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Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire 

On the frost-bitten outskirts of Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor rose from its wintry grounds like a secret kept by the land itself. Its silhouette was blurred by ancient yews and drifting mist. The air was damp and heavy, filled with a chill that seemed to sink beneath the skin and take root in the bones, as if the manor itself rejected comfort.

Inside, the torchlight did not burn so much as suffer, fitful flames clawing at the dark, throwing shadows onto walls. Malfoy Manor was not merely a house, but a memory made of stone, a place that remembered everything: joys, griefs, vows, and most importantly, betrayals. Its walls did not simply shelter, they judged, watching each newcomer with the suspicion of a living thing. Solace was a privilege, offered only to those it deemed its own. For others, the very air pressed in. It was a constant reminder of how unwelcome their presence truly was.

Draco Malfoy stood near the center of the chamber like a statue carved from the night itself. Torchlight flickered across his sharp, pale features, tracing the familiar angles of his ancestors. A high brow, the sharp cut of his jaw, and eyes like icy silver, cold and luminous in the wavering light. His gaze caught the firelight and threw it back in shards, reflecting no warmth, only a silent menace.

At that very moment, he stood as everything the Malfoy name insisted upon, defined by duty, and shaped over years into something inevitable. The lines of responsibility etched into his posture, the cold, nearly empty look in his eyes, all seemed to echo the silent demands of the manor itself. It was as if the house had fashioned him from its own stone and tradition. Here, he was not merely fulfilling a role, he was the role.

Before him, Dean Thomas sat bound and bruised. Whatever Gryffindor courage he’d once carried had dissolved under Draco’s unflinching gaze. So much for courage.

Draco studied him, his expression unreadable. He noted each flicker of defiance, every twitch of Dean’s jaw, the way his gaze began to skitter away. His resolve was already giving way to fear.

The Order called it bravery to keep their minds unguarded, as though conviction alone could defend against magic. He called it negligence. Open minds summoned consequences.

Draco’s gaze fell upon the small packet of pills resting in his palm, a dark trophy salvaged from the battlefield, slipped from Dean’s trembling fingers in the desperate last moments of the fight. The infamous suicide pills, a last resort for those sent on hopeless missions, were meant as a mercy: a way to avoid the shame of capture or the danger of betrayal. 

This was the Order’s latest tactic. Not a strategy, but a measure born of desperation. It was a silent confession that they no longer trusted their magic to protect what mattered most.

Draco caught the faint scent of Muggle medicine clinging to them, a clear sign of how low the resistance had sunk. 

He rolled one pill between his fingers, watching it catch the flicker of torchlight. “Such careful precautions,” he murmured, his tone edged with contempt. “Is this the Order’s way of admitting they expect to fail?”

He let the words linger, pressing his lips into a thin line, disbelief flickering across his face. “Strange, isn’t it?” he continued, voice dropping almost to a sneer. “They placed more faith in a capsule than in the very essence that defines them.”

To Draco, this was more than desperation, it was a surrender. Turning to Muggle medicine felt insulting, as if they’d chosen to abandon their birthright in favor of something lesser. 

He crushed the pill slowly beneath his thumb, the faintest crackle echoing in the thick silence. Dean’s glare sparked in response, but the tremor in his body told another story.

Draco wasted no time. He reached out, not with wandwork, but with a power far darker and more intimate. He slipped into the depths of Dean’s mind like ink bleeding through parchment. His presence did not ask permission, it carved its own path.

Dean’s breath hitched, a shudder rippling through him as if his body recognized the intrusion before his mind could resist.

Memories splintered beneath Draco’s touch like fragile glass: flashes of terror, flickers of doubt, half-buried hopes and shames. He moved with elegant precision, fracturing the mind beneath him as easily as ice shatters under pressure.

In the shadowed corner of the chamber, the Dark Lord watched in silence, crimson eyes gleaming with a rare blend of curiosity and approval. He savored the display of power before him, the kind usually kept behind closed doors, now fully unleashed in his presence. There was an elegance in the way Draco worked, and he observed not only as a master but as a collector, admiring a living masterpiece.

There was a time he had seen nothing in Draco but the shadow of Lucius. When the Astronomy Tower mission crumbled, so did his worth. Yet power often slumbers in silence, and as the years of blood and fire passed, Draco’s true nature began to awaken.

His brilliance had emerged suddenly, violently, like lightning splitting a starless sky. The Dark Lord, ever vigilant, recognized it before too long: a talent not merely learned, but born. Draco’s power pressed against the very edges of magic, growing into something almost forbidden.

Under his command, Draco became more than an heir. He became a force of shadow, moving with a gravity that bent the air. Even the fiercest Death Eaters learned to fear what he had become. And the Dark Lord felt it then—a wonder he hadn’t tasted in years, and the quiet thrill of binding such power to his will.

And yet, the Dark Lord felt no true threat in Draco. His loyalty was ironclad, forged not by fear alone, but by possession. Every thread of the young man’s life—his home, his family, his future, his very existence—was held tightly in his grasp. That leash was unbreakable. Draco was his, and as the Dark Lord watched him work, he savored the rare power he had claimed for himself.

“You should have protected your thoughts more carefully,” Draco whispered, the sound almost gentle. “The Order’s precious secrets are only as strong as the weakest mind they hide behind.”

Dean’s memories spilled forward. Secret meetings cloaked in darkness, hushed strategies whispered in half-lit rooms, murmurs of resistance dressed as hope. Yet Draco did not merely observe, he crafted. Memory became clay in his hands, shaped and twisted into something entirely his own.

“And a mind left unshielded is a lantern in the dark, inviting the shadows to feast.” Draco’s expression settled into something cool as he pressed forward.

Dean flinched, eyes darting in silent desperation, searching for an exit he knew did not exist. His hope was lingering long after reason had died.

Draco moved with care, slipping the memories effortlessly back into Dean’s mind, yet none of them were honest this time. They bent beneath his command, returning not as truths but as modified fragments. Allies became enemies, victories rotted into ruin, and every thread of purpose Dean had clung to unraveled into dust.

Dean’s breath hitched in a strangled gasp, eyes wide as terror blossomed behind fluttering lids. His body trembled violently, trapped in a waking nightmare of memories twisted so expertly that he could no longer distinguish fabrication from fact. 

It was the moment of quiet collapse, when the host stood most defenseless and the mind began to splinter. Draco knew the exact instant a mind would shatter. And when that breaking point came, it was rarely the obvious truths that rose, but the buried ones. Small, seemingly insignificant fragments surfacing unbidden, exposing secrets even their owner had long forgotten.

This deep in, Draco no longer chose what surfaced. His magic moved on instinct, pulling loose the threads that mattered most. At times, it was without even his own understanding. But it always found the right ones.

And there it was.

Like a serpent uncoiling from the depths, one word emerged from the wreckage, sharp and poisonous.

Horcruxes.

The word floated at the edge of consciousness. Dean himself carried no understanding of it. He had no meaning tied to the syllables. Only the faintest echo of having heard it whispered in a hurried voice, somewhere just out of sight.

Draco pressed deeper, letting his magic sharpen the details and pull forward what mattered. Again, the word surfaced, persistent.

Potter’s voice.

Then—flashes—a pair of golden-brown eyes, wide, alert, already on guard. Dean stood on the periphery, unnoticed as Potter leaned in, voice lowered in urgency. Then, the air tensed, the conversation died without explanation. It was the kind of hush people used to guard what they couldn’t afford to lose.

Even stripped of meaning, the word held gravity. Draco felt its weight settle in his mind, a warning, a key to something vast and dangerous. He did not yet understand it, but instinct told him this was no ordinary secret; Horcruxes could be either the source of the Dark Lord’s strength or the key to his downfall. Now, the silence that guarded it was his to break.

Was it a location hidden by enchantment, or some forbidden branch of magic? Was it a ritual whispered through family lines, or the name of a weapon so secret even the Dark Lord’s most loyal feared it?

He weighed every possibility, letting the implications ripple through his mind. If this secret was so fiercely protected, then its power must be enormous. 

For all his precision, the truth was still out of reach. It was a puzzle with its most vital pieces missing.

He recognized the temptation to act on instinct, to dig recklessly for answers, but he held it in. Secrecy was his weapon, and patience would be his shield. 

Draco stood still for a breath longer, then raised his wand. A calm flick. A flash of green. The fire died, and Dean’s body slumped forward. He was no more than the remains of a shattered mind.

He turned away without a backward glance. There was no satisfaction in the act. It was simply what the war demanded, and what his side expected of him. Here, mercy had no place, only the clarity that survival depended on doing what was necessary for his own. Draco did not flinch from it.

The interrogation was over, but its echo lingered, leaving him colder than before. He had pulled something dangerous from the depths. A word without context, but not without consequence. It stayed with him, winding through his thoughts.

The Dark Lord watched from the shadows, his narrow gaze fixed and unblinking. A part of him had expected Draco to savor the act, to draw out the kill with cruelty, to stage suffering for spectacle. But there was no lingering, Draco was never one for waste.

He did not prolong agony, nor did he seek validation in another’s pain. There was no satisfaction in dragging out what had already been decided. One might have mistaken it for mercy; it was simply swift and final. For Draco, the mind was the only battlefield that mattered. Once it shattered, the war was over.

The silence cracked under the Dark Lord’s serpentine voice, his presence swelling like a storm gathering power, crimson eyes alight with a ruthless, hungry satisfaction. 

“You have done well, Draco,” the Dark Lord said, his tone laced with a rare note of pleasure, as if he were admiring a masterpiece finally completed. “It is always a delight to witness your craft.”

Draco’s silver eyes flickered, devoid of pride. What stirred beneath was not triumph, but a subtle, carefully ignored emptiness, a hollowness that seemed to deepen in the wake of every victory.

In the far corner, Lucius Malfoy stood silent and still, as though wishing the shadows might consume him altogether. Once, his presence had commanded respect, a man of influence, his word and wealth shaping the tides of wizarding society. Now he was little more than a ghost, faded in the gloom, eclipsed by the Dark Lord’s favor for his son. 

The only thing that set him apart now was blood. The simple fact of having fathered Draco, of passing down those distinctive silver-blond locks like a cold inheritance.

As the Dark Lord’s praise rang through the chamber, Lucius’s demeanor shifted, a stark and almost painful contrast to Draco’s quiet reserve. With slow, deliberate grace, he lowered himself into a deep, deferential bow, his long blond hair sweeping forward as he bent nearly to the ground. He was a loyal servant eager for approval. He remained silent, but the gesture itself was an offering, a wordless plea to be seen.

The Dark Lord’s gaze flickered briefly toward Lucius, and a cool assessment passed over him like he was a mere insect. It was not a true acknowledgment, merely a fleeting curiosity about the stir in the room caused by Lucius’ submissive display. Then, his attention snapped back to Draco.

“And what of the boy?” the Dark Lord demanded, his voice slick with curiosity. “What secrets has he revealed?”

Draco met the Dark Lord’s eyes without flinching. How many times had he stared into those crimson depths? Enough that the sight, once sickening, now stirred nothing in him at all. A hollow familiarity born of repetition, as if even fear had grown numb. He understood the rules of this dance better than most, and understood too the dangers of revealing even a hint of uncertainty.

In the back of his mind, the word Horcruxes thrummed like a secret heartbeat. It was the first time in years Draco had found himself faced with something he couldn’t immediately solve, something the Dark Lord might not yet suspect the Order had touched. Instinct urged caution. Until he could unravel its meaning, the word was best left unspoken. It was too volatile to trust, too powerful to surrender.

After all, knowledge was power.

And Draco had been a Malfoy long before he was a Death Eater.

His lips curled into a faint sneer, his voice measured and cold. “Nothing of value, My Lord.”

The Dark Lord studied him for a long, heavy moment, a flicker of dissatisfaction passing through his crimson eyes, measuring. The silence stretched. For an instant, it seemed the Dark Lord might demand more, but just as suddenly, the flicker in his gaze faded, and he gave a single, sharp nod. A quiet, final gesture of judgment.

“Then let him be forgotten,” the Dark Lord said, his voice silk-thin and careless, as if tossing aside a scrap of parchment. “Memory spares no room for the weak.”

Draco inclined his head in a slight bow, a mechanical gesture of compliance.

Without a sound, the Dark Lord vanished, dissolving into a swirl of black smoke. Nagini followed, her sleek form gliding beside him. Around them, the Death Eaters melted into the shadows. Their faceless and silent presence swallowed by the darkness the Dark Lord left in his wake. 

When all else had faded, the word remained.

Its meaning escaped him now. But it wouldn’t for long. 

Draco never chased without catching.

Chapter Text

Ashendusk, Somewhere in Southern Wiltshire

The sky had not yet begun to lighten when Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley found what remained of Dean Thomas.

They were patrolling through the outer trails of Ashendusk, wands raised, boots muffled by layers of sodden moss and leaves. It was a forgotten pocket of the south where trees grew gnarled and black, their limbs reaching through mist like hands grasping at secrets. Swamps festered between roots; the air stank of stagnant water and old magic, thick enough to cling to skin. Southern Wiltshire had long since been hollowed by war, and this stretch, just a few dozen miles from Malfoy Manor, was favored by Death Eaters for deeds meant to be buried.

Neville led, his frame tense with vigilance, every sense sharpened by too many losses. He’d learned, painfully, to read danger in the hush of birds, the curl of mist, the feel of ground shifting beneath him. Ginny walked just behind, her eyes narrowed against the gloom.

She stumbled first. Her boot caught on something half-buried, slick beneath the moss. She nearly fell, a soft curse dying on her lips as she steadied herself, heart suddenly thrumming with dread. Neville spun quickly, wand drawn, eyes wide alert of danger.

Ginny crouched and brushed away the mist and leaves, letting out a sharp, shocked gasp. “Oh, Merlin… Neville!”

He crossed the space in a heartbeat, his own dread coiling tighter as he saw what she’d found.

Dean’s body lay crumpled at the base of a leaning stone arch, half-sunken into the bog. Mud clung to his coat, as if eager to make him part of its decay. Bruises darkened his temple and neck, scorch marks ringed his sleeves. His wand, snapped in two, discarded a few feet away like an escapee.

Ginny dropped to her knees, her composure melting into bare grief. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to Dean’s neck, searching for any sign of life. 

Seconds dragged like eternity, until finally she whispered brokenly, “There’s… no pulse.”

Neville’s grip tightened on his wand until his knuckles blanched. There was nothing worse than finding a friend too late. 

Ginny raised her wand and cast a diagnostic charm; golden light fanned across Dean’s chest, then splintered into angry crimson over his throat and skull.

Neville’s gaze swept the ground, his wand flicking subtle detection charms through the air, each one sending faint ripples through the misty gloom. 

“Only two sets of footprints,” he murmured grimly. “One arriving, one leaving.”

He knelt lower, peering closer, when something metallic caught his eye. A flash at Dean’s wrist. Carefully, he rolled up the torn sleeve to reveal a small, odd device disguised as a wristwatch.

Ginny leaned in, her frown sharpening. “A memory anchor?”

It was a grim Order invention. Enchanted to capture the final threads of thought and feeling in the heartbeat before death. It synced with the wearer’s magic like a second pulse. And when that pulse stopped, so did time. Soul and moment sealed together.

The glass was cracked. The second hand frozen. It had stopped at 1:47 a.m.

Neville brushed a finger over it. A faint pulse of magic lingered, barely there. “Yeah, he wore an anchor,” he whispered, voice thick. “His last moments are still here.”

Ginny swallowed. “We have to bring him back.” 

And together, they readied the spells that would carry Dean home. The forest echoed with the sharp cracks of their departure, only emptiness remained, the swirling mist closing over the place where they had stood.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London

Grimmauld Place was heavy with night when they appeared. 

Dean’s body floated between them in a soft stasis field, limbs suspended in the blue glow of preservation charms. The quiet hum of magic was the only sound.

A few inside were already awake. Sleep had become a stranger in a war that never truly rested.

Hermione Granger was among those who rose before the dawn. She stepped from the kitchen, hair tousled, the deep exhaustion in her face betraying how little she slept these days. Her eyes found Dean’s floating body and she froze. A sharp inhale caught in her throat as recognition struck, shoulders stiffening as if bracing for impact.

“No,” The word barely escaped, trembling on her lips. Still, her feet carried her forward.

She leaned beside Dean, taking in the sight of him. Hermione could do nothing but stare, willing herself to memorize the final peace that death had forced upon him.

Then quietly, she reached out, her hands steady despite the tremor just beneath her skin. She searched his wrist until she found the memory anchor, fingers working carefully to unclasp the fractured device. The small object rested in her palms like it weighed the world.

Her jaw clenched. Her chest rose sharply once, the sting behind her eyes threatened, but she would not let it fall. 

Grief could wait. War did not.

Hermione stood, the anchor tight in her fist, something fierce settling behind her gaze. “Wake the others,” she said coldly. “We owe him more than a burial.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the war room of Grimmauld Place, they gathered in the blue-grey hush before dawn, shadows pooling in the corners. At the battered center table, a portable Pensieve shimmered faintly, its surface cold and deep, was waiting. The tabletop itself was a history of resistance: knife scores, old ink stains, scorch rings from forgotten teacups. Years of urgency, fear, and defiance had left their marks on the wood, just as the war had marked everyone gathered here.

Within fifteen minutes, the Order had assembled. Chairs scraped over uneven floorboards as everyone found their place. Some sat in silence, shoulders bowed and eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. Others remained standing, shifting from foot to foot, their tension almost palpable in the heavy hush.

McGonagall and Lupin took their seats together, both impossibly tired but utterly firm. McGonagall’s hands were folded tightly in her lap, her face carved into unreadable lines. Lupin leaned forward, hollow-eyed, but alert like a man who knew nightmares too well to sleep.

Ron paced by the curtains, his movements restless and quick, frustration radiating off him in waves. His eyes never once met the Pensieve. 

By the basin, Hermione stood with the broken wristwatch cupped in her palm, Harry a silent presence at her side. Both looked drawn and pale in the thin, poorly lit room.

The silence thickened, as Hermione stepped forward. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and, with care, lowered the watch into the swirling silver of the Pensieve.

As it touched the surface, it dissolved in a flicker of light like stardust slipping beneath still water.

The room held its breath.

And the memory began.

Dean’s voice echoed through the air, ragged with panic.

“He’s…
Inside my head…
I don’t know the—
I swear—”

His voice cracked, not from pain, but from guilt, as if he was trying to bite down on the truth, only to find it had teeth. 

“But…
He heard it.
He pulled it—
Horcruxes.
He knows.”

A figure appeared. Blurred beyond naming, but unmistakable in silhouette. 

Something inside the memory jittered.

Figures bled through the edges of Dean’s vision. His mother’s arms reaching for him. Cedric Diggory, smiling with a bleeding mouth. 

“Oh, he knows...
I tried.
It’s burning me...
He’s everywhere!”

Dean’s scream tore through the space, so real that several flinched. Hermione’s nails dug crescents into her palm.

Then, unbidden, Parvati’s laugh cut through the nightmare.

It didn’t belong here.

“He reacted to it.
It meant something.
Stop him.
Stop, before he—”

Dean gasped. His thoughts shattered, dream and memory fusing at the seams. He reached for himself: a breath, a name. Harry? Hermione?

But then… Seamus.  

Standing at the edge of the room, backlit by green light. His arm lifted slowly. The sleeve slid back to reveal a Dark Mark inked black and alive on his forearm. 

Dean blinked, disbelieving.

Seamus didn’t speak. He just showed it to him.

The moment shattered. 

Images rushed in. Cracks in the stone bled ink. A broomstick made of bone. Fingers tangled in his hair, a harsh whisper curling into his ear, bitter and accusing: Traitor.

A pale hand extended. A wand rose.

Upon the ring finger, a glint of silver. A snake curled tightly around a dark emerald, its eyes glimmering.

Malfoy signet ring

Then a flash of green.

Avada Kedavra, not shouted, but spoken softly, like a breath on winter air. 

The room recoiled as the silver mist hissed back into the Pensieve.

The air turned still, heavy with astonishment.

Hermione met Harry’s gaze, seeing her own horror reflected in his eyes.

It was Mad-Eye Moody who broke the silence first, his voice as sharp and battered as his presence.

“Bloody hell!”

He began to stalk the length of the table, his wooden leg thudding against the floorboards in a harsh, uneven rhythm. “Well, would you look at that. Snake’s precious heir, murdering like it’s a family tradition.” His magical eye spun in its socket as if searching for something to hex.

Lupin leaned forward, fingers knit together, the lines of fatigue and worry carved deep into his face. His voice was calm, but beneath it pulsed a current of dread. “It’s him, yes. But what he did…” Lupin shook his head slowly, unable to disguise the unease in his gaze. “That wasn’t ordinary Legilimency. I’ve never seen it used that way. Not even Snape.”

Ron’s pacing grew sharper, boots scraping over the floor, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His jaw flexed with each restless step, a muscle working in his cheek as he muttered a curse under his breath, too low for Hermione to catch.

Hermione stood as if rooted to the spot, her breath coming in shallow bursts.

Draco Malfoy. It was him. 

There was no mistaking him not with that signet ring. Its serpent coiled in silver and green, glinting on his finger just as it had so many times in the Hogwarts corridors. She remembered those careless flashes at prefect meetings. The way his hand would brush past her desk, always marked by that symbol. 

The pale hand that raised the wand in Dean’s memory hadn’t trembled. It moved with a stillness that made her stomach twist, not just practiced, but chillingly precise, almost as if every movement had been rehearsed in secret until it was second nature. Almost programmed, she thought, a shiver running through her as the image played again behind her eyes.

Her fingers tightened around the rim of the Pensieve. The memory's cold seeped into her bones.

He’s everywhere, Dean had said.

That kind of infiltration, no incantation, no wand, wasn’t just rare. It was the stuff of myth, discarded to the darkest, dustiest corners of magical theory. Hermione remembered those footnotes, always written in smaller type, always appended with warnings: Unsubstantiated. Dangerous. Impossible. She had read them, annotated them, and dismissed them as academic paranoia.

But here it was, unfolding before her, not as a hypothetical, but as a living, breathing horror. She’d heard the rumors about Malfoy’s potential, read the reports, skimmed the Daily Prophet, listened to the whispers—but this was the first time it became real. She’d watched speculation slip its leash and become reality, and reality was so much worse than anything the stories had warned.

She tried to tell herself it was only power, only a weapon like any other. But what she had witnessed wasn’t violence for its own sake, nor even torture.

It was control. Absolute, terrifying control.

Something cold took root behind her ribs. It was the knowledge that boundaries she’d trusted—the lines between what magic could do and what it must never do—had already been crossed. And Draco Malfoy, of all people, had walked past them without flinching.

And Hermione knew, with a certainty that chilled her blood, that she could no longer think of him as a boy she’d once bested in class. He was something else now, something unknown. And the story she’d always told herself about him would never fit again.

Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep voice cut through her thoughts. “Dean shouldn’t have been caught. We planned for risks, but…“ He massaged his temples, weariness and blame flickering across his face.

Moody let out a sound that was half-growl, half-laugh, the magical eye rolling.

“And we let Malfoy walk around breathing. Brilliant,” he said dryly. “Truly top-notch strategy.”

McGonagall’s arms were tightly crossed, her face pinched with strain. 

"No one's letting anything happen, Alastor," she said, voice clipped. " Dean was gathering intel. That much we planned for. We had reason to believe he’d found something… unusual. Malfoy wasn't part of the equation. His presence was unexpected."

Moody’s eye shifted toward her with a mechanical click.

“Ah, yes. I keep forgetting that we’re treating Malfoy like bad weather. Unavoidable. Unpredictable. And apparently not worth preparing for... until he floods the house.”

Hermione’s voice cut through the rising tension.

“Because the last four reports placed him in the South, forging diplomatic ties with France. Not… doing that. ”

Lupin’s raised hand brought a brittle silence. “There’s something far more dangerous in that memory than who cast the curse. What matters is what Malfoy learned tonight.”

A fresh tension pulsed through the room, a heaviness that seemed to draw the walls closer.

Hermione’s brows drawn in focused thought. The dim light carved shadows into her face, emphasizing the weight behind her silence.

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady. “Malfoy doesn’t know what it means.”

Harry stood behind her, rigid and pale. “He’ll figure it out. You saw how he reacted to the memory, Hermione. It got under his skin. People like Malfoy can’t stand not knowing things. If it makes him feel weak, he won’t let it go.”

“We’re all screwed,” Ron burst out, his face flushed with frustration. Hermione had been waiting for it. Honestly, she was surprised it had taken him this long.

“You lot are still debating what he knows. He knows enough. And he’s bloody Malfoy!” There was venom in the way he spat the name.

He stopped, stunned by the weight of his own words.

“And when he puts it together, when he hands it over to that sickening monster, it won’t be us hunting him. It’ll be the other way around.”

The room went silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Harry shifted beside Hermione.

“So, what do we do?” he asked quietly.

Nobody answered right away.

Ron, still fuming, finally broke the silence. “We kill him before he figures it out. Simple as that.”

A low, approving grunt came from Moody at the far end of the table. “Finally, some common sense,” he muttered. “Glad someone here still thinks like we’re at war.” He glared at the others, as if daring them to argue.

“We are not murderers, Alastor,” McGonagall‘s eyes flared. “And we do not execute people for what they might do. Not unless we have no other choice.”

Lupin nodded, adding gently, “We don’t know if he understands what he’s heard. And more importantly, if he’d wanted to tell him, he would’ve done it already.”

Hermione looked around the table. “That pause means something.”

She clung to it like a fraying rope over a pit. Because if it meant nothing, then Malfoy was already lost. And if he was lost, if he had become just another soulless weapon, stripped of will and mercy, then the only choice left would be death.

But Hermione wasn’t ready to be the one who decided who lived and who didn’t. She had spent too many years holding the line, refusing to let this war turn her into the very thing she fought against.

Her throat tightened.

Her fingers curled, remembering the way her wand had trembled years ago. The last time she’d whispered a spell she swore never to utter again. Obliviate... A word as gentle as it was devastating, made of soft syllables and sharp consequences.

How twisted, she thought. After all these years, she was here again.

“There’s only one option,” she said at last, her voice steadier than she felt. “Obliviate.”

The word fell into the silence like a stone, its ripples washing over the room. All eyes turned to her, searching for certainty she didn’t feel. She refused to look up, afraid that if she did, her resolve might crack.

“It’s the only way. If he doesn’t remember hearing the word, he can’t chase it.”

Ron’s voice cut through, incredulous and pained. “You can’t be serious. That spell—”

“I know exactly what it is,” Hermione snapped, the edge in her voice a shield against the ache in her chest. She paused, the fight draining out of her, and when she spoke again it was barely more than a whisper. “I know better than anyone.”

Lupin’s brow furrowed, worry lines deepening in the half-light.

“That kind of spell... On someone like Malfoy…” His voice trailed off, thick with the unspoken weight of what he feared. 

“If he’s trained in Occlumency, and with his pedigree, I’d bet my other leg he is, the spell might not even land. Occlumens are slippery bastards. Memory charms bounce right off when someone knows how to lock the doors,” Moody said. He let that hang for a second. “You try to Obliviate him, you might kill him, or worse, make him suspicious. You won’t get a second shot, Granger. If he senses it, he’ll come for you.”

Hermione squared her shoulders, answering before anyone could voice another doubt. “I know the risks. I’ve studied memory magic since we first heard about Horcruxes. But if Malfoy remembers, if he even breathes a word to the wrong person, it’s over. For us. For Harry. For everything we’ve fought for.”

Kingsley’s nod was slow. “She’s right,” he said, his tone final. “Hermione’s the best we have for this. She understands the stakes.”

Hermione took a breath, summoning every ounce of resolve she had left. “We have no choice.” She looked up, eyes meeting every face around the table. “So if it has to be me, I’ll do it. I won’t hesitate.”

Lupin’s shoulders sagged, a heavy resignation settling over him as he searched her face for any sign of uncertainty. “I still worry what it might cost,” he said softly. “But if anyone can handle this the right way, it’s you.”

Moody grunted, the sound rough with reluctance. “All right then. Your way.” He thumped his wooden leg once against the floor, the sound final as a gavel. “But if he slips through your fingers…I’ll clean it up myself. And trust me, I don’t bother with memory charms.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It was late. Hermione sat alone in her small room. The last firelight flickering in the grate and casting restless, ghostly shapes across the peeling wallpaper. The embers snapped and spat, scattering tiny sparks. Beyond her door, Grimmauld Place slept uneasily. 

Her bed was barely visible beneath a chaotic spread of maps, open books, and hasty notes. Black ink smudged her fingertips, the evidence of frantic work. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d truly slept. Her mind was a relentless current, thoughts roaring too loud for rest.

Australia.

The thought rose like a spell of its own. An old wound never healed, a memory too sharp to touch without bleeding. 

She shut her eyes, and suddenly she was there. In that too bright, too quiet living room. Wand raised, voice steady while her soul was torn apart. She remembered the moment the spell took hold. Her parents’ eyes clouded, their smiles fading to neutral. Then the stillness, unbearable, a silence louder than a scream. Her hand had trembled, not from the magic but from knowing she would never forgive herself.

They’d forgotten her in seconds. 

Hermione’s gaze shifted to the mess in front of her. A map, a slip of parchment, the rough outline of Black's family tree, the word Occlumens?? underlined twice. She traced the letters with her fingertip, frowning.

Maybe she could work around it. She’d done the research, pushed herself into the dangerous margins of memory magic theory. She had to believe she could do this.

She had something new now. Something no one else could offer. From her pocket, Hermione drew out several slips of parchment: her own careful inventions, a complex fusion of classic Obliviate theories and fringe reinforcement spells... all born from sleepless nights and eternal guilt. They were daring and risky, but brilliant in their audacity. 

It was the magical equivalent of threading a needle through a minefield.

And she’d only have one shot.

She stared down at them, suddenly feeling the room shrink around her. It was too small for the enormity of what she was about to do.

Standing abruptly, Hermione paced. Her wand spinning anxiously in her hand. Without realizing it, she lifted it to the shadows across the room, imagining the enemy hidden there. 

Imagining him.

Not the arrogant schoolboy taunting her in class. Not the soldier on a battlefield. Instead, she pictured Malfoy from Dean’s memory. The faceless, merciless figure with a chilling calmness, whose wand had ended Dean’s life without remorse. 

That pale hand. That glittering signet ring. That unforgivable spell.

The image stuck to her mind like a curse.

She squeezed her wand so tightly her knuckles ached.

She didn’t want this. But war didn’t care what she wanted. War took away choices, left only survival.

She glanced down at her wand. Once it felt like hope, now weighted with something more grave. This was the wand that had helped her perform split-second shield charms, deflect horrible curses, and summon her Patronus in the dark of war. Tonight, it felt different.

Her heart beat faster as doubt whispered cruelly in her ear.

You faced torture. You hunted Horcruxes. You rewrote the very laws of magic. Yet now, one single spell—and you fall apart like a scared little girl.

The ache in her chest grew sharp, pressing her breath into shallow gasps.

She forced her wand down, hands shaking, and held it tight—not in confidence, but just to keep it from slipping away.

Just to prove to herself that she was still here. Still her.

A soft knock broke the quiet, startling her slightly. 

“It’s open,” she called softly, steadying her voice as the door creaked gently inward. 

Harry entered quietly, two steaming mugs in his hands. His expression was somber, understanding already etched into his features.

“Knew you’d still be up,” he said, settling cross-legged at the edge of her bed and nudging aside her chaos with a familiar ease, just like he used to during those nights spent together in tents, back when the world was ending for the first time.

“It’s tea,” he offered, managing a crooked smile. “Not that it’ll help much.”

She took the mug gratefully, the warmth seeping comfortingly through her cold fingers.

“It’s enough,” she murmured.

A gentle silence settled between them. Not awkward, but the quiet of two people who had survived enough to know that sometimes words wouldn’t fix anything.

Harry’s gaze wandered over the pile on her bed but he didn’t ask questions.

“I hate this,” Hermione admitted finally, voice breaking slightly as the honesty spilled out like a confession.

“I know.”

“This spell… It’s a plague. The idea of taking something from someone’s mind... I wonder what I’ll lose next.”

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, the firelight catching the scar on his brow. “The fact that it hurts… that’s what makes you you, Hermione. The day you stop feeling that—” He hesitated, voice thickening. “that’s the day we lose.” He searched her face, his trust unshaken. “You’re giving something of yourself for the future you believe in. That’s courage.”

She lifted her eyes to his, searching desperately for reassurance, finding only sincerity and absolute trust.

“Everything you’ve done, every sacrifice—” he continued quietly. "it’s always been for the right reasons. I trust your judgment. Even when you don’t.”

She didn’t answer directly, but some of the tension left her shoulders.

“I’ll be careful,” she promised.

He reached into his pocket, drawing out a silver chain with a charmed Galleon, and pressed it into her palm. “Take it. It’s keyed to me. If anything goes wrong, just press it once.”

She hesitated. 

“Same enchantment as before,” he said softly, a fleeting smile warming his eyes. And for a moment, they were both sixteen again, facing different shadows but the same war. “Just in case. Please.”

She curled her fingers around the Galleon. “Thank you, Harry.”

He squeezed her hand once, then stood to leave, pausing at the door.

“We’ll get through this, Hermione.”

And she believed him.

The door clicked softly shut, leaving her alone again.

Hermione crossed the room, tea now forgotten, moving to the window. Outside, the world was bathed in soft moonlight, beautiful yet indifferent to her fears and hopes.

She lifted her wand and, with a steady breath, spoke into the night. “ Expecto Patronum. ”

Silver light erupted, and her otter Patronus danced gently through the air, filling the room with a peace that steadied her pulse. It turned toward her, waiting.

Hermione stepped closer, voice low and sure, as if speaking directly to fate.

“If I don’t return within twenty-four hours,” she whispered, “Assume compromise.”

The Patronus blinked gently with her knowing eyes, and then disappeared swiftly into the darkness like a shooting star. 

The room emptied again, but the silence no longer frightened her. She returned to her desk, eyes falling on Dean’s fractured memory anchor. Its once gleaming surface was dull now in the half-light. A final testament to what she owed the dead.

A moment passed as she gathered herself, determination burning away the doubt. 

She reached for her wand. 

And without looking back, Hermione Granger stepped out into the darkness, unafraid.

Chapter Text

The Malfoy Conservatory, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

At the farthest edge of the Malfoy estate, the conservatory stood where mist blended the fields into an infinite grey. Its pearl-and-pane form set at the border of civilization and wildness. Frost traced delicate patterns across the glass, softening the view of the outside world into a muted silver.

Inside, ancient warming charms softened the air. The scents of soil, jasmine, and rosemary mingled with the fragile sweetness of snowdrops. Now and then, sunlight broke through the clouds and slid in pale, silvery beams over polished marble and greenery.

At the room’s heart, a table of white-veined marble formed an island of quiet under the graceful arc of a fig tree. Here sat Narcissa Malfoy, as if she herself had been created out of winter’s light and midnight’s darkness. Her robe was the black of deep water, absorbing all brightness and color, rendering the pale oval of her face and the silk fall of her blonde hair almost luminous by contrast.

Draco came with the first light, his boots soundless against the flagstones. The glass door closed shut behind him. A barrier falling between the world’s cold edge and the room’s comfortable atmosphere. He paused on the threshold, allowing the hush to settle around him, feeling the way the air recognized the presence of his blood. Somewhere above, a lone blackbird released a brief note in greeting. Then all was quiet again.

Narcissa glanced up as he entered, her expression calm, the corners of her mouth softening in acknowledgment. She gestured to the seat opposite, then her hand reaching for the fine porcelain.

“Good morning, Draco,” she said softly.

He nodded once in greeting. “Mother.”

Draco removed his gloves and set them near the white roses on the table. As he took the chair opposite, he watched his mother's hands. The stream of tea fell into the teacup, darkening to amber as it met the porcelain. Steam curled upward, catching the light before vanishing into the air. For a fleeting moment, he let himself wonder if it could carry his burdens away too.

“Sugar?” she offered.

He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Draco watched her as she added a cube to her own cup. She took her time, stirring it gently. 

“The house was loud last night,” she began. “even the portraits have fallen quiet to listen.”

Draco’s lips curved in a manner of habit. “They like to witness.”

He leaned forward to his cup, inhaling the scent of bergamot. Then he sipped, eyes closing briefly in unconscious relief. The warmth of the tea became a soft armor against the memory of last night.

“You allow yourself to be seen,” she said, tone casual yet eyes attentive.

“That was the intent. They needed to see,” Draco replied. He set his cup down, unhurried. “He needed to see.”

“And was he pleased?”

“He is never pleased for long. There is always another task.”

Narcissa’s mouth tightened, but she did not disagree. Her fingers found the nearest white rose, caressing its petal as though the softness might smooth the edges of her thoughts. “You have learned to be useful,” she said. “but careful, Draco. He has seen enough men destroy themselves trying to impress him.”

“I give him what keeps us alive,” Draco said, voice flat. “You taught me that.”

“I taught you to wear the right face. Survival is the consequence.”

Narcissa’s eyes wandered past him, tracing the green that climbed the glass wall. “The jasmine’s come back stronger this year,” she said, her tone light. “I half-expected the frost to win.”

Draco followed her gaze to the charmed lanterns glowing faintly above the vine. Their warm halo cast false sunlight across the jasmine leaves. “Things that look fragile, often survive longer than you think. But this one,” he tilted his chin toward the lanterns, “has help.”

A quiet smile touched Narcissa’s lips, as though she’d been waiting for this answer. “Sometimes help is the only difference between withering and enduring.” She let the words linger, her eyes holding his now, no longer looking at the jasmine. “The flowers persist here for the same reason you do, Draco. Blood. And the old vows. Those are the wards that have kept this house alive for centuries.”

A brief silence settled over them, shaped by the gentle trickle of the fountain and softened sigh of winter wind against the glass. Narcissa’s gaze lingered on Draco’s face for a moment, searching past the even lines of his composure.

“Did you sleep?”

“Enough,” he said, offering nothing more, but the slow orbit of his fingers around the rim of his nearly empty cup faltered.

“Mm.” She took the last measured sip, then set the empty cup back onto the saucer. “When you were seven, you told me this room felt different from the rest of the manor. Do you remember?”

“I said it felt clean.”

“You said it felt honest,” she murmured. “I chose not to correct you.”

At that, Draco shifted almost unnoticed in his chair, angling himself so he would have a better view of the conservatory’s entrance. It was the kind of habit war carved into a man, the reflex to guard their back, even in a place meant to be safe.

“I am not seven,” he said, his jaw tightening.

Narcissa reached for the teapot and poured a second cup. The fragrance of bergamot filling the air between them once again.

“No, you are not,” she agreed, her voice low. “Now you’ve learned to lock things away, and to know when a lock is worth keeping.” Her gaze drifted around the glass walls before returning to his. “This room has always been a door we could shut against the rest of the world. The stones may whisper, the portraits may listen, but here—” she paused, holding his eyes “—here, it’s only us.”

Her fingers rested lightly on the marble table. “It was your great-grandfather’s choice to build it this far from the manor. The records say he meant the plants to be only for beauty, a pleasant distraction. But I’ve always believed he built it as an escape. We can let the world freeze outside the glass for a while.”

Draco’s gaze lingered on her, the faintest crease forming between his brow. One didn’t need to be intelligent to know she wasn’t speaking about the weather. Beneath the softness of her tone, she was offering a place where he could drop his mask, if only for a moment. Yet the habit of holding himself was carved too deep to loosen, even now.

“There is a look you wear when something refuses to let you go.”

Draco’s fingers stilled on the handle. “Is there?”

“You had it the day your father brought home the basilisk skin and called it a lesson,” she said, brushing a speck of dust from her robe. “You had it again the year until you could make the Vanishing Cabinet obey you. I memorized the set of it now.”

“It’s nothing.”

She inclined her head, accepting the lie with the same unruffled grace she might use to smooth the crease from a napkin. When it became clear he would not comment on it any further, Narcissa’s gaze softened.

“When something troubles you,” she began, “it can feel like the only way forward is to pull it into the light. But there are things that will burn you if you do. Some things,” her tone went lower, “are better left untouched. A lie, if well-placed, can carry more weight than the truth.”

Draco let out a breath, his gaze tracing the frost patterns before drifting to the mist-clouded field beyond.

She always spoke this way, never pushing but laying down stones for him to walk on if he chose. The Dark Lord had claimed everything else in his life, yet somehow she remained apart. She was the last thread binding him to what humanity he had left, perhaps the only thing keeping him from becoming a blade with no thought beyond the cut. So why the Dark Lord had allowed her to remain was another truth locked beyond his reach, and this one was probably safer left undisturbed.

“What if it’s not a lie,” he said quietly, “but the space where the truth ought to be?”

She studied him over the curve of her cup, her expression unreadable. “Empty spaces have their uses. It’s the filled ones that trap you.”

His eyes narrowed, though only slightly. “And if it’s already a trap?”

“Then you choose,” she said, leaning back. “Whether to force the door open and risk what’s behind it, or leave it closed and learn to walk around it.”

And there it was again, that instinct she had. To redirect his eyes toward the space between things. To teach him how to survive this war without going mad.

A faint current from the warming charms stirred the rosemary nearby, carrying its scent between them. Draco’s eyes followed the shifting leaves, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “And if walking around it means never knowing?”

Narcissa’s gaze held his for a beat before she set her cup aside with the precision of a closing statement. “That’s the trouble with truth, my dragon. It doesn’t stay still. If it wants to be found, it will come for you. And when it does, it rarely knocks first.”

His mouth twitched. “So your advice is to wait.”

“My advice,” she said, pale gaze steady on his, “is to be certain you can live with what you drag into the light. The truth is rarely kinder than whatever fills its absence, and I would rather you breath in doubt than choke on the answer.”

Draco straightened his spine, as he studied her for a moment. “Do you and Father ever talk about such things?”

“We did, once. Before kneeling became easier than speaking,” she said, almost dismissively. Then she met his eyes, unflinching. “He kneels to survive. We will stand to live.”

Something in him shifted at her words. The absence burning in his own mind was no gentler for being empty. But he only lifted his cup, letting the steam veil his expression, and drank as if her counsel had settled the matter.

“Still, if you must keep seeking answers,” she said softly, as if tucking the final thread into place, “Do it wisely. When you feel eyes upon you, smooth your collar to remind your body where it ends. When cornered into speaking, ask them what tea they prefer.”

He blinked in amusement. “Tea?”

“No one attacks while being asked for their preferences,” she said, the ghost of a smile brushing her lips.

“Terribly polite.”

“Politeness is a blade,” she murmured. “It cuts without the mess, most never feel until they’re bleeding.”

Something in the precision of her tone fascinated him. The way she could carve warnings out of gentleness. She had fought more battles in the drawing room than most had on battlefields. And she won most even without raising her voice.

“I should go,” he said, already reaching for his gloves. “There’s—”

“Always something,” Narcissa finished for him, the faintest roll of her eyes.

He rose, and on impulse so did she. Without thinking, he bent and kissed her temple. A touch so quick it might have been an accident. She smelt faintly of rose and fresh-cut stems.

“When you walk out that door, let the world see you, Draco. The world bends more easily for those who do not look for permission to exist.” her gaze held his as he drew back. “Remember the weight of your name, it’s older than his cause.”

Draco went still, as though the air had thickened. His eyes searched hers, hunting for the flicker of defiance he thought might be there. But there was nothing beside that measured calm she wore like a second skin.

“You are loyal,” he said at last, each word pressed out deliberately.

“Yes,” Narcissa replied without hesitation. “But as much to you. To what bears our name. There is no oath higher.”

He let it slip past him, offering no reply, instead turning his attention to his gloves. As he fastened the buttons, he lingered over the left, taking deliberate care to smooth the leather along his forear. The movement placed the marked skin just within her line of sight, hidden beneath cloth, but never absent. It was a silent reminder, that the Dark Lord’s shadow was always in the room, and some things were better left unsaid, especially in the presence of what could never be erased.

Narcissa’s gaze flickered, the smallest narrowing of her eyes acknowledging the message. She inclined her head like a matriarch accepting terms she already understood.

“Take care, Draco.” She stepped back then, the words landed with the weight of both blessing and command.

He paused at the door. “Mother?”

“Yes, love.”

He hesitated, the word he didn’t say pressing against his teeth, heavy and without shape. At last, he folded it away, letting the silence hold it for him.

“I’ll be back in a few days.”

“I'll be here.”

Chapter Text

Dover Marine Station, Kent

The skeletal frame of the train station's ironwork stretched above like the ribcage of a dead whale. Faint lamplight flickered, struggling to cut through the swirling fog. In the distance, a ship slipped silently out of the harbor, its silhouette barely visible against the dark horizon.

Hermione had been here for nearly an hour, standing hidden in the shades of old, rusting trains, her breath forming tiny clouds in the chilled air. She pressed her back against the metal, eyes scanning the train yard, every instinct on high alert.

After Dean’s death, the Order’s scraps of intelligence had been contradictory at best, but one detail kept resurfacing in report after report. Draco Malfoy, stationed in the South, working to forge alliances with French sympathizers. It would explain the lack of recent sightings of him at the front.

Mostly, he hadn’t been where the reports claimed he would be. Time and again, the trail went cold, as if he were nothing but smoke slipping through their fingers. Still, the parchment kept insisting the same thing, and for once, she dared to hope it wasn’t another dead end.

So when she caught the first glint of pale, silvery hair between the rows of train carriages, a flicker of relief ran through her. At least this time, the reports had been right.

He wore no mask. Either he was powerful enough not to need it, or he simply refused to hide behind it like some obedient dog. Or Merlin forbid the little tosser get a wrinkle in his hair.

She ducked lower, her boots silent on the wet stone, and followed him.

Malfoy passed between two stationary trains. He paused to give a curt command, two quick, dismissive flicks of his finger toward the faceless Death Eaters. Then he adjusted the fall of his coat as though the cold belonged to other people. Chin high, gaze forward, every inch the aristocrat even in a place like this. Hermione’s mouth tightened. He probably thought the mist was here too, for his dramatic entrance.

He moved alone into the narrow stretch of rails, the space tightening until the mist clung to her hair in cold beads. A muffled roar from a passing train drowned the sound of her footsteps as she closed the distance between them. Muffliato was already in place, no one would hear a thing. Beyond the fogged station, the world was blissfully unaware, locked away behind the metal walls of parked trains.

It was the perfect moment.

She studied him for a second through the drifting fog. He was taller than she remembered, shoulders squared beneath the cut of his coat, lean strength in every movement. The boy she’d known at school was gone, and in his place stood someone colder, more dangerous. A shiver of fear ran down her spine as she took him in, though she wasn’t sure if it was his presence that caused it, or the spell she was about to cast.

Hermione took a slow breath, lifted her wand, and murmured the first incantation.

“Elicito Cogitatum.”

The magic slid out like a thread of light, near invisible in the mist, and brushed the back of his head.

Draco’s eyes lost focus for a moment, as if something had pulled at his thoughts. Horcruxes. The word came without warning, but he didn’t push it away. He’d been turning it over in his head ever since Thomas’s death, unable to stop thinking about it. 

He kept walking.

Behind the parallel train, Hermione let out a slow breath, wand steady in her grip.

The first charm had landed exactly as she’d designed it to. It was a challenge in itself. A piece of magic meant to pull one specific moment or word of the caster’s choosing from within thousands of others, dragging it to the surface without disturbing the rest. 

She raised her wand and whispered into the air a second time.

“Mentis Lumen.”

The second charm was hers as well. It was meant to remove whatever the first had brought to the surface, snipping it clean and leaving everything else untouched. She’d spent months studying it, knowing it was too dangerous to practice. A task so delicate with potential danger that Hermione was terrified now that she was using it.

A ribbon of silver light unfurled from her wand, snaking toward Malfoy’s temple.

He froze mid-step, like a predator catching the scent of something in the wind. A subtle shiver went through the air around him. Occlumency rose like an iron dome, slamming into her magic. The recoil hit her temples like the sudden start of a headache, her jaw tightening as the spell unraveled into a scatter of gentle sparks.

Hermione swore under her breath, blinking away the metallic tang that flooded her mouth. Well, of course. What else did she expect from him?

He turned his head slowly, scanning the mist. “Who’s there?” His low voice cut through the muffled air inside her Muffliato.

He pivoted on the spot, wand out, and swept a Homenum Revelio across the space. The charm slid over her but broke uselessly against the layers of magic she’d prepared.

Her modified Disillusionment Charm held, barely. Goosebumps prickled along her arms, the air around her seeming to shimmer faintly as if the spell were fighting to stay intact. His gaze lingered where she stood and she knew that if he pushed harder, the concealment would snap like glass.

“Do you honestly believe that works on me?” he said into the mist, his voice threatening. “You’ll need better tricks than that.”

Then she heard the low incantation of a spell she’d never encountered before. A flick of his wand, sparks flared briefly before winking out, and the air filled with dozens of palm-sized mirrors suspended at impossible angles. They caught and fractured the lamplight, bending the mist and space itself. For a moment, the station became a puzzle of broken reflections, each piece waiting to betray her.

The moment his magic settled, images flashed through Draco’s mind. Untamed curls, determined brown eyes, a fierce expression he’d seen countless times before.

Impossible, he thought bitterly. Even the Order wouldn't be so foolish enough to—

“Show yourself, Granger! You can’t hide forever.”

The mirrors caught the barest ripple of movement. Shift in mist, the curve of a shoulder, the glint of a wand. His mouth curved into the smallest trace of a smirk. Through one of the mirrors, he mouthed to her: Found you.

Hermione moved before she could think, stepping out from between the carriages. Wand up, she walked further into the open until nothing stood between them but the pale lamplight and the cold air. The frustration of her failed spell burned in her chest, but she pushed the feeling down.

“Right here, Malfoy.”

The wind carried her voice to him.  

He went still, gaze fixing on her as though the fog had conjured an apparition. Disbelief lingered only for a heartbeat before hardening into offence.

“The Order sent— you?” The words pressed forward, each syllable meant to diminish. “Scraping the barrel, are they?”

She stayed silent. Her expression twisted as though she were staring at something rotten.

“Or perhaps Potter’s run out of proper soldiers, so he sent his filthy Mudblood to clean up his messes?” Displease flickered in his eyes, a faint tightening at the corners, the kind reserved for a wine gone sour.

“Careful, Malfoy,” she said tightly. “One day, you’ll choke on your arrogance.”

Draco could just end it here. A flick of his wrist, a breath of green, and she would be nothing but another body for the Order to mourn. He was certain she was no true opposition to him on the field.

But the Order had sent her less than two days after Dean’s death. It was too soon, far too soon for it to be coincidence. And just minutes ago, she’d stumbled in his mind like an uninvited guest… She wasn’t here for revenge. She was here for that word.

So, his magic had been right. The word mattered, if they were willing to risk her on it. If the Order thought he shouldn’t know it, then he very much wanted to.

Bridges between him and the Order didn’t exist, but there was no sense in burning one when it walked straight to him. Keeping her alive might serve him better than spilling her blood on these rails. Better to let her think she still had a chance. People were always more useful alive when they believed they were in control.

He let his wand arm lower by a fraction, though his eyes stayed locked on hers.

A slow, calculating smile tugged at his mouth. “If that was your best work, you’ve lost your touch. Care to tell me what you were looking for?”

The words hit like a curse. He knew. He knew why she was here. And worse, whatever she’d reached for was already sealed behind those impenetrable Occlumency walls, locked beyond her grasp forever.

She’d missed her chance.

The realization slammed into her chest. Her heart hammering so hard against her ribs that she could hear it in her ears. Panic clawed at her throat, tightening like invisible hands. But beneath it, burning hotter than fear, was something steadier.

Hatred.

It coiled through her veins like fire, a lifeline when everything else threatened to collapse.

If he thought she would crumble in front of him, then he’d already won more than he deserved. She clung to that thought, forcing the tremor out of her hands until her knuckles whitened around her wand. Her spine locked, her chin lifted, and her voice cut through the air before her body could betray her.

“You heard things that were never yours to hear,” she spat.

Draco tilted his head, pale hair catching the dim light. “I’ve heard a lot of things. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Hermione’s glare sharpened. “Don’t play the innocent,” Her voice was low, meeting the glint in his eyes with one of her own. “You kept it to yourself.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes narrowed. She wasn’t supposed to know that. Then, just as quickly, the mask returned. Provocation slid back into place like an old habit. “Shouldn’t that earn me a thank you?”

“No,” The word cracked from her tongue like a whip. “It earns you a memory wipe.”

The first spell ripped from her wand before his smirk had time to settle. She cast a nonverbal Expelliarmus, hurling the spell like she could rip that look off his face along with his wand.

Malfoy didn’t so much as shift his stance. A lazy flick, almost bored, sent the red jet skimming past his shoulder into the fog.

“Pathetic, Granger,” he sneered, the contempt in his voice as sharp as the cold air between them. “Revising for your OWLs?”

Fury flared hot in her chest, adrenaline surging into her hands. She threw a Stupefy next.

The bolt split the mist, only to break into sparks with a backhand sweep of his wand.

He exhaled, the sound almost a sigh. “Come now. This is embarrassing,” A glint of mercury lit his eyes before his mouth curved into something cruel. “What’s next? Going to make me eat slugs?”

The memory landed like a slap. Ron doubled over in the greenhouses, pale and sweating, her hand on his back while Malfoy’s ugly laugh echoed across the years.

She didn’t flinch, but the urge to break something, preferably his wand arm, was sharp enough to taste. See how smug he looked then.

“You think that was your cleverest moment? No wonder you peaked at twelve.”

“Careful, Granger,” His voice dipped to a velvet threat. “You might convince me you’re worth taking seriously.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't see her as a threat. She could hear it in the lazy curl of his voice, see it in the way he stood so annoyingly still. The mockery in his eyes was worse than her failure.

Her wand moved on instinct.

He brushed it aside like swatting away dust.

Another one.

He didn’t even bother with a counterattack. His wand moved only to dismantle her efforts, letting her see just how insignificant he found her.

To Draco, she was nothing. A Gryffindor with a hero complex, all bravery and no power, her magic as weak and worthless as the dirt beneath his boots. He’d heard little of her fighting in the field. She was clever, the brain of the Order, and in that mind she might have been a hero. But here, in front of him, none of that would have saved her if he had truly wanted to harm.

“I haven’t much time,” he said finally, his voice laced with boredom. “And I’ve wasted enough on a house prefect playing at soldier.”

Then he turned, as if she weren't even worth finishing.

Her vision flashed red. He was walking away. From her. In the middle of a duel. The insult burned hotter than his words.

She'd been holding back the spells that could truly be dangerous. She'd needed him alive, conscious, and accessible for another chance at what she'd failed to take. Her spells had been careful, calculated only to incapacitate and buy her time. He'd mistaken it for weakness.

Well, she could fix that.

She lunged forward and cast an Expulso.

The blast tore through the fog like a cannon shot. Draco spun, his wand snapping up a shield just in time. The impact jolted his arm, enough to draw a flicker of surprise before the faint curve of a smile returned. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him reconsider his earlier thoughts. 

After all, even mud could grow lotus flowers.

And maybe she wasn’t completely hopeless.

“Took you long enough,” he said, turning fully.

What followed was a Bombarda.

The sound of steel screeching filled the air as the blast struck, leaving a deep dent in the side of a carriage. He effortlessly deflected her follow-up with an elegant twist, the counter-spell hissing through the mist toward her. With barely a second to react, she dropped low and dodged it at the last second.

He hummed. She was quick, at least. Less boring than he'd thought. Normally, his missions ended with a simple flick. They were quick, efficient, and utterly dull. But with her, it was different. Once pushed, she'd shifted from pathetic to… less so. 

He wondered how far he could push a righteous know-it-all before she cracked. How much pressure she could endure before breaking.

A simple spell, a small cut. That would do for a start.

His wand moved too quickly to follow. Pain flared across her shoulder before she’d even registered the silver flick of his wand. A sharp gasp escaped her as she staggered.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” he sneered.

From that moment on, it became a relentless crossfire. Blasting Curses, Binding Charms, shields breaking and reforming in the grey haze between them. Spells illuminated the fog in brief, violent flashes.

He wasn't trying to end it, just testing her limits. He pushed her, driving her back along the tracks, forcing her to stumble between carriages as she fought to keep her footing.

By the time she ducked behind one of the rusted carriages, her chest heaving, she realized her hands were trembling. Her hair stuck to her face as she panted for breath, and the throbbing pain in her shoulder was growing unbearable.

Somewhere beyond the metal, Malfoy’s voice pierced the fog mocking.

“Struggling already, Granger? You’re slowing down. And bleeding.”

“Shut up!” she hissed, her frustration boiling over as she shifted position to fire from the other side.

Through the mist, her gaze locked onto him. He was unbothered. His skin still untouched by sweat, his breathing steady and controlled. He stood as though this were nothing more than a casual practice.

His eyes drifted across the abandoned carriages, his figure momentarily hidden, before they found her once again. A calculating gleam sparked in them.

“Enough warm-ups,” he murmured.

And then his wand raised, its motion fluid. The spell that followed was quick, but the air seemed to hum with danger.

“Incendio!”

The fire surged from his wand, a massive, roaring blast, coiling and twisting like a dragon emerging from the earth. It shot toward her with the speed of a predator, its fiery breath crackling and snapping as if it could consume everything in its path. Hermione barely had time to react as the flames surged forward, the heat making her skin prickle.

Her wand whipped up. A shimmering barrier formed between her and the inferno.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Their magic collided in midair, the force sending both stumbling backward. Flames curled and lashed against her shield, heat so intense it made her eyes water, but the barrier held firm. Light blazed between them, his fire-orange, her magic silver-bright, intertwining like two opposing storms. The heat was suffocating, pressing in from all sides, but her defense remained unbroken.

Draco’s eyes widened for the first time, locking onto her as if she had just materialized before him.

Most would be screaming by now, skin blistering. But Granger stood firm. Her shield blazed steady against the fire's assault. Despite her wounds, despite the obvious practice gap between their dueling skills, she remained defiant.

The magic between them crackled and pulsed, raw power meeting stubborn will.

Interesting.

Perhaps she had more in her than he'd credited.

“Still bored, Malfoy?” Her voice was ragged, breathless, as if every word drained what little strength she had left.

He'd expected the break, the pleading, like all the others had. But Granger was refusing to be crushed. His gaze remained fixed on her, unable to look away.

To her disbelief, not long after, Malfoy’s wand lowered.

She raised her guard in a heartbeat and snapped a quick Diffindo.

It struck him squarely, forcing him back a half step. Hot blood spilled across the sleeve of his coat, staining the fabric as he stood still. 

Hermione’s breath hitched, confusion breaking through her adrenaline.

“I— I didn’t…” The words stumbled out before she could catch them.

He lifted his eyes slowly, silver gaze gleaming with satisfaction. “Well done, Granger,” he murmured, the tone laced with amusement. “So, you do have teeth after all.”

Then, the truth dawned on her. He had let it land.

Her eyes narrowed, breath coming unevenly. Anger flared in her chest as she struggled to find her words. “You—you let me hit you?”

This wasn't the Draco Malfoy she remembered. He couldn't be the same pampered boy who'd cried over a hippogriff's scratch. That Malfoy had been all performance, quick to hex from behind but even quicker to run when threatened. But this version didn't even flinch. He simply stood there, blood running down his arm, as though daring her to do it again.

His lip curled, challenging. “Maybe I wanted to see if you had the stomach for it.”

Their eyes locked.

Six years of sneers and petty cruelty, and she'd thought she had Malfoy all figured out. She'd been wrong. This felt more like strangers wearing familiar faces. And judging by the way he studied her, she suspected he was thinking the same.

The tension in the air thickened as the sound of footsteps drew nearer. Malfoy's eyes flickered toward the distance, where the approaching Death Eaters loomed.

She cursed under her breath. She’d pushed too far, stayed too long. The mission was already failed. And there he was, watching her with that infuriating look, as if he’d declared checkmate without breaking a sweat.

“Friends of yours?” Hermione spat, her grip tightening on her wand. Her jaw clenched, eyes scanning the shadows until they locked on the blur of an approaching train. Merlin, she was exhausted.

“You’d better run,” he said. “They won’t be as kind.”

Hermione shot him a disgusted look, her gaze flashing with irritation. Then the train roared past, shaking the platform, and she turned sharply. Wind and metal collided, blurring the world around her. Magic surged as the unmistakable pull of Apparition tugged at her. The train vanished from view, and in the same instant, so did she.

Draco watched the space where she had stood, the lingering pulse of her magic in the air. The adrenaline from their duel still thrummed in his veins. 

Yaxley’s shout broke his focus as he glanced down at the blood sliding down his forearm. “What in Salazar’s name—”

“Late,” Draco replied, his tone crisp as the others closed in. “We’re behind. Get the southbound manifests. Platforms Five and Nineteen. Stagger departures by twenty-two minutes.”

He flicked his wand subtly, and a quiet shift in the air occurred as the dent on the nearby carriage began to smooth out. The metal groaned faintly, the damage disappeared as if it had never been. Satisfied, he straightened.

“And find whoever thought it wise to leave the west approach unsecured.”

The men nodded and scattered. Draco’s eyes lingered once more on the spot where Granger had stood moments ago. She'd be back. And when she returned, he'd be prepared.

A faint smile tugged at his lips, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Next time, Granger… aim higher.”

Chapter Text

Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London

The Apparition was anything but smooth. It squeezed her lungs, her ears rang, and she thought that surely some part of her was going to be splinched. The world became a blur of colors that made her stomach lurch before her magic spat her into Grimmauld’s front hall.

She caught herself against the wall and grimaced. Hot blood slid from the open gash in her shoulder, the torn fabric sticking and burning. A few drops hit the floorboards. She pressed her palm hard over the wound and the strong scent of iron hit her at once. Her breath came in short gasps as the warmer air of the house met her sweat-damp skin, making the cut throb harder.

A thud. Another one. Moody’s wooden leg counted out the distance before she saw him. Well, he was not exactly on her list of people she wanted to see right now. In fact, the last thing she needed was an argument while she was still dizzy. But luck wasn't on her side a second time today. His silhouette filled the corridor, a long, dark coat and a bad temper, and the spinning blue eye swung and fixed on her.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “And winded.”

“Both accurate observations,” she managed.

“Let me add a third,” he said, closing the space between them in three uneven strides. “You missed your chance.”

Her hand tightened on the wall. “I—”

“You had one job,” he bit out, the magical eye whirring as it tracked the stain spreading down her sleeve. “Now Malfoy knows you tried to open his skull, and we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t spend the next week spitting curses anywhere the Order moves.”

The next second, Ron’s voice cut in from the doorway. “Mione?”

She winced inwardly. Ron was another name she didn’t want to face right now. His worry and anger could have waited.

His eyes hit the blood-dark collar, color climbed his ears. “What did he do to you?!”

“I’m fine,” she lied, and instantly hated how unconvincing it sounded. 

Ron was at her side already. His hands found her arm as his eyes swept over the wound. His teeth clenched, breath hissing through them. “Fine? He— I should’ve come with you.”

She silently thanked Merlin that he actually hadn’t. “I am here, aren’t I?” she murmured, steadying her voice. “And I wasn’t there to duel anyway, I was there to fix a mistake.”

Moody let out a dry laugh. “And instead you stitched a bigger one. Where is he? Where were his men? How in Merlin’s rotten name are you upright?”

“He let me go,” she said, the truth as plain as she could make it. “Our theories were true, he is an Occlumens. He felt me infiltrating and we crossed wands. That’s all that happened.”

Moody’s jaw worked. “You crossed wands,” he repeated.

“He doesn’t let people go— unless it benefits him.” Ron’s voice carried venom.

“I’m not saying otherwise,” Hermione said. “I’m telling you what happened.” Her chest tightened just saying it aloud. “He told me to run. He could have finished it. He didn’t.”

Moody leaned in until she could see the line of an old curse scar hidden beneath his beard. “Say that again, Granger.”

“He told me to run,” she repeated, irritated, emphasizing each word.

“What he didn’t—” Ron dragged both hands through his hair, making it stand on end. “Maybe he wanted you to take a message back. Maybe he wanted to play with you first. He’s always been a—” He broke off, swallowed whatever word he was going to spit.

“How many?” Moody asked harshly. “You said ‘others.’ How many did you see?”

“Four or five closing in. Possibly more on the platforms. I heard Yaxley’s voice. I was already shielded and moving by then.”

“And he let you Disapparate.” 

“The train covered me,” she said. “And yes.” She drew a breath. “He was calculating, as if he’d decided there was more to be gained by letting me go than by putting me down.”

Moody studied her for a beat. “He wants something from you alive. Remember, he’s trailing a word, Granger.”

Hermione felt the meaning behind his words press against her ribs.

“The word,” Moody said, very low. “He’s after it, and he knows you know it.”

Moody made a low noise that might have been a curse under his breath. “You’re certain you weren’t touched?” He flicked his wand, and a pearl-pale wash of detection magic slid down her front. “Imperius. Confundus. Tagged for tracking. Anything clever and ugly you haven’t studied.”

“I’m not compromised,” she said, bristling despite herself.

Ron stepped in. “Enough, Moody. She needs a Healer—save the interrogation.”

Moody’s eye spun to him. “You think I enjoy asking?” he growled. “I’ve buried enough of you brats to last me three lifetimes.” He jabbed a finger at Hermione’s shoulder. “And I’ve seen You-Know-Who’s puppets use mercy like bait.”

Ron’s fists clenched. “It’s Malfoy. He doesn’t have mercy.”

She was back in the fog for a moment, her shield had glowed against the surge of his fire, she could still feel the knock of it in her bones. The memory of his face, how composed he was, and how his eyes twitched with something like curiosity.

Moody’s mouth twisted, not quite a sneer. “If he didn’t kill you, it’s because it serves him not to. That’s all the mercy you’ll get out of a snake.”

Hermione felt the weight of them both. Moody’s stare and Ron’s fussing were pressing in until her head ached. Her gaze flicked down the corridor in search of Ginny or Harry, but the hall was empty. They must have been sent out on missions.

“We need to get Luna to look at this,” Ron said, tipping his chin toward the wound and already half‑turning to fetch her.

“I’ll go,” she answered quickly. “By myself.” Then softened it with a tired smile. “Please, Ron. I need quiet and then some sleep.”

He held her gaze for a beat, his worry visible, then stepped back. “All right. I’ll… be around if you need anything.”

“Oh, by the way, Granger—” Moody interrupted suddenly, “No more solo runs this week.”

Her mouth fell open. “Excuse me?” she said, hands flung up in protest. Pain flared in her shoulder, but she ignored it.

“Listen, Moody—I went there today because you told me to. Because everyone at that table agreed that this was our best chance." Her voice cracked slightly. "So I went. Yes, I failed. But I came back bleeding for it and you want to—what? Ground me?"

She took a step forward and immediately regretted it as she swayed.

"You don't get to punish me for trying. For doing what you all asked me to do." Her breath hitched. "Don't stand there now, pretending like you'd have done it better. None of us knew Malfoy's limits. You included.”

The room was spinning when she was done. Ron’s hand found her elbow and stilled her. She blinked until the spin eased.

Moody’s face didn’t change. “I don’t pretend,” he said. “I prepare. Which is why you will stand down until you’re healed. Get cleaned up, get patched, and sleep. When Potter’s back and your head’s not ringing, we’ll take this to the table.”

Her jaw twitched. She swallowed whatever else she might have said. “Fine.”

“Granger.” Moody’s voice stopped her on the first step.

He didn’t soften but the magical eye steadied for once, and the real one did the human thing. It flicked to her shoulder, lingered on her face, and very briefly acknowledged something past the tactics and the temper. “Next time,” he said, “you get two exits mapped before you raise your wand.”

“I had three,” she said, and left him to think about that.

She moved down the corridor, one hand pressed to her shoulder. Luna’s treatment room had colonized an old study: shelves of potions, a kettle, neat stacks of bandages that smelled faintly of calendula. Someone had taped a small paper moon to the cupboard. Luna looked up the moment Hermione stepped in.

“Hello,” Luna said softly. “You’re back.” She patted the nearest chair. “Come, sit.”

Hermione sat.

“May I?” Luna asked, already reaching but giving Hermione time to nod. When she did, Luna’s touch was soothing. A quick cleaning charm, then the welcome numb of a salve that smelled like crushed mint.

“Slice and heat burn,” she hummed under her breath as she worked. “Nargles don’t like calendula, so the bandage will keep them away.” The corner of her mouth tipped, as if to say, you don’t have to laugh, but you could.

Without breaking rhythm, Luna reached for a quill and a narrow scrap of parchment from the shelf. “Draught of Dreamless Sleep,” she wrote in looping letters, “two spoonfuls if your mind won’t let go.” She slid it across to Hermione along with a small corked vial from a tray. “And this is Pepperup. If you ever feel cold.”

Hermione nodded and let Luna’s voice and calmness comfort her.

“I’ll knit the edges and charm for infection,” Luna went on. “You’ll have a line, but don’t worry, it will fade. No hot baths for the next two days.”

“All right.”

Luna wrapped the last of the bandage neatly with practiced hands. “Come back if you need fresh bandages,” she said, finally meeting Hermione’s eyes. “I’ll check it again next Wednesday.”

“Thanks, Luna.”

As soon as Luna finished, she dragged herself to her room and kicked the door shut. The quiet wrapped around her like a fall of snow.

~~~~~~~~~~

Grimmauld Place had grown quiet in that peculiar way it did when Harry was gone.

It had been three days now with no sign of him. Hermione kept waiting for the crack of Apparition that never came. Only his Patronus had drifted in earlier to say he was alive, and only then, she let herself breathe again.

She flexed her right hand and rolled her shoulder, testing. Luna’s bandage held.

Off the field, there wasn’t much to do but read, plan, and walk down the halls. Today, as she wandered, one door creaked in protest. It was Dean’s. She went in without knocking. He wouldn’t have minded.

Inside smelled faintly of soap and old parchment. Someone had started folding boxes to send his things to his mother. Seamus couldn’t bring himself to come down this side of the corridor, so it must have been Neville who’d gathered his spare robes and shirts into tidy piles.

A blurry photograph sat near the books. It was Dean, Seamus, and Harry in Hogsmeade one winter, all red noses, wool hats, and wide grins.

“Hi,” she said quietly, and then, a moment later. “I’m sorry.”

She stepped further in and began sorting through what remained unpacked. Under a clean shirt lay a folded letter and a chocolate frog card used as a bookmark in a faded copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. She opened the letter.

Ma, I got the socks you sent. Don’t worry about the money. Tell Mr. Thomas the toaster works fine now. Work is… 

The sentence wandered off and never found its way back. Hermione swallowed and set it carefully aside.

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for until she saw it.

It was the second drawer of his study cabinet, the one that didn’t sit quite flush against the frame. She pressed the corner, and the panel shivered obediently beneath her thumb. There was no hum of warding. A Muggle compartment in a wizard’s cabinet. She could almost hear him teasing. No one thinks to look for a screwdriver if they have a wand.

The false bottom lifted with a small sigh.

Inside were many things, but her eyes went straight to the parchments. They were all mismatched in size and quality, and at first glance seemed blank. Up close, however, she saw watermarks, edges either wrinkled or torn, as if they had once been used.

She set everything on the bed, drew her wand, and cast a nonverbal Aparecium.

Nothing.

Switching tactics, she held the first sheet over a candle. The heat worked slowly, pulling faint brown lines from the paper. Strokes appeared first, then formed into letters, then into words. She tried another sheet, then another. All were the same. Short notations appeared, written in what looked like two different hands.

On the fourth sheet, she caught a neat signature she didn’t recognize:

Ace.

Her heart kicked against her ribs. These weren't just old papers. They were hidden notes. Dean had been hiding notes.

She moved through the rest faster, warming each one over the flame. Dozens of small notes bloomed in different inks, many ripped mid-sentence as if torn from books in motion. The first thing she read made absolutely no sense.

…drop point moved… D.T.

Underneath a sharper note: Noted. Evening warders swapped. Janus Thickey door watched by two not on roster. Ace.

Ace. It was not a real name but a card on the table. The signature appeared again and again, only twice as Healer Ace. The pattern revealed itself slowly. Dean and Ace had a system. They had been sending notes back and forth for weeks. They had a rhythm, and gaps. So many gaps.

Some notes were numbered, but the sequence kept jumping. She searched for the missing pieces but couldn’t find any.

Note3: Spell Damage, sublevel. Corridor slate repainted.
Note7: …blood taken (consent?)
Note11: Healer Carrow says “safety audit.” No audit in registry. Vials = black wax seal.

She found a piece written by Dean, …are vials glass? Crystal? Any marking on base??

Note14: …any three letters/digits.
… to sublevel. Same courier as three nights ago (grey robes, …

Then Dean’s notes again, more like questions to himself. Any rings? We can cross with Ministry staff lists later.

The skin along her forearms prickled. Blood, taken and carried downward. For healing? It didn’t feel like healing.

Note15: …circle not standard healing. Lines doubled. Runes concealed. No access for me.

She put her whole palm flat on the parchment to steady the tremor that wanted to come. She’d studied healing circles from books, diagrams with neatly labeled sigils, but the way Ace described it, it was hard for her to understand anything.

She turned back to the drawer, something chimed softly, a brass button, two bent paperclips, and a coin she didn’t recognize. It was Muggle, foreign, square hole in the center. Beneath them, folded tight, there were other notes.

… Neck band changed between trips (green or…

She glanced at Dean’s calendar, still pinned to the wall. In the week of the twenty-third, before he was killed, he had written St. M. 23:00.

Note 19: Healer Carrow says “Ministry courier only.” Courier says “I am Ministry.”
…saw a circle again. Rune sequence altered (potentially)
Note 23: Black wax vials out through North Floo after hours…
Lift to sublevel locked from above
Subject of…

The line ended there, it was torn.

Her heart hammered in her ears. She lifted her head as if the room had shifted around her. Subject of— Subject of what. Operation? Treatment? The word kept multiplying into worse shapes.

On a scrap torn so abruptly, Ace had drawn a small circle. Inside it, a complex rune Hermione didn’t recognize. Next to it: Healer Carrow said “bend,” then cut off. Someone cast Muffliato in the corridor again. Ace.

Another fragment, Dean’s hand: … outside Healer oaths. Do not get closer. D.T.

The informant didn’t know what any of it was for, that was clear in the way Ace refused speculation and didn’t spin theories. Kept writing I don’t know what it’s for in half a dozen ways without using the words.

Hermione saw the crux at last, the blood samples. But what for? Blood as trace, as test, as lock, as key. The same thing bent to too many purposes.

Her hands had gone cold. She flexed her fingers, willing warmth back into them before reaching for a notebook. This was what she did best, documentation, organization and analysis. So she tried to list what she knew and what she didn't. 

Ace worked as a healer at St Mungo's. Dean had been assigned to a classified mission. Blood samples had been collected and transported through official channels. A Ministry courier in grey robes had handled the transfer via the North Floo network. The circle runes showed signs of tampering. Carrow was definitely involved somehow.

And yet… she still didn’t know the purpose of the blood, who the subjects were, who had authorized it, or its final destination. 

She set down her quill and studied what she'd written. The pieces refused to make a picture. Hermione pressed her lips together in frustration. She'd hoped that seeing it all laid out would reveal some connection. Instead, it added up to nothing but more questions.

She found one last note under the cardboard backing, pressed thin as a leaf. It was in Dean’s slanted hand, as if he’d been leaning against a wall when he wrote it.

If I don’t make it, the Order would assign someone else. Start where we disagree.

In the attached sheet, there was a discussion.

D.T.: Follow the Ministry tags. Courier → logbook → locker. Paper trail exists.
Ace: Paper is staged. Real ledgers sit with Unspeakables. Department of Mysteries.
D.T.: Unspeakables don’t handle hospital stock.
Ace: Not stock. Subjects.
D.T.: Then show a name.
Ace: I can show a door.

“I’m here, Dean,” she said to the empty air. “I’ll do this.”

She tapped her wand to the heap. “Abscondo.” The ink dimmed and the edges went dull. She piled up all the notes and took them with her.

At the door, she waited and listened to the hush. Grimmauld Place never approved of plans it hadn’t made, but it understood their importance.

She needed a plan and she needed help.

A small voice said, use him. She flinched at herself, to even think of bringing him in was madness.

Reason answered first: at the train station he had weighed her instead of killing her. He knew she held what he wanted. Caution snapped back: A bargain with a Death Eater… Was she truly considering that? It was reckless, almost ridiculous. Instinct set down the only figure that mattered: time.

Draco Malfoy was many things, and to Hermione, he could be a key. In the end, it was simple. She had what he wanted, and he had what she wanted.

A Malfoy could slip through where others were stopped. He could pass checkpoints without a quill scratching his name. What would take her months to force, he could accomplish in minutes. And months got people killed.

The clock in her chest kept counting. Pride was heavy, but lives were heavier.

She could use him. She would use him.

When Harry returned, she’d lay it on the table. Not an apology for Dover, but a way forward born out of it.

If Malfoy wanted what he wanted then he could pay for the lesson.  

The plan drew itself in her head.

There was an insider to reach, a hospital to infiltrate, a circle of runes to name, and a Malfoy to make useful.

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Malfoy Manor recoiled at the scent of its own blood, souring the corridors. The wards recognized him at once, brushing his skin with a feather-light touch as if to protect him from the danger his bleeding announced.

He kept walking, coat unbuttoned, sleeve damp where the blood had traced an easy path to his wrist. The black fabric concealed most of it, but with each movement the light caught it, flashing through the tear in the cloth. There it was, a deep slice carved straight across the Dark Mark on his left forearm, stark against his pale skin.

He hadn’t bothered to examine it yet, but by sheer coincidence, Granger's hex had landed exactly where it looked intentional, as if she meant to carve the Dark Mark out of him.

The irony needled him enough to make him look. He angled his arm, and his amusement sharpened when he saw the cut had grazed the serpent's head. 

Ten points to Gryffindor.

Diffindo. Such a simple spell to knock aside. He'd let it land instead, though he couldn't have said why at the time. Some impulse to see where her morality ended. Would she flinch when pure blood stained her fingers, or would that mask of righteousness slip when she realized the blood was his?

The hex had answered for her.

At the turn by the drawing room, his mother stepped into his view, black silk falling straight from her shoulder to floor. Narcissa's steps were unhurried. Even so, surprise touched her face when she saw him.

“You are early,” she said quietly.

“The schedule changed,” he replied, walking on until they were close enough to read the truths in each other’s faces.

Narcissa’s gaze swept his features, then flicked down to his arm. She halted, the slightest crease forming at the corners of her eyes.

“So I see,” she murmured. Her lips stayed soft, but something in her eyes sharpened. He could tell she was calculating. “You haven’t bled in years,” she added. It was not an accusation but delivered with the faint lift of a single brow.

He tilted his wrist, indifferent to the sting. “It was tactical.”

“It isn’t like you to let anyone near enough to score.” She glanced over the cut and looked up again, studying him. “Who was it?”

The face that rose in his mind wore heat and stubbornness, a mouth fitted for argument, eyes that refused to lower. Untamed hair, ink-stained fingers, hand forever in the air. Potter at one shoulder, the Weasel whelp at the other, a prefect badge that gleamed too bright. The Mudblood who slapped him by Hagrid’s pumpkins. Clever enough to be dangerous, righteous enough to be predictable, greedy for answers and always poking that nose where it did not belong.

He chose a much shorter answer.

“An annoyance.”

Her hand fell from his sleeve. “An annoyance you allowed to draw your blood is not a thing we meet every day.”

He flexed his fingers once, easing the ache. “No one makes me do anything.”

“Draco,” The warning in her tone was quiet. “I have seen you come home with men’s blood on your cuffs, their borrowed thoughts trailing behind you. You dust them off in the conservatory while sipping tea. Blood on your coat, however, is rare. Whatever this is, it made you careless for half a heartbeat, and I don’t like it.”

“I am not careless.”

“Not by habit.” She inclined her head a fraction. “But curiosity sets its own terms. Pay it too often and it owns you.”

“So do secrets.” He shifted his hand. A warm line slipped to his palm and ticked the floor.

“You have one,” she said.

He didn’t answer, and she chose not to press the issue.

“Mippy.”

The house-elf popped into the hallway, ears quivering.

“Prepare the young master’s rooms,” Narcissa started. “A basin of warm water, two thick towels, clean linen, dittany, essence of murtlap, and fresh bandages. The silver bowl, not the tin. At once.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Mippy squeaked, and vanished.

Narcissa drew a folded square of linen from her sleeve and set it in Draco’s hand. “Press. You can do the rest upstairs.” She smoothed her cuff, pausing as if remembering something. “Theo called from the fireplace. He and Blaise are at the Black Thistle. He claims you are neglecting your duty of finishing the bottle that apparently has your name on it.”

Draco’s mouth curved at that. The Black Thistle was their place, his chair knew his shape. Green lamps on African blackwood, and the staff remembered bloodlines better than names. Poker waited upstairs if the night asked for it and the firewhisky was the kind poured for generations before theirs. He hadn’t sat there in some time.

But he had work to do. The word kept tugging at his attention and now a new variable had entered the equation in the form of brown eyes in the mist.

Narcissa lifted her eyes. “If you want the noise, go. If you want the quiet, the house will give it to you.”

He watched the nearest portrait pretend to sleep. “Noise is cheaper than quiet,” he said, and found himself counting what three hours could purchase. Quiet would ask for answers. He gave a small tilt of the head that she could read.

“They will stay past midnight,” Narcissa added as if reading the calculus on his face. “Theo said to tell you he is winning.”

“He cheats when he says that,” Draco replied. The answer came easily, it was more like a reflex.

“Of course,” Narcissa said warmly.

“Better I go than listen to their complaints tomorrow.” He shifted the linen in his hand, turning as if to head for the stairs. His coat swung with the movement, footsteps already angled away.

“Oh and before you go,” Narcissa’s voice caught him mid-step, and the air changed in that careful way it did. “The Dark Lord called on me this afternoon. He was in a particular mood. He asked questions no one enjoys answering.”

“Which,” He pressed.

“He asked for names,” She said simply. “For potential brides. Alliances that look like affection from a distance. He believes it is time.”

A small pulse of annoyance moved under his ribs. He had been postponing this conversation with work and evasions.

“Of course,” he said, a headache gathering at his temples.

He found the entire business tiresome. It was a performance staged for others to applaud. He cared little whom they placed at his side. Whoever they chose would not lighten the weight already on his shoulders.

He had always known his purpose. He was bred for this, to carry the line. That was why delaying the inevitable no longer held any meaning. The only problem was the timing.

The France matter already pressed. There were raids to plan, small rebellions to grind flat before they found a voice. The word he hunted kept thrumming in his mind. And now Granger, a mystery born of a single clash of wands, would not kindly unthread herself from the knot she had become. Excellent. Add a wife to that. Let the last quiet hour he still owned be signed away.

“I told him our house demands standards,” she said calmly. “And that standards take time.”

Draco’s jaw tightened and eased. She had bought him time, at least.

“It is wiser to direct his attention before he decides the matter for himself. A name placed by our house carries more intent than one assigned.” She checked the hallway for listeners, eyes flicking past the portraits. “Is there a witch on your mind?” she asked.

He thought of a mouth set hard against pain, a shield held until heat licked the bones of the hand that held it. The moment he had watched a red line open in his own flesh and felt interest before pain. Irritation pricked at the image for surfacing at all.

“There is only one witch I can think of at the moment.” His lips lifted in a sneer.

Narcissa’s gaze lingered, seeing further than the moment, further than him. She was measuring houses and alliances, constructing the shape of years to come, too intent to notice the mockery in his tone.

“Does she also think of you?” she asked quietly.

He made the politeness ugly on purpose. “I will make sure she has enough reasons to.”

The Black Thistle, Knockturn Alley

The pub was the sort of aristocratic wizarding club with oil-dark paneling, burnished brass and blackwood. A charmed stag’s head blinked lazily above the bar while firelight made the low-hung crystal chandeliers glow like stars.

The green flared in the hearth and Draco stepped from the Floo, brushing soot from his collar.

Theo and Blaise were finished with poker and had already claimed the seats nearest the fire, at the far end of the room. They seemed poured into their tailoring. Theo in midnight wool, one leg crossed, a cufflink catching the light as he lifted his glass. Blaise sat nearer the fire, dressed in black on black, the glow of the flames warming his rich-toned skin. His posture was effortless, the kind that drew people to lean closer without noticing why. 

“Look who refuses to keep us waiting,” Theo drawled, tilting his head as Draco came into view. “Society was beginning to despair.” His eyes dropped to the strip of white bandage peeking from Draco’s cuff, and his smile sharpened. “Make it late if you start losing pieces.”

“It is fine,” Draco said curtly. “An inconvenience on the platform.”

He sank into the third armchair. Theo clinked his glass against his, the firewhiskey burning gold on his tongue, heat sliding down into his chest. For a fleeting moment he let his eyes close and felt it spread through him, something almost like relief.

“So,” Theo began lightly, “how was the seaside? Did Yaxley manage to hand Dover to the French by accident?”

Draco’s jaw ticked. “I left him a timetable even he could follow. We’ll know by tomorrow if he can count.”

Theo laughed. “Kindness. You’ll ruin your reputation.” He tipped his glass toward the fire. “He’s been spitting dragonfire since noon. Something went wrong at the Department of Magical Transportation, and naturally it's everyone else's fault. Rumor says a clerk botched a seal on an international portkey chain.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. This had not yet reached him.

“Besides,” Theo went on, “the Improper Use of Magic Office buried three permits under a mountain of parchment and called it procedure. Someone failed somewhere, and you’ll hear about it.”

Draco bit back a sigh. He had come here to loosen the knot in his shoulders, but before the firewhiskey had even warmed him, irritation coiled in again. Always more failures and whispers.

“Don’t listen to him,” Blaise said, amused. “He’s been speaking fluent Ministry since breakfast.”

Draco let the fire do the work of easing his muscles. The room smelled rich with orange peel, cinnamon and leather. Since his arrival, a subtle tilt had drawn attention to their corner, witches drifted nearer, laughing a little too loudly for their manners near the bar. He felt their eyes on them but chose not to turn.

"Right, don't forget Draco," Blaise said, setting down his glass. “I’ll see you tomorrow at St Mungo’s. And you, Theo, on Friday. Do me a favor and come on time. No vanishing into stairwells when you smell antiseptic.”

“I never flee,” Theo argued, a hand pressed to his chest in mock outrage. “I glide. It’s different.”

“It’s still avoidance of your obligation,” Blaise countered. “I prefer punctuality. And no breakfast.”

Theo sighed theatrically. “Merlin, Blaise, you’re boring. And, if firewhiskey is forbidden, you may as well kill me now.” He downed a mouthful, sealing the point.

"Four weeks goes fast," Blaise said, more to himself than them. "Another round tomorrow." He caught Draco's look and shrugged. "Same as always. Blood work, vitals, making sure the precious bloodlines stay intact."

Draco hated the whole routine, but it wasn't a choice. Like everything else, it was performed because he was told to. Even his own blood was no longer entirely his. 

Some days, like this one, he hated it all.

The fire hissed and popped beside them, throwing orange across the table. Blaise nodded toward the cluster of witches by the bar. “At least you’re spared the purity screenings they inflict on them. No one’s checking whether you’re still as pure as your blood.”

Theo barked a laugh, sprawling back in his chair. “Merlin help them if they tried. Frankly, if the Ministry started inspecting wizards, they’d need a new wing at St Mungo’s just to hold my file.” His grin turned sly. “Funny how it's always the witches getting dragged in for inspection.”

Blaise’s mouth twitched despite himself. "The rules are there for a reason, you know. Keeping bloodlines clean means fewer problems down the line. Everything stays in order."

"In order for who, exactly?" Draco interrupted, his voice low. "Pretty convenient sort of order when the rules only go one direction."

Theo snorted. "I could spend a week in Knockturn and no one would blink. But let a pureblood witch smile at the wrong bloke and her family's screaming apologies by morning." He swirled his drink. "Half these sacred bloodlines would've died out years ago if daughters actually followed the rules."

“Keep your voice down,” Blaise muttered defensively, glancing around the pub. “Look, I don’t make the rules. I’m saying they keep the system stable. Same as all these blood testing—unpleasant, but necessary.”

Draco’s lip curled. “Those tests catch nothing but my patience. Don’t dress it up as necessary when we both know what it really is." Control. That's all it was. A way to keep their magic measured, monitored, and firmly in hand.

The words landed harder than Draco had meant them to. Firewhiskey burned down his throat, and he cursed the way it loosened his tongue. He didn’t make slips. Careless, his mother’s voice hissed in his head.

A brief silence settled over the table.

“Hey,” Theo leaned forward, resting his hand briefly on Draco’s shoulder. The gesture was casual, but the tone wasn’t. “You’re ready to hex the table, Draco.” His eyes searched Draco’s face, the playful glint gone. “What’s wrong?”

“I left Yaxley alone with France,” Draco lied flatly. “I am allowed a thought.”

Laughter rippled up from the main floor. Three witches lingered at the rail, pretending interest in brasswork but angling themselves to watch their corner. Pearls and silks, glints of rings, lamp halos catching in their hair. The nearest tilted her head to get a better view, the movement calculated.

“We are being admired,” Theo observed, eyes gleaming. He turned to Draco. “You’re allowed a release. A sensible man would take it.”

“He isn’t wrong,” Blaise murmured into his glass.

Theo grinned. “I could send you two streets over. There is a house in Soho. The velvet rooms are still open. They keep the drapes closed, and no one asks for names.”

Draco's mouth thinned as understanding settled. "A Muggle establishment?" The disgust plain on his face. "You suggest I pay for that? I could buy the Prophet for less and drown in filth without pretending it's pleasure."

Theo shrugged, half-expecting that response.

“Then be practical,” Blaise said, gesturing lightly toward the rail. “Look around instead. The Thistle is full of clever, well bred, perfectly consenting distractions.”

"Now that's more your taste," Theo said with a knowing grin. He raised his glass toward the witches, one tipped hers back in answer. “Choose one, enjoy her company and save the world tomorrow. Sound like a balanced schedule.”

Draco looked up. His gaze caught on one witch in particular, and hers held on him. She didn’t look away. The stare was an open contest. He knew the choreography too well. The practiced tilt of the chin, friends arranged to frame her like a portrait.

A few years ago, he would have listened to them. Back then, attention felt like validation, being desired felt like proof he was someone worth desiring. Now he understood what they wanted had nothing to do with him.

He could already hear their tea table tomorrow. Porcelain clinking, a shoulder tipped just so as the chatter died. She would smile and say she had been the one, that she had taken him behind closed doors. That she had made him come.

Her tone would be coy, the words would do the dirty work. Then they‘d ask whether he shagged slow, or hard enough to forget himself, and she would pretend to blush while tucking the detail away to wear it like a jewel.

She would tell herself she had left her mark on a Malfoy.

In eyes like hers, he was not a man. He was the Malfoy name. The vaults behind it. The power they believed came bundled with his signature.

Some days, like this one, he hated it all.      

Chapter Text

Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London

Harry returned in the early afternoon. Number twelve let them know before anyone else did. The wards shifted with the tiny click that had always meant him, and the hallway lamps flared a shade brighter.

Hermione’s head snapped up from the book she wasn’t really reading, her eyes skimming the same line for what felt like hours without taking any of it in. The sharp crack of long-awaited Apparition jolted her upright. Her feet were already carrying her down the staircase at a run.

Harry stood in the entryway, shoulders hunched under a worn-out coat. Rain streaked through the dust on his face, his hair sticking up in every direction. He looked war-worn and hardened yet somehow thinner, as if exhaustion itself were eating him alive. A week. Had it really only been a week? The change in him seemed carved too deep for such little time.

But then his eyes found hers, and he managed a boyish, familiar smile. 

“Hey,” he breathed.

“Harry!” Her voice cracked on his name as she crossed the last steps in a rush and threw her arms around him.

The familiar presence of him, the solid warmth of a friend she had feared she might never see again, reminded her of everything she'd found, and everything she could lose again. Harry, the Weasleys, and the Order had become her home after losing her parents to her own spell. But that also made the fear stronger. She couldn't survive losing another family.

As Harry’s arms tightened, pain flared in her shoulder and forced her to draw back with a sharp intake of breath.

Harry’s eyes dropped at once, narrowing as he caught the stiff way she held herself. “What’s that? Hermione—your shoulder?”

"Don't mind it," She forced lightness into her voice, waving her hand dismissively. "Malfoy can be dramatic, you know."

His frown deepened, the smile slipping from his face entirely. For a moment, he just stared at her with that particular stillness that meant he was thinking too hard. Hermione knew this silence. It came whenever he thought of all he’d already lost, when he couldn’t mend something, when words were useless. They were all returning from missions with more scars, some visible, some not. He hated seeing his friends suffer, and hated most of all that he couldn't stop it.

Before she could find something reassuring to say, another voice rang down the corridor.

“About bloody time!” Ron’s heavy steps echoed as he appeared, a grin wide with relief breaking across his tired face. He pulled Harry into a hug so strong it nearly winded them both, holding on a moment longer than usual. “Don’t go making us wait like that again.”

He released Harry at last, his grin fading as his gaze cut briefly toward Hermione’s bandaged shoulder, before he forced it back on Harry.

Only then did Hermione notice the sweat darkening Ron's shirt, the kind that came from sparring drills and shouted commands in the training room. His hair was damp at the temples, and he was still catching his breath. He must have barked for a break the moment the wards shifted and bolted upstairs, just as she had.

Behind Harry, Neville and Parvati stepped in from the cold. Hermione's throat tightened as she took them in. They looked safe and whole. This was what she fought for. The moments when they were still here, still together, not yet lost to the war. For the first time in days, Grimmauld Place didn't feel like a tomb.

Parvati brushed damp hair from her face and gave Hermione a tired smile. “I need a shower,” she muttered, and without another word slipped down the corridor.

The quiet she left behind lasted only a breath before new footsteps came from the opposite direction. Kingsley’s voice carried through the hall. “There’ll be time to catch up later. We’re needed in the war room.”

The warmth of the reunion thinned. It never stayed long anyway. The familiar weight settled back onto her shoulders, heavier now with what she knew she had to do.

She had been waiting for this meeting for days, rehearsing in her mind what to say and how much to reveal. Still, unease knotted low in her stomach as they followed him. Harry at her side, with Ron close behind, their footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor. She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, steadying herself. 

They stepped into the war room where the others were already gathered. To Hermione, it was like walking into a painting she had stood in a hundred times before. A kind of welcome, though always the same: the exhausted faces of McGonagall, Lupin, and Moody waiting for the next plan.

It was Moody who spoke first. “First piece,” he said flatly. “Granger didn’t deliver.”

Six pairs of eyes shifted to Hermione. She kept her back straight, her hands still against the wood of the table. The sting of failure burned in her chest, but she pushed it down.

“She returned in one piece,” McGonagall snapped. “You will not treat that as nothing.”

Moody’s magical eye spun. “Only because Malfoy didn’t do his usual tidy work.”

“Because he chose not to,” Ron muttered, jaw tight. His fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit that meant he was holding back something stronger.

McGonagall’s gaze moved from Moody to Hermione’s bandaged shoulder. Her mouth thinned, but she said nothing.

Moody leaned forward, his good eye narrowing. “According to Granger’s earlier reports, Malfoy’s an Occlumens. We suspected as much, and now it’s confirmed.”

Ron cut across him, his voice rising. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? How else has he lasted this long as his right hand without cocking it up? Anyone else would’ve been Nagini’s supper by now.” His eyes flicked to Hermione. “She didn’t fail. We failed when we sent her to that git. That’s on us.”

Moody ignored his defense entirely. “The real problem is, now he knows we are after him. And if he’s half as clever as he thinks, he knows why.” He paused, breath catching short. “I’ll say it once more. Malfoy doesn’t walk out of this war alive.”

Harry shifted in his chair and turned to her, his green eyes serious. "You were the one out there," he said, his voice gentler than the rest. "I'd rather hear it from you."

Hermione was grateful to Harry for cutting across Moody and Ron, bringing the room’s attention back to her. By her plan, this wasn’t the time to argue, she needed to weigh the room before laying down her own cards. Chin lifted, she gave her account plainly, without a waver.

The words had barely left her mouth before the room erupted.

"So... he let you go." Lupin's voice was carefully neutral, but she could hear the skepticism underneath.

“Yes,” Hermione said evenly.

Kingsley leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "That isn't nothing. That's a message."

"Or bait," Ron put in, his voice tight with worry.

The familiar chorus of voices collided. It was McGonagall who ended it, her voice cutting through the storm with authority. "Miss Granger is seated at this table and perfectly capable of shaping a strategy to get us out of this."

That was the cue Hermione had been waiting for. She drew a breath, rose to her feet, and stepped into the silence McGonagall had carved for her.

"I know how it looks like," she began, her voice steadier than she felt. "But failure doesn't have to mean waste. It can be used."

Lupin’s brow furrowed. “Used how?” His tone was genuinely curious.

“Dean wasn’t simply caught in the wrong place,” she said. “He was working on something— something larger than most of us knew.”

“What sort of something?” Kingsley asked, the demand in his voice was barely leashed.

“I don’t have every piece yet, but I’m rebuilding what he meant to keep hidden. Movement that begins in a hospital and runs beneath the Ministry. Movement that involves blood—and official clearances.” 

She watched their faces carefully, cataloguing reactions.

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a difference between not finished and not willing.”

The accusation stung, but Hermione met his stare without flinching. “And there’s a difference between caution and carelessness. Dean’s mission wasn’t common knowledge. I sit at this table, yet I didn’t know its scope until I uncovered fragments myself. That means I don’t know who else does. Until I can be certain, I won’t spread half-truths and guesses across this room.” 

Moody let out a low growl, his scarred hands flat on the table. "So you're keeping things back."

“No,” Hermione said at once. Her voice was calm. “I’m giving you what can be acted on. Enough to prove that Dean’s trail was real, and worth following. I’ll have more when it can be trusted to stand.”

Lupin’s tone was gentler. “And how long has his mission been going on?”

“I can’t prove dates,” Hermione replied, she expected this question. “But the pattern suggests weeks, at least.”

"Make the link for us, Granger." Kingsley's voice had taken on the clipped authority of an Auror giving orders. "Dean's mission and your failure. How do they add up to this?"

“And what has this to do with Malfoy?” Moody added in.

Here it was. The moment everything hinged on. Hermione felt Harry's eyes on her across the table, saw the small flicker of understanding there. He knew where she was going, even if he didn't like it.

"You think he can be useful," Harry said quietly. It wasn't a question. He'd read her well enough to see through to her intentions.

"Absolutely not!" Ron’s palm slammed against the table so hard the inkwell jumped, splattering dark drops across the maps. "We are not bargaining with a Death Eater. Have you gone completely mad?"

She understood his reaction, even as it frustrated her. Ron saw the world in clear lines: us and them, right and wrong, friends and enemies. It was one of the things she loved about him, and one of the things that made conversations like this impossible.

She forced herself not to falter, keeping her answer directed to Harry. "Yes. He'll expect us either to hit him head-on, or vanish as though we'd never tried. He'll be ready for both. Which gives us a third angle. One he'll never see coming." She let the pause stretch, feeling the weight of their attention. "He'll never expect us to bring him an offer."

She could practically feel Ron's disbelief radiating across the table, but she pressed on. "That night wasn't wasted. He revealed more than he meant to. He waited until the very end to hurt me—just to test my limits. He enjoys letting us think we're in control."

“Congratulations,” Moody cut in dryly. “You’ve discovered a snake plays with its food.”

Hermione didn’t rise to it. “And we’ll let him believe that. His interest matters. He’s tugging at a thread without knowing the garment it belongs to. We make that thread the bait.”

"Bait for what?" Ron's voice cracked slightly on the words, and she could see him struggling between anger and genuine fear for her safety. "For him to finish what he started with your shoulder?"

“For time,” Hermione said firmly. “We can’t keep this secret from him forever. But we can stall it long enough to get what we need.”

Lupin rubbed his temples. “And what exactly is that?”

“Access.”

"Access to what?" Kingsley’s voice was carefully controlled, but she could hear the wariness underneath.

This was the delicate part.

She chose each word with care. "Dean left us a trail, but half of it makes no sense without context. Follow the wrong line and we lose months chasing shadows. Follow the right one, and we cut straight to the artery feeding whatever sits beneath the Ministry. Malfoy can walk paths we cannot—watch lists, wards, signatures. His name opens doors."

Kingsley’s jaw tightened, weighing consequence. “You’re asking us to take the risk of keeping him alive.”

"If we strike now and fail, he'll dig with both hands. If we succeed, it invites suspicion." Hermione leaned forward, willing them to understand. "We don't deal in executions, and Malfoy dying by our hand would stand out like a flare. It will raise questions, and every question brings the word closer to You-Know-Who. We will wish we had used him while he was still measuring lines."

The logic was sound, she knew it, and she could see that some of them knew it too. But logic wasn't always enough when grief and fear were involved.

Lupin exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. "It is a clever risk," he said at last, his voice heavy with something that might have been regret. "But it's the sort of clever that gets a witch killed."

“I know,” Hermione said softly, meeting his eyes. "But doing nothing gets us all killed anyway. At least this way, we choose how."

Ron let out a frustrated sound that was half laugh and half sob. “We don’t do this. Merlin’s sake, he’s nothing but a coward hiding behind the Dark Mark. And you want us to treat him like he’s worth something?”

Heat flashed through Hermione, but she kept her voice steady. “You want him dead because it hurts less than imagining him useful. I want him useful because it might get us somewhere.”

Ron flinched as if she'd slapped him, and immediately she regretted the harshness of her words. But there wasn't time to soften them now.

She turned back to the table, addressing them all. “If we authorise this, we kill more than Malfoy. We kill what Dean gave his life to find. Dean deserves more than this. He deserves to be the reason we get further. If we turn away now, his sacrifice is in vain, and I won’t accept that.”

Ron raked both hands through his hair, his breathing coming hard. "Dean deserves better than Malfoy's name spat in the same breath," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "We all mourn him, Hermione. That doesn't mean we start bartering with the one who put a Killing Curse in his chest. And you—" He faltered for a moment, words failing him, and she could see tears gathering in his eyes. "—you're sat here asking us to shake hands with the very hands that killed him. I won't sit here and listen to this."

His chair scraped back as he started to rise, but McGonagall's voice stopped him.

“Mr. Weasley,” The words were soft but carried warning.

Ron sank back down, but his whole body was shaking.

Kingsley's voice cut through the tension. “I don't doubt your heart, Granger. But chasing ghosts, however noble the intent, doesn't win us wars."

"Dean was not a ghost," she said quietly. "His body was heavy when they carried him in."

The simplicity of the words hit the room like a physical blow. Lupin flinched, not at her, but at the truth of it. Kingsley looked away, then back again. Even Moody's expression shifted slightly.

Finally, Lupin spoke, his knuckles drumming once against the table in a nervous rhythm. "Hermione, you've carried the strategy of this war on your shoulders, and I've trusted that judgment without hesitation." He paused, and she could see the struggle in his eyes. "But for the first time, my instincts refuse to match yours. My instinct says the price of leaving Malfoy breathing is more than we can afford."

The words struck heavy. Lupin's quiet disappointment was somehow worse than all of Ron's shouting or Moody's growls. It meant she was truly alone in this.

But she'd known this might happen. Had prepared herself for the possibility that they would choose the easy path over the right one. She just hadn't expected it to hurt quite so much.

Kingsley straightened, his voice dropping low. “Enough talk. Hands will decide. Are we moving to eliminate Draco Malfoy as a priority target?”

McGonagall’s eyes sharpened. “You are asking us to authorise the execution of an enemy without trial.”

"We are well past that gentle line," Moody replied, his laugh scraping through the room.

Across the table, Harry exhaled slowly, his eyes shutting for a heartbeat. She knew Harry's feelings toward Malfoy had never been simple. Years of rivalry had left something more tangled than mere hatred. They had measured themselves against each other too many times for it to be reduced to a simple childhood enmity.

But as much as she knew Harry, Harry knew her too. He'd read the gaps in her words, the things she wasn't yet ready to lay bare before the table. He understood there was more, even if the others didn't. And without asking for explanations, he trusted her enough to stand at her side.

He drew in a slow breath, she could see the turmoil in his eyes. “The matter stands divided. So we vote. Against.”

Gasps broke out at once. No one should have seen this coming.

Relief flooded through her so strongly she felt dizzy. Harry's support wouldn't be enough to carry the vote, but it meant she wasn't completely alone.

Across the table, she watched Ron’s body go rigid, his face draining to chalk-white. He looked between Harry and Hermione as if he no longer knew either of them.

“Against,” McGonagall said at once.

“For.” Moody’s answer was immediate.

“For.” Ron’s followed without hesitation, he wouldn’t meet their eyes.

Hermione’s chin lifted. “Against.”

Lupin’s gaze found Hermione, then Harry and she saw genuine regret there. “For.”

All eyes turned to Kingsley. The pause stretched, heavy with possibility, before he spoke.

"For."

Four to three.

A death sentence had just been passed on Malfoy.

A silence followed before Kingsley spoke again. “The motion carries. Draco Malfoy is authorised as a priority elimination.“ He reached for a parchment, signed it, and passed it to Lupin.

Hermione watched the parchment move from hand to hand, each signature a nail in a coffin. The binding magic flared gold as the last name sealed itself.

"By our charter, it stands recorded," Kingsley said quietly. "Any Order member with a clear shot takes it. No capture, no negotiations." His eyes swept the table, lingering a moment on Hermione. "Meeting dismissed."

Chairs scraped back in uneven rhythm. Hermione remained seated as the others filtered out, their footsteps fading into Grimmauld's corridors.

Harry and Ron lingered, neither seeming eager to leave.

Finally, Ron spoke, his voice rough. "I had to vote against you on this, Hermione. It's the only way I know to protect you." His voice softened just enough to betray the depth of his feelings.

She understood then that his vote hadn't been about Malfoy at all. It had been about keeping her safe, even if it meant destroying what Dean had died for.

His words should have comforted her. Instead, it made everything worse.

Ron shoved his hands into his pockets and walked out without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving just the two of them. Harry stayed in his seat across the table, and Hermione couldn't bring herself to move either. The silence stretched between them.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said finally. “Just… You’ve got me and Ginny. Don’t forget that.”

Hermione's throat tightened. She managed a nod, not trusting her voice.

Harry's hand found her uninjured shoulder, squeezed once gently. "Be careful."

Then he was gone, and she was truly alone with the weight of what she had to do.

Hermione stared at the empty table, trying to understand how it had all gone so wrong.

Defeat had come twice over. Once to Malfoy on the rails, now to the Order at this very table.

Frustration burned hot in her throat. They'd chosen the easy answer. Eliminate the threat, bury the questions with the body. Never mind that Dean had died chasing something real. One vote, and his sacrifice discarded as though it had never mattered.

Hermione’s jaw clenched. No. They didn’t get to end it like that. She'd spent six years of this war watching people die for nothing, watching opportunities slip away because someone, somewhere, had decided caution was wiser than action.

Not this time.

“Fine,” she whispered into the empty room.

Plan B, then.

She would reach Malfoy before they did.

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London

The familiar walk to the far end of the hushed corridor never failed to make Draco's shoulders tighten. The Ministry had, of course, chosen this location deliberately. It was far from prying eyes, far from the comfortable illusions of normal magical healthcare.

As he reached the section reserved for the monthly visits of the purebloods, a witch at a narrow desk glanced up. Her quill froze for a moment when she recognized him.

"Healer Zabini is ready for you, Mr Malfoy," she said quietly, flicking her wand. A ward unlatched at the far end, and a sigil above the door brightened to green.

Room B-8 groaned open at his approach, revealing the chamber that had become as routine as breathing over the past eighteen months. Blaise looked up from his work, quill poised over a thick parchment scroll. His dark eyes held the same professional calm they always did during these sessions, though Draco had learnt to read the subtle tensions in his friend's posture.

"Right on time," Blaise said, consulting his pocket watch.

"I am efficient," Draco replied. "It saves us both."

"Sit, please." Blaise set the quill aside. "We'll start with the standard diagnostics before moving to the blood samples. How are you feeling today?"

"I’m managing."

Blaise nodded, understanding the shorthand. "And you've followed the fasting requirement? No breakfast?"

Draco arched a brow. "I'd hardly sabotage my own time for the sake of a crust of bread."

Blaise hummed in response then his wand moved, casting the first wave of diagnostic charms. A soft blue light spilled from the tip, washing over Draco's form before settling into neat bands and curls only a Healer could interpret. The glow plunged inward, threads of silver and gold representing his magical core spread around him. Blaise's expression remained neutral as he altered the charm. Several of those gleaming threads darkened to deep violet and black, revealing the corruption that had taken root within.

Beside Blaise, a self-inking quill hung suspended in the air, its tip dancing across parchment as it kept pace with the changing readings.

"Magical core strength is at ninety-six per cent," Blaise reported, his voice carrying a note of fascination despite his attempt at neutrality. "That's up two per cent from last month. Remarkable, really. Your overall magical stability is holding, but..." He paused, studying the readings more closely. "These corruption levels should have caused deterioration.”

"Should I be concerned?"

“No, quite the opposite. Everything looks perfectly healthy in your case. It's unprecedented," Blaise said quietly, glancing toward the door before continuing. "Most wizards would have suffered permanent damage by now." 

Draco smirked, though it never reached his eyes. “Good thing I’m not most.”

The final charm lit up corruption markers like dark stars across his magical signature. There were more of them this time, he observed grimly.

"Dark magic exposure is significantly elevated," Blaise continued, the quill writing furiously next to him. "The Unforgivable signatures are particularly strong. Recent casting?"

Draco's expression darkened into a scowl. "Three days ago," he said curtly.

"And Legilimency?"

"Daily. Sometimes multiple sessions." Draco's voice remained even, though internally he was cataloging every shadow that crossed Blaise's expression. Appreciation first, then a shade of discomfort. His expression tightened slightly as a new set of figures appeared.

"Draco, I've told you this before but this degree of Occlumency will leave marks. Distorted perception, emotional numbing, and loss of empathy. The mind was not built for that kind of constant barricade."

"Wouldn't it be poetic," Draco replied with bitter humor, "to experience what they feel when I'm in their heads, and to die the way they do."

The diagnostic charms faded. Blaise set down his wand, annoyance flashing through his restraint. He picked up the quill by hand, harshly adding his own observations to the official record.

"You may dismiss it, but I don't. You're balancing on the edge of damage that no spell can reverse. I am telling you because no one else will," Blaise said flatly.

"Are you concerned as my friend or my Healer?"

"Both," Blaise replied without hesitation.

There was something in his tone that made Draco study him more closely. Resignation, perhaps. Or relief that he himself would never be required to reach such heights.

"Strip to the waist," Blaise instructed, moving to prepare the blood-drawing equipment.

Draco stood and began working at the buttons of his shirt. The silk slid from his shoulders like water, revealing the pale expanse of his torso that had become a canvas for the Dark Lord's ambitions.

The years of intensive training had defined his body well. Lean muscle outlined his chest and abdomen, earned through countless hours of physical conditioning that accompanied his magical development. His shoulders had broadened, his arms grown more defined, and the sharp lines of his collarbones cast subtle shadows along his throat.

But it was his arms that truly told the story of what he'd become. Dark veins stood out like intricate tattoos against his pale skin, mapping the pathways through which his magic flowed. They pulsed visibly with each heartbeat, as if the darkness within him had a life of its own.

He caught sight of himself in the polished surface of a medical cabinet. He was being preserved like a precious artifact.

Blaise's gaze swept over him. Draco caught the slight narrowing of his eyes when they lingered on the darkened veins.

"Extend your arm." Blaise's touch was gentler than usual as he swabbed the inside of Draco's elbow. "The blood work has become more comprehensive. Healer Carrow requested additional testing beyond the standard core stability and power levels."

The needle slid in smoothly, cherry-red blood flowing into the first vial.

"What kind of additional testing?"

"Full spectrum analysis, including magical purity and genetic integrity." Blaise switched to the second vial, his movements efficient but troubled.

"Genetic integrity? I thought that was only for the witches."

"It was, but they want to map bloodline compatibility now, something about determining which combinations would produce the most magically powerful offspring.”

"Of course. Next they'll be reading our palms to determine magical compatibility." Draco said dryly, irritation flashing across his features.

"Apparently the Dark Lord finds wisdom in it," Blaise replied with a slight shrug. "Orders came down this morning to expand testing to all Sacred Twenty-Eight males."

"And the others?" Draco couldn't help but grit his teeth.

"Standard monitoring only. Those of us not blessed with the purest ancestry don't merit such... attention." There was something almost relieved in Blaise's tone, though he tried to hide it.

"You sound almost grateful," Draco observed.

Blaise's hands paused for just a moment before continuing their work. "Sometimes it pays not to be anyone's favorite."

The words hung between them, heavier than they should have been.

"The Dark Lord's favor does come with expectations," Draco agreed, his tone even. "Though it also brings rewards."

"Does it?" Blaise asked, switching to a larger vial for what appeared to be a more substantial sample. "From where I sit, it looks rather like a gilded cage."

The silence stretched taut as a wire between them, friendship and ambition pulling in opposite directions. Blaise's hands stilled on the vials, perhaps realizing he'd pushed too far, but Draco had never been one to let a barb go unanswered.

“Better gilded than rotten, and better a cage than irrelevance.” He held Blaise’s gaze as he spoke, unblinking. The words delivered with elegance, striking exactly as intended.

Blaise lowered his eyes back to the vials, hands resuming their work in silence.

The irony wasn't lost on him. The same power that made him indispensable also made him vulnerable and a rival to those around him. Every improvement in his abilities bound him more tightly to the Dark Lord's will. Every increase in his magical strength made him more dependent on the supervision and care that kept him stable. Of course, all of this attracted the attention of those in his circle who craved similar recognition.

"Six vials today," Blaise announced, sealing the final vial with preservation charms. "A new record."

Blaise began labeling each vial, his handwriting as precise as his spell work. Date, time, subject identification, test parameters… All the bureaucratic details that would accompany Draco's blood to whatever laboratory analyzed the Sacred Twenty-Eight's samples.

"The results will be available within seventy-two hours," Blaise said, sealing each vial with black wax. The glossy stamp seemed to prove ownership. "Assuming no irregularities require additional testing."

"No colorful neck bands this time?" Draco interrupted, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he watched Blaise seal the final vial.

Blaise looked up, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I've seen them once, different colors on the vials."

"Ah." Blaise shrugged lightly. "They put those on after analysis. Healer Carrow decides the classifications. I don't know what they mean."

The smirk slipped from Draco's face. Carrow. Her name surfaced every time they talked about pureblood appointments. She must be the one running the entire operation. He let the thought settle, all traces of humor evaporating.

"And if there are irregularities?" he asked, tone smooth again.

“Then we will address them.” The response was automatic.

Draco pulled his shirt back on. The silk felt cold against his skin.

"Same day next month," Blaise said, setting down the final vial. "Unless the results indicate need for more frequent monitoring."

Which they might. He nodded, settling his robes around his shoulders, and moved toward the door. But something in Blaise's posture stopped him.

"Blaise."

"Yes?"

"Be grateful for your role. Some spotlights burn."

Without waiting for a response, Draco made his exit. The door closed behind him with a sound like a vault sealing, as he made his way back toward the busier corridors of the hospital. A few witches and wizards glanced up as he passed, some offering polite nods of greeting.

At the center of it all, Draco reflected as his footsteps echoed in the corridor. Monitored like a great weapon.

And perhaps that’s exactly what he was. The only question now was whether the weapon would remain stable enough to serve its purpose, or whether the dark magic would eventually consume him entirely.

He was nearly at the Apparition point when a soft voice called his name.

“Draco?”

He paused, turning to find Astoria Greengrass rising from where she'd been sitting on the lower steps. Her lime green Healer robes rustled as she stood, the standard uniform marking her as junior staff. Dark hair framed her face in glossy waves, and her blue eyes held a warmth that made him shift slightly.

"Astoria." His acknowledgment was polite but distant.

She offered a small smile, one that faltered at the edges as if she already knew it wouldn’t be returned. “You always look so tired when you come out of that hallway.”

The comment irritated him more than it should have. She saw through his composure so easily, yet had no comprehension of what lay beneath. Her concern was genuine but naïve, like offering a bandage for a severed limb.

“Routine appointments,” he replied, his tone deliberately flat. “Nothing worth remarking on.”

Astoria moved closer, hesitant before speaking. “It is nearly lunch time. Blaise and I are meeting at the dining hall. Would you like to join us? A meal might do you good after blood collection.”

He held her eyes for a fraction longer than courtesy demanded. It was impossible to ignore the way she lingered, the small hope behind her words. The gentle invitation, the assumption that normal pleasantries could somehow reach him. Draco recognized her interest, but it felt foreign to him. Her attempts at connection felt misplaced in their simplicity, as if lunch and friendly conversation could bridge the chasm between her simple healer's life and his existence as the Dark Lord's right hand.

“I have duties to attend to,” he said evenly.

“Oh,” she murmured, her smile wavering briefly before she managed to tuck it away with a small nod. "Maybe next time?"

"Perhaps," he said, though they both knew it was an empty courtesy.

She dipped her head, a strand of dark hair slipping loose at her temple. “Take care, then.”

He gave the corridor behind her a brief look, already turning away. “You as well.”

As he walked towards the Apparition point, he felt her eyes on his back. She had no idea what he had carried out of the Manor, out of the Ministry, out of Room B-8, burdens that followed him everywhere.

Healer Greengrass, with her gentle hands that mended bones whilst his broke them. She healed whilst he delivered death. Yet still this foolish girl believed that some men could be redeemed. She would never understand that some stains couldn't be healed away, that he was already too far gone for her kind of magic.

By the time he Disapparated, her perfume clung to him, choking him with its sweetness. Her dreamy life and hopeful beliefs had no place in his world, and with a sharp crack, he vanished, leaving behind everything she represented.

Malfoy Manor Library, Wiltshire

The clock in the corner chimed half past midnight when Draco closed another book and set it upon the long table. The spine made a soft, defeated sound. He had been at this for hours, dragging book after book from the shelves, and each one betrayed him with the same conclusion: nothing.

He had tried every reasonable route of approach. There were no entries for the word he was searching for. Not in Latin or French glossaries, not in the family grimoires that loved to show off with baroque synonyms, not in the prudish indices that preferred euphemism to truth. He had checked for redaction charms, for cut leaves, for hidden folios. Either the Malfoy library's collection was lacking—which he highly doubted— or someone had taken great care to erase all traces of this particular knowledge.

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and sat back, frustration mounting. The velvet of the chair had worn smooth where his hands gripped it on long nights like this. Somewhere beyond the windows, the wind moved through the yew trees, a dry hush bringing him just enough motivation to reach for one more book.

Secrets of the Ancient Dark Wizards proved as vague as its predecessors. He turned pages that were older than the house and knew within two minutes that it would yield only ritual chatter and clever nothing.

Draco leaned back in the velvet chair again, closing his burning eyes. The headache that Occlumency had left behind from the day's earlier events had settled at the base of his skull as a dull throb.

Perhaps he was approaching this wrong. Perhaps some knowledge was meant to be earned through service rather than stolen from books.

A soft flutter made him open his eyes. A moth had appeared from nowhere, its gold wings hinting at red at different angles as it circled his head in lazy spirals. He waved it away with irritation, but it persisted, finally settling on the back of his left hand.

Before he could brush it off, the creature dissolved into shimmer and became a small roll of parchment. He breathed out once and tilted his hand so the thing slid into his palm. He did not like surprises at his own table. He liked them even less when they arrived so delicately.

Draco stared at it for a long moment. Enchanted moths were rare magic, requiring advanced transfiguration skill to cast and considerable risk to the sender if one did not want it to be trackable. Few wizards would dare use such methods to contact him.

If it had passed the Manor's protections, it was safe enough. Still, his movements remained cautious as he spread the parchment flat.

The message lacked every courtesy he had been taught to expect from proper correspondence.

Tomorrow, 10 p.m. There is a safehouse beyond the mill at Spinner's End. The wards are keyed to you alone, so don't insult us both by attempting to bring friends this time. You will find the way only if you are intellectually capable. Assuming you can manage basic problem-solving, we will talk.

There was no signature, but he didn’t need one. Only one infuriating know-it-all would dare to address him with such imperious condescension.

Granger.

The audacity of it hit him like a slap. Who did she think she was? To dictate terms to him, to question his intelligence in that patronising tone. The parchment crumpled beneath his tightening grip as fury burned hot in his chest.

She wanted to play games. To test him with her riddles and ward-work.

But even as his jaw clenched, the calculating part of his mind began to assert itself. His breathing slowed. His grip on the parchment loosened.

How convenient.

Her reaching out to him was the last thing he would have expected, yet somehow exactly what he needed. He had been considering ways to re-approach her after the incident, though none had seemed promising. Now she had solved that problem for him.

The only question was why. What had changed since their last meeting that would make her risk contacting a Death Eater? To risk contacting him.

Draco’s mouth curved into a thin smile, genuine curiosity mixing with his amusement. She thought herself subtle, no doubt. Thought she could control the encounter by deciding time and place. But she had already made her first mistake, revealing she wanted something badly enough to reach for him.

He rose, Horcruxes forgotten, stepping over the scattered books without a glance.

He had never been one to back down from a challenge, least of all from Hermione Granger.

Tomorrow he would indulge her games and move his piece. And once the game began, the board could never be reset.

Chapter Text

Cokeworth, Midlands

Draco Apparated to the town half an hour early, giving himself time to survey the area around the Mill. He moved through the streets, studied each approach route carefully. His eyes scanned for potential traps, ambushes, or anything that might signal a setup. 

Cokeworth was an absolute disgrace of a town. As he walked down the narrow streets, he noted how the terraced houses seemed to lean against each other for support, their bricks blackened with decades of neglect. He stepped around overflowing rubbish bins, their rotten contents spilling onto cracked pavements, uncollected for what looked like weeks. 

Every corner he turned revealed more of the same scene. A Muggle slum where poverty had infected everything.

At this hour, the windows should have been glowing with warm light, children being called for bedtime. Instead, only darkness greeted him.

He knew this emptiness —had witnessed it when they’d raided those Fidelius-protected Muggle safehouses last month. It was the signature they always left behind.

A cleansing. 

But Muggles had brought this on themselves, hadn't they? They had been the ones to light the first fires at Salem, to force his kind into hiding. This was just the bill for their centuries-long persecutions coming due. If they chose to run rather than face what their ancestors had done, well, that only confirmed what his tutors had taught him about their lesser nature.

He pulled his cloak tighter, trying to block out the foul smell. Malfoy Manor felt like another world compared to this pit. Of course, Granger would drag him somewhere like this. Probably wanted him off-balance from the start, choosing ground that was familiar to her and foreign to him.

Which brought him back to the question of why he was here at all.

He had received death threats that were more polite than Granger's invitation.

He wondered if he'd finally lost his mind to agree to this. Last week she'd tried to steal his memories, and now she was saying they should talk. The absurdity of it should have sent him straight back to the Manor. Instead, he found himself walking deeper into Spinner’s End.

The thoughts kept coming back, the same way that word did. Horcruxes.

Whatever brought her to him tonight, if the Order's Golden Girl wanted to play with fire, he would be happy to provide the flames.

As he drew near, silver light began to shimmer before him, forming a barrier that hung in the air like a spider's web.

Nothing appeared threatening, but his wand found its way into his hand anyway. When the church bell tolled ten in the distance, he arrived at where a door ought to be. Instead, he found himself facing nothing but empty space between two buildings. Clearly, the first of her "intellectual challenges."

A faint glow caught his attention as the first numbers materialized, drifting lazily through the air. More followed, multiplying until they danced, forming and reforming equations that hurt his eyes to follow. Below them, a simple wooden table shimmered into existence, bearing parchment and a quill.

Above it all, words hung in the air:

"Calculate the arithmantic value of the word that brought you here. Reduce to the most powerful number"

He sat at the table and pulled the parchment toward him through gritted teeth. The word that brought you here. That would be "Horcrux" naturally. He began with converting each letter to its numerical value.

H-O-R-C-R-U-X. 8-15-18-3-18-21-24.

The numbers swirled before his eyes as he applied the complex patterns he'd learned in Advanced Arithmancy, his quill scratching across the parchment with growing irritation.

When he finally arrived at the answer—7—the magical equations stilled and faded. A new passage opened to his left.

"Show off," he muttered, standing to continue onward.

The next challenge appeared as he rounded the corner, and a snort of disbelief left him, echoing off the narrow walls.

A circular chamber spread before him, its floor covered in what appeared to be a giant mandala drawn in gold lines. At its center sat a small table bearing a deck of cards, their backs shimmering with celestial patterns.

Above, words materialized in flowing script:

"The future speaks to those who listen. Choose the card that reveals your fate, but beware, the truth is not always kind."

Divination. She really was determined to make this as insufferable as possible for him.

Draco stared at the setup with utter disgust. Of all the subjects he'd endured at Hogwarts, Divination had been the most horrible. He could still hear Trelawney's voice predicting his 'dark fate' in sixth year, as if he'd needed a crystal ball to tell him that. Her dramatic predictions, the endless prattling about Inner Eyes and mystical gifts, it had all struck him as nonsense performed by charlatans for the gullible.

But this was Granger, and he'd come too far to be stopped by a deck of cards.

He stepped carefully onto the mandala, following the gold lines toward the center. The cards seemed to whisper as he approached. When he reached the table, he stood there for a moment, hand hovering over the deck.

Choose randomly, his rationality suggested. It's all nonsense anyway.

With a shrug, he reached for the deck and drew the top card.

The image that revealed itself made his breath catch: The Tower. A tall spire struck by lightning, figures falling from its windows into darkness below.

Destruction, upheaval, the violent revelation of hidden truths.

Fate, indeed, he thought.

The moment he set the card back on the table, the chamber lurched. The gold mandala flared with blinding light before exploding into dirt that flew upward to catch him squarely across the chest.

"What the—" he stumbled backward, shock flashing across his features as he stared down at the mess. Filthy mud clung to the silk fabric his tailor had spent weeks perfecting.

A bitter laugh escaped him at the perfect irony. The golden mandala had turned to mud, reminding him of its caster, a filth disguised as the Golden Girl.

"Delightful," he muttered, trying to brush the dirt off his clothes. "Absolutely delightful."

A new corridor finally opened, leading to a wooden chamber. He found himself observing walls covered in protective runes that pulsed with gentle blue light. A crackling fire filled the space with warmth, and at the center sat a table of polished dark wood, flanked by two surprisingly comfortable chairs.

She was already there, relaxed in her chair. Her hand sat casually beside her teacup as if negotiating with Death Eaters was her usual routine.

The warm chamber glow revealed what the mist and darkness at the train station had concealed. Draco studied her face, noting how the years had changed her. The soft roundness of youth was gone. Instead, war had sharpened her features and strengthened her frame. Her bushy hair was tamed into a neat bun, though rebellious curls had escaped to frame her face. They seemed to be the only reminder of the girl who once knew all the answers. Her simple Muggle clothes caught his attention, and he suddenly became aware of what he'd been staring at.

“You're late," she said when she heard the rustle of his robes. She took a sip from her tea, and only the slight tremor in her hand as she set the cup down betrayed how much effort that composure cost her.

Good, at least, he wasn’t the only one on edge.

"I encountered a few small obstacles along the way," he replied, gesturing at the mud stains with obvious distaste. "Your wards are very... you, Granger."

The insult hung unspoken but clearly implied in the curl of his lip.

Granger looked entirely unbothered, if anything, slightly bored. "I felt the finale needed a personal touch. Thought Malfoys would appreciate the symbolism." There was mock disappointment in her voice, no trace of the girl who used to shrink back and fight tears whenever that slur hit her ears.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. This wasn't the reaction he'd expected. He moved to claim his chair, though tension prickled along his spine.

She was nothing like the terrified woman from Dover, where every part of her had screamed that she expected him to kill her. Now she seemed completely relaxed, almost satisfied by his presence.

Something was seriously off here. Granger would never dare mock him to his face like this. But here she was, acting like she owned the place. Like she had some advantage he couldn't see.

And not knowing what that was made his skin crawl.

Instinctively, his hand drifted to his wand, fingers closing around the familiar wood in a gesture of intimidation. He watched her face carefully, waiting for her to tense.

Instead, she took another sip of tea, her dark eyes studying him with the same intensity he was directing at her. The only difference was the glimmer of amusement dancing in her gaze.

Growing more irritated by the second, he pointed his wand at his stained robes, but the mud stubbornly remained where it was.

He frowned, concentrating more carefully. "Scourgify," he said aloud this time, his voice commanding.

The spell failed again.

His eyes snapped up to find Granger watching him with satisfaction, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The pieces clicked into place, and fury rose in his throat. No wonder she was so bloody confident.

"Care to explain," he said, his voice low.

"Did you really think I would invite you here without taking precautions?" she replied, finally setting down her teacup. "Your talent for mind magic is well documented, Malfoy. What would stop you from taking whatever information you wanted from me the moment you walked in?"

"I see," he said, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "My reputation precedes me, does it?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Tell me, Granger—exactly what sort of precautions are we talking about? Because if you think a few protective charms will—"

"This chamber is warded against all forms of magic," Granger interrupted, her voice taking on the lecturing tone he remembered from their school days.

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. Some things, apparently, never changed.

"Similar to anti-Apparition points, but more complex," she continued, apparently oblivious to his reaction or simply not caring. "No hexes, no curses, no Unforgivables." Her eyes met his boldly. "And no Legilimency."

He kept his face neutral. Yet somehow, galling as it was, she had anticipated his most dangerous weapon and neutralized it before he'd even arrived.

"The runes carved into these walls create a neutral ground," she continued, gesturing to the softly pulsing symbols. "We're both equally vulnerable and equally protected here. The only weapons we have are our words."

This was psychological warfare at its finest. She'd reduced him to nothing but the basics of negotiation. It should have enraged him. Instead, he found himself almost... impressed.

"Well, well," he murmured, his lips curving into something between a sneer and a smile. "So you've traded Gryffindor bravery for Slytherin cunning. I almost approve."

"I simply ensure we both walk out of here alive," Granger replied coolly. "Though I suppose for someone who's grown accustomed to having every advantage, fair terms might feel like a disadvantage."

"Fair terms?" He practically spat the words. "You've stripped me of magic, dragged me to this shithole of a town, and made me endure those pathetic little wards. But please, do tell me more about fairness."

"You came anyway,” she shrugged dismissively. "Which suggests desperation."

He gave a dry chuckle. "If I may remind you, Granger, you were the one who contacted me. Which suggests the desperation runs in the opposite direction."

"Does it?" She tilted her head slightly. "Perhaps I simply recognized an opportunity when I saw one."

"To do what exactly? Have tea?" His eyes flicked pointedly to her solitary teacup.

"To make use of someone who wants what I have." She straightened in her chair, shoulders squared with confidence.

"What could you possibly have that I would want?"

"Answers.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. "That word from Dean's mind—It's driving you mad, isn't it?”

Despite his best efforts, his composure slipped for just a heartbeat, but it was enough for her. Her eyes sharpened, reading the interest that crossed his face before he could school it back to indifference. So the brightest witch of her age wasn't just a title after all.

He leaned back in his chair, refusing to let her have complete control. If she wanted to play this game, he’d remind her he was no amateur.

"Horcruxes," Draco said, dropping the word casually into the air between them.

Her reaction was immediate. She jerked back as if he'd struck her, eyes going wide with something between shock and horror. Apparently, she hadn't expected him to say it so carelessly. Whatever Horcruxes were, the word clearly hit differently coming from a Death Eater.

"Yes," she whispered, and he watched her struggle to pull herself together.

"Touched a nerve, have I, Granger?"

Her nostrils flared as hatred filled her expression. "Stop talking about it so recklessly! You have no understanding of what you're playing with.”

"How touching," he replied smoothly. "Though if you insist I need educating, please proceed. After all, isn't that why we're both here?"

"Some secrets can't be paid in gold. Are you prepared for what this one might cost?"

A slow smile spread across his face. Finally. "You wish to strike a bargain, then." It was more confirmation than question.

"I wish nothing." The certainty in her voice was maddening. "I know what's going to happen. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't already decided." She turned her attention to her fingernails, examining them as if this part of their discussion had already concluded.

Clever little minx. So her mind worked disturbingly like his. Still, the way she sat there as if she could read his future actions touched every nerve in his body.

"State your terms," he demanded.

Granger looked up quickly, her whole demeanor becoming focused as if he'd finally said something worth her attention. "I won't tell you what Horcruxes are—that would be too easy. If you want to understand them, you'll have to earn it." He caught the way her eyes brightened with excitement as she leaned forward. "Instead, I'll give you hints. Each clue you earn will lead you closer to understanding what they really are."

"And what do you want in return?"

"You become my key," she said simply.

His expression darkened as he processed her request. He'd expected demands for Galleons, some prisoner exchanges, or even protection for her fellow blood traitors. But this? This was something else.

"There are places I need to go, information I need to access.” She continued, and he caught the shift in her posture. More relaxed now, as if some internal tension had released once she settled into the familiar rhythm of explaining her plan.

“What sort of places?"

"St. Mungo's," she began. "The restricted levels specifically. And potentially certain areas of the Ministry. I need access to wherever your name can take me.”

Draco leaned back, his mind already calculating. The request was treasonous. It was dangerous enough to get them both executed if discovered. More than that, it wasn't something he could simply hand over, it demanded his direct and possibly repeated involvement.

She was completely insane. And apparently, so was he. That was the only rational explanation for why he was still here, still listening, still finding himself intrigued by her bloody suicidal plan.

He remained seated, studying her face for any hint of what drove this madness.

She was expecting an answer, and he made her wait for it. He let the silence stretch deliberately until he caught the signs. The way she shifted in her chair, the way her breath came a fraction quicker... Beneath all that confidence, the anticipation was getting to her.

So this wasn't just Order business. Something about this seemed personal.

"And why would the Order's Golden Girl need to skulk through hospital corridors? I'd have thought Potter's network would have their own methods of intelligence gathering."

"We're negotiating what we want, Malfoy. Not why we want it."

The deflection was smooth, but it confirmed his earlier suspicions. This wasn't an Order operation. This was Hermione Granger acting alone.

The revelation made the entire arrangement far more favorable. It meant a cleaner negotiation without the Order meddling, and only one person to deal with if things went sideways.

"I see," He crossed one leg over the other, a slow smile spreading across his features. "How very... independent of you. Tell me, does Potter know you're here?"

The slight tightening of her jaw was answer enough.

"Excellent," he said, his voice taking on a purring quality. "It seems we're both considering a bit of... unauthorized research."

* * *

Hermione sensed the knot in her chest loosening. His tone suggested he was beginning to consider her proposal.

"Good. Now that we've established mutual understanding, let's discuss specifics."

He settled deeper into his chair. "Very well."

She reached beneath the table, her fingers finding the rolled parchment she'd spent hours perfecting. “I have prepared something,” she said, unrolling it neatly.

She slid it across to him and watched his face as his silver eyes scanned the neat lines of her handwriting. That annoying blank look settled over his features again, telling her absolutely nothing. She hated how easily he could just do that —become unreadable.

"A magical binding contract," he observed, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely surprised.

"Read the terms," she said, pointing to the various clauses. "Information exchange, access provision, and general conduct expectations. Additional conditions can be negotiated, but my final clause stays fixed.”

Malfoy's eyes found the clause in question almost immediately, and his expression shifted to a sneer. “The second party will never employ Legilimency or any other form of mental intrusion against the first party," he read aloud, his voice taking on a mocking tone. "How very thorough of you, Granger."

“I know what kind of monster you are,” she hissed, all composure crumbling as Dean’s final, agonized screams echoed in her memory. She gripped the table edge to stop herself from throwing her teacup at his smug face. "I've seen what's left of people after you're done playing god with their minds. You sick, twisted—" She bit off the words, chest heaving.

His eyebrows rose in amusement, enjoying her loss of control. "My, my," Malfoy drawled. "You certainly know how to hold a grudge, don't you?"

But then his face began to harden, features shifting from amused to menacing as his eyes turned cold. “Careful,” he said quietly, and she was reminded what kind of person occupied the chair opposite hers. “Your Gryffindor righteousness is showing. It's rather unbecoming in a negotiation."

She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, fighting to regain control. She couldn't let her hatred sabotage her only chance, even though he was making it as difficult as possible. Slowly, she forced her hands to relax against the table.

"The point is, the clause stays," she said firmly, gesturing back to the contract. “Instead, I expect you to put those Occlumency skills to better use than deflecting my spells. Surely, You-Know-Who's right hand can manage to keep a simple agreement hidden."

“I hardly need a Mudblood’s advice on how to manage my own mind.” He spat the slur with such venom that Hermione drew back slightly, fury blazing in her eyes.

She needed to end this before the urge to strangle him overcame her self-control.

Focus, she commanded herself.

“Let me put this simply. This stays private, or the deal is off. Are we agreed?”

“Of course,” he replied quickly, looking as if the idea of being discovered working with her was worse than being caught by Voldemort himself.

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes moving between her and the parchment. When he finally spoke, Hermione noticed how his voice had turned softer. "My family stays out of this entirely. Whatever arrangement we make, it doesn't touch them.”

"Agreed," Hermione said calmly. She’d seen this coming. Family always came first with him. “However, that goes both ways. My people stay safe too."

"Provided their activities don't clash with my existing commitments. This agreement is between you and me alone—no one else."

She thought of the Order’s kill order, and Moody’s satisfaction when they’d voted Malfoy a dead man. Now she was trapped between two worlds that she'd have to keep from colliding. "Understood."

His eyes continued to scan the parchment while she watched his expression shift from dismissive to focused.

Please don't find anything else, she thought urgently. Just sign the bloody thing.

But of course, he did.

"Interesting," he murmured, his voice taking on that silky tone that meant trouble. "You've been quite prepared,” He looked up, meeting her eyes with a smirk. "Yet you seem to have forgotten something rather important."

Hermione's heart sank. "What?"

"Termination," he said simply, tapping the bottom of the parchment. "Surely you don't expect me to be bound to you for a lifetime?”

Heat flooded Hermione's cheeks. Damn him. She'd spent hours on this contract, agonizing over every word, every possible loophole he might exploit. But this, she'd deliberately avoided because she honestly hadn't known how to phrase it without sounding either desperate or presuming.

How could she write 'until we defeat You-Know-Who' without revealing too much? How could she put 'indefinitely' without making herself seem pathetically dependent on his cooperation? Every version she'd drafted had felt wrong, so she'd simply... left it blank, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"Six months from the date of signing," he clarified, reaching into his robes for an expensive quill. "That should be sufficient time for both of us to determine whether this serves our purposes."

Hermione stared at him, her mind racing. Six months. Was that enough time? It would have to be. And honestly, the idea of having a clear endpoint was relieving.

"Six months," she agreed quietly, watching as he began to write the additional clauses in his angular handwriting.

"There. I believe that covers everything necessary," he said, sliding the parchment back across to her.

She took it, scanning his additions with approval before meeting his eyes.

"Now for the binding itself." She pulled a small letter opener from her bag. "We perform binding magic by blood. It's not an Unbreakable Vow—it won't kill you if you break it, but it will make you wish it would. Think of it as a permanent Cruciatus Curse."

His eyebrows rose slightly, then he chuckled. "And here I thought you were all noble intentions and moral superiority."

"I don't trust people who won't suffer the same consequences I will. Watch carefully," she said, as she made a small cut across her thumb, watching a bead of bright red well up.

"We both sign here.” Without hesitation, she pressed her bleeding thumb to one of the two circles drawn at the very bottom of the parchment. The moment her blood touched it, the circle flared with golden light before settling into a permanent seal.

"Once we both seal it," she continued, holding up her thumb to show him the small wound, "Neither of us can modify the terms unless we both agree to cancel the entire arrangement."

Malfoy stared at the crimson stain on the parchment, then his silver eyes shifted to her thumb, his nose wrinkled slightly in distaste.

Her mouth pressed into a thin line and she quickly pressed a handkerchief to her thumb. "Your turn, Malfoy."

But instead of reaching for the letter opener, he leaned back in his chair, reluctance written across his features. "I think not."

Her heart lurched, panic flooding her chest. After everything, was he going to walk away now? "What?"

"Don't look so defeated," he said with amusement. "I'm not rejecting your little arrangement. But I won't be rushed into signing a blood contract without proper consideration." He gestured elegantly at the parchment. "Surely you can't expect me to bind myself to a blood magic I haven't fully analyzed."

Of course. Of course he would make this difficult. She'd known this might happen, had prepared for it, actually. "There are no—"

"So you say," he interrupted smoothly. "But forgive me if I don't take your word as assurance."

Bluff to bluff, then.

Without a word, she reached for the parchment and began rolling it up. She stood, tucking it into her bag with deliberate movements.

"Where do you think you're going?"

She paused at the door, turning back with raised eyebrows. "I don’t have time for this. Find your answers somewhere else, Malfoy."

"Don't be so dramatic, sit down." The command was soft but unmistakably authoritative. "Did I say no? I said I wanted to examine it first. There's a rather significant difference."

Arrogant arse, still too proud to admit he simply wants it.

"Fine, take it. Analyze it all you like.” She reached into her bag and withdrew a simple silver chain and small leather notebook, setting both between them. "But you'll need these."

His eyes narrowed, studying the objects with suspicion.

"Protean Charm," Hermione explained, proud of how steady her voice remained. "The necklace will warm when I've written something in the notebook. Anything you write in your copy will appear in mine instantly.”

Though his face remained neutral, she caught the gleam in his eyes as he processed how she was operating. His fingers traced the pendant's edge, and she could tell he allowed himself to look impressed first time that night.

"Very D.A. of you."

He pocketed both items and the contract, then stood up in one fluid movement. He straightened his robes, as he looked at her, his expression had shifted colder.

“You'll have my answer soon enough, Granger.” His voice dropped, turning serious. “Until then, rest well… you may not sleep easy after.”

The threat hung in the air as his footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving her alone with the lingering scent of expensive cologne and her own thundering heartbeat.

The moment he was gone, she slumped forward, releasing a long, shaky breath. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the entire negotiation was finally draining away.

Merlin, he was exhausting. She'd never been this close to him for years—close enough to feel how he could dominate a space simply by existing in it. This had been so much harder than she'd expected.

Yet, she'd done it. She actually sat across from Draco Malfoy and held her ground word for word.

She gathered her things with unsteady hands, already knowing what his answer would be. He would agree. She was certain of it. She'd seen it in the hunger that flashed across his face when she'd spoken of Horcruxes, in the way his fingers had traced that pendant as if it were precious. Whatever doubts he might have, whatever caution told him to walk away, his curiosity would win in the end.

It always did, with people like them.

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Draco had lost count of how many times he'd read through the terms, how many detection spells he'd cast to ensure it was clean. The contract was more than clean, actually. It was detailed and annoyingly professional.

Whatever Granger was, she wasn't careless. Last night had forced him to acknowledge something deeply unwelcome: she was good at this. The way she'd anticipated his questions and prepared for his objections showed she had the mind he could work with.

He'd known the moment he walked out of that door he was going to sign this.

The way her face had drained of color when he'd spoken the word Horcruxes told him everything he needed to know. Whatever this secret was, it struck at the very heart of the Order's strategy. Knowledge that could inspire that level of terror in their said brightest witch was worth any price. If understanding it gave him the advantage he needed, then he'd gladly make a deal with the Order's pet.

Hermione Jean Granger.

The script was unmistakably hers. Her "H" curved with elegance that surprised him, while her surname declared itself in bold, confident strokes that didn't. Even her bloody signature screamed perfectionism.

He traced his finger along the edge of the contract, avoiding the rust-brown stain where her blood had dried against the cream paper. The sight made his stomach twist—placing his blood beside hers felt like crossing a line he'd been taught never to breach, like violating some fundamental law of nature.

Blood that should never touch.

His tutors would be appalled. His father would rage. Even his mother, for all her pragmatism, had her limits, and this would be one of them.

But hadn't he made worse deals for lesser gains?

The silver letter opener felt cold against his skin as he drew it across his thumb. After a moment's hesitation, he pressed it firmly to the designated space beside her name.

The contract flared with golden light as the binding magic activated. Warmth settled into his bones, marking him as surely as the Dark Mark had. Binding him to her.

As he lifted his thumb away, something made him pause.

There, on the parchment, two bloodied fingerprints sat side by side. His pureblood and her supposedly tainted offering... In the candlelight, they looked almost identical.

The only difference was size—just that her hands were smaller than his.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London

The silver pendant grew warm against Hermione's throat just as she was calculating the depressing shortage of medical supplies at the Cardiff safehouse. She dropped her quill immediately, heart hammering as she pulled out both the notebook and her copy of the contract.

There it was, a second bloodied fingerprint beside her own, the binding magic now complete and humming faintly.

The notebook's pages rustled as she opened it, revealing fresh ink forming in Malfoy’s neat, aristocratic script:

It's done. Don't keep me waiting for that hint, Granger. -D.M.

She stared at the text, reading it twice before the reality fully sank in. He'd signed it. Draco Malfoy had actually signed their contract and bound himself to her with blood magic.

This was really happening.

Hermione set the parchment aside and leaned back in her chair, suddenly feeling every hour of sleep she'd lost over the past week.

The sensible part of her mind was screaming that that this was the most dangerous gamble she'd ever taken. 

If the Order discovered what she'd done, they would never forgive her.

But the calculating part of her whispered something different.

Malfoy would have learned about Horcruxes eventually. He was too clever, too persistent, and now too suspicious to simply let the matter rest. Since the Obliviate failed, the question had never been whether he would uncover the truth, but how.

This way, at least, she had some measure of control. She could manipulate his understanding, shape the revelations, ensure he learned just enough to be useful without becoming truly dangerous.

And if there was a chance that seeing Voldemort's mortality might crack something open in him, might plant the seed of doubt that could grow into something more... well. That was a risk worth taking.

Even if it meant lying to everyone she cared about.

Even if it meant trusting someone she had every reason to hate.

She'd made her choice the moment she'd sent that moth to his manor, and tonight he'd made his by sealing their agreement.

What she was about to give him wasn't just a hint —it was a family history. Regulus Arcturus Black, who'd died fighting Voldemort from the inside. She was betting that his story might inspire another Black family member to question everything he'd been taught. Whether Malfoy would see the parallels between himself and the younger Black brother was now up to him.

This was either going to be the most brilliant psychological manipulation she'd ever attempted, or the most catastrophic mistake of her life.

She took a deep breath and began writing.

“A Black star fell, not from disgrace,
But for the secret he dared to face.
Branded as you are, he bore the Mark,
Yet turned his face against the dark.
Find the heir erased from view,
A skull among the living that the tapestry knew."

Chapter Text

Training Room, Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London

"I want to see those barriers hold for at least thirty seconds."

Ron's voice cut through the training room.

They were two levels beneath Grimmauld Place. The Order had been using the old wine cellar for training before, but with their growing numbers, Extension Charms had been necessary to create larger spaces. The new training room, carved from the same dark stone as the rest of the house, was one of those new additions.

Hermione stood next to Ron, watching the room buzz with the nervous energy of new arrivals. Three fresh faces stood amongst the familiar ones—a former Death Eater who'd defected two weeks ago, a young witch whose family had been discovered hiding Muggleborns, and a lean boy who seemed barely out of Hogwarts.

Different stories, all finding common purpose in this underground chamber as they followed Ron's instructions and spread across the training area.

She should have been focused on them. Should have been watching their form, noting who needed extra help with their wandwork. Instead, her mind kept circling back to a silver pendant lying hidden under her sweater, that had remained stubbornly cold against her neck for five days straight.

Five bloody days since she'd sent that hint to Malfoy about Regulus Black, and since then she'd heard nothing. Not a single word written back through their Protean-charmed notebooks. Not even an acknowledgment that he'd received it.

The silence was slowly driving her mad with possibilities. What was he doing with it? Was he investigating, or had he dismissed it as complete nonsense? Or worse—had he taken her hint and run straight to Voldemort with it?

"—Hermione Granger," she heard Ron saying, and jerked back to attention. “Saved my arse more times than I can count, and now she's going to show you the layered shield technique,” Ron continued, gesturing toward her. “Watch how she builds her barriers. Foundation first, then the reinforcement patterns."

The newcomers turned toward her with expectant faces. The young witch's eyes held a hint of awe that made Hermione's chest tighten with guilt. She felt anything but prepared to be standing here as an instructor. Ron had asked her to help with defensive techniques since it was her specialty, but she'd agreed before realizing how scattered her mind was today. If they only knew how her supposedly brilliant mind kept wandering to a certain infuriating Death Eater who'd apparently decided to ignore her completely.

Get it together, she told herself. These people need this training.

"Right," she managed, forcing what she hoped was a confident smile. “The key is not just blocking a spell, but creating multiple barriers that can adapt to different types of attacks."

She raised her wand, muscle memory taking over as she began the demonstration. A basic Protego shimmered into existence first, translucent and silver in the floating lights. Then came a second layer designed to deflect rather than absorb, and a third that would activate specifically against Dark Arts.

"Now, the important thing is not to rely on verbal casting in a real fight," she continued, allowing the shields to shimmer and reform as she spoke. "Your enemies won't give you time to shout incantations. You have to practice their patterns until they become a reflex."

As she cast, her mind drifted to a week ago. The complex wards she'd layered for—

"Hermione?" Ron's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "Ready for the demonstration?"

She blinked, realizing the group was watching her expectantly. "Of course."

Ron's brow furrowed slightly, but he positioned himself across from her. "We'll start with simple dueling sequence. See how she redirects rather than just blocking."

Ron's spell came without warning, exactly as they'd practiced dozens of times before.

Her shield came up automatically but her focus scattered and what should have been a controlled deflection came out as a sloppy work. The stunner caught her barrier and ricocheted wildly, the redirected spell spinning off at an unpredictable angle. The former Death Eater dove sideways as the red light missed his head by inches.

Gasps echoed through the room and Hermione's stomach dropped as she scanned the newcomers' faces. Fortunately, they looked more amazed than horrified. They thought this was intentional, some kind of masterful display of advanced channeling. If only they knew this was a disaster, that her usual standards would never allow such reckless, uncontrolled magic.

She caught Ron's confused expression and felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. He knew her work too well. Whatever that wild redirect was it was nothing like her usual precision.

"Again," she said tightly, ignoring the concerned looks she was receiving.

Ron's spells were as familiar to her as his morning tea preferences—two sugars, splash of milk, always in the red mug. He favored his right side, drew power from his shoulders, threw Jelly-Legs Jinxes when frustrated. She should have been able to counter him blindfolded.

Yet, when his Disarming Charm came at her, she was wondering if Malfoy had enough sense to solve her riddle yet. The heir erased from view. At the very least, he should have realized she was talking about Regulus by now. The logical next step would be—

The spell nearly tore the wand from her grip but missed the mark, only making her stumble backward.

Ron looked baffled but raised his wand for another nonverbal. This time her shield held, but unfortunately for her, Ron had chosen the cutting curse that had sliced into her shoulder a few weeks ago. The familiar casting pattern reminded her of another duel, another wand whose spells moved deadly through grey mist, pale fingers wrapped around dark wood…

"Right, that's enough," Ron said, his voice thick with frustration. He dismissed the trainees with a wave of his hand. "Practice the shield variations we covered yesterday. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

The newcomers scattered obediently, blending in with others, their voices rising as they began to practice. Ron waited until they were absorbed in their work before turning to face her fully. His expression was troubled, like he couldn't make sense of what he'd just seen.

"What the hell was that about?”

"I've just been tired—" She busied herself with her water bottle, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Bollocks," The disbelief in his voice made her wince. "Hermione, the first spell was a Stupefy. I've seen you block those spells while reading a book. What's really going on?"

The worry in his tone made her chest tighten with guilt.

"Sorry, I was—" Thinking about Draco Malfoy. "Distracted."

"Distracted? For days?" Ron's voice rose slightly, and she could hear his patience fraying. "You've been acting off for days. Barely talking to anyone, skipping meals, snapping at people during briefings, walking around like you're angry at the world."

She blinked, taken aback. "That's not—"

"Ever since that meeting about Malfoy," Ron continued, his blue eyes searching her face, "You've been walking around like we've all personally insulted you."

Her spine stiffened. Oh, he had it all wrong… But she couldn't tell him that. Couldn't explain that her distraction had nothing to do with her wounded pride and everything to do with a secret bargain burning a hole in her conscience.

"Right, I get it," He sighed, and she saw his expression shift from frustrated to bitter. "You're sulking because for once, things didn't go your way."

His words hit her harder than any of the spells he'd been throwing at her moments before, and this time she had no shield to deflect it. "Sulking? You think this is about not getting my way?"

"The vote was fair, Hermione," Ron crossed his arms defensively.

“You didn't even consider—"

"Consider what," The words exploded out of him. "He's one of them! We chose to protect ourselves instead of chasing fantasies. That's how war works—we make hard decisions."

"Hard decisions?" Her voice cracked with incredulity. "Ron, you took the easy way out! You voted to kill him without even attempting to understand what Dean died for."

"Dean died because Malfoy killed him!" Ron's face was reddening now, freckles standing out starkly against his flushed skin.

"That doesn't make his mission worthless—"

"It does if it handed our secrets to the enemy!" Ron's voice turned ruthless, but she could see the fear in his eyes. "If Dean's work got him killed and gave them intelligence they shouldn't have had, then yes, it was bloody worthless." He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes hard. "This isn't some academic exercise, Hermione. We can't afford to chase every interesting theory like we're still back at Hogwarts."

The dismissive tone in his voice left her speechless for several seconds.

When had Ron become this? When had war taught him that survival required cutting away everything soft, everything hopeful? She stared at him, horrified by what six years of fighting had done to one of the kindest people she'd ever known.

But what really got to her was how he was belittling her work. Like she was sitting here safe and sound, while he and the others went out and actually risked their lives. As if all her strategic planning and mission coordination was just pointless compared to real fighting.

"You think I'm just shuffling papers while the rest of you are out there facing actual danger?"

"No, I just think you should learn to accept that once, just once, the rest of us might be right." Ron stepped closer, his tone shifting into something more personal. She could see years of buried resentment flashing in his eyes.

"You can't always expect us to do what you've decided is best for us," he continued. The bitterness in his voice made her feel like the ground was crumbling beneath her feet. "We're not seventeen anymore."

The realization crashed over her, her fingers unconsciously tugging at her sleeves. He was pulling this conversation somewhere deeper. Back to all those choices she'd made years ago, every decision after Hogwarts where she'd convinced herself it was for his own good without bothering to ask what he actually wanted.

She couldn't argue with him because she knew she'd handled things poorly back then. But what was done was done, and there was no taking them back.

"Ron, you're being completely—"

"What? Unreasonable? Yeah, I know what you think of me."

"That's not true,” she said quietly. “You're one of the best people I know."

"But you don't trust me," His certainty made her stomach drop. "At least, not with the things that actually matter."

The guilt crashed over her then, washing away the anger and leaving only shame. Because he was right, wasn't he? She was keeping secrets from him, from all of them. She'd been lying for days, meeting with their enemy while they planned operations she already knew would fail.

I'm a terrible person.

Her hands felt clammy where they hung at her sides, and the pendant around her neck suddenly felt like a millstone. Ron was standing there, asking her to trust him with whatever was bothering her. And she couldn't. Not because she thought he was inadequate, but because she was terrified of dragging them down with her. She refused to risk their safety by involving them in her reckless gamble.

But even as the excuses formed in her mind, she could hear how familiar they sounded. The same reasoning she'd used when she walked away from that kiss in the Chamber without looking back. She'd told herself then that sparing him was kinder than admitting the truth. That she'd felt nothing beyond relief at destroying another Horcrux.

"Ron..." she started, then stopped, the words dying in her throat.

Before she could find the words, rapid footsteps echoed across the training room. Lavender Brown appeared at Ron's side, her hand immediately finding his arm.

"Ron?" Her voice was pitched high with worry as she took in his flushed face and rigid posture. "What's wrong? I could hear shouting from three floors up."

"It's nothing, Lav," Ron said roughly. "Just a disagreement about training methods."

Lavender's blue eyes darted between Ron and Hermione, clearly not buying it, but she didn't push. Instead, she turned back to Ron, her hand moving in soothing circles on his arm.

"Perhaps you should take a break. You look exhausted," she said gently. "Come on. Let's go up to rooftop. Get some fresh air. Clear your head."

Ron's frame loosened, the tension left him as quickly as it had flared. "Yeah, alright," He glanced back at Hermione, frustration still flickering in his eyes. "I was already done here anyway."

As they headed for the door, Lavender's hand never left his arm, her voice soft as she murmured something that made him nod. Hermione could see he'd found some sort of peace with her—the way his shoulders had relaxed when she'd arrived, how her presence seemed to soothe the fire that always burned in him. Lavender gave him the attention they both knew Hermione had never been able to offer.

But some things lingered, apparently. Old disappointments that time had dulled but never quite erased, wounds that Hermione had just reopened without meaning to. 

The moment they were gone, she sank onto the nearest training mat, her legs suddenly too weak to support her. The adrenaline from the argument was fading, leaving exhaustion and a sick feeling in her stomach.

The room had fallen silent except for uncomfortable shuffling, all eyes on her after that spectacular show. Wonderful. They really set a good example there, showing the fresh faces how professional their new leaders were.

"Right then," Ginny’s voice cut through the uncomfortable silence. "Show's over, everyone. Clear the room.” She turned her wand on the Hogwarts boy. “And you— your Protego’s still rubbish. Less gawking, more casting."

The trainees scattered, and Ginny dropped onto the mat beside her. "Well," she said dryly, "That certainly livened up what was shaping up to be a boring afternoon."

“That wasn’t what exactly I had in mind,” Hermione muttered.

Ginny snorted. "You know, when Harry gets that look, it usually means he's planning something stupidly heroic."

The comment stung because it fit too well. Heroic, yes. Dangerous, absolutely. And she didn’t even have the Chosen One excuse.

"I’m not planning anything," Hermione said firmly, though she was getting tired of repeating the same lie.

"Fine," Ginny shrugged, humor dancing in her eyes. "But if you are, at least take me along so I get a good story out of it."

A moment later, her gaze softened. "Look, I won’t pry. But don’t forget—you don’t have to carry anything alone,” Ginny's brown eyes were warm, teasing now as she added, "And honestly, after six brothers, years in a war, and dating Harry Potter, it takes a lot to shock me.”

The guilt still twisted in her chest, but Ginny’s grin tugged a reluctant smile from her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ginny studied her for a moment. "You know where to find me," She gave Hermione’s hand a quick squeeze before standing. "Come on, let's get some tea and a proper meal. You look like you haven't eaten in days."

"My mind works better hungry.”

"And your shields collapse faster, too.” Ginny shot back, extending her hand to pull her up.

Hermione let out a weary sigh. “Fine. Tea.”

Ginny giggled as she walked ahead. Hermione followed behind, her fingers unconsciously drifting to the pendant beneath her sweater.

Where are you, Malfoy?

The only answer was the pendant’s silence, cold against her skin.

His absence felt like punishment, and she told herself she deserved it.

A few days earlier...

Malfoy Manor Library, Wiltshire

The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows as Draco stepped through the Floo. He pulled off his Death Eater mask and tossed it onto the sofa, forgotten before it even hit the cushions.

His muscles ached from hours of Apparating between checkpoints along the Scottish border, and his throat felt raw from shouting orders at field agents all day. Normally, he'd head straight for a hot bath and uninterrupted sleep. But Granger's hint had been bothering him since the morning, refusing to let go even during the briefings. Solving its meaning was more tempting than rest.

The library welcomed him with the familiar scent of aged parchment and dragon hide bindings. Golden afternoon light painted the Persian carpet in warm rectangles, but Draco was too focused to appreciate the beauty.

A Black star fell.

Even Goyle could figure out what those opening words meant. Granger was pointing him toward his mother's family. If this mysterious figure was a 'Black star,' then the answer lay with the Black family history.

The question was where exactly that history had been buried.

The old family chronicles could not be magically summoned. They required the direct touch of someone whose blood they recorded. A security measure his ancestors had deemed necessary, though right now it felt more like an inconvenience designed specifically to irritate him.

Draco glared up to the highest shelves and grimaced. Dust covered everything up there. Those books looked like they hadn't been touched in decades.

At least the ladder answered to his wand. He sent it scraping across the floor with a casual flick, its wheels protesting with rusty squeaks. Small mercies. He climbed up, the ladder creaking under his weight with each rung.

At the top, he had to stretch uncomfortably to reach the section marked with faded silver lettering: Genealogies and Bloodline Records. He pulled the first volume free and immediately regretted it as a cloud of dust exploded into his face. He jerked back, coughing, his robes now streaked with grey. Despite this, he grabbed a few more books, creating miniature dust storms with each one.

He descended the ladder carefully, balancing the heavy books while muttering increasingly creative curses about both his paranoid ancestors and a certain Mudblood.

"This is exactly why house-elves exist," he muttered darkly, depositing the books on his desk with unnecessary force. Even in his own house, Granger had somehow found a way to make him work.

The first book he opened was Chronicles of Britain's Ancient Bloodlines. Draco turned pages until he reached the Black family section. A few pages in, his fingers traced over an enchanted family tree that had once pulsed with silver ink throughout its branches.

Now, only two names still glowed with that living light. His own and his mother's. The rest had dulled to grey, faded by death, leaving the ancient tree looking like a graveyard.

The tree had documented everything throughout its history, regardless of legitimacy or knowledge. He could even see the bastard children who'd never known their heritage, and the distant branches that had spread across Britain.

But what caught his attention were the burned holes scattered across the parchment. His finger traced the blackened edges where names had been deliberately erased. Blood traitors. The familiar contempt rose automatically, but died just as quickly when he noticed the distribution.  

The burns increased with each generation, multiplying as the family tree approached the present day. By the time the tree reached his parents' generation, nearly a third of the names had been burned away.

He pulled his hand back, unsettled by the escalation.

The damage told a story of a family that had slowly destroyed itself.

Then, at the corner of the parchment, nearly lost among the chaos, his eyes caught something different. One name that bore neither a portrait of honor nor flames of disgrace. Only a small skull, as if the family had simply chosen to forget he ever existed.

Regulus Arcturus Black (1961-1979)

The skull among the living.

His eyes followed the silver line connecting him to the main branch, and his frown deepened. According to the tree, Regulus had been Sirius's younger brother, a detail that had somehow escaped Draco's education entirely.

He leaned closer, studying the skull symbol. What the hell did that mean?  

He grabbed another book, Treachery Among the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Chapter Three was devoted entirely to "Blood Against Blood" with the Black family featured as the prime example of self-destruction.

Given how many blood traitors had apparently multiplied through his family tree, Draco couldn’t help but snort. His relatives had clearly provided plenty of material for authors looking to profit off pureblood scandals.

…The deterioration of House Black reached its most pronounced manifestation with Sirius Black III. While the family had already suffered the shame of blood traitors in recent generations, Sirius became the first Black to be sorted into Gryffindor House—a betrayal so profound that his mother, Walburga Black, was said to have locked herself in her chambers, screaming about the "shame of her flesh" for three days straight…

His personal conduct further scandalized the family. The decoration of his chambers with salacious imagery of Muggle women, his fascination with Muggle transport devices, and his shameless association with Muggles and Muggleborn companions were documented as deliberate acts of rebellion against ancestral values…

Draco shook his head, baffled by his uncle's choices, and turned the page.

…Sirius eventually severed all family connections, renouncing his inheritance. He subsequently joined the Order of the Phoenix, declaring open war against his own blood's beliefs.

Following Sirius's departure, his younger brother Regulus became the focus of family hopes. Where Sirius had brought shame, Regulus brought pride. A true Slytherin, devoted to pure-blood supremacy, and eager to serve the Dark Lord's cause…

"Ah, there you are," Draco murmured, pieces clicking into place. "So you were the replacement golden boy."

He could picture it perfectly—the younger brother, desperate to make up for his sibling's treason, throwing himself into everything Sirius had rejected. It was a story he understood all too well, having been groomed his entire life to be what his family needed him to be. He stared at the words, seeing himself reflected in every line.

Though perhaps Regulus had been fortunate in comparison. At least he'd had Sirius to absorb the family's early expectations, and even after his disgrace, there was always Sirius's name to curse, his choices to blame. Draco had never had another name to curse but his own.

He set the book aside and leaned back in his chair, fingers rubbing his chin. So Regulus had been the perfect son. The account praised him as the ideal heir, as everything Sirius wasn't. But perfect sons didn't earn skulls beside their names. Somewhere along the line, something had gone wrong.

Granger had known. She could have told him about Regulus directly, but instead she pushed him to find the truth himself. Her manipulation games bothered him, even if he had to admit she might have been right to do it this way. Because reading it himself, alone in his family's library, realizing how much had been deliberately kept from him... that made him feel like a stranger in his own history, and that hit harder than any explanation she could have given.

Jaw clenched with frustration, he pulled The House of Black: A Complete History toward him, hoping to find more details about the younger brother.

Regulus Arcturus Black (15 June 1961 - 1979). Second-born son to Orion Black (1929-1979) and Walburga Black née Black (1925-1985). Educated at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, sorted into Slytherin House, September 1972. Distinguished himself athletically as Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team from third year onwards. Appointed House Prefect in fifth year, demonstrating exceptional leadership qualities. Academic achievements include Outstanding marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions. Possessed natural Occlumency abilities, noted by professors as remarkably advanced for his age.

The parallels were unsettling. Slytherin. Seeker. Prefect. Natural Occlumens. Draco had been all of these things too. But it was the next line that made his world tilt.

Regulus accepted the Dark Mark during the summer of 1978, age sixteen, making him the youngest recorded initiate until Draco L. Malfoy, 1996.

The words blurred. He blinked, read them again. And again.

Sixteen. Youngest recorded initiate. 

Branded as you are, he bore the Mark.

For years, he'd believed that the Mark made him special —the youngest Death Eater in history, a distinction he'd carried with pride. But it had all been a lie. Or worse, not a lie but just history repeating itself.

Regulus had walked this exact path decades earlier, marked at sixteen, praised as exceptional, used as a weapon.

And it had ended with a skull beside his name.

Funny how everyone had been too busy congratulating him at his ceremony. Somehow, no one had thought to mention there’d been another sixteen-year-old who'd been marked before him.

Turning back to the remaining books, Draco felt uncomfortably exposed. Each new revelation made the leather-bound books feel like they were mocking his ignorance.

What happened to you, Regulus? His jaw clenched in humiliation at being kept in the dark all this time.

Draco flicked his wand, casting a silent Accio. The Dark Lord's Servants, 1970-1980 flew across the library and landed in his palm with a solid thud. He flipped the pages sharply until he found Regulus’s record.

Two lines. That was all that remained of Regulus in the official Death Eater registry. Recruitment date, death date, nothing more. The perfect son, the model Death Eater, reduced to a footnote?

Draco's eyes narrowed. He'd seen fuller entries for half-blood recruits who'd lasted months before getting themselves killed. Yet Regulus, who is a Black heir, supposedly the pride of his family merited less space than a common foot soldier.

In his experience, gaps like this meant someone had crossed a line. When the Dark Lord wanted certain facts to disappear, that was usually when records became suspiciously thin. It was as if the person had never existed at all.

What had you done? Draco thought, staring at the pile of books in front of him. And why doesn't anyone want to talk about it?

His eyes burned from hours of reading, but he couldn't stop. This was no longer about besting Granger. Each answer only spawned more questions, and his findings were starting to feel tied to his own survival.

Draco's mouth tightened as he reached for a different volume, Notable Deaths and Disappearances in the Wizarding World. He found Regulus listed, but the entry was frustratingly obscure.

Regulus Arcturus Black (b. 15 June 1961). Last confirmed sighting: July 1979, age 18. Circumstances of disappearance: Unknown. Ministry involvement: Declined. Family investigation: Inconclusive. No body recovered. Status: Missing, presumed deceased.

According to the family tree, Regulus was long gone, his name dulled like all the other dead. So it wasn’t presumed, it was confirmed. But Circumstances unknown? What in Merlin's name was that supposed to mean? People didn't just disappear, especially not Black heirs.

Draco sat back, running a hand through his hair. He'd spent more time reading about the Black family in the past hour than in his entire life, and what he'd discovered was troubling. This was getting far more complicated than a simple family story.

Suddenly he remembered himself as a small boy, maybe nine, tugging on his father's robes in the manor's portrait gallery, asking why he'd never met any of his mother's relatives. Lucius had paused and looked down with that particular expression he wore when Draco had said something foolish.

"Those connections serve no purpose in your development, Draco. Bellatrix is all the example you need.”

Draco gave a short snort. What an example indeed. His dear aunt, who lasted all of five minutes against a grieving mother before ending up as another corpse in the Great Hall.

But as the memory faded, a disturbing thought took its place. Perhaps, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, that dismissal was intentional.

His attention shifted back to Granger's verse.

A Black star fell, not from disgrace, but for the secret he dared to face.

What secret had Regulus discovered that cost him his life?

He exhaled slowly, reconsidering everything. Here was a Death Eater who'd disappeared without trace. A Black heir who wasn't burned but marked with a skull instead. That had to mean something.

Turned his face against the dark.

The verse wasn't metaphor. It was fact.

If Regulus had turned against the Dark Lord, if betrayal was what the skull represented, then everything else fell into place. The gaps in records. His family's silence. The erasure of his name. Regulus hadn't simply defected. He'd turned while still wearing the Mark. He'd been a spy.

Draco's eyes snapped back to the genealogical record. Possessed natural Occlumency abilities.

It wasn’t just another parallel anymore. It was the key. With Occlumency that strong, Regulus could have hidden his true thoughts even from the Dark Lord. That kind of betrayal was far worse than being a blood traitor.

Draco pushed back his left sleeve, revealing the serpent and skull that gleamed faintly against his pale skin. He stared at it for a moment, remembering the boy who'd worn it like a badge of honor.

At sixteen, he'd been a fool. Desperate for his father's approval, and eager for recognition. That boy had wanted so badly to matter, without understanding what he was truly accepting. The ceremony had felt like an achievement, like crossing some threshold into manhood. "Forever" had meant nothing to an impulsive teenager drunk on promises of power and a place in history.

He hadn't known how blood would feel on his hands. Hadn't known that screams would follow him into sleep, that eventually he'd stop flinching at them, stop feeling anything at all. Eight years later, he knew that forever meant losing pieces of himself with each sunrise.

He'd done this to himself. Perfected Occlumency not just to protect secrets, but to bury the parts of himself that might still object to what he'd become. Built the walls higher each year until there was nothing left inside them but duty.

He existed. He obeyed. He survived.

Now, staring at the Mark, he wondered if Regulus had felt these same walls closing in. If he'd looked down at his arm one day and barely recognized the person attached to it.

Was that what broke you? Did you turn because staying meant disappearing completely?

As if summoned by his questions, fire erupted across his arm. The pain seared through the Mark, blurring his vision, as though it had heard his doubts and was reminding him who owned him. Draco cursed under his breath.

Perfect timing.

Rising from his chair, he adjusted his robes with sharp movements and reached for his traveling cloak, knocking aside the open books in his haste. Whatever secrets Regulus Black had carried to his grave would have to wait. The Dark Lord’s calls were never requests.

But before he left, he knew he had to settle one thing. In this house, there was only one person who might hold the answers.

“Mippy,” Draco called.

The little elf appeared with a soft crack, her eyes wide with eagerness. “Young Master Draco calls? Mippy is here, yes, yes!” She wiped her small hands on the hem of her tea-towel tunic.

“Tell my mother I’ll see her in the conservatory after dinner,” Draco said, reaching for his mask. “Emphasise that it’s urgent.”

Mippy bobbed so hard her ears flapped. “Of course, Young Master! Mippy will tell Mistress Narcissa straight away. Mippy will not forget, never, never!”

“Good,” he murmured.

“Mippy is gone!” she squeaked, giving a little bounce before vanishing with another crack.

Draco looked around the library, suddenly feeling an impossible distance from the man he'd been mere hours ago.

The Mark pulsed, searing.

He closed his eyes. The questions about Regulus, the frustration, the uncomfortable parallels… all of it went behind walls. Layer by layer, he built the emptiness that kept him alive in the Dark Lord's presence. Curiosity became obedience. Doubt became certainty. The parts of himself that asked why were carefully locked away, leaving only the shell of soldier who never wondered, never wavered, never wanted anything beyond what he was told to want.

When he opened his eyes again, the library felt distant, as if he were viewing it through glass. The man who'd spent hours chasing answers through these books was gone. In his place stood the Dark Lord's right hand, empty of everything but service.

Somewhere behind the walls, the questions about Regulus Black were still burning. But that part of him had no place where he was going.