Chapter Text
Draco’s arm burned with an unexpected summons. Before the Dark Mark had stopped scorching his skin, he scrawled a note explaining his absence and pleading with her to wait. It would be his luck that she would finally appear as soon as he left.
Without further delay, Draco turned and apparated to Malfoy Manor’s abandoned rose garden. The magnificent garden his mother cultivated with every flower imaginable during his childhood had been replaced by a hauntingly unfamiliar maze. The thorn-filled bushes clawed into one another as they raced to choke out any competition; it seemed everything on the estate took direction from its new master to dominate and destroy. Black plumes rose from throughout the tangled mass of vegetation and signaled the other Death Eaters' arrivals.
Slipping into his role, Draco stalked past each column of smoke and cleared his mind. Hermione’s laugh escaped through Nott’s cloud of smoke. The memory of tracing his finger down her spine, connecting the constellations of her freckles as she breathed his name, evaporated with the wisps of Rowle’s shadow. The horcruxes the two of them destroyed, and the near constant search for the last remaining piece of Voldemort’s soul, fled with the Carrows' apparition. The peace he and Hermione shared in their stolen moments had no place here.
When he crossed the Manor’s threshold, his mind was empty. He filed towards the dining room. At the head of the Malfoy table, assessing each attendee, sat the Dark Lord. Nagini slithered up and coiled around his thin shoulders. Draco took the seat next to his father and stared straight ahead.
Draco forced himself to remain a blank slate, a still cauldron with an innocuous potion. He disconnected from the nausea building in his throat and the sweat that coated his palms. He adapted his posture and waited as he always did, with feigned confidence and indifference. Directly across from him, Goyle sat draped across a dining chair with an air of gloating satisfaction. Rowle slipped into the room and filled the last chair at the table.
“Welcome, friends,” the Dark Lord began, trailing his fingers along the snake’s body as he encapsulated her in a protective orb. “I called you here in celebration. My faithful servant Gregory has succeeded in providing me with what others have not.” Draco’s eyes shot to Goyle who smirked in obvious pride. “He delivered a high ranking Order member…that has mercifully survived questioning.”
Draco’s mouth felt like cotton as the room's attention subtly shifted in his direction. Everyone knew of the Dark Lord’s recent displeasure with him; his punishment had been the spectacle of the last meeting. Draco’s hands had trembled for days as the nerves healed. He may have to bring someone in alive soon, if only to maintain his cover and the access it allowed. It would require extensive obliviation and memory mod—
Draco blinked, catching his momentary lapse, and emptied his mind once again.
“He has proven that my standards are not so high as to be unachievable…if there is sufficient motivation.” Voldemort paused, leaning back into the velvet chair with his fingers steepled in front of him. Suspended in the air behind him, Nagini twisted in her glimmering protection. “Does anyone find themselves in need of the proper…incentive…to carry out my wishes and meet expectations?”
“No, my Lord,” the room spoke as one.
“Very well. Now, to the entertainment of the evening… Joining us tonight is a champion for sub-human rights. Someone who thinks that goblins, elves, werewolves, even giants deserve to be treated as our equals…and most astonishingly, should get paid for their servitude.” Voldemort grinned at the table's response as gasps and laughter filled the room. “Of course, this ‘champion’ stole the magic they wield from another…we can’t expect them to understand the intricate history that led to the creature's servitude.”
Draco sneered along with the rest to cover his disgust and shame; his father’s barbaric treatment of Dobby and the scars littering the goblins' faces at Gringotts lingered guiltily in the back of his mind. He lifted his gaze to the head of the table to find the Dark Lord’s cold, calculating eyes already on him. Draco met his stare with perfectly crafted joy.
“Bella,” Voldemort raised his voice. “Please introduce our honored guest of the evening.”
A scream wrenched through the dining room, and Draco saw the triumphant gleam in Voldemort’s eyes as recognition turned his own blood cold. The role he was playing fell apart as his indifference died. Because he would know that voice even in death — Hermione.
She was here. Every one of his fears crashed into him at once with the realization that she was here. He had woken up next to her just that morning, breathed in her honey and lavender shampoo. She told him she had been assigned to the medical clinic! Draco hadn’t been aware of a raid — who the f*ck failed to notify him?
His wand bit into his palm as he threw up a shield, understanding now that this meeting was not a celebration but a trap. He pushed away from the table and ran. The Dark Lord's crucio shattered the shield and ricocheted straight into Goyle’s chest, leaving him writhing on the floor.
Ahead, his aunt’s cruel laughter taunted him, guiding him like a beacon. “Draco, come save your ickle mudblood!” she sang in a mock child-like voice.
Hermione's sobs filled in the spaces between his deafening heartbeat. He attempted to apparate directly to her but went nowhere. A f*cking disapparition ward — likely courtesy of Rowle. He couldn't run fast enough.
Lord Voldemort's voice echoed through the Manor, the sonorus charm amplifying his words to block out everything else. “Draco. You can still return to me… beg for my forgiveness… accept your punishment. I am merciful to those who learn from their mistakes.”
Draco ignored the offer and burst through the doors of the drawing room. Hermione’s crumpled form lay underneath the massive crystal chandelier spilling blood and tears onto the onyx tile. Bellatrix circled her slowly, heels ticking on the tile like a clock counting down to the end. She paused and, with a sweep of her arm, allowed Draco to take in the scene.
“Isn’t she darling?” Bellatrix whispered as her head co*cked to the side, a smirk threatening to creep up one side of her mouth. “I think I understand what you find so appealing… She’s so responsive!” Her wand twitched and Hermione screamed, convulsing on the ground.
Draco, desperate to pull Bellatrix’s attention from Hermione, sent a curse straight at his aunt’s chest. She simply dismissed it with a sad*stic smile.
Draco’s eyes flicked back to Hermione, now silent and motionless. Blood streaked down her forearm and onto the black tile underneath her in rivulets. Hermione’s glazed eyes followed the red path, seemingly transfixed by what she saw. Her attention never turned to him. When he saw her body heave, he felt the bile he’d forced down earlier creep up his throat.
What had Bellatrix done?
“I knew you would come to fight for your pet,” Bellatrix laughed maniacally. “But really now, did you learn nothing from me? You didn’t even teach her basic occlumency… She didn’t stand a chance once the Dark Lord gave her to me!” She clicked her tongue in disapproval.
With a sharp blow, Bellatrix attempted to penetrate his mind. Draco felt the brute force she used like knives but did not yield. The countless hours during Sixth Year she’d spent tearing through his mind, leaving him no privacy, were gone. Pain had been a quick teacher.
Fortunately, she continued to underestimate him and he breached her mind like diving into frigid water. The split second of shock allowed him to push deeper in search of what she had done to Hermione.
He felt the give of the knife into soft skin at the same time he saw it: Hermione screaming and gasping, her body flailing, blood pooling underneath the knife as it carved one word… Each letter brought a surge of pain to Draco’s temple.
M U D B L O O D
Fury and grief flooded his body immediately, standing at the forefront of his mind and demanding retribution. But regret laced itself quietly between them. Regret that he, as a naïve child, introduced her to the cruelty of the word now branded on her skin.
“How dare you, you traitorous filth!” Bellatrix roared, her eyes bulging with her next words. “I taught you everything and you dare use it on me?” She stepped over Hermione and advanced on him, matching the intensity of his rage.
He began dueling in earnest.
Driven by his overwhelming need for vengeance, Draco took full advantage of Bellatrix’s temper. Because he had watched her in hundreds of fights, he knew that once she became angry she became messy. He stepped back in what he hoped resembled retreat and she followed. He blocked the barrage of curses shooting from her wand tip and took another step back, effectively leading her away from Hermione.
Once they were at a safe distance, Draco went from simply blocking each curse to redirecting them right back at her, aiming for her chest. Soon, she was dancing circles around him to avoid her own spells — Crucio. Imperio. Sectumsempra. Crucio.
Draco added his own curse into the fray. Incarcerous.
Heavy cords wound around Bellatrix’s body like vines, dropping her to the floor with a screech. At his will, the cords constricted around her throat. She gasped and flailed, arching her back in futile effort against the bindings. She turned her head, allowing just enough space to speak through the tight collar. “Blood traitor —” she sputtered, barely understandable. Her disgusting hair tangled into her mouth and her eyes bulged until the small blood vessels there burst.
Draco tightened the cords until she lost the ability to speak or breathe. He looked down and spit onto her dying body. “How dare you touch her.”
Bellatrix’s body slumped back down to the floor, all fight gone, and lay twitching as oxygen deprivation slowly killed her.
Draco turned to Hermione, not wasting another moment.
