Chapter Text
Present Day
Ronald Weasley was dead.
And the blame—indirectly—was hers. Granger.
As the only skilled healer-in-training the Order had [and an expert in ignoring orders], Hermione was supposed to stay at the base, ready to treat the injured. No need to say what she did—or, more accurately, what she didn’t do. When the wounded began arriving in waves, Angelina was left overwhelmed and on her own.
But from the start, the Order’s attack on the Shadow City—a fortress Voldemort and his followers had taken over, built on the ruins of a castle in southern Great Britain abandoned by both Muggles and opposing wizards—had gone horribly wrong.
And, as a proper stubborn Gryffindor, the moment Hermione heard the news, she left her post and rushed straight into the battlefield.
To shield Harry from a killing curse, she threw herself into the fray, intercepting the spell. What she didn’t expect was a countercurse to follow, placing her squarely in the enemy’s crosshairs.
No one noticed—except for Malfoy, who was too far away to act, and the youngest Weasley, who pushed her aside, trying to protect her and himself with a hastily cast Protego.
Ron died for her.
In front of her.
It was the only thought echoing in her mind as she felt herself being Apparated away from the chaos with Draco.
“You’ve lost your mind, haven’t you? You could have died!”
“I killed Ron…”
“No. Someone else killed him. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time — and I shouldn’t need to remind you that you already knew the target was you.”
“I need to go back…” she murmured.
“Absolutely not. We have to wait until everyone pulls back. Lupin will let me know when it’s safe to return — if anyone survives…” He grimaced as she drew in a sharp breath. “That came out wrong,” he said quickly, seeing the anguish in her eyes. “Just… calm down. We wait. He saw me apparate away with you.”
“But we can’t abandon them. We have to fight—”
“I should be the one fighting!” he interrupted with an irritated growl. “You should be in that hospital wing doing what you do best — helping people. Something I could never trade places with you for, honestly.”
Hermione fell silent at the sharp rebuke and changed the subject.
“Why did you bring me here? Where are we?”
Draco took a deep breath and looked up at the sky, getting his bearings.
They were in a dense woodland, tall foliage all around, nothing familiar to Hermione. It didn’t feel like anywhere in Britain.
“One of my parents’ properties. In Ireland.”
“Ireland? Why so far?”
“I couldn’t risk anywhere closer — they’d track us in moments. The whole of England is under Death Eater control now, and besides… we have help here.”
“Help? Really? In the middle of a forest—”
“I’m quite certain it was the excessive noise from a highly stressed witch that drove me to leave civilisation years ago.”
A different voice — rough, as though rarely used — grumbled from a nearby thicket, cutting her off.
“Naiád,” Draco said, a faint smile crossing his face as he looked at Hermione. She turned to see who had spoken.
There was definitely Malfoy blood there.
An older woman, still strikingly beautiful, with very few lines on her face, but the resemblance to Lucius Malfoy was startling — though her skin carried a warm tan.
His mother? Hermione wondered for a moment.
“No,” the woman answered at once, meeting her eyes directly so there could be no mistake. “But you’re not entirely wrong.” She turned to Draco, her expression softening. “Draco, my dear… it’s been far too long.”
“Sorry, Naiád.”
He kissed the back of her hand and she smiled with genuine affection. “Hermione, this is Naiád. She has been with my family for as long as anyone can remember. We’re safe here.”
“I’ve never read anything about a Naiád in any of the Malfoy family histories.”
“Not everything makes it into books, my child.” She stepped closer to Hermione and studied her carefully — not unkindly, but searching. Then she gently turned Hermione’s forearm over. The cut from Bellatrix’s curse was still visible and raw. Hermione tried to pull away instinctively, but the woman’s grip was steady. “How is she here?”
She asked Draco without looking away from Hermione.
“I apparated with her.”
“I know that. But how? How is she still alive? The barrier has not failed in five hundred and twenty-three years…”
Then it hit Draco.
The magical barrier.
The veil that prevented anyone with impure or “tainted” blood from crossing.
“What are you both talking about?” Hermione demanded.
The woman was no longer listening to them. She gazed up at the clouds gathering overhead. Draco tried — without much success — to explain what must have happened and why he hadn’t considered it before bringing her straight here. Hermione was alive only by sheer chance.
“Ancient blood…”
The voice had not come from him.
“Only one descended from ancient blood can bring those deemed unworthy through the mist. Tell me, dear — what family do you come from?”
“She’s a Granger. Muggle-born. You’ve certainly never heard of them. Can we please just rest now?” Draco replied, irritation creeping into his voice.
“No! I want to know! Because it feels like everyone is talking about me and no one is actually telling me anything!” Hermione burst out, unflinching.
“He’s right. We should go inside. We are safe here, yes — but nature has its own ways of listening and carrying rumours to ears we’d rather avoid. Mudblood or not, you are standing here alive in front of me. That alone is going to cause us considerable trouble.”
She gave Hermione a quick wink, patted Draco on the shoulder and nodded towards the path ahead — a narrow trail leading into a shadowed ravine that reminded Hermione faintly of the Forbidden Forest on an overcast day. Under normal circumstances she would have asked endless questions and refused to go anywhere near it. Right now, she had little choice.
She still felt numb from Ron’s death — her best friend, gone because he had tried to save her. And now she was following the directions of a stranger who was apparently some Malfoy relative Draco trusted with their safety… even though he had nearly killed her by mistake by bringing her precisely here.
Her head felt ready to burst. All she wanted was to sleep and never wake up again. Or simply disappear. Either would do.