Everything in her body ached.
Hermione shifted painfully where she lay, waking up from what felt like a century of sleep. Her eyelids stuck to one another from her now dry tears. She blinked away the blurriness, remembering what had happened to her just as the teeth-clenching pain in her arm found her again.
Splinched. Fuck.
The gashes to her left upper arm were wrapped with what she assumed to be Dittany soaked cloth. Blood—so much blood—soaked through the makeshift bandages, pooling onto the bed beneath her.
How long had she been asleep?
She tried to sit up, but every movement of her arm felt as if it was being ripped from her body. She took a deep breath, exhaling through her nose. The rest of her body was stiff from her stillness.
Looking around, she realized she was not in St. Mungo's hospital. Though, she wasn't sure why she ever thought he would take her there. But she recognized this place. Knew it all too well from the war.
It was Shell Cottage.
She could hear the distant ocean waves crashing outside the window. Heard the birds singing in harmony with each roar of the water.
Grunting through the pain, she swung her feet off the bed, sitting upright. Empty potion bottles lay scattered on the floor, along with a pile of used, drenched linens.
Bill and Fleur had left the old Order safe house abandoned when they moved to France to be closer to Fleur's family. No one else in the family had wanted to take ownership of it. They said the war had tainted it. She herself had stayed in this room after that horrible day at Malfoy Manor all those years ago—
Malfoy. Draco. And Theo, fuck, was he okay?
Keeping her injured arm tucked in close to her chest, she managed to limp to the window. Her muscles were frail, but when she tried to push open the lock, she found it was magically sealed.
Starting to panic, she turned for the door. Even as she desperately reached for the knob, she knew it would be covered in wards. Could feel the magic thick in the air. Her breathing deepened. She was locked in. "Fuck," she whispered to herself, running one hand through her hair.
Wandless magic was out of the question. She was too weak to manage that type of concentration.
She needed to get herself together. Needed to find her wand and—
The doorknob rattled, creeping open to reveal a ragged-looking Ron. She shrunk away from him on instinct, hating that part of herself that would always fear him. He was carrying a tray of supplies. Potions and more wrappings.
So, it had been him who had tried to heal her.
His eyes shifted up to hers. His skin was ashen, with deep purple rings around his sunken eyes. Like he hadn't slept for days. Or showered, for that matter. His hair clung to his forehead in a matted mess.
"Thank Merlin," he breathed, looking to where she stood. "Bloody hell, you scared me."
He stepped closer to her, a hand outstretched. She backed away from it, remembering their last conversation.
"We'll discuss this at home, away from prying eyes."
"Don't touch me," she demanded, voice cracking from the lack of use.
"I'm trying to help you. You've been trying to fucking bleed to death for hours."
At the mention of her arm, she remembered the pain, which had been temporarily outshined by her fear. But it ripped back through her with a vengeance, as if it laughed at her for forgetting.
"Lie down," Ron said, ushering her to the bed. His face was utterly blank, eyes distant and distracted.
She let him help her back into bed, knowing she was too injured to try to escape now. She needed a plan—needed her wand.
"I had to take off work to take care of you. Fred wasn't very pleased about that. The shop has been real busy, you know."
Hermione blinked at him. "George," she corrected, eyebrows bunching together above her nose. "You work with George, Ron. Fred..." She swallowed. "Fred died during the war."
He only hummed, focusing on his shaking hands, trying to open another bottle of Dittany. "Right," he finally said.
It was like he didn't even hear her. He wasn't making any sense, and he reeked of alcohol. It seemed to seep through his pores and into the air around him, mixing with the filth building on his skin.
He grabbed her arm, and she lurched away, ignoring the rippling fire that shot through her body at the movement. "Don't touch me," she said again through gritted teeth.
If cruelty and sorrow took human form, it would have looked exactly like Ron did at that moment.
He shot to his feet, throwing the tray of supplies across the room. "Fine then," he spat at her. "Fucking rot in here for all I care." Turning towards the door, he began to stalk out.
Hermione panicked. She could not be locked in here. She had to get out. "No, wait," she pleaded, but he ignored her.
She tried to follow him to the door, only to have it slammed in her face. Tears began to build in her eyes as rage and terror brewed in her chest. Banging and clawing at the door with her good arm, she screamed. "Please! Please, let me go!" She heaved between each word, breathless through her sobs. "You don't love me! Let me go! You don't love me, Ron! OPEN THE DOOR!"
Her crying became uncontrollable. She sank to her knees on the ground, holding her tucked arm close.
Everything hurt and hurt and hurt until everything went black.
***
When she came to again, she was in her bed. Ron was sitting next to her and leaning his arms on the mattress beside her, hands tangled in his hair.
Her head pounded. Every bone groaned against her movements. She tilted toward him to see tears flow from his face.
"Please..." she croaked, not having the strength to say anything more.
Her words only brought more tears to his eyes. "I can't," he croaked. "I can't let you go, Mione. You're all I have. You'll leave me alone, and I just—I can't lose you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you, I do. I don't know why I do these things."
She closed her eyes again, trying to keep her lip from trembling with desperation. "Please," she said again and again as he cried beside her. "I won't tell anyone. Please..."
But the pain became too much. Ron kneeled to pick up a bottle from the ground, bringing it to her mouth. "Here," he whispered, "take this."
She tried to protest, but it was no use. She recognized the taste of the Sleeping Draught before the walls spun around her.
***
"I'm trying the stone again," Draco mumbled, snatching the Apparation stone from the table.
Theo sighed, but Draco ignored him. He held the stone in one hand and his wand in the other. Since he had no idea where she could be, he pictured Granger in his mind instead. Allowed the smell of her—always fresh flowers and honey—to flood his senses. Remembered what her hair felt like as he ran his fingers through it and willed himself to be next to her.
The stone sparked in his hand as a loud force of magic sent him spiraling back into the wall.
"I don't know why you thought that time would be any different than the last 50," Blaise drawled from his usual spot beside Theo.
Draco cursed, throwing the stone into the nearby fireplace. "I don't fucking understand—"
"We've been over it, mate," Theo cut him off. "Wherever she is, it must be unplottable. The stone won't work because it doesn't recognize that this place even exists. Until she is moved from wherever he has her now, we'll have to find her another way."
"If she is moved," Draco growled.
Theo bristled. "We're doing all we can—"
"And it's not enough!" he screamed.
The other wizards exchanged a grim look. Draco took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. But we've tried everything."
It was true. Since Theo was released from St. Mungo's, the three of them had racked their brains for anything they could use to find Granger. They had been camped out in the sitting room of Nott Manor for a week, doing spell after spell after spell until their magic had depleted. Draco had even performed a dangerous bit of dark magic in the form of an ancient locator spell. When it hadn't worked, he had walked outside and screamed and screamed and screamed into the dark night.
He knew it was his fault. It only made it hurt that much more. He had caused this. Caused her whatever pain she was in now.
There was only one thing left to do.
Draco got to his feet, straightening the collar of his button-down and wiping the dust from his trousers. He walked to the Floo, picking up a handful of powder.
"Where are you going?" Theo asked, standing as well.
"I'm going to have a chat with Potter."
***
He threw the doors to the DMLE open, shadowing past the front desk. "Bell, nice to see you again."
"What the hell?" Katie left her desk to follow him down the long hall. "Malfoy, where are you going?"
Theo and Blaise caught up to them. He hadn't realized that they had come after him. "Sorry, Katie," Theo apologized breathlessly. "Would love to talk, but we got a little—"
He was cut off as Draco stormed into Potter's office.
Harry Potter sat behind his desk, the same stupid round glasses sitting on his face. The youngest Weasel sat across from him, eating a salad. They both looked at him as if they were hallucinating.
"Where. Is. She." Draco demanded, his fists clenched beside him. Hermione was probably trapped somewhere, hurt, while Potter enjoyed a quiet lunch with his wife?
Fuck that.
"Ah, Potter," Theo intervened from behind him. "We can see you're a bit busy, but if you have the time—"
"No," Draco snapped. "Tell me where she is now."
"Who the bloody hell are you even talking about?" Harry retorted.
"Granger. That fucking maniac has he somewhere, and I need to find her."
"Hermione is with Ron," Ginny Potter answered slowly, as if she was talking to a rabid dog. "She was in an accident, and they decided to make a vacation out of her recovery—"
"I already know the shit story the Weasel spun. A fucking brooming accident?" Draco looked Potter in the eye, pleading with him to listen. "When was the last time you saw Granger on a broom? She hates flying." He turned to Ginny. "Tell me you two aren't that blind? She hasn't been herself. Possibly for years."
The couple just stared at him, confusion filling their faces. He didn't have time for their half-witted brains to catch up to him. "He's been beating her!" he yelled. "For years, and you two never fucking noticed. You, who are supposed to be her family. You let her live through that horror!"
"What on earth would give you that idea?" Harry said, standing in his chair.
Ginny added, "Ron would never—"
"Oh, spare me that shit, Weasley. He's a fucking psychopath, and he has her somewhere. You're going to help me find her."
"Mate," Blaise quietly warned from behind him.
"Even if we did believe you," the Head Auror said, "we don't know where they are. They didn't tell us. And why do you even care? Why go through so much trouble for Hermione?"
Draco didn't answer. But the shocked look Ginny gave him was all too knowing. "You've been working with her," she whispered.
"What?" Potter asked.
He ignored it. He wouldn't out his and Granger's relationship—if one could even call it that—to her best friends. "Are you going to find her or not?"
The room was silent, short for his own labored breaths. Please, he silently hoped. Please help her. She's your friend. Your family.
Ginny looked to her husband, waiting for his answer. Potter sighed, sitting back down in his chair. "There's no proof. Ron loves Hermione. I will not go accusing my best friend of abuse on the word of a man who has always had a vendetta against him. You may leave now, Malfoy."
Theo scoffed, whispering, "That's pathetic."
"Some fucking Auror." Draco gave a humorless laugh. "Fuck you, Potter."
The three Slytherins walked out of the office without another word.
Granger had been right. Potter was fucking worthless. But he had been their last hope.
They all stood silently in the dark hall of the Ministry.
"That's fucking shit," Draco said, voice small and defeated.
"I know," Theo replied.
Tears threatened to cascade down Draco's face. "What am I going to do?"
He was out of options. He had no leads—no chance of finding her.
"Hold on." Blaise straightened up, walking over to a nearby bulletin board covered in flyers about interest meetings and office sports team sign-ups. He tore a sheet of parchment from the board. "The Ministry's Charity Gala. It's tomorrow night."
Blaise handed Draco the flyer. He read it frantically, eyes catching on the final line.
Honoring the Golden Trio, Saviors of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger-Weasley.
"Oh shit," Theo said, also reading over Draco's shoulder.
"There's no way Weasley won't show up to this. It would raise too many questions. He'll have to come, and he'll have to bring her. Hermione Granger would never miss a Charity Gala in her honor—injured or not," Blaise explained.
"So we go to the Gala, and we wait. It's
The best chance we have," Theo responded, nodding his head.
Draco clutched the flyer in his hands, holding on to his last shred of hope that he might be able to see her again.
"We wait."
***
Hermione stared out the small window, watching each wave of the ocean build and break against the shore.
She was getting stronger—she could feel it. She wasn't sure how long she had been trapped at Shell Cottage. Only knew that with each passing day, her arm hurt less and less. She could move it now, only wincing every now and then with soreness. It would leave a nasty scar, one she doubted even magic could get rid of, but she didn't blackout from the pain anymore.
Her magic still hadn't recovered entirely. She was still exhausted from her recovery, and her muscles would still hum with a deep ache. But it wouldn't be long until she was strong enough to escape—if she could just find her damn wand.
She thought a lot about Draco in her time alone. About all three of the Slytherin boys she had come to care so much about. Every night she would pray to the gods—both Muggle and Magic alike—that Theo had recovered. That he was alive and well and that Blaise had told him how he felt. She hoped they were happy.
But she especially thought of Draco.
The isolation was starting to tear her apart, piece by piece. She felt trapped by her own mind, somewhere between needing to feel everything and wanting to feel nothing at all. Hermione hadn't even realized that Draco had become her new drug.
She was addicted, and he was gone. She wondered if she would ever see him again.
This withdrawal was going to kill her, she was sure.
The door creaked open, revealing Ron, holding a piece of parchment in his hand.
"What is this?" he asked, handing it to her. Written in fine calligraphy was an invitation from the Ministry.
You are invited to attend the Annual Ministry Charity Gala.
Hermione looked up from the folded parchment to see Ron red with anger. "It says we are to be honored at this stupid event. Who's idea was this?"
She remembered Kingsley mentioning it to her in passing a long time ago. She had honestly forgotten all about the Gala.
But this was her chance—a chance to escape. "Are we going?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away, struggling with his choice. "Ginny has already written to make sure we'd be there." He paced the length of the room.
Something golden welled in her chest—something like hope.
She could do this. She could get away.
"We're going," he finally said. "But if you try anything stupid, Hermione, I swear it will be the last thing you ever do."
Hermione only swallowed in response. When he finally left the room, she returned her gaze to the ocean, smiling slightly to herself.
It looked like she was going to a party.