Title: Speak Softly (7/?)

Summary: As the war escalates to dangerous new heights, Harry, Ron, and Hermione find themselves getting drawn deeper into a battle where the lines between right and wrong aren't as clear-cut as they would imagine.

Pairings: Ron/Hermione, Hermione/Harry, Harry/Ginny

Genre: angst, drama, tragedy, horror, romance, post-Hogwarts, pre-HBP, pre-DH, with elements of both books thrown in.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Warnings: violence, blood, some sexual imagery, slight mental breakdown, and *SPOILER* oh, yeah, character death. Only the people dying thing? So canon. Eh, sort of. XD

A/N: Thanks so much to those who reviewed this story or put it on their alerts or favorites list. I really do appreciate it. I had quite a tough time writing this chapter, because, you know, PLOT. Ew. Who needs that? But I've so been looking forward to this chapter because of the ending. This has been in the works since chapter ONE, people. I've had it written for that long, certainly. That said, we're getting closer to the end, folks. If I can fit things the way they're supposed to fit, then there's only, GASP, FOUR CHAPTERS LEFT. Here's to hoping I can get them written without taking a year for each chapter like I nearly did this one. I was only shy by, like, a MONTH.

…

12:36 p.m.

Sterility. Like—white-hot-blinding and so different because once—well. Darkness. Step, step, scratch. Fire burned into her skin—agony, something she was used to. But.

Just remember to breathe.

She wasn't trapped beneath the water anymore. Pressure was understandable. Her mental state? Flimsy at best. People cried—mum—but there was darkness. And then—

White. Hot, blinding, sterile white. The only thing she could see-touch-taste-smell-hear because it was so different from the darkness that her throat seized up and she had to think that there was once less than this, less than the sterility that shouldn't be there because of the darkness. That was all she had come to know.

Silly that she had nearly forgotten her name. Silly that she had almost lost it in the whiteness. The crying was simply background noise.

"Ginny."

But there were people there to help her remember. People she could not forget and with the sudden sharp clarity of existence beyond the white, beyond the yin-yang of light and dark, Ginny remembered Harry.

He had saved her.

Turning away from the white walls, white sheets, white everything, Ginny marveled at the sight before her. Dirty skin, slicked with blood. Emerald green eyes, hidden beneath round glasses, the overhead lights coating the lenses with the sheen of reflective opalescence. Dark hair, hanging limply over a scar that had defined him in ways he had not wanted but accepted, because what else was there? Situations kept cropping up—or, rather, were being made to crop up, because obsession had rotted the inside of the Dark Lord's mind as effortlessly as the Dark Arts and the quiet promise of power-reign-immortality had.

Ginny's nail scraped across the rim of the glass. Harry watched her silently.

Then, "Ginny."

"Those Healers work wonders, don't they?" Ginny asked absently, voice deep and grating like the aching scratchiness of her throat. It was a shame re-learning how to scream wasn't as bad as Ginny thought it would be. "For a while, I wasn't sure I'd be able to see again."

Ginny tilted her head, and freshly washed red hair spilled over her shoulder. Harry frowned, settling back into the chair he had commandeered. Ginny was vaguely aware of others milling about outside of her room. The monotony—or was it shock?—of white sterility had nearly made her forget she had a mother and a father and brothers—(and some wicked thought in the back of her mind had to scream at her that there was something missing, or rather someone, but it was so hard to reconcile that thought with Harry's presence because Harry was always there, even if he wasn't needed… There was never a time when he wasn't)—but Ginny could clearly remember being held in her mother's bone-crushing embrace. The fierce relief and dimming sense of I-should-have-protected-her-she-was-mine-to-protect-my-daughter-my-Ginny emanating from her father's rigid posture and tightly clenched jaw. The brutal, vicious fury that sparked waves of hatred-destruction-revenge in Fred and George's minds when they slipped fingers around her wrist and felt the thick, corded development of scar tissue and the black-black-black of the Dark Mark.

Molly had allowed the two of them their privacy with minimal fuss. Sure, the Healers mumbled something about post-traumatic stress disorder and keeping Ginny in a controlled environment and safe but Harry was safety and security and if a controlled environment meant the white-white walls, then she would take the chaotic thunder of Just remember to breathe any day.

Harry was less than impressed.

"Ginny. That's not helping."

Neither was the way he kept saying her name; some mix of desperate longing and frustration. The rage that had kept his muscles locked stiffly around her had slowly diminished as the day continued on. Ginny imagined he was tired, weary. But as much as she may have wanted to throw her arms around him, relish in that feeling of constant security, there were really too many things to think about. Like forgetting. Because the darkness was just… unbearable. Ginny didn't want that in her head anymore. The razor blades. The little creatures crawling across her flesh. The step-step-scratch and constant pressure of water bearing down on her from all sides because that was where she had died; only she wasn't dead.

I am a smart and intelligent girl. Ginny snorted inwardly. Right.

"I don't want to talk about it," Ginny said a moment later. The white on the walls screamed something at her that Ginny did her best to ignore. "What else is there to learn anyways? It was just the same as before."

Harry's hands curled into fists. Ginny imagined there was a monster inside of him, raging. Besides, even if it raged for her, it wasn't like she could claim it. There was always—

"Where's Hermione?"

Harry's eyes flashed and he scowled bitterly.

"I don't know," he said dourly. "No one wants to tell me anything."

"Don't talk to me like that," Ginny said sharply, eyes narrowing at the tone in Harry's voice. "And I'm not telling you, not because it's important, but because there's nothing to say. It was exactly like last time, only this time Voldemort marked me."

"And I understand all about markings, don't I?" Harry snarled, rising to his feet. Blood was still caked on his face and his side—Ginny vaguely remembered the Healers ripping them apart and casting a plethora of spells on the both of them, despite Harry's protests that he was fine. None of them were fine. The white-white of the walls were too distracting to be fine.

(Post-traumatic stress disorder, a Healer said, but the fierce wail of denial kept Ginny's thoughts locked down like a high-security prison.)

"We're both connected, Ginny. To him. He Marked you. Who knows what else could have happened if I hadn't—"

"Thank you, Harry," Ginny interrupted firmly, lifting her chin and staring him down fiercely. "I… owe you. But you have to understand that I don't want to talk about this and despite all that I am indebted to you, you owe me, too."

There was a long moment of silence. Harry opened his mouth, prepared to object, but Ginny's resolve was settling into stone and nothing could break it, not even Harry's iron will. Scowling faintly, Harry turned away from her and strode over to the other side of the room. The outside world filtered into the anger charged silence, and for a moment, Ginny wished that her mother hadn't had decided to leave the two to themselves. Molly would have kept Harry from asking any penetrating questions; she would have protected her daughter with a determination that could kill, that would kill, if anyone or anything threatened Ginny's peace. Or what little there was.

(A dead turtle slid across the floor.)

"You should look for Hermione," Ginny suggested after a long moment of silence. "I'm sure she misses you."

Harry sighed, the hard lines of his shoulders softening.

"Yeah," he said tiredly, and there was a fondness in his voice which Ginny ignored. "But no one knows where she is."

Ginny frowned. "Then where—"

"I think she's safe, though," Harry said quietly, his hand straying up to grip the chain hanging from his neck. "I would have felt it if she… she's safe." Harry paused and then faced her. His expression was dangerously serious.

"No one's talking about it, Ginny. Not your mum or dad or Tonks or anyone. I haven't seen Dumbledore yet, but I have a feeling he won't tell me anything either. Something is going on and we have to find out what."

Ginny shrugged, the white-white of the walls catching her eye again. It was so different from the darkness.

"I can ask questions. Mum isn't likely to deny me anything considering… well. I'll try." She hesitated audibly, taking a moment to eye Harry critically. The question lodged itself in her throat before she even had a chance to wonder at the implications of it—flashes of stone crumbling around her, hands guiding her in the right direction as she stumbled through the darkness, spells flying overhead, Death Eaters calling for reinforcements…

Harry was covered in blood. Old, dry, crusted blood, but it was blood nonetheless. Ginny's stomach churned unpleasantly. Her eyes shifted from the white-white to the white-pink-black on her arm; scar tissue was raised up on the skin, spider-webbing across her forearm in a horrific display of mutilation. Looking at the mark on her arm—deformed, partially destroyed, but still serving its function—was enough to make bile rise in Ginny's injured throat and her eyes to start watering. The action itched, reminding Ginny of the pebbles of dirt that had kissed her skin, some harder than others, as she ran through the halls of the citadel, wrist held in an ice-cold grip that lacked Harry's warmth and gentleness.

Rage burned in Ginny's heart, cold-hot-cold.

"You're such a hero," Ginny said bitterly without knowing why. "You didn't have to leave her to save me, you know. I could have gotten away eventually."

Harry stared at her hard. Green eyes erupted, fury kindling the explosion building in his chest. Hateful words shot through him like a poison tipped arrow, but Ginny could see him slowly reining the monster in, could see the vein in his neck shifting, bulging with the sudden thundering of his blood in his arteries.

The words hung above them both, cancerous and rotting. Such a hero, Ginny thought, something warm and different from her bitter words blossoming in her chest. She didn't need a hero. (Harry was one, anyways.) Yet, he acted like one, for her. Left Hermione—Hermione, his fiancée—to find her. To keep her away from the Dark Lord. To keep her away from that all encompassing darkness that pierced through her mind and made her nails chip off and wet strips of mutilated flesh get caught on the tips of her fingers. A hero, who wanted to save her from her demons, even now. Wanted to know, so he could keep her from breaking. So he could understand.

Ginny hadn't been safe. Was that the only difference? If it had been Hermione captured by Death Eaters, being mentally tortured—just remember to breathe—would Harry have gone after her with the same intensity? Order members weren't talking, but Ginny was quite used to this behavior. Secrets seemed to be the foundation of everything wizardry was built on; witches and wizards lived their entire existence cloaked in the veil of the non-existent, in the realm of fancy. Just the whimsical thoughts of Muggles, just moments of make-believe splattered across a page.

But Harry had been real. There was nothing make-believe about the arms that held her close as they Apparated away, nor in the harsh, labored breathing that spilled out past chapped lips as blood flowed from and clotted the large wound on his side. There was nothing false in the fact that Harry had stormed a whole castle, complete with wizardly protections and enchantments just to find her. Despite the nightmares, despite the constant pressure and water-ice-shardsofglass that rained down and dug trenches in her mind. Harry had taken her away from the darkness, brought her back to the white-white-white that bothered her to the point of distraction and—why? Why did one person matter so much, when there were other people who were more important? Why had Harry chosen to go after Ginny and not, well, Ron? (A vicious coil of guilt pooled in her stomach then, because Ginny suddenly understood the hot sensation of that 'someone missing' and it made her sick to think she was too blind to realize it before. It was what had gotten her captured in the first place.)

They were best friends after all. There was nothing that could compare to that friendship, nothing that could come between them—

Except for Hermione.

She was missing.

Ginny wasn't sure whether to be bitter that she was gone (always hurting the people that mattered most) or bitter that she wasn't being rescued. Hermione had always been strong, Ginny supposed. Ginny couldn't help but wonder where her own strength had gone.

(Because Harry was always rescuing people, even when it wasn't needed.

She would have gotten out eventually.)

The moment continued to stretch on, and then—

—just remember to—

"Hermione loves two people," Harry said with all the conviction of a heavy, fiery passion that could not be diminished. "Why can't I?"

—breathe.

…

There was a scarf around her neck.

He eyed her critically, watching as the slushy flakes of snow floated down on the currents of wind, pressing against cheeks rosy with cold and melting, sliding down skin like tear drops. Fitting, he supposed, considering it was all she had left in her—her brown eyes were absent, vacant. Or, rather, missing the integral part of her that made everything just…

She turned. Snow caught in the tangles of her bushy hair; the slight breeze blowing the snowflakes askew caught the russet strands in an uplift, but the magic was gone. His heart didn't wrench painfully at the sight of her, his breath didn't shorten—where had the magic gone? He remembered touching her skin and igniting fires; he remembered pressing hot kisses against her wet mouth, nimble fingers fumbling for purchase, twisting in clothes. He remembered the soft curve of her hips against his own and the swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. He remembered the heaviness of his testicles as he sunk balls-deep into her because Merlin there was no one more perfect than her, and when he ejaculated inside of her, there was nothing more important than the here-now-her. The Her-that-was-his-own.

(It was gone, now.)

Her eyes were glassy as she stared at him, hands stuffed into bulky mittens. The scarf was twisted tightly around her, hiding the lower part of her face—two, bright Gryffindor-red ends brushed against a murky brown pea coat, the only hint of color in an otherwise too white environment.

(He remembered darkness, once. It scared him.)

"Ron," she said numbly, a wet puff of warm breath condensing in the air. "Ron."

He watched her for a moment longer, indecision keeping him rooted to the spot. Something whispered in his ear, something important—you will be delivered through the darkness, in pieces—but he batted it away, that strange feeling of want struggling to reach up and take control. To make him stride forward and kiss the cold away.

His toes tingled in his boots.

"Oh, Ron," Hermione whispered again. "What have we done?"

He frowned, her words shooting through his brain like a swarm of bees caught in the cottony web of a Muffliato spell. He opened his mouth, cleared his scratchy throat, ready to question—

Except he didn't. He never liked questions. They were… the questions were…

Pain throbbed behind his eyes, and Ron lifted his hands to assert pressure. The whisper of ice cold water lapping against his legs startled him, but the pressure of his numb hands was enough to ignore it. Something tugged, pulled, but there was nothing more important than her and—what have we done?

(Killing people is silly, someone whispered, the essence of air.

There were tomatoes in her hair.)

His tongue remained glued to the top of his mouth. It tasted of chocolate.

Suddenly, Hermione stumbled forward, feet catching on two rusted manacles around her ankles. She crumpled to the ground, wet slush flinging up in the air; it was dirty, like mud. There was none of the precious white powder that caught in her eyelashes or fluttered breezily against her skin, fairy light. Her pants soaked up the wet, her eyes filming over with the sheen of tears.

"Oh bother," she said, trembling slightly. "I don't—honestly, Ron, this is getting ridiculous. I can't… I thought we were strong enough but we can't—what have we done?"

Nothing, he wanted to say, but the chocolate lull of forgetfulness made his brain fuzzy. The snowflakes were still spiraling down, chilling their clothes. A lake flashed before his eyes (he wondered what it meant to drown in ice. There was never any freedom.) and without a thought, Ron moved forward, kneeling down beside her. She didn't say anything, just pressed her head to his shoulder—and there was no heat.

"I miss you, Ron," she said softly. "We're hurting Harry." A silver glint caught his eye, and he reached forward, fingers trailing the swell of her small breasts until it came into contact with a chain that was hot-cold-hot and there-not-there all at once. His finger dipped into the center of the ring, felt the slight pulse of the magic sizzle along his nerves.

His mouth was thick with chocolate.

"We're lucky," Hermione mumbled, turning her gaze to the dark craggy overhang above. Water dripped from stalactites, rippling against the calm waves of white snow. "It's not as cold here. But—Ron, we need to fix what was broken. You're broken. Like a watch. Only less mechanical."

There was a pause.

"I think thestrals know how to fly."

"Well, of course they do, silly," another voice chimed in, breathy air. Ron turned, his eyes catching a glimpse of glimmering, kaleidoscopic glasses shimmering in the fading light. Long, stringy blond hair tumbled down the speaker's back and a whir of buzzing creatures floated around her head. Her necklace was made of Butterbeer bottle caps. "They're the only things that can."

"But what do we do about it?" Hermione asked impatiently and Ron vaguely noticed the manacles tightening around her ankles. The tip of her sneaker streaked through slushy mud, one foot caught in the grave.

"Why nothing, of course," the blond girl responded, and for a moment, she looked like she had moons in her eyes—(Loony Luna Lovegood, a voice whispered and he suddenly remembered that she died as well as any girl should)—but the image faded, and she continued speaking, a dreamy quality sliding through the air like hot maple syrup. "For they have the wings, so they get to fly."

"I got to live, while you got to die," Hermione sang back. Blood started to coat the manacles a thick scarlet. Hermione hardly noticed.

"In a manner of speaking," Luna replied, gliding forward. "But I am a Dementor and Ron is a Squib."

"No, no, no," Hermione huffed. "Honestly. He's a Gryffindor, Luna. Gryffindor. Like the mythical creature. Always rushing headlong into danger—he's broken, you know. Like a watch. Only not so mechanical."

"Crumple Horned Snorkacks, maybe. Wrackspurts, rather," Luna said serenely. "Or Inferi. They're only skin and partially manufactured souls—speaking of souls, how do you manufacture a soul, Cleverest-Witch-Of-Her-Age?"

Hermione frowned, pulling her knees to her chest. A strange euphoria not unlike dismay clotted Ron's heart as he watched the blood from her ankles spill, staining the snow crimson. This was not supposed to happen.

Still. Chocolate.

"I don't know, but Dementors eat them. Munch, munch. Munch, munch. Oh, yum." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Despicable creatures, Dementors. Inferi, too."

"Well that's hardly fair," Luna pointed out, twirling on the tips of her toes. "Dementors and Inferi can't help who they are. There's just something inside of them that's partially… absent." Luna nodded resolutely, as though she enjoyed the word. "Yes, absent. Like my sanity. Or your ingenuity. You've been rather Un-Clever as of late, Cleverest-Witch-Of-Her-Age."

Hermione's eyes narrowed into slits and she turned her back on Luna with a vicious huff. Her lips were pressed into a firm line, and Ron could see the fire sparking in her eyes. The snow surrounding them began to melt with her heat, and suddenly, a lake was forming around them, lapping at their skin and clothes.

"Oh, what a splendid event!" Luna cried, kicking up water. She splashed Hermione, who looked liked something of a drowned rat with a bright red scarf wrapped around her neck. Everything was muddy brown, like her eyes.

"I have something for such an occasion," Hermione replied, dipping chilled fingers into the pocket of her coat. She pulled out a small silver flask—something occurred to Ron, which was odd, because she seemed everything but moody, yet the thought was there. Like the fuzziness in his head.

He couldn't remember wanting her anymore.

(There was darkness.)

"Oh, you shouldn't drink alcohol," Luna said disapprovingly. "It can kill."

"Killing people is silly," Hermione agreed. "But—hark! A Griffin! Brave, strong and true, able to stand up and look death in the face and spit in the eye of immortality. Inferior we are not! This firewhiskey shall hasten the call! To arms!"

Luna giggled dreamily as Hermione pressed the flask to her lips, taking a generous gulp. Her chest heaved and Ron reached out his hands to touch her. Luna flitted forward, slapping his hands away, but Ron glared at her, remembering blood and tomatoes and death and—

Dark silt and sand ran through his fingers.

Hermione and Luna seemed unaware. Ron watched with probing eyes as the cavern converted, completely. The soft whisper of water against the shore, milky white shadows drifted aimlessly under the gray crested ripples. Ron felt frozen, saw a shadow trail wand-magic across the surface.

"This is just like old times!" Luna crowed, spinning in a circle and snatching the flask from Hermione in the process. "Here, Great Lion of Gryffindor, King of the Jungle, have a taste. The Dementors won't mind; they've been waiting for you."

The flask felt heavy and numb in his fingers. Ron stared at it, wondering if it would push past the chocolate haze that kept his tongue glued to his mouth—uncertain. Maybe if he had a tea cup. But he liked the cool green-glass that he held by the neck… five or six or seven a day. Seven pieces. Seven fragments. How much did it take to see the whole? Moments, long ones, trapped in the horrible grip of pain and death and a whispered cry of Morsmordre. In casting a spell that sent fear arcing into the sky, a wispy green, like the bottle, tattooing the sky like the one on his arm.

The snake slithered up his bicep and tickled its tongue in his ear.

(He remembered the darkness.)

"Ron shouldn't drink," Hermione said quietly, leaning forward to peer into his eyes. "He's all chocolate now. Let's not break that."

Luna hummed softly. "Better chocolate than skin and partially there souls, correct? He's already broken, Cleverest-Witch-Of-Her-Age." Luna turned from the two of them and gazed out at the water. "We'll have to find the rest."

A breath caught in Hermione's throat and she reached forward, fingers skimming the flask. Freckles winked at her from Ron's skin, but the hissing hadn't stopped; poison, death, words of rotting infection were seeping into one ear and out the other—Ron tried to grasp onto them, but the harder he tried to recall the words, the faster they slipped away. It was like trying to trap smoke in his hands. Or Hermione. Hermione always ran away from him.

(He had forgotten how to love her.)

"We'll need his help, won't we?" Hermione bit her lip, troubled. "Oh, Loony Luna Lovegood. Why is it that we hurt whenever we wade into the water?"

Luna smiled softly. "You hurt because you're whole. Rather, you were, at first. But now… someone took a piece of you and spirited it away. Rather silly, to lose part of yourself so quickly. And sad. I liked the whole Hermione. Not the one that was—well, at any rate, it hurt because you were whole. That's what Charon is for. You remember him, don't you?"

"Yeah," Hermione whispered, and Ron felt her curl into him. Her trousers were stained scarlet. "Should I let him?"

"He'll remember," Luna warned. "That doesn't mean he'll be there. Present. He's still just so…"

"Absent."

"Absent," Luna agreed, liking the word.

Ron didn't care. His mouth tasted of chocolate.

"Right," Hermione said. "I don't… quite know… the right answer. But if it means you'll remember…"

She reached out and tipped the flask against his lips.

Suddenly—

(He remembered.

They called it the Dark Mark.)

—whispers of thought stretched down, looped around his limbs. The thought came to him then that he shouldn't have limbs—

The fluidity of water. It caught him on the upsurge, each tiny breath escaping him in a puff of moisture—that was his consistency. It was never more or less, it just was, and he felt the cold seep down-down-down until it settled in his bones. He felt… foggy. The sensation crept through the darkness, but there was no panic. Simply… resignation. Was he supposed to feel different? Maybe. But he had seen darkness, hadn't he? Or, rather, not darkness, but evil and when had there ever been such clear cut categorical definitions for such a word?

Extending his mind outward had been easy. It trickled down and out like water, stretching through the fog, remaining encased within it. There was no clear direction, but with a small stab of pain, he could feel everything—hands, eyes, fingers, legs, arms, chest, toes, heart—

People were talking over him. Maybe about him. It hardly mattered. What would have made him so important to speak about? He was just a thing existing on the cusp of other people's success, stealing their glory.

(You're not Percy—)

No. He wasn't. That name was… fire. Inside. Anger. Self-resentment. It made the fluidity within him crash harder, more violently. There was someone who was supposed to be cupped in his fingers, all warm flesh and soft curves and he knew it, but he didn't know. The person who told him that he wasn't—anything. Everything. All things. But he wasn't all-encompassing. The haze still clung to his mind, sticky and sure. Poison, maybe, whispering deadly thoughts into his head. He wasn't—wasn't, wasn't, wasn't. In everything. Nothing. Fluidity. Catch break catch—

He felt.

…something. On his… arm. Like, slithering. Up, up, up. It did not match the fluidity within him, was not the calm-violence-calm of the storm that had erupted in his chest and played out like liquid silver in his mind. Maybe it was the monster, the most basic categorical definition of evil. Maybe it was more. But the fog was just there and he wanted it to go away.

Only who was—

"He's not responding to any kind of stimuli, physical or magical, Albus," a vaguely concerned voice said. "I'm afraid that whatever the Dark Lord did to him—well, I'd rather not think about it all the same."

"Regardless, Poppy, it is important that we awaken Mr. Weasley," the second voice said, male. "I find that only he may illuminate the secrets that have been trapped in shadow and continue to elude us so masterfully."

"Of course," the first—Poppy?—responded. "But I must say I cannot determine when he will wake up. He appears to be in a state of complete catatonia; there is a severe rigidity of his muscles and—"

Except he wasn't. Something flashed across his mind, like a vacant whisper lost on the edge of thought.

Absent.

He was—absent. But thinking. About—well, absence. Of mind. Body. Sou—no. Not that. But still. Absence fit, tasted good on a tongue that had yet to speak it. An almost-memory that felt more like a dream caught him in another violent upsurge of storm, and he examined it, hoping that there was something—

Oh Ron, the Her-that-was-his-own moaned, what have we done?

Suddenly—

—he remembered.

There was a tattoo on his arm.

They called it the Dark Mark.

(He would never be a Death Eater.)

The world was supposed to end. As it was—

—the fog lingered. Thickened.

Ron lost himself.

Again.

…

12:58 p.m.

Malfoy's eyes gleamed silver.

Not entirely unusual, considering Blaise had seen the changes in Malfoy occur numerous times before. It was always when Malfoy had succeeded at something, always when triumph was singing in his mind and causing the adrenaline to pump through his veins because he had finally bested his enemy. Or whichever obstacle was being presented to him at the time. Generally, it had been Potter. However Potter wasn't around to best, because he was off helping the Weaslette. Stupid, really, because having Potter around—well. Blaise would not be dealing with this now. He wouldn't feel his chest tighten oddly because Granger—stupid, pathetic mudblood Granger—was collapsed on the floor of a dank cell, bushy tangled hair spread out around her head like a halo. Only the brown bled into the dark cobbles beneath her body and her wrists were blossoming with deep purple bruises, the broken blood vessels fanning out and curling into beautifully dark displays beneath her skin. Blaise wasn't quite sure what to do about that.

Drugging Malfoy the night before had been easy. Helping Potter retrieve his Weasley… Blaise had done better, less stupid things in his life. The very thought of breaking protocol and assisting Potter in taking down his own allies made Blaise's palms moisten unpleasantly and sweat trickle down the sharp angles of his dark face. Someone would be saying something. The Dark Lord would find out sooner rather than later—losing Weasley, both of them, would not be something he would handle well. They were so important, so needed… but as long as Ron was coherent and cognizant of the role he had to play, then all the better. Sure, after the last partial he pulled from… that place… had been deposited into the skin-shell that was brutally reconstructed from Seamus Finnigan (another violent twist and suddenly, Blaise wasn't sure he knew how to breathe) Weasley had fallen back into that half-there state of mentality. Catatonic, some would say. And who was he to refute them? But the simple fact that Granger had gotten Weasley back would be enough to—well, Blaise wasn't sure, but surely if they could pull Weasley out of that catatonia, the Light would finally begin to understand.

Understanding was pivotal, if they wanted to win the war.

And Granger had always been clever. Despite the violent twist of her limbs and a throat screamed raw because—tit for tat—Potter had betrayed him, Granger had understood. Blaise would not hurt her irrevocably. She was important, her life was important and Blaise… he had promised to protect her. To keep her safe. Potter had given him the other third of the spelled ring, ensuring that even he would know when Granger was in trouble, but Blaise had refused to wear it at first. Then Potter had told him that it was an effective communications device as well and… Blaise wanted to get out of their deal and quickly. He did not want anything tying him to Potter because even if Potter had a good chance of winning the war, so did the Dark Lord.

Truthfully, the Dark Lord had more years and experience on his side than Potter did, more pure, undiluted power and he knew how to use that power in ways that Potter couldn't even comprehend. Even so, Potter had still managed to… Blaise glowered, the sharp tang of bitterness curling his tongue. Despite his lack of experience, Potter still managed to get a debt out of Blaise. Forcing himself to believe it had occurred under the guise of payment had been ridiculous and naïve. Blaise had never been one to deny the truth when it had been staring him in the face, and yet he had in the beginning. Payment, especially in large sums, was an easy tool for manipulation. Potter hadn't even blinked.

Zabini sometimes wondered if Granger ever thought to question it. She might have, being clever, but she was so embroiled in the werewolf, in saving his life that she hardly even noticed. Hardly took the time to question.

Blaise's lips curled, razor sharp.

Pathetic, stupid little mudblood.

"To think," Malfoy said quietly, his voice the consistency of oil, "you called her clever."

Blaise offered him a flat look. "She got Weasley, didn't she?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Not for long, Blaise. The Dark Lord will not rest until he gets his tool back. And when he does, he will know the true extent of your loyalties."

"You forget Malfoy, that you were the one that gave up Weasley. Perhaps my dealings with Granger were nothing more than a foothold, an attempt at infiltration. If Granger trusts me, then doesn't it only stand to reason that Potter will as well?"

Malfoy's face twisted, his eyes sparking hate. "Do not take me for a fool, blood-traitor. Gaining a foothold? As if Potter would waste his time trusting you. As for Granger, how much would she matter, really, if Potter left her to go chasing after the Weaslette?"

A flash of reluctant acceptance. Blaise had wondered the same thing. How much did Granger matter? Not enough, Blaise thought, because Granger was missing. Surely Potter would have noticed by now. Surely Potter would have had enough time to think outside of just Weasley and realize that the woman he was supposed to marry was no longer around. Surely he had to know that she couldn't possibly be safe, not when she had completely destroyed any trust the Order held in her. Coming back to the Order safe house with Ron, while ingenious, was not something that would work. Secrets had been sold—on both sides, a voice reminded him acidly, the name Asphillis Adelbrandt flashing across his mind like hot poison—but the Order did not like their plans being interfered with. Lupin had been working diligently, relentlessly, to outpace Fenrir Greyback. It had been working, too.

Until now. Until Granger. Because there was something about living, something about Ron which drove her to the brink of her sanity, forcing her to make decisions that she never would have made had she been in the right state of mind. She was weak when it came to Ron, weak when it came to not having the boy that she loved by her side, and that thought was more than enough to make Blaise's hands curl into fists and his nails to bite painfully into his palm. Weasley. He was always the most important person to Granger. Just as the Weaslette was the most important person to Potter. And yet—

They would have come back to one another. Had Granger simply stayed she would have seen Potter. Would have been able to ignore whatever hurt was poisoning her mind and pushing her so hard towards a goal Zabini didn't even understand. Her single-minded devotion towards Ron was upsetting, but she had been battling it. Until Malfoy presented her with the opportunity to get him back. And she had gotten him back, only to leave him behind once again.

Zabini's lips turned down into a frown, and his obsidian eyes glimmered as he took in the sight of Granger collapsed on the floor.

Lupin was beside her, his skin a sickening mottled gray. The silver gleaming beneath his skin was causing blisters to form, clear liquid bubbling under his skin. The content wasn't nearly so strong as to kill him, but Malfoy was efficient. There was just enough to keep the werewolf unconscious until Malfoy decided to do… whatever it was that he wanted to do. Blaise had attempted questioning Malfoy, but Malfoy simply glowered at him, his silver eyes flashing with some hint of disgusted hate before ignoring him.

"Perhaps they had an agreement," Blaise said slowly. "Something similar to the one you and Granger have now."

Malfoy shot him a quick look, sneering back at Granger. "She's pathetic. Imagine, the mudblood actually managing to get away. The thing about Gryffindors, Blaise, is that they think with their emotions. Trapping Granger was easy. She never had the cunning it would take to get out of it, because she would spend too long panicking about the fact that she was trapped in the first place." Malfoy scoffed. "Pathetic."

"She is only a mudblood."

"That you protected."

"Indeed," Zabini murmured, sending one last glance towards the two trapped within the cell. "One thing, though. Just because you have Granger does not mean she's going to go down without a fight."

Malfoy glanced at him askance. "Oh?"

"It's amazing the things people will do for the ones they love. These two are no exception."

Malfoy's lips curled.

"How disgustingly sentimental."

Zabini shrugged apathetically. Sentimental but true. Granger loved the werewolf. It was just that… she loved Ron more. Anyone could see it, if they had eyes. But since Ron was safe and Harry was gone, who else was there for Granger to turn that frustratingly single-minded determination on? Zabini? Not hardly. Granger understood the situation she had left Zabini in by appearing before Malfoy and knew that he was not going to do anything to prevent whatever catastrophe was coming her way. Zabini had been compromised and there was little left they could do but play Malfoy's games.

It was amusing, in a horrific sort of way, that they were being forced into their roles so seamlessly, but… well, Slytherins always did value self-preservation above all else. Surviving was Zabini's sole ambition at this point and it didn't matter if Gryffindors were reckless and brave because a lot of times that recklessness was what allowed them to survive. Despite Granger's horrid misstep, Zabini still couldn't find it in himself to not believe in her—she would do whatever it took to protect Lupin, just as soon as she realized that she could. If not for her, then for Harry. Because despite loving Ron, despite forgetting and the agony that accompanied it, Zabini knew that those three would do anything for one another, even if it meant sacrificing their lives for something that the other person viewed as important. Still, Granger did not have to sacrifice herself. All she had to do was fight back and maybe—

Maybe. Maybe she could get out of it. Maybe she could keep her own allies from hating her, or wanting her dead. Maybe she could keep from having to look Potter in the face and know that she was the cause of his pain, the reason why he had lost his last link to the past. But in the same token, Potter was back now. Potter had Weasley. If Granger got hurt…

Blaise paused on his way out the dungeon, turning to gaze at Granger speculatively. A silver chain glimmered innocently around her neck, caught on the collar of her shirt. It threatened to spill down onto the floor, the thick silver engagement band blending in with the cool silver bleeding through the thick cracks of the flagstone beneath her. A frown found its way onto Zabini's face and he regarded Malfoy coolly, the strange urge to suddenly know rebounding off of Zabini's iron-clad self-control. It would have been simple to steal the thoughts from Malfoy's head, to do something to protect Granger, but…

Blaise lifted his hand, fingering his own chain. Summoning Potter to him would be a stupid thing indeed. There was absolutely no way that Malfoy could know Blaise's tenuous alliance with the Gryffindor extended as far as Potter, but getting a message to the reckless man… that should be easy. Simple. Yet… would Potter even leave Weasley's side? Would he be able to turn away from her long enough to realize that a Death Eater protecting Granger was not enough?

Zabini didn't know. Potter had abandoned Granger to him, after all. Even so…

Fingering the little band at his neck, Zabini turned and left. He couldn't overtly help Granger, not when there was so much at stake but he could alert Potter. And if his message wasn't enough, the second Granger started to feel physical pain, Potter would know.

Once safely away, Zabini pulled out his wand and touched the tip to the band. It glowed hot then cold then hot again, a strange filmy haze in the magic lighting of his home. He waited a beat, repeated the process.

The necklace flashed green.

Potter knew.

It was just too bad, Blaise thought, that there was nothing he could do. He would have liked to. But Granger was on her own and he didn't have time to look after someone so weak.

Saving himself was more of an issue.

…

2:37 p.m.

"Welcome back, Ms. Granger."

Hermione flinched as Lupin's voice cut through the painful agony of her headache; she felt sluggish as she pushed herself to her knees. She hadn't remembered passing out, but apparently she had. She hadn't remembered coming to full consciousness, either, but Hermione did not believe it was as much of a problem as the pain in her head. She thought to groan, but decided against it, pressing her hands to her temples and exerting pressure; the pain alleviated slightly, but it was still there, fainter, less debilitating.

Peeking through her lashes, Hermione found Lupin leaning calmly against the iron bars of their cell—and it was a cell, Hermione thought, eyes skimming over the damp flagstones that made up the wall and the thick black bars of wrought-iron metal that kept them caged in, like wild animals. Or rather, Lupin, Hermione thought bitterly, hating the direction her thoughts had taken.

He appeared utterly still, utterly incomprehensible. The hard lines of his face were not trapped in the beautiful softness she was accustomed to, but then again, Hermione had come face to face with that clinical coldness; fury had burned brightly in his eyes when he had clamped his hands down around her wrists with a bruising intent, but that fury was something Hermione feared, something she never wanted to come face to face with again. The coldness she could handle. The sharp chill of his unforgiving words cutting into her with each vicious blow—easy to bear, easy to hide behind her swiftly crumbling mask every time a new lie situated itself in her mind. There was no escaping the situation she had found herself in, yet she could not possibly tell him the truth, not when there was so much at risk of being destroyed because of it. Knowing that his words hurt and pushing forward… Hermione could do that. She could handle it. But the fury… Lupin was just as good at creating personas as Hermione was. Probably better. Being guarded, hard, unbreakable—Lupin had acted that way, in the hallway, when he had cast the Tracking Spell. There was nothing weak or movable about the face Hermione had been presented with and she knew that he would likely remain that way… unless she could save him.

And she had wanted to, so desperately. But—

They were in a cage. Trapped.

"Where are—"

"I imagine you are far better equipped to answer that question than I am," Lupin said coolly, settling more comfortably against the bars. "Have you noticed, Ms. Granger? There is silver in the floor."

Hermione jerked as though she had been slapped. Her hands drifted away from her head and the pounding returned with fierceness, but Hermione forced herself passed it, towards the vicious lines of silver bleeding in the cracks of the carefully placed flagstone. Something inhuman and violent tore throughout her, screamed of death—killing people is silly, a luminescent voice said, smelling like radishes—because Lupin shouldn't be awake, not with this much silver, not when there was such a chance of it burning into his skin and threatening to destroy the beast that had mutilated his cells and pumped through his blood like some sort of rampant disease—

"No," Hermione whispered, horrified as she traced the silver with her eyes. What in Merlin's name was Malfoy trying to—

"He means to kill you," Hermione said numbly, bracing her hands against the floor to look at Lupin. "Malfoy—he's leading the mission on the Sanctuary now, and you're getting in his way. He means to kill you, but—the silver… why—"

"I should think that would be obvious," Lupin said. Hermione noticed he had no shoes on. Thin, blistering lines ran across the bottom of his feet—from the silver, Hermione thought, something desperate and painful erupting in her chest, he's already come into contact with it… Malfoy is making sure he'll be too weak to fight back—and Hermione wished she could just reach out and heal them, make the disease go away so they wouldn't have to worry…

"What? Please, Remus, I don't understand—"

Lupin's expression hardened at her casual use of his first name, but Hermione ignored it. She knew it hurt, the closeness she was forcing between them after she had betrayed him; her throat tightened, because that was another thing she had done wrong, and she needed to tell someone. But Lupin was already speaking, "The full moon is tonight."

Hermione blinked at him, unable to process what he had said. The full moon is… the full moon and—

Remus was a werewolf.

Hermione's eyes widened. "Oh."

"My thoughts exactly."

Hermione wasn't quite sure what came over her then. All she knew was that the full moon was that evening and although werewolves were dangerous creatures, Remus had confessed to her by proxy of his journal that being around people, being able to touch them reminded him that he was human. That there was more than just the madness bleeding through him, threatening to crush all of his human senses. And Remus was human. Hermione knew this better than anyone. She had seen his words scribbled so fiercely across the page, laced with so much emotion—

She gripped his shoulders tightly, felt the corded muscles under her fingers tense to the point of breaking. She pressed her face into his neck, breathed in a scent that was distinctly wild; the madness was awakening under his skin, waiting for the moment when the cool beams of the moon would brush skin, igniting the mutation within him. But aside from that, Lupin was also distinctly male; a thin coating of sweat moistened his skin, and there was the fading scent of old soap and freshly baked bread. Mrs. Weasley had baked bread that morning—had it been that morning?—the distinctive smell of yeast seemed to have settled deep into the fabric of Lupin's clothes, the reminder of her friends and family a comfort Hermione hadn't yet realized.

"I'm going to save you," Hermione murmured, holding Lupin tightly.

Hermione cringed internally when Lupin's fingers gave a spasm against her sides; they were light, feathery not-quite-there touches, the heat mere whispers of what it should be. Hermione thought back to his words, to the neatly penned ink across the page of his journal—his most private of thoughts, laid bare before her judgment because she simply couldn't stay put—there were so many excuses Hermione could offer up, but the thought of lying to Remus, of keeping the truth from him now, when faced with the knowledge that he had been brought there to die… Hermione's betrayal ran deep, she knew. He cared so much for her, yet all she could manage was to pierce through him with the unrelenting force of her selfishness.

She could have died, Hermione realized. It would have been so simple to just return Ron to Headquarters and disappear back to Zabini's hideout. The feel of the place was lingering in the back of her mind like a phantom caress, dark and heavy and cruel, filled with the faint taint of pain—The Cruciatus Curse, she thought, because there was no other explanation for it—and weakness, for she had been so overwhelmed with her emotions, with feeling trapped that she hadn't realized that there had been a way out from the very beginning. Seeing Lupin again had been unnecessary. Hermione hadn't needed but wanted; she wanted to look into his amber eyes and see that flash of recognition, unburdened by her betrayal. She wanted to see the affection she had read so clearly in his words, wanted to know that there was still trust between them, that they were still friends and so very human. Ron had been lost, but Lupin wasn't and Hermione had wanted it so badly—even overwhelmed by the maelstrom that erupted inside of her at seeing Ron, listless and absent, knowing that he was there but not—despite that, the feeling had continued to swarm within her, the feeling that she had to get to Lupin, that she had to see him just to make sure he was safe… and yet.

He wasn't. Not now. Not with the imminent threat of Malfoy's plan lingering over their heads, suffocating them until there was nothing left but the bitter hate of deceit and betrayal. Lupin's eyes had been cold when he last saw her, furious and hurt, because of all the people to betray them, of the people to turn their backs on them—Peter Pettigrew had been agonizing enough, but learning to place his trust into another only to have that trust thrown back into his face… Hermione didn't want to be the cause of more hurt, yet she had so effortlessly ushered it in without a second thought, without considering the consequences because all there had been was Ron, even from the beginning. The thought that she hadn't seen past that burned. It wasn't supposed to be that way.

Yet it was. And she couldn't take it back.

"You betrayed me," Lupin said after a moment.

It can't matter though, Hermione thought, pulling away from Lupin to give him a watery smile. His face was hard and his fingers slipped away from his nearly non-existent embrace to fall neatly into his lap; thin scars crossed over his face and Hermione wondered how she hadn't noticed them before. There were far more than Malfoy's—her lips turned down into a frown at that, because she had made a promise and she couldn't renege, not now, not when there was still opportunity to be saved—but the hurt was as apparent in his face as in his heart and Hermione knew that nothing she did could ever make the situation better.

"Yes," Hermione finally managed. There was no use denying it.

"It is as I said before, Ms. Granger, I have no desire to know the minds of traitors." Hermione flinched at the reminder, but there was no way to take it all back and—

All right, Hermione, she thought to herself, forcing her eyes away from Lupin's accusing stare and to her surroundings. There were torches hanging from the wall outside the wrought-iron bars, illuminating the murky flagstones with splashes of light. Silver bled through the cracks there, just as it did in the cell—cages for werewolves, then, Hermione thought, because Malfoy was leading the infiltration on the werewolf Sanctuary, so it only made sense for him to have some protection against them. It wasn't enough to incapacitate them completely, Lupin was proof of that, but it was more than enough to hurt them, to weaken the madness coursing through their blood like some sort of viral infection. Hermione glanced at the bottom of Lupin's feet once again, allowing the sight of blistering lines to fuel her anger—there was no more time for self-reproach, no more time to regret what she could have done; they had yet to see Malfoy, but it did not change the fact that he was undoubtedly there. She had thought of ways to save Lupin, thought of all the things she could do to ensure he survived the war, and the last thought that had rang clearly in her mind, reaching deep and planting itself firmly in the soft tissues of her brain was the one thing that made Lupin hate her in the first place.

Betrayal.

Betraying Malfoy—the thought continued to appeal to her, even now. Giving him Lupin, dropping her guard to the point of allowing the Portkey to activate...

"Right," Hermione thought, unfolding herself to her full height. She cast her gaze around for her wand; it had been in her hands when the Portkey had whisked her and Lupin away, before the momentum of… a spell? Hermione wasn't sure, she couldn't quite remember much after the pull hooked behind her navel and tugged like a jagged piece of barbed wire, but she could remember something hitting her with such a force it had made her head spin and then… nothing. "Do you have your wand?"

Lupin audibly hesitated. "No."

Hermione frowned, the tone of his voice bringing her up short. "Do you have my wand?"

"Would you think me foolish enough to tell you if I did, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione's lips pursed as she narrowed her eyes in his direction. "Fine," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, her glare softening as she took in his prone form. "But I'll have you know that before the Portkey activated, I was actually looking for a way to prevent…" Hermione gestured absently to the room around her, "…this."

"Which, if you will concede to me this point, we would not be in had you not betrayed us in the first place."

"I concede the point," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "But I also meant what I said. I'm going to save you."

Even if I pale in comparison.

"And how, Ms. Granger, do you propose you do that?"

"Well if I had my wand I might be able to start with banishing the silver in the floor."

A pensive look crossed over Lupin's face then, different from the hardened stare he had pinned on her moments before. Hermione waited, knowing that the decision wouldn't come easily, but whatever decision Lupin made, it would have to be fast. Hermione wasn't quite sure how long she had been unconscious, but her limbs had felt horribly sluggish and her headache had felt like it had been brought on by a mixture of too much… unconsciousness and a mixture of something else—(a faint, almost there flicker of bitterly cold snow and scarlet splashing against rusted manacles made her stomach churn painfully)—and she wouldn't put it past Malfoy to suddenly appear, sneering and insulting them both, lifting his wand and allowing that horrible arc of green magic to pass through the bars and slam forcefully into Lupin's chest. His death would be simple, easy. And yet… tonight was the night of the full moon. Whatever Malfoy was planning had to involve Remus being a werewolf and Hermione knew that whatever came, they had to be gone before that plan could come to fruition. Lupin could think as much as he wanted to, but if he didn't come to a decision, and fast, there wouldn't be a chance for them to escape.

"I have… tried," Lupin said at last. "Your wand is exceedingly compatible with me and yet I am quite unable to produce any results."

"This cell does seem equipped to incapacitate werewolves," Hermione pointed out. Lupin glanced away from her, the muscles in his jaws moving oddly as he gazed at the silver beneath him. The burn was buffeted by his thick clothing; had Malfoy really wanted to cripple Remus, he would have made certain there was no buffer between the skin and silver across the floor. The scent though—that was what caused the most trouble, Hermione knew. For werewolves, the scent of silver was highly distracting and upsetting; working to his full capacity had to be near impossible with the metallic odor lingering in the air and clotting his nasal passages. Nearer to the full moon, werewolves were ultra-sensitive to the things around them; they could feel every texture, taste every undertone, hear every current of movement. Lupin's focus must have been shattered infinitesimally as the scent saturated the air, so strong that it morphed into taste, sliding thickly over his tongue and aggravating his taste buds. Another stab of guilt coursed through Hermione and she sighed soundlessly, tugging her brown curls out of her face with an aggravated flick of her wrist.

"Well perhaps you would like to try a Disillusionment Charm? I know it would hardly do much considering—well, at the very least, it will be far more difficult for Malfoy to pinpoint your location—"

"You are assuming, of course, that any attempts at magic assisting in our escape of this cell was what resulted in my failure," Lupin said, his amber eyes darkening as he gazed at Hermione. "However, I was not trying to escape, but rather trying to rouse you from the depths of your unconsciousness."

"Oh," Hermione said blankly. She paused. "This cell does seem equipped to—"

"—incapacitate werewolves," Lupin finished, his jaw clenching in his anger. "You have made yourself quite clear on that matter, Ms. Granger. But perhaps I have not done the same for myself; you are a traitor. I have no reason to trust you."

"Remus—"

"Don't," he snarled, jerking as if to go to his feet but aborting the movement at the last moment. Hermione paused, watching as amber darkened to something unfathomably angry; the rage was there, boiling beneath the surface, blending with the madness in a whirlwind of fury and hate and betrayal and Hermione felt herself staggering backwards, nearly choking on the intensity of Lupin's expression.

Silence permeated the air between them, charged thick with emotions.

Quietly, Hermione settled back against the bars on the opposite side of the cell, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin at her wrists. She wasn't sure what to do; an apology wasn't enough to fix the mess she had created, to repair the damage she had made to a strong friendship. Thinking back, Hermione could remember the time when they were just student and professor—a bright, thirteen year old eager to soak up knowledge and some of Harry's only foundation. Yet that relationship had morphed—Not at all up to your usual standard Hermione, only one out of three, I'm afraid—with the vicious accusations she had slung his way, slowing transforming into something akin to trust. Then, after Harry had disappeared… the closeness that formed between them was unexpected. The knowledge that they had been able to share. What was once student and teacher had slowly become two adult friends; Hermione grimaced internally as she thought of what she had broken, what had been so easily destroyed simply by following Harry's non-existent advice—trust the Death Eater. Follow his plans. Her own machinations had gotten in the way, her own curiosity and rejection at being excluded, her need to excel and be better then even Harry…

He was right to leave her, Hermione thought. Choosing Ginny over her… it was right. Ginny never had to compete with him. What type of stable relationship could last if one person was eternally competing with the other?

But that's not what matters, Hermione thought bitterly, gazing at Lupin guiltily. Even if Harry and I never do get married, at the very least, he'll have his father's best friend. Losing Sirius was bad enough, but losing Remus as well… I'm going to save him. I refuse to let him die.

"Remus," Hermione said, less desperation and more strength behind the word. He glanced at her coolly. "Remus, I need my wand."

"Perhaps you did not hear me—"

"Perhaps," Hermione said forcefully, her gaze narrowing intently, "you did not hear me. I want my wand now. I refuse to let you just… accept defeat because you're too hurt and betrayed to let me get us out of this. Now, give me my wand!"

"Do what she said, Professor."

Hermione and Lupin jerked, surging to their feet—Lupin gasped, shifting back quickly as his toes slid over hot silver; the flagstone was cool, comforting, but the new blisters were already forming, wet and bubbly and searing. Hermione wanted to spare him a comforting look, but the new arrival—Malfoy, she thought with a surge of savage anger, because he was going to kill Lupin and they were already supposed to be out of there—was leaning against the wall, partially illuminated by the magical torches on the wall. His pale skin was thrown into sharp relief; he was all angles and shadows, thin lips pulled into an impressive sneer, silver eyes partially hidden within the inky shadows. He was wearing thick, charcoal gray robes and a pretty white mask was clutched in one hand. Those hands, Hermione thought, that could hurt her, take Lupin away, make the both of them suffer—

"After all," Malfoy continued, his eyes sparking with malice, "you wouldn't want the mudblood to die without a fight, would you? How unfair it would be, allowing her to fight a werewolf head on without any sort of protection." Lupin's lips pulled back in a snarl, and Malfoy arched an imperious brow. "I was always under the impressing that Order members did not allow such blatant cruelty to infuse their ranks. After all, they are Light wizards."

Malfoy laughed. "Not that it matters, really. Either you'll die, or Granger will. Which one will hurt Potter the most, I wonder?"

"Malfoy—"

"I'd be a fool to pass up such an opportunity," Malfoy said, staring directly at Granger. "And even if you die, I will still have my victory. The Sanctuary will belong to the Dark Lord and all werewolves will know what greatness he is capable of."

"Mark my words," Hermione mocked, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Her fingers bit into the fleshy meat of her biceps; the pain grounded her, reminded her that there was still a chance, that she could still save Lupin, that there was still a chance because—

Because there had to be. There was no room for failure. Losing Lupin... it was unacceptable. And if she could—if it was within her power, Hermione would do everything humanly possible to make Malfoy regret putting them in this position. She would make him hurt.

Malfoy smiled, all cruel delight.

"Blaise fancies the two of you in love with each other," Malfoy said at last, and Hermione stiffened, her eyes flashing as she glared at Malfoy. "What was it he said again? Oh, yes. 'It's amazing the things people will do for the ones they love. These two are no exception.' So the question remains, just how much do you love him Granger? Enough to die for him?" Malfoy paused. "But… no. You're not Potter. Even so, I imagine you 'want to save him,' don't you? Not because you love him, but because you love Potter."

Hermione's fingers dug deeper into her arms, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I hate you."

Malfoy shrugged absently, his eyes drifting off to space beside him. His lips curled again as he faced Hermione, pushing off of the wall and drifting closer to the bars. Lupin tensed, his hands twitching at his sides—probably readying himself to spring across the cell and strangle Malfoy if he got close enough, Hermione thought, catching sight of movement near the dungeon entrance. She blinked, narrowing her eyes—and brown clashed with intense obsidian as Zabini moved quietly closer, not bothering with caution as he leaned full against the bars, his dark skin gleaming slightly in the torchlight.

"Granger," he greeted quietly. Hermione stared at him. "You're in quite the predicament."

"I only have myself to blame, to be certain."

Zabini frowned. "Our deal is off. Do you remember the deal we struck with one another?—that we would only assist each another in our goals until it no longer benefitted either party?" Hermione frowned, quickly trying to work through Zabini's superfluous and random wording when something struck her—I wasn't the one who made the deal with him, she thought, her heart hammering with a sudden spike of adrenaline, Harry did. But—Harry. What does Harry have to do with anything? "How does it feel, knowing that we can no longer continue our association because you are of no further use to me? No use to Death Eaters, no use to—" his eyes drifted away from Hermione to land on Lupin, "—your precious Order members. And, of course, when Potter realizes that you turned traitor… but he's already abandoned you, hasn't he? For Weasley. Because she's more important than you will ever be. So you'll die, because you're of absolutely no use. Sad, that the Cleverest-Witch-Of-Our-Age is nothing but a pathetic, useless mudblood that can't even protect herself."

Hermione froze, her eyes widening.

No, she thought numbly, trying her best not to let her reaction show on her face. Harry knows. He knows. And he—Hermione's heart stuttered to a halt.

He has Ginny. He has Ginny.

Which means that the Dark Lord doesn't.

Warmth blossomed, thick and deep in Hermione's chest as she gazed at Zabini, for him and Harry both. And Ginny. Because Ginny was safe. Because the Dark Lord was one step further from his goals—and Hermione had half the secret. Half of a secret that she needed to get to Dumbledore, to Harry before everything spiraled out of control. The Sanctuary wasn't even a blip on the radar compared to what Hermione knew, and if she didn't get out… something inside of her solidified, hardening into something unmovable. Unbreakable.

"Says the blood-traitor," Hermione whispered. "But whose betrayal will hurt the Dark Lord more? The Death Eater that conspires with mudbloods, or the Death Eater that delivers the Dark Lord's pet project safely into the arms of his enemies?"

Malfoy reared back, as if ready to hit her. "You filthy little—"

"Do what you want, Malfoy," Hermione said firmly, talking over him. "Yes. I betrayed Remus, but the only person I have to answer to for that is Harry. Somehow, I think he'll be far more understanding than Voldemort will ever be. And I honestly couldn't care less what you do to me, because I will do everything in my power to make sure that Remus Lupin comes out of this alive. Even if it means sacrificing my life—I'm going to save him. You're going to lose Malfoy. Remus may be a werewolf, but I'm the Cleverest-Witch-of-My-Age and that has to count for something."

Malfoy snorted, his fingers twitching by his side. "You can speak as many pretty words as you like. You're still going to lose. Let's go, Blaise."

They left.

Hermione waited a long moment before turning to face Lupin; her heart was thudding wildly in her chest, but she was not going to let Malfoy win, under any circumstance.

"It does," Lupin said suddenly, startling Hermione. She watched him, her shoulders shaking at the oddly soft set to his eyes. "Your cleverness," he clarified, gingerly moving across the room, careful to avoid the thin lines of silver bleeding through the floor, "it counts for something."

He stopped before her, studying her intently as he reached forward; his fingers were hot as they grazed her knuckles, and Hermione held in a shudder—there was still a hardness present, one composed of hurt and anger, but it was belied by something else, something Hermione couldn't readily identify. Her will solidified, grew infinitely stronger as he cradled her hands between his own—and then there was a rush of familiar warmth, tingling across the pads of her fingers and firing up her nerves—her head began to ache in earnest, strange flashes of vision burying themselves into her mind… but Hermione pushed it away, trying her hardest to focus on the rush of affection, because Lupin was there, blank but there and—

"I want to save you, too," Lupin answered quietly, dutifully ignoring Hermione's rapidly fluttering eyelashes. "I suppose I should give myself the chance to do so."

Lupin released her. Stepped back.

The sudden ache of loss was unwelcome and entirely unexpected. But he had reason not to want to touch her, Hermione knew. He had reason to not trust her. And yet… he was giving a little bit of trust back to her, hoping that there was some way—but it didn't matter, what hurt continued to linger in Remus's heart. It didn't matter because he had done the one thing Hermione was not expecting him to.

He had given back her wand.

It was only right for her to do the same.

"Asphillis Adelbrandt," Hermione said quite suddenly, watching as Lupin's gaze ripped away from the silver curling across the floor. "He's the reason why I was so intent on Blaise Zabini. Zabini has become quite familiar with Adelbrandt's work, and I only just found out recently, when I managed to retrieve Ron. At first I was confused because it didn't make any sense, not with the riddle that I had been given, but—now I know for sure. Voldemort is using the research of Asphillis Adelbrandt in an attempt to gain immortality."

"Ms. Granger—"

"Forgive me, Professor, but one of us might die tonight. There is a chance that we may both survive but… I said I'd do anything, and I meant it. I'm willing to sacrifice… everything. And if I die, I just thought… at the very least, you'll know. And you'll escape. And you'll tell Dumbledore and I—"

"You are quite right," Lupin said, gazing at her intently. "And I have complete faith that you will do what is necessary and needed. It is not always easy to do what is right, but being confronted with this information… you betrayed me, Ms. Granger. That is not something that can be easily overcome. But I trust that you will continue to follow this path you have been walking and maintain the courage and strength to do what is right before you do what is easy."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione whispered, frowning at him. There was something wrong. "I'll do my best."

"Naturally," Lupin replied, and then there was no more time for talking.

Saving Lupin was more important.

Hermione cast a spell.

It failed.

…

6:08 p.m.

Harry was agitated.

No. It was more than agitation. It was more than the half-there awareness he felt whenever he was assaulted with visions of Ginny's nightmares—something he had yet to understand, even now—more than the itch he felt in the base of his palm whenever Hermione slanted him an annoyingly knowing look, or lied to him about the way her heart beat for Ron—

But her heart was big enough for him, too. Harry knew this. Felt it. It had been the reason they were to be married; there was simply so much love and it felt wonderful to have her hand tucked into his, to smell the ink on her fingers, to scent the thick aroma of parchment and old books whenever he entered her flat—there was a comfort there, inquisitive and sharp, but relaxing, and it infuriated him that Hermione simply wasn't there.

Asking the Weasley's was near impossible; they were so intent on Ginny. Not that he blamed them, of course, because his focus had been on her from the moment she had folded herself into his embrace, all quiet words and broken determination. Broken spirit, yet Harry had felt her gratitude as her fingers curled against his side; her fingers were slicked warm with his blood, but she never commented on it, not once. She never even commented on the way he rushed her back, despite his exhaustion, because they had to get away—he had been frightened, when it seemed she couldn't breathe. The sharp gasps of breath Ginny took whenever they managed reorient themselves in the real physical plane of existence had been heart-wrenching and terrifying. The need to simply get Ginny to safety had consumed his mind like plumes of smoke; and the terror still lingered. Ginny was more than safe, but the terror still lingered.

The bitterness, though… Harry hadn't counted on it. Ginny had been so bitter when she spoke those awful words—such a hero, and Harry couldn't stop the flash of anger from coursing throughout his body, because Hermione had said something like that once too—and Harry could only respond with honest fury, yet he had laced it with so much want.

Hermione had been safe when he said it. When he said he still loved Ginny. Something unpleasant had unfurled in the pit of his stomach, because his engagement ring was laying so cool against his clavicle, just there—and Hermione wasn't. He had been so distracted by Ginny and what having her back represented… telling her how he felt, reminding her that love didn't just stop… that he hadn't really tried to just find out where Hermione had been. Not around, and Harry knew this, because if she had been… if she had been…

Harry wasn't quite sure what he would have said to her. How she would have reacted. Would she have been furious with him? Would she hate him for leaving her? He had so much faith in her, even now, to understand. She still loved Ron, hadn't she? He could remember, all those months ago, when she had left their room, angry because—well, he had been angry first. He had smelled the alcohol on her breath, knew the only way for it to smell so thick and cloying had to be a result of… well, Hermione didn't drink. Didn't agree with it. But it had been there and Harry had felt his stomach flip over and bile rise in the back of his throat because Hermione was supposed to be his. She had accepted his proposal, pressed her soft mouth against his, allowed his hands to grip the curve of her hips and slide to the small of her back, pressing her ever closer—there was love there, obvious, all-consuming love and yet—

And yet.

It simply hadn't been enough. Harry wasn't stupid. He knew that Hermione had relearned the way Ron's body felt weighing her down, the way his hands would grip her… whichever… and the thought had burned him, made him furious and angry and Merlin, but he just wanted to hit them both, because Hermione was fucking his. Ron had left her, alone and crying and fucking miserable and despite that, despite all that he had done to Hermione, despite the way her breath would hitch and her eyes would film over with the thick sheen of tears she still went back to him at the first damn opportunity. Still took all of Harry's love and threw it back in his face and he was damn near ready to just end it—but his heart had stuttered at the thought and it had been hard to breathe, because life without Hermione was just… unacceptable. Unrealistic. It wasn't going to happen. Except it was—

And then Ron had disappeared. And then there was no reason to be so furious, but there was reason to be guilty. And then, not even a few hours later, Ginny was gone, and Harry suddenly understood why it had been so easy for Hermione to just go back because Harry wanted to go back, too. Only—

Impossible. Because Ginny was gone. Part of Harry had wondered whether or not Hermione was feeling as empty as he had been, especially since she could have prevented Ron's disappearance. Did she feel at fault? Did she feel that all-consuming pressure weighing down on her, tasting vaguely of guilt and self-reproach? She had to have. Her hand still remained tucked against his, her kisses still pressed against his mouth and her body still only moved alongside Harry's, but her mind—teeter-tottering between the both of them, just as Harry's mind teeter-tottered between the soft inquisitiveness of needing to know and the fierce, hot fire of unbreakable will and determination. There was strength in different things. Beauty manifested itself in the mosaic, little pieces that came together to form a complete picture, yet the complete picture were the exact opposites, for the both of them.

Yet the guilt remained. No matter how much Harry loved Hermione, no matter how much he wanted her to remain with him, there was no way that he could just leave Ginny to that fate, just as he knew there was no way for Hermione to just leave Ron to his fate. Harry could see her cracking each more with every passing day; it was one thing if he was with his family. It was something else entirely when he was in the hands of the enemy, being tortured or manipulated or—Harry couldn't bear to think about what was happening to his best friend. He felt sick and violated and Merlin, something had to be done, something needed to be fixed, but going after Ron was hard because once Ron was back—once Ron was back—

Harry had never hated himself more than he did then.

So he went after Ginny, not because she was more important, but because going after Ron meant having to look him in the face and know that he was the reason for Ron's misery, know that he had betrayed his best friend not once, not twice, but three times—first, in taking Hermione. Second, in keeping Hermione and third, in wishing that, even if Ron came back, Hermione would never leave him. Harry. Ron's loneliness was easier to bear than his own. But looking Ron in the face after thinking that, after hoping that he didn't come back if he meant that he could have Hermione—unforgivable. Even if he couldn't save Ginny—he was going to get Ron next. To face up to his own insecurities, because Ron may have had his issues throughout the years, but they had always been friends and nothing was supposed to come between them, not even Hermione.

No matter how much he loved her, having them both as friends was far better than having one and losing the other.

So Harry was going to make it right.

Only now that he had Ginny, he wasn't quite sure what to do next.

And Hermione, it seemed, had already saved Ron—not that Harry knew where is best friend was, because no one wanted to tell him anything—which brought up a plethora of questions that Harry wasn't equipped to answer.

There had been a surge of pride, of fierce affection that was nearly staggering, but the moment he asked about Hermione's whereabouts he was shot down, rebuffed, ignored. It infuriated him in ways that brought him back to fifth year, when he had first been introduced to the Order of the Phoenix. No one had wanted to tell him anything, determined to keep their secrets—unbearable fury and rejection had clouded his mind, but the rejection was absent this time. There was just fury… only that had given way the moment the ring on his clavicle began to burn.

Harry had been frozen, frightened and angry and confused because Hermione was supposed to be safe—and then came the knowledge that no matter how much every instinct was telling him to go, to find her and save her because he could not lose Hermione, Zabini had given him a warning. Going to save Hermione was impossible. Whatever was happening… Zabini had been found out, too. And if Zabini had been found out…

It was more than agitation. It was fear and nausea and helplessness because he had to save Hermione, to make sure that nothing bad happened to her, to make sure that she would stay alive and in his life, even if it wasn't as his wife or his fiancée or his girlfriend. As long as Hermione was just there—

She wasn't.

And there was absolutely nothing Harry could do about it.

(Except.)

…

Professor Snape,

I need your help. Whether you give it to me or not is up to you.

If you have no other engagements, I ask that you meet me at eight tonight at Headquarters. I'll be in the kitchen.

Signed,

Harry Potter

…

7:58 p.m.

The spells weren't working.

Failure was not something Hermione could acquaint herself with, yet the harder she tried the faster the magic slipped away into non-existence—will was not enough to make the spells into existence, to make them work.

Hermione bit back a curse, frustrated tears streaming freely down her face as she attempted to just swish-and-flick, but—

"Ms. Granger," Lupin said softly, "perhaps it is best to just—"

"No! I can make it work, I know I can, all I have to do is—"

One second, there was the tingle under her fingers, the basic movement of swish-and-flick that had been instilled into her head so effortlessly at Hogwarts, and then there was—

Pounding, the fierce pounding thrum of fire eating up her sides, doused in the cool frigidity of water as chains wrapped around her ankles and wrists and pulled, splattering the obsidian rocks crimson and—

A horrible, violent growl that shook her down to the marrow of her bones as the whisper of a spell shot through the air, the cool comfort of magic slowly washing over her as pain erupted behind her eyelids, jack hammering a maelstrom of agony through her head and down her limbs and there was nothing but pain.

Agony.

And finally—

Nothing.

…

8:00 p.m.

"Snape."

"Potter."

"I need your help."

"Obviously."

A deep breath. The cooling of a temper. A flush of humility. And—

"Blaise Zabini is a spy."

The truth.

There was a pause, long and painful and Harry just wanted it to end because Hermione was not allowed to die.

Because if she did—if she did—

But, "Go on."

Harry's heart froze.

"Continue, Potter."

So he did.

…

8:30 p.m.

It was the chill that woke her up.

Hermione blinked in the surrounding area, groaning as rubbed her hands against her pounding temples—it wouldn't go away, not even now—then braced her hands against the ground. Lupin was next to her, watching her carefully as she struggled into a sitting position; the grass was wet and dewy beneath her hands, causing shivers to move up her spine.

And she remembered. She remembered the frustration as she strived to get a spell to work, the way her eyes stung with tears, and the pain as a magic slammed into her back, knocking her unconscious. She wasn't sure how long it had been, but if Lupin was still human and she was still alive—Hermione patted down her pockets, only to jump when Lupin hastily stuffed her wand into her hand, refusing to meet her eyes.

Lupin was completely and utterly stiff as he stared at the paddock surrounding them. Hermione bit her lip. She wasn't sure what to do. She wanted to talk to him, but at the same time she could feel the stress radiating off of him in waves, could feel his urge to run, and could feel the resentment that he held for her and himself—why were they in this situation? How could Hermione have allowed this happen? How could he have allowed this to happen? Hermione's betrayal hung heavy in the air, hot and unforgivable. If only she had been quicker, if only she had thought harder, if only she had been smarter—

Giving Malfoy the information had been a mistake. Agreeing to give up Lupin's life… allowing him to touch that Portkey… Hermione's stomach clenched with the knowledge of what was about to unfold because she was supposed to have been able to protect him, to keep Lupin's light from fading out, to keep him in the world because he was important to Harry. Because the willingness to sacrifice everything was supposed to be enough. She was supposed to be able to atone for her mistakes, to make things between them better, even if it meant her death because Lupin mattered to her, too. Saving him was the only option. She just hadn't been strong enough.

Hermione's heart clenched and she stepped away from Lupin, fumbling with her wand.

The last time she had a run-in with the lupine Lupin, he had tried to kill her. She knew that this time would be no different. She still had a short amount of time, she could still run, could still work a spell to break down the defenses Malfoy had set up, only cycling through the spells to figure out what he had done would take ages and there wasn't enough time… Protecting herself should have been easy—cast the spell, watch the filmy blue of a shield erect around her, except that was for spells, not for werewolves and time was just going by so fast—

Hermione had nothing, and she knew it.

Protego, she thought anyways and watched the solid blue shield erect itself in front her. It faded a moment later.

"At least the magic works," Hermione thought sickly, glancing towards Lupin.

Lupin didn't meet her eyes, just continued to stare at the ground, his face contorted in black rage. Hermione wanted to reach out to him; she wanted to wrap her arms around him, remind him what it was to feel human again, tell him that everything would work out in the end—that everything would be all right. But despite whatever desire he felt to save her, he still let her know that she was not trusted—I don't make it my business to understand the minds of traitors—and making this all right was nigh impossible. There was no way she could turn back time, no way she could erase everything she had done. Telling Lupin the truth about the diary, about her deal with Malfoy, about everything still hadn't been enough to erase the cold look that darkened his amber eyes, nor gain his forgiveness. Sacrificing herself, while noble, couldn't erase the past. Couldn't erase the fact that she had broken his trust, had seen his inner most private thoughts and still trampled all over them, regardless.

Nothing would be all right. Saying such a thing was such a disgustingly horrid lie that she couldn't even bring herself to say it. Panic clotted her mind, keeping it immovable—Cleverest-Witch-Of-My-Age and I can't even save the people I love—and it poisoned, spreading slowly through her body until her limbs felt like lead. But there was no point in regretting, not when she had mustered up such determination—the magic works now, she reminded herself, there has to be a way out—Hermione flicked her wrist, watched as the spell flew through the air only to slam against a shimmering wall of—nothing. At least, it seemed like nothing, but if magic wasn't getting through it… Hermione quickly levitated a rock and flung it at the dome, jumping as the rock exploded against magic.

"Have you—"

"Yes," Lupin breathed through clenched teeth. "We will not be able to escape." He paused. "Malfoy is over there. I imagine he wishes to watch, to see which one of us will survive this night."

Hermione scowled, turning towards the far end of the paddock—Malfoy was there, just as Lupin said, leaning elegantly against the rough wood, his sneer etched firmly in place.

Please, some weak part of her wanted to call out, to beg. Please don't do this. Please just let us go, please just let us leave.

But she knew that he wouldn't. His need to manipulate and control was that much stronger. There were consequences to failure—a master Legilimens was Malfoy's Lord, the only person he would ever be loyal to, aside from himself, and it was that loyalty, that need to survive that was pushing him.

That need to be the victor-winner-triumphant that kept Malfoy hunting and manipulating and Merlin, Hermione thought, he's a Death Eater for a reason. What made me think I could even compare—

It was just too bad that Zabini's inaction hurt more than she thought it would.

Not now, Hermione, she said to herself, shaking her frizzy curls out of her face. Focus. Objective one: find—

"Ms. Granger," Lupin said quietly. Hermione snapped to attention. Her pulse thrummed beneath the underside of her skin, pupils dilating with the surge of adrenaline.

"Yes, Remus?"

His eyes snapped to her, dark and amber, but she couldn't keep from speaking his name, couldn't control the urge to talk everything better because it was all she had left and they weren't supposed to die, not yet, not before she had the chance to tell everyone—

(Asphillis Adelbrandt, Hermione had confessed to Lupin softly, Voldemort is using the research of Asphillis Adelbrandt in an attempt to gain immortality.)

Lupin stayed oddly quiet, his hands fisted at his sides as he stood there, staring at the grass beneath his feet. Dew clung to the short blades, glittering beautifully. The lines around his eyes had deepened, and she could see his jaw clenched tightly as he stood there, staring into nothing. The guilt reared up, seizing her heart, and Hermione shut her eyes together tightly, attempting to focus.

Find a way to escape, she continued as the silence waned on. It was almost deafening, standing there, listening to Lupin's harsh silence. She couldn't even begin to fathom what he was thinking, didn't want to, but she knew that she had to do something, and soon. Because soon… the sun would be setting soon, and the moon would be out, and it was full and—Objective two: Don't let Malfoy win.

A soft, gentle breeze blew through area, and Hermione could feel the hysterical laughter bubbling to the surface, itching to get out. It started low in the pit of her stomach, curling upwards, unfurling as it reached her throat, and she bit down on her tongue to stop it. Objective three: Save—

"If I try to hurt you, kill me."

—Remus.

"What?" Hermione asked, her voice wavering. Because… because… no, she thought, viciously shaking her head. I can't kill you, Remus. I have to save you. But he didn't hear her, nor did she want him to. His face was set, his shoulders stiff, and he turned towards her, his amber eyes strangely wet.

(There had been something wrong.)

The grief swallowed Hermione whole, suffocating her.

"If I attempt to hurt you," Lupin repeated more slowly. "I want you to kill me."

"But… Remus—"

"Listen to me," he insisted, as though it were everything. "I trust your judgment, Hermione. You are a very intelligent witch, and your intellect shall get you far. You remember everything on werewolves, correct?" Hermione nodded, her body shaking at the kindness in his voice. "Keep it in your head. Whatever you do, do not forget that information. You're going to need it."

Her throat was tight, and she found that, if she tried hard enough, she couldn't remember. But that was not something that Lupin wanted to hear, not then, not now, and she wouldn't let it take control. She had to think things then, had to think about things she didn't want to think about at all. Slowly, she recalled her third year, the lessons with Lupin, the Sirius Black incident, Buckbeak's trial, Malfoy's arrogance, Snape's lecture on werewolves, everything she had ever read—

"You… I'm… I'm supposed to save you—"

"Werewolves, Ms. Granger," Lupin interrupted. "And please remember, I wish to save you as well. So, tell me, what do you remember about werewolves?"

"I… I can't—"

"Try harder, Hermione." Hermione's heart stuttered, a sob clinging to her throat. Lupin examined her delicately, all dark resignation and something other than hate—something other than hate—and if Hermione guessed, she knew it would be love. Because he loved her. Zabini had said so, had read his words, and Hermione felt her world spinning because it was not supposed to end like this. Lupin reached forward, his fingers skimming the back of Hermione's knuckles and she latched onto him, squeezing tightly.

"I can't take it back," she gasped, heart clenching painfully. "Oh, Remus, I can't take it back."

"Hermione," he said firmly, pulling her closer. "Try to remember."

"Silver hurts them," Hermione regurgitated, facts spinning through her head at lightening fast speed. Her palms began to sweat in Lupin's own. "They transform under the full moon. They don't run in packs. They… crave the… Remus?" Hermione asked, the tears streaming down her face. Lupin merely gave her a tired smile and tugged on her hands again, urging her to continue. She opened her mouth, her tongue thick and heavy, but she continued on anyways, because there was nothing left to do. (I have to save him.) "They crave the flesh of infants, but they also eat corpses. They spread their lycanthropy through biting their prey, although if their prey is scratched by their claws, they may also be infected. Wolfsbane—"

"Not quite," Lupin said, his fingers rubbing soothing circles in the back of Hermione's hand. "But good enough."

Hermione's eyes widened and she wanted nothing more than to yank her hands away from his, wanted to be anywhere but there, staring at him as the Death Eaters stared at her, waiting to see what she would do next. She counted the objectives in her head once more, hoping for an opening… something. Lupin merely looked at her again, and her chest tightened, feeling chill and hollow. The grief was already welling up within her because how could he ask that of her? Knowing that, in her mind, she would still consider him important? Still care for him? Still want him to live because he shone so brightly, was so human, it was painful? There was no monster there, just madness, just someone to fear, just someone who was trapped with no way out.

She couldn't kill him; she wouldn't.

"Hermione," Lupin said sternly, his hands tightening painfully on hers. "Do as I say."

Hermione shook her head and pulled her hands away. "I'm sorry Remus," she continued, her voice filled with despair. "But I just can't."

"I'm a monster, Hermione," Lupin answered, his voice calm. Her jaw trembled, the tears burning her eyes.

"No. No! You aren't—I saw, remember? Your words... I read them. And third year with Sirius... I was there, I remember, you left, you didn't—"

Lupin's lips twisted into a painful smile. "I might not have killed before, but I have hurt before. Did Severus never tell you? It's true; James did save his life—"

"NO!" Hermione shrieked again, clamping her hands over her ears as though that would keep his voice from filtering in her mind. She could still hear his request over and over again as she attempted to block it out, to forget it. No matter what she did, it would be there, lodged in her heart, piercing and painful, and she could feel it. But she didn't want to hear it. Lupin gripped her shoulders tightly, pressed his forehead against her own.

"Hermione," he began softly, only to be interrupted as she let out a loud, horrible sob, her breath stuck somewhere in her throat.

She wasn't sure what to do; all she knew was that she couldn't do what he wanted her to do. No way. No how. She could save him; she could save him.

But she wouldn't have the chance, and he knew that.

Lupin seemed to know everything these days.

"I'll always forgive you, Hermione," Lupin said, drawing closer to her. "But you have to survive. You have to survive."

"But I can…"

"You aren't really in the position to do much of anything, if we're being honest." A strange, almost hesitant look passed over his face, and Hermione wished it away. It remained. "Are we?"

Hermione shook her head, her hands still grasping her ears. The pain was immediate, absolute, but there was still something else there, something else that seemed just a little bit like hope. Harry would have found some way to save him. Harry would have done everything in his power to keep his friend and mentor from dying. Harry would have ran, would fought kicking and screaming, would have gotten one up on Malfoy before the situation could have ever come to this. Harry would have refused Lupin, too.

But Harry would have meant it.

There was something distinctly unsettling about that thought and even through the torrid of emotions that she was feeling, she knew that she shouldn't have thought that. Shouldn't have had to. But Lupin had the ability to make her think strange things to begin with, so it really shouldn't have been a surprise.

Hermione pressed her hands harder against her ears, resisting the urge to scream.

No, she thought as she curled against his chest, the lingering dew chilling the tips of her fingers. I can save Lupin, I can. He doesn't have to die, he doesn't need to, Harry could find a way to save him, Harry would—

Lupin sighed and pressed his fingers to her face, wiping away her tears.

"Perhaps we made a mistake, giving you children so much responsibility," Lupin murmured, grabbing Hermione by the shoulder and subtly inched her back from him. "But you have to stop hurting, Hermione. We're in a war; this, right now, is the by product of that. It is nowhere near pleasant, I admit but… you'll be all right." His hand shifted then, rested on the back of her neck, and he pulled her into a gentle hug.

Hermione wasn't sure how long she stood there, shivering against him, but the pain was still flaring bright and hot and she wanted nothing to do with it. She knew he was saying goodbye. He had refused to touch her before, so very frozen by her betrayal, so hurt but now—his hands were like cold fire on her back, and she wanted to scream out, so very badly. She wanted to wrestle away from him, to be anywhere but where she was, and yet…

She knew that she couldn't. It was all she could give.

With a desperate sob, Hermione wrapped her arms around Remus. He was all hard lines and a too thin body, but Hermione could feel the strength building in those muscles, could sense the madness rising up, the infection pumping swiftly through his body as the full moon approached—his grip on her tightened painfully, but Hermione bore it. She bore it because he needed it, because he wasn't a monster and he loved her and she knew she loved him, too, but Lupin was ready to die for her. Die because of her. Die just to keep her alive.

Her muscles gave a spasm, the sheer wonder of that thought causing the pain to escalate, twining around her ribs and pulling, trapping the air in her lungs. It hurt too much to breathe.

She had been willing to die for him, too. Why wasn't that enough?

Remus lingered for a moment longer then pulled away. "Wand at the ready."

Her fingers shook as she gripped it tightly, raising it level with his chest. She was supposed to save him, supposed to make things better and yet—

"As soon as I start to attack you, I want—"

"Please forgive me," Hermione whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. "Please say you'll forgive me. For… everything."

Lupin studied her intently and nodded. "I'll forgive you."

Of course, her mind supplied. He'll forgive you. But they won't; Harry won't.

And that, she supposed, was going to hurt most of all.

…

8:47 p.m.

Malfoy watched as he transformed, oddly entranced with the scene in front of him.

Granger was there, tears dripping from her jaw bone as she held her wand, poised and ready to strike. Ready for anything. Ready for—

Death, his mind supplied, but he pushed it away. Despite her valiant efforts of self-sacrifice, she was still too weak to go through with it. There was still someone else willing to bear the brunt of her traitorous choices—and it was amusing, Draco thought, watching her struggle just to ensure that Potter wouldn't suffer the loss of any of those he loved. Lupin loved Granger, as disgusting and disturbing as that was, and judging by her reaction, she may have cared for him, too, but Potter—he was the focus. The reason Granger was so determined to see her mistakes through to the end.

Malfoy sneered internally.

Whether it was her end or the werewolf's end, it didn't matter. Someone was going to die—the Order of the Phoenix was going to hurt and Malfoy was going to enjoy being the one to do it.

And should Lupin survive this ordeal, which was entirely likely, then the cold, chilling taste of the Killing Curse would kiss his skin, branding it white-hot with Malfoy's malevolence.

His mission had been to kill Lupin, and he had accepted it without a second thought. At first, he had been disgusted at the thought of having to penetrate the Sanctuary, of having to pretend at caring for werewolves. After Finnigan's untimely death, Malfoy had given it a day, prepared to leave the very night for the Sanctuary, to hopefully put his master's plan in motion—spreading poisonous words was easy; finding out who was sentimental towards Lupin's ideals, who was the closest and could get to him the fastest—his limbs had been heavy, sluggish with his lack of sleep and his tireless preparations for departure, and he needed only to speak to Blaise for a quick moment.

And then Granger had appeared. And she had information on the werewolves.

It was obvious Blaise had been the traitor. Granger didn't have a wicked bone in that mudblood body of hers and he knew that whatever information she had was only going to be added to, not taken from. It had been lucky, manipulating her the way he did. Giving up the Weasel—well, Blaise was a blood-traitor and his father had not taught him the fine art of Occlumency for no reason. Lying to his master put a bad taste in his mouth, but he could manage it. Some horrible part of him was almost hoping that Granger would survive—if she did, if she managed to save herself, then Malfoy would milk her for every piece of information he could. If she survived, she'd have to kill Lupin though. Have to retain enough self-preservation and selfishness to cast the curse that would leave him cold and dead on the floor; it was the only spell that could do it. Nothing else would work.

But if she survived… Blaise would interfere. Malfoy knew it. He couldn't understand why Blaise would be so quick to turn traitor—he had been a real pureblood, understanding the essence of it, the truth behind their master's words. Blaise—Malfoy didn't get him anymore. He was just there, staring out into the small paddock. Staring at Granger as the tears dripped down her face and… and he couldn't understand. What was it that made him want to defect in the first place? Why now? Why Granger of all people? He couldn't help but look back at Blaise, watch as he sat there, leaning against the tree, his legs crossed in front of him. His hands were picking at his robes; Malfoy frowned. Was he nervous?

"Blood-traitor—"

"I'd rather not," Zabini said quickly, turning away from the scene in front of him. The chain at his neck glinted silver "I'd rather not see this."

Malfoy's lips twisted. "It's your fault," he answered cruelly, his sneer growing as Zabini turned dark eyes on him. "I mean, if you hadn't have allied with a mudblood, and Granger at that, then—"

"She's going to die," Zabini responded, getting to his feet. "You're a fool if you don't think her allies won't seek retribution. Her death will be on your head."

There was something distinctly off about his voice, something that made Malfoy's stomach churn unpleasantly as he stared at the tall black boy in front of him. Zabini was—Malfoy didn't want to believe it, but the blood-traitor had already… Malfoy sneered at Blaise and turned away. Granger was still there, still staring, and Lupin's screams were cutting through the air as he transformed. Malfoy could hear his bones cracking and twisting as they morphed, could see his skin graying to a thin, papery like substance. Could see the scar grow jagged and taut against his back as he clutched his body, his nails digging into his sides. He saw the blood dripping as the claws grew longer, could see Granger's face pale as she stood her ground. Could see her trembling with fear as she tried her hardest not to break.

He had heard what Lupin had told her earlier, but for some reason, he could taste that disgusting bile on his tongue as he watched them. Could tell that Granger was going to try and save him.

It sickened Malfoy, more than he wanted to admit.

But he couldn't stop. It had already happened, things were already in motion. So what Zabini didn't want to be there to see his precious Granger torn into shreds? Malfoy could admit to himself that it would be better for him if she wasn't killed, but having the power to cripple Potter so effectively…

Potter was going to break.

He wanted to see Potter suffused with darkness, littered with scars, wounds unable to be healed over. He wanted to see Potter festering with infection, underneath the wound. Needed to see him broken and bleeding and oozing with bitter, unstable emotions. He needed Potter teetering on that precipice, because it was the only way to win the war, the only way to make them understand what greatness and blood purity meant. And if breaking Potter meant hurting Granger, well. He could manage that.

Fighting Lupin meant that she would claw until her fingers were broken and bloodied just to survive. He wanted to see the bone protruding from her flesh, shattered into tiny pieces all around her. He wanted to see her blood, so bright and red and sticky, drying on her skin, wanted to see the wounds open and slippery, all around her. He wanted to see the tears in her eyes that she refused to cry, not like she was doing now, not like she would continue to do, if she didn't do something quick.

The blood lust was already there in Lupin's eyes, the rage quickly growing; the madness was all encompassing.

Malfoy welcomed it.

"She's going to die," Zabini said as Granger stood there, shaking.

The transformation was completed.

Malfoy watched, detached, as the wolf took stock of its surroundings, its eyes landing on Granger.

Her body shook as she readjusted her grip on her wand.

The tears continued to flow.

Malfoy turned away from the scene, too disgusted to watch anymore. He was ready to grab the blood-traitor, to order them away, but Zabini had moved forward, his hands gripping the fence tightly; the wood splintered, digging into his skin. Tiny beads of blood formed on the sides of Zabini's hands, but Blaise seemed unaware; his dark face was the mask of blankness, but a fire was growing in his eyes as he watched the scene play out in front of him. A sickness churned in Malfoy's stomach. Blaise was a blood-traitor; he would worry about his disgusting little mudblood after all.

Malfoy scowled.

"Zabini." He grabbed Blaise's arm and held on tight. The dark-skinned man looked at him. "It's time we left."

Even as Zabini released the fence, looking back as the wolf continued to circle around Granger, who was doing everything in her power to keep her eyes on it, Malfoy couldn't stop that horrible, all encompassing fear from rising within him. He could feel it pricking the underside of his skin, vicious and relentless, trying to drown him.

He wondered if his bones would splinter, too.

"She's going to—"

The wolf pounced.

Her scream reverberated in his skull, even after he had apparated.

The disgust was like cold fire in his chest, and it felt empty.

As much as she wanted to deny it, Granger wasn't going to save Lupin. Or herself. She was just a mudblood, after all.

And Potter wasn't there to save her.

…

8:52 p.m.

It had been foolish wanting to save him. That much was for certain.

Hermione wasn't entirely sure how it had gotten to be this way, wasn't sure why she had allowed herself to do so. It would have been so much easier to just lift her wand and say the two most Unforgivable words in existence—how wonderful it would have been to see the world flash green, just as Lupin was transforming. But just like always, something had been there to hold her back… she didn't want the cold, horrible desolation. Didn't want that feeling of dirtiness sullying her soul and eating at her mind.

She knew that she was almost there, though. Knew with an utmost certainty that the blackness was licking at her skin like flame against wood, charring it. Changing it. She would become brittle and twisted and ugly, like she was already feeling. There was no way that she could save him now, but there just had to be. Harry wouldn't forgive her if anything were to happen to Lupin—he was the only person that Harry had left, the last connection. Even if Harry didn't spend as much time with Lupin as he should have, even if Harry had run straight into death just to save Ginny—and Ginny was safe now. Zabini had said as much. At first, Ginny was nothing more than a strategic loss. It wasn't even as though the Order really needed her—and she didn't need these horrible wicked thoughts, either, but there were there, and they would never go away. They were there because Lupin was there, and funny how everything always came back to Harry's feelings and what Harry wanted and—

Lupin's claws dripped blood, and all she could do was cry.

It would have been easier, maybe, if she wasn't so determined to save him. She'd never used a magical spell against a werewolf before and didn't know how well one would work, but she was almost certain that a simple Impedimenta wouldn't have done a single thing to stop Lupin if he were to charge at her.

But she had to save him anyways.

Her wand was slipping in her sweaty hand as she adjusted her grip, and she couldn't feel the eyes of Zabini or Malfoy on her anymore. She thought to turn around, but then again, she thought a lot of things and none of them ever did her any good anymore. None of her hopes or dreams or wishes did her any good and—and now she was stuck in some unknown place surrounded by magic that continued to thrum, prickling unpleasantly at her skin, a reminder of what would happen should she try to escape—they're gone, I can save him, they're gone and I can SAVE him—but then she turned her head ever so slightly, just to make sure and—

Lupin growled, low and deep in his throat, and Hermione snapped her head back around to face him.

There was a sort of mad clarity in his eyes then, even as he reared back, but they were still the same familiar amber that she was so used to seeing. They were clouded over with hate and hunger, but werewolves enjoyed the flesh of infants and corpses, not grown women (not Hermione) but even as her wand shook and her mind continued to scramble for that little bit of information that she knew would save her, she could see the werewolf—

—Not Lupin, not Lupin, not LUPIN—

(Remus is human.)

—rearing back as its jaws opened, and before she even thought to lift her wand, the scream was spilling passed her lips and—

Drop, tuck, roll…

So fluid, like water, curling underneath the frightening spectacle that sailed over her. Reflex was never one of her strong points, but battling time and time again seemed to have helped her somehow, even though somehow was never definite. Her wand stabbed her in her side as she righted herself, only to throw herself sideways because the werewolf was—too fast, I can't keep up, too fast—and before she even stopped to think about it, she was running towards the other end of the paddock, listening intently to the harsh breathing of the wolf behind her. It was almost terrifying the way that the cool air burned in her lungs, and the moisture made it difficult to run as the rubber of her sneakers slipped against the wet ground.

She wasn't sure what the wolf was doing, didn't even bother to look. She hit the fence once, feeling the splinters digging into her skin, and then she pushed off and spun, hitting the ground hard as the Other Lupin crashed into the wood. The logs splintered, hard thick chunks ricocheting uncomfortably off Hermione's back. Hermione barely bothered to grab for her wand as she jumped up, the wood planks sliding uncomfortably over her shirt and arms.

She knew it was a mistake as she slipped over the thick chunks of wood, the werewolf righting itself with just as much difficulty as she had. But the more she tried to take hold of her wand, the harder it became, and the disorientation seemed so lovely and precise—maybe it was and maybe it wasn't, but who was she to know, really, because Lupin was always Lupin despite being Lupine and maybe that wasn't his fault, anyhow. But that hadn't made any sense either, and Hermione didn't want the madness in her mind.

(Her head was pounding.)

And speaking of madness, madness seemed to surround her wherever she went. Harry would have saved him, because Harry had saved Sirius, had tried to save Lupin before. But this wasn't Lupin, because Lupin was kind and uncomfortable, not unstable, and Hermione could hardly find it in herself to save something that was a mistake.

But not, her mind tried to scream, but then her mind was screaming plenty of things, as were her lips and her lungs, and her lungs still burned as she moved towards the other side of the paddock, her wand slippery in her sweaty palm.

There had to be another way. Another something that wasn't a mistake, but mistakes are mistakes are mistakes and the Other Lupin was her enemy not her friend.

And werewolves eat infants and corpses. Corpses fresh and bloody. Corpses that they could kill themselves if given the chance, but the Other Lupin hadn't been given the chance yet, and Harry would have saved him, and Hermione liked to think that she would have too, but she wasn't nearly as strong enough. Werewolves bit people, too, and scratched them and harmed them, but—

Not quite…

Hermione wanted to scream in frustration as the air burned in her lungs, because there was something she was missing. Lupin remembered it before he became Other Lupin, but he hadn't told her. She couldn't understand why—Lupin should have told her everything. But then Lupin had told her everything, because he had told her that she was not quite right and that had to be wrong, but there was the mistake and—

She barely managed to throw herself to the ground as the wolf sailed over her, its claws snagging the fabric of her shirt, tearing it. Hermione felt the claws prick the skin of her shoulders, just barely, but she couldn't be bothered with it. She had wanted to, because there was something dangerous about the way the cold air stung her back and she felt something warm begin to rise up against her flesh.

The itch started low, rising up, closer and closer to her skin, and she felt like batting it away in annoyance. Like a fly, buzzing around her head incessantly, only flies didn't buzz, bees did, but flies were just as annoying. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized it felt like a bee-sting; quick and sharp and irritatingly painful, but nowhere near painful enough. The werewolf heaved, the skin on its back stretching grotesquely against its vertebrae, outlining them. Hermione had to resist the urge to see each and everyone of those vertebrae crack—

—bone protruded from the torn flesh, but the rivulets of crimson she had expected to see were absent, unnoticeable—

It hurts my ears listening to it.

He looked like Him then, that she could remember, even though she saw the amber eyes flash with bloodlust. The skin was the same, grey and sickly, but His sagged where the Other Lupin's was tight and covered in veins that she thought about slicing open, just so she could watch him bleed—The Dead love blood, he seemed to say—even if it was wrong.

But killing people was silly, even though it wasn't Him that said that, but someone more like him, even as she turned and moved in the other direction. Her palm was too sweaty to hold her wand any longer, and she felt as though she were slipping farther and farther away from the situation; Hermione knew that she should have smelt the stink of the wolf's breath and wondered why she couldn't hear it breathing, but everything was invading her mind once again, dragging her closer and closer to someplace she couldn't quite remember.

Not quite…

And she didn't belong there, either. But there was nowhere that she belonged, the muscles in her legs burned, and she felt that she needed to stop. The stitch in her side had crept up so unassumingly; she barely even felt it as she readjusted the grip on her wand and tried to move through the haze. Colors were as indistinguishable as ever and there was no stink of the wolf's breath anywhere near her but killing people is silly.

Werewolf attacks seldom—but not quite, because her ankle rolled over and she was tumbling to the ground and pushing herself up, despite the sudden ache in her bone.

There was a mistake somewhere that she had made, but Harry would have saved him and—

Hermione is not Harry, she thought as the itch rose higher and the situation became vaguer. She blinked and nodded as she ran, and she absently noticed that both Malfoy and Zabini were gone, because surely the Other Lupin would have gone after them if he had seen them, and there was an answer somewhere.

Maybe it was Him who reminded her of the other person who wasn't quite him, but quite ugly as well. Cruel and wicked and evil maybe, for making her remember things when she shouldn't have, even though she should. The wet grass became less of a concern, because Hermione's legs were like jelly at that point, and she was so tired of running, but the werewolf wasn't nearly so tired of chasing. Perhaps it knew, just like she should have that it was all just a game. Perhaps it wanted her to feel frightened and terrified, but that was farthest from her mind because Objective One: find a way to escape.

That was what it all came down to. Three's weren't that pretty anyways. Trinities never quite mattered where she came from; after all, hers had broken—

—bone protruded from the torn flesh, but the rivulets of crimson she had expected to see were absent, unnoticeable—

Werewolf attacks seldom leave the victim alive to transform.

Harry would have saved him.

Killing people is silly.

But, her mind supplied, and her wand slipped from her grasp just as the grass slipped out from under her. The claws caught in her flesh and tore through skin and fat and muscle, but the voice that was hers couldn't scream. She wanted to, felt the disgusting need to because it was too much too fast and her blood was bright and red and—

Harry would have saved him, because killing people was silly.

But he's not a person, she managed darkly through the horrible screaming pain (but that was her, always her, because her voice found a way to scream, even through the pain) and she knew that the Dead loved blood, even her blood, because it had—werewolves could make their own corpses, too—and she had better things to do than to be a corpse, never a corpse.

She was not quite dead and bleeding and her wand was only a few inches away.

The wolf turned, its saliva dripping from its jaws, its grey skin shifting disgustingly. She could have vomited, had she tried. Hermione thought she wanted to. But something clamped down on that reaction, even as the wolf knelt before her and licked the torn chunks of flesh from its claws. Her fingers moved slowly, the muscles over her shoulders contracting and bleeding more profusely with each twitch she made. But the pain was something she could handle. The pain was something she could deal with.

The euphoria made it easy.

Lupin had said he'd forgive her, even if she was unforgivable, even if she couldn't quite manage. And it wasn't Lupin anyhow, because Lupin was kind and uncomfortable, not unstable, not things that he was never meant to be. The scar twitched as the werewolf redirected its focus, the amber eyes glowing as the bloodlust increased.

But the prey was caught and injured and couldn't move—shaky, pale, sweaty, and bleeding, because she had tried to save him, even though she couldn't. She had tried to save someone who wasn't a person and even though he was a werewolf she had been stupid enough to think he was an actual person, even though—

I'm a monster, Hermione.

Her wand was gripped in blood spattered fingers as the wolf sat back on its haunches, ready to spring. She could tell by the way the eyes changed from amber to obsidian, and there was nothing remotely Other Lupin about Other Lupin, just Other. Other something. Something Other than human. Something Other than Lupin. Hermione wanted to laugh at the irony, because she had never really been one for riddles or word games, but that was all it had ever been and now—

Killing people is silly.

I'm a monster, Hermione.

The muscles flexed over bones so spectacularly, Hermione was almost caught up, even as the dripping saliva burned into her wounds. She thought about Harry and how he would have saved him, but there were more important things than being saved, like how her mind was so jumbled and broken, because there was a mistake, and even she was a fallacy. Just like Lupin and Other Lupin and something Other than Lupin. Her arm jerked around, shaking in pain as blood spilled faster, and she could feel the scream surging past her lips as she recited the spell, and then she was Unforgivable even as the world flashed green.

The body was heavy and dead, and the flesh so disgusting to feel, but before she could stop herself, she dragged her nails across one of the bulging veins, wishing that, for once, her nails were just a little bit sharper. But they weren't, and the cold empty feeling that was growing made her want to vomit.

Then again, she already had, as soon as the werewolves claws had dug into her back, because no one could deal with pain like that and—

The memory was too distant for her to remember, but she could taste the vomit on her tongue.

Hermione didn't like that.

Besides, he was a Monster, so he deserved what he got.

…Not quite…

Killing people is silly.

It only took her a moment before she realized that it wasn't bile that she tasted on her tongue.

Harry would have saved him.

I should have.