Chapter Text
The castle’s corpse loomed around her, its once-grand arches reduced to jagged teeth gnawing at a smoke-choked sky. Hermione crawled through the debris, her hands shredded and slick with blood, every stone beneath her palms a fresh punishment. The air reeked of cursed fire—burnt velvet, melted candle wax, and beneath it all, the cloying sweetness of seared flesh. Somewhere in the haze, the Whomping Willow’s death throes echoed, its branches reduced to skeletal fingers clawing at nothing. She’d hated that tree since the third year when it nearly crushed Harry’s ribs, but now its agonized creaks made her want to scream. It sounded too human. Too alive.
Ron’s body lay half-buried beneath a collapsed archway, his arm outstretched, fingers curled as if he’d been reaching for her when the curse struck. She knelt beside him, her mind dissecting the horror like one of Snape’s potions essays: clinical, detached. The singed orange cuff of his Chudley Cannons jersey (Fred had charmed it to shout vulgar quips whenever Ron scored during pickup matches), the jagged edge of his bitten thumbnail (a habit he’d had since first year when he’d nervously picked at it during the Sorting), the way his lashes clumped together, still damp from the tears he’d tried to hide at Dumbledore’s funeral. His skin was cold when she pressed her cheek to his, but his hair—stupid, glorious hair—still smelled of molasses and Mrs Weasley’s treacle tart. Three nights ago, she’d kissed him behind the greenhouses, his ears flushing crimson as he stammered, “D’you reckon Harry’s watchin’?” She’d laughed, tangling her fingers in his sweater, pulling him closer until his nervous giggles melted into something warmer, sweeter. Now his lips were the colour of twilight. Her stomach heaved, bile scorching her throat as she vomited, her tears splattering the cracked flagstones beside his lifeless hand.
The Great Hall’s carcass loomed ahead, moonlight slicing through shattered stained glass, drenching the dead in fractured rainbows. Harry lay beneath the House Points hourglasses, their golden sands still trickling onto his face like gilded tears. Someone had closed his eyes. She wanted to scream at them—how dare they? His eyes were supposed to be bright, narrowed in concentration over a half-finished Transfiguration essay, or crinkling with laughter as Ron mimicked Lockhart’s hair flick. Now they were just… gone. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted his collar, brushing the damp fabric where Nagini’s venom had seeped through. “You promised,” she choked, her voice shredded. “You said we’d fix it together. You never let me down before.” A chunk of the enchanted ceiling gave way, plaster stars raining down. She caught one, its light flickering weakly, and pressed it into his stiffening palm. “Take this,” she whispered. “So you’ll always find your way back.”
Tonks and Lupin lay tangled nearby, her neon hair matted with his blood, their fingers inches apart. Hermione remembered their wedding—Tonks tripping over her dress, Lupin’s chuckle as he steadied her, the way they’d fed each other cake like giddy schoolmates. Teddy would grow up an orphan, just like Harry. Just like her. McGonagall’s body lay rigid a few feet away, her tartan robes soaked black, her throat slit with the precision of a razor. The woman who’d transfigured a teapot into a badger during Hermione’s first lesson, who’d slipped her extra biscuits during late-night study sessions, now stared emptily at the ruins. Hermione tucked the fragments of her wand into her sleeve—“Eight inches, dragon heartstring, unyielding”—and tried not to feel the blood seeping into her skin.
Bellatrix’s laughter sliced through the silence, sharp as a blade. “Mudbloods burn brighter, don’t they, darling?” she crooned, her boots crunching over Seamus’s outstretched hand. Hermione bit her tongue until copper flooded her mouth, her nails digging into her palms. Through a crack in the wall, she watched Voldemort glide across the rubble, his bare feet leaving ashen prints on pages torn from Hogwarts: A History—the same book she’d clutched to her chest on the Hogwarts Express, tracing the embossed title with reverent fingers. He paused to tilt Lavender’s head back with the Elder Wand as if admiring a porcelain doll.
When Nagini slithered past, scales glistening with fresh blood, Hermione moved without thinking. She crawled over Neville’s still form (please, please let him be alive), past Parvati’s glassy stare, her hip catching on the splintered remains of Harry’s Firebolt. The passage behind the One-Eyed Witch stank of mildew. She counted breaths between distant screams: One (Ron’s laughter echoing in the common room), two (Harry’s grip on her arm as they soared above the Forbidden Forest), three (Ginny’s broken cry of “Mum?”).
The air shifted behind her—a whisper of leather, the faintest crunch of debris. Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat. The sound was too deliberate, too close. She spun on her heel, wand raised, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain it would give her away. And there he was, emerging from the shadows like a spectre, his once-pristine robes hanging in singed tatters, his face streaked with ash and something darker—guilt, perhaps, or grief. A fresh cut marred his cheekbone, oozing sluggishly, and his grey eyes widened for a fraction of a second before shuttering, like windows slammed shut against a storm.
“Granger,” he said, her name a hoarse exhale, barely audible over the distant crackle of the cursed fire and the low, mournful groan of the castle settling into its death throes.
Rage surged through her, white-hot and blinding. “Come to finish the job?” she spat, her voice trembling with a fury she could barely contain. Her wand dug into his chest, the tip pressing hard enough to bruise. “Or just to watch?”
He flinched, his shoulders stiffening as if her words had struck him physically. “I’m not—I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
“Liar.” She stepped closer, her voice low and venomous. “You stood there. In the Manor. You watched her carve me open, and you didn’t even blink.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “You think I wanted that?”
“I think you didn’t stop it!” Her scream echoed off the rubble, raw and ragged. “You had a choice. You always had a choice!”
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. His gaze dropped to the ground, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for something—his wand, perhaps, or her hand. She couldn’t tell. Then, quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, he said, “You don’t know what it’s like. To have a wand at your parents’ throats if you step out of line.”
“So what’s your excuse?” Her laugh was jagged and bitter, and it seemed to startle him. “Cowardice?”
He recoiled as if struck, his face paling beneath the streaks of ash and blood. “I’m trying to help you now.”
“Why?” she demanded, tears blurring her vision. She blinked them away furiously, refusing to let him see her cry. “Because you’ve suddenly grown a conscience? Or because you know he’ll kill you too, now that you’ve failed him?”
His mask cracked then, and for the first time, she saw the raw, desperate anguish beneath it. His voice broke as he whispered, “They’re dead. My mother—she tried to stop them from torching the Slytherin dorms. My father just… watched.”
Hermione froze. The hatred in her chest faltered, replaced by a sickening twist of pity. She thought of Narcissa Malfoy’s trembling hands at the Yule Ball, the way she’d adjusted Draco’s collar with a mother’s care before the Dark Lord’s arrival. She thought of Lucius, broken and hollow, his pride reduced to ash. And she thought of Draco, standing there in the ruins of everything he’d ever known, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his choices.
“Malfoy…” she began, her voice softer now, though she didn’t lower her wand.
“Don’t.” He closed his eyes, his face twisting as if the word pained him. “Just… come with me. There’s a cottage near Hogsmeade. Abandoned. You can hide there.”
“And you?” she asked, her voice sharp again. “What happens to you?”
“I’ll draw them off. Lead them away from the castle.”
She stared at him, searching for the sneer, the cruel twist of his lips, the arrogance that had defined him for so long. But there was none of that now. There was only exhaustion and a grief that mirrored her own. “You’ll die,” she said flatly.
“Maybe.” He met her gaze, his grey eyes steady despite the shadows that haunted them. “But at least you’ll live.”
The silence between them stretched, taut and heavy, broken only by the distant toll of the clock tower chiming three times. Each note was a funeral knell, a reminder of what they’d lost—and what they still stood to lose.
“Why?” she asked again, softer this time. “Why are you doing this?”
His throat bobbed, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, strained, as if the words were being torn from him. “Because I couldn’t save them. But I can save you.”
Hermione’s wand arm trembled. Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered it. “If you betray me…”
“You’ll kill me.” He nodded, a ghost of his old smirk flickering across his face. “I’d expect nothing less.”
They moved through the ruins like ghosts, Draco’s hand occasionally brushing her elbow to steer her around pitfalls. The castle groaned around them, its wounds too deep to heal. They passed the wrecked Astronomy Tower, where Dumbledore had fallen, the stones still stained with his blood. They passed the scorched remains of the Gryffindor common room, its portrait hole a gaping maw, the Fat Lady’s frame empty and cracked. Hermione’s chest tightened with every step, the memories of laughter and warmth now twisted into something unrecognizable.
“Here,” Draco murmured, pausing at a collapsed alcove near the kitchens. He pressed his palm to a cracked stone, murmuring a spell in a language Hermione didn’t recognize—something old, serpentine, the words slithering through the air like a curse. A hidden door creaked open, revealing a narrow tunnel slick with moss and dampness.
She hesitated, her breath catching. “Draco—”
“Go,” he urged, his voice fraying at the edges. “Before they find us.”
She took one step, then turned back. “Come with me.”
He froze. “What?”
“You don’t have to die for them,” she said fiercely, her voice low and urgent. “Come with me. Help me fight.”
For a moment, hope flickered in his eyes—bright and fragile, like the last ember of a dying fire. Then it dimmed, extinguished by the weight of everything he’d done—and everything he hadn’t. “It’s too late for me, Granger.”
“It’s not.” She grabbed his wrist, her grip bruising. “You’ve still got a choice. Now.”
He stared at her hand, then at her face, as if seeing her for the first time. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.
The tunnel sealed behind them, swallowing Hogwarts’ corpse. Ahead lay only darkness—and the faintest glimmer of something like hope.
The cottage was small, cloaked in ivy and disillusionment charms that made it nearly invisible to the untrained eye. Draco lit the hearth with a flick of his wand, the flames springing to life and casting long, flickering shadows on the walls, which were papered with peeling floral prints that might have been elegant decades ago. The air smelled of damp wood and mildew, but it was a sanctuary nonetheless. Hermione collapsed into a moth-eaten armchair, her body trembling with exhaustion, her robes torn and caked with soot and blood. The weight of the day pressed down on her like a physical force, and she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady her breathing.
“They’ll track us,” she muttered, her voice raw and hoarse. “The Dark Mark… the Trace…” She trailed off, her mind racing through the possibilities of how they might be found, how the Death Eaters could still hunt them down despite the chaos of the battle.
“Not here,” Draco said, his voice calm but edged with weariness. He rummaged through a dusty cupboard, his movements precise despite the fatigue that lined his face. He produced a bottle of elf-made wine, its label faded but still legible. “This place belonged to my great-great-aunt. She was a blood traitor. The wards… they’re keyed to protect outcasts.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a Malfoy to have a relative who defied pureblood ideology.
Hermione barked a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet of the cottage. “So now I’m your charity case?” she asked, her tone laced with sarcasm, though there was a flicker of something softer beneath it—gratitude, perhaps, or just the faintest hint of trust.
“Now you’re alive,” Draco replied, his voice low and steady. He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, spitting the cork into the fire, where it sizzled and burned. He handed her the bottle, their fingers brushing briefly. His hands were ice-cold, and she couldn’t help but notice how pale he looked in the firelight, his usual sharp features softened by exhaustion and something else—regret, maybe, or guilt. “Drink. You look like death.”
She took the bottle, her fingers trembling slightly, and took a long swig. The wine was sweet and strong, warming her from the inside out. She passed it back to him, and he drank without hesitation, his eyes never leaving the flames. “What happens next?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost tentative.
Draco sank into the chair opposite her, his face gaunt and shadowed in the firelight. He stared into the flames for a long moment before answering. “We survive. We wait. And when the time comes… we make them pay.” His voice was steady, but there was a darkness in his tone that sent a shiver down her spine.
Hermione studied him—the boy who’d jeered at her in Potions, who’d let Death Eaters into the castle, who’d stood silent as Bellatrix carved her arm into ribbons. But she also saw the boy who’d lowered his wand in the Astronomy Tower, who’d mouthed *“I’m sorry”* as Crabbe’s Fiendfyre consumed the Room of Requirement. He was a paradox, a tangle of contradictions, and she didn’t know what to make of him.
“Why?” she asked again, the question hanging between them like a curse, heavy and unspoken.
Draco didn’t answer right away. He stared into the flames, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because you were right. About everything. About blood. About choices.” He hesitated, then pulled up his sleeve, revealing the faded Dark Mark that marred his pale skin. “This… it’s not who I am anymore.”
Hermione’s throat tightened, and she looked away, her mind flooded with memories—Ron’s laughter, Harry’s smile, McGonagall’s stern pride. Of all the things they’d lost, all the people who were gone. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Then prove it,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside her. “Help me burn it all down.”
He met her gaze, and for the first time, she saw not a coward, not a villain, but a boy as broken as she was. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—resolve, maybe, or the faintest spark of hope. “Alright,” he said, his voice firm. “But first, we live.”
Outside, the world burned. The sky was lit with the glow of distant fires, and the air was thick with the scent of smoke and ash. But in that crumbling cottage, two enemies sat side by side, their shadows merging in the firelight—a pact forged in ash and the fragile promise of dawn.
The fire had dwindled to embers, its feeble glow barely illuminating the cottage’s cramped interior. Shadows clung to the corners like living things, thickening as Draco rose abruptly, the screech of his chair against warped floorboards slicing through the silence. Hermione jerked awake, her hand flying to her wand on instinct, fingers closing around the wood before her sleep-fogged mind registered where she was—whose company she’d unwillingly kept. Moonlight seeped through fissures in the ivy-choked windows, painting silver stripes across Draco’s ashen face, sharpening the hollows beneath his cheekbones. He moved with mechanical precision, fastening his cloak with hands that betrayed no tremor, the fabric’s rich embroidery catching the dim light—a relic of his old life, now singed and streaked with soot. She watched him, the reality of his departure settling over her like a shroud. He didn’t need to speak. She already knew.
“You’re leaving,” she said flatly, the words hanging in the air like smoke. It wasn’t a question, nor an accusation—merely a brittle acknowledgement of the inevitable. Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, stripped of the fury that had carried her through the battle, replaced by a hollow resignation.
He didn’t look at her, his focus fixed on adjusting the clasp at his throat, fingers fumbling briefly before securing it. “They’ll expect me at the Manor by dawn.” His voice was taut as if each word were a stone he forced past his lips. “If I’m not there when the Mark burns…” He trailed off, the unspoken consequence thickening the air between them. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the pale skin, and Hermione wondered if he could still feel the phantom burn of the summons, the way she’d once felt the cursed blade carving her flesh.
“They’ll torture you. Or worse,” she said, the words tasting like ash. She stared at the dying fire, its embers pulsing faintly, and imagined Bellatrix’s laughter echoing through Malfoy Manor’s dungeons, the cruel twist of her wand.
“They’ll torture her,” Draco corrected sharply, his voice fraying at the edges. His fingers stilled on the clasp, knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table for balance. For a moment, his mask slipped, revealing the raw terror beneath. “Assuming she’s… still alive.” The admission hung between them, fragile and damning.
Hermione’s throat constricted, her gaze dropping to her hands—scarred, blood-crusted, trembling. She thought of Narcissa Malfoy’s trembling fingers adjusting Draco’s collar. A mother’s fear, sharp and scentless as ozone, yet unmistakable. She’d seen it in Mrs. Weasley’s white-knuckled grip on Ginny’s shoulder during Bill’s wedding, in the way McGonagall’s voice softened whenever a first-year clutched a letter from home. Now, that fear was a blade poised above Draco’s throat, and Hermione felt the absurd urge to pry it loose—for him, for the boy who’d let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, who’d watched her bleed and done nothing.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Then go,” she said, rising to her feet with a steadiness she didn’t feel. The cottage seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with unsaid things. “But if you’re walking back into that snake pit, you’ll need leverage. Something to make them believe you’ve earned your place.”
His grey eyes flicked to hers, wary and calculating, the way they’d once assessed her in Potions class—weighing, dissecting. “What are you—”
She yanked the beaded bag from her pocket, its purple fabric singed at the edges, crusted with dried blood that might’ve been hers or Ron’s or Lavender’s. The weight of it in her palm was both comfort and curse, a testament to every desperate plan she’d ever cobbled together. Draco’s breath hitched, recognition flashing in his eyes as they traced the familiar embroidery, the faint shimmer of protective charms she’d woven into the seams.
“You still have it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though the bag were a spectre from another life.
“Always have a backup plan,” she said bitterly, parroting Moody’s mantra. The bag had survived the Fiendfyre, the curses, and the crushing weight of collapsing stone—its Undetectable Extension Charm still intact, safeguarding the remnants of their fight. Spare wands pilfered from Snatchers, vials of dittany and blood-replenishing potions, the shattered remains of Sirius’s two-way mirror, its fractured surface still flecked with Harry’s fingerprints. It was a lifeline, a portable war room, and now it would become a prop in Draco’s performance.
He reached for it, but she pulled back, her grip tightening until the fabric bit into her palm. “This isn’t a gift,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “You’ll tell them you took it from my corpse. That you hunted me down, that you—”
“Granger—”
“Make it convincing,” she interrupted, thrusting the bag into his hands. His fingers brushed hers, cold and trembling, and she resisted the urge to recoil. “Bellatrix will recognize it. She’ll want it. Tell her you ripped it from my cold, dead fingers. Tell her you left me to rot in the rubble.”
He stared at the bag as if it were a live grenade, his face a mask of conflicting emotions—disbelief, guilt, a flicker of revulsion at his complicity. “And when she looks inside? When she finds your supplies, your weapons—”
“She won’t,” Hermione said, her smile thin and humourless. She tapped the bag’s clasp, the metal warm beneath her fingertip. “The charm only works for me. To anyone else, it’s just a purse. Empty. Useless.”
A beat of silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Somewhere outside, an owl screamed, the sound jagged and mournful, and Hermione wondered if it circled prey or mourned its loss.
“You’re trusting me with this,” Draco said slowly, his voice tinged with disbelief. He turned the bag over in his hands, studying it as though it might unravel the secrets of the universe—or his fractured loyalties.
“I’m trusting you to survive,” Hermione replied, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning in her chest. She crossed her arms, nails digging into the scarred flesh of her forearm, the raised letters beneath her sleeve a silent accusation. Mudblood. The word pulsed in time with her heartbeat. “If you die, this was all for nothing. Harry. Ron. Everyone—it can’t be for nothing.”
Draco tucked the bag into his robes with stiff, deliberate movements, his face a carefully schooled blank. “When I return—”
“If you return,” she interrupted her voice sharper than she intended. She didn’t know why she said it—to punish him, to punish herself, to carve distance between them with the blade of doubt.
“When,” he insisted, stepping closer until the disillusionment charm on the cottage flickered, moonlight catching the raw edges of his Dark Mark. The serpent seemed to writhe in the pale light, its scales glistening as though still wet with venom. “There’s a cellar beneath the kitchen,” he continued, his voice low and urgent. “Stocked with supplies—canned goods, potion ingredients, a wireless charmed to intercept coded broadcasts. Don’t light fires after sundown. The smoke’s visible through the wards. And don’t…” He faltered, his mask slipping for a heartbeat, revealing the boy beneath—exhausted, terrified, achingly human. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
Hermione barked a laugh, the sound harsh and unexpected, echoing off the cottage’s low ceiling. “Says the man walking into a cesspit with my handbag.”
For a heartbeat, she thought she saw his lips twitch, the ghost of a smile that might’ve belonged to the arrogant boy who’d mocked her in the halls of Hogwarts. Then he turned, his cloak swirling like ink in water as he moved toward the door, his silhouette swallowed by the predawn gloom.
“Wait.” The word escaped before she could stop it, soft and frayed at the edges.
He paused in the doorway, shoulders rigid, his back to her. The silence stretched, heavy with all the things they couldn’t—wouldn’t—say.
“Your mother,” Hermione began, her voice barely above a whisper. She thought of Molly Weasley’s fierce embrace, the way she’d smoothed Hermione’s hair after nightmares, and her chest ached. “If… if there’s a way to get her out—”
“Don’t,” Draco interrupted, his voice cracking. He didn’t turn, but she saw his hands clench into fists at his sides, the tendons standing out like cables. “Don’t give me hope, Granger. I can’t afford it.”
Then he was gone, the cottage door sealing shut behind him with a whisper of ancient magic. Hermione stood motionless, listening to the echo of his footsteps fade into the distance until the only sound was her ragged breathing and the faint, desperate thrum of her pulse.
Alone. Again.
The dining hall of Malfoy Manor seemed to shrink under the weight of Bellatrix’s fury, its vaulted ceilings pressing down like the belly of some great, suffocating beast. Crystal chandeliers trembled overhead, their delicate teardrops clinking like funeral bells as her shriek tore through the air. “LIES!” The word ricocheted off the polished ebony walls, each syllable sharp enough to flay skin. Draco stood motionless at the centre of the room, his mother’s Occlumency lessons wrapping his mind in layers of glacial precision—breathe in, breathe out, build the ice thicker, smoother. Narcissa had taught him to envision his thoughts as winter-stripped trees: bare, unreadable, their secrets buried deep beneath frozen earth. Let them see only what you choose, she’d whispered during those clandestine midnight lessons, her fingers cold and urgent on his wrist. Even the Dark Lord cannot melt a glacier.
Bellatrix circled him now, her tattered robes hissing against the marble floor, the stench of her unwashed body and rotting teeth curdling the air. She leaned in close, her greasy curls brushing his cheek, the Elder Wand jabbing his sternum hard enough to bruise. “You expect me to believe you slaughtered the Mudblood alone?” she spat, her voice a deranged crescendo. “That you—” the wand dug deeper, twisting into flesh, “—a snivelling, spineless worm who couldn’t even kill Dumbledore—managed what the Dark Lord’s finest could not?” Draco didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, though his ribs screamed under the pressure. He focused on the coldness spreading through his veins, the numbness that let him meet her wild, bloodshot gaze without faltering.
“I didn’t say I killed her,” he replied, his tone flat and polished as the mahogany table between them. With deliberate slowness, he withdrew Hermione’s beaded bag from his cloak and tossed it onto the surface. It landed with a soft thud, the singed purple fabric splaying open like a gutted animal, revealing nothing but empty folds. “I said I found her. Or what was left.” The lie tasted metallic, like licking a blade.
Narcissa’s sharp inhale cut through the silence, a needle-thin sound that betrayed her composure. Draco didn’t dare glance at her, but he felt her presence like a shadow at the edge of the room—stiff-backed, trembling faintly in her midnight-blue gown, her knuckles bone-white where they gripped the back of Lucius’s vacant chair. Bellatrix lunged for the bag, her yellowed nails snatching it up with feral glee. “This reeks of her,” she hissed, pressing the fabric to her face and inhaling deeply, her nostrils flaring. “Filthy, mud-stained magic. Like rot. Like decay.” Her tongue darted out, licking the bloodstained edge of the bag, and Draco fought the urge to retch. “Where’s the body?”
“Burnt.” The word left his lips before he could second-guess it. He forced his gaze to remain steady, unblinking, as Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Along with the Weasel and the others. The Fiendfyre spread faster than I anticipated.” It was a lie wrapped in truth, barbed and vicious. He could still hear Theo Nott’s screams echoing in his skull, and smell the sickly-sweet stench of melting flesh as Crabbe’s cursed flames devoured the Room of Requirement. You killed him too, the ice in his mind whispered. Another ghost for your collection.
Bellatrix’s lips peeled back in a snarl, her wand rising to hover an inch from his left temple. “And why, dear nephew,” she purred, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness, “should I not peel your mind like a grape to see this fantasy for myself? To taste every pathetic little lie you’ve—”
“Because,” came a voice like serpent scales sliding over stone, “Draco has finally learned the value of the initiative.”
The temperature in the room plummeted. Voldemort glided into the hall, Nagini coiled around his shoulders, her diamond-patterned scales glinting in the candlelight. Every portrait lining the walls seemed to recoil, their subjects fleeing their frames with muffled whimpers. Draco dropped to one knee, his kneecap grinding against the marble, the pain a welcome anchor. “My Lord,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the hem of Voldemort’s robes—black silk stained with ash and what might have been dried blood.
A bone-white finger tilted his chin upward, forcing him to meet those slit-pupiled eyes. “The bag, Bella.”
Bellatrix handed it over with trembling reverence, her madness momentarily subdued. Voldemort traced the embroidered ‘H.G.’ with the tip of the Elder Wand, his expression unreadable. “A sentimental trophy,” he mused, the wand tip sparking faintly as it dragged across the fabric. “How… quaint.” Draco’s pulse roared in his ears. She didn’t monogram the bag. Since when does Granger—
“But incomplete.” Voldemort’s scarlet gaze bored into him, peeling back layers of ice with surgical precision. “You will return to the ruins at dusk. Bring me her bones. I would see this victory… preserved.”
Narcissa’s choked gasp was barely audible, a thread of sound snapped quick as a neck. Draco bowed lower, his forehead nearly brushing the floor, hiding the flicker of terror that threatened to crack his frozen facade. “Of course, my Lord,” he said, the words ash in his mouth. “As you command.”
Above him, Nagini hissed softly, a sound like laughter.
Hermione paced the cellar’s length, her shadow thrown large and jagged against the rough stone walls, flickering in the dim light of the single lantern she’d lit. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint scent of mildew and something metallic—iron, perhaps, or the lingering tang of old blood. Her breath puffed out in shallow gasps, sharp and cold against the darkness. Draco had been gone eighteen hours. Nineteen. Twenty. Each passing minute felt like a weight pressing down on her chest, her mind conjuring increasingly grim scenarios: Draco captured, tortured, dead. Or worse, betraying her. She shook her head, trying to dispel the thought, but it lingered like a stubborn stain, something festering in the back of her mind where doubt had made a home. She couldn’t afford to trust him, not fully, but she also couldn’t afford to lose him. Not now. Not when he was the only thread connecting her to whatever remained of the resistance.
The supplies he’d mentioned were meagre but precise, a testament to the meticulous planning of someone who had always expected the worst. Non-perishable tins lined the shelves, their labels written in a spidery hand that Hermione didn’t recognize: Aunt Cassiopeia’s Peach Preserves, 1942. A first edition of Advanced Potion-Making sat on a rickety wooden table, its spine cracked and its pages filled with scribbled annotations in the margins—notes on antidotes, poisons, and something called The Draught of Eternal Silence, which Hermione made a mental note to research later. A wireless radio, charmed to pick up only static, sat beside it, its dials rusted but still functional. She'd twisted them more than once, searching for a voice, a message, anything beyond the oppressive silence. But there was nothing. Just white noise and the creeping dread of isolation.
And then there was the photograph. She’d found it tucked inside the book, its edges frayed and yellowed with age. It was a black-and-white snapshot of a young girl with wild curls, standing knee-deep in a lake, laughing as a hippogriff nipped at her skirt. On the back, in fading ink, someone had written: Cassiopeia & Juniper, Summer ‘38. The hippogriff’s name made her chest ache. Juniper. She remembered Buckbeak his proud eyes and the way he’d bowed to Harry all those years ago. She wondered if Juniper had met the same fate as so many magical creatures: hunted, caged, or worse. Just another casualty in a world that had been crumbling long before the final battle tore it to pieces.
A sudden crack split the silence, sharp and unmistakable. Hermione spun, her wand raised and her heart pounding. Draco staggered into the cellar, his robes drenched in rain and something darker—blood, she realized with a jolt. He collapsed against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his face pale and drawn, a man barely holding himself together by sheer stubbornness.
“They bought it,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “For now.”
Hermione didn’t lower her wand. Her eyes remained fixed on him, sharp and unrelenting. “You’re bleeding.”
He glanced down at the crimson blooming across his left sleeve, his expression grim. “A gift from Aunt Bella. She wanted to test the bag’s… authenticity.”
“And?”
His laugh was hollow, devoid of humour. “Turns out stabbing someone with a twelve-inch ebony wand isn’t as satisfying as a good dagger.”
Hermione froze, the cellar walls seeming to press closer, the air growing thinner. “She knows.”
“She knows nothing.” Draco peeled back his sleeve, revealing a jagged cut that oozed sluggishly. “But the Dark Lord wants proof. Your bones. By tomorrow’s dawn.”
“So give him bones.”
He stared at her, his grey eyes wide with disbelief. “What?”
“There’s a Muggle cemetery north of Hogsmeade.” Hermione’s mind raced, her thoughts tumbling over one another as she pieced together a plan. “We transfigure stones. Age them with a Tempus Charm. If we—”
“No.” Draco pushed off the wall, swaying slightly as he straightened. “You don’t understand. He’ll have the Carrows inspect them. They’ll run Dark Magic diagnostics, check for curse residue—”
“Then we give them real bones.”
The words hung between them, cold and lethal, the weight of what she was suggesting settling over the room like a shroud. Draco went very still, his expression unreadable. “Granger…”
“Not mine.” She met his gaze steadily, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. “There are… bodies. In the Forbidden Forest. Snatchers. Death Eaters. They’ll be too decomposed to identify.”
He flinched, his face twisting in disgust. “You want to desecrate the dead.”
“I want to survive.” Her voice broke, the words raw and desperate. “And so do you.”
For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching taut between them. Then, quietly, almost reluctantly, he spoke. “We’ll need acid to strip the flesh. And a Preservation Charm strong enough to fool the Carrows.”
Hermione nodded, her throat tight. “I can brew the acid. If you—”
“No.” He gripped her wrist, his fingers icy against her skin. “You stay here. I’ll go.”
“Like hell.” She jerked free, her temper flaring. “You can barely stand.”
“And you’re the most wanted witch in Britain!” His shout echoed off the stones, his voice cracking with frustration. “If they catch you—”
“If they catch us, we’re both dead anyway!” She shoved past him, snatching Cassiopeia’s photograph from the shelf. The girl in the lake grinned up at her, fearless and free, a reminder of a world that no longer existed. “So we make it count.”
Draco’s laugh was bleak, devoid of any real amusement. “Since when are you this reckless?”
“Since my best friends died in my arms.” She pocketed the photo, her jaw set and her eyes blazing. “Since the world ended. Since you.”
He stared at her, rain dripping from his hair and his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he grabbed a rusted shovel leaning against the wall. “We’ll need to move fast. The forest’s crawling with werewolves after dark.”
Hermione took the other shovel, her grip firm despite the ache in her muscles. “Then we’d better hurry.”
Outside, thunder growled like an angry god, the storm raging as if the heavens themselves were furious. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled—a sound Hermione recognized from another life, another war. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering to Draco’s bloodied sleeve, to the shovel in his hand, to the storm beyond the door.
Let them come, she thought, stepping into the rain. Let them all come.
And together, they disappeared into the night.