Chapter Text
Hermione woke to an unfamiliar warmth that she hadn’t yet experienced in the dungeons of Hogwarts. An arm was slung around her, tracing circles into the skin of her exposed stomach. The scent of her companion was familiar, like home.
Draco.
She wiggled around to face him, wanting to drown in his depthless eyes that she had successfully shattered through the night before. She peered up at him and smiled with content before reaching a hand up to brush the blond locks that had been mused by sleep away from his eyes. But before she could run her fingers through his hair, Draco caught her wrist and brought it to his lips, peppering kisses along the skin of her Marked forearm.
It was a softness that she hadn’t expected from him. The level of gentle ministrations had been few and far between in her own timeline, with that version of Draco whittled down and broken by the war. As he continued to trail his lips over her skin, Hermione realized that this Draco still stood a chance. Yes, he already bore the Dark Lord’s branding, but perhaps there was a way to get him out. The wheels of her mind began to spin at full speed, wondering exactly what she could do to convince him to accept her help.
“I can hear you thinking, Granger. It’s quite loud,” he mumbled into the flesh of her arm. He grazed his teeth against her skin, nipping her pulse point at her wrist.
“You’ve gotten rather good at that.”
“And I suppose your shaky Occlumency skills would have nothing to do with it? I can tear through your walls like paper. They need work,” he quipped.
“No thanks,” she replied. “You’ve done plenty of damage on that front already.”
Draco sighed, releasing her wrist and sitting up on the mattress they were laying in. The duvet that Hermione had transfigured from a window curtain fell to his hips and exposed his bare chest, not yet littered with scars from Harry’s Sectumsempra and hexes from Voldemort.
“I suppose we’ve spent a bit of time together in the future?” he asked.
Hermione hummed in response as she peeled the covers off and stood, stretching while she found her clothes. She heard him shuffling behind her as he left the bed and found his own clothes. With her back turned, she had missed the look of wonder in his eyes.
She knew he would have endless questions; it was only natural, of course. The safety of her mission had been blown anyway. Would it really be so terrible to tell him everything?
“No,” he responded. “Tell me all of it, Granger.”
She gasped as she felt him gently retreat from her overworked mind. His arms wrapped delicately around her waist, holding her close. Leaning back against his chest, she wondered how much damage she had already done. At the end of the day, her job was to stop the war. Draco’s murder of Dumbledore had been the catalyst for the brutality and darkness that followed. If she could change his mind, maybe even get him on her side, it had the potential to change everything.
Hermione spun in his arms to face him. She let her fingers toy with the collar of this shirt before moving down to his sleeve. She pushed the fabric up his forearm to expose his Mark just as she had to her own the night before.
“How long have you had this?” she asked quietly.
“The summer.” The shakiness of his voice was impossible to miss.
With a light touch, she ran her thumb across the expanse of his forearm, easing the writhing Mark with her finger until it gently ebbed and flowed against his skin, no longer searching for darkness.
“It wasn’t too long ago that you told me you never wanted to become one of them.” She sighed, the memory of the night with Veritaserum flowing freely in their veins feeling more like a distant dream than anything else. “You said you wanted to be good. You wanted to be good for me.”
“What the fuck happened to us, Granger?” he asked with a slight shake of his head.
“Theo thinks we fell in love. Silly, isn’t it?”
“It’s hard to find humor in war,” Draco said solemnly. “Nott’s always been rather good at it, though I guess he didn’t have this monstrosity on his skin.”
“He will,” Hermione whispered.
A strangled noise escaped Draco’s throat. His fingertips began to twitch at his sides, fists clenching with anger. Hermione wondered who his victim would be.
“He was at the Manor when I was there. No one protects you like he does, Draco. He…” she trailed off, her throat suddenly tight with unreleased emotion. “He hates me because I put you in danger.”
He scoffed and Hermione couldn’t help but wince at the sudden noise, still half expecting him to act on the waves of anger washing over him.
“Theodore feels a lot of things for you, Granger. Hate will never be one of them.”
Draco turned from her then and began to gather his things. Her fear drowned at the reality of what he had said to her. Panic rose in her chest as she watched him walk towards the door, unprepared for him to leave again. The loneliness she had experienced in this timeline was gutting. She was ready to rush her mission in order to not feel its crushing weight any longer.
Once he reached the door, he gave her one last sorrowful look. “I want to help. Fuck, even the idea of living past the age of twenty sounds like a bloody dream. Tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do it."
He retreated from the doorway with promises lingering in the air. Hermione released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, now able to exhale the pent up feelings she had been struggling to keep under control. Tears began to flow freely down her cheeks.
She realized then that she was not the witch she’d always dreamed of being. She was rash and callous, making decisions based on feelings and emotions. She was anxious and demoralized and so painfully unsure of everything in her life, things she had once prided herself on not being. Her mind was messy and disorganized. She couldn’t keep things straight and was too caught up in small details to focus on the bigger picture.
Her Golden Girl title felt fraudulent. Maybe Harry and Ron had been right. Was this who she was always meant to become? Could any amount of work alter her course?
Everyone had always had an opinion about the famous Hermione Granger. There had been articles from the Daily Prophet, sentiments from friends and family, whispers in the Manor… Each had hit harder than the last, pummeling her into a shell of what she wanted to be.
“Goading Golden Girl: Is She Stifling the Boy Who Lived?”
“She’s obsessed with being right. It must be an overcompensation for her Muggle blood.”
“Granger clings to rules like a crutch—pathetic for someone with no real power.”
“Meddling Mudblood, always interfering with things that don’t concern her kind. She’s a threat to wizarding society.”
But worst of all, Hermione was dark. Feelings of violence and anger stirred within her constantly. It had been all too easy to blame the Dark Mark on her arm, but she knew, deep down, those feelings had always resided in her soul.
The voices in her head shifted to darker tones as they convinced her of her true role in the war.
“You’re dark like me.” Draco.
“The Dark Lord has high expectations of you.” Snape.
“You are going to be my new weapon, Miss Granger.” Voldemort.
The walls of her mind were building higher and higher. The room around her grew dark as a strong bout of dizziness plagued her. Her ears were ringing, her vision was hazy, and she began to sway on her feet.
It had been far too much for far too long. She wasn’t equipped for this. Maybe she had already done enough. Maybe it would all be better if she was gone and forgotten.
A final, choked sob left her, echoing against the dungeon walls around her. She faintly heard the squeaking hinges of the door to her room, but paid little mind as she drifted in and out of consciousness.
A large, calloused hand grabbed her shoulder, fingers and knuckles scarred from various burns and cuts. She caught a glimpse of raven hair before everything faded to black and she fell into Snape’s arms.
⏅
“She was itching at her sleeve, mate. You saw the way Nott pulled on her arm to hide it. We’ve already bloody lost her!” Ron shouted.
Harry looked at him with a clenched jaw. His friend’s insinuation was ridiculous and so far-fetched that he’d had to ask if he was joking nearly five times before Ron’s face was beet red as he tried to convey his seriousness. They had been arguing about it all day, and now that the moon was rising high into the star-studded sky, Harry found himself exhausted by the looping conversation.
“She’s always been weird around Malfoy and you know it. There’s something going on.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean she’s a fucking Death Eater, Ron,” Harry chastised.
Ron sighed heavily and looked out the window of the Gryffindor common room. The grounds were steadily dying—leaves falling, grass turning brown, and sun setting far earlier than it had just days before. Winter was coming. They knew it would be colder; the horizon held more than just snow.
He’d known something wasn’t right from the minute he’d seen her with Malfoy in the hallway a few days ago. The nagging feeling in his chest remained even after Harry convinced him it had been nothing more than an inopportune run in for them. He found himself too distracted with Lavender later than night to ponder it further.
Hermione was nothing more than a friend, but something strange fluttered in his chest every time he saw her. And it had only gotten stronger within the last week or so. Something about her was different, but exactly what he couldn’t put his finger on.
Ron had begged Harry for the Marauder's Map, claiming he wanted to know when Lavender was almost back from classes. But Harry had seen right through his lies—Ron wanted to spy on Hermione. The Chosen One—whose persona was built on morals and trust and goodness—refused to give Ron that kind of power. It wasn’t good for anyone, and it certainly wouldn’t do any good for him and Hermione. Their relationship was already far too tumultuous.
Harry stood from the couch and stretched. “I’ve got a meeting with Dumbledore. I’ll see you in the morning. Please try to get some sleep; Hermione is fine.”
Ron nodded distractedly, still staring into the grounds from the window. Harry retreated quietly, hoping the redhead would take his advice and just let it go for now. Though, if he knew Ron, he wasn’t as hopeful as he wished he could have been. He gave him one last, careful look before slipping from the portrait and walking to the Headmaster’s office.
Now alone and tired from the arguments with Harry, Ron stood from the couch to head to their dorm and go to bed. He climbed the winding steps one by one and whispered the password to the boys’ rooms quietly.
In a far corner of the common room, Cormac McLaggen sat, dazed by all he had heard from the boys’ conversation. Hermione Granger had always captivated him. From the moment he laid eyes on her, he found himself mesmerized and wanting to fall under her swotty spell.
He had been keeping an eye on her from the beginning of the year, and he too had noticed a few strange behaviors—sneaking around, skipping classes, wandering at night, an overall feeling that she was hiding something. It was unlike her and, to be quite honest, it was dangerous . His mind began to race with the possible fall of the Golden Girl from her place of beautiful, alluring grace.
It was obvious she needed a protector. Lucky for her, Cormac was just the man. He could save her. And then, just maybe, she would finally realize how perfect they would be together. His world just made sense with her in it.
He climbed the steps towards the seventh year dorms and entered the room quietly, heading to his bed. With a wave of his wand, the curtains around the four-poster frame whipped shut. He twirled his wand absent-mindedly in his hand as he lost himself in thought. He wanted to take a logical approach to find out the truth, but nothing about Hermione’s recent behavior made any sense.
Ron’s insinuation had been completely unsound and illogical. Hermione Granger couldn’t be a Death Eater. She was far too pure, too good and light and—gods, fucking perfect. His heart nearly shattered in desire.
Malfoy popped into Cormac’s mind. He had watched from afar as their interactions became more and more frequent. Did he think she was perfect too? Was she sneaking around with him? Or maybe she had been coerced. Maybe Malfoy had used a bit of dark magic on his Golden Girl.
He realized he hadn’t seen her all day, not since he watched from a nearby alcove as Theodore Nott practically dragged her from Harry and Ron. Had she fought him? Was she being held against her will?
Cormac jumped out of bed in sudden panic, nearly falling as his limbs tangled in the mess of curtains he had hidden himself behind. He hurried down the steps of the dorm, exiting the tower with an anxious rush that had his pulse hammering in his chest.
Hermione was in danger. He had to save her. He wanted nothing more than to be her savior, her protector, her knight in shining fucking armor.
He grabbed the piece of parchment that was folded neatly in his pocket. It was one of his most prized possessions, both for its ingenuity and its usefulness. He whispered a charm and pointed his wand at the unfurled page. At his command, an arrow appeared and lifted from the page, hovering in front of him and guiding him towards Hermione.
Confusion overcame him as he ventured further and further down the main staircase. It seemed that he was headed for the dungeons, the place where only lowly degenerates resided. Hermione couldn’t be there, could she?
The journey ended when he found himself without a password outside of the Slytherin common room door, the arrow still hovering in front of him and pointing towards the snake den. He wanted to believe the magical guide was wrong, wanted to trust that Hermione would never ever venture into such a dark and horrific place.
But the magic was never incorrect. Deep down, he knew she was really in there. And it made his heart stutter in anger and despair.
Cormac made himself comfortable in the alcove behind the statue of Salazar Slytherin, casting a concealment charm over his figure just in case. He would wait all night if he had to.
Luckily for him, no more than an hour later, the door to the common room swung open and out stepped a familiar head of wild curls. His breath would have been stolen from his lungs at the sight of her had it not been for the infuriating tall figure with white-blond hair.
He would recognize her frame anywhere—the curves, the slight upturn of her nose, her height, even her body language. But what gave him pause was what was covering her.
Hermione Granger always followed the rules and played it safe. It was one of the things Cormac adored about her. If she wasn’t seen in her school uniform and robes, she was usually clad in muggle denims and a nice, respectable sweater. He had seen her legs before—peeking out between her stockings and Hogwarts-issues skirt or the few times when the temperature had been stifling and she had opted for a sundress.
The skirt she was wearing now bent every single rule he’d assumed she set for herself. The material was tight, black, and short—a far cry from respectable and modest. Her legs were on display through a pair of sheer black nylons. He nearly groaned as his eyes traveled down to her ankles on a slow and hungry path.
He could picture his hands roaming over the tights and sending goosebumps across her delicious skin. He could imagine the way her curves would feel under his touch as she leaned into him. He could envision the way her lips—
All of his thoughts halted as he heard her release a low moan of pleasure.
She was pushed against one of the dungeon walls with her hands tangled in those sickening blond locks. Malfoy’s lips roved the skin of her neck, devouring her in a way that was almost animalistic. Her head was thrown against the stone behind her and her eyes were squeezed shut. One of her legs was wrapped around the Slytherin’s waist, her already too-short skirt riding up and nearly exposing her.
Cormac watched in horror as Malfoy ground himself against her core and hoisted her leg higher as he pushed her harder into the wall. When he heard him groan a string of filthy promises against her skin, he saw red.
He jumped from his place behind the statue with his wand drawn and aimed at Malfoy. “Get the fuck away from her!” he shouted.
Hermione gasped in surprise and shoved Malfoy away from her. He stumbled back in confusion before recognizing their guest. Instead of anger or violence or anything else Cormac had expected him to express, his face contorted into a look of irritation.
“Cormac, it’s nothing,” Hermione tried to explain.
“Oh ho ho,” he chuckled darkly. “It was definitely something Granger. I don’t know whether he forced you or coerced you or fucking Imperiused you, but I’m going to make him pay.” Cormac thrust his wand towards Draco.
“No! He didn’t do anything!” Her voice was laced with desperation that she knew would be out of character for herself in this timeline. But she couldn’t let him hurt Draco. Not after they had made so much progress.
Cormac paused and looked at her with an inquisitive eye that had Hermione squirming. She knew she looked like a completely different person—her clothes were uncharacteristic of her, her hair was more tame than it was during her actual sixth year, and her body had lost its healthy glow that it once had—all due to living through a war, a war that Cormac had no idea was even coming.
He took a few slow steps towards her with knitted brows. “If what I just witnessed was consensual, either you’ve lost your bloody mind or you aren’t Hermione Granger.” His face morphed into an arrogant look of understanding as he backed her against the wall Malfoy had just had her up against.
Hermione did her best to stay calm and level-headed. She couldn’t reveal her secret to anyone else; it was far too dangerous. But what would McLaggen do if he thought she had disguised herself as his obsession?
He twirled his wand through one of her curls and leaned far too close for her comfort.
“If I remember, using Polyjuice potion is frowned upon. Slughorn may be a useless professor, but I’d bet all my galleons that Snape would have just the solution for you. In fact, I think he’s due for his rounds just about now.”
As if on some sort of jinxed cue, a set of footsteps rang in the distance. The unmistakable click of black leather boots grew nearer with each passing second, and within moments, Snape was coming to a halt before the trio.
“Professor Snape!” Cormac greeted too enthusiastically. “This student here has Polyjuiced themselves as Hermione Granger! I stopped them before anything got out of hand.”
Severus looked to Hermione, who gave him a tense look. He put on his mask of authority and listened to McLaggen ramble about his findings. After he had babbled what would have taken up a nice stack of parchment, Snape held up a hand to halt him from continuing.
“Mr Malfoy, go back to your dorm. It is far past curfew. As for you two.” He turned to face Hermione and Cormac. “My office now.”