Azael's Chains

Allies

Hermione thought about the information she had while soaking in the bath. That was the one time she could decompress, lower her walls, reorganize; she'd told Antonin rather early on that she valued those moments and would he please allow her them, and he had graciously agreed.

Snape and Neville were leaders in the rebellion, resistance, remaining order, whatever they were calling themselves. Lucius Malfoy was supposedly a good friend to Snape; was it possible he was also subversive?

No. She pursed lips and tossed the fragrant soap from one hand to another as bubbles of thought popped at the surface. No, he is truly self-serving; he'll do what he must to preserve his family and his own status. Which again begged the question of what he could possibly desire from the mudblood Hermione Granger in exchange for his assistance in gaining status of her own.

Perhaps I'll talk to Professor Snape about it the next time he deigns to give me information or orders.

That Voldemort, heir of Slytherin, Dark Lord and murderer of muggles, would find her worthy of attention outside taking petty pleasure in the subjugation of an enemy was laughable. She was everything he stood against: muggleborn, interested in the betterment of others, muggleborn, Gryffindor, and a girl. Bellatrix Lestrange was more rabid pet than Death Eater, and his followers otherwise were overwhelmingly male.

Horrid man. He may have fancied himself above mere mortals, with his Horcruxes and whatever other protections he had to stave off death, but those only made him harder to kill.

Those bloody Horcruxes. They were all destroyed now, weren't they? He'd be seeking new means of immortality, since surely even he would not risk creating another one. After one Horcrux, Herpo the Foul had reported remarkable changes, chief among them decreasing inhibitions. There was also lower body temperature, increased aggression, and a growing need to find something missing. Herpo the Foul didn't know what it was, but Hermione suspected the obvious: the missing half of his soul. How much worse was Voldemort?

Incredibly so. She snorted. Voldemort was a temperamental megalomaniac; from what Hermione had gathered, Tom Riddle had shown restraint, had everyone convinced he was practically a saint. What had changed, other than the Horcruxes? If he was as gifted as people said wouldn't it have been simpler to conquer through charm?

And then there was Draco Malfoy, who apparently had harbored a crush on her? That sounded suspect. He was softer than his father, and more obvious in his discomfort with the Dark Lord's rule. While he'd dabbled in cruelty, he was neither hardened to it nor naturally inclined. He was the weak point; Hermione could milk information from him even if he wasn't able to be turned.

Hermione swam through her knowledge of Draco as she emptied the tub and dried herself. She would have to approach any interaction carefully; Dolohov was a jealous man and quick to anger when it came to her. She donned pajamas and her dressing coat, slipped into her slippers, and stepped lightly toward the drawing room for Antonin's after-dinner aperitif.

"Feeling better, love?"

She presented herself for a kiss before settling into the seat beside his. "Much, thank you." Brandy and whiskey were both becoming commonplace to her palate with how often Hermione partook with Antonin.

His eyes roved her appreciatively, eyeing the purple swathe that was like butterflies along one calf. It was late and she was tender from the previous evening; she was safe for the night.

They drank to the tune of the whisping, crackling fire and Hermione favored him with hesitant glances until he lifted a brow. She colored and swallowed thickly. "I was wondering if you'd decided whether to take the position at Hogwarts."

Dolohov considered her as the orange light flared and dimmed, creating velvety shadows of thought across his features. "You want to stay on at the library." At her chagrined shrug, he chuckled. "It is not a full-time position, my love. Once, perhaps twice a week."

"I know." Hermione chewed her lip. "It would still be a great help to Professor Snape, and perhaps I could assist whoever takes the position full time."

Fingertips drummed a rain-like beat on his tumbler. "And who would watch you when I am engaged? Someone I could trust with both your safety and your virtue."

She knew an answer that may work, but presentation would be delicate. "The younger Death Eaters won't touch me; they know better."

"And who among them carries enough weight to keep others from you?"

"I don't know exactly." Hermione rubbed her palms over thighs and noted how his attention followed them. "There must be someone with enough favor, or whose family is respected enough--"

"Tell me the name, Hermione. I know you have an idea."

It was unnerving when he cut through her that way, as though he saw into the shallows of her mind. "Draco Malfoy."

Antonin sneered. "The little coward who has a crush on you?"

"He is Bellatrix's nephew and his father holds financial sway, and he's terrified of you because he knows those don't matter for you."

"And he would lower himself to do this?"

Hermione gazed pleadingly at him. "If you asked, of course. And it would mean so much to allow me this, Antonin. Please."

His eyes narrowed. "You think I would enjoy showing brats how to duel? That I would endure it for you?"

"Well," she hazarded, "you'd probably get to hex them."

That sent his laughter spiraling through the room.

Draco Malfoy watched her while Antonin spoke to Snape. He kept his distance the first few moments, but sauntered closer as he plucked through books and shelves she'd already organized until he was in the same space his father had occupied days before.

"What's this all about, Granger?"

She brushed back an errant curl and looked at his askew. "All what about?"

"This. Me, here." He raised a pale brow expectantly. "Why am I the one playing babysitter to the brightest witch of our year?"

How odd that his brows were the sale silver as his hair while his father's were darker. What color are Narcissa's? she wondered, before remembering the woman was always perfectly made up by the time Hermione saw her in the mornings, thus her eyebrows could be shaped and filled and darkened that way. No matter; the pureblood families were all rife with recessive genes.

Hermione shelved the book in hand and turned her attention to his more fully. "Do you have better things to do with your time?"

"I am a Death Eater, Granger. Shouldn't I be, I don't know, killing babies?"

That forced a shocked bark of laughter from her. "And here I thought you brooded around Malfoy Manor all day." Then frowned. "Does this bother you?"

The impeccably cut blazer moved with his shoulders. "It's not bad; beats the fuck out of other duties."

"Isn't that reason enough?" At his continued stare Hermione sighed. "I can't stay under his thumb constantly, Malfoy. You don't know what it's like. He's always touching me, kissing me, petting me. He drags me to his bed at every opportunity and leaves his mark upon my body like badges of pride. I need time away from him, time where I'm not-- where-- where I'm still Hermione Granger."

He watched her with increasing sympathy weighing on his features as she spoke, "I'm sorry," he said at last, and she believed him. "If this is what you need, I'll do it. I'll do what I can."

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