”

His head snapped back. “How do you–”

“Snape told me,” she answered his unfinished question.

He scoffed. “And you’re fine with that? You’ll just spread your legs for me? Should we give it a go, then?” He pushed her back down on the bed and swung his leg over her.

This witch. She rolled her eyes at him, put her hand on his face, and pushed him away. Sitting back up, she scoffed in return, “Please, you just said last night that you would never hurt me. I don’t believe you’re about to rape me.”

“No? Did you ever think I might have to to protect you? It’s either that or you’ll go to Dolohov or Greyback. Do you have any idea what they have planned for you?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “Yes, actually I do.”

He gaped at her again before running his hand through his hair. “Salazar, Severus really did tell you everything.”

“And since you told me in those memories that anything happening to me would kill you, I assume you’ll just let me go find Harry.”

He huffed. “And you didn’t think that maybe I would be so obsessed with you that I’d be thrilled for the Dark Lord’s order to marry you?”

“M-marry?” She squeaked. 

He smirked at her. “Oh, you thought it was just sex and babies? Oh, no, Granger. Marriage–soul bonds–Malfoy rites. You’d feel all the things I’d feel. If you left me, you’d get to feel all my heartbreak and despair. It would cripple you.”

Her eyes went wide. “Would you–would you do that?”

“To keep you from chasing after Potter and his reckless schemes? To keep you safe?” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

She jumped from the bed and backed away from him.

He sighed. “No, Granger, I’m not going to do that.”

She visibly relaxed.

Crack.

Teensy appeared laden with bundles of clothes towering above her head. “Teensy has the Muggle clothes for you, Mistress Hermione!” She toddled toward an armchair and set them down. When she turned around, she took in their pyjamas and the unmade bed, gasped, and ran at him, smacking his arm with her hand. “You are not to be making Master Scorpius until you are married!”

Granger gasped.

“Ow! Teensy! And we didn’t do anything. It was just sleeping. Granger was sad, alright?”

The elf glared at him, gave a curt little nod, then disapparated.

“She hit you,” Granger said breathlessly.

Draco rubbed his arm and sighed. “Yeah, she does that sometimes. Elves are big on corporal punishment and she raised me so–” he shrugged.

Granger gaped at him. “But, doesn’t she have to punish herself now, or something?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, she doesn’t have to punish herself now. Black elves are strong, their magic is strong because they’ve been part of the family for so long. The stronger the magic between the elf and the family, the more likely they’ll just tell their masters no. Think about the Hogwarts elves. They’re probably the strongest elves there are because of the 1,000 years of mixing their magic with Hogwarts. Did you see any of them all bandaged up for refusing to clean Gryffindor tower when you were pulling your trickery-into-freedom stunts?”

“The elves refused to clean Gryffindor tower? That’s not true. It was always immaculate!”

Draco shook his head. “Yeah, because my father’s former house elf cleaned it by himself.”

A look of horror crossed her face. “I created more work for Dobby?”

“Yes, Granger, you did. It seems he liked it, though, so no harm done.”

“Of course there was harm done! I was trying to help them have less work to do.”

This was going to be a longer conversation than he had time for at this moment. “I’ll let you get dressed, Granger.”

“Wait, I have more questions about House Elf magic.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Of course you do. And someday, I will answer them all. Just not today.”

“Wait, how did a house elf get Muggle clothes?”

He turned back. “We have squibs who work the Muggle sides of our businesses. Teensy went to one of them last night. I guess she went this morning and picked them up for you. I hope I described the sizing right. If not, Teensy is pretty good with tailoring.”

He hurried from the room. Fuck, what had he been thinking telling Teensy to get her jeans? He’d seen her wearing them at the Quidditch World Cup when he was fourteen and had never gotten the image out of his brain. He wasn’t going to be able to think with her wearing those around him. 

He found himself yet again thunking his head against the door between their rooms.

Ron was warm and comfortable. He burrowed down into the covers when sunlight seemed to shine on the other side of his eyelids. “Five more minutes, Harry,” he murmured.

Thwack!

He startled up. “Bleeding hell!” He rubbed his hip where someone had smacked him.

Someone was a glaring Pansy Parkinson who ordered, “Up, Weasley! We can’t have you lazing about all day. We’ve got to get you new robes. We managed to clean your pants, but your trousers and shirt were scorched and torn. No saving those.” 

She shook his shorts at him and he snatched them away from her. 

“Well, what are you waiting for, get up.”

His mouth gaped open. “Are you mental? I’m naked under here, Parkinson. I’m not just going to get up with you standing there.”

She rolled her eyes and turned around. “I’ll be seeing it all when we’re married anyway.”

He threw back the covers and put his underwear on. “We are not getting married, Parkinson. You said fuck you, not marry you. Knowing the Parkinsons, you’ve got some crazy soul-bonding marriage rite that makes us give up our minds and wills to each other.”

“If you think I’m going to die just so you can hold out hope of marrying some sad nobody, you have another think coming. In case you’ve forgotten, Weasley, I chose Neville–not you!” She turned back around and paused, her eyes travelling the length of him.

Ron grabbed at Malfoy’s robe and yanked it over his head. He stalked up to Parkinson and growled, “You’ll have to imperious me if you want me to soul bond with you.” Ugh. He hated how short she was. Hermione wasn’t tall, and Lavender hadn’t been either–but they at least were both over the average height for women. When he hugged them, he could easily rest his chin on the top of their heads. Parkinson’s head, though, came just to the bottom of his chest. He’d have to pretzel himself in half if he wanted to kiss her–which he didn’t.

She sniffed in disdain. “I agree, no soul-bond. We can say you’re insisting on the Weasley rites, or something.”

He winced. “Ergh, yeah, about that ….”

She narrowed her eyes. “What about that?”

“The Weasley rites do include soul-bonding.”

She threw up her hands in frustration. “Are you joking? Aren’t you supposed to be weird blood traitors?”

“We’re still Purebloods. We still do most of the Purebloods things–you know, except for the bigotry and disgusting wealth.”

“Well, we’ll lie then, alright? It’s not like you’ll know them off the top of your head. And no one in my family’s ever married a Weasley.” She said the name like she was scraping it off her shoe. 

Crack.

A house-elf appeared carrying a breakfast tray. The little thing placed it on a table by the window. Parkinson swanned into one of the chairs and lifted a cup off the tray. He wrinkled his nose. It was coffee and she appeared to be drinking it black–black like her heart and bitter like her personality. 

There was a teapot on the tray as well, with milk and honey beside it. There was just one plate, though, and sausages, crumpets, and runny eggs filled it. Did she seriously expect him to watch her eat in his room and not give him any?

She waved at the seat across from her. “Hurry up, Weasley, eat. I know you do so love stuffing your face.”

The elf pulled its ears. Ron could never tell the gender of an elf.

“Is Mistress Pansy sure she doesn’t want any breakfast?”

Parkinson rolled her eyes. “Mopsy, you know I hardly ever eat breakfast.”

Ron cocked his head and tried to remember Parkinson at Hogwarts at breakfast. Had he ever seen her eat breakfast? For that matter, had he ever seen her eat, full stop? 

He ran his eyes over her. Her elbows were awkwardly pointy and her collarbone seemed to protrude from her skin. The skin of her face was pulled tight over her cheekbones.

She must have noticed him eyeing her. She pulled the upper part of her robes closed over her chest.

Pansy eyed Weasley across the table as he shovelled food in his face. He had always been just a ginger sidekick to Potter and Granger, so she had never taken the time to really look at him. He wasn’t her type at all. Yes, she liked men to be tall, but normal tall like six foot, not freakishly tall like whatever Weasley was. 

And he was wiry–nothing like the rippling muscles she’d seen on Neville the time he took his robes off to work on a project for Madame Pomfrey. She’d happened to be in the greenhouse for the same project and took in his biceps as he lifted a plant from the floor to a work station. Neville always seemed to forget about magic when he worked with plants.

And Weasley was ginger, just so, so ginger. Pansy liked blonds. At least he looked less gingery now in those green robes of Draco’s. 

He must have felt her staring at him, because he looked up from his plate and into her eyes. She sucked in a breath. His eyes were a deep, startling blue. 

“What?” he asked. 

She swallowed and looked away. “I’ll measure you for robes and figure out your colours today.”

“Figure out my colours?”

“Which colours you look best in. Many gingers are Autumns, but that Gryffindor red and gold clearly wasn’t working for you. And that maroon jumper you wore every Christmas? No. Just no.”

“Parkinson, I can barely understand a bleeding word you’re saying.”

She huffed in exasperation. “Are you quite done, Weasley? We need to take your measurements.”

He sighed but stood up. 

“Robes off,” she said.

“I’m not stripping in front of you, Parkinson.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve already seen you down to your pants. Measurements are more accurate when unclothed.”

“Madam Malkin always managed,” he grumbled.

Pansy stiffened with affront. “I would like to think I have more talent than that has-been.”

He paused in lifting his robes. “You’re making my robes?”

She sniffed. “Of course. I’ve made all my own robes since I was fourteen. My Yule Ball robes were the first. And everyone said they were very pretty. In fact, I’ve made most of the dress robes for the girls in our year–not the Gryffindors, obviously–since then.”

He blinked at her in confusion. “So, wait, you have your own business? What do you need that for? Aren’t you just going to have a marriage contract with some rich bloke and organise parties the rest of your life?”

She ground her teeth. It was bad enough explaining this to her kind of Purebloods who weren’t her friends. Explaining this to a poor, blood traitor was humiliating. “My best marriage prospect was Draco, but I knew by fourth year that he might not be an option. And my other choices were terrible at best and terrifying at worst. If I ended up being disinherited rather than marry some wizard double my age with a string of dead ex-wives, I needed some way to survive.”

She braced herself for the expected derision and jeering.

Instead, he said, “Huh. That’s pretty brilliant, Parkinson. You should be proud of yourself for that.”

Something warm passed over her. She felt her cheeks heat, and she tucked her hair behind her ear as she looked at the floor. She sucked in a breath and put on her haughtiest mask. Looking back up into his–again–startling blue eyes, she jutted her chin out. “Of course, I’m proud of myself. I’m clearly the most amazing person in any room.”

He laughed. It wasn’t one of the mean laughs she had come to expect from him at Hogwarts. It looked like he was truly amused.  

One corner of her mouth ticked up. That’s all she would give him. She couldn’t be seen to be stooping to laughing with a Weasley. Instead, she turned to her measuring tape and sent the spell at it. She picked up the fabrics she had brought in and turned back to him and tsked. “Stand up straight! The measurements will be all off if you slouch.”

He huffed and then jumped. “Parkinson, your tape measure just sexually assaulted me!”

She smirked. “Would you rather I do it by hand?”

He grimaced. “No.”

She moved around him and took him in. He didn’t have rippling muscles like Neville, but he was well-defined, like Draco now that he was eating again. And–damn–Weasley had a very fine arse. Broom thighs were always something Pansy could appreciate. She circled again to his front and mused, “You’re definitely not a Winter. Black robes always made you look ill. And we’ve already ruled out Autumn. You look good in Draco’s robe, which would indicate Summer, but gingers usually do best in warm colours.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to answer to any of this.” 

She scoffed. “Clearly, I’m talking to myself, Weasley, as I’m the only good conversationalist in the room.” 

Surprisingly, again, he laughed.

She cracked a smile and held the shimmering gold fabric up to him. “Ugh, no, absolutely not.” She tossed it over her shoulder. “Summer, then. Just Light, True, or Soft? Draco is a Soft Summer, so maybe?” She gathered her Summer swaths of fabric and began holding different ones up to him then shook her head. True Summer was also tossed aside. She picked up a light, but deep blue and held it up to him then whispered, “Sweet Circe.”

“What?” he asked.

She blinked at him foolishly as the deep blue of his eyes popped. Her eyes travelled over the strong lines of his cheeks, the paleness of his full lips, to take in the squareness of his jaw. Dear Lord, Ronald Weasley was fit as fuck.

She might have continued to stare stupidly at him if a voice from her adjoining bedroom hadn’t shouted, “Pansy! Pansy!”

Theo was going to lose his mind if he had to look at Padma Patil in only a dressing gown for one more moment, knowing she was completely naked under it. He had to get her clothes, and he had to get them faster than a trip to Diagon Alley would take–aside from the fact that very few businesses in the Alley were likely open at all now after the Dark Lord’s triumph. 

He needed help.

He hoped the floo connection between his room and Pansy’s still worked from when they were eleven. Averting his eyes from where Patil sat daintily nibbling on some tea sandwiches, he huffed, “Patil, we’ve got to go see someone about some clothes, but the floo is in my room, so–”

Out of the corner of her eye, he saw her stand so led her through to his room.

Salazar, now she was naked under a dressing gown, in his room. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Offering her the floo pot–not looking at her–he instructed, “Say ‘Pansy Parkinson’s bedroom.’ Hopefully that will work.”

She nodded and went through. A moment later, he followed her out of Pansy’s grate and sighed in relief. He made the mistake of looking over at Patil to make sure she was alright to see that the gown had gaped open while she was brushing the soot off. A well-shaped thigh was visible. He gulped and turned away, yelling, “Pansy! Pansy!”

A door across from him flew open and Pansy strode through.

“Theo? How the hell did you get in here?”

“It seems you never severed the floo connection from when we were kids.”

She frowned. “I should have done, though, after you stopped talking to us.”

He shrugged. “Sorry, not big on the bigotry.”

She crossed her arms and stared at him expectantly.

Weasley came through the door a moment later, pulling robes on over his head. Salazar, had Pansy and Weasley already started with the procreation?

“What do you need, Theo? I’m in the middle of something.”

He gestured–without looking–at Patil. “I haven’t any clothes for her, and I thought maybe, since–”

But Pansy was Pansy and cut him off. “I happen to be in the middle of clothing my own war prize, so it will be a few days until I can get to your problem.”

“War prize, Parkinson? Really?” Weasley protested.

Pansy sniffed. “You’re right. I meant my War Punishment.”

Weasley rolled his eyes.

Theo asked desperately, “Well, maybe she can borrow something of yours for the next few days?”

Pansy snorted and gestured in a circular motion at Patil. “You think all of that over there is going to fit into anything of mine? Tracey has the tits and arse to help you out, not me.”

Theo went cold at the thought of his best friend. “Tracey’s on the run. Daph too.”

Pansy chewed her lip and looked again over at Patil, who had remained silent through all of this. “Are you the Good Patil or Bad Patil?”

Patil answered “The Bad Patil,” just as Weasley said “The good one.”

Why does she keep answering that way? 

Weasley was equally confused. “But I thought Padma was the one who was captured.”

“Yeah, I’m Padma. Parvati’s the Good one.”

Both Pansy and Weasley snorted now–in unison, as if they were already soul-bonded or something. 

“No, Patil,” Pansy responded, “everyone knew the Ravenclaw Patil was the good one and the Gryffindor was the bad one.”

He finally looked over at Patil who looked startled but also somewhat pleased.

Pansy turned back to him. “That’s a good thing, then, because Draco seems to like this one. I bet he’s already got Granger a wardrobe of things to wear. Granger has all that,” again the circular gesture at Patil, “to borrow clothes from. It still might need a little tailoring since Patil has a waist smaller than a pixie’s.” Pansy cocked her head at Patil in an assessing way. “You know, what? Let’s all go. Then Granger can see that her boyfriend is safe and I can do some on the spot tailoring. I’ve always wanted to get my hands on you, Patil.”

Weasley said, “I’d watch that,” with a grin.

Pansy back-handed Weasley in the stomach. “I meant to dress her. Come on, my floo connection is direct to Draco’s bedroom–and no weird comments about that, Weasley.” She picked up her floo pot and paused, turning back to Weasley. “It won’t be a good idea to call out someone else’s floo address, alright? You don’t have a wand, and you won’t get to see Granger if you go trying to escape. I promised the Dark Lord I could handle you. If you go missing, I’ll be killed–” she grimaced– “which you probably won’t care about. But when they catch you again, you’ll be given to someone a lot worse than me.”

Weasley rolled his eyes at her. “Got it, Parkinson. What’s the address?”

When Padma stepped through Draco’s floo, she looked around curiously. Of course, Draco had good taste. She liked that the room was in the muted sorts of colours he looked best in. Black had always made him look hard and mean.

Unfortunately, Ronald Weasley was being his usual loud self.

“Where is she?” he bellowed at Draco. He was a few inches taller than Draco–when he stood up straight, that is. He was doing so now in a show of looming intimidation. “I swear, if you put her in the dungeon–”

“It’s a cellar, Weasley, not a dungeon. Castles have dungeons, not manor houses,” Draco replied scornfully.

“Besides,” Nott cut in, “Draco’s in love with her. He’d never put her in a dungeon. She’s probably off somewhere being pampered.”

Ronald looked around at all of them with confusion, so his normal look. “Yeah, Parkinson keeps saying that, but I’d like to know since when.”

“Fourth year, for sure,” Parkinson said. “Yule Ball. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Fun date, he was.”

Padma grinned at Parkinson. “A date who wouldn’t stop staring at Granger all night? I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Ronald swung his attention to her and scowled. “Yeah, can’t feel terribly guilty about that seeing as how you were staring at the Ferret all night.”

Padma did her best to look unaffected. She hadn’t thought anyone, let alone Ronald Weasley, had ever noticed that. Fortunately, Draco had barely seemed to notice this accusation because he jumped in with, “And it’s not like you weren’t staring at Longbottom and the She-Weasel all night, Pans.”

Nott asked, “Was I the only person at the ball actually paying attention to the person I came with?”

All of the rest of them answered, “Yes.”

A door behind her burst open. “Draco? I heard a commo–Ron!”

“Hermione!”

The two Gryffindors ran to each other’s arms and burst into tears. 

Padma hated watching people cry. She did it so infrequently herself. She had learned early in life that very few people cared to see her tears. And she had lowered her expectations for people’s treatment of her more and more over the years so as not to feel hurt and be tempted to cry. The last time she had cried was the night of the Yule Ball when she realised that despite his teasing banter, Draco Malfoy liked Hermione Granger, not her like she’d thought.

So, yeah, watching people cry was uncomfortable. The Slytherins seemed to find it similarly off-putting. She shrugged at them and offered, “Gryffindors?”

Parkinson barked a laugh. “Definitely the Good Patil.”

“Are you alright?” Ronald asked. “Has he hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Ron, I swear.”

With a fresh bout of tears, Ronald sobbed, “Harry.”

Granger stepped back and wiped her eyes. “He’s alive, Ron. He’s alive.”

“We suspect that, at least,” Nott said. “No body.”

“No, we know,” Draco said.

Ronald whirled to Draco. “What do you mean, you know?”

Draco sighed. “My mother lied to the Dark Lord. Potter’s alive.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Is that my robe?”

Parkinson waved him off. “Yes, we’ll return it, you didn’t even miss it until now, you big baby. But we’re here to see if Granger has clothes for Patil.”

Draco looked over at her really for the first time and his eyes went wide at her attire. “Hey,” he said softly. “Is Theo treating you alright?”

Rowena, she was so in love with him. She would give anything to stop being so, especially now that she was going to be getting married.  She nodded. “Yeah, Nott has been very kind.”

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Good.”

“Since when is Malfoy nice?” Ronald asked. He turned to Granger. “You know, they’re all trying to convince me he’s in love with you, too? Never heard anything so absurd.”

Granger bit her lip. “Uh, not that absurd.”

Ronald gaped. “What?”

“Enough!” Nott snapped. “Can we fill each other in after we’ve gotten Patil some fucking clothes?”

The room went still as even Pansy and Draco gaped at the usually quiet Nott.

He nodded with definiteness and turned to Granger. With a much kinder tone, he asked, “Granger, I can tell by the fact that you have clothes that fit you that Draco’s already kitted you out. Do you have anything Patil can borrow?”

“Uh, yeah, Padma, you can come with me.” 

Padma followed Granger into a gorgeously appointed room–dainty, canopied bed–to a gleaming wardrobe. “Go ahead and borrow anything you’d like. Draco seems to have bought out the entirety of Harrods.” She left Padma to change.

As the door closed behind Granger, Padma could hear Ronald asking, “Since when do you call him Draco?”

Padma ran her hand over the clothes. They all appeared to be Muggle. Aside from saris–which weren’t really all that Muggle–Padma had never worn Muggle clothing. All the trousers in the drawers seemed to be the ones of the thick, rough material Lisa Turpin called jeans. She pulled out a few pair, as well as an unopened package of knickers, and soft cotton shirts. She didn’t even bother with the bra though. Padma and Parvati always had to have their brassieres specially made since their bands were so small compared to the cups. And Granger’s cups were not as large as Padma’s. It would be a little awkward to wear this thin shirt without a bra, but it was better than a dressing gown, she supposed.

She managed to scoot the waist of the trousers past her hips and get them buttoned, but the waistband gaped terribly. The shirt pulled tight across her breasts and barely made it to her waist. She made her way back into Draco’s bedroom.

The room went still and she felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

Finally, Granger said, “Good Golly, she’s built like Jessica Rabbit.”

“Is that a bad thing?” she asked nervously.

“Fuck no!” Ronald groaned.

Both Parkinson and Granger backhanded him.

Nott wouldn’t look at her again. This had made her so self-conscious all day. Maybe he really did feel stuck with her.

“Who is Jessica Rabbit?” Draco asked.

“Oh, she’s from a Muggle film. She’s all,” Granger gestured with two hands spread wide in front of her own breasts, “and all,” now the hands spread down to behind her bum, “and no middle really to speak of. I didn’t think real humans could be built that way.”

“Rabbit’s a funny surname,” Nott said, still not looking at Padma.

“Oh, it’s her married name. She’s married to Roger Rabbit, who is this big obnoxious rabbit that gets accused of murder.”

“Muggles marry animals?” Parkinson asked, eyes wide.

“No!” Granger huffed. “They do not marry animals! It’s just, in the film–” she waved them off “--honestly, come to think of it, it was a really strange film.”

Parkinson shrugged and cast her eyes assessingly over Padma’s outfit. She strode forward and cast a spell at the waistband that cinched it in. 

“But I won’t be able to get them off again,” Padma protested.

Parkinson shook her head. “It’s a spell I created. It will stretch.”

“That’s quite smart, Pansy,” Granger said.

Parkinson sniffed. “You’re not the only intelligent person, Granger.”

“I wasn’t–” Granger began.

“She’s just teasing you, Hermione,” Ronald surprisingly answered. “That’s just the way she jokes.”

Parkinson’s lips twitched. Then she adjusted Padma’s shirt so that it fit in at the sides. There was no adjusting to make her breasts fit, though.

When Parkinson straightened, she looked Padma firmly in the eye and said, “You’re my new doll, Patil, and I have so many plans for how we’re going to play dress up.”

“Do I get to watch?” Ronald asked. 

“No!” every single other voice in the room answered.

“Up! Up!”

“Five more minutes, mum,” Ginny murmured.

The covers levitated right off the bed.

Ginny sat up. “What the–”

The angriest-looking house-elf she had ever seen was standing with arms crossed at the end of the bed. 

“Are you related to Kreacher?” Ginny mumbled.

“That senile family-magic oaf? How dare you insult me!”

The coverlet twisted and smacked Ginny upside the head. 

“Ow!” Ginny was fully awake now. “Who are you? I know Snape doesn’t have any elves.”

The little thing adjusted her table-runner toga and sniffed. “Esme, Head Hogwarts Elf. Esme has brought your trunk, as the Headmaster requested.”

Ginny scrambled off the bed in excitement. She had taken only a bag with a few changes of clothing with her when she went home for the Easter holidays. She hadn’t known that Ron was going to show his face and that their family would have to go into hiding. She opened the lid and found her favorite trackies and hugged them to herself. She riffled through to find her favorite shirt as well. She was sure Romilda would have stolen it.

The elf sniffed again. “Esme almost threw the trunk away when you did not come back to school. Esme didn’t need to be cleaning another thing in that tower.”

Ginny scrunched her face. “Why would the head elf be cleaning the tower?”

This was apparently the wrong question to ask. Esme screeched. “Because when the Clothes-Wearer didn’t come back, no other elves would clean it! I tried to tell them that the weird lady who knits badly wasn’t there anymore, but none of them believed Esme, no. And now, on top of Esme making the schedules, planning the feasts, and keeping Mipsy and Bipsy from making babies in broom cupboards, Esme has to clean the tower too!”

She glared again at Ginny and disapparated with a crack.

“Huh, the house-elves shag in the broom cupboards too. Who knew?”

She changed into her newly-restored clothes and headed down the stairs. “Hey, Snape, do you cook breakfast too, or am I in charge of scorching my own eggs.” When she didn’t get a reply, she called out again, “Snape!”

The house was eerily quiet.

Ginny’s heart began to pound. She bolted into the kitchen. Empty. She tried the toilet off the parlour. She ran back up the stairs and burst into his room. Sterile and empty. She ran back down the stairs and pulled at the garden door and realised she was warded in.

The fear from the night before returned. The quiet was too much. Her hands shook as she curled up into a corner of the lumpy sofa and waited.

Severus snorted when he looked up at the brightly lit and oh so ordinary Muggle house. Really, the Dursleys could not have been hidden in more plain sight. But that had been Dumbledore’s idea, and Shacklebolt was every bit as much a strategist as the old coot had been. The Dark Lord and his followers would be looking for something thoroughly hidden and magical. They would never think the Order would hide the Muggles deep in the Muggle world. There were wards around the house, but Dumbledore’s portrait had told him how to break every one. The Dark Lord’s followers would have had trouble with them–even Bellatrix and the Dark Lord himself.

Severus did enjoy the idea of Petunia Evans Dursley and all her snobbery living in the vestiges of a coal town.

He waved the wards aside and opened the front door. 

Diggle came skidding out of a room, wand raised, but Severus slashed his wand and the other wizard’s wand came soaring toward him. No, he’d never played quidditch like either Potter, but he could still catch a wand arcing toward him. Hestia came in slashing her wand as well. It was a great battle, much like their practice duels when part of the Order. Hestia had always called it foreplay. 

As if in homage to those times, Severus wordlessly wrapped her in an incarcerous. 

“Don’t touch them, Severus,” she spat somewhere between challenge and plea. Indeed, this did resemble their former foreplay. 

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not here for them, Hestia, but you.” He cast a lazy incarcerous at Diggle as well.

“What do you mean?” she asked with narrow eyes.

The Dursleys next skidded into the room. Dear Lord, how had Lily’s sister managed to get every unattractive feature of their parents?

“Listen, you–” the large, walrus man raised a meaty fist.

Severus also shot an incarcerous him. The horsey-faced woman pointed at him wordlessly for a few moments before finally stuttering, “You’re that awful boy.”

His mouth quirked up. 

Hestia, though, looked between the two and asked, “You know each other?”

“Oh yes,” Severus purred. “Petunia and I are old acquaintances. Aren’t we, Tooney?”

“Petunia? How does this freak know you?” the walrus asked.

Severus laughed. “Freak? Did you know your wife begged to join us freaks?”

“Shut up!” Lily’s sister shrieked.

He waved her off. “Do be quiet while the adults converse.” She went puce, but Severus did not care. Petunia Evans had made Lily miserable, so she was no concern of his. Instead, he turned his attention to his ex-lover. “Hestia, I need you.” 

Hestia struggled against her bonds and scoffed. He had always admired Hestia’s fire. “Sorry, not offering up that service to a traitor.”

Severus rolled his eyes, though his lips couldn’t refrain from their turn upward. “Though I would be open to that again–we did have fun–I meant at Hogwarts.”

Shock passed over her features. Her face then hardened. “I won’t torture students.” 

“Exactly,” Severus responded. “You won’t. I’ve had the Carrows removed and I need people I trust in place to protect the students.”

It was Diggle’s turn now to scoff. “Since when did you care about protecting students?”

“Since always,” Severus snarled. “Since werewolves and bullies were allowed to wander the castle with impunity. Since dangerous pranks earned no more than a blind eye. Since Death Eaters, twice over, were allowed to be teachers.”

Hestia coughed something that sounded like, “Hypocrite.”

“I may be branded,” Severus replied earnestly, “but I am no Death Eater.”

“You killed Dumbledore!” Diggle squeaked. 

Severus groaned. “On his orders–which, yes, I argued as imbecilic. He was dying anyway and wanted me to become the Dark Lord’s most trusted follower.” He returned his attention to Hestia. “I need a conduit to the Order as well. Please, Hestia.”

She hesitated. Of anyone still alive, she knew him best. She knew, what so few did, that he genuinely cared–for students, for victory, for the downtrodden. Her faith in him had been shaken, and it was one of the relationships he had most regretted–only behind Minerva–when he had carried out Dumbledore’s diabolical plan. 

“I have an assignment. I have to protect them–” she shot the two Dursleys a look of disgust “as distasteful an assignment it may be.”

“The Dark Lord believes Potter to be dead–or at least he chooses to believe so.”

Petunia swayed. “He–he’s dead?” she whispered.

He cocked his head. Did she care? Was there something like humanity in there after all? Finally, he replied, “No–no matter how hard he tries–I don’t believe he can actually die. But the Dark Lord believes him to be, which means that you are safe. Though, to be quite honest, even the Dark Lord didn’t believe Potter’s bleeding heart could extend to you. He never even looked for you.” He turned to Diggle. “I would be recruiting you too, Dedalus, as a Charms Professor if you weren’t an already known Order member. No one knows about Hestia, though.”

She tossed her head. “Really? You didn’t hand over all of our names?”

His face softened. “Of course not.”

Her face softened too.

Hestia had been his one exception as a former student that he had slept with–though in her case, he barely remembered her as a student. He had taught her only one year–his first. They were a mere six years different in age. And, when she joined the Order, she had been the one to pursue him. He hadn’t remembered her at all until after their first time together when she had brought up how attractive she had always found his demeanor to be, even when she had been his student.

He pleaded again. “Please, Hestia, you’re one of the most talented witches I know at Transfiguration. And I know you will get the word I need to Potter and the Order.”

Hestia finally nodded.

He sighed in relief and lifted the incarcerous spells.

When he apparated back into his home, his feet were swept from underneath him as a small weight landed on his chest. 

“What–” he wheezed. 

“Where have you been?” the red streak above him demanded.

He sucked in a full breath and pushed Ginevra off his chest. “That is none of your business,” he retorted. 

“You can’t leave me alone here without a wand! Other Death Eaters know where you live, I have to imagine. You are the only thing standing between me and being raped! You can’t just abandon me here!”

He blinked at her. Actually, only the Malfoys and–unfortunately since she followed Narcissa here–Bellatrix knew where he lived, but he understood Ginevra’s fear. He nodded. “I won’t do it again.”

She utterly deflated when he didn’t fight her. Instead, she audibly swallowed and then nodded. “Yeah, ok, thanks.”

He sighed. “Ginevra, the one thing you should trust is that I will always do my best to keep you safe.”

Chapter Text

“Alright,” Weasley said, “now that we’ve got Padma some clothes, can someone tell me what happened to my sister?”

Everyone turned to Theo. 

Right, he was the last one there when she was handed out, wasn’t he? “Uh, she’s with Snape.”

Weasley looked over to his girlfriend. “That’s a good thing, right?”

Granger nodded. “I’m sure it is. He’ll keep her safe.”

“Still,” Weasley said, “Parkinson says everyone’s supposed to fuck–”

“Ronald!” Granger rebuked.

Pansy scoffed, “What, you can do it but you can’t say it, Granger?”

Granger gasped. “We didn’t–”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Please, Granger, I know Teensy well. She never makes Draco’s bed until three o’clock because she’s convinced he’s a layabout who will go back to bed if given the chance. That bed,” she says with an emphatic pointing finger, “was not slept in.”

“Hermione!” Weasley yelled.

“Ron!” Granger fired back, “All we did was sleep!”

“A little bit of snuggling isn’t going to get anyone up the duff,” Draco drawled.

“Besides, Ronald,” Patil interrupted, “You greeted us half-dressed, yourself, and following right behind Parkinson.”

Theo seethed as he watched Weasley’s eyes drop to Patil’s chest.

“Ronald!” Granger now snitted.

“Enough!” Pansy snapped. “Fine, no one fucked anyone. Except maybe Theo and Patil–they’re being awkward–but we need to get to the real topic: how the fuck are we going to get Neville away from that bitch?”

Granger gasped. “He is with Bellatrix, then?”

“Yes. If he wasn’t, he would be with me. It’s your dream to have freakishly tall, ginger babies, not mine.”

Draco’s face darkened and Weasley snarled, “Fuck you, Parkinson.”

“Eventually, yes, Weasley. Stop begging.”

“I wasn’t–”

“I believe we were discussing Longbottom,” Draco cut in.

Pansy took in a breath. “Right.” She grabbed Weasley and hauled him in front of Granger. She waved her hand up and down his person as if he were goods on display. “Look, Granger, healthy, whole, far better dressed than he ever has been in his life. I’m taking care of him. So, you’ll help me get Neville out, right?”

Granger’s eyes widened. Then she burst out laughing. She looked over at Draco and then to Theo. “Is this a Slytherin thing? Bargaining for help instead of asking like a normal person?”

“I do it too, though,” Patil said. “So, maybe not.”

Theo would not look at her. Anytime he did, all he could see was the outline of her nipples under that thin shirt. Weasley, though, had no issues taking several peeks. Theo wished she would stand closer to the fire.

Draco, who at least looked at Patil’s face and not her breasts, said with kindness his face didn’t usually carry, “You would have made a great Slytherin, though, Patil.”

Theo hazarded a look at Patil, making sure to keep his eyes lifted to her face. He hated that her heart seemed to be in her eyes when she smiled back at Draco. She was Theo’s. The Dark Lord had given her to him. She had agreed to marry him. Draco had wanted Granger and he got Granger. And if Draco kept looking at Patil like that, Theo knew exactly where the eye-melting artefact lived in his father’s study.

Theo sucked in a breath. Where had that come from? Theo had never been a jealous person or particularly territorial before. And now he’s imagining melting his former best mate’s eyes?

Theo was giving Draco the strangest looks. Draco certainly wouldn’t follow Theo anywhere dark and private if his former friend proposed it right now. 

He turned his attention back to Granger who was ridiculously adorable in her huffiness. “You don’t have to bribe me to help someone, Pansy. And certainly not Neville! Neville was the first friend I made at Hogwarts.”

The Ginger Git interrupted. “I want to know if you’re going to let Hermione go, Malfoy. Since you’re so in love with her.”

“Weasley, off topic!” Pansy protested.

Draco studied Pansy and took in how gaunt her cheeks had become. No–she was doing it again! Draco had been suspecting it might be happening again these last few weeks. Damn it, Pansy. Ugh, this means he had to be nice to the Ging–uh, Weasley. Weasley would have to make sure that Pansy took care of herself since Draco wouldn’t be around her every day anymore.

“Malfoy!” Weasley insisted.

Draco answered. “Of course I’ll let her go, Weasley. Once we figure out where Potter is.”

Pansy gasped. “But you’ll be killed, Draco.”

“Is that true?” Granger asked in turn.

He looked at Pansy as he answered, “It’s only a matter of time before the Dark Lord figures out that Potter is alive. Once that happens, all the Malfoys are as good as dead anyway. It’s better if Granger is away before that happens so she doesn’t get passed to Dolohov.”

Pansy pushed Draco out of the way and approached Granger. “Yes, Granger, that’s true. He doesn’t get you with a little Malfoy, or he helps you escape, an Avada is in his future. And that’s if he’s lucky. Think this through, Granger.”

“Oh, fuck off, Parkinson. You just want her to stay to help you with your Neville thing,” the Weas–Weasley said.

“Even if that’s true, Ron, I want to help Neville escape.”

Draco snapped, “Don’t be a martyr, Granger. Just get out.”

She bit her lip and shook her head. “No, I have a lot to think about. Neville, you, so many others. This might be the best place for me to be.”

“Granger,” he growled.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Weasley said, “but I agree with the Ferret.”

“Surely, you won’t argue with hell freezing over, Granger,” Draco tried.

“Let me think about this, Draco.”

“Does no one else think it’s bloody weird that she’s just calling him ‘Draco’ now?” Weasley asked.

“No,” several voices answered.

Draco looked around at all the people there (except Patil–it was really hard to keep his eyes off of her very perfect set of large, perky tits) and finally barked, “Out! Just get out, the lot of you, before Granger makes some colossally Gryffindor decisions.”

“This isn’t over, Draco,” Pansy said. 

He rolled his eyes. “It never is with you, Pans.”

She threw the floo powder into his grate and stepped in, stupidly trusting Weasley to follow her. When Weasley also reached for the floo powder, Draco grabbed his arm and lowered his voice. “Listen, Weasley. Pansy’s one of my best mates, just like you and Granger. I need you to take care of her for me. When she feels she’s out of control, she stops eating. It’s the one thing she can control, so she does. Make sure she eats. Surely, that’s something you know how to do.”

Weasley rolled his eyes and shook Draco off. “I actually do notice things, wanker. So, yeah, I’d already seen the whole starvation thing. I’ll figure something out.”

Draco nodded, let him go, and stepped back. Impressively, Weasley actually called out for Pansy’s bedroom.

When Padma stepped through the floo into Nott’s room, he still refused to look at her.  She supposed it was inevitable. In the cold, light of day, he’d reconsidered their agreement from the night before. She was simply unlikeable. She could never figure out what was so different about Parvati and her or Granger and her to make the difference between what was likeable in one and unlikeable in her.

The last thing she wanted was someone to feel stuck with her. She’d rather be alone. She was used to that, after all. 

She cleared her throat. “Nott?” she ventured.

Still, he wouldn’t turn to her. “Yeah, Patil?”

“It’s alright if you don’t want me. I’m used to it. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

He groaned. “Not want you?” he repeated as if anguished. “I am drowning in want for you. I can’t even look at you because all I can think about is touching your breasts.”

She blinked in surprise. “Oh. Did you want to?”

He swung his gaze to her equally in surprise. “What?”

“Do you want to touch them? You can if you want.”

His mouth dropped open then he took an audible swallow. “Are you serious?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

She thought he might have begun muttering “bugger, bugger, bugger,” but wasn’t sure. Still, he approached slowly and fixed his eyes on the straining cotton across her breasts. Slowly, reverently, he lifted one hand and hefted a breast upward. 

They both groaned.

Looking down as if fascinated, he brought the second hand up to grab her other breast. He slipped his fingers down and passed his thumbs over and across her nipples.

She gasped.

He brought his other fingers together and gave both nipples a tweak. A bolt of aching warmth jolted from her nipples to her core, and she loudly moaned with pleasure.

Nott grunted, released her breasts, and bent over at the waist.

“Nott? Are you alright?”

“Salazar, Padma, I just groped your tits. Call me, Theo,” he replied while still bent over.

“Fine, Theo, are you alright?”

He let out a strangled laugh. “Except for the crushing embarrassment, yeah.”

Padma drew her brows together. “Embarrassment over what?”

“I just,” he straightened and turned progressively redder, “I got a little excited.”

Padma shook her head, still not understanding.

He huffed. “Excited in the way that I have to change my pants now, alright?”

Oh!

Somehow, this made her glow with warmth. She bit her lip to restrain a smile.

Severus rose and made his way to the kitchen. He pulled eggs out of the fridge and frowned when he realised there was no ham. He had purchased sausages on a strange whim he now regretted. Sighing, he pulled them out and reached for a frying pan. After he slid the sausages from the pan and just before he added the eggs, he heard the inelegant clomping that presaged the advent of Ginevra Weasley.

“Morning, Sourpuss. I smell sausage.”

He turned to her with a look justifying her epithet but stuttered before even speaking. “Didn’t your trunk arrive yesterday?”

She wiped her eyes blearily. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, delivered by the crankiest elf I’ve ever known, and I spent an entire summer with Kreacher.”

He restrained his puff of laughter. Esme had cowed even Dumbledore. Still, “Then why are you still wearing my pyjamas?”

Ginevra looked down at her body as if she had forgotten what she was wearing. “Oh, yeah, that’s because they smell good.”

He blinked at her several times before repeating slowly, “They smell good?”

She nodded. “Surprisingly.” Without warning, she darted at him, lifted on her toes, and buried her nose in his neck.

Severus jumped back and nearly dropped his spatula. What the hell?

She dropped back on her toes and nodded. “It’s you that smells good. You wouldn’t think it to look at you.”

He gave her a flat look. “No?”

She shook her head. “No, you look like you should smell like disappointment and despair.”

He tried very hard to repress them, but his lips insisted on twitching. “And what, exactly, do disappointment and despair smell like?”

She gave a one-shouldered shrug and plopped down at the kitchen table. “Mothballs, I guess.”

“And what do I smell like?”

She grabbed the collar of his pyjamas and took a big sniff, her face taking on a look of bliss. “Mmm, flowers, and fruit, and” she took another sniff, “sex.”

Severus choked. “Ginevra!”

She waved him off as if he was being unreasonable. “If you don’t want the answer, don’t ask the question.”

He turned hurriedly back to the frying pan and poured the beaten eggs in. A few moments later, he handed the girl a plate with sausages, scrambled eggs, and toast.

She looked down at them approvingly. “Ah, scrambled. That’s good. Fred and Ron like their eggs all oozy, jiggly, and moist.”

Severus grimaced. “Ginevra, do not say that word while we’re eating.”

She speared a sausage and held it up to her mouth. “Which word? Oozy, jiggly, or moist?” She raised her eyebrows and proceeded to insert almost the entire sausage into her mouth in a deliberately obscene manner.

“Any of them,” he growled.

She gave a small grin around her deep-throated sausage.

“Must you?” he huffed.

She withdrew her sausage with a loud pop. “To see the look on your face? Absolutely.”

He growled again as he scooped up a forkful of eggs. 

The Death of Him.

Snape turned over another page. 

Ginny huffed.

Sighing heavily, he asked, “What is it, Ginevra?”

“I’m bored.” 

“Read a book.”

She growled. “Is this all you ever do? Read?”

He didn’t look away from his book, and she wanted to rip it from his hands and chuck it into the thoroughly unnecessary fire. 

“I also brew potions,” he answered. “Sometimes I invent spells.”

“Ugh, why couldn’t you have been assigned Hermione? She’d think this was paradise. At least Malfoy flies. I bet he has his own quidditch pitch.” 

“So you would like to bear the child of your cousin, then?” he asked without raising his eyes from that blasted book. 

She grimaced. “We’re only like third or fourth cousins, or something. Not close enough for weird children.”

The side of his mouth ticked up. She could swear he almost laughed. But he still wouldn’t look up from his bloody book. “Spoken like a true Pureblood,” he intoned.

“Sev-errr-ussss,” she whinged.

He finally snapped the book shut and glared at her. “I do not think we are on terms for given names, at least not for my given name.”

“No? And when your penis is pistoning in me, should I moan out Headmaster? Or maybe Professor is more to your liking?”

He blanched and looked almost ill. “Neither. I have never crossed that line with a student, and I am determined that I never shall. I have told you that I think this whole farce will likely be avoided.”

“Yeah, alright Snape, now that I have your attention, I need to get out of this house. I’d like to begin training again. If what you say is true and Harry is coming to save us all, I plan to become a professional Chaser–”

“Of course you do,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong with that?” she challenged.

He scoffed. “Nothing, I suppose. It is very Gryffindor. All brawn and no brain. It’s no wonder you’re bored here.”

“Hermione’s a Gryffindor,” Ginny retorted. “But if I’m going to have a shot at all, then I need to keep up training. And I can’t do that cooped up in this house.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “What do you propose? That you fly about Spinner’s End and give all the Muggles a show?”

She shook her head. “No, but I could go for runs. Do yoga, push-ups, calisthenics. The last three I could do here, I guess, but the running I can’t. I need stamina as a Chaser. And I’m not going to get that staring at you reading all day!”

He sighed and threw his head back. “Ginevra, I am to account for your movements at all times. I cannot let you go jogging through Muggle London alone.”

“Fine, then come with me.” She raised her brows at him in challenge.

“You want me to go jogging with you through Muggle London?”

“Not, really, no, but if that’s my only option, then yes?”

He stared at her unblinkingly for several moments before sighing. “If I agree to this madness, will you occupy yourself in some other way than staring at me and complaining for the rest of your time here?”

She grinned. “Yeah, I might even read a book.”

“Oh, the horror,” was his dry retort.

Harry felt like he had a shadow.

No matter where he went, she watched. When he would raise his eyes to the feeling, he would invariably find dark, watchful eyes upon him. He could never read their expression: desperate, hopeful, resentful, pleading–they seemed to always alternate between some one of these feelings, and they never seemed to settle on one.

The obligation he didn’t feel toward Parvati was oppressive. She had tried to help, tried to save him, tried to be the hero. But, in the end, he felt only irritation that her “help” had dragged this war on longer, that his girlfriend and best friends were held in captivity.

Yet guilt would not let him push her away. Wherever he went, she was invariably just a few steps behind him. McGonagall had managed to set up a large tent on the beach, and Parvati commandeered the cot next to his. Even in his sleep, he felt her eyes upon him. It was almost as if she expected him to slip away at any moment.

In desperation, he called McGonagall and Flitwick into Bill and Fleur’s sitting room, asking for privacy. 

He ran his hands over his face. Looking up at his former professors, he steeled himself for bad news. “How are life debts formed?”

McGonagall cocked her head at him. “Why do you ask, Mr. Potter?”

He sighed. “Pettigrew. I let him go in third year instead of letting Remus and Sirius kill him, and that created a life debt between us. It ended up killing him when it made him hesitate on fulfilling Riddle’s orders. That’s not the case here but–”

Flitwick asked, “Do you feel that you have a life debt?”

Harry shook his head. “No, that’s it. I don’t feel like I do. But I think she thinks I have one.”

“Is this about Miss Patil?” McGonagall asked.

Harry nodded. “She’s just always there, looking expectant.”

He noticed that both professors’ mouths twitched as if holding in laughter.

Finally, McGonagall straightened her mouth out into its usual pursedness and said, “Well, Mr. Potter, did you think perhaps that she might believe you to be all she has left? Her best friend is dead, and her sister has likely been captured. She chose, though, to save you.”

Ugh, that was exactly the problem.

A commotion behind him drew their attention away from Harry’s issue.

“Hestia!” McGonagall exclaimed. “Has something happened to the Dursleys?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Hestia Jones replied. She grimaced when she saw Harry. “No offence, Potter.”

Harry laughed. “I get it.”

Hestia returned her attention to McGonagall. “Severus came and asked me to take your place at Hogwarts.”

“He found you and got through all those wards?” McGonagall asked. “Well, I suppose he really is on our side if he didn’t do anything more than ask you to come teach.”

Hestia smiled. “Indeed, especially since it seems he despises Petunia Dursley.”

“But what of the Dursleys? We can’t really afford to send someone else to protect them,” Flitwick interjected.

Hestia shrugged. “He didn’t seem to think they were in any kind of danger. Dedalus is staying with them still, though.” She sighed. “This allows Severus a safer conduit to the Order, too. He is much more closely watched than I will ever be.”

“Has he told you what has become of those captured?” McGonagall asked.

“What about Ginny, Hermione, Ron?” Harry asked. 

Then he felt it, those eyes again. She had crept into the room quietly. Why was she never this quiet at Hogwarts?

Still, he now felt obligated to add, “And Neville and Padma and the others.”

Hestia nodded. “He thought that would be your first concern. Hermione is with Malfoy, which Severus insists is a safe place.”

That was one worry he let go of. The only question was, how obsessive was Malfoy’s love for Hermione? Would he let her go?

“Ronald is with Parkinson,” Hestia continued.

Harry winced. They were going to make each other miserable.

“And Ginny is with Severus. He strongly advises you to leave her with him. He has negotiated that he need not touch her until her education is complete, so that gives us over a year to get this war won.”

Harry nodded. Now that he knew Ginny was definitely with Snape, she was another worry gone. “We had already decided to leave Ginny with him if that’s where she ended up.” Something occurred to him. “Wait, if Ron is with Parkinson, then where is Neville?”

Hestia’s face scrunched with worry. “Bellatrix.”

“Fuck.” 

“Language, Potter!” McGonagall exclaimed.

Fred, who had come in with several others, laughed. “I’m not sure if rules about swearing are the same in war, Professor–ow!”

Molly had smacked him on the arm. “They most certainly are!”

Harry ignored everyone and asked, “Padma?”

“Theodore Nott,” Hestia answered.

“Is that a good thing?” Parvati finally spoke.

Hestia shrugged. “Unknown. We know Nott Sr. is a nasty piece of work, but Severus seems to think Theodore is a different matter.”

Parvati looked to the other two professors in the room as if for confirmation.

“Well,” Flitwick squeaked, “he didn’t seem to be involved in blood prejudice. He separated himself from those who were. Perhaps she will be safe.”

Hestia continued, “Ernie Macmillan went to Rookwood’s daughter, Finch-Fletchley to Millicent Bulstrode–”

“But he’s gay,” Parvati said.

“Justin’s gay?” Harry asked.

“So is Millie,” Luna added.

“I am worried about Alicia Spinnet,” Hestia proceeded. “She’s with Selwyn. Severus said he carried her out of there practically comatose. And Dennis Creevey is with the Greengrasses.”

Harry’s mouth popped open. “Even that young?”

Hestia nodded. “Though, they’re not going to be married yet.”

“Married?” Harry repeated incredulously. “Alright, the priority is Hermione, then. She can’t marry Malfoy.”

Hestia cocked her head. “Severus thinks she is very safe there.”

“Agreed,” Kingsley said. “If it is true that he is in love with her as you previously reported, then she is likely very safe there. It sounds as if Longbottom is our priority–and that is if we’re prioritising rescuing those taken over winning the war.”

Harry was growing frustrated. “Rescuing my friends and winning the war are the same thing. I need Hermione, and the last thing I need is for her to feel obligated to Malfoy in some way.”

He felt the eyes on him again. When he looked up, though, this time those eyes were narrowed in something that looked quite a bit like suspicion.

“Before anyone can be rescued,” Bill cut in, “we need to find other quarters for most people here. Otherwise, we won’t have any place to hide those we rescue. Being all together is a danger, and we are at capacity for how many more people we can fit within the little bit of property this cottage has.”

Hestia grinned wickedly. “There’s quite a bit of room where we’re keeping the Dursleys. I’m sure Dedalus would love the additional help. And, of course, Vernon Dursley will be thrilled to have more magical folk sharing space with him.”

Despite his frustration that they had dismissed his push to rescue Hermione, Harry laughed.

Chapter Text

When Hermione closed the door between Draco’s room and her own, she gasped at the other presence sitting in the armchair by her window.

Lucius Malfoy sat and simply stared at her.

Hermione was helpless. She had no wand. Was he here to kill her, keep his bloodline safe? 

His mouth ticked up as if he had read her mind.

Oh God! He was reading her mind! He was a legilimens. She hurriedly called on her own legilimency to throw useless memories in his way: reading in the Hogwarts library, skiing in France, Professor Binns’ lecture on the Goblin Wars.

Lucius laughed. “Insulting me with these paltry efforts wasn’t enough? You have to bore me too, Miss Granger? I sat through that lesson myself, once upon a time. I assure you, it was no more riveting when the man was alive.”

Hermione gasped again. He really had been reading her mind. But, she hadn’t felt him at all. In the memory she watched, she saw that she could tell when Snape was in her head. How much had he seen?

He answered her unspoken question, “Enough to know that I won’t need to resort to embarrassing pleas for your assistance.” He gestured toward the armchair across the small table from him. “Please, come sit.”

She lifted a brow but still moved slowly toward him. As she lowered into the chair, he called out, “Teensy.”

There was no answering pop.

He frowned and tried again. “Teensy!”

Still, nothing.

With a sigh, and through a grimace, he gritted out, “Miss Granger, would you be so kind as to call for Teensy?”

She raised both brows at him. “Me? Why? Surely, you must have heard about my stance on house elves by now–a stance engendered by your very own treatment of house elves, I might add.” She grinned back at him.

His nostrils flared, and he tried and failed to put on a pleasant smile. “Let’s call it an experiment, if you will. Please, Miss Granger, call the elf.”

She pressed her lips together before muttering, “Fine.” Barely raising her voice, she said, “Teensy.”

A half-second later, Teensy appeared. “Yes, Mistress Hermione?”

“We’d like some tea and a plate of biscuits, Teensy,” Lucius said.

The house elf ignored him. “Would you like tea, Mistress Hermione?”

Stifling a laugh, Hermione answered, “Tea would be lovely, Teensy, thank you.”

“Biscuits too, Mistress?”

Hermione scrunched her nose. “No, I would prefer scones, actually.”

“With clotted cream and jam?” Teensy prompted.

“Ooh, yes, that sounds delicious.”

The elf popped out of sight and miraculously reappeared before Lucius could say anything more. Teensy placed in front of Hermione a tray with a single plate, cup, saucer, spoon, and knife upon it. She popped out of sight again.

“I hate that elf,” Lucius muttered.

“Well, if you hadn’t abused your house elf, tried to injure Ginny Weasley, and then come to harass Dumbledore about it all, Harry wouldn’t have decided he had to free Dobby.”

“And then you would have died on the floor of my drawing room.” He gave her a hard grin. “You’re right, it was foolish to abuse the elf.”

Hermione clattered the tea half raised to her mouth back in its saucer. “What do you want, Mr. Malfoy?”

He leaned back in his chair. “From what I can tell from reading your brain, the same as you, Miss Granger–my son’s safety. It seems you’ve already worked very hard to assure it. You offered yourself up to obliviation for him. That’s quite the sacrifice.”

She hated his smug look. “Your point?”

He sighed. “My point is that my son has been nothing but foolish when it comes to you. And I’m certain he’s about to be foolish again. He’s likely already scheming up some way to get you out of here and to the Order. I’m asking you to stay instead. I’m asking you to marry him.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock. “Knowing we would need to soul bond, consummate, procreate? Taint your oh-so-noble bloodline?”

His nose twitched, and he ground his jaw before answering, “Better a tainted bloodline than no bloodline at all.”

She opened her mouth to mock him in some way but was interrupted.

“Granger, listen, we need to–what the fuck are you doing in here?” Draco stood in the doorway, his face livid, eyes glued to his father. “Get out,” he snarled.

Lucius’s mouth ticked up. He sat back and crossed his ankle over his knee. “You’re lovely fiancé and I were just having a little chat. I’ve done nothing untoward, have I, Miss Granger?”

“Aside from read my mind without permission and get humiliated by a house elf, no,” Hermione replied.

While Lucius’s lips twisted, Draco leapt forward and grabbed his father by the collar of his robes. “You did what? What did you see?”

Lucius yanked his robes out of his son’s hand and smoothed them. “Enough to know that she won’t be opposed to my idea that she will make a charming mother to my grandchildren.” Lucius pronounced this last part of the sentence with a distinct bite. 

Draco turned to Hermione. “Do not listen to him, Granger.”

“She’s not stupid, Draco. She’s already thought this through,” Lucius responded. “So many people to save: you, Longbottom, the Spinnet girl, even the other Mudbloods.”

Draco spun back to his father. “Do not say that word!” Draco pulled a wand from his own robes and jammed it under his father’s chin.

Lucius grinned up at his son. “She even wants to help Severus spy. Of course, I would never turn Severus over to the Dark Lord, not after Severus helped you so much these last years–unless, of course, I had to blame him for her miraculous escape.”

Hermione watched as Draco dug his wand into his father’s chin. “It’s like you forget who has the wand here.”

Not his wand. No, that was– “Draco, where did you get that wand?”

Draco snapped his head in her direction. “What? I–” he hesitated.

Lucius took this moment of distraction to bat the wand away and stand to match height with his son.

Finally, Draco answered over a gulp, “The snatchers left a lot of wands behind. This is the one that worked best for me.”

“But that’s my wand,” Hermione responded.

Fuck. 

When he had gone through the different wands the snatchers had left behind, he had recognized hers right away. He’d only watched her swish it for six years. But, when he’d picked it up, just meaning to keep it for her until he could reunite her with it, sparks had shot out of the end and a warmth had shot up his arm, just as when he had first held his hawthorne wand. He had hidden it in his room, though, rather than take it with him to Hogwarts. Once the battle was over, he had restored the wand he had been using to his mother and picked up Granger’s wand.

He stared back at her, not quite knowing how to explain. 

“Well, on that highly interesting note, I shall take my leave,” Lucius said.

It was only with the sound of the door clicking shut that Granger finally whispered, “Draco, why do you have my wand?”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “So, it was left here, after–” he winced.

“After the snatchers got us. Yes, I could see that.” She bit her lip before continuing, “Did you know that was my wand?”

He swallowed and nodded.

She nodded too, rolling her lips. 

He sighed. She didn’t appear to be too upset then.

Or, perhaps he thought too soon.

“And you didn’t think to, oh, I don’t know, GIVE IT BACK TO ME?!”

He winced. “The subject hadn’t come up?” he offered.

Granger’s eyes flashed. “Were you just planning on holding onto it forever?”

He waved his hands at her placatingly, then winced again when he realised one of them still held her wand. He lowered them again quickly.

“And it works for you?” she continued to question.

Draco rolled his eyes. “No, Granger, I’m just so whipped I carry around a useless wand as a memento.”

She crossed her arms and glared at him. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility. I did watch the memories. The pining was epic and weird.”

Draco reared back in offence. “It wasn’t weird. Love isn’t weird. You know what? You’re weird.”

Granger widened her eyes a moment and then burst into laughter. “What are you? Eight?”

He scowled.

She gave him an indulgent look as she held out her hand.

Draco held the wand far above her head. “This? Oh, you want this? You can have this, Granger, when I’ve toddled you safely off to Potter.”

She gasped. “That’s extortion.”

“You call it extortion. I call it keeping you alive.”

She crossed her arms again. “Hmph. Well, it seems we’re at an impasse. You see, I plan on marrying you, Draco Malfoy. Soul-bonding and sex–so that when you try to force me away, you’ll feel every bit of the sting of rejection I feel. And it will crush you.”

His mouth popped open.

She grinned at him. “You might call that extortion. I call that keeping you alive.”

Ron watched Parkinson pretend to eat a sad meal of dry chicken and lettuce. 

They were in her bedroom this time. He had a view of the rose garden he had seen when he’d first arrived. Parkinson’s bedroom was even nicer than Ron’s and, unexpectedly, pink. He did not think of Parkinson as the type of girl to surround herself with pink. She seemed more like one of those Muggle girls he saw sometimes when they went to King’s Cross–the ones with dark red lipstick, pale skin, and too many piercings through their faces. 

Parkinson had squeezed a couple of lemons over the top of the sad green and beige. She cut up the chicken into smaller and smaller bites but pushed most of them around. Some of the lettuce made it to her mouth, and five minuscule pieces of chicken (Ron counted) followed behind the greenery. She did manage to push it all into flattened areas with large spaces between, just like Ginny did when she didn’t want to eat her peas. Who doesn’t like mushy peas?

When Parkinson pushed her plate away from her, the house elf whimpered. “Is Mistress Pansy really done eating?”

“Yes, it was lovely. I’m quite full.”

Ron restrained his scoff.

The elf removed Parkinson’s plate and Ron’s plate that had formerly held roast beef, mashed potatoes, and peas (sadly, not mushy). 

“Would the young master like dessert?” the elf asked.

Ron flicked his eyes at Parkinson, who seemed to have no opinion on whether or not he should eat dessert. Ron, though, had an idea. “Eh, yeah, do you have ice cream? Maybe with chocolate syrup and caramel?”

“Yes, yes, Mopsy can bring that to you.” The elf nodded eagerly.

“A big bowl, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, young master. The biggest bowl.”

When the elf popped away, Ron looked back over at Parkinson, who seemed to have just turned her head away from him. He’d been catching her doing this the whole meal. He’d feel her eyes on him, look up, and she would be quickly glancing away.

“So, Parkinson,” he began.

“Yes?” She finally looked him in the eye.

“So, we’re supposed to shag.”

She glared at him. “As has been stated many times now, yes.”

“But you and I, we’re not really into each other. So, how’s that going to work?”

She picked her napkin up from her lap and threw it on the table in a clear move of exasperation. “I don’t know, Weasley, close your eyes and think of Patil’s tits if that’s what works for you–”

Ron winced. He hadn’t thought he’d been that obvious.

– “use a lubrication charm, and I’ll lay back and think of the Wizengamot.”

“Yech. That doesn’t sound the least bit sexy.”

She shrugged.

“I have a better idea,” he said.

She raised her brows because, of course, she couldn’t be bothered to give him a real reply.

Mopsy popped back again with an enormous bowl of ice cream, topped with whipped cream, and doused in chocolate and caramel. 

Once the elf had gone, Ron continued, “Yeah. I think we need to get used to each other. Physically.”

Parkinson gave him a sceptical look. “Oh, yeah? And how do you propose we do that?”

“I’m partial to food as foreplay, myself.”

She scoffed, but he could see her mouth twitch. “Of course you are.”

He pushed back from the table patted his thigh. “C’mon then. Come sit.”

Her eyes went wide. “What, right now?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Chocolate syrup, caramel, whipped cream. Sexy foods. Even I don’t get turned on by a fry-up.”

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, but stood. She came around the table and shimmied onto his lap. 

She weighed nothing.

He reached around her and grabbed at the spoon, making sure to dig up as much of the gooey caramel and chocolate as he could. He lifted the spoon to her mouth, but she baulked back.

“What are you doing?”

“Feeding you. It’s part of the foreplay. Come on, Parkinson. Be a team player, or I’ll tell Hermione you’re being mean to me.”

She gasped. “How dare y–” she began, but he cut her off by pushing the spoon in her mouth. As he’d hoped, some of the caramel stuck to her bottom lip. After she swallowed and opened her mouth again–likely in outrage–he leaned forward and nipped at her bottom lip, darting his tongue out onto it and licking up the last bits of caramel and chocolate. He could swear he heard a repressed moan. He pulled back and gave her a small grin of triumph. 

She narrowed her eyes at him and reached for the spoon as well. She scooped up as large an amount as she could, but Ron gamely wrapped his mouth around the spoon, placing his hand into her hair, and dragging her mouth to his lips. 

She pushed back from him. “Ew. Gross, Weasley.”

“Hmm, yeah, maybe the food still in my mouth wasn’t the best execution.”

“It decidedly was not.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Alright. Keep your pants on. We’re just getting used to each other.”

He dipped his finger into the rapidly melting confectionary and held it up in front of Parkinson. “Open up.”

She gave him a cat-like grin before opening her mouth. She closed around his finger and sucked and licked in an obscene way.

Ron groaned as he popped his finger out of her mouth. “Fuck, do that again.” He took two fingers now and dipped it into the syrups and creams, holding them up. 

She eagerly took them in her mouth and swirled tongue around his fingers.

Removing his fingers again, he pulled his hands down to his lap and repositioned her to straddle him. Her brown eyes seemed nothing but pupils, and he imagined he looked similar. He leaned forward again, this time just with one finger and painted up her neck with a line of chocolate and whipped cream. He licked up the line of sweetness he had created.

“Sweet Circe,” she whispered.

Ron grabbed the spoon next, bringing it to her lips once more. She didn’t fight him now, just took the large mouthful and slowly dragged her tongue against the spoon. He let the spoon clatter to the floor and bit her bottom lip again. When she opened her mouth, his tongue followed. Their lips fused together and her little arms circled his neck. 

Parkinson pressed up against him as he ravaged her mouth. She ground down on him. 

He gave out a loud groan as she slid along his cock. 

She gasped and pushed back from him, scrambling out of his lap.

“Uh, I think that’s enough for today, Weasley. This was certainly, uh, progress.” She wouldn’t look at him. She turned toward her work table across the room and pretended to examine her drawings.

He knew she was pretending by the way her breaths were still coming in pants.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll just go to my room then.”

Ron was left with a raging erection which he would have to take care of.

Well, at least he’d gotten Parkinson to eat more than he’d seen her do the whole day.

What the hell was wrong with her?

It was Weasley. Pansy shouldn’t be panting over Weasley–freakishly tall, ginger, gangly, with a spectacular bum, and blue eyes like the sea in the Medit–no! Pansy shook herself.

She was stressed, that was all. And caramel was strangely erotic. And Weasley just had a much larger cock than any she had–no!

She focused on her work table, pretending to take in the designs until he left. 

Her knickers were embarrassingly sticky.

She squared her shoulders. She had several sets of robes and a few pairs of trousers to get through. Weasley seemed the type to insist on trousers. Of course, the trousers would need to be tailored to that spectacu–fuck!

There was nothing for it. She wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on these robes until she got some relief. She threw her charcoal down and lay on her bed, snaking her hand into her robes. She imagined the greenhouse, the humid air, the smell of verbena, and a sandy blond head between her thighs. But, when she came a few minutes later, the eyes she imagined looking down into were not the light amber she had been expecting. No, they were the blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

Ginny was tapping her foot impatiently while sitting in Snape’s favourite armchair. 

She had woken Snape up at half six for their jog. She tried to explain that they should begin getting up when they would normally need to get up when they were back in Hogwarts.

Apparently, Sourpusses didn’t get up before seven during the holidays. Or half seven. Or even eight.

She heard him coming down the stairs close to half eight and jumped up. Finally.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Ginny just stared. “What are you wearing?”  

Snape looked down almost as if he had forgotten what he had put on. Ginny couldn’t believe the thought that flitted through her mind next: That’s sort of adorable.

“Muggle clothes,” he sneered with rolled eyes, as if she were quite daft.

They were, indeed, Muggle clothes; but they were all wrong. He wore dress trousers, the type a Muggle might wear to a wedding or a night at the opera. But on his torso was a t-shirt, and his feet sported deck shoes.

“Yeah, how do you expect to run in any of that? Except the t-shirt, that’s fine. Don’t you own trainers or shorts or trackies? ”

“Do I look like someone who would own something called ‘trackies?’” he retorted with a heavy note of derision on the last word.

She snorted. “Not at all.” She huffed. “You could transfigure the trousers, but you need good trainers for running, especially since we’ll be on pavement. There’s nothing for it, we’ll just have to buy you some.”

“Oh, ‘we’ will, will we?” He raised an irritated brow.

She batted her eyes at him. “Yes, after all, I’m practically your wife. Come to think of it, I could use some new trainers too. These are getting a bit knackered. What’s yours is mine, right?”

Snape remonstrated, “Not right. Unlike everyone else in this unfortunate situation, we are unlikely to ever get married. You are not my wife.”

Ginny shook her finger at him. “Ah, but I will be once you impregnate me.”

He snarled, “I am not impregnating you! I am twice your age and more. I have been your professor. I am your Headmaster. The thought of violating you makes me ill.”

“Is it anyone who is or was your student, or is it specifically me?” She ran her hand down her body. “Too athletic, not curvy enough? You know, most boys think I’m quite fetching.”

“I am not a boy!” he yelled. He closed his eyes and drew a long breath through his nose. “In my role as Dumbledore’s whipping boy, I had to compromise nearly all my ethics to maintain my position at the Dark Lord’s side. A code I have never broken is sleeping with a student. Ginevra, the only way I am ever having sex with you is if it was to save you from being raped by the Dark Lord. And even then, you will have to beg me to do it.”

She waggled her brows. “Oh, so you’re that sort in bed. Sexy.”

His face purpled. “Ginevra ….” he growled through gritted teeth.

Ginny didn’t know why she kept pushing him when he was being more decent to her than she could have ever expected. She knew that all the others had most likely by now had to submit to sex with a Death Eater or one of their spawn. Hermione had seemed practically resigned to fucking Malfoy–as if she had already given up. And Hermione’s fate had seemed the best of any, except for Ginny’s very own. So, why did she insist on poking at Snape?

Maybe his angry protests made her feel safer than any soothing reassurances could.

“It’d probably be best if you transfigure the top, though, so you match the rest of you when we go buy more clothes.”

He glared at her and passed his wand over his person, transforming the shirt into one with long sleeves and buttons. He turned and headed toward the kitchen. 

“No, but I don’t like eating before I’ve done my training.”

He sniffed. “Well, if you don’t plan on eating until one o’clock, that is up to you.”

“What? No, it’s not going to take us four and a half hours to shop and train.”

He smirked. “Perhaps not, but it will take another hour and a half for the shops to open.”

“Eeerrrghh.” She slumped into the kitchen after him. She plunked into the chair and watched him as he pulled out eggs and sausage again from his weird Muggle icebox.

He paused and narrowed his eyes. “Is it your intention to be abysmal all your life?” 

She sat up straight. “What?”

“Don’t you even want to learn to cook? You’ll have to feed yourself eventually.”

She raised one shoulder and twisted her lips. “Er–that’s what take away is for?”

He gave her a flat look.

Ginny rolled her eyes and stood up. Coming next to him, she watched as he did something funny with the stove. The knob seemed to make a clicking, then a whooshing sound. He took a black, shiny pan and placed it over the flame. He let a few moments go by before he slid the sausages into the pan. 

She huffed. “This doesn’t seem that complicated.”

He raised a brow. “And yet you cannot seem to cook.”

She pursed her lips and turned to the stove. “When do you know they’re ready?”

“When they’ve browned on all sides and you’ve pierced them and the juices run clear.”

“The juices run clear? Does that happen for you often, Snape?”

“Ginevra,” he growled.

 She smirked and turned back to the stove. When the sausages looked brown, he pierced one. The juices, indeed, ran clear.

He slid them onto plates and turned toward the eggs which he cracked into a bowl. “This is a whisk.”

“I know what a whisk is,” she muttered.

“Oh, so only moderately hapless. I thought the baseline was completely hapless.”

She grunted.

He continued, “You can also use a fork, but whisks do a better job with breaking up the whites, especially when the eggs are fresher.”

“Why does freshness matter?”

“The whites grow more watery over time. When they are fresher, they’re more viscous.”

“You mean, snot-like,” Ginny said. 

Snape’s mouth twitched again. “Yes, snot-like, if you will.”

Ginny watched as his wrists moved with speed and delicate precision so unlike her mother’s larger motions. Snape seemed more like he was coaxing the eggs than beating them into submission.

He poured them into the pan, picked up the pan, and swirled it so that the eggs spread evenly. “Some choose to continue to scramble the eggs here, but that yields a curd-like texture.”

“Ew–curd-like sounds as bad as jiggly.”

She swore Snape made a little laughing noise. 

“Exactly. I wait for the bottom to set, more like a crepe.”

“Yeah, never had one of those.”

Dryly, he responded, “Shocking.”

“Oh, please, don’t act so snooty. It’s not like this is Malfoy Manor.”

“And you should be happy it isn’t. Otherwise, you’d be spawning weird, cousin-babies.”

She gaped at him. “Snape, did you just make a joke?”

He sniffed. “I make jokes frequently. Gryffindors are just too thick to get them.”

“Hmph.”

He took a large spatula, lifted the egg circle up, and carefully flipped it. “You leave this only long enough for this side to no longer be wet. Anything longer and they will brown and dry out.” He used the spatula to split the disk in half and slid each half onto one of the waiting plates.

“Huh,” Ginny said. “Seems like it would just be easier to marry you and have you cook for me.”

He glared at her. 

She persisted, “No, hear me out. From September to June, I live in the castle–when I’m not at matches, of course–and the house elves cook for me. Then, July and August, I come home and you make me fancy eggs and peel me grapes and treat me like a goddess.”

“More like a harpy,” Snape retorted.

Ginny grinned as she took her plate to the table. “Yes, that is where I hope to land, with the Harpies.”

She saw it again, that little tick of a smile.

“Ginevra, I can promise, I will never marry you for any reason–least of all to play adoring house elf.”

“Of course not,” Ginny answered. “I wouldn’t shag a house elf.”

Snape slammed his fork down. “Ginevra! For the last time, I am not having sex with you!”

“Oh, I can guarantee it won’t be for the last time.”

Ginny looked up at the building in awe. “So, Muggles just sell everything here?”

“Not food, but clothes for both sexes, shoes, household items, jewelry.”

“So, I can pick out my engagement ring here, then?”

“Ginevra,” Snape gritted out through his teeth.

“Kidding, Sourpuss. Kidding.” She went to the entry and pulled the doorway open. “Ugh, why is it so cold in here?”

“It’s called air conditioning. Large shops and offices have it.”

“Weird.” She proceeded into the brightly lit space when a Muggle woman ran up and attacked her with some sort of vaporised potion. Ginny began coughing and broke into a run. When she thought she was far enough away, she turned to look for Snape.

He was several paces behind her fiercely biting his lip. A whining noise escaped him.

Ginny gaped. “Are you laughing at me?”

His voice came out strangled. “No.”

“You are! You’re laughing at me. Didn’t you see that woman assault me with a potion? I could be dying right now.”

Snape broke. He tried to hide the laugh behind a cough but Ginny wasn’t fooled. “It’s perfume,” he choked out.

“Huh?” Ginny grabbed at her shirt and took a sniff. “Wow, that does smell good.” She walked back to him, put her hand up to his neck and yanked him down to her. “Doesn’t it?”

Snape pushed himself away from her. “Personal space, Ginevra.”

“Overrated.” She took another sniff. “Yeah, this is good. Even though I don’t think we should reward that woman for attacking people, I think you should buy it for me.”

“It is an unnecessary expense.” 

Ginny sighed. “Fine.” She looked around. “We need to find the men’s clothes and shoes.” When they did, she continued, “First, we should find you a few wife beaters.”

Snape's eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“You know, vests for men. These particular types are called wife beaters. You can put them on whenever I irritate you,” she teased.

But he looked anything but amused. No, he looked wrecked. “That’s not funny, Ginevra.” He swallowed. “Tee-shirts are fine.”

This, she didn’t push. There was some sort of story there, and she figured it was a sad one. “Uh, yeah, that’s fine. Trackies, then, and trainers.”

“How alliterative," he murmured.

“Huh?” 

“Nothing.”

Ginny began holding different track suits up against him and piling them into his arms. A shop assistant approached and asked, “Do you and your–er–father–need any assistance?”

“She is not my daughter!” Snape snarled. 

Ginny winked at the assistant. “No, but he is my Daddy.”

“Ginevra!” Snape snapped. He took a deep breath and smiled something ghastly at the assistant. “We don’t need any help, thank you.”

The young woman scurried away.

“Aw, Sourpuss, you scared her.”

“Are you quite done?” he seethed.

“Yes, that’s six sets, quite enough to get through a week and do the washing on rest day. Come on, let’s get you trainers, next.”

He didn’t complain as much through this. He did murmur, “These are better than I remember them,” at one point as he bounced a little in a pair.

“Alright, now that you’re all kitted out, it’s my turn.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. 

“These really are knackered,” she said, pointing to her trainers. She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Please, Da–”

“Finish that statement, and I’ll vanish every shoe you own,” he growled.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes.

“But, I will buy you new trainers,” he grumbled.

She smiled and clapped. 

Snape grimaced. “I’ll meet you there after I pay for these.” He lifted the track suits and shoe box up.

What the hell was Severus doing?

He’d laughed. Laughed! Granted, it was at her and not at something she had said (though that had been a close thing several times); but, still, he had broken down in front of her. He had watched her flee from the perfume wielding woman and thought, “Gryffindor: vanquished by perfume. If only the Dark Lord was so easy.” That had been too much for him. He had nearly bent over, helpless in mirth, in the middle of Debenham’s. 

He had let her pick his clothes and even his shoes. It had been nice to have someone fuss over him for the first time since perhaps Lily in third or fourth year. 

Severus flinched at his mental comparison between Lily and the Weasley menace. Had he been infected with the Dark Lord’s conflation of the two? He shook himself. No, no one could ever replace Lily.

Potter and his sheer inability to die could not triumph fast enough.

And, yet, he found himself making his way back to the ground floor, finding the aggressive perfume wielder, and tucking a small box into his purchases. She had smelled good.

He found her again, surrounded by boxes, with a different shoe on each foot, trading off balancing between one or the other.

He did not need to say anything. He just gave her a look.

She rolled her eyes in response. “Training is serious business to me. If I get the wrong shoe and I’m stuck in the nowheres of Scotland for ten months, I can’t just get a different shoe!”

He sighed.

She spent another twenty minutes hopping back and forth between different shoes before she finally selected a pair. 

As they stood in line, she patted him on the arm. He shied away from her. Why was she so touchy?

“I’ll deny it if you ever repeat it, but you’re not so bad, Sourpuss.”

He flared his nostrils. “Ginevra, you are so bad. Somehow, you are worse than I could ever imagine.”

She patted him again. “If that’s what it takes to convince yourself you don’t want to shag me.”

The very fucking death of him.

When they arrived back in Spinner’s End, she shooed him toward the stairs. “Get changed. We can still get in a jog before lunch.”

He was about to protest when a vixen patronus skittered into view. “Severus,” Hestia’s voice said. “Meet me at our old rendezvous point. It’s important.”

“Who was that?” Ginevra asked.

“Absolutely none of your business.”

Of course, she persisted. “No, I feel like I recognise that voice. An Order member, right?”

He stared back at her blankly. What part of “none of your business” did she not understand? Oh, right, the entirety of it. 

“So, you really do have a contact in the Order.”

He ignored her. “It seems our little jaunt will have to wait until tomorrow.” Thank Merlin.

She stamped her foot. “No! I need to get out of this house.”

“You did get out of this house. For about two hours, I believe. Here’s a thought: read-a-book.”

She glared at him.

He grinned and apparated away. 

His grin dropped when he reappeared in front of the enormous castle with tourists streaming in.

“Look at you, just like a proper Muggle. I don’t have to transfigure anything.”

Severus turned toward the voice to see Hestia, wearing jeans and a strappy top, leaned against a car. 

“How you don’t know how to dress like a Muggle when you live amongst them has always baffled me.” she continued.

“Why do you insist on meeting here?” Severus asked.

She shrugged. “It’s always packed with Muggles and it’s between our homes–”

“It is much closer to Stratford than Cokeworth,” he groused.

“Exactly. Makes it easier to convince you to come back to mine.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “You sent me a patronus for a shag?”

Hestia huffed and straightened up. “Of course I didn’t send you a patronus for a shag. How would that look to your little fiancé?”

“She is not my fiancé!” he snapped.

Hestia smirked. “Driving you batty is she? I’ve spent only half a day with the Weasley twins, and if Ginny is anything like them–”

He groaned. “Worse. She is so much worse. She insists on flirting.”

It was Hestia’s turn to gape. “Really?”

“She doesn’t mean it. She is doing it simply to irritate me.”

Hestia laughed. “Clearly, she is attaining her goal.” She peered at him. “The brothers are all quite attractive. I was thinking of taking Charlie for a ride. A bit younger than me, but I think he could handle it.”

Severus snorted. “Charles is gay.”

Her eyes popped open. “How do you know?”

“Caught him and one of my Slytherin boys in a broom cupboard.”

“Huh, well, if she is nearly as attractive as her brothers, and she’s flirty, you’d best watch out. You might have a real wife on your hands. I can’t imagine the Weasleys would allow you not to marry her once you get her up the duff.”

“I am not impregnating her. I’m not touching her. She is a child.”

Hestia cocked her head. “Isn’t she a Sixth year? Is she not seventeen yet?”

“Not until August, and even then, seventeen.”

Hestia scrunched her brows. “Yeah? Seventeen is an adult.”

He huffed and muttered, “Not in the Muggle world.”

Hestia’s brows raised. “Yeah … but we don’t live in the Muggle world? But, if you don’t find her attractive ….”

Severus didn’t answer because he wouldn’t even contemplate the question. She was too young, a student, and absolutely not Lily. Even if she made him laugh and smelled good. He snarled, “I don’t think you brought me here to discuss my non-existent sex life. What do you need, Hestia?”

She sighed. “It seems the Chosen One has gotten it into his head he needs to save Alicia Spinnet. You know, I thought you exaggerated how stubborn he was–and, don’t get me wrong, I like him a hell of a more lot than you do, good kid that–but damn if he isn’t like a dog with a bone.”

“Spinnet is with Selwyn,” Severus responded. 

Hestia nodded. “Yeah, what we need to know is how far his wards extend and whether they’ll drop if he’s dead.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because we think she killed him.”