Chapter Text
Just as promised, Theo formally authorizes her release a week after being admitted to his care. Well, eleven days, to account for the four she spent unconscious. And not so much a formal discharge as a pat on the shoulder and a salute. There were also threats and complaints along the lines of,
“Try not to die so creatively, and please stop getting injured. You’ve already cashed in your ten free healing visits for the year. There’s going to be a premium next time.”
She may have initially complained about the necessity of a week bed rest, but in the end, she spent most of it sleeping it off. So perhaps it was necessary. In the Muggle world, recovering from a punctured heart and a speared lung would likely require at least a full year of convalescence (on the off chance that she would have survived it at all). Thank God—well, Merlin in this specific case—for the perks of magical blood and healing spells.
When he wasn’t away on a mission, Draco would spend all of her waking hours with her. As soon as she would flutter her eyes open, a gentle warmth would envelop her. He would already be there, nestled closely beside her, playing with her hair or also dozing off, his solid arms wrapped firmly around her
He would also keep her informed about the outside world, about her friends.
A few hours after she woke, she asked Draco to fetch her Galleon in her bedroom upstairs. There was only one message, but only because the character limit allowed one message at a time. While she held it, three messages arrived in quick succession, only to vanish, the next replacing the last.
ANSWER.
Mione, please.
RU okay?
This one stayed long enough for her to spell out a quick reply that she was safe.
But that was hardly enough. There was only so much she could explain through a Galleon, and she had a lot of questions of her own.
So she pleaded with Draco to pay Harry and Ron a visit, which was met with precisely zero enthusiasm.
“Do I look like an owl to you?”
Not above playing into his protectiveness, she promptly made a show of standing up and pretended to Apparate. Not that she ever would. Omitting the fact that only Draco knew which safehouse they were in, she was not suicidal and had no desire to undo all of Theo’s healing efforts—and incur his wrath.
Draco looked about as convinced by her performance as her parents used to be when she reenacted Shakespeare in kindergarten. Still, the mere fact she managed to stand on her own two feet, followed by a slight wobble (not an act unfortunately), had him moving. He scrambled upright so quickly he nearly tangled himself in the sheets, crossed the distance in one stride, and guided her back down. He tucked her back under the blankets with unnecessary firmness, effectively trapping her like a stuffed sausage. He Disapparated with a loud crack after gathering whatever questions she wanted to ask “the Potter-Weasle poor-decision committee”.
To her great entertainment, he came back within the hour with answers. Although she was far from entertained when Draco relayed the final tally of Azkaban’s captures and their treatment, she was ecstatic when he told her that the mole had not only been caught, but also imprisoned alongside the new inmates.
A strange mix of joy and rage seized her the moment she learned the mole’s identity. Joy, because she could imagine no more fitting punishment than being imprisoned twice. Serves him right. Yet, she grew hot with rage because the only reason he was returning to Azkaban at all was because Cho and she had been kind enough to drag his useless arse out the first time.
Fucking Justin Finch-Fletchey.
She should have gave in to the urge that struck her more than once and left him to rot. Then, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to disclose the safehouses locations and reveal where the Headquarter was.
A feat he only achieved by herding all ten Secret-Keepers at the entrance of a Tube shaft—outside of protected location’s perimeter—where Rosier and Justin waited above. Knowing magical coercion was useless against Secret-Keepers, they instead turned to good ol’ Muggle methods by opening the valve of the rising water and let fear do the rest. It was either being drown or revealed their safehouse’s location to Rosier above. They caved in, one by one.
Long story short, Hermione failed the Order. Again.
However, there was a certain poetic justice in it that made her smile. Apparently, Justin has been deeply traumatized by his stay in Azkaban (ugh, who wasn’t?) and did not wish to return there should the Order lose. Ever since he returned from Azkaban—much to the general disgruntlement of his safehouse flatmates—he had been whining about every one of the Order’s strategies and questioning whether victory was even possible at this point.
The simplest explanation, and one that requires no deeper study of this profoundly unremarkable human whose thought process could not possibly interest anyone, perhaps not even his own parents: Justin Finch-Fletchey lost hope.
Like the most basic of cowards, he struck a deal during one of the skirmishes with the Death Eaters. Justin agreed to stay in as mole for the Republic and in exchange, they would grant him safe haven in the country of his choice when it was all over.
Or at least, that’s what he was shouting at the top of his lungs while being rounded up during the Tube strike. He kept yelling that he made a deal, that his handler could vouch for him.
But there won’t be anyone to vouch for Justin Finch-Fletchey. As dumb luck would have it, his handler never mentioned having someone on the inside feeding him every single safehouse location.
A secret he took to his grave, since said handler was none other than Even Rosier—hit by an Avada Kedavra to the chest, courtesy of Draco, who was also performing the fine act of playing both sides.
A mole cheated by another mole.
And there it is. The poetic justice. Justin switching sides to avoid the risk of going back to Azkaban. Only to end up there anyway. The one place that made him betray the Order in the first place.
A perfect circle.
Karma is a supreme bitch, Justin must now think from his windowless cell. Hermione cannot wait to visit him when this is all over, just so she can spit in his face.
And with this encouraging thought, she rises from her bed and finally crosses the threshold of the infirmary, after seven days during which she had been prohibited to do so.
There’s nothing like the sensation of freedom—and fully functional organs—to restore one’s energy. That’s just as well, because Hermione has work to do, including ending a war.
This ambitious project, however, thwarts Draco’s plans to coddle her. He would clearly prefer she take on a less stressful hobby, ideally one that involves remaining tucked up in bed or lathered in rose-scented bubbles in their gigantic tub. But as she reminds him constantly, spending her days at the library ranks fairly low on the list of hazards likely to damage her newly healed organs.
He follows her nonetheless, under the pretense of helping her with her research, though they both know he’s there to ensure she does not overexert herself.
The eternal kill joy.
Intent on winning this title in every category, he goes so far as to refuse her on this fine early morning, just when she’s about to wake him up by welcoming him into the warm valley of her mouth.
She struggles to understand what the problem could possibly be. In this prone position, it can hardly be considered a taxing activity, with the minor caveat of having her lips wrapped around his manhood. Besides, his erection is sending decidedly mixed signals as to his wishes.
But no. She barely has time to taste him before he scoops her up and relocate her, head on the mattress—far from where she intended to use it.
“One week ago, you could hardly swallow water. I doubt you can handle me,” he informs her in a gruff voice, sleep still weighing on his vocal cords.
“Bold of you to consider yourself as something I can’t handle. I did eat bangers and mash yesterday.”
“And I saw how many pieces you cut your sausage into. Call it prevention.”
She huffs, kicking her feet in a petulant burst of indignation.
“However,” he adds, “I’m willing to allow less strenuous activities.”
Which turns out to be one singular activity consisting of lying there prettily. He prohibits any pursuit that might, in his view, require more than minimal cardiopulmonary engagement.
No riding him. No bouncing. No breathing or moaning too enthusiastically.
Not even when she lifts herself onto her elbows and arches her hips to better accommodate his thrusts does he relent. He pins her right back to the mattress, hands pressing her wrists high above her head.
And damn her for enjoying the restraint. Something to explore…
“I—missed—this.” He rumbles in rhythm with his thrusts. “I—missed—you,” He nuzzles her cheek. “So fucking much.”
She could only whine in response, as he rocks into her.
Eleven days without sex must have been a new record for them.
All thanks to Draco and his unrelenting stubbornness through it all. Because if it had been up to Hermione, the dry spell would have ended exactly ten hours after she woke up.
But no. Literally. He said it, multiple times, in every possible variation of those two depressing letters.
Patience, darling.
Theo said ‘bed rest’, not other related activities.
You know it breaks me as much as you.
For someone so vocal in his refusals, Draco was a walking contradiction, his words at war with his reactions.
She’d seen it in the way his pupils dilated when she sucked a little too hard on her quill. In how he grunted when she bent at the waist—on the very day she wore a tweed skirt and forgone any knickers. In the measured breath he drew when she dropped onto his lap with a book, with no intention to read, but with the single ambition of seeing how many times she could shift on his lap before he yielded.
But he never did. Until today. The bond must have settled over time, otherwise it never would have tolerated such an interminable separation.
Frankly, she had expected another denial this morning, so she’ll allow any amount of manhandling if it gets her laid. Just this once, she accepts being handled like a doll with no muscles of her own, or agency whatsoever. A temporary sacrifice.
However, she must concede that Draco does it exceptionally well. There is something deeply satisfying in the way he maneuvers her onto her stomach, arranging her limbs one by one with infuriating care, only to plunge right back into her.
One more hard pound drives the headboard into the wall, and she hurtles over the edge. He finds his own release three shallow strokes later, her name rasped in her hair.
He perishes besides her, mumbling half-formed praises and nonsense before slipping back asleep.
That’s what he gets for insisting on doing all the heavy lifting.
But a lazy morning isn’t on Hermione’s to do list. She’s energized, thoroughly satiated, and ready to turn that perfect combo into a productive day.
After breaking free from Draco’s crushing hold, she heads for the shower, reluctantly washing away the evidence of their frolicking. From her magical drawer, she pulls out an adorable taupe plaid dress with short sleeves, a perfect outfit for the bright spring day peeking through the window.
She scribbles a note, and places it on her pillow, next to a wizard still fast asleep and faintly (but adorably) snoring.
Went looking for your parents
Husband now duly informed, Hermione opens the trunk concealed beneath the window, sealed under multiple spells to protect the ultra-classified information inside. Each day, after returning from the library, she and Draco stored the results of their research there. Voldemort resides technically in a separate wing and doesn’t usually wander in theirs, but they agreed it was wiser to keep anything they found about the Horcruxes hidden.
Including the rolled-up parchment Hermione now clutches in her hands as she descends the stairs to find either Lucius or Narcissa.
Of the 82 artifacts they connected to Helga Hufflepuff and suspected might be Horcruxes, they were able to narrow the list down to 36 in the past few days.
Draco, more artistic than her—must be those elegant, long fingers of his—drew each one neatly on a parchment, giving them a clearer overall view of what they were looking for.
And what better use for this handiwork than to show it to the two people who interacts with Voldemort daily. Maybe (and that’s a big maybe), but a possibility nonetheless, they might have seen one of those artifacts somewhere, sometime.
Maybe.
She heads first for the dining room since eight is usually their breakfast time, but finds it empty. Perhaps they have moved to the conservatory to enjoy the rare sunshine. She turns left, which has the added benefit of allowing her to check Lucius’s office on the way.
An efficient strategy because she can already hear voices coming from it. The door stands wide open. Practically an invitation.
Or not.
But it’s too late to retreat now. Her confident footsteps have already destroyed any hope at stealth, and she’s now forced to stand awkwardly in the doorway. At least she has the presence of mind to shrink the parchment with a silent Reducio, slipping it into her pocket before anyone notices.
“I see you’re still here. How unfortunate.” Voldemort sneers from Lucius’s chair, sprawled like he owns this office. The actual owner lounges a few feet away on a button-tufted leather sofa, looking remarkably unbothered about being left out from what appears to be a strategic meeting between Voldemort and Narcissa. She currently studies some documents scattered across the desk, lifting her gaze only briefly before returning to the pages. It’s subtle, but Hermione is almost certain Narcissa’s grip on her quill tightens.
Hermione could leave them be. She really could. That would be the sensible option.
Instead, she crosses the room and plops down beside Lucius. He schools his features into polished impassivity, though the faint daggers in his eyes suggest he has composed several strongly worded objections to her sanity.
Naturally, she ignores him.
“I fail to see how your opinion on my living situation is relevant. Did the Malfoys sell you a part of their land or are you lodging a complaint as a mere tenant?
“Such an insolent girl. How can you tolerate her?” Voldemort snarls.
“The estate is large enough that we rarely run into each other.” Narcissa explains, shuffling a pile of parchment aside.
A blatant lie since, aside from her stay in the infirmary, they have always shared at least one meal a day, all four of them. Still, Hermione understands perfectly well the need to hide that detail. The last thing anyone would want is for the Dark Lord to feel excluded from family dinners. He’s already the textbook definition of abandonment issues with an absentee father, a mad mother and a childhood spent in orphanage. She can’t imagine the tantrum he would throw.
Proving her right, like any rejected child, he overcompensates by seeking validation any way he can. Even from her—his enemy. The usual defense mechanism rooted in a childhood starved for attention.
“Have you heard?” He brags, tapping his skeletonlike fingers on the desk. “My prison’s full again. Your little breakout proved to be pointless.”
“I did hear,” she says, her tone purposefully patronizing. “You kept my husband away that night.”
He scoffs, irked—and dare she say, a little hurt?—that his barb failed to land.
“This doesn’t upset you? You emptied my prison months ago and now I’m supposed to believe you don’t care that your friends are back where they belong?”
She steadies herself, unwilling fall into his trap. Instead, she pulls on her sheep’s coat to hide the wolf and recites the same script she and Draco once used to announce their marriage, and to dispel any suspicion that it was to trick the Vow.
They played the role of two lovers.
Only this time, there’s no more pretense.
“I’m not that girl anymore. She can rot in Azkaban if she likes and I’m perfectly content to let her. Because when you get to have this—” She motions around them, indicating the aristocratic comfort of the Manor. “You don’t trade it for principle. Not after living through misery. And not when it comes with someone worth staying for.”
He narrows his eyes.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Because you don’t understand love.”
His lips grow thin, or what remains of them on this walking corpse, a scrap of skin stretched tight. He’s apprehensive. At her choice of word, presumably. Harry had told her all about it and how this would always remain Voldemort’s greatest blind spot: love. A puzzle the darkest sorcerer will never solve, for he’ll never have all the pieces.
You can’t understand what you’ve never had.
“Want to see?”
It might be presumptuous to invite him into her head. Or perhaps slightly suicidal, if Narcissa’s flash of terror is any indication. Either way, Hermione had woken up energized and that feeling is still crackling through her veins. Her Occlumency Maze is as sturdy as her resolve to torment the Dark Lord on this fine day.
If pestering him means enduring his grimy finger poking her forehead, then so be it. He accepts the offer greedily, clearly betting she’ll let other secrets slip.
Which she won’t. She’s not an amateur and he should know it by now.
After all, he had repeatedly tried months ago to get past her Occlumency shields, only to spectacularly fail each time. She wonders if he regrets delegating the task to Draco. A questionable decision that caused this catastrophic domino effect—for him—of starting a blossoming relationship between them. One small push, and all those tiles tipped, until she ended up living under the same roof as the very man who never wanted this, but who set it in motion regardless. And the last tile hasn’t fallen yet. It will, eventually. Voldemort just doesn’t know he’s the one standing at the end of the row.
Her Maze materialises as the thick evergreen shrubs unfurl around them, their branches weaving upward and rising high into the sky, effectively boxing them into a small square of land. A layout designed to prevent him from peering beyond and uncovering other memories.
Because she only has one memory to show him, neatly sealed inside a charming garden gnome. Voldemort approaches it, and she’s surprised to see he hasn’t turned into a snake like the first time he invaded her mind. Still, she cannot complain. How could she, when she’s being offered this vision: the Dark Lord, all dark and brooding, forced to crouch in front of a lawn ornament in abject dislike, knees cracking like an old man.
And then, the crowning humiliation: him having to joggle the ridiculous pompom on top of the gnome’s tuque to access the memory. He hesitates, as if willing the object to open out of fear alone. It does not. He flicks the pompom.
Priceless. She will absolutely have to create another gnome to store that memory.
The scene shifts to what might be her favorite room in the Manor: Draco’s bedroom. More precisely, his bed from its best angle: early in the morning, pale sunlight filtering through the dark curtains, casting soft golden threads across the room and over his silken sheets, turning the smooth fabric almost ethereal.
Not that she expects the bedding to hold Voldemort’s attention. Or more—the opposite of his attention. If anything, he looks as though he’d rather douse his eyes in acid, carve them out and toss them out of Draco’s window.
Because the single memory Hermione chose to prove that love exist is how Draco elected to express it today at dawn: moving into her with loving certainty, their naked bodies softened by morning light.
Yes—Hermione and Voldemort are watching pornography together, and she refuses to feel embarrassed. If he lacks the tools to understand love, she presumes he’s just as ill-equipped to process sexuality. Which, frankly, makes the whole demonstration all the more educational.
Yet, education appears to be the last thing on his mind. He whirls around, the memory dissolving, but not before Hermione watches him barrel straight into the closed door, forehead first. One of the rare occasions where the absence of a nose proves valuable, since it would almost certainly have broken on impact.
If one can break a nose inside a memory, that is.
When Lucius’s office reappears, Voldemort scarpers behind the desk, as though distance might erase anything he just saw. Hermione feels warmth pressed against her back, two hands settling on her shoulders to steady her. She has not registered the moment Draco entered the room or how much time has passed.
She lifts her eyes to his, and meets his questioning gaze, reflecting the general confusion permeating the room. Narcissa watches Voldemort warily, his usually cadaverous complexion now enhanced with an adorable rosy tint. He pointedly avoids looking at anyone.
Visual presentation now delivered, Hermione decides to close her argument by saying: “When you get to experience that,” The meaning is heavily implied, but she hopes Voldemort realizes she’s speaking of love. She still hasn’t said this symbolic word aloud to Draco though, and this hardly seems the appropriate moment to do so. “The rest hardly matters to me.”
She interlaces her fingers with Draco’s where they rest on her shoulder. He looks even more puzzled, but his mouth softens into a cheerful smile, nonetheless. She can’t wait to tell him what his master witnessed them doing.
Voldemort glances up to Draco, clears his throat as if to counter. Yet, he flushes further, then aborts the effort and returns to studying the floor. She has never seen someone so thoroughly embarrassed. Not even when she was the one caught walking in on her own parents.
Of all her accomplishments, traumatizing the Dark Lord now ranks remarkably high.
“My Lord, perhaps we should move on to the next order of business?” Narcissa prompts, glancing around with polite confusion, graciously offering him a ladder to dig himself out of this mess. She extends a rolled parchment, and he grabs it immediately.
“Right—” He clears his throat, “Draco, my boy, come here.”
Still, he won’t meet his gaze. Regardless, Draco approaches the desk cautiously and takes the parchment. Voldemort releases it as if burned, and continues to speak to a nondescript point on the desk.
“We just received word from Bellatrix. It’s time.”
Draco unrolls it and even from a few feet away, Hermione can read over his shoulder. She doesn’t need a magnifying glass to recognize that those are potion instructions. Measurements, timing and a sequence of additions carefully annotated. Her eyes flicker to the list of ingredients, trying to decipher what could possibly this potion.
Pearl Dust
Dragon blood
Syrup of Hellebore
Murtlap tentacle
Occamy—
“You will be in Slovenia this week, to supervise the final round of trials using these exact measurements. Bellatrix and her team achieved… satisfactory results over the past few days, but we believe these slight modifications will yield perfection.”
“Very well, my Lord. I will leave tomorrow at the first light.”
“No, you will leave within the hour. We’ve lost enough time as it is.”
Draco glances at her furtively. Uncomfortably. She swallows the impulse to roll her eyes, knowing that his fussing comes from his discomfort at leaving her alone while she’s supposedly still healing. According to him. In her opinion, and that’s the only that matters seeing it’s her own health, she feels more than fine.
“Bring your pet, if you shall,” Voldemort adds, noting Draco’s silence.
Then, a sinister grin overtakes his face, and Hermione’s stomach tightens with dread at whatever he’s about to say. As if drawn by her apprehension, he meets her eyes in challenge. The earlier blushing look suited him far better she decides.
“It’s finally time she learns what fate awaits her people.”
He rises and moves toward her, but Draco steps instinctively into his path. Fortunately for everyone, Voldemort isn’t offended by the gesture, almost amused by his pupil’s protectiveness. Maybe he did learn a thing or two from the scene she showed him. When affection has a way of turning into unsolicited protectiveness.
He remains where he stands, and addresses her over Draco’s shoulder.
“And once you learn there’s no hope for your kind, we’ll see whether the rest truly doesn’t matter to you.”
He quits the office, robes billowing behind him, leaving his cryptic words rattling unpleasantly around her skull.
After presenting the sketched inventory to both Lucius and Narcissa, they head upstairs to pack their luggage. The exercise proved not completely pointless considering that one particular object—a golden cup with twin handles finely wrought and a badger engraved—caught Narcissa’s eye. She could swear she had seen it before, but couldn’t pinpoint when, or where, or under what circumstances, which seemed to irritate her more than she let on. However, she promised to give it proper thought over the week during their absence and to sift through her memory with due diligence. With the predictability of any Malfoy men, Lucius immediately told her not to overexert herself. The poised witch rolled her eyes only once.
All in all, Draco’s impeccable drawings were not in vain.
“Such a shame we won’t be able to put your riding lessons in practice,” Hermione teases, tossing a bag of toiletries into her suitcase.
She is, of course, being sarcastic. She much prefers Portkeys to dragon travelling, regardless of the number of hours they devoted to the art of riding between the sheets. After Draco voiced his concern that Hermione was in no condition to fly all the way to Slovenia, Narcissa had conveniently produced an international Portkey from a desk drawer, explaining she’d acquired it during her last visit, courtesy of ‘trusted’ (i.e. thoroughly corrupted) official in the Slovenian government.
“This is only a temporary setback,” Hermione presses. “Given we don’t have a return portkey yet.”
Draco remains stubbornly silent, hands shoved in his pockets as he stares out the window. She zips her suitcase shut. “I could be persuaded to hitch a return ride with you, if you are a good boy this week.”
He turns and scowls into the room, not even endeared by her efforts.
“Now, who’s being a naughty boy?” she tries again, determined to make him smile.
He finally huffs a long, suffering breath, pressing his palms to his face and dragging them downward in frustration. “You’re still healing.”
“Oh enough of that rubbish. I’m completely healed. Now, tell me the real reason you’ve been postponing this trip. You promised me!”
“First, it is not a trip. We have a bigger issue if you see this as a vacation—”
“Pardon me, good sir, I meant to say business trip. Better?” Hermione indulges him, mock-solemn. Draco sighs an exasperated breath and consults the ceiling for patience. He finds none.
“Second, the place I’m taking you is far from pleasant. You’re about to see some things that could…will traumatize you.”
“Ughh, fineee, can we go now?”
“Third and foremost, you need to calm your urges to act all noble and brave. No one can see you react. You’re supposed to have switch sides. Be discreet, and stay by my side at all times. Am I clear?”
“Godric, might has well pack a leash for me…”
“Granger, I’m serious. For once in your life, can you do as I say?”
She studies him for a long moment. Not that she needs to. She knows he’s being serious if the vein twitching beneath his eye is any indication. Her need to finally uncover what’s going on there outweighs any reluctance she might have about playing the bland, harmless, quiet wife he wants her for this foray.
“Yes.” She agrees reluctantly.
He nods, unconvinced, but takes her suitcase like the well-mannered gentleman he was raised to be, as well as his own. Retrieving the Portkey, Hermione opens the small square cardboard box given by Narcissa, revealing a beautiful bobbin tape lace shaped like a snowflake.
Their fingers brush when they touch the white pattern at the same time, before they’re pulled away from Draco’s bedroom.
They both land on their feet, although Draco does so with considerably more finesse. It’s been ages since she used a Portkey and the spiraling force of this peculiar transport always leaves her unsteady. Thankfully, she has an attentive wizard by her side whose principal occupation revolves around manhandling her.
Once she’s no longer a falling hazard, his hands relax at her waist, giving her room to take in the view.
Before them stretches a massive limestone canyon, where an emerald river winds below, threading its way through the hollowed karst cliffs. Large trees with smooth gray bark, most likely beech if she were to guess, cling on the steep slopes. The alpine air is crisp and clean, carrying a humid and woody chill that makes her shiver.
If not for Draco numerous foreboding warnings, Hermione would never have guessed that this place conceals the manufacturing of a nefarious war weapon.
Draco takes a step toward the descending path, extending his hand as he speaks.
“Welcome to the Škocjan Caves.”
