Chapter Text
In the dead of the black night, a hooded figure moved swiftly through the alleys of a deserted Diagon Alley.
The sharp sound of heels echoed against the cobbled stone, and her breath turned into small clouds of mist in the chilly air, just above freezing.
Stopping before a grand red door, the figure knocked insistently until a small house-elf appeared to open it.
"Welcome, miss. The master has been expecting you. Allow me to take your coat."
With a careless toss, she flung her sapphire-green cloak at the elf and ascended the staircase, her gaze sweeping the surroundings with evident disgust. Stopping on the first floor, she pushed open the door of a bedroom without bothering to knock.
"Astoria, my dear, do come in. Make yourself at home ," said the master of the house, seated on the edge of the bed, carefully preparing a pain-relief potion.
"This dung heap? My home? Hardly," the young Greengrass scoffed. "For a noble pureblood, you really do live in squalor."
"At the moment, my family's finances are… less than ideal. But I assure you, soon I’ll be able to provide you with all the comforts you deserve, my dear. What brings you to me at this ungodly hour? Did you miss me?"
"Spare me the pleasantries, Dovark. I entrusted you with a simple task, and yet you let that filthy Mudblood slip through your fingers."
Markus Dovark glared at the dark-haired girl, then gestured toward the large, violet bruises covering his ribs.
"You failed to mention just how protective Malfoy was of his little servant. I even took a
Cruciatus
for you, princess. The least you could do is thank me."
"Thank you?" she sneered. "You boast about being the best wizard in your Charms class, yet you were caught off guard like a useless Muggle. Thanks to you, not only is the Mudblood safe, but my future husband now lies in bed in a vegetative state, Dovark. You're lucky I don’t end you myself."
Anger had taken hold of Astoria, but realizing she was shouting, she immediately composed herself. Outbursts like that were hardly befitting of a young pureblood from a respectable family. Taking a deep breath, she began again.
"If nothing else, your pathetic failure has confirmed my suspicions. Draco cares for that Mudblood. I don’t yet know why or to what extent, but I do know one thing for certain—it must be dealt with immediately. And this time, I will handle it myself. That worthless little half-blood will have no escape."
With those words, she turned on her heel, ready to leave the room, when Markus called after her.
"Aren’t you forgetting something , Greengrass? I help you, and in return, you give me something in exchange," he said, licking his lips suggestively.
"I wouldn’t lower myself to share a bed with you, Dovark, not even if you had brought me Granger’s head on a silver platter," she sneered. "The elite do not mix with filth—never. And you and your family are filth. Your reward was supposed to be claiming that Mudblood for yourself, the only one on your level, after all. But alas, you squandered your chance."
Dovark, furious, grabbed his wand and pointed it at the Slytherin, who, entirely unfazed, burst into laughter.
"Oh, please. Don’t be foolish. You wouldn’t be able to harm me even if I were Petrified," she taunted. "Face it, Markus, there’s nothing you can do to me. My elves knew I was coming here, and if I don’t return, they have very specific instructions on what to do. Do you remember that pathetic little Muggle girl your father saved from certain death after Voldemort razed her village to the ground? I know for a fact that your parents are keeping her in their home, parading her around as their Squib niece. Tell me, how do you think the Dark Lord would react to that?"
The boy froze, his face draining of color as his wand lowered. Slowly, he sank onto the edge of the bed, utterly defeated.
"Good. I see you understand," Astoria said smoothly. "You and I never spoke. This conversation never happened. And you never received any orders from me. I trust that it is clear."
With that, she retrieved her coat and swept through the doorway, disappearing once more into the darkness.
"Ennervate."
Hermione’s eyes fluttered open as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings.
Judging by the hard, uncomfortable surface beneath her, she was on the floor. Turning her head toward the window, she saw that it was still nighttime. A pounding headache throbbed behind her temples, and sharp aches shot through various parts of her body.
Looking down at her arm, she noticed a series of scratches, some shallow, others deeper. Pressing a trembling hand to her chest, she felt a patch of raised skin—some sort of injury.
"Are you alright, Granger? Can you sit up?"
A male voice pulled her from her self-examination.
Forcing herself into a sitting position, Hermione peered around the dimly lit room, searching for the source of the voice.
Standing before her, wand still pointed at her face, was Blaise Zabini.
"Zabini? What the hell—why are you pointing your wand at me?" she asked, her voice laced with irritation.
"I had to revive you from the Stunning Spel l. And for the record, I’m sorry I had to use it, but you were hysterical, and I didn’t know how else to calm you down," he admitted. "I needed to help Draco, but you wouldn’t let us near him—"
The mention of that name sent a flood of memories crashing into Hermione’s mind.
The black dress. The encounter with Dovark. The attempted assault. The agonizing bite marks searing into her skin. The sheer, paralyzing terror coursing through her veins—reliving it all in a single, excruciating instant. And finally, Draco’s voice. Draco, pulling her back from the nightmare.
"Malfoy—how is he?" she blurted out, panic rising in her chest. "He passed out—he wasn’t responding—and then you all arrived, but I didn’t know what to do and—"
Her words dissolved into a choked sob as fresh tears spilled down her face.
"Oh, Blaise, it was horrible. I could feel his hands on me, and I couldn’t stop him! If it weren’t for Malfoy—he saved me, but then—he wasn’t breathing, and I kept calling him, and he—he—"
"Hermione," Zabini knelt before her, gently taking her face in his hands and forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Listen to me. Draco is fine. He’s out of danger. Everything is over. But you need to calm down, you need to rest, and you need to let yourself be healed."
"I want to see him," she said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her body.
The dark-skinned boy shook his head, displeased.
"I don’t know, Hermione. Right now, you’re exhausted from stress, you’re injured and weakened. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Besides, the doctor said Draco needs rest too, and Lucius could return at any moment—someone must have warned him by now. Do you have any idea what would happen if he found you in the same room as his son?"
"Please, just ten minutes. I don’t know if he meant to do it, but he saved me, and making sure he’s all right is the least I can do."
The blue-eyed boy hesitated for a moment, then, raising his hands in surrender, sighed.
"Alright, Gryffindor, there’s no stopping you, is there? Here, wear this—your dress is torn from the fight, and you must be freezing."
He placed his black satin jacket over Hermione’s shoulders as she slowly got to her feet, struggling slightly.
The two walked in silence through the corridors of the Manor, passing by the grand hall where the party had taken place. The room was in complete disarray—glasses and bottles of liquor were scattered everywhere, but there was no sign of the guests. Only Theo and Daphne remained, sitting on one of the large sofas, waiting for news about Draco. The blonde Slytherin girl gave Hermione a small smile as she passed, while Theodore simply lowered his gaze, almost as if he felt guilty for what had happened to her.
After all, it had been one of their own who had done this to her. They , who prided themselves on being superior, who would never have considered mingling with those beneath them, had proven to have the same base instincts as beasts.
Past the hall, they reached the grand marble staircase that dominated the entrance hall. Step by step, they ascended to the second floor, where Cloppy and the doctor stood. The physician had just finished examining Draco and was preparing to leave, handing the little elf a list of instructions for his care along with his fee.
Blaise bid the doctor farewell and led Hermione to Draco’s door. After opening it, he gestured for her to enter but warned her not to stay longer than necessary.
Hermione stepped inside and gently closed the door behind her. The air was thick with the scent of medicine, and the shut windows did little to ease the sense of claustrophobia creeping over her.
Moving cautiously toward the grand canopy bed, she took care not to make a sound—both to avoid waking Draco and because she feared his reaction upon seeing her there. After all, he was in this state because he had protected her.
Reaching the foot of the bed, she felt a wave of relief upon realizing he was sleeping peacefully.
The blanket was loosely draped over him, leaving his pale, relaxed torso exposed, rising and falling steadily with his breath. His arms rested at his sides, his head slightly tilted to the left, his platinum hair falling over part of his face.
Gathering her courage, she stepped closer until she was standing right beside him, her knees pressing lightly against the soft mattress.
He looked so peaceful in his sleep, so innocent —almost as if arrogance and cruelty had never been a part of him. But then, her eyes landed on the Dark Mark, stark against his toned arm, a permanent reminder of the world she was trapped in. A brand of disgrace, seared not only into his skin but into his very soul.
After watching him for a few moments, she decided it would be best not to wake him. She had come to thank him, but she could do so another time. Just as she turned to leave, a quiet voice stopped her in her tracks.
"You need to stop staring at me while I sleep, Mudblood, or I might actually think you fancy me."
"Malfoy, I’m glad you’re feeling better. I see you haven’t lost your sarcasm," she replied, turning back to him. "I just came to check on you… and to thank you. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know how things would have ended. But I should let you rest now, especially since I need to change—I can’t exactly go around dressed like thi—"
" Did I make it in time ?"
His question caught Hermione off guard. For the first time in her life, she was speechless.
"I need to know if I made it in time. I need to know that he didn’t… well, you know..—" he trailed off, visibly uncomfortable.
"You made it in time, Malfoy. I just have a few scratches and bruises, that’s all."
As she spoke, she instinctively pulled Blaise’s jacket closer around herself, but the motion had the opposite effect. The oversized garment, already precariously draped over her small frame, slipped from her shoulders, falling soundlessly to the floor and leaving her nearly exposed.
Draco’s gaze traveled over her, taking in the full extent of her injuries. Her dress was in tatters, barely clinging to her, and her arms and legs were covered in scrapes and bruises from when she had been thrown against the table. Even her lips bore the evidence of her ordeal. But what horrified him most was the deep, angry bite mark on her chest, surrounded by dried droplets of blood—a vile brand of shame that marred her pale, fragile form.
Draco reached out a hand, as if to comfort her, but she flinched away. His fingers froze midair before he let them drop uselessly onto the mattress.
"I won’t let anyone take advantage of you, Mudblood. That’s a promise."
" The promises of a Slytherin are like air, Malfoy—empty and intangible ."
He started to protest, pushing himself up, but a sharp pain seized his chest, forcing him to collapse back against the pillows with a groan. Hermione instinctively moved closer, startled by his reaction, and in doing so, found herself sitting on the edge of his bed, right beside him.
They had never been this close before. A strange energy crackled between them, an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Draco, as if caught in a trance , leaned toward her.
Hermione wanted to run. She wanted to scream, to push him away, to cry. But she couldn’t do anything— she could only stare into those icy eyes .
The blond, moving very slowly, raised his hand to Hermione’s face and, with delicate fingers, tucked a rebellious curl behind her ear, brushing against her cheek, now flushed crimson with emotion.
At that slightest touch, both felt an almost electric shock surge through their bodies— an energy so new and invigorating it nearly stole their breath away . For Draco, it was as if the pain of the past hours had become nothing more than a distant memory, something that had never even happened.
He had never felt this way before.
Frightened, Hermione immediately recoiled. She stood up and took a few hurried steps away from the bed.
"I shouldn’t… this is a mistake. It was just a mistake," she stammered, likely trying to convince herself more than him.
Draco, meanwhile, was staring at his own hand, utterly confused.
"You felt it too, didn’t you, Mudblood?" he asked. When Hermione didn’t answer, his confusion quickly turned to anger.
"Don’t deny it. Don’t make me feel like I’m going insane, damn it. What the hell was that? Some kind of spell? It had to be you—
I want to know what you did to me
!"
His temper flaring, he jumped to his feet and grabbed her roughly by the arm. She wrenched free with a sharp pull and nearly shouted back at him,
"You’re insane! I didn’t do anything! And how could I have, anyway? I don’t even have my wand! Just know this—it will never happen again, because I wouldn’t come near you even under the Imperius curse . I thought you’d changed, but you’re just the same arrogant, idiotic Slytherin as always!"
And with that, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room.
The brief moment of harmony had shattered, leaving behind an indelible mark on both of them. Something had changed in that room, something that would soon be impossible for anyone to ignore.
Meanwhile, in the grand yet ominous hall of a dark castle, a group of men had gathered. Black tapestries adorned with skulls and serpents hung from the towering walls, and the atmosphere was as chilling as it was spectral. Only a few scattered candles flickered in the vast darkness of the night.
At the far end of the room, seated upon a massive throne, was the Dark Lord himself. His long black robes starkly contrasted against his cadaverous complexion, and his loyal Nagini slithered slowly around the base of his seat.
Clusters of Death Eaters whispered amongst themselves, their excitement palpable. Something was shifting—something was about to change.
Suddenly, the great doors swung open with a thunderous crash. Greyback strode in, dragging along another figure, much smaller and slighter than himself.
Voldemort rose from his seat and, gliding across the cold stone floor as if floating, completely ignored the werewolf. Instead, he approached the newcomer.
"There you are, my precious sparrow . I have been eagerly awaiting your visit. Does the Resistance still believe you are on their side?"
"Of course, my Lord," the mysterious figure replied, bowing low to kiss his skeletal hand.
"What news do you bring me this time? Are there any planned attacks? Have you finally discovered their main hideout?"
"Not yet, my Lord. I have not been allowed into the inner circle—they keep us all separated in small groups to prevent anyone from uncovering their headquarters," the figure admitted, stepping back slightly, as if fearful.
"But they are starting to trust me. Soon, I will find out where they are hiding. I have also heard whispers of a spy…
someone very close to some of your Death Eaters
."
"Good, very good,sparrow. I see you are making progress. Soon, we shall celebrate over the corpses of the Resistance."
His crimson eyes gleamed as he tilted the figure’s chin up with a single bony finger.
"A spy, you say? I want a name. Do not disappoint me— you know what happens to those who fail me ."
With a flick of his wrist, he motioned for Fenrir to take the guest away. Then, he returned to his throne, deep in thought.
This latest revelation unsettled him. Who could be harboring a traitor under their very roof, completely unaware? And more importantly, could this spy have overheard secrets that were never meant to leave this chamber?
Absentmindedly running his fingers over the scaly skin of his serpent, the Dark Lord made a silent vow.
Whoever this traitor was… he would personally see to it that they met their end at his hands.