III
The name was always cleverly magicked into one of the olives of her martini. She and Pansy had devised the idea after one drunken night at the club. Hermione remembered slurring that she wished she could just ingest the knowledge of her next kill. Pansy Parkinson-Zabini was the clever witch to figure out how.
Tonight Hermione arrived at the club and sat in her usual perch. She liked the seat on the second floor, above the main bar, and next to the window with the fire escape. She’d wait for Pansy to come around and deliver drinks. Some nights she delivered her a glass of deep burgundy Malbec. Hermione would savor and appreciate the vintage while overlooking the misty city below. Relishing a night off. Other nights Pansy would bring her a dirty martini. Each olive held a different name. She’d throw the entire drink back in one swallow, bite into the briny fruit, and await Pansy’s voice to whisper the name in her head. She’d slip out the window without a whisper to complete her task.
She waited for her drink tonight when Blaise’s uproarious laughter broke through her passing thoughts. She looked over the ledge and saw him wrap Theodore Nott into a ferociously tight hug. Nott patted his back and gave Pansy a swat as she walked by. Nott was a harmless little flirt to everyone, it seemed. But her breath was stolen when she saw the silvery blonde figure step around Nott. Malfoy.
Her pulse flared wildly. This was twice in one week. It couldn’t be a coincidence. She looked for Pansy and saw her behind the bar collecting more drinks on her tray. Would tonight be the night?
She’d simultaneously been dreading and anticipating one name since she began this a year ago.
She watched him now from the safety of her American disguise a level above the bar. He’d always been tall and lean at Hogwarts. But the war changed everyone. He’d filled out a sturdy amount. No longer the gaunt and ghoulish shell of a man she’d known their sixth year. He took care to strengthen himself after that. He looked like he was the bouncer at this club with his added muscle mass.
He took a seat next to Nott at the bar. His back was to her, and she could admire how his deltoids rippled as he stretched to remove his scarf and coat. Pansy’s presence pulled her away from scrutinizing Draco’s figure. She had three drinks on her tray as she approached Hermione. Red wine, a martini, and a scotch. Her breath held as she got closer.
Pansy stood before her and spun the tray. Her delicate pixie-like hands reached out, gripped the martini glass stem, and placed it before her. She held her breath as Pansy silently moved to the following table.
Hermione stared at the olives—two of them.
She swung back the sharp liquid and hesitantly rose the skewered olives to her lips, her hand trembling the whole time.
Pansy’s voice filled her head as her teeth punctured the first olive.
Vincent Crabbe.
Gregory Goyle.
She exhaled and vanished through the window.
***
Hermione noisily crashed through the door of her flat in Brussels. Crabbe and Goyle had been almost comically easy to bring down. But the cost wasn’t any less. She’d spent the last several hours at the Cantillon getting absolutely pissed over fantastic beer. At least she’d had the foresight to grab waffles earlier and place them in her fridge.
She stumbled to the handle and dragged the delicious pastry out of its box. She slid her back against the fridge and devoured the waffle on the floor of the kitchenette. She hiccuped through her tears and stuffed mouth.
The kills were easier. That much she knew. But the aftershocks were getting worse. She was taking longer and longer to recover after she did it. She tried to rationalize that it was the right thing to do. She attempted to reason with herself. Mercy was what she was offering. It was far more than had been given to her.
The memories flared inside her like fiendfyre, and she gagged through her sobs. She fumbled for her small clutch, and her arm dove inside the extendable charms. She pulled out a vial of dreamless drought and knocked it back while she scavenged for another but found none. Her tears only grew more consuming. She’d do anything not to feel. This was worse than the others had been. She hadn’t had to do two kills at once since the first time. Her stomach seized, and she vomited. She stumbled over her feet and crashed into the small table, manically reaching for any vial or potion she could find. Drought of Peace. She knocked it back and sank to the floor.