Part I
Draco was screaming.
Hermione could feel it in her bones.
She tried to think, tried to focus, tried to draw her thoughts into some kind of coherence, but all she could feel was a pull, so strong it felt literal, like a tether. Pain, desperate pain, with the promise of closer the only way to fix it.
“Can you apparate in and out of here?” Harry asked, desperation climbing in his voice.
”Yes, sir. Dobby is an elf,” Dobby replied matter-of-factly.
”We can go to Bill and Fleur’s until we figure out our next move,” said Ron.
”Okay. Dobby?” Harry asked, holding out his hand.
Draco’s screams pierced through the walls, and Hermione’s vision swam. She noticed belatedly that she’d fallen to her knees, Harry, Ron, and Dobby crouched beside her.
”Hermione?” Ron asked, bringing a hand to her shoulder.
Hermione met Harry’s eyes as Draco wailed.
“I can’t leave him.”
”You mean—“
”Master Draco—“
“You can’t be—”
”No,” Hermione cried. “I won’t leave him.”
Harry’s eyes flickered to the door, to Ron.
”Okay,” he said, meeting hers once again as pain ricocheted through her. He nodded. “We won’t leave him.”
Hermione felt a wave of relief, like her magic knew this meant she could fix it. Like her best friend could see her clearly.
Dobby held their hands and with a snap, apparated them to the other side of the barred door.
”How are we doing this?” Ron whispered.
”Not a fucking clue,” Hermione whispered, creeping up the stairs and down a hallway in the cavernous space, wishing desperately that she could hold her wand in front of her as she went. She allowed herself to walk in the direction of the noise, in the direction their bond pulled her.
Then, suddenly: nothing.
No screams.
Her pain vanished.
She gasped, loud and visceral. The only thing worse than feeling him suffer was not feeling anything at all.
Her feet were moving before she could think. She only barely registered the muttered gasps and footsteps of her friends picking up behind her.
They rounded a corner and Ron reached out an arm to slow her, recognizing the entrance to the main room ahead. Murmurings drifted through the hall as they crept up to the doorway.
Hermione peeked through the crack in thedoor to find Draco, bound at the hands, the feet, the chest. She stifled another gasp at his face, bruised nearly beyond recognition. Blood had dripped onto his shirt, and he sat slumped over, like the ropes were the only thing keeping him upright. She struggled to see from a distance whether his chest rose and fell with his breaths or whether—
Lucius, Bellatrix, and someone Hermione could guess was Rodolphus stood shockingly casually around Draco’s limp form, Rodolphus holding his visibly bloodied hand.
Wandless, facing three death eaters, Hermione had absolutely no idea what to do. But still, her bond tugged insistently at her, asking, begging. Nearer.
Footsteps, slow and uneven, approached from the opposite end of the hall. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Dobby flattened themselves against the wall, held their breath. It felt like an eternity before they came to a stop in front of the door, Hermione braced for impact.
In the sliver of light from the doorway, Hermione saw clearly. She had seen Narcissa Malfoy before: poised, coiffed, elegant, refined. She had seen her, too, after Lucius’s imprisonment: pale, uncertain, wobbly.
Today, she looked at the three children hiding in plain sight in her hallway with eyes that seemed almost unseeing, cloudy and lifeless, her robes rumpled and hair disheveled. She regarded them without threat or malice—almost, curiosity. For a moment she stared at Hermione and Hermione stared back.
Narcissa’s gaze flickered to the doorway, then locked in on Draco’s body. She drifted through as slowly as she’d walked down the hallway.
The four stayed pressed against the wall, the crack in the door widening and threatening their position, as Narcissa’s appearance was made known.
”Cissy, I thought I told you—”
”Darling, let’s get you back to—“
”My son,” Narcissa said, in a near whisper that quietened her husband and her sister. “My son,” she repeated, like it was both question and answer.
”The boy betrayed the Dark Lord,” Bellatrix said, her tone almost apologetic. “He was passing information to the Potter boy.”
”Cissa, you don’t need to see this.”
”My son,” she said again, louder now, her voice scratching like she hadn’t spoken above a whisper in some time.
Hermione felt an uncanny sensation then, like outdoors before a rainstorm. A shift in the pressure of the environment.
”Cissa—“
”My SON!” Narcissa shrieked, and as she did so, a force like a great wind blasted out in every direction, a cacophony of broken glass and screams. Hermione whipped her head around through the blasted-open door, too stunned to hide. In the room stood Narcissa and Draco, unharmed, as the surfaces in every direction were leveled, windows shattered, furniture toppled or in pieces, Bellatrix, Lucius, and Rodolphus on their backs, unconscious or worse, Hermione couldn’t tell, because with the threat neutralized she ran forward and fell to her knees in front of Draco, desperately searching for his pulse.
His skin was warm and soft under hers as she pressed two fingers to his neck, her other hand cradling his slack, bloodied face. She found his pulse, thrumming away. She felt the air leave her lungs in a great woosh, dizzingly relieved, looking up to see Narcissa’s eyes trained on her, curious once more.
“Take him,” she whispered, her eyes now clear, and fixed on Hermione’s face. “Take him and run.”
”Narcissa—“ Hermione started.
”Hermione!” Harry shouted, tossing her wand over as he retrieved them from their unconscious captors.
“Go,” she whispered. “Go, now.”
Hermione did as she was told. She slashed through the binds on Draco’s body and Harry, Ron, and Dobby ran over. In a flurry of grasped limbs, she caught one last look at Narcissa’s face, and she could have sworn she saw a small smile.
And with a tug, they were gone.