Work Text:
He was going to be an easy prey.
The warrior—if she could even call him that, given the way he stomped through the ruins she dwelled in nowadays, no stealth, no finesse whatsoever—was dressed in simple travelling clothes. A dark green hood hung over his head, so low it covered his brow and eyes.
She smirked.
No hood will be able to help him.
King Rodolphus was getting desperate, if he started sending amateurs after her. Could the unfortunate man at least hold a sword without his arms wobbling? He didn't even wait until twilight fell, choosing to invade her territory in the light of the day. It was flattering but somewhat insulting, to be honest, the way the king hoped to outmatch her. What a fool.
Stepping around a half-destroyed pillar, she prowled closer, feet silent on the weathered stone.
The warrior was tall, broad-shouldered. Perhaps he could wield the sword hanging beside his hip with ease but, judging by his careless movements—first abrupt, then slow, abrupt again—he wouldn't be able to entertain her with a fight.
She sighed and ducked around the statue of an archer—he was a memorable one—tugging her own hood lower to calm her restless snakes down.
For hundreds of years, the kings of these lands tried to kill or capture her, sending throngs of their best warriors and spies.
None of them came back with a victory.
This time wouldn't be an exception, eith—
The man tripped and cursed, barely regaining his balance. Laughter bubbled in her chest. He wasn't even trying to keep quiet. As he stopped and turned his head to the side, she held her breath, settling against the nearest wall. Too soon. The familiar thrill of the hunt only began to seep into her blood, and her skin itched with anticipation.
Perhaps the King didn't send him. Perhaps he was a regular human, a merchant or a blacksmith, someone who wandered too far from the main road, who didn't even begin to suspect the dangers he would soon meet. But if that was the case, the villagers would have warned him, right? And if they didn't, a dozen stone statues with various terrified expressions would have surely been enough to realise that something was wrong with this place.
Apparently deciding he spent enough time dawdling, the man moved again, farther from the spot she hid in, closer to the surviving part of the temple. Her current home.
Her feet carried her forward on their own volition. If he even dared to lay one finger on her belongings, he would regret the day he was born, warrior or no warrior. She didn't have many things to call her own but they were still precious to her. A change of clothes, a worn-out red blanket and a stack of books the red-head girl from the village gifted her after she saved her from the man who tried to assault her.
Another possession of hers, a sharp dagger used for hunting, hung at her waist, begging to be let out. Typically, she didn't use it during a fight—too dirty, you see—but it came in handy at close range.
The man cursed again, resting a hand on one of the pillars and clutching the hilt of his sword. If he climbed the steps and turned around the corner, he would see, he would know this place wasn't uninhabited. If he hadn't already known, that is. She'd let him rummage about but men, in her experience, tended to destroy everything in their path, and she couldn't let that happen.
Her snakes hissed softly, their distress an echo of the unease brimming in her stomach.
The man stilled.
She did, too.
His spine went ramrod straight as awareness infused his frame. Awareness and apprehension.
Another smirk curved her lips. So he knew.
"Looking for something?" she asked innocently and, not waiting for an answer, swung her dagger.
Before it could bury itself in his flesh, he wheeled around—too fast, too swift for the oaf she thought him to be—and gripped her forearm. Her free hand found the back of his hood and yanked on it, hard. The man grunted and pushed her back against the pillar, the collision of his chest against hers punching all air out of her.
One of his hands closed around her throat, forcing her head back. Her own hood slipped down, and the world drowned in the cacophony of hisses.
She bared her teeth, eyes wide to catch his gaze and sever his life forever.
The man met her stare head on.
Then blinked.
And blinked once again.
She blinked back.
Not dead. Definitely not a marble statue either.
What the—
"Yes," he breathed, still looking at her with his eyes—light grey, so light they could have been mistaken for blue under the sunlight. How was he still alive? "I was looking for you."
The dagger almost slipped from her slack fingers and she gripped it tighter, pushing the tip into the soft place between his jaw and neck. Since he was somehow resistant to her cursed gaze, it was her only weapon.
His throat jerked with a heavy swallow but he didn't move, didn't try to fight at all—and now that her surprise subsided, the haze over his strange eyes became clear. He was—
"Blind," she whispered. He swallowed again as her voice got louder, his grip on her throat weakening. "You're blind. That's why—"
"—why I'm still alive?" he asked. Well, yes, but it also explained his stumbling journey through the ruins. Still, he had to be able to recognise shapes, at least. "Seems so. I wasn't sure if it would work, but—"
"You weren't sure if it'd work? Are you mad? Is the King's promised gold worth your life?"
A scowl twisted his angular features and he shook his head, almost nicking himself on her dagger. She pulled it away—just a fraction—not out of pity but because she needed answers. "I am not mad. The King didn't send me. I am here for my own reasons."
"Is that so?" Her tone switched to mocking. "Let me guess. If not for gold, then you must want to kill me for glory."
"I'm not here to kill you," he said sharply, fingers on her neck slipping up, almost cupping her jaw, as if he tried to make her understand. "You have my word."
Even her snakes fell silent at that, as confused as she was.
It was her turn to swallow, and that, for some reason, startled him into action—though not the expected kind. He let go of her arm, but his fingers joined the ones on her chin, warm, so warm she let out an involuntary sigh, her lids slipping shut.
Human contact. A concept so foreign and so long forgotten she allowed his gentle exploration without much thought—foolish, so very foolish, but when he said he wasn't going to kill her, she believed him.
The tips of his fingers traced a slow, igniting path over her forehead, to the bridge of her nose, down to her cheeks, mapping out every slope and edge, until he reached her lips, parted in anticipation. When his delicate touch bypassed her mouth to return back to her jaw, she stumped on the flicker of disappointment building in her chest. Her skin burned where he touched her, begging for more, more, more.
"You're beautiful." His whisper caressed the side of her face when he leaned closer and that pulled a weak smile out of her.
"You can't even see me."
"I see you." A nod followed his words, the conviction so strong she nearly believed in it herself. "I see you."
If he could, indeed, see her, he'd see nothing but swift death with golden eyes.
His hair, snow-white and soft, brushed against her forehead; pale skin turned pinker in the time he let his hands roam free. His eyes were shut but his face held a hint of something that made her heart stutter behind her ribs—something resembling awe, the kind of reverence humans reserved for the gods.
She was no god.
A shake of her head dislodged his hands and he stumbled back a step. She bit back a moan at the loss of his heat and busied herself with placing her dagger back into its sheath at her waist.
"Well." The trembling in her voice should have been imperceptible, but, considering the lack of sight, his hearing was above that of an average man, and when he frowned, she cleared her throat and ploughed on. "If it's not my murder you're here for, then what is it?"
He fixed his stare back on her, slightly to the left, and said simply, "I want you to help me kill the King."
Earth swayed under her feet.
"What?" she choked out.
"I want to kill the King."
"You really are mad. How can you even—"
"He's the one who blinded me." Her mouth shut with a soft click. He released a deep breath, hands curling into fists. "Well, his pet witch did. He also killed my father."
Oh.
"I'm sorry."
He jerked his head in response but his face stayed impassive. "Will you help me?"
A dog with a bone, that's what he was.
She hated Rodolphus in the same way she hated all his predecessors—for trying to hunt her down and have her murdered just because she was something to be terrified of, something ugly, but, over the years that hate turned stale. Tiresome. This man's hate was personal and she refused to get tangled up in it, despite his deep voice and thrilling touches.
"I still don't understand what made you think I'd even consider agreeing to your—your proposition." When she stepped to the side, his head followed. "Your revenge is not something I'm interested in."
One of his brows quirked, and the quiet amusement on his face made her grit her teeth as she took the first step up to the temple's entrance.
"What about Bellatrix Lestrange?"
She froze.
How did he—
"The King's pet witch is the same witch that cursed you."
Fleeing back down, she stabbed a finger into the hard plane of his chest. He didn't even wince. "How do you know that?"
Was that possible? The witch that cursed her hundreds years ago, alive and thriving by the King's side?
The echo of a dark cackling laughter sent a chill down her spine as the snakes rattled and hissed around her.
"Answer me."
"I know because I have eavesdropped on her conversation with the King."
Was he working at the castle, then? If not a warrior, then a servant?
"Who are you." She dug her finger deeper, and his hand snapped close around her wrist, easing the pressure. This time, his touch didn't startle her, but her skin—the traitor—sang under his. "Tell me right now, or so help me gods—"
"My father," he rasped, "was King Lucius."
Her palm flattened over his chest as she blinked up at him. One heavy thud of his heart, two, three.
"You're Prince Draco."
The Prince rumoured to have gone mad after the death of his father a year ago, blinded and locked away in the tallest tower of the castle that was once promised to him by his birthright.
His hand covered hers, surprisingly calloused for his upbringing.
"Yes."
"Are you sure it's her? Bellatrix?"
A sharp nod was her response.
"Say I agree." Her fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak as he hung on to her every word. "How are we supposed to get into the castle? Do you even have any kind of a plan?"
He looked at her, affronted. "I've had a whole year to think it over in detail. And don't worry, my friends will help us."
"The same friends that let their prince venture into my den?"
"None of them are blind," he deadpanned and, to her horror, a laugh spilled past her lips.
A stunned expression crossed over his face before he released the hand he held captive over his chest. The sense of loss enveloped her again but he cleared his throat and said, looking over her shoulder, a rosy tint to his cheeks. "You know my name. It's only fair that you tell me yours."
"I thought everyone in the kingdom knew it."
He scoffed. "Not Gorgon. Your real name."
Her real name? She held her real name close to her heart—the heart that, sometimes, felt as heavy as the stone statues she left in her wake, the heart that held a faint melody of her mother's gentle voice, calling her home.
"Hermione," she whispered, for the first time in centuries.
"Hermione," the Prince echoed softly, sending tingles across her flesh. He reached out with his hand, the gesture hesitant and strangely hopeful. "Well, Hermione, do we have a deal?
Hermione didn't even think twice before slipping her hand into his warm one.
"I believe we do, Prince."
fin.