Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Sacrificial Lamb
"Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful."
~ Mary Shelley "Frankenstein"
Hermione Granger simply did not want to be here.
More specifically, she did not want to be soaked through by freezing, icy rain while trudging up a very narrow and rather steep mountain path in Romania.
Honestly, this gods-forsaken place had proven to be far less gothic romance and fire-breathing dragons and considerably more grey skies and the early stages of hypothermia. Ugh.
But she had a job to do, and she was certainly no quitter even as fat droplets fell in endless sheets, sliding down her cheeks before tangling themselves into the loose curls that had spilled from her otherwise sensible plait. And somehow, the water had crept beneath the collar of her cloak, into the seam of the leather gloves (that she had borrowed from Ginny), and was now soaking through the hem of her dress until it clung unpleasantly to her calves.
Worse (because, yes, it got worse), it had infiltrated her boots, producing a miserable squelch with every step.
Sighing, Hermione adjusted the strap of her satchel higher on her shoulder as she kept walking up the unfamiliar winding path. The clink, clink, clink of glass vials—tonics, tinctures, stabilising draughts, and three separate blood restoration potions she'd prepared herself—offered her a thin thread of comfort as she tried to ignore the unpleasant sloshing happening.
She supposed things could be worse—or that was the story she was currently telling herself, anyway. Objectively speaking, things had already begun their steady descent from bad to terrible to outright dreadful roughly twenty-four hours ago, when she received the personal summons from the most senior members of the Order to come alone.
Yeah, come alone, her arse.
In Hermione's twenty-five years of life and personal experience, those clumped words rarely preceded anything pleasant, and really, that should've been her first clue.
She'd just completed her shift in the infirmary, eyes red-rimmed and her bones exhausted from the effects of the day, when she received the summons. And after trekking up the stairs to the old Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, she forced herself to stand still in the center as she awaited their orders. The room still looked as she remembered it years prior, with its tall cathedral windows, dark wooden panels, and the faint scent of chalk in the air. But now, the desks had been pushed aside (though most had been removed), and the walls were now lined with maps. A blackboard remained in the front, listed with names instead of spell diagrams as she once remembered—names with lines through them.
Gods… she refused to let her eyes linger there, already knowing who she would find.
So, instead, Hermione stood in the classroom with her hands clasped together as she stared at the head table, where Kingsley, Professor McGonagall, Moody, Andromeda, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley all sat. Fidgeting, her finger found a familiar crescent of skin at the base of her thumbnail and pressed.
"We've received an anonymous letter this morning with no magical trace," Moody had told her, magical eye whirling with a low, mechanical hum.
"The letter claims that there is an antidote for the Death Eater's engineered toxin that's plaguing our infirmaries, and the writer is the only one in possession of it," Kingsley added. "And we have reason to believe that this letter is of validity."
"What do they want?" Hermione had asked, keeping her expression neutral.
Professor McGonagall didn't hesitate. "A trained female healer sent alone to the address provided."
Yeah, well, she knew that there were a few people alive who fit all three criteria: trained, healer, and female.
Fuck. Her finger pressed harder into her thumb until the skin split under her nail. Warmth slicked across her knuckles, and she welcomed the clarity of it as the pain narrowed the edges of the moment.
Unfortunately, she knew that the Order didn't have the luxury of skepticism anymore. Gods, certainly not with twenty dead and twelve others barely holding on, with what had started out slowly with the typical fever, fatigue, and magical exhaustion. It was the sort of symptoms every Healer in the Order initially dismissed as the inevitable aftermath of a long battle won.
Let them rest… they had said. They will be better in a day or two.
Blah-blah-blah.
Naiveté, Hermione had learned, was a particularly insidious disease.
Still, she kept her head down and mouth shut as she worked until her bones ached and her eyes burned. Keep everyone alive. Your duty, Ms. Granger. We are all at war. You must make sacrifices, too. So she did. And she brewed and brewed and brewed the potions that kept running out faster than her hands and cauldron could replenish them. She made everything from stabilizing draughts to blood tonics to replenishing elixirs that only brought them hours when she desperately needed days—months.
Then the internal bleeding began, and then the magical cores started collapsing, and that was when she just knew.
Gods, she knew.
Blood came in awful, unstoppable pools that spilled from every orifice on the human body. It gathered beneath the people she knew as she watched them choke on their own vitality—Cho, Percy, Angelina, Oliver. Et cetera, and so forth. And finally, in the last hours, their skin turned a sickening shade of green as their magic burned its way from the inside out, filling the air with the acrid, unmistakable scent of death.
Hermione had dealt with this long enough to know protocol by now, but nothing really prepared her for the bodies that piled up faster than Healers could move them. White sheets were pulled over long, still forms, and after only an hour, they began to stain pink where blood seeped through the fabric. The list of names lengthened and lengthened and lengthened with every passing hour, and there was nothing they could do to slow it as the mass graves began to pile up.
Well, almost nothing apparently, and the summons seemed to confirm it.
Of course, no one at that head table had asked her to volunteer outright. Ha. Clever, that. And technically speaking, Hermione could've argued that there were others far better suited for a meeting with an anonymous Death Eater in a foreign country than she was.
In fact, Ginny was always far more comfortable facing 'death' (for lack of better words) head-on than Hermione had ever been. She was trained for things like this. She was built to fight and to be fought. Or Fleur, even. Gods above. The witch could coax secrets from the room by simply batting her lashes and smiling demurely. And she would've been excellent in this, thanks to her diplomacy, charm, and manipulative skills.
And Hermione could've pointed to all of that. She could've given the Order reason not to corner her into this role.
Unfortunately, she understood the implication the moment the problem had been laid out for her: they could not afford to lose any more fighters. They just couldn't anymore when their best duelists were already stretched thin, guarding and protecting what remained of their safe houses and supply lines. Not when this unknown disease was already carving through their ranks faster than any battlefield ever had, hemorrhaging them from the inside out.
And Healers, statistically speaking, were more…well, transferable.
Hermione huffed a laugh into the rain, narrowing her eyes at the cliff-side ahead. Yes, well, she saw right through that particular piece of language, because she knew it meant that she was transferable to the Order. Worse? The realization of that had settled into her bones the second she stood there in the old D.A.D.A., in front of adults twice her age, who all looked at her, knowing she would do it without argument or complaint.
Thank you, Ms. Granger. The Order is most appreciative of your efforts in this war.
A familiar, simmering anger curled hot in her veins as she clenched her fists.
Fine. So be it, and if that were the equation they were all trapped inside, then she would pay her part. She would be reduced to numbers, roles, and acceptable losses on chalkboards. Whatever. But one thing was for certain: she would not pretend it was noble or some grand act of blazing martyrdom. She didn't possess Harry's particular brand of self-sacrificial impulse or heroics, nor did she crave dramatic last stands.
What Hermione did possess, however, was something arguably more dangerous—rage. And currently, she was really, really angry.
The trees began to thin as the fog shifted along the path, and suddenly a castle rose from the rock, fused to it as if it had been moulded to the mountainside. The high outer-walls were unadorned, broken only by ironwork that climbed the gates in looping, symmetrical patterns. The stone itself was the color of dried ink; the surface was cut through with tall, gothic windows. Above the structure, towers speared into the storm-grey sky, their uppermost points capped with metal spikes.
Whether to keep someone in or someone out, she did not know—nor did she really want to know.
Hermione stared up at the structure, rain sliding through her lashes. "Christ," she muttered to herself.
Lightning cracked somewhere behind the swollen clouds, throwing the castle into bright golden light as thunder rolled through the mountains. And for a single heartbeat, Hermione swore she saw someone standing in one of the upper windows, watching her… waiting for her.
Gods above.
Sighing, Hermione raised her chin, ignoring the way her skin prickled as she took a single step forward, then another, and another, through the gate and up the rest of the path. Well, if this was a trap, then the least she could do was walk into it bravely with all that foolish Gryffindor courage.
The front door of the castle loomed as she approached. It was only as she drew closer that she noticed the carvings worked into the façade. Serpents twisted through the woodgrain alongside wolves and winged demonic figures and distorted faces worn smooth by time. Runes had been etched alongside the oak through the obsidian bands—old runes, too. Merlin, pre-Latin runes. And possibly something closer to early Carpathian magical dialects than modern Northumberland runes.
Which, unfortunately, meant the enchantments protecting this castle were likely centuries older than anything she was well aware of.
Fuck. Brilliant. Truly. Gods…
Barely a second passed by before she heard the deliberate click of metal against metal and the shift of wards grinding their mechanical hum. The lock disengaged as the towering structure slid open, spilling warm light across the rain-slick stones at her feet.
"Okay then," she muttered to herself, stepping inside the entry hall.
Icy air slithered over her body as she craned her neck up, taking in the coffered stone ceilings, ribbed like the inside of a cathedral. A wrought-iron chandelier hung from a long metal chain, and candles burned with a steady golden light. Shadows danced along the flagstone floor and up the tapestries lining the walls. Squinting, she eyed what looked to be a ritual of some sort, rather than a pastoral scene of sheep and English countryside or Parisian couriers.
Interesting. Well, it wasn't her home, nor her choice of decor, but whatever. Also, it was terribly creepy, but when in Romania, she supposed.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her.
Whirling, Hermione's breath caught in her chest. "Who's there?" she demanded, fingers wrapping instinctively around her vinewood wand tucked into her sleeve. "Show—! Show yourself!"
Dead silence only followed as the impact rattled the chandelier overhead, sending dust drifting downward.
"Hello?" she called, voice carrying upward into the vaulted ceiling. "Is anyone there? I'm—uh? I'm here at your request, and I have come to trade my services for the antidote."
A rat darted across the edge of the hall.
Hermione jumped, squealing, as the sound propelled out of her entirely of its own accord. "Oh, gods! Oh, gods! No! No! No!"
The rat vanished instantly into the wall as quick as it appeared (good riddance).
Gasping, she pressed a hand to her chest and glared after it. Honestly, she hated rats. Despised them with a deep conviction that had only been intensified over the years. And admittedly, she had disliked them well before the rather traumatic realization that Ronald's pet rat was, in fact, a fully grown man.
Frankly, that was deeply disturbing when one paused to think about it.
Determined to put as much distance between herself and the creature as possible, Hermione stepped towards the grand staircase rising from the center of the hall. It split into two symmetrical arches that curved upward toward a wide landing cloaked in tenebrous shadows. Suits of armor flanked the base on either side; their hollow visors watched the room with sentient attention.
Right, because that wasn't unsettling at all. Gods.
Pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders, Hermione shivered as a droplet of water trickled down her spine.
"Cold?"
Hermione's head snapped up instantly. Unfortunately, another squeak escaped her at the sight of a person standing there at the top of the staircase.
Gods above, when had he appeared? And how in Merlin's name had she not seen or heard him?
From what little she could make out, the silhouette was tall, with long lines and broad shoulders that cut through the umbra. Candlelight flickered along the sconces behind him, catching briefly on the edge of his dark cloak and the hint of a jaw beneath the hooded folds.
"I believe I asked you a question," the shadow asked mildly, voice sliding under her skin. "Are you cold?"
Clearing her throat, she quickly replied, "I'm fine."
"Mm. Are you? You're shivering."
"Well, I did just hike up a mountain in the rain," she pointed out, gesturing to herself before lifting the hem of her cloak and letting it fall to the ground with a wet splat. "On foot, mind you."
He didn't respond, and yet she could feel his stare penetrating where she stood, dripping onto what appeared to be a very, very fancy Persian rug.
Good. She hoped she had ruined it.
Dragging in a much-needed breath through her nose, she lifted her chin, forcing herself to stand tall. She would do this. She would be brave, and she certainly would not cower in front of this stranger. "I'm Hermione Granger," she explained simply. "The Healer sent by—"
"I know who you are."
"H-How?" she stammered, bravado all but vanishing. "How do you know who I am?"
"Doesn't everyone?" he purred.
Well, he wasn't wrong because, yes, people knew who she was. And she wasn't foolish enough to pretend that anonymity shielded her even in wartime. She'd been on the Darkin's pamphlets—the ones in favor of Voldemort's regime—and her face was plastered on wanted posters and spoken about in speeches, calling her 'The Mudblood', or 'The Golden Bitch', or 'Harry Potter's Witch'.
Recognizable was an understatement at this point.
Hermione loosed a breath. "Look," she said, forcing steadiness back into her voice. "I'm here because you told us that you had the cure. So, can we get on with this, or are we going to keep playing this game?"
The shadow chuckled softly, gloved fingertips curling around the stone balustrade. "And what game," he purred, "do you think we're playing together?"
She bristled. "Uh? You tell me."
"You walked into my house, Ms. Granger," he replied indifferently. "Did you not? And of your own volition no less."
"Yes, but I was instructed to—"
"And how did they make you?" he interrupted. "Tell me."
Hermione blinked. "M-Make… me?"
"Yes. How did they make you?"
"They didn't make me do anything," she said sharply. "I'm—I'm here on my own free will."
"Are you now? Interesting."
Her brows knit together. "What exactly is that supposed to mean? I'm here on behalf of the Order to offer my services in exchange for—"
"Yes, yes." The shadow waved a dismissive hand. "I am well aware of why you believe you're here. What I asked was whether you understood why you are here."
Hermione hesitated, then, suddenly unsure (and she hated being unsure). "Because you… uh, well, you requested a skilled Healer? Didn't you?"
"Wrong."
Every hair on her body stood on end then, prickling against her leathers. And for the first time since arriving in Romania, a very unpleasant thought occurred to her that perhaps the arithmetic of this arrangement had been severely miscalculated by the Order.
Gods, she knew she shouldn't have agreed so easily to this.
The shadow tilted his head. "Yes, maybe you shouldn't have."
Hermione blinked. Had she spoken aloud? She didn't think she did, but… well.
"Now, I know you are not a daft witch, Ms. Granger," he sighed heavily. "Quite the opposite, in fact, if the stories about you are even half true. I'd go as far as to say you're known to be one of the finest healers in Britain, are you not?"
Nervously, her finger dug into the skin around her thumbnail, pressing and pressing and pressing in the hope that the pain would outweigh the unease.
"Am I wrong?" he drawled. "And please, do try answering verbally."
Hermione shook her head. "No."
"Mm. That's what I thought."
Again, objectively speaking, he wasn't wrong because she was one of the best.
She'd completed advanced healing certifications two years into the war, especially when survival required her brewing mastery and her skills. She'd trained under St. Mungo's medi-witches, who moved their materials into Hogwarts behind protective wards once the wizarding hospital had been compromised. Her research on restorative potion theory had circulated quietly through the war effort networks. She could identify structural instability in magical compounds at a glance and understood pre-industrial alchemical binding agents well enough to recognize the architecture of a toxin most healers would overlook entirely.
And so, if someone had engineered this biological-warfare poison from Dark Mağïck (as she'd personally theorized), she was probably one of the few people left who could understand this so-called cure. Which was why she assumed she was here, because it was why she was here. Right? Right.
Gods, she hated being in the dark—hated not understanding.
"What's not to understand, Ms. Granger?" the shadow purred, dragging her from her thoughts. Leaning forward against the balustrade, he braced his leather-clad arms against the stone, face still hidden within the hood of his robes. "I think the answer is rather obvious. Did you not read my letter?"
Hermione blinked, nonplussed yet again, because she definitely had not said that out loud. She was almost certain of it.
"Ah. I see now…" A low chuckle filled the room, curling around her until it tickled the delicate hairs on her damp nape. "Oh, how interesting this is. Oh, so very interesting, indeed."
Scoffing, she demanded: "How so?"
"Now, here is where my confusion begins," he continued, ignoring her. "Because I was under the impression you were the Brightest Witch of Them All." He waved his hand in a flourish. "That's what they say, isn't it? That's what they call you in the Prophet and the Darkin's Pamphlets and the Quibbler, yes? Then again, I do suppose you can't believe everything you read."
Heat crept up the line of her throat, bleeding into her cheeks. Gods.
Honestly? She felt like an idiot because she hadn't even asked to read the letter—no, she just assumed. She'd only seen the broken crimson wax seal and the expensive parchment clutched in Professor McGonagall's wrinkled hands and assumed.
"Pity, though," he continued thoughtfully, "that you aren't what I expected. It's been far too long since I've had someone to challenge me mentally, physically… and, well, otherwise."
Hermione opened her mouth, already preparing to argue (because how dare he question her intelligence), but the words stalled somewhere behind her teeth. Fuck. Well, that was annoying, wasn't it?
"What?" he laughed lowly. "Kneazle caught your tongue, Ms. Granger? Or do you want to actually admit that you have no idea why you are here, and your precious Order lied to you? It is entirely your choice. I do, after all, have eternity."
"Of course, I know why I'm here!" she shot back, determined. "I'm here because you have the cure, and want a female healer in exchange."
"Oh?" he said mildly. "Do I?"
"Yes!"
"In a way, I suppose I do want a female." The shadow tilted his head from side to side, considering her, and she could feel him smiling down at her behind the recesses of his hood. "But I don't know how much… healing will be involved."
Hermione's eyes widened. "I—? What?"
"Mm. I believe you heard me perfectly well."
"Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want from me?"
The man laughed sharply. "Oh, I do not think this is how this works, Ms. Granger. You are not going to be the one demanding answers when your perfect little band of heroes failed to inform you of why you are here. They told you that I needed you, and you skipped over here at the first chance you got to save the day."
"No! I came because—"
"Because you have a heart of gold and you are perfect, little Granger," he sneered. "I'm not wrong, am I? And let me guess—you thought this would be so simple, didn't you? Between you and me? But do you even know what I am? Do you know what I might do to you if I have the chance?"
Unease churned low in her gut, then.
And as much as she wanted to stop herself, she couldn't help but think of all the consequences of her stupidity and her actions coming into this home—this castle—without knowing the truth. Gods, would he… force himself on her? Imprison her? Use her as leverage against the Order? Harm her? Kill her?
Or something far worse that would make her wish for a swift death.
Hermione pressed her lips together.
She wasn't naïve enough to think the best of everyone or to believe in the moral obligations one might have. War had stripped that particular illusion years ago. And by now, at the ripe age of twenty-five, she'd heard most of the horror stories of those captured by Death Eaters. She knew that the world she currently lived in was a far more sinister place ever since Voldemort and his admirers of Darkins took equal control of Great Britain and most of Europe, forcing the Order to be on high alert every second of every day.
There was no hiding magic now, and there was no stopping Death Eaters from murdering Muggles in plain sight.
Unfortunately, sometimes war came at a cost.
And now, tonight? Standing alone in the mountains of Romania with a stranger? Well, she had the sinking suspicion she might be about to pay it.
Hermione quickly swallowed down all that unease as she drew herself up to her full height. "Tell me what I apparently need to know," she bit out.
He clicked his tongue. "Salazar… so demanding."
"Yeah, well, so I've been told."
"Mm. I'm sure you have. Just as I'm sure you've been told to keep your swott mouth shut at times, but you never do listen. Pity there."
Hermione released a small, annoyed sound in the back of her throat. Prick.
The shadow shifted, moving along the balcony between the twin staircases. The black leather adorning his hand lazily traced a pattern over the stone. And as much as she would've loved to say she didn't watch it with rapt attention, that was a foolish lie.
Idiot. Honestly.
Raising her chin, she forced herself to ask: "Are you going to tell me or not?"
"Tell you what?"
A groan escaped her. "Are you going to tell me what I'm apparently missing here?"
"Should I?" he purred. "Because where's the fun in that. But… since I'm feeling generous today, I'll let you know that you've been given incomplete information by the Order on why you are here, Hermione Granger. Though I think you already know that, and I think you already know that you've possibly been lied to by your Order." He paused, tilting his head. "No, definitely lied to. Mm. Well, it seems not everyone can be perfect, can they?"
She opened her mouth to argue when the candlelight shifted, allowing her to see him properly. The words died out with the click of her molars.
Holy gods… He was enormous.
No, honestly, truly massive, in a way she couldn't quite comprehend as her skin prickled and her body grew all hot.
The man towered over her from the top of the stairs, swallowing the shrouding darkness around him whole, as if it were moulding into his form. He wore what she assumed was uniform regalia, but not the battle sort she saw on those rare occasions they let her fight, but more along the vein of something she imagined a Count to wear or those on Voldemort's High Council. Something bespoke and well-tailored, especially for those who would attend only formal galas, balls, and dinner parties, leaving the fighting to those lesser than.
Dangerous was certainly a way to put it, she supposed. Expensive would be another. Elegant.
A fitted, high-collared tunic was layered beneath structured matte leather, reinforced at the shoulders and ribcage to suggest mobility and protection. Silver buckles stretched diagonally across his torso, catching the light. A wide belt was cinched at his waist, fitted with sleek black fastenings and what looked like concealed sheath slots beneath the line of the dark cloak draped over his shoulders and over his head.
And on his face was a mask.
Oh gods.
Hermione's pulse thudded as she asked hesitantly, "You're—? You're masked?"
"Am I?" he mused sardonically. "Salazar, I didn't realize."
"A Death Eater?"
"Now, what do you think, Granger?"
Of course, the sure answer would be yes. Obviously. However, given the state of her instincts and the way confusion prickled at her subconscious, she didn't quite trust herself to respond.
He tilted his head. "Would it make you more comfortable if I removed the mask?"
Immediately, she nodded. "Y-Yes."
The man clicked his tongue. "Too bad."
Bristling, Hermione rolled her eyes, folding her arms over her chest as she looked around the entrance hall. There were a few dozen portraits in the next hall, though, judging by their dark oil coloring, she knew they were vacant.
"I still find myself curious," he hummed, dragging her focus back to him as he stepped one boot onto the first step and then the next. "Do you really not know why you are truly here, Ms. Granger? Or are you playing me to be the fool?"
"Why are we still going on about this?" she asked. "I think it's established that clearly I don't know, and before you tell me that I'm—" she shook her head, stopping herself. "Just… why do you care so much?"
"Because I told you I'm curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat."
"So did stupidly. And shouldn't everyone care if they've been deceived by the people who are supposed to protect them?"
Well, he wasn't wrong.
That cloying knot filled her throat as she stared, watching him slowly descend the stairs.
"And I have a lot of time to… kill," he added. "I guess you could say."
Something about his words—his voice—filled her with an odd sort of familiarity. It tugged at a core memory from years prior that she couldn't place. It prickled through the recesses of her mind until her skin tightened and her blood pumped, and the space between her thighs felt like it was on fire. Molten. The drab gray of her healer's uniform scratched at her waist, feeling like needles on her skin, and the collar of her rain-soaked cloak felt too suffocating.
Take it off.
The thought flared through her until it was all she could think about—all she could imagine was how wrong the fabric felt on her body.
Let the cloak fall… You don't need it anymore, do you?
No, she didn't need it, she supposed.
In fact, that felt like an excellent idea as she fumbled with the loose fastenings around her throat. The drenched fabric slid down her body, landing on the floor with a splat as she stepped out of the navy material.
No… It's not enough, is it? You're insatiable, aren't you? Keep going…
Yes, she was insatiable and so needy. Yes. Yes. Yes. Gods above, she was, she was, she was. She was so hungry for something that boiled within her—something that wasn't nice or mundane or even rational.
The realization of that was almost worse than the sensation itself.
She wanted to get naked, strip herself bare, and lie herself out on the cool stone to give her some reprieve from the gooey heat bleeding over her skin. She wanted to dive into the depths of those shadows licking up the walls, wondering if they'd taste her just the same. She wanted this man to study her, caress her, fuck her. She wanted—
"What—?" Hermione gasped, hand flying to her throat as she stumbled back from the base of the stairs. Her fingertips pressed into the throbbing pulse, attempting to stop the treacherous beat. "What did you do?"
A rough chuckle drifted down to her. "What did I do?" he echoed. "I did absolutely nothing."
"No," she shot back. "You did something. I felt—"
Immediately, she cut herself off with a click of her molars together, letting the sharp pain of enamel against enamel steady her unease. And gods, she couldn't even think about what she was about to admit aloud.
Unfortunately, further warmth flooded her cheeks, giving her away. Ugh.
"Well," the man purred lowly, "now I'm curious, witchling. What did I do to you? What did you feel? Come on… You can trust me."
"Oh, please!" she scoffed. "I don't know you! And—! And—!"
"And what?"
An agitated sound escaped her as she flattened her palm against her neck before letting it fall to her side. Only a few minutes with this masked man—this Death Eater—and she wanted to dig her nails into his skin and scream.
"What did I do?" he asked again. "I must've done something."
"This is absurd!" she snapped, clenching her fists. "If you think this little performance is clever, it isn't. And if you're attempting some sort of charm or enchantment to confuse me or toy with me, I can assure you I'm not at all amused. So, unless you intend to behave like a rational, mature human being, I will be leaving!"
"Will you?"
"Yes!"
He hummed softly. "Unfortunately, Ms. Granger, that is impossible. You cannot leave this place until I allow it, or the magic gives you permission."
She squinted up at him, folding her arms defiantly across her chest. "Is it?"
"I don't know," he countered. "You tell me. Surely you felt the Blood Wards when you entered my home, did you not?"
"Yes, of course, I—"
"And yet you still chose to cross them?"
"I, uh, did… yes."
"Ah. Well, then we have our answer," he laughed, the sound curling around her and sliding under her skin. "You entered only my lands, knowing full well that only I can permit you to leave. You are here now, in my castle, and you know full well that the magic I've used is not anything a simple charm can reverse. That is, unless you somehow manage to take my blood, which I'll give you a hint will be impossible."
Hermione closed her eyes, allowing that irritation to bloom white-hot in her chest. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Honestly? Why didn't she think before? Why didn't she at least run a few diagnostic spells before crossing the boundary like an incompetent amateur?
"Oh," he hummed, "don't beat yourself up too much, Ms. Granger. Everybody makes mistakes."
Yeah, well, she didn't.
Suddenly, the air felt too thick and cloying, becoming an unyielding noose around her neck where her collar was too taut. And Godric, all she wanted to do right then was take off her uniform—to remove the wet clothes clinging to her skin, trapping the muggy heat within.
Yes, she should take it off.
She should take off her dress.
She should.
She should.
She should.
"I think that is an excellent idea," he purred. "And if that is what you desire, then you should do it."
Head snapping up, she blinked out of the haze. "W-What?"
"Remove your dress."
"N-No!" she gasped. "I—absolutely not!"
A low, sinister growl escaped from the edges of the darkness, echoing around her until she was near certain it vibrated along the walls.
"Remove your dress, Hermione. I won't ask again."
Immediately, she obeyed as the command slammed into her without warning. Her hands rose of their own accord, fingers fumbling with the line of buttons down the front of the gray material. She worked over them as if she were coming off a shift, too tired to do anything but strip down and lie prone on her bed in Gryffindor Tower.
The fabric slipped over her shoulders, gliding down her body before rustling to the floor quietly.
Even in her knee-length cotton chemise, she felt naked—bare. She was exposed for his viewing pleasure. The thin material clung to the lines of her body, soaked through by the rain, making her aware that nothing was left to the imagination. And the dull glow of candlelight was enough to permeate through the fabric, revealing the space between her thighs and the hardened peaks of her breasts.
Hermione covered her chest with her arms, heat rushing to her cheeks.
"Better," he purred, voice curling around her like a lover's touch. "Mm. Much better."
The fog in her head lifted, feeling like a rubber band against flesh as she gasped, nearly doubling over at the pain racing through her. Gods, what was that?
Righting herself, she glared at him. "You do not get to do that! I told you not—!"
"Told me what?"
"Listen here, mister!" Hermione snapped, jabbing an accusatory finger up at him as she took a step forward. "I don't know what brand of manipulative magic you've just decided to experiment with tonight, but let me be perfectly clear—there is the concept of consent." She placed one booted foot on the stairs, then the other. "And in case that particular lesson was omitted from whatever educational institution produced you, it means I decide what happens to me. Not you. Not your magic. And gods, certainly not whatever you're trying to get out of this!"
He remained silent, watching her with curiosity.
"And I will not be compelled, coerced, enchanted, or magically-whatever'd into disrobing simply because you think that's better! Got it?"
The soft patter of rain fell on the windows, and the rat—yes, the one she really tried hard not to think about—skittered across the floor.
Worse? She could feel his gaze move with that unhurried laziness down the length of her form. She could feel him tracing the way the chemise clung to her waist and the curve of her hips, and the narrow shape of her thighs.
Gods above. Men.
"You know," he murmured, "it's nice to see that war has not dulled your edges, Granger."
Hermione blinked, brows knitting as her earlier annoyance vanished. "Do we—?" she swallowed. "Do I know you?"
"Doesn't everyone know one another in some way?"
Well, that really didn't answer her question, but he had a point.
An indifferent exhale escaped him then. "Though I do suppose that we've known each other for quite some time. One may even say it feels like decades."
Immediately, her mind raced, flickering through memories. A classmate? An ex-Order member? There were only so many people left who could say something like that, and it was a depressingly small list.
Also, she was certain that it was not Professor Snape.
Her thoughts skipped through her classmates at Hogwarts, mostly Slytherins because, well, that was obvious. Most of them were gone now or had been captured by the Order. In fact, Malfoy had died almost four years ago now during one of the battles. Nott had been captured months ago, only to perish of sepsis before any useful information could be extracted. Blaise Zabini had been missing for over a decade. And honestly, Crabbe and Goyle, we're not this smooth to be playing games.
Though, okay, Marcus Flint was still alive (or she was sure of it), but last she heard, he was doing Voldemort's workings in the Americas.
Maybe this was someone she'd come across before in her youth. Or maybe he only knew her through the clippings in the Prophet? A strong possibility. But who? Who would be a Death Eater and live within the Romanian mountains? Also, why her? Why a Healer? He looked perfectly fine to her.
"Come," he beckoned, cleaving through her spiraling thoughts. "I believe we both have things we need from each other."
Hermione scoffed. "I am not following you."
Tilting his head faintly, he hummed, "I had assumed you would be pragmatic."
"I am!" she quipped. "Which is precisely why I am not wandering deeper into a foreign castle with a masked Death Eater and, quite frankly, a stranger."
"I see," he intoned. "You know, if I intended to harm you, then I would've done it by now. In fact, if I wanted you dead, I could've done it before you even took a breath inside my home." He snapped his gloved fingers together. "Just. Like. That."
Her stomach tightened apprehensively as bile rose in her throat.
"And if I wanted to fuck you," he went on evenly, taking one step down, "then I would've had you stripped naked and on all fours without a single word coming from your swott mouth. My cock would be buried so far inside you that it would come out of your throat. And I wouldn't care if it hurt or if you cried and begged me to stop. I would've fucked you until the carpets were stained with your blood and my come."
She gulped audibly, fingernail digging into the tender skin around her thumb.
"Is that clear?" he purred, taking another slow step. "I can easily bend you to my will if I want, but have I? No, I think not. And I am not going to harm you, Hermione Granger. For as little as you probably think of me, I can assure you that I am not that much of a monster."
The way he said her name did all sorts of terrible, awful, and not-at-all arousing things to her. Which was just so wrong after everything he'd just said, and she knew that.
Gods above…
"I asked if that was clear, Ms. Granger," he said coldly. "I expect you to answer my questions when I give them to you."
"But—?" she swallowed thickly. "But you compelled me?"
"I influenced a suggestion," he corrected. "There is a difference."
"Is there?"
"But you broke it, didn't you? So, was there any harm done?"
Well, now that she thought about it, no, not really. And begrudgingly enough, it was nice to get out of her wet clothes.
"See?" he hummed. "Everything works out in the end."
Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes at that. Honestly.
"But," he went on. "I do require parts of you as you require parts of me. A symbiotic exchange, if you will. That's all, and I do promise that it will be most pleasurable for both of us in the end."
"Pleasurable?" she squeaked.
"Mm. Yes, most pleasurable if you follow my instructions and don't fight me on every move. I give you my word, Ms. Granger."
She dug her finger further into the skin around her nail. "But—? But won't you tell me what you require?"
"Ah," he chuckled darkly. "But where is the fun in that? Besides, I cannot be at fault for what your friends did not tell you about the circumstances. Such a shame that is… truly. I was hoping you came here solely because of that."
Hell, she didn't know whether to be angry or curious or even a bit of both—irritated at the situation, at the war, at the moving parts that placed her here alone as a clear sacrificial lamb, while no one else knew where she was. Not Harry. Not Ronald. Not Ginny. Not her fellow Healers. Irritation in the horrible hand that she'd been dealt because everything, everything was for the greater good.
What she did know, however, was that warmth bloomed between her thighs, and that interest over this stranger.
Which, yes, was just wrong in all regards, and she silently cursed her biological nature for being so needy.
Seriously, when had it ever reacted like this? Not in the hundreds of times she'd been surrounded by men back at headquarters. Not when she watched them train shirtless in the cloister. And certainly not when Ron made those attempted advances on her, which she politely rejected until he got the hint years prior.
The vein in her neck throbbed, and she swore she caught just the slightest inhale from the man standing above.
"And if I decline?" she asked finally, breaking the silence. "What then?"
With a lazy, gloved hand, he flicked his fingers. The front doors flew open immediately with a sharp crack as cold mountain wind poured through the threshold. It seemed to slice across her bare arms and the backs of her thighs, through the thin, damp cotton of her chemise.
Hermione sucked in a breath as ice licked across her overheated skin. Gods.
"If you decline, then you may leave," he answered mildly. "And I will give you my permission if that is what you wish."
"I thought you said I couldn't," she countered.
"I said you couldn't leave without it, not that you couldn't."
The candles along the wall flickered violently with the draft, and Godric, she was cold.
"And now?" she pressed, wrapping her arms around herself. "What now?"
"Well, now you can return to the Order," he hummed, seemingly bored. "But I think you and I both know that if you do that, you will have to tell them why. You will have to tell them that the cure for what is so painfully killing your friends, loved ones, and family was just within reach, but you chose to leave, knowing that you, Hermione Granger, were the reason that so many died because of a fear-driven decision you made. You chose not to proceed. You chose to be a coward."
Those words seemed to cut into her worse than the frozen kiss, needling her exposed skin. You chose to be a coward.
Unfortunately, she knew what was stretched out before her. And she knew that this man—this stranger—was only manipulating her to get what he wanted. The truth that he painted with infirmary beds and ghostly faces and blood pooling from orifices it shouldn't.
Twenty dead.
Twelve close to it.
Could she really move through the rest of her life knowing that she was the reason they did not survive? That she was the reason they were now buried in a mass grave by the Black Lake, with only a stone memorial plaque in remembrance? That this was all her fault? That she was the one with blood on her hands? What was the worst that could happen here? If she gave him her consent, then it would be… well, whatever he requested.
Sex, possibly.
Yes, perhaps sex in exchange for the cure.
And was that so bad? Honestly. After all, people made sacrifices all the time in war. They made difficult choices, enduring discomfort because it was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do. It was.
It was… wasn't it?
"You should also know," he hummed, dragging her from her dark reverie, "that my offer is not infinite." He leaned in closer, revealing more of his silver mask. "Though I do love a good chase. Tick-tock, witch. Tick-tock."
Swallowing thickly, she stared up at him, allowing a surge of courage to sweep through her. And gods, she had always hated binary choices, but she hadn't been harmed so far. Right? Well, okay, other than the compulsion. But she felt like she could oddly trust him—which, yes, if she knew better, she would've thought that through.
"I am not going to harm you," he murmured, seeming to read her thoughts. "Well, not unless you attempt to harm me."
She searched beneath the shroud of the cloak's hood, wondering if she could sense the deceit in his tone, but found none.
"You could be lying," she whispered.
"Yes," he purred. "I could."
"And you are manipulating me."
"Mm. Some would call it tempting, Ms. Granger."
"And you could be a psychopath."
A faint, amused chuckle escaped him. "That remains to be determined, but I can assure you I've been called far worse."
Unable to help it, Hermione's lips twitched, feeling an odd, unwelcome swell of excitement within her. Honestly, it was entirely inappropriate given the circumstances and not at all helpful. Ugh.
Slowly, she exhaled, mentally running over the logic that she could rely on. A few random pros and cons that she probably should've made before coming here.
Pros? He had the cure (or so he claimed). He hadn't harmed her (yet). And he'd also already given her permission to leave.
Cons? Everything else.
Hermione's thumb found the ragged skin beside her nail and pressed and pressed and pressed.
Twenty dead.
Twelve dying.
The numbers had been written in chalk on the infirmary board that morning, and she had been the one to stand there and update them the moment that one more had passed.
Twenty-one dead.
Eleven dying.
For the greater good, Ms. Granger. For Harry. For this war. For the future, we might not have.
The phrase echoed unpleasantly in her mind, rattling around until it was all she could think of. But that was always the justification, wasn't it? The logic. The bodies were traded for time, and losses were measured against survival.
Worse? She could still see them. Gods, could see Cho's grey lips and Percy's trembling hands and Angelina's blood spilling out of her eyes as Hermione tried the best she could to reapply the bandages over her sores.
Twenty-one dead
Eleven dying.
Her thumb pressed harder and harder until pain sparked in her hand. Fuck.
Unfortunately, she already had her answer because what more did she have to lose? And what more did she have to give? What more could the people around her take and take and take until she was left with nothing, morphing her into skin and bone?
"Fine," she said at long last, swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat. "I'll do it. I'll—whatever it is that you want, I'll do it."
With a lazy flick of his gloved fingers, the doors slammed shut behind her. "See?" he hummed. "Was that so difficult?"
No, but she wouldn't dare admit that, least not to this stranger.
"I suggest you remove those boots," he said coolly. "Sooner rather than later would be preferred."
Sighing, she heeled off her shoes and stockings, finding herself relieved to be out of the squishy wetness that consumed the leather Harry had given her a few years back for Yule.
"Better?" he mused, and she nodded, toes curling on the Persian rug. "Good. Now here's where the real fun begins, Ms. Granger. Come."