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Chapter Text

The Pawn ♟️ is the most numerous and weakest piece in the game of chess.

Hermione’s scream split the air like shards of glass. It tore through the vaulted ceiling, jagged and raw, only to be met and twisted by Bellatrix Lestrange’s laughter. High and wild, it wrapped around the sound until it seemed as though the very walls of Malfoy Manor vibrated with delight at her torment.

“Such pretty noises, Mudblood,” Bellatrix crooned, leaning close enough that Hermione could smell the copper tang of her breath. The tip of her wand dug into Hermione’s ribs, pressing down. “Do you think your blood-traitor boys will save you? Do you think the Chosen One cares for the filth at his side?”

Hermione’s vision blurred, the black marble floor rippling under her. Pain roared through her like fire, leaving her nerves screaming. She clamped her jaw shut, teeth sinking into her lip until she tasted iron. She would not give them the satisfaction.

Bellatrix’s wand pressed harder into Hermione’s ribs, the tip glowing faintly red. Her eyes glittered maniacally. “Crucio!”

The curse ripped through Hermione. Her back bowed against the marble floor, every nerve screaming as though fire had been poured into her veins. Her voice broke in a ragged scream that scraped her throat raw.

Bellatrix’s laughter followed, shrill and delighted. “Ahh, such music. You Gryffindors do make the sweetest noise.” She crouched low, her wild hair spilling over Hermione’s face, her breath hot and sour. “Now, Mudblood… tell me. Where did you get it? Where did you get the Sword of Gryffindor?”

Another flick of her wand. The curse slammed into Hermione again. Her body convulsed, nails clawing deep furrows into the polished stone.

Bellatrix’s voice rose, cracked with frenzy. “You dare to steal from me? From my vault? My treasures?” She slashed the air with her wand, sending another lance of pain screaming through Hermione’s body. “Tell me who helped you! Where is the sword now?”

Hermione’s jaw locked against the cry that wanted to tear loose. Blood welled where her teeth bit into her lip. She clung to the copper taste, grounding herself.

The world blurred red and white and black.

She forced her mind away from the pain, clawing for memories. Her mother’s perfume, the warmth of her father’s hand as he led her across a busy street. The smell of Ron’s jumper after rain. Harry’s crooked smile in the firelight of their tent.

Hold on. For them. Hold on.

“Crucio!” Bellatrix shrieked again. Hermione screamed, her body arching, tendons straining. Tears streaked down her face, burning against her skin.

The curse lifted, leaving Hermione trembling and gasping on the floor. Bellatrix knelt beside her, one pale hand stroking Hermione’s sweat-damp curls with mock gentleness.

“Oh, but you’re strong, aren’t you?” she whispered, tilting her head. “Strong little Mudblood, pretending you won’t break. But they all break.” Her voice rose, manic again. “They all scream what I want to hear in the end!”

Hermione forced her eyes open, vision swimming, and met Bellatrix’s gaze. Her throat was too raw for words, but her stare held steady.

Bellatrix snarled, shoving her face close enough that Hermione could see the crack in her tooth. “Tell me where you got it!”

Another lash of the curse. Hermione’s scream tore out before she could stop it, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Her limbs flailed helplessly, pain flooding every inch of her.

The marble floor was cold beneath her cheek, cool against her fevered skin. She clung to it, clung to the rhythm of her own breath.

Bellatrix’s laughter rang out again, sharp. “So stubborn! But you will sing for me, little Mudblood. You’ll tell me everything before I’m done with you.”

Hermione’s vision darkened at the edges. Still, deep inside, beneath the agony, she clung to a single thought like a lifeline. I am not yours to break.

“Stop!” Harry’s voice cracked, frantic, as he lunged forward, only to be driven back by the wall of masked Death Eaters. His wand hand shook with fury.

“Leave her alone!” Ron shouted, raw panic breaking his voice. His face was streaked with sweat and blood, his eyes wild as he fought to push past Greyback’s looming bulk.

Above them, the chandelier shuddered, its countless crystal pendants tinkling. Then, through the shriek of curses and Hermione’s ragged screams, came a small, steady voice.

“Dobby has come to save Harry Potter.”

The chandelier crashed down, shattering against the marble. Crystal and gold exploded outward. Death Eaters shouted, throwing up shields, masks glinting in the fractured light. Spells ricocheted, scorching the carved pillars.

Harry seized the opening, hurling a curse that sent one cloaked figure sprawling. Ron’s hand closed around his sleeve, dragging him toward the small figure standing amid the wreckage.

But Hermione was still pinned. Bellatrix’s nails dug crescent moons into her arm, wand pressed so hard against her chest Hermione could feel the skin bruising beneath it.

“Go!” Hermione rasped, her voice breaking on blood and defiance. She coughed, choking, spat red onto the marble. “Go!”

Harry lunged, eyes wide, hand outstretched. Their fingertips brushed for a fleeting instant… then a curse screamed between them, green and merciless. The heat scorched his cheek as he jerked back. Ron yanked him toward the elf. Dobby’s magic swelled, bending the air, dragging them out of reach.

And then they were gone.

The silence that followed was worse than the screaming.

Hermione collapsed onto her side, chest heaving, the shards of the chandelier cutting into her palms. Around her, the glittering wreckage lay like a fallen constellation, stars scattered across the black floor.

Bellatrix’s laughter had softened to a hiss, her hair wild and her lip bleeding where a shard had struck her.

From the shadows, Lucius Malfoy stepped forward. His cane tapped once against the marble. His lip curled in disdain as he looked down at Hermione as if she were no more than dirt on the sole of his shoe.

“Take the Mudblood to the dungeons. I won’t have her stench in these halls any longer,” he said, voice dripping with contempt.

He flicked an impatient glance at his son, who had not moved from the corner.

Draco’s face was pale and still, but his hands betrayed him, fingers flexing, curling into fists at his sides.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He only stared at the floor as if hoping that the marble itself would swallow him whole.

The command hung in the air like a death sentence.

Rough hands seized Hermione by the shoulders, dragging her across the glass. Her skin tore, leaving bright streaks of blood across the shards.

She curled on the damp stone floor, every nerve still twitching with the aftershock of the Cruciatus. Her body shook uncontrollably, teeth chattering though the dungeon was not cold enough for it. The scent of iron clung to the air, metallic and sharp, the memory of her own screams echoing in her skull.

The door scraped open. Lantern light spilled across the stones, making her flinch.

Draco slipped inside, shutting it quickly behind him. His face was pale, drawn tight with something that wasn’t quite fear but wasn’t defiance either. He carried a bundle under one arm.

Hermione tried to push herself upright. Her muscles betrayed her, collapsing again beneath her.

Draco crouched. His wand trembled faintly as he angled it over her. “I can only mend the worst of it,” he muttered, voice low. “If I heal too much, they’ll know I’ve been down here.”

Light pulsed from his wand, warmth searing into her ribs where Bellatrix’s curse had cracked bone. Hermione gasped, then sagged as the pain ebbed from blinding to bearable.

He set a small vial and a crust of bread beside her hand.

Hermione hesitated, staring at the vial. The liquid shimmered faintly in the dim light, thick and dark. For a moment she wondered if it was poison, if this was mercy in disguise. She tipped it back anyway. The bitterness burned down her throat, but warmth spread in its wake, stitching her together where curses had torn her apart.

She stared at him, lips trembling, her voice rasping. “Why are you doing this?”

Draco’s gaze flicked away, jaw tightening. “I never wanted any of this, Granger. I’m… I’m sorry.”

The word hung between them, foreign and thin.

“If you never wanted this,” she rasped, eyes narrowing, “why don’t you stop it? Why stand in the corner while she tortured me?” His jaw clenched. For a heartbeat he looked ready to snap, then his shoulders sagged instead. “Because I can’t,” he said, voice rough. “Because every time I tried, it only made things worse.”

Hermione swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Do you know what will happen to me?”

Draco hesitated. For the first time, his composure cracked. “The Dark Lord will use you as he sees fit,” he said hoarsely. “But not here. Too many know you were brought to Malfoy Manor. They’ll move you. To Nott Manor.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. Her fingers tightened on the stone beneath her. “Will I be safer there? Away from your aunt?” she whispered.

Draco’s expression shuttered, but not quickly enough to hide the flicker of pity. He looked away, voice low and flat. “You’ll wish you were dead, Granger. Theodore Nott is unhinged.”

The lantern guttered as he turned, shadows swallowing his face. Then the door clanged shut, leaving her trembling in the dark.

The Bishop ♝ is considered a minor piece (like a knight) and is worth three points.

The farmhouse was nothing more than a blackened shed against the dusk. Smoke still curled from its timbers, drifting low over the churned fields. Mud sucked at boots as the Snatchers dragged their quarry forward, laughing, jeering, the stench of sweat and blood thick in the air.

Four prisoners stumbled at the end of the ropes, wrists bound, faces streaked with grime. Children still, some of them, shoulders hunched in on themselves as though they could shrink out of notice.

“Move,” one of the Snatchers barked, shoving a boy so hard he fell into the mud. Another laughed, planting his boot on the boy’s back to hold him down.

Then a voice cut across the field. Low. Smooth. “That will be enough.”

The effect was immediate. Laughter died. Rough hands fell away from the prisoners. Even the dogs tethered near the gate whined and went silent.

From the shadows of the ruined farmhouse, a tall figure emerged. Hood drawn, cloak brushing the dirt.

“It’s Nott,” someone muttered, hurried, like a curse.

One of the Snatchers straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Caught four of ’em, sir,” he said quickly. “Found them near Birmingham. All on the register.”

The figure pulled down his hood.

Theodore Nott’s face was pale in the failing light. Too young, some might think, for the role he carried. Too calm, until you saw the eyes. Cold grey, detached, as though none of this - not the prisoners, not the mud, not the begging - touched him at all.

He looked them over, bored, uninterested. “Names.”

The Snatcher fumbled with a parchment, reading them out. Theo’s gaze did not leave the line of captives. One girl trembled so violently the rope between them quivered.

“Please,” the boy who had been shoved into the mud whispered. His face was streaked with tears and dirt. “Please, I’ve done nothing. I’m not—”

“Kill him.”

The words left Theo’s mouth without weight, without pause, like issuing the simplest of instructions.

A wand lifted. A flash of green split the dusk.

The boy collapsed into the mud, body jerking once before stilling. The stench of it rose, sharp and sour. Silence followed, heavier than before. Even the roughest of them, men who had ripped rings from still-warm fingers, shifted uneasily when Theodore Nott passed.

None of them wanted to meet his gaze. Better Bellatrix’s shrieking madness than this silence, this unsettle calm.

Theo tilted his head slightly, as if marking a note in some invisible ledger. His cloak shifted as he stepped closer to the remaining three.

“What about them?” one of the Snatchers asked, voice low.

Theo’s eyes flicked to him. “You’ll wait until I decide.”

The man dropped his gaze immediately.

Theo paced slowly before the captives, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Age,” he said. His tone was smooth, almost bored. “Occupation. Wand.”

The first girl stammered, words tumbling out between sobs. He cut through them like a blade. “Clear enough. Next.”

The second boy swallowed hard. He tried to lie, voice shaking as he claimed his parents were both wizards. Theo’s wand was in his hand before the boy finished. A muttered spell, a brief shimmer of blue light, and the rope bindings around the boy sparked, reacting to his blood.

“Lie again,” Theo said softly, “and I’ll take your tongue before your life.”

The boy broke down, admitting everything in a rush. Half-blood. No wand.

Theo dismissed him with a flick of his eyes. “Work detail.”

The last girl remained. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. She clutched the rope with white-knuckled hands, shaking.

“P-please,” she whispered. “I can—I can scrub floors, anything—”

Theo studied her for a long moment. His face was unreadable. Then he gave a single, precise nod.

Relief flooded her features so quickly it was almost obscene. She sagged in her bonds, tears spilling silently.

Theo turned to the Snatchers. “Dispose of the body. Send the others down to London for processing. And for Merlin’s sake—” His eyes narrowed as one Snatcher clumsily kicked at the corpse. “—do it cleanly. I won’t tolerate sloppiness.”

The man nodded hastily, muttering apologies.

Theo took out a handkerchief, immaculate white, and wiped his wand with deliberate care. The cloth came away streaked with mud and something darker. He folded it neatly and tucked it back into his pocket.

Behind him, the prisoners were dragged off, stumbling and sobbing. Snatchers scrambled to obey, voices hushed now, their earlier bravado smothered.

“Bloody hell,” one of them whispered, not quietly enough. “No wonder the Dark Lord trusts him.”

Theo did not look back. His cloak trailed through the mud as he walked away, expression as smooth and unreadable as when he had arrived.

The bodies - living and dead alike - lay in the churned earth, cooling under the dusk.

The farmhouse sagged in on itself, smoke curling.

And Theodore Nott left them to it, every inch the executioner, the strategist.

The echo of Voldemort’s voice still lingered in Theo’s skull when he returned to Nott Manor. The house was silent, as it always was, its long corridors lined with portraits that whispered and turned away as he passed.

He shrugged off his cloak in the entrance hall, careful not to let the mud touch the marble. A lamp flickered in the drawing room.

Astoria Greengrass was waiting for him.

She sat curled in a high-backed chair, dark hair tumbling loose, her slippers tucked beneath her. She looked like she had been waiting hours. A half-drained cup of tea sat on the table beside her, steam long gone cold.

Her eyes lifted when he entered, and for a long moment she simply studied him.

Then, she asked quietly: “How many tonight?”

Theo paused at the threshold, one hand tightening on his gloves. “Only one.”

She exhaled slowly. “Why?”

He crossed the room and sank into the chair opposite, his movements deliberate.

He removed his gloves finger by finger, setting them neatly on the armrest. His gaze met hers, steady.

“He was a Muggleborn,” Theo said. His tone was calm, but something flickered in his eyes. “If I’d left him alive, he would have gone to the camps. Or worse. Death is… faster.”

Astoria’s throat worked. She wrapped her arms around her knees, chin resting there. “You make it sound like mercy.”

Theo’s mouth curved, faint and humourless. “Do you want me to dress it up prettier than that?”

She looked away, staring into the cold grate. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock.

At last, she said, “Draco came by earlier. He told me…” Her voice faltered. “He told me Granger will be here.”

Theo stilled.

“He said his father offered her to the Dark Lord, but he doesn’t want her in the Manor. Too many eyes.” Astoria’s gaze returned to his, searching. “She’s coming here.”

For a moment Theo didn’t answer. His face was unreadable, carved in pale stone. Only his hand moved, flexing once on the arm of the chair before stilling again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, controlled. “So be it.”

Astoria leaned forward. “Theo - this is Hermione Granger. She’s not like the others. If she comes here…”

He cut her off, sharp but soft. “I know who she is.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.

After a long pause, the corner of his mouth lifted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Well,” he said softly, “you’ll finally have a friend.”

Astoria’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “You’re my friend.”

His gaze flicked to her, sharp, assessing, as though weighing the truth of it.

Then his eyes softened just a fraction. “You hate what I do. Who I am.”

She pushed herself upright, spine straightening, voice low but firm. “Because it’s destroying you. Because every time you come back from those camps, there’s less of your soul left.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he looked away, down at the pale hands folded on his knee.

His voice was flat, almost toneless, but it cut deeper for it. “There’s nothing left to destroy, Astoria. There’s no soul left in me.”

Astoria’s breath caught, but she refused to look away.

Her hands tightened in her lap, nails digging into her palms. “Don’t say that.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, head tilting against the high back, eyes half-lidded as though the ceiling were more interesting than her outrage. “It’s true.”

“It’s not.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve known you my whole life, Theo. Don’t tell me the boy who used to sneak me out to the orchard, who stole Father’s broom so I could learn to fly before Daphne… don’t tell me he’s gone.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “That boy’s dead, Astoria. He died the night the Dark Lord came back.”

She leaned forward, desperate. “No. You’re still here. You’re still the one who sat with me when I broke my arm, who charmed frogs into fireworks because I cried at Father’s dinner parties. I remember him.”

Astoria swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. She wanted to reach across the space between them, but she didn’t. Instead, she forced her voice steady. “You’re still my friend, Theo. My brother. Whatever you do, however far you think you’ve fallen.”

The clock ticked in the silence that followed. Outside, the wind rattled against the shutters.

“Promise me you won’t break her,” Astoria whispered. “Please. She doesn’t deserve to be another piece in your game.” Theo’s gaze lingered on her a beat too long, unreadable. Then he rose, cloak shifting around him. “Get some sleep, Tori.”

She watched him go, heart twisting, the ghost of the orchard boy still flickering behind his shadow.

Chapter Text

The knight ♞ is considered a minor piece (like a bishop) and is worth three points.

The dungeon door squeaked on its hinges.

Hermione flinched upright, every muscle protesting. The first thing she saw in the darkness was torchlights. Shadows crawled closer, until she caught the unmistakable flash of pale blonde.

Lucius Malfoy stood framed in the doorway, a handkerchief pressed to his nose as if the very air offended him. Behind him waited another figure - taller, narrower, hood up - still as a chess piece before the first move.

“On your feet,” Lucius said, voice like frost. “Your presence pollutes this house.”

Hermione tried. Her legs trembled, buckled, found the floor again. Two masked men stepped in, each seizing an arm. She bit back a sound as their fingers dug into bruises Bellatrix had left blooming along her ribs.

Lucius didn’t look at her. He looked past her, to the hooded figure. “Take her to your Manor,” he said, voice steeped in contempt. “I won’t have her stench in these halls or have the Order storming in to drag her out.”

The hooded man stepped forward, lowering his cowl. Theo’s face was pale in the torchlight, his eyes flat and grey.

“You’ve always been a coward, Malfoy,” Theodore said softly, with an eerie sense of calm. “Still clinging to safety, even as it slips through your fingers.”

Lucius stiffened, colour rising along his cheekbones, but he didn’t reply. The silence stretched, brittle and suffocating, until Theo inclined his head by a fraction, as if dismissing him.

“She comes with me,” Theo said at last. “Not because you command it, but because it’s the Dark Lord’s wish.”

He stepped forward and for the first time Hermione saw the face under the cowl. Young.

“Theodore Nott,” he said, as if offering a card across a table. “You answer to me now, Miss Granger.”

“I don’t answer to Death Eaters,” she rasped, and hated the thread of hoarseness in her voice.

A flicker - was it amusement? - touched his mouth and vanished. “You will.”

Nott’s wand traced a neat arc. Iron cuffs sprang around Hermione’s wrists, sliding cold as snakes. Runes lit along the metal, a brief blue flare that sank into her skin with a bite.

“Anti-apparition, anti-wandless, anti-everything worth trying,” he said conversationally. “Do not test them.”

Lucius flicked a spot of dust from his sleeve. “Remove her,” he repeated, bored now. “And do close the door on your way out.”

Nott’s gloved fingers closed around Hermione’s arm.

The world wrenched sideways with the crack of Apparition.

The stench of damp stone was replaced by air that smelled like polish and old books.

They stood in a long, high corridor panelled in dark wood.

Portraits watched in silence. Hermione sucked in a breath that felt almost clean and swayed.

“Welcome to Nott Manor,” Theodore said. “Mind your step.”

He didn’t drag her. He didn’t need to. The cuffs tugged when she hesitated, sending a sharp warning up her arms that made her teeth clench.

He guided her - not roughly, not gently - through a door near the end of the corridor and down a short flight of stairs. The room beyond was not a dungeon; it was worse. It was elegant.

A cell disguised as a study: thick carpet, a narrow bed, a small table, a single high window too slim to crawl through. Wards hummed faintly in the air, prickling her skin. It was the kind of room that pretended kindness so you might feel shame for wanting to scream.

“Sit,” Theodore said.

She didn’t move.

The cuffs pulsed once. Her knees bent of their own accord, hitting the edge of the bed. She caught herself, breath shaking.

Theodore watched, head tilted. “Obedience is painless. Consider it a mercy.”

“From you?” she said and made the two words sound like a curse.

“From circumstances,” he said. “I am merely the current shape they wear.”

He crossed to the table. On it sat a glass pitcher of water and a single tumbler. He poured, the sound precise as a metronome, and set the glass within her reach. His gloves never squeaked. His hands never shook.

“You will have water and food at regular intervals,” he said. “You will not have a wand, quill, parchment, or anything else you might mistake for hope.”

Hermione lifted her chin. “You forgot books. I suppose you burn those.”

A tiny pause. “I don’t burn anything I can use.”

He turned to the door. “There are three layers of wards,” he added without looking back. “Active, reactive, and punitive. The first prevents, the second corrects, the third…reminds. Do not learn them the difficult way.”

“And if I scream?” Hermione asked.

“You’ll find the walls here prefer quiet.”

The door clicked softly behind him. The wards pulsed as to wave goodbye to their master.

Hermione’s hands trembled as she reached for the water. She drank in careful swallows, as though the glass might vanish if she was greedy. When it didn’t, when the water settled coolly in the heat Bellatrix had left behind, she set the glass down and began to catalogue.

Window: high, narrow, barred by magic rather than iron. Door: heavy oak, spelled to hell. Bed: wood frame bolted to floor. Table: same. Rug: too thick to hide anything.

She knelt, ignoring the flare of pain in her ribs, and ran her fingers along the skirting board. Dust. No loose boards. She checked under the mattress.

Nothing, but linen and the faint scent of lavender; as if someone had tried to launder the idea of prison out of the fabric.

She sat back on her heels and breathed.

Somewhere above, a clock tolled the hour. She counted the chimes – eight - and began to count her breaths. When the door opened again, she had a number ready. She did not know why that felt like victory until she saw him.

Theodore Nott entered without hurry; a tray balanced on one palm. Steam spiralled from a bowl. Bread, butter, a small dish of salt. A knife lay on the tray; her stomach tightened.

He set the tray on the table and studied her for a beat too long. “Eat.”

Hermione didn’t move.

“Eat,” he repeated, softer. “Refusal will be interpreted as defiance. Defiance has a price.”

“What will be the price today?” she asked.

His gaze flicked, quick and sharp, to the cuffs. “We’ll begin with patience.”

He gestured toward the chair. The cuff rune warmed, nudging her forward. She took the seat because not taking it would have been surrender to a different thing. He handed her the bowl.

The smell of broth hit her and she wanted to weep. She did not. She lifted the spoon and took a mouthful. Salt. Fat. Warmth. Her hands steadied.

“The wards are keyed to me,” Theodore said conversationally, as if they shared a table at school. “If you try the window, they’ll lash out at you. If you try the door, they choke. If you attempt wandless magic, they burn. If you attempt to harm yourself, they bind. You may cry, if you must. You may sleep, if you can. You may not damage my house.”

“Your house,” she echoed. “How proud you must be.”

“Pride is inefficient,” he said. “Function matters.”

“And what function do I serve, exactly?”

For a moment his expression did something odd.

“You exist where I put you,” he said. “That is sufficient.”

“You sound like a manual,” she said. “Did you rehearse this?”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Several times.”

He reached to adjust the pitcher and in that tiny movement she saw it: the line of wards drawn across the threshold: thin as spider silk, bright as a wire. She marked every strand with her eyes, stored the pattern like a page she would someday rip.

“What happens if I cross them?” she asked, as if idly.

He met her gaze. “You don’t.”

“Because they choke? Or, what was it, burn?”

“Because I said so, Granger.”

He straightened the folded napkin on the tray, a small, pointless perfection. “In chess,” he said, almost to himself, “a pin is when a piece cannot move without exposing something more valuable behind it. You are pinned. Move, and someone else suffers.”

“Who?” she demanded, breath catching.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Harry’s face flashed in her mind; Ron’s. The cuffs seemed suddenly heavier.

“You’re lying,” she said, because she had to say it.

“I rarely lie,” Theodore said. “I find the truth more…persuasive.”

“You’re a Death Eater.”

“And you are a prisoner. The board is what it is.”

He lifted the tray. At the door, he paused. “You will be questioned in due time,” he said. “By me, or by someone with fewer manners. Choose which you prefer.”

“I choose neither.”

“That option has been removed.”

The door closed. Hermione stared at the empty bowl, the steam thinning to nothing, and felt the shape of the trap settle around her like a cloak.

She set the spoon down with care and slid the blunted knife under the fold of the napkin. Not a weapon. But metal, all the same.

It was just before midnight when the door opened again.

Hermione tensed, every muscle taut, until a softer tread crossed the carpet. A girl appeared, no older than Hermione herself, her dark hair falling in a loose braid over one shoulder. She carried a tray with careful hands, the dishes clinking faintly against the silver.

“I thought you might prefer supper from someone who isn’t Theodore,” the girl said softly, setting the tray down. “I’m Astoria. Astoria Greengrass.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened on the blanket. “Another Death Eater?”

Astoria’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Not all of us in this house are what you think.” She hesitated, then pulled the chair out and sat, folding her hands in her lap. “I know you don’t trust me. That’s all right. I wouldn’t either.”

Silence pressed, broken only by the faint hum of the wards. Hermione lifted her chin. “Then why are you here?”

Astoria looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. “I thought we could keep each other company…”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, bewildered. “Is this an interrogation tactic? Do you and Nott play good cop, bad cop?”

Astoria’s expression flickered, genuinely hurt before she recovered with quiet composure. “No. I only meant that I’d like to know you better.”

“I’m a prisoner, Greengrass,” Hermione said flatly.

Astoria’s lips curved faintly, almost pleading. “Please… call me Astoria. And if you must know, Hermione—” her voice lowered, soft as a confession, “we are all prisoners, one way or another.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one wearing this.” Hermione lifted her bound wrists, the cuffs glinting dully in the light.

Astoria’s gaze dropped to the iron, her face tightening with quiet pain. “It’s only until he can trust you…” She seemed uncertain if to continue, but at last she did, “Theodore is not what you think. He does terrible things, yes. But, not all of them are by choice. Some of them are to keep worse things from happening.” Her voice softened again. “He is not as cruel as he seems, Hermione. You’ll see that, if you look closely enough.”

Hermione gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “In what world do you live? I’m a Mudblood.”

The word cracked the air like a whip. Astoria recoiled as though struck. “Don’t—don’t ever call yourself that.”

Something reckless rose in Hermione’s chest, something that wanted to lash out, to wound. She leaned forward, her eyes hard. “Why do you care? Isn’t that what you think I am too? A Mudblood?”

Astoria flinched visibly, the tray rattling as her hands shook. “You’re not,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t like that word. Please… don’t use it again.”

But, Hermione pushed, cruel in her exhaustion. “Why not? It’s what your kind call us. Mudblood, Mudblood, Mudblood—”

The last repetition landed like a knife. Astoria’s composure shattered. Tears welled and spilled, running hot down her cheeks. She pressed her hands to her face, choking on a sob that seemed to tear out of her unwillingly.

Hermione froze, the word she’d meant as a weapon, was now hanging bitter on her tongue. She hadn’t expected this. Not real grief. Not the kind that made Astoria’s shoulders curl in on themselves, fragile.

The door slammed open.

“What the fuck did you do, Granger?”

Theo’s voice boomed. He strode across the room, his presence eclipsing everything. Hermione jerked back instinctively, but his fury wasn’t directed at her, it was at the sight of Astoria weeping.

Astoria shook her head, tears streaking her pale skin. “It’s my fault. My fault, Theo—” she whispered, words tumbling over each other.

Theo dropped into a crouch beside her, murmuring low. “Shh. Don’t—don’t say that. It’s not.” His hand touched her shoulder with surprising gentleness, steadying her as she cried.

Hermione could only stare, stunned.

Astoria finally rose, wiping her eyes with trembling hands. “I need to go,” she whispered, not meeting Hermione’s gaze.

Theo straightened as well, but his eyes lingered on Hermione this time -cold, sharp, and promising consequences.

Without another word, he guided Astoria out, his hand still braced against her arm like she might shatter.

The door closed, leaving Hermione staring at the untouched tray, her pulse roaring in her ears.

She’d expected cruelty. She hadn’t expected to see Theodore Nott’s humanity and she wasn’t sure which unsettled her more.

Minutes dragged by, each one heavier than the last, and Hermione sat with her head bowed, consumed by guilt that gnawed at her more sharply than the cuffs ever could.

The soft patter of footsteps in the corridor made her straighten instinctively, the iron biting into her wrists as she lifted them. The door creaked open.

Theo stepped in alone. His cloak still smelled faintly of damp night air, but his expression was darker than the shadows behind him.

Hermione’s throat worked. She’d rehearsed words, but they scattered the moment his eyes met hers. Cold. Unforgiving.

“I…” Her voice cracked. She forced herself steady. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. To her. It was—”

“Cruel,” Theo finished for her, his tone as precise as a blade. He crossed the room slowly, each footstep measured. “Deliberate. Unnecessary.”

Hermione flinched but held her ground. “I was angry. And I wanted to hurt someone. That doesn’t excuse it, but—”

“You wanted to wound her because you could,” Theo cut in, voice rising by a fraction. “Because she offered you kindness, and you spat on it. You think that makes you strong?”

Hermione swallowed. “No. It makes me human.”

Theo’s jaw clenched. For a heartbeat she thought he might strike her. Instead, he leaned down, bracing one hand against the back of the chair she sat on. His face was too close, his voice low and venomous.

“She doesn’t deserve your venom, Granger. Not her. Say what you like to me, I’ll even let you scream it until your throat bleeds. But if you break her again, I’ll make certain you remember exactly where you stand.”

Hermione’s chest heaved. She forced herself to meet his gaze, even as her stomach lurched at the threat coiled in his tone. “And where’s that?”

Theo’s mouth curved, half a smile, half a snarl. “Pinned, little pawn. Always pinned.”

He pulled back, cloak whispering as he turned for the door. “You have until morning to decide whether you’ll keep wasting your breath on cruelty. I’ll be less forgiving next time.”

The lock clicked behind him, leaving Hermione staring at the cuffs, her apology still unfinished on her tongue.

Hermione woke with a strangled gasp, her skin slick with sweat. For a heartbeat she didn’t know where she was… the echo of Bellatrix’s laughter still rang in her ears, the phantom weight of the Cruciatus still crackled in her veins.

Her hands flew to her face, only to be yanked short by the cuffs. The iron bit into her wrists, the runes glowing faintly in warning. She curled against the pillow, breath shallow, willing herself to remember. Not the Manor. Not the marble floor. Not Bellatrix.

But the dungeon here was no comfort. The walls breathed with wards that hummed like a constant reminder: trapped.

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs as she forced her eyes open. Pale light filtered through the narrow window, painting the carpet in a thin band of silver. Morning. Somehow, she’d survived the night.

Her hair clung damply to her temples. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, teeth chattering though the room was not cold.

That was when the door opened, soft and careful.

Hermione sat bolt upright, shoulders stiff, the cuffs tugging sharply at her wrists.

It wasn’t Theodore’s tall shadow that crossed the threshold. It was smaller, hunched, carrying a tray that smelled faintly of bread and tea.

Large eyes blinked up at her from a wrinkled face, ears twitching nervously.

“Breakfast for the prisoner, miss,” the elf squeaked, setting the tray carefully on the table. Porridge steamed faintly, beside a slice of bread and a cup of weak tea.

Hermione’s stomach turned at the thought of food, but her mind clutched at something else. “Your mistress,” she said carefully, “is she well?”

The elf tilted its head. “Mistress? There is no mistress here.”

Hermione frowned. “Miss Greengrass?”

At that, the elf’s ears twitched again. “Oh… she is only Master’s friend. Not mistress.”

Hermione leaned forward, “Then why does she stay in this place?”

The elf shifted uncomfortably, wringing its hands. “Because… After the incident, Miss Astoria’s health is… not good. Her family did not want her back. Too much shame.”

Hermione’s pulse jumped. “What incident?” she pressed, her voice low but urgent.

The elf’s mouth opened, words tumbling out before it could stop them. “The boy… Miss Astoria—”

A sharp crack cut the sentence in half. The elf yelped, doubling over as its own hand struck its face with punishing force.

Hermione gasped. “Stop! You don’t have to—”

But the elf was already trembling, tears welling in its huge eyes as another blow landed. “Not… supposed… to say,” it whimpered between gasps. “Not allowed.”

Hermione reached forward instinctively, her wrists tugged back by the cuffs, useless. “Please, don’t hurt yourself, I didn’t mean—”

The elf bowed so low its nose nearly brushed the carpet, voice shaking. “Forgive. Forgive. I bring food. I say nothing else.”

It scrambled upright, eyes averted and fled with a sharp snap of fingers. The door shut behind it, wards crackling back into place.

Hermione sat frozen, heart hammering.

The day stretched long and airless, silence broken only by the faint hum of wards in the walls. Hermione paced until her legs gave out, then curled on the bed, eyes fixed on the narrow band of light spilling from the high window.

Her thoughts tugged in too many directions: Astoria’s tear-streaked face, Theo’s cold voice promising consequences, but again and again they circled back to Harry and Ron.

She clung to their faces like lifelines. Harry’s stubborn jaw, Ron’s freckled grin, the sound of their voices calling her name. Wherever they were, they were alive.
She told herself that over and over, until the knot in her chest loosened enough to breathe.

However long she was trapped here, she would not let herself forget them.
They were her anchor. Her hope.

By midday the door creaked open again. Another elf shuffled in, this one broader, brusque, with a perpetually sour twist to its mouth. It set down a tray with a clatter; bread gone stale, a wedge of cheese, a cup of water that sloshed at the rim.

Hermione sat up quickly. “Wait… Astoria. How is she?”

The elf’s ears twitched. “Not prisoner’s concern,” it snapped, already backing toward the door.

“Please,” Hermione pressed. “I only want to know—”

“Eat. Be silent,” the elf barked, slamming the door behind it.

The wards thrummed as the lock slid back into place. Hermione sat frozen, anger and frustration boiling together until she surged to her feet. The cuffs weighed on her wrists, runes burning faintly, but she crossed to the door anyway and pressed her palms against the wood.

Nothing.

She tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

Her breath came faster. She braced herself, shoved with her shoulder and the air itself turned on her.

Invisible hands snapped tight around her throat, crushing, choking. Hermione’s back slammed against the wall. She clawed at her neck, but there was nothing there, only the wards constricting, cold and merciless. Her vision blurred, spots bursting against the edges.

Stop, stop, stop.

She dropped to her knees, gasping soundlessly, lungs burning. Just as the darkness closed in, the grip released. She collapsed forward onto her hands, coughing so hard her ribs screamed in protest.

The wards pulsed once, satisfied, before fading back into their quiet hum.

Hermione pressed her forehead to the floor, shuddering, tears pricking hot in her eyes. Now she knew what disobedience cost.

Theo returned at what might have been midnight.

The house had gone quiet enough that even the wards seemed to breathe slower. Hermione hadn’t slept. She sat on the floor with her back to the bed, knees to her chest, eyes on the door. The knife pressed a cool line against her ankle where she’d tucked it into the hem of her sock.

Theodore stopped on the threshold and watched her, expression unreadable. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a year.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

“Ecstatic.”

He came in, closed the door, and leaned against it. No tray this time. No pretence. “Let’s play a different game,” he said. “Ten questions. You may ask five. I may ask five. Equal exchange.”

“You expect me to help you interrogate me.”

“I expect you to prefer my questions to what waits if you bore me.”

Hermione met his eyes and refused to look away first. “Ladies first,” she said. “Who do I endanger if I try to leave?”

He considered her. “The list is long.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll receive.”

She swallowed rage and chose precision. “Are these cuffs keyed to hurt me on your order, or on anyone’s?”

“Mine.”

Good. She masked the tiny relief as contempt. “How noble.”

“My turn,” he said. “Where is the sword?”

“In a place you can’t reach,” she said promptly, and took a savage pleasure in the way his eyes cooled a degree. “My third: why was Astoria upset?”

Something moved in his face - annoyance, surprise, pain; she couldn’t tell. “Astoria has been through enough.”

“Enough to forgive you?” Hermione pressed, her voice thin but steady.

“Why do you think I’m the one to blame?” he asked, and for the first time there was a hairline crack in the glass of his composure.

He didn’t give her time to answer. In three quiet strides he was across the room, his presence filling the space before she could breathe. Hermione fought the instinct to recoil as he crouched in front of her, not touching, his gaze locking with hers until they were level. “You are quick,” he said. It wasn’t praise. It was a record entered into a ledger. “Quick pieces last longer.”

“I won’t be a piece in your game.”

“You already are.” His voice lowered, almost gentle.

He stood. “My remaining questions can wait.”

“Because you’ve decided you prefer someone else to ask them?” she said.

“Because I’ve decided I prefer you fed.”

The door opened; a tray floated in, set itself on the table. He hadn’t drawn his wand. The wards had done it for him. Power laid here like another piece on the board, invisible until it moved.

He paused in the doorway. “Sleep, if you can,” he said. “The next day is often worse.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A forecast.”

When he was gone, Hermione rose carefully and ate every bite he’d sent. She washed the spoon, set it back, folded the napkin to look undisturbed, and lay down on the narrow bed with her shoes on and the blunted knife warm against her ankle.

Pinned pieces couldn’t move. But they could still think. They could still change the game by refusing the move expected of them.

She stared at the thin seam of window until the sky beyond it paled and began to plan.

Chapter Text

The rook ♜ is the second most powerful piece in chess. It is a long-range piece and is notorious for delivering back-rank checkmates.

The next morning, Hermione woke with a single mission burning in her mind: escape.

She waited for the elf to bring her breakfast.

No pleasantries. No hesitation. It was the same sour-faced creature as the day before, tray clutched in its gnarled hands.

“Prisoner must eat,” it snarled in its gruff voice.

Hermione didn’t ask about Astoria. Didn’t ask about Theodore Nott.

She needed the elf gone, quickly.

Her stomach was in knots.

She had no appetite, only a feverish energy that felt half euphoric, half sickening.

When she heard the pad of small feet retreating and the lock slide shut, she slid the knife from her sock. The metal scraped her raw skin as she pulled it free.

The wards hummed in the air like wasps.

She knew this might be suicide.

But what other choice did she have? She would not go down quietly.

She would not sit tame, waiting for her final hours.

Silent and deliberate, she pressed the knife’s point into the seam of the narrow window.

The glass shivered. The wind outside seemed to howl in anticipation.

All her purpose narrowed into this moment.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.

The knife scraped. Her hands worked quick, precise, relentless.

A soft click broke the silence. Her breath caught. She turned the handle and—

The window opened.

Cold air rushed against her face, whipping her curls back from her cheeks.

Hermione laughed, ragged but real, the sound almost foreign in her own ears.

For the first time since Malfoy Manor, she felt the sharp edge of satisfaction.

Where now? She thought.

She could jump, risk the fall and hope to vanish into the trees.

Or she could trace the perimeter, study the wards, wait for the right moment.

But the victory was brief. The wards stirred, assessing her intent.

The faint blue glow flared crimson red.

The window slammed shut with a violent crack.

Invisible hands seized her, hurling her back against the wall.

Pain burst through her skull; blood trickled warm down her temple.

The cuffs surged to life, runes blazing.

Agony scorched her wrists, branding deep into her nerves.

She screamed, the sound raw and strangled.

Her head was pounding, wrists were burning. The pain soared to the point that the room tilted, spun and darkness rushed in.

She crumpled to the floor with a dull thud, the wards humming softly, satisfied with their work.

When Hermione opened her eyes again, her skull still hummed but there was no warm tack of blood on her cheek.She tried to sit and a wave of dizziness slid through her like cold water.

“Well, well, well…” a voice drawled from the foot of the bed.

Theo lounged there as if this were his sitting room, legs crossed, a slow smile ghosting his mouth.

In his hands he toyed with the blunt knife, the very one she’d used.

He turned it idly, watching the play of light along the blade.

Hermione’s throat felt dry as paper. She swallowed, tasting only fear.

She looked at him and held her silence, waiting for whatever punishment he deemed fit.

“This is a very sharp knife, Hermione,” Theo said, the sneer easy in his tone. “Did you really think that would work?”

She said nothing.

“Answer me.” His voice tightened, the polite drawl gone now.

“I had to try,” she croaked, voice rough from the wards.

Theo hummed, as if considering a puzzle piece. “Mmm.”

“Are you going to kill me now?” Hermione asked, because if she did not ask, the question would have consumed her.

Theo laughed, amused, not cruel enough to be simple malice. “What would be the fun in that?”

“So… I attempt to escape and there’s no punishment?” Her words came out brittle, incredulous.

He smiled then, a small, cold thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “If you wanted fresh air, you only had to ask. Get up.”

“Where are we going?” Hermione’s voice trembled, tentative.

“I’ll bring you to my office.” He leaned forward, and for the first time the brightness in his eyes felt almost wild. “I want you to see something.”

In that moment, as the cuffs tugged and he offered her his arm, Hermione felt the full weight of her choice.

Regret - heavy and unavoidable.

The world wrenched sideways with Apparition, and when Hermione stumbled, it was not onto marble or polished wood, but into mud.

The air hit her first thick with smoke, sweat, and something acrid that clung to the back of her throat.

A chain-link of cries carried faintly on the wind. She lifted her head, and her stomach dropped.

Rows upon rows of low barracks stretched across the earth, their roofs sagging, their doors hanging crooked. Thin figures moved between them like shadows, gaunt and hollow-eyed, heads bent under invisible weight.

The stench of unwashed bodies and sickness wafted from every direction.

Beyond, a high fence gleamed faintly with runes, the wards humming like a live wires. Watchtowers stood at intervals, silhouettes of wizards slouched within them, wands in hand.

Hermione’s voice caught before it could escape. “What is this place?”

Theo stood beside her, perfectly composed, his cloak unruffled by the sharp wind.

“Work camp,” he said flatly. “Muggleborns mostly. Some half-bloods who failed to prove themselves.”

Her chest squeezed. A boy no older than fourteen limped past, carrying a bucket almost as heavy as his body. His eyes flicked up for a heartbeat—dull, grey with exhaustion—before dropping again to the ground.

Hermione’s hands clenched uselessly in the cuffs. “This… this is slavery.”

“This is how they prove themselves,” Theo corrected softly, though his gaze didn’t shift from the prisoners.

"What happens when they can't? What happens to elderly? To the sick?" Hermione asked, horrified.

“They work until they’re no longer useful. Then they’re… removed.”

The word sat between them like a stone. Removed.

Hermione’s throat burned. “You mean murdered.”

Theo didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Smoke curled from a chimney in the distance, dark against the pallid sky.

Hermione swayed, her knees threatening to give way. “How can you stand here and allow this? How can you watch and—”

“Allow? I suggested this Hermione.” His voice was calm, too calm, as though rehearsed. “I used the idea of a muggleborn like yourself. You’ve surely heard of him. Hitler, I believe he is called?”

Her eyes burned.

She wanted to scream, to claw, to strike him. She felt sick.

She stared at the thin line of prisoners being herded into a shed, their shoulders bowed, their steps sluggish.

Her heart twisted when one stumbled, too weak to rise, and another bent to help him, though the lash of a wand struck them both.

Hermione staggered back, bile in her throat. "You disgust me."

Theo looked at her, and the faintest curve ghosted at his mouth—not pride, not quite shame.

“I studied history. Your history to be precise. Hitler built camps. He proved that terror is more powerful when it’s systematic. I suggested the model could be improved with magic.”

Her eyes burned. “You—” Her voice cracked. “You call this improvement?”

He tilted his head, as if weighing her outrage like a chess move. “The Dark Lord wanted control. I gave him a blueprint. Disorder lets people hope. This leaves no room for hope.”

Hermione’s whole body shook. “You’re a monster.”

“Would you like to be left here, Hermione?” Theo asked, amusement curling in his voice. “You wouldn’t last a day.”

Her chin lifted, eyes flashing. “Then let it be a day. If this is my punishment, so be it.”

Theo’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Very well,” he drawled.

He clasped his hands behind his back, his voice smooth as though he were lecturing a student.

“Dawn begins with the wards,” he said. “They flare at sunrise, dragging every prisoner awake. The elves drive them into the yard for roll call. Names read, bodies counted. The wards punish any straggler… searing cuffs, binding ropes of light, or worse. If someone is missing, the whole barrack suffers.”

Her stomach twisted, but he went on without pause.

“Breakfast is a scoop of potion-thinned broth. Sometimes bread, if the elves have scavenged it. After that, they’re marched into work details. The strongest dig ditches for the Dark Lord’s supply lines. Others are set to scrubbing armour charmed to slice their hands if they falter. Some are forced into the forges—breaking down captured Muggle metal, reforging it into blades and shackles with runes etched into the steel. The youngest… sort potions ingredients. They’re too small to wield picks or shovels, so they peel, measure, grind.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “And the rest?”

Theo’s eyes flicked over the yard, where a prisoner stumbled under the weight of a crate and a ward-lash snapped across his shoulders. “If they’re old, they feed the wards. Their cuffs drain magic, even the smallest sparks of accidental power, and pour it into the camp’s boundaries.”

Hermione’s nails dug into her palms.

His expression didn’t shift, but his voice dropped, quiet, edged. “Midday, another ration. Usually charmed to keep them alive a little longer. Then work until sundown. If the guards are bored, prisoners duel each other for scraps. If they’re unlucky, the guards use them for practice instead.”

Her breath hitched. “And if they resist?”

Theo finally looked at her, his grey eyes flat. “The wards choke them until they black out, then drag them back to the yard. Next time, the cuffs sear their nerves so they can’t even hold a spoon. Resistance is not tolerated.”

“You watch this?” Hermione’s voice cracked.

“I oversee it,” Theo replied, detached. “That’s why he trusts me. It runs like clockwork. No chaos. No waste. The Dark Lord respects that.”

She stared at him, horrified. “They’re not pawns, they’re people.”

“On this board,” Theo said softly, almost pitying, “pawns are meant to fall, Hermione."

With his hands in his pockets, he only said, “Good luck,” and left her standing there.

He strode toward a guard, bent close, and murmured something low enough that she couldn’t hear. Then, with one last look in Hermione’s direction, he turned and vanished into one of the barracks.

The wards at the gate pulsed and the guards shoved Hermione forward.

The cuffs around her wrists tightened, forcing her to stumble into line with the others.

The stink of smoke and unwashed bodies hit her like a wall.

She was no longer a prisoner in an elegant cell; here she was one of them.

“Move,” a Snatcher barked.

The line shuffled toward the yard where the horn still rang in her ears.

Hermione raised her head, but every face she passed was bowed, hollowed. Skin stretched over bones. Eyes glazed, resigned.

Someone touched her arm lightly.

She turned to find an old woman beside her, stooped, but steady.

Her hair was white as ash, her face lined, but her eyes… her eyes were still alive.

“Keep your head down,” the woman whispered hoarsely. “Don’t draw their notice.”

Hermione swallowed and nodded. “I’m… Jean,” she whispered back.

The woman’s cracked lips tugged into something like a smile. “Margery.”

The day began with labour.

Hermione was handed a bucket of foul water and ordered to scrub cauldrons blackened with curse residue.

The cuffs burned faintly when she slowed, urging her on.

Every scrape of the rag made her ribs ache, but she kept moving, matching Margery’s pace beside her.

At midday, they were herded into a line for food.

A ladle of grey slop splattered into her tin bowl.

Margery nudged her, whispering, “Don’t eat the top. Take from the bottom… it’s warmer.”

Hermione forced the mess down, her throat rebelling, her pride burning hotter.

Around her, prisoners huddled in silence, their eyes darting only when the guards turned away.

By evening, Hermione’s hands were raw and red, her body trembling with exhaustion.

The horn sounded again, and the prisoners shuffled toward the barracks.

She leaned heavily on the old woman’s arm, every step a battle.

“You’ll learn quick, or you won’t last,” Margery murmured as they were shoved inside the wooden hut.

The air was stifling, packed with bodies.

Hermione blinked against the dark, the smell of sweat and despair pressing in.

“Why are you helping me?”

Margery’s hand tightened around hers, a fragile anchor. “Because once, someone helped me. And because you remind me of my daughter. She’s missing, I hope she is still alive out there.”

Hermione’s throat ached. She whispered back, fierce and trembling, “I won’t let them break me.”

Margery gave her a long, steady look in the gloom. “That’s what we all say, child.”

The door slammed shut.

Wards crackled along the frame, sealing them in.

Hermione lay down on the filthy straw beside the old woman, every bone aching, her heart pounding.

Margery shifted beside her, the old woman’s breath wheezing softly. “How did you get caught?”

Hermione hesitated. To admit it out loud felt dangerous, foolish. But there was something in Margery’s eyes—warmth, unbroken despite the ruin—that made the truth slip free.

“I lied before. Well sort of… My name is Hermione Jean Granger,” she whispered.

For a heartbeat there was silence. Then Margery let out a low, rasping laugh.

Not cruel, but awed. “The Golden Girl.”

She reached out and patted Hermione’s hand with her gnarled fingers. “Never thought I’d see you here. Never thought I’d meet you.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Golden Girl? Hardly. I’ve failed them. Harry, Ron… everyone. I couldn’t even save myself.”

Margery shook her head, her grip surprisingly strong. “Don’t you talk like that. You’re still breathing. That’s more than they want for you. And if I die tomorrow, I’ll die proud to have met you.”

Tears stung Hermione’s eyes, blurring the filthy ceiling above.

She squeezed Margery’s hand back, whispering fiercely, “No. You’ll live. I’ll find a way out for us. For all of us.”

Margery only smiled, tired and sad. “You sound just like my daughter.”

Hermione lay awake long after Margery’s breathing steadied into sleep, the woman’s words lodged in her chest like both comfort and curse.

And for the first time since she had been dragged into this nightmare, she didn't feel utterly alone.

After only four hours, a shrill sound split the early morning air, merciless.

Hermione jolted awake, her body stiff from the floor.

Around her, prisoners groaned, dragging themselves upright.

The wards flared at the door and the locks opened.

“Out,” a Snatcher barked, kicking the door wide. “Roll call!”

Bodies shuffled into the yard, thin and stumbling, driven by wand and boot.

Hermione felt Margery’s hand slip into hers, warm. She squeezed back, grounding herself.

“You’ll get used to the cold,” Margery murmured, her voice hoarse.

Hermione’s breath puffed white in the chill. “How long have you been here?”

Margery’s eyes crinkled faintly. “Long enough to know that every morning I wake, it’s a victory.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “It shouldn’t have to be like that.”

Margery’s hand tightened around hers. “No, child. But you must hold on to something. A memory. A face. That’s how you stay human.” Her gaze softened. “What do you hold on to?”

Harry. Ron. The way they had looked back at her in the Manor, fury and grief burning in their eyes.

Hermione blinked rapidly, her throat thick. “Hope,” she whispered. “That they’re still alive.”

Margery smiled, small and proud. “Then don’t let them take that from you.”

The line halted abruptly. A boy—no more than thirteen—collapsed to his knees, coughing violently, his body too weak to stand.

The nearest guard sneered. “On your feet!”

The boy tried. He staggered, fell again.

A flash of green lit the dawn. His body hit the mud with a dull thud.

Hermione choked on a gasp, clapping her free hand over her mouth.

Around her, the line stiffened,” but no one moved, no one spoke. The silence was worse than the killing curse.

Margery leaned close, whispering through her teeth. “Don’t look too long. Don’t give them your tears. They want you to.”

Hermione dragged her eyes away, bile burning her throat. The boy’s body was left in the mud as the horn sounded again and the line shuffled forward.

She clung to Margery’s hand like a lifeline.

The horn drove them onward into the compound.

Smoke curled from high chimneys, acrid and sour, carrying the stench of burning.

Hermione fought the urge to gag as they were herded through narrow gates into a long shed lined with stone sinks and stacks of battered cauldrons.

“Work detail,” a guard barked. “Clean them till they shine.”

Prisoners shuffled to their stations.

Buckets of icy water sloshed across the floor, soaking through Hermione’s thin shoes.

She gritted her teeth, rolling up her sleeves as a rusted cauldron was shoved toward her.

Beside her, Margery eased onto the bench, hands shaking.

She tried to lift a brush but her fingers wouldn’t close around it.

“I’ll do it,” Hermione whispered quickly, pulling the cauldron closer to herself.

Margery shook her head. “Don’t, child. If they see—”

“I said I’ll do it,” Hermione hissed, her throat raw but determined.

She plunged her hands into the freezing water, scrubbing furiously at layers of grime.

The metal cut her palms, but she welcomed the sting.

At least it was real. At least it meant she was still fighting.

Margery’s lips trembled. She leaned closer, her voice barely audible.

“You’re the Golden Girl… You will save us. Meeting you… it makes me proud, child. Proud to have lived long enough to see you.”

Hermione froze, breath catching in her chest. Golden Girl. The words felt like both a burden and a lifeline.

Before she could reply, the shed door creaked. Immediate silence swept through the room.

Theo stood in the doorway.

His cloak was dry despite the drizzle outside. His eyes flicked once over the hunched prisoners, then fixed on Hermione with cold precision.

“Hermione” he said, voice smooth.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. The brush slipped from her fingers.

“Up,” Theo ordered.

Hermione stood, legs trembling, mud and ash streaking her skirt. She felt every eye on her. Margery’s hand brushed hers fleetingly, a silent plea to keep quiet, to survive.

Theo stepped closer, his gaze darting to the half-cleaned cauldron. His lips curved, not quite a smile. “So eager to prove yourself useful.”

Hermione clenched her jaw. “Better than standing by and watching people suffer.”

The words were out before she could stop them.

Something flickered in his eyes - annoyance, maybe surprise.

He leaned closer, his voice low enough only she could hear. “Careful, little pawn.”

Then, louder, for the guards to hear: “You and your friend will come with me.”

Hands seized Hermione’s and Margery’s arms, yanking them up from the bench.

The guards dragged them behind a desolate barrack, mud sucking at their boots.

“Leave us,” Theo barked.

The guards vanished without question, leaving only the three of them.

Hermione’s breaths came fast and ragged, her chest rising and falling as though she’d sprinted miles.

“Margery,” Theo said evenly, inclining his head.

“Mr. Nott,” Margery replied, voice calm, almost polite.

Hermione’s eyes widened. She looked between them, heart pounding in her throat.

“Yesterday you tried to escape, Hermione,” Theo began, his tone controlled, almost conversational. “I warned you—if you defied me, someone else would suffer. And you didn’t believe me.”

The silence that followed pressed against her skull.

Theo moved toward Margery.

His wand rose, steady, precise. “Allow me to demonstrate that I rarely lie.”

Hermione’s scream tore free. She collapsed to her knees in the mud, scrambling forward until she was nearly at his boots.

“Please! Please, don’t do it—don’t! Punish me! Please, I’ll take it—just don’t hurt her!” Her sobs wracked her whole body, words tumbling out between ragged breaths.

“I am punishing you, Hermione,” Theo said carefully, eyes never leaving hers. “Because from now on, you will listen. You will obey.”

“Please, Theo,” she begged, her voice breaking. “I will obey, I swear it—just don’t kill her—please!”

Margery bent down despite the wand aimed at her, her frail hands lifting Hermione, cradling her like a child. “Shhh… child. Everything will be all right.”

Hermione shook her head violently. “No, no, no,” she whispered like a prayer.

Margery turned her gaze to Theo, her expression serene. “Mr. Nott… is this a gambit, then?”

Theo stilled. His eyes met hers, and for a moment an unspoken understanding passed between them, something Hermione could not begin to grasp.

“Yes, Margery,” he said quietly.

The old woman’s lips curved in a faint smile. “Then I thank you.”

Theo’s wand lowered a fraction in acknowledgement before rising again, steady.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The green light swallowed the space between them.

Hermione watched in slow, shattering horror as Margery’s lifeless body crumpled to the ground, her hand slipping from Hermione’s cheek.

The world tilted, the sound of her own scream echoing back from the barracks.

Theo looked down at Margery’s body for a long, unreadable moment. Then his hand closed, tight, around Hermione’s arm.

The Apparition dragged her breath from her lungs and slammed her back into place inside the cold halls of Nott Manor.

Hermione tore free the moment her feet hit the floor.

She was feral. Her scream ripped through the chamber, raw enough to tear her throat.

She hurled whatever she could reach—books, a vase, even the silver tray from last night’s supper. Each shattered against the walls.

“YOU ARE A MONSTER.” she shrieked. “I hate you! I’ll see you pay for this—I swear it, I’ll make you pay!”

She flew at him with her fists, her palms smacking against his chest, her nails raking down his arm. She slapped him once, twice, again, until her hand stung and her breath came ragged.

Theo didn’t raise a wand. He didn’t even lift a hand to stop her.

He stood there and took it all, silent.

Her voice broke, hoarse with fury and grief. “She knew you! And you—you killed her—you’re nothing, nothing but a monster!”

Theo’s jaw flexed, but still he said nothing.

He let her pound at him until her strikes weakened, until her screams thinned into sobs, until she sagged against the rage that had burned her deeply.

When at last she crumpled to her knees, shaking, her hair plastered damp against her face, Theo only looked down at her like one might look at a child who had exhausted herself in a tantrum.

“You’re finished?” he asked softly, almost flat.

The words made her snap her head up, eyes blazing, but her voice was only a whisper now.

“I’ll never forgive you.”

Theo’s face didn’t change. “I never asked you to.”

He said nothing more.

He only raised his wand, and with a flick the blood vanished from her skin, the dirt and ash gone as if they had never touched her.

Another gesture, and a folded bundle of clean clothes appeared on the bed.

“You’ll change,” he said flatly. “You’ll eat. You’ll sleep.”

And then he left her, the door closing with a decisive click that sounded like a lock sliding into place.

Hermione sat unmoving on the floor, her body clean, but her hands still trembling, her mind replaying the green flash until she thought it might make her eyes blind.

It was Astoria who entered next. She carried no tray this time, only a lantern.

Its glow painted her face soft and uncertain as she paused in the doorway.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said gently.

Hermione did not answer. She stared past her, unblinking, her throat too tight for words.

Astoria stepped closer, her expression troubled, but steady.

Hermione finally spoke, her voice laced with venom though her throat still ached from screaming.

“Your friend,” she snarled, “is a monster.”

Astoria flinched, but did not retreat.

She set the lantern down. “Not everything here is as it seems,” she murmured, her tone quiet but firm.

She drew a breath, as though gathering courage, and met Hermione’s hollow stare.

“Let me tell you a story.”

Chapter Text

Astoria

Flashback

She believes that silence is the safer option.

During her Hogwarts years, her father keeps both her and her sister under iron-clad rules. Every movement and every word is carefully measured. Every smile is rehearsed.

They are not allowed to socialise unless it is with families deemed suitable.

They are not allowed to read freely — “You don’t need strange ideas in that head of yours,” he sneers. “Merlin only knows why I sent you to that damn school.”

The house is never empty. There are always guests: a long procession of old men ready to leer at their youth.

All potential husbands in her father's eyes.

They have to look perfect. The house-elves are ordered to brush their hair until it gleams, and to report directly to their mother, who is, regrettably, every bit as devout to the family’s cause as her husband.

“You just need to marry well,” her mother says once, smoothing the wrinkles from Astoria’s dress.

“I want to fall in love,” whispers a younger Astoria.

Her mother’s face twists in horror. “Don’t be a fool. Love has no place in this house — nor in your life. You will abide by duty.”

Today, Daphne tries to defy her.

She refuses the heavy make-up — the crimson lips, the powdered cheeks. So does Astoria. They only want to be simple girls, enjoying their afternoon in peace.

But freedom, in that house, is like an unforgivable curse.

Their mother bursts into the room like a storm.

“What is this I hear — you refuse the make-up?”

Astoria, ever the peacemaker, steps forward. “Mother… it’s just… is it really necessary?”

Her mother’s gaze turns cold. “Yes, Astoria. Now, put it on.”

“No,” says Daphne.

The word falls like a slap.

“I won’t repeat myself.”

“I don’t care.”

Astoria’s breath catches. Daphne is all she has. She is the only person she loves, besides Theo and Draco.

Their mother exhales slowly and smiles, cruelly. “Then you won’t be presentable, will you?”

“Lock me in my room, I don’t care,” Daphne hisses.

“Oh, it won’t be your room, darling.” She snaps her fingers.

An elf appears, trembling.

“Take my savage daughter to the dungeon,” she says sweetly.

Astoria’s voice cracks. “Mother—?”

“You’ll stay there until tomorrow. Perhaps by then, you’ll learn your lesson.”

“Fuck you… Mother.”

Her mother’s smile widens. “Make it two days.”

“Mother, please—” Astoria tries.

“Tori, stay out of it,” Daphne warns, her voice already fading with the sharp crack that follows.

The room falls silent.

Her mother turns to her. “Don’t be a disappointment like your sister.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply before leaving the room.

Astoria stands there, trembling.

Her throat burns. Her eyes sting.

Her breaths come fast and shallow.

She allows herself to cry then… quiet, desperate sobs that leave her nose red and blotchy.

When she calls for the elves, they come at once, moving around her in silence — fixing her make up, brushing her hair, arranging her clothes — while she stands perfectly still like a statue being adorned.

Astoria waits until the house quiets.

Her mother’s heels stop pacing above.

She wraps a shawl around her shoulders and slips into the kitchen.

The bread is still warm from the oven.

She tears a piece, wrapping it in linen, and takes a small jar of honey—Daphne always needs something sweet when she is upset.

The east wing is dark at night. The air smells of damp stone and lilacs from the garden above. She hates the lilacs. She comes to hate every beautiful thing. There is no room for beauty in her life — not when it is always used against her.

Her slippers barely make a sound against the stairs. She keeps telling herself she isn't afraid. She has done this before—snuck food to Daphne after Father’s temper, after Mother’s punishments—but tonight the air feels different, charged.

At the bottom of the stairs, the door waits: iron, carved with runes that hum faintly against her fingertips. She pushes it open.

“Pssst…Daphne?” she whispers.

Her echo is met with silence and the drip of water somewhere deep.

She raises her wand, the light trembling over barrels and crates.

The smell of iron is stronger there. Not wine… but blood.

Then she sees someone move.

Not her sister.

A boy sits chained to the far wall.

He lifts his head slowly, as if it costs him everything.

One eye is swollen shut. The other flicks open when she moves, startled by the light. Is it grey, or maybe green? She can't tell for sure.

Astoria freezes, clutching the linen parcel to her chest.

“Who are you?” she breathes.

The boy blinks with his one good eye. “Decorations inspector,” he croaks, and it sounds so absurd that she almost laughs.

The sound betrays her.

The footsteps echo from the hall above, and she slips behind a barrel just as the door opens.

Greyback comes down, his boots heavy, laughing by himself about something.

He tosses a crust of bread onto the floor, spitting near the boy’s feet, and then leaves.

When the door shuts again, Astoria steps out.

He is staring at the bread. Not moving. Not touching it. She kneels, picks it up, blows the dust away.

She uses some of the honey she picked for Daphne, spreading a generous layer until the slice is completely covered.

She presses it into his hand. “Eat.”

He hesitates. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.”

That night she dreams of him — the way his voice trembles between pain and humour — and when she wakes, the guilt is unbearable.

By the next evening she goes back.

The whole house smells of roast duck and cigar smoke; her Father’s guests are lingering in the drawing room.

Their laughter follows her down the stairs, muffled by the thick carpet.

She hides a cloth and a flask of water in her sleeve and a small book under her cloak.

Her hands shake as she lights the lantern.

Trembling, she pushes the cellar door open, trying to make as little noise as possible.

He is awake this time.

The bruises on his jaw have deepened into a sickly yellow, but his eyes look clearer.

“You're real… I thought you were a dream,” he says.

She hesitates in the doorway. “You dream about girls bringing you laundry?”

His mouth twitches. “Only the brave ones.”

The joke shouldn’t make her smile, but it does anyway.

She kneels, wringing the cloth in her hands, and reaches through the bars to dab the dried blood at his temple.

He flinches, then stills.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when I breathe.”

She almost laughs again, but it stops somewhere in her chest. “You shouldn’t make fun of it.”

“If I don’t, they win.”

He keeps watching her with that unguarded curiosity that feels too intimate.

“Why are you doing this?”

Astoria wrings the cloth again, watching the water darken. “Because no one else will.”

She hands him the flask. He drinks in small, careful swallows, the line of his throat working.

When he finishes, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and nods toward her cloak. “What’s the contraband?”

She glances at the cellar door. “A book. Don’t tell the guards. They think reading makes people dangerous.”

“Does it?”

“Apparently.” She pulls it out — The Tales of Beedle the Bard, its spine cracked from years in the Greengrass nursery. “It’s all I could hide.”

He takes it reverently, turning it over in his hands. “My mum used to read this to me.”

The way he says mum makes something ache behind her ribs. “Do you want me to read?” she asks.

He looks up. “Please.”

Her voice sounds strange in the stillness, more soft. Dust swirls in the lantern light as she reads of rivers that grant wishes and hearts turned to stone. When she glances up, his eyes are half-closed.

When she reaches the final line, she lowers the book. “You should rest.”

He nods. “What’s your name?”

She hesitates. Telling him her name is dangerous. But he is looking at her like the truth matters.

“Astoria.”

He says it once, quietly, as if trying it on his tongue. “Astoria,” he repeats, slower. “I’m Elias.”

She nods and stands, the book clutched to her chest. “Goodnight, Elias.”

He smiles — faint but real. “Goodnight, Astoria.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

She presses her back against it, breathing hard.

She goes back the next night. And the one after that.

Sometimes she brings food—bread, apples, a piece of cheese tucked under her cloak. Sometimes she only brings herself.

Each time she tells herself it will be the last.

Each time she lies.

Greyback and the rest have grown lazy; they think the boy is half-dead and harmless. He isn’t. He’s becoming more alive each evening she returns.

They talk a lot. About everything. He asks about the weather. She tells him it smells like lilac and rain. He asks about Hogwarts. She recounts her day to him, exaggerating — embellishing every detail as if she were telling a story.

He laughs then, the sound startling against the sterile walls. “You make ordinary things sound like miracles.”

She smiles faintly. “Maybe they are.”

When he speaks of the world outside—the hum of the Muggle trains, the way London lights look from a broom at dusk—her chest tightens. She has never seen any of those things.

He notices. “You’ve never left here, have you?”

She shakes her head. “Girls like me don’t get to leave.”

For a moment he looks like he might say something reckless, but instead he murmurs, “Then I’ll tell you what it’s like until you can.”

That becomes their ritual. Each night, a new story: markets at Christmas, children playing in the rain, the sound of waves against Brighton pier. She listens until she can smell salt air in the damp of the cellar.

In return she brings him pieces of her own world—the taste of honey on stolen bread, the scent of the gardens, fragments of her sister’s laughter when they were still young enough to be happy.

When she laughs now, he watches her with quiet astonishment, as if she’s the first beautiful thing he’s seen in months. She feels it too—the strange pull of light between them.

Once, when she passes him the flask, their fingers brush. The spark that leaps between their skin startles them both. She snatches her hand back, heart pounding.

He gives a small, crooked grin. “Careful. You’ll get yourself cursed.”

“Already am,” she murmurs, low but loud enough for him to hear.

He laughs again, softer this time.

Spring creeps into the world above, though they only know it by the smell. Elias is stronger now. The bruises have faded. She brings him books, one at a time.

He reads them aloud when she’s too afraid to do it.

Sometimes she stays until dawn seeps through the cracks at the top of the stairs.

He looks up from the page. “Astoria.”

“Yes?”

“If you ever leave this place, promise me you’ll see the sea.”

She nods. “Will you take me there?”

His smile is slow, a little sad. “If I can.”

The words hang between them, fragile but impossible to take back.

She rises, brushing dust from her skirts. “Then it’s a promise.”

Later, when she’s in bed, she can still hear him reading. She falls asleep with the book clutched against her chest, the scent of honey still clinging to her hands.

The house is colder that week.

Her father has guests again. Louder ones and rougher. Astoria stays out of sight.

She waits until the parlour music begins upstairs before she slips toward the kitchen, another bundle of food hidden in her sleeve.

But she’s not alone.

Draco’s voice stops her halfway down the servants’ corridor.

“You’ve been disappearing after dinner.”

She turns, forcing calm. “You sound like my father.”

He leans against the wall, pale and exhausted, eyes shadowed. “Then answer me like you answer him.”

“Go to bed, Draco.”

He studies her for a long moment, and then something gentler flickers across his face. “Who is he?”

The words freeze her in place. “Who?”

“I saw you going into the cellar.” His voice is flat, but his fingers tap once against the wall, restless, betraying his calm appareance.

“You have no right to follow me.” Her voice wavers in anger and fear.

“Tori…” He exhales her name, softer this time, almost pleading. “I worry about you.”

Her throat closes. “If you tell him—”

“I’m not going to tell him.” Draco looks away. “You don’t have to explain. Just… be careful. There’s talk that Greyback will be post at your house… permanently.”

The thought makes her stomach turn. “He won’t find him.”

Draco’s mouth twists. “You don’t know Greyback.”

She swallows. “Then help me keep him away.”

For a heartbeat, he just stares at her — furious with himself for caring.

Then he exhales and nods once. “I’ll distract the guards tomorrow. Half an hour. That’s all I can promise.”

It’s more than she dared to hope for.

The next night, Theo finds her near the east stairs, cloak already drawn tight around her shoulders.

“You really shouldn’t be down here alone,” he says.

His voice is steady, but his wand is already out, tracing faint sigils in the air.

“The wards will notice the extra magic soon.”

She hesitates. “You knew?”

“I make it my business to know who you harbour.” He glances at her sideways. “You’ve been sloppy.”

Her pulse quickens. “Are you going to tell my father?”

Theo doesn’t answer at first.

He finishes a quiet countercharm and wipes the sweat from his brow. “If I wanted him to know, he’d already know.”

“Then why are you helping me?”

He gives a faint, humourless smile. “Because… you're like a sister to me, Tori. I don't want to see you hurt.”

His wand tip glows faintly green as he adjusts the runes along the doorframe. “This will hide you. For now. I hope you know what you're doing.”

She studies his profile: the tension in his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. “You sound like someone who already knows how the story ends.”

Theo meets her gaze. “We both know how this story will end.”

When she enters the cellar, Elias is awake, pacing as much as his chains allow.

“You’re late,” he says, but the edge in his voice softens when he sees her face. “Are you all right?”

Astoria nods, forcing a smile. “We have a little more time tonight. My friend’s keeping watch.”

He stares at her, startled. “They know?”

“He won’t tell.”

“Why?”

“Because… we protect each other.” She hesitates. “And Theo’s protecting you too now.”

Elias frowns. “The quiet one? The Death Eater?”

“He isn’t—” she begins, then stops. “He wasn’t, once.”

Elias watches her carefully. “And you trust him?”

“With my life,” she says, simply.

Something flickers in his expression.

He steps closer, the faint rattle of chains the only sound. “You risk everything for me.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

She looks up, searching for words that will make sense of the weight in her chest. “Because I can’t stand the thought of you down here alone.”

For a moment he just looks at her — long enough for her pulse to trip.

Then he exhales, slow. “Then I’ll make you a promise,” he says. “If I ever get out, I’ll find you and you’ll know this was real.”

Her hand lifts before she realises it, fingers brushing his through the bars.

Neither of them speak again for a long time.

The next night Elias sits on the floor, knees drawn up, the book open but forgotten. They’ve run out of stories to trade; only silence remains.

Astoria’s hand rests on the bars, palm open.

His mirrors hers, separated by a breath of air and cold iron. For a heartbeat she forgets the chains, the walls, the name of the house she was born into.

For a heartbeat they stay that way… her breath and his; the small space vibrating with everything that can’t happen.

“Can I kiss you, Astoria?” he asks, voice gentle, almost afraid to break the silence.

Her eyes widen. Her voice trembles. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I can’t save you.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But I’d still like to know how your lips feel.”

She looks at him, chest rising faster. “I… I’ve never…”

“You’ve never been kissed?” he asks, tenderly.

She shakes her head, embarrassed. “No.”

A small, wistful smile touches his mouth. “Then may I be the very lucky, very honoured man to steal your first kiss?”

She doesn’t answer. She only steps closer.

Her hands clutch the cold iron bars. He takes them gently, brushing his lips over each knuckle, and the touch alone makes her knees buckle.

He moves slowly, carefully, giving her every chance to step back.

When she doesn’t, he leans in, pressing his lips between the bars, chasing hers.

The kiss is hesitant and soft, clumsy in its innocence. It lasts only a breath.

When she opens her eyes, he’s still watching her — a faint smile breaking through the exhaustion.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Astoria touches her fingers to her lips, as though she’s been burned.

“For what?”

He exhales, his gaze steady and warm. “For reminding me that even at the edge of death… something as fragile as hope can still taste sweet.”

For a few days the house feels lighter, though nothing has really changed. Astoria moves through the corridors as if carrying a secret flame.

She hums when she thinks no one’s listening.

Even the elves seem to sense it.

Theo notices first. He always does.

He finds her in the garden after supper, still wearing her cloak, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

She’s watching the lilac trees bend in the wind, a small smile playing at her mouth.

“You look like you’ve seen the sun,” he says.

Her head turns quickly. Her lips part, a dozen excuses rising and dying unspoken. “You’re angry.”

“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “I’m… glad you found something good in all this.”

She studies him, uncertain. “Then why do you sound like you’re mourning?”

He exhales, watching his breath cloud in the air. “Because I’ve lived in this house too long to believe that good things last here.”

Astoria looks down at her gloves, twisting the fingers. “He isn’t like the others, Theo.”

“I don’t doubt it.” His tone is soft, not mocking. “But your father doesn’t believe in exceptions.”

Her throat tightens. “I can keep him hidden a little longer.”

Theo looks at her then, really looks — the girl who still tries to find light in a place built on shadow. “You think love will protect you. It won’t. But it’s still worth having.”

A silence stretches between them, filled with the rustle of the lilacs.

She reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Thank you.”

He almost smiles. “Don’t thank me yet.”

That night he adjusts the wards again, quietly, carefully. He tells himself it’s to keep the guards from noticing, but he knows it’s also to buy her time — a few days, maybe a week — to have something beautiful before the house devours it.

When he passes the cellar, he pauses, hearing her voice drifting up through the stone. She’s reading aloud, laughter breaking between the words.

For a moment he can almost imagine it’s another life, another house, one where mercy means something simple.

He stands there a long time, hands in his pockets, before turning away.

He knows how this story ends.

Astoria doesn’t sleep that night. Every creak of the manor sounds like a clock counting down.

By morning she’s made up her mind.

She finds Draco first, in the library. He’s tracing the edge of a book he isn’t reading, jaw tight. When she bursts in, he looks up sharply.

“We have to move him,” she says before he can speak.

Draco blinks. “Astoria—”

“Elias. We can’t keep him here. They’ll find him, Draco. I won't allow it… I can't—”

He shuts the book carefully, as if buying himself time. “You realise what you’re asking.”

“Yes.”

“Then you realise I can’t.”

“You can.” Her voice trembles but doesn’t break. “You’ve saved people before.”

Draco’s eyes flash. “And I nearly died for it. You think there’s anywhere left to run?”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” she says.

Draco grips the chair hard; his composure starting to vanish. “You wouldn’t last an hour outside those gates. They watch every apparition trail, every owl—”

“I don’t care.”

Draco stands too quickly. The chair legs scrape the floor; his composure fractures; he paces once, hands raking through his hair.

Then, from the doorway:

“She’s right.”

Theo. Still in his cloak, mud on the hem and expression unreadable.

He steps into the room, closing the door behind him.

Draco’s jaw tightens. “Don’t encourage her.”

“She’s already decided,” Theo says. “Better she has a plan than a death wish.”

Astoria exhales, relief blooming in her chest. “You’ll help me?”

Theo doesn’t answer immediately. He drops into the chair opposite her, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “If we’re doing this, we do it cleanly. One mistake and he dies before he reaches the gate.”

Draco looks between them in disbelief. “You’re both mad.”

“Probably,” Theo murmurs. “But madness has a better survival rate than hope.”

They spread the plan between them like a map.

Draco will handle the guards—shift the patrol schedule, start a diversion in the north wing. Theo will break the wards for exactly sixty seconds. No longer. Astoria will lead Elias through the orchard path to the old boundary wall where the wards are weakest.

“Beyond that point,” Theo says quietly, “he’s on his own.”

Astoria nods, fingers trembling against the edge of the table. “He’ll make it.”

Draco studies her. “And when your father realises?”

She meets his eyes. “He’ll punish me. Not you.”

Draco shakes his head. "It won’t matter who he blames. In the end, we all pay the same price."

“Then I’m already damned.”

The words come out calm, almost serene.

For the first time, neither of them argue.

When the meeting ends, Draco gathers the papers back into a neat pile, avoiding her gaze. “If anyone asks,” he says quietly, “I was never here.”

Theo lingers a moment longer. “Is he worth it, Astoria?”

“Yes.”

He looks at her and nods, resigned. “Very well, then.”

That night, Astoria returns to the cellar.

Elias is already awake. He’s sitting against the wall. The sight almost breaks her — how he still reads, still hopes, in this place that devours both.

When she pushes the door, he looks up sharply. “Why are you here?” His voice is rougher than usual, thick with unease.

She sets the candle down, closing the door behind her. “Because I have to tell you something.”

His expression changes immediately. “What’s happened?”

Astoria kneels before him, her hands tight around the small loaf of bread she’s brought. “You can’t stay here, Elias. They’ll find you. My father is getting suspicious.”

He’s on his feet before she finishes. “Then leave me to him. I won’t have you—”

“No.” She steps closer, voice trembling but steady. “Theo and Draco will help. We can get you out.”

For a moment he just stares, the words not quite sinking in. Then the anger arrives, born from fear. “Do you hear yourself? You’ll be killed, all of you, Astoria!”

“I know the risk.”

“Do you?” He paces the small space, the chain at his ankle clinking with every turn. “You think love is enough to stand against people like your father? Against You-Know-Who?”

Her breath catches. “Don’t call it love if that frightens you.”

“It doesn’t frighten me,” he snaps. “It terrifies me.”

He stops, dragging a hand through his hair, and his voice softens. “You think you can save me. But you can’t. All you’ll do is burn with me.”

Astoria takes a step closer. “Then I’ll burn knowing I tried.”

He looks at her then — truly looks — and whatever argument he meant to make dies on his tongue. His shoulders sag. “I wish you never found me,” he whispers.

“But I did,” she says. “And I won’t pretend I didn’t.”

The silence between them stretches, fragile. He lifts his arm slow and hesitant — until his fingers hover near her cheek. They don’t touch.

“I can’t stop you, can I?” he murmurs.

Astoria shakes her head, eyes shining. “No.”

A long breath escapes him, almost a laugh. “Then tell me what to do.”

She doesn’t hear him at first. She’s too caught in Elias’s voice…

Then she hears it: the sound of boots on the stone and a low chuckle that ticken the air with anxiety.

Astoria’s head snaps up. Elias tenses.

From the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, a figure emerges — broad shoulders, yellow eyes glinting with feral delight.

Greyback.

“Well, well,” he drawls, grin spreading to show his sharp teeth. “What do we have here? Little Greengrass sneaking crumbs to the vermin.”

Astoria’s blood runs cold. She steps in front of Elias without thinking. “You shouldn’t be down here,” she says, her voice breaking but steady enough to sound like defiance.

Greyback laughs, the sound was guttural. “Your father said if I did a good job, I could have you when this is all over. Guess he didn’t mean I had to wait.” He takes a step closer. “Seems I need to get rid of the competition first.”

Before she can move, his hand flashes. The backhand sends her crashing against the wall. White light bursts behind her eyes; she slides down the stones, breathless, limbs suddenly useless.

“Don’t touch her!” Elias shouts, lunging forward. The chain at his ankle jerks him short.

Greyback turns, grinning wider. “Oh, I’ll touch her after I’m done with you.”

He strikes. Elias meets him halfway — a soundless struggle, desperate. Greyback’s weight bears him down easily. The creature’s face dips close, fangs gleaming.

Astoria tries to move… but can’t. Her limbs feel drowned. The taste of blood fills her mouth as she whispers, “No…”

Greyback bites.

Elias’s cry rips through the cellar, a sound that doesn’t belong to anything human.

Then another voice cuts through the chaos.

“Expulso!”

The blast hurls Greyback back across the room, crashing him into the far wall.

Dust rains from the ceiling.

Theo stands in the doorway, wand raised, eyes burning with a fury so controlled it’s more frightening than Greyback’s madness. “Get away from them,” he simply says.

Greyback growls, rising, blood smeared at his mouth. “Nott’s pup playing hero now?”

Theo doesn’t reply. He only steps forward. "You’ve already broken your orders. Leave… and I won’t tell her father you’re the one who broke his daughter’s face."

Greyback’s lip curls. “And if I don’t?”

Theo’s wand flares green. “Then you won’t have a mouth left to answer.”

For a long moment, the werewolf doesn’t move. Rage and reason flicker behind his eyes, fighting for dominance.

Then, with a snarl, he spits onto the floor and vanishes with a crack.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Theo lowers his wand slowly, his breath coming fast for the first time.

Astoria drags herself upright, her limbs trembling, and stumbles toward Elias.

He’s shaking, clutching his shoulder, the blood already dark against his shirt.

“Theo—” she gasps. “He’s—”

“I know.” Theo’s voice is low, rough.

He kneels beside Elias, eyes scanning the wound. His jaw sets. “The bite’s deep. There’s no saving him.”

Astoria shakes her head violently, tears spilling down her face. “No—there has to be something—”

Theo looks at her, his voice breaking its calm for the first time. “If I don’t do this, he’ll turn. And they’ll make a spectacle of it.”

Elias looks between them, breath ragged. “Let him do it,” he says, hoarse. “Please, Astoria.”

Astoria’s fingers clutch his sleeve. “I can’t—”

He smiles faintly through the pain. “We always knew our time was borrowed… Be free Tori, see the world for me.”

Theo raises his wand. His hands don’t shake, but his eyes do. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The green light flares, merciful.

Astoria screams.

By the time the echo fades, she already knows he’s gone.

Chapter Text

By the time Astoria finished her story, they were both crying.

Hermione wanted to say something, anything that could make it better, but there were no words. She had always felt the need to fix what was broken — to make sense of the pain — but there was no fixing Astoria, or the hole carved in her heart.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered. The words sounded small, stupid, not enough.

Astoria wiped her tears and cleared her throat, managing a weak smile. “He’s always with me, you know? I can still feel him.” She looked toward the window, her eyes glassy. “Sometimes I hear his laugh… his voice when he read to me… his hands on mine. One day, Hermione — one day I’ll get out of here, and I’ll go to the sea, like I promised him.”

Hermione’s throat burned.

She kept swallowing, trying to steady her breathing, but the grief was too much. She felt it for Elias — a boy she had never known — and for Astoria, who deserved more than loss and memory.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Astoria said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. I just wanted you to know a bit more about Theo.”

Hermione frowned softly. “Why do you care what I think of him?”

Astoria’s smile was faint, almost wistful. “Because… he’s suffered too. But he’s still the same boy, deep down. The same one who was ready to risk everything to free the man I loved.”

Hermione was quiet for a long time.

She couldn’t reconcile the two men in her mind — the merciful Theo from Astoria’s story and the one who had killed her friend.

The image of Margery’s death was still raw in her mind. “He killed her,” she said finally, voice low. “Margery didn’t deserve to die. Not because of me.”

Astoria’s eyes widened for a fraction, but Hermione didn’t see it.

After a pause, Astoria said carefully, “Everyone dies for someone, Hermione. Everyone dies for a cause.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

Astoria shook her head quickly. “Nothing. I’m being foolish — still upset after telling that story.” She brushed it off, but her hands were shaking.

Hermione wanted to ask more, but she didn’t want to push.

“What happened to your sister, Astoria?” she asked instead.

Astoria went still.

For a moment she just looked at Hermione, like she was trying to decide something. Then she sighed, the fight leaving her shoulders. “She’s not with us anymore.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—” Hermione started, her voice breaking.

“It’s all right,” Astoria said gently, forcing a small smile. “You didn’t know.”

Astoria’s story still hung in her head.

Elias. The cellar. Theo.

Maybe mercy wasn’t kindness.

Maybe it was just the only thing left when everything else was gone.

She stood close by the window. Outside, the sky was heavy with the rain. Somewhere in the distance she could hear a thunder.

Hermione pressed her hand to the cold glass. She didn’t know if she pitied Astoria more for what she’d lost — or for the hope she still seemed to carry.

And when she finally turned away, she realised she was crying again, though this time, she didn’t know who the tears were for.

“Why are you crying?”

Theo’s voice snapped her back to reality.

She startled — she hadn’t heard him come in.

“I…” Hermione faltered, staring at the floor, at loss for words.

Theo frowned. “Hermione… did someone upset you?”

His tone was genuine, steady in a way that disarmed her.

Her eyes lifted to his, searching for mockery, but found none — only curiosity, laced with concern.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?” he asked again, quieter this time.

“I was thinking about mercy,” she said, watching him carefully.

“Mercy?” he repeated, clearly thrown off by the answer.

“Yes. Mercy,” she said again, firmer now. “The mercy you showed Elias… and the mercy you didn’t show Margery.”

Theo exhaled, shaking his head with a small, humourless laugh. “I’m guessing you and Astoria had a little heart-to-heart.”

“Yes,” Hermione admitted. “And I’m trying to figure out which version of you is real.”

“Why do you need to do that?” he asked, brow furrowing.

“Because I don’t understand,” she said, voice low but insistent. “How you can be so selfless with one person, and so cruel with another.”

“There’s nothing to understand, Hermione. I was trying to help a friend.”

“You didn’t have to,” she pressed. “You knew the risk, and you still did it.”

“As the story goes,” Theo said softly, “we failed.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Hermione shot back. “You still tried. You still risked it.”

He gave her a thin, humorless smile. “I’m moved by your delusion to find something good left in me.”

“It’s not a delusion,” she murmured.

“It is.” His voice dropped, almost kind. “You’re looking for something to save. Someone to redeem.” He paused, meeting her eyes fully. “Let me save you the trouble,” he said quietly. “There isn’t.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t rise to his bait.

Then she looked at hi, really looked, and saw how pale he was.

He was still in uniform.

If it could even be called that.

Which meant he’d just come back from the camp.

The high collar fastened with two silver clasps etched in runes; no insignia, no crest, only a single black serpent coiled around his left sleeve. Across his chest ran a narrow strap of dragon-hide, the holster for his wand gleaming like a weapon rather than a tool.

His gloves were gone, but their imprint still marked his wrists.

The trousers were pressed to a knife’s edge, boots cleaned with meticulous care.

But when she narrowed her eyes, she caught the dark stain spreading near his ribs.

“You’re hurt,” Hermione said, cursing herself for the concern in her voice.

“Just a scratch,” he replied lightly.

The blood was pooling too steadily for that.

“It doesn’t look like a scratch,” she said.

Theo’s mouth twitched. “Are you worried about my wellbeing now, little pawn?”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. Was he right? Was she really worried about her captor’s health?

“No,” she said quickly. “But if you die, I’ll have to deal with whoever comes next.”

“Touching,” Theo smirked. “But I’m not dying.”

“Why haven’t you healed it, then?”

“I can’t.”

Hermione frowned. “Can’t? Doesn’t your precious Dark Lord care about the wellbeing of his favourites?”

Theo arched a brow. “Your tongue’s sharper than usual today. But as a matter of fact, the wound was inflicted by a cursed blade. Magic won’t fix it.”

“How ironic,” she muttered. “The only thing that could help you is Muggle.”

“Life is an ironic tragedy,” he said easily.

“Is quoting Kierkegaard part of your pure-blood education?” she asked, not sarcastic, just watching the red stain widen.

Theo’s smirk deepened, pleased she’d recognised it. That was exactly the reaction he’d wanted.

“Unfortunately, there’s no one in this house capable of tending it,” he said, shrugging — the motion making the blood spread darker. “And the elves are too terrified I’ll hurt them if they do a bad job.”

“Would you?” Hermione asked quietly. “Hurt them?”

He met her eyes. “No, Hermione. I wouldn’t.”

His voice was sincere, or so close to it that she couldn’t tell the difference.

She stood there, caught on the edge of a decision.

Her hands wrung together, breath shaking as she came to her conclusion.

She was better than him. Better than all of them.

She set her shoulders square.

“Undress,” she said simply.

Theo’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t know I was your type.”

His complexion was growing paler by the minute.

“I’m going to clean the wound,” she said firmly. “Ask the elves for warm water, antiseptic, and a clean cloth.”

He studied her, legs swaying just slightly.

“Now… why would you do that?” he asked, tilting his head in that maddening, curious way of his.

“Because,” Hermione said, voice steady now, “I’m better than you.”

He huffed a soft, humourless laugh. “That’s not hard. Everyone’s better than me.”

He didn’t give her time to respond before calling for the elves.

A different one appeared this time — small, sharp-eyed, her grey hair tied back like an old governess.

“Master has called?” she said, indignant.

Hermione turned toward Theo, waiting for his reaction.

“Ah… it’s you, Milly. My lucky day,” he said dryly, voice rough with exhaustion.

Hermione didn’t understand the joke, but the elf did.

Her ears twitched; her scowl deepened.

“What does Master”—she practically spat the word—“want?”

Theo swayed on his feet, his eyelids drooping.

“Hermione needs—” he began, waving a hand vaguely in her direction. “What is it you need again?”

He looked like he might collapse any second.

“Warm water, antiseptic, and a clean cloth,” Hermione said quickly, stepping closer as if ready to catch him. “Now, please.”

The elf’s gaze flicked between them, eyes narrowing.

“Prisoner will care for Master?” she asked, tone laced with disbelief.

“Yes,” Hermione said, too fast. “He needs medical attention.”

“Hmm.” Milly hummed to herself. But in a blink, she Disapparated, then reappeared moments later with a basin, towels, and a small vial of clear liquid.

Hermione took them carefully. “Thank you, Milly.”

The elf tilted her head, studying her with something unreadable.

“Strange,” she murmured, and vanished.

Hermione didn’t have time to think about it.

Theo slumped into the nearest chair, head falling back, eyes half-closed, his breath shallow.

The silence stretched.

Hermione set the basin on the table and crouched beside the chair.

Theo’s head had tipped to the side.

“Stay awake,” she said quietly.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I am awake.”

“Barely.” She reached for his sleeve. “Can you lift your arm?”

He did, but only halfway. The movement dragged a sharp breath out of him.

“Merlin,” she muttered, fingers already working at the buttons.

“You know,” Theo murmured, “when women unbutton my shirts, they’re usually not disgusted.”

She shot him a glare that almost — almost — made him smile.

“I didn’t know you had time for women,” she said flatly.

“Mmm. You’re right,” he replied, voice low, almost amused. “I don’t.”

When she peeled back the fabric, the smell of iron hit her.

The wound was deep, torn at the edge like the blade had twisted on purpose.

The blood had soaked through the lining of his coat and dried along the seams.

Hermione swallowed. “This will hurt.”

Theo glanced down, eyes faintly amused. “Everything does.”

She dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and pressed it to his side.

He hissed, jaw tightening.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said.

“You’re enjoying this,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer. She cleaned the wound slowly, careful not to look at his face.

The cloth turned pink, then red. Every time she pressed too hard, he tensed, but he didn’t pull away.

The quiet was filled with small sounds: the drip of water, the rasp of her breath, the creak of leather when he shifted.

“Who did this?” she asked after a while.

He tilted his head, considering. “Someone who won’t again.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get.”

She rolled her eyes and reached for the antiseptic. “Hold still.”

When the first sting hit, he exhaled through his teeth. “Sadist.”

“Call it mercy,” she said, voice low. “If I were cruel, I’d let it rot.”

That earned her a quiet and soft laugh.

She risked a glance at him.

His face was drawn but calm, the colour returning slightly to his cheeks.

He watched her hands, not her eyes.

“You’ve done this before,” he said.

“Of course I have. We were camping and hiding before the snatcher caught us.”

“Then you already know how pointless all this is.”

“Maybe.” She reached for the bandage. “But it still matters.”

She wrapped the cloth around his ribs, the warmth of his skin brushing her knuckles.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The silence grew heavier.

When she tied the last knot, she realised her hands were trembling.

“Done,” she said, sitting back. “You’ll live another day.”

Theo looked down at the bandage, then up at her.

His eyes had softened, unguarded for once.

“You shouldn’t have helped me,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Hermione wiped her hands on the towel. “I didn’t do it for you.”

He nodded faintly. “mmm.. what did you say earlier? 'you’ll have to deal with whoever comes next'?”

She hesitated. “I did it for myself.”

He studied her for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his expression.

“You really are the strangest prisoner I’ve ever had.”

“And you’re the strangest man who’s ever called himself cruel,” she said.

That almost drew another smile.

Instead, he leaned back, eyes half-closing. The exhaustion was written all over him now; it softened everything else.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, stripped of its usual edge.

“I didn’t lie,” he said.

“About what?”

“The elves. I don’t hurt them.” His gaze drifted toward the window, unfocused.

Hermione stood there, her throat tightening around something she didn’t want to name.

“You think that’s mercy?” she asked.

He looked at her, and for the first time since she’d known him, there was no smirk, no mask—just the quiet of a man who had run out of things to pretend.

“I think,” Theo said, “it’s the closest I get.”

She didn’t answer. The thunder outside had grown louder.

Hermione gathered the basin and cloth, her movements careful, measured.

He said her name, just once, soft, almost uncertain.

She stopped.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like I could still be saved.”

Hermione stood still, her hands dirty with his blood and the words heavy between them.

She wanted to say something—anything—but all she managed was, “You should rest.”

Theo didn’t argue. He leaned back in the chair, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion pulling at him until his breathing slowed. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Hermione stood there, unsure what to do with herself.

The room felt smaller with him unconscious in it.

She told herself it didn’t matter. But her eyes kept drifting back to him.

He looked different in sleep. Younger, almost.

The bandage she’d wrapped was still clean, though a small patch of red had begun to bloom through it again.

Guilt settled cold in her stomach.

He was her captor. A Death Eater. The enemy. And yet, here she was — watching the rise and fall of his chest as if it meant something.

His brow furrowed suddenly, a flicker of tension breaking the stillness. A nightmare, maybe? Pain? Before she could think, she moved closer.

Her hand lifted halfway, fingers hovering just above his temple, ready to smooth the crease, to ease it away.

She didn’t even touch him.

His hand shot out, catching her wrist.

Hermione gasped, startled.

Theo’s voice was rough, sleep-heavy. “Were you trying to kill me?”

Her heart thudded in her throat. “Why would I kill you now?” she managed, pulling back slightly. “I just healed you. It’d be a waste of time and resources.”

His grip loosened, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Efficient as ever,” he murmured, releasing her.

She stepped back quickly, heat rising to her face for reasons she didn’t know or didn't want to admit.

Theo didn’t open his eyes again.

Within seconds, his breathing steadied once more, deep and even and Hermione was left standing there, caught between reason and something dangerously close to compassion.

She ended up sitting across from him, on the floor by the fireplace, her knees pulled up, watching the flames.

She told herself she’d done the right thing in helping him; that it was what any decent person would do. That was all.

But her mind drifted in spite of her. She remembered other nights like this, she remember her time in the tent, the smell of smoke and antiseptic, Harry and Ron asleep beside a lamp.

She’d cleaned wounds then, too. Different faces, same blood.

Back then, tending someone had meant purpose.

Survival was the primal instinct.

She gave what she could and hoped it would be enough to keep both, Harry and Ron, safe.

She never thought she’d do it again, least of all here.

Her gaze slid toward Theo.

The way the firelight spread on the bandage, the faint movement of his chest.

He was too still, too human in that moment.

And that was the worst part.

Because for a split second she saw him as she’d seen them: human, fragile, and nothing like the monsters she’d promised herself to hate.

The guilt came in waves.

She pressed her palm to her thigh, as if she could ground herself there. He’s not them, she told herself. He never will be.

But the thought didn’t settle. It just hung there, wrong.

Behind her, the chair creaked softly.

“Couldn’t sleep? Are you planning my demise?”

His voice was hoarse, half-asleep but unmistakably amused.

She turned, startled. His eyes were only half open.

“I was making sure you didn’t bleed to death,” she said.

“What an unflattering reason,” he murmured, shifting slightly. “You wound me.”

“You’re perfectly capable of doing that yourself.”

He made a small sound, not quite a laugh. “So you stayed awake to supervise?”

Hermione exhaled, looking back at the flames. “Is it so wrong to belive that?”

“No… " he said softly, "it's not.”

He let his head fall back again, eyes drifting shut.

For a while, she thought he slipped back to sleep, but then he spoke, quieter now.

“You know… it’s not very polite to stare,” he murmured, eyes remaining shut.

She didn’t know why she asked it, but the words slipped out before she could stop them.

“Do you ever regret it? Your actions? The people you kill?”

Theo’s eyes opened and looked at the fire. “Regret is just another form of shame.”

She huffed, rubbing her palms together for warmth.

“Are you not ashamed?” she asked, refusing to back down.

“You’d want me to say yes, wouldn’t you?” Theo’s tone was calm, almost thoughtful. “So you can sleep peacefully tonight; so you can tell yourself you helped someone worth saving.”

He met her gaze, eyes steady. “But what if I say no? Will you curse yourself because you helped a monster?”

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not now.

She cleared her throat. “I think…” she began slowly, “everyone deserves help. Even if—” She hesitated, eyes flicking to the fire, as if searching the courage in the flames. Then she looked back at him. “Even if they’re monsters.”

“Are you always this righteous?” Theo asked, half-curious, half-weary.

“No,” Hermione said quietly. “I’m not. But my righteousness — my principles — they’re all I have left. What’s right and what’s wrong, what’s light and what’s dark… those are the things I repeat to myself every night, so I don’t lose what I am in all of this.”

Theo hummed to himself.

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster,” she quoted softly.

Theo smiled faintly. “Nietzsche.”

Hermione nodded. “I liked to read.”

“You don’t like it anymore?”

She scoffed. “I’m not allowed to, am I? Astoria told me it’s forbidden.”

Theo hummed, nodding slowly. “It is. Her father’s rule… and others’. I like to bend rules.”

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“I’m sure you’ll do it anyway,” he replied, a hint of amusement threading his words.

Heat crept up her neck, unexpected and embarrassing in the domestic quiet of the moment.

“Astoria told me about Elias,” she said carefully. “But she never told me why she lives here. With you.”

Before he could stop her, she added quickly, “I didn’t want to ask her myself. I was afraid of upsetting her.”

Theo went still. For a moment, it looked as though he might refuse to answer. Then, quietly:

“When I killed Elias…”

“Greyback killed him,” she interrupted.

Theo’s gaze lifted. “I cast the curse. He could have lived as a werewolf.”

“At what cost?” she asked, voice low. “What would’ve truly happened to him?”

Theo exhaled, eyes dark. “The Dark Lord would have… experimented.”

“Experimented?” Hermione repeated, nausea already crawling up her throat.

“Yes. He wanted to see what happened to creatures and Muggles under the influence of dark artefacts and curses.”

“That’s sickening.”

“That’s the Dark Lord,” Theo said simply.

“Your master,” she corrected.

A pause, then he nodded once. “My master.”

Hermione bit back the anger rising in her chest.

She wanted to shout, to tell him that no master was worth that kind of obedience, but she wanted answers more.

She steadied her breathing. “So you gave Elias mercy. What happened next?”

Theo’s jaw tightened. He clearly hated the word mercy but didn’t correct her this time.

“Astoria was… inconsolable,” he said finally. “Once she found out that Greyback and her father had an agreement, she did the only thing she thought would set her free.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

Theo hesitated, his expression tightening as if the words themselves caused pain.

“Her parents wanted her to marry, have heirs, secure alliances. So Astoria took away what made her valuable to them.”

Hermione stared at him, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“She and Daphne,” he said slowly, “used an old Sacred Twenty-Eight grimoire. Dark magic. They made themselves barren, Hermione.”

Hermione hadn’t realised she was holding her breath until it escaped her in a shudder.

Theo shook his head faintly. “They didn’t tell anyone. They only instructed one elf to call Draco and me if anything went wrong.”

Hermione’s voice was barely a whisper. “Is that how Daphne…?”

Theo looked at her, uncertain. “How Daphne what?”

“How she died. Astoria mentioned it, but I didn’t ask.”

He held her gaze for a long time, then nodded. “Yes.”

He didn’t elaborate, but after a moment he continued, voice distant.

“When Draco and I arrived… there was so much blood. I was furious. Because I thought — I thought we could’ve found another way.”

“Could you, though?” Hermione asked softly.

Theo gave a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “The righteous Gryffindor approving of their mad choice? She could have died.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman, Theo,” she said evenly. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your worth decided by your body.”

Theo watched her, something in his expression shifting.

“No,” he said at last. “I suppose I don’t.”

“Then don’t judge her for it,” Hermione said. “Astoria didn’t have a choice. That was the first real thing she ever did for herself.”

Theo’s eyes softened, just slightly.

“That’s what she said, afterward. She told me, ‘Theo, I don't regret it. I won’t be another pawn. I’ll be the master of my fate and my body will answer only to me.’”

“What happened after?” she asked, though she was almost afraid to hear it.

“Her parents were furious,” Theo said quietly. “Disgusted. And that leech, Greyback—” he spat the name like poison “—still said he wanted to keep her. Her father was actually considering it. Said it would be a fitting punishment.”

“That’s disgusting,” Hermione burst out.

“It is,” Theo agreed, his voice low. “So I stepped forward. Reminded him that I was a better prospect for the family name, that if they didn’t want Astoria anymore, she could stay with me instead.”

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “They think she’s been whoring herself out for me ever since.”

Hermione’s stomach turned. “How can a parent be so cruel…” she whispered, mostly to herself.

“Cruelty is the love language of our families, little pawn,” he said quietly.

“Why do you call me that?” Hermione asked. “Do you play chess often?”

“Yes, I do.”

“With who?” She couldn’t begin to imagine who would sit across a board from him.

“Initially Draco,” Theo said, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “But he’s terrible at it.”

“Then who do you play with now?”

“I play against myself.”

Hermione frowned. “How does that even work? How can you win?”

“I don’t, little pawn,” he said softly. “There’s no winning.”

A beat of silence passed before he added, “Maybe I should play with you. If you’re half as sharp as your tongue, you might finally be a worthy opponent.”

“I don’t really know how to play,” she admitted.

“I’ll teach you.”

Her brow arched. “Are you even allowed to?”

His mouth tilted, not quite a smile, but wicked nonetheless.

“It’s my house, Hermione. I’ll do what I want.”

“If that’s the case, then yes,” she said carefully. “But on one condition.”

“I didn’t know we were negotiating.” His smirk was all amusement.

“Well,” she said, folding her arms, “I can only assume how boring it must be to play with yourself all day.”

Theo’s brow arched. “Play with myself?”

Hermione went scarlet. “On the board, I mean.” She cleared her throat, refusing to look away. “So really, I’m doing you a favour.”

“Right…” he drawled, eyes glinting. “And what is it you want in return?”

Hermione hesitated, then said it: “What Astoria did. To herself.”

Theo froze. The humour drained from his face, replaced by something close to disbelief.

“Are you insane?”

“I never thought about it before,” she said, her voice steady even as her hands trembled.

“But just because you don’t touch me doesn’t mean others won’t. And I won’t bear a child in this world… not like that.”

Theo’s expression hardened. “Hermione, there’s only me in this house.”

“What if something happens to you?” she pressed. “What if someone else comes? You can’t promise it won’t.”

“The answer is no.”

“You don’t get to decide for me.”

“I am deciding,” he said sharply. “That spell is dangerous. It’s a miracle Astoria’s alive at all.”

She met his glare, unflinching. “Am I not going to die anyway? Isn't that what your master is planning?”

The question seemed to knock the air from him.

His agitation faltered, and for a moment, the silence between them was almost tender.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

"Tell me, Hermione… does a pawn forfeit the game before it even made its first move?"

That night, after her shower, she slipped beneath the blankets and stilled.

Something rested on her pillow: a small package, wrapped in a green dark cloth and tied with a single thread.

She hesitated before unwrapping it.

Inside lay a thin book, The Game of Chess.

Beside it, a small ceramic pawn — white, smooth, perfectly unremarkable, except for the faint crack running through its centre.

Hermione turned it over in her hand, feeling the weight of it against her skin.

No note. No explanation. Just a single piece.

Chapter Text

He’d meant to pour himself one drink, maybe two. It was his only ritual now, the illusion of control in a glass.

He skimmed the latest correspondence without really seeing it. Lists. Requests. Shipments. A few lines caught his eye:

Batch 7 cleared. Three safe. The northern road is compromised.

He read them twice, then folded the parchment carefully and slid it beneath the false bottom of the drawer—just as footsteps approached.

Astoria entered without knocking.

“Knock, knock,” Theo muttered. “Who is it? Oh, Tori—it’s you. Please, come in.” His tone was dry and humourless.

“Someone’s in a good mood today.” She smirked. “Does it have anything to do with a certain someone healing you the other night?”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “And how, pray tell, do you know that?”

“I know everything, Theo.” She smiled, sticking her tongue out.

He exhaled slowly, fighting a smile. “What do you need, Tori?”

“I need a favour,” she said, taking a seat across from him.

He raised a brow. “You’re sitting down, so it’s either something dangerous or something stupid.”

“Neither,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“Well?” he prompted.

Astoria straightened her posture, clearly preparing a case. “I want to spend more time with Hermione,” she said quickly. “I’d like her to leave her room and join me in the library.”

Theo closed his eyes, summoning all the patience left in him. “I see we’ve gone with stupid, then.”

“Please, Theooooo,” she whined, tone suddenly childlike. “I’m always alone, and Hermione’s wonderful company. We bonded.”

“Yes, I’m aware of your little heart-to-heart,” he said flatly. “Though it seems you deliberately omitted certain details.”

“Well… I don’t know if I can trust her yet. Spending time together will help with that.”

“Absolutely not.”

“No to the library—or the other thing?”

“Both,” he snapped. “Are you insane? She’s a prisoner.”

“She didn’t look like a prisoner when she was tending your wound.”

“Seriously, Tori?”

“Just saying,” she sing-songed. Then, softer: “Don’t I deserve a friend?”

Theo stared at her for a long moment, irritation and guilt wrapped together, then sighed. “Promise me it’s only social. You won’t share anything else with her.”

“Don’t you trust her?” she asked. “I think she could actually help with—”

“I said no, Tori. It’s already risky as it is.”

“Fine,” she huffed, rising to her feet with all the dramatics of a stage actress.

She left without another word. The door clicked shut behind her.

Theo raised his glass again and called after her, “You’re welcome, by the way!”

♝♕

Hermione was halfway through the book Theo had left her. It was full of chess strategies she didn’t quite grasp — forks, gambits, and feints that read more like riddles than logic.

She caught herself thinking she should practice on a board if she ever wanted to understand properly.

That thought stopped her cold. Since when did she want to play with Theodore Nott?

He was her jailer… although, if she was honest, she wasn’t entirely sure she was a prisoner. She had food four times a day, clean water, fresh clothes — and now, books.

The arrangement didn’t feel like captivity, not exactly. But it wasn’t freedom either. Whatever this was, she didn’t have the energy to define it.

Her wrist still ached where Theo’s fingers had pressed down when she’d treated his wound. She hadn’t expected the warmth of it to linger or the ache that followed. It had been strangely domestic, absurdly normal in a way that frightened her more than his temper ever could.

The door creaked.

Hermione startled, heart stuttering, before she heard the shuffle of small feet and the faint clink of metal. A house-elf stood in the doorway — grey-skinned, eyes too large, its thin hands gripping the frame.

“Miss is wanted,” the elf rasped. Its voice sounded scraped raw, as if it wasn’t used often. “By Mistress Astoria. In the library.”

Hermione blinked, thrown by the words. “The library? Now?”

The elf nodded, bowing so low its nose nearly brushed the floor. “Mistress says Miss Granger is to come. Quickly.”

Something uneasy twisted beneath her ribs. She rose slowly, smoothing her dress, eyes darting toward the tray by the table — stalling, thinking, trying to make sense of the sudden summons.

“Thank you,” she said softly, voice steadier than she felt.

The elf hesitated, glancing up at her in a strange, almost pitying way. “Miss should hurry,” it whispered. “Before Master changes his mind.”

Hermione stood frozen for a moment, the echo of that warning settling in her chest. Then she reached for the small book, tucking it beneath her arm — something solid to hold onto, something human.

When she stepped into the corridor, the air was colder. At the far end, a single lamp flickered, painting the walls in gold and shadow. She hesitated, glancing back once at the room she’d carved into a semblance of safety. Then she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

“This way, Miss,” the elf said, tugging gently at her sleeve.

Hermione’s pulse stuttered. It was absurd — she had dreamt of escaping this room, and now that she was free to leave, her feet refused to move. A wave of panic rose suddenly. Was this a trap?

Could she run?

No. She knew she couldn’t. The shackles around her wrists were sentient, she’d learned that the first week. Any attempt to flee and they’d tighten until she blacked out.

With no other choice, she followed the elf down the dim corridor, each step echoing too loudly. She told herself she was walking toward the library. She tried not to wonder what waited for her there.

The elf stopped before a tall door carved with lilies, gave a nervous bow, and vanished with a crack that made her even more uneasy.

Hermione stood alone for a heartbeat. Then she reached for the handle and pushed.

The breath left her in a rush.

The library wasn’t what she’d imagined; it was more — too much to take in at once. Rows upon rows of shelves spiralled upward, the ceiling lost in shadow. Sunlight spilled through tall arched windows, catching on floating motes of dust. The air smelled of old ink, leather, and something faintly floral.

Her throat tightened. She hadn’t realised until that moment how long she’d gone without beauty, without books, without a place that felt alive in the quiet way she understood best. The weight of it hit her — the months of restraint, of pretending she wasn’t breaking — and before she could stop herself, she sank to her knees between the shelves and cried.

It wasn’t loud, not the kind of crying that begged for comfort. It was the quiet kind — the kind that comes when the body finally remembers how to feel. Tears slipped down her cheeks soundlessly, dripping onto the spine of a book she’d been too afraid to touch. She pressed her palm over her mouth and let the ache move through her until it gentled.

When she finally looked up, Astoria was there.

She hadn’t heard the door open, but Astoria stood a few paces away, eyes soft, voice gentler than Hermione had ever heard it. “First time here always feels like that,” she said. “Like breathing after holding it too long.”

Hermione laughed weakly through the tears. “That obvious?”

Astoria offered a hand. “Only to someone who’s done it too.”

Hermione let her help her up. Together they moved through the aisles — slowly, reverently, as if walking through sacred ground. Astoria trailed her fingers along the spines, naming them like old friends: ancient grimoires, philosophy, a few forbidden texts tucked discreetly between histories.

Theo’s mother’s handwriting lingered in the margins of some.

Hermione recognised the same tidy precision she’d seen in Theo’s persona — his inheritance of order in a house built on chaos.

They settled by the window, where a patch of light spread across the floor. Astoria fetched tea from a tray that had appeared, miraculously warm, and handed Hermione a cup.

“Do you miss it?” Astoria asked after a while, watching her over the rim.

“The world?” Hermione smiled faintly. “Every piece of it.”

“I used to think I didn’t belong to it,” Astoria said. “Now I think it’s the other way around. It’s this world that doesn’t belong to us.”

They talked for hours — about Hogwarts, about what silence sounded like in the middle of war, about the strange cruelty of missing people who were still alive. Hermione told her about the Burrow at sunrise, about the smell of books at Flourish and Blotts, about how she used to fix everyone’s essays because she couldn’t stand ink smudges.

Astoria laughed at that — an honest, clear sound that startled Hermione into smiling. For the first time since her capture, she forgot to count her breaths.

“Why am I here, Astoria?” Hermione asked suddenly, her voice small and uncertain as if afraid she might shatter the quiet they’d built.

Astoria tilted her head. “Here in the library?”

“Here… in general.” Hermione took a breath, words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I didn’t expect this. I thought I’d be tortured to death the second I stepped into this house. But here I am… comfortable, drinking tea with you.”

Astoria’s gaze softened, touched by something like pity. “Do you feel guilty?”

“Guilty?”

“Yes. That you’re… enjoying being here. With me.”

Hermione shook her head, her throat tightening. “It’s not that. Don’t get me wrong — I’m grateful. I still have my sanity, and I’m not hurt. But…” Her voice cracked. “Harry and Ron… I don’t even know if they’re alive. If they’re okay.”

“They are,” Astoria said quickly and with a good amount of certainty.

Hermione frowned. “How would you know?”

Astoria’s eyes widened a fraction before she composed herself. “I’m sure they are,” she said smoothly. “If they weren’t, the Dark Lord would’ve made a feast of it by now.”

That landed heavy between them. Hermione stared down at her hands, the silence stretching until it physically hurt.

After a while, she spoke again, quieter now. “Do you ever wish you’d done something differently? Said no, maybe?”

Astoria’s mouth twitched, the faintest bitter smile. “Every day. But saying no here gets people killed. Sometimes saying yes does too.” She exhaled, eyes distant. “You learn to measure which deaths you can live with.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “That’s a horrible thing to know.”

“It is,” Astoria agreed softly. “And we all know it too well.”

The hush between them settled again, thicker than before. Hermione blinked hard, but a tear slipped free. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, embarrassed. “It’s just… I haven’t talked to anyone like this in so long.”

Astoria reached over, hesitant, and laid her hand over Hermione’s. “You don’t have to apologise for being human,” she said. “Not with me.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around hers. She smiled through her tears, then tried to laugh it off, desperate to pull herself back together.

“So,” she said, clearing her throat, “what do you do all day? Theo’s busy killing and terrifying people, but what about you?”

Astoria’s lips curved, teasing. “One day, Hermione. One day I’ll tell you.”

“Why not today?” Hermione asked, confused but smiling.

“Let’s see if you pass the test first.”

“I didn’t know I was being tested.”

“Life’s always a test, Hermione.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “Sometimes you sound much older than you actually are.”

That made Astoria laugh — a bright, startled sound that filled the room. It was so unexpected that Hermione started laughing too, until they were both breathless, laughing at the absurdity of it all… two women from opposite sides of a war, sharing tea and secrets in a library.

For a fleeting moment, it felt almost normal.

But their laughter suddenly stopped when the door banged open.

It wasn’t the polite knock or the hesitant call of a house-elf. It was the sharp crack of wood against wall that exuded arrogance.

A man filled the doorway, tall and angular, the silver mask pushed up on his head like an afterthought. His eyes swept the room, finding Astoria first. The grin that spread across his face made Hermione’s stomach twist.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “I thought the lady of the house would be lonely while Nott’s off playing soldier.”

Astoria’s smile vanished. She rose too quickly, nearly upsetting the tea tray. “Rookwood,” she said, tone clipped. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Supposed to,” he echoed, stepping inside as if the word meant nothing. “I heard you’ve been entertaining.” His gaze flicked toward Hermione, lingering, assessing. “Didn’t know we were inviting pets for tea.”

Hermione’s throat went dry. She forced herself to stand beside Astoria, not behind her.

Astoria’s voice stayed steady, though Hermione could hear the tremor beneath it. “You’ll leave. Now.”

Rookwood chuckled. “You’re brave when your keeper's away.” He took another step forward, close enough that the scent of ash and damp robes filled the air. “Tell me, does he know you keep company with the enemy?”

“She’s here under orders,” Astoria lied swiftly. “Theo’s orders.”

He laughed again — harsh, delighted. “Merlin, you pureblood whores and your stories.” His hand lifted, fingers brushing a curl of her hair. “You should let someone take better care of you.”

Astoria flinched, every muscle locked.

Something in Hermione snapped. She stepped between them before she thought better of it. “Don’t touch her.”

The room froze.

Rookwood looked at her, slow and amused. “What’s this? The little Mudblood found her tongue.” He backhanded her before she could blink.

The blow sent her crashing into the side of the desk. Books scattered across the floor, the taste of iron flooding her mouth.

She gasped, one hand pressed to her cheek, the other braced on the carpet.

She blinked at it, dazed, the words swimming into focus through the haze of dust and blood.

“Stop!” Astoria shouted, reaching for him, but he caught her wrist, twisting until she hissed in pain.

“Maybe I should see what Nott finds so entertaining about his prisoners,” he murmured, voice low and foul.

“Stop!” Astoria managed to kick him, like Draco taught her. She drew her wand with trembling fingers. “Don’t touch her!”

He turned toward her lazily, amused. “Defending your pet? How sweet.”

“Stupefy!” The flash of red light caught him across the shoulder, sending him staggering back a step. Shock flickered through his eyes—then something darker.

“Bad idea,” he growled.

Hermione was struggling up, half-dazed, when his wand came up again. “Crucio!”

Astoria dove aside; the curse missed her but struck a row of shelves. Books burst into flames, the air filling with smoke. Rookwood advanced through it, grinning now, half wild.

“Do you know what he’ll do to you when he finds out?” Astoria shouted over the roar. “Theo will kill you!”

“Maybe,” Rookwood said, raising his wand again. “But he’s not here now, is he?”

He flicked his wrist—an explosion of wood and glass.

When the blast died down, fragments of paper were still drifting in the air. One sheet landed against Hermione’s cheek, clinging there with static before sliding into her lap. The ink shimmered faintly with a concealment charm. Hermione’s pulse stumbled. She understood almost nothing, but one phrase "New identity papers required – Blaise".

There was no time to think because Rockwood was firing hexes.

Hermione threw herself across Astoria, dragging her down behind a fallen chair as shards rained around them.

For a moment all she could hear was her own heartbeat. Astoria’s hand gripped hers, knuckles white.

Rookwood’s boots crunched closer through the debris. “Come on, darling,” he taunted. “Show me what kind of hexes the little whore knows.”

Astoria’s voice shook, but her aim didn’t. “Expulso!”

The blast caught him squarely in the chest, hurling him backwards into the desk. He hit hard, coughing, rage replacing mockery.

“Bitch,” he spat, staggering up, wand raised.

Hermione scrambled for something—anything—and her hand closed around the iron poker that had rolled from the floor. She felt completely useless without her magic. But she swung as he came forward. The blow connected with his forearm; his wand clattered to the floor.

He howled, eyes gone feral, and backhanded her again. Pain bloomed behind her eyes; she hit the ground, vision spinning.

Astoria’s scream tore through the room. “Enough!” Another curse—blue light this time—flashed from her wand. It missed his heart by inches, gouging the wall instead. The recoil of it made her stumble.

Rookwood lunged, catching her wrist, forcing the wand away. “Pretty spellwork,” he hissed. “Let’s see what else you can do.”

She twisted, kicked, but his grip tightened. “When Theo gets back—”

He laughed in her face. “He won’t. He’s at the camps, remember?”

Hermione forced herself upright, blood in her mouth, ribs burning. She looked around for the poker—too far. Her eyes found the fallen wand.

She seized the wand before she could think. Every instinct screamed that the shackles would punish her for using magic, but she didn’t care.

“Expelliarmus!”

The spell burst from her like a reflex. Rookwood’s wand tore free of his hand… and the shackles ignited.

Pain flared white-hot across her wrists, searing through skin and bone. Hermione screamed, the sound raw and animal, the wand slipping from her grasp as she doubled over. The smell of scorched metal and flesh filled the air.

Then the door burst open again, a different sound this time—hurried, desperate footsteps. The manor elf stood there, eyes wide and wet. “Master’s back,” it squeaked. “He’s here!”

Rookwood’s head snapped toward the door. The colour drained from his face. He cursed under his breath and Disapparated, leaving the smell of smoke behind.

Astoria reached for her, pulling her into an embrace. She managed to murmur a few healing spells, but it dulled nothing. The pain roared through her, searing up her arms until her vision blurred at the edges.

Her gaze flicked toward Astoria.

“Who… who needs new identity papers?” she rasped, barely more than breath.

Astoria’s face went white. “Hermione—don’t—”

But the darkness was already closing in and Hermione felt herself falling into it, the world shrinking to the sound of Astoria’s voice and the faint rocking motion of her arms.

“He’s gone,” Astoria whispered, clutching her tighter, voice trembling. “He’s gone now.”

The door opened again without a word.

Theo filled the frame: hair damp with sweat, the edge of his coat singed with ash from the campfires.

For a moment he simply stood there, eyes sweeping over the ruin. The smoke. The overturned furniture. Hermione’s limp body in Astoria’s arms.

Something in him went perfectly still.

“Who.” His voice was barely human. “Did this.”

Astoria swallowed hard. “Rookwood. He… he came while you were gone. She tried to stop him.”

Theo’s gaze flicked to Hermione. The blood on her mouth. The burns circling her wrists. The tremor in Astoria’s hands as she tried to shield her.

He moved forward slowly, like an animal choosing between rage and restraint. “Where is he?”

“He left,” Astoria said quickly. “He… he heard you’d returned.”

“Then he’s still within range.” Theo’s tone was almost calm now, which was far worse than shouting. His hand flexed once at his side, as though he could already feel the man’s throat beneath it.

“Theo,” Astoria said sharply. “Look at her.”

That stopped him. Barely.

He knelt beside Hermione, his expression unreadable.

For a long moment he said nothing, just brushed his thumb against the edge of one burned shackle. The skin beneath it was blistered.

“She cast a spell,” he murmured. Not a question.

“She tried to save me,” Astoria whispered. “She didn’t care what it cost.”

Theo’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once. He drew his wand and muttered a cooling charm over the burns; steam curled faintly from the wounds. Hermione stirred, but didn’t wake.

“Get the elves to clean this up,” he said, voice low. “And have the wards reinforced. No one gets through again without my permission.”

Astoria hesitated. “And Rookwood?”

Theo stood, eyes dark as a storm. “I’ll handle him.”

He turned toward the door, then stopped, glancing back once at Hermione — at the streak of soot on her cheek, at the torn sleeve where she’d shielded Astoria.

“She asked about identities,” Astoria said in a small voice.

Theo froze. “What?”

“She said, ‘Who needs new identity papers?’” Her gaze met his.

“What did she see?”

Astoria’s lips parted, but no sound came.

Theo stepped closer, the calm in his tone a warning in itself. “Tell me, Astoria.”

“She—she couldn’t have understood,” Astoria stammered. “It was just one page. A scrap. She won’t remember.”

Theo looked back at Hermione, then at his friend.

His face didn’t change, but the room seemed to constrict around him. “She is Hermione Granger,” he said quietly. “Of course she'll remember.”

Theo left the library before Astoria could speak again. The corridor stretched ahead, empty but for the tremor still running through the wards.

Every instinct in him tracked the disturbance.

He didn’t run. He walked. Each step deliberate.

Rookwood had Disapparated inside the wards, but he hadn’t gone far; Theo could feel the residue of his spellwork. He followed it down to the stables, through the frost-bitten courtyard, until he saw the flicker of movement by the outer gate.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

Rookwood spun, half-masked again, wand already up. The smirk faltered when he saw who stood behind him.

“Theo—bloody hell—listen—”

Theo’s curse hit him before the sentence finished. The Petrificus snapped through his bones, throwing him against the stone wall hard enough to crack his skull. He slid to the ground, twitching, frozen from the shoulders down, mouth still half-open around the word listen.

Theo crouched beside him. “You broke into my house,” he said softly. “You touched my sister. You hit my prisoner.”

He smiled without warmth. “Do you have any idea how angry you’ve made me?”

Rookwood’s eyes widened, frantic behind the paralysis.

Theo punched him square in the face, and the man went rigid then stilled completely.

He looked back once toward the manor windows. For a moment, something like hesitation touched his face. Then it was gone.

With a twist of his wrist, he Disapparated, dragging an unconscious Rookwood with him.

Rookwood woke to the sound of dripping water.

For a moment he didn’t know where he was. The air was damp. Then the smell hit him: smoke and human waste. He tried to move. Shackles bound his wrists and ankles, heavy with containment runes. His magic was gone; he could feel the void where it had been.

The room was small, windowless. A single lamp swung overhead, throwing the light in slow, nauseating circles. There were figures standing still, watching.

Draco Malfoy was the first he recognised, pale and silent, arms folded. Next to him stood Blaise Zabini, expression unreadable, twirling a dagger between his fingers. A third figure, smaller, leaned against the wall, in the shadow.

Three others lingered at the edges: rough-looking men and women in plain clothes, their expressions grim, but calm. Muggles, by the look of them, though nothing about their stillness suggested fear. One of them — a woman with a scar across her jaw — gave Rookwood a look of pure disgust.

Rookwood swallowed, throat raw. “Where am I?”

“Hell,” Theo’s voice said from behind him.

He turned—or tried to—but the chains only let him twist halfway. Theo stepped into view, sleeves rolled, wand loose in his hand. His expression was calm, too calm.

“I never liked you,” Theo said coldly. “But today, you’ve surpassed a limit.” He crouched so they were eye level. “Now you'll pay the consequences.”

He straightened, nodding toward the three muggles. “You know what to do. Have fun with him.”

Theo didn’t look back. “When you’re finished,” he said to Blaise and Draco, “verify the wards and dispose of what’s left. No trace.”

Draco’s voice was quiet. “Understood.”

Theo started toward the door. Behind him, the muggles began to move. One of them picked a chain and a knife.

Rookwood’s breath came fast now. He struggled to sit upright, eyes darting between them.

His composure cracked. “You can’t—Theo, you can’t do this. We’re on the same side.”

“Are we?” Theo asked quietly. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re the reason I’m mopping blood off my library floor.”

He turned to leave. Rookwood lunged as far as the chains would allow. “Wait—” His eyes caught on the third figure in the corner, the one he hadn’t recognised at first. The lamp swung, spilling light across a familiar face.

Rookwood’s breath stopped. “You—” he choked. “How is it possible? You’re supposed to be dead.”

The figure didn’t answer. Just tilted their head slightly, the barest flicker of amusement touching their mouth.

Theo paused in the doorway, half-turned. “Careful, Rookwood,” he said softly. “You’ll spoil the surprise.”

The door shut behind him with a final sound. The lamp kept swinging, and the glimmer of the Silencing Charm swallowed the scream that followed.

The manor was silent when he returned.

Not the comfortable silence of peace, but the hollow kind that follows violence.

Theo left his coat in the corridor. The torches dimmed as he passed, the wards recognising his signature and lowering their hum.

Astoria was waiting for him in the foyer, wrapped in a shawl, her hair loose and damp as if she’d tried to wash away the night’s terror . She didn’t speak right away — just looked at him, reading the exhaustion in his face.

“Where is he?” she asked quietly.

Theo didn’t look up as he stripped off his gloves. “Gone.”

She studied him for a beat. “Good,” she replied. He tossed the gloves onto the table. “How is she?”

“Sleeping,” Astoria said. “The burns are healing. She’ll have marks for a while, but she’ll live.”

Theo nodded once, jaw tight. The answer should have eased something in him, but it didn’t. He pressed a hand over his face, thumb against his temple, as though trying to hold the thoughts in place. “It’s my fault.”

Astoria blinked. “Theo—”

“I left you both here, unsupervised, thinking you would be safe. I should’ve known he’d try something.” His voice was quiet.

Astoria stepped closer. “She’s hurt because of Rookwood,” she said firmly. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of taking the blame too.”

Theo’s laugh was short and bitter. “He’s taken worse.”

“Maybe,” Astoria said, eyes narrowing slightly. “But guilt doesn’t suit you.”

He looked at her then — tired, blood-streaked, older somehow. “How are you?"

Astoria folded her arms. “I’m fine… just a bit shaken. You should go see her… it’ll make you feel better.”

He hesitated at the foot of the stairs, but something deep inside him needed to see for himself that she was all right.

He paused outside her door. For a moment, he considered turning back, he had nothing left to say that wouldn’t sound like an apology. But the need to see her with his own eyes was stronger.

He opened the door.

The room was lit by a single lamp, its glow spilling across the bed. Hermione lay beneath a thin blanket, her skin pale against the dark fabric. The faint shimmer of salve marked her wrists, and her breathing was slow and steady.

He shut the door behind him and crossed the floor, each step careful. The chair beside her had been pulled close, a bowl of water and bandages left on the table. Astoria’s work.

Theo sank into the chair, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands.

“I should’ve been here,” he said softly. The sound barely disturbed the air. “I knew what Rookwood was capable of. I should’ve—” He stopped when she stirred in her sleep.

She didn't wake, just shifted slightly, her hair falling over her cheek.

The motion drew him forward before he could stop himself.

He reached out, fingers hovering above the curls. He wanted, just once, to brush the strands back, to see her face. But he didn’t.

His hand hung there, trembling, before he withdrew it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his throat tight.

He leaned back, exhaling, forcing the words through the weight in his chest. “I said that no harm would come to you and I failed. I’ll do better."

Theo looked at her one last time, at the faint rise and fall of her chest, and stood. He turned toward the door, hand on the knob, then paused.

“Sleep, Hermione,” he murmured. “You’re safe now.” The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room in silence.

Chapter Text

The burns had faded from blistered red to a tight, shining pink, but the skin was still tender beneath the salve.

Some movements still felt wrong.

She’d started holding books at a strange angle, elbows tucked into her sides, testing whether it eased the pain.

Astoria had declared it “acceptable progress.”

The elf had muttered darkly about “stupid shackles” and brought her extra pillows. Theo had disappeared since the incident.

That was perfectly fine, she told herself, though somehow she was disappointed that he hadn’t checked on her. “I’m just a prisoner,” she muttered to the empty room.

For three days, the manor had existed in complete denial.

No one mentioned Rookwood. No one mentioned the library.

Hermione stayed in her room with the chess book lying closed on the small table.

She didn't read it, her mind was struggling to process what she saw in the library: New identity papers required – Blaise.

On the fourth day, the elf appeared again.

“Miss is wanted,” it said, hovering in the doorway. Its ears drooped a little less than usual. “In the library.”

Hermione’s first instinct was to say no. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket.

“The library,” she repeated, as if there might be another one. “Is it… safe?”

“Yes.” The elf bobbed its head so hard its ears slapped its cheeks. “Master made it safer. Strong wards. No more bad wizards.” It fidgeted, then added in a rush: “Miss will like it. There is tea.”

Hermione almost laughed at that. As if a cup of tea could erase the fact she’d almost roasted herself to death.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the stiffness in her muscles from too many days of careful movements.

She pulled on her boots and smoothed her sleeves down over her wrists.

“All right,” she said. “Take me.”

The corridors felt different. There was so much silence.

The lilies-carved door opened before she touched it.

Theo stood at the long table in the centre of the library, sleeves rolled, a chessboard already set between two chairs.

Hermione was surprised to see him.

He didn’t look up, giving her a moment to take him in.

The light cut across his face, and, Merlin, were there gold flecks in his eyes? She cringed at herself. Really? Admiring his eyes? Get a grip Hermione, he ignored you for three entire days, and now he wants to pretend nothing had happened?

“You’re late,” he said, interrupting her inner turmoil.

Hermione blinked. “Late?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “You’re late.”

He gestured to the chair across from him - a subtle, irritated flick of fingers that Hermione recognised from Hogwarts. The stop talking and sit down movement he used whenever someone rambled.

She crossed the room slowly, wary.

The chessboard was already mid-setup, pieces arranged with mathematical precision.

She sat. Theo finally met her eyes.

“How are your wrists?”

“Sore,” she said, annoyed. “Healing.”

“Good.” He nudged the white pawn on E2. “You’ll manage.”

Hermione stared at the board, then at him. “You dragged me out of my room to play chess?”

“To teach you,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“I already know how to play, I read the book.”

“No,” he said simply. “You know how the pieces move. You don’t know how to play.”

She bristled. “What makes you think that?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You used to lecture Ron Weasley about strategy even when you didn’t understand why he made the moves he did.”

Her mouth opened and closed. How did he know that?

“Point taken,” she muttered.

“Good.” He pushed the pawn forward one square. “Start there.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because it’s safe,” Theo said. “Low-risk. It claims ground without exposing anything important.”

“You sound like McGonagall,” Hermione muttered.

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “She was a better strategist than most of us.”

Hermione moved the pawn.

They played in silence for a few minutes. Theo corrected her posture, her grip, even the way she reached across the board.

“No,” he said when she moved her knight. “Don’t chase pieces. Chase positions.”

“Positions of what?” she demanded.

“Power,” he said simply.

She hated that the answer made sense.

Theo leaned back slightly, watching her study the board.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Teaching me.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You hate not understanding things. And I’m tired of watching you pace holes into my carpets.”

“That’s not an answer.”

His gaze flicked up, sharp. “Do you want to spend your days terrified? Or do you want control over something?”

Hermione swallowed.

He wasn’t wrong.

She moved a bishop. Theo hummed low in his throat.

“Better,” he murmured. “You’re learning.”

She tried not to feel pleased. “You make it sound like training.”

“It is,” he said. “Chess is training for the mind. If you understand the board, you understand the world. If you understand the world…” He nudged a knight forward, blocking her rook. “…you stop being predictable.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Merlin, you’re dramatic.”

“Only because you’re bad at hiding your intentions.”

She opened her mouth to argue then shut it when she realised he was absolutely right.

A moment later she moved her rook anyway, stubborn on principle.

Theo didn’t comment, he just watched her closely.

She felt the scrutiny and cleared her throat, pretending interest in the pawns.

“So,” she said casually, “these identity papers in your library—”

Theo didn’t look surprised.

He only sighed through his nose. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb, Theo,” she said, lifting her chin. “I know what I saw.”

“No, you don’t, because you didn’t see anything,” he countered. “You hit your head. Clearly a concussion is making you imagine things.”

“Concussion?!” she scoffed. “Are you seriously going to lie to me?”

Theo moved his queen with deliberate calm, not even glancing up. “I do worse things than lie, sweetheart.”

Her cheeks flushed before she could stop them. Traitorous. Her jaw clenched.

“Answer me.”

He met her eye.

“Are you giving me orders now?”

Hermione exhaled sharply. “I know what I saw."

He stilled. Not a blink. Not a breath.

She didn’t realise she’d leaned forward until she saw him watching her mouth.

She pulled back at once. Theo smirked.

The moment broke.

Theo looked away, fingers idly tapping the bishop’s head.

“Whatever you saw, it's not your concern,” he said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked—”

“Hermione.” His voice was exhausted. “If you keep pressing, you will not like where it leads.”

She swallowed. Her heart beat hard.

“Is it dangerous?” she said softly.

“It’s necessary,” he repeated.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

Silence stretched again tense and electric.

Theo moved his knight, blocking her bishop with elegant certainty.

“Your turn,” he murmured. “If you stop trying to force answers and actually watch the board, you’ll see the trap coming.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Are we still talking about chess?”

He didn’t answer.

She breathed in slowly through her nose, forcing her temper back under control.

Losing it wouldn’t help. Not with him. Not when he chose every word like a move on the board: calculated and always three steps ahead.

Fine, then. Change of tactic.

“If whatever it was ‘does not concern me,’” she said, making air quotes with her fingers, “then maybe we should talk about something that does.”

He finally looked up at her, one eyebrow arching in lazy curiosity. “Such as?”

She hesitated, then seized on the first thing that came to mind that wasn’t I want to know what secrets are you keeping and you are lying to me and I hate it.

“Hogwarts,” she said, surprising even herself. “You remember Hogwarts, don’t you?”

Theo’s mouth twitched. “Regrettably.”

“Since you apparently refuse to be honest,” she went on, “we might as well talk about something other than you inventing convenient concussions.”

“Ah,” he drawled. “Light reminiscing between interrogations. How very… Ministry of you.”

She ignored that. “What was your favourite memory?”

He actually paused mid-reach, fingers hovering over a rook. It was like watching a statue glitch.

“My favourite memory?” he echoed. “Of Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” she said, folding her arms. “Unless you’re going to pretend you don’t remember six years of education and near-death experiences.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “You make it sound so charming when you say it like that.”

“Stop stalling.”

Theo leaned back slowly in his chair, letting his hand drop. He studied her in that annoying way he had - like she was a particularly troublesome riddle he wasn’t sure if he wanted to solve or frame on the wall.

“You really want to know?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

He made a thoughtful sound, gaze drifting past her, over her shoulder, as if the wall behind her was suddenly fascinating.

“Well,” he said at last, “there was this moment once, last year. Very… memorable.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “If you’re about to say something inappropriate—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he interrupted, his voice sliding into that infuriating drawl, “if I wanted to say something inappropriate, you’d know.”

Heat climbed the back of her neck. “Just answer the question.”

“Pushy,” he murmured. “Gryffindors and their demands.”

“You’ll live.”

“We can hope.” He drew in a slow breath, then exhaled. “Fine. My favourite memory…”

He tapped one finger thoughtfully against the edge of the board, then met her gaze.

“It was when you punched Draco in third year.”

Hermione blinked. “What? Why?”

He shrugged, as if it were obvious. “Because watching a Slytherin’s ego deflate in real time is art. And you? You were a masterpiece.”

Against her will, a small, disbelieving smile tugged at her mouth. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” His eyes glinted. “Or do you secretly enjoy the idea that I was watching you?”

“I—” She stopped herself. No way was she walking into that trap. “You were not watching me. You were probably calculating how to help him retaliate.”

Theo smirked. “He was already planning that. I was… intrigued.”

“By my punch,” she said, a touch too quickly.

“By the way you smiled after,” he corrected. “Like you’d waited years to knock Malfoy on his back.”

“I had,” she said simply.

He huffed a quiet laugh, as if he couldn’t help himself.

For a moment, she let herself remember it: standing outside Hagrid’s hut, Ron tense beside her, the smell of damp earth and cut pumpkin hanging in the air. Draco had swaggered forward, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

He was mocking Hagrid. Mocking Buckbeak.

She’d warned him. Once.

He hadn’t listened.

Her hand balling into a fist, the rush of heat through her arm, and then—crack.

The satisfying, stunning sound of her knuckles meeting his jaw. Draco stumbling back, eyes blown wide in disbelief, one hand flying to his face as Crabbe and Goyle gaped uselessly behind him.

“You know,” Theo said, drawing her attention back to the present, “you underestimate how much people noticed you back then.”

“Please,” she scoffed. “All Slytherins spent years calling me a Mudblood.”

“Yes,” he said lightly, “but you made half the House look illiterate by comparison, so I suppose balance was restored.”

She pressed her lips together, because that, frustratingly, was a compliment that landed.

“Fine,” she said, because humour was easier than the weird warmth creeping into her chest. “Your favourite Hogwarts memory is me humiliating your Housemate.”

“Technically, yes.” A lazy shrug. “It was also the first time I realised you were going to ruin everything.”

She frowned. “That’s hardly flattering.”

“Oh, it’s not an insult.” His gaze sharpened. “The moment I saw you punch Draco, I thought: The Dark Lord is going to regret underestimating that one.”

Something in her stomach dropped.

“You thought about the war like that,” she said quietly. “Even then.”

“Of course I did.” He tilted his head, watching her. “Didn’t you?”

She swallowed. There had been moments where the reality of what was happening shattered the illusion of normal school life. Dumbledore’s closed-door meetings. Order members with shadows under their eyes. Whispers in hallways. But she’d been sixteen, and there had still been homework and Quidditch and crushes and House points; a strange, brittle normal.

“I tried not to,” she admitted. “Not all the time.”

“That was your mistake,” he said entirely too gently.

Her jaw tightened. “You still haven’t asked me,” she said. “My favourite memory.”

Theo’s mouth curved. “I assumed you’d volunteer it unprompted.”

“I’m not that predictable.”

“Hermione, you colour-coded your notes. You’re the definition of predictable.”

“I do not—okay, yes, but—” She scowled. “Shut up. Ask properly.”

He gave her an exaggerated little bow of his head. “Hermione Granger, what was your favourite memory of Hogwarts?”

She thought about lying, saying something safe and tidy, like getting her Prefect badge, or her first spell cast correctly, or the Yule Ball (which had not, if she was honest, been a favourite at all).

But his eyes were steady on her, and something stubborn in her bristled against the idea of giving him a polished, sanitized answer when he’d just casually admitted he’d been plotting the war at sixteen.

“Same… in third year,” she said slowly. “After the Time-Turner. After everything with Sirius and Buckbeak and—” She gestured vaguely. “All of that.”

“Ah,” Theo said softly. “The murderer.”

“He was innocent,” she snapped automatically, then realised he was talking about Buckbeak, not Sirius. “Stop calling him that.”

Theo’s lips twitched. “Continue.”

“It was… stupid,” she said, ignoring him. “I’d just handed the Time-Turner back. I was exhausted. I fell asleep in the common room and woke up in the middle of the night. Everyone else had gone to bed. The fire was low, and my bag had spilled everywhere. Books and parchment and quills all over the floor. It was a disaster.”

“That does sound like your idea of hell,” he murmured.

“It should have been,” she said. “But instead I just… sat there. No one needed anything from me. I didn’t have to be in two places at once anymore. I wasn’t late or behind or rushing. It was quiet. I remember sitting on the floor and stacking my books into neat piles, one by one. It was the first time in months I felt like I was operating at regular human time instead of—” She shrugged. “Whatever that had been.”

Theo was very still. The chess clock ticked softly on the side, marking out seconds.

“That’s it?” he asked. “Books and floor-sitting?”

“Yes.”

“No adrenaline, no imminent death, no scandals?”

“No.” She met his gaze. “Just… peace. For half an hour. Maybe less. It’s stupid, I know, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” he said, almost sharply.

Her mouth snapped shut.

He looked away first, as if irritated with himself. “You realise,” he said dryly, “that makes perfect sense.”

“Of course it does. I’m not irrational just because I like organisation—”

“That’s not what I meant.” He tapped a pawn absently. “You had one year where the adults decided to let you carry the weight of the sun on your back and then act surprised when your knees shook. Your favourite memory is one in which no one was asking you to die for anything. Shocking.”

It was her turn to look away, staring instead at the way the light from the window was coming through, spilling on the table and softly illuminating the board's pieces.

“How about you?” she asked abruptly. “Peaceful memory. No scheming, no politics. Just… something ordinary.”

“Ah.” Theo’s mouth curved. “So we’re escalating. Favourite memory, then stripped of strategic value.”

“Yes.”

He considered. “Fifth year,” he said at length. “October.”

He left it there.

She stared. “You’re going to have to give me more than the month, Nott.”

“Patience, Granger.” He leaned back again, gaze flicking to the ceiling. “We’d had one of Umbridge’s… delightful lessons. Detention with quills that bled, and all that charming educational abuse she specialised in.”

Hermione’s hands curled into fists at the mention of the woman’s name. “I remember.”

“I imagine you do.” His eyes flicked to the faint scars still ghosting across the back of her hand. “Afterwards, most of Slytherin went to celebrate the shared experience of cruelty by being cruel to someone else. As is the tradition.”

“And you?” she asked.

“I did not feel inclined to participate in the recreational torment of first-years that evening, no.” His mouth twisted. “So I went to the library.”

“Of course you did,” she muttered, because the image of Theodore Nott sulking in the library after a sadistic detention was alarmingly easy to conjure.

“It was almost empty. Madam Pince had gone off to harass someone about talking too loudly. The lights were low. And—” He hesitated. “There was this shelf in the back. Old Atlases. Magical topographies. No one touched it because they were inconveniently heavy.”

“And dusty,” she supplied.

“And dusty,” he agreed. “I pulled one out. It was on ancient magical cities, records, maps, rumours. It had ancient wards and vanished libraries.” He looked at her properly now.

She swallowed.

“I sat on the floor,” he said quietly. “Like you. Book open. Somewhere between old European maps and half-legible runes. There was this ridiculous fold-out section on Forgotten Wizarding Strongholds. Castles and cities that disappeared off maps when the medieval wards got out of control.”

Hermione blinked. “That sounds extremely on brand for you.”

“Hmm.” His lips twitched. “There was one fortress in particular, somewhere in the Carpathians. Supposedly cursed, or lost, or impossible to find unless you were either brilliant or catastrophically stupid.”

“Let me guess which category you planned on fitting into.”

“Both,” he said without shame. “I remember thinking: If the war doesn’t kill me, I’m going to find that place.” His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “That was it. For a few minutes, my life was just… maps. Wards. Possibilities.”

Hermione stared at him.

“You realise,” she said slowly, “that your ‘peaceful, non-strategic memory’ is literally you drafting the prologue of your future career.”

“Career, yes. Not a war.” He tilted his head. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there? You’re very good at blurring the lines.”

“I’m a Slytherin,” he said lightly. “Lines are for other people.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“I think it is accurate.”

She rolled her eyes. “So you’ve been obsessed with cursed architecture since fifth year.”

“Earlier.” A flash of a smile. “But that was the first time I thought that if I survived this mess, I wanted to spend my life breaking into places built to keep people like me out.”

She considered that. “You know, most people choose far less homicidal hobbies. Baking. Gardening. Needlework.”

“I own a basil plant,” he said, affronted. “I’m very well-rounded.”

She snorted before she could stop herself. Theo brightened like he’d just won a duel.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she said.

“You laughed,” he pointed out.

“It was more of a snort.”

“From you, that’s basically a standing ovation.”

Her lips twitched.

Silence fell again, but this time it felt… different. Less tense, more suspended. She realised, unexpectedly, that she was enjoying their conversation, and now that she’d started looking at him properly, she couldn’t stop.

The light from the small side window illuminated his face, catching on high cheekbones, the straight line of his nose, the faint shadow along his jaw. His hair was mussed in a way that suggested fingers had been dragged through it one too many times. He was frowning faintly at the board, brows drawn together.

His lips…

“Your turn,” he said.

She blinked down at the board. Right. Chess.

“You’re distracting,” she muttered, reaching for her bishop.

“I haven’t said anything for a full minute,” he pointed out.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh?” He sounded deeply amused. “Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

He hummed. “So. Hogwarts. You’ve given me your favourite and peaceful. What about the worst memory?”

Her hand stilled on the piece.

“That is a horrendous question,” she said.

“Exactly. Your interrogation technique has been far too gentle.”

“This isn’t an interrogation.”

“You’re trying to get information out of me about the incident,” he said. “And I’m refusing. That’s an interrogation, Granger. A very badly executed one.”

“I am not—”

“Worst memory,” he repeated, ignoring her. “I’ll go first, if it makes you feel better.”

She hesitated. Curiosity mixed with stubbornness, as it always did with her.

Curiosity usually won.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you say something flippant, I'm out of here.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.” He steepled his fingers for a moment. “Fourth year.”

“Of course it was,” she muttered. “Triwizard.”

“Indeed. You lot had dragons and mermaids and moral crises.” His mouth curved without humour. “We had the Dark Lord sending trial buffoons."

She swallowed. “Theo—”

“It’s all right,” he said, and somehow it sounded like he meant it. “Crouch Jr. was very chatty, you know. For a man pretending to be Mad-Eye Moody. There was this detention—” He waved a hand. “Details irrelevant. What matters is: he looked at me, very calmly, and said, ‘Your father’s been getting impatient about you.’”

Her blood ran cold.

“I knew then,” Theo went on, voice almost conversational, “in a way I hadn’t let myself know before, that there was a timetable. That at some point, I wouldn’t be allowed to pretend I didn’t know which side I was meant to be on.” His fingers tapped the table once. “I went back to the dormitory and stared at the canopy of my bed for three hours. I remember thinking, I don’t want to die for him. I don’t want to kill for him. I don’t want… any of this.”

Hermione’s chest ached.

“What did you do?” she asked quietly.

“Nothing,” he said, a bitter little smile curling his mouth. “I was fourteen. What could I do? I did my homework. I went to Charms. I watched Potter nearly drown. Life went on.”

He looked at her, eyes suddenly, startlingly clear. “Your turn.”

She wanted to say no.

To tell him she was done, that this line of conversation was both unproductive and actively cruel. But he’d given her something sharp and raw, and it felt… unfair to withhold everything in return.

“Fourth year,” she said softly. “Yule Ball.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “That was your worst?”

“Not the whole thing,” she said quickly. “Not the dress or—” she felt her cheeks heat “—or the dancing.”

“The dress was memorable,” he said. “I distinctly recall Parkinson refusing to speak to anyone for forty-eight hours afterwards.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” He gestured. “Continue.”

She filed that away for later dissection.

“It was at the end,” she said. “After the row with Ron. After Viktor…” she waved a hand, “... was kind and patient and I still ended the night feeling like I’d done something wrong.”

Theo’s expression shifted, something flickering and gone. “We were all very invested in your apparent moral responsibility for Weasley’s emotions,” he said dryly.

She huffed a humourless laugh. “I remember going up the stairs alone. Music still playing below. My feet hurt. My head hurt. My… everything hurt. And as I reached the landing, I could hear Pansy and a couple of other girls talking in the corridor.”

He made a face. “My condolences.”

“They didn’t know I was there.” She swallowed. “One of them said something like, ‘Can you believe Krum brought her? She looks almost pretty with enough effort, but it’s pathetic, really. You can tell she doesn’t belong in a ballroom.’”

Theo’s jaw clenched.

“And I remember thinking,” Hermione said, voice very calm, “that they were right. That I’d stretched myself too far. That there was a limit to how much someone like me could transform. That I was foolish for thinking I could ever truly fit into that kind of world.”

Silence.

“It took me years,” she added, half to herself, “to realise there was something wrong with them, not me.”

Theo was very, very still.

“Who said it?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he said. “It does.”

She gave a small, humourless smile. “Your Housemates, I’m afraid. You’ll have to share the guilt.”

“I already do,” he said, and there was a raw honesty there she wasn’t used to hearing from him.

He looked like he wanted to say more, then snapped his mouth shut and moved a pawn instead, as if chess could shove the past back into its box.

“That dress was periwinkle,” he said suddenly.

Hermione startled. “What?”

“The Yule Ball,” he said. “Your dress. Periwinkle.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “How do you—”

“It suited you,” he said simply. “You looked like you belonged.”

She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat.

“You didn’t say anything then,” she pointed out, because it was easier than admitting how much it meant now.

“I also didn’t call you names in the corridor,” he said. “Relative to my peers, I was practically a champion of women’s self-esteem.”

A laugh burst out of her, startled. His shoulders eased fractionally, as if that had been the goal.

“Fine,” she said. “You’re marginally less awful than the rest of them.”

“I’ll take it.”

The clock ticked.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “this is almost… civil.”

“Don’t sound so horrified,” he replied. “I can be civil. When I’m not being accused of being dishonest.”

“You lied,” she said.

He leaned forward, expression shuttering. “We’re not doing this.”

“We should,” she insisted. “Theo, I saw—”

“You saw nothing,” he cut in, voice soft. “You had a traumatic experience. The rest is your imagination.”

“It isn’t,” she said. “I didn't hit my head—”

“Hermione.” His voice snapped like a whip.

She froze.

He looked away, inhaled, then let it out slowly.

When he glanced back at her, the mask of indifference was on.

“Back to Hogwarts,” he said lightly. “Safer, don’t you think?”

She stared at him, disbelief morphing into anger.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she said. “Dodging. Deflecting. Turning everything into a joke or a game because you don’t want to tell the truth.”

He studied her, really studied her, and for a heartbeat she thought, hoped, he might relent.

Instead, he said, very softly, “What’s your favourite memory that doesn’t involve winning?”

She blinked. “What?”

“A Hogwarts memory,” he clarified. “One where you didn’t earn anything. Didn’t fix anything. Didn’t save anyone. You just… were.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Humour me.”

She considered telling him to shove his request somewhere anatomically impossible.

Instead, she found herself thinking.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was always doing something. Homework. Patrols. Meetings. Planning. There wasn’t really time to just… exist.”

“Try,” he said.

She exhaled slowly. “There was a night, in fifth year, I think. I couldn’t sleep. The boys were sleeping safely, Lavender was muttering in her sleep, someone’s alarm kept clicking. I took my blanket and went down to the common room.”

He made a little gesture, urging her on.

“It was empty. The fire was dying, but still warm. I sat on the sofa, pulled my knees to my chest, and just… watched the flames. For hours, I think. I didn’t read. I didn’t plan. I didn’t think about O.W.L.s or Umbridge or anything. I just watched the fire crackle.”

“And?” he asked.

“And nothing.” She shrugged. “That’s it.”

He stared at her. “You realise that’s the second time your favourite memory is you alone in a room doing very little.”

“Is that a problem?” she asked defensively.

“It’s… illuminating.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said slowly, “that peace, for you, has always been the absence of obligation. The absence of noise. Of demands. Of people needing you.” His gaze softened, just a fraction. “And yet here you are. Still collecting broken systems and broken people like projects.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he said calmly. “You can’t help it. It’s who you are.”

She glared at him. “And you? You don’t collect anything? No projects? No people?”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly.

“Liar.”

He smirked. “Concussion, remember? You can’t trust your perception.”

She huffed. “You’re impossible.”

“So you keep telling me.”

She looked at him across the board.

“Fine,” she said suddenly. “Favourite Hogwarts memory of me.”

He choked. Actually choked.

“Merlin, Granger, your ego.”

“You already gave me one,” she said briskly. “The punch-gate. There must be more.”

“There must be?” he echoed.

“Yes. I refuse to believe you only noticed me twice in six years."

Theo’s mouth curved in pure wickedness. “I never said I only noticed you twice.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “There was a Potions class,” he said. “Slug Club era.”

“Oh, God,” she groaned. “Please don’t say it was the day everything exploded.”

“Which one?” he asked, faux-innocent.

“The one with the Amortentia,” she muttered.

He went very still. “Interesting.”

She instantly regretted saying anything. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“Oh no,” he said softly. “Now you have to tell me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. What did you smell?”

She refused to meet his eyes. “This is childish.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “Indulge me.”

She hesitated, then sighed, long-suffering. “Fresh parchment. New books. Spearmint toothpaste. And…”

“And?” he prompted.

“And broom polish,” she muttered.

He grinned. “So that rumour about you and Potter—”

“It was not about Harry!” she spluttered. “Ron played Quidditch too!”

“Did he smell like broom polish,” Theo asked, “or stale crisps and poor impulse control?”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he said sadly. “You just wish you did.”

“Back to your supposed favourite memory,” she said, desperate to redirect. “Potions. Slughorn. What happened?”

He considered her, then relented. “All right. It was sixth year. You and Potter were brewing something wretched and overcomplicated, as usual. Slughorn was fawning. Draco looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. I was calculating how likely it was that any of us would make it to NEWTs without being killed.”

“Cheerful,” she muttered.

“And then you,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard, “stood up. You’d finished your potion early, as one does when one is insufferably competent. Slughorn praised you. You rolled your eyes. Draco muttered something. You ignored him.”

“All very on brand so far.”

“The potion in your cauldron,” Theo said, “was perfect. Colour, consistency, aroma. Textbook. Slughorn told the class to come smell it as an example. And you—” he smiled, slow and fond in a way that made her stomach flip “—stepped back. You stood there watching, arms folded, while they all came forward to breathe in what you’d created. For a moment, you looked… smug. Not in a cruel way. Just quietly, privately satisfied. You’d done something better than anyone else in the room and you knew it.”

She blinked. “And that’s… memorable? To you?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Because it was the only time I saw you enjoy being exceptional without immediately apologising for it.”

Her throat felt suspiciously tight again.

“You were watching me,” she said, because it was easier than addressing that. “A lot.”

“Clearly.”

“Any particular reason?” she asked, trying for flippant and landing somewhere dangerously close to hopeful.

His gaze met hers, unflinching.

“You were hard to ignore,” he said. “And when you grow up in a House full of people who think power is loud, it’s… instructive to realise how much quieter it can be. How much more dangerous.”

Her heart thudded.

“That sounded almost like a compliment,” she managed.

“It was,” he said. “Don’t get used to it.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but the wards gave a faint hum.

Theo’s head snapped towards the door, all softness gone in an instant, every line of his body tight.

Hermione’s hand tightened around her piece.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing yet,” he said, listening. “Shift in the outer perimeter. Could be the weather. Could be someone being stupid.” His jaw flexed. “We’ll know in a minute.”

Her pulse sped up.

“Am I allowed to know,” she said, “or is this another thing that ‘does not concern me’?”

Theo’s eyes flicked back to her. For a moment, something like conflict crossed his face.

“Everything concerns you,” he said, almost under his breath. “That’s the problem.”

Hermione opened her mouth to challenge him again, but Theo’s eyes flicked toward the door just a second before it opened.

Draco stepped inside, breath shallow, hair windswept and expression tight.

He took one look at them - the chessboard, Hermione seated across from Theo, the quiet familiar scene - and froze.

“What in Merlin’s name…” Draco said, voice low, cautious.

Theo didn’t bother hiding his irritation. “What do you want, Draco?”

Draco’s gaze shifted quickly from Hermione’s flushed face, to Theo’s relaxed posture, to the two cups of tea left cooling on the table. His jaw locked.

“We need to talk,” Draco said. No drawl, just urgency.

Hermione sat up straighter.

“Not you,” Draco said, eyes snapping to her with an apologetic wince. “It’s… private.”

Theo didn’t ask questions. He didn’t even sigh. He just stood, the chair scraping back across the floor.

“Fine.” His voice was clipped. He turned to the side and snapped his fingers once. “Rex.”

A house-elf appeared instantly, bowing deeply. “Master Theodore, sir!”

“Escort Miss Granger back to her room,” Theo said.

Hermione’s spine stiffened. “I’m not done—”

“You are for now.” Theo’s tone didn’t rise, but the finality in his voice was commanding. “Go.”

Rex stepped forward timidly. “Miss, please… this way…”

Hermione’s lips parted in anger and frustration, but Theo was already looking toward Draco.

Draco glanced at her once, confused.

She stood, chin high, refusing to show how much the dismissal stung.

“Fine,” she said. “Enjoy your secrets.”

Theo flinched, so small she might’ve imagined it.

Then he turned away from her.

As Rex guided her out, the chessboard left behind, Draco kept looking at her until the door closed.

Theo flicked a privacy ward across with two fingers.

Only then did he turn to Draco.

“Speak.”

Draco didn’t. Not immediately. He stood there, jaw tight, hands flexing once at his sides as if steadying himself.

“What on earth are you doing with Hermione Granger?”

Theo didn’t blink. “Define ‘doing.’”

“You know damn well what I mean.” Draco stepped forward, voice low. “You’re sitting with her. Playing chess with her. Drinking tea with her. You don’t do that with anyone.”

Theo’s expression stayed unreadable. “Maybe I’m expanding my social circle.”

“Don’t,” Draco snapped. “I’ve known you since we were four. You don’t expand anything unless you see an angle. So what is it, Theo? Why her?”

Theo looked past him, at nothing in particular. “She’s useful.”

“That’s not all.” Draco folded his arms. “I saw your face when she spoke to you. You don’t get that… soft. With anyone.”

Theo’s jaw twitched. “Be careful.”

“I’m being bloody careful,” Draco hissed. “That’s why I’m asking. You can’t involve her in… anything.”

Theo said nothing.

“You know what she’s like,” Draco continued, quieter now. “Once she starts pulling at threads, she won’t stop. She’ll keep digging until she finds the truth, and the truth isn’t—” He broke off, shaking his head. “It’s not safe.”

Theo looked at him sharply. “For her or for us?”

“For everyone,” Draco said exasperated. “And you know that.”

A silence stretched between them as Theo didn’t reply.

“Fine,” Draco said sharply. “Let’s talk about the incident. Tori told me she saw the document.”

Theo’s jaw tensed in warning.

“…Is she asking questions?” Draco pressed.

“Yes,” Theo said. “But I’ve got it handled.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Handled? By playing chess with her?”

Theo let out a quiet, irritated grunt. “What else have you come here to say?”

Draco straightened, his expression shifting from accusatory to business. “I need the list of names. Tori says she left it here.”

Theo didn’t argue. He crossed the room, pulled open a drawer built into the old writing desk, and reached inside with deliberate care.

A thin, sealed parchment was stored beneath protective charms.

“This,” he said, holding it up, “is keyed to our blood now. I’m not letting it lie around where someone can accidentally see it.”

Draco swallowed, tension knotting in his shoulders. “How many?”

Theo passed him the parchment. “Twenty-five. Between the ages of three and eleven.”

Draco let out a low curse. “Merlin. This will take all my energy.”

“Eat chocolate,” Theo said.

Draco stared at him, deadpanned. “I’m not fighting bloody Dementors, Theo. I need far more than chocolate.”

Theo’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Then pace yourself or share the task with the others. We don’t get to choose the timing on this.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. He scanned the list one more time, lips pressed into a thin line. Then barely above a whisper: “Are we still safe?”

Theo didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Something in Draco’s shoulders eased just a fraction.

He folded the parchment, tucked it inside his robes, and turned toward the door.

His hand touched the handle before he paused.

“Be careful with Granger,” he said without looking back. “Don’t make the same mistake Tori did.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “What mistake would that be?”

Draco finally turned his head, his gaze tired and far too knowing.

“Caring for someone.”

Theo’s breath caught, his mouth opened to respond but Draco didn’t wait. He opened the door and stepped out, leaving Theo alone with his thoughts.

Once alone, he exhaled, slow and uneven, and moved back toward the desk.

He didn’t touch the drawer, just stared at it.

For a moment, the protective runes across the wood pulsed faintly. They always did when the list changed.

Theo’s jaw tightened.

Twenty-five names today. Tomorrow… who knew.

And Hermione Granger was already asking too many questions.

Chapter Text

The king ♚ is not the most powerful chess piece, but it is the most important one. If a king is put in checkmate, then the game is over.

The Mark burned before the summons came.

It always did; anticipation was Voldemort's kind of cruelty.

Heat crawled up Theo’s arm in sick little pulses, each one tightening his lungs another notch.

When he Apparated into the audience chamber, the first thing he saw was a body.

It lay crumpled near the far wall, robes still smoking faintly, the outlines disturbingly small.

A boy, maybe fifteen. Sixteen at most.

His eyes were open, glassy, staring at the ceiling like he’d been searching for a sky that wasn’t there.

Two masked Death Eaters were already at work. One muttered a cleaning charm; the other flicked his wand and the body rose bonelessly into the air, limbs dangling.

“Take it to the pit,” a cold voice said. “Throw it with the rest.”

Theo didn’t let his gaze follow. He dropped to one knee on the cold stone, head bowed, eyes fixed on a crack in the pavement a few inches from the hem of Voldemort’s robes.

The crack had never been repaired. It was as if to say: things broke here, and they stay broken.

Fresh red blood was smeared along the edges.

“Children,” the Dark Lord said, as if commenting on the weather. “Such fragile little things.”

The body drifted past Theo, suspended in the air. The dead boy’s hand brushed his shoulder as it went by, fingers still curled, as if they’d been clutching something when the curse hit.

Theo kept his eyes on the floor.

“My Lord?” he managed.

“They are vanishing,” Voldemort went on mildly. “From camps. From holding cells. Do you know why, Theodore?”

A murmur rippled around the circle of Death Eaters.

Greyback’s low, rough chuckle cut through it.

“Got word from the northern camp,” the werewolf said, sounding almost pleased. “Six little rats gone missing from the pens overnight. Shackles empty. No forced exits. No bodies. Just… gone.”

He drew out the word like it tasted good.

“Six,” Voldemort repeated. “And last week?”

“Three from Bristol. Two from the Portsmouth line. Couple more from the holding cells in Birmingham,” Greyback recited, clearly enjoying being the bearer of bad news. “Whoever’s doing it is clever. Leaves the records neat. Numbers all match. Just no meat to show for it.”

“And yet,” the Dark Lord continued, “their absence is not reflected in our paperwork.” His tone cooled further. “Curious, isn’t it? Missing bodies. Perfect forms. Signatures from trusted hands.”

Theo’s stomach flipped. He forced his breathing to stay slow, even.

Voldemort’s gaze slid over the masked faces, slow and lazy, like a snake deciding where to sink its teeth. It settled, finally, on Theo.

“You were always talented with numbers,” he murmured. “And with names.”

Theo lowered his head further until his neck ached. “I serve at your will, my Lord.”

“Do you?” Voldemort mused. “Fenrir seems to think you are being… overly generous to the stock in your camps.”

Greyback grinned, teeth gleaming in the light. “He’s soft,” he rasped. “Thinks some of ’em are too small to bother with. Keeps calling them ‘unprofitable assets’.”

A few Death Eaters laughed nervously.

Theo’s fingers dug into his own knees where they touched the stone.

“With respect,” he said, keeping his voice low and level, “a half-starved runt who can’t stand, let alone work, is a waste of resources. I don’t see the point in feeding what cannot serve you.”

He let the next part fall out of his mouth as casually as he could.

“So I killed them.”

The silence that followed pressed on his eardrums.

“You killed them,” Voldemort repeated, voice very soft. “All of them?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And yet,” the Dark Lord said, “there were no executions logged. No bodies recorded. No spells registered on the wards.”

Theo kept his eyes nailed to the floor. “The magic in the camps is… volatile. The wards glitch. The sensors misfire. I can have my men submit revised reports—”

“Always so diligent,” Voldemort murmured.

Theo’s heart hammered. His hands were numb.

“And yet they disappear,” Voldemort said.

He let the words hang, then shifted, just enough for his robes to wipe the stone.

“This is what happens,” he went on, “when mercy infects the weak. A slow rot. A softening of the spine. One death withheld becomes ten. Ten becomes… an epidemic.”

His pale fingers flexed around the wand.

“Like this one,” he added, inclining his head toward the space where the body had been moments before.

His smile was thin and vicious.

“He screamed for quite a while before I grew bored.”

Theo swallowed bile.

“I will not have my empire built on lies,” Voldemort said. “If children are killed, I want to know. If they vanish, I want to know.”

He circled Theo with slow, measured steps.

“You understand games, don’t you, Nott?” he said, voice almost conversational. “You were always a clever boy.”

Theo forced himself not to flinch.

“Look at me,” the Dark Lord said.

Theo obeyed.

Red eyes, bright and flat, studied him. There was no Legilimency yet, no cold pressure at his temples. Just that awful patient scrutiny, like a wand laid lightly against his throat.

“What did you do,” Voldemort asked, “with the useless children?”

Theo held his gaze.

“I killed them,” he said again. “They were of no use to you. Dead, they at least stopped wasting rations.”

Something like amusement flickered in Voldemort’s face.

“Such practicality,” he said softly. “You are your father’s son.”

Theo said nothing.

Around the circle, a few low, approving chuckles rose from the masks.

“Fenrir,” Voldemort said without looking away from Theo, “next time you inspect his camp, count the chains yourself.”

Greyback’s grin widened. “Gladly, my Lord.”

“As for you, Nott…”

The wand lifted, just slightly, as if considering a spell. Theo’s muscles locked.

“You have other… assets under your roof.”

“The Mudblood,” Voldemort said. “Loyal to Potter. A mind stuffed with inconvenient information.”

Theo’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. “She is contained, my Lord. Warded. Shackled.”

“A precious thing, a mind like hers,” Voldemort mused. “All that knowledge. All that will. Such a pity to break it too early.”

The wand lowered a fraction.

“I would hate,” he murmured, “for anything to happen to such a useful resource before I have had the chance to… examine her properly.”

The unspoken message was obvious.

Theo bowed his head again. “As you command, my Lord,” he said.

“Good.” Voldemort stepped back toward the dais, bored now.

“And Nott?”

Theo stilled. “My Lord?”

“Do not disappoint me,” Voldemort said, not unkindly.

The Mark on his arm flared again, sharper this time, in promise and threat.

Theo Apparated away with the smell of blood still in his nose and the word children ringing in his ears.

He wasn’t sure how many more lies like that he could afford.

▀▄▀▄▀▄

Theo didn’t remember Apparating into the manor.

One moment he was kneeling before Voldemort, the Mark still burning like fire under his skin, and the next…

… the entrance hall of Nott Manor snapped into focus around him, far away from the stench of blood.

His chest tightened. He couldn’t breathe.

Theo staggered forward, one hand braced against the wall, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts he couldn’t control.

His pulse was a frantic drum against the inside of his skull.

His feet were already carrying him before he consciously chose a direction.

“Astoria—” he barked hoarsely, pushing through the corridor like he expected it to collapse behind him. “Astoria!”

Her room wasn’t far. He didn’t bother knocking. He shoved the door open so violently it rebounded off the wall.

Astoria jerked upright from her desk, quill flying out of her hand.

“Theo—?! Merlin, what—”

He didn’t answer.

He was pacing already.

Back and forth, back and forth, wearing a groove into the carpet, hands in his hair, breath too quick, too shallow. He looked… unhinged. Like something feral rattling inside his ribcage.

Astoria stared.

“Theo,” she repeated carefully, standing. “You’re scaring me.”

He didn’t look at her. “We need to move her—move her now—he knows—he said—he knows—”

“What are you talking about?” Astoria crossed the room slowly, palms raised like approaching a wounded creature. “Who knows? What happened? Did someone die? Did he—did you—”

“HE KNOWS,” Theo burst out, louder this time, voice raw. “About the camps. About the numbers. About the children—he knows something is wrong.”

Astoria’s blood went cold.

“And,” Theo added, choking on the words, “he asked about her.”

Astoria froze.

“…Hermione?”

Theo finally stopped pacing.

Looked at her.

And Astoria had never seen him like this.

Not angry. Not calculating. But afraid.

Actually, truly, shakingly afraid.

“Yes,” he rasped. “He—he called her a resource. Said he wanted to examine her himself. Claimed he didn’t want her ‘damaged’ before he got to her.”

Theo pressed both hands over his face, fingers digging into his scalp like he wanted to tear the thought out.

“He knows, Tori. Not everything, but something. The disappearances. The paperwork. The camps. He thinks I killed them. He believes me—for now—but he’s sending Greyback to count chains. Greyback.”

Astoria inhaled sharply. “Theo—”

“I have to move her,” he muttered, pacing again.

“Not later. Not tonight. NOW. He told me—That means someone is going to try. He’s circling. He’s circling like a fucking vulture—”

“Theo.”

He didn’t hear her.

“I should have planned for this—should have reinforced the wards—should have—should have—”

“Theo.”

Nothing.

“There’s no time—he’ll read something wrong—he’ll feel something wrong—he always does—Hermione is—she’s—”

“THEO!”

She grabbed his sleeve and yanked.

Hard.

He stumbled and blinked at her, chest heaving.

Astoria cupped his face between both hands… not tenderly, but firmly, forcing his world into focus.

“Look at me. Breathe.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she said sharply. “Breathe.”

He tried. It wasn’t pretty, but he tried.

After a few uneven breaths, some colour came back to his face.

Astoria lowered her hands, but her voice remained steady, practical… the only thing that could cut through this spiral.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

Theo swallowed hard. “He told me that he wants to examine her properly.”

“We need to move her, hide her.” Astoria said. “And we have a place.”

Theo blinked. “What?”

“Your mother’s wing,” Astoria said simply. “It’s warded to hell and back. It’s isolated, it’s safe, and the wards obey only to you. Only you will have access.”

Theo stared as if she’d handed him a lifeline.

“I can… put her there,” he whispered.

“Yes. Tonight,” Astoria said. “We’ll tell the elves to prepare it immediately.”

Theo nodded, shaky but grounded. “Yes. Yes, that works. That’s good. That’s—”

Then he froze.

Astoria raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

Theo’s voice dropped. Quiet. Horrified. “He will come anyway.”

Astoria felt the dread. “Theo…”

Theo’s jaw clenched. “He’ll break her mind.”

“We will plan…” Astoria said, helplessly.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes. “I can’t let him—Tori, I can’t—”

“I know,” she said softly. “And we won’t.”

Theo’s breath shook. His pacing started again, smaller circles now.

Finally Astoria stepped into his path and put a finger in the centre of his chest.

“Also,” she said, her voice abruptly bright and wicked, “you’re panicking because you care.”

Theo froze.

Immediately defensive. “I’m panicking because he’s suspicious.”

“Mhm,” Astoria hummed.

“This isn’t about—”

“—her?” Astoria finished for him, smiling far too knowingly.

“My darling, you Apparated into the manor in a blind panic because you were afraid something would happen to Hermione Granger.”

He scowled. “She’s valuable.”

“To the cause,” she said mildly.

“Yes.”

"A cause you’re deliberately keeping from her."

“Tori—”

“You haven’t slept properly since Rockwood happened,” she continued. “You’re shaking. You stormed into my room like a hurricane—”

She stopped.

Astoria’s voice softened.

“You care.”

Theo went utterly still.

“I can’t let him hurt her,” he whispered.

Astoria’s expression gentled. “I know. Which is why we’re going to move her. Tonight.”

Theo nodded, shaky but resolute.

Astoria stepped back, already shifting into pragmatic mode. “I’ll prepare the wing. You tell the elves. And Theo?”

He glanced over.

“Try not to look like you’re dying when you go get her,” she said, smirking. “You’ll scare the poor girl.”

Theo exhaled a sound that was not quite a laugh.

Then he vanished down the corridor, already moving to her room.

Astoria watched him go, shaking her head.

“Hopeless,” she whispered fondly. “Absolutely hopeless.”

▀▄▀▄▀▄

Hermione had been reading, or pretending to, when the knock came.

A sharp, clipped three-tap knock.

Her stomach tightened.

“Come in,” she said carefully.

The door opened. Theo stood there.

Not the composed, sardonic version she’d come to expect.

Not the irritated, smug one.

This Theo looked like he hadn’t breathed properly in hours.

His hair was mussed, shirt untucked in a way he’d never allow, and there was something frantic in his eyes… a tremor trying to hide itself behind his usual mask.

Her book dropped slightly in her lap.

“What happened?” she blurted.

“Nothing.” He said too fast.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Theo.”

He exhaled, long and uneven, rubbing a hand down his face as if trying to wipe the tension off.

“We’re moving you,” he said flatly.

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“You’re being relocated,” he clarified. “A safer area of the manor. Different wing.”

She stared at him.

“Why?”

“Because it’s safer.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” he insisted.

“No,” she said, rising to her feet. “It’s an excuse. What happened?”

Theo shut his eyes for half a second.

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

“Tell me,” she demanded quietly.

Theo opened his eyes and swallowed. “The Dark Lord—”

Hermione’s pulse spiked.

Theo caught the panic instantly. “He's curious...”

Hermione’s mouth went dry.

“Curious,” she repeated. “About what?”

Theo’s jaw clenched. “You.”

Hermione felt a chill slither down her spine.

“Why?”

Theo looked away. “Because he thinks you’re useful.”

Hermione took a step closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Useful how?”

Theo didn’t answer.

Which was answer enough.

Her heart thudded painfully. “He wants information. From me.”

Theo’s silence was suffocating.

Hermione’s breath trembled. “He’s going to read my mind.”

Theo’s head snapped up, eyes sharp and wild. “He won’t get close enough.”

“He will if he summons me.”

“He won’t,” Theo said, too forcefully. “He won’t touch you. I won’t let him.”

Hermione stared at him.

“You’re scared,” she whispered.

Theo stiffened. “I’m not—”

“You are.” She stepped closer, eyes narrowing as she read him like a page she’d been studying for months. “You’re terrified.”

His breath caught.

“You’re shaking,” she added softly.

Theo’s gaze dropped to his own hands.

He clenched them into fists immediately, as if he could order the tremor away.

Hermione inhaled sharply. “What did he do?”

Theo’s voice was a low rasp. “He killed someone.”

Hermione swayed, but Theo stepped forward on instinct, steadying her with a hand on her arm.

She removed his hand slowly, gently.

“You came straight here,” she said, understanding dawning.

Theo froze, eyes flicking to hers.

“You did,” she whispered. “You came to me.”

Theo swallowed hard. “You needed to be moved.”

Hermione shook her head. “No. You were checking if I was alive.”

Theo’s breath stuttered.

He looked away.

“Don’t—” he said weakly, “—don’t read into it.”

Hermione stepped closer, voice quiet but unyielding. “You’re afraid for me.”

“Yes,” he snapped.

Then froze, like the confession slipped out before he could stop it.

Hermione felt her breath leave her in a rush.

Theo looked furious at himself, at her, at the entire situation.

“Don’t make it something it’s not.”

“Then how, exactly, should I see it?”

“IT’S NECESSARY,” he said sharply. “Moving you. That’s it.”

She stared at him. Really stared.

“You’re lying,” she said.

Theo inhaled sharply through his nose. “Pack your things.”

“I won't until you tell me the truth… about everything,” Hermione said slowly.

Theo looked like he might break something.

He moved around the room abruptly, methodically, grabbing her books, her boots, her spare cloak, everything she owned.

Hermione watched him go still when he accidentally brushed her burnt wrist.

He flinched.

She softened, just barely. “Theo.”

He didn’t look at her.

“…Is the new room a cell?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he said immediately.

“Is it a dungeon?”

“No.”

“Is it guarded?”

“Yes.”

She swallowed.

“Will you be there?”

Theo finally looked up.

His expression said more than words ever would.

“Yes,” he said softly.

Hermione exhaled.

“Alright then,” she said.

Theo closed his eyes for a moment, breath shaking out of him.

“Good.”

He stepped closer, not touching her, but close enough that she felt the warmth radiating off him.

“We need to go now,” he murmured. “Before anything changes.”

Hermione nodded.

Theo opened the door.

She followed him out.

And as he led her through the manor, Hermione realised two things:

Whatever Voldemort suspected… it was only the beginning.

And Theo wasn’t protecting her because she was useful. He was protecting her because she had become his weak spot.

The walk was longer than Hermione expected.

They moved through deeper corridors, past places she didn't think a manor could have.

Theo didn’t speak once.

He walked one step ahead of her, shoulders rigid. He was angry, she realised…not at her, but at the world, the war.

He still oozed dark magic from Voldemort’s presence.

When they reached a narrow hallway, Theo finally stopped.

He pressed a palm against a small carved panel in the wall: a bloom of lilies, pale and elegant.

Hermione felt the wards ripple, recognising him.

The panel slid open with a soft click, revealing a passage.

Theo didn’t look at her. He only said, voice low, “Stay close.”

Hermione followed him in.

The passage opened into something more than a room… a sanctuary.

It wasn’t like the main library. This place felt… loved.

The air was warm, touched with the faintest scent of jasmine.

There were shelves along every wall, overflowing with books bound in emerald, navy, cream — not the cold, dark tones of the Manor’s usual tomes, but softer hues. More personal.

There were framed sketches tacked along one wall: magical architecture, detailed maps, the blueprints of wards.

Beneath the shelves was a narrow writing desk with an unfinished letter still sitting open, ink faded.

The chair looked small, feminine. Carved with lilies and vines.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“This was your mother’s,” she whispered.

Theo swallowed. “Yes.”

Hermione stepped forward slowly, reverently, her fingertips hovering over spines she didn’t dare touch.

“This is beautiful.”

“The rest of the house wasn’t,” Theo said quietly. “She carved this out for herself.”

Hermione looked around.

Everything felt… soft and gentle.

“She liked beauty,” Theo said behind her. “Quiet things. Books. Maps. Things people make when they’re trying to understand the world instead of destroy it.”

There was a tremor in his voice he didn’t quite hide.

Hermione turned to face him.

Theo wasn’t looking at her. Instead his gaze was fixed on the farthest shelf, unfocused.

“What was she like?” Hermione asked gently.

Theo stiffened.

“She’s dead,” he said flatly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

His jaw flexed.

For a moment Hermione thought he would walk away.

But then he exhaled, long and shaky, and leaned back against the desk, bracing his hands on the surface.

“She was…” He stopped, swallowed. “She was nothing like the rest of them. She smiled. She laughed. She believed in things that didn’t make sense, or that they said didn’t matter.”

“Like what?”

“Kindness.” His mouth twisted. “Mercy. The idea that choices shape people more than bloodlines.”

Hermione’s chest tightened.

“She sounds—”

“Naive,” Theo cut in sharply.

“No,” Hermione said softly. “Hopeful.”

He blinked. The word seemed to land somewhere he wasn’t prepared for.

“She used to hide in here when my father hosted meetings downstairs,” he said. “She would tell me that ignorance is a temporary cage, but curiosity is a door. That learning things makes the world bigger. Even if you never leave your house.”

Hermione’s throat burned.

“That’s beautiful.”

“It’s useless,” Theo said darkly. “She died because she believed people could be better.”

Hermione swallowed. “That’s not why she died.”

Theo’s head snapped up. “Isn’t it?”

“She died because people like your father and Voldemort couldn’t stand what they couldn’t control,” Hermione said, fiercer than she intended.

Silence.

Theo’s expression shifted… the panic from earlier returning.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t talk like you understand.”

“Try me.”

Theo stepped closer.

“You want to know why I brought you here?” he said. “Why I didn’t lock you in a cellar, why I keep you fed, why I gave you books?”

Hermione held her breath.

“It’s because she would’ve,” Theo said.

Her heart clenched.

“But she’s dead,” he whispered. “So I’m doing it instead.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say.

So she said the truth.

“You’re not your father, Theo.”

His breath hitched.

For a moment, he looked like he might shatter.

Then he tore his gaze away, moving toward the shelves.

Hermione watched him run a hand over the spines — a soft, familiar gesture that didn’t align with the unhinged version of him pacing earlier.

It was a gesture of a son. A boy.

Someone who had lost something vital and never forgiven the world for it.

Hermione turned slightly and something caught her eye.

A sliver of parchment jutting just barely out of place.

Something deliberately hidden, but not perfectly.

Hermione’s heart stuttered.

She didn’t reach for it… not yet.

Instead she said, very softly: “Thank you for showing me this.”

Theo didn’t look up. “Don’t thank me.”

“I mean it.”

He finally met her gaze.

He looked exhausted and scared, and desperately trying to hide it.

“Don’t get used to this,” he murmured.

“Too late,” she said, smirking.

His breath caught, then he turned away abruptly.

“I’ll bring your things,” he said, moving toward the door. “Stay here. Don’t touch anything.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “I’ll try not to destroy your childhood sanctuary, Theodore.”

He paused, halfway through the doorway.

For the first time since his summons, he almost smiled.

Hermione waited until Theo’s footsteps faded down the corridor.

Only then did she move. She approached the shelf where she’d seen it: that piece of parchment barely visible behind a row of atlases.

Her fingers trembled, but she pushed one book aside, just enough.

A thin page slipped free.

The handwriting was achingly familiar now. Theo’s.

There were dozens of names.

Dates. Ages. Marks in the margins.

Some had a single word beside them:

SAFE

MOVING

CLEARED

TO BE FORGED

But others… Her breath caught, because others were marked:

DECEASED

LOST

UNKNOWN

Her stomach clenched. Her vision blurred.

Theo wasn’t killing them. He was… saving them?

Lying to Voldemort. Forging papers. Smuggling children.

Risking everything.

And he had been lying to her.

Hermione’s hand closed around the page.

Whatever this was, she wasn’t going to be fooled by evasions anymore.

She turned sharply and nearly collided with Theo in the doorway.

He froze, eyes dropping immediately to the page in her hand.

His face drained of colour.

“Hermione,” he said quietly. “Put that back.”

She didn’t. “You lied to me.”

Theo inhaled through his nose, slow. “You weren’t meant to see that.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“That’s all you’re getting.”

“No,” Hermione said, stepping forward. “No more dodging. No more excuses. Tell me what these names mean.”

Theo’s jaw clenched. “It’s none of your business.”

“They’re children, Theo!”

His eyes snapped to hers with a dangerous intensity.

“You don’t get to demand explanations,” he said.

“You’re smuggling them out,” Hermione breathed. “Aren’t you? All these children… You're saving them.”

Theo didn’t move.

“Answer me.”

“Stop,” he said quietly in warning.

“I won’t.”

“Hermione—”

“THEO.”

His composure shattered.

“YES!” he exploded. “YES, I’m smuggling them out! YES, I’m forging identities! YES, I’m lying to the Dark Lord every moment I breathe!”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“And you didn’t think I deserved to know?” she whispered.

Theo stared at her like she’d spoken another language.

“You?” he said, voice thin. “You? You’re a prisoner! You’re my prisoner! You don’t get to have opinions about my work!”

The words hit her like a slap.

Hermione stepped forward until they were a breath apart.

“I am not just your prisoner.”

“You are,” he rasped, but the words trembled.

“No,” she said fiercely. “Because prisoners don’t make you panic. They don’t make you pace holes in the floor. They don’t make you run through the manor after a summons to check if they’re breathing.”

Theo froze.

“You care about me,” she whispered. “And you hate yourself for it.”

“Stop.” His voice broke. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do.” Hermione reached up, grabbed his jaw in both hands before he could move.

His breath stuttered.

“Hermione—”

“You care about me,” she said again, louder now. “And that terrifies you.”

He closed his eyes. “Let go.”

“No.”

She kissed him.

Hard and furious.

Theo went perfectly still… and then, with a sound - more growl than human -he crushed his mouth to hers.

His hands gripped her hips, dragging her closer, mouth urgent, desperate, unrestrained. Hermione’s fingers curled in his hair, pulling him down to her, swallowing the broken sound he made when she deepened the kiss.

For one impossible moment, they were aflame.

But then Theo tore himself away so fast she stumbled forward.

He staggered back against the desk, eyes wild, chest heaving, lips swollen from her kiss.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “No. No. No.”

“Theo—”

He shook his head violently, backing away.

“This is wrong,” he choked. “This is a mistake. You are… Hermione, you are my prisoner.”

“No I’m not!”

“Yes,” he said, heartbreakingly. “You are. And I can’t— I CAN’T—”

His voice cracked.

Hermione took a step toward him.

Theo flinched.

“I have to go,” he whispered.

“No. Theo—”

He turned and fled. Literally fled.

The door slammed behind him, wards activating in his wake.

He was slamming into the corridor wall two floors down, palms braced, but it wasn’t enough.

He shoved away and kept walking, or more like running.

His thoughts were white noise, fragments:

What did you do?
You kissed her back.
She’s a prisoner.
You’re going to get her killed.
You’re going to get yourself killed.
Merlin… what did you do?

He couldn’t breathe.

HE. COULD. NOT. BREATHE.

He turned the corner and nearly collided with Astoria.

“Theo?” she asked, blinking. “You look… did you run here?”

He didn’t answer. He pushed past her, heading for the sitting room because he needed walls, air, distance, something to hold onto before he tore the manor apart.

Astoria followed, eyes widening with each frantic step he took.

He stopped in front of the fireplace, gripping the mantel hard.

“Theo,” Astoria said softly, “you’re shaking.”

“I know,” he rasped.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer.

His pulse hammered in his throat, his palms stung where he’d scraped them against the wall, and his mouth…

His mouth still tasted like her.

Astoria stepped closer, cautious, like he was a dangerous creature she didn’t want to spook.

“Say something,” she whispered.

Theo let out a furious growl and shoved a hand through his hair.

“I made a mistake,” he snapped.

Astoria stiffened. “What kind of mistake?”

“The kind,” Theo hissed, pacing again, “that gets people killed.”

Astoria paled. “Voldemort?”

“No,” he barked. “Worse.”

Her breath caught. “Worse than the Dark Lord?”

Theo stopped pacing long enough to look at her, wild-eyed and utterly undone.

“Hermione,” he said.

Astoria blinked. Then blinked again.

“What about Hermione?”

Theo resumed pacing, rubbing the back of his neck, dragging sharp breaths in like he was drowning. “She confronted me. She found an old paper with names.”

“Oh.” Astoria winced. “Yes. That’s bad.”

“You think?” he snapped.

Astoria raised her hands in surrender. “Okay, yes, extremely bad. Did you lie?”

“Of course I lied!”

“Did she believe it?”

“She never believes anything I say!”

“Good. That’s good—”

“It’s not good,” he growled. “She cornered me. She shouted at me. She—she—”

He trailed off, colour rising in his face.

Astoria tilted her head. “…Theo?”

He didn’t answer.

“Theo.”

Nothing.

“Theodore.”

His jaw clenched.

“WHAT,” he finally bit out.

“What did you do?”

He froze. Astoria’s eyes widened.

“Oh Merlin,” she whispered. “You didn’t.”

Theo’s voice cracked. “She kissed me.”

Astoria's hand flew to her mouth.

“And,” Theo choked, “I— I—”

“You kissed her back,” Astoria finished, eyes enormous.

Theo slammed both hands against the mantel, bowing his head.

“I panicked,” he said hoarsely. “And I ran.”

Astoria stared at him, aghast. “You RAN?”

“Yes!”

“You ran away from Hermione Granger.”

“YES!”

“After kissing her.”

“YES!”

Astoria let out a helpless laugh. “Oh my God, you’re hopeless.”

Theo glared at her, breathing like a man who’d sprinted miles. “This isn’t funny.”

“It is,” she said. “Just a little.”

“Astoria.”

She softened immediately.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked gently.

“Everything,” he said without hesitation. “Voldemort. Hermione. Myself. All of it.”

Astoria took a step closer. “Theo—”

“She’s going to get hurt because of me,” he said, voice raw. “She’s already hurt because of me. And now—now I—”

He swallowed hard.

“I don’t get to want things,” he whispered. “I don’t get to feel things. That’s how people die.”

Astoria touched his arm lightly, grounding him.

“You caring isn’t the danger,” she said. “It’s the thing keeping her alive.”

He laughed once, bitter. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she insisted. “Because I watched you this morning.”

“Because Voldemort was suspicious—”

“No.” Astoria shook her head. “Because you thought she was in danger.”

Theo flinched like she’d hit him.

Astoria sighed.

“You’re in love with her,” she said simply.

Theo recoiled. “No. Absolutely not. Don’t ever—”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“ASTORIA.”

She crossed her arms. “You lie like someone who is.”

Theo made a strangled noise and turned away.

Astoria stepped around to face him again.

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” she said softly. “But don’t run from her. And don’t lie to yourself either. Those are the two things guaranteed to destroy both of you.”

Theo shut his eyes, shaking.

“She deserved better than a prison,” he whispered. “She deserved better than a man like me.”

Astoria’s voice was gentle. “Then stop acting like your father.”

Theo’s eyes snapped open.

Astoria took his hand.

“And start acting like the man your mother raised.”

Theo swallowed hard.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

“…I need to breathe,” he whispered.

She squeezed his hand. “Then breathe. And when you’re ready… go to her.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” Astoria stepped back. “Because she kissed you for a reason.”

He stared at the floor, shaken.

“Go,” Astoria said softly. “Before you make things worse by avoiding her.”

But Theo didn’t move.

He wasn’t ready.

Astoria exhaled and nodded.

“Then stay,” she said. “But don’t run again.”

Theo pressed his palms against his eyes, breath unsteady.

“I’m such an idiot.”

“Yes,” Astoria said cheerfully. “But it seems you’re her idiot, now.”

Theo choked on air. Astoria beamed victoriously.

▀▄▀▄▀▄

Hermione didn’t cry.

She sat very still on the bed, hands fisted in the blanket, chest rising in small, sharp breaths.

Her lips still tingled, her heart still hammered, and she hated, absolutely hated, that he’d run.

Not rejected. Not recoiled. He ran away.

Like she was the threat. Like he couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her.

The door knocked once, softly.

Hermione stiffened. “Theo?”

But it wasn’t his voice that answered.

“It’s me,” Astoria said quietly. “May I come in?”

Hermione hesitated, then: “Yes.”

Astoria slipped in and immediately shut the door behind her.

Her eyes swept Hermione’s face - swollen, flushed, furious, humiliated - and her expression softened.

“Oh, Hermione,” she murmured, sitting beside her. “What happened?”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She refused to cry in front of anyone.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just… he did what he does best. Keeping secrets. Running. Pretending I’m a problem to be managed.”

Astoria winced. “Ah. So he panicked.”

Hermione blinked. “Panicked? He ran away.”

“Yes,” Astoria said calmly. “Because he panicked.”

Hermione stared at her. “…Are you defending him?”

“Always,” Astoria said without shame. “But I’m also here to defend you.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “I don’t understand him, Astoria. I try to. I want to. But every time I get close to something real, he… he retreats. He walls up. He becomes someone else.”

Astoria sighed. “That’s because you ask the right questions.”

Hermione’s eyes sharpened. “Like the identity papers?”

Astoria nodded. “Yes.”

Hermione sat straighter. “I knew it. Theo said I imagined it. He lied.”

“Yes,” Astoria said simply. “Because the truth is dangerous.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. “For whom? For him? For me?”

“For everyone,” Astoria whispered.

Hermione stared. “Astoria… are you asking me to stop digging?”

Astoria considered her carefully. “No.”

Hermione froze.

“No?” she said softly.

“No,” Astoria repeated. “Because you’re right. Something is happening. Something big. And if you’re going to be in this house… you deserve to know a part of it.”

Hermione’s breath held.

Astoria inhaled slowly.

“The children,” she said softly. “Voldemort thinks they are missing, thinks that Theo killed them.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “Yes?”

“They’re not missing and they're not dead.”

Hermione’s heart slammed into her ribs. “What do you mean they’re not missing?”

Astoria hesitated, then reached for her hand.

“They’re safe,” she said. “Or… safer than they were.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “How?”

Astoria’s gaze flickered. “That part… is not mine to tell.”

“Astoria—”

“It’s Theo’s operation,” she said gently. “He designed it. He built it. And if he tells you himself… it will mean something.”

Hermione looked away, blinking hard. Her voice came out brittle. “He won’t tell me anything.”

Astoria squeezed her hand. “He will.”

“He ran from me.”

“Because you confronted him about that,” Astoria said gently. “And because you kissed him.”

Hermione flushed so hard she felt dizzy. “He told you?!”

“Theo looks like he was hit with a Confundus charm. He’s pacing the manor like someone stole his sanity.” Astoria said, amused.

Hermione’s breath caught.

“But,” Astoria went on, her voice softening, “he didn’t run because he doesn’t want you. He ran because you terrified him.”

Hermione blinked. “I… what?”

Astoria smiled faintly. “Theo can face Death Eaters. Voldemort. Camps. Bloodshed. But a girl he cares about kissing him?” She shook her head. “Hopeless.”

Hermione stared at her hands. “He called me ‘just a prisoner’.”

Astoria didn’t flinch. “I know.”

“Is that… supposed to comfort me?”

“It’s supposed to tell you he lies worst when he’s afraid.”

Hermione swallowed hard, lips trembling despite herself. “I’m so tired of being lied to.”

Astoria nodded. “Then let me tell you at least this much truth.”

Hermione looked up sharply.

Astoria leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.

“The children are safe.” She paused. “They were meant to die. Theo made sure they didn’t.”

Hermione felt her heartbeat in her throat. “He… saved them?”

“Yes.”

Hermione’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

Astoria’s eyes softened with something that looked like sadness.

“Because if Voldemort ever learns that you know…” Her voice faltered. “…we’re all as good as dead.”

Hermione sat frozen.

And then, quietly:

“…Astoria?”

“Yes?”

“If Theo is saving children… why do you trust me with that?”

Astoria smiled, tired and fierce.

“Because you’re Hermione Granger. And if Theo is ever going to survive this war… he needs someone who makes him want to be better.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. Astoria squeezed her hand once more.

“I’m on your side,” she whispered. “I’m on his side. And I think… maybe… those sides aren’t as different as you think.”

Hermione closed her eyes, chest tight. When she opened them, she spoke again.

“Astoria?”

“Yes?”

“Will he tell me the truth?”

Astoria smiled sadly. “Only if you don’t stop asking.”