Vacivitas

Chapter Eighteen

She feels a flush of heat rise high on her cheekbones as she stands before him. His gaze travels over every part of her that it can, from her braids to her face, to her shoulders, to her chest, to her waist, to her hips, and finally, to the leg that's peeking out from the slit.

His eyes snap to meet hers.

"Ready to go?"

She doesn't miss the way his voice hitches halfway through the sentence.

"No. But we've got no choice."

She follows him to the Floo room in her platform heels, surprised that she still remembers how to walk in heels in the first place. She only wore them three or four times through her school years. That time feels so far away now.

When they get into the room, she doesn't realize Malfoy's stopped a few paces away. He's still taller than her, her head only coming to his shoulders. She feels his touch, gentle on her arm.

She still flinches.

She spins to face him, her memories telling her to run away. She works to remind herself who she's looking at. Which Malfoy it is.

"We can't...Act the way we do. Do you understand? No bickering. No arguing. If it looks like you've got an ounce of insolence or defiance in your body, then the witch in your memories won't match."

But she doesn't match, she wants to say. I'm not her.

"Okay," she says instead.

"As far as they know, you're someone I've severely brutalized in the name of rivalry."

"But I don't have any bruises. Won't that be suspicious?"

Malfoy frowns down at her, looking pensive. "There's a spell."

"Okay, let's do it."

"It's Dark Magic."

Hermione's eyebrows rise. "All right. I don't like the sound of that. But I don't want to risk anything. What is it?"

"It will form wounds on your body. Bruises and cuts. But you'll feel everything."

She purses her lips. She wishes she could think about it and have the option to say no, but she doesn't. Neither of them have much choice in anything right now. Short of him beating the senses out of her right now, this is all they have to work with.

"Do it," she says.

He Apparates away and then returns with a small leather-bound black book. The front cover is adorned with a large snake decal that looks to be made of sterling silver. The snake's eyes are emerald. Hermione watches him flipping through the pages. He settles on one, scans it, then snaps the book shut.

"Ready?"

Hermione's never liked Dark Magic. Dark Magic is what turns otherwise decent wizards into villains. It's dangerous and it's wrong–a perversion of natural magic.

But this is a new world, and they need to do this spell.

Malfoy lifts his wand, arm outstretched as he points it at her. He whispers the incantation, his wand whipping through the air with the proper motions. Hermione feels something cold spreading over her body, creeping into all of the crevices and depths. It covers her skin and intensifies until it hurts, and keeps going past that. Hermione gasps, blindly reaching behind her for the back of the nearest armchair as the pain swells to an almost unbearable amount.

She wants to scream.

Cuts are appearing in several places, even places hidden by her dress. Bruises form everywhere, smattering her brown skin with splotches of various shades of dark, angry red. She closes her eyes, lowering her head to bear the feeling. Against her wishes, she sees one of the false memories as clear as day behind her closed eyes, where the false Malfoy is beating her.