Chapter Text

Shadows of the Night

Quick author's note: Arrrrrg. Yes, still a pirate. Still writing foul-mouthed characters. As always, if it comes to the naughty words, get with it, get over it, or off you fuck. No one has to read what makes them uncomfortable.

A Mask of Silver

Hermione

2000

The noise was deafening. Spells flew through the air and the ground shook underneath her feet. Hermione ducked, clutching her wand tightly, as a Reducto obliterated the wall behind her. Debris and dust exploded around her, some of it hitting her back and slicing into her cheek.

Cursing, she rolled out of reach of the next spell, jumped up and ran, vanishing in the billowing dust as if diving into cover. Firing Bombardas and Stupefies blindly over her shoulder, she dashed around a corner, trying to see Harry and Ron through the pandemonium around them while dabbing the back of her hand to her cheek.

It felt like the battle of Hogwarts all over again, except for the fact that this was Lestrange Manor and Voldemort was certainly not around. Which was a real shame, because they had been looking for signs of him. Infiltrating this place had been easy enough, until Bixby had set off an alarm by pocketing some dark artifact. Predictably, they been surrounded by Death Eaters in no time at all.

Of course, the wards prevented them from Disapparating to safety, so they had been caught off guard and outnumbered. Bixby had paid for his stupidity almost immediately, an Avada hitting him square in the chest, before the rest of their group was able to fight for some room. Chaos had erupted after someone had floated a whole damned staircase their way, separating everyone and making tactical battle an impossibility.

Hermione had seen Ron and Harry get lost behind splintering stairs, yelling for her to run and that they would find her.

Snorting, Hermione ducked once more, feeling a spell singe the tips of her hair as she twisted and fired back with speed and precision, honed in two years of consequent training and skirmishes. A gurgled cry answered and a black-cloaked figure sank in on itself. She would no doubt be the one to find them, as she always did. But maybe she would manage find him first…

Shaking her head, Hermione pressed her lips together. It was not important. He probably wasn’t even there. Still, she hurried over to the Death Eater she had just hit and peeked at his mask. No. This one was dark as onyx, the cut all wrong.

With a huff, she carried on, pressing up against a wall for cover before Disillusioning herself. The irony of her situation wasn’t lost to her. How she was mid battle, alone, thinking of one particular sliver-masked Death Eater whose identity she didn’t know, but who she hoped was someone she had once known. Because it was the only thing that would make sense to her. Because it would mean that he was still alive.

Berating herself, Hermione crept further, breathing through the heavy air as she blinked and tried to see beyond a few steps ahead. Manor-walls apparently made for a lot of dust once exploded. She wondered whether Malfoy Manor was the same. With its marble statues and squeaky floors.

All breath left her as a swish of black fabric alerted her of an enemy ahead. Slowly and silently, Hermione followed them, stalking her prey with the grace and skill garnered in during countless hours of practice. The figure turned into a corridor with much less dust and Hermione was able to see them clearly. It had to be a man, as he was tall and broad-shouldered. Moving with lithe steps and an awareness speaking of agility and strength.

Was it him?

Clasping her wand tighter, she debated whether she should stun him in the back and check. But before she could, he took another turn and was gone. Quickly, she followed, but when she came upon the corner he had vanished behind, there was no sign of him.

“Bollocks,” Hermione whispered beneath her breath. What was she even doing, following around a Death Eater instead of hexing him? Only on the off chance that he was the one who had… She shook her head and berated herself inwardly, stalking the halls of the manor further in search of her friends. And him.

The reason Hermione wasn’t outright hexing enemies anymore, was because a certain, silver-masked, member of these dung beetles had saved her life more than once and she would find out why and who he was.

It had started a month after the battle of Hogwarts, where Harry and Voldemort had fought. Harry had miraculously not died in the forest and challenged Voldemort to a duel once toppling from Hagrid’s arms. The Dark Lord had accepted after getting over his shock, but then Neville had slain Nagini and Voldemort had immediately fucked off in a crack of black smoke, followed by most of his cronies.

The war had been drawn out and turned into a slew of smaller battles and an endless back and forth, costing too many lives and leaving the Order to resort to guerrilla tactics and drawn-out plots to find Voldemort. Now that all Horcruxes were gone, the only thing left to do was kill him, but no one had seen him since.

On one mission, that one month after the battle, Hermione had dueled a wizard with a silver mask. And while he had been exceptionally talented and quick, flicking her spells to the side with barely an effort, which had vexed her beyond belief, his own had never hit her. At first, she’d thought he was a bad shot, but when backup had come, he’d hit her with a Jelly-leg jinx and Disapparated.

Ever since then, she would catch glimpses of him during missions and soon started wondering. It appeared as tough he deliberately missed her, and soon that suspicion became truth as he saved her from grievous harm once or twice. One of his spells had blasted her back, just as part of the roof had collapsed on her a month after their initial encounter. Or when she had been cornered by Greyback, who had exploded, seemingly without cause or reason. Hermione suspected he had been behind that too. There had been movement at the corner of her eyes. A dark-cloaked figure vanishing from sight.

Soon, she started to scour the masks of enemies during fights, trying to find him. Finally, she had come face to face with him, alone. They had both not raised their wands and when she’d asked him who he was, he had not answered. Upon hearing Order members approach, Hermione had waved at him to get lost, probably saving him from being captured.

In hindsight, that had been stupid. If she ever wanted to know who he was and why he did what he did, she would have to capture him. And part of her suspected, while another part of her hoped…

So while it was dangerous, reckless, and probably idiotic, Hermione had taken to sneak across battlefields in search of him. Just as she was now. That and looking for her friends.

Friends whom she found five minutes later, as she followed the noise of spells and explosions into what looked like a dining hall. The windows had shattered and the furniture was turned over.

Unseen due to still being Disillusioned, Hermione crept up behind three masked figures, who were busy firing at an overturned table that was strengthened with a Protego.

“Stupefy!” she heard Ron yell, while Harry resorted to Expelliarmus and Reducto.

One of the Death Eaters laughed and something dark shot from his wand. It wrapped around the shield, squeezing it with black tendrils until it shattered. A Bombarda Maxima later, the table was naught but splinters and Harry and Ron had been blasted back.

With a swish of her wand, Hermione sent the arse responsible careening trough one of the windows, leaving behind a piece of black cloth and smears of blood on the sharp glass. It didn’t really bother her that they were on the second floor.

That one move had alerted the other two though, who twisted, their wands raised. Hermione stilled, knowing that if she moved, they would see her. Her frantic eyes searched for Harry and Ron, who lay sprawled on the ground, unmoving.

Merlin, let them be alive, she begged silently, getting ready to cast her spells quickly. It never came to that, though, as she beheld her silver-masked Death Eater as one of the two remaining. Her concentration stagnated for the barest of moments, during which the other Death Eater cast a Homenum Revilio and Hermione cursed as her Disillusionment shimmered and she was visible again.

She was quick, but her Stupefy missed and—seemingly anticipating her movements—the unknown Death Eater hit her with a Petrificus Totalus mid-jump. She crashed into the floor painfully, the marble floor cold and ungiving. As her body was very much ungiving itself, she felt something in her upper arm crack and agony stabbed through her entire arm and shoulder. Her lips had settled in a grim line of concentration though, not a sound leaving them when all she wanted to do was scream.

A small cackle floated her way, as the short and stout enemy who had hit her closed in. “Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and Harry sodding Potter. Oh, the Dark Lord will reward us beyond compare.”

Tears ran from her eyes, making everything blurry and she blinked furiously to be able to see. It was the only part of her body she could still move. Hermione didn’t care about the man shuffling her way or his wand aimed at her. Her gaze was trained on the tall one behind him. The one with the silver mask.

He was close enough for her to see one thing: Grey eyes that seared into the back of his companion. Dark and unholy. Black-gloved fingers twirled his wand once, twice, then he aimed and a soundless green jet flew from the tip.

The Death Eater coming for Hermione stilled, his body jerking as a grunt left him. His eyes behind the black mask were wide as all life left them.

Hermione’s gaze met the grey eyes of her savior as the other man slumped in on himself. Had he… Had he just used a silent Avada? With success?

With long strides he ate the distance between them, stepping over his dead companion as if he were an afterthought. He crouched in front of her, pulled her wand from her grasp gently, making her breath hitch with worry. But he only placed it in her pocket.

With a wave and a barely-audible whisper, he undid her petrification and Hermione groaned in pain, falling in on herself. She yelped when her shoulder stung under her tries to push herself up. Still, she scrambled into a sitting position, staring at him, unsure of what he would do next. His unusual eyes held hers steadily as he pointed to the arm she cradled to her chest with her good one.

“I think it’s broken,” she whimpered. Hermione flinched when he trained the tip of his wand on her, but all she felt was a snap and buzz, as her arm healed and blood began flowing the way it was supposed to again.

Her throat was dry from her gasps and she licked over her chapped lips, still caught in their staring contest. “Who are you?” she whispered, her hand inching toward her pocket. The man in front of her might have a strange interest in keeping her alive—and healed—but that did not mean she trusted him, or that she was comfortable around him without a wand in hand.

He shook his head once, nodding at her wandering hand and she stilled, fear ratcheting up her spine when he reached out. What was he… Hermione made to slide further back, but his leather-gloved hand captured her cheek, his thumb running over the cut there. Something warm prickled along the sting and she hissed. Then the pain was gone entirely.

Hermione gaped. Healing a broken arm was one thing, a scraped cheek? That was excessive. Not something he had to do, not that any of it was… She swallowed and her hand shook as she raised it slowly between them.

His thumb still grazed over her healed cheek, back and forth, as her fingertips met the chin of his mask. It was cold and hard and she saw him swallow in turn, before he closed his eyes briefly, seemingly accepting what she was about to do.

The unsticking spell was on the tip of her tongue when she saw movement behind him. He seemed to have gathered something from her expression because he jumped to his feet and was about to turn, putting himself between whomever had moved and her.

“Stupefy!” Harry roared, knocking him back. Hermione cried out as he spun and crashed into her. Her arms went around him, effectively catching him, even as the impact robbed her of breath. He was heavy and she grunted while Harry helped Ron up and both stumbled her way.

“Are you alright, Hermione? Did he hurt you?” Harry asked, while Ron seemed to have lost his ability to speak, looking a bit pale and confused as he hung from Harry’s side.

Battling for breath, Hermione waved off her best friend, her shaking fingers plucking up her wand. She quickly levitated the man in her arms and sucked some air into her lungs as his dead-weight shifted off of her.

“Fine,” she muttered, standing up. “You?”

“Got knocked out for a bit,” Harry said, heaving Ron up. “I think Ron hit his head though.”

“Romilda? Have you cut your hair?” Ron asked, gazing at Harry with a bleary look.

Harry rolled his eyes. “We have to get him back. And this one too.” He gestured his wand at the floating and unconscious Death Eater.

Hermione nodded, her gut coiling in on itself as her nerves sang through her chest. “Just give me a second.” With sweaty fingers, she grabbed hold of the silver mask again. This time she successfully unstuck it from his face and pulled it back.

The sharp intake of Harry’s breath didn’t register, neither did Ron’s feeble and confused questions.

“Luna cut her hair as well? When did this happen?”

All blood left her face as she was hit with what she saw. It was him. Her hopes had been answered. White-blond hair, shorn short at the sides and kept longer on the top, pale brows and long, darker lashes. He had grown into his once-pointy face filling it out with angular and sharp masculine features. His lips, as sensually curved as she remembered were lax, the very same as they had been back then… He looked older, worn and hardened, but he still elicited the same feelings in her as he had the last time she’d seen him. Confused warmth, paired with dread and…something utterly bottomless.

“Malfoy,” Harry hissed.

Hermione’s hand twitched and she balled it into a fist to keep from brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “He’s alive,” she whispered. Only moving her lips, she added: “You’re alive.”

“We need to move,” Harry said, his voice urgent. “Bind him and let’s go.”

Not knowing how to feel about it, Hermione cast an Incarcerous at Malfoy, watching the dark rope envelope him. She did take a quick second to make sure it wasn’t too tight, before pocketing his wand, hooking his mask under her arm and following Harry, pulling a floating Malfoy along behind her.

She had suspected, she had hoped, she had known—in a way—and now he was there. A Death Eater they had just captured. The first one that might not kill himself upon waking.

Panic sliced into her heart, sharp-clawed and rabid. The Order would question him, they needed information to win the war. What if he didn’t talk?

Hermione bit her teeth together and snarled at her surroundings as she followed Harry and a softly babbling Ron, her conscience and her wish for this war to end battling each other. She knew exactly which one would lose, but like this she could pretend she cared. Like this she could pretend she had given it thought, debated it, and come to a sound conclusion. Even while nothing about her inner workings was sound or undecided.

He was alive. And now… Now it was her turn to protect him.