Chapter Text
Hermione’s breath came out in shallow puffs, trying to ignore the constricting winter air that froze her lungs from the inside out with every inhale. The snow was coming down harder than ever, and her threadbare jacket was hardly weather appropriate when it was new.
Still, she ran.
She ran as fast as she could, slipping on the icy leaves littered on the forest floor, because if she slowed, she would be caught. Hermione wasn’t sure how long she had been running now, but she knew she was the last one likely left from the safe house. Parvati Patil, Dennis Creevey, Justin Finch-Fletchley… they had all been behind her at one point, and now they were gone. Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she swore they froze on her cheeks in the cold. Her hands were turning blue, her trainers soaked with melted snow and mud and blood.
Gods, there hadn’t been any warning. One minute, she was sitting at the dining table with her friends, chatting about the Yule Ball of all things, and the next—Death Eaters were everywhere. Cho Chang never saw the curse coming, the sectumsempra that had all but decapitated her and splattered Hermione with her blood. Also among those she’d seen fall at her feet were Ernie Macmillan, Oliver Wood, and a Ravenclaw from a year above her in school whose name she could never seem to remember. Hermione had barely had time to fire a stunner before fleeing out the side door of the house; she was forever grateful for the undetectable extension charm on her bag she kept on her person.
Hermione could barely keep her grip on her wand, and her teeth clattered together so loudly she was certain a tooth would chip. A vague, abstract thought about oral hygiene and her parents flitted through her mind, but she quashed them in favour of evasive manoeuvers. The trees were growing less dense in this part of the woods, and she knew she didn’t stand a chance in open combat with more than one foe. Her chest heaved as she scrambled to form some kind of contingency; apparition wasn’t possible for at least another mile in any direction, and a disillusionment charm was messy and obvious in the blowing snow. Voices rang out behind her over the sound of the wind, and Hermione knew she was out of time. Cloaked figures surrounded her from all sides now, ominous in the dying winter light.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Potter’s mudblood,” sneered a familiar voice as the group of Death Eaters creeped closer. “How’s the last three years been treating you without your precious Chosen One, Granger?” The Death Eater speaking removed his mask, and Hermione stared into the ugly face of one Marcus Flint. Several of the others tittered behind him, clearly enjoying the performance.
“Get fucked, Flint,” she shot back, doing her damndest to keep her wand trained on him. Even now, though, Hermione could feel the adrenaline dissolving from her veins, and black spots began to appear in the periphery of her vision.
It was so bloody cold.
She was about to die, she knew this, and the knowledge that it was almost over was surprisingly comforting. Hermione was ready to see Harry again. To see Remus, and Tonks, and Arthur, Molly, Fred… so many of her friends and family were dead; she sank to her knees and then fell backward into the snow. She only hoped they’d make it quick, but she just couldn’t muster the energy to care. As her vision really began to fade, the purple crackle of the anti-apparition wards flared and broke, and there was a soft POP somewhere near her in the clearing. Another familiar voice spoke, so familiar, but like an itch she couldn’t reach, it eluded her as she slipped into oblivion.
Oblivion was dark. And warm. Too warm. Uncomfortably warm.
Her body ached, and her head was screaming at her. So she was still alive, then.
Fuck.
Hermione groaned and blinked her eyes one, twice, trying to figure out where the hell she actually was. Ignoring the shocks of pain behind her eyes, she peered around at her surroundings. A few torches flickered against familiar stone walls, revealing a row of dormitory cots with clean sheets and quilts. Hermione herself was tucked into one, which accounted for the sweltering temperature that caused a sheen of sweat on her whole body. She tried to sit up and found herself quite unable to do so; a body bind jinx, then.
“Oh, lovely, you’re awake.” The voice rang out so suddenly, if Hermione could move a muscle below her neck, surely she would have leapt from the bed. “I was beginning to think you’d suffered a head injury the diagnostics missed!”
A portly woman with grey streaked black hair and beady eyes rounded on her as if from nowhere, looking superficially jovial. The warmth of her toothy smile certainly did not meet those eyes, dark and devoid of emotion.
Hermione opened her mouth to speak but found no sound would come forth. The woman’s smile grew wider and meaner. Hermione thought she could have been a younger Umbridge.
“Don’t worry, dear, we’ll have you put right in no time at all, and then you can begin this exciting new chapter of your life.” Cold dread washed over her, and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could to stop the tears from slipping down her temples.
“There now, no crying. They won’t want one that cries, even one as pretty as you.” Hermione tried to scream, not caring that even as the sound was magically ripped from her throat, her vocal cords fried and tore all the same. The woman, who Hermione now believed to be a Healer if her puce robes gave any indication, simply tutted and fussed with her pillow before casting a diagnostic charm over her chest. It flashed multi-colored runes, most of which were green and blue, with a few yellow as well. The diagnostic vanished before Hermione could discern what each rune meant, and the Healer pulled a small vial of inky blue potion from a pocket in her robes.
“Now, you will open your mouth and swallow this down without fuss, like a good little mudblood.” Her eyes turned sharper if it was even possible, yet the simpering smile persisted. “I do not want to have to call anyone in to assist me, but if you do not comply, I have no choice but to use force.” She unstoppered it and the air around the bed was suddenly filled with an awful odour of decay and mildew.
Hermione recoiled her face and mouthed ‘What is that?’ The Healer, unsurprisingly, ignored her question and brought the vial closer to Hermione’s lips.
“Bottoms up, dear.” It tasted even worse than it smelled, and Hermione wasn’t entirely certain she even could keep it down of her own volition. Nothing good could come from a potion that foul, she was sure of that. “There now, not so bad, is it?” Hermione sneered at the witch, and was rewarded with a sharp slap. Her mouth tinged with blood as the force of the smack broke the inside of her cheek on her molars. “Manners, little mudblood. Manners.” One last false smile had her bustling away, humming a jaunty tune as she did.
Hours crept by, and while Hermione could feel the exhaustion in every centimetre of her body, she refused to sleep another wink. It was clear that she was in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, and that could mean nothing good. The castle had been Voldemort’s since the Battle that took Harry’s life when they were seventeen. Little news reached the Order about the purposes the castle now served, but one thing was certain: those that were brought here did not come out again. Mostly women and girls, from the rumours that swirled around various safe houses Hermione inhabited.
As dawn broke over the horizon and the pale, weak, winter light began to flood the wing, she could no longer keep her eyes open. Just before the sweet darkness overcame her, Hermione caught sight of a cloaked figure with a shock of white blonde hair, unintelligible heated words floating down the hospital beds and into her ears.
This time when Hermione came to, her limbs twitched and her chest gasped. The pain that had radiated through her body was gone, her head felt clear, though the rawness in her throat persisted. Her eyes opened and she knew at once she was no longer in the hospital wing.
No, Hermione found herself reclined on a sofa, still restrained by magic but not as tightly as before. The room was warm, as a fire flickered in the hearth on the far wall, but it wasn’t smothering. A desk sat in the far corner opposite the fireplace, parchment stacked and quills and ink strewn about. A large enchanted candelabra chandelier hung directly over her head, just like the one that McGonagall had in her office all those years ago. In fact, it was identical.
“I’ve always hated that bloody thing, but it’s permanently stuck there.”
Hermione whipped her head around at the sound of the familiar voice; the voice from the woods that night she was taken, the voice from the far end of the hospital wing… the voice of Draco Malfoy. One of Voldemort’s most trusted, most loyal, most vicious Death Eaters. Second only to perhaps Bellatrix Lestrange in notoriety, Malfoy had risen quickly through the ranks to become invaluable to the Dark Lord. More than half the intel the Order received on Death Eater movements had Malfoy leading the pack.
He was ruthless.
He was unfeeling.
He was a cold-blooded murderer.
Out of instinct, Hermione reached for the wand holster on her thigh, only to find it not only empty but gone. Malfoy offered her a smirk and a slight uptick of his brow. Closing the door from which he’d emerged behind him, he strode toward her and sat in the armchair nearest her head.
“Wh-what—” Hermione rasped, the words sticking to her throat like flypaper. “What do you want with me?”
A pause, nearly indiscernible. “Oh, pet, the Dark Lord has gifted you to me, as a reward for my years of faithful service.” His words were tinged with an emotion she couldn’t decipher, but she had no doubt of their truth.
“N-no!” Hermione cried, fighting the magical bonds that snaked over her limbs. “Please—”
“Now, none of that,” he tutted, cutting off her feeble attempts. He took the tone of a parent chastising a petulant child. “I know you’re bright enough to understand that pleading will get you nowhere.” A tear escaped the rim of her eyes, and she flinched when Malfoy reached to wipe it from her cheek. “It really is no use, pet. I’m going to let you out of your binds now, and then we will have a little chat about my expectations for you.”
Hermione’s eyes darted quickly between Malfoy and the door she knew emptied into a corridor on the sixth floor. Perhaps she’d make it out the door, perhaps even into the hall, but she knew that no matter how quick and stealthy she was, she was not leaving this castle.
Defeat washed over her and when she felt the invisible ropes dissipate, she made no move to flee, simply brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. Hermione noted now that she wore her same clothes from the day she’d been taken, sans trainers and scourgified of blood and filth.
“How long?” she whispered, burying her face in her kneecaps. Her throat was crying for something cool and wet, but she ignored it. “How long have I been here?”
Malfoy rose from his chair and Hermione couldn't help but flinch backward. However, he simply strode past her and settled into the armchair behind what she assumed was his desk.
“You have been in the hospital wing for six days, in varying states of consciousness. Healer Selwyn tells me you had several lingering curses in your body, as well as severe dehydration and malnourishment.” His voice was clipped, stern. She noticed now his robes, militant in style with dark grey wool with silver embellishments and fastenings. Hermione had never seen Death Eater Officer robes up close, because of course if she’d had, she would be long dead.
Malfoy’s hair, so devoid of melanin it may as well have been pure white, was longer than how he kept it at school, and it curled just a touch at the ends. His face had grown into those sharp, aristocratic features. Defined cheekbones, straight nose, full lips… well, Hermione couldn’t deny, even though her loathing ran deep, he was certainly fit. And gods, his eyes. Midwinter, mercurial eyes that bore into her with such intensity, she scrambled to throw up her occlumency shields. They felt weaker than normal, and an awful thought shot through her brain.
“What was that awful potion they made me drink?” Hermione asked suddenly.
“Dampening magic, to ensure both your safety and mine.” Malfoy smirked at her. “I’m certain you’ve other questions rolling around in that giant, swotty brain of yours; now is the time to ask.”
“What do you want with me? Why am I not dead?”
He gave her a pointed look. “Surely you’re aware of your value as the Chosen Git’s best friend, Granger.” At the mention of Harry, Hermione’s eyes pricked with tears she refused to shed in the presence of Draco Malfoy. “The Dark Lord has been eager to quash the remains of the Order, and that hovel you were flushed out of was one of the last safe houses in the country. There are still members abroad of course, mostly sequestered in Ireland and France.
“The Dark Lord splits his time between France and here, having taken the Headmaster’s quarters for himself. I am, however, responsible for day to day operations. Hogwarts is, for all intents and purposes, mine. The men here answer to me. I am the second most powerful wizard in Britain, and the Dark Lord has rewarded my loyal service with you.” A lump of terror formed in Hermione’s chest and she cast another furtive glance at the heavy mahogany door that led out to the castle. Perhaps it was worth the risk, to try and run. Perhaps it would be better to simply die trying to escape. She would suffer at his hands, it was a guarantee.
As if reading her thoughts, Malfoy chuckled darkly.
“The door is heavily warded when closed, surely you’ve deduced this. Said wards will neither allow you to leave without an escort, nor harm you.”
Her throat was so dry, and she dreaded his answer, but still she asked, “w-what do you intend to do with me?”
Malfoy smiled now, in earnest.
“You’re mine, darling witch. I own you. And I have no intention of letting you go.”
Hermione couldn’t have stopped her tears now if she tried. They cascaded from her eyes and slipped down her cheeks in rapid succession. Her breathing grew ragged, and her chest constricted tightly. A panic attack. She hadn’t had one in years, but the sensation was unforgettable.
“P-please,” she rasped, struggling to get the words out. “J-just let me go, let me g-go!” She leapt up from the sofa and scrambled to the exit. Her arms shook from the intensity of the panic attack, but she forced them up and slammed them into the wood over and over. “Let me out, let me out, LET ME OUT!” Something in her wrist audibly cracked, but Hermione continued to rage and scream. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her middle and dragged her back. Malfoy held her tightly, depositing them both into an armchair in the sitting area. Still, she thrashed and clawed.
“Hermione, stop!” The use of her first name made her pause; she didn’t think he’d ever said it before. “It’s no use, sweetling, and you’ve injured yourself.” Her body wracked with silent sobs, any energy to be loud and violent fizzling out to unbearable exhaustion. “You’ve fractured your wrist banging on the door, pet.”
“P-please, just k-kill me.” Malfoy’s body tensed under her, and she heard him scoff. “I w-will never b-be yours, and I will n-never stop fighting you, s-so you m-may as well k-kill me now.”
“You’re exhausted, you don’t know what you’re saying,” he murmured in her ear. “Let me heal your wrist, then you can get some more rest.”
Hermione had no more fight left, she simply held out her injured wrist and allowed him to cast a healing charm. The full throb vanished, but now the ache in her head demanded her attention.
Malfoy deposited her onto the sofa before extracting a potion from a pocket in his robes. It was Dreamless Sleep. Hermione recoiled.
“I don’t want to take that. Please, I’ll b-be good.” She had heard stories of women forced to take Dreamless Sleep and then violated for the entirety of its efficacy, only to be forced to watch memories of their violation afterward. Malfoy, to his credit, only looked confused for a moment before his eyes widened. He quickly pocketed the potion.
“Hermione, let me make one thing abundantly clear. I will never force you. I may be a Death Eater, but I am not a rapist.” She still eyed him with trepidation, though relaxed from her defensive position. “When I fuck you for the first time, it will be entirely with your consent; you’ll be begging me for it.” She recoiled, but her stomach growled then, and loudly. Malfoy gave a small shake of his head and checked his pocket watch.
“It’s nearly eight, so why don’t I have breakfast brought up and I can show you our rooms.” His expression made it clear she should not argue. A clipped nod, and then she rose shakily to her feet. Malfoy gestured to the door behind his desk, so Hermione took a step toward it. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Give me your hand,” he said. Hermione brought up her left arm and Malfoy waved his wand over it. A silver bracelet appeared on her wrist, a delicate filigree of metal intertwined with dark stones that glinted in the early morning sun that shone through the window. “Obsidian, it works the same as the dampening potion; I know it tastes foul, and this is a more elegant solution.” He inspected it with scrutiny, pressing his thumb into the pulse point on her thin wrist. “It’s goblin-wrought, and magically clasped. It will not come off for anything but my magic. There’s also a tracking charm, just in case something were to happen to you.” His words were soft, and he kept his eyes on her hand while he spoke. It made Hermione feel unnerved; she hadn’t ever known Malfoy to be gentle.
A knock on the outer door, and she watched as his quicksilver eyes darkened to the colour of cast iron. Any softness she may have seen dissipated. He dropped her arm and it fell to her side.
“Enter,” he said in a clipped, authoritative tone. A hard glance and Hermione let the half second long idea of rushing the door to flit away. A young woman opened the door and pushed a cart of cloche covered food through. She wore a simple plum colored dress adorned with a white apron. Her hair was dirty blonde, and her eyes the sharpest blue. A dazed, semi-present expression that Hermione knew well danced on her round face.
“Luna!” she gasped, horrified. Luna disappeared six months after Hogwarts fell; she had been in the first safe house the Death Eaters raided. All the men and boys were killed, and the women and girls taken. A single memory in a small vial sat on the kitchen counter, showing the events that had occurred but hours before. Hermione herself had never watched the memory, but Ron had and he said it was one of the worst things he’d ever witnessed. She never asked for details.
“Hermione?” Luna’s voice was as dreamy as ever, if not tinged with nearly three years of fear. Her eyes looked between Hermione and Malfoy, and a small smile formed on her lips. “Oh dear, your heads are just full of nargles.” Hermione fought a roll of her eyes; Luna seemed to still be Luna, which was comforting, she supposed.
“You may go, Lovegood. Tell Drippy to send afternoon tea around one.” Malfoy strode toward the cart and handed her an orange. She thanked him and then skipped away, the heavy door creaking shut behind her. Once more, her captor turned his attention to Hermione, and the prickling sensation of dread ran up her back and arms.
“Shall we?” The door to his chambers opened at the wave of his hand, and the breakfast cart rolled of its own accord behind him. She followed him through the door, feeling the tension of the wards pulse around her frame.
That’s probably not good.
They entered into a large receiving area, plush sofas and wingback armchairs beside the large fireplace that Professor McGonagall must have used for Floo travel. The colour palette was muted, warm neutrals, from the tapestries on the walls to the expansive area rugs below their feet. Hermione had to physically bite her tongue to avoid a snarky comment about Slytherin house colours, but Malfoy caught the look on her face all the same.
“Not what you were expecting, I’m certain,” he said, one side of his mouth upturned slightly. “Believe it or not, my taste is not nearly as ostentatious as my father’s.” Hermione peered around the room, her curiosity getting the best of her. A formal dining table was situated to the left in an alcove wrapped in more cream tapestries, and the back wall held floor to ceiling bookshelves that were utterly filled. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight; many of her books had been lost over the last few years, usually when she had to flee a safe house with no notice.
“There are more in our chambers,” Malfoy commented flippantly, turning his gaze to the door on the back right wall. “Not just wizarding books, either. There is an impressive array of Muggle novels, as well. I’ve read a few; they’re quite good, to be frank.” But Hermione was frozen in fear from the implications of his phrasing.
“Our chambers?” she whispered, that familiar prickling returning with a vengeance. She could tell another panic attack was imminent if she couldn’t calm down.
“While I will not force myself upon you, we will share a bed, Hermione.” Malfoy pressed two fingers into her chin to tilt her eyes up to meet his. “You’re mine; my darling, my little pet, and I want you close.” Unable to suppress the terror a moment longer, Hermione’s chest heaved as she attempted to breathe. She clutched at her throat, the bile stinging and constricting her.
“Please,” she choked out. “Please don’t do this to me.” He said nothing, merely led her to sit on one of the sofas near the hearth. The breakfast cart rested beside the arm of the couch, and Malfoy set to fixing tea.
“Do you still take chamomile with sugar?” he asked, and it caught Hermione so off guard that he knew anything about her tea preferences that she was unable to speak. Malfoy continued busying himself with doctoring her cup before handing it to her on a bone china saucer. Her hands trembled terribly as she reached up to accept it, so he corrected his course and set the tea on the little table beside her. Sitting himself beside her, Malfoy sipped at his own cup.
“I understand this will be an adjustment, pet. I’m not ignorant of your opinion of me, but there is no safer place for you in England than here with me.” Hermione couldn’t help it, she snorted indelicately. His eyes briefly flashed in anger, but as suddenly as it appeared, it vanished, leaving a placid expression in its place. “You’ll see, in due course. The Order is all but finished, dead or captured or fled to the continent.” She said nothing, merely sat with her ankles crossed primly, hands folded in her lap, and closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
“I know it’ll be an adjustment,” Malfoy said again, his tone softer than just a moment ago, as if perhaps he’d realised the devastation his words had caused. “Please, drink your tea and help yourself to whatever you fancy from the breakfast cart. I can see how thin you’ve become, even through those rags.” With a wave of his hand, the cloche vanished to reveal a veritable mountain of breakfast foods.
As if to prove a point, Hermione’s traitorous stomach growled loudly when a whiff of the flaky pastries caught in her nose. Malfoy, to his credit, merely gave her a bland smile and inclined his head toward the tray.
Unable to resist the allure of hot, fresh food, Hermione begrudgingly rose to her feet. There were pastries, fresh fruit, rashers of bacon and sausages… she snatched up a croissant and returned to her seat. He watched her through amused eyes as she tore a little piece off and popped it into her mouth. The moan that roses from the back of her throat made her face flush with embarrassment, but Malfoy made no indication that he’d heard it.
“When you’ve finished your tea, why don’t you soak in a bath or try to nap,” he said after a minute of watching her eat. “I won’t be able to return until the evening, so I’ve instructed the staff to bring you lunch.” Malfoy rose, pulling a pair of dragon hide gloves out from a pocket within his robes and began to fasten them on. Hermione said nothing, instead reaching for the teacup now that her hands had stopped shaking so terribly. She couldn’t help but flinch, however, when he crossed the space between them.
“So skittish,” he murmured, tsking lightly, then bent to press his lips into her curls. “Yes, you really ought to have a bath. You smell like antiseptic potions. The closet has a selection of clothing that will fit you well enough until a tailor can be brought in for bespoke pieces. Feel free to explore the suite, read, whatever makes you feel most comfortable.” Then, he was gone, sealing the door to McGonagall’s old office behind him.
Hermione waited exactly seventy seven seconds, then dissolved into tears. Her teacup fell from her grasp, the delicate porcelain shattering against the rug. The hot chamomile splashed onto her bare feet but she could barely feel its sting, she was crying too hard. Heaving, gasping cries that left her breathless and panicky, all the tears she had longed to shed since waking up in Malfoy’s presence now fell.
The utter hopelessness of her predicament hit at the full force of the Hogwarts Express. She sank down off the sofa to her knees on the chilly floor, ignoring the painful bite of jagged porcelain poking her legs through threadbare denims. How was she expected to simply adjust? How could she submit to any Death Eater regime, let alone one headed up by Draco sodding Malfoy? She was a muggleborn, a mudblood, and he was systematically eradicating those like her. No, she thought with sudden determination, he can’t keep me here. I won’t let myself waste away here.
Resolve turning to iron in her veins, Hermione swiped at her face to dry her tears before standing up. In her grasp was a large shard of teacup, which she handled with care. She slowly made her way toward the far door, where Malfoy had indicated was their bedroom. Sure enough, a surprisingly modern layout sat behind the heavy wooden door, connected to a luxurious en-suite. A miniature version of the prefect’s bath sat in the middle of the bathroom, and Hermione vaguely wondered if it was always there or if Malfoy had had it installed when he claimed McGonagall’s chambers as his own.
Padding to the taps, she was relieved that they were not exclusively magical. There were ten different taps, and thankfully they were labelled (unlike in the prefect’s bath, which required guesswork and a good memory to properly use the blasted thing). Many of the scents were masculine, though she supposed that made sense considering Malfoy lived here alone up until today. She selected lavender and mint oils, a bergamot bubble bath, and set the tub to fill.
As the aromas of forgotten scents filled her nose, Hermione double checked that the door could lock from the inside. It wasn’t much up against Magic, of course, but it would buy her a few extra moments. For good measure, she shed her zip up and used it to tie around the door knob and a hook on the wall meant for towels. Undressing the rest of the way, she took a brief moment to look at her naked form in the mirror. It began spouting compliments, but she ignored it.
It had been nearly a year since she’d last looked properly at her body. Most of the safe houses were not equipped with full length mirrors, and though she could conjure one if she wished, the fact was that most days she just couldn’t be bothered to care what she looked like. She usually kept her hair up in a plaited coronet, having grown almost to her bum when wet. Somebody in the hospital wing had taken her hair down, however, and though the curl pattern was damaged from being plaited so often, it still bounced around her arms when she tilted her head to and fro.
Her face was gaunt and tear stained, splotchy and pink. Eyes that used to sparkle with excitement now just dull brown orbs, slightly sunken in. Freckled, golden skin that was too pale from lack of sunlight. Hip bones protruded violently from her skin, which was pulled too tight. Her breasts had never been large to begin with, but now she expected she’d not even fill out a brassiere with minuscule cups. Not that her appearance mattered, anyway. Hermione just wanted to see herself one last time.
The taps shut off on their own when the tub had filled, so she let out one single shuddering breath to rid herself of residual nerves, then lowered herself into the bath. The water was the perfect temperature, with purple and orange bubbles rising with the steam. Hermione groaned audibly as she sank down. It had been years since she’d had a bath; in the safe houses, they were lucky to have a working shower, let alone running water. The oils soothed her aching muscles, so she allowed herself a few minutes to enjoy it.
Malfoy wasn’t meant to be back until the evening, anyway.
After several minutes, Hermione decided if she waited any longer, she’d lose her nerve. Grasping the chipped porcelain in her hand, she raised it to her arm and dragged it as deeply as she could from elbow to wrist. The wound bisected her MUDBLOOD scar, which now was completely obscured by blood. Already, she began to feel woozy and light-headed, but Hermione forced herself to fight through the fog to repeat the wound on her other arm. She was somewhat surprised that she could barely feel the cuts, aside from the initial bite of the skin being sliced open.
There was nothing to do but wait, though at the rate her blood was pouring into the bath, turning the suds pink, she wouldn’t be waiting long. Even now, she could see Harry’s smiling face waiting for her. Hermione’s ears were faintly ringing, but somewhere outside the fog, she could hear the bathroom door being wrenched open. You’re too late, you bastard, she thought with a smile.
Her lids fluttered shut, and then there was sweet, sweet nothingness.