When The Bell Tolls

5

8:57pm

"...null and void, but you must share all information and memories related to the assignment even after the end of the contract. If it is found that you have used the assignment for ulterior motives, and then back out of the agreement after those motives are achieved, you will receive additional sentencing. Ulterior motives aredefined as contact with--" 

"I am literate." Malfoy raises his eyes shortly from the contract to give her a fierce look before reading over the passage again. 

She can hardly tell given that he has been reading for fifteen minutes now. Of course, he had decided to read the contract over again, in case they had changed something else after his last viewing. She can tell by the clench of his jaw that he's not particularly pleased with the new clause, but it's as little room as they were willing to give. He would still be able to decline continuing the assignment at any point, which is still far more than they had wanted to give him. 

He pauses on the last page, his eyes trained on the line that would hold his signature. Hermione waits at the edge of this moment, impatiently twisting her fingers together, and knowing everything rested on the decision he made in the next ten seconds. The revival is growing stronger every day. If they could even find a substitute for Malfoy, it would take them weeks. They need him - and if he didn't need them as well, she knows this would have never gone through. He hates the world too much to save it, but he cares about his freedom, future, and reputation. He likely knows that any revival would come after him if he was set free anyway - or
his mother. It's not as if Malfoy made choices based off heroics. It's always life or death for him, and perhaps his only saving grace is that when it came to that last moment, he always chose life. 

Malfoy straightens up, lifting his chin as he holds out his hand until the chain is slack. The shackle moves up his wrist slightly, and though there's a bit of redness circling the outside of both, he's bruise free. In reading the reports of his imprisonment, the guards had frequently noted purple bruises around his wrists for the first year. She had assumed it was a combination of excessively rough handling and a need to escape, but he had given into that not being a possibility for years. Hopefully he knows it still wouldn't be. 

She hands him the quill slowly, the tip wet with ink, and concentrates on every twitch of muscle as his fingers close around the other end. She's tense in her chair, waiting for any sign that she would have to dodge out of it as she draws her hand back, waiting. Despite all his pausing and slow reading earlier, he brings the quill to the contract without hesitation, signing his name in fluid swirls. The parchment glows a faint gold before the color seeps back into the paper. 

"Quill," she tells him when he sets it down beside the contract. 

He looks up at her, an eyebrow raising, and she wonders if the intensity withwhich he looks at everything is because he normally has little to take in, or if he really sees straight through her. It would have made more sense for her to ask for the contract back - she only hopes he knows asking for the quill first was a lack of trust, and not a choice from fear. 

He turns his wrist oddly when he grabs the quill, and she thinks he's about to send it spinning across the table towards her until he changes his mind. He picks it up, reaching out less than his chains would have allowed, and eyes her evenly. There's a spark of challenge and knowing, as if he expects her to be afraid to take it with the sharp end pointed towards her, or is waiting to see a shaking of her hand when she does. She hates the beard on his face. Living under Voldemort and through the war had afforded him an aloof coldness to his eyes that made him hard to judge. She's uncomfortable with any lack of knowing. 

She covers up her nerves with a glare when she quickly snatches the quill from his hand, pretending that he's wasting her time. She nods her chin at the contract, dragging it in front of her when it stops sliding halfway across the table. She takes a deep breath as she signs her name, feeling the tingle of her magic in her fingertips. The moment she dots her i, the contract glows again, brighter as the magic locks in place. She blots the ink from the quill on her writing handkerchief, unsure if she should feel victorious or doomed. She picks up the fake quill the guards had handed to her, then twists the top of it once to the left. There's a brief flash of blue in the room that eclipses her vision, and she blinks at the white circle of light it leaves behind in her retinas. 

"You'll be staying at this level from now on, in a room down the corridor. You may request one book a week from the guards. Showers will be taken at the setup house. You will have no access to the fitness room, owlery, or recreational room. Meals will be delivered to you. I will be here at approximately 9pm each night, and we will return around 5am the next morning, though that is subject to change in relation to the current situ--" 

She had been expecting it, but she still jumps anyway. One of those hard jumps where it feels like the entire body is attempting to realign itself two inches up. She almost coughs when she sucks in a breath, the musty air hitting hard against her heart in her throat. Malfoy doesn't seem to notice, already out of his seat as far as the chains would allow, his head tilted back to the ceiling. Stone dust fogs the air, the torches clinking against their holders as the walls shake. The rumble that would have deafened those two stories up is fading into an aftershock of silence, the chair no longer shaking beneath her. 

There's a rapt knock on the door, and Hermione stands, glancing quickly to besure she has everything in her briefcase. Pebbles that had been loosened in the explosion now press uncomfortably into her shoes as she steps back, straightening herself to her rather unimpressive height. 

Malfoy's eyes are bright and wider than they had been, but still digging holes into her. It's slightly infuriating that it had taken an explosion to get any real reaction out of him, but at least it will work to their advantage during The Assignment. 

"Congratulations, Malfoy," she says as the guards open the door, stepping inside the room. "You've escaped." 

One of the guards walks towards Malfoy to lead him towards his new room, while she follows the other towards the staircase. The first guard will have claimed to have checked level eight, while the second will claim to have been with her on their way to level six to interview an inmate. She takes the steps hurriedly, rushing through corridors as the guard she's with temporarily overrides the shutdown wards. 

The inmates in level seven are wild with excitement behind their stone walls, calling out in cries of hope and laughter. Hermione's heart picks up speed, and she feels as if she is in the woods again, listening to the animals define their lack of humanity in the black of night. Level six gives way to employees running through corridors and in and out of rooms. They're all yelling at one another, speaking in codes Hermione doesn't understand, and their panic is in sharp contrast to the emotions the prisoners had burst into the air. 

Hermione's hearing zones out, and she sees the halls of Hogwarts flash through her mind. There's the rumble of Voldemort's voice beneath her feet, the crashes and screams as flashes of spells and her blurry-eyed panic turn the world into a watercolor. There's the pounding of footsteps, the cries battling with the stench of Dark magic to overwhelm her, and Fred falling into the dark. 

"Miss Granger? Miss Granger. Granger." 

Hermione snaps her eyes to the guard, finding her breathing whirling in and out of her lungs like a cyclone. Her hand is digging frantically at the waist of her trousers, searching for a wand holster that isn't there. "Yes?" It's too breathy, but he nods at her like this is exactly how she should be. 

"We need you to wait in this room until further notice. Someone will retrieve you once the prison is secured." He opens the door, nodding at her, and she stares back at him. 

She does not want to go into a tiny room with the door locked behind her, and no wand in her hand. What if they had misjudged the explosion and inmates actually escaped? What if-- 

"The room is completely secure," he reminds her. 

"Right. Right." It takes all her strength of will to step past that doorway, and the sound of it sealing shut behind her reminds her of funeral caskets and the tombs of their heroes. 

She presses her back against the door, listening and trying to remember how to breathe.

x.