Harry Potter: The Price of Silence.

"She cut herself when she broke that vase," Nott cut in, the cigarette in his mouth bobbing with every word. "The stuff we took was an upper, but it had a numbing agent in it." He paused to take another drag. Smoke billowed out his mouth when he added, "The problem is, when you mix this shit with alcohol, the numbing agent gets a lot stronger."

Zabini stared at his wife's face, silent, and so obviously in pain that it made Hermione's chest ache.

"She didn't want to feel anything today," Nott continued. "Guess it worked a little too well, because she didn't feel a thing when one of the shards sliced into her arm."

Zabini quickly withdrew his wand and waved it over Astoria's small frame. A blue light emitted from the tip and knit the cut back together. Another flick of his wand banished the blood.

Just as Zabini slid his arms under Astoria's knees and around her shoulders, Malfoy emerged in the crowded hallway.

His appearance was almost as unkempt as Astoria's. His hair hung messily into his eyes and he wore dark trousers and a creased, white button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He had the top few buttons undone, allowing Hermione to notice the gleam of a thin silver chain that hung loosely around his throat.

Malfoy's cold eyes flickered from Astoria, to Nott, then back again as he quickly put the pieces together. "Did she-"

"Don't. You. Dare," Zabini hissed, uncharacteristically cutting Malfoy off. He scooped his wife up in his arms, cradling her protectively against his chest and keeping his eyes on her sleeping form, then got to his feet and carried her to their bedroom. Astoria clutched her empty bottle as though it were her only lifeline.

"Why did you give Astoria anything?" Malfoy snapped as soon as Zabini disappeared around the corner. "You know her body can't handle-"

"Relax," Nott hushed, holding up his hand. "She'll be okay once she's slept it off. We took the same stuff, and I'm completely fine."

"That's not the point!" Malfoy started to pace the hallway. His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair. "She can't- fuck. Why did you think it would be a good idea to-"

To Hermione's surprise, Nott silenced Malfoy with four simple words. "Today is Daphne's birthday."

Malfoy froze. He had his back to Hermione so she couldn't see his face, but every muscle in his shoulders and neck went taunt with tension, as though he may snap at any moment. He was quiet for a while, the only movement she could see was him spinning the silver ring that decorated his left pinkie finger.

Eventually, he let out a ragged breath, leaned against the wall and slid down it to occupy the space Astoria had claimed minutes ago.

His descent was just as graceless as Astoria's had been. He sprawled messily across the floor; one leg stretched in front of him, the other bent at the knee so he could rest his elbow on it. His expression was dark, empty. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his teeth were clenched so hard it looked like his jaw might shatter.

"Fuck," he whispered in a voice low, almost a growl. "I forgot it was today."

Instead of replying, Nott handed Malfoy a cigarette.

Malfoy placed the bud in his mouth and lit it. "You should have reminded Blaise. You know he likes to be around whenever Astoria takes a turn."

"Tried to," Nott mumbled. "But he and our fearless leader," his gold ring with the Nott family crest glittered as he gestured to Malfoy, "were nowhere to be seen. She was crying and desperate and wanted help. So I helped her."

Malfoy took a deep drag of his cigarette rather than respond. He pinched his eyes closed, tilted his head towards the ceiling, and held the smoke in his lungs. If Hermione was being honest, she didn't blame him.

It was Nott who broke the silence. "So where were you tonight?"

Malfoy released the breath he'd been holding, allowing smoke to pour from his mouth like fire from a dragon. "A meeting with the Dark Lord."

Nott raised a brow. "And why wasn't I asked to attend?"

"It was to discuss the raid in Newcastle. Your talents are required elsewhere."

Nott nodded and nursed his bottle. "I didn't realise the Dark Lord encouraged drinking and sloppiness at his meetings?" he asked in an accusing tone, waving his hand over Malfoy's creased shirt and messy hair.

"Blaise and I needed a drink afterwards. One drink turned into several and ..."

"Why the sudden need to wet your whistle? Couldn't you have done that at home?"

Malfoy took another drag. His shoulders slumped against the wall, defeated. "Parkinson went on a raid last night, and she hasn't come back."

For a little while, Nott was silent. "You think the Order captured her?"

"It would appear that way."

"Shouldn't we be planning a rescue mission? Surely the Dark Lord can track her through her Mark?"

Malfoy shook his head. "He's tried, there was no connection."

"So she's dead," Nott said coldly; a statement not a question.

All Malfoy could do was nod.

"A toast then," Nott took a large swig of his Firewhisky, almost draining what was left before he handed the bottle to Malfoy. "To another fallen friend."

It was strange, how seeing Malfoy distressed made Hermione's chest ache in a sickening sort of way. The way it made her skin feel cold and hands clench into fists without her permission.

She'd been fantasising about hurting him like that for months, so why did it make her feel ... what? Uncomfortable? Sympathetic?

From the moment he'd torn his Demon Mask from his face in the cathedral, all Hermione had been able to think about was how she was going to kill him. She was going to murder him the very second their bond was severed. She wanted to mutilate him in the most cruel and painful way she could think of - because he deserved it.

He'd killed and tortured thousands of innocent people and slaughtered his cousin without batting an eye. He was bloodthirsty and cruel. He didn't deserve her pity or her sympathy, what he deserved was to suffer. Hermione was determined to be the one to hurt him. If she couldn't bruise his body without hurting hers, then she would redirect her aim, and target his mind.

Or his heart, now she knew he might actually possess one in that cold chest of his.