Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ War of the Wizarding World ❯ Chapter 5

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

"Ennervate."

Hermione blinked, then squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the light. She was lying in a band of sunlight, bright, yet not warm, on what felt like a cold, hard floor. She was completely disoriented.

"On your feet, mudblood," drawled a cold voice, and, in a state of shock, she felt herself being hauled upward by something- some sort of collar- around her neck. Suddenly, everything came flooding back as she was deposited roughly on her feet- but her mind, recoiling in horror from her current situation, refused to do anything but repeat, over and over again, this isn't happening- it can't be. It's a nightmare and I'm going to wake up. This isn't happening- it can't be. It's a nightmare and I HAVE to WAKE UP!

No such luck, however. She swayed on her feet and stumbled backward into something tall, cold and hard. The post of a massive canopy bed. She stared around the room as her vision, and mind, slowly cleared. As she raised her hand to the heavy leather band about her neck (there was a chain attached to it, she realized, anchoring her to the same bedpost she had fallen against), her wide eyes settled on the man standing before her, sneering down at her with a hungry gleam in his eyes.

This was bad. Oh, this was so bad.

There was no way out of this. Her ever practical nature would not allow her to sustain false hope. She was going to be tortured, and she was going to be killed. And all because- here was the really ironic part- this monster standing in front of her thought that doing so would hurt Draco. She knew better. And she found that she was glad, for the first time, that Draco no longer loved her- that he would be unaffected by her death. Not only because it meant that Lucius would be denied the satisfaction of bringing his son low, but also because she found that she disliked the thought of Draco grieving for her- she disliked the thought of him in pain.

Because, goddamn it, she loved him still.

But she couldn't dwell on Draco right now. She had to focus on the present. She found, much as Harry had once upon a time when facing Voldemort in a cemetery with Cedric's dead body at his feet, that accepting death as inevitable was oddly freeing; it freed her from her fear. She sucked in a deep breath and stood a little straighter. No, she was not afraid anymore, come what may. She would not cower before this sorry excuse for a human being. She would not give him that satisfaction.

Lucius stepped very close to her. "Well, mudblood," he drawled, "I trust you know who I am? I've certainly heard a lot about YOU- and I have to admit, I'm somewhat puzzled as to what the attraction is. You managed to turn my son against everything he was raised to believe in, by all accounts you are stringing along the great Harry Potter and his pathetic sidekick Weasley as well (unfair! her mind cried indignantly), and even the Dark Lord-the previous Dark Lord- saw fit to sully himself with you. I intend to discover-" his eyes raked her body lewdly- (don't flinch, she thought desperately; it's what he wants- do not give him that pleasure!) "whether all the fuss is justified."

Seizing the chain that issued from her collar, he gave her a sharp yank, causing her to stumble forward. She just barely managed to stop herself short of falling against him. They were nearly nose-to-nose as he murmured, "I received a very detailed account of my predecessor's- encounter, shall we say?- with you...and of your little act of defiance at the end. I want to make it known right now that I will brook no such insolence. Do I make myself clear?"

Her jaw tightened. Lucius' eyes flashed. "I said, do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," she ground out, then, just as the very beginnings of a triumphant sneer touched his lips, she spat full in his face.

It was different from when she had done it to Voldemort. She had barely been conscious then, and certainly not thinking rationally. This, she did deliberately and with the knowledge that there would be hell to pay- but she was going to suffer anyway, so it would be worth it to suffer perhaps a little more, in order to see the expression on his face.

Which was everything she had hoped it would be, in the split second his guard was down. Anger, revulsion, and above all, utter disbelieving shock that she- that ANYONE- would dare do this to him.

He raised a hand slowly to his face and touched his wet cheek, as if unable to comprehend that her saliva, on his skin, was actually real, was actually there. Then he backhanded her with his other hand, so fast and hard that she was caught totally off-guard; she had never seen it coming, bent as she had been on studying his face.

Her head snapped to the side with such force that she nearly fell- but she caught herself. (I won't fall, I WON'T!) She turned slowly back toward her captor, an angry red blotch already marring the side of her face. There were tears of pain standing in her eyes from the slap, yet she radiated not fear or defeat, but rage and defiance. "Go to hell," she whispered.

"Oh, I rather think not," Lucius replied- he seemed to have recovered his composure, though there was a hard, angry glint in his eyes which had not been there before. "That would entail dying, you see, which is something I have no intention of doing. Ever. You, on the other hand, well-" he reached out and traced the line of her jaw with a long, aristocratic finger, watching the disgust flare in her eyes- "You die in three days, whether Draco comes for you or not. I think a good little girl like you is probably destined for heaven-" he said the word with patent distaste- "your unfortunate spitting habit notwithstanding- but fear not; I'll give you a taste of hell before you go."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, and judging by her expression, it was true. Certainly she had been afraid back in her bedroom, but she seemed beyond that now. Her expression was one of hatred, and perhaps an underlying despair- but there was no fear in it.

Lucius surveyed her thoughtfully. "You know, I do believe you speak the truth," he said slowly. "You're NOT afraid of me." He shrugged. "Fortunately, I do not require that you fear me. Merely that you bleed, scream, and beg for mercy. And make no mistake, by the time I am through with you, you will have done all three in abundance."

She tilted her head defiantly. "I didn't scream for Voldemort," she said, with a feeling of immense satisfaction as Lucius flinched, however slightly, at the name of his former master, "and I won't scream for you."

Lucius' eyes glinted. "I do so like a challenge," he said, and pointed his wand at her. "Crucio!"

It was pain such as she would never have believed existed.

He only lifted the curse once she had screamed her throat raw.

She couldn't help it; there was no way to hold back her cries- not in the face of agony such as this.

"You see, poppet," Lucius murmured, almost tenderly, hunkering down next to where she lay, gasping, on the floor (how did I get down here? she thought disjointedly; wasn't I just standing up? Hadn't I resolved to keep my feet, no matter what?) "My predecessor never used the Cruciatus on you. Everyone screams under Cruciatus; everyone."

"Draco didn't," she whispered hoarsely, still defiant.

"Oh, didn't he?" Lucius asked, in a tone of mild curiosity. "That's good to know. I suppose it means that all the time and effort I put into disciplining him when he was younger paid off- to some extent, anyway. At least it wasn't a complete waste. It will be most interesting to see if I can break through that discipline when he arrives. Yes, I shall look forward to that immensely."

Hermione, in the process of pushing herself slowly and painfully into a sitting position, snorted derisively. "Then you will be immensely disappointed," she said flatly. "Draco's not going to come after me."

"You really don't think so, do you?" Lucius asked, surveying her keenly. Then he shrugged. "Ah well, time will tell. But for now- our fun has only just begun. So let's get on with it, shall we?"

He dragged her to her feet by her collar again, then, with a flick of his wand and a word, she found herself shackled at the foot of the bed; her arms stretched straight up, chains running from her wrists to the canopy bar high above her.

Oh, God. Not good not good not good at all.

She was facing toward the bed, her knees bumping against the edge of the mattress, so that Lucius was free to come up right behind her. He did so, reaching around from behind and beginning to undo the buttons on her rumpled white uniform blouse as she struggled to hold back the tears that wanted to flood from her eyes. She squeezed them tightly shut and clenched her jaw- I won't cry, I won't cry, I WON'T- but her breath was already beginning to hitch in her throat. She swallowed hard, choking back a sob and Lucius finished with the buttons and moved to unclasp her bra.

Think of something else, she told herself desperately, as, with a touch of his wand, Lucius vanished both shirt and bra entirely, and his hands began to roam freely, roughly, possessively over her body. I'm not here, not here at all, I'm with Draco, he still loves me, we're- we're in Hogsmeade drinking butterbeer- oh God oh God, I can't take this, I can't go through this again, I'd rather die!

"Quite the stoic little mudblood, aren't we?" Lucius murmured in her ear, for despite her frantic thoughts, she had managed to retain some outward semblance of calm; she had not burst into tears- not yet. Not EVER, she thought fiercely; I don't CARE what he does to me- I won't cry!

Her tormentor took a step back, his hands finally leaving her body. "So," he remarked conversationally, "you seemed quite impressed that Draco can endure Cruciatus without screaming. It IS rather a remarkable feat, and I take the credit for it. Here's something else for you to ponder over the next few minutes; Draco never screamed during this, either. In fact, he counted."

Counted? her mind cried, on the verge of hysterics- counted what? What did Draco count?! She tried to twist her head around to see Lucius behind her, but could not.

No matter- her question was answered a bare second later when a whip lashed across her back with terrific force. A ragged cry was wrenched from her lips; she couldn't hold it back. She felt Lucius' fingers trace the stinging welt on her back and sucked in a sharp breath through her clenched teeth; a second later, he had reached around in front her again and was holding his hand up before her face. She saw that his fingertips were crimson with her blood.

"You see," he whispered, "as satisfying as the Cruciatus is for inflicting pain, it fails to produce any blood. So I find myself resorting to other methods because, poppet-" his tongue flicked out and licked at her ear, causing her to shudder with revulsion- "I love blood. Even mudblood, like yours. So-" he pulled back again, and his voice took on a brisk tone- "Draco counted past a hundred and fifty one time, if memory serves- let's see what you can do."

Not one to back down from a challenge, she counted.

And the whip came down again. And again. And again. She lost count, and consciousness, somewhere in the thirties.

She came back to awareness slowly, reluctantly, her body screaming in protest against the treatment it was receiving. Between the Cruciatus Curse and the brutal whipping, and the fact that she was still shackled to the canopy bar of the bed, her entire weight dangling from her wrists high above her head, searing agony seemed to have invaded every inch of her being.

Forcing her eyes open, the first thing she saw was that she had been turned so that her back was to the bed and she now faced the rest of the room. The second thing she saw was Lucius Malfoy, seated in a straight backed chair beside a desk- (Draco's desk, she thought detachedly; though Lucius had not said so in as many words, she had a strong suspicion that this room which had become, to her, a combination prison cell and torture chamber, had in fact been her lover's bedroom)- watching her intently.

He had removed his robes, and his shirt as well; clad only in black breeches tucked into black dragonhide boots, he was now bare from the waist up, just as she was. And he was splattered from head to foot with blood. Her blood, she realized, with a queasy flip of her stomach.

"Well, hello, sleeping beauty," he drawled.

Uncoiling himself from the chair with a lithe grace that was so reminiscent of the way Draco moved it caused her breath to catch painfully in her throat, he made his way toward her with slow deliberation. Despite a concerted effort to black out again, Hermione found to her dismay that she was still conscious when he reached her.

"So poppet," he breathed, stopping directly in front of her, "are you ready for the REALLY fun part?"

For a fraction of a second, Hermione's face contorted with disgust, but in the next instant she had mastered herself and closed her face to all expressions save purest loathing. When she spoke, her voice was dull; emotionless. "Do what you want- you can't hurt me, not really. Maybe physically, but not in any way that matters. So just get it over with. I don't care."

She had thought that this would take some of the wind out of his sails, but strangely, her words seemed to have the opposite effect; he appeared absurdly pleased by them. A slow, sadistic smile twisted his lips. "You have no idea how I had hoped you would say something like that, mudblood."

She felt her stomach clench around a sudden, cold knot of fear. This was not right, not right at all. Something bad must be coming, worse than she had ever imagined, something so so so so bad......

Lucius took a half-step backward, reaching into a pocket of his trousers as he did so. Never breaking eye contact, still with that cruel smile playing about his lips, he pulled out a small, ornately embossed silver flask, yanked the stopper out with his teeth, and downed the contents in a single swallow, blanching for just a second as he did so.

For a moment, nothing happened, except that he threw the now empty flask aside. Hermione was utterly bewildered. The only thought that came to her mind was, I hope he chokes on it, whatever it is.

Then, to her further puzzlement, he winked at her- and turned away. That was when the change began. Hermione's eyes widened as she realized what was happening, and her lips formed the word NO, seemingly of their own volition, though no sound actually came out. There was no sound she could make that could begin to express the horror she felt as she watched the man before her transform.

Because she knew who he was turning into.

She could see it, even with his back to her. The long, thin hair like spidersilk shortening, thickening, only the silver blond color- that color that was no color- remaining the same; The back and shoulders broadening, the hips narrowing further, the body, which had been merely slender before, taking on the toned musculature of youth and Quidditch training.

She knew every inch of this new body by sight, by touch, by scent, by taste. "No," she whispered, unable to help herself, horrified beyond belief. "Oh, no. No."

And Draco turned to face her, smirking, his pale eyes glittering with malicious glee. "What's the matter, mudblood?" he drawled (in the same voice that had once whispered in her ear that she was perfect; a goddess- the same voice that had so often comforted her as she cried in the night). "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"No," she choked out, completely panicked, forgetting her resolve to show no emotion. She hadn't been counting on this- Lucius she could deal with but Draco- (it's NOT Draco!)- Draco was something else entirely. She lost her head completely and began to struggle desperately against her bonds as he crossed the distance between them with one purposeful stride, unable to regain her self-control even though she saw in his eyes that he was basking in her panic- absolutely reveling in it.

"NO!" she cried again, her voice cracking, as his hands went to her waist, then began stroking up and down her sides, caressing her almost lovingly. "Not Draco, not like this- oh God, PLEASE not like this!"

He smiled down at her- Draco's smile. "You see, poppet, I told you you'd beg," murmured Draco's voice. And, removing both hands from where they had been resting on the swell of her hips, he quite suddenly raked his nails- Draco's neatly trimmed nails- down her already torn and bloody back.

A shriek of pure anguish was ripped from her, and he was ready; the second she opened her mouth, he captured it in a brutal, crushing kiss; a kiss of ownership, greedily drinking in her scream as her body, in a frantic attempt to escape the pain of his hands on her back, thrust itself forward, pressing into his.

"Well, aren't you the forward one?" he taunted a moment later, breaking the kiss.

Tears were streaming down her face; there was no controlling them, not anymore. The floodgates had been opened and she couldn't close them again, not in the face of this. She was overwhelmed; she couldn't take this, not that it should be Draco doing these things to her- (it's not Draco it's not Draco it's not it's NOT!)- she must surely go mad.

He dipped his head then, his mouth finding the hollow at the base of her throat, licking, biting, sucking, bruising, marking her, as she gave a great, shuddery gasp of pain. At the same time, he raised his wand and, with a flick of his wrist, caused the shackles about her wrists to disappear. Suddenly unsupported, she fell backward onto the bed.

The pain in her back when it hit the mattress was so great that her vision darkened around the edges and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt- fleetingly, she prayed that she would pass out, but it didn't happen. (Oh God, can't you grant me even that small mercy?) When her vision cleared, she was met with the sight of Draco (Lucius! Not Draco!) leering down at her as she sprawled on the bed.

"Is that an invitation, mudblood?" he drawled. And without waiting for an answer, lowered himself onto her.

She tried to struggle, but it was no use; her body was leaden from all the time she had spent hanging from her wrists, and refused to obey her. She could do nothing but stare up into that familiar face, the soft, fair hair that spilled forward over his brow, those eyes that she knew and loved- still loved, even now, even now.

Eyes that held only hatred, and triumph, and lust.

She shook her head mutely, tears continuing to flow unchecked down her face.

"Why, whatever is the matter, poppet?" Lucius asked, in an almost gentle voice, only his eyes- Draco's pale eyes- gleaming with wicked delight. "You know," he added, in a confidential tone, "I do believe I'm beginning to see what all the fuss is about. You are a very pretty girl- even when you cry. Especially when you cry." Using his knees, he drove her legs far apart, and his hands found the pleated fabric of her uniform skirt, started to tear at it, then stopped. "I think I'll leave the skirt," he murmured thoughtfully, more to himself than to her; "I rather like its effect." Instead of ripping it off, he merely shoved it out of the way.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and tensed for the assault she knew was coming. This isn't happening, she though numbly, even as her body braced itself for the inevitable- it can't be, it's just too unfair, I've gone through this once, once was enough, I can't again, oh God, what did I ever do to deserve this, not once but twice- what, what did I DO?

"Someone help me," she whispered in a tiny, lost voice, completely unaware that she was speaking aloud, that her words were sweet music to her tormentor's ears. "I can't....take this....again. Not....as Draco- not like this. Please, not like- AAAUUGGH!"

The ragged scream was torn from her throat as he invaded her body, and her eyes flew open again, in shock, just as he bent his head and claimed her in another bruising, torturous kiss.

*****

For Lucius, it was like heaven on earth. For what must have been the hundredth time, he was grateful for his wife's insistence that he keep a vat of polyjuice potion bubbling constantly at the ready in a corner of his potions lab- it was, she had pointed out, an extremely valuable asset for any aspiring Dark Lord to have on hand. Taking on Draco's appearance- seeing the mudblood's reaction to his change- it made the rape even more enjoyable than it would otherwise have been. And greater still than the pleasure the mudblood's tortured body was giving him was the satisfaction that came from the knowledge of how his traitorous son would react if he knew what was occurring. If Draco had been able to witness this scene, Lucius knew, his reaction would be nothing short of raging, howling, bestial madness. It was at that moment that Lucius decided that Draco must, indeed, witness this; he would create a pensieve of this day that he could force Draco to look into when he arrived. He had no doubt that seeing his son's reaction to the rape would bring him more pleasure even than the act itself.

*****

He left her lying sprawled across the foot of the bed, semiconscious, the blood from the lashes on her back soaking into the silken bedclothes beneath her, her eyes open yet glazed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

She continued to lie that way for a long, long time after he had closed and locked the door, smirking, heading off to his own palatial chamber to wash her "muddy blood" off himself.

Finally, after a good twenty minutes or so, she blinked, seeming to come back to herself, and gave a low, despairing groan. Slowly, she drew her arms in against her body and began to lever herself up onto her elbows, sucking in a harsh breath through gritted teeth as her back peeled painfully off of the comforter, to which it had become glued by her drying blood.

Her wounds now bleeding freely again and staining her brown hair crimson where it lay, damp and sweaty, against her back, she looked around the room with wide, dazed eyes, as if this were the last place she had expected to find herself, as though she had somehow thought that with that single blink, she should have awakened back in her room at Hogwarts, all of this no more than a particularly vivid nightmare, and Draco bursting through the door to comfort her.

Now, as she stared about herself, realizing that this place- and the things that had happened to her in it- were undeniably real, a single sob was wrenched from her throat, the sound of it echoing through the large room. Before more sobs could follow, however, she pressed a hand to her stomach- (she was still wearing her pleated uniform skirt, she realized detachedly- her pleated skirt, and nothing else)- as a powerful wave of nausea engulfed her. She just barely managed to throw herself halfway over the side of the bed, and was violently sick onto the floor.

She retched herself dry, then pushed herself a few inches back from the edge of the bed with shaking arms, and curled tightly into a fetal position. She felt completely drained; so exhausted and empty that she could no longer even find tears to shed. "It wasn't Draco," she whispered, letting her eyes fall closed.

She had already known, of course, that it hadn't been Draco- had known it from the start. Lucius hadn't made any secret of his identity; he hadn't gone out of his way to pretend to be Draco; he hadn't needed to. He had correctly surmised that taking on his son's appearance, forcing her to look up into Draco's eyes as he tortured and raped her, forcing her to listen to Draco's voice call her a filthy mudblood, forcing her to see that look of twisted lust and triumph on the face she loved- STILL loved, despite everything- would be torment enough for one day.

Yes, she knew it had been Lucius- he had drunk the potion in front of her, for Christ's sake- but still- she shuddered violently- it had been Draco's eyes, his voice, his hands- oh God, his HANDS!

So it bore repeating. "It wasn't Draco," she whispered again, frantically. "It wasn't- he wouldn't- he'd never- he may not love me anymore, but he'd never do that! It wasn't....it....wasn't...."

Her voice trailed away as finally, mercifully, darkness claimed her.

*****

"Disgusting girl," said a cold voice, dripping with contempt.

Hermione reluctantly forced her eyes open, meeting the pale blue gaze of Narcissa Malfoy. She knew immediately who she was looking at; she had seen Narcissa once before, in the top box at the Quidditch World Cup, years ago. Though she recognized her, she didn't speak. What on Earth was she supposed to say? Oh hello, Mrs. Malfoy, what a lovely home you have. It's so nice to meet you- no no, really, the pleasure is mine! We've never been formally introduced, but my name is Hermione Granger and I'm in love with your son- may I call you mum? What's that? Your husband? Oh, I've already had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Malfoy- yes, he was in here just a little while ago- charming man, such a witty conversationalist, I'd have to say the highlight of our little chat was when he TRANSFORMED INTO DRACO AND RAPED ME!

Hmm...no, that wouldn't do. But on the plus side, she seemed to be thinking somewhat clearly again. She glanced past Narcissa, at the nearest window, and saw that it was now dark outside; day one in hell was over. Just two more to go. Then she would either be rescued, or killed. She was fully anticipating death- if Lucius expected Draco to come after her, then the joke would be on him. Draco didn't care. (Doesn't he? A corner of her mind whispered rebelliously; he sure looked like he cared last night.) No, she thought firmly, Draco didn't care- there was no point in deluding herself- but maybe Harry and Ron would find a way to come- it somehow didn't seem so criminal anymore to allow herself to indulge in fantasies of rescue- it was a good escape from reality....in any case, she found that at this point she barely cared whether her captivity ended in rescue or in death, just so long as it ended. Either one meant release- one way or the other.

Her attention was drawn back to Narcissa, who was speaking again. "Vile little creature," she spat, staring daggers at Hermione, "lying here in your own filth, defiling my son's bed, making a mess of my floors."

Hermione stared up at her for a long moment, processing the utter, blatant injustice of this statement. As if she had made a mess on purpose. The bed hadn't been defiled- SHE had been defiled ON the bed- there was a world of difference. Finally, she whispered just one word;

"How?"

Narcissa's eyes narrowed. "How, what?" she snapped.

"How can you say that, knowing what he did to me? And incidentally, how could you have let him do it?"

A slow smirk spread over Narcissa's face. Hermione thought distantly, in that realm of her mind that was clear and removed from the pain of her body, that this had to be THE smirkingest family on Earth.

"You think I should have put a stop to it," the ice-blonde woman hissed, "just because I'm his wife?"

"No," Hermione said, "not because you're his wife; simply because you're a woman."

Narcissa appeared momentarily taken aback by this. Her eyes widened marginally and for just a fraction of a second something seemed to flicker behind them- some unidentifiable emotion quickly masked. In the next instant, however, her eyes flashed, and her lips tightened, with rage.

"Are you suggesting that you and I share some sort of kinship merely because we are both female? Well let me tell you, mudblood, I am nothing like you, and if you think I feel any sympathy for you whatsoever, you are sorely mistaken. You stole my only child away, and there is no punishment too severe for that crime. You deserve everything my husband gives you, and ten times more as well." She whipped her wand out of her robes and leveled it at Hermione. "Crucio!"

Narcissa's Cruciatus Curse was every bit as potent as her husband's. Hermione convulsed, screaming, and fell off the edge of the bed (thankfully missing the nearby puddle of vomit, though she wouldn't have noticed at that point if she had fallen straight into it.) She was being burned, stabbed, sliced, ripped apart, all at once as she writhed on the floor. Narcissa kept the wand on her until she had screamed herself hoarse (fortunately, this took very little time, strained as her voice already was from her earlier Cruciatus session with Lucius), then pocketed it again and swept from the room without another word or a backward glance, leaving Hermione gasping in her wake.

*****

An indeterminate time later- it was still dark out- two house elves came sidling into the room. Hermione was slumped against the side of the bed, in a half-sitting, half-lying position. After Narcissa had left, she had attempted to pull herself back up onto the bed, using the corner post as a support, but had lacked the strength to successfully do so, collapsing instead against it, crying weakly.

By the time the elves arrived, she had long since run out of tears, and had lapsed into a fevered semiconscious state. She was shaking violently when the little servants found her, her teeth chattering, her breath shallow, rapid, hitching. She was both freezing cold and burning up; her body wracked by chills, her temperature perilously high.

At first, both elves ignored her as they scurried about the room cleaning it, scouring away the blood and the sick and all evidence of the atrocities that had taken place there the previous day- all evidence except for Hermione herself, of course. They gave her a wide berth, neither touching nor looking directly at her, managing, through the use of their household magic, even to strip and remake the bed she was leaning against without disturbing her.

As they went about their business, though, the smaller of the two elves found herself stealing furtive glances at the clearly sick and injured, half-naked girl on the floor. Unlike the rest of Malfoy Manor's elves, who were the products of generations of service to the family, this particular elf had been acquired only recently, as a replacement for Dobby. As a result, she was not yet entirely cowed by her masters, as the other elves were. Where her companion was completely indifferent to Hermione, seeming to look right through her without even registering her existence, the newest elf, known as Hanni, felt a rising surge of pity for the girl, who was now tossing her head and repeatedly whispering the name "Draco", apparently delirious.

As the other elf busied herself about the room, therefore, Hanni crept into the adjacent bathroom and returned with a glass of water and a cool, dampened hand towel. Bending over Hermione, she pressed the towel to the suffering girl's forehead and held the glass against her dry, slightly parted lips, tipping some of the liquid down her throat. At first, Hermione spluttered and choked, but then her dark eyes fixed on Hanni and she drank the rest of the water down thirstily.

"Th-thank you," she croaked.

"You is most welcome, miss," Hanni murmured, setting the glass down beside Hermione. "Is there anything else Hanni can do to help you, miss?"

"Draco," Hermione whispered, but her eyes were losing their focus and the elf couldn't tell whether this was a request, or merely the return of the delirium. Before she could question Hermione further, her companion, alerted by the sound of voices, had rushed to her side, positively quivering with fear and anger.

'Hanni, you is a bad elf!" she hissed vehemently; "you is going to get us beaten if master finds out! You is going to get us clothes!" And she seized Hanni and pulled her out of the room, causing the damp towel and empty glass to vanish with a backward glance and a snap of her fingers. SHE was a good elf; she knew her duty. She would see to it that Hanni was not allowed to clean this room again. Master had made it very clear that though she occupied a bedroom, rather than a dungeon cell, the girl was a prisoner- not a guest.

She was to receive no aid from anyone.

*****

"Rise and shine, mudblood. It's time to play."

Hermione slowly forced her eyes open. She had slid over sideways in the night, after the house-elves' visit, until she was lying flat on the floor near the foot of the bed. She realized distantly that she was fevered, shaking with cold, hurt everywhere, and she was staring up now at Lucius Malfoy, who was standing over her with a grin on his face and his wand leveled at her heart.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

"Lucius' grin widened. "Crucio."

Day two in hell had begun.

After only a couple of hours, Lucius vanished the collar and chain from about her neck, as it was patently obvious that she was no longer in any condition to attempt an escape.

Throughout that day, and the following night, and the next morning, the torture continued. As time progressed, she spent less and less of it in a conscious state, but from what she could tell during her increasingly brief periods of awareness, she spent roughly equal amounts of time on the floor, writhing under the Curicatus Curse, dangling from her wrists while being whipped raw, and on the bed being brutally raped.

During much of the time, Lucius retained his own appearance- but always, he raped her as Draco.

“This is all your bloody fucking fault, Malfoy!”

“I fucking KNOW THAT!”

Draco pounded his fist into the wall, bare inches from Ron’s head. The two boys glared at each other for a moment in furious silence before spinning on their respective heels and resuming their frantic pacing about the perimeter of the room.

They were in the Gryffindor common room, which was deserted but for the three of them, due in part to the fact that it was a Hogsmeade Saturday, and in (much larger) part to the fact that Draco was looking dangerously unbalanced and the abrupt shouting matches between him and Ron had been going on for quite a while now and were becoming more frequent and more potentially violent as time wore on. The first and second year students, though too young to visit the village, had nevertheless made themselves scarce, terrified by the seventh year boys who were prowling the common room like caged beasts.

Which was, for all intents and purposes, exactly what they were.

The silver-blond and the redhead were pacing opposing tracks around the edge of the room, glaring murderously at each other whenever their paths crossed, both occasionally kicking at a piece of furniture or punching the wall. As for Harry, he was standing perfectly still in front of the fireplace, which contained no fire at the moment, it being near noon on a sunny May day. His back was to the room and his head was resting face-down on his arms, which were folded on the mantle. Shoulders hunched, face hidden from view, he was the very picture of abject despair.

Hermione had been missing now for over two days. This was, in fact, late afternoon on the final day of the three that Lucius had given Draco, and if Dumbledore and the Order had any plans for Hermione’s rescue, they had not shared them with the boys. Harry, Ron and Draco had been confined to Gryffindor Tower by the placement of magical wards at the portrait hole, in order to prevent them from sneaking off the grounds and apparating away- as they were all now seventeen, they had learned apparition earlier in the year. All floo access to Gryffindor Tower had been cut off. Even their broomsticks had been confiscated, so that they wouldn’t simply fly out of a window.

Their inability to act was tormenting all three of them. The tension between Ron and Draco, born of their mutual desperation, hopelessness and rage, was nearing the breaking point. It was bound to boil over very soon.

And it did.

Quite suddenly, from the opposite side of the room, Ron rounded on Draco.

“God-fucking-damn it, Malfoy, you rat bastard,” he shouted, his eyes so dark a blue with anger that they were nearly black, his voice cracking with emotion; “if she had never fallen in love with you she never would have been a target! You probably knew the whole bloody time that she was in danger just by being with you, but you didn’t care. You used her anyway and then you threw her away because you never cared what would happen when you were done with her. You’ve never cared about ANYTHING but your own worthless fucking hide!”

“You have no clue how bloody much I care, Weasel,” Draco said, his voice so low it was barely audible- and all the more frightening for that. “I told you once before I’d excuse you saying something stupid because I knew how you felt about her- and the same goes for now. But this is your last fucking chance. Say one more thing and so help me God, you are going to get hurt.”

But Ron was well past caring whether or not he got hurt. “You never deserved her, Malfoy,” he spat; “never.”

And Draco astonished him by saying simply, “I know.”

The two boys stared at each other across the room, breathing hard. Then, with lightning speed, Draco whipped out his wand and leveled it at Ron’s chest. “I know,” he repeated, “but even so, I warned you to keep your mouth shut, Weasley.”

Ron dove to the side as Draco fired a spell at the place where he’d been standing. He hit the floor, rolled, and came up with his wand pointed steadily right back at Draco.

Swearing under his breath, Harry spun around and surveyed the two opponents, looking from one to the other, speaking to neither. He could think of no words to say to fend off the vicious duel he knew was coming. His mind was too clouded by the helpless grief he felt for Hermione; he was sinking in it, drowning.

As for Ron and Draco, they were screwing up their nerve. There could be no backing down now. Ron’s eyes narrowed dangerously; Draco shook back his silver-fine hair, which had fallen forward over his brow. The tension mounted and the silence between them, broken only by their panting breath, spiraled out and out. At any second now, the room would explode into violence. The tension was far too great; it had to be released; this was the only way. Any second now..................

Then-

Pop!

The silence in the room was broken by a sudden, loud noise, accompanied by a flash of blue light, but its source was neither Draco nor Ron. Its source, to the complete, unmitigated shock of all three boys, was a tiny female house elf who had just appeared in the middle of the room, clad in a pillowcase, clutching what appeared to be an egg cup tightly to her chest. She had appeared directly in the line of fire between Draco and Ron and, glancing from one drawn wand to the other with bulging eyes, she gave a terrified squeak and dove behind the nearest armchair, dropping her egg cup in the process.

Slowly, warily, Ron and Draco lowered their wands and all three boys advanced on the armchair, from behind which were coming small, muffled whimpers of fear. Harry reached her first and hunkered down before her. She peered at him for a moment from between her fingers, then slowly lowered her shaking hands from her face.

“You is Harry Potter,” she whispered; “yes, you is. Hanni knows you. You freed Dobby.”

“That’s right,” Harry said, his tone conveying only mild surprise, though in fact what he was feeling was more akin to deep shock. “Do you know Dobby?”

The elf shook her head. “No, sir, but- but Hanni has heard all about him. Hanni replaced Dobby, you see.”

Harry paused for a moment, processing this information. There was something about what the elf had just said that was important- monumental, even- but try as he might, he just couldn’t make the connection. His mind was too clouded by misery and despair; he wasn’t thinking clearly.

It was Draco whose eyes widened in realization, who sucked in a sharp breath and, shoving Harry aside, went down on one knee in front of the elf, at the same time seizing her roughly by the shoulders and hauling her onto her feet so that their faces were level, inches apart.

“You replaced Dobby? So you come from the manor- Malfoy Manor?”

“Yes, Master Draco,” the elf whispered, trembling from head to foot.

“Hermione! Is she there? Is she alive?”

“Yes, Master Draco,” the elf repeated, in a barely audible voice.

Draco’s entire body seemed to sag momentarily with relief as he expelled a long, shaking breath. He ducked his head, face scrunched as if in pain, and quickly pressed a hand to his forehead, shading his eyes from view. Harry and Ron could only see the line of his jaw, tightly clenched, as waves of relief swept over them as well. Ron, who had been the only one still standing, fell heavily into the armchair.

“Is she-” Draco swallowed hard. He was still looking down, eyes hidden. “Is she hurt?”

“Yes, Master Draco,” the elf nearly sobbed; “yes, miss is...............is hurt bad.”

Draco’s hand, where if rested against his forehead, clenched into a fist and a low groan of primal, almost animal pain escaped his throat. In the armchair, Ron dropped his head forward into his hands. Harry abruptly sprang up from where he had been crouching and began pacing the room just as Draco and Ron had been doing prior to Hanni’s arrival, hands clenching and unclenching, green eyes glittering with angry, helpless tears.

Hanni stared for a moment at each boy in turn, then returning her attention to Draco, continued, “M-master said that no-one should help miss, but Hanni f-felt so sorry for her. Hanni asked if there was anything she could do. The only thing miss said was Master Draco’s name. Hanni th-thought that miss might only be delirious-”

“Delirious?” Draco interjected sharply; “what do you mean, delirious? Is she sick?”

The elf nodded miserably.

“She’s hurt AND sick? How sick?”

“V-very sick. She is b-burning up with fever.”

A string of curses burst forth from Draco’s mouth, so loud and long and spectacularly obscene that the nervous little creature cowered away from him, throwing her arms up to shield her face again, until, with great difficulty, Draco managed to regain some semblance of control over himself.

“Okay,” he said, in a brittle voice of forced calm, “okay. You said she- she was asking for me?”

The elf nodded, peeking through her fingers before warily lowering her hands. “M-many times,” she whispered. “She was v-very badly off. Hanni thought it was just delirium. But the more Hanni thought about it, the more she thought that maybe miss was trying to give a message- so Hanni came to find Master Draco.”

“Oh God,” Draco moaned, scrubbing the back of one hand hard across his eyes. He was seeing again the look of defiance on Hermione’s face when she had spotted him through the door of her bedroom as she faced down his father, and then- far worse- her expression of blank, uncomprehending shock as Lucius had seized her from behind, her eyes wide, hurt, confused, silently begging the question, why is this happening to me?

And now she was hurt, and sick, and calling out for him, and he couldn’t get to her and GODDAMN IT, it was ripping him apart!

“God, what did that bastard do to her?”

The elf said nothing; she seemed to be hoping that the question had been rhetorical, rather than literal (she could imagine only too well how he would react if she were forced to give a detailed answer), and perhaps it was, because Draco didn’t pursue it. Instead he said, through clenched teeth, “how long ago did you speak with her? This morning? Last night?”

“The night before,” Hanni whispered.

“THE NIGHT BEFORE?!? And you’ve only just come now?” Draco looked as though it were taking every single bit of self-control he possessed not to knock the little creature clear across the room.

Actually, had he been in a calmer state of mind, with less at stake than Hermione’s life, he might have marveled at just how quickly Hanni HAD gathered her courage and come. House elves are not hasty creatures when it comes to disobeying their masters. In fact, only an extraordinary house elf would defy its master at all, no matter what the cause. For most house elves, the question of right versus wrong was simple; right was what their master said was right, and wrong was what their master said was wrong. It was astonishing enough that Hanni should take it upon herself to decide that Lucius’ treatment of Hermione was wrong in the first place. And then- that she should decide to defy Lucius’ orders and seek help for the girl by going to Draco- it was unheard of. Well, almost unheard of. There had been Dobby, her predecessor, after all, who had warned Harry of danger at Hogwarts- but it had taken him months to screw up his courage to do so. The fact that Hanni had managed to accomplish a similar feat after only two days of fierce inner debate was, for a house elf, incredible. Really, she was to be applauded.

Draco was not, however, contemplating any of this at the moment. The pressing question on his mind was, if Hermione had been in such terrible condition two nights ago, what kind of state must she be in now? Just thinking this drove home to him, full force, his utter helplessness- and despairing, his dropped his face into his hands. Two nights ago Hermione had been sick and hurt.........by now she was probably just about dead. And he could do nothing. Nothing.

“Why did you come to me, elf?” he choked out. “What were you hoping I’d do?”

“Hanni............never presumed to................hope Master Draco would do anything,” the elf squeaked, plainly terrified that she had done wrong in coming and was about to be lit into; “Hanni just thought.............Master Draco ought to know. Hanni will..............will be going now.................”

“NO!” shouted all three boys in unison.

“No,” Draco said again, more quietly. “Look, I’m not angry with you. I just- I want to help, but I- goddamn it, I’m fucking- TRAPPED!”

With this last word, he leapt to his feet, kicked over the chair next to Ron’s, hurled himself at the nearest wall, and commenced pounding his head against it.

“Bloody hell! MALFOY!” Harry dove after him and dragged him, cursing and struggling, away from the wall, as Ron looked on in amazement. Draco was clearly determined to finish what he had started; to wit, beating himself into oblivion.

Ron shook his head as he watched Harry and Draco grapple- (he still wasn’t ready to accept that Draco might actually be deeply affected by Hermione’s kidnapping)- then turned his attention back to the quaking little house elf. Having grown up in an old, pure-blooded wizarding family, he knew a thing or two about house elves, though the Weasleys had never actually owned one. And this particular elf’s behavior didn’t jibe with what he knew about the creatures in general. For one thing, there was the question of-

“How were you able to leave your master and come to Draco,” he asked the elf suspiciously, “if you didn’t receive permission to do so?”

“H-Hanni is bound to Master Draco too,” the elf squeaked, “because he is part of the family. Hanni doesn’t need one family member’s permission to visit another.”

Ron’s brow creased in puzzlement. “But- Draco’s not a member of the family anymore. He was disowned- wasn’t he?”

Now the elf took on a rather sly expression. “Master and Mistress have told the servants that Master Draco is not their son no more,” she said, “but they haven’t removed him from the family documents yet- Hanni knows. Hanni checked. Master Draco is still on the family tree- so he is still a Malfoy and Hanni is still bound to him. Hanni can come see Master Draco any time she wants, until his name goes off that tree!”

There was a touch of defiance to her high-pitched voice now; she knew perfectly well, it seemed, that she was operating through the use of a loophole; obeying the letter, though in this case definitely not the spirit, of the law. Ron grinned despite himself. Lucius would probably skin her alive if he found out what she had done- and she must know that- but she had come anyway. This elf had spunk, and that was a rare thing.

“How did you get here, then?” he asked her curiously. “I mean, not only to Hogwarts, but right here to this room?”

“Hanni b-borrowed Master’s Hogwarts portkey,” she whispered, looking suitably chagrined at this admission of what amounted to outright theft. “It’s that egg cup over there. It’s set to transport Master Lucius straight to the school’s front steps, but Hanni invoked her own magic to travel a little farther; to the room where Master Draco was. A house elf can do that, sir, because the bond between the elf and the family she serves is so strong-”

But Ron had stopped listening a sentence ago. His eyes were now fixed on the egg cup that lay a few feet away on the floor, half underneath the chair Draco had recently kicked over. He held up a hand now to silence the little creature, who was still babbling on about the finer points of house elf magic.

“Wait a minute,” he said, in an oddly tight voice. “Back- back up just a bit. That egg cup- you said it will take a person to the front steps of this school?”

“y-yes, sir,” said the elf, looking uncertain.

Ron’s eyes now left the egg cup and fixed on hers intently. “Will it work from anywhere? Will it work from HERE?”

“It should work from anywhere at all,” Hanni said.

“Holy shit,” Ron breathed, his eyes going again to the portkey, then, “HOLY SHIT!” as he leapt to his feet so suddenly that he upset the chair in which he had been sitting. There was now no longer a single chair left upright in the room.

“Harry,” he shouted to his best friend, who, along with Draco, was staring at him in open-mouthed shock, “get your invisibility cloak! We’re going after her! NOW!”

“What?” Harry asked blankly.

“Get your goddamned cloak!” Ron cried; “Harry, now! We’ve got to go before we lose this chance!” He snatched the egg cup off the floor. “This portkey, when activated, will take us to the front steps of the school. If we can get to the edge of the grounds, we can apparate. COME ON, WE HAVE TO GO!”

Harry, and Draco as well, were staring from Ron to the egg cup to the elf and back again. Then, without another word, Harry turned and ran flat-out up the stairs toward the boys’ dorms, presumably to get his cloak.

As for Draco, he shook his head slowly, as if coming up out of a deep daze, then crossed the room to drop to one knee in front of Hanni.

“You have bound yourself to me over my father today, you realize that, elf?” he asked tersely.

She nodded, trembling.

“Good. As your new master I expect my commands to be followed without question or hesitation.” Another nod. “I deem it extremely unsafe for you to return to the manor at this point, so what I want you to do right now is find the school kitchens and ask for Dobby. Tell him that you are now my personal elf at Hogwarts, but that unless you are given specific instructions by me, your job is to assist him, and the other school elves, in whatever manner he sees fit. You will stay with Dobby until you hear from me again. Do you understand?”

“per-perfectly, master Draco,” the elf stuttered, staring at him in wide- eyed wonder and the beginnings of deep devotion; seeming unable to believe her luck. “B-but master- what are you going to do?”

Draco stood up then, and locked gazes with Ron as he answered, “I am going to get Hermione back.”

“The hell you are!” Ron shouted, looking positively murderous.

“The hell I’m not,” Draco replied softly, and then, still not looking at her, added to Hanni, “go on, elf. Get yourself to the kitchens. Now.”

The house elf vanished with a squeak, leaving the two boys still staring daggers at each other.

“You’re not coming, Malfoy,” Ron said flatly.

“You’re not stopping me, Weasley. If you try, then one of us will most likely end up dead.”

Ron stared at him for a long, silent moment, before suddenly exploding, in bewildered frustration, “Why are you doing this, Malfoy?!? Why in the hell are you acting like you care, when I bloody well know that you don’t?!?”

Now it was Draco’s turn to be silent for a minute. At length he said, in a low, almost defeated voice, “you’re wrong about me, Weasley.” Abruptly he ended their staring contest, turning his back on Ron and facing the wall, unable to hold the redhead’s gaze as he continued. “I’ve never stopped loving Hermione. I love her more than life itself. I’d give up my immortal soul to have her back here, safe and unharmed. She’s the first person whose well-being I ever put before my own- which is exactly why I acted as I did. See, all the way back when Zabini attacked her, I began to suspect that my father was behind it- though I couldn’t figure out why. I decided that the best way to ensure her safety was to sever her connection with me- even though it almost killed me to do it. If my father was trying to hurt her as a means of hurting me, that would put a stop to it- so I thought. I tried to make it look as though I no longer cared a thing about her- hoping that this would make my father, and the Slytherins, decide that going after her was pointless.”

He whirled back toward Ron, and Harry, who was now back in the common room as well, both of them staring at him, aghast. His face was a mask of self- recrimination and misery. “It obviously didn’t work that way.”

“You mean to tell us,” Harry said slowly in a stunned voice, “that all this time............you were just trying to protect her?”

“I failed,” Draco said bitterly.

“But your intent was-”

“It doesn’t bloody matter what my intent was! All that matters is that I failed her! And she’s hurt and sick and calling for me, and now that I finally have a means of reaching her-” he gestured toward the egg cup Ron held- “all the demons in hell could not prevent me from using it. And neither will you! I will kill you for that portkey, Weasley, if you make me.”

Ron’s eyes, which had been as wide and shocked as Harry’s, narrowed to blue- black slits.

“Besides,” Draco continued, abruptly changing tack, “you have no choice but to bring me along. You’ll never leave this room without me.”

“What the hell are you on about, Malfoy?” Ron spat.

“You’re holding a Malfoy portkey, Weasley,” Draco replied, his voice taking on a familiar drawling quality, “and a Malfoy portkey can only be activated by a Malfoy............or a Malfoy house elf on family business. In any case, it will not work for you. Go ahead and try it, if you don’t believe me. And just for argument’s sake let’s assume for a moment that it did work (which it won’t), and you and Potter got off the school grounds, leaving me here. Just how exactly do you plan on apparating to the manor, when you’ve never been there and have no idea where it is? You don’t even know if it’s in Britain, Weasley! It could be in Transyl-fucking-vania for all you know!”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Ron muttered, but he had to admit to himself that Draco had a point. In order to successfully apparate, one had to know where one was going. Had to be able to visualize it. He grudgingly admitted that it looked as though Draco would have to come after all.

“Fine, Malfoy,” he growled; “you’re coming. Is there anything you need to get? Cause we really ought to be going.”

Draco shook his head. “All I need’s my wand. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Crossing to where Ron and Harry stood, he held out his hand. Slowly, reluctantly, Ron (who had been shaken to the core by Draco’s admission a few minutes ago, but damned if he was going to show it) held out the egg cup. Draco did not take it from him; he merely gripped its smooth, curved edge, opposite where Ron was still holding it. Harry then reached out and clasped one hand around the narrow part in the middle. Once all three boys were touching it, Draco said “Activate,” in a quiet, yet confident voice, and in a bright flash of blue, they vanished.

*****

The instant they landed on the school’s front steps, Harry flung the invisibility cloak over all three of them, muttering, even as he did so, an enlarging charm so that it would offer adequate concealment for them all. It had been, after all, a long time since he, Ron and Hermione, as eleven, twelve and thirteen-year-old children, had all fit beneath it so effortlessly; now, at seventeen, with the bodies of nearly full-grown men, there was no way the cloak would have covered the three boys without some form of magical alteration.

Once they were concealed beneath it, seeing the world through the silvery shimmer of its fabric, they set off for the edge of Hogwarts’ land without a single backward glance at the school. Not one of them entertained second thoughts, even for a moment; a fact that would cause much solemn reflection, in the years to come, for the two boys who would make it back to Hogwarts alive.

The three boys arrived outside the manor, on the far side of the gate, having successfully apparated one and all, once Draco had clued Harry and Ron in on exactly where it was they were going.

Arriving at a place by apparition was not the same as arriving via portkey; there was no loss of balance, no ungainly stumbling or falling to the ground- at least, not under normal circumstances. This time proved to be the exception to that general rule, however- thanks entirely to Draco who, the instant the apparition was complete, seized both Harry and Ron and yanked them, hard, before they had fully gotten their bearings, to the ground.

The result was that while Draco managed to drop into a crouching position with all of his inherent grace intact, Ron and Harry both went sprawling full-out on the ground. As they pushed themselves back up to their knees a moment later, Ron was snarling and looking as though there was nothing he would have liked more in the world than to launch himself at Draco. Harry put a restraining hand on his arm which Ron, furious, shook off instantly- but it apparently got the message across nevertheless because the volatile redhead restrained himself, though not without significant visible effort, from attacking.

"Precaution," Draco whispered, without the faintest trace of remorse. "I don't know what kind of wards or protections my father may have set up out here."

Ron muttered something incoherent- and probably blessedly so. Draco, for his part, cast about on the ground for a small rock and, finding one, tossed it through the gateway, pressing himself down even closer to the ground as if expecting- well, something. Some sort of adverse reaction. But nothing happened.

"Malfoy," Harry said in a low voice.

"Yeah?" Draco cocked his silvery head slightly in Harry's direction, but all his attention still seemed fixed on the gate, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"You said your father wanted you to come home, right?"

"S'right, Potter."

Well then- it wouldn't be too smart for him to go out of his way to make it difficult for you to do so, would it?"

Draco turned slowly, finally giving Harry his full attention.

"I mean," Harry continued, "I don't think it's getting in there we have to worry about. It's getting back out again that may be a problem."

Draco was silent for a moment, thinking this over. Then he nodded. "You're right, Potter," he muttered. "I knew I brought you along for something."

Ron gave a furious hiss. "YOU didn't bring us anywhere, Malfoy, you bloody arrogant prat, we-"

"Sh."

Surprisingly enough, it was Harry who shushed him. "Not now, Ron. Hermione, remember? Focus on Hermione. She needs us all. She needs us to work together. Nothing is more important than getting her out of here, nothing."

Ron blew out a harsh breath from between clenched teeth, clearly fighting for control. Finally he nodded, but his fingers were twitching...clearly longing to wrap themselves around Draco's throat.

"Fine," he ground out at last. "Now what?"

"I suppose now we just walk on in," Draco said thoughtfully.

The three boys stood, rearranged the cloak over themselves, stepped through the gate, and started up the incline toward the forbidding hulk of Malfoy Manor. True to Harry's prediction, they encountered no wards or protections whatsoever along the way.

*****

Standing in a dim, cavernous foyer nearly the size of the entrance hall at Hogwarts, the three boys faced each other silently under the cover of the cloak. Adrenaline was surging through all three of them; their breath came rapidly and they were all flushed to varying degrees- Ron's skin nearly matched his hair, while Draco was merely a whiter shade of pale with two bright fever spots burning high on his cheeks.

It was Draco who broke the silence, addressing Harry in a whisper. "Potter, I'm going to need this cloak to find Hermione and get her safely out. I'll need to hold onto the portkey too, in case-" he paused and swallowed hard- "in case she's not...well enough to safely apparate. Portkey wouldn't do either of you any good anyway. The two of you can apparate back."

"Wait just a ruddy minute," Ron interjected at this point. "Why the bloody hell should it be you who finds Hermione? And what are Harry and I supposed to do in the mean time?"

"It should be me because this house is vast, and I know its layout," Draco responded, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world- and, really, it was. "My father told me he was going to keep her in my old bedroom- well, I know how to get there from here. Do you, Weasley?"

Ron just glared.

"It should also be me, and only me," Draco continued, "because the idea is to get her out as quickly and quietly as possible and even with an invisibility cloak, let's face it, one person is less likely to draw attention than three. Besides which- and here's the answer to your other question- I'm counting on the two of you to provide a diversion."

Harry and Ron glanced at each other, then back at Draco as he continued speaking.

"And finally, Weasley, it should be me because whether you believe it or not, I bloody well love her and I will lay down my life before I let her come to any more harm. You have my word on that. Even if you don't believe my word has any value, you have it just the same. So let's stop wasting time and get her the hell out of here!"

There was a brief but tense silence during which Draco and Ron glared fiercely at each other, doing battle with their eyes. Finally, Ron's expression softened- barely, but it did. "Bloody hell," he whispered, "I believe you, Malfoy. You still have a lot to answer for, treating her the way you did- but now isn't the time. All that matters now is getting her out of this hell hole, and if you can do it the quickest, then so be it. I'll trust you with her, though it isn't easy for me. But don't you fail her, Malfoy, don't-" he broke off, looking abruptly down and away, blinking hard.

"I failed her once," Draco murmured. "I'm not going to fail her again. I'll die first."

Ron gave a single terse nod, then, without another word, shrugged off the cloak, standing now fully visible and vulnerable in the shadowy foyer. Harry then followed suit, slipping out from the protection of the cloak as well. The two boys heard a faint rustle of material as Draco moved, then his disembodied voice floated to them from the vicinity of the stairs.

"Give me about ten minutes to find her, then create a diversion that will buy me another ten minutes or so. Then get yourselves back to the school. We'll meet up there- don't look for me again here; with any luck I'll get Hermione out quickly, quietly and invisibly. If we see each other again here, it will probably mean that...something's gone wrong, so let's hope that won't be the case." There was a slight pause, then- "don't underestimate my father. Take care of yourselves."

"You too, Malfoy," Harry responded quietly. "Take care of yourself- and Hermione. Take care of her for us."

"Will do, Potter," came Draco's response.

It was at this point that Ron spoke up, surprising all three of them, not least of all himself. "Malfoy," he called out softly.

"Yeah, Weasley?" Draco now sounded as though he were halfway up the stairs. His voice was tight, guarded.

"Be careful, all right?"

There was a pause. Then, "you too, Weasley. You too."

*****

For several seconds, Harry and Ron merely stood where Draco had left them, staring first at the stairs up which he had gone- or at least, up which it had sounded like he had gone- they hadn't actually seen him do so, of course- and then at each other.

"Right, then," Ron whispered at last. "Diversion."

"Yeah." Harry glanced around the foyer; in addition to the stairs Draco had taken, there were plenty of other routes to try. There were three large doors leading off in various directions, plus a long, dimly lit hall that appeared to terminate in an enormous, shadowy living room. Harry thought a moment longer.

"We'll go in opposite directions," he finally said. "We'll synchronize our wands into a ten-minute countdown, then wherever we are in the house when the countdown is complete, we'll both make noise. A lot of noise. Big as the house is, one of us is sure to attract the attention of its occupants. Move fast, get as far away as you can from this entrance hall before creating your diversion. We want to leave it clear for Draco to come back through once he has Hermione. That's...that's the best I can come up with on no notice. Sound good to you?"

"Nothing about this situation is good," Ron whispered grimly, "but I can't think of anything better. So what then? After we've done it? Made a great bloody lot of noise?"

"Then we get out, as fast as we can, from wherever we are. Go through a window if you have to- whatever's closest at hand. We'll meet back up beyond the gate and apparate together."

"So we're really not going to try to find Malfoy again? Help him get Hermione out?"

Harry considered, then shook his head. "No. For one thing, we don't know our way around- we'd probably just succeed in getting ourselves lost in extremely hostile territory. For another, Malfoy was right about more people attracting more attention. The last thing we want is to draw attention to him while he's bringing Hermione out. That's the whole point of this diversion thing- to draw attention AWAY from him. Besides which, Ron- I trust him to get her out of here. I don't like the way he treated her any better than you do, but I believed him when he told us why he did it. Seems just like him to hit on- on THAT as a solution. He was misguided, but...I do think he still loves her. I don't think he ever stopped. And when he says he'll die before he lets her come to more harm- I think he's telling the truth."

Ron was silent for a moment, clearly thinking this over. Then he nodded, though somewhat reluctantly. "You're right," he said quietly. "You're right. But I still don't like it. I don't bloody like it at all. It's-" he abruptly turned away, wrapping his arms about himself in an oddly protective manner. "I still love her, Harry," he whispered. "As much as ever. More, I think. And knowing that she's hurt and in danger- knowing that I can't be there for her now- It's hard. It's damned hard, mate."

He felt a hand settle gently on his shoulder. "I understand," Harry murmured. "Believe me when I say that I understand. And remember that what we're about to do is just as important- and just as dangerous- as what Malfoy's doing. Hermione needs us to do this. If it allows Malfoy to get her out of here safely..." he trailed off.

"I know," Ron said, shaking his head and turning back to face his best friend. "But Harry, I'm so scared. What if I never get to see her again, what if she's already-"

"She's not dead," Harry cut him off emphatically. "She's not, Ron. She's strong, she'll make it through this. We'll all make it through this. Now let's go do this thing." Without pause for thought, he pulled Ron into a quick, fierce embrace, then, releasing him just as abruptly, turned and made for the nearest door.

Behind him, Ron headed off down the short hallway toward the huge, gloomy living room beyond. Just before they passed out of one another's sight they paused, turned back toward each other, and synchronized their wands. Then they were moving away from one another just as quickly as they could while still maintaining any measure of stealth.

She WILL make it through this, Harry was repeating to himself, attempting to fight off the horrible feeling of foreboding that was growing like a cancer deep in his gut. We all will. We all will.

How wrong he was. And even as he repeated those three words over and over like a mantra, deep down, he sensed it.

*****

Draco's feet slowed as he neared his bedroom. He had been moving quickly through the enormous house- not running, exactly, but moving as fast as he could while keeping relatively silent, and he knew that time was of the essence- but he couldn't help slowing down now; he was so damn scared of what he would find on the other side of that large, dark, imposing door.

"Please don't be dead," he whispered in a cracked voice as he approached the closed door, feeling as though he were swimming through air as thick as water. Feeling dread sitting low in his gut; a large, cold, heavy ball. "Oh God, please- my bookworm- my brown eyed girl- please don't be dead."

And then he was reaching for the handle- watching his hand rise toward the polished gold- and yes, it WAS pure gold- knob with a numb, detached sense of horror, fearing the worst as he tried the handle, found it to be locked, laid the tip of his wand against it, whispered "Alohomora," heard the soft, yet distinct click that meant the spell had worked, turned the knob, and pushed open the door.

And sagged against the doorframe, nearly falling to his knees, so overcome was he by grief at the sight that met his eyes.

"Mione," he choked out, and his vision started to blacken around the edges; for it looked, from the doorway, as though his worst fears were confirmed. Shaking his head to clear it, he pushed himself bodily away from the door and stumbled toward the woman he loved, unclasping the invisibility cloak and letting it slip to the floor as he went.

"No," he croaked, reaching her. "Please, no."

She was dangling by her wrists from the canopy bar at the foot of the bed. She was suspended high off the floor; her wrists actually bound to the canopy bar itself, rather than suspended from it by a length of chain as she had been in the past. Her bare feet, though grazing the edge of the mattress, were not supporting her; her knees were bent, her body completely limp, supported only by the cuffs on her wrists. She was facing away from the bed, away from the door; away from him as he had entered the room; her head was bowed forward, hair spilling across her face, and as she was clad only in her pleated uniform skirt, he could clearly see the dozens of lashes that criss-crossed every inch of her back.

Her back was scarlet with blood.

Climbing onto the bed, he stood close behind her and with a flick of his wand vanished the cuffs that connected her to the canopy bar, catching her easily as she fell backward into him without a sound, without a sign of life, her wrists still bound to one another though no longer to the bed. He turned her in his arms so that as he eased her down onto the mattress, she was lying face-down, allowing him access to her bloodied, ruined back.

He gave a sick moan, though he was not consciously aware of doing so. The sight of her like this- there was no worse torture, no worse pain he could feel- it was his darkest nightmare come true.

It also brought back vivid memories of a thousand, thousand lashes he had borne himself- by rights, he should be covered in scars just like the ones that now marred the once flawless skin of the woman he loved. It was only thanks to his mother that he wasn't- she had vanished his scars, always, at monthly intervals when he was a child and then later, after he had begun attending Hogwarts, at the end of every summer and Christmas holiday, just before he had returned to school. She had done it always in a brisk, matter-of-fact manner, without the slightest hint of maternal tenderness, and Draco had known, even as a very young child, that it wasn't something she did out of concern for his well-being, but rather to keep up appearances- as everything his mother did was about appearances. It would not do at all to have it discovered- especially by a meddlesome fool such as Dumbledore- that the heir to the Malfoy estate, the scion of one of the wizarding world's oldest, wealthiest, and best-known families, was covered in welts just like a common servant boy or house elf, now would it?

It had always struck him as deeply ironic that such a cold, detached woman should be gifted with such strong innate healing powers, but there it was- his mother was a born healer and to what use did she put her gifts? To the sole purpose of concealing her husband's abuse of her only child from the world at large, so as to continue to present the illusion of a perfect family. He was not grateful for it. In fact, he was and always had been rather resentful. He had bloody well earned those scars! They were the product of hours of torture- of blood, sweat and tears. Well, not so much tears. He hadn't cried as a result of his father's ministrations since he had been very, very young. But still- every time his mother had vanished the scars he had felt a perverse sense of loss. No matter, though- they were still real in his mind, every single one of them- and they always would be.

But enough dwelling on the past. He needed to focus on the here and now.

"Hermione," he whispered, smoothing her hair away from her face so that he could see her in profile, bending close over her, his hand still tangled in her thick, unkempt curls. There was no response. "Hold on, okay?" he said, over a lump in his throat, not knowing at that point whether she was even still alive, just hoping desperately; hoping against hope. "I'm here now. I'm gonna fix this, love. I'm gonna fix this and then I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna bloody fucking kill him."

He dropped a gentle kiss on her temple, then began passing his wand slowly over her mangled back, murmuring healing spells as he went.

He wasn't able to heal the gashes that covered her back completely; it would have taken someone with Madam Pomfrey's level of expertise- or his mother's- to do that- but he was able to close them, clean the blood away, and place a pain reduction charm on her that he could only hope would work- could only hope there would be a NEED for it to work, because at least that would mean she was still alive.

Oh God please, I'm not a praying man, but please- I'll do anything, GIVE anything- just please let her still be alive!

Slowly, carefully, he turned her onto her back, his eyes sweeping her body, registering the bruises and abrasions that covered her from head to toe. He felt tears stinging the backs of his eyes, noting the discoloration on one cheek where she had clearly been struck across the face; the purple, finger-shaped bruises on her arms, her throat, her breasts, her thighs.

"Kill-" he whispered brokenly- "kill...him...gonna...fucking...." and then trailed off, his attention arrested by something else; something that made him go weak with relief where he knelt on the bed beside her- her bare chest was rising and falling rhythmically with breath. It was so faint as to be barely noticeable, but it was there- she was breathing. She was alive.

"Sweet, merciful God. Thank you. Oh God, thank you." He bent his head and placed a tender, chaste kiss on her swollen, dry and slightly parted lips, then, pulling back only a little, patted her cheek, trying to bring her around. Had he been thinking clearly, he wouldn't have bothered trying to wake her. He would simply have scooped her into his arms and run with her, run from this evil place, and waited until he had reached the safety of Hogwarts to revive her.

But he wasn't thinking clearly.

When confronted by the sight of a loved one so grievously injured as Hermione was, who appears to be skating a razor thin line between unconsciousness and death, anyone's first impulse would be to want that person to WAKE UP. Draco was no different.

"Hey bookworm," he whispered hoarsely, his vision suddenly blurring as he began to lose his battle against the impending tears, "wake up. It's over. I've got you, you're safe now- wake up, love. Please?"

No response. There was only one other thing for it.

Pressing the tip of his wand with infinite tenderness just over her heart, he whispered "Ennervate," in a voice choked with tears.

*****

Harry had nearly reached the end of a long, wide gallery with many doors leading off of it. He was tightly hugging the wall, moving quietly and cautiously, when his wand signaled, through a silent shower of sparks, that the countdown had ended. It was time to create his diversion. Somewhere else in this colossal house, Ron was getting ready to do the exact same thing.

What Harry couldn't know was that the long, straight, wide hall in which he found himself ran directly beneath Draco's second-floor hall, and the rooms which opened off it were nearly identical to Draco's rooms above. Where Draco had a library upstairs, Lucius had his library down here. Where Draco had a recreation room upstairs, Lucius had his billiard room down here. Where Draco had two guest rooms upstairs, Lucius had removed a wall to create one massive fencing room down here. And where Draco's palatial bedroom sat upstairs, spanning over a thousand square feet at the end of this wing of the manor, Lucius had his study down here. A study outside of which Harry was currently standing, unaware that Lucius himself was sitting at his desk- a desk with more surface space than Harry's four-poster bed at Hogwarts- just on the other side of the door.

The idea behind this diversion had been to bring Lucius and whoever else was currently in the house running to the source of the noise, thus keeping him far from the central foyer through which Draco was going to pass on his way out of the house with Hermione. Harry had assumed that in a house this big, it would take a minute or two at the very least for Lucius to reach the site of the diversion- crucial time that he could put to use escaping. He would surely have rethought this plan had he known that all that separated him from Lucius was some twenty feet of space and a single door.

But then, of course, he didn't know.

Glancing about, his eyes fixed on a huge crystal chandelier above him; the entire long gallery had been lined with these enormous light fixtures, giving off a dim, flickering, greenish sort of light. This nearest one would do nicely, he thought. Pressing himself even flatter against the wall so as to be out of its way when it fell, he pointed his wand upward, at the chain which anchored it to the ceiling, wondered briefly what Ron had decided to do to cause noise on the other side of the house, wondered more briefly still which of the two diversions would catch Lucius' attention, then gritted his teeth, steeling his will-

And with a few muttered words and a flick of his wand, brought the chandelier down with an almighty crash.

Lucius was on him, of course, before he even had a chance to gather his thoughts and decide which way to flee- bursting through the study door with his wand out and, his coldly furious eyes lighting on Harry, who was caught completely off-guard, snarling, "Potter!"

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open slowly, clouded with pain. She blinked and narrowed them, trying to bring her surroundings into focus- she could just barely make out Draco’s chiseled features and shock of silver hair above her. A gasp of horror was wrenched from her- God no, not again! Not as Draco, not again- I can’t TAKE this anymore- and she tried to throw her arms up to shield her face- but was thwarted by the fact that her hands were still bound and, moreover, her arms were numb and wooden from the hours they had spent supporting her weight. So she pressed herself down as flat as she could onto the yielding surface that she realized was the bed she had been chained to.

Oh God, she thought despairingly, squeezing her eyes tightly closed as an involuntary shudder of revulsion wracked her body, he’s got me on the bed again. God, if there’s any mercy in you, don’t let him do it again! Let me die first, oh God oh please, please let me DIE!

And then she felt a hand cup her cheek with a gentleness she had never thought to feel again, and heard that deep, familiar voice speaking softly, from just above her head. “...........kill him,” Draco was muttering, his voice exuding near-palpable waves of rage and hatred, “I’m gonna kill him, I’m gonna fucking KILL him, rip him limb from bloody- fucking- limb-” But the thing that convinced her to open her eyes again was not his voice (it’s a trick- I knew he’d do this eventually- try to make me think he really IS Draco- to make it worse- it’s a trick, just a trick-), but the sudden tiny, warm splashes she felt on her face- Draco was crying, his tears falling down onto her. That was when realization began to dawn; Lucius would not carry his deception so far as to cry over her. Of that she was sure. She didn’t think he was even capable of tears and if he was, he wouldn’t waste them on a mudblood, not even as a means of deceiving her. Which meant that- could this- could this actually be-?

Forcing her eyes open once more, she blinked upward until he slowly came into focus above her. It was undeniably Draco, the pale eyes that had been so guarded and unexpressive for the first several years of their acquaintance now shining with agonized tears; the same tears that kept falling, splashing warm on her face.

“Draco,” she said, or tried to- but no sound came out and she instantly winced, trying instinctively to press a hand to her throat. Again, her arms would not obey her. Staring up in pained confusion, having completely forgotten, since awakening, that she had been placed under a silencing spell by Lucius earlier that day, she tried again; “Dra- Draco?” No sound, and this time she nearly passed out from the pain in her throat.

“Aw, shit!” Draco cried above her; “Bastard, fucking BASTARD!” He pressed a hand gently over her mouth, lest she try to speak again. “I know this spell,” he said, moving his wand so that the tip rested lightly against her throat. “He used it on me a lot when I was a kid, when he was-” his jaw clenched- “disciplining me.” Draco was indeed very familiar with the spell, which blocked all sound from escaping its victim’s mouth and caused intense pain at every attempt of said victim to speak or cry out. He had been placed under it dozens of times in his childhood, until he had learned to suffer his father’s punishments in perfect silence. The thought of Lucius using it on Hermione made him feel sick with loathing.

“Finite Incantatum,” he whispered, then placed the wand immediately against her bonds and freed her hands. He returned his attention to her face just in time to see her eyes begin to roll back in her head.

“NO!” he cried. “Hermione, no!” Panicked, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. She blinked rapidly several times and then focused on him again, though her eyes had a strange, far-away look to them now that filled him with a cold dread. “Hermione,” he murmured, smoothing her rumpled hair back from her forehead, “try again now. Say my name again.”

“Draco.” Her voice was hoarse, but it was there. And then, “you.........came?”

Draco released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His head bowed forward and his eyes fell momentarily closed as a wave of intense relief washed over him. “I came,” he whispered, as tears leaked from his closed eyes, “Oh Christ God, Hermione, OF COURSE I came!”

She wetted her lips with her tongue. “But- I............thought............”

“Those things I said- every word was like a dagger in my heart. I never meant it, not any of it- come on, you’re smart enough to know that. I was- ” he paused and grimaced- “I was trying to protect you- I knew you were in danger because of me, I knew that bastard, that bloody BASTARD-” he stopped again, fists clenched, breathing hard, making a conscious effort to calm himself before continuing. “I thought if our relationship ended and, more than that, if you hated me, then maybe you’d be safe, that he’d leave you alone.” Another pause, then, “I WAS WRONG!” he cried, suddenly and completely losing control. He brought his hands up over his face, clenching fistfuls of his silver-fine hair, actually rocking back and forth as tidal waves of guilt, grief and rage engulfed him.

Several moments later he lowered his hands and looked down at her through bloodshot eyes. She was staring up wide-eyed, as though she had never seen him before. At least she looks focused, he thought dully; at least she looks like she’s actually.........here.

“I was wrong,” he repeated, “but my intent was solely to protect you. I never stopped loving you, not for a second. And I would have gone to the end of the Earth to find you.”

Slowly, Hermione raised a shaking hand to his face, cupping his cheek and wiping away his tears with her thumb. “The Earth is.........round. Malfoy.” she whispered.

“And you’re a damned annoying know-it-all, Granger,” he smiled through his tears, “but I love you for it. God, I love you so damn much!”

A tiny answering smile had just begun to touch her lips when suddenly her whole body jerked straight, almost as though she’d received an electric shock. Her eyes flew wide and she expelled her breath in a forcible “huh!” Her hands clenched into fists, the one which had been pressed to his cheek scratching him in the process.

“HERMIONE!” Draco felt his heart plummet down through his stomach, cold, sick fear grasping him, because he thought he understood what was happening, and it was very, very bad. His father had always had a great love of potions; it had been his best subject at Hogwarts and he had carried that passion with him throughout his life. It was the reason Draco had taken to Snape’s classes like a fish to water; by the time he had reached Hogwarts, he had already spent years assisting his father in his own potions lab. Lucius’ favorite potions to brew, not surprisingly, were obscure and particularly sadistic poisons.

“Draco,” she gasped, sounding as though she had been kicked hard in the stomach, “hurts!”

“Aw, fuck. Fuck! Hermione-” he caught her face between his hands, staring intently into her pain-filled eyes as she struggled to breathe, seeming as though the wind had been savagely knocked out of her. “Hermione, what did he give you? HERMIONE! Think, goddamn you! What did my father give you to drink? What did it smell like, taste like? Hermione! Please- I need you to think.”

Hermione gazed up at him, her face pinned between his strong hands, her mind whirling at this new onslaught of pain as tears of agony began pouring down her cheeks. Draco needed her to think.........to think.........she had to try for him. She closed her eyes against the pain and tried.

It had been the last thing she remembered before waking up to see Draco bending over her. She had been chained to the canopy bar at the foot of the bed, dangling limply from her wrists because her legs would not support her after the whipping she had just received. Lucius had been standing on the edge of the bed, his arms encircling her from behind, his hands running over her body with the assurance of complete ownership as he whispered words of torment in her ear. Oh God- his hands were doing unspeakable things- and his lips- on her ear, on the nape of her neck-

Distantly she was aware that a shudder of disgust- or was it pain? Or both? had wracked her body, causing Draco to cry out again. She wanted to comfort him, but was too caught up in her nightmarish memories............

So great was her revulsion at his hands, his mouth, on her body that she had called up reserves of strength she hadn’t even known she’d still possessed, and managed to jerk away from him, as far as her bonds would allow. Lucius had hissed angrily in her ear and, grabbing a fistful of her thick hair, had twisted her head around violently, forcing her to look at him.

“I am sick to death of your damned Gryffindor defiance, mudblood bitch,” he had spat in her face. She had stared mutely at him, already being under the silencing spell, her eyes full of hate, unflinching. “I was actually having second thoughts about killing you- I had been toying with the idea of keeping you a while longer as a plaything- but it is painfully obvious that you will never learn your place. Besides which-” his eyes had raked her body, which was covered in bruises, welts and blood, both dried and fresh, before returning to her face- “you’re an appalling mess, mudbood. Really,” and his mouth had twisted into a sadistic smile, “you should take better care of yourself.” He had stepped back a bit, though still keeping one hand wound in her hair, and had rummaged through his robe with the other. “Yes, all things considered, I think I’ve gotten all the use out of you that I care to,” he had said, as he had pulled a small bottle of vile- looking green liquid out of his robes, “but at least you will give me a last bit of entertainment by drinking this.” He had yanked her head backwards by her hair while unstopping the bottle one-handed, then, finally releasing her hair, had plugged her nose until she was forced to open her mouth, which she had clamped tightly shut, to gasp for air. His other hand was ready with the bottle, and he had poured its contents down her throat, laughing and holding her mouth shut as she had twisted in her bonds, gagging, trying in vain to expel the noxious liquid. Only when he was sure she had swallowed it all did he release her. “So much for the plan of killing you at the meeting tonight- assuming I hadn’t kept you as a fuck toy,” he had said. “My followers will simply have to be content with the presence of your dead body. Perhaps I will allow them to mutilate it by way of compensation. In any event, if all goes as planned, I will still have Draco to kill in front of them. I still do expect him to turn up, you know, although as of right now he is officially too late to have any hope whatsoever of saving you. Not that he ever really did.” He had broken off, laughing softly, and brought his lips to the base of her neck, kissing, sucking, marking her one final time. “The potion should begin to take effect in two hours,” he had told her then, jumping nimbly from the bed to the floor; “I’ll be back to watch. Until then, my little mudblood,” and he had left her hanging there, sinking into darkness, the poison burning her throat and stomach. The last thing she had heard was the click of the door shutting behind him as the darkness had engulfed her.

And then she had awakened on her back, and Draco was there, and how long had it been? Two hours? She wasn’t sure.........but it was certainly possible, wasn’t it?

Another spasm gripped her. Her back arched against the pain and her eyes flew open once more, locking on Draco’s pale ones as he pulled her into his arms, holding her tight until she relaxed, gasping. “Sweet,” she whispered as soon as she felt able; “it smelled.........sweet.........like- like licorice. But tasted.........awful- worse than pol- polyjuice.”

Draco, crushing her against him, rocking her slightly, wondered fleetingly how the hell she would know what polyjuice potion tasted like. This line of thought was cut off, however, as she continued; “I knew..........ungh............ it was b-bad. I didn’t want to drink it. He m-made me. Said............he’d got all the use out of me............he cared to.” Draco could feel a veritable howl of rage building in his throat, but before he could indulge in it, she convulsed again with a cry, her hands balling into fists in the material of his shirt, and he found himself instead whispering soothing words to her until the tremor passed.

“Two..........hours,” she gasped, when she again lay limp in his arms, panting, her hair now damp with perspiration; “he said he’d be...........back............back in............two hours to watch the effects. Said he would find it............amusing. Draco-” she turned her eyes up to his, and he noted with dull horror that the far-off look was back; her eyes were starting to glaze and it looked as though she were seeing him through a thick curtain of smoked glass- “I don’t- ugh- want the horrible..............death he had planned for me. Please,” and she raised a hand once again to cup his cheek, “kill me quickly. Draco. Please. Please?”

He recoiled so sharply from this request that he nearly dropped her.

“You’re MENTAL! I’m not going to fucking kill you!!”

“Draco,” she whispered, as her body shook and her eyes grew dimmer by the moment, “I’m dying anyway. Just please.........it HURTS!”

“I DON’T BLOODY WELL CARE IF IT HURTS!” he shouted. “Hermione, listen! I need you to LISTEN to me!” He shook her hard, then gripped her face in both his hands again, staring intently into her eyes. “Listen. You know me. I’m a goddamn selfish bastard- you bloody well knew that going in. You knew what you were getting into in that regard. Now you ask me to end your pain- well, I won’t do it! Not when it means destroying the only thing in the world that I love with all my soul. I’m too fucking selfish to do that because I want you alive, I need you alive, I will NOT kill you! Now listen, fucking LISTEN!” He shook her again because her eyes were drifting closed- “We have one thing going for us. My father’s poisons are slow- acting, since he likes to watch his victims suffer. So time is on our side. I’m getting you back to Hogwarts and Professor Snape will know a way to fix this! He has- has to- know-” he choked off because he was losing the battle that he was waging against the screams and sobs that were threatening to wrench themselves from his throat.

A moment later, after somewhat regaining his composure, he bent and gently kissed the tip of her nose. She was still looking up at him, but her eyes were distant and dull. “Hermione,” he murmured, “I know it hurts. But I’m asking you to bear the pain and to fight this, for me- please. I’m not going to release you from your pain- I can’t do it. I’m that selfish, that I’d rather see you suffer if it means you’ll pull through and live. Because I need you in my life- every day of my life- for the rest of my life. Hermione- I want you to be my wife.”

She blinked hard, and suddenly her eyes looked a whole lot clearer. Cocking her head slightly, she met his pale gaze with an expression of disbelief on her face. “You’re...........proposing?” she whispered. “NOW?”

Draco cracked a tiny smile, through the tears that continued to fall, at her incredulous reaction. “Yes,” he said, “I’m proposing. Now. For better or worse, and since I don’t see how things can get much worse, this seems to me like the perfect time to propose; it can only get better from here. If you’ll fight. Hermione- I know it must hurt like a bastard, but please say you’ll fight this. Please say my love is worth fighting for. Please?”

She pressed her eyes closed against another spasm, but when it passed and she opened them again, they were still clear, still aware- filled with pain, but she was still with him. “I’ll try,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice cracking. Then, before he could say anything else, there came the sound a tremendous crash from just below his room. He started, poised to throw himself over Hermione should she need protection, but then, a second later, he realized what the sound must have been. “Diversion,” he muttered; “there was the diversion.” And then, “I’m getting you the hell out of here, now.”

He pulled her to the edge of the bed and up into a sitting position, her feet on the floor. “Can you sit up alone?” he asked, and she nodded mutely, gritting her teeth against the pain that was coursing throughout her body. With supreme effort, she kept herself upright as he let go of her in order to strip off his shirt and place it on her, drawing it gently over her head and helping her push her arms, which didn’t seem to want to obey her, into the too-long sleeves. As he did this, he explained to her that he had a portkey with him that would get them back to Hogwarts- it would land them right on the front steps, in fact- but they had to get out of the manor and past the gates before he could activate it. He was talking to himself as much as to her, in an effort to stave off his impending hysteria. Which was just as well, because it didn’t look like very much of what he was saying was registering in her mind at all. “Portkeys don’t work on the grounds of the manor, nor does apparition. Father’s security measures,” he said, his voice tight with hatred. Once she was clothed in his shirt, he scooped her easily into his arms, catching her just as her strength gave out and she collapsed forward. Settling her with infinite tenderness against his now bare chest, he sprinted out the bedroom door, forgetting all about the invisibility cloak in his haste, leaving it lying, a puddle of silvery fabric, on his bedroom floor.

As he raced down the huge manor’s seemingly endless upstairs hall, Draco could feel the tremors that continued to wrack Hermione’s body as he cradled her in his arms. Someone who didn’t know that she was fighting the effects of a cruel and deadly poison might have thought she was suffering from severe hiccups.

Draco ran as though his life depended on it, because in a way, it did. She WAS his life; his heart, his soul. If she died in his arms it would be a fate worse than death; it would be akin to a Dementor’s Kiss because he would be left alive- technically- but without his soul. Without any reason whatsoever to go on.

By the time Harry caused the chandelier to fall, Ron had already created his own diversion and, not having received any response whatsoever, concluded that Lucius and whoever else was currently in the house must have been a lot closer to Harry’s location than his own. Consequently, just as Lucius began firing spells at Harry, Ron was racing not toward the gate at the edge of the manor’s land, but back through the house in the direction Harry had taken, all thought of escape gone from his mind, bent solely on finding his best friend.

He didn’t know how he knew, but something was wrong with Harry. His friend had come to harm. He knew this with a deep, instinctual surety- a surety born, perhaps, of seven years of best-friendship with a boy who, it seemed at times, could barely go a month without having an attempt made on his life by the forces of evil- and he knew also that there was no way he was leaving this house without Harry safe beside him.

He could trust Malfoy to get Hermione out, but there was no one to get Harry out but him. Damned if he was just going to cut and run.

All thoughts of stealth gone from his mind, he tore through the dimly lit halls of Malfoy Manor, putting on a fresh burst of speed when he heard shouting voices up ahead, silently begging Harry to hold his own for just a little while longer- he was almost there.

“Protego!” Harry cried desperately, deflecting- just barely- yet another jet of light from Lucius’ wand. He wasn’t familiar with any of the curses Lucius was hurling at him- he wouldn’t be, as they were all undoubtedly dark magic- but he was absolutely certain that any one of them, should it actually hit him, would in all likelihood result in a horrible death.........or maybe just horrendous pain.........or both.

Caught completely off-guard when Lucius had borne down upon him with such stunning swiftness, Harry had been at a disadvantage from the get-go. Lucius had started hurling spells at him instantly, practically before he was all the way through the door, forcing Harry immediately into defense mode, and he had been caught in defense mode ever since. It was all he could do to protect himself from the elder Malfoy’s vicious onslaught by dodging and deflecting the curses that were coming his way in a steady stream- Lucius had not given him one single opening in which to take the offensive.

Though in reality it had been only minutes, it seemed as if it had been going on forever.

It was a constant, relentless attack; curse after curse after vicious, deadly curse.

He was getting tired.

Any second now, his strength would flag, his concentration would slip, he would be too slow, he would make a mistake-

And it would cost him his life.

He knew this.

And so it came as no great surprise when a spell did indeed finally hit him. The only surprise was what spell it was- after all the sinister curses Lucius had been spouting, what should finally slam into him but a simple Immobulus spell?

It was enough, though, to render him helpless and put him at Lucius’ nonexistent mercy. It attached his feet to the floor as if they had been nailed there, rendering him unable to dodge any further spells his adversary should send at him, and while he was distracted, trying to yank his feet off the floor, Lucius took gleeful advantage of his panicked state and easily Accio’d his wand, which he then tossed away, through the door of his study, into the shadows beyond.

At this point, Harry finally stopped struggling against the spell which was holding him in place and stood stock still, breathing hard, his green eyes fixed unflinchingly on Lucius, glaring at him with hatred and defiance. He knew it was all over for him. He only hoped that by now Draco, Hermione and Ron were all out of the manor and on their way back to Hogwarts.

Please, he prayed silently, let them be safe. If they’re all safe, then it’s worth it. I knew the risks coming here, I accepted them- I still do. Just so long as they’re safe- no regrets.

Lucius was surveying him with a cold smile and a cruel gleam in his eye.

“So, Potter,” he drawled at length, “this is a surprise. I must admit, I never expected to see you here. Did you come alone?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed to slits. His only response was a rather rude comment involving Lucius’ mother, a jar of marmalade, and the latest model broomstick.

That wiped the smile off Lucius’ pale face.

He had been twirling his wand idly ever since having tossed Harry’s aside, knowing that the boy no longer posed him a threat, but now he raised it again, leveling it at Harry’s chest.

“You cannot imagine the pleasure it will give me,” he hissed, “to accomplish what my predecessor never could. Imagine the reaction tonight when I produce for my loyal followers not only the mudblood’s body, but yours as well. I had hoped to procure my son for this evening’s.........festivities, but you’ll do, Potter. You’ll do well enough.”

Harry took a deep breath, closing his emerald eyes briefly as he did so. When he opened them again, they were calm, resigned. “Go fuck yourself,” he advised, in a pleasant, conversational tone.

Lucius sucked in a sharp breath, barely able to comprehend, as when Hermione had spit upon him, that anyone would dare treat him in this manner. “I’ve had about enough of your dirty mouth, boy,” he ground out from between clenched teeth. “Give the mudblood my regards- she’ll be joining you very shortly. Avada Kedavra.”

What happened next happened so fast it was a blur.

Ron, whose approach had gone unnoticed by both Harry and Lucius, so riveted were they on one another, was several feet away and closing fast when Harry’s situation took an abrupt turn from bad to worse. Well, no, actually- to be more accurate, Harry’s situation skipped “worse” entirely and went straight from bad to terminal. This was, of course, the direct result of Harry’s suggestion that Lucius go fuck himself- Goddamn it, Harry, Ron thought furiously, of all the lousy fucking times to mouth off-

He had been reaching for his wand in order to Stupefy Lucius, but saw immediately that it was no good- he was out of time. Even as Lucius’ lips were forming the words of the killing curse, Ron realized with perfect, aching clarity that he had lost any chance of stopping the spell from being cast. The only chance he had left to save his friend was to place himself between deadly green light that was even now gathering at the tip of Lucius’ wand, and Harry.

There was no debate, no hesitation.

Indeed, the only thought that ran through his mind in that instant, as he launched himself at Harry, whose eyes, just beginning to widen with shock, finally fixed on him, was, Thank God I’m close enough, thank God, thank God, thank-

And then, quite suddenly, even as he was airborne, the green of Harry’s startled eyes seemed to leap out at him.........in fact, the whole world went green in a brief, intense flash.

And then there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

Lucius saw the curse slam into.........well, one of the boys, but he couldn’t tell which one. It all happened so fast. Maybe it had managed to hit them both, he thought hopefully. It was a rare occurrence, but not unheard of. Then they were falling together, the momentum with which the Weasley boy- for Lucius now saw that was who it had to be- there was no mistaking that hair- had hurled himself at Potter driving them both down. Harry’s feet remained fixed to the floor, however, held in place by the spell. This caused him to fall awkwardly, his head impacting the polished flagstones with a resounding thwack. Then both boys lay perfectly still, Ron splayed out across Harry, their faces nearly touching, red hair mingling with black.

Lucius stared down at the two boys lying tangled together in an unmoving heap on the floor, a triumphant sneer curling the side of his mouth.

“Two birds with one stone,” he murmured with immense satisfaction.

He started to move forward to check them, just to make absolutely sure, but then stopped again, arrested by a sudden thought. When he had first seen Harry, a large part of the fury he had felt had come from the assumption that his presence at the manor meant Draco had decided not to come home after all- that his son had retained enough Slytherin tendencies to send Potter instead, to do his dirty work for him. The thought that he was to be denied the opportunity to capture his son had filled him with a rage so intense it was abnormal even for him. But now.........

He thought hard for a moment. Potter was here. Weasley was here. Who was to say that Draco was not also here somewhere- that they had not all come together- a bloody team effort? How very Gryffindor that would be, after all. He hissed in a sudden breath as everything clicked in his mind. Yes, it all made sense- the three boys would arrive together; Draco, the only one among them who knew his way around, would immediately embark upon rescuing his mudblood girlfriend while these two- these two-

“Diversion,” he muttered aloud, his eyes coming to rest on the shattered chandelier. These two had been sent off in opposite directions to deliberately make noise, to cause a diversion.

So that Draco could get the mudblood out unimpeded.

“Shit!”

Without another thought for the two boys at his feet, Lucius whirled and made for the manor’s central hall and staircase at a dead run.

Green eyes blinked slowly open, pain and disorientation evident in their expression.

“Ow,” Harry said, grimacing, one of his hands going slowly to his head, which was throbbing with a bright, sharp pain that brought tears to his eyes.

What the hell had happened? He screwed his eyes closed again, trying to concentrate, trying to think- the agony in his head did not make thinking easy.

Neither did the weight on his chest. What was lying across his chest?

He frowned, eyes still closed. Bits and pieces were coming back to him now. He remembered...causing the chandelier to fall. Lucius bursting upon him before he’d had time to take so much as a single step. Spell after spell, curse after curse, flung at him, so rapidly he had known it was just a matter of time before he was hit. He remembered being hit. That had been no surprise. His feet fixed to the floor, his wand Accio’d from his hand. Helpless. He tried to move his feet now- they were still being held firmly in place by the spell. That didn’t make sense. Lucius had had him right where he’d wanted him. Wandless, immobilized. Why, then, was he still alive? With a splitting headache and stuck awkwardly to the floor like a pinned bug, but alive? There must be more to it, more that needed remembering.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, his eyes still closed because perhaps he knew, on a subconscious level at least, that he didn’t WANT to open them, didn’t want to discover what was lying across his chest, didn’t want to face it. Not now, not ever. Not ever. He...remembered...the things he had said to Lucius, and the way the man’s face had contorted with incredulous rage that he should be spoken to in such a manner. That brought a touch of a smile to Harry’s lips, but it vanished again a fraction of a second later because now he remembered...green light gathering at the tip of Lucius’ wand. Knowing that this was it, his life was over. Making his peace in that instant. Accepting death- not willingly, he hadn’t wanted to die- but accepting it with no regrets just so long as it bought the others time to get safely out. Hermione, Ron, even Draco- his family, his REAL family, more real to him than his blood relatives had ever been- just so long as they were all safe- safe and far from here-

“Oh no,” he whispered aloud.

Because that wasn’t what had happened. That wasn’t what had happened at all. No matter how desperately he strove to not think about it, to not remember, as though by refusing to acknowledge it he could somehow make it not real, make it not have happened, it was coming, it was here- the memory that explained how it was that he was still alive, that made everything clear.

“Oh no.”

He remembered Ron appearing at his side as if from thin air- how had he gotten there, HOW?- and WHY had he come, that wasn’t part of the plan!- throwing himself between Harry and the curse. He remembered wide blue eyes locking with his own as they fell- and then nothing. He had obviously hit his head hard and blacked out. And now he knew what was lying across his chest, he knew what he would see when he opened his eyes, because that green light had been real, that curse had been spoken, it had to have hit something, and that something hadn’t been him, as evidenced by the fact that he was still alive. So-

“No. Oh no. Please no.”

He opened his eyes.

Even knowing what he was going to see didn’t- couldn’t- prepare him for it. Ron lay sprawled across him, of course, face down; a jumble of awkward, slightly-too-long limbs. He had almost grown into his height- almost, but not quite. And now he never would. He wasn’t moving, he wasn’t breathing, his body was limp and heavy in a way that no living person can quite manage, no matter how deeply unconscious- because it was now nothing more than a thing, an inanimate object, a cast-off shell. Ron was gone. Utterly and irretrievably gone.

“No.” Harry shook his head. He had meant to shake it once- a single firm, decisive negation of what all his senses were telling him; that his best friend was dead, that he had died to save him- but having begun, he found that he couldn’t stop. He just kept shaking his head and he kept saying no.

“No. No, Ron, no. No no no.”

He couldn’t take this in. His mind was reeling. He hadn’t even begun to grieve yet; in order to really grieve, one must first accept that the death has happened, and Harry hadn’t yet done that. The evidence was here, right here on top of him- but he couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t. No.

And so he found himself speaking to Ron, not even really consciously aware of what he was saying, knowing on a deep level, a gut level, that the words were absurd, but unable to stop himself.

“Ron, get up. Get up, this isn’t funny. You’re okay, you’re...please, get up. You’re heavy, mate. I mean it, wake up! Damn it, Ron, gerroff me!”

Tears were running unchecked down his face, unnoticed until they interfered with his words, choking him.

It was at this point, when it became undeniably clear that his increasingly frantic pleas were not going to elicit a response, that a corner of his mind began screaming, My brother, My brother, My brother is dead!

Funny, that, he would later think. For he had never really thought of Ron as his brother before- not on a conscious level, at least. Yet there it was, as clear as day. My brother is dead. Oh God, how would he get through this? How could he go on from here?

He felt madness beating at the edges of his mind, and fought it off grimly. Not because he wouldn’t have welcomed it- the idea of becoming a gibbering madman actually held some appeal, when the alternative was to attempt to calmly and rationally face a world that no longer had Ron in it- but rather because it occurred to him that if Ron had not left the manor then perhaps Draco and Hermione hadn’t either; perhaps something had gone wrong there as well. It never rains but it pours, after all. And if that was the case, if they had run into trouble as well, then they would need him and he had to go to them, for they were family too, after all- Hermione...and even Draco. Because we don’t choose our family, and we don’t even always like our family, but we love our family- and Harry had been growing to love Draco ever since his resorting. If Ron was his brother, then Draco was too. And if Draco and Hermione were in trouble and Harry failed to reach them- if he lost one or both of them too because of his own inaction- well, that really would push him right over the brink, for good and all. This he was sure of.

So, gritting his teeth, he levered himself up into a sitting position and shifted Ron off of him as carefully as he could.

The pain in his head was slowly receding, allowing him to think more clearly. Still, it took him a long moment to clear his head of the immense shock of Ron’s death- not entirely, of course- he didn’t think he’d ever be entirely free of this shock, or this pain, not if he lived to be a hundred- but enough to decide what to do next.

His eyes lit on Ron’s wand, and he pulled it gently from his friend’s still- warm hand. Pointing it at his feet, he murmured, “Finite Incantatum.”

Nothing happened. His feet remained fixed to the floor.

And the reality of Ron’s death was once again rammed into his consciousness with all the force of the Hogwarts Express hitting him head-on, the pain so great it was now quite literally physical, and he wrapped both arms around his stomach, hard, and folded himself over until his head was resting on his knees, fighting back an abrupt and violent wave of nausea.

Because, he realized, Ron’s wand was useless to him now; it would no longer respond to any witch or wizard, because its owner was dead.

Dead. Ron is dead. My brother is dead.

It was several moments later that he gasped three words out loud- “Get. A. Grip.” He raised his head slowly, his eyes, puffy and still leaking tears, and all the more brilliantly green as a result, sweeping over Ron, who lay, still face-down, beside him, and traveling to the open doorway of Lucius’ study. Somewhere beyond that door lay his own wand, and he needed it.

He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, preparing to do wandless magic, which the seventh years had recently been learning and which was difficult under the best of circumstances. (Well, for everyone except Draco. He seemed to have the same sort of natural affinity for it that Harry himself had for flying.)

If he could not manage to gather his scattered thoughts, the feat would be well-nigh impossible.

Once he had managed to get hold of himself, more or less anyway, a decision was called for. He could either attempt to use wandless magic to end the Immobulus spell, freeing himself to go and collect his wand, or he could attempt to call the wand to him, and then use it to terminate the spell. He opted for the latter; it was simpler magic. He could only perform very simple spells without his wand, which was why, when Lucius had Accio’d it from him, he had been left as completely defenseless as if he knew no wandless magic at all.

Despite his limitations in this area, he was hopeful his wand would be responsive to him in spite of- or perhaps because of- his highly emotional state.

He gathered his concentration to the best of his ability, extended his right hand toward the doorway of Lucius’ study and, his brow creased with effort, murmured, “Accio wand.”

The wand came with a swiftness that surprised him. He had been hoping for the best, of course, but deep down, not really daring to expect much in the way of results...and terrified that even if he did manage to summon the wand he would find that it had maybe snapped on impact or some similar catastrophe; Lucius had thrown it very hard, after all.

But in a matter of seconds it was there in his hand, and proved itself to be in perfectly good working order when, flicking it downward, he again said, “Finite Incantatum,” then lifted his feet easily from the floor.

Immediately he scrambled to his knees, bent over Ron’s still form and rolled him gently onto his back.

He wasn’t prepared for what the sight of his best friend’s open, lifeless eyes would do to him.

He doubled over so suddenly and so hard that it would have looked to an observer like an invisible fist had sucker-punched him...and that was exactly how he felt. It seemed, as his head impacted Ron’s chest and he buried his face there, hands fisting in the soft material of Ron’s much-worn orange Chudley Cannons tee-shirt, that the room had become a vacuum- that there was no air left in it- that he was no more capable of drawing a breath than Ron was at this point.

And it occurred to him then to wonder whether he even wanted to draw another breath; whether it was worthwhile going on with his life when there would be no Ron anymore- ever- to play chess with, to practice Quidditch with, to launch midnight raids on the kitchens with, to commiserate with over girls, to roll his eyes at behind Snape’s back. A world without his best friend in it- what was the point?

And yet there was a point, because, he recalled (though not without significant effort), Ron was not the only person he loved. There were others, and two of those others, he was increasingly sure, needed him. He felt this with the same almost instinctual clarity with which Ron himself had felt, not long ago, that Harry had needed him. He had to get to Draco and Hermione.

He was shaking from head to foot, tears still escaping his eyes, as he sucked in a deep, hitching breath and raised his head- then gently, so gently, closed Ron’s eyes with his fingertips.

“I’ll come back for you,” he whispered in a choked voice. “I won’t leave you here. I am really- fucking- angry with you right now-” (even as he said this he realized, with a sense of mild surprise, that it was true- he was abso-fucking-lutely furious with Ron for abandoning the plan and getting himself killed. He hadn’t asked Ron to sacrifice himself! He hadn’t wanted his bloody interference!) “-but I WILL come back, Ron. I promise.”

So saying, he straightened up, thrust Ron’s now defunct wand into the waistband of his pants, kept his own in hand, and set off at a jog down the long, wide hallway with its sinister, flickering green lights, back toward the center of the mansion. Yes, he was furious with Ron for having come after him, but that didn’t stop him from making the exact same resolution Ron himself had made earlier; that he would not leave this house until he knew his friends were safe and accounted for.

If Draco and Hermione had come to harm, if they were still here somewhere and in need of him, he would find them, come hell or high water.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to look very far. The sound of raised voices as he approached the foyer where he and Ron had split up told him that his friends were in fact still in the house, and that, oh yes indeed, they had found trouble.