When Blood and Fire Meet

The note arrived differently this time. Not slipped beneath her door like a whisper in the dark, but tucked inside a book she had left on her nightstand. A subtle shift, deliberate in its deviation. A message wrapped inside a message.
Hermione’s fingers brushed the worn spine before prying the pages apart, revealing the thin slip of parchment nestled between chapters of inked wisdom. The words were sparse, efficient. Coordinates. A time. And then, below—something new.
They are after you.
A warning. It coiled around her, tightening its grip, threading unease through the marrow of her bones. She exhaled slowly, deliberately, forcing herself to dissect it as she would any other piece of intelligence. They—not we. Not he. A choice made in language, subtle but intentional. He had removed himself from their ranks, from ownership of the threat. He had not warned her as an enemy, nor as an ally, but as something else entirely—something unspoken, unnamed.
She closed the book carefully, pressing the pages together as though she could trap the words inside, as though doing so would lessen their weight.

The night was thick with fog when she arrived at the meeting point, the streets swallowing sound in their damp embrace. London loomed around her, indifferent in its vastness. She had always found the city strange in that way—how it could be both suffocating and anonymous, how one could be watched yet hidden, lost yet tethered to something unseen and inescapable.
The location was an abandoned railway station, its skeletal remains jutting into the night, remnants of another era. The architecture stood defiant, timeworn but unyielding, refusing to succumb to irrelevance. Much like the war, like the fight they waged in silence. Shadows stretched long beneath the rusted arches, pooling in places where the moonlight faltered.
She walked with purpose, each footstep absorbed by the thick hush of solitude. Then—a presence. A flicker of motion at the edges of her periphery. Not seen, not heard, but felt.
She turned sharply, wand slipping into her palm, breath coiling in the cold air. Silence reigned.
And then—
“You came.”
The voice was quiet, deliberate.
Draco Malfoy stepped from the shadows like an apparition unravelling from the night, his form half-draped in darkness, half-etched by the silver light of the moonlight overhead. His expression was unreadable, carved from something pale and distant, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp, fixed upon her with an intensity that almost made her step back.
Hermione held her ground. “You warned me.”
A pause. The kind weighted with the ghosts of words unsaid. Then—
“I owed you that much.”
Owed her. Not them. The distinction curled through her like an ember catching in dry tinder. She should have questioned it, pressed him for more, for the meaning buried beneath the carefully measured syllables. But instead, she simply held his gaze, watching the way his fingers twitched at his sides, as though resisting the urge to move, to do something reckless.
“Do you know who?” she asked, voice low, steady.
His jaw tightened. “Does it matter?”
Yes. It did. But she did not say so.
“Why tell me?”
He exhaled sharply, turning his gaze away as though the answer was something fragile, something that could not withstand the weight of being spoken aloud.
“Because I was in the room when they decided it.”
The admission settled between them, heavy and immutable. He had been there. Sitting among them, absorbing their words, their intent, all the while knowing he would break the silence in the only way he dared. Not through defiance, not through outright rebellion, but through a slip of parchment pressed between the pages of a book.
She swallowed, steadying herself. "Why me?"
Draco's expression darkened, his voice edged with something grim. "You've proven yourself. More than once. Every time they've lost ground, you were there. They think you're dangerous—not just because you can fight, but because you think. A strategist. The 'Golden Girl.'"
Her chest tightened, but she remained still, absorbing his words.
"It’s because of Harry too, right?" she asked.
Draco exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "They think if they take you out, he'll come running. He’s been hiding too long, and they think you’re the key to forcing his hand. If they take you down, they expect him to lose control, to make a mistake."
His gaze flickered, hesitating before he added, "Weasley too. They know he’s hiding out with Potter, which makes you the only one left in the open. That makes you the easiest target."
A chill ran through her, though not from the cold. She had always known she was a target, but hearing it laid out in such stark, calculated terms—
She set her jaw. "They underestimate him."
Draco's lips twitched, almost a smirk, but not quite. "They underestimate you more."
He hesitated, glancing away as if weighing his next words. Then, quieter, "That's their mistake."
Hermione studied him silently, searching his face for something she could name, something that might explain why he was telling her this. His expression was carefully guarded, a mask of indifference too well-practiced to be real. And yet, beneath it, something wavered—a crack in the façade, a flicker of hesitation, something that warred with the side he was meant to serve.
He was a man who walked the tightrope of treachery, not for morality, not for salvation, but for something else. Something more dangerous. Choice.

The attack came swiftly, like a storm cresting too fast upon the horizon, inevitable despite the warning, merciless in its descent. Hermione had known it was coming, but knowing did not soften the violence of it.
They had been prepared, but only just. The warning had granted them hours, enough to fortify defences, to reroute their forces, to ensure civilians in the area had disappeared into the night. Yet war did not allow for certainties, only calculated risks and desperate gambles. Even forewarned, they bled.
She should not have been here. Kingsley had told her so.
'We have an advantage now,' he had said, his voice weighted with the kind of authority that did not seek argument. 'You staying behind ensures that advantage remains unseen. If they sense we knew, if they suspect a leak—'
'—then they'll come after him,' she had finished, jaw set, pulse pounding with the weight of an unspoken truth.
He held her gaze, silent.
'If I don't fight, they’ll know,' she had continued, unwavering. 'They'll know someone told us. They'll search for the source.'
Kingsley had exhaled sharply, but he had not argued. He had only nodded, slow and deliberate, and let her walk into the fire.
And now, amidst the carnage, she wondered if she had made a mistake.
The world did not simply fracture; it detonated, unravelling into chaos, a symphony of destruction where screams wove through the air like twisted echoes of incantations cast in fury.
Curses burned through the dark, cutting the night into jagged, shuddering pieces. The air tasted of iron and ash, thick with the acrid scent of destruction. Buildings groaned beneath the onslaught, their structures screaming as magic tore through their foundations. The sky split apart, lit by bursts of crimson and emerald, momentary constellations of violence.
Hermione moved through it with precision, a living weapon honed by war, her magic an extension of instinct. She felt the heat of curses singe past her skin, the air around her thick with the weight of unrelenting violence. Every spell she cast was not a choice, but a necessity. She did not think. She reacted. She survived.
She noticed it then. A subtle yet deliberate change. The battle had not just been chaos—it had been structured, manipulated. The Death Eaters were moving with intention, funnelling the fight, directing it like currents in a storm. And she was at the centre of it.
The Order fought fiercely, their formation tight, holding the line as long as they could. Spells crackled through the air, flashes of red, blue, and gold cutting through the dark. Hermione moved in sync with them, casting shield charms and retaliating with stunning precision. But for every Death Eater they felled, more surged forward.
Someone screamed—cut short by a sickening thud. The ground was slick beneath her boots, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air. She turned, just in time to see a jet of violet light strike one of their own. The body crumpled. A second later, another fell.
A concussive blast shattered the air, sending bodies flying like ragdolls. The impact slammed into Hermione, knocking the breath from her lungs as she hit the ground hard. Dust and smoke curled around her as she gasped, forcing herself up onto her elbows. The battlefield blurred, a shifting mass of shadows and light. Somewhere beyond the chaos, she could hear the sharp clash of spells colliding, the guttural cries of those struck down.
She forced herself to move. Pain flared up her side as she scrambled to her feet, narrowly dodging a jet of red light aimed at her head. Her wand cut through the air in response—blue lightning crackled, arcing toward her attacker, sending him sprawling. Another lunged at her from the side, but she pivoted, twisting her wrist sharply. A barrier of shimmering gold erupted between them, absorbing his curse before she retaliated, sending him crashing backward with a wordless blast.
Her heart pounded as she fought, as the world around her narrowed to nothing but motion and instinct. She deflected, countered, struck down those who came too close. But for every one she bested, another took their place. The Death Eaters were closing in, her movements growing more desperate, more frantic. Then—a glint of silver in the corner of her vision.
Too late. A curse slammed into her shoulder, searing pain tearing through her as she was thrown to the ground again. Stars burst behind her eyes. Her wand slipped from her fingers, skidding across the blood-slick earth. She reached for it, but a boot came down hard on her wrist, pinning her.
Above her, a masked figure loomed, wand raised, the green glow of a Killing Curse reflected in the hollow darkness of his hood.
She braced herself.
And then, something struck—fast, brutal. The Death Eater jerked, his spell dying on his lips as he crumpled, lifeless, to the ground beside her.
Hermione’s breath came ragged as she blinked, dazed. A shadow loomed over her, reaching down. Rough hands gripped her, yanking her up, pressing her wand back into her palm. She barely had time to register what had happened before another explosion rocked the battlefield, shaking the earth beneath them.
The fight was not over. Not yet.
The shockwave sent bodies flying, the air shattering with the force of it. Hermione barely had time to brace before she was thrown backward, crashing into the dirt. Her vision blurred, ears ringing. By the time she staggered upright, the battlefield had shifted—she was alone.
Figures emerged from the haze, dark robes billowing like spectres in the shifting fog, their wands raised, gleaming like sharpened fangs in the dim light. The breath in her lungs turned to ice, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs as the weight of their presence settled over her like an iron shroud. They moved with quiet precision, surrounding her with a slow inevitability that sent dread clawing up her spine.
She lifted her wand, her grip firm despite the cold sweat slicking her palm. The first curse came, a streak of crimson slicing through the air, and she barely had time to deflect it before another followed. A jet of violet light nearly clipped her shoulder as she twisted, countering with a crackling burst of magic that sent one of them reeling.
But they did not relent. They pressed forward, forcing her back, manoeuvring with grim coordination. The clash of magic split the night, illuminating their masked faces in fleeting, flickering bursts. She struck down one, then another, but the numbers did not dwindle—they surged, like a tide seeking to drown her in their shadows.
Another blast caught her off guard, searing through her robes, the impact knocking her breathless as she staggered. A gloved hand reached for her, but she lashed out with a surge of raw energy, sending her attacker sprawling. Another closed in, his wand raised, the sickly glow of the Killing Curse coalescing at its tip. She braced herself, muscles coiled to move—
But then, without warning, the night itself seemed to ignite. Fire roared to life in a blistering surge, swallowing the darkness in waves of gold and crimson. The heat hit Hermione first, searing against her skin, the air thickening with smoke so dense it clawed at her throat.
The Death Eaters stumbled, recoiling from the sudden eruption of flame. For the first time, hesitation fractured their ranks—bodies twisting in confusion, wands raised uncertainly. It was only then that Hermione saw it.
Not a figure. Not a form. But movement—shadows twisting in the inferno, a force striking with silent, lethal precision.
A strangled cry broke through the crackle of burning earth. A body crumpled. Then another. The sharp hiss of a Killing Curse cut through the air, green light flashing like a blade in the dark. She couldn’t see who had cast it. Couldn’t see anything beyond the fire and the bodies dropping like felled marionettes.
She felt frozen in place, her breath sharp, shallow. This wasn’t a battle. It was an execution.
A final, gasping groan split the air—and then silence.
Smoke curled around her ankles, the embers at her feet still flickering, struggling against the suffocating weight of the night. The battlefield, so recently alive with screams and spellfire, was now a ruin of motionless forms and scorched ground. The scent of burnt fabric and blood clung to the air, acrid and inescapable.
She turned, hands trembling, searching for something—anything—to make sense of what had just unfolded. But there was nothing left to see. Only wreckage. Only stillness.
A pair of hands grabbed her shoulders, jolting her back into the present. Someone was saying her name, shaking her, urgency sharp in their voice.
But Hermione barely registered them.
She had expected chaos. Expected battle. Expected to understand.
Instead, she was left with absence. A void where certainty should have been.

The quiet in the safehouse wasn’t comforting. It pressed in too tightly, stretching between the creak of the floorboards and the distant murmur of voices outside. The healer worked in silence, methodical and efficient, but Hermione barely registered the cool press of salve against her burned skin or the sharp sting of freshly mended cuts. The pain was distant, secondary. Her mind was still back there, caught in the fire, in the smoke, in the moment she had been certain she wouldn’t make it out.
Kingsley stood nearby, arms crossed, watching her. He had been watching her since she was brought in, his expression unreadable. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough at the edges.
“That was reckless, Hermione.”
She let out a slow breath, not quite meeting his gaze.
“We nearly lost you tonight.”
She swallowed, but he wasn’t finished.
“Harry and Ron—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “If you’d died out there, if they came back only to find you were—”
“But I didn’t.”
Kingsley studied her for a long moment before nodding. “No. You didn’t.” His gaze flickered over her injuries—dark bruises blooming along her ribs, the raw burns still being tended to, the deep cut along her shoulder where a curse had nearly torn through. The worst was her side—blackened, raw, where fire had licked too close.
“If an Order member hadn’t gotten to me in time—” she voiced her inner thoughts aloud.
Kingsley, standing near the doorway, looked up sharply. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes—something grim. “Is that what you think happened?”
She frowned at him, shifting slightly, wincing as pain flared across her side. “Of course. They had to, or I’d be dead.”
Kingsley hesitated, then said, “No one from the Order reached you in time.”
The certainty in his voice sent a chill down her spine.
“What?”
“We were too far.” His voice was steady, deliberate. “By the time we pushed through, you were already free. We thought you were gone, Hermione.”
A shiver coiled in her spine, colder than the pain.
She had been cornered. She had felt it—the sharp, terrible certainty of it. There had been no escape. And then—
Smoke. Fire. The Death Eaters crumpling like puppets with their strings severed. A force cutting through the chaos with ruthless precision.
She shook her head, her breath coming quicker. “That doesn’t make sense. Someone fought them off. I saw it—green light, spells cutting through the smoke—”
Kingsley didn’t look away.
“And it wasn’t us.”
Silence.
A different kind of weight settled between them now.
Then, after a pause, his voice dropped lower. “Do you have any idea who it was?”
The way he asked it made something twist in her chest. He wasn’t just asking. He was waiting.
And from the look he wore she knew he had his suspicions already.
She had assumed—of course she had assumed. It had to have been one of theirs. Who else could it have been?
But Kingsley was still staring at her, waiting, and for the first time, doubt curled at the edges of her certainty.
Then who?
The healer pressed down against her ribs, and she sucked in a sharp breath, pain lancing through her side. But the thought had already rooted itself in her mind, sinking deep, twisting into something she did not want to name.
The weight of what had happened pressed against her like the ache in her wounds.
And beneath it—
Beneath it, something else.
And then, as if the pieces had always been there, waiting to be seen, the truth settled over her. She had not seen him in the chaos, not in the silence that followed. But that did not mean he had not been there.
She knew it—felt it with a certainty that defied reason, that whispered through her blood like something inevitable.
He had helped them.
And for that, she finally trusted him.

A mistake.
But she did not know it yet.