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Chapter Text

The acrid smell of brewing potions hung thick 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.

The memory struck without warning. Lavender's face, gaunt after her transformation, managing a smile as she accepted the wolfsbane potion.

"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, far too much, 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, terrifyingly 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 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. Swift 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. Even Colin could manage defensive charms. This wasn't Voldemort's doing. This was hers alone to bear.

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 into the cellar. He looked like a ghost conjured from the shadows—tall, angular, with his black hair damp from the 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. I can’t help anyone. My magic’s gone. 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. She watched him, noting the faint tremor in his left hand and the way his jaw clenched when he thought she wasn’t looking.

"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, listening to their defeat. Her jaw clenched. They needed hope, 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—only violent fragments of faces and voices speaking in languages that felt familiar yet utterly foreign.

The others tiptoed around her illness. Ginny brought 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. 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.

"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 accent thick with emotion. "Snatched from separate safe houses within hours. They had detailed intelligence—they knew exactly where to find each girl."

The words hit Hermione like a physical blow. Luna's dreamy smile, Susan's quiet determination—gone.

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, her hands. 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. Her eyebrows drew together. She stepped closer than necessary.

"What?" Hermione asked, sharper than intended.

"You smell different," Fleur said, voice low. "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 wasn't the sound of magic being tested; 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. The liquid was thick, tasting of soil and boiled cabbage. Deep pain started in Hermione's bones as her skeleton compressed and reshaped. Her spine shortened, joints popping. Skin pulled taut across her shifting face. Brown hair retracted, replaced by thick red cascades. 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, not wild frenzy. 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, white light striking 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, Molly's voice roaring 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 with each heavy footfall.

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 arranged in circles around an old quarry. Torches lined the walls, their green flames casting shadows across scarred rock. 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, others simply broken. The sounds triggered something deep within her gut that urged her to flee.

Hermione twisted hard, driving her elbow back. She tumbled into cold mud, the impact jarring her already pained ribs. She crawled through muck on hands and knees.

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 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 clutched ragged cloaks.

Nott shoved her forward. Hannah Abbott caught 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 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. 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 executions and raids. Now his face splashed across Prophet headlines, 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. 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 practiced ease, 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 wands.

"Your efforts deserve recognition," Voldemort turned to Malfoy. "Rise. Choose your reward."

Every eye turned to Ginny 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's blood turned to ice. She 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. Red eyes gleamed with curiosity.

The Polyjuice still shaped her as Ginny. But Malfoy had seen through the deception with impossible certainty. He'd called her by name. 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 nearly 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 grin was sharp. "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. 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. No surprise, no displeasure. He simply watched as if observing a dull Ministry function.

That blank acceptance terrified Hermione more than Bellatrix's rage. This felt orchestrated.

The green flames parted before Malfoy's approach, creating a direct path to the huddled captives. His footsteps squelched through mud with deliberate slowness, each one bringing him closer to his prize.

"Stay back!" Susan threw herself between them, knees hitting mud. "Please don't—"

"Stupefy."

The red bolt caught Susan right at her center, snapping her head back before she collapsed. She collapsed sideways, cheek pressed into muck.

Hannah and Luna pressed together, blocking Hermione. Their bodies shook, 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. 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. Fabric tore. 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. It dripped 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, unhinged 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 brutal retaliation. Instead of aiming for her nose, his forehead slammed directly onto hers.

White exploded behind her eyes. Her knees buckled. His grip on her arm was 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, Something about those words coming out of Malfoy’s mouth was triggering, 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 distributed remaining women. Hannah went to a masked figure who grabbed her hair. Susan was shoved toward another. Luna disappeared in the chaos.

And 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.

Chapter Text

Hermione's knees cracked against the ground, the impact sending sharp pain up her thighs. A branch dug into her palm as she tried to break her fall.

The silver snake Portkey had dropped them among dead oak trees before clattering into the underbrush. Her stomach lurched. Her forehead pulsed where Malfoy had slammed his skull into hers. She spat bile into the dead leaves.

Some of it splattered on Malfoy's boots. Small victory.

"Charming." His voice came from above her. "Get up."

When she didn't move fast enough, his hand closed around her jumper. The fabric pulled tight against Hermione's throat as he hauled her upright. The trees blurred into dark smears.

Hermione's mind raced through possibilities: fight, scream, run.

She saw herself spinning around, landing a solid kick to his groin and sprinting into the forest. But, she was wandless—not that it would change anything—and she could barely stand. She would only make it three steps before Malfoy would catch her. He would probably break something to prove a point.

Perhaps the smarter move would be to conserve energy, wait for a better opportunity...

She needed to make a wise decision.

On second thought, fuck wise decision. She was getting away from him, and she was going to do it now.

Hermione twisted sharply, breaking free for exactly three seconds before his arm wrapped around her waist. He lifted her clean off the ground like an unruly child.

"Really? That's your grand escape plan?"

"Put me down, you prat!" She kicked at his shins, but the angle was wrong.

"We've been over this, Granger."

Each of Malfoy's stride sent jolts through her skull. She tried memorizing their path—oak with a lightning scar, cluster of white birches—but everything looked the same in the darkness. Her vision swam, stomach churning with each sway.

"If you're going to be sick again, aim away from the robe. This fabric costs more than anything you own."

"Pity if something happened to it."

"Try it, and I'll make you clean it with your tongue."

Her hands fisted in his robes. Not for balance—from pure need to do something violent.

Through the trees, she caught glimpses of manicured hedges and the distinctive outlines of topiary peacocks. Tall windows stared down at them, dark and empty. Then, there they were—the same walls where Bellatrix had carved into Hermione's arm, where she had screamed until her voice gave out.

Malfoy Manor.

The scar on her forearm began to ache as they moved closer.

Her foot snagged on a vine. She yelped, grabbing his robes to keep from falling.

"Careful there." A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Wouldn't want you breaking that nose before I get a chance to. We are not even yet."

When they reached the entrance, he set her down with one hand locked around her arm. The front door opened on silent hinges. Same cold marble, same dark woods, same suffocating atmosphere of old money and older prejudices.

She could smell him everywhere—spice and fir, a scent that once captivated her but now made her sick.

"There," Malfoy said, satisfaction thick in his voice. "That's better. I was getting tired of looking at that Weasel's face."

Her reflection caught in a silver mirror as he dragged her deeper. Brown hair matted with blood and dirt. Ginny's features had vanished, leaving only Hermione Granger: Mudblood, prisoner, and Draco Malfoy's new toy.

Her legs gave out twice before Malfoy lost patience.

"Useless." He hoisted her over his shoulder. "Should've picked someone who could walk."

"Should've picked someone who wouldn't fantasize about strangling you in your sleep."

"Now, where's the fun in that?"

He carried her through familiar corridors to a drawing room. When they entered, Narcissa Malfoy rose from her chair as if she had been waiting for a while. Considering the tension on her face, she probably had.

She looked exactly as Hermione remembered—heavy-lidded blue eyes and high cheekbones, beautiful in a cold aristocratic way. It almost made Hermione forget that the older woman might be just as insane as her oldest sister.

Narcissa's eyes went to her son's battered face, then to Hermione's bloody forehead. Her composure cracked.

"Draco... So much blood—"

"It's all mine, Mother, not hers." He touched his broken nose gingerly. "She's got a hard head, though. Always did."

What was that supposed to mean?

"Tilly," Malfoy called sharply.

A house elf scurried forward, eyes wide with fear.

"Take her to the east wing cell. The one with the reinforced wards."

"Draco, the room is already prepared," Narcissa protested. "She can't possibly—"

"We're not having this discussion. She attacked me. Broke my nose. She's feral." He jostled Hermione. "A few days in the dungeons will teach her proper respect."

He released her with surprising gentleness. Her legs still gave out immediately, sending her crashing to her knees on the marble floor. She caught herself with her palms, the impact jarring her injured head.

Nobody moved to help. Narcissa's face remained carefully blank, if not graced by a slight tension.

The elf approached with obvious reluctance, her large ears drooping in distress. Hermione didn't blame her. She probably looked rabid with blood-matted hair, dirt-stained clothes, and murder in her eyes.

Feral, as Malfoy had so generously described.

"Come on then," Malfoy clicked his tongue at Tilly. "Let's get this over with."

The elf's fingers were surprisingly gentle as they touched her arm. With a soft pop, they vanished from the drawing room.

The dungeon looked exactly as she remembered. Damp stone walls. The reek of mold and stagnant water. A single torch threw unsteady light across rough stones.

Hermione crawled to the cleanest corner and leaned against the wall. Her head throbbed and her magic remained absent despite her desperation. Whatever was wrong with her was getting worse.

Above, footsteps echoed. She could hear voices carried through the floors, or maybe her fevered mind was playing tricks.

She closed her eyes, trying to have a moment of rest. But Malfoy's face appeared instead—that unhinged look when he'd claimed her. How had he seen through the Polyjuice so easily?

Had Nott told him? Both Death Eaters had probably raided the safe house Hermione was in. It couldn't have been Molly, Fleur, or Ginny who sold her out.

Her heart filled with worry. Where were Molly and Fleur? Molly might not be valuable to Voldemort's breeding plans, but Fleur was young and beautiful. That alone made her quite a prize. The fact that she hadn't seen Fleur among the captured meant the worst.

The crushing weight of reality settled on Hermione. Ginny, Luna, Susan, Hannah—she knew their fate. Ron and the others might not have survived the raid, considering who'd been feeding intel.

It was Theodore Nott, of course.

Two betrayals in two weeks. She'd expected McLaggen, but Nott? He'd at least tried to appear genuine. Both traitors had said the same words to her: You'd understand.

Understand what—that they were spineless cowards who chose survival over loyalty?

Hermione pressed her forehead against cold stone. What would Harry have done if he were there? He might have been reckless, but he was no fool. He would have trusted his gut and sniffed out Nott's schemes.

But Harry Potter was dead. Only a collection of memories now. And Hermione was left with what could have been.

She choked on a sob. Her tiny box of suppressed emotions was bursting open. She'd told herself she'd mourn Harry when the war ended—a lie she'd clung to for months. The truth was simpler: she couldn't face losing her best friend, not when she still blamed herself for his death.

A sharp crack made her eyes snap open, pulling her from grief. Tilly appeared with a tray of water and what might generously be called food.

"Master Draco says you is to eat," the elf squeaked, sliding the tray through the bars.

"For what? So he can torment me longer?"

The elf's enormous eyes darted nervously. Hermione regretted being harsh.

"Tilly is not knowing. Tilly is only following orders." The elf vanished with another crack.

Hermione stared at the meager tray. Her stomach cramped with hunger. She'd only had thin porridge this morning. The safe house supplies had dwindled to nothing. Everyone took smaller portions. Everyone pretended they weren't starving.

The water looked clean. The bread was hard but not moldy. Her body needed fuel if she wanted any chance of escape.

That would be the wise decision.

But Hermione wasn't in the mood to be wise. She kicked the tray hard. It crashed against the wall, scattering the bread. Water pooled in the cracks between the stones. Twice today she'd made unwise decision.

She curled up on the grimy floor, watching rats scurrying over to the crumbs for feast. Lucky ones, with their warm fur and their freedom. They could eat and sleep without thinking about war or death or the fever burning through her skull.

Hermione's eyes drifted closed once more. Sleep promised release from this nightmare. Even her awful dreams would be better—those horrible dreams where she did unspeakable things and enjoyed every second.

Maybe tonight she'd dream of jinxing Draco Malfoy into oblivion.

That would be the sweetest dream of all.

Draco had finally done it. He had the girl.

The agonizing twist in his gut told him She wasn't pleased.

Was it the violence? The dead friends? The public humiliation? He didn't give a damn about what She thought of his method. Not after what She'd put him through.

For all he cared, Granger could rot in the dungeons.

Because this wasn't about love, not even obsession. It was about the vile connection that stripped away his autonomy piece by piece. He was returning the favor while he still had control.

He'd claimed her the way She'd claimed him.

All he needed now was to scrub her scent from his skin. Despicable vanilla and jasmine. Each whiff sent him into a frenzy—fuck someone or torture them. Usually the latter, because when he chose the former, She tortured him instead.

Draco wasn't sure when the waking nightmare began, but he had a suspicion. The Stone Circle. Third year. The first time he and Granger had ever touched.

She'd punched him in the face.

The crunch of his nose breaking was unforgettable. He'd lied to his father—said it was a Quidditch injury. The embarrassment on its own was worse than the pain.

But something shifted after that day.

Because Granger was all he could think of.

Then came the summer before sixth year. After his birthday, She started appearing in his dreams. Not the chaste dreams of Granger he'd endured before—this was different. She looked different, but he knew it was her.

That first dream remained seared into his memory. She appeared wearing that periwinkle dress of hers, the one from the Yule Ball. When She leaned close—jasmine and vanilla filling his senses—he reached for her. She pulled back, evading his touch.

Cruel, he thought dimly—to tempt him, only to deny him.

"I marked your soul long ago." She whispered, Her breath a warm caress against his lips, making them tingle. "Now I can finally claim you as mine."

The words should have been a warning. But Draco was tired, crushed by his grave impending task. And Granger—this version of her—was there, giving him the attention he craved. He didn't care what it meant.

"Do you accept?"

"Yes." His voice was a stranger's.

"Will you pledge your body to me?"

His body was already Hers. "I will."

"Only me?"

"Yes."

A sweet smile touched her lips. Her fingers, cool and smooth, traced a path across his face, down his neck, and onto his chest. He let out a shaky sigh, his mind spiraling into a state of near rapture.

"Your mind. Will you surrender it?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation. "Take it. Take everything."

Delight flickered across her face. Her fingers began tracing intricate patterns over his skin. Only later would he realize something more sinister was happening. She was carving runes into his very being.

"Your heart then?"

But then, he'd been ready to burn the world for Her. "Yes. It's yours."

She let out a low, tinkling giggle that sent shivers down his spine. She leaned down, and he closed his eyes, heart hammering. Finally, he thought, a kiss.

"Then I will take them all."

Instead of lips, pain exploded in his chest. Her delicate fingers dug into his flesh, burning with unnatural heat. He screamed, grabbing at Her hand. It was like trying to move a statue. Her strength was monstrous.

She kept smiling that serene smile as her fingers burrowed deeper, tearing through muscle and sinew. She cracked his ribs like twigs. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking his nightshirt and sheets.

He screamed again—an animalistic sound of terror and agony.

"Draco Malfoy. Now you belong to me."

With that, She reached into the ruined cavity of his chest, Her fingers closing around his still-beating heart and yanked it out of his ribs.

"Draco?"

Draco jolted from his thoughts, spinning around with his wand in his hand and the tip already glowing with the beginnings of a curse. The figure in the doorway didn't even flinch.

"It's only me, darling."

Mother. Of course.

He'd heard her soft knocking but hadn't bothered responding. Four nights without proper sleep had left him raw and twitchy.

"I could have killed you. You know better than to appear unannounced."

"You would never harm me." The confidence in her voice made something twist in his chest. Narcissa stepped fully into the room. "Though perhaps we should discuss your increasing paranoia."

Her gaze found the collection of empty vials around the Firewhiskey decanter. The distinctive blue residue of Calming Draught still clung to the glass.

"How many tonight?"

"Not enough."

The potion dulled his body's reactions but did nothing for the mental torment. If anything, the artificial calm only heightened the anguish.

"Will you attempt sleep at all?"

She already knew the answer.

"She's particularly vindictive tonight. I doubt She'll grant me even an hour's peace."

"If we moved the girl to the chamber we prepared, perhaps some kindness would weaken—"

"Don't." The word was a warning.

Narcissa fell silent.

"Meaningless kindness means nothing to Her. Tonight's events will have consequences. Let Her rage. I've endured worse."

"But why?" Narcissa moved closer, her hands reaching for his face. The familiar scent of her perfume—white roses and bergamot—brought back childhood comfort. "Why this constant war? Bend, just once. I cannot watch you destroy yourself any longer."

Draco caught her hands, feeling the delicate bones beneath soft skin. "Because it's all I have left. She grows stronger every day. I grow stronger with Her. You've witnessed what I'm capable of. Soon, there won't be enough of me left to fight. When that happens..." He drew a breath. "Let me have this small rebellion while I still can."

Her fingers tightened around his. "There must be another way. We'll keep searching. Every curse can be broken—"

"Not this one. We've exhausted every option. Unless She chooses to release me, I remain Hers."

"Then we convince Her. Whatever She wants—"

"Death would be simpler."

"Absolutely not." Narcissa's voice turned sharp. "You know what happens if She dies. Your father would never forgive—"

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Father's forgiveness isn't exactly my primary concern these days."

"He loves you. In his way."

Draco said nothing. Lucius loved the idea of an heir, not the actual son. They both knew this.

"I won't allow it." Narcissa's words cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You're not leaving me, Draco. Not while I still draw breath."

The desperation in her voice made something crack inside his chest. His mother rarely showed such naked emotion.

"When you see the girl tomorrow, attempt civility. Just... try. The child has no knowledge of what lurks within her. Perhaps if you could separate the two in your mind—the girl from the creature—"

Draco's jaw clenched. Granger remained ignorant of the monster inside her. She had no idea what she'd unleashed upon him.

The creature possessed Granger's memories, her mannerisms, even her attitude. Everything except her moral compass. Where Granger fought for justice, this thing lashed out at every slight while believing herself 'good'.

She couldn't let anything go. Every insult, every slight—it all had to be settled.

And Draco was the one who received the full blast of her fury.

"Draco? Your word?"

He could feel the shift beginning. Down in the dungeon, Granger was surrendering to sleep. Soon, She would wake.

"You have my word, Mother." He lifted her hand to his lips, the lie flowing smoothly.

He had no intention of yielding, though he knew She would break him eventually. She always did.

"Rest now. Leave me be. Granger's fading. I need to prepare."

Narcissa departed with worry. The moment the door clicked shut, Draco summoned Tilly. The elf appeared instantly, knowing what he required. His father had hidden the special potion, instructing Tilly to bring it only once per month, regardless of Draco's pleadings or threats.

She returned with hot chocolate with milk and caramel—his favorite childhood drink. His preferred delivery method. The comfort was purely psychological, but he clung to it.

Draco uncorked the bottle. Jasmine and vanilla flooded the room—his Amortentia. The smell turned his stomach even as he inhaled deeply. It was heaven and hell in liquid form.

Three drops tonight. After what he'd done today, the punishment would be severe.

The liquid went down smooth and sweet, immediately easing the tension in his shoulders. Bottles of Calming Draught barely touched his anxiety, but this always worked.

Under its influence, he could love her without shame or resistance. The potion gave him the illusion of choice.

The connection flared. Granger had fallen unconscious. In her place, She stirred.

She wouldn't let him sleep tonight, but She definitely would drag him into a waking dream. Draco arranged himself on the bed, ready to grovel for forgiveness. The Amortentia would help him mean it.

As he entered Her world, her sobs reached him first.

"Love, I'm sorry..." His heart ached. "Hurt me. Let's get even."

Chapter Text

Hermione craved rest, or better yet, death. Why wasn’t she allowed to have either one of those?

She couldn't think. Movement was impossible. Every part of her body throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. If she'd suspected a concussion before, the certainty of it now was absolute.

Yet, someone clearly didn't care. She was being jostled, slapped, and shaken to consciousness.

She'd had enough of being manhandled. All she wanted was to return to the dream. Someone had been begging, tears streaming down their face, groveling at her feet. The sensation had been good. Empowering. She just wanted to—

"—Granger—"

—carve her mark onto their pale skin with her—

"—open your eyes!"

—bare hands. Because she knew she had been wronged, and—

"—by Salazar, if you don't open your eyes right now, I will—"

—she just wanted to get even.

Fingers pried at her eyelids. She batted weakly at the hand, but it clamped down on her face. Bright light flooded her vision. Lumos, cast directly into her eyes.

Merlin, who would do such thing to wake someone? Not even Death Eaters would.

Her vision cleared slowly, and Malfoy's pale, sharp face swam into view. On second thought, perhaps Death Eaters would resort to such tactics. It seemed on brand.

Malfoy's lips were moving. His expression looked frantic—eyes wide, stricken with... worry? But the words were lost to her. Her ears were now purely decorative. All she could perceive was distorted, underwater garble.

Hermione tried to understand him. The fragments she caught were 'sorry' and 'forgive me' repeated over and over, which made no sense. The bastard had kidnapped her and thrown her in his dungeon. Why would he be sorry?

A cracking noise announced the arrival of one of Malfoy's house elves. The sudden sound made her ears pop painfully. And Hermione certainly did not appreciate being Disapparated when her brain felt like it was slowly liquefying.

The world twisted. Her stomach lurched. She squeezed her eyes shut as bile rose in her throat.

When they reappeared, darkness claimed her again.

Hermione felt wetness on her face. Tears. The intensity of her grief surprised her—she could count on one hand the times she wept this intensely. The night she Obliviated her parents, the day Harry died and the aftermath of Lavender’s demise. She hadn’t even reacted so strongly when she realized that she was losing her magic. Then, she’d been too preoccupied with suppressing her emotions to allow herself the luxury of proper grief.

So why now? What broke the dam?

She couldn't remember why. But someone had wronged her. That much she knew.

The room was navy blue walls, ashen wood floors, and white wainscoting. She sat on a large bed dressed in linens that matched the walls. The massive windows showed only a black, empty void. It was a place of expensive, cold taste. A place she had no business being, yet she knew the feel of the cool linens on the bed where she sat. She had been here before.

Behind her, fabric rustled against skin. She'd turned away from him moments ago, unable to stomach the sight of his face.

Behind her, he shifted. Pale hair, gray eyes. She knew him, even if his name wouldn't come. He was hers.

His shirt lay on the floor. He knelt there, bare-chested, had been kneeling for what felt like hours. Crying as he begged.

It was such delightfully pathetic sight. It brought both joy and sorrow to her.

"Let me bleed for you," his voice cracked. "Use me however you need. I can't stand seeing you in pain."

The offer disgusted her.

How dare he assume she was some beast who fed on suffering? As if violence was her only language and her sole source of satisfaction. She was good. Reasonable. Civilized. She reserved punishment for those who deserved it, nothing more. And while he deserved whatever she might do, tonight she wanted something else. Bleeding him would mean forgiveness afterward, and forgiveness was the last thing on her mind.

Because she knew in her gut, he had done something unforgivable.

He shifted forward on his knees, one hand reaching toward her ankle. She jerked away before he could make contact. The wounded sound that escaped him brought a small, vicious satisfaction.

"Won't you at least look at me?"

Silence.

The man broke down into another choked sob.

"This is killing me, love."

Good, she thought. Let him suffer. If he believed wearing her marks was torture, he'd learn now that her absence was infinitely worse. Perhaps that would teach him not to test her.

Something odd was happening.

Because Hermione wasn’t in her own body.

This form was heavier, stronger, fundamentally wrong. Even the way it moved felt alien, the limbs responding with a power and gait that were not hers. She was in a male form somehow. Polyjuice, perhaps? Or the fractured logic of a dream? The latter seemed more probable.

Someone lay on the stone floor before her. Another man. He writhed, bound by a heavy chain clamped around his left ankle. Low whimpers of pain escaped him.

A flash of crimson light erupted from the wand she held—his, striking the captive. He let out a raw, animalistic howl and thrashed, his body arching against the cold stone. He resembled a worm, pinned and squirming.

Merlin, the sensation that coursed through this borrowed body felt divine.

So, she did it again. Another jet of red light. Another scream. Then twice more.

On closer inspection, the man on the floor looked familiar. Red hair, gangly too-tall of a frame, freckles scattered across a contorted face.

Ronald Weasley.

Her best friend. Her former almost-something.

And Hermione was torturing him. With the Cruciatus Curse. Again. And again. The realization did not stop her hand. A distant part of her, the Hermione she knew, protested. Ron was her best friend. Once, long ago, the object of her naive infatuation. But Ron had been insufferable during their last encounter. And sixth year… watching him parade around with Lavender while she'd foolishly dreamed of their future together. The memory still stung.

Surely he wouldn't begrudge her this small catharsis?

She really didn’t want to see him hurt.

But he had hurt her first.

She just wanted to get even.

"Just bloody end it already." Ron's voice cracked as the latest curse faded. His breathing came in ragged gasps. "You won't get anything from me."

"I don't give a damn about your secrets, Weasley." The voice that emerged wasn't hers, though it felt familiar. "I want to hear you scream."

Another curse. Another satisfying howl.

Hermione was pleased.

People spun and danced around her. They were all impeccably dressed. Men in sharp, expensive robes of dark, rich colors. Women in gowns that shimmered with vibrant hues, dazzling under the dappled light of massive crystal chandeliers.

Apart from the Yule Ball in her fourth year, Hermione hadn’t attended another. A flicker of her girlish side was giddy with anticipation. She loved the rare opportunity to dress up, to feel elegant, pretty. But it was impractical for her everyday life, she was too insecure of being accused of being frivolous. But tonight—

Except she remained trapped in this masculine form. No flowing gown for her, no delicate shoes or carefully styled hair.

A strange thought followed: she didn’t care much. She knew he would look dashing. She could be her own prince. How exciting.

Yet, she played the role of another woman’s prince instead.

She—he—navigate through the swirling couples. The blonde waited across the polished floor. Fair skin and sleek hair that tumbled down her back. Her dress robe was a gorgeous gradient of emerald green fading to a pale, silvery hue. Modest, yet undeniably tasteful. A polite smile touched her red lips. Hermione could sense an undercurrent of eager excitement in her eyes.

She was beautiful.

Hermione despised her instantly.

Nevertheless, she executed a perfect bow, extending one hand. The blonde accepted with deliberate shyness, fingers barely grazing Hermione's palm. She pulled the woman close, one hand settling at her waist.

White-hot fury exploded in her chest. Every cell screamed betrayal, though she couldn't grasp why.

Faithless bastard—

Pain lanced through her chest. Her knees buckled, sending her crashing to the marble floor. Each heartbeat brought fresh agony, as if invisible hands squeezed until her heart threatened to burst. Cruciatus had nothing on this torment.

The blonde dropped beside her, speaking words lost in the roaring pain. Her hands reached out to help.

Hermione shoved her away with unnecessary force.

Blood surged up her throat. She vomited blood across pristine marble, spattering the woman's beautiful robes with gore. Gasps rippled through the watching crowd.

The pain intensified with each concerned touch from the blonde.

Good.

Another convulsion wracked the borrowed body. More blood painted the floor.

Hermione smiled internally.

"Forgive me."

"Please, I'm begging you."

"I was wrong. So fucking wrong."

Hermione found herself in an unfamiliar room—light wood furniture, periwinkle wall, heavy curtains drawn tight against daylight. She sat on thick carpet, her back propped against the bed frame. This body's head felt too heavy to support properly, so she'd let it fall sideways onto the mattress.

Her gaze locked onto the bed's occupant and refused to wander. Brown hair spread across pillows, artificially smoothed as if someone had applied an entire pot of Sleekeazy's. The face was familiar.

Hermione Jean Granger. Herself. Unconscious and unresponsive.

The paradox of observing her own body while inhabiting another's should have been disturbing. Instead, she felt only this body’s bone-deep exhaustion.

He—the owner of this form—had wept for the first two hours. Ugly, desperate sobs that shook his entire frame. When his voice gave out, he'd switched to whispered apologies and regret.

He didn’t dare touch her, not really. One of his arms rested on the bed beside her still form, his hand achingly close to hers, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing the back of her hand. That was the furthest proximity he allowed himself.

"I’ve learned my lesson. I promise, I’ve learned."

"Come back to me, please. I can’t endure silence anymore."

"I’m sorry. I’ll do anything. Anything. Just don’t… don’t abandon me."

The tremors started on the third day.

Draco had notice his hand shook as he tried to write correspondence. By the fifth day, his entire body trembled.

He had miscalculated. Terribly.

He'd prepared for torture, for Her to flay him in their shared dreamscape. Physical pain had limits. It felt real but it wasn't his actual body. It could be endured.

Instead, She'd wept once. Then vanished.

The first night of Her absence, Draco had felt victorious. No invasive presence in his mind, no foreign will pressing against his thoughts. He'd poured himself firewhisky, toasted to his empty room, and collapsed into what he expected would be peaceful sleep. He'd won his rebellion against the bond, hadn't he?

He'd woken screaming two hours later, chest tight, heart racing with sourceless panic.

Draco had sprinted to Granger's warded cell frantically then. Shirtless with cold sweat still on his back. She wasn't just asleep, she was unconscious. Draco knew then that he had fucked up.

That was twelve days ago.

Initially, he'd convinced himself the symptoms were psychosomatic. Guilt, perhaps, or simple exhaustion after the raid. He'd dosed himself with Dreamless Sleep, Calming Draught, Pepperup Potion, then increasingly desperate combination of the three. Nothing worked. The absence in his mind grew from an ache to a screaming void.

"This is what you wanted," he snarled accusingly at his reflection on the tenth day. The man staring back looked hollow—sunken cheeks, bloodshot eyes, grey skin. "Freedom from Her influence. Well done, you git."

Now Draco was unraveling.

The worst part wasn't the physical symptoms. It was the want. The desperate need that grew stronger each day. He missed Her. Missed the weight of Her attention, even wrapped in pain and humiliation. He craved Her eyes on him, Her touch on his skin, Her voice speaking his name with fury or affection—he no longer cared which.

These feelings disgusted him. They were artificial, forced upon him by magic he neither understood nor consented to. Yet knowing their origin did nothing to diminish their power.

Salazar knew he'd fought against the compulsion with every fiber of his being. But the bond was insidious in its destruction of his autonomy. The bond whispered poison: You need Her. You want Her. You'll die without Her.

The most terrifying part? He was beginning to believe it.

Draco understood now. The Veela hadn't needed to torture him. Her absence was the torture.

In desperation, he'd debased himself by torturing Weasley. Dragged the bastard to the Manor's dungeons, cast Crucio until his throat was raw. He'd felt Her watching, felt a flicker of Her dark satisfaction. But still, She remained absent.

The message was clear: his suffering pleased Her more than Weasley's screams.

Now, nearly two weeks into his self-imposed hell, Draco found himself outside Granger's room again.

His hand shook as he pushed open the door.

Granger lay still, chest rising and falling in rhythm. Tilly had tamed her hair into proper curls. This coloring—brown curls against honey skin—made her appear more substantial than the ethereal form haunting his dreams. More human.

She looked like the girl he had watched from the shadows for years.

She looked achingly beautiful. Like something he could possess.

The thought repulsed him, but it felt so right.

Draco sat on the floor beside her bed. Being close to Granger brought silence. It also increased his longing. He wanted to touch her with an intensity bordering madness. But he couldn't allow himself. Because unlike Her, Granger was real.

The irony nearly choked him. He'd thrown her in a dungeon like an animal. Now he couldn't even properly touch her hand.

His father had made increasingly sharp reminders about social functions. Draco had ignored them all. But he couldn't escape last night. Aunt Bella had voiced concerns to the Dark Lord about the Mudblood swaying his loyalty.

So he'd dragged his battered body to a ball and danced with Daphne’s sister.

The moment he took her hand, pain exploded in his chest. She'd squeezed his heart until he vomited blood, making a spectacle of himself. Draco was overjoyed though. Finally, She'd spared him attention.

He didn't mind the pain. He craved more—any scrap She threw at him, he would accept.

Draco pushed away the nauseating thought to focus at her. Granger looked smaller than he remembered. The nightgown Tilly had dressed her in—something modest and pale blue with ridiculous ruffles—only emphasized how frail she had became.

Bruises still marred the skin of her arms and her forehead.

Draco's jaw clenched. He had done that.

But she had started it first, hadn't she? And Draco, in turn, had retaliated. He’d wanted her to feel a fraction of the pain and humiliation the bond had inflicted upon him. Now her condition was killing them both.

"Wake up," he commanded. "For fuck's sake, Granger, just wake up."

She didn't stir.

"Is this what you wanted?" The words scraped out of him, addressed to both the unconscious woman and the absent presence. "To see me reduced to this? Begging at your bedside like a—"

He cut himself off. The tremor in his hands had worsened.

"Why didn't you just leave?" He continued. "Could've fled to the Muggle world where you would be safe. But no, you had to play the hero. Had to stay and fight a losing war."

But then again, the Granger he knew had never possessed adequate self-preservation instincts.

But he could rectify that.

He pressed his forehead against the mattress. The possessive thought that followed made him dig his nails into his palms. He could take care of her. Would do it properly—ensure she ate, slept, stayed safe. He could cherish her, dress her in the finest fabrics, feed her chocolate as she sat on his lap. His hand would rest on the small of her back or tug at the bow on her hair. She would be so utterly spoiled, Draco was sure he could do it. It would be bliss. The bond sang at the idea, warmth flooding through him at keeping her close, protected, his.

"These aren't my thoughts," he muttered. "Just the fucking bond."

Another wave of grief crashed over him. He bit his fist to muffle the sob.

"You're going to wake up eventually," he told her still form. "And when you do..." He trailed off. What then? Apologize? Beg forgiveness? Lock her in the Manor?

All of the above, probably.

"I'll make it right," he continued, words tumbling faster. "The humiliating public claiming—I'll find a way to undo it. Make it respectable. I'll even find a fucking way to free your friends. Whatever you need." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Just come back. I can't—"

Can't what? Function? Think? Breathe? All true, all pathetic, all evidence of how thoroughly he'd lost this war he'd started.

"Can't even die properly," he laughed, the sound brittle and wrong. "She won't let me. You won't let me either, will you, Granger?"

The door opened. His mother stood in the threshold, taking in the scene with those worried eyes of hers.

"You look terrible, darling."

"Matches how I feel." He didn't try to stand. Couldn't.

Narcissa moved into the room with her usual grace, settling beside him on the floor without regard for her expensive robes. "The Veela?"

"Won't come. I've tried everything. Torture, begging, I even—" He gestured vaguely at his chest, where the failed Severing Charm had left a spectacular bruise.

"You tried to break a soul bond with a Severing Charm?" His mother's voice held a note of disbelief. "Sometimes I wonder if you actually paid attention during your education."

"Desperate times."

"Indeed." She put one hand on her son's shoulder, offering a small comfort as she studied Granger's unconscious form. "She's stable, at least. The house-elves have been taking excellent care of her."

"Lot of good that does me if she never wakes up."

"She will when she's ready." His mother's fingers found his hair, stroking like when he was young. "You need to eat something."

"Can't. Everything tastes like ash."

"Then force it down. I won't have my son waste away."

They sat in silence, watching Granger's chest rise and fall.

"I think I'm going mad," Draco admitted. "I miss it. Miss Her. Even knowing what She'd done to me, I'd take Her back. I hate it, Mother. This is not me."

"That's the nature of soul bonds, Draco. They're not meant to be fought."

"Could've mentioned that before I threw Granger in a dungeon."

"I did warn you."

"I didn't listen."

Narcissa softened.

"Then you've learned your lesson." Narcissa rose gracefully, tugging him up with surprising strength. "Come. Eat, bathe, then you’ll return to wait.”

As she led him from the room, Draco cast one last look at Granger's still form.

"And if she doesn't wake up?"

"She will. And when she does, you'll treat her better. Her shadow will forgive you if she does."

Draco barely walked three steps from the door, yet his heart ached already.

Chapter Text

The Malfoy dining room had shed its funeral shroud.

Gone were the days when Death Eaters crowded around the mahogany table. The unnatural chill that had clung to the walls for months—the kind no warming charm could banish—had finally retreated. Crystal decanters caught candlelight properly again, casting rainbow fragments across damask wallpaper instead of the sickly shadows that used to writhe there.

His mother had ordered the house-elves to set only three places tonight, clustered at one end of the massive table. Fine china bearing the Malfoy crest, crystal goblets that caught the light, silver cutlery polished to mirror brightness. All of it arranged with the precision Narcissa demanded, as if proper place settings could restore normalcy to their lives.

Draco paused in the doorway, struck by the transformation. He hadn't been here for awhile. The room almost resembled the place where he'd eaten breakfast as a child, where his mother had taught him proper fork placement.

Almost.

Because now Lucius Malfoy sat at the head of the table in civilian clothes—dark wool instead of Death Eater black. A thick leather folder rested before him. His grey eyes tracked his son's entrance intently.

Draco wasn't in the mood to chat with his father.

His jaw tightened. He forced his shoulders back, his gait steady despite the tremor in his hands.

"Father." The word came out clipped, formal. He pulled out his chair with deliberate care.

Lucius inclined his head fractionally. Nothing more.

Narcissa glided to her seat beside Draco, her midnight blue nightgown rustling. "The soup will help, darling. The elves made your favorite—French onion with gruyere."

Steam rose from the bowl before him. Under normal circumstances, the rich scent would have made his mouth water. Now it turned his stomach. Everything tasted wrong since Granger went unconscious and She'd withdrawn.

Draco lifted the spoon anyway. His mother's worried gaze weighed heavier than his father's cold scrutiny.

The first mouthful nearly made Draco gag. He forced it down, took another only to ease his mother's worry. Each swallow required conscious effort.

"Small sips," Narcissa murmured, her hand finding his shoulder. Her fingers pressed into the knots of tension there. "There's no rush."

Lucius watched in silence, cutting his roasted pheasant with deliberate movements. The scrape of knife against china seemed unnaturally loud. Draco knew what he was probably thinking: Narcissa spoiled their son too much.

Draco managed half the bowl before his stomach rebelled. He set the spoon down carefully, fighting the urge to shove the entire thing away.

"Your performance at the Greengrass ball has created complications." Lucius's voice cut through the quiet.

Draco's fingers tightened on his napkin. "I was indisposed."

"You struck Astoria Greengrass."

"She tried to help when I was—" Draco caught himself. When he was vomiting blood because the Veela spirit was crushing his heart for daring to dance with another woman. "She was in the way."

Lucius's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. Disapproval, perhaps. Or calculation. "The girl fled the ballroom in tears."

"My sincerest apologies for not maintaining proper decorum while vomiting blood." He couldn’t give a damn about Astoria Greengrass’s delicate sensibilities when his own sanity was fraying.

"Your insolence is noted and unwelcome." Lucius took a measured sip of his drink. "You embarrassed our family. Again,” he said, sending a glare at his son. "Her father has expressed his displeasure."

Of course he had. Cyrus Greengrass never missed an opportunity to curry favor by highlighting others' failings.

"I'll send a formal apology." The lie came easily. He'd sooner set himself on fire than grovel to the Greengrasses.

"You'll do more than that. You'll call on them personally."

Draco's hand stilled on his water goblet. "That won't be possible."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said," Draco met his father's gaze directly, "that won't be possible. I have other obligations."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Narcissa's hand tightened on his shoulder—warning or support, he couldn't tell.

"Your obligations," Lucius said softly, dangerously, "are whatever I determine them to be."

"How fortunate we're all together for once," Narcissa interjected, her voice bright with false cheer. "It's been weeks since we've managed a proper family dinner," she add, clapping her hands once before turning towards her husband. "Lucius, tell Draco about your meeting with Mr. Beckard. Such fascinating progress."

Both men turned to her. Draco recognized the steel beneath her cheerful tone—the same steel that had protected him through childhood tantrums and teenage rebellions.

Lucius's jaw ticked, but he allowed the redirect. "Beckard has compiled the genealogical records that we've requested." He gestured to the portfolio. "The mudblood's parentage must be hidden among them."

Draco's attention sharpened despite himself.

"Two months of work," Narcissa mused, pulling the portfolio closer. "He certainly was thorough."

"At the rates we're paying, he'd better be." Lucius refilled his glass with a generous measure of firewhiskey. "Every documented Veela bloodline in Britain and continental Europe for the past century."

Narcissa opened the portfolio, scanning the first pages. "The implications are significant, aren't they? If Miss Granger truly has Veela heritage…"

"She must," Lucius said firmly. "We've dissected Granger's lineage thoroughly—Muggle parents, Muggle grandparents, Muggle great-grandparents stretching back generations. Her family tree holds no magical blood."

"Which should be impossible," Draco muttered, despite himself.

"Precisely." His father's eyes gleamed. "Veela cannot breed with Muggles. The magic is incompatible. For Granger to inherit Veela bonding magic, she needs to be at least half-blooded Veela. Which means someone with significant magical blood went to extraordinary lengths to hide her true parentage."

"A pureblood scandal," Narcissa murmured, turning another page.

Draco forced another spoonful down, watching his parents discuss Granger's bloodlines like they were debating the weather. As if she wasn't lying unconscious three floors above them.

As if he wasn't unraveling from the inside out.

"Fascinating." Narcissa turned pages with delicate fingers. "Oh, the Selwyns. I'd forgotten about Wilfred's wife."

"Full-blooded Veela." Lucius nodded. "Both their children carried the bloodline—Victor and Matilda."

"Could Victor have sired a bastard?" Narcissa's tone carried the delicate distaste of someone discussing unseemly but necessary topics.

"Unlikely. Victor's… reproductive challenges are well-documented. He wouldn't have discarded a potential heir."

Draco nearly choked on his soup. Everyone in their social circle knew Victor Selwyn was essentially firing blanks, though no one discussed it openly.

"What about Matilda?" Narcissa pressed. "She married into the Nott family."

Lucius paused to sip his wine. "She birthed Theodore Nott the same year as the girl. Unlikely she'd hide a second child."

"Unless they were twins." Narcissa's suggestion earned a sharp look from her husband.

"The Notts would never discard a spare. Especially not a daughter with Veela blood—too valuable for marriage alliances."

"True." More pages turned. "What about the Zabini line? Lila's half-blood Veela. She had enough husbands to populate a small village of their own."

Draco found himself leaning forward. Blaise Zabini's mother collected husbands like jewelry, discarding them when they ceased to amuse her. But she doted on her son with fierce devotion. If Granger were her daughter, she would have been paraded, not hidden. And Lila Zabini cared little for societal judgment, she would have no reason to conceal a child.

They continued on like this, dissecting possibilities with clinical detachment. The Shafiqs ("They married a one eight Veela woman two generations ago, it wasn't viable"), the Trembletts ("Died out before she was born"), The Prewetts (“They were as soft as the Weasleys, they wouldn’t abandon a kid”).

Draco finished his soup mechanically, tasting nothing, while his parents reduced Granger's existence to a genealogical puzzle.

"European families seem more likely," Narcissa suggested, closing the portfolio. "The Veela population is denser there, more opportunities for mixed bloodlines.

"Whoever orchestrated this deception was remarkably thorough," Lucius admitted. "Birth records, school enrollment, even her Muggle parents' memories—all perfectly crafted."

"We'll uncover the truth eventually." Narcissa reached across the table to squeeze her husband's hand. "We always do."

Draco pushed back from the table. "May I?"

His mother passed him the portfolio without hesitation. The leather felt heavier than it should, weighted with possibilities.

Draco stood abruptly. "I'll review the records in my study."

"Sit down." His father's command cracked across the table. "We're not finished."

Draco remained standing. "I have reading to do."

"The Dark Lord expects you to fulfill your duties to the cause. Soon. Whatever... complications you're experiencing with your prize must be resolved quickly."

Prize. As if Granger were a trophy to be displayed rather than the source of his current torment.

"I'm aware of my duties." Draco tucked the portfolio under his arm. "If you'll excuse me."

He turned without waiting for permission. His father's voice followed him to the door.

"You're more like me than you care to admit, Draco. Fighting your nature only brings pain."

Draco paused, hand on the doorframe. "We'll see about that."

The walk to Granger's room took less than two minutes. His feet carried him there without conscious thought, drawn by the invisible tether between them. The ache in his chest eased as he approached her door.

Inside, nothing had changed. She lay still as marble, chest rising and falling in that maddeningly steady rhythm. Tilly had changed her into a cream nightgown tonight, ivory lace at the collar and cuffs. Her hair spread across the pillow in glossy waves.

Draco settled into his usual spot on the floor, back against the bed frame. The portfolio fell open across his lap. Names and dates blurred together as he tried to focus, searching for any connection that might explain how Hermione Granger had become the anchor dragging him under.

But his attention kept drifting to the sound of her breathing. To the way candlelight played across her honey skin. To the persistent ache that nothing could cure.

"Your heritage is quite the mystery," he told her unconscious form. "Dozens of possibilities, all dead ends. Someone worked very hard to hide you."

Silence answered him. He'd grown accustomed to it, this one-sided conversation with her still body. It was almost peaceful, if he ignored the gnawing emptiness where the Veela's presence should be.

"Father thinks I'm playing games," he continued, flipping through pages of genealogical charts. "Doesn't understand that you're killing me simply by existing. Or not existing. Whichever this is."

A name caught his eye—Rosier. His grandmother Druella's family, known for their Veela connections through marriage. But the dates were wrong, the bloodlines too distant.

"Mother's trying to help, at least. She understands what this is doing to me. Probably because she can see me dying by degrees."

He laughed, the sound hollow in the quiet room. "Look at me. Talking to an unconscious woman. Draco Malfoy, reduced to this."

Draco knew he should stop, went to his room and tried to rest. But he couldn't stop. The words poured out as he worked through the portfolio, cataloging each family's potential connection to Granger.

"The Travers had a son who disappeared with a Veela sixty years ago. Wrong timing, but interesting. The Ollivanders have Veela blood through the maternal line—did you know that? Your wand chose you for a reason, perhaps."

But her wand was normal. Granger's was a 10¾ vine wood with dragon heartstring. Draco knew this because he had her wand in his possession. Veela descendants only used Veela hair as their wand cores.

"I should hate you," he whispered, setting the portfolio aside. "Should hate what you've done to me. What you're still doing."

His hand moved without permission, fingers ghosting over the coverlet mere inches from her arm. So close. Too close. He jerked back as if burned.

"But I can't. The bond won't let me, or maybe I won't let myself. I can't tell the difference anymore."

The tremor had spread to his whole body now, a fine shaking that spoke of exhaustion and withdrawal and something deeper breaking apart. He pressed his forehead to the mattress, breathing in the faint scent of her—jasmine and vanilla and something uniquely Granger beneath the medical potions.

His eyes burned from watching her, but sleep remained impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—the other Her weeping in that blue room the last time he saw her. His room. Felt again the crushing absence where Her presence should be.

"I know you're listening," he said suddenly. "Not you, Granger. Her. You're always listening, aren't you? Watching me suffer."

Draco could feel himself spiraling, yet he couldn't care less right now.

“You're suffering too, aren't you?" He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. "I can feel it. This constant ache—it's not just mine. You're grieving something. Someone. Me, maybe? Or what I did?" He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining Her. But instead of Her black hair and pale shimmering skin, the image of Granger’s weeping with her brown hair and honey skin came to mind instead.

“I could comfort you, take away your pain...” He trailed, looking at Granger’s still form. "Just let her wake up and come back to me."

A bitter laugh escaped him as he found himself begging yet again. He rubbed his face with too much force. This was what true insanity felt like, he realized.

He turned back to the portfolio, forcing himself to read. The Averys claimed distant relation to a Bulgarian Veela. Even the Blacks had whispers of creature blood, though they'd never admit it publicly.

"The Lestranges," he murmured, tracing a family tree with one finger. "Aunt Bella's husband had a grandmother who was quarter-Veela. Possible, but unlikely. The Dolohovs have stronger connections, but they're all in Russia now saved for Antonin..."

His voice trailed off as warmth suddenly bloomed in his chest. Not the sharp pain he'd grown accustomed to, but something softer. Like fingers brushing against his heart.

"You're there." He sat up straighter, portfolio sliding forgotten to the floor. "I can feel you."

The warmth pulsed once, twice. Then faded.

"No—wait. Please." He pressed a hand to his chest, desperate to hold onto the sensation. "I'm sorry. For everything. The dungeon, the claiming, Weasley—all of it. Just come back."

Nothing.

"I'll do better. I swear it. Whatever you want, however you want to punish me, I'll take it. Just—" His voice broke. "Just come back to me."

The silence stretched and Draco slumped against the bed, fight draining out of him. He'd thought he understood torment. The Cruciatus, his aunt's creative punishments, the Dark Lord's casual cruelties—he'd endured them all.

But this? This absence? This was worse than any torture curse.

Because at least with pain, he knew where he stood. This silence left him drowning in uncertainty, desperate for even a moment's reprieve from the emptiness where she should be.

But she didn't come back. She wouldn't.

***

Consciousness returned to Hermione like drowning in reverse.

Heavy limbs refused to obey, as if her bones had been replaced with lead. Deep ache settled into every joint. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting gravity's pull.

The ceiling swam into focus. Cream paint edged with delicate clouds in pastel watercolors—soft purples bleeding into pinks, wisps of blue—enchanted to mimic real weather. She blinked hard, trying to clear the fog from her vision.

Where was she?

Periwinkle walls came next, broken by white wainscoting that reached halfway up. The wood panels bore carved flowers so detailed she could make out individual petals. Someone had spent considerable time ensuring each bloom appeared unique.

Everything gleamed with that particular sheen of new paint, untouched by time or habitation. A chandelier hung overhead, crystal teardrops catching light she couldn't locate the source of.

She tried to turn her head. The movement sent vertigo spinning through her skull, but she persisted.

Rococo furniture filled the space—a writing desk with curved legs, decorated with gold leaf and mother-of-pearl inlays. Its surface bare except for an unused inkwell. The matching chair bore cushions in cream silk, the fabric spotless, it looked brand new. A chaise lounge occupied one corner, its back carved into the shape of a swan's neck. A wardrobe stood against the far wall, its doors carved with cherubs and flowering vines.

The bookcase troubled her most. Only the bottom two shelves held volumes—poetry collections perhaps? Or a few novels with French titles, Hermione couldn’t tell. But the spine looked gilded and delicate—too decorative to be anything substantial. The upper shelves stood empty saved for a small vase of enchanted flowers.

The vanity table bore similar signs of abandonment. A silver brush set lay arranged at perfect right angles. No stray hairs marred the bristles. No fingerprints smudged the mirror.

This room existed for show, not living.

She had been here before. In dreams, perhaps. Or those strange visions that plagued her sleep lately.

Yes. A dream. This had to be another dream.

That would explain why her body refused to cooperate when she tried to move. She tried to flex her fingers and managed only the barest twitch. How long had she been drifting from dream to dream? Days? Weeks? Probably—

She managed to turn her head left, the motion sending the room spinning. Through the vertigo, she registered a shape that didn't belong among the delicate furniture.

Draco Malfoy.

Not lurking in doorways or looming over her bed, but sitting. On the floor. His back pressed against the bed frame, platinum head resting on the mattress near her feet. He was watching her with eyes that belonged on a corpse.

Hollow. That was the word her mind supplied. Hollowed out like someone had scooped away everything vital and left only the shell. Purple shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes. His cheekbones stood out in sharp relief, casting shadows that made his face look skeletal. Hair that usually lay in perfect arrangement now fell limp across his forehead.

His throat worked in constant, convulsive swallows. Like a man dying of thirst.

He looked like death. Worse than death—like something that had been dying slowly for a very long time.

Scream, her mind commanded. Throw something. Run. Do SOMETHING.

But her throat produced only silence. Her arms refused to obey. And then—

Pain crashed through her entire being. It started in her chest and radiated outward—bones aching, nerves screaming, skin burning with cold. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

Looking at Malfoy—at this ghost wearing his face—unleashed grief so intense it stole the air from her lungs.

Why should the sight of Draco Malfoy pierce her heart like a blade? Why did every cell in her body suddenly scream with the wrongness of it all?

A sob tore free, raw and desperate. She couldn't breathe. Could only drown in this inexplicable pain and sorrow.

And somehow, inexplicable relief was thrown into the mix.

Movement. Sudden warmth as hands cupped her face—gentle, impossibly so for someone who'd only ever touched her in violence.

"Breathe." Malfoy's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Don't fight it. Just breathe."

His thumbs brushed tears from her cheeks with shocking care. This close, she could see how his hands trembled, could smell the stale sweat and exhaustion clinging to his clothes.

This wasn't real. Malfoy didn't comfort people. Malfoy didn't sit vigil at bedsides.

"Hurts," she managed between gasps. "Everything—cold—"

He didn't hesitate. One moment she was shivering, the next she was cocooned in blankets that smelled of vanilla and something darker—fir, maybe. His weight settled beside her on the mattress. Then arms pulled her against solid warmth, cradling her on his lap.

This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

But her traitorous body curled into him anyway, seeking heat like a flower turning toward sun. His hands found hers beneath the blankets, long fingers wrapping around her frozen ones. She could feel his pulse where their wrists touched—too fast, almost frantic.

His breath stirred her hair as he murmured words she couldn't quite catch. Something about being back, about feeling her again.

What was he talking about?

None of it made sense. He was cruel and cold and had spent six years making her life miserable. This had to be some elaborate trick, some new form of torture she didn't understand yet.

Hermione wanted to demand answers. Wanted to push him away and reclaim some semblance of sanity. But exhaustion pulled at her consciousness, made heavier by the warmth of his embrace.

Just a dream, she reminded herself as darkness crept in from the edges. None of this is real. When I wake up properly, I'll be back in my own bed. Or the dungeon. Or anywhere that makes sense.

Because in what reality would Draco Malfoy hold her like she was made of glass? In what world would he whisper reassurances with a voice that shook?

But even half-unconsciousness couldn't erase the memory of how perfectly she'd fit against him. How her body had recognized his touch before her mind could process it.

How the grief had eased, just slightly, when he'd pulled her close.

"Let's not fight this anymore," he whispered against her temple. "I can't… We have to…"

His voice faded in and out. Hermione fought to keep her eyes open, but exhaustion dragged at her. The last thing she registered was his heartbeat against her ear and silver eyes filled with an emotion she couldn't name.

As darkness claimed her once more, a final thought drifted through her mind.

What a bizarre, unsettling dream.

***

The periwinkle room materialized around Hermione with clarity.

No haze. No dream-soft edges. Just hard reality pressing down on her consciousness. The same cream ceiling with its painted clouds. The same untouched furniture arranged like a dollhouse display.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't another fever dream. The memory of Malfoy's gaunt face hovering over her, his hands on her skin—

Hermione forced herself upright, fighting waves of vertigo that threatened to pull her back down. The blankets fell away as she moved, revealing pale pink fabric. A nightgown. Delicate ruffles framed the neckline, tiny bows catching the light. The kind of garment she'd never choose for herself—too feminine, too vulnerable.

Someone had dressed her. Bathed her. Touched her while she lay helpless.

Bile rose in her throat. She tore the covers aside completely, checking for—for what? Evidence of the worst? But her body bore no new marks, only the familiar constellation of old scars. Even those looked different somehow. Cleaner. As if someone had tended them with healing salves.

She swung her legs over the bed's edge. Her knees buckled the moment weight hit them. The plush carpet caught her fall, fur soft against her palms. Her muscles screamed protest at the simplest movements. She crawled toward the vanity on hands and knees, dignity abandoned in favor of answers.

The mirror reflected a stranger.

Every bruise had vanished. Just as she suspected, every cut healed without a trace except for old scars. The split lip from her capture had vanished without a trace. But most disturbing of all—her hair. The wild mass that had defied every attempt at taming now fell in actual curls. Soft ringlets that caught the light, glossy in a way she'd never achieved even with Sleekeazy's.

The violation of it gave her unease.

The thought of Malfoy's hands in her hair, on her skin, tending her wounds—

She needed to leave. Now.

She needed her wand. No—useless thought. She had no magic anymore, what use would her wand be? Escape, then. Find a way out before—

The door. Too obvious. Malfoy might be many things, but careless wasn't one of them. Her gaze landed on the balcony doors instead. Gauzy curtains covered the glass door.

Hope flickered as she dragged herself upright, using furniture for support. Fresh air might clear her head, help her think. She twisted the handle, expecting resistance.

It opened.

Sunset poured through the doorway, painting everything in orange hue. Despite her urgency, Hermione found herself momentarily stunned by the view.

The Malfoy estate stretched before her like a painting. Formal gardens carved precise patterns across the landscape, their geometric hedges softened by the dying light. A fountain dominated the central courtyard, its marble figures frozen mid-dance as water cascaded around them. The spray caught the sun's last rays, creating miniature rainbows that shimmered and disappeared.

Beyond the gardens, she could see orchards heavy with fruit, their branches creating dark silhouettes against the orange sky. Peacocks strutted across manicured lawns, their calls echoing in the evening air. Everything bathed in that particular quality of light that made even the most mundane objects appear magical.

Beautiful. Achingly so.

Then she looked down, and beauty became terror.

Three stories. At least. The ground seemed to sway beneath her, though she knew it was only her vision playing tricks. Her hands found the railing, gripping until her knuckles went white.

She'd always hated heights. Even flying lessons at Hogwarts had been torture, though she'd hidden it well. But this—standing here with nothing but air between her and the courtyard stones—made her stomach lurch.

Back inside. The bed first. She tore at the sheets, twisting the fabric into rope. Not enough. The blankets next, fingers fumbling with knots her mother had taught her for camping trips that felt like another lifetime. Still too short.

The wardrobe doors flew open under her desperate hands. Robes in every shade of pastel hung in neat rows. Lavender, rose, mint green. All her size. All chosen by someone who'd studied her body while she slept.

The second wardrobe was worse. Silk nightgowns, delicate underthings, items that bore sinister implication. She slammed it shut, fighting down panic.

No more fabric. She'd have to make do.

She dragged her makeshift rope to the balcony, movements clumsy with exhaustion. The carved balustrade made a decent anchor point. She tested the knot three times before trusting it.

The rope barely reached halfway down. Not safe. Not even close. But when would she get another chance?

The railing pressed cold against her palms as she lifted one leg over. Wind caught her nightgown as she climbed over the railing, sending pink fabric billowing. Her bare feet found purchase on the stone ledge.

Another gust, stronger this time. Her hair whipped across her face, momentarily blinding her. When she opened her eyes to clear it, she made the mistake of looking down.

The ground swam. Vertigo crashed through her, making her grip slip. For one terrifying moment, she teetered—

"Can't," she whispered. Her whole body shook now, hands slick with sweat. "Can't do this."

But what choice did she have? Wait for Malfoy to return? Let him touch her again with those trembling hands while she lay defenseless?

She forced herself to crouch, one arm wrapped around a baluster. Her free hand reached for the rope. Eyes up. Don't look down. Just grab the fabric and—

Arms seized her from behind.

She didn't have time to scream before she was airborne, feet dangling over nothing. Only then a scream tearing from her throat.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" The voice cracked with something between fury and fear.

Her feet found solid ground—the balcony floor, not the courtyard stones. The hands spun her around, and she found herself facing Draco Malfoy's livid expression.

He looked marginally better than her last memory of him. The hollow quality remained, but some color had returned to his skin. His hair, while still disheveled, no longer hung limp. But his eyes—they burned with an intensity that made her step back.

Or try to. His hands remained locked on her shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"You could have snapped your neck!" He shook her once, sharp. "Shattered every bone in your body! Is that what you want?"

Hermione's fist almost connected with his jaw before conscious thought caught up. He caught her swing easily, reflexes sharp despite his corpse-like appearance.

"Try that again." The words came out soft, almost conversational. "See what happens."

She tried anyway, bringing her knee up toward his groin. This time she found her mark. He doubled over with a strangled sound.

"Bitch," he gasped, one hand pressed to his groin.

She used his distraction to land an open-handed slap across his face. The crack echoed off stone walls.

Malfoy retaliated.

His backhand caught her across the cheek—not hard enough to seriously injure, but firm enough to sting. They stared at each other, both breathing hard, both shocked by the sudden violence.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or regret. His hand hovered near her face for a moment, fingers twitching like he wanted to check for damage.

Then his face hardened. Before she could react, he'd ducked down and lifted, throwing her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

"Put me down!" She pounded at his back, but the angle was wrong, her blows lacking force. "You can't—"

"Watch me." He strode back inside, kicking the balcony door shut behind them. She heard the lock engage without him touching it—wandless magic.

The bed rushed up to meet her as he dumped her unceremoniously onto the bare mattress. She immediately tried to roll away, but he was already moving, catching her ankle before she could escape.

"Oh no you don't." He deflected her kick with embarrassing ease. "We're going to have a conversation, and you're going to actually listen for once in your life."

Her palm cracked across his cheek. Or would have, if he hadn't caught her wrist inches from impact.

"Stop." He pinned her hands above her head, using his weight to trap her legs. "Merlin's sake, Granger, just stop fighting for five seconds."

"Never!" The word came out raw, desperate. Being pinned like this, helpless beneath him—every nightmare scenario flashed through her mind. "Get off me! GET OFF!"

"I will." His face hovered inches from hers, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his grey eyes. "The moment you stop trying to assault me, I'll move. You have my word."

She wanted to spit in his face. Wanted to keep fighting until her last breath. But his grip was unbreakable, and exhaustion already pulled at her limbs. Slowly, grudgingly, she let her body go limp.

True to his word, he released her immediately. One fluid motion had him off the bed and several steps away, his hands raised in mock surrender.

Hermione scrambled upright, immediately tugging her nightgown back into place. The neckline had shifted during their struggle, revealing more than she was comfortable with. She caught his eyes flicking down before snapping back to her face, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Sick bastard, Hermione thought in disgust.

"Where am I?" The question came out hoarse.

"You know where you are." He lowered his hands slowly. "Or has your memory gone along with your sense of self-preservation?"

Of course she remembered. The raid, the capture, his claiming her as some sort of war prize. Being thrown into a cell with rats and mold and the constant drip of water that had nearly driven her mad.

So why was she in what looked like a guest suite—no—dollhouse?

"Don't play games with me, Malfoy. Why aren't I in the dungeons?"

"Would you prefer the rats?" He folded his arms, defensive. "You were dying. The dungeon was killing you."

"So you moved me here. Dressed me up like a doll. Did you enjoy it? Playing with your unconscious prize?"

Something flashed across his face—guilt? Impossible. Malfoys didn't feel guilt.

"Clearly your sanity took a hit along with your memory." He turned toward the door. "Try not to throw yourself off any more balconies."

The door slammed behind him before she could respond.

Hermione lunged for the balcony doors the moment his footsteps faded. Locked, as expected. She slumped against the wood, fighting tears of frustration.

A sharp crack announced the arrival of a house-elf bearing a silver tray. The elf's bulbous eyes took in the stripped bed and scattered pillows with obvious disapproval.

"Master Draco says you is to eat," the elf squeaked, setting the tray on the small table beside the chaise. A small jar of healing salve appeared beside it. "Tilly will prepare bath while Miss eats. Tilly will tidy room after."

With that, the elf disappeared through what Hermione assumed was the bathroom door.

Left alone, Hermione tried to fight against her hunger. The smell hit her like a physical blow. Proper food. Hot food. Her stomach cramped painfully, reminding her that she had no idea when she'd last eaten. Pride warred with practicality.

Practicality won.

She approached the table cautiously, as if the food might attack. The soup was clear broth with vegetables and what looked like shredded chicken.

The first spoonful brought tears to her eyes. Not from emotion—though the kindness of it confused her—but from pure physical relief. Her body had been starving, and she hadn't even realized it.

She ate slowly, carefully, aware that too much too fast would make her sick. The soup was perfect. Each bite reminded her of meals at Hogwarts, of her mother's cooking, of a world where food was comfort instead of mere survival. It was warming without burning, seasoned without overwhelming. Whoever had made this understood what she needed.

That thought should have frightened her more than it did.

Hermione pushed the thought aside, planning her next move. The wards would be complex, but every spell had weaknesses. She just needed to find them. Study the patterns, wait for Malfoy to make a mistake.

Because he would. That haunted look in his eyes, the tremor in his hands—something was wrong with him. Something that might give her the opening she needed.

Hermione’s only problem was that she had no wand nor any magic to undo the ward. But still, she’s hoping for a miracle.

She stared at her reflection on the vanity mirror on her left. She couldn’t see any bruise on her cheek. He knew Malfoy held back with that backhand, otherwise Hermione probably would had lost a tooth or two.

But the message was clear: Malfoy wasn’t above retaliating if she got physical. He had shown it twice already. First time at the quarry and now this. Hermione would keep this in mind.

Or not.

She reached for the healing salve and put it on anyway, just in case.

Steam curled from the bathroom doorway, carrying the scent of jasmine and something sweet—vanilla, perhaps.

"Miss's bath is ready." Tilly gathered the scattered pillows with obvious disapproval. "Tilly has laid out fresh clothing."

Hermione hesitated. Bathing meant vulnerability, meant trusting that she wouldn't be interrupted. But she could smell herself—stale sweat and the lingering sweetness of whatever potions they'd used on her. Her skin crawled with the need to be clean.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

The elf's eyes widened slightly, as if gratitude was unexpected. Then she vanished with another crack, leaving Hermione alone with her choices.

She locked the bathroom door—a useless gesture, but it made her feel better. The water was perfect, hot enough to ease her protesting muscles without scalding. Hermione made sure to scrub herself raw, trying to erase the phantom sensation of hands on her skin.

When she emerged, the bedroom had been restored. Fresh sheets, blankets tucked to perfection. The rope she'd made had vanished.

A silk robe hung on the bathroom door—pale blue, her size. She belted it tightly and sat on the chaise to think.

Time ticked by. The sunset faded to true dark. Candles lit themselves as shadows deepened. She tested every surface, looking for weak points in the wards. Nothing.

Hours passed before she heard footsteps in the hall. The door opened to reveal Malfoy carrying another tray. He looked worse than she had seen him earlier in the evening for some reason. Dark circles under his eyes were making a come back.

"Dinner." He set the tray on the table without looking at her.

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyway." He moved to the window, staring out at grounds she could no longer see. "You need strength."

"For what? Your entertainment?"

His shoulders tensed. "Just eat, Granger."

She didn't move. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I told you. The dungeon—"

"No." She stood, the robe swishing around her legs. "Why this room? Why the clothes, the food, the—" She gestured helplessly. "What do you want from me?"

He turned then, and the look on his face stopped her cold. Desperation mixed with exhaustion mixed with something she couldn't name.

"I want you to survive." The words seemed torn from him. "Is that so difficult to understand?"

"From you? Yes."

He laughed—a broken sound. "Fair enough."

Silence stretched between them. She could hear his breathing, too fast and shallow.

"Let me go," she said finally.

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both." He moved toward the door. "Eat. Sleep. Stop trying to kill yourself with stupid escape attempts."

"I'll keep trying."

He paused at the threshold. "I know."

The door closed. The lock engaged.

Hermione stared at the dinner tray—roasted chicken, vegetables, fresh bread. Her stomach was already full, but she forced herself to eat anyway. She needed strength for her survival.

Tomorrow she'd try again. And the day after. However long it took.

Because Draco Malfoy might have her caged, but he'd made one crucial mistake.

He'd let her wake up.

Chapter Text

The Ministry's maintenance corridors reeked of stale air and sweat.

Draco pressed himself against the wall, listening to footsteps echo three floors above. His targets were taking their time, believing themselves safe in the abandoned wing. The fools had no idea death stalked their late-night activity.

His right hand flexed unconsciously, feeling the weight of steel against his right forearm. The hidden blade sat snug in its leather housing, spring-loaded mechanism primed. A gift from his aunt—one of many tools she'd insisted he master. The ring on his middle finger gleamed dull silver, its surface etched with runes that connected to the blade's release. One flick of his wrist or a twitch of his middle finger would send eight inches of goblin-forged steel through flesh and bone.

Draco despised the thing.

Magic was cleaner. A well-placed curse left no blood on his hands, no arterial spray to wash from his clothes. But the Dark Lord appreciated… theatricality. And Draco had built himself quite the reputation these past months.

The Malfoy heir didn't just kill—he made examples.

His stomach turned at the thought. All because of Granger.

Even now, hours after leaving her room, he could still feel the ghost of her weight in his arms. Three days since she'd first woken, clinging to him like he was her only anchor. For the first time in weeks, he'd actually slept—her warmth chasing away the constant ache in his bones.

It was bliss...

Then she'd tried to throw herself off a fucking balcony.

Rage flared hot and immediate. He'd barely made it in time, had seen her dangling from that pathetic excuse for a rope and felt his heart stop. Another second and she'd have been a broken doll on the courtyard stones.

Stupid, reckless witch.

Movement above. His targets were separating.

Draco froze, counting heartbeats. Five. Ten. Nothing followed. Just the building settling, then. He resumed his advance, boots silent on polished floors.

The first target worked late most nights. Gerald Fenwick, Senior Undersecretary for Magical Transportation. Unmarried. No children. Donated quietly to safe houses that harbored Muggleborn refugees. The kind of quiet resistance that festered if left unchecked.

Draco found him hunched over paperwork, quill scratching against parchment. The man didn't even look up when the door opened.

"Evening," Draco said conversationally. "Lovely night for treason, isn't it?"

The quill clattered to the desk. Fenwick's hand went for his wand, but Draco was already moving.

"Expelliarmus!"

The wand sailed through the air. Fenwick lunged for it, desperate. Behind him, another figure emerged from the shadows—his assistant, staying late as well. The second wand came up, green light already gathering at its tip.

Draco twisted aside. The Killing Curse scorched the air where he'd been standing. No time for subtlety now. He rolled behind a filing cabinet as the assistant fired again.

"Surrender, Malfoy!" The assistant's voice cracked with fear disguised as bravado. "The Aurors—"

"Won't find enough of you to identify." Draco flicked his wand. "Confringo!"

The explosion sent the assistant flying. He hit the wall with a crunch, sliding down in a heap.

Movement in his peripheral vision. Fenwick had grabbed a chair, swinging it like a club. Brave. Stupid, but brave.

Draco spun toward the threat instead of away. His left hand caught the chair leg while his right drove forward in what looked like a punch. His middle finger twitched. The blade extended with a soft snick, punching through soft tissue below Fenwick's jaw.

Blood sprayed across ministry letterhead. Fenwick's eyes went wide, hands dropping the chair to clutch at his throat. Draco didn't give him time to suffer. A sharp pull to the right tore through arteries and windpipe both. The man dropped, crimson pooling on expensive carpet.

The assistant groaned from his corner. Still alive, then. Draco crossed the room in three strides, wand trained on the man's head.

"Please—" Blood bubbled from the assistant's lips. "I have a wife—"

"Should have thought of that before throwing Unforgivables around."

Green light. Silence.

Draco flicked his wrist, the blade retracting with another soft sound. Blood dripped from his sleeve, staining black cotton. He'd have to burn the shirt. Again.

Draco stared at Fenwick's corpse, fighting the urge to vomit. Necessary. It had been necessary. If he'd simply Avada him, questions would arise. Why was the infamous Draco Malfoy going soft? Was someone influencing him?

Was his little Mudblood pet making him weak?

No. Better to maintain the facade. Better to be the monster they expected than invite scrutiny that might endanger her.

Two more targets waited upstairs. He should move quickly, finish this before—

The memory hit him like a Bludger to the chest.

Granger's knee met his groin. The shock in her eyes when he'd struck back. He'd sworn he wouldn't be like his father, wouldn't use his hands on women. But she'd been trying to kill herself, throwing her body off a three-story drop, and the fear had transformed into rage so quickly he hadn't been able to stop himself.

She'd looked at him like he was a monster.

She wasn't wrong.

Footsteps in the hallway. Draco shook off the guilt and moved to the door. The second target was early.

Patricia Hedgecomb. Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Married to a half-blood who asked too many questions about missing neighbors. She'd been flagging certain arrest warrants, warning targets before raids could be conducted.

She died cleaner than Fenwick. A Stunning Spell from behind, then the blade between her ribs while she lay unconscious. Quick. Painless. The kind of death Draco had want for himself when the time came.

The third target took longer to find. Marius Bellweather had left his office, but Draco tracked him to the Ministry's small library. The man sat reading by wand-light, completely absorbed in his book.

This one fought. Shields sparked and shattered. Bookshelves exploded in showers of paper and binding. Bellweather was a good duelist, each spell precisely aimed.

"You're Lucius's boy." Bellweather deflected a Cutting Curse with casual ease. "He'd be so proud, watching you murder civilians in the dark."

"Shut up." Draco dove behind an overturned table as lightning crackled overhead.

"Does it help you sleep? Knowing how many families you've torn apart?"

It didn't. But Granger's warmth did. The steady rise and fall of her chest against his. The way her hair smelled like jasmine and vanilla after the elves bathed her.

"Stupefy!" The spell caught Bellweather mid-dodge. He crumpled, wand rolling away across debris-strewn floor.

Draco approached slowly, blade already extended. The man's eyes tracked his movement, aware but unable to move.

"For what it's worth," Draco said quietly, "you fought well."

The blade slid between ribs with practiced ease. Bellweather's eyes went glassy. Another good man dead for the crime of compassion.

Draco cleaned his blade on the man's robes before retracting it. Three bodies. Three more names on a list that grew longer every week. How many more before this pointless war ended? How many more before he became too numb to care?

He thought of Granger trying to escape. The determination in her eyes even as her body betrayed her weakness. She'd keep trying, he knew. Keep pushing until she broke herself against the bars of her cage.

Unless he gave her reason to stay.

The thought followed him out of the Ministry, past wards that recognized his magical signature. The night air bit at exposed skin, autumn finally showing its teeth. He Apparated from the designated point, appearing moments later in Malfoy Manor's entrance hall.

Tomorrow Draco would be expected to report his success and collect his accolades. To stand before the Dark Lord and detail each death with pride he didn't feel.

Then he could return home and... what? Sit outside her door like a lovesick puppy? Hope Granger might speak to him without trying to claw his eyes out?

Draco bristled at the thought.

Now that Granger was awake, the Veela's effect on him had been... more manageable. His mind cleared and with it, his rebellious streak was making a come back.

His mother sat by the fire, embroidery forgotten in her lap. She looked up as he entered, taking in the blood on his cuffs with worried eyes.

"Successful?"

"Three targets eliminated." He shrugged out of his cloak, tossing it to a waiting elf. "No complications."

"Your father will be pleased." She returned to her needlework. "How is our... guest?"

The question carried weight. His mother knew, of course. Nothing happened in her home without her knowledge. But she hadn't interfered.

"Recovering." He moved toward the stairs. "Slowly."

"The elves report she tried to escape today."

"I handled it."

"Hmm." The needle paused. "Perhaps she requires incentive to remain. Comforts. Diversions. A caged bird sings sweeter when it forgets the bars."

Trust his mother to cut straight to the heart of things. He paused at the foot of the stairs, considering.

"What would you suggest?"

"Books, perhaps. She was quite the scholar, wasn't she? Food is also a safe option. And proper clothing—something chosen rather than provided. Small freedoms that feel like victories."

"She'll see through it."

"Of course she will. She's not stupid. But even transparent kindness is better than none at all."

His mother had survived decades of marriage to his father. She understood cages better than most.

"I'll consider it."

"See that you do. I'd rather not have to replace the bedding every time she attempts something foolish."

Draco climbed the stairs slowly, exhaustion settling into his bones. The hidden blade came off first, leather straps leaving red marks on his forearm. Then the ring, silver stained with blood that wouldn't wash clean. He set both on his dresser, staring at the weapons that had become extensions of himself.

Tomorrow Draco would send her a book. Start small—nothing political, nothing that might give her ideas. Fiction, perhaps. The kind of escapism that made reality bearable. No, non-fiction would make her happier. Food she actually enjoyed rather than just nutrition. Maybe eventually work up to conversation that didn't end with one of them bleeding.

A silent apology for the backhand he still felt burning in his palm.

It wouldn’t be easy but he was sure he could chip away at her stubbornness with his own.

Gifts would do for now.

Maybe—eventually—she'd stop trying to leave and start trying to live.

The thought of her settling into life here, of seeing her curled in that window seat with a book while autumn rain painted patterns on glass... it did something strange to his chest. Made it tight and warm at the same time.

The Veela influence, probably. Even diminished, even with his head clear, some part of him still craved her presence like a drunk craved firewhiskey. Still felt steadier when she was near, still slept better knowing she breathed just rooms away.

Tonight, Draco would busy himself deciding which books to send first. Wonder if she'd throw them at his head or actually read them.

Small steps. Small kindnesses.

Maybe she'd stop looking at him like a monster.

Maybe he'd stop feeling like one.

***

The days blurred together in captivity.

Hermione still had no idea what the purpose of all these was. She had initially thought being Malfoy's pet would get her the prime spot at his dungeon as his torture dummy. Instead, her living condition was better than it had ever been.

Hermione didn't expect Malfoy to play house with her at all.

Each morning, Hermione woke to Tilly's enormous eyes hovering inches from her face, the house-elf's squeaky voice announcing it was time for her bath. No amount of protest changed the routine. The elf had opinions about everything—from the proper temperature of bathwater to the correct way to apply soap. It was baffling how opinionated Tilly was considered that this elf belonged to the Malfoys.

"Miss is not scrubbing properly!" Tilly's voice echoed off marble tiles as she wrestled Hermione's hair into submission. "Must work shampoo into roots, not just splash about like Miss is drowning!"

"I've been washing my own hair for nineteen years," Hermione muttered, wincing as the elf's fingers found a particularly stubborn knot.

"And doing it wrong for nineteen years!" Tilly dumped another pitcher of water over her head. "Hair like Miss's needs proper care. Three rinses minimum. Four if Miss insists on tossing and turning all night making tangles." The elf tugged particularly hard at another knot. "Now sits still. Tilly knows what Miss needs."

The worst part was that Tilly did know. Under the elf's care, Hermione's hair had transformed from its usual chaotic mass into something beautiful. Soft ringlets that caught the light, free of frizz for the first time in her life. She hated how much she didn't hate it.

"Arms up." Tilly held out a towel the size of a blanket. "Miss catches cold if she sits in cooling water."

Hermione obeyed. What else could she do? Fighting the elf seemed cruel when Tilly was only trying to help. Even if that help came in the form of treating her like an oversized doll.

Still the indignity of it burned. Being stripped and scrubbed like a child, having no say in what products touched her skin. Tilly had an entire arsenal of bottles and jars, each one more expensive than anything Hermione had used in her life. Rose hip oil for her face. Shea butter for her elbows. Some sparkly concoction that made her skin shimmer like she'd been dusted with pearl powder.

"I look ridiculous," Hermione said, staring at her reflection after one particularly thorough session. She was so dressed up everyday and for what? To laze about in her room?

"Miss looks proper," Tilly corrected, already laying out the day's clothing. Always pastels. Always feminine. Always exactly her size.

Today's selection was a powder blue dress with tiny buttons down the back—the kind that required assistance to fasten. Another small humiliation in an endless series.

"Tilly has brought Miss's breakfast," the elf announced once Hermione was dressed and positioned at the vanity for hair styling. "And Master Draco sends another gift."

The packages had started right after her failed escape. First, a pristine copy of Hogwarts: A History. She'd thrown it at the wall initially, but boredom won out. Now she'd read it cover to cover three times, finding comfort in familiar passages about moving staircases and house rivalries.

Then came the food. Not the balanced meals Tilly brought, but treats. Familiar ones. Chocolate frogs that hopped around her room until she caught them. Sugar quills in every flavor. Cauldron cakes still warm from the oven. She hated herself for eating them, but her body craved sweetness after months of deprivation.

The gifts grew more elaborate. A set of color-changing ink that shifted hues based on her mood. A self-warming blanket charmed to maintain perfect temperature. Each one carefully chosen, eerily thoughtful.

Today's offering sat on her breakfast tray, wrapped in silver paper.

"What is it this time?" Hermione asked, not touching the package.

"Tilly doesn't know. Master Draco says Miss should open when ready."

She left it there while she ate, eyeing it with suspicion. The wrapping was too perfect, corners sharp, folded with care. Whatever lay inside, Malfoy had taken care with its presentation.

Curiosity won eventually. She peeled back the paper to reveal an ornate music box. Duck egg blue porcelain with delicate pink rose patterns, intricate gold trimmings around the edges. The craftsmanship was exquisite—tiny stars picked out in gold, a crescent moon that seemed to glow with inner light.

Against her better judgment, she opened the lid.

The melody that spilled out was hauntingly lovely—a waltz she didn't recognize. Inside, a tiny figure slept on a bed of gold. Brown curls spread across a miniature pillow, chest rising and falling in a rhythm.

Then the mirror beside the bed had shimmered. A blonde figure emerged, no bigger than her thumb. He'd crossed to the sleeping girl, touched her cheek with tenderness. She'd woken slowly, eyes finding his.

They'd danced. Tiny feet moving in perfect synchronization as the music swelled. His hand on her waist, hers on his shoulder. Around and around until the melody slowed, and he'd pulled her close, and—

Hermione had slammed the lid shut before they could kiss.

The implications were nauseating. Was this Malfoy's idea of romance? Creating miniature versions of them to act out some twisted fantasy? Or just another form of psychological torture, reminding her that he controlled even her likeness?

She hadn't touched it since.

"Miss's visitor comes tonight." Tilly reminded her. "Should wear the blue robes. Brings out Miss's eyes."

"I'm not dressing up for Malfoy."

"Miss says this every night. Every night Miss stays in nightgown like is preparing for sleep instead of company."

Company. As if his visits were social calls instead of… whatever they were.

Malfoy barged in to the room whenever he liked anyway. Usually after dinner and without fail. Sometimes he knocked, sometimes he just entered. Either way, he'd settle into the chair by the window with a book or those leather files he seemed obsessed with. Pages covered in cramped handwriting that he'd study while Hermione pretended he didn't exist.

The silence stretched between them each time. Hermione would feel his eyes on her sometimes—quick glances when he thought she wasn't looking. But he never spoke so she didn't either.

What was he researching so intently? Dark curses to use on her if she misbehaved? Hermione burned with curiosity but refused to ask. Talking meant acknowledging Malfoy, and she wasn't ready for that.

Night fell. Dinner came and went. It was about time she heard his footsteps in the hall. Hermione braced herself for another evening of mutual silence.

Malfoy looked tired. Again. With those familiar purple shadows under his eyes and the usual tremor in his hands that he tried to hide. Tonight he carried that thick leather portfolio once more. Hermione was itching to know what mysteries it held.

"Granger," he said by way of greeting.

Hermione turned her back on him, rereading Hogwarts: A History for the fourth time. The poetry books on the shelf mocked her. Romantic drivel about love and loss and longing. She'd rather gouge her eyes out than read Malfoy's collection of wizard Byron.

He settled into the chair by the window without invitation. She heard the whisper of turning pages, the scratch of quill on parchment. Whatever research occupied him, he pursued it with single-minded focus.

Twenty minutes passed in tense silence. She felt his eyes on her periodically, quick glances that made her skin prickle. Each time she refused to look up, kept her attention fixed on the familiar passages of Hogwarts: A History.

"Tilly," he said suddenly.

The elf appeared with a crack. "Master Draco is needing something?"

"Brush Miss Granger's hair. It's a rat's nest."

"It is not!" Hermione's head snapped up, indignation overriding her determination to ignore him.

"Tilly agrees with Master," the elf said, already fetching the silver-backed boar brush. "Miss has been running fingers through it all day. Making tangles."

Traitor, Hermione thought bitterly. But then again, the elf was never hers to begin with.

Hermione found herself positioned at the vanity before she could protest further. Tilly's hands were gentle but firm, working through knots with practiced ease. In the mirror, she could see Malfoy watching from his chair. His expression was unreadable, but something in his posture suggested tension.

"Does it hurt?"

The question came so quietly she almost missed it. She met his eyes in the mirror, confused.

"Your hair. Does it hurt when she brushes it?"

"No." The truth slipped out before she could stop it. "Tilly's careful."

He nodded, looking away. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the whisper of bristles through hair. Then, so soft she might have imagined it:

"Your cheek. From the other day. Does it still hurt?"

Hermione's hand rose unconsciously to her face. It didn’t leave a mark to begin with, his backhand was more warning than actual violence. But the memory lingered—the shock of it, the casual way he'd retaliated.

A laugh bubbled up, disbelieving. "Since when do you give a damn about my comfort level?"

His jaw tightened. Something flickered across his face—guilt? Regret? But he said nothing, just gathered his papers and left without another word.

She stared at the door, bewildered. What game was he playing now?

Draco Malfoy kept giving her whiplash with his hot and cold behavior.

Chapter Text

The next morning brought a revelation that made Hermione want to kick herself.

The door was unlocked.

She stood frozen, hand on the handle. How long had it been open? Since the beginning? Hermione had wasted days obsessing over the balcony when the obvious exit was right there.

The hallway stretched in both directions—dark wood, ancestral portraits, no guards. She crept out barefoot, the marble floor cold against her skin. Left or right? She chose left, moving past closed doors. The manor was massive as if designed to confuse. Twice she hit dead ends and had to backtrack.

Voices from ahead made her freeze. Hermione pressed against the wall until they moved away, then continued.

She'd made it halfway of the grand staircase down when—

"Good Morning, Miss Granger."

Narcissa Malfoy stood at the archway in deep green robes. Her expression was pleasant, as if finding escaped prisoners was perfectly normal.

"I was just heading to breakfast." Narcissa's tone remained conversational. "Would you care to join me?"

Run or fight? The woman carried her wand openly but she stood relaxed. And even if Hermione managed to overpower her, then what? She didn't know the way out, couldn't Apparate without magic anyway.

"I'm not hungry."

"Pity. The elves made those crumpets you enjoyed yesterday."

The implications that these people were spying on her put Hermione on edge.

"I should return to my room."

"If you insist." Narcissa stepped forward. "Though I do hate eating alone. Draco's always rushing off these days, and Lucius…" She trailed off, something dark crossing her features. "Well. The manor gets quite lonely."

Manipulation. It had to be. But Narcissa's eyes held genuine sadness, strategically hidden behind that impassive pureblood mask.

"I'll escort you back." Not a question. "The room isn't much, but it's better than—"

"The dungeons? Yes, I'm aware of my upgrade."

"I've asked the elves to provide whatever you need. Books, food, clothing—"

"Freedom?"

Narcissa's laugh was soft, tinged with something Hermione couldn't identify. "If only I had that to give."

They walked back through portrait galleries while Narcissa chatted about the manor's history as if giving Hermione a tour. Hermione felt like an esteemed guest instead of a prisoner.

"Draco got lost constantly as a child,” Narcissa said conversationally. “Once we didn't find him for hours—he'd crawled into a cupboard in the east wing and fallen asleep."

The image of a young Draco Malfoy, scared and alone in these dark corridors, was uncomfortably humanizing.

Hermione pushed it aside.

By the time they reached Hermione's door, she felt off-balance. She'd expected threats, few jinxes, perhaps. Not this bizarre courtesy.

"Do think about breakfast," Narcissa said as Hermione slipped inside. "It's terribly lonely eating alone."

The door clicked shut. Hermione leaned against it, trying to process what had just happened. Narcissa Malfoy had found her escaping and responded by… inviting her to eat?

It had to be a trick. Another game, like Malfoy's gifts and strange concern. The Malfoys didn't do kindness without agenda.

But Narcissa returned the next day. And the next. Always with invitations Hermione declined, always with that same polite smile and treats from the kitchen—macarons, chocolate strawberries, tiny cakes. She stayed whether Hermione responded or not, mastering the art of the monologue about gardens and peacocks and morning light.

And always, always, she found ways to mention her son.

"Draco loved these when he was young," she said, offering a bowl of glittering sweets. "Would eat himself sick if I let him."

"Draco sent me this book from Paris last year." She held up a volume on rare magical plants. "He knows I enjoy gardening. So thoughtful."

"Draco's been working himself too hard lately. All those late nights. I worry he doesn't eat properly."

It was subtle at first. Then increasingly obvious. Narcissa was painting a picture of her son as someone thoughtful, caring, devoted to family. The kind of man who remembered his mother's interests and worried about her loneliness.

The kind of man who might send carefully chosen gifts to a captive girl.

If Hermione hadn't known better, she'd think Narcissa was matchmaking. But that was absurd. The Sacred Twenty-Eight didn't arrange marriages with Muggleborns. They certainly didn't try to pair their heirs with prisoners of war.

Still, the constant references wore at Hermione. Made her notice things she'd rather ignore.

"The weather's been dreadful." Narcissa said as she arranged biscuits for Hermione on another of her visit. "Perfect for staying indoors with a good book. Draco mentioned you'd finished the ones he sent."

Hermione said nothing. She'd learned silence was her only defense against Narcissa's relentless pleasantness.

"I could have more brought from the library. Any particular subjects? Draco has quite the collection on magical theory."

Still nothing.

"Or perhaps something lighter? Romance novels can be quite diverting. Ah, to be young and fancied by a dashing man..."

Was that bait? Hermione refused to rise to it.

Narcissa sighed, setting down her teacup with a delicate clink. "You know, I used to be quite the reader myself. Before…" She gestured vaguely at their surroundings. "Well. Before life became complicated."

Despite herself, Hermione's curiosity stirred. What had Narcissa's life been like before marrying into the Malfoy name? Had she chosen this path, or had it chosen her?

"My parents' library was modest compared to this one." Narcissa's voice grew distant, lost in memory. "But I read every book twice. Drove my sisters mad, always having my nose buried in pages instead of paying attention to proper things."

Sisters. Bellatrix and Andromeda. One mad, one disowned. Hermione wondered which fate Narcissa envied more.

"I should go... wash my hair before Tilly insists on doing it herself." Hermione stood abruptly, embarrassed by her poor excuse. These glimpses of humanity were dangerous. Easier to hate the perfect pureblood matron than this woman with her sad eyes and careful smiles.

"Of course." Narcissa rose as well. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"We always have choices, Miss Granger. They're just not always pleasant ones,” the woman said before leaving Hermione’s room.

A week passed before Hermione finally had enough of Narcissa's persistence.

"I don't understand what you're doing."

Narcissa looked up from the embroidery she'd brought. "I'm sorry?"

"This." Hermione gestured around the room. "The visits, the conversation, the—the kindness. What's the point?"

"Must there be a point to kindness?"

"There is when it comes from... well, you."

For a moment, her pleasant mask slipped.

"I see." She set the embroidery aside. "And what would you have me do instead? Treat you with the cruelty you expect?"

"I'd prefer honesty."

"Very well." Narcissa leaned back in her chair. "I'm lonely. This house is vast and empty, filled with men who speak only of war and death. You're the first interesting conversation I've had in months."

Hermione hadn't expected vulnerability from Narcissa.

And that day she realized that guilt was clearly a powerful weapon when wielded carefully.

"I—" She cleared her throat. "Perhaps tomorrow morning. If the invitation still stands. The breakfast, I mean," Hermione finally said in defeat. Narcissa's smile was almost blinding.

The next morning, Tilly arrived earlier than usual, fussing with Hermione's appearance until she looked presentable for company. The elf selected a simple blue dress from the wardrobe—one of the gifts Hermione had been ignoring—and spent twenty minutes arranging her hair into something resembling elegance.

"Miss looks very pretty," Tilly declared, stepping back to admire her work. "Very proper for breakfast with Mistress."

Hermione studied herself in the mirror. The dress fit perfectly, as all the gifts did. Hermione still found it disturbing.

Narcissa was waiting in the grand dining room. Morning light streamed through tall windows, painting everything in shades of gold and cream.

The food was perfect. Fresh fruit, warm pastries, eggs prepared exactly how Hermione liked them. Even the tea was her preferred blend—Earl Grey with milk and just a touch of honey.

"You came prepared," Hermione observed.

"I pay attention." Narcissa smiled. "Tilly is quite observant about your preferences."

Of course she had. Hermione shouldn't have been surprised, but the thoroughness unsettled her.

They ate in comfortable quiet, Narcissa carrying most of the conversation. Pleasant, safe topics that required no emotional investment as usual. After some internal struggles, Hermione finally found her courage.

"I wonder..." Hermione set down her fork carefully. "What's happening out there? In the real world?"

Narcissa's mask slipped for just a moment. "The real world?"

"Beyond these walls. My friends—are they alive? Are they fighting? I've been locked away for weeks without—"

"I wouldn't know." The words came out clipped, final. "I don't involve myself in such matters."

"Your husband is You-Know-Who's right hand. Your son murders—'" Hermione cut herself, choosing her words carefully, "—is devoted to him. How can you not—"

"Because knowing changes nothing." Narcissa's knuckles went white. "I am as much a prisoner here as you are, Miss Granger. The only difference is my cage has better furnishings."

Her honesty caught Hermione off-guard. She'd expected denials, justifications. Not this raw admission of helplessness.

"I..." Hermione swallowed hard. "I need to know. Please. Anything."

Narcissa studied her for a long moment. Then she raised her wand, summoning a house-elf with a sharp crack.

"Bring today's Prophet."

"Mistress shouldn't—" The elf wrung her hands. "Master said—"

"Bring it."

The elf vanished and reappeared, clutching the newspaper like it might explode. Narcissa took it without looking at the headlines, passing it directly to Hermione.

"I hope this brings you peace."

The front page destroyed Hermione.

BLOOD TRAITOR STRONGHOLD DESTROYED screamed across the top in letters that seemed to pulse with malice. Below, a photograph showed the Burrow engulfed in flames. The fire moved in ways that normal fire shouldn't—Fiendfyre.

Her hands shook. The article swam before her eyes, words jumping out in painful fragments. Suspected headquarters... no bodies recovered...

No bodies. They might have escaped. Molly and Arthur and Bill—they might be alive somewhere, hiding, planning—

Or they could be dead, their bodies vanished to prevent them becoming martyrs.

The newspaper fell from Hermione's fingers. Tears came without warning, great heaving sobs that shook her entire frame. The Burrow had been more home to her than her parents' house these past years. Mrs. Weasley's hugs, Arthur's gentle curiosity, the chaos of too many people in too small a space—

Gone.

"Oh dear," Narcissa said softly. "Perhaps this was a mistake."

She reached for the paper. Hermione clutched it tighter, needing to read every word, to search for clues between the lines. But Narcissa's fingers were gentle as they pried the Prophet away.

"Tilly," she called. "Please escort Miss Granger to her room."

"No!" Hermione lurched to her feet, reaching for the newspaper. "I need to—"

"You need to rest." Narcissa's voice remained calm, but there was steel beneath it. "This was too much too soon. I apologize."

Tilly's hand closed around Hermione's wrist. The familiar squeeze of Apparition, and then she was back in her periwinkle prison. The elf vanished immediately, leaving her alone with her terror.

Hermione curled on the bed, sobs tearing from her throat. The pretty room with its silk and flowers felt like mockery now. She was playing dress-up while people died. Eating French pastries while her friends burned.

The door opened. She didn't look up, didn't care who witnessed her breakdown.

Weight settled on the bed beside her. A hand hovered over her shoulder, hesitant, before withdrawing without making contact.

"They're alive."

Malfoy's voice, quiet and certain.

Hermione turned her head enough to see him perched on the edge of her mattress, maintaining careful distance between them.

"You can't know that," she whispered.

"The Dark Lord wanted them dead, not disappeared. If my aunt had succeeded, she'd be crowing about it to anyone who'd listen. The silence means they escaped."

Logic. Cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless. She pushed herself upright, wiping at her face with her sleeve.

"Why tell me?"

He studied his hands. "Because you needed to know."

Simple as that. No games, no agenda she could detect. Just information offered freely.

"I... Thank you," she said, meaning it.

He nodded once and left without another word.

Hermione stared at the closed door, trying to reconcile this version of Malfoy with the one who'd struck her, who'd claimed her like property. Nothing made sense anymore. Not his gifts or his mother's kindness or the way he'd offered comfort without trying to touch her.

She was still puzzling over it when Tilly arrived with lunch and another wrapped package.

"Master says Miss doesn't have to open," the elf reported. "But it's there if Miss wants."

After Tilly left, Hermione approached the gift like it might bite. Silver paper again, perfect corners. Smaller than the music box. She peeled it open carefully.

Inside lay a book. Not new—the leather binding showed wear, pages yellowed with age. She opened the cover to find an inscription in faded ink:

"To my darling Andromeda on her eleventh birthday. May you find adventure in every page. Love, Grandmother"

A Black family heirloom, then. Hermione turned the pages carefully, finding a collection of wizarding fairy tales she'd never seen before. The illustrations moved like photographs, tiny figures acting out their stories in loops. A prince fighting a dragon that breathed real smoke. A witch brewing potions that bubbled and steamed.

She settled into the window seat, book open in her lap. The fairy tales were darker than their muggle counterparts—the prince died as often as he triumphed, the witch's potions sometimes poisoned instead of healed.

But they were stories. Escape into other worlds, other problems.

Hermione read until her eyes burned, thinking not of stories but of the woman who'd first owned it. Andromeda Black. Burned off the family tree for marrying a Muggleborn.

She wondered if Malfoy knew the book's history. If he'd chosen it deliberately, this reminder that even the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black could choose love over blood?

Probably not. But Hermione kept the book close anyway.

***

Draco knew something was wrong that morning. He could feel the ache in his heart. He'd thought it was Her stirring somehow. But no, it was Granger.

"She did what?"

The house-elf cowered, wringing his tea towel between gnarled fingers. "Mistress gave the Miss today's Prophet, Master Draco, sir. The Miss is crying most terribly—"

Draco's chair scraped against hardwood as he stood. The financial reports scattered across his desk, forgotten. Three weeks of careful planning, of measured doses of kindness designed to lower her guard, and his mother had—

"Get out."

The elf vanished with a crack. Draco took the stairs three at a time, blood pounding in his ears. Of all the stupid, reckless things to do. Showing her the Prophet meant showing her the Burrow's destruction. The girl barely ate as it was, news of her surrogate family's fate could push her over the edge entirely.

His mother had lost her mind.

Draco reached her door. Muffled sobs leaked through the wood.

What exactly did he plan to say? Sorry your blood traitor friends got what was coming to them? Tough luck about the hovel you called home?

He pushed inside without knocking.

Draco found Granger curled on the bed, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The sound cut through his anger like a blade. She looked small, fragile in a way that had nothing to do with her physical state and everything to do with grief.

The sight broke his heart.

Draco wanted to gather her in his arms and wipe her tears away with his thumbs. He wanted to murmur words of comfort as she buried her face on his neck. He wanted to trail kisses from her eyelids to her cheeks and the corner of her lips, down to her neck as she—

No.

Draco would soon find himself carving his own flesh or flaying his body raw to relieve Granger's slightest misery if he allowed these dangerous thoughts to persist. He was unwilling to go down that slippery path. Again.

At least not this soon.

The wound on his forearm was barely healed. It was another collection of his, a penance for striking her back. He carved it two weeks ago, right after Granger answered his worried with a laugh. Draco wasn't keen adding another one to his collection.

This wasn't his problem. He should leave before he lost his control and spiraled along with her.

Instead, Draco found himself crossing to the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat, careful to maintain distance between them. Granger didn't acknowledge his presence, too lost in her grief to care about her captor's proximity.

The conversation that followed had been stilted. But Granger had thanked him. Actually thanked him for telling her the Weasleys were likely alive. The first civil words she'd spoken since waking.

Her whispered thanks followed him out. Draco waited until he'd rounded the corner before slumping against the wall, hands shaking with rage and heart clenching with grief that wasn't his own.

Now he had business with his mother.

Draco found Narcissa in the breakfast room, continuing her breakfast as if she hadn't just detonated an emotional bomb in his carefully controlled situation. She didn't look up as he entered, focused on spreading jam across a toast with care.

"Draco, darling." She greeted him. "How did it go?"

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

The butter knife paused. "Language, Draco." She set down her toast. "And how did our guest receive the news?"

"She cried herself sick."

"And you comforted her."

Draco snarled. "That's not—"

"Did you or did you not offer her reassurance about her friends?"

"I told her they were likely alive."

"And her response?"

"She…" He replayed the scene. The way her shoulders had relaxed slightly. The genuine gratitude in her voice. "She thanked me."

"Excellent." His mother picked up her tea cheerfully. "Progress at last."

"Still, you showed her the Prophet. You let her see—"

"I let her see exactly what she needed to see." Narcissa tipped her teacup at Draco, as if giving a toast. "Sit down. You're giving me a headache with all that looming."

He remained standing, protective rage is consuming his mind. "She could have hurt herself! She already tried to—"

"The girl isn't suicidal, Draco. She's desperate. There's a difference." Those blue eyes held calculating intelligence. "Tell me, how long since she spoke to you without sneering?"

The question stopped him cold. Three weeks of silence, of turned backs and bitten-off responses. Until today, when she'd looked at him with something other than hatred.

"That's what I thought." Narcissa returned to her tea. "Really, darling, did you think I'd spend all those mornings drinking tea with the girl for my health? She was starting to trust me. All it took was one carefully orchestrated crisis to push her toward you."

"You..." He sank into the chair across from her, head spinning. "You planned this."

"Of course I planned it. Someone had to. Your approach was pathetic. Gifts—

"That was your idea—"

"—and brooding silences? She's too intelligent for such obvious manipulation." She shook her head in disbelief. "Though I do wish you'd change your methods. Striking her was counterproductive," Narcissa added, her disapproval clear.

Heat flooded his cheeks. "I lost control. You know the vile thing made me—"

"Yes, well. We all have our moments." Her tone suggested she'd never lost control of anything in her life. "The important thing is moving forward."

"And traumatizing her with dead Weasleys is the way?"

"Giving her accurate information while ensuring you were positioned to provide comfort? Yes." She spread jam on her toast with surgical precision. "She needed to see you as something other than her captor. Now you're the man who brought her hope when she had none."

Draco stared at his mother with new appreciation. He'd forgotten, in the years of watching her play gracious hostess, that Narcissa Black had been Slytherin's prize before she'd been Lucius Malfoy's wife.

"Next time," he said slowly, "warn me before you emotionally devastate someone who could ruin me."

"Where would be the fun in that?" But she smiled, reaching over to pat his hand. "I promise to keep you informed of future schemes. Within reason."

"Mother—"

"Now." She withdrew her hand, all business again. "You'll visit her again tonight. Take another gift."

"She barely touches the ones I've already sent."

"Not books or trinkets. Something meaningful." Narcissa's smile turned sharp. "Her wand."

The words hung between them like a challenge. Draco's hand moved unconsciously to his pocket, where the vine wood wand had rested for weeks. He had carried it everywhere.

"Absolutely not."

"Why? She can't use it."

"If she knows that I know her magic is gone..."

"She'll need someone to help her understand why." His mother leaned forward, voice dropping to match his. "Think, Draco. What does she want more than anything?"

"To escape."

"No. Her magic back. Give her the tool. Let her discover its uselessness. Then offer to research the problem together."

"Giving her false hope is cruel even by our standards."

"Who said anything about false hope? We're simply allowing her a project, aren't we?" She blinked with faux innocence. "Something to occupy her mind besides escape attempts and self-pity. Let her research. She won't succeed, but the attempt will keep her busy,” Narcissa paused, smiling at her son. “And grateful."

Draco's chest tightened. The Veela bond pulsed with sick satisfaction at the idea of Granger depending on him. Needing him. The thought made him want to claw his own skin off.

What a terrifying woman, Draco thought.

"She'll never believe I'd help without wanting something in return."

"Good. She's clever." Narcissa's eyes glittered. "So give her a reason. You need her cooperation for appearances. She already thinks you're using her politically. Let her.”

Better that than the truth. That the Veela pledge made her essential to his survival. That he needed her presence to function. That her hatred was slowly killing him.

No. Better she think him calculating than desperate.

Still, the logic was flawless. Granger would understand self-interest better than kindness. If she believed Draco needed her functional for his own survival...

"You've thought this through."

"I'm your mother. It's my job."

"I can't do this anymore." The admission cost him. "The pretense, the cruelty. It's killing us both."

"Then change the game." Narcissa leaned forward. She cupped his face. "Unless you prefer her hanging from balconies?"

The image sent ice through his veins. "Don’t."

"How long before she tries again? How long before she succeeds?" Narcissa shook her head. "Your attachment is obvious, Draco. Even she'll notice eventually. Better control that narrative than let her draw her own conclusions."

Draco understood that Mother was right. Granger’s distress was enough to nearly driven Draco mad. That he'd felt her fingers slip through her pathetic excuse of a rope few weeks ago and his body had moved without thought, Apparating before his mind caught up. That seeing her safe in his arms had been the first full breath he'd taken in weeks.

If he was a moment late, Draco would had joined her as another broken heap on the ground.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Mother."

"I'm playing the only game that matters." She answered. "Your happiness, Draco. Your survival. Everything else is secondary."

His mother was right. She usually was, much as he hated to admit it. The bond with Granger would keep torturing Draco if she remained hostile. Soon it would snap entirely, leaving him hollow and aching in ways that made his current discomfort seem pleasant.

But returning her wand felt like crossing a line Draco couldn't uncross. Once she knew that Draco was aware of her magic's disappearance, there would be no going back to the careful fiction they'd been maintaining.

"I have a summons tonight." Draco raked his hair. "I'll visit her after."

"Then you'd best prepare." She returned to her breakfast, dismissal clear. "And do be gentle. The girl's had enough shocks for one day."

Gentle. As if Draco knew how to be anything but sharp edges and calculated violence these days. But he nodded, already planning his approach.

Draco left before she could dissect any more of his failures.

Later that day, Draco Apparated from the designated point, appearing in the circle of gathered Death Eaters. Their masks gleamed bone-white in the torchlight. Someone screamed in the distance—this evening's entertainment already beginning.

He pulled on his own mask and let Malfoy heir swagger forward. Back straight, chin high, every inch the proud soldier his father had tried to forge.

Inside, he counted heartbeats and planned his words for Granger.

Your magic isn't gone. Just sleeping. I can help you wake it.

We both benefit from cooperation.

This isn't kindness. It's practicality.

Lies wrapped in truth wrapped in desperation. Mother would be proud.

The Dark Lord's voice slithered through the assembly, promising rewards for loyalty and punishment for failure. Draco knelt with the others, forehead pressed to cold stone, and thought about brown eyes bright with tears.

Soon she would need him. Soon she would be grateful.

The thought made Draco sick.

***

Night pressed against the windows. Rain streaked the glass. Hermione traced her finger along the book's spine, following the faded gold lettering of Andromeda's name. Two weeks since Malfoy had asked about her cheek. He'd vanished after that, leaving her with Narcissa's morning visits and Tilly's fussing. She'd almost convinced herself his absence was a relief.

Then came this morning's unexpected kindness. Now here he stood again, filling her doorway with his presence.

Hermione didn't look up. Let him think she hadn't noticed his arrival. The fairy tale before her blurred—something about a witch who traded her voice for power, only to discover the price included her memories.

His footsteps muffled across carpet. The bed dipped, that careful distance maintained between them. Always so controlled. Except when he wasn't—when fury cracked his mask and violence bled through.

The silence stretched. Usually he'd read or leave, but tonight he watched her openly.

"Come here."

The command startled her into meeting his eyes. Silver in the lamplight.

"Why would I do that?"

"I'm not going to hurt you."

A laugh escaped before she could stop it. "Forgive me if I don't take your word for it."

Malfoy exhaled sharply. "Fine." He shifted, robes rustling. "I have something that might interest you. Unless you'd prefer to continue pretending that book is fascinating."

Heat flooded her cheeks. Of course he'd noticed her lack of focus, the way she'd been staring at the same page since he'd walked in.

"Your gifts don't interest me."

"This one will."

The certainty in his voice raised every alarm. What could he possibly offer that would—

Malfoy pulled out a mahogany box with silver clasps. The way his fingers gripped it told that whatever lay inside mattered to him.

Which meant Hermione probably shouldn't touch it.

"I don't want—"

"Just look." He held it out, patient. "Then you can throw it at my head if you like."

Curiosity won in the end. Hermione uncurled slowly, feet finding the floor. Each step felt like surrender as she crossed to the bed, perching on the very edge. Close enough to satisfy his request, far enough to bolt if needed. He waited until she'd settled before extending the box. Their fingers didn't touch, but she felt the ghost of contact.

The box was heavier than expected. Quality wood, old by the feel of it. She flicked open the clasps.

No. It couldn't be.

Her wand lay on green velvet. Ten and three-quarter inches of vine wood and dragon heartstring. Her hand moved without permission, fingers closing around the familiar grip.

Nothing.

No spark, no warmth, no sense of connection. Just dead wood in her palm.

The implications crashed over her. Malfoy knew. He'd known all along that her magic was gone, that she posed no threat. Every precaution, every ward, every careful distance maintained—all of it theater.

"You bastard." The words scraped her throat raw. "You absolute bastard. How long have you—"

"Know about your magical difficulties?" He leaned back, studying her with those calculating eyes. "Awhile. You're not as mysterious as you think, Granger."

"Did Nott tell you?" The name tasted bitter. "Is that how you found out?"

Something dangerous flickered across Malfoy's face. "Nott?" His jaw tightened. "What does Theodore Nott have to do with anything?"

But Hermione was past caring about his reactions. "Answer the question."

"No, Nott didn't tell me anything." Each word dripped acid. "Though apparently he knew before I did. How… close were you two exactly?"

Was that jealousy? The idea was so absurd she almost laughed. Draco Malfoy, jealous over her supposed relationship with Theodore Nott.

"That's none of your business."

"Everything about you is my business now." He stood abruptly, towering over her. "But no, your precious Nott kept his silence. I found out through more direct means."

"Direct—" Understanding hit like ice water. "You used Legilimency."

"You were dying." He reminded her. "Burning up with fever, babbling nonsense and—I needed to understand what was wrong."

"So you violated my mind while I was unconscious?"

"I saved your life."

"By rifling through my thoughts like a filing cabinet?" Hermione threw the box aside. "What else did you see? What other private moments did you steal?"

He gritted his teeth, civilized mask finally cracking. "You think I wanted to see any of it? Think I enjoyed watching you discover your magic was gone? Feeling your terror when you realized—"

"Stop." Her voice broke. Having him know was bad enough. Having him describe it made her skin crawl.

"I saw what I needed to save you. Nothing more."

"Liar."

"Careful, Granger,” he hissed his warning.

"Or what? You'll hit me again? Read my mind some more?" Tears burned her eyes, fury and violation tangling in her chest as she stared him up with defiant. "Is this your idea of entertainment? Give the Mudblood her useless wand, watch her realize she's truly helpless?"

He matched her fury with his own. "You think I'd waste my time mocking you?! You think I care whether you have magic or not?"

"Why wouldn’t you?"

"Because that's not—" He dragged his hands down his face. "Fuck. This isn't how this was supposed to go."

"How was it supposed to go? Was I meant to be grateful,” Hermione countered, her stance defensive.

"You were meant to listen!" The words cracked like a whip. Then, quieter: "Just… listen. Please."

That word sat strangely on his tongue.

Hermione waited, arms crossed, while Malfoy visibly collected himself. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual controlled drawl.

"I have a proposition,” he said. "The manor library is extensive. Thousands of texts on magical theory. You could research your condition."

"Why would you help me?"

"Because I need your cooperation."

There it was. The catch Hermione had been waiting for.

She didn't buy it.

"I'm already your prisoner,” she studied him, searching for the trap. “You take whatever you want regardless."

Malfoy fixed her with that too-intense stare. "Appearances matter in my world, Granger. More than you could possibly understand."

"Try me."

"The Dark Lord values competence. But competence breeds jealousy among the ranks." His laugh held no humor. "Do you know what happens to Death Eaters who rise too fast?"

She could guess. "They become threats."

"They become corpses." He corrected her. "So I walk a line. Skilled enough to avoid punishment, foolish enough to avoid notice. And what could be more foolish than a young Death Eater distracted by his Mudblood prize?"

The words were logical. Plausible. And complete rubbish.

She'd spent three weeks cataloguing his inconsistencies. The way his hands shook after striking her. How he'd fled after asking if it hurt. The gifts chosen for comfort rather than intimidation.

Now this. A bargain that gave her exactly what she wanted most while asking almost nothing in return.

"You're lying."

Malfoy went still. "About what?"

"I don't know. But there's something you're not telling me."

"Everyone has secrets, Granger."

"Yours involve me. The way you look at me sometimes…"

Silence stretched between them. In the window, Malfoy’s reflection seemed to fracture, showing glimpses of something raw beneath the careful mask.

"There's a gathering next month," Malfoy quickly changed the subject. "The Dark Lord expects his followers to display their… acquisitions. You'll attend with me."

Bile rose in her throat. "You want me to play your whore."

"I want you to not kill us both by trying something stupid." His voice dropped, suddenly tired. "Despite what you think, I'm not enjoying this situation any more than you are."

"Poor you. Forced to keep a Mudblood pet. How trying."

Malfoy’s hand twitched toward his wand. For a moment she thought he'd curse her, but he only ran fingers through his hair, disturbing the perfect styling.

"You think I chose this?" The words came out raw. "Think I wanted any of—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching. "Look. This, keeps us both alive." He said. "I'm not as sick as you think I am, Granger. This life—the robes, the meetings, the blood on my hands—I didn't choose it. It chose me."

"Everyone has choices—"

"Do they?" He laughed, the sound hollow. "When the alternative is watching your mother pays for your principles?"

The honesty in Malfoy's voice stopped her cold. She'd known, intellectually, that some Death Eaters joined from coercion rather than conviction. But seeing it in Malfoy's face, hearing it in his voice…

"No," Hermione said, her voice final.

"You haven't heard my full offer yet."

"I don't need to. I won't be paraded before those monsters like—"

"The others will be there." He turned from the window, meeting her eyes directly. "Your friends. The ones taken during other raids. You could see them."

Her heart stopped. Luna, Susan, Hannah and Ginny... Along with the other women captured over months of war. She'd had no word of their fates, no way of knowing if they lived or suffered or—

"Additionally." His voice remained carefully neutral. "The Dark Lord intends to award Ginevra Weasley to his most faithful. A competition has been ongoing since her capture. It concludes at the gathering."

"Ginny?" The name came out strangled. "But she was taken the same day—"

"Too valuable for immediate distribution." His smile held no warmth. "A pureblood of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Young, connected to Harry Potter. Quite a prize."

Hermione's jaw ticked. Ginny subjected to the same fate as the rest of them, but worse. Made a spectacle of, fought over like spoils of war.

"That's sick."

"That's reality." He moved closer, close enough that she could see the exhaustion etched on his face. "I can't save her, Granger. Can't save any of them. But I can give you this—a chance to see them."

The bastard. He knew exactly which buttons to push. But knowing it was manipulation didn't make it less effective.

"I'll consider it."

"Of course." He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "The library is available whenever you choose. Third floor, dark mahogany door. Take Tilly with you."

Then he was gone, leaving her alone with her useless wand and impossible choices.

Hermione sank onto the bed, turning the vine wood between her fingers. The opportunity for researching her condition was finally within her grasp... But Hermione knew it was a trap. It had to be. Everything Malfoy did served some hidden purpose, advanced some agenda she couldn't quite grasp. But knowing that didn't change the facts.

Her friends were out there, suffering unknown fates. Ginny would be given away like a party favor to the worst of them. And Hermione had a chance—slim, dangerous, but real—to see them.

Was her pride worth their abandonment?

Hermione already knew the answer. Had known it the moment Malfoy had mentioned her friends. She'd walk into his trap with eyes wide open, play whatever role he required, endure whatever humiliation he demanded.

For them. Always for them.

By dawn, Hermione had made her decision.

"Tell your master I accept his terms," she told Tilly at breakfast.

The elf's eyes widened. "Miss is going to the library?"

"Among other things." She picked at the toast, appetite still absent. "When do I start?"

"Whenever Miss wishes. Master says the library is always open now."

Of course it was. Another gesture of supposed generosity, designed to make Hermione grateful. As if access to books could compensate for stolen freedom.

But she'd take it. Take everything he offered and use it against him eventually.

"After breakfast then." She forced herself to eat, knowing she'd need strength for whatever came next. "And Tilly? Thank you. For everything."

The elf burst into tears, which seemed to be her default response to kindness. But she smiled through them, patting Hermione's hand with her gnarled fingers.

"Miss is good witch. Tilly knows. Even here, Miss is good."

The words followed through as Tilly helped her getting ready for the day.

Chapter Text

The Malfoy library exceeded every expectation Hermione had harbored. Three stories of books stretched toward a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations that shifted with the actual night sky. Shelves carved from black walnut held volumes that even rivaled Hogwarts library. First editions of Flamel's alchemical texts. Handwritten journals from medieval wizards. Manuscripts predating the Statute of Secrecy.

"Miss must be careful with the restricted texts," Tilly had warned that first day. "Some books bite. Others scream. One whole shelf tries to rewrite reader's memories."

Hermione had barely heard her, too busy drinking in the sight of all those spines. Her prison suddenly felt less like a cage and more like an opportunity.

She'd found a copy of Arithmantic Principles of Magical Theory bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin. The dedication inside read: "To understand magic, one must first understand sacrifice." Hermione had set it aside with trembling fingers.

Hermione's days fell into rhythm after that first day. Each morning, Tilly would arrive with breakfast and an arsenal of beauty products.

"Miss needs her breakfast," Tilly announced, appearing with a tray of delicate sandwiches and Earl Grey.

Hermione glanced up from Theoretical Foundations of Magical Cores by Aida Griffis. Her eyes burned from reading all night. Two weeks of research had yielded theories but no solutions.

"Thank you, Tilly." Hermione reached for a sandwich—cucumber with herbed cream cheese, crusts removed. The kind of frivolous food she'd have scorned before. Now ate without complaint, too focused on her research to care about revolutionary principles.

"Miss is wearing the blue robes today?" Again, with the damn blue robes. But Tilly's tone suggested this wasn't really a question.

"I'm going to a library, not a ball."

"Master likes the blue robes."

Hermione's lips pursed. "Since when do I care what he likes?"

Tilly's enormous eyes widened further, a feat Hermione hadn't thought possible. "Tilly only means—Master is being kind to Miss. Maybe Miss could—"

"Dress like his personal doll? I think not."

But when she's done with her bath, Hermione found herself in the blue robes anyway. Silk that shifted between sapphire and midnight, depending on the light. Tilly had put special care with Hermione's hair, weaving it into an elaborate crown braid that left her neck exposed. Blue bow swaying on the back of her head. She'd catch herself admiring her reflection sometimes, then flush with shame at her vanity.

Hermione looked like she belonged here, among the ancient books and priceless artifacts.

Guilt twisted her stomach. How many of her friends would kill for the luxury she enjoyed? Clean clothes, regular meals, safety from casual violence. She'd become the pampered pet Malfoy wanted to display.

The guilt followed Hermione to the library, where she buried herself in research. Magical cores, squib conditions, spell damage—anything that might explain her sudden loss of magic. She took notes with the enchanted quill Malfoy had gifted her, its sapphire nib flowing across parchment without need for ink.

Another thoughtful present. Like the warming charm on her reading chair. The selection of teas that appeared precisely when she craved them. The small cakes frosted with moving sugar flowers that Tilly insisted she eat.

"Miss is still too thin," the elf fretted. "Miss must eat more. Master worries."

Master worried. Right.

Malfoy had started joining her the day after she'd first entered the library. No announcement, no explanation. He'd simply claimed the table across from hers and spread out his own materials. Potions texts, mostly. Advanced healing theory. Books on curse damage that made her wonder what exactly his role was among the Death Eaters.

They didn't speak much. An unspoken agreement hung between them—this space existed outside their captor-prisoner dynamic. Here they were simply two people reading in companionable silence.

The routine had become disturbingly comfortable. Malfoy had even started leaving books on her table—texts she needed but hadn't requested, marked with strips of parchment at relevant sections.

She'd told herself it meant nothing. Malfoy was playing some long game, manipulating her for sick purposes she couldn't fathom. The gifts that arrived each morning were just another form of control.

But then came moments like yesterday, when she'd been reaching for a high shelf and found him suddenly there, pulling down the exact volume she needed.

"How did you—"

"You've been tracing citation patterns all week. Healer Pertinger references Belby's work extensively. Logical next step."

He'd been paying attention. Not just watching, but understanding her research methodology.

It was harder to hate someone who understood how your mind worked.

Hermione pushed the thought aside.

Today's gift had been particularly thoughtful—a self-organizing index that cross-referenced her notes automatically. She'd spent an embarrassing amount of time playing with it, watching her chaotic research crystallize into connected patterns.

"You're smiling at that index like it's a love letter."

Hermione's head snapped up. Malfoy leaned back in his chair, book abandoned.

"It's useful," she said carefully.

"High praise from Hermione Granger." His mouth quirked. "Should I alert the Prophet? 'Death Eater Gives Adequate Gift, Mudblood Mildly Appreciative.'"

"Don't call me that."

"Which part? I thought you wore 'Mudblood' as a badge of honor."

"You know which part."

His evening visits continued as well. After dinner, Malfoy would appear in her room with his own book, settling into what had become his chair. Sometimes they'd discuss her research, academic conversations that reminded her painfully of better times. Other nights passed in silence broken only by turning pages.

He never stayed past nine. Always left with a formal "Goodnight, Granger" that sounded wrong in his mouth.

Then came the morning Tilly had outdone herself. Hermione's hair fell in perfect curls, threaded with silver pins that caught the light. The robes—deep purple silk that shifted to black in shadow—fit like they'd been painted on. Even her skin seemed to glow, some subtle charm making her look rested despite her sleepless nights.

She'd been reviewing a text on Egyptian curse-breaking when Malfoy arrived. His footsteps faltered at the library entrance. Hermione kept her eyes on the page, tracking his approach in her peripheral vision.

He settled at his table. Opened a book. Closed it. Opened it again. And closed it once more.

"Stop fidgeting or leave," she said without looking up.

Silence. Then: "Purple suits you."

Hermione's quill slipped, leaving an ink blot on her notes. She raised her eyes slowly, meeting his gaze across the space between them.

Malfoy wasn't reading. Wasn't pretending to read either. He watched her openly, something odd in his expression before he hid it behind his usual impassive mask.

"Oh." Heat crept up her neck. "Right. Well. Thanks, I suppose."

He returned to his book. She returned to hers. Neither absorbed a single word for the next hour.

That night, Hermione lay awake dissecting the moment. The way his voice had dropped on 'suits you.' How his fingers had clenched around the spine of his book. The careful distance he maintained, like she was something dangerous.

What if he wasn't playing games? What if Draco Malfoy, Death Eater and blood purist, actually—

No. Impossible. He'd called her Mudblood too many times, struck her, held her prisoner. This was manipulation, had to be. Some sick game to break her down.

But the gifts. The library access. The way he'd tended her during her illness, genuine fear in his eyes as she was dangling on that bedsheet...

Hermione punched her pillow, trying to drive out the thoughts. She couldn't afford this confusion. Couldn't let herself wonder what hid behind his careful masks.

Couldn't admit she'd started looking forward to his presence.

The next morning, she made a decision. If Malfoy wanted to play games, she'd test the rules.

"Make me beautiful," she told Tilly, whose eyes went round with delight.

"Miss wants to be extra pretty?"

"As pretty as possible."

The elf practically vibrated with joy, producing cosmetics and accessories Hermione hadn't known existed. An hour later, she barely recognized herself. Tilly had worked subtle magic—nothing garish, just enhancement of what already existed. Her skin seemed to glow, lips stained the color of wine. The robes, baby blue today, clung in ways that suggested rather than revealed.

She looked like the kind of woman who belonged on a Pureblood's arm.

"Miss looks lovely!" Tilly clapped her hands. "Master will—that is, Miss looks wonderful!"

Hermione pretended not to catch the slip. Her stomach fluttered as she made her way to the library, which was ridiculous. This was an experiment, nothing more. Scientific inquiry into Malfoy's behavior.

"Morning, Malfoy." She greeted him as he entered, voice deliberately warm.

He paused mid-step. She never greeted him. Their routine was built on mutual silence until provoked.

Hermione didn’t miss the way his eyes swept on her for a moment.

"Granger." He recovered quickly, settling into his chair. "You're cheerful today. Find a cure for your condition?"

"Not yet. But I was hoping you could help." She leaned forward slightly. "Your mother mentioned you had extensive knowledge of magical theory texts. Any recommendations?"

His eyes narrowed. "You've been researching for two weeks. Surely you don't need my assistance."

"Maybe I want it."

The words hung between them, loaded with implication. Malfoy set down his book with excessive care.

"What are you playing at?"

"Can't I ask for help without ulterior motives?"

"You?" He laughed, short and sharp. "You'd rather gnaw off your own arm than ask me for anything."

True enough. But she pressed on. "Things change. You've been... helpful. With the library access, the gifts." She gestured to the index. "I thought perhaps we could maintain a more civilized interaction."

"Civilized." He tested the word like wine. "Is that what you want? Civility?"

"Among other things."

His chair scraped back. "Follow me."

He led her deeper into the library, past sections she hadn't explored. His stride was measured, maintaining that careful distance—not quite far, not too close. Like he was afraid to test the boundaries.

An idea struck. Juvenile, perhaps, but effective.

"Oh!" She stopped abruptly. "That volume there, the red one with gold binding. I want that one."

He turned, following her gesture to a book well above her reach. "That's a treatise on weather magic... Hardly theoretical."

"Is it? The spine looked intriguing."

"You can't read the spine from this angle."

Caught. But Hermione had learned things about survival these past months. Sometimes the best defense was audacity.

"Then I suppose I'm curious about weather magic."

His jaw tensed. "Use a ladder."

"But you're already here."

His eyes narrowed. For a moment Hermione thought he'd call her bluff. Instead, his hand moved in a subtle gesture and the book flew down, landing neatly in his palm. He offered it without comment.

Hermione barely glanced at the title. "Actually, I meant the blue one beside it."

"Granger—"

"Please?"

The word seemed to surprise them both. Malfoy's expression shifted through several emotions before settling on resignation. Another gesture, another book floating down.

"This is Goblin Rebellions of the Eighteenth Century."

"Fascinating subject." She handed it back. "But now that I'm looking, that green volume two shelves up seems more promising."

"Are you quite finished?" His voice had dropped to dangerous levels.

"I'm just trying to find the right—"

"Enough." He stepped closer, invading her space for the first time in weeks. "Whatever game you're playing, stop. I've been patient, I've been accommodating, but if you think you can manipulate me like some lovesick schoolboy—"

"Is that what you are?"

The question slipped out before she could stop it. Malfoy went very still.

"A lovesick schoolboy?" She pressed, heart hammering. "Is that why you watch me? Why you leave gifts and marked passages and—"

"Careful." The word came out rough.

"Or what?" The words came out breathier than intended. "You'll stop being so helpful? Stop staring at me when you think I won't notice?"

He moved so fast she barely tracked it, hands slamming against the shelf on either side of her head. Not touching, but caging her nonetheless.

"You want to know what I'm playing at?" His breath ghosted across her cheek. "Fine. Yes, I notice the silk. Yes, I watch you read because you bite your lip when you concentrate. Yes, I catalog every curl that escapes your ridiculous hairstyles. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Hermione's heart hammered against her ribs. "I—"

"But it changes nothing." He pushed off the shelf abruptly, stepping back. "You're still my prisoner. I'm still your captor. Whatever you think you're discovering here, it's meaningless."

The words hung between them. Malfoy's gaze dropped to her lips, then jerked away like he'd been burned.

"The texts you need are in section seven." His voice was carefully controlled again. "Third shelf. I'll send Tilly if you require assistance reaching them."

He turned on his heel and strode away, robes billowing. Hermione watched him go, pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

She'd gotten her answer, even if he wouldn't voice it. The way he'd looked at her—hungry and horrified in equal measure—told her everything.

Draco Malfoy wanted her. And hated himself for it.

The knowledge should have felt like victory. Instead, it left her shaky and confused, skin too tight and thoughts scattered. Because in that moment when he'd stood too close, when his control had cracked and shown the man beneath—

She'd wanted him to close the distance.

The realization sent Hermione fleeing back to her table, burying herself in research that suddenly seemed far less important than the man who'd held her capture. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen when she returned

That night, he didn't come to Hermione's room either.

Still she waited. Sitting at her vanity, fiddling with a strand of pearl necklace from yesterday's gift box. She'd told herself she wouldn't open any more presents, but curiosity won every time. This morning had brought pearl earrings to match yesterday's gift, nested in black velvet. And by night, the necklace was dangling on Hermione's neck.

"Stop thinking about it," she told her reflection repeatedly for the past few hours. "You're losing your mind from isolation."

The door opened without warning. It was him.

"You're late," Hermione said without turning, trying to act unbothered.

"I wasn't aware we had an appointment." His reflection appeared in her mirror, robes slightly disheveled. Malfoy looked tired, as if he was rushing to her room somehow.

"You always come after dinner."

"Perhaps I had better things to do."

She spun to face him, anger sparking. "Then why are you here?"

"Good question." He stayed by the door, tension radiating from every line of his body. "Why am I here, Granger? Why do I spend my evenings watching you ignore me? Why do I send gifts you'll never wear?"

"I'm wearing them now." The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Malfoy’s gaze dropped to the pearls at her throat. Something shifted in his expression, raw and hungry before he shuttered it away.

"So you are."

Silence stretched between them. Hermione turned back to the mirror, fingers trembling as she reached for one of the earrings.

"I can't get the clasp," she lied smoothly. "Put it on me, please?"

She heard his sharp intake of breath. Saw him war with himself in the mirror's reflection. Then footsteps, slow and measured, until he stood behind her.

"You're playing with fire." His voice was barely above a whisper. Hermione's heart hammered, Malfoy was close enough that she could feel the heat of him.

"I'm conducting an experiment."

"And what have you concluded?" His fingers brushed her ear as he took the earring, sending shivers down her spine. "Hair." The word came out rough, a touch demanding.

Hermione swept her hair over one shoulder, baring her neck as she brushed some strands behind her ear. In the mirror, she watched him swallow.

"That you're a very confusing man."

Malfoy’s breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape as he worked the clasp. He fastened the earring with surprising gentleness, fingers lingering against her neck. In the mirror, their eyes met and held.

"I'm not confused at all," he said quietly. "I know exactly what I want. That's the problem."

"What do you want?"

His hand moved to her throat, fingers ghosting over the pearls of her necklace without quite touching skin. "Things I have no right to want."

"What if they were freely given?"

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Malfoy's hand stilled, and for a moment she thought he might actually touch her properly. Then he stepped back, expression closing off.

"Nothing between us could ever be freely given." His voice turned cold. "I told you already. Don't forget what I am, Granger. What you are. This—" he gestured between them, "—is an illusion. Pretty clothes and pearls don't change the reality."

"Then why bother with any of it?"

"Because I'm a fool."

The honesty in his voice made her turn. He stood frozen by her vanity, hands clenched at his sides, looking at her like she was something precious and terrible all at once.

"Malfoy—"

"Goodnight, Hermione."

He fled before she could finish, leaving Hermione staring at her reflection. The pearl gleamed on her ear like drops of moonlight, beautiful and cold.

She touched it gently, thinking of his fingers fastening the clasp. Of his voice breaking on 'things I have no right to want.' Of the careful distance he maintained even when everything in him seemed to scream for closeness.

Hermione...

Her name had sounded delicious coming off of Malfoy’s lips.

***

Draco's door slammed hard enough to rattle the portraits. His hands shook as he warded it shut, sealing himself away from temptation wrapped in purple silk and pearls.

"Fuck." The word came out strangled. He pressed his back against the door.

He had ran. Like a coward. Like a man who knew one touch would destroy whatever remained of his control.

Twice. Twice in one day he'd nearly lost it. First in the library, caging her against the shelves. Then at her vanity, fingers itching to tangle in those curls. Both times she'd looked at him with those wide brown eyes, daring him to cross the line.

The little fool had no idea what she was playing with.

Or maybe she did. Maybe that was worse—the idea that she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Draco stalked to his dresser, yanking open drawers with unnecessary force. His reflection caught in the mirror—pupils blown wide, color high on his cheeks. He looked wrecked. Desperate. Pathetic.

All because Granger decided to do her little experiment.

The Veela in his dreams already tormented him nightly. Now Granger had decided to torment his waking hours as well. Batting her eyes, leaning forward to display the curve of her breasts, asking him to touch her—

Did she have any idea how close he'd come to showing her exactly what happened when she pushed too far?

No. She couldn't know. Because if she did, she'd run screaming instead of looking at him with those wide brown eyes, asking questions that cut too deep.

What if they were freely given?

Fucking Granger...

Unlike the Veela, the real Granger didn't whisper. She ordered him around like a house-elf, pointing at books she didn't want just to watch him fetch them. And fuck if that didn't make it worse, seeing her confident and demanding instead of broken.

Put it on me, please.

His cock throbbed, painfully hard in his trousers. Just remembering her words had him ready to combust.

This was the Veela's doing. Had to be. Draco had gone years without once looking at Granger as anything more than an irritation. Now he couldn't close his eyes without seeing her spread across his sheets. All of it must be artificial, forced on him by that creature's influence.

But the Veela hadn't made him notice how she bit her lip when concentrating. Hadn't forced him to memorize the exact shade of her eyes in candlelight. Hadn't crafted the gifts he selected with embarrassing care.

Those were all him.

"Get it together." He stripped off his outer robes, movements sharp. The fabric smelled like jasmine and vanilla where she'd been close. His cock twitched at the scent.

Pathetic. He was absolutely pathetic, sniffing after a Mudblood like a dog in heat. His father would curse him into oblivion if he knew. Aunt Bella would do worse.

But they didn't know. No one knew except him and the ache between his legs that wouldn't subside.

Draco considered a cold shower. Considered hexing himself until the desire passed. But he'd tried both before, and neither worked. The Veela's hold was too strong, wound too deep into his magic.

Or maybe that was just another lie he told himself.

"Tilly," Draco called, voice rough.

The elf appeared instantly. "Master calls?"

"I need—" Shame burned his throat. But the ache was worse, demanding relief. "In Granger's room. The blue ribbon she wore. Three days ago. Bring it."

If Tilly found the request odd, she didn't show it. Elves were trained not to question, no matter how depraved the order.

"Yes, Master. Tilly brings it right away."

She vanished. Draco sank onto his bed, head in his hands. What was he doing? Sending a house-elf to fetch Granger's hair accessories like some lovesick pervert. He should call Tilly back, tell her to forget it.

The elf reappeared, blue silk dangling from her fingers. "Is this the one Master wants?"

Draco took it without meeting her eyes. "That's all. Go."

Alone again, he stared at the innocent strip of fabric. Such a simple thing. She'd worn it while researching, absently touching it when deep in thought. He'd watched her fingers play with the ends, imagined those same fingers in his hair.

The silk was soft against his palm. He brought it to his face before he could stop himself.

Jasmine. Vanilla. And underneath, something uniquely her—ink and parchment and that indefinable scent that made his magic sing.

His cock throbbed insistently. Draco's free hand fumbled with his belt. Self-disgust warred with desperate need as he struggled to free himself, already leaking. This was wrong. Sick. If anyone knew—if she knew—

But the silk smelled so much like her. Still held traces of her warmth. He could almost pretend it was her fingers wrapped around him instead of his own.

He finally freed himself from his trousers, already painfully hard. The first stroke tore a groan from his throat.

In his mind, she knelt before him. Those brown eyes gazed up, dark with want instead of defiance. Her lips parted—

No. Even in fantasy, he couldn't imagine her submissive. Granger would never kneel.

She'd push him down instead. Climb into his lap with that same bossy confidence she'd shown in the library. I want that one, she'd say, pointing at his cock like it was another book for him to fetch.

She was such a brat.

Draco would love to try taming her.

But Granger probably wouldn’t have it. She would slapped him as she had few weeks ago. It would be even better.

And Draco would. Merlin help him, he'd give her anything she demanded.

The ribbon slipped between his fingers as he stroked himself faster. In his mind, she rode him slowly, taking her pleasure while he begged. Those perfect lips would part on a gasp when he hit the right angle. She'd bite the lower one, just like when she read.

Put it in me.

Now, Draco. Don't make me ask twice.

His name on her lips broke him. Draco came with a strangled curse, spilling over his hand in hot pulses. The blue ribbon fluttered to the floor, forgotten.

Reality crashed back immediately. He lay there panting, sticky and ashamed, staring at the ceiling. What had he become? Jerking off to hair ribbons and imagined commands from his prisoner.

Not prisoner. Guest. Another lie he told himself, as if semantics could change the truth.

Draco cleaned himself with a wandless spell. The ribbon lay crumpled on his floor, evidence of his depravity. He should burn it. Should burn all her gifts, ward his room against her scent, find some way to break this hold she had on him.

Instead, he picked up the silk and smoothed it carefully. Placed it in his bedside drawer with the others—a growing collection of shame. Hair pins that had fallen during her illness. A handkerchief she'd used once and forgotten. Small pieces of her he hoarded like a dragon with gold.

Pathetic.

But knowing that didn't stop him from opening the drawer again, running his fingers over the collection. Didn't stop him from already planning tomorrow's gift, something that would make her smile that surprised little smile she tried to hide.

Didn't stop him from wanting her with an intensity that bordered on madness.

The Veela's fault. All of it the Veela's fault.

But even he didn't believe it anymore. The creature might amplify his desires, but it couldn't create them from nothing. And the truth was—

He wanted her. Had maybe wanted her for longer than he cared to examine. All those years of watching her in school, cataloging her habits, tracking her achievements. He'd called it keeping tabs on the enemy. But enemies didn't feature in the kind of dreams that left him aching.

Draco closed the drawer firmly and headed for the shower. Cold water might not cure his obsession, but it would wash away the evidence of his weakness.

Chapter Text

Hermione stared at her bedroom ceiling, staring at the pastel clouds and counting the carved roses for the hundredth time. Dawn light crept through heavy curtains, marking another sleepless night spent dissecting Malfoy's behavior.

His infatuation—if that's what it was—should disgust her. The Death Eater who'd imprisoned her, who'd watched her suffer, now wanted her. The wrongness of it sat heavy in her stomach.

But Hermione Granger hadn't survived a war this long by ignoring opportunities.

If Malfoy truly wanted her—truly cared in whatever warped way he could manage—then she held power. Power she desperately needed. She could manipulate his feelings to secure what she needed most—help for her friends.

Luna, Hannah, Susan...

Especially Ginny, whose fate remained unknown. Hermione was puzzled by how Malfoy had managed to catch Ginny, even with the Polyjuice Potion. Now, she suspected that Ginny's capture was linked to the fact that she had been wearing Hermione's face.

She pushed the guilt down. Self-loathing wouldn't save any of them. But Malfoy might, if she played this right.

But first, Hermione needed him to actually show his face.

Tilly appeared with lunch. "Master is—"

"Busy. Yes, you mentioned." Hermione stabbed a piece of fruit with unnecessary force. "How convenient that his schedule cleared for weeks, then filled the moment things got complicated."

The elf wrung her hands. "Master is… troubled."

"Master is a coward."

The ferret had been avoiding her, Hermione knew it. No library visits, no evening conversations, no lingering stares that made her skin prickle. Just silence and distance, as if that night in her room had never happened.

Except the gifts kept coming.

It drove Hermione mad.

"Tilly," she called.

"Miss needs something?"

"Tell him—" Hermione paused. What could she say that would drag him from his self-imposed exile? "Tell him I need his assistance with something important."

Tilly vanished. She returned minutes later, wringing her hands.

"Master says Miss has managed fine without him."

Heat flooded Hermione's cheeks. The dismissal stung more than it should.

"Fine," she bit out. "I'll continue managing."

The fourth day brought new audacity. Another thoughtful gift—a self-updating bibliography that would save hours of work—and a message through Tilly: "Master says dressmaker is coming in three days. Miss must attend fitting for Dark Lord's gathering."

"Tell your master," Hermione said through gritted teeth, "that if he has something to say, he can bloody well say it himself."

She'd waited until midnight, certain that would draw him out. Surely Malfoy’s pride couldn't handle such a direct challenge.

The clock struck one. Her door remained closed.

Day fifth, Hermione finally decided: if the mountain wouldn't come to her, she'd drag the mountain by its Pureblood hair.

"Take me to the restricted section," she told Tilly. "The one with screaming books."

The elf shifted nervously. "That section has very tall shelves, Miss. Very tall ladders."

"Perfect."

The elf led her to a section Hermione had avoided—ancient texts on blood magic that she avoided. They walked to its furthest corner, where shelves stretched three stories high. A ladder leaned against the tallest section, disappearing into shadows near the vaulted ceiling. Hermione's stomach clenched just looking at it.

"Does your master know about my fear of heights?"

"Oh yes, Miss. Master was very specific. Tilly must never let Miss climb high things.'"

"Excellent." Hermione smoothed her skirts. This was insane. Climbing a ladder in a dress to force a Death Eater to talk to her. But she needed Malfoy close enough to manipulate. "I'm climbing it."

Tilly's squeak could have shattered glass. "No! Miss mustn't! Tilly will get whatever book Miss needs!"

"Can't." Hermione gripped the first rung, wood rough under her palms. "I need to see the titles myself. Compare editions."

"But Miss is afraid—"

"Terrified, actually." Her voice came out steadier than her hands. "But I'm doing it anyway."

The first few rungs weren't terrible. She kept her eyes up, focused on the shelf edges above. Her dress kept tangling around her legs.

Halfway up, the ladder creaked.

Hermione froze. This high, she could see dust motes dancing in the light from the enchanted windows. Could see the very long drop to the marble floor below.

"Miss should come down!" Tilly called, voice tiny from below.

"Almost there," Hermione lied. She was nowhere near the books she supposedly needed. But down meant looking at the ground, and oh Merlin why had she thought this was clever?

Another step. The ladder swayed slightly—probably her imagination, but her body didn't care. Vertigo slammed into her. The room spun lazily, the shelves blurring together.

"I can't—" The words came out strangled. She pressed her forehead against a rung, eyes squeezed shut. "Tilly, I can't see the steps. My dress—"

"Tilly will climb! Tilly will help!"

"No!" If the elf touched her now, she'd get startled and fall for certain. "Get Malfoy. Now."

"But Master said—"

"NOW!"

The crack of Disapparition left her alone with her racing heart. A whimper escaped before she could stop it. Hermione couldn't see her feet, couldn't judge the distance to the next rung. Moving up was impossible. Moving down was worse.

Please hurry, Hermione thought desperately. Please don't let pride keep him away.

Crack of Apparition, footstep running. Then Malfoy’s voice—raw terror barely contained: "GRANGER!"

"Get me down." Hermione hated how small she sounded.

"Are you completely mental? What possessed you to—"

"Get me DOWN!"

"Let go. I'll catch you."

"Are you insane?" Her laugh came out hysterical. "You're a wizard! Use magic!"

"Granger—"

"Levitate me down or I swear I'll—" The threat died as the ladder shifted again. Real this time, not imagination.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

A string of curses, then—finally—blessed relief as her body lifted gently off the ladder. The levitation charm lowered her with agonizing slowness until her feet touched solid ground.

Hermione's knees gave out. Malfoy caught her before she hit the floor.

"You absolute fucking idiot." He yanked her against him, one hand gripping her shoulder while the other gripped her waist. Tremors running through his frame. "You could have broken your neck. What the fuck were you thinking—"

His voice cracked on the last word. Actually cracked.

"Don't pretend you care." She shoved at his chest, needing distance from his inexplicable panic. "You've made it quite clear you want nothing to do with me."

"I've been busy."

"Doing what? Tilly says you've been moping in your study."

Malfoy shot a murderous look at where Tilly had been. The elf's terrified squeak echoed as she vanished.

"Don't blame her for your cowardice."

"What I do in my own home is none of your concern."

"It is when you usually spend that time with me!" The words erupted before she could stop them. Heat flooded her face at the admission. "You can't just disappear after whatever that was in my room. You can't send me gifts and pretend I don't exist. Pick one."

"Miss me, did you?" His voice dropped to something dangerous and mocking. "Poor little prisoner, lost without her Death Eater?"

"Don't." She met his glare, refusing to back down. "You're the one who ran. You're the one who couldn't handle—"

"Handle what?"

He slammed her against the bookshelf. Books rained down as he caged her between his arms. His breath came in harsh pants against her ear.

"Your games? Your manipulation?" His laugh held no humor. "I know exactly what you're doing."

"Then why did you come?"

Silence. Malfoy's jaw clenched so hard she heard teeth grind. Grey eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered there for a moment before snapping back to Hermione’s eyes.

"Thought so." She lifted her chin, ignoring how her pulse thundered from proximity. "Then you'll be in the library tomorrow."

"Will I?" His lips brushed her ear. "Going to climb more furniture if I don't? Throw yourself off the balcony? Again?"

"I'll burn your gifts." The threat came out breathless. "Every book. Every quill. Everything."

Malfoy went rigid. Something dangerous flickered across his face. "Blackmail, I see. How Slytherin of you."

"I adapt."

They stared at each other, the air between them crackled with barely leashed violence. Hermione saw the exact moment his control fracture.

"Fine." The word came out guttural. Malfoy leaned down until their noses nearly touched. Hermione can smell him—dizzying spice and fir. "You want me close? You'll have me. But when you realize what you've asked for—what you've demanded—you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

His thumb traced her cheek, lingering just at the corner of her lips. The touch so gentle it raised goosebumps.

"You will regret this, Granger."

The threat in those words made Hermione’s stomach drop. But she couldn't back down now.

"Our usual time then."

She ducked under his arm, needing distance before she did something stupid. Like ask what he meant. Like demand to know why her near-fall had destroyed his composure so completely.

Hermione left him there, hands braced against the shelf, looking like she'd hexed him.

***

Six days. Only six fucking days of exile, and Granger had nearly killed herself to drag him out.

The audacity of it made Draco's blood boil.

She could have killed them both unknowingly.

The glass Draco was holding shattered in his grip. Blood welled from his palm as he watched it drip onto the rug. Physical pain was easier than the alternative. Easier than acknowledging why he'd hidden like a coward for nearly a week.

Draco no longer trusted himself around her.

The earring incident had proven that. One touch—one innocent request—and he'd nearly lost control. Nearly pressed her against that vanity and shown her exactly what her games provoked.

"Master needs healing?"

Tilly appeared at his elbow, already reaching for his bloodied hand. He jerked away.

"Tell me about Granger's day."

The elf's ears drooped. They'd played this game every evening—Tilly recounting Granger's day while Draco hated himself a little more with each word.

"Miss read about squibs today. Made many notes. Skipped snacks again."

"Why?"

"Miss said she wasn't hungry. But Tilly thinks... Tilly thinks Miss was waiting."

Waiting for him. The knowledge shouldn't have pleased him. Shouldn't have sent warmth through his chest that had nothing to do with firewhiskey.

"Did she mention the gifts?"

"Miss used the color-changing ink. Smiled when it turned gold."

Gold meant contentment. The fact that his gift had made her happy—even briefly—was pathetic. He was pathetic, clinging to scraps of approval from his prisoner.

"That's all. Go."

Alone again, Draco healed his hand with wandless spell. The physical wound closed easily. If only the rest were so simple.

Her threat echoed in Draco’s mind. Burn his gifts. She wouldn't—couldn't. He'd seen how she clung to Aunt Andromeda’s fairytale book. Had watched her arrange the pearls just so on her vanity and obsessed over the self-organizing index. Granger treasured his offerings, even if she'd never admit it.

The thought of her destroying them made something vicious rise in his throat.

Worse was knowing she'd sought him out. Not from desire—he wasn't fool enough to believe that—but from need. She wanted something from him, was willing to risk her neck to get it.

The manipulative little witch.

Even knowing that, Draco still couldn't care less. Not when he'd spent six days drowning in longing.

The next morning, Draco arrived late. And Granger had the nerve to came even later—thirty-two minutes, he’d counted. When she swept in wearing the pink dress he'd sent—to torment him, Draco just knew, she didn't glance his way.

The dismissal burned.

But Draco's pride wouldn't let him speak first. Granger had demanded his presence, threatened him into coming. If she wanted conversation, she could bloody well start it.

By evening, his jaw ached from clenching. She packed up her things without a word. And like a good dog, Draco followed her to her room right after dinner. She settled at her vanity, removing pins from her hair while he watched from his chair.

Each curl that fell was calculated torture. She knew what she was doing. Had to know.

Draco left after an hour as always, fled to his room where he drowned himself in Firewhiskey, her scent haunting him. Draco didn’t plan to sleep a wink. He wouldn’t give the Veela a chance to visit him in dream.

But of course, the vile thing dragged him into dreams anyway. He was forced to endure visions of brown eyes gone soft with pleasure, of wicked hands learning his body, of that brilliant mind finally understanding she was his.

By morning, Draco considered Obliviating himself.

"Master?" Tilly reminded him after breakfast. "The dressmaker arrives soon."

Right. The fitting. Another torture session where he'd have the opportunity to watch her model gowns, knowing each one would cling to curves he'd memorized but never touched.

Fuck that, Draco thought as he fled to the library.

When he got there, Granger was already settled at her table, reading without care.

"Why are you here?"

She looked up from her book, blinking with faux innocence. "Pardon?"

"The library. You have a fitting today."

"Oh?" She tilted her head. "I wasn't aware. Perhaps someone should have mentioned it."

"I sent Tilly with the message three days ago."

"Did you?" She returned to her book. "How strange. I only accept messages delivered in person these days."

His jaw ticked. Granger knew exactly which buttons to push.

"Get up. Mother's waiting."

"No."

The flat refusal stunned him. "No?"

"Take me yourself." She finally looked at him properly, challenge clear in her voice. "Or I don't go."

"This is ridiculous. You need a dress for—"

"For your Dark Lord's party. Which I have zero interest in attending." She closed her book with deliberate care. "Unless you make it worth my while."

"Worth your—" He laughed, incredulous. "You're a prisoner, not a guest to be courted."

"Then treat me like one." She stood, moving into his space with that fearlessness that made him insane. "Lock me up. Take away the books, the gifts, the comfort."

They stood frozen. She was so close he could see gold flecks in her brown eyes, could count the freckles across her nose. One hand twitch and he could touch her. Could finally—

"I could have Tilly drag you there."

"You could." She smiled, sweet as poison. "And I could make such a scene your mother would be mortified. Really lean into the imprisoned maiden role, don't you think?"

Draco hands fisted. He should refuse. Should maintain what little distance remained between them. Should remember that she was his prisoner—

"Fine."

Granger smiled. He hated that it was beautiful.

He wanted to grab her. Shake her. Make her understand how dangerous her smile could be. Instead, he offered his arm with mocking courtesy.

The fool took it. Draco decided that she had no sense of self preservation.

They walked in tense silence through the Manor's halls. Portraits watched their passage with knowing eyes. The last Malfoy heir escorting a Mudblood to play dress-up.

In any other circumstances, his father would have killed them both.

"You're grinding your teeth," she observed.

"You're testing my patience."

"I thought that was my primary purpose. Besides serving as your war trophy."

"Your purpose—" He stopped himself again. Your purpose is to be mine, his mind finished. To bear my marks and never leave this manor again.

No, he refused to entertain these thoughts further.

"Yes?" She prompted. "Do elaborate on my purpose."

They'd reached the drawing room. Through the door, he could hear his mother's voice, the dressmaker's replies. Safe territory. Witnesses.

He leaned down instead, lips nearly brushing her ear.

"Your purpose is whatever I decide it is. And right now, I've decided you'll play dress-up like a good prisoner. You'll smile for my mother. You'll cooperate with the fitting. And tonight, when I come to your room, you'll tell me exactly why you're so desperate for my attention."

She shivered. He felt it through their joined arms, saw the way her breath caught.

"I'm not desperate for anything."

"Liar." He straightened, opening the door. "Mother, I've brought your project."

Narcissa rose from her settee, eyes bright with satisfaction. "Miss Granger, dear. How lovely to finally see you again. And Draco, what a pleasant surprise. Madame Partridge is already waiting."

Draco had planned to leave immediately. Dump Granger and retreat to safer ground. But she held his arm when he tried to pull away.

"Draco insisted on escorting me personally. He's even offered to help select accessories."

Draco...

Since when did she call him by his given name?

"Has he?" His mother's eyebrows rose.

"I said no such thing—"

"After all, your reputation depends on my presentation." Granger looked up at him. "You will let me choose, won't you?"

Trapped.

"Of course," he gritted his teeth.

"How generous." Granger released him only to accept a glass of champagne from his mother. "Where should I change?"

Madame Partridge gestured to a privacy screen. "Behind there, Miss. I'll assist with the laces."

"No need. I'm sure Draco won't mind helping."

The champagne glass in his mother's hand paused halfway to her lips. Madame Partridge's eyes widened.

"That would be inappropriate," he said through gritted teeth.

"Would it?" She moved toward the screen, already working at the buttons of her current dress. "You see me in my nightgown every night. Isn’t that also inappropriate?"

Narcissa made a delicate choking sound.

"That was—" Different? Totally innocent in correct context? An unfortunate fact he'd to endure every night? "This is—"

"What? Too much temptation?" She disappeared behind the screen. Fabric rustled. "I thought Death Eaters were made of sterner stuff."

He was going to kill her. Slowly. After he fucked her against that screen until she screamed his name.

"Try the red one first, my dear," his mother interjected. "It will complement your coloring."

The first dress was crimson silk that pooled like blood at her feet. Granger turned slowly, letting the fabric catch the light. The back dipped low enough to display the delicate knobs of her spine. "What do you think, Draco?"

"Garish," he ground out. "Try another one."

"Hmm." She set it aside, selected another. "Perhaps this one instead?"

The new selection made his hands fist. White lace that would leave nothing to imagination. She held it up, tilting her head as if considering.

"Too virginal?"

The word 'virginal' from her mouth nearly undid him. Because she was—had to be. The little bookworm who'd spent her school years buried in the library, surely she was too proper for the fumbling of teenage boys. The thought of her untouched, waiting, his to ruin—

Bile rose in his throat. These weren't his thoughts. Couldn't be.

"Perhaps something more… traditional?" Narcissa suggested.

Granger smiled, sweet as arsenic. "Oh, but I want to make an impression. Don't I, Draco?"

There it was again. That voice—honeyed innocence wrapped around his name like she had any right to it. Like she knew what it did to him.

The Veela pledge stirred in his chest, recognizing challenge. Recognizing his mate playing games she didn't understand.

No. Not mate. Prisoner. His prisoner who was currently holding up a green dress that would make her look like a high-end escort.

"Absolutely not."

"But it's your color." She turned to the mirror, holding the silk against her body. "I thought you'd appreciate the gesture."

Appreciate. He'd appreciate wrapping his hands around her throat. He'd appreciate bending her over that mirror. He'd appreciate—

"Try it on then," Draco heard himself say.

Both women turned to stare. His mother's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.

"Draco, dear, perhaps—"

"She wants to play dress-up?" His voice came out rough. "Let her."

Hermione's eyes widened slightly as if she hadn't expected Draco to actually let her try it. Good. Let her realize she'd pushed too far.

The dressmaker ushered her behind a screen. Draco forced himself to remain seated, to not pace like the caged animal he'd become. His mother's gaze burned into him.

"Be gentle towards her, Draco," Narcissa reminded him.

"No, she’s a brat."

Before his mother could rebuke him further, Hermione emerged.

The dress was worse than Draco had imagined. No, better than he'd imagined. A torture device designed specifically for him.

Green silk clung to every curve, the neckline plunging between her breasts. The slit rode high on her thigh, revealing legs that had no business being that tempting. She'd pinned her hair up, leaving her throat bare except for—

"You're wearing my necklace."

She touched the pearls. "It matches."

Of course it did. Of course Granger had thought to wear his gift while modeling a dress in his color.

"Turn around."

She obeyed slowly, letting him see how the fabric dipped low in the back.

"Well?"

You look like mine. The thought came uninvited. Like I dressed you myself. Like I chose every piece to drive myself insane—

"Your color," she said. "Appropriate, don't you think?"

It was anything but appropriate.

Draco was painfully hard and past giving a fuck whether it was the pledge's influence or his own wicked desire. Granger was wearing his color, his gift like a claim. Like she already belonged to him, like she wanted the world to know exactly whose bed she warmed.

Except she didn't. This was manipulation, pure and simple. The innocent little swot who'd probably never been properly kissed was playing at seduction to get under his skin.

And she'd been terrible at it.

But the artlessness of it, the obvious effort… It was more erotic than any practiced seduction.

"Go change. Now."

Her lower lip pushed out in a pout that made him want to bite it. "But I like this one best. Don't you want me looking my absolute finest for your Dark Lord?"

The thought of other Death Eaters seeing her like this—seeing what was his—made violence sing in his blood. He'd gouge out their eyes before letting them look at her.

"Bring the modest line," he commanded the dressmaker. "Pastels and lace."

"But those are so… sweet." Granger's nose wrinkled. "Innocent."

"Exactly."

Because that's what she was beneath this act. Sweet Granger who flushed when he stood too close. Innocent Granger who'd gasped when he'd touched her ear. His to corrupt, when the time came. His to teach exactly what those little games of hers led to.

No, just no. In front of his mother, really? Draco must had completely lost his mind.

"I prefer something more sophisticated. More adult."

Adult. As if she knew the first thing about adult desires. About the depraved things he imagined doing to her when the Veela forced him into those dreams.

"You'll wear what I choose." His voice dropped. "Or did you forget who makes decisions here?"

"Did you forget our agreement?" She stepped closer, brave in her stolen confidence. "I cooperate, and you let me choose. Unless you're going back on your word?"

The challenge in her eyes made him snap.

He was on his feet before thought caught up. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back.

"Watch your tone," he breathed, towering over her. But the little fool stood her ground, defiant as ever.

He could almost feel her rapid heartbeat, smell the jasmine and vanilla that haunted his nights. One kiss. One taste. What harm could—

"Draco." His mother's voice cut through the haze. "Perhaps we should all sit down."

Draco released the girl abruptly. She swayed, glaring dagger at him.

"The pastel collection," he repeated to Madame Partridge, who scurried away.

Hermione's eyes flashed. "You can't just—"

"Watch me." He dropped back into his chair, sprawling with deliberate arrogance. "In fact, come here. You seem to have forgotten your place."

"My place?"

"On my lap." He patted his thigh mockingly. "Since you're so eager for my attention, you can have it. All of it."

Her face went scarlet. "That's completely inappropriate—"

"So is parading around half-naked calling me by my given name." He leaned back, waiting. "What's wrong? Not so brave now that I'm playing along?"

Granger stood frozen, caught between pride and prudence. His mother watched with barely concealed amusement.

"Unless you'd prefer I leave?" He started to rise. "I'm sure Mother can handle—"

"No." The word burst out of her. She took a shaky breath. "No. Stay."

"Then come here."

The walk to his chair took forever and no time at all. She perched on the very edge of his knee, rigid as stone.

"Properly," he commanded, pulling her back against his chest.

She made a small sound of protest but didn't fight. Couldn't, not without making the scene she'd threatened. Her weight settled against him, warm and perfect and absolutely maddening.

Then she gasped, her eyes widen for a moment before she quickly averted her eyes.

Oh, so she noticed.

Good.

"There's a good girl." The words came out mocking, throwing her earlier manipulation back at her. "Now we'll choose something appropriate. Something that won't have every Death Eater thinking you're available for their entertainment."

She stiffened. "I never—"

"No?" His breath stirred the curls at her nape. "Then what would you call that display? That dress screams 'fuck me' in twelve languages."

"Draco!" His mother's rebuke was mild, more amused than scandalized.

But Granger had gone silent. He could feel her trembling, see the flush spreading down her neck. The little fool was out of her depth, finally understanding the game she'd started.

Madame Partridge returned with arms full of pastel lace and soft lavender silk. Proper dresses for a proper girl, not the promiscuous creature Granger had been pretending to be.

"The lavender one," he decided. "With pearl buttons."

"It looks like something a child would wear," she protested weakly.

"It looks like something a lady would wear." His arm tightened around her waist when she tried to shift away. "Which is what you'll be at the gathering. A perfectly behaved lady who knows her place."

"And where exactly is my place?"

The question hung between them, loaded with meanings neither would acknowledge.

"Wherever I put you," he said finally. "Exactly like now."

She turned her head to glare at him, "I hate you. You're a git."

"And you're a manipulative little tease who got exactly what she asked for." He held her gaze steadily. "Next time you want my attention, try asking nicely instead of risking your neck."

"I did ask nicely. You hid like a coward."

"I was protecting you."

"From what?"

From me, he didn't say.

"The jewelry," his mother interrupted smoothly. "We should select pieces before the hour grows too late."

The next torture began. Each necklace required him to brush Granger's curls aside, fasten clasps against skin that smelled like temptation. Each bracelet meant circling her delicate wrists, feeling her pulse race beneath his fingers.

She'd stopped fighting, gone pliant in his lap. But he could feel her awareness in every breath, every tiny shift of weight. She was learning what her games cost. Learning that Draco could play them better.

"The sapphires," he decided, selecting a collar of midnight blue stones. "They'll complement the dress."

"Slytherin colors would match better," she said quietly.

"You've worn enough of my colors for one day." He fastened the necklace, letting his fingers linger against her nape. "Unless you're trying to tell me something?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"No?" He leaned closer, lips barely grazing her ear. "Then why did you really climb that ladder? Why threaten my gifts?"

"Maybe, I was feeling lonely."

"Liar." The word was soft, almost affectionate. "You want something. Tell me what it is."

For a moment, he thought she might. Her lips parted, breath catching. Then—

"You're right," she said instead. "The sapphires are perfect."

Frustrated beyond measure, he pressed his lips to the necklace where it rested against her throat. Not quite touching skin, but close enough to feel her sharp inhale.

"There," he murmured against the gems. "Now everyone will know these are mine. That you're—"

He caught himself before finishing. But they both heard the unspoken word.

Mine.

When he lifted his head, her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. She looked thoroughly debauched despite being fully clothed. Looked the way Draco had imagined her in countless dreams—wrecked by his touch, marked as his.

"I think... we're finished here," his mother said with barely concealed satisfaction.

But they weren't finished. Not even close.

As Hermione fled to her room, Draco remained in his chair, hands clenched to stop their shaking. The coldness of sapphires lingered on his lips.

***

Draco pushed food around his plate, appetite thoroughly murdered by the afternoon's events. Roasted pheasant and glazed vegetables might as well have been ash for all he tasted. His mother maintained pleasant conversation about renovations to the west wing while his father carved meat with his knife.

Even after months, Lucius Malfoy still rarely graced them with his presence these days, too busy with Death Eater politics. His appearance tonight meant trouble.

"The gardens are coming along beautifully," Narcissa said, filling another silence. "The white roses bloomed early this year."

"Fascinating." Lucius didn't look up from his plate.

A year ago, his father would have indulged such talk. Would have asked about the new varietals, suggested improvements. Now he treated his wife's interests like background noise.

The clink of silverware continued. Draco counted seconds between each scrape of knife on porcelain, using the rhythm to keep his thoughts from straying to brown eyes and green silk.

"If you'll excuse me—" He started to rise.

"Sit."

One word. Draco's body obeyed before his mind caught up, trained by years of that particular tone.

Lucius set down his utensils with deliberate care. "Cyrus Greengrass sends his regards."

"Does he now?"

"He's graciously offered you another opportunity to make amends." His father's grey eyes finally met his. "You'll escort Astoria to next week's gathering."

"Tell Cyrus to find another escort for his daughter."

"You will accept."

"I won’t." Draco's jaw tightened. "We’ve been through this."

"You humiliated their family at their own event." Lucius’s voice remained level. "Reparations must be made."

"Greengrass can choke on his reparations—"

"Draco." his mother warning came too late.

"You will mind your tongue at my table." Ice crept into Lucius's tone. "Whatever grievances you harbor, you represent this family."

"I'm taking Granger." The words tumbled out before Draco could stop them. He watched his father's face harden, satisfaction and dread warring in his chest.

Lucius leaned back in his chair, studying his son with renewed interest. "To the gathering? That seems premature. We haven't concluded our investigation into her heritage."

"What's to investigate? She's mine. That's all anyone needs to know."

"Is she?" His father's gaze bored into him. "Or are you hers?"

Draco's throat constricted, the question hit a nerve.

"The others are bringing their prizes. Why should I be different?" He forced himself to act unbothered. “The Dark Lord specifically requested we display our acquisitions. To inspire the ranks.” Draco meet his father's eyes. "Or have you forgotten his decree?"

"I forget nothing." Lucius's lip curled in distaste. "Least of all the degradation of proper society into this barbaric spectacle."

Draco almost laughed. After everything—the murders, the torture, the systematic destruction of entire society—this was where Lucius Malfoy discovered his moral boundaries?

"Darling," Narcissa interjected smoothly. "has Mr. Beckard made progress?"

The shift in topic was transparent, but Lucius allowed it. "He continues investigating the European bloodlines. However, the Unspeakable I've been cultivating has discovered something intriguing."

Draco's stomach dropped. "What Unspeakable?"

"Briar Aves. Specialist in blood magic identification." Lucius paused, watching his son's reaction. "He's detected traces of extensive spellwork on her blood. Dark Arts, layered and complex. He needs to examine the subject directly to learn more."

"Absolutely not."

"Draco—" Narcissa began.

"This isn't a negotiation."

"I said no." Draco clenched his fists. "No one touches her. No one examines her. No one—"

"You forget yourself." Lucius's voice steeled. "I've spent months and considerable gold investigating your stupidity. Bribes, silence, favors called in, the risks I've taken to keep this quiet from the Dark Lord—all to clean up your catastrophic error in judgment. The least you can do is to cooperate."

"She's not some specimen for dissection!" The words came out as a snarl. Something primal and possessive surged through Draco's chest—not entirely his own emotion.

"Then what is she?" Lucius stood, unflinching. "Because until proven otherwise, she remains exactly what she appears. A Mudblood who's ensnared my foolish heir through unnatural means."

It was hypocritical of Draco to feel angry by the slur, especially after he'd called her that to her face countless time. Yet Draco was on his feet before conscious thought. "Call her that again."

"Enough!" Narcissa's voice cracked like a whip, almost hysterical. "Sit. Both of you. Now."

They obeyed, none of them liked to see the lady of the manor in distress. Though Draco was clearly still on edge.

Narcissa's hand touched Draco's arm before he could lunge across the table. "I've made arrangements of my own." Her calm voice cut through the tension. "Lila Zabini owes me a considerable debt."

Both men turned to her.

"Her insight could prove invaluable." Narcissa continued.

"Can she be trusted?" Lucius's eyes narrowed.

"I've ensured her silence." A small smile played at Narcissa's lips. "An Unbreakable Vow. Quite thorough, if I say so myself."

Draco felt a surge of gratitude toward his mother. Trust her to outmaneuver them all.

"Acceptable," Lucius conceded. "Though risky."

"Less risky than letting an Unspeakable paw at her." Draco's agreement came grudgingly. "If that yields nothing substantial, I will consider the Unspeakable."

"The pledge has already begun affecting your judgment," Lucius observed coldly. "You're prioritizing her safety over your own survival."

Draco wanted to argue. Wanted to explain how he fought against it every day. But the truth was worse. Some days, he couldn't tell where the compulsion ended and his own desires began.

"Expect a summons tonight." Lucius's parting words cut through Draco's spiral. "The Dark Lord has another task for you. I trust you'll be properly prepared."

The dismissal was clear. Draco rose, inclining his head to his mother before striding from the dining room, feeling vague sense of deja vu.

In his room, Draco stripped off his dinner robes and reached for his mission attire. Black dragonhide, spelled for silence and shadows. The holster for his blade required careful adjustment—too loose and it would catch, too tight and the mechanism would jam. He'd learned that lesson in blood. Other people's blood.

Draco slipped the silver ring to his middle finger and flicked his wrist once. The blade shot out with a soft snick. Another flick retracted it. The mechanism was flawless, responsive to his will.

He closed his eyes and thought of brown curls spread across silk sheets. Of defiant honey eyes that still sparked with fury despite months of captivity. Of the way she'd looked in emerald dress, beautiful and untouchable and his.

No—not his. Never truly his. Just another chain binding them both to a fate neither had chosen.

The Mark on his arm pulsed. Once. Twice. The summons had begun.

Draco grimaced, he wouldn't be able to visit Granger tonight.

Chapter Text

The Mark still burned cold against Draco's forearm as he materialized in the designated chamber. More bodies than usual crowded the space—at least thirty Death Eaters, their masks gleaming in the torchlight.

Wonderful. A large-scale operation then. His task would be different, naturally. The Dark Lord had developed a taste for Draco's particular brand of efficiency.

Three months ago, Draco had been just another foot soldier in raids. Anonymous, unremarkable and safe in mediocrity despite his surname.

Then She had awakened.

And suddenly Draco was painting walls with arterial spray because a creature wearing Granger's face demanded blood for every slight She ever suffered. Every curse carried Her fury. Every kill was Her revenge against a world that had wronged Her. His blade had become an extension of Her rage, and wasn't that just simply poetic?

The worst part? Draco was good at it. Really good. The kind of good that got noticed by psychopaths who ruled through fear and counted torture as a recreational activity.

Someone like The Dark Lord.

Because of course he'd noticed. Nothing escaped those eyes, especially not a former nobody suddenly displaying creativity with a blade that would make Aunt Bella proud.

Now Draco walked a tightrope between competence and visibility. Too good at killing, and he'd earn a place in the inner circle—which was basically signing his own death warrant, given how those paranoid bastards protected their positions. Too incompetent, and he'd be disposed of.

His father's influence only stretched so far. While still being part of the inner circle, Lucius Malfoy's star had fallen considerably after the Department of Mysteries fiasco long ago. These days, Draco survived on his own merits.

At least the Veela had calmed somewhat since Granger's capture. Having Her physical body safe in the Manor seemed to soothe the creature's rage. Draco should have claimed the witch sooner, saved himself months of being possessed as Her personal murder puppet. But no, he'd had to be petty about it. Had to let pride and spite cloud his judgment.

Story of his fucking life, really.

"Malfoy." Dolohov's voice cut through his spiral of self-pity. "Private briefing. Room three."

Draco inclined his head and moved through the crowd, ignoring the mixture of envy and curiosity on the visible portions of his colleagues' faces. Let them think what they wanted. Most assumed he'd earned his position through nepotism or spectacular boot-licking. The truth would have been far more damaging.

Room three turned out to be a cramped office that stank of stale cigarettes. A manila folder lay on the scarred desk, three photographs paper-clipped to its cover. French Ministry officials, by the look of their formal robes.

Their crime? Having opinions about the Dark Lord's expansion.

Their punishment? Draco's blade, apparently.

More innocent blood for his collection. His nightmares were getting crowded. But better their blood than his mother's.

"Clean removal required," Dolohov said, skipping the pleasantries. "Make it look accidental if possible."

"Define 'accidental.'" Draco kept his tone flat. "Accidentally fell on a knife twenty times? Accidentally ingested poison? Accidentally found themselves dismembered?"

The bloodlust was strong tonight. It had nothing to do with the tense dinner with his parents and everything to do with the ghost of Granger's arse pressed against him.

He was planning to give her his special brand of tongue-lashing tonight for what she did in front of his mother. But alas, this whole operation threw a wrench on his evening plan.

Dolohov's eye twitched. "Muggle crime. Robbery gone wrong."

"Ah. The classic."

Draco studied the faces. Two men, one woman. All middle-aged. All about to become statistics in a war they'd probably tried to avoid. He memorized their features—he always did, some masochistic compulsion to remember every face he'd erased from existence.

"Timeline?"

"Tonight. They're attending a gala at the Château de l'Étoile. Security will be significant. Unless they're needed elsewhere."

"Hence the army outside."

"Diversionary tactics." Dolohov smiled like he'd invented the concept. "While they're handling the obvious threat, you'll be handling the real objective."

"Just me?"

"You and Nott. He's familiar with the château's structure."

Draco's jaw tightened imperceptibly. Theodore Nott. Six years of sharing a dormitory and they'd managed maybe fifty words total. The perfect roommate, really—quiet, unobtrusive, minded his own business.

Except Granger had asked if Nott told him about her condition. Which meant Nott knew things. Which meant Draco needed to find out what things and possibly introduce Nott to his blade if those things were problematic.

"Problem?" Dolohov's tone suggested there better not be.

"No problem." Just plotting potential murder. The usual.

"Good. Portkey's waiting. Try not to make a mess—we're maintaining deniability with the French."

"When have I ever made a mess?" Draco asked, knowing full well his last three assignments had looked like someone blasted the targets with Bombarda

Dolohov just stared.

"Right. Minimal mess. Got it."

Draco put down the folder and left without another word. He found Nott waiting by the designated Portkey—a battered umbrella that had seen better decades. His former classmate looked unchanged from their school days: sharp features, calculating eyes, an air of perpetual assessment.

"Malfoy."

"Nott."

Riveting conversation. They should write a book.

They touched the umbrella simultaneously. The familiar hook behind Draco's navel yanked him through space, depositing them in a narrow alley that opened onto the Rue des Étoiles Filantes. Paris sprawled before them, lights glittering against the evening sky like scattered diamonds.

Neither spoke as they navigated the crowded streets. Draco's mind churned over possibilities. How had Nott known about Granger's condition? The obvious answer—that he'd discovered it during her capture—felt incomplete. Something in her tone that afternoon, the specific way she'd asked, suggested familiarity. History.

"Something on your mind, Malfoy?" Nott's voice was carefully bland.

"Just wondering how observant you were during that raid two months back." Draco kept his tone casual. "The one where you bagged the Mudblood."

Nott's pace didn't falter. "Which one? We captured dozens."

"The one I claimed."

"Ah." Nott's lips twitched. "Still playing with your food, are you?"

"Answer the question."

They turned onto a quieter street. The château loomed in the distance, its lit windows promising warmth and civilization. Death would visit both tonight.

"She couldn't cast," Nott said finally. "Kept waving her wand around like a muggle with a stick. Rather pathetic, really."

Truth and lie mixed so seamlessly that Draco almost missed the deception.

"Interesting. You mention this to anyone?"

"Why would I waste breath discussing one worthless Mudblood?"

The slur hit wrong, though Draco kept his reaction buried. Coming from Nott, the word sounded rehearsed rather than reflexive. But Draco was unsure of the implication. Even at school, Nott had been quietly ambivalent about blood purity—neither supportive nor unsupportive, just… uninvested.

"Best to keep it that way." Draco let ice creep into his voice. "Wouldn't want people getting ideas about damaged goods."

"Your concern for your toy is touching." Nott's tone remained maddeningly neutral. "Though one wonders why a Malfoy troubles himself with such matters."

Before Draco could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal too much, they reached the château's outer wall. Twelve meters of limestone topped with anti-apparition wards that made the air shimmer.

"Service entrance is around back." Nott pulled out a small silver disc. "Invitation. The ward won't be an issue but someone might notice."

They moved along the wall's shadow until they found the narrow gate used by delivery staff. Nott pressed the disc against the wood. Blue sparks cascaded down, then died.

"Thirty seconds," Nott murmured.

They slipped through. The garden beyond was dark, lit only by distant windows. Music and laughter drifted from the main building.

"Roof access?" Draco scanned the architecture.

"Northwest corner. Maintenance ladder behind the ivy."

They split up. Draco found the ladder exactly where Nott indicated, rust flaking under his grip. He climbed quickly, blessing whatever paranoia made him wear dragonhide boots that gripped silently.

The roof was slate tiles and shadows and perfect for murder. Draco crept along the edge until he spotted movement below—three figures in Ministry robes, cigarette smoke curling around their heads as they enjoyed a break from the gala's stuffiness.

Their targets.

Draco positioned himself directly above them. Twenty feet down. He'd need timing and precision. Yet his mind lingered on questions without answers, even as his body prepared for violence. What game was Theodore Nott playing? How much would Draco have to hurt him to find out?

Below, Nott emerged from the garden's edge, wand already drawn. Their eyes met briefly across the distance. A slight nod from each.

Draco dropped.

His blade snicked free mid-fall. The first target never saw him coming. Steel slid between ribs with practiced ease, puncturing the lung to prevent screaming. Draco caught the body as it fell, lowering it gently while Nott's silent stunner dropped the second official.

The woman had better reflexes. She managed half a shout before Draco's free hand covered her mouth, blade finding the carotid artery with ease. Blood sprayed across cobblestones, hot and metallic in the cool night air.

"Messy," Nott observed, already casting cleansing charms.

This was clean by Draco's standard.

"She likes it messy." The words slipped out before Draco could stop them.

Nott's eyebrow rose. "She?"

Draco didn’t react to his blunder. "Aunt Bella,” he lied. “Sends a message."

"Of course." Nott's tone suggested he didn't believe a word.

They worked in tandem, vanishing evidence and arranging bodies to suggest a mugging gone wrong just outside the walls. Anyone investigating would find three officials who'd stepped outside for air and encountered common criminals. The kind of random violence that plagued every major city.

"Your technique's improved." Nott pocketed his wand. "Though you seem distracted tonight."

Draco wiped his blade clean before retracting it. "Concerned for my performance, aren't you?"

"Merely an observation." Nott's expression remained unreadable. "One might think you had other matters occupying your thoughts. Or perhaps, other people."

The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Nott decided to go fishing, didn't he?

"One might think many things," Draco met his gaze steadily, letting nothing show. "But thinking and knowing are different creatures entirely."

"Indeed." Nott's smile was cold. "We should return. The French Aurors respond faster than ours."

They activated the Portkey and vanished, leaving death in their wake.

But Draco's mind was already elsewhere, calculating. Nott knew something. The question was what, and whether it made him a threat that needed eliminating.

He'd find out soon enough. And if Nott proved problematic…

Well. Draco had gotten very good at making things look like accidents.

***

The pillow muffled another mortified groan as Hermione buried her face deeper into the silk. Her cheeks burned—not from arousal, Merlin no, but from embarrassment.

She'd overplayed her hand. Catastrophically.

What had possessed her to drape herself over Malfoy like some two-knut whore? The plan had been simple: unsettle him in front of his mother, gain psychological advantage. Basic manipulation tactics, really. She'd read about them in that psychology text third year when she was trying to understand why Ron had the emotional range of a teaspoon.

Instead, Malfoy had flipped the script entirely, pulling her onto his lap while maintaining perfect composure.

Well. Almost perfect.

Because Hermione had felt him, hard, while his mother sat mere feet away discussing hemlines. The memory made her stomach churn. Or maybe that was just the aftermath of vomiting for three hours straight.

"Shameless, perverted, Death Eater bastard!" She punctuated each word with a fist to the mattress.

The worst part? She couldn't even blame him entirely. She'd started it. Practically thrown herself at him even. What was she thinking? That he'd stammer and blush like Ron used to? That years of Pureblood training would crumble at the first sign of physical contact?

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Hermione rolled onto her back, staring at the canopy above. As repulsive as this was, she needed Malfoy pliable—needed whatever twisted affection he harbored to save her friends. The gathering was days away. Ginny would be parceled out to the highest bidder—or worse, the cruelest one.

Unless Hermione could convince Malfoy to take her instead.

The thought made bile rise in her throat. Trading her own safety for her friends'. Playing god with lives that weren't hers to barter. Harry would have hated this. Harry would have found another way, some brilliant last minute solution that saved everyone.

Or was that supposed to be her job? Hermione had no idea anymore.

But Harry was dead. Because she'd kept her mouth shut about the diadem feeling wrong.

And now she was here, contemplating which friend deserved salvation more.

Hermione kicked at the sheets, tangling herself further. The memory of Malfoy's body pressed against hers refused to fade. The heat of him, the solid weight, the way his breathing had hitched when she'd shifted—

"Stop it!" She pressed her palms against her eyes, hard.

This was Stockholm Syndrome. Had to be. Some sick psychological response to captivity that was rewiring her brain, making her notice things she had no business noticing. Like how his hair fell across his forehead when he read. Or how he looked pleased every time Hermione used his gifts. Or how sometimes, when he thought she wasn't looking, his expression would shift into something almost human.

No. Absolutely not.

Malfoy was a creepy bastard. Period. Hermione drew the line on romanticizing her captor as some tortured soul.

New strategy required. Keep her distance, work him gradually through careful manipulation. No more physical contact. No more games that could backfire so spectacularly. Because clearly, something was wrong with Malfoy and it's not just his head.

Still, she waited for him that night, but nothing. Malfoy didn't visit her. Disappointment settled in her chest, which was ridiculous. She didn't want to see him. She was just… monitoring patterns. Strategic intelligence gathering.

The next morning, Hermione expected Malfoy to hide in his study again, nursing wounded pride or plotting revenge. But there he sat in his usual spot, already absorbed in a thick leather folder.

She hesitated at the threshold. He didn't look up.

Fine. Two could play at selective amnesia.

Hermione took her seat across from him, pulling a random book from the stack. The words blurred together, meaningless. She couldn't settle into their usual rhythm of mutual ignorance.

"Where were you last night?"

The question escaped before she could stop it. So much for distance and gradual manipulation.

Grey eyes flicked up briefly. "Irrelevant to you."

Hermione's lower lip jutted out before she could school her expression. "Just making conversation."

"Since when do we converse?"

Fair point. But the silence was eating at her, made worse by the rustling of papers as he worked. Whatever was in that folder had his complete attention.

"When's the gathering?"

He didn't look up. "Saturday."

Three days. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Three days to save at least one friend.

Desperation clawed on Hermione's mind.

Deep breath. Now or never. "Could you claim someone else?"

Malfoy froze. This time when he looked up, his expression was carefully blank. "Elaborate."

"I mean, are you important enough?" She shrugged, forcing nonchalance. "Could someone in your position claim an additional prize? Hypothetically speaking."

Silence stretched between them. Hermione counted her heartbeats, willing her face to remain neutral.

"I could." Each word was measured, careful as he returned to his reading. "If I wanted to."

"Right." She nodded, as if this was purely academic. "So theoretically, you could claim someone like Ginny at the gathering—"

"No."

No hesitation. No consideration. Not even a glance up from whatever fascinating document held his attention.

"If you please consider it first—"

"There's nothing to consider. I already have what I want."

"She's Pureblood." Hermione leaned forward, pressing her point. "Sacred Twenty-Eight. Surely that's more valuable than—"

"I said no."

"But why?" Frustration bled into her voice.

"Are you truly this dense or is this another manipulative game?"

"I don't know what you—"

"Drop the act." He stood abruptly, chair scraping against stone. "You think I'm stupid enough to fall for this? That I'd simply hand you over to whoever claims you next while I collect your friend like some upgrade?"

"That's not—" But it was. Exactly that.

"If I relinquish my claim, you'd be passed around." His voice dropped low. More terrifying than shouting. "Is that what you want? To be Dolohov's plaything? Or perhaps Greyback would enjoy—"

"I don't need protection from you!"

"You have no magic!" His control slipped, voice rising. "No allies, no options except whatever minimal shelter I could provide. And you want to throw that away for what? Some misguided loyalty to blood traitors who can't save themselves?"

"They're my friends!" Hermione stood defiant. "Why should you give a damn what happens to me anyway?"

"Because you're all that bloody matters!"

The words rang through the library like a bell. Hermione flinched back instinctively, and something flickered across his face. Concern? His hands lifted, hovering in the space between them as if he wanted to reach for her but couldn't quite manage it.

Instead, his fingers curled into fists. Malfoy was already moving before she could speak.

Hermione stood there frozen, processing what had just happened.

The leather folder Malfoy had been reading lay forgotten on the table. Hermione leaned forward, taking a peak. She recognized the cramped handwriting immediately—Lucius Malfoy's personal correspondence. A photograph clipped caught her attention. A young man's face stared up at her. The caption read "Cornelian Travers, disappeared 1963."

'The Travers connection is the most promising. Their son could be related to the girl. I will conduct a paternity test on my side. In the meantime, continue investigating the French branches on your side.

Girl. What girl? And why was Malfoy researching missing Pureblood from decades ago—

The folder yanked itself from the table, flying across the library. Malfoy caught it without looking, already halfway through the door.

Then he was gone, leaving Hermione with more questions than answers.

***

Draco avoided Granger's room that night. He couldn't face those honey eyes knowing what game she played.

"Fucking Gryffindor," he muttered, pouring three fingers worth of Firewhiskey. Then four. Who was counting?

The manipulation itself barely registered anymore. Everyone manipulated. It was the currency of survival in this new world order. No, what made his blood boil was Granger's audacity. She'd practically gift-wrapped herself for sacrifice, all for some misguided notion that her friends mattered more than her own life.

Did she think he was running a charity? Save one Weasley, get another corpse free?

The whiskey burned going down. Good. Physical pain was simpler than whatever twisted emotion her offer had stirred. Because beneath the anger lay something worse—the knowledge that if he hadn't claimed Granger at the quarry, she'd already be dead. Or wishing for death in some cellar, learning exactly what Death Eaters did to a smart-mouthed Mudblood.

His claiming had been pure spite then. A middle finger to fate. Now it felt like the only thing keeping her breathing.

Draco uncorked the vial of Dreamless Sleep, then hesitated. Sixteen doses in the past week alone. His body had built up resistance, fighting unconsciousness like it knew what waited. The Calming Draught beside it promised additional numbing. Together with the alcohol…

Well. Healers had strong opinions about mixing all three.

But Healers didn't have parasitic Veela consciousness burrowing into their dreams every night.

"Fuck it."

Draco downed all three substances in quick succession.

Sleep claimed him between one bitter thought and the next. But the potions couldn't hold back what owned him completely.

The transition came in stages. First, the air thickened—jasmine and vanilla replacing Firewhiskey fumes. Then the temperature shifted, his room's chill giving way to dream-warmth. Finally, the weight settled across his chest. Soft. Familiar. Shaking with sobs.

No...

Draco could feel hot tears soaked through his shirt. The Veela rarely manifested like this anymore. Not since Granger's immediate safety had soothed Her rage. Which meant Granger had taken his refusal harder than she'd shown. The vile thing only manifested like this when Granger felt truly wronged.

As if Draco was the villain for not enabling her suicide-by-heroism.

"Shh, love. I'm here." The word escaped without thought, his arms already moving to cradle Her. One hand tangled in curls while the other traced circles along Her spine. The gestures came as naturally as breathing—muscle memory from countless nights spent exactly like this.

Draco hated how right it felt.

She burrowed deeper into his chest, fingers clutching at his shirt. "So sad. Why does it hurt so much?"

"Tell me what happened." Draco kept his voice low, soothing. The wrong tone would send Her spiraling into violence. He'd learned through painful trial and error.

"I asked so nicely." She lifted Her head, revealing Granger's face framed by midnight hair. Skin that should be honey-warm shimmered like moonlight. Only the eyes remained brown—lighter than Granger's, almost golden in the dream's strange light. "Said please and everything. Yet you were so mean."

"Was I?" His thumb brushed away tears that sparkled. "Going to make me pay for it?"

The question came out wrong—too eager, too willing. But his body had its own agenda now, responding to Her proximity with disturbing enthusiasm. Even knowing what She was capable of, some broken part of him craved Her attention. Pain or pleasure, it hardly mattered anymore.

She shook Her head, bottom lip trembling. "Just want you to keep your promise."

His stomach dropped. That fucking promise, he knew exactly which one. Made in desperation when She disappeared momentarily. He'd have promised anything to get her back.

Pathetic didn't begin to cover it.

"Which promise might that be?" Playing dumb never worked, but Draco tried anyway.

"You know!" She hiccupped, Her fingers traced patterns on his chest. "About my friends. You said you'd help."

"Love, that's not—"

"You promised!" She pound on his chet, fresh tears spilled down Her cheeks. Draco's heart twisted with grief that wasn't his own. "I only want to save one. Just one friend. Is that so terrible?"

"You know what would happen." Draco caught Her wrists gently, soothing her before she could spiral into something violent. "If I claim another—"

"I don't care!"

"Your safety—"

"Find another way then!"

Always so demanding, like a child throwing tantrum after being denied candy regardless of reasons.

"The answer is still no."

She deflated against him, wave of sobs wracking Her frame. Beneath it lay genuine anguish—Granger's grief filtered through something inhuman and possessive. "You're cruel. So cruel to me. I hate you."

"I know." His hand resumed its soothing motion through Her hair. "You hate me quite often."

"Don't patronize me." But She burrowed closer, seeking comfort even while claiming hatred. "I could hurt you. Make you pay for denying me."

"You could." Draco felt the truth of it in his bones. One word from Her and his body would obey, regardless of his will. "What's stopping you?"

She was quiet for so long he thought She fallen asleep. Then, in a voice small and broken: "I don't want to hurt you. It makes me sad after."

The admission shouldn't have affected him. This creature had tormented him for months, used his body for violence he never chose. But something in his chest tightened at the confession.

Even monsters could feel regret, apparently.

Draco's throat worked soundlessly. Every instinct screamed for self-preservation, but he was fighting a losing battle. It was inevitable. Her happiness had become an addiction, each smile a hit of something stronger than any potion.

He'd hate himself by morning for this:

"I could… try something about your friends." The words tasted like surrender. "Can't guarantee success. But you have to trust me. No more asking Granger to—no more discussing it during the day."

She tilted Her head, confusion clouding Her features. "When else would I discuss it?"

Right. She didn't distinguish between herself and Granger. In Her mind, they were one entity experiencing continuous consciousness.

"Just… let me handle it my way."

"Promise?"

Another fucking promise.

Draco knew better than to make promises to creatures of magic. Knew the weight words carried when spoken in dreams. But the pledge already bound him. What was one more chain?

"I promise."

She smiled then, radiant and terrible. "I knew you would. You always take care of me."

She settled back against his chest, apparently satisfied. Draco stared at the ceiling, mind already spinning through scenarios. How many promises would She extract before this ended? How many pieces of his soul would he carve away to satisfy Her whims?

"Missed you the other night," She murmured against his skin.

"Had business."

"What kind?"

"The kind that keeps you safe and sound." He filtered the truth carefully. "Bad people needed handling."

"Oh." She considered this. "Were they very bad?"

Such innocence in Her voice. As if the world divided neatly into good and evil, as if She hadn't used his hands to commit atrocities that still woke him screaming.

"In their way." Draco was smart enough to hide the truth.

"Good, you should punish them." Her satisfaction chilled him more than Her tears. "Bad people deserve punishment. They hurt good people like me."

Like McLaggen. Just months prior She'd wept about his betrayal, describing how She wanted to pluck out his eyes one by one and force-feed them to him. She hadn't stopped at description. She'd made Draco do it.

The Dark Lord had been delighted by Draco's "creative cruelty." Everyone assumed he'd enjoyed it.

He hadn't.

The irony was suffocating. She was the monster in this story, wearing an angel's face, believing Her own lies. Her definition of 'bad' included anyone who'd ever slighted Hermione Granger.

But Draco said nothing. Just held Her closer and breathed in vanilla and jasmine. He had never known evil could feel so warm and so right until he held Her in his arms.

"Are you happy here?" He needed to shift the conversation before She decided to explore his recent activities further. "In the Manor?"

"So happy." She practically glowed. "Pretty dresses every day. Such wonderful food. And presents! You send the loveliest presents." She pressed a kiss to his throat, Draco shivered in unwelcomed pleasure. "No one's ever treasured me like this."

His chest swelled against his will. Draco didn't know whether it was because he had pleased Her or because he was thrilled to hear an admission straight from Granger's subconscious mind.

"You deserve treasuring."

She preened at the praise. "Stay with me tonight. I don't like when you leave."

"I'm not going anywhere." Draco couldn't, even if he wanted to.

"Really?" Her fingers found his Mark, tracing the skull and snake with disturbing fascination. "Sometimes I dream you're gone. That you've left me alone. I don't like those dreams."

"Just nightmares, love. I'm here."

"Forever?" Her touch grew possessive. "You'll never leave me?"

The compulsion pressed harder, demanding agreement. Draco's jaw clenched against it.

"As long as you'll have me."

Not quite the eternal vow She wanted, but close enough. She settled against him with a satisfied sigh, eyes closed as she drifted off.

"You'll save my friend." Not a question. "You'll find a way, I know it. Because you love me."

As if he had a choice. As if he could deny Her anything when She asked so sweetly.

The thought should have been bitter. Was bitter. But beneath the resentment lay something worse—the knowledge that he'd already proven exactly how far he'd go. Murder? Done that. Torture? His specialty now, thanks to her whims.

The worst part? Sometimes he wasn't sure where Her compulsions ended and his own sick devotion began. Because when She smiled at him like this—radiant and terrible and so utterly convinced of his love—something in his chest responded.

"Anything for you."

The dream world shifted around them, reality bending to Her unconscious whims. Poppies erupted from the walls in violent bursts, their crimson petals dripping with blood.

And the screaming started echoing faintly.

Draco felt Her consciousness fragmenting, sliding toward true sleep even within this constructed realm. If She drifted off here, he'd be trapped until She chose to wake. The potions in Draco's system would keep his body comatose for hours yet as She dragged him to Her nightmare.

As Draco watched the atrocities he had committed being replayed, he wondered if this torment he'd endured was fairly deserved.

Chapter Text

Time was running out.

Each tick of the ornate clock in her room counted down to the gathering—that horrible event where her friends would be paraded like cattle before Death Eaters. Where they'd be touched and used and broken while she sat safe in her gilded cage.

Malfoy's rejection yesterday had been a hard slap to her naivety. No room for negotiation, no flicker of doubt in those glacial eyes. I already have what I want. The words echoed, mocking her desperation.

He didn't visit Hermione after dinner. So she’d wept through the night instead, a useless, self-pitying exercise that left her eyes swollen and her throat raw. Sleep offered no escape either, only fractured nightmares of Ginny’s terrified face and Harry’s lifeless eyes staring up from the rubble of Hogwarts.

The next morning brought no new development. The library stood empty when she arrived. Malfoy's usual seat remained vacant, his leather folder nowhere in sight. Of course. He was hiding—again—like the coward he was.

Hermione stared at the towering shelves. All those books, all that knowledge, and none of it helped. They only confirmed what she already suspected.

Her magic wasn't coming back.

Not that having magic would fix her current situation. She'd still be trapped in this prison, still be at Malfoy's mercy, still be watching her friends suffer while she sat useless in a library full of books that couldn't help her nor her friends.

Hermione pressed her palms against her temples, trying to stop the spiral of thoughts. Think. There has to be something. Some angle you missed. Some leverage—

But what leverage did she have? No magic, no allies, no clever plans. Just herself. And if that's what it took—if trading her dignity meant saving even one of them—

The thought of it appalled her.

Are their lives worth your dignity to begin with? a voice whispered. You could stay in this pretty cage, safe under Malfoy's protection. You could do nothing at all. Just like how you did nothing when Harry—

Hermione stood up, she'd had enough. She clearly wasn't thinking straight.

"Tilly," she called as she made a decision.

The elf appeared instantly. "Miss needs something?"

"I need air." Hermione closed the useless book with more force than necessary. "Where might I find Mrs. Malfoy?"

"Mistress tends her roses in the west garden most mornings."

"Take me there."

Tilly wrung her hands. "Miss should stay in approved areas. Master Draco says—"

"Master Draco can choke on his rules." The venom surprised them both.

The west garden sprawled in manicured perfection. Narcissa stood among white roses, magical silver shears hovered around her, catching morning light. Hermione always thought that Malfoy was an exact copy of his dreadful father. But seeing the woman standing there—her blonde hair bathed in the sun, Hermione couldn't help but think that Malfoy got some of his beauty from his mother too.

If only he also inherited some of her compassion...

Narcissa looked as they approach, genuine pleasure crossing her features.

"Miss Granger. What an unexpected delight." Her smile seemed real enough. "I was beginning to think Draco had locked you in that library permanently."

"Sometimes it feels that way." The admission escaped before Hermione could stop it. Merlin, when had she become so careless with her words?

"Men do love their dramatic gestures." The shears vanished with a wave. "I've been hoping for a chance to properly apologize. That morning at breakfast was inexcusably cruel."

Hermione's throat tightened at the memory.

"No apology necessary."

"I'm afraid there is." Narcissa's voice carried what sounded like genuine regret. "Draco was furious. Banned me from seeking you out. Protective of you even then, though he'd die before admitting it."

"He has an interesting way of showing protection."

"Malfoy men are complicated creatures," the woman sighed. "They feel deeply but express poorly. Rather like these roses—all thorns until you learn how to handle them properly."

A laugh escaped despite Hermione's mood. "I'd need dragonhide gloves for your son."

"Patience works better than armor, I've found." Narcissa studied her. "But you didn't come here to discuss my son's emotional constipation. What troubles you?"

The question nearly broke her composure. Everything. Everything troubled her. Dead friends, captured friends, her own uselessness, the gathering in two days where innocent girls would be—

"I just…" Hermione's gaze found the grounds beyond the gardens. Woods pressed against distant boundaries, dark and endless and free. "I've been cooped up for months. Might I walk the grounds a bit? Just to clear my head?"

Tilly made a strangled sound. "Oh no, Miss mustn't wander! Master Draco worries about dangerous guests—"

"Then perhaps the Mistress of the Manor might decide where I'm allowed to walk?" Hermione met Narcissa's gaze directly. "Unless her word carries less weight than her son's?"

A slow smile curved Narcissa's lips. The trap had been obvious, but she seemed to appreciate the maneuvering.

"Cleverly done." She brushed invisible dirt from her robes with deliberate care. "You may explore as you wish. On one condition."

"Which is?"

"Stop calling me Mrs. Malfoy like I'm your professor. Narcissa will do nicely."

Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned by the unexpected request.

"I… yes. Thank you, Narcissa."

"Much better. Do take Tilly with you. The grounds can be treacherous for the unfamiliar."

Hermione dipped her head and set off, the anxious elf trailing behind. Each step away from the manor brought marginally easier breathing. The formal gardens gave way to wilder spaces—meadows where wildflowers tangled with ornamental grasses, groves where ancient oaks created cathedral ceilings of leaves. So different from her parents' tidy suburban garden with its single apple tree and patch of petunias.

Did her parents still love gardening? The thought ambushed her. When she'd sent them to Australia with modified memories, had she included their love of growing things? Or had she stolen that too in her desperation to keep them safe?

Hermione pushed the thought aside.

The manor stood behind her, tall and dark. Hermione could feel it watching her. She wasn't sure if buildings could watch, but this one did.

She kept walking, eyes fixed ahead. The urge to watch her back never left. The manor reminded her of Malfoy himself—always looming, always watching. Even when he wasn't near, she knew she wasn't safe from his presence. Not even in her mind lately. He had started haunting her there too.

Her feet carried her toward the property's edge where the ancient oaks marked the ward boundary. How far could she run before the magic caught her? Even if by some miracle she passed through, what then? No wand, no magic, no way to Apparate. She'd die of exposure before reaching civilization.

Or Malfoy would find her first.

The thought shouldn't have brought strange comfort, but it did. He'd drag her back, furious and cold. But he'd come for her.

Because you're all that bloody matters.

She shook off the memory. That way lay madness—trying to understand why Draco Malfoy cared whether she lived or died. Better to focus on immediate concerns. Like the massive hedge maze dominating the landscape ahead. Its walls rose impossibly high, entrance dark as a mouth.

"What's in there?"

Tilly's ears drooped. "Nothing, Miss! Just where the peacocks live. Nothing interesting. Very boring. Should go back now!"

The obvious lie piqued Hermione's curiosity immediately. "Nonsense. I'd love to see where the peacocks roost."

"Oh no, Miss mustn't!" Tilly grabbed Hermione's sleeve with surprising strength. "Is being very bad idea. Master Draco will be giving Tilly clothes and Tilly will be having nowhere to go!"

"For showing me a peacock roost?" She pressed. It broke Hermione's heart knowing that most house-elves thought freedom as death sentence. Still, it's not like she could save any of them in her current situation.

The elf's eyes darted frantically. "Is... is very special peacocks. Very private. They is not liking visitors."

"Tilly." Hermione knelt to meet the elf's gaze. "What's really in that maze?"

"Tilly cannot say. Tilly is good elf. Loyal elf."

Which meant secrets—Malfoy family secrets hidden behind hedge walls. Or better yet, the Dark Lord's. Information the Order could use if she ever escaped. If she ever found a way to contact them. If Malfoy didn't drag her back to this wretched place.

Too many ifs. But it was something. A purpose beyond sitting in that library confirming her worst fears and worrying about something she couldn't control.

Malfoy's concerned face flashed in her mind briefly. He'd hate this. Hate her snooping, hate her taking risks, hate her doing anything but sitting pretty in her cage. But to hell with him and his concerns. After everything he had done, Malfoy could shove his concerns where the sun don't shine.

"In that case, Tilly," Hermione said, her resolve hardening, "I suppose I shall have to investigate the peacock housing situation for myself." She gently detached the elf's clinging fingers. "You may wait here."

Hermione could feel rippling across her skin—a ward letting her through somehow—as she stepped forward. The hedge walls towered above her, their leaves darker than they should be in autumn sunlight. The walls parted wider around her as she entered and for a moment, Hermione worried that the walls would close and trapped her inside. Fortunately for her, the exit stayed open. She made sure to wait at least half a minute before she decided to venture further.

Her breath misted in the air. Strange for October. She'd expected the usual maze tricks—shifting paths, confusing turns. Not this cold that seeped through her charmed dress.

What was Malfoy keeping in here exactly?

"Miss, please!" Tilly's voice carried faintly from outside, already muffled by whatever magic protected this place.

Everything about this place screamed danger but her feet kept moving forward because stopping meant thinking and thinking meant remembering why she was here in the first place. Locked in a dollhouse room. Useless. While Harry's body was rotting somewhere and Ginny—

No. Don't think about that.

She turned left at the first junction, then right at the next. The pattern etched itself into memory—a habit from years of navigating Hogwarts' shifting corridors.

Left, right, another left, straight for twenty paces.

The path narrowed as she pressed deeper, forcing her to turn sideways between thorny walls. Phantom wisps of smoke drifted across her vision. No—not smoke. Something thicker, colder.

Another junction. She chose left again, maintaining the mental map. The cold intensified, stealing what little warmth remained. Her thoughts grew sluggish, her memories bleeding at the edges.

Ginny screaming while wearing Hermione's face—

Harry's body, lifeless—

The Burrow burning—

"No." She pressed her palms against her temples. These weren't natural thoughts. Something was pulling them from her mind, feeding on them.

The temperature plummeted further and suddenly Hermione found herself shivering. She studied the leaves closer. Frost spread across the hedge leaves in crystalline patterns. The thin sheet of ice crumbled under Hermione's fingers. How curious.

And then she finally saw them.

Dementors.

Dozens of them, gliding between the paths. Their tattered robes brushed the ground as they patrolled whatever lay at the maze's heart. This was where Azkaban's guardians had gone after the Ministry fell. Hidden in a Malfoy hedge maze like some grotesque garden feature.

Hermione's legs moved before her mind caught up. She sprinted back the way she'd come—right, straight for twenty paces, right again—

A Dementor blocked the path ahead.

It turned toward her with agonizing slowness. The rattling breath echoed in the narrow space as it glided forward. Hermione spun, taking a different route. Her mental map shattered as survival instinct overrode logic.

Left here, no wait, was it right? Damn it! Coming here was a bad idea.

More Dementors converged on her position. They herd her deeper into the maze. The cold became agony, every breath burning her lungs and quickly draining her warmth. Memories continued to hemorrhage from Hermione's mind, faster than she could hold them.

Lavender slumped, blood pooling around her—

Susan being hit by a stunner—

Theodore Nott's betrayal—

Dead end.

The hedge wall stretched high above Hermione as she fell. She crawled until she pressed against the hedge, frosty thorns biting through fabric of her dress and skin alike. Three Dementors closed in, their presence crushing and Hermione's pressed herself harder to the hedge walls. One glided closer, rotting hands emerging from its robes. The hood lowered, revealing the gaping maw beneath—

Silver light exploded through the maze.

A swan descended on the Dementors with wings spread wide—Patronus spell. They scattered before it, their whispers becoming shrieks. The bird circled Hermione once, its light warming her frozen skin before pursuing the creatures deeper into the maze.

"You absolute fucking idiot."

Hands grabbed her shoulders, Hermione could feel them shaking despite her shivering body. Draco Malfoy's face swam into focus—white as bone, eyes wild with something that might have been fear if Malfoys knew how to feel fear.

His fingers felt warm as it pressed against her throat. Checking for a pulse. Why? She was obviously alive. Mostly alive. Alive enough to be thoroughly sick of his dramatics.

"Can you walk?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Good." He grabbed her by the wrist. "Because I'm going to kill you myself once we're out of here."

He dragged her through the maze, taking turns she hadn't seen, shouldering through passages that shouldn't exist. The swan Patronus swept ahead of them, clearing their path. Her legs barely kept up. Everything felt distant. Muffled. Like she was watching someone else stumble after him.

They burst from the entrance into autumn sunlight and Malfoy released Hermione so suddenly she stumbled, catching herself on his robes out of pure instinct.

Bad instinct.

They went down in a tangle of limbs. Hermione hit the ground hard, Malfoy’s weight crushing the air from her lungs. For a moment they just lay there, breathing hard, his hands bracketing her shoulders.

Then his expression shifted from relief to fury.

"Get off—"

Malfoy pinned her wrists, pinning them above her head. "You have some perverted death wish I should know about?"

"I didn't know about the Dementors!" She struggled against his grip. Useless. He was stronger and she had no magic and Merlin, she was so tired of being helpless.

"No, but you knew exactly what you were doing." His face hovered inches from hers. She could count his eyelashes if she wanted. Could see the fury burning in grey eyes. "Another desperate ploy to—what? Make me run to save you like some trained dog? Is that what gets you off, Granger?"

The way he spat her name made something twist in her chest.

"First the fucking ladder, now this—you think I'm too stupid to see the pattern?" His voice dripped acid. "Poor helpless Granger, wandering into dangers, oh no, save me Malfoy! Except you're not helpless, are you? No! It's just another brilliant manipulation, because apparently nearly getting yourself killed is just another Thursday for you!"

"Not everything revolves around you!" She tried to knee him. He shifted, using his weight to pin her more thoroughly. "Maybe I was curious about the bloody peacocks!"

"Peacocks." His laugh held no humor. "You risked your life for peacocks."

"How was I supposed to know you kept soul-sucking monsters as pets?"

"Everyone with half a brain would recognize warning signs!" His grip tightened. "The unnatural cold. The ward. The fucking elf telling you not to enter!"

"Well, your damn ward let me in! Excuse me for not having a Death Eater's guidebook to dark creatures!"

"You don't need a guidebook when you have basic self-preservation!" He leaned closer. "Which you clearly lack entirely."

"Says the man who claimed me to spite Potter's memory." She met his glare with equal venom. "How's that for self-preservation?"

"Don't turn this back on me." His hands bracketed her shoulders, holding her down when she tried to rise. "I'm not the one with a death wish—"

"Maybe if you didn't hide behind walls and silence—"

"I'm protecting you!"

"From what?" The words exploded out of her. All the frustration, the helplessness, the desperate need to do something—anything—channeled into fury. "The biggest threat to my safety here is you! What's left to protect me from?"

His jaw clenched. For a moment, she glimpsed something raw in his expression before the mask slammed back into place.

"You know nothing."

"Then tell me!" Her hands fisted in his robes. "Stop with the cryptic warnings and actually—"

"So you can use it against me?" He voice dropping to a hiss. "Twist whatever I give you into another weapon? Like trying to make me claim the Weasley girl?"

"That's about saving lives!"

"That's about you being too stupid to recognize self-preservation!" His control finally snapped. "I'm not keeping you here for fun, Granger!"

"Then let me try to help them!"

"At what cost?" Something desperate leaked into his voice. "You want me to paint a target on my family? On you?"

"Name your price." The words tasted like poison. "Whatever you want. Just help me save one—"

His laugh was ugly. "I told you already, I have everything I want."

He started to push himself up. Hermione's hands shot out, dragging him back down. She wouldn't let him storm off again, wouldn't let him hide behind those fucking walls—

The blade appeared so fast from his forearm, Hermione didn't even see him move. Cold metal kissed her throat, not quite breaking skin.

"Don't touch me carelessly." His voice had gone deadly soft.

She should have been terrified. Should have released him, apologized, played the meek prisoner. Instead, the words tumbled out. Desperate and reckless: "I can be yours."

The blade pressed harder. A drop of blood welled against the edge.

"You're already mine."

"That's not—" She swallowed carefully against the metal. "You have a prisoner. Nothing more."

Malfoy went still above her. Something violent flickered across his features.

"But I could give you more." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Willingly. Just save one of them."

"Stop."

"I'll play any role. Be anyone you need—"

"You've completely lost your mind." But his voice had gone rough. "You'd whore yourself for blood traitors who are probably already dead?"

"They're not dead." She had to believe that. "And it's not—I'm not—"

"No?" The blade retracted as suddenly as it appeared. "Then what exactly are you offering if not your body? Or maybe—maybe you think that little brain of yours is worth something? That I need another voice in my head telling me what to do, how to think, how to fucking breathe?"

Each word hit like a physical blow. Because yes. That's exactly what she was offering. Herself. Whatever was left of her.

Heat flooded her face. Shame and desperation and fury at being reduced to this. But it's too late to back down now.

"Whatever you want."

"Whatever I want." He studied her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "You have no idea what I want."

"Then tell me."

For a heartbeat, she thought he might. His hand rose toward her face, hovering just shy of contact. Then his expression shuttered completely.

"You disgust me." He shoved himself upright.

"Likewise." But her voice came out breathless, unconvincing.

Malfoy hauled her up. Hermione tried to dig her heels in, but he simply bent and threw her over his shoulder. The indignity of it sparked fresh rage.

"Put me down! Malfoy, I swear—"

"Shut up." His arm locked around her thighs as she thrashed. "You've used up my patience for the month."

"This is assault!"

"Add it to my list of crimes." He strode toward the Manor, ignoring her fists against his back. "Right next to 'harboring filthy Mudbloods' and 'stopping daft witches from offing themselves through sheer idiocy'."

"Bastard!"

"Mudblood."

But the slur lacked venom, falling flat between them.

She stopped fighting. Hung limp over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Watched the ground pass beneath them. Grass gave way to gravel, then marble steps.

"I really was just curious about the maze," she said after some brief mutual silence, "What are you hiding in there?"

His step didn't falter. "Mind your fucking business."

Malfoy shifted her weight, adjusting his hold from fireman's carry to something more dignified. Not that being cradled against his chest felt any less humiliating.

They rounded the corner, footsteps echoed against marble. Hermione's head lolled against Malfoy's shoulder—not by choice but because her neck wouldn't cooperate. Everything felt disconnected. Her body. Her thoughts. Like someone had taken scissors to the strings holding her together and now she was just… floating.

No. Not floating. Being carried. By Malfoy. Who smelled like spice and fir.

"Draco, darling. What exactly—" Narcissa's called out from the entrance of her parlor. Her words died as she took in Hermione's state. Dirt streaked her dress, thorns had torn the hem ragged, and dried blood marked where the blade had kissed her throat. Kissed. Wrong word. Threatened. That's what blades did. They threatened and cut and—

"Granger being stupid." He didn't slow his pace.

"How illuminating." Narcissa stepped into their path, forcing him to halt. "Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly."

Hermione was focused at Narcissa's companion. The woman stood in stillness, pale blonde hair falling to her waist. Her skin held an otherworldly shimmer that made Hermione's eyes water if she looked too long. Beautiful in the way broken glass was beautiful—all sharp edges disguised by sparkle.

The woman smiled. Hermione's stomach dropped.

"Fascinating."

Something about that voice filled Hermione with unease. Too smooth. Too knowing. She'd heard similar tones from Fleur, but this held none of the French witch's warmth.

"This is my guest." Narcissa's introduction notably lacked names. "She's been helping with a rather delicate matter."

The woman glided forward. Malfoy's arms tightened. The shift was subtle, but Hermione felt his body went rigid. His jaw set in a way she recognized—the same expression he wore before drawing his blade.

"If you wouldn't mind?" Narcissa gestured vaguely. "Since the opportunity has presented itself."

"Of course." The woman's smile stretched unnaturally wide. She focused not on Hermione but on Draco, waiting. "With your permission?"

The question hung strangely in the air. Why ask him? Hermione wasn't his to grant access to. Yet the woman waited.

Draco's jaw ticked. Finally, a sharp nod.

Cool fingers pressed against Hermione's temple. No magic sparked, no invasion of her mind. Just that light touch while the woman's eyes went distant. Despite the normalcy, it felt terribly wrong. As if the strange woman was trying to lick Hermione's mind.

Her smile shifted into something sly and knowing.

"Truly fascinating." The word dripped with private amusement.

When the woman's fingers traced down to Hermione's cheek, Malfoy jerked back, breaking the contact.

"I think that's enough."

"Protective, aren't we?" The woman's laugh tinkled. "No need for concern. I was merely… confirming something."

"Confirm it from a distance."

Narcissa cleared her throat. "Draco, don't be rude."

"Apologies, Mother," Malfoy said as he jostled Hermione. "I need to deliver this wild thing back to her cage before she finds another creative way to nearly die."

He stepped around them, but Narcissa's voice followed.

"Join us when you're finished. We have matters to discuss."

"Can't wait." His sarcasm was biting.

Malfoy strode past them without another word. Hermione caught the woman's knowing smirk before the parlor door swung shut.

"What was that about?" She kept her voice steady despite the chill creeping down her spine.

"Shut up."

"Who was she?"

"I said shut up."

"You let her touch me." Hermione twisted to see his face. "You gave her permission like I'm your property—"

"You are my property." He took the stairs two at a time. "Or did you forget your generous offer in the garden? 'I can be yours,' wasn't it? 'Whatever you want'?"

Heat flooded her cheeks. "You know that's not what I mean—"

"No?" He shifted her weight, grip tightening. "Then what exactly did you mean, Granger? Enlighten me. You can't, can you? Because you don't even know what you're offering. Just throwing yourself at the nearest Death Eater and hoping something sticks."

The words hit like fists. Each one perfectly aimed. He knew exactly where to strike to make it hurt most because of course he did. Malfoy had always been good at finding her weak spots.

Hermione's eyes burned, but she'd die before letting him see tears.

"You're vile."

"And you're still manipulative." Her bedroom door appeared. He shouldered it open with unnecessary force. "First tears in the library. Then guilt in the garden. Now your body."

"As if I'd let you touch me!"

"You just offered!" Malfoy reminded her. "In broad daylight, covered in dirt and blood, you looked me in the eye and offered to spread your legs for Weasley's life!"

He dumped her on the bed. Hermione scrambled upright, hands fisting in the sheets. The ghost of his touch on her body and the scent of fir still clinging on her skin made Hermione wanted to scrub herself raw.

"Because I'm desperate!" The admission tore free before she could stop it. "Because my friends are dying and I can't do anything and you're the only one who might—"

"Who might what?" He laughed. The sound scraped like broken glass. "Storm the Dark Lord's fortress single-handed? Murder my way through Death Eaters to save blood traitors who wouldn't piss on me if I was burning?"

Each word true. Each word horrible. Each word exactly what she'd been thinking hoping praying for because what else was there? What else could she do except beg her enemy for scraps of mercy?

"You've lost your goddamn mind if you think your cunt is worth that kind of suicide mission."

The crude words made her flinch. Not just the word but the way he said it. Dismissive. Like she was nothing. This was inherently foul. Malfoy never went this far before with his vitriol.

"I never asked you to—"

"Stay in this room. Try to leave and I'll ward you in myself."

"You can't just—"

The door slammed. Locks clicked into place—multiple ones, by the sound.

Hermione twisted the knob anyway, kicking the wood hard enough to rattle the frame when she confirmed that it was—indeed—locked. Pain shot through her toes, but the satisfaction was worth it. She limped to the window, glaring at the grounds below. The maze squatted in the distance, innocent-looking despite what lurked within.

What were they hiding that required Dementor guards? Who was that creepy woman? Malfoys and their secrets are driving her mad.

But most of all, Hermione's pride burned with the indignity and shame of her own desperation.

She grabbed a nearby vase and threw it to the floor with a scream. Why couldn't anything go smoothly in her life for once? All she wanted was to do something. Anything. She just couldn't stand to let yet more people suffer or die because she hadn't done anything to try.

Chapter Text

The sound of splintering wood echoed down the corridor. Draco counted the impacts. Seven. Eight. Nine. The door would hold. He’d reinforced it himself, anticipating this exact brand of stupid, destructive grief.

Better this than another suicide attempt. At least property damage wouldn't drag him down with her. The Dementor had been close. Another thirty seconds and they'd both be drooling vegetables at St. Mungos long-term ward. All because Granger couldn't mind her own business.

Draco had just made his peace with helping her friends. Just last night, with Her fingers tracing ownership across his skin in dreams, he'd accepted it. Save the blood traitors. Keep Granger breathing. Hopefully survive to live another day without painting targets on his mother's back.

Simple plan. Clear objectives.

Until Tilly burst into his study, squeaking about 'Miss wandering into the maze alone.'

And her response after he'd dragged her to safety? Not gratitude. Not even her usual defiance.

She'd offered herself like currency.

"Whatever you want. However you want."

Draco gritted his teeth. The words roused a fury in him, especially with the look in her eyes. So matter-of-fact, as if she'd calculated her own worth and found it a reasonable price. As if she'd make the same offer to any Death Eater who might save her precious friends.

Like Theodore fucking Nott, perhaps—

"Fuck." He rubbed his face. These thoughts were a dead end. It shouldn't matter. Except the pledge made it matter. Made everything about her matter in ways that scraped him raw.

Draco found his mother in the blue parlor. Across from her, Lila Zabini arranged herself on the settee. The woman turned toward him, and Draco’s stomach lurched. Not from attraction. The opposite.

A year ago, being in the same room as Lila Zabini would have left him dizzy with lust. Every man did. Her Veela allure was legendary. But now, he felt the charm slide off him like water off glass. Without the glamour, he saw exactly what she was. A predator.

"Draco, darling." His mother’s smile was strained. "Tea?"

"I'd rather drink poison."

"Don't be dramatic," she poured anyway. "Ms. Zabini was just sharing her observations."

"Fascinating subject, your little prisoner." Lila's voice slithered across his nerves. "Part Veela, yet she looks entirely human. How unusual."

A fact they already knew. Granger looked about as Veela as a garden gnome.

"Tell me something useful or stop wasting our time." He remained standing, refusing to sit like this was some social call.

Zabini's laugh tinkled. "And here I thought you'd appreciate my expertise."

Mother shot him a warning look. Play nice, it said. We need her.

Draco bit back sharper words. When he sat, he finally settled for: "Your expertise has established what we already knew. Forgive my lack of enthusiasm."

"Temper, temper." She sipped her tea with deliberate slowness. "The interesting part isn't what she lacks, but what's been done to her. Someone had split that girl's mind like a log. One half walks around playing human while the other…"

Ice flooded Draco's veins. How could she possibly—

"The other?" His mother prompted.

"Sealed away. So deep that I could barely sense it." Her gaze never left Draco's face. "The real question is why someone would fracture her psyche so thoroughly. What were they hiding?"

"Can it be undone?" Narcissa asked.

"Perhaps. But I'd be more concerned with your son's predicament." Zabini’s smile turned sharp. "I'm wondering if you've considered what happens when she discovers her true nature. When she realizes what she's capable of."

Draco’s hand jerked, rattling the teacup. He hadn't considered that.

"Show me your hand," Zabini commanded.

"I'd rather not."

"Draco." His mother’s tone brooked no argument.

He extended his arm. Zabini’s icy fingers brushed his skin, and she recoiled as if burned.

"Sweet Merlin," she breathed. "A complete pledge. The foolish boy gave everything." Her expression shifted from shock to dark amusement. Laughter bubbled up from her throat. "Tell me, Draco Malfoy. Do you pray?"

"What?"

"You should start," she said, reclining against the cushions. "Pray that your little Veela never discovers what she truly owns."

"We're aware of the risks," Narcissa said sharply, protective of her son.

“Are you?” Zabini questioned. Draco had only seen his mother second-guess herself on rare few occasions. This was one of them. "Tell me, have you heard how my dear husbands met their ends?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. They knew the stories. Everyone did.

Three dead from mysterious illnesses. Three suicides. One vegetable.

Seven husbands. Seven cautionary tales

"Rumors," Narcissa said carefully.

"Facts." Zabini's smile turned vicious. "Would you like to know the pattern?" She continued, and Draco wanted to scream at her to stop, to not confirm what he already knew. "The three who pledged their bodies to me withered away after I severed the bond. The three who gave their minds…" Zabini tapped her temple. "Well, madness is such an ugly word. Let's say they found reality incompatible with existence."

"And the seventh?" Draco heard himself ask.

"Ah, sweet Caspian. He pledged his heart." Zabini's expression went dreamy. "Did you know a man can live for years with no emotion nor want nor will? A medical miracle, the healers call it. I call it poetry.”

The memory slammed into Draco. How eager he’d been in that dream. Desperate as he'd offered up the key to his mortal existence like they were trinkets. All because Granger had worn a pretty dress in his dreams.

Salazar, he was fucked.

"Surely there's solutions—"

"Solutions? To a complete pledge?" Zabini laughed. It was the second time Narcissa had been ridiculed for asking the same question. "You might as well ask me to reverse death. What's been given cannot be taken back. I'm sure your son is intimately familiar with the consequences."

Draco was.

Two weeks of separation that had felt like dying in slow motion. Muscles seizing, thoughts scattering, emotions bleeding out. He'd been ready to crawl across broken glass just to feel Her again.

And that was just a slap on the wrist.

What would happen when the real punishment came?

Part of him that remembered Granger's tears, her desperate offer, whispered that she wouldn't be as cruel as the Veela. But that was a fool's hope.

"However," Zabini continued, "there are ways to ensure mutually assured destruction. If the girl were to pledge herself in return—"

"She doesn't know what she is," Draco admitted, the words tasting like ash.

"Irrelevant. The human consciousness can make promises her unconscious must honor. Trap her in her own web." She rose, gliding toward the door. "Though I'd work quickly. Fractured minds have a nasty habit of mending themselves."

She paused at the threshold, looking back with that horrible smile. "My debt is paid, Narcissa. Do try to keep your son alive. He's far too pretty to waste."

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence stretched between mother and son, heavy with implications neither wanted to voice.

"Well," Narcissa said, her hands trembling. "That was illuminating."

"That was a disaster." Draco dropped his head into his hands. "I thought breaking her curse would lead to my freedom. I was a fool." He raked his hair in frustration. "There's no way out of this, is there? There never was." He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "I'm fucked."

"You could still—"

"What? Earn her affection?" He lifted his head to stare at her. "I've been doing exactly that and I don't think it's working. She hates me. I've given her every reason to."

"People evolve, darling."

"Evolution requires survival instinct." His own hands betrayed him, clawing at his thighs to cope. "Granger's seems to be malfunctioning. You know what she did today?"

Narcissa's cup found its saucer with a gentle clink. Her blue eyes stared at her son, waiting for him to continue.

"She offered me her body. All to save her worthless friends." The memory scraped raw. "Spread out in the dirt like some common—"

"Draco Lucius Malfoy." Ice coated every syllable. "You will not speak of any woman in such crude terms under my roof—"

"It's what happened!" Draco shot to his feet. "She offered to fuck me for favors, Mother. What delicate phrasing would you prefer? Should I compose poetry about how the Mudblood martyr tried to barter her virtue?"

Narcissa's fingers caught his wrist, her manicured nails leaving crescents in his skin. The immediate pain cut through the spiral of his thoughts.

"That child," his mother's voice dropped to barely above whisper, "has been stripped of everything. Magic, freedom, dignity. She watches her world burn from a cage you built, and you have the audacity to sneer because she's grasping at the only leverage she thinks remains?"

"You're defending her." The accusation came out before wisdom could strangle it.

"We are not so different, her and I," Narcissa said, her voice sharp. "Your father collected me like art. Locked me in this beautiful house and expected gratitude."

"You never offered to—"

"Didn't I?" She cut him off, her smile a cold, brittle thing. "I offered him an heir. I offered him the perfect wife. I offered him whatever kept the peace because I understood the currency of survival."

The parallel hit with uncomfortable clarity. Two women trapped by circumstance, wielding the only power available.

His mother had learned her lessons well. Twenty-three years of marriage to Lucius Malfoy taught her that cages came in many forms: some were iron and explicit, others silk and seduction. Narcissa chose the silk, transforming herself from prisoner to indispensable partner through careful manipulation and strategic affection. Granger would rather offer her body like a business transaction than pretend affection she didn't feel.

"She looked at me like I was her last option." The admission burned. "Like she'd calculated every other possibility and found them wanting."

"How unfortunate for your ego."

"This isn't about—" He bit off the protest. Because it was, wasn't it? Some pathetic part of him had wanted her to see him as more than just another Death Eater.

"You refused her." It wasn't a question.

"Obviously."

"Yet you wanted to accept."

The truth sat between them like a third presence. Because he had wanted to. Not just the obvious temptation of having Hermione Granger beneath him—though Merlin knew that image had haunted him since fourth year. But the darker want. The need to be necessary to her. To matter beyond being her jailer.

He wasn't even sure if it was the pledge or his own selfish desire.

"I wanted her to mean it." The words came out destroyed. "Not the offer. The trust behind it. I wanted her to look at me and see—"

"Something worth choosing?"

His mother's voice held no mockery now. Just understanding that cut deeper than cruelty.

"Pathetic, isn't it?"

"Human," she corrected. Her hands framed his face. "The difference between that girl and myself is simple. I accepted my circumstances and found power within them. She's still bloodying herself against walls that will never yield. Perhaps you should consider which approach serves your interests better—breaking her spirit, or teaching her to survive as I did."

She left Draco alone with the cold tea and colder truths. Granger would die before accepting Narcissa’s path. She’d keep throwing herself against impossible odds until she finally succeeded. And when she did, the pledge would drag him down with her.

The smart move was obvious. Break her. Completely. Strip away her pride until she had no choice but to accept survival through submission. It would be a kindness. Better a broken bird in a comfortable cage than a dead one in the dirt.

Except the thought of Granger with empty eyes and a practiced smile made bile rise in his throat.

He didn't want her broken. He wanted—

What? Her gratitude? Her affection? Her voluntary surrender?

The pledge twisted tighter around his ribs, reminding him that what he wanted had stopped mattering the moment she claimed him in that summer dream. He was bound to protect Granger whether she was proud or broken, defiant or docile.

But who will protect him from her?

Mutually assured destruction.

The phrase echoed in his skull. Make her pledge herself to him. Bind her as thoroughly as she’d bound him. It would be easy. She’d already offered everything. A few careful words, a manipulated promise, and he’d have insurance—

Pain lanced through Draco's right palm without warning. Not his pain—Granger's.

He was halfway to the door before conscious thought caught up. Something was wrong. Something was always fucking wrong with her these days but this felt different. She was hurting physically.

The wards on her door melted at his touch. He burst through to find blood. On the white carpet. On her hands. Dripping steadily while she stood beside overturned furniture, Tilly wringing her tiny hands beside her. Shards of a ceramic vase littered the floor.

The smell hit him hard. Copper and magic and something else—something that made the bond sing in his chest, hungry and possessive and—

Mine—

"What did you do now?" The words came out sharper than he intended.

Granger just lifted her chin, eyes red-rimmed and defiant. "Get out."

"Let me see your hand."

"No."

"You're bleeding on my carpet."

"Then bill me for it." She turned away, shoulders hunching. "I said, get out."

He ignored her, his eyes cataloging the details: the tremor in her left hand, the way she favored her right foot, the hitch in her breathing. The bond whispered that she was in pain, that he needed to fix it.

"Defeated by pottery," he said, forcing a casual tone as he stepped closer. "Brilliant work, Granger."

"Master Draco, Miss was only—"

"Quiet."

The elf squeaked but obeyed. Granger’s jaw set stubbornly, her good hand pressed against the bleeding one. It did nothing to stop the red seeping between her fingers. The gash was deep enough to scar.

Draco's hand throbbed on the exact same place of her wound.

"It was an accident."

"Everything with you is an accident," he said, grabbing her wrist. She jerked away, spattering blood across his sleeve, but he held on. "Nearly kissed by Dementors? Accident. Offering to whore yourself out? Accident. Bleeding on my belongings because you can't control your temper? Also an accident, I'm sure."

"I wasn't trying to—" She hissed as he examined the wound. "You locked me in."

"For your own good."

"Story of my life," she laughed, a sound with no humor. "Lock up poor, helpless Hermione. Make all her choices. Dress her up like a doll and pretend she's grateful."

This wasn't her usual defiance.

"Tell me what happened."

"Why? So you can mock me more creatively?" She yanked her hand, but his grip was iron. "Poor, pathetic Mudblood can't even handle being locked up?"

"Granger—"

"I threw it, alright?" The admission burst out. "I picked up that stupid, ugly vase and threw it because I couldn't throw anything at you. Happy now?"

Tilly made a small noise. "Miss felt bad and tried to clean, but the pieces were sharp—"

"Because I'm not completely useless!" Granger's voice cracked. "I can clean up my own messes."

"Clearly," Draco gestured at the blood. "Spectacular job."

Her face twisted. It was like watching glass crack from the inside. "At least I'm trying to do something! At least I'm not just sitting here useless while everyone—while they're all—"

A choked sob escaped her, and her knees buckled. She hit the floor hard. The sounds she made weren't quite sobs. They were too raw for that, it was the noise of a soul tearing itself apart.

"I just want to be useful," she gasped. "To do something this time. Just once. Just—"

The words dissolved. Draco stood there, stunned as he watched her fold into herself, spine curving as if she could disappear if she just made herself small enough. The proud set of her shoulders had finally given way.

His mother was wrong. The walls hadn’t broken her. Granger was breaking herself. Using her own sense of worthlessness as the hammer.

Was it her loss of magic? Or pent up grief building up? The isolation perhaps? Surely there's something Draco could do to rectify—

"Stop it," he ordered, the words sounding hollow. Barely able to conceal the desperate need to mend her back whole. "You're bleeding on everything."

Draco crossed the room, broken ceramic crunching under his boots. He ignored her weak protests as he gathered her into his arms.

"Don't—can't—I'm don't—"

"Shut up." He deposited her on the bed, trying not to notice how she immediately curled away from him. How even in breakdown, she couldn't accept comfort. "You're catastrophizing."

The term felt wrong in his mouth. He only said it because it was something his mother would say.

"Give me your hand."

"Go away."

"Hand. Now."

He knelt in front of her, taking her wounded hand anyway. She was too exhausted to fight. The cut sealed under his wandless magic, leaving smooth, pink skin behind. She looked small against the pillows. Nothing like the witch who’d punched him in third year. Draco held her hand a touch longer than necessary, as if letting go meant she would fall apart all over again.

This was how She looked in his dreams. The Veela with Her coal-black hair, raging against him. He’d thought Her a monster. But watching the real Granger shatter, he finally understood. All that fury had to come from somewhere. Every bitter word Granger swallowed, every helpless moment she endured—it all fed that other self.

But Draco knew an opening when he saw one.

Granger was vulnerable, desperate. A few careful words and he could secure the counter-pledge that Zabini had suggested. Bind her as thoroughly as she'd bound him.

Pledge yourself to me, and I’ll save your friends.

Mind, body and heart. One life for each pledge.

Nothing between us could ever be freely given.

Insurance. Safety. The logical choice.

Except—

"I'll look into it," the words came without permission, sealing his own death sentence. "Your friends. I won't promise success, but I'll try."

She went rigid. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Why? What do you want?" Suspicion warred with a fragile, painful hope in her voice.

"For you to stop the dramatics," he said, forcing coldness into his tone. "No more suicide attempts. No more throwing yourself at Death Eaters."

"I only approached you—"

"This time," he cut her off. "What's your plan when I fail? Find another Death Eater to bargain with? Nott, perhaps?"

"Why do you keep mentioning him?"

"Irrelevant." He stood, needing space. "Those are my terms. Stop being reckless, and I'll make inquiries. One attempt."

"But why?" She pushed herself upright, her mind already working, trying to find the angle.

Why indeed. The smart move was securing the pledge. The safe move was letting her friends rot.

"Your self-destruction is tedious," he lied. "It's difficult to enjoy my prize when she's constantly trying to off herself."

Those brown eyes studied him, looking for trap, the hidden cost. She'd find neither.

"Accept or don't." He moved toward the door before she could question him further. "My patience has limits."

"Yes." The word burst out, all desperation and naked need. "Yes, I accept. Malfoy, I—thank you. I know that we—"

"Save it." The gratitude hurt worse than her tears. Draco fled before she could say more, before that hope in her voice could settle into something harder to ignore. The lock clicking behind him out of habit.

His hand burned where her blood had touched it. Not pain. Something else. Something that felt dangerously close to a conscience.

He’d just thrown away his best protection against her. When those barriers cracked, he’d have no leverage. No mutual pledge to balance the scales.

All because she’d cried on his floor and he couldn’t stand it.

All because she’d valued herself at nothing, and it rubbed him the wrong way.

Father was right, the pledge had to be affecting his judgment. There was no other explanation for why Hermione Granger’s tears could drive him to such profound stupidity.

Draco was already regretting it.

Chapter Text

Hermione lay on her back, staring at the painted clouds above. They shifted slowly, enchanted to mirror the real weather outside. The quiet was new. For months, her mind had been a battlefield, a constant hum of worry for her friends' safety. Now, that hum had gone quiet.

Malfoy's promise had muffled it.

But her mind, left with a vacuum, had simply found a new obsession: him.

He was a walking contradiction of cruelty and concession. The deal he'd offered was so lopsided it reeked of a trap, and her inability to see the jaws left her uneasy. When she'd offered him her body—thinking he was driven by lust—Malfoy had rejected it without hesitation. So what did he want?

The question was a useless spiral. Like understanding Draco Malfoy would somehow fix her situation.

It wouldn't. Nothing would fix this except escape or death, and she'd just promised to avoid the latter.

Hermione didn't jump when the door opened without warning. She'd grown accustomed to Malfoy's complete disregard for privacy. But she hadn't expected him tonight, not after their argument in the garden. She merely pushed herself up against the headboard, the silk of her nightgown pooling around her.

He'd shed his stiff robes, leaving him in a simple black shirt and trousers. The casual attire didn't soften him—he still looked cold and unapproachable. He carried his usual leather folder and a heavy, ancient-looking tome, setting them down on the window seat without a word.

The sheer audacity of it—to invade her sanctuary and treat her like furniture—rekindled the fire in her gut.

"Did you need something, or are you just here to breathe my air?"

He turned a page. "Your air? Rather presumptuous for a prisoner."

"A prisoner who explicitly doesn't want company tonight."

"Mm, noted." He uncapped a quill, the scratch of nib against parchment filling the tense silence.

This was classic Malfoy—ignoring boundaries while playing selective amnesia. Part of her wanted to throw something at his head and reminded him what had just happened this morning. The other part, the part that noticed how his shoulders carried more tension than usual, wondered if he'd come here for reasons he wouldn't admit.

Not that Hermione cared about his emotional state. She didn't.

She rose from the bed and padded to the bookshelf, pulling out Andromeda's fairytale book. Settling in the vanity chair, she angled herself so the mirror gave her a clear view of Malfoy without seeming obvious. Or so she thought.

Malfoy worked with focused intensity, his brow furrowed. His quill flew between the ancient tome and his notes, cross-referencing something. She could see the tight set of his jaw, the way his fingers drummed against his thigh when frustrated.

"Your surveillance technique needs work," he said without looking up.

Heat rushed into her cheeks. Caught. "I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

"Of course not." He finally lifted his gaze, meeting her eyes in the mirror. The reflection held no warmth, only cool, mocking amusement. "If you're that desperate to know what I'm reading, you could try this revolutionary technique called asking."

"Right. Because you're so forthcoming with information."

"More forthcoming than someone who spies through furniture."

She spun the chair to face him, abandoning all pretense. "Fine. What are you researching?"

A slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face. The expression she remembered from school days, the one that always preceded a particularly nasty insult. "Mind your own business, Granger."

"You absolute—" She cut herself off, recognizing the trap. He'd goaded her into asking just so he could refuse.

As her anger subsided, she noticed the book again. Archaic script with unsettling diagrams. One phrase, stark against yellowed parchment, snagged her attention before he shifted, blocking her view. Blood Magic.

"Are you quite finished?" he asked, his tone laced with feigned patience.

"That's blood magic," she stated, her voice flat. "You're bringing dark artifacts into my room."

A short, sharp laugh escaped him. Not his usual cruel bark—something closer to genuine. "Your room? Granger, you're a prisoner, living in my house. Nothing in this place is truly yours. And I hate to break it to you, but my arm is a 'dark artifact' by itself."

He had her there.

Fine. Time to mind her own business and pretend that he didn't exist—the usual game.

Hermione turned away, knuckles white where she gripped her fairytale book.

"You haven't touched your dinner," he observed, his voice shifting back to that detached, analytical tone. "Is this another protest? Or are you just ungrateful?"

Her eyes flicked to the coffee table. A silver tray sat there, untouched, beneath silver cloches. Tilly had brought it while Hermione wallowed earlier.

She wanted to ignore the food out of pure spite—eating on Malfoy's command felt too much like obedience. But Tilly's tear-stained face haunted her conscience. That was enough to make her move to the chaise, perching on the edge and dragging the tray closer. She lifted the cloche. Roasted chicken, glazed vegetables, steaming bread. Her favorite. Of course it was.

She'd taken three bites before realizing Malfoy was watching her. Not reading. Not pretending disinterest. Simply observing with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

"Must you?" she snapped, setting her fork down with a clatter.

He leaned back, the picture of ease. "I find it fascinating that you can spy on me for twenty minutes, but five seconds of returned attention makes you squirm."

"I wasn't—" She bit off the lie. "This is different."

"How?"

"You're staring at me like you're cataloging my eating habits for some nefarious purpose."

"Maybe I am." Another smirk that curved his lips. It should have been infuriating. Instead, it made her pulse skip. "Or maybe I'm ensuring you actually eat instead of starving yourself to make some pointless statement."

Hermione pushed the plate away. "I'm not your pet to feed on command."

"No," he agreed, tilting his head. "Pets are generally better behaved. Though I suppose I could inform Tilly that her carefully prepared meal wasn't to your standards. I'm sure she'll take it well. Probably won't cry for more than an hour or two."

"Manipulative bastard." Her teeth ground together.

"Better than a suicidal Mudblood with self-preservation instincts clearly on holiday." The insult was flat, almost bored.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, pointing at him with her fork. "That's the third time today. Losing your touch, Malfoy?"

He set his book aside completely, leaning forward. "Oh, I'm sorry. Would you prefer something more creative? Let's see—'The Swot Who Thought Floating Depressions Were Just Moody Weather'?"

A snort escaped her before she could stop it. "That's not even—"

"Or perhaps," he continued, a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes, "'Top marks in every subject except Common Sense 101'—where lesson one is 'mysterious fog and dropping temperatures equal run before you get your soul sucked out through your nostrils.'"

"Through my nostrils?" She was biting the inside of her cheek now, fighting a smile. "That's disgusting."

"Would you prefer the traditional mouth-to-mouth method? I'm sure the Dementors would have accommodated your preferences."

"You're horrible."

"And you're certifiably insane. Peacocks, Granger? That was your cover story?"

She took another bite of chicken, considering. "It seemed plausible at the time."

"Your epitaph will read: 'Too smart for her own good, too dumb to run away.'"

"Bit wordy."

"Fine. 'She fucked around and found out.'"

The laugh burst out of her, sudden and genuine. Not polite social obligation or nervous discomfort—a real laugh, bright and unguarded. Damn him.

Malfoy went still. His eyes widened slightly, the smirk freezing on his face. For three heartbeats, he simply stared at her, as if she'd suddenly sprouted antlers.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably under his stare. "What?"

He blinked, his usual mask sliding back into place. "Nothing." He cleared his throat, gesturing at her plate with a forceful jab of his chin. "Just eat your food."

"I am eating."

"Not fast enough." He picked up his book again, though his eyes didn't seem to track the words. After a moment, he added, "Finish the whole thing and I'll let you have a look at this."

Hermione's fork stilled. "You're bribing me with a book?"

"Is it working?"

Hermione hated that he'd maneuvered her into this. Hated more that her curiosity was a palpable thing in the room. She narrowed her eyes but swallowed her pride anyway, stabbing the chicken with too much force.

Silently, she brought another piece of chicken to her mouth. She ate every last bite, her jaw tight with resentment. The entire time, she could feel Malfoy's smug satisfaction radiating from the window seat.

"Good girl," he murmured when she was done. The condescension was a slap in the face.

True to his word, he stood and crossed the room. He dropped the heavy tome into her lap. "Page two hundred and forty-three."

Her fingers found the page. The text was dense—only partially translated from Runic and difficult to comprehend—but the subject matter made her breath catch. Methods of unraveling blood-based enchantments. Techniques for revealing hidden lineages. Reversal of hereditary seals.

"You're trying to undo a blood curse?" she breathed, looking up at him.

"Contrary to your assumptions, wearing this Mark doesn't obligate me to perpetual malevolence." He plucked the book back before she could read further. "Some of us maintain interests beyond torture and megalomaniac worship."

Malfoy gathered his things, his movements efficient and precise. At the door, he paused. "Take your sleeping draught. And actually sleep this time—Tilly mentioned you've been pacing until dawn."

The casual revelation that her every movement was reported made her spine stiffen. "Do you receive hourly updates on my activities? Written reports on my bathroom habits?"

"You find my concern invasive?"

"I find your obsession with my life disturbing."

Malfoy didn't react, but he did pause at the door, one hand on the handle. His knuckles went white against the brass. His expression turned cold. "Stay in your room tomorrow."

"Excuse me?"

"No library. No wandering. Just… stay put."

"You can't just order me—"

"I can." His voice was flat, devoid of its earlier mockery. "And I am. For once in your stubborn life, Granger, do as you're told."

The door clicked shut, leaving her in silence that was now heavy with unspoken threats.

Hermione had thought—hoped—that his promise to help her friends meant he'd stop these petty power plays. Clearly, she'd overestimated Malfoy's capacity for change.

She looked at the vial on her nightstand. A small act of defiance would be to pour it out. But the exhaustion was a physical weight, and the thought of another sleepless night spent dissecting his words was unbearable.

With a sigh of defeat, she uncorked the vial and downed a few drops in one bitter swallow. Sleep was a mercy, even if it felt like surrender.

Yet Hermione came to find—time and time again—that Dreamless Sleep was a lie.

It didn't offer oblivion. It was a locked door, and tonight, something had picked the lock. She was dragged from the quiet dark and thrown into a place she knew with certainty that defied logic.

Navy walls surrounded her. The floor was cold ash wood that burned her bare feet. There was no window, no door. Just soft light from nowhere and everywhere at once.

And him.

Arms wrapped around her waist from behind. The touch was wrong. Too familiar. Her body knew these arms, knew the exact pressure of fingers against her ribs, knew how to fit herself against the chest pressed to her back. But she had never been held like this. Never.

"You came." The voice was rough, cracked at the edges. Hot breath stirred the hair at her neck. "I called and called. Thought you were cross with me."

"Since when do you call for me first?" she heard herself say, the words unwitting, part of a script she didn't know she'd learned. "Besides, you were just here with your books. Being a prat."

The logic was fluid, nonsensical. Dream logic.

A laugh that wasn't quite a laugh. More like a broken sound trying to be one. "Was I? Can't remember. Everything's..." His arms tightened, pulling her back until she could feel his heartbeat hammering against her spine. Rabbit-quick. "Everything's fuzzy except you."

The scent hit her then. Wrong. All wrong. He should smell like expensive soap and that particular blend of parchment and ink that clung to library air. This was different. Sweeter. Like hot chocolate and caramel.

She twisted in his grip, needing to see. Silver eyes met hers, but the pupils had blown wide, drowning the grey in black. The face was sharp angles and pale skin, beautiful in that cold way that made people stare. But underneath the familiar features, something else bled through.

"You've been dosing." She heard accusation in her voice, but it came out disappointed rather than angry.

"Yes." No shame. Just fact. His hands shook where they gripped her waist. "Needed to. Just for tonight. Needed to not feel like—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. Started again. "Needed to not think."

"So you drugged yourself stupid?" She pushed against his chest. Might as well have pushed against stone. "You know I hate when you—"

When you what? The sentence fractured. She didn't know how to finish it.

"Please." His hands came up to frame her face, thumbs dragging across her cheekbones. His skin burned fever-hot. "These might be my final nights. Can't we just... exist? Without the weight of it all?"

Final nights. The words should have meant nothing. Dream nonsense. But something in her chest clenched, recognizing a truth she didn't understand.

"Stop being dramatic." Her hand moved without her consent, reaching up to flick his forehead. The gesture was absurdly intimate. "You always catastrophize. Didn't you lecture me about that very thing?"

He caught her hand, pressed her palm flat against his cheek. Leaned into it like a man starved for touch. "You don't understand what you're asking me to do."

"I don't have to," she said, the words flowing with unearned confidence. "You'll manage. You always do."

"Do I?" The question cracked down the middle. "I'm not strong enough for this. Not without—"

"Without what?"

"You." The word was barely a whisper.

The room tilted. Or maybe she did. Suddenly they were moving, her feet leaving the ground as he carried her to a bed that hadn't been there before. They fell into an arrangement of limbs that felt practiced—her back to his chest, his arm heavy across her waist, his face buried in the curve of her neck.

Words spilled against her skin. Broken things. "Mine" and "always" and "brilliant" and "stubborn" and "please" and "yours." Each was delivered with a kiss on her skin. The Amortentia made him sloppy with affection, loosened whatever iron control usually kept such words locked away. Each syllable burned where it touched.

She should have fought. Should have been repulsed. This wasn't real. Wasn't hers. But her traitorous body melted into the warmth, starved for gentleness after months of cold walls and colder silences.

"Do something for me." The words vibrated against her throat.

She tilted her head back. The potion had stolen the color from his eyes, but beneath the drug-fueled haze, she saw it: terror, grief and desperation.

"You're so demanding tonight."

His fingers tangled in her hair. Long, black hair that fell like water through his hands.

"Change it." His voice broke on the words. "Just once. Please."

"Change what?" But even as she asked, she knew.

"Your hair. Make it brown. Like—" He stopped. Started again. "Like hot chocolate with caramel. You remember how I always—"

"You only mention it every time." The response was automatic. But confusion crawled up her spine. Every time when?

"Please." His hands cupped her face, tilting it up so she had to meet his eyes. "Just for a moment. Let me see you."

You. But she was right here. Wasn't she?

Confusion warred with terrifying recognition. "My hair has always been—" Black? Brown? Reality frayed at the edges.

"No." Pain bled through the single syllable. "It's supposed to be—" He couldn't finish. Just stared at her with those drugged, desperate eyes. "Please?"

The change happened without her willing it. Black dissolved to brown, curls tangling in his fingers. In the mirror that suddenly appeared across the room, she saw a face that was hers but not. A face worn by a different war.

For a moment, his entire face transformed. The mask shattered, revealing something so raw—love so desperate it looked like drowning. It hurt to witness.

Except it wasn't for her.

Or was it?

"There you are," he breathed, voice breaking completely. "My witch. My brilliant witch."

He kissed her then. Not the careful, controlled kiss of someone maintaining boundaries. This was desperation made physical. His hands shook where they cradled her face. She tasted the Amortentia on his tongue—sweet chocolate and caramel, his comfort drink—but underneath it, something else. Salt. Tears.

He was crying.

"I'll come back," he whispered against her lips. "Nothing will stop me. Not the war, not the bloody monster himself. I'll come back to you."

The room began to dissolve. Colors bled together like wet paint. But his grip only tightened, as if he could hold her together by will alone.

"Promise me you'll wait." His forehead pressed to hers. "Promise you'll be safe. That you'll—"

The dream shattered.

Hermione woke gasping, sheets twisted around her legs. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The enchanted ceiling showed dawn light, pale and grey. Sweat soaked through her nightgown.

She pressed shaking fingers to her lips. They felt bruised. Impossible.

"...my final nights. Can we just... exist?"

The memory of his voice was more real than the silk sheets against her skin. She stumbled to the vanity. Her reflection stared back—wild-eyed, pale, with familiar brown curls.

Her own hair. Her own face.

"Change it," he'd begged. "Let me see you."

The taste of chocolate and caramel coated her tongue. Dreams didn't leave tastes. Dreams didn't feel like memories.

Realization settled in her gut. The man in those strange dreams—the one who held her with such desperate familiarity, who looked at her like she was the only solid thing in a dissolving world, who promised to come back to her—

It had been Malfoy.

***

The sting of the signet ring was familiar fire on his cheek. Draco didn't flinch. He stood perfectly still, head bowed, and let the blood trace down his jaw.

"Stand up straight when I'm speaking to you." Lucius's voice cut through the silence. "Or have you forgotten basic decorum along with common sense?"

Draco straightened his spine but kept his eyes on the Persian rug. The blood dripped onto the expensive wool. He didn't wipe it away.

"One prisoner," his father began, his cane tapping disappointment on the floor. "One wandless blood traitor, and you couldn't keep him contained. Tell me, what exactly were you doing that required such negligence?"

"The wards were intact. A house-elf must have—"

The second strike came faster. A backhand. The ring caught his lip this time.

"Don't insult my intelligence." Lucius circled him slowly. "No elf in this house would dare. Which means you are either incompetent or complicit. Which is it, Draco?"

Draco said nothing.

"Your obsession with that Mudblood has rotted your brain." His father stopped in front of him. "This family's name is already dirt. This failure will not go unnoticed."

Lucius pressed his wand under Draco's chin, forcing his head up. "I have spent a fortune. Called in favors I cannot afford. All because my heir was stupid enough to pledge himself to a creature he should have left to die in a ditch."

Draco knew better than to speak. The Cruciatus was coming. He could see it in the twitch of his father's fingers.

"And you repay me by letting a Weasley stroll out the front gate?"

The curse hit. Draco's knees buckled, but he locked them. Refused to fall. His father preferred him standing for these lessons.

"You've made us a laughingstock." The curse lifted. "Made me a fool within the Inner Circle for defending your acquisition."

Draco tasted copper where he'd bitten through his tongue.

"I've tolerated your foolishness. Allowed you to play your games. But my patience has limits."

"Yes, sir."

"Look at me when I speak to you."

Draco raised his head. He met those cold grey eyes—so like his own yet empty of anything resembling warmth.

"If you drag this family down with your Mudblood whore, I will personally hand her to Greyback and make you watch."

"She's not a whore."

The words escaped before Draco could stop them. Stupid.

"Oh, does that bother you?" Lucius's laugh was cold. "What else should I call her? Your beloved? Your mate?" He leaned in close. "Your owner?"

Draco's hands curled into fists. The truth of it burned worse than any curse.

"Get out of my sight."

Draco turned and walked from the study, his spine rigid. He made it ten paces into the corridor before the composure shattered. He sagged against the wall, the tremor starting in his hands and running up his arms.

His hand, though shaking, found his wand by instinct. He pressed the tip to his cheek, then his lip. The skin stitched itself together under the magic. The blood vanished. No evidence remained, save for the deep ache in his bones and the lingering taste of copper.

A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, a remnant of the Amortentia. His thoughts were slow, disconnected. But he'd needed the potion last night. Needed to not think about what he was planning. What it would cost.

Final nights.

The words from the dream haunted him. Had that been prophecy or just his subconscious bleeding through? Either way, it felt true. Whatever came next would likely kill him.

Draco had known that fact when he'd walked into the dungeons before dawn.

He'd kicked Weasley awake. The man had scrambled back against the wall, blinking in the torchlight. Despite months of captivity, he looked relatively healthy—the house-elves had been feeding him well on Draco's forgotten orders. Only a few days of actual torture, back when Draco had been desperate enough to think hurting Weasley might drag Granger's consciousness back to him.

It hadn't worked. Nothing had worked except time.

But Weasel had a purpose now. And Draco was glad he kept him around like a spare wand in a drawer.

"Finally going to finish me off then?" Weasley's voice was hoarse but steady.

Draco laughed. The sound echoed off stone walls, high and slightly unhinged. "Finish you? Oh, Weasel. I'm about to make you the luckiest bastard in Britain."

He raised his wand. A flick of his wrist, a silent incantation, and the shimmering wards around the cell collapsed. The magic sparked and died, leaving nothing between them but air and mutual hatred.

Confusion crossed Weasley's face. "What—"

"Here's what's going to happen." Draco pointed Weasley's own wand—confiscated months ago—at his chest. "You're going to make an Unbreakable Vow with me."

"Like hell I am."

"I save your sister. You keep your mouth shut about being here. Simple transaction."

That got Weasley's attention. The man went very still, eyes sharp despite captivity. "Ginny's alive?"

"Disappointed? I know how you Weasleys love your martyrs." Draco let that sink in. "The Dark Lord has special plans for her. Something about Pureblood breeding programs. Use your imagination."

Horror dawned on Weasley's face. Then his eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"

"The catch is you get to live, you ungrateful piece of shite. Most people would say thank you."

"Most people aren't locked in your basement, you psychotic prick."

Fair point.

"And Hermione?"

Of course. The Golden Trio's undying loyalty. "What about her?"

"I want her freed too. Part of the deal."

Draco cast the Cruciatus without thinking. He watched Weasley convulse on the stone floor for three heartbeats. When he lifted the curse, Weasley was gasping, his eyes were squeezed shut, face slick with sweat.

"You don't make demands here," Draco reminded him quietly. "You take what's offered or you rot. Your choice."

But Weasley, credit to his Gryffindor stupidity, pushed anyway. "Why… won't you… free her?"

Because she's mine. Because the pledge won't let me. Because if I let her go, I'll die.

"You want to save Granger?" He crouched beside the gasping form. "Accept my deal and come back for her yourself."

That did it. Weasley saw the logic.

"Fine. But when I come back—"

"When you come back, you'll be someone else's problem. I'll be dead."

The honesty had surprised them both.

The Vow had been simple. Draco would rescue Ginevra Weasley within a fortnight. In exchange, Ronald Weasley would never speak of his captor, his captivity at Malfoy Manor and the Vow they'd made to anyone. Ever.

The magic had settled into both their cores like chains.

Getting Weasley out had been the easy part. A Polyjuice Potion to make him look like Draco. Another to make Draco look like his father. A quick walk past the wards and a Portkey to London.

Weasley had stared at him—at Lucius's face—with pure hatred as Draco had handed him a bent spoon Portkey.

"This doesn't make us even," Weasley had said.

"I'm not looking for forgiveness," Draco had replied. "Just results."

Now, standing in the corridor with his father's bruises still throbbing, Draco wondered if results would be enough. The Vow was binding. It gave him a fortnight, but he knew that was a lie. He only had until tonight.

The Weasley girl was going to be transported to Dark Lord's fortress for the gathering. If Draco didn't get her out tonight, the task would become impossible. The two weeks were just a buffer for his own death, not for her rescue.

One night to commit treason against his own side.

Not enough time to figure out how to survive the aftermath.

Draco pushed off the wall and headed for the dining room. His mother would be waiting with breakfast and pointed questions he couldn't answer. He'd sit there and eat eggs Benedict and pretend everything was normal while planning his own destruction.

He'd tucked Weasley's wand and a few strands of red hair safely in his pocket. Polyjuice ingredients for the suicide mission ahead. He'd need to look like someone else when he went after the girl.

Someone with the right motivation to be there.

Someone whose death wouldn't be traced back to the Malfoy family.

His reflection caught in a window as he passed. Pale, composed, every inch the Pureblood heir. No sign of the chaos beneath.

Perfect. Let his father think he was still in control.