Devil Doesn't Bargain

The Second

Hermione listened in growing horror as Malfoy explained the orders Voldemort had recently issued to the Death Eaters. Apparently, the Ministry was due to fall completely by the end of the month. Currently, over a dozen high-up Ministry officials were being held under the imperious curse, and there were more to follow. A muggle registration law was being passed the following week, and the Gold Masks had been tasked to follow a lead on Shacklebolt's current safe house.

So essentially, everything was shit.

"But Malfoy," she finally had the chance to interrupt him, "what does this have to do with you? Isn't this what you wanted?"

He peered at her for a moment thoughtfully, tossing his golden mask back and forth between his hands. The motion was distracting; it reminded her of Harry's constant fidgeting. A pang shot through her heart at the thought. Harry. She missed him so much that it was physically painful. Malfoy cleared his throat and she tore her eyes away.

"Rule number one. Remember what I told you in the woods? Never assume you are safe. It's my first rule, and I hold to it. Do you really think I'm daft enough to believe that being the Dark Lord's second in command means I have any security? No. Only last week he murdered three of his own generals. I may be his favorite for now, but my father was his favorite once, and that's turned out swimmingly." The bitterness dripped off of his lips, penetrating the very air until Hermione scooted back a few feet.

Something alighted in his eyes, a familiar fire that signified his growing anger. He didn't look up at her. "The only choice I had was to gain power or be trampled in the wake of the rising movement. If I had refused to take the mark, I would have been killed, and quite frankly I prefer living."

Hermione could only stare. She had no idea why he was being so honest, but it wasn't a tender moment. The cunning boy was furious, clenching his fists tightly and screwing his lips up in anger. He looked moments away from an explosion, and she realized she was far too near to escape if he lashed out. Fear trickled over her. For a second, the platinum locks flashed into black, the silky strands into curls. For a second, the low gruff of his voice sounded shrill, and she heard the echoes of that sickening cackle that haunted her dreams. Pain shot down her forearm at the memory.

She's not here. It's Malfoy. Just Malfoy.

The scene flashed again. She wanted to forget. She wanted to rip the image of the drawing room from her mind, wanted to sink a knife into the crazed eyes that gleamed as they tortured her. The terror she'd been suppressing for weeks exploded inside her. She couldn't do this, couldn't hold the weight of it. It was too much. She wanted it out, she needed it gone, she wanted to be empty.

She was so alone; so incredibly isolated. There was no one to hear her or to understand her fear. She had never been so trapped, so utterly confined. Please, somebody, anybody, help me! She might have been screaming in her mind, the same phrase over and over. Help me. Help me. Help me! Help me...

Malfoy hissed in pain, ripping Hermione from her thoughts. "What the hell was that?"

Hermione was certain she hadn't spoken, and the urgency of his question dulled her anxiety for a beat. She furrowed her brows in confusion. "What?"

"I–" he stuttered, "I felt you." His shoulders tensed. "I felt you in my head. What the fuck are you doing in my head?" When she didn't reply, he whipped out his wand and aimed it at her throat.

Hermione gasped, pressing herself against the wall. "I don't know! I don't know what you're talking about! Merlin, Malfoy. Lower your wand."

He did not.