Lucius woke to the sound of a knife being sharpened. If he was not mistaken, it was the small dagger Bellatrix kept in her garter. She thought it was intimidating. However, he wasn't afraid of Bellatrix. He couldn't stand her, but he didn't fear her. She was too insane to be effective at anything.

But she was here for a reason - her face, coldly gloating, said so.

"Wake up, brother-in-law!" she said in a sing-song voice. "I bring news!"

"You've decided the world is better off without you?" he replied. Narcissa would have chastised him for baiting Bellatrix. How she could love this nutter he'd never understand, but as Narcissa often pointed out to him, he didn't have any siblings. He would never know the bond between brothers and sisters.

"You think you have the devil's wit, don't you, Lucius?" she hissed. "Let us see you laugh at this."

She beckoned with her hand. Down the long hallway, a door opened, spilling a shard of light into the dark dungeon. Three Death Eaters entered. Between them they carried a body - tall, lanky, with hair the color of sand dunes. His skin was peppered with cuts, bruises, and burns. So, too, were the bodies and faces of the three men who carried him.

"He put up a hell of a fight," Bellatrix said, a cruel smile curling her lips. "My sister's influence, no doubt."

Lucius staggered to the front of the cell, eyes wide. His heart pounded in his chest. Not Draco. Please, not Draco...

"Oh, he's alive," Bellatrix murmured, her hand trailing down Draco's slackened face. "For now."

"If you touch him..." The words ripped out of him with such primal malice that his voice didn't sound like his own.

She grinned, eyes sparkling. "It's not me you have to worry about, now is it?"

"He's your nephew!" Lucius snarled. "Your blood, your family! How could you betray him like this? How could you betray Narcissa?"

"A nephew is useless if he is weak!" Bellatrix shouted, lunging toward the bars. "He is a stain upon my line! You are a stain, Lucius, and you and yours will be scrubbed out!" She was so close that drops of spittle hit his cheeks.

"If he dies you can say goodbye to your precious line, you barren lunatic!" Lucius thundered right back.

Bellatrix's face went white with rage. He knew he should back away. Oh, how he knew what that glint in her eye meant, but he was so angry that he stood his ground. Bellatrix stabbed her wand through the bars and into his chest with enough force to bruise.

"CRUCIO!"

Lucius hit the ground like a stone, twitching and writhing in agony. It clawed inside him. Her Cruciatus was like the rest of her, wild, extreme, shattered, and he couldn't breathe. The world went white and red with pain.

Ten minutes later, when his mind returned, the corridor was empty. He was left to wonder...and to worry.

This was it. It had to be. This was when she would die. Her month-long respite, if it could accurately be called that, was over.

Hermione told herself that anything was better than the boredom of her six by six cell. Anything was better than the constant stream of taunts, the starvation, the men watching her when she washed and used the nonexistent facilities, the women telling her she was an ugly, worthless little whore, and above all, anything was better than being shut away from the world. It killed her not to know what was going on beyond these walls.

Was Harry alive? Ron? The rest of her friends and family? What was happening in the war? She had no idea. She was entirely at the mercy of these wretched people.

Such was the toll of helplessness. Hermione didn't know what to do with herself when her autonomy was taken away. For the first week she had fought tooth and nail, firing insults back, proclaiming her faith in her friends and causes, refusing to do anything they wanted her to do. Some of them laughed; others just offered a patronizing little smile before hexing her.

Cruciatus became a regular and expected occurrence. That was terrible on its own, and coupled with the sheer deprivation of a dark cell and a hungry belly, she wore down quickly. The worst part was that they didn't even question her. They seemed not to need to know any information; obviously Harry's plan of finding the Horcruxes was known by this point, and her capture and subsequent torture was perpetrated purely out of malice.

The only thing to be thankful for was the fact that there were no physical beatings, and though the men threatened, no one dared to sexually assault her. She was, the elder Goyle informed her, much too dirty for that. Even so, she didn't test them. She knew that such things were never really about sex. It was purely about control. If they perceived that she was not under their control, she was certain they would use sexual violence to corral her. Fenrir Greyback very much enjoyed young, unwilling flesh, or so he liked to tell her when he was on patrol; he would pace back and forth in front of her cell dragging his claw-like nails along the bars.

So she was worn down but not broken, because she didn't really mean anything to them. Hermione became a cautious prisoner, watching, waiting, seldom retaliating to the abuse that was heaped upon her. She wasn't foolish enough to think that good behavior would earn her anything. However, as time went by, she could see and feel an almost tangible relief in some of her captors. They had expected her to be much worse, and to have to do much worse things to her.

In that way, she was able to sort the Death Eaters in her mind. Most were beyond reason; they delighted in hurting her. There were a few, though, who had not lost the ability to see that she was a person, a child not unlike their own. They were the ones with guilty consciences. They were the ones with doubt.

She had known all along that it wouldn't be enough doubt to prompt them to do anything. There were only small kindnesses - an extra crust of bread, a back turned while she washed, silence rather than insults - because they were too afraid of Voldemort to do anything more.

A hand tightened around her arm, startling her out of her thoughts. This was yet another small kindness. It was an unspoken: Pay attention, girl, this is it, please go quietly! She couldn't even resent them for the self-serving nature of it because she knew how these memories would haunt them. They were just as helpless as her - though it was by their own allowance, which was so much worse.

The sudden light that hit her eyes stabbed sharply in her head. She had to close them. Even with the filter of her eyelids, the light was too bright. She was walking blindly toward death, she was sure of it.

The hands jerked her to a stop. In another minute, her eyes adjusted enough for her to crack them open a sliver. As she took in her surroundings, a realization hit her. In all the time she had been here, tortured, taunted, and held captive by Death Eaters, two had been noticeably absent. Two who should have been first in line to torment her.

She had never once seen Draco Malfoy, nor his father. But Lucius was here now, on his knees with three robed Death Eaters around him, a wand pressed to the back of his neck. He looked like hell. Hermione's lips twitched. He looked like he had been in a dark cell for a month just like her.

Frustration welled up inside her. What had happened in the last month? If she was witnessing this, what else had gone on? Knowledge had always been her greatest weapon and she felt awful when deprived of it.

Malfoy didn't struggle. Neither did Hermione when she was pushed to her knees. It seemed they would be executed together. The irony was almost intolerable.

The Dark Lord cleared his throat and the buzz of whispered conversation melted into silence. She looked up at the delusional wizard. Hermione felt no fear, and for that she was grateful. A quick glanced sideways told her that Malfoy was lacking her calmness; his chest rose and fell quickly and his jaw was tight. He was angry. Pity; she almost wished to see him overtaken by fear. Almost.

"I have thought a great deal on what to do with you," Voldemort said. Hermione wasn't sure if he was addressing Malfoy or her; maybe it was meant for both of them. Indeed, he went on as if he was. "For your crimes are precisely in opposition to one another." Crimson eyes slid to her. "You, girl, are a thief of power that isn't yours, an insufferable charlatan. A common parasite who has the audacity to call herself a witch."

Hisses of agreement sounded among the crowd of Death Eaters. Hermione simply held those unearthly eyes, refusing to be afraid.

"Do you see how she looks at her betters?" Voldemort bared his teeth. "Little cunt." He shook himself as if he had just witnessed something repulsive and then shifted his glance to Malfoy. "And you, Lucius, you should be one of those betters. The world gave you everything. Pure blood, good lineage, magical and social power, intelligence, looks, money...and yet you are a failure. A disgrace of a wizard."

The murmurs of agreement went up again, though Hermione could hear a difference in them. These were forced. They agreed because it was what their Lord wanted.

It was clear now that Lucius was being scapegoated. He was to be the example, the demonstration of the price of failure. What twisted people these were. They should be overjoyed to have failed at atrocity.

"So what to do with you?" The Dark Lord smirked. "Death is too easy. Imprisonment and torture hasn't worked. You are both as arrogant as you were when I brought you here a month ago. So I thought to myself...what if I let you punish one another?"

Malfoy's eyes flashed to her. It was a split second's lapse, and in that glance she saw how desperate he was for redemption. A frisson of fear crept up her spine.

"I have a game for you. Lucius, if you win, perhaps you will be redeemed. Perhaps you will see your family again. And you, Miss Mudblood...if you win, perhaps you will be allowed to live." Voldemort grinned. "Am I not merciful?"

"They do not deserve your mercy, my Lord!" Bellatrix Lestrange shrieked.

"What they do not deserve is my time or my notice," he sniffed. "It is best to let a problem take care of itself sometimes."

With that, he lifted his wand. Hermione felt a tug behind her midsection. A moment later, the world was wrenched away and she was thrown into obscurity.

The next sensation she registered was being physically tossed through the air. What had to be the ground met her, and none too gently. Hermione struggled to open her eyes as the world swam.

After a long minute, she could focus. The first thing she saw was Malfoy; he was curled on the ground a few yards away, his face contorted in agony. He clutched his left arm as he attempted to breathe evenly.

She must have landed on him. She could tell even from here that his arm was broken. Sitting up, she tried to figure out what to do. Her gut told her to go to him, to try to help and maybe form some kind of alliance. Her mind told her that would be a fool's errand.

She was paralyzed by indecision for a long moment. Then, summoning what was either courage or stupidity, she pushed to her feet and took a hesitant step towards him.

"It's broken. We'll have to make some kind of sling."

He opened his eyes. They were watery - an involuntary manifestation of the pain, no doubt - but ablaze with resentment.

"We? We? There is no 'we', girl!" he shouted, forcing himself to rise. He held his left arm against his body and tried to right his robe. Then his eyes went wide.

As Hermione watched, he reached into his right pocket. His hand emerged with a wand. Her mouth fell open, mirroring his shock. They had wands? Voldemort had given them a way to defend themselves? What awaited them in this place?

Instantly, she searched her person. If he had one, she had to have one, too, right? But a mad search of her pockets and clothing yielded nothing. She was wandless. Of course; why would a man who believed her to be unworthy of the title of witch provide her with a wand?

One look up at Malfoy told her that he realized this, as well. This would be the moment, then, where it was decided. Since she had just broken his arm, Hermione wasn't optimistic.

Lucius didn't disappoint her. His face flooded with hatred and he lifted the wand.

"A soft landing will be the last favor life grants you," he snarled.

Hermione reacted instantly with reflexes honed by the last year's constant brushes with death. He would need time to decide what spell to use (though she had a feeling she knew which one would come to mind), and that split second was her only hope. She bolted for the nearest cover.

A jet of green light hit the shrub she dove into. The leaves shriveled all around her, immediately destroyed by the curse. Hermione scrambled backwards, further and further into the thicket, the branches tearing her skin and hair. She barely felt it; it was less important than getting away from the vengeful wizard.

At the last moment, she reached out to grasp one of the branches and whispered a spell she had learned from Professor Sprout in Herbology. It was a simple bit of wandless magic designed to fill the gaps in decorative shrubbery. She had only ever used it on a Christmas tree before. Now it was the only thing that stood between her and death.

As she panted, the shrub blossomed, growing thick and fast to cocoon her. The plants must have sensed her urgency; they became so thick that the light was blotted out and she couldn't see more than a few inches in front of her. It occurred to her that it would be terrifically difficult to get out, but it was impossible to care. She was safe.

The girl reacted like a spooked animal; she was gone before he could properly aim the wand. He saw where she went and he heard her as well, crashing through the brush like the frightened deer she was. Unfortunately, by the time he made it to where she had plunged into the brush, she had erased her trail. The insolent brat was gone.

Lucius stepped back and breathed through his teeth. His arm hurt, even more so now that he had run without it properly supported. The girl was right about one thing: he needed a sling. But wait...he had a wand, so what did he need a sling for? He ought to be able to heal it.

With one last glance to the thick stillness of the woods, he lowered himself to the ground. Lucius tried to ease his robe from the bad arm. It wouldn't budge; it had already swelled grotesquely. Cursing under his breath, he cradled the arm in his lap and pointed the wand at it.

Nothing. There was no reduction in pain, no sensation of his arm being righted, nothing. Irritated, Lucius lifted the wand and inspected it. There were no cracks or blemishes that he could see. There was no reason the spell should have failed. He had healed a broken bone before. Once, Draco had fallen from his broom...

He shut his eyes against the memory. He could not afford to think about Draco now. His only mission was to kill the Mudblood and get out of here as quickly as possible. That was the only thing he could do to help his son.

Determined, Lucius pointed the wand again. If it didn't work this time, it was possible that the wand had been purposely charmed not to perform healing spells. He didn't put anything past the Dark Lord.

He was right not to dismiss it; the spell failed a second time. So the wand worked offensively - that was abundantly clear from the way the Killing Curse had sprung so easily from it - but he had no idea if it worked defensively, and he knew that he couldn't heal himself. He couldn't afford to be injured again. Thank Merlin the girl had broken his non-dominant arm, and not a leg.

Lucius placed the wand in the grass and set about fashioning a sling.

Hermione stayed in the brush for a long time. She knew Lucius hadn't moved on yet; she could hear him cursing to himself and trying to heal his arm. Evidently it wasn't working. The lone wand between them wouldn't perform healing charms.

The only way to make it out of here, it seemed, was to do it in one piece. Any major injury could be the end of her. She would have to be cautious and hope that Malfoy's arm hampered him enough to give her an edge.

Her mind at last cleared of its adrenaline rush, Hermione considered how to escape the shrubs. The plants had responded to her so well; perhaps they would do so again? Hermione touched a large branch. The wood beneath the bark was new and springy. Pliable, as Sprout would say. There was a chance it would obey her.

She whispered spells, praying that they would work wandlessly as the first one had. At first the wood refused to budge. But then, slowly, it began to move.

It took her almost an hour and every ounce of energy she had, but when all was said and done, the shrubs had opened a tunnel for her. Hermione crawled through it and marveled at how even and perfect the branches were. They looked like endless rows of ribs, protecting her from any outward insult.

So she knew one thing; the plant life here responded to her. It was a little surprising since she had never been a prodigy at Herbology like Neville. She was good at it like she was good at everything, but it wasn't her best subject. Thank Merlin she had paid attention and retained most of what Sprout had to offer.

She stopped when she neared the small clearing. Malfoy still crouched there, using his hands and teeth to adjust a makeshift sling about his left arm. He had sacrificed his robe to create it. In spite of herself, Hermione found herself hoping that it wouldn't be cold at night. He would freeze.

At that moment, Malfoy's head shot up. He scanned the clearing with a hunter's precision. Hermione felt her blood go cold when those unearthly blue eyes landed directly on her.

Her hand clamped around the greenery, ready to close it around her. How could she have been so stupid? But as soon as Lucius's attention settled on her it was torn away by something else - a sound among the trees.

He was on his feet in a second, wand raised. Silence met him. Hermione didn't dare to breathe. Though all was quiet, she had heard the sound as clearly as he had; something was out there.

Lucius stood in the clearing, ears straining. He was very good at pinpointing where a target was; he had his father and his love of hunting to thank for that. To be certain, Abraxas had never quite approved of those tactics being applied to Muggles, but he didn't do anything to stop it, either.

The Mudblood was easy to spot. She thought she was hidden, but her red jumper peeked through the plants. If he was so inclined, he could take a shot at her, but that wasn't his greatest concern at the moment. Whatever else lurked in the forest was more important. The silly girl he could handle. The unknown loomed much larger in his mind.

Though he stood frozen, tuned, for three long minutes, no other sound came to his ear. Whatever it was, it was gone...or it, too, stood frozen, observing him.

Hunting him. He breathed, eyes sweeping. He knew what it was to be prey, too.

Lucius had evaded the Dark Lord for a long time. Nearly a year, it was. He had taken his family and left two nights after the escape of Potter and his friends from the Manor. The stakes were too high. This entire war had grown beyond anything he imagined. He didn't mind supporting the effort financially, or with his presence and strategy at meetings, but he had never anticipated being sent to prison, losing his wand, and fearing for the lives of his wife and son.

It was all too irrational. The Dark Lord had lost his sense along with his soul and the goal of wizarding purification had become secondary to his quest for power. Once Lucius's fragile foothold of nepotism was lost, there was no hope for his family to recover. They became nothing more than expendable pawns. It was only a matter of time before they were sent front and center to be hacked down by the enemy.

They left through the underground passages beneath the Manor. Only those of the bloodline could access them; Narcissa was able to pass because he and Draco brought her. The passages led to a magically concealed area near Stonehenge. There, three brooms were hidden for just such an emergency. Since the brooms were leftover from his great-grandfather's time, they were old and slow, but a broom was a broom.

From the moment they crossed the English Channel, he could see life returning to his wife and son. Color came to Narcissa's cheeks. Draco's lips remembered how to smile. He himself recalled something other than rage, adrenaline, and helplessness. He was not foolish enough to believe they could stay in any one place for very long, but freedom was sweet even when it was nomadic.

Nine countries, twelve cities, and thirteen houses hid them. For eleven months it was perfect. Then, as they prepared to leave Europe altogether, it began to fall apart. The twelfth month became a protracted game of cat and mouse.

They caught Narcissa in Budapest. She pretended she was alone. Lucius couldn't bear to leave her behind; he gave Draco everything he had (two wands, his wedding ring, and a shrunken bag of many, many galleons) and ordered him to keep running. He went to retrieve Narcissa with full knowledge that he was walking into a trap.

Draco made it another month and a half on his own, and he did not go peacefully when the Death Eaters found him. When he saw his son for the first time in six long, torturous weeks, Draco was bruised and bloody and still snarling, even in unconsciousness. Lucius was proud of him...as proud as he could be with fear tunneling a great pit in his stomach.

This was his last chance. And the worst part was that it was only a chance. For all he knew, he would make it through this, defeat the Mudblood, and return only to watch his family die anyway. The Dark Lord did not have much capacity for forgiveness.

Even so, this was all he had. The smallest chance of saving them was worth fighting for, and fight he would, tooth and nail, until he made it out of here. Whoever, whatever it was that watched him...he would not yield to it.

Hermione could not help but be impressed at the ease with which Malfoy disappeared into the woods. He was moving away from her, thankfully. She had no doubt that he had seen her, but he had judged the unseen intruder more important and abandoned his quest to murder her. She could only hope that the thing out there spotted him as easily as he had spotted her.

Of course, the bright red jumper she was wearing might have something to do with it. It wasn't what she'd had on before being sent here. For whatever reason, Voldemort's magic had put her in this ensemble. Why would the psychopath afford her any camouflage? He may as well have drawn a bullseye on her back.

She couldn't resist the urge to check her clothing just in case. There was no bullseye, but it was incredibly impractical for skulking about the woods. Hermione was stuck with it. At the very least, it was warm. If the nights were cold, she wouldn't be shivering like Lucius in his wrinkled white dress shirt.

Sighing, she emerged from the shrubs and took inventory. There were rips in her clothing and her skin. Her hair was an absolute fright. Wincing, she pulled leaves and twigs from her knotted curls and cast them aside. At least it wasn't a contest of beauty. She wasn't ashamed to say that Malfoy would probably win that.

What to do from here? She had no idea where she was or where she was supposed to go. Hermione didn't relish wandering around defenseless. As much as she hated to admit it, the best idea was to trail Malfoy. He had the wand. If he was taken out or let his guard down even for a second, she could take it. Then she would have a means of defense whether she had a clue what to do or not.

The girl was following him. He didn't much care. He had to leave markers behind to gain any sense of direction here. Besides, it was easier to kill one's prey when it stupidly insisted on staying nearby.

He knew she was following him, yet he did nothing about it. He even continued to leave little blue hash marks on trees as he passed. It was one of the oldest strategies in the book to keep from getting lost.

He seemed to have a decent sense of direction. Whether it was because of some instinct she didn't have or a spell he'd cast, he seemed to be getting somewhere; they hadn't circled around to one of his markers yet. It remained to be seen whether they were heading out of the forest or further into it.

As she walked, Hermione did a slight double take. She could have sworn that she saw one of his hash marks just now, but it had disappeared. Perhaps she was more tired than she thought.

He ought to have gotten somewhere by now. Perhaps this was the punishment. Perhaps he was stuck in here to wander forever in search of a redemption that would never come, and with only an insufferable Mudblood for company. That seemed suitably vindictive of the Dark Lord.

Lucius had so far neither heard nor seen anything more of the creature in the forest. It was possible that he was paranoid and it was really nothing but an overly curious animal, but somehow he doubted that. He would keep his senses tuned and hope he could evade it, whatever it was.

Hermione was now certain that she wasn't hallucinating. His hash marks were disappearing. Not only were they disappearing, but it seemed like they were transforming into something else. She stood and watched one to be sure.

The blue slash began to bubble up from the tree trunk. The color leached out of it, fading to white, and then it fell from the tree entirely. She reached down to see what it had become. The object she picked up was soft and spongy. On a whim, she brought it to her nose.

Her stomach jolted, quite suddenly reminding her that she hadn't eaten in a long time. It was bread! His hash marks were changing into bread. The animals in the forest were probably eating it, destroying his trail.

No sooner had she thought it than a bird swooped down and plucked the morsel of bread from her hand. Hermione jumped and had to stifle a scream. The bird landed on a nearby branch and wolfed the bread down as she watched. Then the insolent thing had the audacity to sit there, puff up its feathers, and stare expectantly at her.

The moment of distraction cost her.

"Why are you following me?"

A chill rushed through her body at the sound of Malfoy's voice. Bravely, Hermione turned. There wasn't any other option.

"Because you have the wand," she said honestly. "Wouldn't you do the same if our positions were reversed?"

"That is irrelevant." He raised the aforementioned wand.

"Your markers are disappearing," Hermione blurted, hoping to distract him. "They're changing into bread and being eaten by the animals. You've already passed this area."

His eyes flickered to the bird, which was now preening itself. A bright white crumb clung to its dark plumage. Hermione was momentarily entranced by how much she could see in Malfoy's eyes in the few seconds he was unguarded; he was thinking hard, debating his next course of action. She didn't know it, but she looked very much the same when presented with a riddle she couldn't yet solve.

"There are more than animals out here," he said quietly.

As if on cue, a slick finger of intuition crept up her spine. She felt something. It was close, and it was watching. Malfoy went very still, the wand held in his hand with a curiously feminine grace. He felt it, too.

That sensation of being stalked hit him again. It was toying with them. He knew the thrill of being on the other side and the intoxicating rush of power that came with it. He also knew how much he had enjoyed it once upon a time. No longer, for he couldn't flush the memories of fighting the inevitable from his mind. He could only think of the harrowing minutes before Narcissa was caught in Budapest, and how he would have agreed to anything to keep her safe - that kind of desperation and fear was new to him. Both were terrifying.

The girl across from him was well-tuned. She had noticed the presence before him, if only by a second. As much as it irked him, she was a witch, for only a witch could feel such a thing...not to mention the only possibility of an ally in this unfamiliar world. It was unwise to kill one's only resource, even if that resource was also an enemy.

Exceptional circumstances sometimes made enemies unite. If those circumstances came, it would be best if he actually had someone to unite with. He shouldn't act with too much haste, nor on beliefs alone. Logic had long since been missing from his beliefs and it had led him to prison, torture, capture, and sorrow.

He knew that insanity was when one did the same thing over and over and expected a different result. He was not insane. He had the ability to change the way he thought even if it felt singularly unpleasant.

Thinking of this girl as anything other than a horrid Mudblood who had stolen magical power from one who was more deserving was abhorrent. However, if he applied logic, there was no good explanation for how a Muggleborn witch or wizard 'stole' magic. Certainly, their Muggle parents were incapable of such a thing, and it was ludicrous to think a child of ten or eleven could plot it, either.

No one could explain where this girl's magic came from, but it was there and it was powerful. And, if he exercised logic alone, that was a good enough reason for him to let her live. As much as he wanted to end her for a myriad of reasons - thinking she was as good as him, being competent yet impure, diluting his world, besting his son, and breaking his goddamn arm - logic negated the urge.

His arm gave a powerful throb and Lucius winced. Well, logic negated most of his urge to murder her, but not all of it. Pain made him very unpleasant, indeed.

Hermione was so absorbed in the sensation of being watched and wondering what it was that did the watching that she almost forgot about the more obvious menace. She saw Lucius move out of the corner of her eye and tensed. Perhaps it would be a blessing if he just killed her now. The Killing Curse was painless, or so they said...but maybe that was just something they told the families to ease the grief.

His face darkened. She was sure death waited on his lips. Defiantly, she drew herself up as tall as she could and raised her chin. She would not die cowed by a bigot.

"It's what he wants," she said. "He'll laugh when you kill me, and laugh harder when his trap kills you. Don't pretend you don't know that."

Malfoy was silent, arm extended with the wand pointed at her chest.

Hermione burned to know what he had done to be thrown in here with her - what made him so disgraceful that he was sent to hell with a Mudblood. That wasn't really the important thing. What mattered was whether he was truly desperate for redemption. He was no better than Bellatrix if that was the case, and while she had little to say about him that was positive, Malfoy had at least proven that he was a quiet, calculating zealot, and not the wailing, mad sort. There was the barest slice of hope for the former.

It seemed he was leaning that way. Earlier he had been quick to anger, ready to murder her for the entirely accidental fracture of his arm. Now, when she was defenseless and resigned, he waited. Waited and waited and waited, his face blank, eyes frighteningly void, locked up in his own thoughts.

Then, after a century's tension laden into a single minute, he lowered the wand.

"I will not defend you," he said succinctly. "And if you try to take this wand from me, I will kill you."

He turned, pale hair whipping around, and walked away. Hermione stood where she was, stunned. His sentiments had not been kind, but what mattered were the words left unspoken.

I won't kill you just for existing.

In her experience, that was a major breakthrough for any Death Eater.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, racing with the knowledge that her own mortality depended on the caprice of two men. Neither was known for his open-mindedness, nor his kind and gentle demeanor. However, Lucius had one essential thing that Voldemort lacked.

Malfoy still had his soul, or something like it.