Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They were drinking tea when the Deatheaters arrived.

Hermione took a sip, the boiled water laced with a slight chalkiness. Limescale, she theoried, from old pipes. Hermione didn’t mind. It tasted nostalgic, like school-dinner custard, or the watery hot chocolate served from village-hall canteens. Everything about the old, abandoned muggle school felt nostalgic: peeling notice boards, scuffed parquet floors, the smell of PVA glue.

Grimmauld Place had fallen.

Shortly after The Battle of Hogwarts, most of the Order’s safehouses were compromised and destroyed, the few strongholds they’d worked so tirelessly to conceal, now nothing but rubble, brick and dust.

Fenbrook Academy was their last, and only, option.

Well, that and Elysium. But only her, Ron and Shacklebolt knew of the latter. Hermione blew on her tea, dispersing the coils of steam. Silently, she sent a prayer to the powers-that-be they’d never have to use it.

“Smells like cheesy feet”, Ron complained, plonking himself down opposite her, the wooden bench groaning under his weight. “The whole bloody school. Do muggle teenagers not wear shoes?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Ronald. Of course they wear shoes.” She took another gulp, liking the way it scalded her tongue. It was strange, to feel something. Anything at all.

“You’d never know. It’s everywhere - in the bloody classrooms, the offices, the loos.” He shuddered, accepting a mug from Molly with an appreciative smile.

“World’s - Best - Teacher,” he read aloud, examining the cup. “I didn’t know Lockhart worked here?”

Hermione tried at a laugh, but failed, managing just a small quirk of her lips. Ron didn’t notice, or if he did, chose not to comment. He’d stopped trying as hard recently, to make her laugh, that is. Perhaps he had little to joke about, or most likely, he was tired of trying to elicit more than a few words from her.

“Merlin,” he sputtered, dropping the mug onto the table, splashing its contents across the surface. Hermione liked the way it was scarred with black biro and tape marks - a reminder that life had existed here once, its evidence etched into the wood. Absent-mindedly, she traced a carving of Mr Denver is a twat with the tip of her index finger, trying not to think of her own scar engraved on her arm.

“Why does the tea taste like toilet water!?”

Molly smacked the back of Ron’s head, muttering something about ungrateful children, or the entitlement of boys, Hermione couldn’t be sure. She’d lost herself, eyes glazing over, to the detailing on her own cup. Looted from the staffroom cupboard, none of them matched, but Molly had given her the same one each morning: an orange cat dangling from a washing line, the words Hang in There! scrawled beneath its curved, fluffy tail.

She thought of Crookshanks - his petrified body, legs outstretched, fur matted with blood - killed by a wayward curse during the fall of Grimmauld. The usual pang of grief that twisted her stomach was glaringly absent. Only a hollow, endless emptiness remained, as if she were a cavern wearing the skin of a witch.

“Do you think Harry would have liked it here?” Ron asked, snapping her out of her reverie. She blinked, suddenly aware of how painfully dry her eyes were. “You know -” he continued, gaze flickering around the dilapidated lunch hall. “Would it have reminded him of his childhood, like it does you?”

She had wondered if Harry would have felt the same familiarity, being here. From his late-night musings around the Gryffindor hearth, she knew his childhood had been less than ideal. Not like Hermione’s, which was all pancakes on Saturdays, roast dinners, and bed-time stories. No - the muggle world for him had been tainted.

“Certainly not. I think he would have hated it, actually.” She returned to her tea, avoiding his eyes behind the rim of her mug. It hurt, thinking of Harry, of the few moments of joy he’d been rationed before Voldemort stole his future. They’d never managed to retrieve the body, but Shacklebolt confirmed the rumours: Voldemort had preserved it, pinned him in the Great Hall, unable to rot, unable to return to the earth. Hagrid had managed to salvage his glasses, but Hermione couldn’t stand to look at them, their lenses cracked and splattered in blood.

“Some toast, dear.” Molly’s arm draped over Hermione’s shoulder to deposit a plate.

“Thank you,” she said, watching the glob of butter melt into the bread. Molly always gave her extra butter.

“Yours hasn’t run away, Ron, don’t look so worried.” With a flick of her wand, Molly had another zooming in from the canteen’s serving hatch. Gaze narrowing, he eyed his breakfast, considerably less-buttery than Hermione’s. She watched his brow furrow as he noticed she'd been given an extra slice, too.

Whilst Molly’s back was turned, muttering something to Arthur, Hermione offered it to him.

Ron winked before shoving the whole thing into his mouth, cheeks stuffed like a hamster.

“Merlin, Ronald. At least chew.”

Hermione swore she could almost track the angular corner of crust as it travelled down his oesophagus.

He smiled, congealed bread plastered to his gums.

“Charming,” she deadpanned, before nibbling into her own. It tasted like ash. Everything tasted like ash - like ruin, and dust and nothing. She forced it down, chasing it with another swig of the metallic-tasting tea.

“You kno’ me, ‘Mione,” he said around a full mouth. “Charming’s my middle name.”

“It’s Bilius, actually.”

Despite her retort, Hermione did find Ron charming, in his own way. She’d clung to that very distinct brand of charm on the nights when the darkness threatened to swallow her whole. Sometimes, their half-blind fumbles atop the gym mats they’d transfigured into beds were all that kept her from falling into an abyss - the one that widened with every death in the Order, every loss of life and friend.

Dobby. Crookshanks. Harry. Tonks. Moody.

That’s what they were, she and Ron: two desperate souls, panting and clinging to the memory of each other - of what once was, rather than what is. It felt like making love to a ghost. The parts of them that were once so perfect now mangled and twisted with grief.

She wondered if that’s what sex would be like forever - a drug, a momentary flash of heat before the cold crept in. Then, turning away, facing opposite walls, no longer lost to their bodies but trapped in their minds.

Perhaps it was a side effect of what they’d done… of offering a piece of their soul to Elysium. Maybe those were the parts of them that truly belonged together, she reasoned. Yet another sacrifice for the Order.

Molly swivelled.

“Hermione, love,” shuffling over, her patchwork skirt disturbed the dust bunnies on the floor, sending them spiraling to dance round the feet of Arthur and Ron, now deep in conversation about some Order initiative. Taking Hermione’s hand, the one not cradling the mug, she held it with the firm tenderness so typical of a mother. Hermione’s numb heart momentarily spluttered.“Ginny hasn’t left her room in weeks,” Molly whispered, her warm eyes wet with concern. “Will you go up and check on her? See if you can coax her down? She won’t-“ blowing out a breath, her eyes shuttered, and Hermione’s heart cracked a little more, already fissured beyond repair. The Weasleys had lost so much: Fred, Percy only last month, and now Ginny. She’d handled Harry’s death well at first - all rage and fire, intent on revenge. But as months ticked by, then years, she’d turned inward, and now, it was rare she’d leave bed for anything other than an occasional shower or to relieve herself.

Hermione could understand. Some days, she longed to stay on her back, too. Just stare at the tiled ceilings and lose herself to nothing. Be nothing. Think and feel - nothing. Survival had become a primary objective for Hermione, and for the Order. She didn’t know when it had happened, but tea, toast and staying alive - that was what they fought for now, rather than the glorious purpose of before.

Hermione thought of the locker on the third floor, spelled with all the protection they could muster - the locker where they’d stashed the diadem, the last of Voldemort’s horcruxes. With no Gryffindor sword or basilisk fang, she and Ron had exhausted their magic, intent on its destruction. Nothing seemed to work. It had left him despondent and lazy, her: a husk.

“She won’t talk to me,” Molly implored.
Hermione’s eyes refocused on the woman in front of her - pale skin, dark circles and grey hair aging the Weasley matriarch far beyond her fifty fourth, or fifty fifth year. They’d stopped celebrating birthdays. Always the chatty, clucking mother hen, she’d grown quiet of late - probably, she was just tired. Hermione was tired, too.

“Of course, Molly,” she said, attempting another smile, the muscles in her cheeks straining.

Molly was all tight lips and crinkled eyes as she patted Hermione’s hand.

“Morning.” Shacklebolt waltzed in through the fire doors at the end of the hall, plum robes bordering on garish against the faded greys of the walls.

“Coffee, Kingsley?” Molly offered, standing and wiping her eyes.

“Two sugars, if you will,” he scraped a blue, acrylic chair from where it was stacked by the partially-boarded windows, and pulled up a seat next to Hermione and Ron.

“Hermione, Ron.” he intoned as a way of greeting, tilting his head, the tassel of his fedora brushing the ridge of his broad nose. Hermione had always admired Kingsley’s professionalism. It was an admirable thing, to roll up one’s sleeves and get back to business, no matter the horrors of the day before. Then again, he had no family that Hermione knew of, no close friends outside the Order, no long-lost, pining love. There was freedom in that, in socially annexing yourself, she thought. Worrying her lip, Hermione acknowledged that spike of want - the curious feeling of envy - envy that Kingsley only had his own life to worry about in this war.

Accepting a latte from Molly with a curt nod, he scrutinised the mug - kind of a big dill, it read in snot-green, next to a drawing of an anthropomorphic pickle. He raised both brows.

“Sorry, all the others are being washed -” Molly gestured behind her, to the chrome sink beyond the canteen latch where she’d charmed the dishware, all of it churning in a frothy cloud of bubbles.

“It’s - fitting,” Kingsley’s deep rumble insisted before taking a sip.

More bodies entered the hall, the school they now called home at last stirring awake. Hermione fancied they should reprogramme the bells - the ones that once signalled the beginning and end of the day. Each morning and evening alive deserved acknowledgment; it was a victory, after all.

“Hermione - how goes your project?” Kingsley asked under his breath. He was the only one outside of her and Ron who knew what they were tasked with. What they’d done. The fewer that are privy to this, the better, Hermione had insisted, one drop of Veritaserum and even Moody would’ve sung like a canary. “Any success?”

She fiddled with her toast, now cold.

“Nothing,” Raising her gaze, she looked into his deep, brown eyes, his expression professionally neutral. “I’ve been experimenting with a solution designed to expel corrupting properties, a herbal bath, if you will. But I still have a number of ingredients missing with no way to source them,” she angled her body towards him, conscious of Molly or Arthur’s keen ears. “Severus smuggled a few of the more expensive items from his stores at Hogwarts, but even he doesn’t have access to Tears of the Moon or Silverlichen. Not to mention, I need purified salt from the Dead Sea-“

“Hagrid is currently in said region for a-“ Kingsley seemed to struggle for the word, his tongue darting between his lips, rolling over their curves. “-diplomatic mission,” he decided on. “Perhaps I can contact him to acquire what you need.”

Hermione’s stomach dipped. Why send a half-giant on an undercover mission? It seemed at best counter productive, at worst, cataclysmic, but then, there were slim pickings left to choose from, and maybe Kingsley had little choice.

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

He nodded, returning to his coffee and perusing the Daily Prophet.

“Absolute drivel,” George accused, pulling out the bench to sit beside Ron, nearly toppling him off backwards in the process. “Why read it, Shackles? When you know it’s full of more shit than Ron’s chamber pot?”

“Oi!” Ron protested, batting at George with a half-eaten sausage he’d acquired from Merlin knows where.

“Language, George,” Molly chastised, exhaustion lacing her words more than genuine anger. She attempted a half-baked swat with a tea towel.

“Alright ginge,” he ruffled Ron’s hair amidst his brother’s ‘Geroffs’.

Hermione didn’t smile, but she would have, once.

“It’s important, Master Weasley, because to behold the lies of the enemy is to also see the truth. There is much to read between the lines, even if what is within them, as you so poetically put it George, is Ron-shit.” Remus had joined them, much to the surprise of everyone at the table. He’d come quietly, his footsteps light, that same gaunt, empty look sketched into his face that he’d never been quite able to dispel since losing Tonks.

“Quite so, Remus,” Kingsley agreed, slurping his coffee.

“Here you go, dear, put an extra sugar in there for you,” Molly winked, presenting him with a black mug overlaid with a cartoon wolf and a speech bubble, “howl you doin?” imprinted within it.

“Bit on the nose, Moll.”

“Sorry-”

Molly’s eyes widened, her sentence cut short. “Ginny,” she breathed, knotting her hands in her apron.

Ginny, or what was once Ginny, drifted over to the table having snuck through the doors unnoticed. Scooting further up to make room, Hermione helped the wisp of her friend mount the bench, locking her jaw to keep her mouth from parting in shock.

“Sit down, have a cuppa,” Molly fussed, levitating another mug from the canteen.

Ginny parted her hair, unsticking it from where it had latched onto her face. Its usual fierce red now a rusty brown, darkened with grease and flattened at the back, like she hadn’t been upright in days. Hermione still thought it beautiful.

“Hey, Ginny,” she managed, offering her the only thing she had - a pitiful triangle of cold toast. Ginny ignored it, but instead, rested the weight of her head against Hermione’s shoulder.

Hermione was smart enough to know when words weren’t wanted, or needed. Carefully, not wanting to startle her, she raised her hand to cradle Ginny’s cheek, stroking her thumb over the sharp cut of its bone, hoping her touch might convey what sentences couldn’t. She hoped it would help. It probably wouldn’t.

“Circe’s tits, you look awful.” George observed, spraying a mouthful of crumbs across the table. “Sorry about’tha Hermione, hold on-”

Ron batted his hand away. “You oaf, don’t touch her.”

Ginny huffed, lifting her head and turning to wipe Hermione’s nose, brushing off the wayward crumb.

“Two years of living in a school still hasn’t taught table manners, then.”

Everyone held their breath, shocked she’d spoken at all.

“No - I guess not.”

Molly spilled a bit of the tea as she passed it to her daughter, her eyes locked on Ginny instead of the cup. Ginny took it, ignoring the way it lapped at her hands. “Thanks Mum - though, bit inappropriate for a teacher, isn’t it?” Hermione dipped her gaze to the red lettering spelled across its side: MILF.

“Oh,” Molly squinted, “I thought that said milk,” she leaned in closer. “What does MILF mean?”

George practically jumped off the bench. “Oh I know! It means,” he cleared his throat, “Mum I’d Like to…”

A mass of black robes apparated at the foot of the table. Tattered curtains and broken blinds slammed against the windows that lined the hall, rattling in Severus’ wake.

Hermione’s tea fell into her lap, wetting her jumper and jeans. She barely registered the uncomfortable spread of hot wetness, burning her thighs and lower navel.

When Severus’ dark, coal-like eyes landed on hers, she knew - she knew it was over.

“They’re coming,” he announced.

The Deatheaters arrived in a maelstrom of green, killing curses flying - the time for dramatic monologues regarding the Dark Lord’s right to reign long since passed.

This was a culling, not a conversion.

Hermione stared, seemingly glued to her bench, as an Avada flew over her shoulder, striking George in the chest. His eyes drained instantly, the spark of life deadened to a dull, glassy sheen, before his face fell with a clang into his half eaten plate of toast.

Someone was screaming. Molly, Hermione realised. It was the blood curdling wail of a mother’s loss - a sound she’d become unwittingly familiar with. A terrifying sort of grief, that was as much from the heart as the lungs.

Move.
Move.
Move.

Hermione leapt from the bench, grabbing at her wand tucked in the band of her jeans. The distinct red smear of a rogue Cruciatus burnt the wood by her feet, the sole of her trainer now blackened and scorched.

Then she heard it: a cackle of unhinged mania, one that induced memories of scars, iron bars and crooked teeth.

Bellatrix.

And where Bellatrix ventured, he was never far behind.

Hermione’s head whipped around, scanning the carnage, searching for red eyes, finding only the black hoods and silver masks of his army.

She parried curses, reflexes kicking in, honed from countless skirmishes over the last few years. It was instinctual and her head emptied, intent on one thing and one thing only - survival. She didn’t need to verbalise most spells, not anymore. The art of defense had been woven into her very sinew, as much a part of her routine as brushing teeth, or washing her hair.

“Avada Kedava!” The grate of Bellatrix’s voice echoed over the din.

A green orb, trailing vapour like a meteor, headed straight for Molly.

“NO!”

It found its mark, right in her throat.

Arthur stood, mouth agape, as Molly tumbled to the floor, her body now a twisted mess of apron and skirts.

Hermione latched a hand over her mouth, stifling a cry as the lunch hall quietened - even the Deatheaters pausing their assault to witness the end of Molly Weasley.

Arthur became an animal, ploughing into a Deatheater with his fists, using his wand to stab at the eyeholes in his mask.

“Move, ‘Mione!” Ron’s face materialised in front of her, snapping her out of her trance. Her tongue felt heavy, saliva pooling. A part of her wished to bite and claw, just like Arthur. To snap her wand and make do with nails and teeth instead. Avadas were too clean. “We need to MOVE!” In a cacophony of colours, curses ricocheted around them, the tiled ceiling already gaping with holes, revealing the electrics and pipe work beneath. Her and Ron fought through the tangle of bodies, ducking and rolling and shielding all the way. Survival. Another morning. Another tea. Another plate of toast. She thought of Molly. Who would make it now? The hall was a mess, the walls sticky with the cloy of dark, warped magic.

Ron’s fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arm, dragging her along. He minded their fronts whilst Hermione protected their backs. Two Deatheaters trailed them, their boots clipping against the parquet. Then, Hermione saw her, framed by the squares of their shoulders.

Bellatrix, her long, velvet skirts twirling in the throes of waltz, dancing with - Hermione swallowed a gag…Dancing with the corpse of Molly Weasley, spinning around and around to the chorus of screams and the final cries of the soon-to-be dead.

“Hermione, we need to-” Ron turned, and what little colour ruddied his cheeks drained in an instant.

“Ron,” Hermione choked, attempting to angle his head away. He caught her fingers, refusing to peel his eyes from where his Mother hung in the air, her limp hands clasped in Bellatrix’s, blackened fingernails digging into Molly’s freckled skin.

“Go. Get the diadem. Portkey to Elysium. I’ll meet you there.” His voice sounded robotic, like the anamatrons on muggle computers.

“Ron - it needs both of -”

“GO, Hermione,” he shoved her behind him, through the double doors and into the corridor, windowless and dark. “She’ll die for this,” he breathed.

Hermione stayed rooted to the spot.

“GO,” he growled. Without so much as a parting squeeze he was gone, marching over to where a Deatheater had Ginny cornered by the tower of chairs.

“Sectumsempra,” Hermione hissed without thinking, relishing the way the Deatheater’s chest bloomed like a rose, painting Ginny in blood. She glanced up, gaze locking with Hermione’s. Licking her lips, the two shared a rare smile - one born of feral satisfaction. Ron rerouted, now fully intent on Bellatrix. With one last look at the crumbling Order, of the bodies strewn over the tables and benches and ground, Hermione apparated to the third floor.

Her fingers brushed over the many ridges of metal lockers that lined the far wall. Most were hanging off their hinges, rusted, some long forgotten food fossilised by time in their depths. Charmed or not, she could sense its location from the pull alone - the headache-inducing throb that pulsed from behind it. Retrieving a hairpin with trembling fingers, she pricked her thumb on its sharpened end, drawing a rune on the locker’s peeling facade with her blood. The metal had darkened, blackened as if rotting from within, corrupted by some hidden decay.

Blood and runic magic was something Hermione had learned was far more robust than traditional, less controversial, wardings she’d been taught at school and by the Order. The latter was simply too weak and predictable. The Deatheaters never played fair, so neither, she rationalised, should they.

It sprung open, hinges squealing in protest, like it didn’t wish to relinquish the treasure inside. With a steadying breath, she thrust her hand inside. Hermione had the fleeting thought this was how a lion tamer must feel, plunging into the maw of a beast. Knowing at any moment, it could bite down and rip off your arm. Gritting her teeth, she latched onto the black, velvet bag, its shape molded around that of the diadem. Tying it to her belt loop, the weight as heavy as marble, she reached for the second item, smaller this time.

“Forgot your school bag, did you Granger? Bit old for that, aren’t we?”

Hermione’s breath stilled in her lungs. She whirled towards the source of the voice. At the end of the corridor, loomed another masked Deatheater, his face shrouded in that distinctive, metal mimicry. This one was tall, with broad, wide shoulders, his obsidian robes absorbing the rays of weak sunlight that had somehow managed to infiltrate the muck-laden windows.

“You were never one to be late for class,” he tutted, twirling his wand between long, dexterous fingers. “I dare say a detention is in order.”

Something clicked, straightening Hermione’s back. She knew that drawl - that familiar voice always dripping with the ghost of a sneer, accented with the insufferable predisposition only the aristocratic possess.

“Malfoy?”

His body stiffened, wand no longer twirling in his fingers but angled to her heart.

“Give it to me, Granger,” two fingers beckoned on his other hand, adorned with silver rings. “Give it to me, and I will order them to leave.”

She scoffed, pointing her own wand at the centre of his chest. “By what authority? You think I believe a single word that comes out of your creepy, little mouth, Malfoy? You want it, come get it.”

Something awakened in her. I’m a rat, thought Hermione, one that’ll chew straight through you to get to the other side.

Wandlessly, she cast an illusionment spell, masking the workings of her hand that had started to unknot the smaller of the bags. Inside, lay a roman coin. Light, thin, crinkled, smoothed by an age of passing through hands.

A portkey.

“There will be nothing and no one left if you don’t hand it to me. He’ll scourge every city, conquer each country, tear down worlds to find it, Granger. There’s no running,” if he wasn’t such a condescending twat, Hermione may have noticed the softened lilt to his tone. But perhaps, he was just exasperated - eager to get this over and done with. “He’ll never stop searching. Give it to me, Granger - so you might salvage at least some dregs of your pitiful Order.”

She had an overwhelming urge to spit. “Go to hell, Malfoy.”

“Oh darling, I’m already living in it.” His wand raised, a flash of blue, or was it green, building on its tip.

Hermione pulled at the string, the small bag finally spilling loose.

Something crawled up her arm, like a cluster of mites, but then - she was gone. Swirling in what felt like the eye of a hurricane, the tattered carpets of the school hall bleeding into the greens and yellows of grass.

She landed with a thud, the stale air of the corridor giving way to the crisp, biting wind of the mountains. She breathed it in, her lungs rattling alongside her bones.

She’d made it.

She had the diadem.

She’d entered the wards.

And she was alone.

She was alone, in Elysium.

Chapter Text

The path to Elysium was paved in gritstone, its bends meandering over the dips and rises of the forty acres of land ensconced by the wards.

Hermione traversed the uneven terrain, throwing glances over her shoulder every second step, though the rational part of her knew nothing but her and Ron could breach the estate. She was safe, protected. Guarded by a barrier formed of their very souls, intertwined with ancient magic so dark, it would make a Deatheater blush. She could feel it, if she paid attention, like the humming heat of a gas stove, of cast iron warmed in flame, long after the fire’s extinguished. It seeped into her back, slipping through the threading of her jumper, warning her - don’t get too close.

Her fingers curled tightly around the base of her wand, knuckles straining to the point of pain.
She glanced over her shoulder again - to the line of evergreens standing sentinel at her back. All was still. The treeline, the border to Elysium, remained unbroken; the mountain goats having kept the grass trimmed, just as she and Ron had planned.

Ron. George. Molly.

Drawing a shuddering breath, she quickened her pace, shoving the last half an hour or so deep, deep into the recesses of her mind, focusing only on the road ahead. Nine minutes and twenty seconds to the inner gate - or, just under ten minutes.

Ten minutes until she could fall apart.

Ron would follow, she told herself over and over, trainers thudding on stone, He’d promised. They’d promised. No one goes to Elysium alone.

But, the dead can’t make good on vows made in life, thought Hermione, before banishing it, as if visualising Ron’s death would somehow wish it into existence. Ron wasn’t dead - not yet - she’d know if he was. Elysium would know.

He’ll come. He’ll come. He’ll come. It became her mantra as she clambered towards the heart of Elysium, wand drawn, hackles raised. At last, Hermione crested the final hill.

Perched at the base of jutting, craggy mountains, the sizable cottage seemed minuscule compared to the behemoths at its rear. Better to have the mountains guarding our backs. You know, ‘Mione - like Rooks, Ron had insisted. Hermione had little patience for wizard chess, but kept her opinions about being backed into a corner to herself. She eyed the peaks suspiciously, looming over the handsome sandstone like knives.

I’ll… - we’ll -, she internally corrected, take a room at the front. Far better to draw the curtains each morning to rolling farmland and forest, rather than sharp, blackened stone.

Tugging at her sleeves, she pulled the cotton over her fingers, grown numb from the wind. A warming spell would’ve done the trick, but the price of Elysium’s protection didn’t allow for such menial magic. Merlin, she loathed that feeling. Of all the times they’d visited, it had never been this…intense. Like wearing weights on your wrists and ankles, she’d tried to explain to Ron, we must get used to it, or it’ll only be harder for us to adapt if we’re ever forced to come here. That’s how Elysium sustained itself - by feeding on their magic, using it, recycling it. It kept the animals fed, the allotment watered, the amenities running, and now she’d arrived, the wards reinforced - but it also left them weakened, drained, their magic smothered and dulled. She’d have to ration her strength carefully, spending what little magic remained only where it mattered most.

The diadem swung heavy on her belt.

It will get better, she promised herself, in time, it’ll get better. It was a mercy no Deatheater could track her here, for even the most basic of charms would feel as exhausting as the trickiest of transfigurations. Still, she mused, it would be nice to keep all my fingers.

A second after the thought materialised, the howling winds quietened. Hermione angled her face to the sky, to the swirling vortex of angry, grey clouds, and observed with a scrutinizing eye as they softened, paling, and unknotted themselves. A gentle breeze swept through the field, fanning the strands of her long, wild hair forward, as if ushering her into Elysium’s hold. Curious, considered Hermione, how curi- her thoughts scattered as an arrow of sparrows shot overhead. She jumped, hands flying to protect her crown as their little wings darted perilously close.

They settled in the thicket lining the inner courtyard of the cottage, its branches rustling with their movements. A small chirp had Hermione looking down, to the scorched tip of her trainer where a singular bird had perched itself, abandoning its host.

“Hello, darling thing,” Hermione whispered, attempting a whistle. It cocked its head, unimpressed with her bird talk. Taking wing, it landed on her left forearm, causing Hermione to stifle a gasp. It rubbed its smooth, round head in the folds of her jumper, as if searching for something inside. Hermione had an urge to stroke its plumed chest, to feel the softness of feathers under her palm, but just as she lifted a finger, it pecked. Hard.

“Ouch!” Hermione jerked back, scrambling at her sleeve to reveal an angry red pin prick, right next to the ball of her wrist. “You little mad’am,” she chastised, rubbing at the mark that burned, and… itched. Now she thought about it, the entirety of her left arm prickled, as if alive with a thousand tiny needles. She turned it this way and that, searching for any tell-tale marks of a curse, or injury, but it was unmarred - save for the tiny speck of red from the sparrow’s beak, and her scar; the one Bellatrix had so lovingly carved into her.

“Shoo.” Hermione waved her arms, sending the sparrow soaring to join its friends in the bushes.

With one final scan to her back - longing to glimpse a flash of red hair but finding only deep greens and browns - she turned. Making quick work of the hill, Hermione walked the straight path leading to Elysium’s sandstone face, framed by wooden fences that secured the cattle and the sheep. The goats would do as they pleased.

A deep, resonant moo had her head snapping toward the pasture to her right. Lined along the fence like infantry, they watched her. Hermione’s heart lurched, pulse thudding in her ears. Heavy heads hung over the upper plank while the sheep, and even the goats, peered through the bars underneath. With every step she took, irises of inky black tracked her.
“Good morning,” Hermione had meant to shout, but the sound came out small, carried off by the breeze. She cleared her throat.

“Good morning!” she tried again. The words echoed off the mountainside and came circling back around her like crows.

“Sorry you’ve been here on your own for so long. We’re - I’m - back now.”

Wiping her nose on the back of a trembling hand, she did a quick bit of arithmetic, something that always steadied her nerves, pointing as she counted.

“One, two, three-” Four cows. Ten sheep. Six goats.

All accounted for, save a few rogue goats who were permitted to roam, and the two horses in the stables - where they should be - if the charms had held. All alive, seemingly healthy. Relief fluttered through her; the magic had done its work. It had been a point of contention between her and Ron - their welfare. They’ll be fine, ’Mione, he had told her for the hundredth time. How many times are you going to check?

The nattering clucks coming from somewhere ahead confirmed the chickens had survived too. She sighed, grateful that at least that had gone to plan.

“I - I’m just going to -” She stopped, aware of how absurd it was, stammering to livestock. They continued to stare.

“I’m going to go inside,” she told them firmly. “I’ll come and say hello after.”

She waited, half-expecting an answer.

“Stupid. Ridiculous,” she muttered, near-jogging up the rest of the path, trying not to notice the way their heads turned in unison as she passed.

She felt their eyes on her, her skin feeling as if it crawled with thousands of ants. It took all her restraint not to rip open the wrought iron gate to the inner gardens and bolt for the door, knowing it was ludicrous to be afraid of cattle. With deliberate calm, she clicked the latch, opening it, and gazed up at the place she was to call home for the foreseeable. Hermione sighed. You really should have chosen wisteria, she chastised herself, Ron said this would happen. The ivy she’d planted to frame the pillared porch had grown glutted in their absence, consuming almost the entire face of the lower cottage - its spindly limbs now spread across the latticed windows, too.

She’d have to fix that.

She’d have time.

Time. There would be so much of it.

Closing the gate with a clang, Hermione cast the locking charm without thinking - using precious magic for something so small. She gritted her teeth as it leached strength from her veins. Locks weren’t needed, but some part of her wanted them all the same. She had yet to shed the comfort of a placebo. Perhaps it was the muggle in her. Or, perhaps all women - witch or not - craved the reassurance of a lock and key as much as they did spells and charms.

Though, Hermione thought, real monsters pay no heed to either.

She approached the front door, feeling safer. Gritstone gave way to flagstone slabs, the path lined with evergreen shrubs and perennials. On some days, Hermione believed she’d been a little indulgent, dressing up their prison - safehouse - Ron had reminded her, with so much greenery and plants. But the smell of it: English lavender, primrose and wet soil, helped Hermione feel calm. It reminded her of summers spent blowing bubbles and splashing in the paddling pool in her parent’s garden, so different from the plasticy tang of linoleum and musk of Fenbrook academy. A squeaking sound slipped from her lips and she slammed her eyes shut, the memory of Molly’s levitated corpse sending bile up her throat. Hermione inhaled through her nose, letting the perfume of flora and herbs anchor her, willing calm to take root. Ron would be grateful, in the end - for the garden, for her efforts - when he got here.

If he got here.

She blew out a long breath and stopped short of the door.

The dark, deep red - bordering on crimson - had been Ron’s choice, along with the lion-head knocker. An ode to our school years, he’d said proudly, arm slung over her shoulder as he nibbled at her ear. In honour of where I first felt your—

She paused the memory as if it were a VHS, refusing to let it spool to the end.

Hermione understood the sentiment, she did. But standing before it now - alone, her arm burning, more of the Weasleys gone, and likely others too - she thought it a poor choice.
It beckoned like the gateway to hell.

Something obtusely symbolic, like in muggle horror films, the red warning of danger, or demons, or pain. Her hand raised, as if to knock, before she lowered in again. Silly, she whispered, there’s no one here but you. For a moment, Hermione thought some magic was illuminating the door from within, the red becoming more vibrant, especially against the beige roughness of sandstone. It wasn’t until she tipped her head back, to the clouds overhead, that she realised it was the sun, one of its rays falling directly on the door. It bathed Hermione and the threshold in light, and she took a moment just to enjoy it. Closing her eyes, and focusing on the pink of her inner eyelids, she let its heat warm her. Even the breeze had fully quietened, and now, there was only the tittering of birds, the cluck of hens in the distance, and the bubbling of the brook that ran alongside the greenhouse.

A cow mooed, the same dissonant note as before. Opening her eyes, she turned her head, the field animals now hidden by the hedges. The sparrows still fluttered to and fro, and a lone hare dug up dirt in the flower bed. She squinted at the horizon. No red mess of hair. No Ron. Wasting no more time, she reached for the brass knob, and turned.

On silent hinges, charmed to repel rust, it swung wide. Inside was cloaked in darkness, despite the growing light of the sun. Ivy had indeed crept over the many arched windows, patterning the walls in their shadows like hundreds of duck feet.

“Lumos?” Hermione asked, and Elysium answered.

The hallway lit instantly, and relief surged through her. There was no dragging pull, no drain on her magic.

It was as they’d hoped: Elysium had taken its fill and was now using it to power the cottage’s functions. A small comfort, Hermione thought, knowing that anything tied to the running of the house wouldn’t leave her exhausted and gasping.

Pleated lampshades on brass hangers bathed the space in a warm glow. Everything gleamed, as if freshly dusted only moments before. Ahead, a handsome oak bannister curved to the second floor, the hessian runner pinned to the steps reminding her of her grandmother’s townhouse in Cork. Hermione had loved Christmases there, before she’d passed.

She braved another step, the door automatically sealing behind her. The bell-ferns had thrived. Padding over to the stairway, she twirled their leaves spilling through the gaps in the balusters, eliciting the tinkling of the bells adorning their edges. Wizarding plants were far more fascinating than anything from muggle gardening centres - but she still had her favourites. Lavender, for one.

Molly loved lavender.

Hermione’s chest tightened, slumbering panic and grief stirring, ready to surface. Not yet, she begged. Not yet. Backing away from the stairs, her hips brushed a circular table, rattling the vase on its surface, still blooming with wildflowers she’d picked months ago when they were last here. The poppies, devil’s-bit, and knapweed remained perfectly preserved - a testament to Elysium’s magic. But Elysium wasn’t forged to eternalise flowers, or self-clean the pantry. It was made to protect, to guard and conceal. She unlaced the bag at her hip, lifting the flowers and dropping the diadem into the vases’ depths with a thunk, feeling instantly lighter as she did. No matter where it was stashed, it would be safe. But, still better to hide it in plain sight, thought Hermione.

Steadying herself on its edge, she made for the old church pew bench, unlacing her trainers as she prepared to make a list. Lists were helpful. Lists were productive. Lists were essential if she wanted to keep a level head until Ron arrived.

1. Change into slippers

Depositing her beaten-up trainers in the basket below, she retrieved a soft pair of fleece-lined mules, right where she’d left then, relishing how they hugged her feet.

2. Make tea.
Her mind flashed to the mugs: Hang in There. Big Dill. MILF. She retched over the welcome mat.

2. New number 2: Coffee. Make coffee.

Trailing the walls with the tip of her wand, she exited the entryway to the arched door to her left, down the walkway that she refused to let Ron paint red, opting for a wallpaper adorned with bluebells instead, onwards to the kitchen.

Hardwood floors gave way to stone, though her slippers softened her steps on both. The room was brighter here; the large windows had not yet been fully claimed by the encroaching ivy. Hermione bit her lip, taking in the AGA, walnut cabinets, encaustic tiles, and farmhouse sink, wondering if she had gone a tad overboard in here, too.

Sterling had been easier to source than galleons, and she’d invested her muggle money wisely, knowing she’d spend much of her time in this kitchen - brewing potions, cooking, stocking the pantry, or curled up with a book by the adjoining dining room fire, the burnt-orange chair already draped with a throw.

She lingered on the plush cushions, eyes drifting to the one opposite: burgundy- for Ron. She swallowed.

Coffee. Coffee, Hermione reminded herself, breaking the process down into steps:

1. Enter the pantry
2. Retrieve granules, honey and milk (hopefully still charmed, and not turned sour)
3.Fill the kettle
4.Boil water
5.Retrieve mug

Hermione got to work, eager to keep her trembling hands busy. Slotting her wand in her waistband, he raided the pantry, a space she’d used an extension charm on so it would be large enough to preserve a potential lifetime’s worth of ingredients. Clutching the items from her list, she returned to the kitchen.

As the kettle boiled, Hermione stood opposite the sink, gazing out toward the mountains and the allotment beyond, absently scratching her arm. Her eyes followed the goats scaling the sheer face of the rock, impossibly sure-footed. She worried for them, though she knew they were built for this. If they fell, would they die?

Her thoughts wandered. If I climbed the mountain and fell - would Ron find me? Would I rot? Become but a pile of bones? Or would Elysium preserve me, just like the milk?

The cast iron hissed and her shoulders jumped. With a checkered tea towel, she set it down on the marbled counter, spelled to repel watermarks. Hermione had been most thorough. She was almost impressed, if not a little perturbed by her attention to detail. As she reached for the cabinet containing the mugs, a grotesque scuttling sensation traversed up to her elbow.

“What the—” She clawed at her arm, searching for the source of tiny, creeping legs, paranoid that a spider had found its way under her clothes. Nothing. Perhaps it was bedbugs from her Muggle school, or fleas. She’d have to incinerate these clothes.

Abandoning her task, she ran for the washroom, under the stairs back by the entry, throwing her jumper into the fire’s grate en route. She’d extended it in there, too - so now it was less a cupboard, more a family bathroom, with chequered floors and traditional white furnishings. Ron had liked it. Raiding the toiletry cabinet, her fingers closed around the Murtlap essence, forgoing the Dittany for more pressing injuries rather than insect bites. She lathered it over her arm, breathing a sigh of relief at the cooling tingle soothing the itch, not minding that the smell singed both her nostrils. Popping the vial back on the shelf, she closed the door, revealing her reflection in the mirror attached to its front.

A wraith stared back at her. Topless, Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d examined her body. She brought a hand to her mouth, using the other to trace the lines of her ribs, protruding from under her flesh. Tentatively, she brought a finger down to the bones of her hips, then, to the dip in her clavicle, wincing at the way it concaved. Her skin was darker than the ointment, a plaster-cast of white up her arm, but it was no longer olive, like she remembered, but a lifeless, sickly greige. Hermione blinked, almost not recognising her eyes, sunken and flat, with purplish bruises haloing each socket. Though her hair was as full and frizzy as ever, the strands were brittle, lacking their usual shine. She faced away, bristling with what she realised was anger. She felt…angry. How could she let herself get this way? Did Ron notice? Did anyone? She thought of the toast, of the extra butter.

Wrapping a throw around her shoulders, back in the kitchen-come-diner, Hermione craved that sense of achievement that came with a completed to-do list. Mug. Retrieve a mug. Remembering where she’d organised them, the cupboard to the left of the copper utensils, her breath stopped short at the sight of an egg-yolk orange handle, and beside it, one that matched but in butter yellow. They stood out obnoxiously, beacons of garish colour next to her curated collection of Victorian china. She retrieved them as if they were the most precious of jewels, knowing this was about to hurt.

What the duck? Asked the first, its handle a duck’s bill, the edges of it smiling like a loonytoons character she remembered from childhood. She rotated the other - Silly Goose, it mocked, the bill a lighter shade.

Ron - he’d pillaged the staffroom, no doubt, and stole them a pair of cups.

Silly goose, she thought. Silly goose indeed. Hermione let it out then, the thing that had been bubbling in the depths of her stomach since she’d portkeyed to Elysium’s borders. That gnawing, aching, hideous sadness that she hadn’t allowed out. Her whole-body racked, sobs carving out her chest. She clung to the mugs, holding them to her heart as if to stop it from breaking. Slumping to the floor, she propped herself against the cabinet doors and finally, finally, let herself fall apart.

I am alone, she whimpered to Elysium through heaving breaths, I am alone, and they’re all going to die.

Chapter Text

Hermione dreamt of crickets.

Those crickets in tiny acrylic tubs, lined up in muggle pet stores. She’d been here before, when she was younger, pre-Hogwarts - on rainy days in half-term when her parents didn’t quite know what to do with her.

“Shall we go visit the rabbits?” Her Mum would ask. “Or see how many fishies we can spot?”

Hermione loved the fishes, even if a part of her felt guilty they were trapped behind glass as she ogled. They were so pretty, with their vibrant scales and patterning, drifting in the water.

“You mustn't tap the glass,” she’d told a boy once. “They’re sensitive to vibrations. It’ll cause them unnecessary stress.”

But she wasn’t in the tropical section; she was here, in an aisle she’d always avoided - Live Food for Reptiles.

A chubby hand, belonging to a much younger Hermione, reached for the closest tub, fingers closing around the plastic. Under her palm, she could feel the pat of their legs, ricocheting off the clear, curved sides.

Tap, tap, tap.

She lifted it closer. Inside, they clambered over one another, desperate to escape their small, barren prison.
It won’t do, she thought.

Peeling back the lid, she gazed down at them, inhaling that earthy, musky scent of wood and insect.

“Go!” she urged softly, giving them a little shake. “Or end up in the belly of a snake!”

They stilled. Tens and tens of tiny, compound eyes - the colour of wet bark - glistened up at her. Hermione could see her reflection in them. Her face was fuller, more rounded, much younger.

Then - they jumped.

“Holy crickets!” Hermione gasped, jerking awake.

She could feel them - skittering all over her: in her hair, across her face, down her arm. Clawing at her curls, she swiped at her cheeks, slapped at her skin, desperate to get them off.

Lurching from the chair by the hearth, where she’d cried herself to sleep, Hermione tore the blanket from her body, hurling it toward the kitchen counter as if it were aflame.

“Lumos, LUMOS!” she shouted, wincing when Elysium brightened the lights.

Outside the windows, the landscape was nothing but inky darkness. She thrust out her arms, mentally preparing for the sight of dozens of crickets, or hundreds of ants, or spiders, but… she rotated her arms and examined her chest, peeling her hair from where it clung to the clamminess of her skin. Nothing was there. Nothing was–

Stomach plummeting, Hermione’s vision tunnelled. There - on the inside of her left wrist.

Stumbling towards the book lamp, she shoved her arm beneath the bulb’s glare, blinking rapidly, disbelieving of her own eyes. Surely not…

Under her scar, a minuscule lump, no larger than a bead - moved.

The small sphere raised and dipped, like a swelling, surging up and down, up and down, before sinking back into the depths of her flesh. Hermione squealed, certain she could feel it scuttle along her bone. She stared, wide-eyed, retinas burning, desperate to see if it - There! Two this time, warping the U in Mudblood with their frenzied motions. Backing away, she threaded her hands through her hair and tugged, pain flaring at her scalp.

No, no, no.

Her insides twisted, wondering if she had already gone mad or if, indeed, she had bugs trapped under her skin. Merlin, it was everywhere: the scuttling, the sensation of legs, of bodies moving inside her. Braving another look, she peered down at her arm and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Her flesh was alive.

Writhing with hundreds, of those darting lumps, zipping to and fro as if scurrying from a threat. She wanted to scream, or cry, or vomit - call for help. But I’m alone, thought Hermione. I am alone.

Gulping down three heavy breaths, she willed herself to calm.

Think. Think. Think.

Her mind flickered through theories, scanning every crevice of her memories for a diagnosis.

Find the cause, then the cure. Find the cause, then the cure.

Hermione settled it was one of three things:

1. A delusion wrought from trauma and distress. This was feasible, given the circumstances.
2. Some strange, magical disease or infection she’d inadvertently created or stumbled upon in the microcosm of Elysium.
3. A curse.

But then, when would she have been cur-

Fenbrook. Floor three. The lockers. Malfoy - the tip of his wand, alight, poised. A nip at her arm.

She roared.

“You bastard!” she shrieked to the beams, marching to the kitchen counter that divided the space, to where she’d left her wand on its side.

Wand shaking, Hermione pointed it at her scar, still rippling with hundreds of unseen bodies under the derma. Her mind, whirring from the recesses of sleep and the panic upon waking, settled on the first counter curse it could think of.

“Finite Incantatem!”

Nothing.

“Formicarius Subderma!” she forced, teeth gritted.

If anything, her skin moved more, the dots cresting higher, as if readying to breach through its surface.

“Insecta Repellere!” Hermione felt a sharp wave of nausea rise within her, a tell-tale sign her magic was dangerously low, Elysium having thoroughly drained her from its replenishment of the wards.

“Insecta Relellere!” she repeated, voice cracking on the last syllable.

A weak strand of light crackled over her skin, and for a moment, the scuttling ceased.

Holding her breath, she rotated her arm again, heart beginning to settle now the lumps were no longer visible, her flesh still. She backed into the counter, releasing a shaky breath, pressing her palms to her eyes. “Thank Merlin for that,” she breathed.

Hermione had never been shot - the closest she’d ever come to a gun was through a TV screen - but in that instant, she felt as if a bullet had pierced her from within.

Her hand snapped to her forearm, her body folding with a sharp throb of pain. As it ebbed, she released the pressure, examining how her palm was now wetted with blood.
There was a hole in her arm.

No larger than a knut, the skin around it had split like filo pastry, jagged and torn.

Movement on the flagstone floor drew her gaze downward: a tiny, blackish dot darting for the gap beneath the pantry door. For a long moment, she simply stared at where it had disappeared, unwilling to accept the conclusion her mind had already drawn.

A budding pressure began to build, right next to the first hole. She turned back to her arm. A second later, Hermione’s skin exploded open like a burst sore, and in its centre, the curved head of a small, black beetle emerged from her muscle. She gaped as it breached the surface, its body iridescent like an oil slick. Its legs slipped on rivulets of blood running down her flesh, droplets splashing onto the stone beneath her.

It leapt to the floor.

Hermione yelped as it burrowed beneath the skirting board, tiny footprints leaving pinpricks of blood in its wake.
Then another emerged. Then another, and another.

Hermione was screaming, her arm a bloodied mess of ripped skin and gaping holes.

“Immobilus!” she stuttered, trying to halt them before they erupted from her arm. Her wand spluttered uselessly.

Near fainting with the agony of it, she stumbled to the french doors at the cottage’s rear, already opened for her, heading for the greenhouse.

Her arm hung uselessly at her side, throbbing with what must be close to fifty punctures, bugs falling from her like confetti.

Panes clattering, Hermione wrenched open the doors with her one good arm, the pendant lights, already alight, swinging in the gust of her entrance. Outside, the mountainous winds had returned, whipping the leaves and stems of the plants that had colonised the space. They were but sprouts, before. Hermione took a moment to pause, despite the pain, and gulped at what lay before her. No more than a potting shed, really, the last time she was here, the plants had grown monstrous - what were once the small stems of monkshood, fluxweed, fanged geranium, now tall as trees. Her shoulders jerked as the space blared with the sound of thousands of droplets, rain hammering the roof like stones. More bugs shot from her arm, the open sores climbing ever higher.

Minutes, Hermione thought. I have minutes until they spread to my neck.

She scouted the far end, aiming for the repurposed postal cabinet that contained the potion ingredients she’d been sage enough to stock.

“Accio wolfsbane!” she managed, through her pained groans.

Her wand didn’t so much as fizzle.

She could feel it now, below the agony of her arm, an emptiness carving out her veins. That was it then - her magic… gone. She lunged for the drawers, hoping to find bezoar, silverweed, or moondew. Anything that might counter the curse.

Despite her relentless tugging, the drawers refused to yield, the small squares locked tight. She’d never locked them - what was the need?

Ron.

Hermione registered, with a sharp pang of surprise, the distinct lack of guilt she felt at being furious with him.

A sob bubbled out of her. She was losing a lot of blood now, and though she didn’t want to look, she had to. Her heart almost stopped at the sight of it — the cresting heads protruding from her arm’s surface, the mangled ribbons of skin hanging loose.

Hermione prided herself on practicality in moments of disaster, and she faced the most probable outcome of her situation head on, as she would with any crisis in war: an artery would rupture sooner or later. Probably one of the carotids, just to the side of her neck.

A part of her almost hoped it would happen quickly - anything to end the horror of watching her own body come apart. Better that it happened now; she could drift away, and soon, it would be over.

All of it.

She was horrified to find a small sense of peace washing over her. It would be nice to forget. To fall into oblivion and leave her troubles in the mud. But people were counting on her. She had the last Horcrux. What would the future look like if she died before anyone could retrieve the diadem? No one could get in apart from Ron - what if he died, too? They’d truly render Voldemort immortal - his diadem arguably more protected than it ever was before.

In one last-ditch attempt, she scanned the greenhouse for dittany, trying to spot the dainty, scalloped leaves among the knotweed, sprawling valerian root, and tendrils of devils’ snare that had burst from its pots and now crawled across the ground and walls.

Before Hermione could skirt the edges, the skylights opened, drenching her and the surrounding plants in a deluge of rain. The baby mandrakes shrieked beneath the soil, disturbed by the downpour. Her hair plastered to her forehead, the padded mud at her feet turning sloppy, insects falling from her arm and tunnelling into its depths.

“Shut them! Elysium! Close the windows!”

More opened.

“Ughhhh!” she cried, managing not to slip in the sludge now swamping her slippers and the hem of her jeans.

This is how I die, she concluded. In the rain. In the mud. Hollowed out like an ant hill.

Her stomach panged at the thought of Ron finding her body. Of the horror of seeing her holed and mangled like swiss cheese.

No - NO.

Hermione Granger? Die from Draco Malfoy’s pathetic little bug curse? She seethed at the thought. If she were to die, it would be as a sacrifice to the cause, or at the end of her own wand. Never his. She didn’t want any filthy part of it associated with her.

But before she could break into the first slot, the greenhouse turned upside down.

For a moment, she lay dazed, staring up at the rain pelting through the open window panes, her eyes filling with water. She writhed, kicking, trying to turn, but something pinned her down - looping around her ankle and waist, rotating her until half her body was submerged in mud.

She glanced down to see the tendrils of devil’s snare creeping up her form, pinning her to the floor. They corded around her like rope, binding her legs and shoving her left side face-first into the sludge. Hermione tried to scream, but the sound emerged as a mumbled garble, her mouth filling with mud.

But it wasn’t the devil’s snare, the rain, or the inevitable burst of her carotid artery that made Hermione panic.

It was the all-consuming, deep, rippling pleasure coursing through every inch of her body. For as Hermione descended into the depths of unconsciousness, she couldn’t work out why she felt nothing but an aching, insatiable bliss.

Chapter Text

If this is death, Hermione thought, then let it have me.

It was exquisite.

Despite the silence, despite the absence of anything but the inky blackness that encompassed her, she’d kept her body. What else could be the reason for the extraordinary tingling that caressed every inch of her skin? That, and the tapping of her feet against an unseen surface below. Wading her way through nothingness, driven by some subconscious desire to move, she explored the void. Merlin, this was ecstasy, Hermione decided, rubbing invisible palms over the expanse of her flesh. It was as if her entire being was one giant, concentrated bundle of nerves - each of them humming with pleasure.

She shivered, trailing fingers over her arms, her shoulders, the line of her throat, before threading them into her hair and scrunching at her scalp. She wanted more. More of that delicious, fizzling bliss that erupted wherever she touched. To spend eternity like this…

She was alone.

In the dark.

But she felt good.

So, so good.

Could one get bored? Of neverending bliss? Would she tire of the dark? She cradled her face, stroking her cheeks like Ron would do as they kissed, letting her fingers invade her open, panting mouth.

Then, there was light.

To the front of her - a singular beam of it, like those that illuminated interrogation rooms in the detective shows her mother used to watch. Hermione squinted, attempting to blink away the haze of desire and try to make sense of what had materialised ahead. Beneath it, a wall of lockers, blue and peeling with rust. All, except one - bruised dark with rot.

She drifted over, weightless, hands roaming her body - her naked body. What need for clothes was there in the beyond? Approaching them, recognition dawned, though her memories were murky - the haze of desire too thick for Hermione to fully comprehend what lay before her.

Could she touch them?

Reaching out, her fingers brushed their metallic surface. In the silence, her moan was obscene, its echo darting around her like sparrow wings. The cool metal set against the heat of her flesh had her shuddering and gasping, a sensation crafted of acute pleasure.

She did it again.

And again.

Her arm was not the chubby one from childhood, like in the dream with the crickets, but older, and curiously scarless. Running her hand down the length of her forearm, she pressed into the soft flesh, her breath quickening with the glorious feeling that sparked from the pressure. No Mudblood - the letters, once an angry, agitated pink, were gone.
Interesting, thought Hermone, that some cosmic force had chosen to eternalise her seventeen-year-old body, instead of the twenty-two year old one she died in. That, or perhaps the physical markers of past hurts didn’t exist in heaven.

Is that what this was, heaven?

She glanced around the barren space, tilting her head upwards to locate the source of the light, but finding herself blinded by its glare.

It certainly felt like heaven - what with the dizzying, all-consuming pleasure rippling through her. She splayed her hands, turning them this way and that - scrutinising the skin for any clue as to why she felt this way.

A small kernel of unease churned her stomach. Eventually - if it didn’t abate - would pleasure come to feel like pain? Would bliss morph to hurt? Could someone’s heaven turn to hell?

A locker swung open.

She jumped, placing her palms over her heart where they started to rub.

Maybe this is a test, she suddenly thought. Perhaps the throbbing need a distraction?

Eyeing the locker and biting her lip, Hermione clamped down hard enough to draw blood, hoping the shock of it would pull her from the whims of her body. She cried out - for an entirely different reason than pain.

Concentrate. Concentrate.

Maybe each locker was a choice… this, a purgatory of sorts, a half-way house where she would decide the fate of her soul.

Was she to become a ghost? Haunting Elysium for an age?

A guardian? Tasked with overseeing what was left of the Order? Never knowing respite from the cause?
Or, would she simply dissolve into nothing and cease?

She liked that. The idea of ceasing.

Perhaps even more than feeling like this - alive, yes - but enslaved to touch, wanting, needing - she let out a moan, nearly falling to her knees at a roiling wave of energy that undulated through her. It left her panting, propped upright only thanks to the lockers. Something settled in her centre, right in the pit of her stomach, dripping down and down until it pooled between her thighs. The lockers rattled with the throes of her shaking.

Touch.

That’s all she wanted - then, now, forever.
Throwing her head back, she smacked into the locker with a resounding clang, leaning into its unyielding hardness.

She was a mass of neurons, all of them firing in synchrony - electric, desperate, longing to connect and to link. Her body was chasing something, something that beckoned and evaded her all at once. Something formless - something that her mind couldn’t quite comprehend.

She needed it.

Now, quickly - then perhaps the feeling would ebb and she could make her choice: ghost, guardian, or nothing.

Yes, nothing would do.

An indulgent hum slipped from her lips as her hands cupped both breasts, heavy and aching. Swaying, she writhed her hips to and fro as her hands travelled down, down to that throbbing at her core, already dripping with need.

Maybe, this is it. This is where I end. This is where I’ll stay, thought Hermione, skin blazing. Near out of my mind, dancing in the dark.

With another creak, the blackened locker opened wider. Hermione’s eyes dragged open, lids heavy.

Choose, something within her demanded. Choose.

Death was the most liberating.

Absent of fear, of forethought, of restraint, only the thickening cloy of lust, she stuck her hands into its depths, fingers closing over something cool, sharp and heavy.

The Diadem.

Pulling it free, she marvelled at how it twinkled in the light, the sapphire almost profane in how brilliantly it glowed.

She had an indescribable urge to put it on.

So, she did.

“Fuck!”

Something akin to a lightening bolt speared through her - from the peak of her crown straight down to her clit. She smiled, dipping her hand between her thighs where the feeling was most intense - where it crackled and buzzed. Her other hand traced the diadem, liking the way the sharpened points threatened to pierce into her flesh. Could she bleed here? Could she hurt? She pressed harder. She was so close now - so close to bubbling over that edge. She needed it, that feeling to finally crest. More than oxygen. More than defeating Voldemort. More than life itself.

“Look at you.”

Hermione’s movements ground to a halt. She froze - back arched, breasts bucked, legs parted.

With excruciating restraint, she extracted the fingers from inside her and lowered the one exploring the diadem, leaving them both to hang by her sides.

Five or so paces away, a person stepped into the light.

Not a person - a Deatheater: black robes, metal mask, wand poised.

“And just what in the seven hells are you doing?” it asked.

She glanced down at herself. To her nakedness. Hermione half expected to be glowing, what with the burning ache of unfulfilled longing broiling her alive.

“Dying,” she answered, voice breathless and heady.

The masked figure stepped closer, his boots thudding on the invisible floor. She manned her ground, uncaring of what they could do to her now. It was over - her life was done.

“I confess, I’ve never seen someone finger themselves whilst they’re dying, Granger.”

Granger?

Her head tilted, hair cascading over her shoulder to tickle her waist. She licked at her lips at the sensation of it - like the tips of feathers.

“And for the love of every imaginable god, please don’t stop on my account.” The tall mass of him leaned against the side of the lockers, his metal mask casted in downshadows.

“Malfoy?” she managed between pants, a small bubble of surprise bursting under the tide of want threatening to drown her.

The figure nodded, his wand dancing over knuckles adorned with familiar silver rings.

“Are you dead too?” Hermione couldn’t help it, the way her hands latched over her breasts, skimmed down her waist, and returned to the peak of her core. She smiled, both pleased with the knowledge another Deatheater was dead and with relief that came from touching herself.

Malfoy was dead.

Malfoy - the one who’d cursed her.

Head dipped, his gaze moved infinitesimally in the same direction as her fingers - tracking them, watching her.

He swallowed, the sound of it thick even under the mask. “No - I’m not dead. I’m dreaming… I think.”

Annoyance, somewhere - smothered under the bliss.

“Then why are you here?” She slammed herself back into the lockers, gasping, something finally building and building within her. “Leave,” she gritted out.

Pushing his shoulder from the lockers, he prowled towards her, silver irises glinting in the light as his head angled upwards.

“I don’t think so.”

Bringing his wand-free hand up to the side of her face, his palm flattened against the expanse of a locker, caging her in. Hermione’s other hand clawed at her neck, the urge for pressure far outweighing any sense of shame at the ghost, or hallucination, of Draco Malfoy watching her pleasure herself.

“Leave,” she tried again, wanting to push him away, but too enslaved to that promise of release her fingers were coaxing from her. If she was alive, not dead, this would have surely killed her. The embarrassment born from the sounds - the wet sounds of her want punctuating every breath between them.

His head snapped down, to the source of the noise. She could practically feel his eyes scan every inch of her: her taut, wanting nipples, the curve of her hip, the tear-drops of liquid running down her inner thighs.

“You don’t look dead to me,” he rasped, voice husked with something Hermione was in no state to recognise. “Only someone very, very alive could get that wet.”

His wand pointed to her cunt.

The coiling pleasure intensified, Hermione’s brows crinkling with the delectable agony of it.

“I don’t know what is happening, I just feel so,” she bit her lip, eyes rolling in the back of her head, a wave of heat rising within her. “So, so good.”

Hermione’s eyes slammed closed as she swallowed the groan begging for release from her throat. It had only been a small touch - just a wisp of fabric from Malfoy’s sleeve ghosting her shoulder, but it set her on fire. She wordlessly gaped, struggling against the inconceivable notion that she wanted him to touch her - that she wanted him to give her release.

He was a Deatheater.

He’d cursed her.

Certainly no heaven, decided Hermione. For some unknown sin, purgatory had conjured one her worst enemies to witness her unravel, and though she may have been dead, her conscience refused to decay with her - no matter the demon that begged otherwise.

“I’m only here because of you,” she accused, pausing her touches. Her hands shook with the effort to keep them still. “You murdered me. If you’re not dead, LEAVE.” Her chest heaved - Hermione wished it was from anger, but she knew better.

Inhaling sharply, his face angled away from her body, the cutouts in his mask boring into her eyes. A glint of silver caught the light as they darted to and fro, as if searching her own for the truth.

“You’re not dead, Granger,” he bit out. “And I told you - I’m not either,” his voice lilted at the end, something dangerous lacing his words. He pressed away from the locker, and Hermione sucked in a lungful of air, grateful for the growing distance between them.

Then, his hand closed around her throat, replacing her own.

“Dreaming, dead, a twisted product of my own warped mind,” he whispered, “- whatever you are, the promise I made in that depressing, sad little muggle school still stands. There’s no escaping me.” His mask hovered so close that the tips of their noses touched, the small feel of it sending shockwaves through her. Her hands knotted in the black mass of his robes, a need to pull him closer warring with the urge to push away. The cool steel of the lockers seared into her back, and she ground into it - hunting for the pressure she so desperately craved elsewhere. Anywhere, but the Deatheater at her throat.

“I’ll scourge every city,” he continued, gripping her tighter. Hermione’s lips parted, his hand stoppering the whimper threatening to spill from them.

Her back arched like a cat, hands tugging at him on their own volition, her mind and senses reduced to tatters by the sharp talons of insatiability.

He pressed into her harder, crushing her so tightly she could barely breathe. “I’ll conquer countries if I must, tear down worlds to find you.” Her pulse thundered under the pads of his fingers, the space between her thighs growing inexplicably wetter as his rings cut into her esophagus. “There’s no running.”

She fisted her palms, scrunching his robes so tight they could rip.

“So enjoy this whilst it lasts, princess,” he nudged his mask to the top of her head, where the diadem rested. “And keep,” he grabbed her hand, prying her fingers apart as he yanked it from his robes. “Touching,” he slid it back between her legs. “Yourself.”

For some nameless, foolish, misguided reason - she did.

Obliging, she pushed them back into herself with ease - the demands of her body winning out.

His fingers flexed over her neck, and she almost came apart then and there. Keeping the pressure on her neck, he pulled back, studying the way she circled her clit, before dipping back inside herself, over and over and over.

His chest matched hers - both of them rising and falling in rapid succession. Dead or no, her lungs still needed air, and Hermione was gasping for it. A euphoric dizziness had her knees buckling, her vision blurring - pixelating at the edges. Rather than ask him to stop, a part of her yearned he’d do it harder, but the small shred of dignity she’d clung to wouldn’t allow it.

This was enough. It would have to be enough.

Then - his hand relaxed. She sucked in some much-needed oxygen, greedy for it. Something jabbed her in the ribs, his wand, she realised, goosebumps rising along where he dragged it over her, stomach dipping in response to its point.

It nudged at her hand, firm but insistent, until she’d pulled it from herself to rest at her hip, fingers shamelessly soaked.

He pressed the tip of it to her clit.

“You’re going to come on the tip of my wand, Granger.”

In just one artful swipe, she did. She came apart loudly, crudely, powerfully. She’d come before, of course she had - but never like this. Never with tears streaming down her eyes, skin burning, legs trembling. So delirious with it, she barely registered the strangled sound emanating from under his mask - one that mirrored her own.

“What hell is this?” she sputtered, the warmth slowly draining her body, leaving her a derelict husk with a Deatheater’s wand at her core, sucking the life from her.

His laugh was sin.

“Oh darling, one we’re both living in.”