A/N: The long wait is finally over! Thank you all for being patient while I worked on this monster! I hope it's worth the wait!
Alpha/Beta love: BiscuitsforPotter and DisenchantedGlow. Thank you both for helping me to bring this story to life!

FFN's tagging system is pretty much non-existent, so I've decided to put the tags here to avoid people being triggered! This is a fairly dark piece, protect your happiness!

In this story, you can expect the following:

War. Voldemort is dead, but the war isn't over. Minor Character Death. Assassination and assassination attempts. Assassin!Draco. Healer!Hermione. Slow burn. Enemies to lovers. Eventual smut. Eventual Romance. Action/Adventure. Murder. Espionage. Angst. Mystery. Drama. Draco's POV. EWE.

The sun had set long ago, its last rays faded into the pitch-black of night. Crickets chirped and cicadas filled the gardens of the stately home, giving an aura of peace on this late summer evening.

But all was not as it seemed. Just outside this tranquil haven, a great threat stood, ready to strike.

Draco had been stalking the property for the better part of an hour. He had to find the way in. These wards were strong, but no wards were impenetrable. They could all be broken; it was just a matter of finding the flaw. And finding the flaw in protective wards was one of Draco's strengths.

He checked his watch. There was still time. He tried two more spells and finally saw what he'd been waiting for. It was no more than a flicker, the briefest chink in the armour, but it was enough. He'd found the flaw. At last, with a well placed spell, the protections dissolved and Draco entered the back door of the dark home.

A heavy silence filled every inch of the house. It pressed into Draco's ears as he crept through the kitchen. Some might have found this level of quiet oppressive, but for someone as… experienced as he was, it was just one more detail to take in. As he drew closer to his target, the silence was broken by the ticking of a singular wall-mounted clock in the sitting room.

He had studied the blueprints in detail. He took a left down the corridor to where he knew his destination lay.

The study.

Draco knew his target would be there. The file had been extremely detailed. Mr. Bernard Pillsworth always stayed up late, reviewing paperwork in his study long after his wife had gone to sleep. There was a thin beam of light escaping from under the door at the end of the hall; it seemed tonight would be no exception to Pillsworth's routine.

Draco's dragonhide boots made no noise against the hardwood floors as he took confident, steady steps toward the door. He could feel his blood pulsing through his veins. Every tiny sound in the quiet home seemed amplified in his ears: the clock's ticking like the beating of a heart, his own quiet breathing, a small cough from beyond the door ahead… a floorboard creaking under his weight.

He froze, grimacing.

"Anne?" a deep voice called from inside the study.

He stood very still, not daring to take another step—not daring to even breathe until Pillsworth's attention returned to his work. After a moment, he heard a rustling of parchments. Draco continued taking careful and silent steps until he stood just outside the study door.

This was the hard part. He had to be quick. So quick that there was no chance to fight back or shout for help or beg. Merlin, he hated it when they begged.

His wand in hand, Draco felt his magic coursing through him, ready to be unleashed. It's time. Do it. He raised his left hand and placed it on the doorknob. After one final deep breath, he turned it and pushed.

The door swung open to reveal Mr. Pillsworth sitting behind his desk. Files and parchments were scattered about on the wooden surface. A faded wedding photo hung on the wall next to a rather unorganized bookshelf. The plump wizard looked up from his files, his brown eyes going wide, his mouth opening with the beginnings of a yell.

Draco never gave him the chance. With a surge of magic and a flash of green, Pillsworth's eyes faded and he slumped forward on his desk.

Dead.

It was done. Draco turned and swept up the corridor.

As he crept back through the house, he heard unmistakable footsteps from above. Mrs. Pillsworth. She must have awoken when her husband had said her name. "Bernie?" a frail voice called. Draco's heart thudded twice. Get out.

The stairs creaked and Draco hurried toward the kitchen. She couldn't be allowed to see him. He thought back to his training—to one of the very first rules he had been taught: No witnesses. Draco's stomach churned for half a moment, but he pushed the feeling aside. She wasn't on the list. She needn't die today.

He threw open the back door and descended the steps into the garden. The balmy August air hit his face and he prepared to apparate. His heart was pounding. He had never come so close to getting caught. Normally, he was long gone before his victims were found. A sudden shriek erupted from the house, the likes of which he had never before heard. It rattled through his body, leaving an imprint in his ears he would never forget. He apparated away, trying desperately to ignore the cries and screams as Mrs. Pillsworth found her husband's body.

Malfoy Manor was always bustling with life these days. There were always Death Eaters and supporters coming and going, eating meals at odd hours, reporting after various missions, and sharing stories of their rising numbers in Britain and overseas. Tonight was no different, despite the fact that it was past midnight when Draco returned. Dozens of Death Eaters and supporters milled about in the drawing room as Draco shed his cloak.

Although he longed to go straight to bed and try to forget the night's events, he was required to check in first.

The parlour had been transformed over the past year into the new Dark Lord's office. Many Death Eaters had grappled for the role in the wake of Voldemort's death at the Battle of Hogwarts last May, but in the end, Antonin Dolohov had come out on top, naming himself High Minister—a slap in the face to Kingsley Shacklebolt who was currently serving as Minister of Magic.

Dolohov was ruthless and extreme, but had a level mind. He ran the Death Eater organization like a business—a well-oiled machine in which all of his followers played a crucial role. The group was forced underground after the Order managed to regain control of the Ministry following Voldemort's demise. They continued to carry out small attacks against Muggles and Muggle supporters. The Dark Lord may have been dead, but the legacy he established was alive and well.

Draco cautiously entered the parlour, closing the door behind him. Dolohov sat behind a large, mahogany desk, reviewing files. Draco pushed the image of Mr. Pillsworth in his last moments from his mind. He pulled Pillsworth's magically reduced file from his pocket and returned it to it's normal size before dropping it onto the desk. "It's done, my Lord," he announced evenly.

Dolohov looked up sharply. "Ah, Malfoy. Thank you." He picked up the file and flipped through it. "Were there any complications?" he asked, his eyes flickering over Draco's appearance.

"No, High Minister," Draco replied, keeping his tone icy, though Anne Pillsworth's shriek was still ringing in his ears. "It was very clean."

"Well done," Dolohov praised, opening a drawer and placing the file neatly within it.

How many files in that drawer had Draco closed forever? He did a quick count, adding Pillsworth to his mental list.

Draco was swaying where he stood. The Killing Curse was without a doubt the most draining spell he had ever performed. His soul ached, his eyelids were heavy, and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. "Will there be anything else, High Minister?" he drawled.

"No. You are dismissed."

With a curt nod, Draco turned on his heel and left Dolohov alone. Back in the drawing room, he spotted his mother and his heart thudded in his chest. Her grey eyes surveyed him knowingly and he felt naked under her stare. With heavy feet, he walked over to her.

"You should be asleep," he chastised, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

"Another one?" she murmured gently, ignoring his advice. She lifted a hand to brush a few tendrils of hair from his forehead.

Draco's jaw clenched and Narcissa's face fell.

"Why do you do it?"

Draco frowned. "You know why."

"I'm fine," she insisted.

He nodded. "Yes, and you'll stay that way as long as I do as I'm told."

Narcissa drew away from him slightly. "I can take care of myself, Draco."

Draco's heart clenched painfully. His mother was a strong woman, determined to never show weakness. But he saw her for what she truly was here: a prisoner in a gilded cage.

All of the threats had been… subtle, to say the least. Never direct or explicit, but the implications were always there: Obey, or she dies.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and grabbed hold of hers. "Everything's going to be fine, Mother. Trust me."

Before she could argue with him, he walked past her to head for the stairs. His eyes were heavy and his bed had never seemed more inviting.

As he shed his robes and climbed between the sheets, he knew sleep would not come easily to him tonight. All he heard was the sound of Anne Pillsworth's anguished screams playing over and over again in his mind.

At breakfast the following morning, Draco fell into a rare conversation that had nothing whatsoever to do with the war.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I still think Krum is the best seeker of the century."

Draco looked at the boy next to him. William Hammond had taken the mark last year over the holidays before finishing up his seventh year at Durmstrang in June. To Draco's knowledge, he was one of the first to be given the mark by anyone other than Voldemort. A true symbol of the next generation of Death Eaters.

Dolohov had altered the mark ever so slightly to make it his own. At first glance, it appeared to be the same as it had always been, but upon closer inspection one could see the eye sockets of the skull were lit from within by glowing green orbs. Draco was careful to keep his covered as much as possible. The mark seemed to always be watching. He was sure it was just for show—a ruse to make followers feel like they couldn't get away with anything—but it still sent a shiver down his spine to look at it. The High Minister had personally updated each Death Eater's mark after his ascent to power and had branded dozens of new Death Eaters as well.

Draco remembered William's initiation and marking. He had stayed strong and stood tall through the whole ceremony and Hammond senior had beamed with pride, but Draco had seen tears in the boy's eyes when he came out of the wash room later.

"Krum?" Draco repeated thoughtfully. "He's nothing compared to Puddlemere's new seeker, Vincent Bradshaw. That man's an artist on a broom, I swear."

"You're crazy," William countered with a laugh. "Krum could fly circles around Bradshaw."

Draco just shook his head and took a bite of his toast.

Shouts from the parlour had everyone raising their heads. The door was closed, but the sounds of a heated row drifted into the dining room.

"Sounds like Macnair's mission went a bit sideways this morning," remarked Avery.

A moment later the shouts died and the parlour door opened with a bang. Macnair stalked out, grumbling angrily under his breath. He swept through the dining area and down the entry stairs.

William stabbed at his eggs with a pout, apparently uninterested in Macnair's failures. "Shame they had to cancel the last World Cup. Think they'll be able to hold it again soon?"

Draco didn't answer. Last year's Quidditch World Cup had been cancelled due to the ongoing war. He couldn't imagine it being held again any time soon, not with the war still raging on over a year after Voldemort's downfall.

"Malfoy," called a stern voice.

He looked up to see Yaxley beckoning to him. Draco stood, clapped William on the shoulder, and made his way over to Yaxley.

"The High Minister would like to see you." Yaxley's tone was clipped and irritated. He was clearly not pleased with being a messenger. In the past, Draco might have goaded him about having to take Dolohov's orders, but it hardly seemed worth it these days.

Some Death Eaters who were less than pleased with Dolohov's ascent to power, sometimes referred to the High Minister as 'the usurper' when they were sure they could not be overheard by Dolohov's most loyal followers. Draco wondered if Yaxley was one of them.

With a curt nod, Draco walked past Yaxley and into the parlour, where Dolohov was waiting for him with a crisp folder and a scowl. He closed the door. "You asked for me, High Minister?"

"Yes, Malfoy. I have an assignment for you." Dolohov gestured to the file he held.

"Another one?" Draco grumbled without thinking. His assignments were usually much more spread out. He had never before had to perform two hits within two days.

"Yes, well, if your fellow Death Eaters were more competent, then I wouldn't have to send you to clean up their messes." Dolohov opened the file and flipped through the pages. Draco noticed that it was a larger file than usual. Dolohov continued, his voice heavy with ire. "It may be a challenging one. You'll have to catch her on her walk between work and her apparation point. She normally leaves work around five o'clock, but you'll need to be prepared in case she leaves early. Once she makes it back to the Order safe house, you won't be able to get to her."

Her? Order safe house? Draco felt his stomach drop. He had never assassinated a woman before. Nor had he ever targeted a member of the Order. Most of his marks were Ministry officials or private citizens who acted against the Death Eaters. He cleared his throat. "An Order member, High Minister?"

Dolohov nodded. "I know it's a bit unusual, but I assure you that it is extremely necessary."

"Very well," Draco grunted. "When would you like it done?"

"Today."

Draco balked, but quickly regained his composure. "High Minister," he negotiated calmly. "You trained me. Surely you realize that this doesn't give me enough time to prepare. Especially for a target like this."

"I know, but we cannot delay. Time is of the essence. Get it done. Today." Dolohov held out the file, and Draco took it. "Everything you need to know is in the file. Do not disappoint me, Malfoy."

With that, Dolohov turned his back and Draco knew he was being dismissed. "I won't," he assured before leaving.

He checked his watch. It was nearly eleven, giving him less than six hours to review the file, memorize his routes, and create a psychological profile of his target. There was no time to waste. He hurried to his bedroom and locked the door. He sat down at his desk and opened up the file before him.

All the air rushed from his lungs and his blood pounded in his ears as he read the name of his next kill:

Hermione Jean Granger

A/N: Updates on Mondays.

Next chapter: March 16th