Hermione had always possessed a certain ease in deciphering truth from falsehood and dissociating nightmares from the present. But right now, she wasn't sure if she had the guts to face reality. Nevertheless, she opened her eyes, her body trembling with pain. She couldn't play dead forever. Not in this position. And certainly not when McGonagall was groaning in agony.
If the young woman found herself in a more idyllic situation, she would surely take the time to observe the surroundings, light a few candles, and dust off a book to settle in comfortably. But she was captive. Plunged into a dungeon with a stench haunting the four walls that held her prisoner, she could only shudder in horror.
The room that greeted her was dark, and only sporadic sparks of red light added a semblance of brightness to the hall. Hermione took some time before understanding that the red flashes were curses aimed at the Hogwarts headmistress. The moans and clatters echoed in a terrible symphony. She was tempted to cover her ears, her heart pounding frantically in her chest.
With dilated pupils, Hermione contemplated the bars that served as her palace. She found herself in a cage of rusty iron, where droplets of blood littered the floor as if it were a child's decoration. She swallowed hard. Her skull screamed with pain, and as she placed her small hand against her tangled mane, she groaned. Her hand was bloody.
"Damn it," she muttered, becoming aware of the dreadful situation she was in.
In addition to being locked up, chains restrained her feet, keeping her against the hard concrete surface. When a new whimper was heard, Hermione snapped out of her torpor. Minerva was lying on a stone table, her limbs bound.
Hermione tried to think, panic surging through every cell of her body. What could she do? Her vision, previously blurred, managed to capture the features of her former professor. With closed eyes, she endured torment, lips pursed. There was no soul living outside their presence. Electric shocks struck the wrists of the forty-year-old woman in bursts of horrifying cries.
The individual who had captured them had deserted the place, as if they were just crushable mosquitoes.
"Miss Granger," whispered McGonagall with a subdued voice.
"What can I do?" she croaked, completely helpless. She gripped the bars of her prison, a pain irradiating in her skull. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault. It's all my fault."
Minerva remained silent, her breathing wheezing, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"Everything will be fine," promised the headmistress.
Hermione couldn't swallow the lie, her throat tightening with guilt. She should have listened to McGonagall when there was still time. Maybe she could have signaled Professor Slughorn. Maybe they wouldn't be in this situation now, despair shaking their now weakened bodies. She hiccuped in fear.
Pull yourself together, Hermione, she cursed herself quietly, her brain boiling. There had to be a solution.
When the sound of boots echoed on the stairs of the secret tavern, the young Gryffindor held her breath.
"Hermione, don't make any moves that could put you in danger. Is that clear?"
Minerva's voice echoed in her mind, but she wasn't receptive. She no longer heard the pain in McGonagall's tone. She only saw the angular shape of a person clad in a black cape approaching stealthily. The individual's face was covered, and the silhouette almost seemed familiar to her.
"The sleeping beauty has finally awakened," whispered the sweet and acidic voice.
Hermione shuddered. Minerva tried to sit up, but the restraints tightened, making her groan in pain.
"Hush, hush, easy now, Headmistress. You'll hurt yourself by struggling like this."
The person approached Hermione's cell. The gleam of his white teeth took her breath away. It was a man, she was certain. The voice was distorted by a spell, but his stature couldn't deceive her. He smiled horribly, his body stretched towards her. With violence, he flattened his hand against the bars, making the iron tilt with a deafening noise.
"I must say, I'm surprised you managed to find my hideout and your respective disguises. Quite lovely."
Hermione bit her lip to hold back the venom from her throat. The Polyjuice Potion no longer worked, which must explain why several hours had passed. She radiated with anger. But McGonagall was right. She mustn't lose her temper. The headmistress's safety depended on it. With stiffness, she approached her cage, trying to catch the glint in her assailant's eyes. He recoiled in a stern chuckle.
"Hermione, Hermione... I should have guessed that McGonagall would call on you. The famous heroine and fearless witch of our generation."
He tilted his head, sliding his long fingers along the bars with blood curdling slowness.
"It's a shame. I hadn't planned on spilling fresh blood for a few days. But... aiding the enemy is treachery that deserves punishment."
He circled away, focusing on the body of McGonagall, still lying against the stone table.
"I prefer when the victims are younger."
The attacker's arm rose, very close to Minerva's face, then in a swift motion, he grabbed the hair of the quadragenarian, making her whimper.
"I admired you in the past. Now, you only disgust me."
He released his grip quickly, as if the mere contact with McGonagall repulsed him.
"If it's me you want, come and get me," growled Hermione, her gums raised in hatred.
Perhaps by diverting his attention, he would leave the Hogwarts headmistress alone. The young woman hoped so, at least. With her heart pounding against her temples, she waited for her moment. With an agile movement of his wand, the man in the black cape opened her prison.
"So brave," the individual growled with covetousness.
Hermione felt her body rising without her will, urging her to move towards the psychopath who held them captive. As she braced her legs to prevent herself from moving, she was hit by a shockwave. The imbecile had just cast the torture curse on her. She screamed, her limbs weakening to the point where she only wanted to collapse on the ground, but he kept her standing, a mad smile reflecting under his hood.
"So weak."
He transported her with his magic to a small stool. Her chains clinked against the floor, elongated, in a grotesque song. She felt nauseous when he cast the Cruciatus Curse on her for the second time. Her eyes rolled back, and white spots accompanied her vision, plunging her into an almost comatose state. She no longer felt the fibers of her body. There was only torment. McGonagall had been silenced by a spell. Tears welled up in her eyes.
In an unconscious movement fueled by the rage brewing within her, Hermione lunged at her assailant, knocking over numerous tools, razors, and knives in her path. She propelled her fist into his face, shattering his jaw, and his hood fell back in the motion. Hermione didn't take a single second to think and dove for her assailant's wand, pointing it upward, her eyes gleaming with a fierce glare.
Hermione thought she excelled at dissociating reality from nightmare. She wasn't so sure anymore. Not when her dilated pupils met those of George Weasley. Arms raised in the air, a predatory smile distorting his features, Hermione gasped at the image reflected by her former friend: a dark fire burning deep in his eyes. Blood staining his lips, he seemed no longer in control of his own mind.
"George," she sobbed with horror.
"Hermione. It's a pleasure," he replied.
He straightened up, wiping his face in a casual gesture. His rough laughter pierced the chamber, striking her as if she were plunged into an icy shower.
"How...? Why?" she choked out.
"Really, you're asking me, Granger? I thought you were smart. Think."
Hermione kept her wand pointed, limbs trembling. It was unthinkable. Why would George commit such acts? He had suffered greatly from the death of his twin. His father had been paralyzed after the war, and Molly dared not leave the house, developing an intense anxiety about the world beyond her four walls. But was it enough to resort to murder? She couldn't believe it, not George. Not the young man who radiated happiness and spent his time running through the corridors of Hogwarts, with stupid jokes on his lips.
"I don't believe it," she choked out.
"You should, though. Because now that you know my identity, I will be forced to eliminate you, Hermione."
The young woman felt nauseous. He had cast the torture curse on her twice. He had tied up McGonagall, and who knows what he had done to the other victims. Hands shaking with emotion, she tightened her grip on the stolen wand, sweat streaming down her forehead.
"Good, good. You should beware. Because I won't be gentle."
In an almost animalistic cry, George Weasley lunged towards her, a sharpened knife in his right hand. Before the fatal blow could reach her, Hermione screamed and a beam of black light whipped the tall redhead. Then there was silence, storm, and darkness.
_____________________
Malfoy had been walking around the prefects' dormitory for two days. His thoughts were ricocheting with cacophony in his brain, and there was only one voice that could soothe the piercing pain taking shape in his chest: Hermione Granger. But she had been missing for two days. No, not missing. She had gone to visit fucking Ron Weasley. That ugly, conceited redhead. Perhaps he was in no position to assert such facts, but if he had had the slightest chance of having the Gryffindor as his girlfriend, he certainly wouldn't have let her slip through his fingers.
Yet, she had vanished. To see him.
Malfoy still tasted the bitter flavor of betrayal in the back of his throat. Granger had tried to whisper reassuring words to him, and he had gotten carried away, believing her to be in danger. But he had reconsidered. She wasn't at risk outside of Hogwarts; she wasn't a target and didn't know the extent of the misdeeds beyond the castle's four corners.
So why did he continue to pace every room, as if he feared he might never have the chance to hold her in his arms again, as if with the snap of a finger, she could dissolve and become nothing more than a fleeting illusion of happiness?
His fingers trapped in his platinum hair, he sighed. His friends had gone silent since the news, as if Draco might unleash his claws at any moment. He wasn't that impulsive. Bloody hell. Maybe, but Hermione had fled to join a dried skunk's head, and it pissed him off. Wasn't he a better option for the young woman? He probably wasn't the ideal partner, but he had felt at peace with Granger. More than he had ever been. And he was about to confess it to her. But that was before Nott handed him the damn Daily Prophet, eyes fixed on his shoes, almost pitiful for his sake.
Fuck it, he raged.
In a gesture of anger, he grasped the handle of Hermione's door and yanked it open. In an instant, Malfoy found himself with a smooth skull and a cowboy mustache. He was so traumatized that his cheeks turned a shade of fuchsia. Oh, fucking Granger, he muttered with a dark gleam. She would pay for this little trick.
Passing a hand over his non-existent scalp, he found himself bursting out laughing. He who was raging now found himself smiling like a fool. But what spell had she cast on him, for fuck's sake? It took nothing for his heart to race for the Gryffindor, and all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and kiss her until he lost his breath. Stupid, he was stupid.
Grumbling into his mustache forcefully, because he had just regained his good mood, he observed Hermione's room. Her bed was made, and touches of green permeated the atmosphere, from curtains to climbing plants. There was not the slightest trace of red and gold; he was almost scandalized. She was quite secretive. He rubbed his nose to hide his hilarity, suddenly happy. A true Slytherin, discreet and petty. A clever fox. He smiled, a finger against his lips.
On her solid wooden desk was a parchment. The idiotic carrot hair would definitely not snoop around Hermione's belongings. But Draco had a tendency... to justify his childish actions, so, raising his eyebrows to the challenge, he pushed aside the chair from her desk to sit down. She had made him bald for a few minutes with a mustache that would scare off a goblin; he could afford to snoop around her room a little.
Inked on the paper were intertwined images of a snake and a fox. Malfoy discovered his name finely written in black anchor. A scent of caramel and vanilla wafted from it. He forced himself not to sniff like a horny dog and grabbed the little find, his heart racing. Flipping the letter over, Draco felt a beard forming against his face, and he rolled his eyes, almost irritated.
"Very funny, Granger," he grumbled.
He couldn't shake off his foolish grin. It was truly a disaster to pour his heart out to such a cunning young woman. He chuckled into his growing beard. In the scroll, there was a little note addressed to him.
"Dear little snooper, also known as Draco Malfoy who rummages through my belongings shamelessly,
I hope you enjoyed my magnificent spells; I took great care to set them up at our first meeting. I wondered when you would finally give in and come near my room. You resisted longer than I thought: Congratulations!
If you're reading these words, it means I haven't returned yet. Or maybe you're just really impatient! Know that I'm probably bored to death watching my friend get his ribs and arm touched up. Don't worry, apart from a growing desire to come back and play some tricks on you, I'm not doing anything very glorifying. I hope you're enjoying yourself and sipping your whiskey gently, not like a big piglet."
Malfoy had to tear himself away from the intertwined words to burst out laughing. He couldn't believe it. She had anticipated him sneaking into her lair like a thief. She was clever. He plunged back into her sentences as if they were his oxygen.
"In our last encounters, we promised to open up to each other. And I can't wait to do it. Even if apart from your ogre appearance, I don't think I'll discover anything else. I'm thinking about you a lot,
Hermione Granger.
(Don't forget to smile)"
Without being able to analyze the rest of her message, a flash of light struck his eyes, and he was blinded for long seconds.
"What the hell is this crap?" he exclaimed, rubbing his eyelids.
Lowering his gaze, he noticed with horror his face appearing on the parchment. He, bald, with a mustache, a beard, and a boyish smile. He was going to kill Granger. Come to think of it, he would spank her first. Just for his own personal pleasure.
"Come back quickly, little fox, so I can have my revenge," he whispered conspiratorially, the letter still hanging between his long fingers.
His eyes elsewhere, he played with his ring, unaware that Hermione Granger had just faced the greatest danger. He had no idea of her current state or that she had to survive the dreaded attacks of a friend who wanted her dead.