A/N: And so we've reached the end. I hope you've enjoyed this bit of fanfiction as much as I enjoyed writing it. This was mostly experimental and a means of challenging myself, so I appreciate anyone taking the chance to read this. It certainly pays off to challenge yourself! I also apologize for the wait; unexpected delays at home resulted in my inability to post yesterday. But, without further ado, here is the chapter! Let me know what you think.

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Part 3: Demons

If our demons cannot dance,
neither can we.

They crash together, again and again, teeth sinking into tendons and words landing like blades through the slats of their ribs. Their coupling is hateful, all nails and broken skin, but they revel in the suspension of humanity. Together, their demons rejoice, unfurling from the inner workings of their minds, picking the locks so carefully fit to their cages to embrace the freedom they allow one another in the carnality of flesh.

Her gasps reverberate in his mind, and she swears that she can hear the staccato hammering of his heart. The shadows wrap around them, dancing together in a whirlwind of magic.

When they finally sink to the ground together and he enters her, the pentagram flares with brilliant light, and Draco can see. Everything that was once cloudy solidifies in his mind's eye, and his body moves of its own accord, driving pleasure from her while he chases his own. Unbridled power courses through his veins, and a magic he has never known before awakens within him, the depth of it searing through his nerves and rending him until he is little more than flesh.

The magic feels like the part of him that has always been missing, filling the void in him that has ached since his mother died. And as he drives into Hermione again and again, he knows she can feel it too, that she revels in it too. In this moment, in this coupling, they are one, their magics weaving together and reassembling themselves in perfect unity.

His understanding of the last few months coming to a head as her orgasm crashes over and he follows shortly behind. White spots dance behind his eyelids, and in that moment, he knows.

Whatever she asks of him, he will do it.

They lie there for a few moments, silent save for the pounding of their hearts and their shared breath. When he finally faces her again, she stares at the ceiling with a contented smile.

She meets his gaze, and he startles. Where her eyes were once a gentle chocolate now boasts a solid black, endless in their depths. A primal part of him screams at him to run, but the darkness within him strains to meet it. When she blinks, the blackness recedes.

With a swallow, he looks away, unable to maintain the eye contact without betraying his nerves. "What next?" A large part of him, the part he's tried to silence since the war, since his mother's death, since he was cast out of Voldemort's favour, shies away. He's not sure he wants to know the answer, but the newly awakened part of him crowes in response.

She is silent for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice has an undercurrent, not entirely her own. "Tonight, we rise."

The hairs along the back of his neck stand to attention. Despite himself, a cold smirk graces his lips. This—the power coursing through him, the unbridled rage that simmers in his gut—this is what he deserves, what he needs. This is what his darkness has been craving.

His hand closes over Hermione's naked hip, his fingernails biting into the bare flesh, and he revels in the way she arches into his touch and how his magic responds. It's foreign but satisfying, a door opened that he never wishes to close again.

He watches Hermione rise from the floor, and he follows suit, taking care once more not to disturb the lines of the pentagram. It's an ancient force driving him, and he feels stronger than he has in a long time. Endless.

When Hermione turns to face him again, the black depths of her eyes are back; instead of cowering, he steps into her space. At the sharp catch of breath in her throat, he knows his gaze mirrors hers. He traces a finger along the line of her clavicle, tracing the sharp jut of her bone beneath the edge of her robes.

"Where do we begin?" His words rumble through them, and she leans into him.

She inhales deeply. "We begin at the end." With that, she Apparates them away.

When the land is steady beneath his feet again, he takes in their surroundings, starting when he recognizes the gilded gates of Malfoy Manor, his former estate home and Voldemort's base of operations. Without hesitation, he waves his wand, giving entrance to the grounds.

His heart is in his throat as they march with purposeful steps up the grand marble entrance, a heady beat thrumming in his head when she blasts the door inward.

The home is as he remembers it, but his gaze rests on the one addition: an ornate throne sits in the middle of the dining room and Voldemort sits atop it, his monster of a snake coiled around his feet. When his gaze lands on the intruders, a cold laugh escapes his snake-like features.

"Ahh, you Mister Malfoy. Quite a surprise to see you here after your disgraceful exit." Draco sneers, his wand hand itching to begin casting spells, but the magic inside him forces his hand to remain still. Hermione speaks beside him, but her voice is not her own.

"It's been a long time, Tom."

The wizard freezes, round eyes the only indication of his fear. "Who are you?"

Hermione laughs, high and thin. "Some call me Death. Others call me Osiris. You may call me the Devourer." Her head cocks unnaturally, and Draco feels the thrum of her magic in the air calling to his own. "We met, briefly, if you recall."

Voldemort sweeps to his feet, wand sliding into his hand.

"You see," Hermione continues, and Draco slowly unsheathes his wand. "I made you an offer when Mister Potter managed to defeat you so long ago." She snorts, derision written across her features. "And you rebuked me. I warned you of what would happen if you didn't listen to me."

She stalks forward, Voldemort shrinking backward. Draco revels in the fear written across his features; he's never seen the near-legendary man appear anything other than collected and driven. His own smirk of hatred crawls up his face as Hermione closes the distance.

Her voice drops low. "Did I not warn you that if you continued on this path that I would come to you as death? That I would strike you down where others could not?"

Voldemort raises his wand, and Hermione rapidly raises her palm, magic blasting outward from her palm and destroying the wand. "Your deathstick will be of no help, I'm afraid."

Footsteps echo down the hallway, and at Hermione's glance over her shoulder, he waves his wand, sending the doors crashing shut. With a slash of his marked palm, the same dark surge of magic she wielded shrouds the room and seals the doors. The shouts of the Death Eaters are cut off, and they are left in the resounding silence of the room.

"How—" Voldemort begins, and in that moment, Draco clearly sees the man he used to be: scared, spineless, and vulnerable. He is stripped away of all that makes him powerful, and a thrill runs through Draco at the knowledge that before the end of the evening, this poor excuse for a wizard will be nothing more than the dust beneath his feet.

Hermione's voice booms around them, both the deep bass of the Devourer and her own intertwining, speaking their truths to the creature before them. "We are your reckoning, your hell, your destruction." She slashes her palm down, and Voldemort is brought to his knees. "You were given a warning, and now you will pay the price."

He watches her, fascinated at the graceful lines of her body, the way she commands the room, so different than the Granger he knew and yet entirely the same in the calculating and cutthroat approach. With a nod from her, they both face their palms outward. Green light fills the room, and Draco bites back a moan at the force of the magic coursing through him, racing through his veins, and setting his soul aflame. A thud echoes through the room, and their magic vanishes.

On the floor before them lays the prone form of Voldemort, his empty gaze staring up at the ceiling. Once more, blood trickles onto the pristine tile of his childhood home, this time from the wizard that destroyed everything that Draco held dear to himself while at the same time waking this being within him, this gift of power that he might never have had without it. The weight of it crashes into Draco and, before he realizes what he's doing, he crushes Hermione to him, their lips frantic in celebration. When they break apart, Hermione stares up at him, their satisfaction mingling together.

"Shall we finished what we started?" The being within him purrs in delight, and he nods. As they walk away, Hermione pauses, unsheathing her wand for the first time and pointing it at the dead wizard's form. The acrid smell of burning flesh fills the air, and flash gold across the corpse's forehead: "and if it does not contain All, then All is Nothing." The writing in their own marks echoes it, and their magics purr in satisfaction as they cross the threshold of the doorway.

The heavy wooden door barely falls shut before flashes of light and dying screams of the Death Eaters announce the return of Death and her demon.