Chapter Text
The acrid smell of brewing potions hung in the makeshift laboratory. Water, valerian sprigs, Flobberworm mucus--each ingredient measured and added with the efficiency of someone who had brewed this potion far too many times.
Four stirs counterclockwise. Four stirs clockwise. The blue flame flickered, casting shadows across Hermione Granger's hollow cheeks.
Wormwood.
Her fingers traced along dusty jars until they found the container she dreaded opening. Too light. Far too light for what lay ahead.
The past week had bled their supplies dry. Healing draughts, blood-replenishing potions, burn salves--and for what? Half the people she'd treated were already dead.
Six people who had trusted me.
She could still see Lavender's face, looking gaunt after her transformation but still managing a smile as she accepted the wolfsbane potion from Hermione's hand.
"Strange, isn't it?" Lavender had whispered. "I used to worry about my hair getting frizzy. Now I worry about tearing people apart."
They'd laughed then, a bittersweet sound. For the first time in months, Lavender had found courage to face what she'd become. And in that moment, Hermione had felt a sliver of joy.
Then McLaggen had walked in.
"No hard feelings, Granger. It's self-preservation. You'd understand," he had said, his voice smooth, almost apologetic, as if discussing a dull Quidditch match.
Cormac lifting his wand. Lavender yanking Hermione toward the window. Red light hitting Lavender in the back. Her head connecting with the stone hearth.
Hermione flinched, her own head throbbing. In her dreams, it was always Hermione lying in that pool of blood.
"Not now!" She hurled the wormwood into the cauldron unintentionally. Too much than necessary, but what did it matter? There wouldn't be anymore supply coming.
She raised her wand over the bubbling mixture. Once, twice, three times.
Nothing.
No tingle of magic, no warmth responding to her call--the potion might as well be expensive, murky water.
"Come on," she hissed, gripping her wand until her knuckles turned white. "Come ON!"
Still nothing. The magic that had defined her since her eleventh birthday remained stubbornly absent.
The wand clattered to the stone floor as her legs gave way. For six glorious weeks, she'd been unstoppable. Raw power had surged through her veins during the Diagon Alley raid, sending Victor Selwyn crashing through three shelves of books. Her shield charm had blazed silver-white against Yaxley's curse in the Ministry.
Then came the decline, it had been wift and devastating. First her jinxes misfired. Then she couldn't manage a simple Scourgify. Now she couldn't even brew potions.
Hermione pressed her forehead against the cold stone. She could still hear Kingsley's hushed conversation with Arthur Weasley.
"What if You-Know-Who's found a way to extinguish their magic? Target the Muggleborns first..."
"Don't be daft. If he could do that, every Muggleborn would be powerless. It's just Hermione."
Just Hermione.
But why her? Regina Hedge's magic flowed steadily. Justin was unaffected as well. Even Colin could manage defensive charms, jumpy as he was. This wasn't Voldemort's doing, Hermione knew it in her gut.
The silence inside the cellar was broken by a deliberate click of the door. Hermione's head jerked up, breath caught in her throat as Theodore Nott stepped in. He looked like a ghost conjured from the shadows--tall, angular, with his black hair damp from rain that battered the world above. His defection from the Death Eaters was fresh enough that half the Order still wanted him dead on principle.
Hermione, even now, felt her muscles tighten with wariness.
Nott's gaze swept the room, lingering on the wand abandoned at Hermione's feet and then the girl herself, who was still lying on the floor. He didn't speak at first. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, as if weighing whether to bother with her at all.
"Granger," he said at last. "Having a mental breakdown, I see. Is this the new look for the Order? Tears and," he paused, nodding at the cauldron, "sludge?"
Hermione let out a brittle laugh, although she was grateful that he had responded with his usual sarcasm instead of concern. "If you're here for the Dreamless Sleep, you're out of luck. Unless you fancy a mouthful of poison or murky water."
Nott's lips twitched with something not quite a smile. "I'll pass. I've had enough of both lately." He stepped closer. "The others are getting restless. Weasley's been shouting in his sleep again. Keeps muttering about..." He hesitated, glancing away. "Never mind."
They both knew Ron took Harry's death the hardest.
Hermione's hands curled into fists. "Let them be restless. I can't help them or anyone. My magic's gone, you see. I'm as useful as a Squib in a duel."
Nott crouched, keeping a careful distance, with his eyes sharp and searching. Fortunately, Hermione found no pity there. Her pride couldn't handle another beating today.
"You're not the only one running on fumes, you know. But if you're done wallowing, we could use a hand salvaging what's left of the batch." He paused momentarily, nodding toward the cauldron. "Unless you'd rather keep drowning in self-pity. "
Hermione bristled, but the sting of his words was oddly grounding. "You're a real charmer, Nott."
He shrugged. "I find that honesty saves time." His gaze fell on the cauldron. "What's the damage?"
Hermione forced herself upright, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. "Too much wormwood. It's ruined. Like everything else I touch lately."
Nott didn't indulge her self-deprecation and just kept his eyes on the cauldron. "You know, when I was a kid, my father used to say that failure is just another word for inexperience." He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Of course, he also said that about murder, so perhaps don't take it to heart."
She snorted despite herself. "Comforting."
He rose, dusting off his knees. "Look, Granger. I won't tell the others. Not yet. But you need to pick yourself up. We can't afford to lose anyone else, even if you're only good for sarcasm and inventory at the moment."
Hermione hesitated, then nodded, pushing herself to her feet. She didn't take his hand. He didn't offer it either. Trust was a currency neither of them could spend freely.
They moved to the worktable. The silence between them was awkward but not hostile. Nott studied the cauldron first, and then he began surveying the remaining jars of ingredients. He looked like he knew what he was doing so Hermione offered no guidance. Instead, she watched him.
"Finnigan is late," Nott said, his voice quiet.
Hermione hadn't expected him to break the silence. She thought he wasn't one for much conversation.
"Three days," he continued. "If he's not back by tomorrow, we'll have to assume the worst."
Hermione's heart twisted. "He'll come back. He has to."
Nott's expression softened, just for a moment. Or was that just Hermione projecting? She couldn't tell.
"Hope's a dangerous thing, Granger." He waved his wand at the cauldron first before throwing in more ingredients. The murky grey water finally turned into that shimmering purple of a Dreamless Sleep draught. "I'll handle the rest. Go get some sleep. Or at least try."
She hesitated, then nodded, exhaustion dragging at her bones. She turned to leave and didn't look back.
Upstairs, the house creaked and groaned under the storm. Voices drifted from the sitting room--Ron's bitter laugh, someone cursing about supply shortages, the quiet desperation that had become their soundtrack.
"...three more safe houses compromised this week..."
"...Moody thinks we should surrender..."
"...what's the bloody point anymore?"
Hermione paused at the bottom of the stairs, her jaw clenched as she listened to their defeat. Things couldn't continue like this. They needed hope, she decided, even if she had to manufacture it herself.
She climbed the stairs, already composing tomorrow's pep talk in her head. We're stronger than this. We'll find another way. Harry wouldn't want us to give up.
All lies, but necessary ones.
In her room, she pressed her back against the door and finally let her mask slip. The forced optimism drained from her face, leaving only exhaustion.
***
The fever dreams were getting worse.
Three days had passed since Hermione's breakdown in the cellar. Heat poured off her body while she shivered beneath threadbare blankets. Sleep brought no peace nowadays, only violent fragments of faces and voices speaking in languages that felt familiar yet utterly foreign.
The others tiptoed around her illness. Ginny brought her water and tried to joke about her hair. Neville hovered at the doorway but never came in. Ron could barely look at her--he'd lost Harry, then Lavender. Hermione understood that he couldn't bear losing another friend.
Nott had stepped into her role without complaint, moving through the makeshift laboratory with efficiency that grated on Hermione's nerves. His potions were flawless, perhaps superior to her recent attempts, she grudingly admitted.
"Always did fancy myself better at this than you, Granger," he'd said during one of her lucid moments. "Just never bothered proving it before."
The bitter irony that her replacement was a Slytherin wasn't lost on her.
Hermione propped herself against the kitchen wall, sweat drying in sticky patches on her forehead. Her breathing came in shallow gasps. The fever had broken hours ago, but her limbs still felt heavy.
Ron, Nott, Neville, and half their fighters had left for a supply raid. The house felt hollow without them. It's just her and Ginny, waiting anxiously for good news.
Then the front door exploded inward without warning.
Molly stumbled through the splintered frame with Fleur close behind, both wild-eyed and speaking in rapid, overlapping sentences.
"Where's Ginny?" Molly's voice cracked. "We need Ginny, now!"
Ginny appeared at the stairs, wand drawn. "Mum, what's going on?"
"They're taking the girls," Molly gasped. "Voldemort's new mandate. Every Death Eater unit is hunting young women from magical families. Breeding stock for his new world order."
"Luna, Susan, and Hannah are gone," Fleur added, her voice thick with emotion. "Snatched from separate safe houses within hours. They had detailed intelligence--they knew exactly where to find each girl."
Molly thrust a vial of murky Polyjuice Potion into Hermione's hands. "You, Fleur, and I become Ginny. She leaves wearing your face. It's our only chance."
"I'll do it," Hermione said.
"Dear, you're still ill. Are you certain--"
"I'm certain." The lie came easily. Ginny was pureblood--a prize. Hermione was worthless to them as breeding stock. If she were lucky, they'd grant her swift death after torture. Ginny wouldn't have that luxury.
As they climbed to Ginny's room, Fleur's eyes kept darting to Hermione. Not casual glances, but something deliberate. Her blue eyes lingered on Hermione's face, then her neck, then her hands, then back to her face. Each time Hermione caught her looking, Fleur didn't look away. She tilted her head, the way someone might when trying to identify a half-remembered song.
Fleur's nostrils flared subtly, eyebrows drew together as she stepped closer than necessary.
"What?" Hermione asked, sharper than intended.
"You smell different," Fleur said, in a low voice. "Not sick-different. Something else. It's familiar, but wrong."
"Just the fever." Hermione deflected, pulling one of Ginny's jumpers over her head.
Fleur's eyes narrowed. "No, that's not--"
The wards let out a terrible, high-pitched shriek. It was the sound of it being torn apart by force.
"Move!" Ginny shouted from below. "They're coming!"
Hermione and Fleur downed their potions. Deep pain started in Hermione's bones as her skeleton compressed and reshaped. Her brown hair retracted, instead replaced by thick red cascades. She could feel the world shrank as she lost several inches of height.
They descended the stairs and entered total chaos. The living room was a wreck of splintered furniture and shattered glass. Acrid smoke, smelling of burnt wood, filled the air and stung Hermione's newly acquired eyes.
Death Eaters poured through every entrance--windows, the shattered front door. One even stepped calmly from the emerald flames roaring in the fireplace, revealing that even their Floo was compromised. They moved with cold, synchronized purpose of a trained unit. Black robes fanned out, wands raised, masked faces locking onto the three redheads on the stairs.
"Three Ginevra Weasleys," one of them laughed, his voice muffled behind a silver mask. "How thoughtful. We'll take them all. Let our Lord sort out which one is real."
They spiraled into violence.
Fleur moved first. The spells left her wand with a vicious whisper and white light immediately struck a Death Eater's shoulder, he screamed as his arm went limp. Another raised his wand toward her but she was already moving--a sweep of her arm sent concussive force that threw him into the wall with a wet crunch.
Molly stood in the room's center. Purple light hit a Death Eater square in the chest. His body seized, muscles locking. When another tried to flank her, a flick of her wrist sent a curse that buckled his legs.
From the stairs, Ginny provided cover. Red light ripped wands from hands. Stunning spells caught attackers in the back.
Hermione had nothing. Her wand was useless wood. Only desperate need drove her.
"This way!" she screamed in Ginny's voice. "I know a way out!"
Three Death Eaters broke off to follow her toward the kitchen. She led them through the back exit into the narrow alley, brick walls rising on either side. Behind her, she could hear the battle--shouts, spells cracking against wood and Molly's voice shrieking curses.
Finally, she could hear the others fighting their way toward the front--toward their path of escape.
This was her moment.
She turned to face her pursuers, raised her useless wand, and smiled. "Wrong Ginny, you bastards."
The stunning spell hit her chest, sending her stumbling backward. Her knees hit the ground first, then her shoulder. Rough stone scraped through the borrowed jumper. Hermione's vision blurred, but she could make out the Death Eaters advancing.
One pressed something cold and metallic into her palm--a Portkey. The nauseating pull activated, dragging her somewhere unknown.
At least the others could escape.
Darkness claimed her, and Hermione Granger disappeared into the night.
***
Consciousness returned to Hermione in fragments. First came pain where the stunner had struck, then motion. Her body swaying somehow.
She cracked her eyes open and found herself draped over a broad shoulder, the muddy ground passing beneath in nauseating sweeps.
Black robes, silver masks--Death Eaters. Dozens of them arranged in circles around an old quarry. Torches are lining the walls, their green flames casting shadows across scarred rock while the air stank of sulfur and fear-sweat mixed with dried blood.
Hermione could hear women's voices rose in muffled terror. Some gagged, some bound while others simply broken. The sounds triggered something deep within her gut that urged her to flee.
She twisted hard, driving her elbow back. It worked, her captor let her go and Hermione tumbled into cold mud, the impact jarring her already pained ribs. She crawled through muck on hands and knees instead.
A hand seized her hair, yanking her head back before she could escape.
"Stop making this worse than it needs to be."
She knew that voice. Theodore Nott--the bastard who'd spent three days brewing her potions, gaining their trust.
"You traitor!" Hermione's hand aimed for his head. "All that time playing helpful--"
He caught her wrist easily, twisting just enough to make her gasp, pulling her flush against him.
"You'll understand eventually. Or you won't. It's irrelevant."
Hermione spat at him. The glob would have hit his face if not for the mask.
"Save your strength." He hauled her upright.
Her free hand clawed at his robes. He caught that wrist too, controlling both of her arms. No anger in his movements, just cold efficiency as he dragged her toward the circle of green flames.
The fire parted at his approach. The heat burned her face first, then the acrid smoke invaded her lungs. Inside, dozens of girls huddled on bare ground. Some wore torn school robes, others were clutching ragged cloaks.
Nott shoved her forward and Hannah Abbott scrambled to catch her left arm while Luna Lovegood grabbed her torso, pulling Hermione upright before she hit dirt.
"We've got you." Hannah's voice stayed steady.
Luna checked her face while Susan Bones pulled them into an embrace.
"Thank Merlin you're safe, Ginny." Susan smoothed the unfamiliar red hair from Hermione's forehead.
The Polyjuice was still active.
"It's me. Hermione." She kept her voice low. "Ginny got out wearing my face. They won't hunt Muggleborns for breeding."
Hannah's face drained of color. "They'll execute you if they find out."
"Better than the alternative." Hermione managed a weak smile. "At least Ginny's safe."
"Don't be thick!" Susan's fingers dug into her arm. "You think they'll make it quick? After everything the Order's done?!"
"The Dark Lord has plans for all captured women," Luna said, her dreamy quality replaced by clarity. "Sacred Twenty-Eight bloodlines are going to be given away as prizes. He'll give Ginny Weasley to his most faithful. But an unregistered Muggleborn, Harry Potter's friend... they'll make an example."
Hermione didn't care. Her magic was gone. Ron and Neville were probably corpses like Harry and Lavender. If she could save Ginny tonight, that would be enough. When she died, at least she'd greet her fallen friends with pride.
"Speaking of which," her eyes found Nott's retreating form. "Nott sold us out. Probably fed them every safe house while playing nurse."
Hannah's face twisted. "Lying snake! I told Kingsley he was playing us."
The pattern was obvious now. Three dead at Grimmauld Place. Six more, including Lavender, at the Southwark brewery. Every captured girl represented another miscalculation by leadership that refused to accept how thoroughly they'd been outmaneuvered.
A girl's scream cut through their hushed conversation. Fresh terror, not the exhausted whimpers of the already captured. Hermione's stomach dropped as she recognized who was hauling the girl forward.
Draco Malfoy.
No mask or hood. His blond hair gleamed in green firelight as he carried his captive with casual indifference. Three weeks ago, he'd been nobody. Then came the executions and the raids. Now his face splashed across Prophet headlines almost daily, each atrocity more vicious than the last.
Hermione had dismissed it as Lucius Malfoy pulling strings, desperate to elevate his unremarkable son's standing in Voldemort's ranks for the sake of whatever twisted sense of prestige he had. For all Hermione knew, Draco Malfoy had always been a coward who let others fight his battles.
Now, watching him deposit his captive at Voldemort's feet with such cold indifference, she wondered if she had underestimated him.
The girl's Polyjuice was failing. Brown curls lightened to copper, then blazed into unmistakable Weasley red.
"Ginny!" The name tore from Hermione's throat.
Luna's hand clamped over her mouth as Hermione fought against restraining arms.
"Silence!" Malfoy's voice carried across the quarry.
Death Eaters stilled. Malfoy fell to one knee.
"My lord, I present tonight's harvest. Blood traitor daughters, gathered as commanded." He gestured toward the women. "And the crown jewel, Ginevra Weasley, sister to Harry Potter's blood traitor companion."
Voldemort rose from his throne-like seat. "Excellent, Draco. Such dedication." His red eyes swept the captives. "For too long, our bloodlines have been diluted. Tonight, we begin to heal."
He raised both arms. "These women represent our future. Their pure blood will rebuild what war has cost us. Their wombs will birth a new magical Britain. No longer will bloodlines be weakened by Muggle filth."
Death Eaters cheered. Some stamped feet. Others raised their wands.
"Your efforts deserve recognition," Voldemort turned to Malfoy. "Rise. Choose your reward."
Every eye turned to the girl lying at Voldemort's feet. Sacred Twenty-Eight. Pureblood. Young. She was the obvious choice for any ambitious Death Eater seeking to elevate his status.
Malfoy's gaze lingered on Ginny before sliding away, searching. His gaze swept over the huddled girls in the green fire. When those grey eyes found hers through the crowd, Hermione jerked her head away, focusing on the muddy ground between her knees.
"My Lord." Malfoy's voice rang clear and cold. "I want that one."
Hermione's head snapped up. Her eyes found him immediately, expecting to see his finger extended toward Ginny's still form at Voldemort's feet.
Instead, his finger aimed directly at her.
"Potter's Mudblood," he announced, his voice rising to ensure even the Death Eaters at the quarry's edge could hear. "I claim Hermione Granger as my reward."
The silence stretched for three heartbeats, then four.
Then the clearing exploded into noise. The Death Eaters turned to each other, their masks unable to hide their bewilderment. One of them laughed, and then another chuckled. It was followed by a wave of confused, derisive muttering that swept through the assembled ranks.
"The Mudblood?"
"He passed on Sacred Twenty-Eight for that?"
"Has he lost his mind?"
The mockery was open and unrestrained. They saw it as a joke, a baffling misstep from the Dark Lord's young, newly favored soldier. Voldemort didn't laugh. His lips pulled back, revealing yellowed teeth. Instead, his red eyes gleamed with curiosity.
Hermione didn't care about any of that. The Polyjuice still shaped her as Ginny, but Malfoy had seen through the deception with impossible certainty. He'd called her by name, in fact. How on earth--
"Have you lost your mind?!" Bellatrix Lestrange erupted from the ranks like a demented harpy, her wild hair whipping as she stormed forward. "My nephew, my blood, choosing filth instead of proper breeding!"
Her wand arm jerked upward in a vicious arc, sending purple curse toward Malfoy's chest.
Malfoy moved. Left foot back, weight transferring as his torso twisted away from the incoming curse. It was not the awkward stumble that Hermione remembered from their school dueling club, when he had flailed and tripped over his own robes. This was controlled movements that sent the purple light sizzling past his shoulder.
His wand came up in the same motion with a single flick of his wrist. The counter hex left his wand, a pale streak that caught Bellatrix's follow-up curse mid-flight and sent it into the mud.
When did Malfoy learn to move like that?
"Enough theatrics, Bella." Lucius caught his sister-in-law's wrist.
Bellatrix wrenched free. "Don't presume to--"
"Bella."
One word from Voldemort and she froze, slinking back like a chastised dog.
"An unexpected petition," Voldemort hissed. "Explain your reasoning, Draco Malfoy."
Malfoy's mouth twisted into a grin. "She was Potter's closest companion. To own her, break her... that's victory Potter can feel from beyond the grave. More glorious than quick death."
Scattered laughter rippled through ranks.
"I want to dismantle everything Potter held dear," Malfoy continued. "Starting with his precious Mudblood. Besides," he shot a look at his father. "I'm already pledged elsewhere. This one's purely for sport."
Death Eaters laughed continued. This they understood--humiliation as profound as forced breeding.
"How delightfully vicious," Voldemort said, waving one pale hand. "Youth nowadays shows such creativity. Request granted. The Mudblood is yours."
Throughout the exchange, Lucius remained still. Neither surprise nor displeasure graced his face. The man simply watched as if observing a dull Ministry function.
That blank acceptance terrified Hermione more than Bellatrix's rage. This felt orchestrated somehow, she just had no proof except for her gut feeling.
The green flames parted as Malfoy approached, creating a direct path to the huddled captives within it. His footsteps squelched through mud with deliberate slowness, each one bringing him closer to his prize.
"Stay back!" Susan threw herself between them. "Please don't--"
"Stupefy."
The red bolt caught Susan right at her center, snapping her head back before she collapsed. She collapsed sideways, her cheek pressed into muck.
Hannah and Luna pressed together, blocking Hermione. She could feel their bodies shook, their skin clammy with fear. Malfoy halted beyond arm's reach. His eyes never left Hermione's face--Ginny's face. Yet somehow he stared straight into her soul.
"Stop wasting my time and get over here."
When she didn't move, his hand shot forward, his fingers wrapped around her upper arm, grip firm enough to leave bruises by dawn.
"Hermione!" The girls called out.
He yanked her away. Their desperate hands clawed at her jumper. Luna's fingernails scraped her wrist as she was pulled beyond reach. They stood in mud while masked faces watched with amusement.
Malfoy leaned close. "What's wrong, Granger? Surprised I spotted you through this pathetic disguise?"
"Bugger off!"
He tugged harder until her side pressed against his.
"There's no place in this world where you can escape from me," he said, his voice a low murmur directly into her ear.
He was too close for comfort. She tried to pull away, twisting her body against his hold, but his grip was absolute. In a fit of desperate defiance, Hermione drove her head forward and up, slamming the crown of her forehead into the bridge of his nose. A wet, solid crunch echoed in the small space between them. The impact sent a shock through her skull, making her vision swim for a second.
He took a single, stumbling step back, but his grip on her arm never loosened. Blood began to trickle from one of his nostrils, dripping onto his upper lip.
Hermione felt a fierce sense of satisfaction at the sight.
Malfoy made no move to wipe away the blood. He simply stared at her, his silver eyes wide with something other than pain. Then, a low, breathless sound escaped from him--one of genuine amusement. The sound of laughter grew, causing his shoulders to shake as he threw his head back. As if her attack had genuinely delighted him.
"Well, that's nostalgic," Malfoy grinned at her, his teeth red-stained.
He dragged his tongue across his lower lip, collecting a drop of blood.
Hermione's stomach turned at the display. The action was twisted--perverse even--and wrong in ways that made her skin crawl.
"Wouldn't be the first time you broke my nose," he said.
Before she could process the words, Malfoy moved. His head snapped forward in retaliation. Instead of aiming for her nose, his forehead slammed directly onto hers.
White exploded behind her eyes. Her knees buckled, she could feel his grip on her arm as the only thing keeping her upright.
Merlin, this man had lost his mind.
"Now we're almost even." His tone could be mistakenly described as sweet.
"Go to hell."
"Already there. And I'm dragging you down with me." He forced her to walk on unsteady legs. "Hope you said your goodbyes. No more hiding behind Potter's corpse."
The casual mention of Harry's death had a brutal impact on her. Hermione's vision blurred--of rage or tears, probably both. Something about those words coming out of Malfoy's mouth was disturbing her tiny box of suppressed emotions. Months' worth of grief was finally hitting her in full force.
"I said move."
Behind them, the spectacle continued. Voldemort was distributing the remaining women. Hannah went to a masked figure who grabbed her by the hair. Susan was shoved toward another. Luna disappeared in the chaos.
Throughout all this, Lucius Malfoy watched their departure with eerie calm.
Malfoy hauled her past Death Eaters, past anti-apparition wards to where a tarnished silver snake Portkey waited.
"Touch it." His wand pressed against her spine. "Now."
The moment her fingers brushed metal, the world compressed into nauseating color and motion.
Her last thought was of Ginny. She never saw who took her.