TW: Hermione gets attacked
She stood before the mirror, fingers drifting lightly over the soft knit of the deep green sweater she had chosen. The color warmed her complexion, made the hazel in her eyes brighter, almost softer. It felt strange to see herself like this, dressed for something simple and ordinary, yet ordinary had become such a rare thing. Too rare. It had been far too long since she had made time for something as small as a coffee date with Hermione. Too long since they had sat together and spoken about life without danger lurking beneath every word. Too long since there had been a morning untouched by grief.
Today, she wanted to reclaim a moment of that calm. A sliver of normal life. Just them, just coffee, just conversation. Nothing to do with survival or secrets or the ache that had built inside her since the fire.
She drew a breath, holding it for a heartbeat before letting it slip away. Normal felt like a fragile thing now, delicate as a soap bubble, shimmering and beautiful but always one breath away from bursting. Still, she wanted to try. Even if only for an hour.
She reached for her necklace and fastened the delicate gold chain around her throat. The cool metal rested against her collarbone, steady and familiar. Mascara came next, her hand moving in the old rhythm she hadn't lost. Hermione would tease her for dressing up for a simple coffee, but Ginny didn't mind. This wasn't vanity. This was control, however small. This was choosing to feel like herself again, even if it was only on the outside.
When she finally stepped back to study her reflection, she saw a woman who looked composed. Polished. A version of herself that seemed capable of walking through the world without breaking. Yet beneath the gloss on her lips and the smooth fall of her cloak, she could sense the fatigue waiting to rise. A quiet hollowness pressed behind her ribs, patient and unspoken.
She blinked, breaking the thought before it could take hold. Not today. Not when she was trying.
She grabbed her bag and swung it over her shoulder. The clasp of her cloak clicked into place with a soft metallic snap that felt strangely final, as though it marked the start of something she couldn't quite name. The Ministry would be busy at this hour, people streaming through corridors with their usual urgency, but she would not be going there for a mission or a crisis. Not today. Today was just coffee and Hermione and maybe laughter if they could find some tucked between the cracks of everything they had lost.
Perhaps she would even speak aloud the things she had kept trapped inside her. Thoughts she whispered only in the quiet when she was certain no one could hear. The tangled grief she had barely let herself acknowledge. She did not know if she was ready. She did not know if she ever would be.
But Hermione had always understood her in ways that felt rare and vital. If there was anyone she could unravel herself for, it was her.
She stepped outside and pulled her cloak tighter around her. The world felt different today. Not lighter, not exactly, but open. Willing. She let that be enough for now.
And with one more steady breath, she began to walk.
The moment she stepped into the Ministry's bustling atrium, a strange sensation crawled over her skin—something felt… off.
It wasn't anything obvious. The morning rush was as chaotic as ever, Ministry employees hurrying across the polished marble floors, their robes billowing behind them, parchment and case files clutched tightly in their hands. The golden light streaming from the enchanted ceiling reflected off the brass fixtures, casting warm hues across the grand hall. But despite the normalcy of it all, Ginny's instincts screamed at her.
She scanned the crowd, searching for Hermione's familiar silhouette—that sharp, purposeful stride, the usual stack of books tucked beneath her arm. Nothing.
Her frown deepened. Hermione was never late. If anything, she was the one waiting impatiently with her coffee already half gone by the time anyone else arrived.
Something was wrong.
Her stomach twisted as she made her way through the sea of Ministry workers, her boots clicking purposefully against the gleaming floor. The tension coiled in her gut, every step tightening it further.
When she caught sight of Pam, Hermione's ever-efficient assistant, a sliver of relief flickered inside her. If anyone knew where Hermione had gone, it would be Pam.
She forced an easy smile onto her face as she approached the desk, tilting her head. "Hello, doll," she greeted, keeping her tone light. "Any idea where Hermione is?"
Pam glanced up from the mountain of parchment she was sorting, her brow furrowing at the question.
"Mrs. Malfoy?" she echoed, her voice laced with mild confusion. "She hasn't come in today. Didn't leave a note or send word either, which…" She hesitated, her eyes flickering with concern. "Well, you know her. That's not normal."
Ginny's forced smile died in an instant.
Her stomach dropped.
She barely registered Pam's next words. The Ministry was loud—too loud—but all Ginny could hear was the sudden, racing thud-thud-thud of her own heartbeat.
Hermione never missed work. Never.
Even on her worst days, through exhaustion, injuries, and illness, Hermione would still manage to drag herself in, sending out notes at the very least.
But now, there was nothing.
No message. No sign. Just… silence.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, a tension building in her jaw as she swallowed hard.
"It is unusual," she murmured, more to herself than to Pam.
A flicker of discomfort passed over the assistant's face, as if she, too, sensed that something wasn't right.
Ginny forced out a quick, tight-lipped smile. "Alright, thanks, love. I'll go track her down."
She turned on her heel, her mind racing, her movements sharper now—more urgent. Each step felt heavier.
Her stomach knotted.
She knew she was being paranoid. Didn't she? Hermione was an adult, a capable woman. There were a dozen possible reasons why she hadn't shown up to work. Maybe she had taken the day off and simply forgotten to mention it. Maybe she was caught up in some urgent case. Maybe she was fine.
Maybe.
And yet—her gut told her otherwise.
Her fingers tapped anxiously against her thigh as she reached the lifts.
Click. Click. Click.
The repetitive sound filled the growing silence, mirroring the racing tempo of her thoughts.
The polished doors gleamed in front of her, their golden reflection shimmering slightly under the enchanted light, but she barely saw them.
She couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a missed coffee date. That this was something else.
Something worse.
The uneasy prickling sensation crawled up her spine, lodging itself deep in her chest.
She pressed the button. The lift doors slid open.
Ginny stepped inside, inhaling sharply, trying to steady herself.
This was Hermione—her best friend, the woman who had stood beside her in the darkest moments of their lives.
If something had happened, Ginny would find her.
She would make sure everything was okay.
And if it wasn't?
She clenched her fists, jaw tightening.
Then, Merlin help whoever was responsible.
Her heart slammed once, twice, hard enough to dizzy her as she stepped out of the green flames into the Malfoy penthouse. She expected the usual calm elegance, the tidy living room Hermione kept in perfect balance, perhaps the soft rustle of pages if she had fallen asleep with a book in her lap. She expected normal. She expected safety.
What she found instead stole the breath from her lungs.
Chaos. Violent, explosive chaos.
The air felt wrong the moment she inhaled. Heavy. Tainted. Charged with the sharp bite of spent magic and something darker beneath it, something that raised the tiny hairs on her arms.
Her eyes swept across the room, widening with every fragmented detail. Tables lay overturned, their polished surfaces cracked against the floor. Papers were scattered everywhere, drifting across the room like leaves ripped apart by a storm. Shards of glass glittered across the wood in a deadly constellation, catching the light in a way that made her stomach twist. One curtain dangled from its rod, torn down the middle. A wide scorch mark crawled up the wall near the fireplace, blackened and ugly.
This was a fight.
A violent one.
Her breath hitched. Her wand lifted on instinct, her grip trembling, her knuckles bone-white as she tightened her hold.
"Hermione," she whispered, the name barely making it past the constriction in her throat.
Silence answered her.
This silence was wrong. Too deep. Too hollow. Too final.
She stepped further inside, forcing her legs to move even as her mind screamed at her to run. With every overturned pillow, every broken frame, every scorch mark, her panic rose like floodwater, swallowing reason whole.
Something had happened here. Something terrible.
Her eyes darted toward the hallway. Hermione's wand lay on the floor near the console table. Not placed. Not dropped. Thrown.
A tremor shot through her entire body.
She crouched and picked it up, her fingers brushing the wood. It felt cold. Unused. Wrong.
Her breath quickened. The room seemed to shrink around her, the walls drawing closer, the shadows stretching long and dark across the floor.
She felt the panic building, rising from somewhere deep inside her chest, spreading like fire, hot and uncontrollable.
She couldn't breathe.
She had to get out.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning everything else out. Her fingers clenched tighter around her wand until the edges dug into her skin. She staggered back toward the fireplace, her vision blurring with the burn of tears she didn't remember letting rise.
She had to get help.
She had to find someone who could think straight.
Because this was not a misunderstanding. This was not a bad day.
Something had taken Hermione.
And Ginny felt the truth settle into her bones with a cold, unforgiving certainty.
She was already too late.
With a loud crack, she Apparated home.
"BLAISE!"
Her voice tore through the quiet like lightning ripping open the sky. There was nothing calm or measured in it. It was raw, frantic, the sound of someone whose nerves had snapped clean through. She stumbled forward as if her own body couldn't hold her upright, every breath a ragged choke of panic. She needed him. She needed him now.
He appeared almost instantly. One second the room was still, the next he stepped out from the hallway, sharp and alert, as though her voice had dragged him into existence. His eyes landed on her and widened, the calm he usually wore slipping away at the sight of her trembling hands and terror-stricken face.
"Baby, what happened?" His voice was soft, steady, but she could hear it. The fine line of worry threading under it. The dangerous edge beneath the calm. He reached for her, hands warm and familiar, offering her the grounding she couldn't find on her own.
She didn't wait for comfort. She clutched his arms with a desperation that startled even her. Her nails dug through his sleeves, anchoring herself to the only thing that felt stable in that moment.
"You have to help me," she gasped, the words tumbling out too fast, tripping over each other, broken by uneven breaths. "I was supposed to meet Hermione at the Ministry, but she never showed up, and that was already wrong, so I went to the penthouse, and Blaise—Blaise, it was destroyed."
Her voice cracked. Her chest heaved.
"There was glass everywhere, and furniture flipped over, and scorch marks on the bloody walls, and she's not there, she's gone, she's just gone."
His grip tightened around her, his hands firm on her arms. Not squeezing. Just enough to anchor her, to pull her back before she fell too far into the panic swallowing her whole. He leaned in slightly, his presence surrounding her, steady and warm and terrifyingly controlled.
"Alright. Breathe, baby. Just breathe."
He didn't bark the words. He didn't rush her. His voice dropped low, a slow, calming pull that wrapped around her ribcage and tried to drag her back from the edge. But she saw the shift in him, the way his jaw tightened, the way something cold and lethal flickered behind his eyes.
He was already moving through possibilities, already deciding who would pay for this.
"We're going to find her." His tone was absolute, carved from something iron and unbreakable. "We will get her back. You hear me? We're not losing her."
The conviction in his voice steadied something inside her, even as the terror throbbed beneath her ribs. She nodded, swallowing hard, trying to pull herself back into her body. His certainty wrapped itself around her spine, giving her enough strength to stand straighter.
"Right," she whispered, her voice still shaking but no longer collapsing. "Right. Let's go."
He didn't ask her anything else. He didn't waste time. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her close, shielding her with his body before the world could take anything else from her.
"Hold on."
She grabbed his cloak, clinging to him without shame.
The next crack echoed through the house, sharp and violent, as they disappeared together.
~~~~~~
Agony. Blinding, soul-crushing agony.
It ripped straight through Draco's chest, sharp and merciless, a pain so fierce it almost stole the breath from his lungs. For a heartbeat, he felt the world tilt under him, felt the walls close in as Ginny's frantic voice echoed in his mind.
The sharp crack of Apparition split the silence like a blade. Blaise and Ginny stood there a breath later, both shaken, both pale, both carrying terror like a second skin. Ginny stumbled forward, her whole body trembling, breaths shallow and uneven.
"Draco," she managed, clutching the back of a chair as if she needed it to stay upright. "She was supposed to meet me. She never showed. I went to your place, and…" Her voice broke, her hand rising to her mouth. "It's a disaster. Someone took her. She's gone."
Everything inside Draco went still.
Then the stillness shattered.
His fists clenched so tightly that crescent moons of pain dug into his palms. His breathing turned harsh, uneven, fighting to break through the shock that wrapped around him like iron. A dark fury surged inside him, cold and relentless, tightening around his ribs until he felt he might explode under the pressure.
Blaise stood near the doorway, spine straight, shoulders squared. His expression was carved into something hard and dangerous. In his hand, a sleek black pistol gleamed under the dim light. He cocked it with a soft click, the sound clean and chilling, as if he had done it a thousand times before breakfast.
His eyes locked onto Draco's.
No words. No plan.
Just a single message passed in the space between them.
Move.
Draco pushed back from his chair so violently it scraped across the floor. Theo rose with him, his breath quick and shallow, eyes wide with fear that had nothing to do with himself.
"Luna," Theo rasped, already turning toward the fireplace. "Get the safehouse ready. Right now. Please, my Moon. I love you. I love you endlessly."
Before the urgency in his voice had faded, green fire flared to life. Luna's voice drifted out of the flames, soft but steady, a calm center in the storm.
"I'm already preparing it, my Sun. The safehouse will be ready. I love you beyond measure."
The quiet strength in her words steadied him, if only by a thread.
Draco swallowed hard, jaw locked so tightly it hurt. He wasn't shaking. He wasn't breathing right either, but he wasn't shaking. His magic simmered under his skin, dangerous and unstable, responding to the raw terror and unfiltered rage twisting inside him.
They all knew what this meant.
No one said it aloud.
But the truth hung in the air like smoke.
This was not a search and rescue.
This was a hunt.
A reckoning waited for them on the other side of whatever door they kicked in. Someone had taken Hermione Malfoy. Someone had stepped across a line that had no return.
They weren't preparing for survival.
They were preparing for destruction.
Blood would be spilled. Bones would break. And Draco would not stop until he found her, until the person responsible begged for a mercy he had no intention of giving.
Death would not be a threat tonight.
Death would be their shadow. Their companion. Their weapon.
And Draco would walk with it willingly.
~~~~~~
The Malfoy Penthouse, once a sanctuary of sleek modernity and impenetrable control, now lay in ruins. The polished marble floors bore the scars of chaos—shattered glass like frozen stars, overturned furniture, books scattered as if caught in a storm. The elegant haven Draco had meticulously curated was now an unrecognizable war zone.
Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Ginny moved through the wreckage in tense silence, each step tightening the noose of dread around Draco's chest. The suffocating weight of absence pressed down on him. Hermione wasn't here. But the destruction screamed her name.
Turning into the living room, his pulse hammered. His sharp gaze swept across the disarray, locking onto every detail, searching for the impossible—a trace of her.
The wedding vase lay in shards against the wall. The destruction wasn't random. It was calculated. It was personal.
"My love!" he called, his voice raw, reverberating through the cold emptiness. "Hermione, where are you?"
The silence that followed was a living, breathing nightmare.
Blaise stormed into the kitchen, ripping open drawers, yanking at cabinets. Frantic. Uncharacteristically shaken. "She could've left a note, something!" His voice was edged with desperation.
Ginny tore into the study, her hands trembling as she sifted through Hermione's desk. A cold, abandoned teacup sat beside scattered notes—nothing useful, just the echo of her presence.
Then, Pansy burst in. Heels clicking, voice sharp. "So what's the plan? Because standing around like headless hippogriffs isn't getting us anywhere."
Draco turned on her, his fury a barely contained wildfire. "You're not coming."
Pansy blinked. "Excuse me?"
"It's too dangerous." His voice was final, a razor's edge. "You're staying here."
Her eyes darkened with indignation. "Since when do you decide what's too dangerous for me?"
"Since now!" he snapped. "We don't have time for this, Pansy."
She crossed her arms, anger radiating from her like a spell about to break. "If you think I'm sitting on my ass while you all go charging into hell, you're out of your damn mind."
Ginny touched her arm, a quiet voice of reason. "Pans, we'll need you here. Keep the press off our backs. Handle things from the outside."
Pansy glared between them, her jaw tight. After a long, seething moment, she exhaled. "Fine." But the storm in her eyes promised she'd have her say later.
Theo had moved into the hallway, checking every possible hiding place. The bedrooms. The library. The linen closets. But the silence stretched on—oppressive, deafening.
Ginny's voice sliced through the tension. "Draco! Come here!"
Draco sprinted to her side. A glint of silver lay on the coffee table. A ribbon, frayed, delicate. His fingers brushed it, recognizing its texture. It was from the package Hermione had received earlier.
Theo, kneeling beside him, murmured, "It could've been a Portkey."
Blaise's breath hitched, his Italian accent thick with urgency. "Se l'hanno presa, dobbiamo trovarla. We have to find her. Now."
Ginny's gaze scoured the room. "Something has to tell us where it took her."
Theo bent low, his meticulous eyes scanning the floor. "Hermione wouldn't go quietly. There has to be a marker, something she left behind."
Suddenly, Ginny crouched by a shattered vase. "There's something here." Carefully, she sifted through the ceramic shards, extracting a crumpled slip of parchment.
Draco snatched it, reading aloud. "For the diamond in the world of gold."
The words hung like a death sentence.
Blaise's jaw tightened. "What the hell does that mean?"
Ginny's breath hitched. "It's Hermione—the 'Golden Girl.'"
Theo's sharp mind worked rapidly, pieces falling into place. "Draco, who in your world is connected to diamonds?"
Draco's stomach twisted with realization. "That wretched woman." His voice was venomous, filled with hate. "Karkaroff's trophy wife."
His fury ignited. He slammed his fist into the wall, rattling the entire room. "She's always dripping in diamonds, parading them like a damn queen. It was all an act. A façade. If she took Hermione, this is her way of telling me. She's playing games."
Ginny paled. "Are you saying... that Karkaroff's wife is behind this?"
His grey eyes darkened with a murderous certainty. "Yes."
Theo exhaled sharply. "If she left that note, she wants you to know where Hermione is. But why?"
"Because she's baiting me." His voice was eerily calm, the storm before destruction. "This isn't about diamonds. This is about power, about sending a message. Hermione is leverage."
Ginny's voice trembled with barely restrained fury. "Draco, this is because of your world, your business. She's in danger because of you!"
Blaise, though equally enraged, softened his tone. "Mia cara," he murmured to Ginny, a quiet apology in his words. "Our world is darker than you imagined. And people will do the unthinkable for control. But I swear to you, we will get her back."
Draco took a steadying breath, his hands still curled into fists. "If this is about reputation, power, and control—then she's keeping Hermione alive for a reason. And we're going to tear her world apart to get her back."
Ginny's eyes flashed with determination. "Draco, use the soul bond! Locate her!"
His jaw tightened. He whispered, "Uruz."
A holographic rune appeared before them, its soft pink glow pulsating like a heartbeat.
"Uruz, the mother of manifestation," he commanded, his voice steady and sharp. "Show me where Hermione Jane Granger-Malfoy is."
The rune whirled and flickered, shifting into an image. A dark dungeon. Stone walls, damp floors. And her—
Terrified. Broken. Screaming.
Draco's breath hitched. His entire body went stone-cold.
"Hold on, my love," he whispered, his voice hoarse with rage. "I'm coming."
He turned sharply. "Ginerva! Get Potter. We need a Portkey, now!"
Theo stepped forward, his gaze resolute. "There's no need."
Before anyone could react, Theo gathered them together. With a swift, effortless motion, he Apparated them directly to Nott Manor.
Arming for War
They landed in Theo's dimly lit basement. Cabinets lined the walls, filled with weapons.
He moved with precision, yanking open a drawer and retrieving sleek, black reading glasses. He adjusted them on his nose, scanning rapidly before shifting to another cabinet.
With a quick, sharp motion, he flung it open—revealing a vast arsenal.
Guns. Knives. Wands. Instruments of war.
Ginny gasped. "Merlin."
Theo grabbed a wand and a gleaming silver knife, spinning them expertly in his fingers. "We move now. Fast."
Blaise turned to Ginny, his dark eyes filled with an urgency that sent chills down her spine. "Mia cara," he murmured, his voice like a promise of war. "I need you. Your fire. Your fight. You must give everything tonight."
Ginny took a deep breath. Her hands curled into fists, her shoulders straightening.
She was done being a spectator. Tonight, she was a soldier.
With a determined gleam in her eyes, she kicked off her heels. With a flick of her wand, she summoned battle-ready clothes.
She met Blaise's gaze. "Let's burn them to the ground."
~~~~~~
She couldn't move.
Hermione lay sprawled on the cold floor, her body twisted in a way that made every part of her throb. Pain rippled through her legs in sharp, electric flashes, but they refused to respond. She tried to lift an arm, tried to shift her weight, anything at all, but nothing obeyed her. The numbness terrified her almost as much as the agony that followed every shallow breath.
Her skull pounded with a force that made her vision swim. Each pulse sent a violent shock through her body, leaving her dizzy and nauseated. She opened her mouth to scream, desperate for someone to hear her, but only a rasp escaped, faint and broken. The room swallowed it whole.
The air stank of blood and sweat and something worse, something sickly sweet that reminded her of rotting flowers left in a sealed box. The smell turned her stomach, made bile rise in her throat. She sucked in a trembling breath and instantly regretted it.
Behind her, Jelena Karkaroff crouched with that same smug quiet she had worn since the moment she laid hands on Hermione. Her fingers tangled themselves deep in Hermione's hair, gripping so tightly it felt like her scalp might tear. The pain flared white and sharp, but it was nothing compared to what came next.
Jelena shoved the hair into her mouth.
Hermione tried to pull away. She tried to twist her neck, tried to claw at the hands pinning her, but her limbs remained useless. Jelena forced more of the hair in, pressing it down with a cruel, patient pressure. Hermione gagged, her throat spasming as the strands slid deeper. She choked, the panic roaring louder than the pain now. Her lungs burned. Her body fought for air.
Was this how she would die?
Not fighting. Not standing. Not in any way that honored who she was or what she had survived. She would die here, helpless on a filthy floor, choking on her own hair while a monster watched.
No.
Her vision blurred. The edges of the world started to darken. Her chest seized with the frantic, instinctive need for air. But she held onto one thing, one stubborn spark buried deep inside her.
Not like this.
A deafening crack shattered the room.
Apparition.
Before she could even turn her head, gunfire tore through the silence.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
The sound was sharp enough to make her ears ring. The force of it vibrated through the floor beneath her. Flesh tore. Blood sprayed warm across her cheek. Jelena jerked hard, her grip on Hermione's hair snapping loose as her body collapsed.
Hermione gasped. A ragged, wheezing gulp of air that scraped her throat raw. She coughed violently, spitting out clumps of hair and blood, the metallic taste coating her tongue. Each breath hurt, but she dragged them in anyway, desperate for oxygen.
Through the blur, she saw movement. Fast. Violent. Red.
Ginny.
Hermione blinked, trying to clear her vision, but it was already burned into her mind. Ginny's hair wild around her shoulders. Her face twisted into something almost feral. The knife in her hand rising and falling in a relentless rhythm.
She was still stabbing.
Hermione watched, her heart pounding in her ears, as Ginny drove the blade into Jelena's corpse again. And again. And again. The sound of flesh giving way mixed with Ginny's raw screams, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than rage, deeper than fear. Something born from grief. Something born from love.
Blood spattered across Ginny's arms. Across her chest. Across her face. It didn't stop her. Nothing would have stopped her.
Hermione had never seen her like this. Not even during the war.
It was brutal. It was horrifying. It was righteous.
A familiar scent drifted over her. Clean and sharp. Mint and aftershave. Warm skin. Draco.
Her body sagged, her fight slipping out of her like water through fingers. She tried to turn toward him but her eyes fluttered. His voice reached her through the ringing in her ears, commanding and frayed at the edges. Blaise shouting something back. Theo swearing as he knelt somewhere beside her. Ginny sobbing. The world swimming.
Light. Noise. Blood.
Then it all dimmed.
The darkness rose up and pulled her under before she could reach for him.