Her heart was beating in her ears as she walked out of the Great Hall, as naturally as she could. She could feel the bile rising in her throat as the great wooden doors closed behind her.
She took a long breath to ground herself and closed her eyes.
One second passed, and then another.
Her shoulders curled inward, and her eyes flew open as she bolted.
Down the corridor.
Around the bend.
She stumbled into the nearest bathroom, shoved open a stall door, and fell to her knees just in time.
Outside, the Slytherins lingered in the corridor, cloaked in poorly masked concern.
Daphne paced a tight line, arms crossed, jaw tense.
Theo leaned against the wall beside the door, fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve.
Blaise sat on a stone bench, elbows on knees, brow furrowed.
Pansy sat next to him, muttering something about "bloody Potter."
"She's been in there ten minutes," Daphne hissed, whirling to face Draco. "Go check on her."
Draco stood frozen, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes locked on the door as though it might swing open on its own and solve everything.
"Draco," Daphne repeated, sharper this time. "Go."
He didn't move.
"I…" He faltered. "She doesn't need me in there. Maybe she just has a stomach ache."
His pulse quickened, the air in the corridor tightening like a noose.
He could still smell the blood. Taste it. Feel the fabric of his shirt brushing against his scars.
Theo glanced up from his sleeve for the first time in ten minutes. "Mate, she practically ran from the Great Hall after whatever Potter said to her. The girl's either puking her guts out or slitting her wrists."
Pansy shot him a look. "Not funny, Nott."
"I'm not trying to be funny." He snapped. "Draco, go in, will you?"
"Why don't you?" Draco huffed, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. "Any of you! You're her friends too!"
"You're her boyfriend!" they all yelled at him.
Draco recoiled, lips parting as if to argue, to deflect, to disappear—but the words jammed somewhere behind his teeth.
He huffed and pushed the bathroom door open.
The scent of cleaning charms hit his nose instantly—cold tile underfoot, the walls echoing with the sound of a tap someone had left running.
His chest tightened, and he looked down to find his white school shirt soaked through with blood.
No, no, no, no, no—this isn't happening, it's not happening.
"Granger, can you come outside so everyone can see you're alive?!" He rushed through every word before practically sprinting back out of the bathroom.
As the door swung shut behind him, his trembling hands flew to his shirt, unbuttoning it hastily to check his scars—scars he was certain had burst open again, the blood pouring out so fast he was already going light-headed.
Theo blinked.
Daphne's mouth fell open.
Blaise looked as though he might hex him.
"Right," Pansy said, shaking her head, and walked into the bathroom herself, banging on the stall door.
His fingers trembled too badly, fumbling with the next button, chest heaving as though he'd sprinted from the dungeons to the Astronomy Tower.
His shirt was dry. Perfectly dry. The scars hadn't split. They were there—pale, raised, angry reminders etched across his skin—but intact.
Still, his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Daphne stepped toward him, moving into his eyeline and gently taking hold of his wrists.
"Draco." Her voice was soft, her hands warm against his skin.
He didn't look at her.
She frowned. "Draco, what's wrong?" She squeezed.
He blinked, slowly drawn back to the present.
He wasn't bleeding. His shirt was bone dry. His scars, though still fresh, had been healing perfectly well.
Oh, Merlin.
He pulled his hands away from Daphne.
"I'm fine. Nothing—nothing's wrong." He was already working the buttons back into place.
Blaise scoffed from the bench. "You sprinted out of the loo like it was hexed and started undressing in the corridor."
Draco stumbled over the buttons, turning to Blaise with eyes a little too wide.
He needed an excuse. Something less pathetic than fleeing a bathroom because he thought he was bleeding out.
His mouth opened, then closed. "I… thought I'd spilled something."
"In the doorway to the bathroom," Theo said flatly.
"It's a bathroom. Things spill, Nott." Draco snapped.
Pansy stepped out of the bathroom. "She's rinsing her face." She looked Draco over. "Do you need a paper bag? Or a Calming Draught?"
Hermione followed a moment later, her face pale, eyes rimmed red but dry. Her gaze moved over the small group—first Daphne, then Theo, then Blaise and Pansy—before landing on Draco.
She took one look at him, then at his rumpled shirt, and frowned.
"You all right?" she asked, voice low.
It would have been laughable if it weren't so sincere.
For a moment, he didn't know how to answer. She was the one who had collapsed into a toilet stall as though the floor might give way beneath her—and she was asking if he was all right?
"Yeah," he said at last. "Are you?"
She walked over and took his hand in hers. "We have class."
Draco's pulse didn't slow, not entirely, but something in his shoulders eased—just slightly—at her touch. He wasn't oblivious to the fact that she had refused to answer his question, though.
Ancient Runes passed without incident, Draco's hand itching to check his scars a second and third time while his eyes kept drifting to the back of Hermione's head.
When they reached their next class, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Hermione gave him a small smile before crossing the room to sit with the Gryffindors. Harry's seat remained empty.
Ron was already there, jaw tight, eyes narrowing the moment Hermione took her place. "What? Your boyfriend too proud to sit next to you?"
Hermione's gaze flickered briefly. "Have you heard from Harry?" she asked, letting the jab pass without comment.
She watched the anger dim behind his eyes. Harry. Common ground.
"What about him?" Ron asked.
"Dumbledore called for him during breakfast." Hermione lowered her voice. "I wanted to know if Harry'd sent word about what he wanted—he thought it might be about the hor… the things."
Ron shook his head. "Not yet. He'll probably be back by lunch."
Hermione nodded and turned her attention to the front of the classroom as Snape began the lesson.
If Harry had gone with Dumbledore, he would have sent word by now. If Dumbledore had left the castle at all, there would be Order members in the corridors—and she hadn't seen any.
So Dumbledore was still in the castle, and Harry must still be with him.
If it was making Harry miss class, it had to be about the Horcruxes.
"Miss Granger." Snape's drawl cut through the room, and Ron elbowed her.
She blinked, attention snapping back.
Snape was watching her with an expectant expression.
Damn, she thought. He must have asked a question.
The longer she stayed silent, the further Snape's eyes narrowed, the shadows beneath them deepening his expression.
"Well?" he said, his voice silk-wrapped steel. "If you've decided to grace us with your presence, perhaps you'll also favour us with an answer."
She opened her mouth, willing something—anything—to form.
"Let me assist you, shall I?" He scowled. "We were discussing the Protean Charm. You used it last year, if I recall."
The coins. The DA, she thought. Merlin, I'll have to use that, won't I?
Snape continued, "Could you, by chance, explain the charm to the class? And perhaps provide an example of it being used in practice."
"The Protean Charm links a master object to multiple copies," she said, keeping her voice steady. "Changes made to the master are instantly mirrored in each of the others."
Snape raised an eyebrow and gave a slight nod. "And the example?"
Hermione hesitated. She'd drawn the original idea from the Dark Mark. He was testing her—she could feel it. He wanted her to say it aloud. She simply couldn't work out why.
Her eyes cut briefly to Draco, so quickly that anyone might have missed it. He was no longer looking at her, his shoulders rigid.
Snape's mouth curved—not quite a smile, but something close to smug satisfaction.
The realisation washed over her. He wanted her to know he knew she knew about Draco.
"The Dark Mark," she said.
"Miraculous," he murmured. "Miss Granger has returned from her mental holiday. Ten points to Gryffindor for a correct answer and example." He paused. "Detention, Miss Granger. Tonight."
Any fight left in her evaporated as she glanced toward Draco, who was staring fixedly at some point above her head.
Defence went both too quickly and not quickly enough. Draco packed his bag with deliberate slowness, letting the room empty around him.
"The Headmaster will be absent today," Snape said, once the last few students had filtered out.
Draco swallowed and stood.
His Head of House hummed. "I imagine you had already deduced that, however. Or—shall I say—Miss Granger deduced it for you."
He forced his legs to carry him forward, stepping closer to Snape's desk and fighting the urge to look away.
Snape's sharp gaze fixed on him, unblinking.
"You should consider yourself fortunate, Draco," Snape said quietly, his voice low but precise. "The sooner you understand the consequences of your actions, the better."
Draco gave a short nod. "Thank you," he said quietly.
Snape shook his head. "I assure you, Draco, giving Miss Granger a detention will not keep her out of whatever you have involved her in—not if the last five years are any indication."
The guilt settled low in his chest like a hot coal, heavier than before.
"I didn't ask her to get involved," he muttered.
"No," Snape said dryly. "You simply allowed it."
"All you'd have to do is lock her in the dungeons."
"Whatever measure of control you believe you hold is laughable, Draco. I have done my part to keep her at a distance, as you asked of me."
Draco scoffed. "Go to hell," he hissed, and grabbed his bag.
He had barely cleared the corner of the corridor when he was shoved hard into the stone wall.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs. His bag slid from his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Bloody hell," he gasped.
"How dare you." Hermione stood before him, hands twisted in his collar, her eyes blazing.
He looked down at her with a smirk, catching his breath. "Missed you too, darling."
Her grip tightened. "Don't you dare joke with me right now."
He made no move to pull away, no move to push back. "You've got me pinned to a wall and you want me not to joke?"
"Malfoy!" she snapped.
"What?!" he snapped back, his own eyes flashing. "What do you want from me, Hermione?"
Her eyes searched his face—for answers, for honesty, maybe even for guilt.
"I want you to tell me you did this." Her hands fell from his collar as she stepped back. "Tell me you told him to give me detention."
Draco's expression sobered. "I asked him weeks ago," he admitted.
Hermione pressed her hands to her face, fighting the urge to scream. "Why can't you just trust me?!" Her hands flew up as she began to pace.
Draco watched her move like a caged thing—wild-eyed, furious, her frustration filling the narrow corridor like Fiendfyre.
He stepped toward her, shaking his head. "I do trust you," he said quietly, reaching for her hands.
She yanked them back. "No. No, if you trusted me, you'd have told me about the Mark months before I found out." She jabbed a finger at his chest. "If you trusted me, you wouldn't have asked Snape to lock me away tonight. If you trusted me, you'd follow through with the plan I've made!"
Draco flinched at each word, every one landing like a hex—sharp and precise.
"I do trust you," he said again, quieter now, the fire behind it reduced to ash. "But trusting you doesn't mean I want to hand you over to them!"
"To them?" Hermione echoed, her eyes blazing. "You think I don't know who they are? What they do?" She moved toward him again, her voice trembling with fury and something rawer beneath it. "I know exactly what I'm walking into. I know who I'm walking into. They're you, Draco—every one of them is you."
The breath left his lungs. He slumped back against the wall, and every ounce of fight went with it.
Hermione's chest was heaving, her eyes glassy now, fury still seething beneath the surface but something else creeping in—something softer, rawer, more dangerous. She hadn't meant to say it quite like that, but she needed him to understand.
"I know what you are, Draco," she said, voice lower now. "I know who your family is. I know what you've been asked to do. I know all of it. And I'm still here. And you are still lying."
He ran a hand down his face. "It's not that simple."
"It is that simple!" she snapped. "It's me. You either trust me enough to stand beside me in this, or you don't."
"I'm trying to keep you alive, Hermione." His voice was rough now, brittle with exhaustion. "You're carrying on as if this is just another DA task. Do you honestly think You-Know-Who will go easy on Harry Potter's Muggle-born friend if you're caught? Do you think Harry will forgive you when he finds out you've been helping me?"
"I don't care if he forgives me. I care if you live." Her voice cracked, tears just behind her eyes, as she stepped closer.
"And I don't care if you don't forgive me—you're not going anywhere near them." Draco's voice was low, fierce. "I know my aunt, Granger. I know what she's capable of. I can't think clearly about what I have to do if I'm wondering what she'll do to you if she…" His voice faltered, hoarse and strangled, as though the thought itself cut his throat on the way out. As though saying it aloud gave it power over them both.
"Draco—" Hermione began softly.
"You'd walk into Fiendfyre if you thought it might help, Granger. And I can't stop you—I know I can't. But I can try to slow you down. Buy you some time. Buy myself some too." He reached up and brushed her hair back from her face, his palms resting against her cheeks.
He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression twisting with something close to pain. "I can't let them in—can't let her in—if I know that the moment she finds you, I'll lose you. She has a… a thing for pain. For spectacle. For…" His thumbs moved across her cheekbones as though trying to memorise the lines of her face before it was too late. "If she sees me in that beautiful head of yours…" he whispered.
His hands fell from her face. "You can yell at me. Punch me. Hex me into next week. Whatever you like, Granger. But I won't apologise for wanting to keep you alive."
Hermione was quiet for a moment. Then, "I'll get out of detention."
"I know."
"I planned for it."
"I know that too," he said, with a small huff of something that wasn't quite a laugh.
She hesitated, then stepped forward and kissed him lightly.
Her hand pressed flat against his chest, and then she stepped back. "Don't kiss me again until this is all over," she whispered, and turned away.
They were in the common room after dinner when Harry finally returned.
He paused in the doorway, glancing from one friend to the other, taking in how oddly settled they seemed given the current state of things between them.
"Maybe I should disappear more often," he said.
Ron closed his textbook like he'd been waiting for an excuse to. "Where have you been?"
"What did Dumbledore want?" Hermione asked over the top of him. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Harry said simply, and made straight for his dormitory.
She stared after him, then glanced at Ron before getting to her feet and hurrying up the stairs, Ron close on her heels.
"Harry." She said, following him into his room. Harry had his trunk thrown open and was rummaging through it. "What's going on?"
"I haven't got much time," Harry said, pulling out the Marauder's Map and a pair of balled-up socks. He straightened and turned to face them. "Dumbledore thinks I'm fetching my Invisibility Cloak. Listen—there's a cave on the coast. Dumbledore and I are going tonight."
Ron's brow furrowed. "A cave?"
Harry nodded, his breath coming a little short. "We think that's where one of the Horcruxes is. Voldemort"—he ignored the way Hermione tensed—"killed two boys there years ago."
His gaze moved to Hermione then, just for a moment, searching. "I really think Malfoy's up to something. And that Snape is involved."
Hermione didn't flinch this time. She was too practised. Too braced.
Harry's eyes lingered on her a beat too long, and she found herself wondering whether something in her expression had shifted—some small twitch, the way Draco always said it did. Her eyebrows, probably.
"Well, that would explain why Snape gave me detention tonight," she said, shaking her head. Perhaps she could let him think she was simply annoyed about that—worried about being locked in detention while Dumbledore was away.
That seemed to satisfy Harry's suspicion of the professor, at least momentarily. "I knew he was up to something!" he hissed.
"Draco isn't involved, though." She shook her head. "I'd know if he were, Harry."
Harry glanced at the clock on the wall. He didn't have time to argue about this again. "Dumbledore said there'd be additional protection in place while we're gone—I expect the Order. It would explain why I ran into Tonks last time he left. Malfoy's going to have another clear shot at whatever he's planning."
Hermione opened her mouth.
"No, listen to me!" Harry snapped. "I know he's up to something. Hermione, I get it—I do, truly—you love the bloke, brilliant, he's a great snog, wonderful, I don't care—I still know he's up to something."
Her mouth shut. Her face went warm.
Ron made a choking noise somewhere between a laugh and a gag.
Harry tilted his head. "I hope, for your sake, you're right about him. But I think you're wrong." He pressed the map into her hands. "You need to watch him. And Snape. You've still got the Galleons from last year? Rally whoever you can from the DA."
"We ought to trust the Order, Harry. If they're coming—"
"I trust you more." He cut her off, simply.
The map felt heavy in her hands, the weight of it sudden and enormous. Harry trusted her. He had always trusted her. And if he had any idea what that trust was costing him tonight…
She swallowed it down—the guilt, the ache, the part of her that wanted to tell them everything.
"I'll call the DA," she said quietly.
"I'll make sure she does," Ron muttered.
Harry thrust the balled-up socks into Ron's hands. "Take these."
Ron blinked. "Why do I need socks?"
"The Felix Felicis is wrapped inside. Whatever's left of it." He looked between them. "I'd better go." But as he moved to leave, Hermione caught him in a hug—tight, as though some part of her wasn't certain she'd get another chance.
"Have you spoken to Pansy tonight?" she asked quietly.
She felt him stiffen.
"She deserves to know you're leaving."
"She'll figure it out," Harry said quietly.
Hermione stepped back.
Harry looked at her for a long moment. Then, "You'll know what to do when the time comes. You always do."
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because the truth was, she already knew exactly what to do. She'd known for weeks. She'd been preparing for this night since Draco had told her what was coming—mapping patrol rotations, coordinating through back channels, accounting for every variable she could name.
All she could do now was nod and hope he mistook the tremor in her fingers for fear about his mission, not her own.
Harry said a rushed goodbye to Ron and was gone.
Hermione stood there a moment, map in hand, before nodding to herself. "Right. I'll get the Galleon and—"
Ron crossed his arms. "All right. What in Merlin's name was that?"
She turned to face him. "What was what?"
"That." Ron pointed at the door Harry had just left through, then gestured vaguely at the room around them.
She glanced at the door, then back at Ron. "Oh, for—" She rubbed her temples. "You're not seriously doing this again. Harry and I are friends. I hug my friends."
"He's right about Malfoy, you know."
She shook her head. "I'm not having this argument again, Ron."
"Because you know we're right. Look me in the eyes and tell me we're wrong. Tell me Malfoy isn't up to anything. That he isn't involved in whatever Harry thinks he's involved in."
Hermione took a step toward Ron, her gaze level. "I don't know precisely what Harry thinks Draco is up to. But I'll say it once: the only thing he's been sneaking around for is me."
Ron recoiled slightly, jaw tightening. "Charming, Hermione. Really."
She crossed her arms. "You asked. So if you're done trying to work out why my boyfriend and I keep disappearing at the same time, I have a DA to call. Unless you need more details?"
Ron's expression curdled. "Do you see what he's done to you? You'd never have said anything like that a year ago!"
"Because a year ago I wasn't having to explain myself to the people who are supposed to trust me!" She stepped forward, voice rising. "I'm still me, Ron. You don't have to trust him—but trust me."
She understood the irony of it, even as the words left her mouth. She was begging him to trust her while she was helping Draco let Death Eaters into Hogwarts.
Ron's mouth opened as though he had a retort already formed, but nothing came. He stood there, furious and floundering.
"That's what this is really about, isn't it?" Hermione said quietly. "You don't trust me anymore."
He scoffed, though it sounded hollow. "How can I, when you're clearly hiding things?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
"That's such a bloody Slytherin thing to say."
Hermione stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"
Ron shrugged, though there was nothing casual in it. "Hedging your words. Splitting hairs. Drawing lines so you can claim you haven't lied, even when you're not being fully honest."
She gave a short, humourless laugh. "Protecting my friends. Protecting the people I love. Defending them. Is that so Slytherin of me?"
Ron raised his eyebrows. "Does he, then?"
"Does he what?"
"Love you. Has he said it?"
Her argument stalled. She scoffed once, then again, shaking her head. "What does that have to do with anything?!"
"That's what I thought," he said, and it was almost a laugh.
The silence between them rang with everything unspoken—every assumption, every quiet disappointment, every word neither of them seemed to know how to say.
"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" she asked, her voice dropping.
"I'm just saying," he said, leaning forward, "if he hasn't—"
"Spare me." She cut him off flatly. "You are the last person who ought to be giving me lessons in emotional vulnerability."
Ron's jaw worked, but he said nothing.
"I think Harry is doing what he believes is right," Hermione said, steadying her voice. "So I'm going to call the DA and find out where Snape is before I head to detention."
The Galleon was on her bed, alongside her map and the Marauder's Map.
It was simple. Or it was meant to be.
She would send the signal out to the DA—whoever still had their coins, whoever still cared—and slip out to meet the others before heading to detention. The detention she had because of Draco. The detention she would have to escape.
If anything, she had the easiest part in the whole plan. Be Hermione Granger.
She sat down hard on the edge of her bed, staring at the maps and the coin as though they were about to accuse her of something.
Be Hermione Granger. That was all she had to do.
Study.
Follow the rules.
Break them just precisely enough to be a hero.
Ask too many questions.
Have the answers before she asked.
Distract.
Delay.
Keep everyone safe from whoever came through the cabinet.
Keep Draco alive.
She reached for the Galleon, fingertips moving over the engravings she had carved so meticulously last year—the same Protean Charm that connected the Dark Mark to Voldemort.
She turned the coin over in her hand and wondered how many others still had theirs. How many would feel it warm. How many would come.
Perhaps it would be better if they didn't. Safer. Safer for whom, she wasn't entirely sure.
She watched the numbers shift across the coin's face as it warmed in her palm. Whoever still had their Galleon would feel it heat up, and if they chose to, they would see the time and the meeting place.
She let it fall back onto the blankets, then picked up the Marauder's Map. Her fingers traced the edge of the parchment before she murmured, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Footsteps bloomed across the corridors in ink. She scanned quickly, eyes cutting through the castle.
Harry was gone, just as he'd said. Dumbledore with him.
Snape was in his office. McGonagall in hers.
Ron was pacing just outside Gryffindor Tower, probably still cooling down from their row.
She kept scanning, searching for DA members, searching for the Slytherins.
She paused on a cluster of names near the greenhouses—Luna, Padma, Neville. Promising. Luna would come regardless; she always did. Neville too. Between them, they could probably convince Padma, who would bring her sister.
Pansy was in the library, most likely waiting.
Theo and Daphne appeared to be in the Slytherin common room.
She kept scanning the parchment.
Ah, she thought, her lips twitching. There they are. Blaise and Ginny were out in the main courtyard.
She wasn't entirely sure what was happening there, but Blaise appeared thoroughly and irreversibly doomed.
She checked the time. Her detention wasn't for another hour. Enough time to make her rounds, leave her breadcrumbs, play her part.
Be Hermione Granger.
Her eyes drifted back to the map. A small set of footprints labelled Draco Malfoy had appeared, moving slowly across the seventh floor. She knew exactly where he was heading: the Room of Requirement. The Vanishing Cabinet.
She wanted to run after him.
Stand beside him. Not let him do it alone. Tell him to forget all of it—that they'd find another way.
Instead, she closed the map and pressed her palm flat against the parchment, as though she could anchor him through touch alone.
She pulled her hand away and wrapped her fingers around the bracelet at her wrist, eyes closing as she tried to steady herself.
She hadn't taken it off since he'd clasped it there—hadn't wanted to. It had begun as something sweet, just a gift that made her smile, but somewhere along the way it had become something more. Grounding. Binding. As though the bracelet itself knew things were going to be all right, even when she wasn't certain. It made her feel as though he were somehow in the room with her.
She had almost asked if he'd charmed it—that would have been the logical explanation—but part of her was afraid he hadn't. That this was simply how people felt when they grew sentimental over something their boyfriend had given them.
"Ah, our general arrives," Blaise said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "Any new orders from the front?"
Hermione gave him a look. "Don't."
He raised both hands in surrender. "Touchy."
She slid into the empty seat beside Daphne, noting the vacant chair next to Pansy—likely meant to be Draco's. "Dumbledore's gone. Harry's with him."
Pansy's eyes flicked up, and she straightened almost imperceptibly. "Potter left the castle?" Almost nonchalant. Almost.
Hermione hesitated. For a moment, she wished she didn't know where Harry had gone, or what he was doing. She was lying to her Gryffindor friends for her Slytherin ones, and now she was about to start lying to her Slytherin friends for her Gryffindor ones.
"Something Order-related," she said, hoping it would be enough.
But she caught the look Daphne gave Theo, and the way Blaise rolled his eyes.
She dropped her head, her voice barely above a murmur. "Please don't ask me things I can't answer."
"We know you're playing both sides, Hermione." Daphne's voice was careful but direct. "I think we simply assumed you were telling all of us the truth."
"I am." Hermione looked up, her expression earnest. "Anything that affects tonight—anything that affects what Draco has to do—I've told you. What Harry's doing…" She steadied herself. "I barely know the half of it, honestly. But it has nothing to do with tonight."
Theo, who had been quiet until now, spoke at last. "If it does—you'll tell us?"
Hermione held his gaze. "Yes."
"Even if—"
"My priority is keeping Draco alive," she cut him off. "If that means telling you what Harry's doing, I'll do it. But right now it doesn't, so you don't need to know."
"Order members?" Daphne asked, leaning forward.
"On their way." Hermione confirmed. "I've sent word to the DA as well. I don't know how many will come—but you know your parts. Distract them. Keep them away from the Death Eaters."
"Draco?" Pansy asked.
"He's nearly at the Room." Hermione reached into her robes and produced a worn piece of parchment. "He's waiting."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "And the parchment?"
Hermione worried her lip for a moment, then drew her wand. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Theo snorted. "That's brilliant, 'Mione, really, but—" He stopped, the words dying on his tongue as the parchment transformed before their eyes, lines of ink spreading out to form corridors, staircases, rooms. "That's the castle."
Hermione didn't quite meet their eyes as she pointed. "Every corridor. Every hallway. Every secret passage. Everyone."
Pansy stared at it, then let out a breath of laughter. "Brilliant. He's got an Invisibility Cloak and a map that shows where every person in the castle is at any given moment." She almost seemed to be laughing in spite of herself. "Is there anything else Potter has that we should know about? The—the Sword of Gryffindor? The Elder Wand?"
Hermione glanced at her. "What's the Elder Wand?"
Daphne laughed—short and sharp. "Oh, you sweet Muggle-born."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Right. Not important, then." She straightened. "Are we clear on what happens next?"
Theo nodded. "You go to detention. The moment the Death Eaters start coming through, we scatter to our posts." He glanced at Blaise, who gave a lazy nod. "Blaise covers the stairwell by the tower. Daphne and I hold the sixth-floor point. Pansy?"
"I'll get Granger if something goes wrong," Pansy said simply, her voice crisp. "Or get her out if it goes very wrong."
"You won't need to get me out of detention," Hermione said, looking at her. "I have that accounted for. Just stay out of the Death Eaters' way and keep the DA occupied." She glanced at the map, watching Draco's name vanish into the Room of Requirement.
She sighed, stood, and raised her wand, casting a Geminio on the map and watching it double. She held the original out to Blaise. "I'll keep the copy. If anyone notices it's gone, the fake will buy us time. It won't work properly, but it'll do."
She set her bag down on the table in front of Theo. "Dungbombs and potions. Nothing that requires spellwork—nothing that can be traced back to any of you. Just use what's inside."
Theo gave her a single nod, as though they had already discussed it.
Pansy raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she rose to her feet. "We have patrol. If we're meant to be acting normal."
Hermione nodded. "Prefect rounds, then detention, then whatever comes after. Wonderful evening, really." She exhaled. "If anything goes wrong—if everything goes to hell—send a Patronus."
She turned to leave, but Pansy didn't follow immediately. Hermione looked back. "What is it?"
The Slytherins exchanged a glance before settling their eyes back on her.
"I think," Blaise said, quite honestly, "we're all simply surprised to learn you can cast a corporeal Patronus."
Hermione blinked. "Oh. Oh—right. I forgot you lot weren't—" She stopped, the awkwardness catching up with her. That hadn't been something she'd thought about. When Harry had been teaching the DA to cast a Patronus, her Slytherin friends—these friends—hadn't been there to learn.
Pansy folded her arms. "So what is it then? A kitten? A book with little legs?"
"An otter," Hermione said, somewhat defensively.
Daphne snorted. "Territorial. Fierce. Clever."
"Cute, too," Theo added.
Hermione's shoulders stiffened. "Lovely. Good to know my soul takes the form of something cute and territorial."
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Come on, before this turns into a sentimental lesson on how to cast one."
Their footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, oddly loud despite their shared instinct to keep quiet.
Hermione glanced into a classroom as they passed, and Pansy smiled slightly.
"You don't actually have to check," she said. "We both know it's for show."
Hermione let the door fall shut. "Just trying to seem normal."
Pansy hummed. "You want to tell me what Potter's doing?"
Hermione followed, rolling her eyes. "For someone who claims not to care—"
"I don't."
"You seem to."
Pansy gave a short exhale, still walking with that precisely maintained air of indifference. "I'm simply working out whether I need to find a new diversion."
They turned a corner. "I told him to tell you, for what it's worth."
"He's not my boyfriend. He doesn't owe me anything."
She was perfectly, impeccably Pansy about the whole thing. Hermione caught the way her throat moved as she swallowed, though.
"He's with Dumbledore," Hermione offered carefully. "He'll be fine."
Pansy didn't answer immediately. She glanced sideways, lips pressed together. It was unsettling, seeing her like this—not sharp or theatrical or cutting. Just quiet.
"Except," she said at last, "we're setting everything in motion tonight for Draco to kill Dumbledore."
Hermione stopped dead.
Oh.
Oh no.
Harry. If Harry was with Dumbledore, he would come back with him. Harry wouldn't leave Dumbledore's side if something was happening—he'd see—
Hermione shook her head, grabbing Pansy by both arms, her own eyes wide. "No, no, no, Pansy—listen—" she hissed.
Pansy startled but didn't pull away, tilting her head at the barely-controlled panic in front of her.
"What?" she asked.
Hermione's grip tightened. "He can't—Harry can't—if Draco tries—if Harry's there and he sees—" She couldn't get the words out in the right order.
Pansy gave a short laugh. "What, you think he'd try to stop it? He's got a saviour complex, not a death wish."
"Yes, he does!" Hermione said. "He is exactly that reckless, Pansy, I promise you—"
The look on her face was pure, unravelling panic. Because she hadn't planned for this. She had planned for everything else—she'd mapped patrol rotations and arranged distractions and accounted for every eventuality she could name. She had planned to keep Ron and Harry and any Order or DA members occupied with the chaos below so that no one would be near the top of the tower. She had not planned for Harry being unable to be distracted. She had not planned for Harry Potter, of all people, not being where she needed him to be.
Pansy's expression shifted—not quite pity, but something approaching genuine alarm. Not for Dumbledore. For Hermione.
"Hermione. I'm going to need you to let go of me. You're cutting off my circulation."
Hermione looked down at where her fingers were digging into Pansy's arms. Slowly, carefully, she eased her grip.
"All right," Pansy said, flexing her fingers. "Potter sees Draco with his wand raised, pointed at Dumbledore. Then what?"
"He'll intervene," Hermione said quietly. "He'll fight Draco. He'll—Pansy, if Harry's there—"
She stepped back, then again, until her back met the wall. One moment she was standing; the next, her knees had given out and she slid down to sit on the cold stone floor, the breath knocked out of her.
For a moment the corridor was silent, save for the pounding in her own chest. She wanted to run. She wanted a Time-Turner. She wanted to Apparate straight into the Room of Requirement and drag Draco out by his tie and tell him none of this was worth it—
Her thoughts lurched to a halt.
That wasn't the worst case.
Harry wouldn't win against Draco in that moment. Not because Draco was stronger—but because Dumbledore would intervene before it could escalate. Dumbledore's attention would be divided, protecting Harry. And Draco could use that.
He would succeed.
But that wasn't why there was a hollow ache spreading through her chest.
He'd know.
Harry would know she'd known.
That she'd let it happen.
That she'd helped.
That she'd kept him occupied and in the dark.
That she'd lied, straight to his face.
That she'd chosen Draco.
"He'll never forgive me," she whispered.
Pansy didn't crouch down. Didn't offer comfort—if anything, softness would have made it worse. "Probably not," she said.
"I have to warn Draco." Hermione was already trying to get to her feet. "I have to—"
"You'll panic him." Pansy stepped smoothly in front of her. "He already doesn't want to go through with this. Listen—Draco and Potter both come out of tonight alive, one way or another. The question is whether Draco does what he needs to do."
"And right now I need to warn him so he's—"
Pansy gripped her by the shoulders, just firmly enough to stop her. "Hermione. Listen to me. You walk into that room right now, and if the Death Eaters have already come through, you're dead on sight."
Hermione's mouth opened, ready to argue, logic and terror fighting behind her eyes—but she froze at the sound of a voice cutting through the corridor.
"Miss Granger."
Both of them turned sharply.
Snape stood at the far end of the corridor, robes billowing as though he had materialized from the shadows themselves. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes moved between them with quiet precision.
"I believe it is time for your detention."
"I'm finishing my rounds," Hermione said, jaw set.
"You've finished." His tone left no room. "Come."
Hermione didn't move.
His voice wasn't raised, but it was absolute—the kind of voice that rendered argument redundant.
She slipped the Marauder's Map quietly to Pansy. She wasn't sure how Pansy would get it to Ron, but it had to be done.
"I said—" Snape began.
"I heard you." Hermione cut him off.
"Then walk."
She said nothing more. She stepped forward, and Snape turned, robes sweeping behind him as he fell into pace behind her.
Neither of them spoke. The silence was the kind that gave Hermione's mind too much room—to think, to panic, to spiral.
Against her better judgement, she looked back at him. "Do you know what's happening tonight?"
Snape did not respond.
"You do," she said, with something between a scoff and a realisation. "You know what he has to do."
Snape stopped. He turned to face her, expression carved from stone.
"Tell me, Miss Granger—what exactly have you involved yourself in this time? Because last year, your involvement ended with the death of a convicted murderer—"
"Wrongly convicted."
"—Sirius Black," Snape finished, overriding her. "Whom, two years prior, you aided in escaping from Azkaban."
Hermione's jaw worked as she fought herself. "I was trying to help."
"Help?" He almost seemed to find this amusing in the darkest possible way. "Whom do you believe you are helping?"
"Draco."
"And Potter?"
She swallowed down the knot in her throat.
"I assume," Snape said, with the tone of a man who had already solved the problem and found the solution disappointing, "that you have coordinated something."
She said nothing. There was no point.
"Something reckless, no doubt."
"That's not—" She started forward, but he raised one hand.
"No, Miss Granger. I am speaking. You will listen—as you pretend to do when you sit in my classroom."
Snape's voice dropped, each word measured, stripped of anything unnecessary.
"You are not a spy. You are not a saviour. You are a schoolgirl with a great deal of faith in your own intelligence and very little comprehension of the true cost of war." He gestured—at her, at the corridor, at the night pressing in around them both. "You believe yourself clever. Cleverness is not the same as control, or power, or wisdom. You believe you have a plan. That is, of course, what your sort always does—you make plans, Miss Granger."
She shook her head. "If that is what you think of me, then you don't know me. And you certainly don't know Harry."
"You make plans for your lessons. For your timetable. For how you intend to spend your days. It is meticulous. And admirable, in its proper place. But this is not a school project."
She couldn't name the look in his eyes. It wasn't contempt, not quite. It was something older than that. Older than both of them.
Perhaps pity. Or the particular weariness of someone who had already watched this story play out before.
"I'm just trying to save him," she said finally, eyes dropping to the floor.
Snape opened the classroom door and stood aside for her to enter. She crossed to a desk, and he followed, closing the door behind them. A large stack of aged essays appeared on the table before her.
"You will remain here," he said. "Copy these by hand. You are not to leave this room under any circumstances."
She glanced at the top of the stack—the parchment yellowed with age, the ink faded. At least thirty years old. Busywork. Pure, deliberate busywork.
"You could stop him," she said, beginning to copy. "You're meant to be on our side. You could stop him."
Snape regarded her for a long moment, as though weighing her words against some private reckoning.
"When tonight is over, Miss Granger," he said at last, his voice low and perfectly terrible, "you are going to wish you had never loved him."
She didn't look up. She didn't want him to see her face.
The door clicked shut and locked, leaving her alone with the scratch of her quill and the silence.
The Room of Requirement was vast and strange and dim, the way it always was when no one had asked it to be anything in particular.
Draco moved slowly through the accumulated debris of decades—past overturned desks, dust-sheeted armchairs, a bent goblet that had half-melted into something unrecognisable.
It felt like walking through memory.
Not his own, perhaps. Everyone else's. Every student who had spent an hour hidden in this room, or left something behind and never come back for it.
The Vanishing Cabinet stood to one side, humming lightly with magic—pulsing, as though it too was bracing for what was coming.
He and Hermione had worked near that part of the room for months, with the large bed the room had conjured, the sofa she had fallen asleep on one too many times, the table where they had eaten and argued and occasionally managed to make each other laugh. There had been no reason to wander further.
But as he waited—an hour past when he had first sent word—he began to walk.
An old piano bench stood beneath a sheet of dust, and when he pressed a key, the note that came out was wrong. He tried another. That one rang true.
A smile found its way to his face before he could stop it.
Who had come here to play? To practise what they'd been taught at home? To show someone what they could do?
He sat down properly on the bench, fingers settling against the keys, and began to pick out a melody from memory. It was sloppy—years of neglect in his hands, the piano horrifically out of tune, several keys sticking and a few that made no sound at all.
He found himself wondering what it might have been like if they had come to this room for something other than the cabinet. Whether Hermione would have let him play for her. Whether she'd have laughed when he missed a note.
She'd have asked what he was playing, probably before he was three bars in. She'd have tried to guess just to be irritating. She'd have pretended to wince when he fumbled it and teased him for being a snob about knowing a concerto at all. And then she'd have asked to try.
She'd have been terrible at first, most likely.
Or worse—she'd have been good.
He stood abruptly and stepped away from the piano. He hated how easily she had settled herself into his head.
She had come back again and again, with her books and her ideas and her endless, exhausting arguments. She was stubborn and infuriating and brilliant, and she was the sole reason the cabinet had been fixed at all.
Every failed attempt. Every night they had stayed past any reasonable hour. Every morning one of them had woken on the sofa and had to pretend they'd meant to leave.
He had started this walk to distract himself—a restless body being marginally easier to manage than a restless mind. But it wasn't working. He was only sinking further in.
Huffing, he turned his signet ring around his finger—a habit he'd developed since giving Hermione the bracelet, as though he needed to keep checking the ring was still where he'd left it. Still connected.
The Malfoy crest glared up at him.
His father was going to hex him the moment he found out what Draco had done to it. What the runes meant. Whom they connected to.
He could hear Lucius already. A signet ring is a symbol of bloodline, Draco. Not a sentimental trinket.
A pause. A slow, pointed look at the runes.
What enchantments did you carve into it? Tracking charms? Emotional binding? Did you think yourself clever?
Draco's mouth quirked, because yes. He had.
It wouldn't be the magic that offended him. It would be her.
A Muggle-born. The daughter of Muggles, no less. A girl who had outscored him in every subject they'd shared since they were eleven years old.
Lucius wouldn't shout. Not immediately—that wasn't his way. He would sit in that chair in the drawing room and simply look at him. And for once, Draco thought, he wouldn't be waiting with anything like anticipation for his father's judgement. He would probably laugh.
Then Lucius would press the ring between his fingers as though it had become something foreign. And then he would demand Draco remove the runes. Strip them out. Undo what he'd done.
You have disgraced this family's name.
Disgraceful. Sentimental. Weak.
He hadn't had the nerve—or the words—to tell her what he wanted. What she deserved to hear.
He stepped around a fallen pile of books, his eyes catching on something half-buried in shadow: a beautiful silver diadem, sapphire gems glinting faintly in the low light.
Draco reached toward it, fingers hovering just above the surface, brow furrowing as an odd, low current of magic prickled against his skin—old, watchful, like something that had been waiting a very long time.
Then the cabinet groaned.
That low, grinding sound—different from its usual idle hum. Louder. More forceful. The sound of something moving.
It groaned again, harder this time, metal against metal, the hinges screaming with the effort.
Draco jerked his hand back from the diadem and spun on his heel, already halfway across the room as the cabinet gave another resonant, shuddering pulse. It was no longer buzzing with ambient magic. It was howling with it—vibrating so intensely the air around it seemed to warp.
They were here.
His hands trembled as he crossed to the door and gripped the worn handle.
He stopped. Just for a moment. Just long enough to know he was stopping.
She's safe. She's with Snape. It's fine.
He pulled it open.