• 1-Trinity: Lovers

Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm just experimenting with them a bit. No harm intended, no money made.

Rating: R

Note: Sequel to Trinity: Brothers, which you really should read first. Written for Xandria's First Kill Project, and inspired by Fyre's title Fractured Triangle. Dedicated to Chthonia, for her wonderful beta, for support far beyond the call of duty, and for letting me play in her sandpit :). Go read her Open Book and its sequel for a realistic take on this 'pairing'! And many thanks to the lovely people who reviewed the first part.

Warning: *points to challenge*; character deaths, darkfic, mild sexual content.

It's a night that mirrors her state of mind. The blue-tinged black of the sky is overcast with grey-edged clouds that race across the sky like armies rushing into final battle, grouping, regrouping and being shredded asunder in rapid movement. The storm gives the raindrops a momentum that exposes them as the little brothers of hail they are.

So very appropriate, Hermione thinks as she pulls the knot of her scarf tighter under her chin.

She's grateful for the sheepskin lining of her parka - suitable for the Russian climate, too warm for England, but useful on a night like this.

Although it's not just the cold that makes her shiver. For weeks after the disappearance of Ron and Harry she had existed in an abyss of gnawing fear, haunted by gruesome images of what fate might have befallen them. Of course in this respect she off off no worse than the other members of the Order, but at least they weren't stuck at Durmstrang, two thousand miles away from being of use. And then had come the stories in the papers, about You-Know-Who's defeat at Harry's hands, based on second-hand reports from a handful of minor Death Eaters who had immediately quit their master's sinking ship to claim forced service under the Imperius Curse. And then afterwards the confirmation from Hogwarts that the prophecy had indeed been fulfilled. And still no word about whether Harry and Ron had survived Voldemort's downfall.

Then, Hermione had believed that nothing could be worse than this mixture of helplessness and dread, but she had been wrong. Now, she understands that knowledge can at times be worse than ignorance, and that grief can lead one to desperate ends and forbidding places. After all, it has led her here.

The mansion in front of her doesn't look like the fortress she'd expected - no heavy stone boulders, towers or battlements, but instead a classical pillared entrance and huge arched glass windows. It is a fortress, however, though one whose defences are based on magic instead of architecture. She feels the power of the wards closing around her, like a pressure chamber. The dull thudding in her ears is the magnified echo of the blood pounding in her veins with reluctant sluggishness, and a sharp, iron-tanged trickle of blood runs down the back of her throat. There is a sudden wetness at her nostrils, and when she brushes it off, the back of her hand comes away with a red smear.

She neither shields nor conceals herself - magical resistance would just increase the force of the wards, and she's aware that at full strength, they would likely crush her into a bloody puddle on the ornate garden path. And of course she has not come here to hide.

With a shaky hand she sounds the bronze bell, whose clapper is cast in the shape of a striking viper.

Only a second after she rings it, the door opens a crack and globular house-elf eyes stare up at her.

"Mistress shouldn't come here, mistress is not wanted, she go, quickly!" it squeaks, wringing its bony hands.

"Oh, but ask her in by all means," a sneering voice rings out from the hay bey beyond. It sends the tiny creature into a frenzy of ear-pulling and gesticulating apologies.

Behind the frazzled elf, Draco Malfoy is leaning casually against the balustrade that surrounds the entrance hall, all pale hair and skin, grey robes mirroring his eyes. Only the obsessive air of self-confidence has gone, giving way to a quiet sense of self-assurance as if home was where poise came naturally instead of being a show of force.

And a few months of having the power to kill and torture rather than merely telling first-years to shut up would have an effect too, she thinks bitterly.

"Granger..." He looks almost bemused, taking in her wet jacket and bloody face. "I can't believe you have the nerve to darken our doorstep. Wouldn't throwing yourself in front of a Muggle train be a less painful way of committing suicide?"

Hermione wipes more blood from her nose and stares him down. She hasn't come for the younger monster, after all.

"I'm here to see your father," she states curtly, and takes a further step inside to allow the still-hovering elf to close the door against the wind. Malfoy grins at her darkly.

"Seems you're even more stupid than I gave you credit for, then. Grizzle, take her coat and bring her upstairs."

He vanishes as the elf takes her parka and dripping scarf with a disgusted wrinkling of its pointed nose. It eerily resembles Narcissa Malfoy like that. Perhaps house-elves really do adopt their owners' mannerisms after a few years of slavery, she muses. Kreacher certainly did...

She shakes her head when it looks at her long-sleeved blouse, where the water has seeped through and left damp patches.

"I'll keep that, thank you." She's not going to face Lucius Malfoy in a sleeveless Muggle top when merely standing in his entrance hall makes her feel exposed.

Bowing fretfully with every second step, the house-elf leads her up the main staircase and then off into a small room that contains only a coffee table, some high-backed chairs and a scattering of paintings that resemble full-sized oil illustrations of the sketches in Moste Potente Potions. She eyes the chairs with distrust and stands next to the window until Malfoy returns with his father in tow. Lucius Malfoy wears black and silver and gloves, and she marvels at how alike they look, two pale, alien creatures that evil seems to have drained of colour.

"Miss Granger." The elder Malfoy's voice radiates cool disdain, and his expression matches his tone as he looks over her Muggle clothes, wet hair and bloodied nose. She wipes her face with the sleeve of her blouse, and hates herself for it when she realises.

"We haven't been formally introduced, although I've heard a lot about you from my son, and lately from my... Eastern associates." The aristocratic mouth twists into a downward bow. "Altogether too much, to be honest."

"I know what you are," she replies bluntly.

He leans against the table with that same self-possession she has noted in the new Draco. As if he expects his surroundings to accommodate to his movements instead of vice versa, she thinks spitefully.

"Your much-vauntedknowledge must be vastly overrated then, little Mudblood. If you knewwhat I am, you would never have dared to invade my home."

Hermione shakes her headimpatiently. She is too wet, exhausted and miserable to endure that...creature's... verbal grandstanding.

"I know that you've beentrapped behind those wards of yours ever since You-Kn-Voldemort died. I knowthat Harry took over those Death Eaters he didnill ill outright, and that he has sworn to destroy you. I know that you can't expect anything from theMinistry, given that you're an escapee from Azkaban and a Death Eater, and thatyour own former comrades are after you."

Malfoy's expression does not change during her tirade, though his eyes seem narrower than before.

"I'm here to offer you a bargain," she concludes.

"A bargain?" He sneers down at her. "What would a little Mudblood Gryffindor have to offer a Malfoy? Help from the Ministry? Whatever passes for Dumbledore's protection nowadays? You don't have the authority to offer me either."

She smiles then, a tiny, sardonic smile that's all teeth and doesn't come in any way close to reaching her eyes.

"Nothing like that. I want you to teach me the Dark Arts, Mr. Malfoy, and the Unforgivable Curses. I want you to teach me how to kill Harry Potter."

There is a deep-ringing silence after that, and the echo sounds alien in her own ears. She has never stated the facts so plainly, not even to Viktor.

"Why would you want to kill Potter, Granger?"

Well, nobody's ever accused Draco Malfoy of being the brightest candle on the cake, she thinks. His father throws him an exasperated look that shuts him up.

"Well, Miss Granger, this is certainly an interesting turn of events," the elder Malfoy leers at her. "But why come to us for the Dark Arts? I would have thought that ex-Seeker of yours at Durmstrang was amply qualified in that respect. Surely you could give him one incentive or another to make it worth his while? After all, he doesn't appear to be a wizard of very... discriminating taste."

Heat stings her cheeks and ears at that.

"I asked him. He refused." It comes out harshly because it still hurts. Not the refusal itself - that is something she can almost respect him for. No, it is losing him that hurts.

Malfoy, damned bastard that he is, seems to read her thoughts.

"You left him then? He wouldn't endorse your little quest for revenge and you broke with him?"

Which is actually far too close to the truth for comfort. Viktor had been shocked by her request. A sense of unease always surrounded him when he, or any of the Durmstrang professors, had taught her darker spells. Hermione knows beyond any hint of doubt that Viktor loves her, but in a way, he's always regarded her as a symbol for his allegiance with Dumbledore - an ideal, an embodiment of integrity. And he's never completely understood the ties that bound her to Ron and Harry either. To Ron and Him.

"He believes the Dark Arts would... change me. Damage my personality," she says. Malfoy grins, ferret-like.

"Oh, they certainly would, not that I see why it would be much of a loss. But how about answering my son's question? Potter was your closest friend. Why do you want him dead?"

She glares, nails digging into her palms. "He killed Ron!" A hot lump starts to burn in her throat. "He lured him out of Hogwarts, took him to You-Voldemort, and murdered him with his own hands. His best friend! And you ask me why I want to kill him?"

"Well, it was either Weasley or you, Miss Granger. Shouldn't you be grateful that he chose to let you live?" The cruel mirth flickering in those eyes chills her to the bone.

"I never asked for that! If he had come and asked me, Mr. Malfoy, I would have gone along with him. Even Ron probably would have. But he did not ask!"

"Well, he definitely didn't ask the Weasel," Draco grins, obviously relishing the memory. "I've never seen the dumb sod look so shocked in my life."

It takes all of Hermione's willpower not to slap him like she had back in third year. No, make that punch him. Hard. Which would be decidedly unwise, in front of his father.

"How did you find out?" The elder Malfoy disengages from the table he's been leaning against and sits down in one of the chairs.

Hermione traces the Rune-patterned rug with her eyes to stop herself from pulling out her wand and hexing Draco.

"Two days ago, I was with a Durmstrang team that attacked Antonin Dolohov's eagle nest in Romania," she says. "He told me."

They had walked right into the fortress Dolohov had wheedled out of his vampire allies. It had been practically deserted. They had found Dolohov in his throne room, alone and raving. His Dark Mark was gone, and with it, it seemed, his mind. There were some telltale piles of ashes and a handful of contorted, motionless bundles on the floor around him, and Hermione did not blame the rest of his followers for having run. Dolohov had terrified her ever since their encounter in the Department of Mysteries, but this time, she'd almost felt pity. The long face was pallid and dirt-streaked, with a disturbed shadow around the eyes that almost drowned out his inherent cruelty.

When he recognised her, he'd cursed her as 'Krum's Mudblood whore' and then in a gush of language so filthy that even Durmstrang's arrogant pureblood Dark Arts Master - who had certainly entertained similar thoughts about her before - made to hex him. But then he seemed to forget her entirely and ranted about treason and betrayal of his Master and waved his arm at them where he had tried to etch the outlines of the Dark Mark back into his skin with his fingernails. He kept raving and started to address Hermione as 'Bellatrix', which had given her quite a jolt. She had tried to calm him, playing the role of Lestrange all the while, carefully teasing the few pieces of sketchy - and highly subjective - information out of hhat hat his fractured mind would allow. Luna's murder. Harry throwing himself at Voldemort's mercy, and Voldemort's terms. Harry, bringing Ron into the Riddle House, and killing him there. Playing the loyal Death Eater for weeks, and then assassinating Voldemort and Wormtail in Voldemort's quarters. At that point, Dolohov broke down, wailing over and over again,otteotter, Potter killed the Master."

Malfoy's nose wrinkles in disgust.

"Yes, that little bastard of a halfblood really got lucky. Striking just when the Dark Lord's closest circle was absent, and then moving quickly enough to win the worthless cowards who remained over to his side. They attacked us when we returned - the Lestrange brothers were killed immediately, and if Bellatrix and Narcissa hadn't shielded Draco we'd never have made it out alive. They did not." There is a touch of bitterness hum bel below that statement, and Hermione fidgets.

"I'm... sorry about your wife."

She's not, really. But Hermione remembers her mother's drained, white face at her father's funeral, the last time she'd seen her before the Order had spirited her away to a safe house to make sure she would not suffer a similar fate as her husband. It's hard to imagine that the same Death Eaters who would wipe out other people's families so mercilessly would care at all about their own.

"Shut up!" Malfoy snarls viciously. "I do not need sympathy from a Mudblood!"

Hermione jumps at the outburst and nervously fiddles with the wrist button of her blouse.

"But why?" She knits her brows.

"Why what, Mudblood?" Draco interjects. She glares at him.

"Well, it's obvious why Harry went after Y-Voldemort, but why is he so... obsessed... with killing you? I mean... obsessed enough to ally himself with Death Eaters?"

She watches them exchange a look insidious enough to make her toenails curl. The elder Malfoy shrugs daintily, and his anger is extinguished as quickly as it had flared up. The mask of suave superiority falls back over his features again.

"That would have to do with the fact that the Dark Lord insisted on having Mr. Potter's sincerity tested before accepting him into the ranks of the Death Eaters. He entrusted myself, Draco and Wormtail with the task, and we seem to have left quite a... lasting impression on our young hero."

They both look like Siamese curled on the carpet next to their empty cream dish, and a sick heave twists in Hermione's stomach. She certainly doesn't want any details, but it must have been enough to scar Harry's mind. And Wormtail, it seems, has already paid the price for his participation.

"Well, Miss Granger," Malfoy continues, "this is all very interesting, but I still fail to see what I would get out of this bargain you're proposing."

Hermione stares at him in exasperation.

"I'd have thought itwas obvious. If I succeed, your troubles will be over. You didn't have much of a problem worming your way back into the Ministry's favour last time, so I'm sure you'll be able to do it again. Your only serious problem is Harry and his bloody 'army'. And if I fail, well, you won't have lost anything, will you?"

"Very... succinctly put, for a Gryffindor. I confess that there is something highly satisfactory about watching one of Dumbledore's precious, noble children turning to embrace the Dark."

It really hits home, to hear it phrased this way. Before leaving Durmstrang, Hermione had actually for a moment entertained the thought of going to Hogwarts, of unburdening all her sorrow and rage to Dumbledore. But it would have been too cruel. Dumbledore loves Harry, like a son, like an heir, and the knowledge of what his beloved protégé has done would kill him. That is one thing. The other is that, deep down, she's not sure if Dumbledore would not forgive Harry, even for that. That he would not consider Ron's death too high a price for Harry's survival and the fulfilment of his precious prophecy. An unworthy thought, perhaps, but a persistent one.

She bites down on the inside of her cheek and looks down at her toes.

"And yet," Malfoy continues, giving her a sinister smile from under narrowed , ", "I think there should be some more... immediate... reward for expending energy on training one of Dumbledore's creatures, and a Muggleborn of all things."

It actually takes her a while to decipher the look that accompanies the words - cool, calculating, and utterly suggestive. When she does, she can't do anything but gape at him until Draco's decidedly evil snicker pulls her out of her stupefaction.

"Y-you can't be serious!" she stuttand and adds, when all she gets in return is a lifted eyebrow, "You despise Muggleborns!" Oh, she hates that bloody flush! "You'd never do - that - with a Mudblood!"

And I can't believe I've said that aloud, she wails mentally. Blast it, Hermione, do you really need to give him ideas?

A toothy grin proves that he's enjoying the situation altogether too much.

"It seems that your History of Magic education has been deficient, or just as slanted as most of what the Hogwarts curriculum has to offer. That, as you so eloquently put it, was actually one of the few things our pureblood ancestors considered Muggles of any use for. Entertainment, and experimentation. Toys, to use, and break, and throw away."

There is a provocative glint in his eyes, more curiosity than challenge. As you are, it seems to say.

"And since Potter has murdered my wife, it seems only fair that I make his Mudblood friend service me."

The mere thought sends shivers of dread up and down her back. He gives her a cold once-over that results in a downward curl of his mouth.

"And I hope you will not succumb to the illusion that I get any pleasure from the thought of your company. Even if you had the proper bloodline, your manners and your appearance in particular would still be severely sub-standard."

Oh thanks, like this was my idea!

It should not sting, because his opinion means less than nothing to her, but it does. And he quite likely knows it.

"Above all else, practising the Dark Arts means transcending artificial limitations - honour, ethics, laws, morality," he continues. "Hatred will take you far, Miss Granger, but not all the way. If you can sacrifice those ridiculous Gryffindorish Muggle morals you seem to be clinging to-" a contemptuous glance ghosts over her heated face, "- this experiment might be worth my while."

Hermione slowly unknots her fists and tries to calm her breathing. Hyperventilating and hysterics won't do her any good. At this moment, she hates Lucius Malfoy almost as much as she hates Harry Potter. Then she thinks of Ron and knows she would pay a far higher price if necessary.

She closes her eyes for a long moment, then nods and very deliberately shrugs her blouse off her shoulders.

And so it begins. She learns all about 'transcending artificial limitations' and what that can entail when you're dealing with Malfoys. For the first time, she's grateful for having thrown herself at Viktor Krum with such resoluteness immediately after her arrival at Durmstrang, even if back then she wasn't sure whether she was just using him to get over her father's death. It's still bad enough, but walking into this directly out of Hogwarts would have driven her to the breaking point in no time.

She prefers to share Draco's bed, because he cannot make her betray herself as badly as Lucius can. It is disconcerting how she has come to refer to them by first names, in her mind at least. 'Malfoy' makes for a far more appropriate and ominous appellation, but it allows no differentiation, and they are different. Despite their mutual loathing, Draco is still a known quantity. A hateful, disgusting quantity, but not one to spark terror, or self-hatred. Draco calls her a whore - with more reason than Dolohov, she admits - and doesn't affect her. Lucius doesn't call her anything, and manages effortlessly. He wears the same expression to bed with which he curses her on the duelling floor. Probing, cold, indifferent. A creature so alien that hating him would almost be too human a response. As futile as hating a Lethifold, or a Chimaera...

During the nights, she upholds her part of the bargain. During the days, Lucius teaches her the Dark Arts.

The Imperius Curse comes to her easiest, though it's the hardest of the Unforgivables to master. But then she is, as Remus Lupin has once proclaimed, the most talented witch of her generation. She practices on the Malfoys' house-elves, in fits of self-contempt, but the old Hermione shines through occasionally when she has the bewitched and fitfully flitting creatures give their masters a piece of her mind.

Lucius tells her of Enid Baddock, not an Auror when she cast Imperius to evacuate a houseful of panicking witches and wizards during a Welsh Green stampede, and who died in Azkaban for her pains. Hermione registers the attempt at manipulation, yet ponders the meaning of 'unforgivable' and perfects her technique.

Two nights later, she casts it on Draco, who begs her forgiveness, quits the bed and spends three hours in the manor's kitchen scrubbing pots alongside the house-elves before managing to throw the curse.

Afterwards, he splits her lip and takes her in vicious retribution, but Lucius doesn't command her to practice Imperius again.

The morning she first successfully uses Avada Kedavra on a garden gnome, she runs off, hides in a remote corner of the gardens, and cries herself into near-unconsciousness, oblivious to the patch of Snapping Woodcress that bites her hands bloody.

She remembers Ron catapulting grumbling, living gnomes over the Weasley garden fence, beaming over his shoulder at a bemused Harry. The lifeless, leathery lump on the prim grass of the Malfoys' lawn makes her feel as if she'd cast the curse at Ron's memory.

It is Draco who finally finds her and reaches out to pull her up and waits for her to heal her fingers before escorting her back.

That afternoon, Lucius Curses her for hours.