“Alright.”
Hermione left the room and walked straight out of Grimmauld Place.
The room in the shack was cold. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself while she stood waiting for Draco to appear.
He came in less than five minutes.
He studied her face. “I assume this is about what happened at Hogsmeade.”
Hermione gave a sharp nod. “They got Ron.”
Draco's expression flickered. “It's Ron? I only heard it was a Weasley.”
“It's Ron. We — we need him back. It's vital. We have to recover him.”
Draco's expression grew cold. “Attacking Hogwarts would be suicide. The place is a fortress.”
“We have to recover him,” Hermione said without wavering. “It's not negotiable. I was told to tell you it's critical.” Draco's eyes flashed faintly. “Ron is crucial within the Order. Kingsley wants everything you can provide about the Hogwarts prison.”
He drew a short breath and jerked his head up. “Consider it done.”
“Thank you,” Hermione said, trying to catch his eyes for a moment. What if he died? What if this were the last time she ever saw him?
He didn't look at her. “I'll call you when I have something.”
“Thank you, Draco.”
He gave a hiss of irritation. His jaw clenched. “I'd prefer if you stopped calling me that.”
Hermione felt her stomach drop. “Draco, when I kissed you—”
His expression grew vicious. “Really, do we have time to discuss this right now?”
Hermione swallowed hard but couldn't stop herself. “Is there a point when you will speak to me again? Are you ever going to even look at me?” Her voice was pleading.
Draco looked up sharply, and a cruel glint entered his eyes as they locked squarely on Hermione. It was like a punch in the gut to suddenly have his full attention levelled on her again.
“You want me to look at you, Granger?” Draco said, his tone was light — almost cajoling — but there was a freezing edge to it. He stalked forward and closed in on her. “Fine. I'm looking. It's delightful, I must say, to see all the guilt in your eyes.”
He sneered down at her.
“You know, I used to think the circumstances of my servitude to the Dark Lord were as cruel an enslavement as anyone could conceive. But I admit, it pales somewhat beside you.”
Hermione stared up at him and couldn't breathe.
“I suppose no one realises how light one set of manacles is until they have two,” he said, studying her expression as his tone grew musing. “At least before I could console myself that it wasn't my fault; that accepting everything was simply the best I could do to keep my mother safe. It's different when I have no one to blame but myself.”
His hand came up and rested on her throat. “After all, I did choose you. You were so determined to do whatever it took, but you will always be a Gryffindor at heart. I envied the fact you still had that space to be naive; to credit me with goodness, and fail to realise that Moody and Shacklebolt had been setting me up from the beginning. When you begged for a chance to heal me, I gave in. When you touched me, I didn't push you away. I thought, where's the harm? It all ends soon enough. Life has been cold for such a long time.”
Hermione shook faintly.
He reached up and his fingertips ghosted across her cheek. Hermione closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath. He was so close she could smell the oakmoss and papyrus-sedge that clung to his skin.
“By the time I realised I'd miscalculated, you'd already forced your way in. You were so obvious, and it only made it worse. The fact you'd let me do anything to you if it meant saving the very friends that left you to be sold; that nothing I did would drive you off. At least when I sold myself and took the mark, my mother prostrated herself and begged to be the one to take it instead. I suppose, in some regards, I'm luckier than you.”
Hermione gave a low sob.
“Then, after you nearly died in Hampshire, I thought, at least I can keep her alive. She deserves to have someone who cares enough to try to keep her alive. I thought eventually you'd give up. But of course, you will do anything to save the people you feel responsible for. Of course you'd weaponise your own guilt in order to use mine.” He gave a low bitter laugh. “I'm sure there is something poetic in it all, but right now all I feel is a new set of manacles.”
His hand wavered for a moment before he withdrew it and stepped away from her.
“So forgive me if I dislike looking at you, I'm still adjusting to all the ways the new ones chafe.”
He turned and apparated silently away.
Hermione sank to the floor and rested her head on her knees while she fought to breathe.
She returned quietly to Grimmauld Place and found her potion closet had been broken into. She checked the inventory and found several doses of polyjuice potion and two whole vials of veritaserum had been stolen. None of the concealed compartments had been touched.
Padma feigned ignorance when Hermione asked about it. “I was on another floor. By the time I got down the stairs, whoever did it was gone,” Padma said with a shrug.
“I can't imagine what anyone needs with eighty doses of veritaserum,” Hermione said in a biting tone. “You'll need to recalculate rationing until the next batch finishes next month. Perhaps next time you forget to activate the alarms when the wards are breached, ensure the thieves understand how veritaserum dosage works.”
Padma flushed and limped away.
Hermione set to replacing the wards on the closet and then went to check on the occupants in the hospital ward.
Having regular shifts in the hospital while Padma recovered was a relief. Something to do. Something to focus on. Something that was good; that didn't add to the intricate web of deceit she spent most of her time being strangled by.
It was the only thing Hermione did that didn't make her want to mutilate herself in penance afterward.
Not that it mattered whether she were penitent or not. Not that anyone cared.
When she sat alone in the kitchen at night she could whatever she wanted.
One line the first time. She'd watched the blood well up and slowly turn into a droplet that slid across her skin toward the table.
She'd flicked her wand and the blood vanished. Another flick and the cut was gone too.
The next night there had been more. The hours crawled past, night after cold night while she cut and cut. As many razor fine lacerations as she wanted. She could heal them all without so much as a scar.
She was good at it. Fixing external wounds. It was an exceptional talent of hers. It was something to do at night.
When she emerged from a visit with Ginny, she found Harry standing outside the door.
He looked feverish. His skin was pale, but his eyes were glittering brightly.
“Is she doing alright?” he asked before Hermione had shut the door behind herself.
“She's doing fine. There isn't any change yet,” Hermione said before Harry's expression could become hopeful. She removed all the protective wards and cast cleansing charms on herself quickly.
He nodded rapidly. “Does she know about Ron yet?”
“I told her. I told her I'd let her know as soon as we got him back.” She rested her hand on Harry's arm. “We're going to get him back, Harry.”
“I know. I know we will,” Harry said, then he glanced sharply around as though he suspected someone might be eavesdropping. “Can you — can you come with me?”
Hermione eyed him worriedly. “What is it, Harry?”
Harry shrugged with false carelessness. “I just need a healer, and you're the best one.”