Light and Shadow

March – September 1997

Hermione’s house is located outside Longhope village in the Forest of Dean. It’s a spacious, single-story cottage with a dark green roof and bricks in sundry browns that blend into the woods. It has a garden as large as the Burrow’s. Hermione grows herbs for making potions there. Pungous Onion, Sopophorous plants, glory-of-the-snow, roses. She uses a spell that mimics the native environment of each herb, so her garden looks like a colony of disparate ecosystems.

When she tends the garden, Virginia either stays in the cottage or twines around Hermione’s neck. The viper seems to find the soil repugnant and other animals boorish. “You’re like a pure-blood snob,” she’d say to Virginia. Virginia would stick her tongue out with annoyance and tip her head higher. Hermione isn’t angry. She’s grateful for Virginia’s company when the nearest sign of civilization is miles away. Virginia still doesn’t talk to her. She always watches Hermione like a hawk. But there have been improvements in their relationship. The viper has outgrown temper tantrums if Hermione neglects to season a raw rabbit with egg white. It could just be Virginia isn’t a baby anymore. Are younger snakes more finicky eaters than the old? That sounds like a question Hermione would have if Virginia was a pet. She has to regularly remind herself that Virginia is no mundane pet.

Since Snape’s revelations, their sessions have stalled. She sent a note to him saying she needed more time. He has honored it and not come to the cottage. Hermione rounded up her notes and stashed them in one of the spare rooms. She doesn’t want to think about Snape’s “choose wisely” or Dumbledore’s plan. Hermione had thought she was able to achieve anything if she gave every piece of herself but marrying a Death Eater is a line she can’t cross. What would Harry or Ron say? Would they denounce her as a coward? They would understand…but Harry is dead, and Ron is fighting with the Order while she’s living a peaceful life in a cottage. Guilt has festered in her like Nagini’s venom. She tries to ignore it.

Hermione hasn’t quit studying. Snape speculates that Nagini’s venom in her body provides a level of immunity to the effects of practicing Dark Magic—the reason she hasn’t experienced Dark Magic’s toll on her. As a result, she’s been laboriously experimenting with magical healing with Dark spells. Once she overcame the grossness of dissection and morality of doing Dark magic on animals, her research has been stimulating. She enhanced her Fire Draught prescription by adding the vaporized shell of a Fire Crab after a Dark vaporization spell. Snape said her recovery is hugely promising. This has emboldened her to hypothesize. If Nagini’s venom wards off Dark Magic’s taint, can she create a potion with her blood in it, so it lessens, or cleanses, the taint on its drinker?

When Hermione isn’t in the lab or waiting for a potion, she bakes in the kitchen. She’s never envisaged being a housewife—she’d rather serve Butterbeer in Hogsmeade. But baking has been her meditation. She developed her signature Shepherd’s Pie. It’s an amalgam of her mother’s and Mrs. Weasley’s recipes along with a couple of tweaks from the Hogwarts house-elves’ recipe. Sometimes, the scents of potions and food clash in the living room. Virginia would sequester herself in Hermione’s bedroom or the miniature library in the cottage until the smell dissipates. There’re spells to contain odors, but it’s nice to not have magic everywhere.

She’s ventured outside Longhope multiple times with a scarf, her scars Transfigured away. She misses Snape’s collection of books at Spinner’s End. On a sunny day in London, she’d Apparate to an abandoned tube station and stroll to a Waterstones. One afternoon, she was browsing the History section of the Waterstones in Oxford. Ancient history and intellectual history are her favorites. In her second year at Hogwarts, she was obsessed with Muggle mythologies and ancient scripts. Her excitement at the prospect of Ancient Runes had miffed Harry and Ron. Hemione sighed inaudibly—the days of enthusiasm for Quidditch or exam jitters were buried in that graveyard.

“Her—Hermione?”

She blinked. “Adam?”

It was Adam. His family and hers had been neighbors at Heathgate. They’d moved out of London in the summer of her third year.

How can he recognize her with the disguise? Maybe it was something about being childhood friends. He has to be obliviated.

“Hi.” He ran a hand through his curly sable hair and nudged his glasses. The gestures were typical Adam. He gave Hermione a timid smile. “You're so...different! Your hair! I wasn’t sure if you were—you.”

“I dyed it. Sorry, I have a fever,” she said apologetically, not wanting to expose her face in public. “Do you mind a hug?” He was one of the few Muggle friends she had. Her bookishness hadn’t earned her playmates. Adam loved books, too. While other children embarked on adventures in the neighborhood, she and Adam would read together in one of their homes or the shade of a willow.

“Of course not!” He beamed as his arms encircled her. He was taller, his look more rugged. There was a serenity and shyness in his face that hinted at his introvert personality.

“You’re back in London?”

“Yeah,” he said, the same timid smile tugged at his lips. “For college—at Oxford. History and English major.”

“Congratulations! It was your dream!”

“What about you? Still at that private school?”

“No—Yeah. It’s the summer holiday,” she said, picking at her scarf awkwardly. After years of stealthy exploits with Harry and Ron, she was only mediocre at deception.

“Are you applying for college? I can help with your application.” His eyes twinkled. “Oxford is great! I can show you around.”

Oh, Adam… “Thank you,” she grimaced. “But I think I’m going abroad.”

He sagged. “Oh, I thought you liked London.” He brightened up a fraction. “You’re here now. That’s what matters. You should go outdoors more. You’ll be homesick for it.”

“I will be. So, what brought you here?” She asked, diverting him from her college plans. She hated lying to Adam like this.

“I just came from the Bod. I’m sifting through the books for my thesis,” he said, nudging his glasses again. “It’s about the evolution of narrative fiction.”

“You were mad about novels from all those periods I couldn’t tell apart.” She grinned. “I’m glad you’re following your passion.”

Adam straightened and looked around self-consciously. “I’m heading for a coffee and the paper. Want to come?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what’s good. You’re leading.” She stepped to his side.

His smile broadened. “Don’t worry. I got you.”

They rambled in the streets of Oxford. Adam pointed out the reputable bookstores, bakeries, and cafes. When they stopped for the paper, the headlines blared out like a siren:

Adam said something.

“Pardon?”

“Crazy world, huh?” He said, a small frown on his face as he scanned the paper.

“Yeah…” Hermione couldn’t focus.

“Sorry. The news is depressing. The coffee will be better,” he said, lightening the tone.

They had coffee. It was too bitter for her taste. Hermione bid Adam goodbye and luck with his thesis and Apparated back to Longhope. She tossed in her bed that night as Harry’s bloody corpse fired curses at her.

Dumbledore died in June. Draco Malfoy murdered him. In the Great Hall. In front of the whole school—professors and students. With the Killing Curse. Malfoy, who pathetically sought Snape’s guidance in March, practically slew Albus Dumbledore with such dramatic flair. Something—remolded him. How did he master the Killing Curse in three months?

Snape became the Headmaster. A congratulatory message seemed inappropriate. She canceled her Daily Prophet subscription after that. Since the headlines in the Muggle paper gave her the nightmare about Harry, more night terrors have plagued her. Neither the Sleeping Draught nor the Dreamless Sleep Potion works. Whenever her mind wanders to Harry, Ron, and the war, she’d sweat profusely as heat spreads over her body, and her breathing would spiral. Draught of Peace and Calming Draught are useless. Hermione just lets it be. These episodes are reminders of her nonexistent input into the war. They’re her punishment.

One morning, she finds a strip of paper on the windowsill. In Snape’s handwriting is one brief sentence: Bellatrix Lestrange killed Ginevra Weasley. The postscript is “funeral at the Burrow on August 31, 4:00 PM, invitation attached.” An envelope materializes. The wind whirls away the strip as Hermione flops into her bed.

Harry died. And Dumbledore. Now Ginny.

Each death feels—

Less.

Why isn’t she crying?

Ginny, Ginny died. Am I even sad? Why am I not crying?

Hermione is aghast. Or numb. Or both. It’s like an anesthetic smothered her emotions.

Her last memory of Ginny is two years old. Her isolation is a veil over her past that has metamorphosed into the present. There is a Hermione before Nagini’s venom and a Hermione after. The one before feels like an amputated limb. Familiar but not wholly hers.

She doesn’t know Ginny intimately as she does Harry and Ron. Ginny had her group of friends. But she was Hermione’s closest friend besides the boys. Hermione spent weeks of summer with her at the Burrow and chatted with her in the common room about Harry, Ron, the families, the professors, schoolwork…Ginny was her family’s gem. Mrs. Weasley had wanted a girl. A sister to six big brothers. Ron’s little sister…

Hermione pushes herself out of the bed. She isn’t in the war. At least, she can—should—see Ginny off.

On August 31, Hermione covers her face with a scarf, fastens the invitation in her black robe, and Apparates to the Burrow. The sky clouds over. A drizzle saturates the unstirring air.

Rows of wooden chairs cleaved by an aisle line neatly in the field. They face a marble table where a figure with red hair aglow rests tranquilly, an assortment of flowers ringing her. Ginny looks so serene that she could be having a sweet dream. Wizards and witches stud the chairs. They’re conversing in hushed voices. Bill Weasley is checking the invitations. When it’s Hermione’s turn, she fishes out her invitation with a shaky hand. Bill casts a spell over the envelope. An illustration of the Burrow with Snape’s name ripples on the flap. He appraises Hermione with narrowed eyes. “Snape invited you? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Yes, he did. Ginny was—I’m in Slytherin,” she blurts. “Ginny was a friend. I wasn’t in her group of Gryffindors, but she was kind to me.”

Bill nods. “What year are you in?”

“Seventh.” She’d be in her seventh year.

“Your parents?”

“Mom is a Muggle. Dad’s—was—a half-blood.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. Her answer seems acceptable to him. He waves her through.

As she traipses to an empty chair in the middle—she doesn’t want attention, Ron is walking toward her. Horrified for a second, she thought he made her out. She blows out a breath as Ron goes around her to his parents.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley have more creases than they did at the Quidditch World Cup. Their hair has traces of white. Mr. Weasley slouches as though the Burrow itself was his shoulders. The greatest shock is Ron. He carries himself like the oldest child. He stands bolt upright, head erect and eyes hard as the marble table. He has a soldierly gait. The war has hardened him.

By four o’clock, the guests have quieted down. The Weasleys are in the front row. Fleur Delacour nestles against Bill and tenderly rubs his back. Are they a couple? Behind them are other Order members—Moody, Shacklebolt, Professor McGonagall, and a woman with startling pink hair. Notably absent are Hagrid, Professor Lupin, and Sirius. Hermione prays they’re safe. There’s a sizeable band of Gryffindors. Most of the Gryffindor tower is here. Oliver Wood, Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordan, Katie Bell, Lavender Brown, Dean, Seamus, Neville, Colin, Parvati with her sister, and a blonde in Ravenclaw robe.

The ceremony flies by, the eulogy a buzz. Hermione can’t process it. She just gazes at Ginny. A void swells inside her. Finally, the marble table is Transfigured into a tomb, the flowers sliding down to its base. The guests disperse. Soon, Hermione is among the sprinkling of guests. She hastens to the exit. So much for minimal attention.

“Miss?” The voice is more resonant, but it’s unmistakably Ron’s.

Her hand guiltily grazes her scars. “Mr. Weasley.” Hermione scrutinizes this new Ron. He’s undeniably mellowed. The neck below his left ear is interlaced with scars.

“Bill said you’re from Snape?” His brow quirks curiously.

“Yes.”

“How ’d you get your scars?”

“Owls,” she says.

“You’re graduating next year?”

“Yes.”

“Your invitation is Snape’s. You must be someone to him?” It is astounding. Ron. Being a subtle conversationalist.

“Tomorrow is the first day of school. He’s busy, so he can’t come anyway,” Hermione says. An urge to defend Snape springs up. “You’re wrong about Professor Snape. He cares.”

Ron grunts. “If you ever consider being an Auror—or just part of the war, Moody or I will help.” He smiles. “We need fighters. You can be the second Slytherin in the Order.”

“I’ll…think about it. Thank you.” Hermione hesitates. This might be the only chance to discuss Harry with him. “You were friends with Harry Potter?”

His smile falters. “I was.”

“I’m sorry—about your friend—and Ginny,” she says incoherently.

Ron softens and looks away. After a moment, he says, “I’m a Gryffindor. I bleed for my family and friends. I hope Harry and…another friend…would be proud of me.”

Hermione holds back tears with sheer willpower. Accept. Accept. She accepts Harry and the Ron she knew are lost to her.

“They would be,” she says.

After the funeral, she Apparates to Spinner’s End. She hasn’t been here since March, but the street is as caliginous as ever. She perches on the doorstep until the door gives out, and Snape drags her in. “Are you intentionally thwarting my day one as Headmaster, Miss Granger? You activated the ward. I Apparated back from Hogwarts.”

“No, Professor.” She adjusts her robe. “I’ve made a decision.”

Snape plucks two books from a stack and inserts them into a compilation on the bookshelf. “Oh? Did the funeral spur an epiphany? I warn you, Miss Granger, you will regret whatever you decided.”

Hermione calms her frantic heart. “Dumbledore’s plan,” she says, her voice steady. “I’m in.”

Snape puts back a third book, unsurprised. “No. You did not deliberate. You’re being rash, emotional. Stew for a week, then we’ll see.”

“No, it’s been six months, and I can’t—” she breaks into a sob. “Don’t you understand? I can’t live like this—when everyone is at war. I couldn’t save Harry. I did nothing! My parents and my friends—” her chest spasms violently. Words pour out of her. “I’m dead to them, but they’re not dead to me. You said—you said it’s not worth it if I can’t protect the people I live for. I’m not protecting anyone by idling in my cottage—I’m protecting only myself! If I have to whore myself, so be it! I know my exposure would endanger you and the Order. I’ll take precautions. A suicide pill. I’ll train twice as hard. Doing nothing is worse. It’ll be for Harry, for Dumbledore, for Ginny, my parents, and you! I cared about them, and I care about you. You could’ve let Nagini eat me or backed out anytime. You didn’t—haven’t. You’re as much as my friend as Harry and Ron were, so you’re not going to fight this war—spying on Voldemort in the dark—alone.” She heaves a breath, blinking away the moistness and wiping her cheeks. “When I saw Ginny on that table, it was morbid, but it didn’t shatter me. If it was you on that table, I—I think it would. Harry and Ron are gone. I won’t lose you. Wouldn’t you do anything for those you care about?”

Snape slowly turns around. His arms are stiff. His wide, inky eyes nail her to the floor. He seems to be spellbound by something Hermione said. After minutes, he whispers, “Anything… anything? You could have been a Slytherin.”

Hermione knits her brows uncertainly.

“Quite an entreaty,” he says in a louder voice. “Very well, Miss Granger, we shall proceed.”

Four Months Ago

Many years later, Hermione would wonder if she hadn’t found him writhing and weeping in the woods, if she had killed him when he begged her to, if she hadn’t treated and befriended him, if she hadn’t used him, things would be different; she would realize, even before the heart baring and silly promises, they were already broken.

It was a hazy afternoon. Hermione was poring over her Death Eater profiles and notes about Voldemort’s reign. Snape had set a due date for her: September 1. Hermione must make herself known to Voldemort before this September, and she had made nil headway. Years of training would go down the drain if she couldn’t get close to Voldemort. This was all so frustrating! But she was Hermione Granger, and Hermione Granger—old and new—did not fail.

As she was sorting a catalog of members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the wards pulsated with a muffled boom. Hermione instantly snatched her wand and leaped up. There were tens of protective enchantments around the cottage. Some were spontaneous wards, like Repello Muggletum and the Intruder Charm; others were designed, including a blood ward only crossable to carriers of her or Snape’s blood. An incredible amount of magic must have been unleashed to rock the multilayered wards. Virginia whizzed out of her bedroom like a lance of blue. She was at Hermione’s feet within seconds. The viper’s speed never ceased to astonish Hermione.

Dark Magic. Strong. I can smell it. Virginia says in her lyrical voice. She had started to address Hermione since Hermione’s agreement to Dumbledore’s plan. Her speech was always succinct. A snake of few words.

“Where?” Speaking Parseltongue by instinct was a bizarre feeling. What was it like for Harry…No. Concentrate. Do not think about Harry.

A man. Three hundred feet from the garden. Dangerous. Virginia crooked her head, as if listening for something.

“It might be more dangerous if we don’t act,” she said. “Can you pinpoint the source of the magic?”

Naturally, Virginia jibed.

With Virginia ahead of her, Hermione crossed the wards into the woods. The viper tensed halfway. The man. His magic is…powerful, but it smells wrong. Wary awe in her voice. He is weak. A coma?

They quickened their pace. In moments like this, Virginia seemed to subconsciously understand Hermione.

They reached a narrow clearing. The verdure was rampageous, the brambles haphazardly bulldozed aside. In the center was a man—

Not a man.

Hermione drew a sharp breath.

A Death Eater.

The Death Eater wore the customary mask and black robe. His hood was flattened against the earth, revealing his wavy, ivory hair.

He was not moving.

Gryffindor red. Or is that—

Blood.

Both motionless.

Harry…

Hermione banished the image from her mind. Concentrate.

Suddenly, the Death Eater writhed as a raw wail was torn out of him like being Cruciated.

Hermione screams.

The pain is shredding her to a thousand pieces.

No.

Concentrate.

She kneeled down beside the Death Eater and cast a Dark diagnostic spell she invented. It was a modified Cruciatus that would circulate a rivulet of diagnostic current throughout the body and an illusion spell to project the analysis. Much faster than the standard diagnostic spells that could run for minutes. The projection displayed heightened neural activity in the brain. No internal or external physical injuries. She frowned. “Virginia, any thoughts?”

The viper slithered forward. I smell a…potion in him. Dark magic. Not poison.

Hermione tried to remove his mask, but it wouldn’t budge. Should she take him back to the cottage? That’d be a one-way ticket to calamity. The wards were there to fend off dangers, and a Death Eater was the definition of danger. But…

Ideas sparked in her head. They wove together into brilliant silk. Yes…that would work. Hermione knew exactly what to do with the Death Eater. Fate had gifted her an opportunity to finally meet Voldemort.

Hermione went back to the cottage with the Death Eater. She conjured a stretcher because he’d fallen while writhing without support. After placing him on the couch, she made a draught to calm him. Another one of her inventions. An animal ingredient of this draught was cursed with Imperius that had sedated it. Again, it was more effective than the standard draughts. She fed it to him through the mouth hole with the Levitation Charm and a funnel spell.

The writhing didn’t abate. Nor did the painful wails.

The scene was something out of a Muggle horror movie. Especially with his ghastly mask and ominously black garb jarring with her homey cottage.

His arm flailed off the couch as he quaked with a raging convulsion. Hermione lifted up the arm. The Death Eater shot out his hand and clutched her forearm as though it was a lifeline, and he was drowning.

“Please,” his stifled voice pleaded. “Please. End me. Kill me. Please.”

Hermione jerked. “W-What?”

“Kill me. Kill me. However you like. Please.” He began to sob.

“I don’t—”

“Anything.” His hand tautened. “I’ll give anything. What do you want? Anything but my life. Please? ” It was a feathery murmur.

How dare he? How dare he be a Death Eater and beg for his death? How dare he say “anything?” She’d do anything to win the war. His pleading was absurd, foul, and…pathetic. She balked.

“Please! Don’t go. Don’t go,” he groaned. “It hurts everywhere.”

Remembering her plan, Hermione eased toward him. “How do I stop it?”

“You—can—not,” he ground out, his back arching.

She wrapped her hand around his arm, squeezing him reassuringly. “How to relieve it?”

“Can’t,” he growled.

“Can’t or won’t?”

He slightly slackened his grip, sinking into the couch. “Just…don’t go. Please?”

“Alright.” She nodded and curled up against the couch.

He kept thrashing and moaning.

He held onto her.

The Death Eater’s illness continued into the night. Around midnight, it abruptly vanished as if it’d been a fluke. He didn’t wake up. She tucked his hand under a blanket she summoned from her bedroom. She was resistant to cold, so there was no heat in the cottage.

Hermione drew a vial of his blood and analyzed the Dark potion Virginia mentioned.

It was an ingenious creation.

Whoever formulated this potion was in a league of their own. Snape would be envious.

The spellwork incorporated Cruciatus and Imperius so seamlessly like one was an organic extension of the other. The unsettling hallmark was the volume of blood and prohibited creature ingredients. The creator must be seriously rich and politically connected.

Hermione checked on the Death Eater at dawn. The diagnostic spell read normal. Virginia was out hunting. Hermione’s cooking couldn’t satiate the viper anymore. She fell asleep in a chair by the couch.

Hermione was in a graveyard, Death Eaters jeering and cursing at her.

Voldemort.

Nagini.

She was writhing and screaming.

This is a dream. A nightmare.

This is not real.

Her eyes snapped open to a Death Eater.

Reclining on her couch.

Her cottage.

Not the graveyard. Not Voldemort.

But she was in midair, her arms flung out. The Death Eater was dexterously twirling her wand. His wand was nowhere in sight. He was poised, his long legs outspread, one arm carelessly hanging over the couch as though it was his throne. The white of his hair contrasted with the black of his robe. She could feel his eyes on her through his mask.

“What is your name?” His voice was colder than Snape’s. And hollow.

“Penelope Clearwater.” The first name that came to her.

“Blood status?”

“Ha—half-blood.”

His magic collided with her Occlumency shield, and she was ready.

Hermione feigned resistance. After a few collisions between his Legilimency and her Occlumency, she let him in.

She arranged her memories so the ones about him were at the top. They were followed by memories Snape had constructed and planted in her. Her memories of Snape and Hogwarts were sealed in a hidden alcove of her mind. The Death Eater rummaged through her memories, ripping open books and ransacking drawers.

It was not painless. Shivers convulsed her as tears and sweat dampened her face. He withdrew when the drawers of books bored him. Hermione still couldn’t see where his wand was. He pulled off that level of Legilimency wandlessly? That would defy the laws of Magic. Was he a born Legilimens? No. A born Legilimens’ technique would be more fluid.

“I didn’t find your name in there, girl.”

“I don’t know your name either. Or your face.” She pasted on a pleasant smile. “We’re more than even, mask.”

“You know what the mask means?”

“Yes,” she said. “Death Eater.”

“You are not afraid?”

“Of you? No.”

You should be. Hermione flinched as he said it into her mind, her shield shuddering under his strength. His Legilimency was mind-boggling.

“Why should I be afraid of someone who took that vile potion?” She probed.

He leaned forward. “What did you say?”

“The potion in you. I know what it does. It stockpiles emotions and transfigures it into a bout of physical pain, so you’re emotionally dead for six and a half days a week and physically tortured for twelve hours. There’s Cruciatus in that potion. You begged me to kill you. Do you remember?”

He hissed and lunged at her. “Who told you?” He said, his tone a sharp knife. She noticed he was levitating as she was. No wand.

“It’s not hard to run tests on your blood, and I’m trained in potions.”

He inched closer and seemed to reconsider her. “You knew what I am and tempted me anyway. You think you’re smart. I have known mouthy, arrogant fools like you. Some I killed outright; some I played with and killed; some killed themselves before I was done with them.” He chuckled. It sent a tremor through her spine. “You’re powerless against me. Do you know how vulnerable you are right now?” He rested his hand on her throat and squeezed tightly. His hand had lost all the desperation and supplication when he’d held her last night. It languidly traveled down to her stomach and splayed to cup her breast. His thumb and index finger kneaded her flaccid flesh. His touch wasn’t…arousing. It was lackadaisical.

Hermione stiffened. This is trivial. It could’ve been worse.

“Don’t make this boring for me, girl.” He craned his neck, the mask chafing her face. “How long you live depends on how pleased I am with you.”

“How’re you feeling?”

His hand loosened. “What?”

“I-I treated you. You asked me to stay with you, and I did,” she said.

“Talk and I will silence you,” he snarled. “A pity that you will be less fun.”

“The potion is doing this to do. This is not you.” She searched for his eyes behind the mask. “I don’t know what you went through that you’re paralyzing yourself with that potion. Your feelings are the only thing that’s fully yours. They should be precious to you. Instead, you bottle them up. How does it feel to not feel anything?”

“Silent!” His other hand grasped her jaw. “What. I. Went. Through?” He bit on each word. “You know nothing, girl. I will kill you, and I will take my sweet time.”

“Please—” Hermione choked out. A tear streamed down her cheek. “I thought you were dying. I wanted to help. After the potion, you’d be jaded and sore. But you aren’t now, are you?” He froze. “I gave you pain relievers and a draught for fatigue. I-I formulated them. If you’d like, I’ve brewed more.”

“I DON’T NEED YOUR HELP!” He bellowed, wandlessly hurling her across the room. She smashed into the dining table.

Her head throbbed and swam. “Please…the potions…labeled in the lab.” She grappled with a table leg. He was…by the couch? Her vision blurred. “They’re…taken fresh…come here next week. Don’t…have to…alone.” She swayed and collapsed in a heap.

Hermione awoke to Virginia snuggling up to her. She was in her bed. The Death Eater was gone. She—her bed? She was in her bedroom. The blanket he slept in swathed her, her wand on the bedside table.

I sensed Magic. Came back. You were here. Virginia said.

“I wasn’t.” She massaged her temples. “The Death Eater?”

Did not see him.

Memories resurfaced. The Death Eater had attacked her and…assaulted her. She suppressed a tremble. But he’d put her in her room after she passed out. In a blanket. He wasn’t thoroughly uncaring.

Hermione staggered to the lab. The potions were gone. He’d taken them.

So, he could be receptive. Reasonable. She assembled the facts:

1. He didn’t rape her or dismember her.
2. He didn’t Cruciate her.
3. He didn’t report her to the Snatchers.
4. He didn’t leave her on the floor.
5. He was powerful. His wandless magic was unheard-of.

What kind of Death Eater was he? This Death Eater and Voldemort would easily topple the Order. Who was he?

A week later at dusk, Hermione was anxiously pacing the perimeter of the cottage’s wards. Would he come? If he didn’t, she’d be back to square one. Was there anything she could have done differently? Maybe if she had pleased him…Her chest tightened. Hermione didn’t know what she’d do if he asked it of her. Her bravado in front of Snape was one thing. Doing it felt like something else entirely. Real.

She didn’t want to think about it.

At six o’clock, the wards shook. One second the birches bordering her garden were still. The next their leaves rustled ferociously. The Death Eater was a hairbreadth away from the wards.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She never thought she’d be happy to see a Death Eater.

Hermione pattered toward him, trying to not appear keen or scared. When she was an arm’s length from him, she sliced her palm and proffered him her hand. “There’s a blood ward. You must take my hand.”

The Death Eater didn’t respond as he laid his hand in hers. He had the slender fingers of a pianist. Hermione tore her eyes away from his hand and tugged him inside the wards. Once he was in, he immediately let go. She guided him to a room she’d cleared for him. He loomed behind her. The nape of her neck tingled.

“The calming draught.” She gestured. “Drink it before your potion. The pain relievers are for the morning.”

“Is there anything you need?” she added.

The Death Eater stood by the footboard of the bed. Hermione couldn’t tell what he was looking at. “Get out,” he suddenly said.

Hermione jumped. She averted her face and dashed out of the room.

She didn’t hear his screams that night. He must have warded himself in.

She couldn’t sleep knowing a person was undergoing a twelve-hour Cruciatus in her cottage.

She just stared at his room’s door as the pain relievers simmered in the cauldrons.

It was the most oppressive twelve hours of her life.

She’d prefer if he hadn’t silenced the room. It was like he’d cut himself off from the world. He had been cruel to Hermione. She had no doubt his brutality matched his power. But tonight, this potion, was his brutality onto him. His own body and mind. The more Hermione pondered, the more unknowable he was. She was so curious. What had he been through? Why didn’t he refuse her?

When the clock chimed six, Hermione tiptoed into the room. His wards didn’t hinder her. She administered the pain relievers to him and waited.

Around noon, he walked out with no visible pain or exhaustion. Hermione stared at him from the dining table. It got a dent when she crashed into it. He turned in her direction. Her breath hitched in her throat. She fisted her hands in the pockets of her blouse. Did he want—

“Do you—”

He swiveled around and left.

It continued for months.

The Death Eater would Apparate to the edge of the wards. He would take her bloody hand and release her the instant he was inside.

They would go back to the cottage together. He would lock himself in and be subjected to that potion. She would give him the pain relievers after twelve hours. He would get up and mutely depart.

It was their wordless ritual.

One time, Hermione offered him her hand as usual. But when he entered through the wards, his hand lingered in hers. His skin was warm. Soft. It felt more human.

Maybe she was desperate for touch. No one had touched her for so long. He began to pull back.

She twined her fingers in his and looked up at him.

He held onto her.

She was in his room when he woke up. He didn’t throw her out. He didn’t speak either.

She didn’t need him to.

Now she could be in proximity to him without provoking him. She would execute the last phase of her plan.

Present Day

In the afternoon of the day the Death Eater was due to visit, Hermione sent her Patronus to Snape with a message: see you on the other side.

Nothing more can be said. Tomorrow is the day.

She greets the Death Eater. They hold hands. He consumes his potion.

The ritual unfolds with no accidents.

In the morning, Hermione changes into a vintage dress of midnight green and a glossy, black coat. She models the style after Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange. The two women are the extent of female Death Eater fashion. She’s braided her hair and Transfigured Virginia into a snake carcanet. Unsure if Narcissa and Bellatrix wear makeup, she simply applies dark red lipstick and black eyeliner.

Hermione casts a silencing spell on her and treads into his room. The andesitic in the pain relievers should be taking effect now. He won’t feel what she’s about to do.

Levitating his left arm, she rolls up his sleeve at a painstakingly slow speed until—

The Dark Mark.

It warps on his pale skin like a diseased lump.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to him.

At that moment, his head whips to her.

But she was faster.

She’s been preparing for this for three years.

“I, a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, humbly request an audience with you, Dark Lord,” she says in Parseltongue to the Mark. The Death Eater is frozen, perhaps stunned by the snake language.

The snake in the Mark coils sinuously. He gasps.

And then they Apparate.

It is déjà vu as she spins across space.

Three years ago, the Cup delivered her to Voldemort.

Now she will see him again.

The Death Eater lands on top of her. She wrestles under his weight. In a maddened grunt, he seizes her throat, jabbing his wand into her face. “You’re dead—”

“ArchGeneral.”

That voice.

Hermione will never forget that voice.

Voldemort.

She did it.

Relief surged through her. Relief and pride. Her training. All these years. It’s worth—

She stilled.

ArchGeneral.

Voldemort called the Death Eater ArchGeneral.

Rodolphus Lestrange? No. It cannot be. Rodolphus is a weed.

This Death Eater is everything Rodolphus is not.

“You have a pleasant surprise for us, I believe?” Voldemort says. “Join us. You have been eschewing these Sunday lunches. And bring forth the one who spoke to your Mark.”

The Death Eater—ArchGeneral—roughly lifts her up, his hand a vise on her neck.

Hermione looks around. They’re in a dimly lit hall. The walls are bare. In the middle is a banquet table like the ones in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Voldemort sits at the head, Death Eaters on the sides. Bellatrix is on his right, twirling a glass, unfazed by the commotion. There’s Yaxley, Dolohov, and Rookwood. They cluster around Voldemort. She can name each Death Eater at the table. They are the Inner Circle. No Snape. Or any of the Malfoys. She and the ArchGeneral are opposite to Voldemort. This end of the table isn’t occupied.

“You may unmask, ArchGeneral. Augustus, make room for the ArchGeneral.”

Rookwood, who’s on Bellatrix’s left, bows his head and rises. A spindly house-elf transfers Rookwood’s plates to his new spot.

Pressed against her, the ArchGeneral taps his wand on his mask. The mask puffs away like smoke.

Hermione turns.

She gapes.

Shock plummets into her like a landslide, clogging her throat. Air coagulates in her lungs. Her knees melt into jelly.

“Malfoy,” she breathes.

Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy.

He is the ArchGeneral.

One of Voldemort’s trio.

ArchGeneral.

Malfoy glances at her.

It’s a cursory glance. Then, his pupils dilate.

The shift is barely noticeable. But she can discern it.

His eyes have what Hermione expected. Coldness. Emptiness. A lurking cruelty.

And one more thing that she wouldn’t have dreamt of.

Recognition.

Recognition of her. Not the Hermione in the cottage.

But the Hermione who was unscarred. Who had brown, corkscrew curls.

Nobody at Ginny’s funeral recognized her. Adam did at the Waterstones, but she’d removed her scars beforehand.

Ron didn’t recognize her.

How does Malfoy—

Granger? He says into her mind.