The storm-driven waves crashed against Azkaban's weathered foundations, sending plumes of salt spray skyward. Drogan Dragovi? stood motionless on the narrow balcony of his quarters, massive hands gripping the corroded iron railing as he watched the North Sea churn beneath him. The wind lashed his face, but he welcomed its bite—a physical pain to distract from the deeper ache of humiliation and doubt that gnawed at his core.

  Twelve hours ago, his forces had been decimated. Eight hours ago, he had stood before the Dark Lord and spoken truth. Four hours ago, he had left that council chamber with the taste of disgrace bitter on his tongue.

  Drogan's jaw tightened as he recalled the meeting. Voldemort had summoned his war council to Azkaban's great hall—once a place of prisoner processing, now transformed into the nerve center of magical conquest. The chamber still held the fortress's chill, despite the ornate tapestries and magical fires that adorned it. The Dark Lord had been waiting, serpentine features unnaturally still as reports of the disastrous battle filtered in.

  "Vojvoda Dragovi?," Voldemort had begun, his voice dangerously soft. "Your defeat confirms what our spies have reported. The Muggles have crude methods to smother our magic." His pale fingers had traced the edge of the stone table. "What I require from you is not excuses, but solutions."

  Drogan had stepped forward, still bearing the grime of battle, his warrior's knot disheveled, a stark contrast to the immaculate robes of the Death Eaters who had not seen combat.

  "My Lord," he had begun, his accent thickening with fatigue, "If they can strip away our greatest power, we must reconsider our approach. Their weapons are devastating—beyond what we anticipated."

  "Their Muggle toys remain precisely that—toys," Voldemort had hissed, his voice cold as the grave. "That you failed to overcome such pathetic obstacles speaks only to your inadequacy, not their strength."

  "With respect, my Lord," Drogan had continued, choosing his words carefully, "I have fought blood feuds across the Carpathians for three decades—my victories are many, but in defeat, I have always found wisdom. This defeat is different—it carries the scent of a changing world. We should take prisoners, break them if needed, and learn the secrets of their devices. To know an enemy's strength is to find his weakness."

  A ripple of unease had passed through the chamber. Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes had narrowed dangerously.

  "You speak of Muggles as if they possess knowledge worth having," she had hissed. "As if they deserve the respect of study."

  Drogan had met her gaze steadily. "I speak of them as enemies who have felled my warriors unexpectedly. In the Carpathians, when an opposing clan defeats you with an unfamiliar strategy, you do not dismiss their tactics—you learn them. Not out of admiration, but necessity. An enemy who can overcome Dragovi? magic has earned this much scrutiny, to be understood."

  "Understood?" Voldemort's voice had cut through the tension like ice. "Or admired, Dragovi??"

  The accusation hung in the air. Drogan had felt the room's attention shift, predatory and alert.

  "I admire nothing about them, my Lord," he had replied carefully. "But I acknowledge their cunning. They possess no magic, yet they prevailed."

  "Defeatist talk," Thaddeus Nott had muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

  Voldemort's eyes had never left Drogan's face. "Continue."

  Emboldened by the permission, Drogan had pressed on. "These metal beasts of theirs—they stand firm against curses that would bring down mountain giants. Their flying machines rain death from heights our spells cannot reach." His voice deepened, the Carpathian accent thickening as he leaned forward. "And this... this emptiness they create, this void where our magic dies—we must learn to fight through it. In the mountains, when winter steals your fire, you do not lie down and freeze. You find another way to survive—we need to find ways to fight when magic fails."

  "When magic fails?" Bellatrix had laughed, high and mocking. "Perhaps your magic fails, Dragovi?. The Dark Lord's never will."

  Murmurs of agreement had rippled through the assembly. Karkaroff's successor, Petrov, had practically groveled. "We will crush them beneath our soles, my Lord. This changes nothing."

  "Raw power is not enough," Drogan had said, his voice low but carrying through the chamber like distant thunder. "We must adapt our strategy, consider paths our enemies do not expect us to take—"

  "Enough," Voldemort said, his voice barely above a whisper yet somehow filling the entire room. "You speak of... adaptation. Yet when faced with true adversity, you stood paralyzed, watching as your forces—my forces—were systematically destroyed."

  His long, pale fingers traced idle patterns on the polished table, drawing eyes. "A true servant of mine would have found the path to victory, regardless of the... obstacles. Instead, you offer me excuses dressed as strategy. How... disappointing."

  The rebuke had stung precisely because it contained truth. Drogan had indeed been paralyzed by the sight of his magic failing, his warriors falling. He had not improvised, had not found another path forward.

  "You are right, my Lord," he had acknowledged, bowing his head slightly. "I failed in that regard."

  "Indeed." Voldemort's thin lips had curved into a cold smile. "Yet here you stand, suggesting we learn from creatures beneath us."

  The Dark Lord remained seated, yet somehow seemed to loom larger at the head of the table. "I expected better from you, Dragovi?. Your clan was chosen for its warrior blood, not its... academic curiosity." His gaze swept across the assembled Death Eaters, each one shrinking slightly under his crimson stare.

  "These Muggle devices are a curiosity," Voldemort said, his voice cold and precise. "One that has cost us due to your tactical incompetence, not their ingenuity." He remained unnaturally motionless, eyes moving as they assessed each follower's reaction. "We will not adapt to their methods. We will not study their machines like fascinated children."

  His eyes flashed crimson. "We will instead strike where their void-creating machines cannot reach. Their devices have limits, boundaries that cannot be extended indefinitely. We will target their leadership, their families, their sacred places. We will unleash terrors they cannot comprehend." A terrible smile formed on his lipless mouth. "Let them drain our magic where they can. They cannot drain fear. And fear, my servants, has always been our greatest weapon."

  The Dark Lord's serpentine eyes fixed upon Drogan, cold and unblinking, demanding submission.

  Drogan had felt words rising in his throat—further suggestions, tactical alternatives—but the deadly stillness made him swallow them back. The chamber had fallen silent, every eye upon him. To speak again would be to challenge the Dark Lord directly, a line he dared not cross.

  "Yes, my Lord," he had said instead, bowing his head in deference.

  Voldemort's eyes had fixed on him, cold and merciless. "Good. Remember your place, Vojvoda, or you will find yourself replaced by someone with proper vision. Perhaps your cousin Radovan would prove more... loyal."

  The threat had hung in the air, palpable as the spray that now lashed Drogan's face on the balcony. He had maintained his submissive posture, but inside, something had shifted—a hairline fracture in his certainty.

  Now, alone with the howling wind and crashing waves, Drogan stared at Azkaban's outer wall where the relentless, churning sea had carved deep fissures into the once-impenetrable stone. The fortress, unyielding in its rigidity, was surrendering to the fluid, ever-shifting force of nature. Just as his absolute faith in Voldemort's unbending doctrine was beginning to strain beneath the weight of a world that refused to conform to his master's inflexible vision.

  Drogan ran a calloused hand over his face, feeling the weight of his dragon tooth amulet against his chest. He had pledged himself to Voldemort because he believed the Dark Lord's vision would restore his people's fading magic, their diminished glory. The promise of ancient power had been intoxicating. The blood purity belief had seemed true—a clear explanation for why his clan's magic had waned over generations.

  His clan. His people. They had followed him into this alliance, trusted his judgment. How many had he lost today? Faces flashed before him—men and women he had trained personally, whose families he knew by name. Warriors who had fallen while he watched, unable to protect them when their magic failed. The shame of it burned in his chest.

  Yet when he had tried to speak of learning from this defeat, of understanding the enemy that had bested them, he had been silenced. Nearly labeled a traitor.

  Was it treasonous to want to protect his people? To seek knowledge that might prevent another slaughter?

  The storm intensified, waves crashing higher against Azkaban's walls. Drogan watched as another chunk of stone broke free, tumbling into the churning depths below.

  If we remain unbending we will be broken just as surely as these walls.

  Drogan's fingers traced the ancient carvings on his amulet—the symbol of leadership passed down through generations of Dragovi? clan chiefs. His father had placed it around his neck with pride, with the expectation that Drogan would lead their people into an unknown future.

  A leader protects his people, even from hard truths.

  Voldemort was undeniably powerful, and a cunning manipulator—perhaps the most gifted wizard of the age. But these traits were not wisdom. Drogan had always prized balance in a leader. His own father had taught him that strength without strategy was merely brutality, and strategy without strength was merely wishful thinking.

  The Muggles had shown strategy today. And strength. They had studied wizardkind, learned their weaknesses, and exploited them ruthlessly. There was no honor in their methods, but there was undeniable effectiveness.

  To dismiss such an enemy as beneath notice was... troubling.

  Drogan turned from the balcony, his massive frame silhouetted against the stormy sky. His oath to Voldemort remained intact, his loyalty unbroken. But for the first time, questions stirred in the depths of his mind—not yet doubts, but wonderings. Why had the Dark Lord dismissed his counsel so completely? Why was the suggestion of learning from defeat met with threats rather than consideration?

  He would continue to serve. He would fight with all his considerable skill. But he would also watch, and think, and remember the faces of those who had fallen today.

  For now, that was enough.

  * * *

  Hermione woke with a start, her body tensing before she remembered where she was. The military barracks hummed with the quiet sounds of soldiers beginning to stir—a cough here, the creak of a cot there, the soft rustling of blankets being pushed aside. Pale morning light filtered through the canvas walls, giving the large tent a surreal, hazy quality.

  She blinked away the fog of sleep, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Her mind slowly pieced together the events that had led her here. Fifteen hours of sleep, at least—her body had finally surrendered to exhaustion after everything.

  Wolsey had shown her to a metal container room after their meeting—sterile, isolated, and far too reminiscent of a cell. She'd immediately rejected it.

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  "I'll sleep with the soldiers," she'd insisted, surprising herself with the firmness in her voice. "With Miss Maddison—the medic, if possible."

  Wolsey had studied her carefully, something like approval flickering in his eyes. "You're certain?"

  "If I'm to do what you're asking, I can't be sealed away in some box, separated from the people we'll be fighting alongside," she'd explained, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. "I won't be put on some pedestal."

  He hadn't argued, merely nodded and escorted her to the barracks. There, an empty bunk was already made near Miller’s platoon. Hermione expected Tom to be surprised. He wasn't. He’d been told she’d be joining them—before she’d made the decision. She glanced at Wolsey. He only smiled.

  Now, as full consciousness returned, Hermione glanced around the women's section of the tent. A simple canvas partition separated her from the male soldiers—hardly private, but functional. She lay on a narrow cot, one of four arranged in a tight row. Beside her, Lance Corporal Kris "Stitch" Maddison slept soundly, her medical kit still within arm's reach even in sleep. Beyond her were Private Emma Farrow and another woman Hermione hadn't yet met, both still buried under standard-issue blankets.

  The events of yesterday crashed back with renewed clarity—the red-marked file, Wolsey's request, the weight of two worlds balanced on a knife's edge. Somehow, after a full night's sleep, it all seemed more ordered in her mind. Still daunting, still improbable, but no longer entirely impossible.

  Hermione sat up slowly, wincing as her shoulder protested. It would be days before it healed properly—less if she could supplement magical assistance.

  As she swung her legs over the side of the cot, she noticed a neatly folded bundle of clothing placed beside her bed. The stack contained olive-drab military fatigues—shirt and pants—with a sports bra and briefs tucked between the folds. A pair of army-issue leather boots sat on the floor beside the bundle. Atop it all, drawing her eye immediately, lay an emerald green witch's robe, expertly tailored.

  "Your spook dropped those off last night," came Stitch's voice, sleep-rough but alert. The medic sat up, running a hand through her short, dark hair. "Didn't want to wake you."

  Hermione reached for the robe, fingers brushing against the familiar texture. The cut, the stitching—it was unmistakably from Madam Malkin's. But oddly, the design was a little dated. How had they acquired it? Her gaze drifted to her old clothes, folded haphazardly at the foot of her cot—stained with dirt, smoke, and her own blood. A pang of nostalgia washed over her, unexpected and sharp.

  The sounds of movement from the men's side grew more pronounced. The metallic clang of a mess tin being dropped was followed by muffled cursing.

  "Alright, you lot," came Tom's voice, authoritative but not harsh. "Up and at it. Breakfast in twenty, briefing at oh-seven-hundred."

  There was a pause, then his voice came again, directed toward the canvas partition. "Morning, ladies. Same schedule for you."

  "Copy that, Sarge," Stitch called back, already pulling on her boots.

  The other women were stirring now, Emma groaning dramatically as she stretched. "Another day in paradise," she muttered, though there was no real bitterness in her tone.

  Stitch turned to Hermione. "Field showers are in the next tent over. It's not the Ritz, but the water's usually warm. Want to join us?"

  Hermione nodded, gathering the entire bundle of new clothes. "Yes, thank you."

  The shower was a revelation. As the warm water cascaded over her body, Hermione closed her eyes, savoring every second of the simple luxury. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a proper hot shower. Most of the safehouses they'd used in recent months hadn't even had running water—just buckets of collected rainwater, occasionally warmed by magic when they dared use it. They'd taken to washing in shifts, using the same tepid water, a far cry from the endless hot showers of Hogwarts.

  She stood under the spray until her skin flushed pink, watching months of hardship swirl down the drain. The military-issue soap was harsh and utilitarian, but she scrubbed herself with it as if it were the finest bath oil from Diagon Alley. When she finally stepped out, she felt lighter somehow, as if she'd washed away more than just dirt.

  After drying off, Hermione dressed methodically in the provided clothes, and laced up the boots—overly stiff, but welcome after months of wearing the same deteriorating shoes. Finally, she hesitated before the emerald robe. It represented so much—a declaration, a choice, an acceptance of the role Wolsey wanted her to play. Her fingers traced the fine stitching, the familiar weight of the fabric. After a moment's deliberation, she slipped it on over her military attire.

  The robe settled around her shoulders with surprising comfort, as if tailored specifically for her. The familiar sensation of magical fabric against her skin brought an unexpected lump to her throat. It was a tangible connection to her world—to who she was, to what she fought for. Wearing it felt like a statement, one she wasn't entirely sure she was ready to make, but perhaps one that needed to be made nonetheless.

  Hermione followed the women to the mess tent. In her emerald robe over military-issued fatigues, she cut a striking figure—neither fully of one world nor the other, but somewhere in between. She felt eyes on her as she walked, curious glances from soldiers who hadn't yet encountered a witch in their midst. The weight of their gazes pressed against her, but she kept her chin up, her stride purposeful.

  The mess tent buzzed with activity, filled with soldiers queuing for food or already seated at long tables. Tom's platoon had claimed a section near the back, and Stitch led her directly to them. Ellis nodded respectfully as they approached, shifting to make room.

  "Morning, miss," he said, his manner professional but friendly, his eyes briefly taking in the robe without comment.

  As she settled onto the bench, tray of breakfast in hand, Hermione was struck by the easy camaraderie that flowed around her. It reminded her painfully of meals at Hogwarts, or evenings in the Gryffindor common room—the casual banter, the inside jokes, the sense of belonging that had slowly eroded as the war intensified. These soldiers had built something similar, forged in shared hardship and mutual dependence.

  She learned that Ellis and most of the dismounts had served together for years—it was Tom who was relatively new to their unit, having transferred in just before deployment. They spoke of past exercises and missions in coded references and half-finished sentences that needed no completion among those who'd lived through them.

  Cooper—"Coop" to everyone—slid onto the bench across from her, his lanky frame folding awkwardly into the space. His eyes lit up when he saw her, like he'd just found a fresh audience.

  "Oi, Granger," he said, grinning widely, "you wanna hear about the time Davies here nearly turned our Warrior into an artificial reef?"

  Davies, seated a few places down, groaned. "Shut the fuck up, Coop," he said, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

  "So there we were," Cooper continued, undeterred, "training exercise in Norfolk, middle of bloody winter. Davies swears he knows a shortcut back to base—"

  "It was a shortcut!" Davies protested.

  "Yeah, if you're a bloody fish," Cooper shot back. "Anyway, he takes us straight into this field that's basically a swamp after three days of rain. Warrior sinks up to the hull before he even realizes—"

  "Why don't you tell her about the Goat Incident?," Davies interrupted, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

  Cooper's story screeched to a halt. "Oh, come on, that's not fair."

  "Goat?" Hermione asked, curiosity piqued despite herself.

  Davies leaned forward eagerly. "Wargame exercise in Wales. Middle of the night, pitch black."

  "Exercise Red Gauntlet. Night op. REDFOR hadn't pinged us once," Ellis spoke up, focus still fixed on his plate.

  "Something rustles in the bushes, and this genius on the 30-mike-mike—" Davies continued jerking a thumb at Cooper, "—decides it's an enemy ambush. Lights up the whole area with blanks like he's Rambo, screaming 'CONTACT REAR!' for a good thirty seconds before realizing it's just some farmer's goat that wandered too close."

  "REDFOR knocked us out a minute later," Ellis added dryly.

  Laughter erupted around the table. Even Cooper joined in, shaking his head ruefully. "In my defense, it was a very suspicious goat."

  Hermione found herself smiling—genuinely smiling—for what felt like the first time in ages. The moment was bittersweet; she couldn't help but think of similar moments with Harry and Ron, the easy laughter they'd once shared. But there was comfort in discovering that such moments could still exist, even here, even now.

  The laughter around the table enveloped Hermione, but there was still a weight to her thoughts that pulled her action into focus. She picked up her tray, the playful banter dwindling as she made her way toward the far end of the table where Tom sat alone, his bowl of porridge untouched.

  He was separated from the group not by distance alone; despite the sparse chatter around him, a palpable solitude surrounded Tom, as if some invisible barrier kept him apart. She could see the lines of fatigue lined across his forehead, the way he became immersed in the swirling thoughts that must have haunted him since she joined his team.

  Taking a seat across from him, she offered a bright smile. "Mind if I join you?"

  He looked up, managing a small smile in return, though it didn't quite reach his stormy blue eyes. "Not at all. I was just going to enjoy a lovely breakfast by myself."

  "Is that how it goes?" Hermione quipped lightly, unable to hide her curiosity. "What's on the menu today?"

  "Porridge with just enough flavor to start your day right," Tom replied dryly, but the corners of his mouth twitched up once more. His features relaxed, momentarily shedding the weight he seemed to carry.

  "Sounds delightful. I'd say you've really got it made," she said, her tone warm as she picked at her own breakfast.

  They settled into a comfortable silence, the sound of others around them punctuated by laughter and casual conversations. Hermione stole a glance at him—his posture relaxed, gaze unreadable as he ate his porridge. She weighed the question she hadn’t quite formed yet: How much could she trust him?

  Tom spoke first, breaking her train of thought.

  "So, who's the guy in the white shirt?" he asked, tilting his head toward the entrance of the outer tent near the G2 building.

  "Brigadier Ian Wolsey," Hermione said, frowning slightly when she noted Tom's puzzled expression. "He's with Intelligence—or is Intelligence."

  "Never heard of him," Tom replied, his brow furrowing.

  Hermione stirred her tea absentmindedly, watching the swirl of milk, trying to find her footing. "He's… enigmatic."

  "Enigmatic," Tom repeated slowly, as if testing the word. "Has he got you wrapped around his finger?"

  Hermione shifted her fork on the tray, the tines catching the light before she met his gaze, determination etched on her features.

  "Are we still being honest with each other?" she asked. "Does our agreement stand?"

  Tom blinked, taken aback, then nodded, his expression solemn. "Yeah. Still stands."

  Relief washed over her. "Good. I need your opinion."

  Tom leaned closer, arms folding on the table. "Alright then, out with it."

  "He knows things," she said, lowering her voice. "Things I didn't think anyone outside our world could possibly know. And he doesn't posture like Ministry types—not with grandeur, at least. It's more like… eventuality. Like he's already played the entire match in his head—and is just watching you step into checkmate."

  Tom nodded, a flicker of respect in his eyes. "Sounds like he's got his act together."

  "Yes, but there's a weight to him—like he's carrying the burden of hard choices, and it's starting to crush him."

  Tom scoffed lightly, yet his gaze remained connected with hers. "Doesn't stop some men from making more of the same choices."

  "No, it doesn't," she agreed. "Would you trust someone like that?"

  "Trust?" He gave a short, humorless laugh. "That's a loaded question."

  He pushed his porridge aside, leaning in slightly to keep their conversation private.

  "Look, men like that are trained to look at the big picture. They see it all as spreadsheets and mechanics, with moves and counters. The few I've met were… detached. I guess it comes with the territory," he paused, realizing he was drifting, "What I'm getting at is that they're difficult for me to trust because I can't follow their reasoning—I don't think like that. Do you?"

  Hermione considered his question carefully, her eyes drifting momentarily to the tea in her hands.

  "Yes," she said finally, with a quiet certainty that seemed to surprise him. "I do think like that, actually. I always have."

  Tom's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly not expecting that answer.

  "When I was younger, my friends used to call me the brains of our group," she continued, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. "I was always the one mapping out possibilities, analyzing risks, finding patterns. I used to create these elaborate revision schedules—color-coded, cross-referenced. My friends thought I was mad." A faint smile touched her lips before fading. "And when the war came, that way of thinking kept us alive."

  She met Tom's gaze directly. "I've spent years seeing three moves ahead, calculating odds, making contingency plans. It's not that different from what Wolsey does, I suppose. Just... on a smaller scale."

  Tom studied her with new understanding. "So you think you can work with him. See the game he's playing."

  "I think I can understand his reasoning, yes," Hermione nodded. "Maybe even anticipate it. Which doesn't mean I trust him completely, but..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Perhaps Wolsey and I can find common ground."

  "That's fair," Tom conceded, leaning back slightly. "Makes sense why he picked you, then. You speak the same language."

  "Not exactly the same," Hermione clarified. "I still care about individuals, not just outcomes. I've never been able to reduce people to numbers on a page." She wrapped her hands more tightly around her teacup. "That's the difference, I think. I can see the chess board, but I remember that every piece has a name and a story."

  Tom's expression softened slightly. "Maybe that's what he needs. Someone who can think like him but won't become him."

  "Maybe," Hermione agreed quietly. "Or maybe he's counting on the fact that desperate times change people. That eventually, I'll start making the same cold calculations he does."

  "Would you?" Tom asked, his voice neutral but his eyes searching.

  Hermione held his gaze steadily. "That's what I'm afraid of finding out."

  A quiet settled between them—dense and unspoken. She wasn't just afraid of what the war might do to the world. She was afraid of what it might do to her—the person she used to be, the lines she used to draw, the parts of herself she still wanted to protect. But those lines were blurring. And she wasn't sure if she was stepping over them… or if they'd already disappeared.

  "Speak of the devil," Tom said, glancing behind her.

  Wolsey began walking toward them from the mess station entrance, his stride even, unhurried. The kind of walk that wasn't about speed, but certainty—a man who always knew exactly how many steps it took to reach his objective.

  "Miss Granger," Wolsey said with a polite nod. "Sergeant. I hope I'm not interrupting, but we have matters to discuss." His gaze settled on Hermione. "Hermione, please come with me."

  Hermione straightened, the emerald robe shifting softly over her military fatigues as she rose. She cast one last glance at Tom, who gave her a subtle, steady nod—the kind that said I'll be here without needing the words.

  She followed Wolsey out the doors, the mess hall falling away behind her. The air outside was brisk and clean, the sky still gray but finally clearing. Somewhere, rain dripped gently from the edge of a tent canopy.

  With every step, she felt the weight of the conversation still clinging to her. The truth was, she didn't know what scared her more: that Wolsey saw something in her worth backing… or that he might be right.