A/n: As always, I owe a huge thank you to the wonderful Maeghan (occupymalfoysbed on tumblr) for betaing!

TW –References to rape, sexual assault and violence prevalent throughout chapter.

Song rec for this chapter: Sia – I'm In Here

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In the Cruel Northern Mist

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Chapter 3: Duality

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The pain.

That was the first thing she noticed. Before she even knew she was rousing, she felt the pain. Her whole head pounded with it, like the dull, echoing throb of a heartbeat. Particularly on the left side of her face, which felt double its usual size; swollen and stretched, it was like a blister ready to burst. Merlin's grave, it hurt.

The second thing she noticed was the cold floor beneath her. She was lying on her left side, and everything from her shoulder to her ankle was freezing, so much so that she was shivering slightly. The cold of the rough, slate tiles penetrated through her clothes, which were damp at her elbows and knees. But still, it was the pain ricocheting around her inflated head that she felt the most.

The third thing she noticed were the voices, and then all she felt was fear. Blood-chilling, heart-stuttering fear.

"...walked straight into our trap..."

"...that should make them unstable..."

"...they will become reckless..."

Slowly and warily, Hermione tried to peel open her eyes, but only her right eye seemed to work, and she also realised that she couldn't hear out of her left ear. Her working eye took a few moments to adjust to the darkness and blurry silhouettes, but then she knew where she was and she wished she could be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The last time she had been at Malfoy Manor had been eight years ago when Bellatrix had ruthlessly tortured her, and despite how much she had grown since then, she felt like that same terrified girl again, desperately praying to a god she didn't believe in for a miracle. She was unsure if she was in the same room as she'd been in back then, but it was just as dark and felt just as cold. Dark walls, dark floor, dark everything, like she was trapped in a ceaseless shadow.

Scattered around the room were Death Eaters draped in their dark robes, some wearing masks, others not, and they surrounded her like a murder of crows. But it was what was in front of her that made her very soul tremble. At the far end of the room was a long table, lying across the width of the room, and sat at it were Voldemort and his six generals, three either side of his seat in the centre. On his left were Amycus Carrow, Antonin Dolohov, and Walden Macnair, and on his left sat Bellatrix Lestrange, Alecto Carrow, and Draco Malfoy.

The Order knew of the six generals and their roles within the Death Eaters after Dean Thomas' escape last year. It was rare for Voldemort himself to participate in battles, but he would always send one of his generals to oversee an attack and, judging by Macnair's dishevelled appearance, he had overseen the ambush at Little Hangleton.

No one in the room seemed to have noticed that she was awake, but Hermione could feel a mixture of blood and bile trapped in her throat. She desperately tried to stop herself from coughing it out, but it was burning now, and she retched it up, hating how the sound of her gagging echoed around the room. Silence followed as all the eyes in the room fell on her.

"It's awake," said Voldemort, his tone almost amused. "Sit her up, Fenrir."

Hermione felt a large, brutal hand grab a chunk of her hair and lift her up, pulling painfully at her scalp until she was on her knees. She hadn't thought it was possible, but the pain pulsing around her skull intensified and, despite her best efforts, she couldn't stifle the pathetic whimper that pushed past her lips. Behind her, Fenrir Greyback's feral, guttural breath plagued her neck, and she tried to stop herself from shaking. She was so, so frightened.

"And you're certain this is that Mudblood, Draco?" asked Voldemort. "The Granger one?"

"It's definitely Granger," replied Draco.

Hermione shifted her eye to him, studying his relaxed shoulders and blank expression. The last time she'd seen him had been over two years ago at a battle near Newcastle. She'd noticed then how different he looked from their Hogwarts days; he'd become paler and more stern, his features sharp and severe. Carved and unflinching, like alabaster. Beside him, his Aunt Bellatrix leaned forward with a thrilled, crooked grin.

"I remember her, too," sang Bellatrix with delight. "Nice to see you again, precious."

"My, my, my," said Voldemort slowly. "What a bountiful night this has been. Well done, Fenrir. Do you have any requests for a reward?"

"Can I have her for a couple of hours?" asked Fenrir.

The connotations of his question were unmistakable— a loud, terrifying promise— and Hermione felt her spine go rigid with dread. She thought of Luna. She wondered if Fenrir had made the exact same demand about her. She wondered if Luna had felt just as petrified as she did right now. She wondered if this could break her, like it had Luna.

"Absolutely fucking not," snapped Draco, and Hermione's eye darted over to him with some bizarre emotion somewhere between hope and alarm.

"You object, Draco?" asked Voldemort, his serpentine grin stretching.

"The last time he sullied himself with one of the Order, she escaped. Not to mention that this is a Mudblood." He paused and scoffed. "It's disgusting."

Behind her, Hermione could hear Fenrir growl, but he didn't challenge Draco's argument. However, Voldemort's grin widened, baring his fang-like teeth before he released a low, dark chuckle that seemed to echo around the cold room like an awful alarm.

"As you know, Draco, I do admire your unwavering revulsion toward Mudbloods," said Voldemort. "But I can't deny Fenrir his prize for managing to get one of the Order's Advanced Guard."

"Thank you, my lord," replied Fenrir, his grip on Hermione's hair tightening.

"And I'm sure," continued Voldemort, "That he has learned from his previous mistake, haven't you, Fenrir?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Because if another Order hostage should manage to escape while in your custody, there would be...consequences."

"Of course, my lord."

"Very well," said Voldemort, clapping his hands together like a gavel. "You can have her for an hour, Fenrir, and then you can take her to the dungeons ready for Bellatrix."

"It'll be just like old times," crooned Bellatrix, waving mockingly at Hermione. "Have fun."

And then Hermione was being dragged backward by her hair, feeling a few clumps ripping away from her scalp as she frantically tried to free herself from his grip. She didn't scream. She would not scream. Her legs kicked and her fingernails scratched and clawed at Fenrir's hairy, rough knuckles, but it was all futile. The herd of Death Eaters eyed her with malice and amusement as she was pulled out of the room and into a windowless corridor until Fenrir pushed her down a short staircase of about seven stairs. Her already aching head whacked against the banister on her way down, and she landed awkwardly on her arm, hearing something snap before more pain burned just below her elbow. Again, she whimpered. But she did not scream.

Fenrir's hand was snatching at her hair again, and she was tugged down another corridor for Merlin knew how long. It could have been seconds or minutes. Suddenly, she was being hurled into a room, and she rolled across the hard floor, lifting her head just as Fenrir disappeared back into the corridor and slammed the door shut, leaving her alone. With the exception of an unmade bed with stained bedding and a collapsed chest of drawers, the room was empty and had only a small embrasure window, barely three inches wide, which allowed a small sliver of barely-dawn light into the room.

Knowing that her time was limited, Hermione gritted her teeth and hauled herself to her feet, grunting as pain shot up her injured arm and pulsed around her head. A quick check of her hands and pockets revealed that they had, of course, taken her Portkey ring and her wand. Next, she began moving around the room, checking the floor, walls, and ceiling for any weaknesses or loose nails that she might be able to conceal and then jam into Fenrir when the moment presented itself. Studying the bed, she discovered even the mattress springs had been removed, and the chest of drawers had collapsed in on itself as all the screws had been removed.

Despondent, her functioning eye darted around the room again, hunting for anything she could use: a shard of glass, a sharp chip of stone, a splintered piece of wood...all those things that mothers tell their teenage daughters to use should they be abducted. But there was nothing. She knew some wandless magic— McGonagall had been teaching her— but nothing powerful enough to overwhelm Fenrir. That was that, then. She would simply have to fight.

Several minutes later, the door was shoved open and Fenrir took up the entire doorframe with his mass. Shutting the door behind him, he turned to look at her like an animal; a wolf ready to gorge on a lame rabbit. His mouth stretched into a jagged, bestial grin that made her heart falter, but she stood as tall as she could and glared back at him.

He was approaching her like a predator and she tried to duck away from him, but Fenrir grabbed her quickly by the shoulders so that she was flush against his chest, his rancid breath all over her face. She struggled and shoved and kicked, but he ripped away a chunk of her jumper and grasped her arms, digging his long nails into her biceps. Yelping as blood trickled down her arms, Hermione steeled herself and tried one final thing: she head-butted him with all the force she could muster.

It probably hurt her more than it hurt him, but she heard something crack as she smacked her forehead into the bridge of his nose, and then there was blood pouring out of his nostrils, spattering against her chin, neck, and chest in a warm, sticky stream. Yowling, Fenrir dropped her to the ground and clutched his face. Dazed and with her whole body aching, Hermione didn't have the time or energy to scramble away before he reached down and roughly picked her up by her throat. He snarled at her, his teeth bloody and bared.

"You will regret that," he hissed.

Hermione clenched her eye shut as she felt his free hand reach for her belt, but then there was a sound—a thump of some sort— and Fenrir's body seemed to jolt forward before they were both falling to the floor. He landed limply on her legs, deadweight.

Panting with fear and exertion, Hermione looked up and froze. There, standing over them, with what looked like a table leg in his hand, was Draco Malfoy. His dark eyes lingered on Fenrir's unmoving form for a few moments before they flashed over to her, and Hermione could only stare back at him in shock, trembling.

"Is that your blood, Granger?" asked Draco steadily.

She didn't respond. All she could focus on was breathing. When Draco took a step toward her and crouched down, she flinched away, but he simply pointed at her red-stained chest.

"Granger, is this yours?"

Again, she didn't reply.

"Snap the fuck out of it, Granger," he whispered harshly, snapping his fingers. "I'm not going to harm you, but we don't have time for this. Is the blood yours?"

Hermione swallowed heavily, and moved her mouth to speak. The left side of her face spasmed painfully with the effort, but she forced out a slurred and painful, "No."

"Good," he replied. "Can you walk?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then get up."

With that, he stood up and Hermione pushed Fenrir off her legs with as hard and brutal a kick as she could muster. Warily and without ever taking her eye off Draco, she awkwardly pulled herself up, sucking air in through her teeth as she tried to avoid jostling her broken arm. Draco simply watched her, not offering to help, even when she swayed and staggered a little on her wobbly legs. Adjusting herself a couple of times and correcting her balance as her head swarmed with dizziness, she anxiously looked at him as he reached down and pulled Fenrir's wand out of his back pocket.

"Here," he said, holding the wand out to her. "You need to Obliviate him."

Hermione shook her head. "I can't-"

"Yes, you can," he argued firmly, thrusting the wand into her shaking hand. "They have to think you did this. Just erase the last five minutes. You need to do it. Now."

Even with her entire body quaking and her mind muddled, she managed to aim the wand at the unconscious monster on the floor. She forced herself to concentrate and focus, mumbling Obliviate and twisting the wand. It was inevitably clumsy and inelegant, but she knew her magic well, and she knew it had worked as she dropped the wand to the floor like a rancid piece of rubbish. Beside her, with folded arms and an impatient posture that vaguely reminded Hermione of McGonagall for a moment, Draco simply waited in silence, nodding his head once she had completed the task.

"Good," he said again crisply. "Right, you need to stay right behind me at all times. Do NOT fall behind. Let's go."

Draco had relayed the instructions so quickly and in such a matter-of-fact tone that Hermione didn't dare ask any questions as they rushed outside and into the corridor. She followed behind him, closer than his shadow despite her unstable legs and the pain still vibrating around the majority of her body, fuelled by pure adrenaline and hope. A few times he hesitated, usually to check around a corner, and she barely managed to avoid slamming into his back. She had no idea how many corridors they traversed or how many staircases they scaled, as she was far too determined to stay as close to him as possible, but they must have been moving for at least fifteen minutes around Malfoy Manor's labyrinthine structure when they finally came to a stop in front of a seemingly mundane wall.

Hermione watched intently as Draco removed a wand from his pocket and pointed it at his palm, slicing open a small wound with magic. Voices echoed somewhere behind them and Hermione instinctively clutched his arm and leaned into his back as he pressed his hand against the wall, where the bricks glowed a muted green hue before they slowly began to dissipate, creating a narrow opening. They moved through the opening, and Hermione glanced back to see the wall had quickly returned to its former shape, concealing them in the room. A desk, bed, and a bookshelf holding a dozen books and some ornaments were the only furniture in the small space, but she thought it looked like paradise at that moment.

"A Room of Requirement?" she asked.

"Just a safe room for members of the Malfoy bloodline," he replied, heading to the desk and rummaging around in the top drawer. "Don't touch anything."

Licking her dry lips, Hermione watched him closely. "You're the one who saved Dean and Luna, aren't you?"

"Obviously."

"Why are you helping us?"

"Brightest witch of your age, Granger," he said stoically. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

"So, you're on our side?"

His shoulders stiffened at her question. "I need to get you out of here before-"

"Are you on our side?" she repeated.

He exhaled heavily before he lifted his sullen, steel-grey eyes to her. "Right now, I'm trying to help you. That's all you need to know."

"You're going to Obliviate me, aren't you?"

"Granger," he groaned, still rummaging in the drawer. "For once, could you stop your incessant questions?"

"But you are, aren't you?"

"Of course I am."

"But why?" she asked, walking toward him. "We could help each other. We...we could stop the war-"

He scoffed and shook his head. "Don't be so naive, Granger. We don't have time for this bollocks."

"I've been working on finding the three missing Horcruxes and I've got some good information. You must know things about them that could help."

"Granger-"

"You do, don't you?" she pressed. "We could-"

"Enough!" he snapped harshly, finally removing a small object — a thimble — from the drawer. "I'm helping you escape. Be satisfied with that."

"No. No, I will not be satisfied until it's over. We could do more-"

"Take this," he said, pushing the wand he had used to cut his palm into her hand. "They destroyed your wand." He held up the thimble for her to see. "This is a Portkey. After I Obliviate you, I'll put the Portkey in your hand and it will take you to the outskirts of Wiltshire, and then you can Apparate back to your camp."

"Draco, we could stop all this," she persisted. "If we worked together, we could-"

"We could what, Granger?" he retorted. "Save the world? Don't be so fucking ridiculous."

"So what, you're just going to keep saving Order members until you grow old?"

"It's something-"

"It is, and I'm grateful," she said, reaching for his arm again, but he shrugged her off. "But you could do so much more. We could do so much more."

"Enough now," he said, his tone slightly softer than before. "Enough, Granger."

Raising his wand with a steady and unwavering arm, he pointed it at her head, the tip barely an inch away, and Hermione stilled, frowning sadly at him but refusing to break eye contact.

"For what it's worth," she muttered quietly. "I always had a feeling you weren't evil."

Something flickered in his eyes, like a flash of lightning in a storm. "Not evil, Granger," he whispered back. "But bad enough."

"No, I think you're...decent. And even if I don't remember saying that, I want you to remember that I did."

The harsh, unflinching contours of his expression relaxed for a moment, like melting ice. His resolved stance seemed to falter, and she took advantage of his hesitation, raising her hand to his wrist and giving it a slight squeeze before she pushed down the hand holding his wand, feeling only a little resistance as she did so.

"Please," she breathed. "If I was the brightest witch in Hogwarts, you were the brightest wizard. We can do this. Maybe only we can."

Hermione watched the muscles of his jaw clench with frustration, but then he completely dropped his wand arm to his side, an agitated sigh pushing through the gaps on his gritted teeth. His eyes dropped to the floor for a moment and he lifted his other hand to rake his fingers through his moon-white hair. When he looked back up, his eyes were narrowed and fiercer, fixing her with a penetrative ferocity that roused goosebumps on her arms.

"Swear to me that you won't tell anyone in the Order about me," he demanded harshly. "You swear that to me right now, Granger."

"I swear," she promised quickly. "I swear on my life."

"Good, because if you do, I will kill you myself," he said darkly, and she believed him. "Let's just see how bright you really are. If you can figure out a way for us to communicate without being detected, then we'll take it from there. You have a week."

"Okay...okay, I'll figure something out. I have books on-"

"I'm sure you do," he interjected, holding the thimble close to her hand. "You need to leave now."

"Okay, I'm ready," she said, clutching her injured arm close to her body to prepare for the Portkey's pull. "Thank you. For everything."

"One week, Granger," he repeated, taking a step forward so he could tower over her. "And remember: you don't tell a soul about this or it will be the last promise you break."

And with that, he pressed the thimble into her hand.

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A/n: Hello lovelies! Thank you so much for your lovely comments on this so far. I was actually happy with a chapter for a change, so hopefully you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I'm actually feeling pretty good about this fic and will do my best to keep updating it regularly.

Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

Bex