Chapter 28 Flesh and Bone The Quibbler October 2nd, 1998
Wizards Ward Muggle Villages, Defiance Against the Dark
Despite the regime's best efforts to control the
narrative, the cracks are beginning to show.
Reports suggest that Wizards sympathetic to the resistance
are aiding Muggles, warding their towns and villages against
incursions. These acts of defiance signal
hope in a darkening world. Draco sat at the head of the
dining room table, goblets and glasses of the family's finest
wine scattered before them. His face was a mask of
indifference as he surveyed the room with cold, calculating
eyes. At the opposite end, Voldemort
presided, his long fingers drumming the polished surface
with deliberate ease. The Dark Lord's slitted gaze was
like a blade scraping over stone, tallying his prey.
When it landed on Hermione, seated stiffly to his left, it
lingered. She was a statue carved from
ice, her eyes unreadable yet smouldering with a faint ember
of defiance. That's my girl, he cast into her
mind, and he was sure he saw the faintest glimmer of recognition
in her expression. Her presence had not been
optional. As the regime's most prominent
captive, she was a silent testament to Voldemort's
dominion and a message to all who dared defect.
Theo had once again taken a seat by Draco's mother and had
ensured the Notice Me Not Charm hid the evidence of Hermione's
expedient pregnancy, and Greta had dressed her in slimming
velvet robes embroidered with green and gold that brought out
the caramel flecks in her brown eyes.
The fabric clung to her form in a way designed to project
elegance, power, and moreover, submission.
Draco's gut twisted. The golden threads glimmering
against her robes felt like chains.
To anyone else, she was the pitcher of docility.
Draco knew better. Hermione's revelations from Hope
Watch illuminated a path to victory.
Defectors, Death Eaters weren't just vanishing.
They were switching sides, abandoning Voldemort's cause in
growing numbers. This week alone, the guards had
disappeared from the northern rifts.
As the leader of the regime's army, Draco bore the brunt of
the blame. The memory of Voldemort's
Cruciatus Curve still lingered in his body, lightning
splintering into every nerve. The pain had been indescribable,
yet part of him preferred it to the subtler, more Machiavellian
games of court intrigue. At least physical agony was
honest. He was the Dark Lord's tarnished
Prince, a symbol of power and discipline.
Voldemort's punishments were precise and calculated, a lesson
carved into flesh and bone. Yet Draco suspected his master
held back, saving his true wrath for later, for something
greater. Draco's heartbeat steadily in
his chest, a thrumming boom heralding the unspoken desire
beckoning at his soul. He could feel it, the building
pressure of his need. He will die by my hand, or I
will die trying. Voldemort's voice broke through
the murmur of conversation, his sibilant tone wrapping around
the room like a noose. A society ball.
Voldemort declared, his eyes gleaming with malice.
To mark the Ascension. Of our new.
World order. Another ball.
The announcement rippled through the room, and Draco suppressed
the urge to roll his eyes. His mother, seated near him,
tightened her grip on her wine glass, a hairline crack in her
porcelain composure. Madame Black.
Voldemort rounded on her, sweeping beside her to toy with
the steeples of her chair. Elder Wand balanced between two
graying. Fingers, the preparations shall
fall to you. I expect nothing less than
perfection. Dricco's gaze always seemed to
fall to that infamous stick, something about its legacy
calling out to him. His mother inclined her head,
her voice steady. It will be as you command, my
Lord. And Voldemort slithered towards
her, irony pride blooming in Draco's chest as she barely
flinched. She was a warrior, her
Gryffindor stubbornness and bravery roaring through her urge
to run and hide. I shall expect you in
attendance, my sweet golden child.
You will be the centrepiece of the evening, a symbol of our
triumph. His smile to her was saccharine.
Hermione tilted her head to meet his Crimson slits.
Wouldn't miss it for the world. She replied coolly.
A tray of desserts materialized before the table, carried by a
trembling Kip, her eyes wide, betraying her fear.
Crystal dishes gleamed with enchantments, the aromas crafted
to soothe and ease tension, but the brittle calm shattered with
a clatter as Kip tripped over her oversized feet, sending the
silver tray crashing to the floor.
The room froze. Draco shot up the pent up energy
within him searching for a release like a geyser desperate
to release It's pressured steam, a volcano due to erupt any
moment. The air between him and the elf
was taut as a bowstring as he drew his wand at the elf, wrist,
shaking, her glassy eyes brimming with frightened tears.
The Death Eaters watched, some with smirks, others with feigned
indifference. Hermione's sharp intake of
breath was nearly imperceptible, but Draco heard it as Kip's
bottom lip began to quiver. Voldemort waved a hand, the
gesture languid yet absolute. Let them be.
He said, his voice dripping with cruel amusement, as though some
twisted delight slithered just beneath his tongue.
Kip scurried away, her troubled eyes streaming with tears,
leaving behind a trail of broken glass and shaky apologies.
He couldn't, wouldn't look. It's his mother, Theo, or
Salazar forbid, Hermione, and could only imagine what they
must be thinking at his display. Mulsaba leaned back in his
chair, his snare fixed firmly in place and Draco noting the
absence of his usual conspiratorial smirk.
Since his return, Mulsaba had not brought him into the
defecting fold, leaving Draco to navigate the web of shifting
alliances alone. His eyes met Draco briefly, a
flicker of something unreadable passing between them, before the
man turned away with a short sniff through his nose.
Voldemort's voice cut through the silence now.
We have our dark. Commander back in position.
There can be no excuses. For errors the borders.
Must remain impenetrable. Any trespassers are to be
eliminated, no exceptions. I have my Unspeakables
positioned. Where they?
Are most effective carefully drafting more compliant
recruits, ones whose loyalty can be moulded.
Whose wills? Can be bent to fit our purpose,
each one handpicked for their effectiveness to serve, ready to
be reshaped into something. Far more controllable.
Draco flicked a glance to Hermione, whose cheeks paled.
He wished he could hold her, simply, take her in his arms,
feel the Press of her softness against him, and apparate them
somewhere far away together, maybe Italy, France, or even the
Black Country estate with its tall meadows of Heather and
lavender. The taste of Hermione emerged
unbidden in his mind's eye, a solace and torment entwined.
The ache for her was a gnawing hunger, a craving that consumed
him in stolen moments. She was his secret, and the new
found equilibrium between them was his sanctuary.
But she was still hiding something from him.
He could feel it, as though her lips held tiny blades poised to
Pierce. What are you not telling me?
He thought, his mind twisting with doubts and longing.
His thoughts spiralled deeper, the memory of her body arching
beneath his kiss searing through his mind like a brand.
Her soft moans blending with the heat of their mouths, claiming
one another were now tainted by the shadow of blood and
violence, a haunting vision of himself drenched in Crimson.
That image had carved itself into his waking thoughts, a
torment he couldn't shake. If she wanted to end him, she'd
had every chance. Which left to the lingering
question why they were supposed to be on the same side.
Their only rift was a matter of timing, not purpose.
Not if, but when to strike at the Dark Lord.
The desire to see Voldemort's reign of terror brought to an
end burned in him like a furnace, consuming all else,
even the taste of her. A voice as smooth and lethal as
poisoned silk pulled him back to the present.
Draco. Voldemort intoned, his words a
caress of menace. You will insure the manner's
security. During the ball.
Nothing must disrupt this night. Draco rose, his features a
perfect mask of composure. It will be done, my Lord.
Which weekly October 10th, 1998 Dark Commander Ascendant Malfoy
Air poised for greatness Rheumers swirl around the
enigmatic Draco Malfoy Dark Commander.
Sources within the Ministry suggest the air of Malfoy Manor
has been tasked with a pivotal role in securing the Dark Lord's
dominion. But is the young scion truly
loyal or does ambition blaze too brightly in his cold grey eyes?
The Halloween Ball at the famous Manor will be the event of the
year and everyone who is anyone shall be in attendance.
Have you got your ticket? October sprawled across the
landscape like spilled ink, blotting the air with a creeping
unease and painting the skies in a pallet of burnt orange and
sombre grey. London streets mirrored the
season's transformation, the trees lining the roads becoming
skeletal against a waning sun and the gardens newly abandoned
to withering vines and frostbitten blooms.
Inside the Grand Serif, a women only club at the quiet end of
Diagon Alley, secrets hung thicker than the scent of fresh
gons as the sacred House of royal elite witches gathered.
For their weekly meeting. Beyond the privet hedges
guarding its entrance, the hum of the shopping St. softened to
a muffled backdrop. Narcissa sipped her tea in
practised silence, her gaze obscured by fragrant steam as
she listened to the women Nutter.
We received your invitation to the Halloween Ball.
Not expecting trouble, are we? Miss Black.
Missus Sallow inquired with a sly smirk, her salt and pepper
beehive towering as imperiously as her tone.
Nasus's reply was smooth, her voice a veil that revealed
nothing. The invitation is not mine, but
our Dark Lords. Missus Sallow's lips curved
knowingly. And the dark commander?
Are we to believe everything the papers say?
Is his position truly so advantageous?
The women stilled, their breaths caught on the cusp of curiosity,
waiting for Narcissa's answer. She regarded them sweetly, her
serene mask betraying none of her thoughts, and finally
delivered her rehearsed morsel. Draco knows how to play the
game, as do we all. A burst of triumph lit Missus
Pusey's bird like features. She clapped her friend's knee in
a flourish of her feather boa. See.
There's more to this. Than our darling.
Husbands are letting on. Thanks, Cersei, for this little
woman, Narcissa thought wryly. Missus Pewsey, ever the avid
consumer of gossip rags and conspiracy theories, had a knack
for stumbling on to truths half formed though they may be the
new Many wives were invaluable for such lunches, their loose
tongues carrying whispers like hawkers in a bustling market.
All I'm saying, Missus, Pewsey continued, leaning in
conspiratorially as her voice dropped to a whisper.
Is that Missus Rookwood swears her husband has not perished.
She says he's been taken by the. Rebels.
Missus Shafique, ever the sceptic, arched a brow.
And who exactly would she know that missus?
Pucey sniffed, visibly affronted.
We. All have our ways.
Nosissa hummed, her lips pursing ever so slightly as she tilted
her head toward the grey October sky, her expression 1 of feigned
contemplation. What is it?
The women asked in unison, their voices tight with anticipation,
their gazes latched on to her, torn between dread and eagerness
for the secret she might reveal. Setting her teacup delicately
onto its saucer, Nasisa let a flicker of satisfaction bloom
within her. They were hooked.
This, she thought, was going to be easier than she'd imagined.
The Daily Prophet October 17th, 1998 The Phoenix Rebels Gone
silent The once feared Phoenix rebels, those terrorist few who
dared to oppose the rise of the dark Lord, have seemingly
vanished from the front lines after a series of bold strikes
against the ministry and key regime strongholds.
Reports suggest that the once vocal faction has gone eerily
silent. Is it a temporary retreat, or
has the rebellion been crushed under the weight of the regime's
tightening grip? Sources remain tight lipped, but
whispers suggest that internal strife and the betrayal of their
golden girl may have played a significant role in their sudden
silence. As the Dark Lord strengthens his
hold, one must ask, are the Phoenix rebels truly gone, or
are they merely bidding their time?
Only time will tell. Hermione found Draco in the
sitting room, his hair dishevelled, streaked with red,
and the unmistakable scent of iron hanging heavily in the air.
The golden glow of the fireplace casted shadows across his face,
highlighting fresh, swollen bruises across his usually
pointed cheekbones and splatters of blood across his robes.
His gloved hands were clasped behind his back, stiff and
controlled, as though he were holding himself together with
sheer will. Another incursion, another wave
of violence, another life snuffed out.
Who had fallen this time? Innocents trying to return to
their families in Britain? Defectors hoping to escape the
regime? Or were they the usual anyone
who dared to challenge the Dark Lord's will?
She worried her lip, wrapping the velvet green night robe
around her for comfort, the quiet crackling of the fire
punctuating the stillness that had settled over them both.
He turned, his molten eyes meeting hers, and for a moment
the world seemed to fall away. The intensity of his post fight
gaze hit her like a hex to the gut, and she had to resist the
urge to run into his arms. His eyes were darker than usual,
clouded with regret, pain, and perhaps even fear.
I'm not sure how much fight I have left in me.
His words crawled out like jaded soul, stripped of pain, both
humble and raw. I've spent every waking moment
since I woke up planning his death.
I dream of it, of blasting our curse through his heart and
watching the life leave his eyes.
His words trailed off, swallowed by the crackling fire between
them. She understood all too well the
relentless urge, the all consuming obsession that had
slowly devoured them both. She saw it in him now, the
wariness etched into his every movement.
He was like Atlas, burdened with the weight of the world on his
shoulders, each thought pressing down on him as if the very act
of breathing might shatter him under its suffocating force.
But if her doctrines were to be believed, she could not allow
him to kill Voldemort, lest ye himself become the darkness.
Her chest trembled as she took her hands around herself, the
doctrines screaming at her like a banshee across the halls of
her mind. The same doctrines that told her
that Draco was the ultimate obstacle and that his death was
necessary. She could end his suffering and
complete her mission in one fell swoop.
Even now, the cold Ruby hilted dagger rested in her pocket.
She was rarely without it. The truth was buried in her
soul. She was supposed to kill him.
Kill him to stop Voldemort from turning Draco into something
worse. Yet every time she looked at
him, her heart betrayed her, pulling her closer to him.
She loved him, she loved him, and it wasn't supposed to be
like this. I know.
She said, emotion making her voice crack.
But we need to be smart. Stop.
He cut her off, his voice weary, yet there was an unspoken plea
beneath it. His gaze flickered over her bare
legs, the hem of her robe lingering on her cleavage before
finally meeting her eyes again. I know you're keeping things
from me. He said, his voice tight.
And we agreed no more secrets, that we'd be honest with each
other. But if you no longer trust me,
trust my ability to protect you, I understand.
He took a ragged breath. I know the ritual changed me.
I don't fully understand it, but I can feel it.
The urge to kill, the drive to end it all.
It's like I'm being pulled in One Direction, and I don't know
how much longer I can fight it. He bowed his head, and Hermione
hesitated before taking a slow step toward him, her chest tight
with the weight of her breath. A single tear traced a streak
down his bloodied face, a soft pink line marrying his
cheekbone. I don't know how many more
people I can maim, torture, kill, all in the service of
waiting for the right moment to strike.
His voice cracked, his expression contorting into
something resembling agony. If the reason we are waiting is
for some desperate hope that I Will Survive whatever plan he
has for me, then please know that I am not worth saving
Hermione. Tears threatened to spill from
her eyes, but she willed them back, her heartbeat a frantic
drum in her ears. She took another step closer,
careful as if approaching a wounded animal.
You, ah, she whispered. I'm sorry, I don't know what
kind of curse he's placed on you, but it stands to reason
that if Voldemort placed it there, we need to fight against
it. Things have shifted, Draco said,
his jaw going taught. It's like I'm not myself
anymore. I've become something else, or
I'm about to. And I don't want to be like
this, Hermione, I don't. But every day, the pull to
destroy Voldemort, to end everything we've been living
through, it's growing stronger. I will find out what he did to
you and promise. Said Hermione, feeling the
pressure of the spoken oath. And then, and only then, we will
make sure he dies the death he deserves.
She took a small step forward, closing the distance between
them, and Draco visibly relaxed, the tension in his body easing
as he placed her hand gently on her waist.
His touch was tender, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione saw
the man she loved fragile, like a flame flickering against the
wind. I don't know.
He turned away from her, facing the fire.
I don't know what's going to happen next, but I do know this,
Hermione. If things go wrong and you have
a chance to escape, take it. Her breath caught.
I'm here. She whispered, pulling his face
to hers. I'm here, Draco, whatever
happens, I'm not going to leave you.
Just fight back, and when you feel like you can't anymore,
think of me. Think of us.
She placed a hand over her heart, then gently over her
belly. Hold on to this.
For a moment, the world outside fell away.
There were no doctrines, no rituals, no looming darkness.
Just the two of them, standing together in the soft glow of the
firelight, bound by something deeper than fate or duty.
But deep in her heart, Hermione knew whatever came next would
change everything. The Daily Prophet, October 30th,
1998 The Dark Commander Titan's grip border rifts close.
No mercy for trespassers In a decisive move to assert control,
the Dark Commander and his forces have intensified their
efforts to close the growing number of border rifts
threatening the stability of Wizarding Britain.
Witnesses report that those who have dared to cross into the
restricted zones have met a brutal end.
Eyewitness accounts speak of combatants under the Dark
Commander's direct orders, hunting down all who attempt to
breach the borders, leaving no survivors.
A chilling note of warning has been issued to all international
citizens. Enter at your own peril.
Draco's face stared at her from the crinkled parchment on The
Cave desks. Cold, imperious.
A mask carved of stone. His expression was entirely
unreadable, but Hermione's fingers skimmed the page as
though the inked version of him might whisper some hidden truth.
This Draco, the one wielding cruelty like an ice pick, ready
to blind anyone who dared challenge him, wasn't hers.
But beneath the icy veneer, she knew him.
He was hers, and she was his. Despite this, the Doctrine's
cryptic commands burrowed into her skin, so deep they met bone
and found home in the hollow caves they carved out.
Some days their directives consumed her, and the only
reprieve she found was in Draco's lips, his arms, a
fleeting solace in the storm that would not relent.
The days approaching her deadline dissolved into a
relentless haze of frantic curse research and rigorous spell
practice. Occasionally, Draco joined her
there, shared determination sharpening each session.
By the month's end, they had both mastered their new
offensive spell, its intricacies honed to precision.
Yet despite their growing confidence, it remained untested
against the true enemy. The nights, though, the nights
burned like fever dreams. Visions of his blood streaked
across her hands. His lifeless eyes staring back
at her haunted her sleep. She shook them off as best she
could, but doubt festered. Draco had indeed changed.
The ritual had made him sharper, his temper a coiled spring ready
to lash out at the slightest provocation.
His regular absence from the manner weighed on her every hour
he spent at the borders or in clandestine meetings, twisting
her insides with unease. And yet the new power within him
called to her a dangerous, intoxicating pull that left her
cheeks flushed and her heart pounding whenever he was near.
Which lately had been anything but frequent in search of food
and determination not to burden the house elves, who had already
been under immense pressure this past month, out of The Cave,
navigating her way past the bookshelves which were silently
reorganizing themselves into their usual formation.
The study door swung. Open abruptly, catching Hermione
off guard. She took a step back, her wand
hand twitching instinctively before she stopped herself.
She was not supposed to be carrying one.
What are you doing, little bitch?
Fenrier's voice dragged through the room, the rasp of it more
menace than question. A sickening affection in the
word bitch, like he was laying claim to a piece of her bio,
climbed her throat. She straightened, holding his
gaze, refusing to back down, to cower to him, to give him any
satisfaction of her fear. Research.
She said evenly. Perhaps you've heard of it?
The werewolf chuckled, a low guttural sound.
Such. Sourness.
I wonder how you'll taste when my pack breaks you in.
Her stomach twisted. But her expression remained
cold. I wonder, she said, lifting her
chin, if you ever grow tired of being the Dark Lord's lap dog.
She. Stared him down.
Heart bludgeoning against her ribs, the.
Growl that escaped him. Was animal, his clawed hand
slamming down on the side table, ornaments shuddering, and a
small glass orb crashed to the floor and smashed into hundreds
of tiny, sharp shards. For a moment, Hermione thought
she'd miscalculated, but before she could make any further move,
another presence filled the room, surprisingly dominant and
protective. Fenrir.
Theo's voice battered the tension like a blunt bat.
You seem lost. Greyback sneered, but did not
move immediately. Just having a bit of fun.
He muttered, though his claws retracted.
Theo stepped forward. His posture deceptively relaxed,
but the threat in his eyes was unmistakable.
Then find it elsewhere. She belongs to the Dark
Commander another time. He snarled.
With a light shrug, shooting Hermione a threatening promise
I'll. Escort you to the.
Flu, make sure you get home safely.
Theo gestured toward the exit, his grin wide but utterly devoid
of warmth. Greyback turned.
Throwing one last lingering glance up and down Hermione's
body before skulking out of the room.
She let out a. Shaky breath as the door clicked
shut behind them, silently grateful for the jumper that
concealed the extra curves. She wished not to be noticed.
Are you all? Right.
Asked Theo upon his return, tone laced with brotherly
protectiveness that she'd only ever heard from the Weaseleys.
The Knot. In her stomach.
Unravelled, and she exhaled. I think so.
I didn't expect anyone to be here today.
Yeah, me neither. Apparently the dogs just think
they can turn up here whenever they like now.
Hermione sank to her knees, her hands trembling as she gathered
the larger shards of the shattered glass into a pile.
I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't shown up, she
admitted. What are you doing here anyway?
Actually, I was. Coming to see you not.
Narcissa. Hermione quirked a brow.
Theo cocked his head, amused. Hermione's candid question, but
his expression paired with a hint of melancholy.
Not this time. No, he took.
A seat on the. Sofa and exhaled heavily
Hermione. Had never seen him.
Like this, she was used to the roguish, trekky, devilish Theo,
but clearly she and Drago hadn't only been the ones affected by
the changes of late sitting. Beside him, she placed.
A hand on his back. I'm going to ask.
You a question, Theo said steadily, his gaze fixed on the
floor. And before you answer, you need
to know that I already have my suspicions.
It didn't take me long, barely a few weeks to figure out you'd
managed to travel exactly a year back in time, which I'm sure you
know is no small feat. Hermione leaned back.
Instinctively creating distance between them, her mind raced a
year. Just a year for their entire
future to collapse, Theo. 'S voice broke through.
Her thoughts as he continued, his tone heavy with a mingle of
curiosity and concern. He pulled out the bronze amulet
from his pocket and began toying with the outer rims of the Dome,
tracing his fingers along the debossed edges.
But what's really been? Bothering me what's been keeping
me up at night was something I couldn't quite piece together
from the etchings. Those took.
Longer to figure out, he turned to face her fully, dark eyes
searching her own for any dishonesty, his throat working
as he swallowed before speaking again.
Hermione, what was your mission?