Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ War of the Wizarding World ❯ Chapter 8

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

Draco was dreaming.

It was a strange sensation, because he knew he was dreaming- yet, at the same time, it felt far more real to him than any other dream he'd ever had- or remembered having, at any rate. Certainly there was a different feel to this dream than there had been to all of the pain and fever induced dreams he had been experiencing since having dragged himself back to Hogwarts.

In the dream, he was standing at the top of Hogwarts' great staircase; the sweeping marble stairs that led down into the school's entrance hall.

With Ron.

Both of them were wearing the standard-issue white pajamas of the hospital wing, just as they had been when they really had stood here all those many months ago, on the night of Draco's resorting. He didn't get the feeling that he was reliving that memory in this dream, though. He felt as though he were planted firmly in the present. Ron, for one, looked the way he had looked just hours ago, the last time Draco had seen him before they had parted ways in the manor- and not the way he had looked that night so long ago. He had grown taller since that night, his hair a little longer, grazing his white pajama collar.

This was definitely present-day Ron, not a-year-and-more-ago Ron.

Ron had been flicking casually at some nearly invisible dust particle on his white sleeve, but now he looked up, his cobalt eyes meeting Draco's without the faintest hint of surprise, just as though he were keeping a long anticipated appointment. When he spoke, it was with calm assurance, his voice quiet, yet clear.

"She didn't give it to you," he said.

"Give what to me?" Draco asked. He didn't need to ask who 'she' was.

"The message I gave her for you," Ron said, "when I met her between. I can understand it slipping her mind; she hasn't been well, and neither have you; the two of you haven't had much time to talk. But it's an important message, and since she didn't give it to you, I have to tell you myself."

"So, what is it then?" Draco asked a bit snappishly; he was feeling somewhat thrown off by Ron's unruffled demeanor, as though the redhead had been standing around and waiting all day for him to show up, as though he had single-handedly engineered this little rendezvous- everything from the setting to the attire.

Had he?

"Do you remember what I told you the last time we stood here?" Ron asked mildly, "as Harry and Hermione went down the steps ahead of us, arm in arm? Do you recall what I said?"

Draco, still a bit put out, wasn't in the mood to play games, so he did not beat around the bush. "You said if I ever hurt her, you'd rip off my balls and feed them to me," he answered curtly, his eyes locked on Ron's somewhat defiantly. "It that what this is, then, Weasley? I don't deny that she's in a world of hurt, and all because of me. Did you summon me here to make good? Go on, then-" and he spread his arms wide; an invitation- "do what you need to. Nothing you can do to me could hurt as much as the knowledge of what she's been through, simply because she's unfortunate enough to be loved by me."

Ron took a step forward, closing the distance between them, reached out, and grabbed a fistful of Draco's pajama top, right in the middle of his chest. He yanked him forward until they were nose to nose, doing battle with their eyes, both boys suddenly breathing hard through clenched teeth.

"I'm not going to do anything to you Malfoy, because that would only hurt Hermione more," Ron ground out, "and she is very- fragile- right- now. All I'm going to do is warn you to stop being such a goddamn selfish bastard before YOU hurt her beyond repair- I don't think you understand how close she is to losing it altogether... and here you are seriously considering leaving her once and for all. Do you have any idea how completely and utterly that would destroy her? Would rip apart not only her body, not only her mind, but her very soul?"

"What in the bloody hell are you talking about?" Draco spat out.

"You're thinking of GIVING UP!" Ron hissed with savage anger. "You think I can't tell that, Malfoy?! You're thinking about how nice it would be to slip into the darkness, to let it close over you like cool water... to just rest for a while- like how about a fucking eternity! You're slipping away from her, and you justify it by telling yourself that you're the cause of all her pain and that she's better off without you... so I'm here to pop your delusional little bubble, Malfoy, and tell you that you had better not dare leave her, because she isn't better off without you... without you, she's WORSE THAN DEAD! Do you fucking hear me?! And if you show up at MY doorstep, I will not hesitate to kick your ass all the way back to her, where you belong. She needs you, and I'm going to see that she has what she needs. I still love her, Malfoy, and I'm still looking out for her, and I always will be, and don't you ever fucking forget it. Now... Are. We. Abso- fucking-lutely. Clear?"

For a long, spiraling moment, they just stood there, Ron's hand still clenched in the fabric of Draco's shirt, both Draco's hands clenched into fists at his side, glaring at each other, gray eyes warring with blue, Draco sheet-white except for two bright fever-spots of rage burning high on his cheeks, Ron flushed with anger, his freckles standing out in bright, startling relief against his livid face.

Finally, Draco took a decisive step backward, yanking himself out of Ron's grasp, disengaging from the battle of wills.

He drew in a long, shuddering breath, and abruptly the fight seemed to go out of him. "Relax, Weasley," he said quietly; dully. "We're clear. Crystal."

He raised a hand and ran it through his silver-white hair, a simple gesture that spoke volumes of weariness and defeat, and took another step back, increasing the distance between himself and Ron, who still looked mad enough to spit nails- and found suddenly that there was nothing solid beneath his foot- he had backed off the edge of the steps- and he teetered for a moment, trying desperately to regain his balance, but in vain; he fell backward and down, thinking in that instant, here we go again, when will it ever be enough?

He saw Ron's eyes widen and the red haired boy lunged for him, but it was too late; he hit the steps with a lightning flash of pain and tumbled all the way down them, thinking, I really ought to wake up right about now- when you fall in dreams, don't you usually wake up before you hit bottom?

No such luck this time. He slammed down on the marble floor of the school's entrance hall and lay there, sprawled on his back, his feet resting on the bottom step, dazed and gasping shallowly for breath, bringing one arm up from where it was flung out beside him- a Herculean effort- to hold it protectively against his side, which was screaming with pain. Funny, he thought, the fall should have caused all sorts of new pain for him, but it hadn't... all it had done was bring into sharp focus the agony in his side, which had previously faded almost entirely from his consciousness.

Then Ron was there, on his knees bending over him, no longer looking angry at all; just pale and anxious. "Malfoy," he said, gripping Draco hard by the shoulders, "Malfoy... Malfoy?"

"S'okay, Weasley," Draco slurred, "s'just... my fucking side...ow. I thought it was... going away. But it's back now. And do you know... that's the third bloody staircase I've fallen down today?" His forehead creased, then, in thought, and he added, "or has it been more than a day? How long's it been anyway, Weasley?"

Ron shook his head. "That doesn't matter. Time has little meaning here. But Christ, Malfoy, I'm sorry. That wasn't supposed to happen."

Draco, still flat on his back, gave a one-shouldered shrug, and winced. "I never liked stairs much. When Hermione and I get a house, it's going to be one... bloody... storey."

Ron smiled at that. "Just make sure there's room for a library, Malfoy."

Draco grinned back weakly, then attempted to lever himself into a sitting position, hissing through his teeth as he did so. Ron helped him, pulling him up with an easy strength that Draco couldn't remember whether he had possessed in life. Not that it really mattered now.

A moment later they were sitting side by side, both leaning back against the large, ornate marble pillar that served as the bottom of the stairs' banister, their shoulders touching. This was, Draco reflected, the most companionable they had been in a long, long while- perhaps ever.

After several moments of such companionable silence, Draco asked abruptly, "this isn't a dream, is it? I mean, not in the traditional sense. You're not just a figment of my imagination, are you? You're... really you."

"Yes," Ron said simply, "I'm really me, Malfoy."

Draco mulled this over for a moment, then said quietly, "in that case, Weasley, you really ought to think about paying Potter a visit like this. He's hurting bad, mate. He's hurting really bad."

Ron didn't answer this directly. Instead he sighed, ran a hand through his coppery hair, and said, "you ought to be getting back, Malfoy. Hermione really does need you, more than you can possibly know."

Draco turned his head toward him. "You know what happened to her." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Ron answered quietly. "I almost wish I didn't; it hurts to know. But yeah."

"How?"

"I'm dead," Ron said flatly, as if this explained everything. "I know what I need to know."

"What about my father?" Draco asked. "Do you know about him?"

"He's... not where I am, Malfoy. I'm sorry. I know that must be hard for anyone to hear about a parent... no matter that he brought it on himself."

"Not as hard as you may think," Draco said grimly. Then- "and my mother?"

"She's not where I am either," Ron said simply.

"But is she-"

"Look, Malfoy, you've gotta get back. She'll be waking up in a minute." Ron stood and extended a hand to pull Draco up as well. When their eyes met again once they were both on their feet, Draco saw in Ron's an incredible depth of sadness.

"I truly am sorry, Malfoy," Ron said. "You don't deserve what's happened to you. It's shit, pure and simple. But you have to remember Hermione- no matter how bad things look to you, think of her, and how much she's going to be depending on you to help her heal. You can't take the easy way out, Malfoy, no matter how appealing it looks. You can't leave her. Swear to me."

"Wait," Draco said then. "Wait just a damn minute here. What the hell are you on about, Weasley? What's wrong with me?"

But the dream was already spinning away, the school's marble entrance hall and great staircase spiraling lazily and fading into blackness, and all he could see any longer were Ron's eyes, his sad blue eyes, and all he could hear in his mind were Ron's words; "don't you leave her, Malfoy. Don't you dare leave her, no matter what; don't you dare...."

"Weasley!" he shouted, "Weasley, wait! Wait! What's happened to me? Goddamn it all, what's WRONG with me?! WEASLEY!"

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"What's wrong with me?" He whispered the words aloud as his pale eyes opened with a snap.

He was breathing hard, his sugar-white hair pasted to his head with sweat, and he would have shot up into a sitting position, had it not been for a warm, sleep-heavy weight lying across his left side.

Hermione, he realized. She was in his hospital bed with him, fast asleep, her head resting on his left shoulder, one arm and one leg flung possessively over his body beneath the blankets they shared. He might have smiled at finding her there, except that now the words

what's wrong with me what's wrong with me what's wrong with me

were running ceaselessly through his head, a terrible, foreboding mantra. Even wide awake now, he never questioned that his session with Ron had been real, and

what's wrong with me?

this fact meant that he had to uncover the meaning of Ron's parting words. Ron had seemed to think that

what's wrong with me?

there was something so terrible amiss that Draco might actually lose his will to live when

what in the bloody hell is WRONG WITH ME?

he realized what that something was. He didn't understand, though; he felt all right, all things considered; he had regained some of his strength and the pain in his side had subsided to a dull, albeit persistent, ache. The only real discomfort he was in at the moment was due to thirst. His mouth was miserably dry- felt as if it had been coated in sandpaper.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he shifted Hermione off himself and, with a monumental effort, sat up, stifling a groan as he did so and leaning back heavily against the pillows, his head suddenly swimming.

Once his vision cleared, he scanned the room and saw that Snape was asleep in a chair in the far corner; the darkest corner- looking absolutely haggard. He saw also that the water- both pitcher and glass- was on the bedside table beyond Hermione. He was unwilling to call out to Snape, and unwilling to lean over Hermione- he didn't want to wake either one of them.

No matter, though; this was a problem easily solved.

"Accio," he murmured, extending his left hand toward the half-full water glass.

Nothing happened.

His forehead creased into a frown.

No. No no.

"Accio," he said again, his voice stronger, more commanding.

Still nothing.

He found that his breath was coming faster all of a sudden, his heart beating harder, panic mounting in the corners of his mind. He looked to the nightstand on his own side of the bed and saw his wand lying there; picked it up and pointed it at the water glass, realizing as he did so that his hand was shaking.

what's wrong with me?

"Accio glass," he said, his voice cracking, his heart in his throat.

Nothing happened.

The wand fell from his fingers.

No. No no. No no no no no no no nonononononoNONONONONO NO NO NO NO

And he didn't have to ask what was wrong with him any longer.

He knew.

The Ministry of Magic has confirmed early this morning the rumors that Malfoy Manor, one of the most ancient residences in Britain, has burned to the ground, and that fourteen people, including, our sources tell us, the patriarchs of several well-known pureblooded wizarding families, were found dead at the scene.

Lucius Malfoy, the owner of the manor, whose remains were the only ones to be recovered from within the smoldering building itself, has been conformed dead. The identities of the other persons, who perished in an apparent bloody confrontation outside the manor as it burned, are being withheld from the press pending the notifications of next-of-kin.

The Malfoys owned ten house elves, all of which are also presumed dead in the blaze.

According to our sources, virtually all of the deceased had been rumored to be one-time supporters of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and current speculation has it that Lucius Malfoy had stepped forth among them to take the place of their fallen master. Arriving at the manor for a ceremony in which, it is presumed, Lucius Malfoy was to become their new Lord, they found the building in flames and Malfoy deceased, and a deadly conflict then erupted amongst them as to who should be chosen as their next leader.

There is no evidence, at this time, however, of the cause of the fire. One theory is house elf arson, as the Malfoys, claims one neighbor who wishes to remain anonymous, treated their servants with notorious cruelty.

Though no body has been recovered at this time, it is presumed that Narcissa Malfoy, wife of Lucius and lady of the manor, is also dead, perished in the flames. Missing from the scene was Draco Malfoy, Lucius and Narcissa’s only child. It has lately been confirmed that Draco is safe at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he is a seventh- year student and the school’s Head Boy. He is not thought to have had any part in the conflict that has destroyed his ancestral home and rendered him an orphan.

Draco Malfoy was one of the four heroes who defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort over a year ago. Rumors abound that his parents, who were reputed to be staunch allies of Voldemort, were in the process of disowning Draco for his part in bringing about the Dark Lord’s fall, and for his subsequent Resorting from Slytherin House, which had previously seen twelve generations of Malfoys sorted into it while at Hogwarts, to Gryffindor House, which had already boasted the affiliation of the other three youths responsible for Voldemort’s demise; Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger.

The Malfoy family solicitors, when contacted for comment, refused to confirm or deny such rumors that Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy had expressed an interest in, or even begun the process of, disowning their son, but they did state firmly that as of yesterday, when the tragedy occurred, Draco had not been officially disowned, and so he stands to inherit whatever Malfoy wealth was not destroyed by the fire.

00000

Sirius sighed and closed the paper. No mention of Ron’s death could be found anywhere in its pages. It would have to be made public knowledge soon, though. He wondered what cover story Dumbledore would come up with, to offer the wizarding world as an explanation for the loss of Arthur and Molly Weasley’s youngest son... but of one thing he was sure; Ron’s name would not be besmirched by any association with the goings on at Malfoy Manor. It was likely to be reported as a freak accident in the Forbidden Forest, or some sort of Quidditch tragedy; something of that nature. This would serve to protect his memory, and also his surviving relatives and friends, from any untoward attention.

On the other hand, it would also prevent the world at large from ever knowing what a hero Ron had been. His death would be seen as stupid, senseless, without meaning. Ron, who had been one of a family of seven children, who had gone on to become the faithful best friend of the most famous young wizard of the age, and who had craved recognition of his own all his life, would be denied it, one final time, in death.

It was almost too cruel to contemplate.

Standing, Sirius walked restlessly over to the room’s one small window, careful not to disturb Harry, who was slumbering peacefully, still under the effects of the spell.

“Ron,” he murmured aloud, addressing the red haired boy as though he were standing in front of him. He saw in his mind’s eye a picture of Ron the way he had been that night in the Shrieking Shack; over four years ago it had been. Harry had been only thirteen years old. Ron had had a broken leg, yet despite the agony he’d been in, he had still attempted to shield Harry from Sirius, whom he had though a murderer out to harm his best friend.

“You were, and are, to Harry as James was, and is to me. And know this, Ron Weasley; your heroic act will never be forgotten. Not by Harry, nor by me. You saved the only precious thing in my life, at the cost of your own. I will be grateful unto my grave.”

00000

Snape, who had been sleeping the dead, black sleep of the truly exhausted, and thus had failed to hear Draco’s increasingly agitated attempts to Accio himself a glass of water, nevertheless came fully awake an instant later, with a powerful sense that something was wrong- and that intuition was confirmed as he met Draco’s eyes across the room.

The first thing Snape registered that the blond boy was sitting up- which should have been a good thing, but the expression on Draco’s face- hurt and confusion and shock and panic all rolled into one- quickly told him otherwise. Then Snape saw Draco’s wand where it lay atop the covers- his sharp eyes darting down to it and then back up to Draco in a fraction of a second- and he understood.

Draco was, he saw now, breathing very quickly- too quickly- his chest rising and falling with hitching rapidness beneath the soft white fabric of his shirt.

“Draco,” Snape said, getting to his feet-

“No,” Draco rasped, in a dry, gravelly voice, and pressed himself back, as far into the pillows as he could, as if actually trying to escape from his mentor- or, more likely, from what he could tell his mentor was about to say to him.

Snape moved towards him. “Draco, it’s-”

“Don’t!” Draco yelled, his voice cracking, “don’t say it!” Hermione was stirring now, beginning to wake up as well. Draco edged away from her; in fact, he edged right off the bed, and proceeded to press himself against the wall, looking completely panicked now; a trapped, desperate animal.

This was worse than Snape had even feared it would be- and Snape was a pessimist by nature.

He stopped moving then, and ran a hand distractedly through his jet black hair. “Draco,” he said, slowly, carefully, “you have to calm-”

“FUCK THAT!” Draco shouted, and now Hermione sat straight up, pushing back the masses of dark hair that fell across her face, her expression groggy for only a second- then she too caught on to what was happening.

And what was happening was that Draco knew. And he was not taking it well.

He continued backing away from Snape, keeping his back against the wall, until he found himself wedged in a corner, at which point his legs finally gave way, spilling him to his knees (Snape was amazed that he had lasted even as long as he had on his feet, as hurt and weak as he was), one arm bracing himself against the floor, the other held pressed to his side, his head bowed, silver-white hair spilling down over his eyes, obscuring them from view.

Snape was at his side in an instant, but when he reached for him, Draco wrenched himself away. “Don’t... touch... me,” he gasped, his breath still coming far too shallow and rapid for Snape’s comfort- “don’t touch me, don’t... say it... don’t... just don’t... I can’t... handle this, I can’t... I can’t take this....” He broke off, suddenly seized by a wrenching, hacking cough; his dry throat and labored, hitching breath becoming too much for him to handle any longer. He wrapped both arms around his midsection and doubled over, his fair hair now brushing the floor, making strangled, choking sounds that seemed to be half cough, half sob.

“Bloody hell,” Snape muttered, and then, “to hell with THIS,” and, disregarding Draco’s near-frantic request not to be touched, reached out both-handed and virtually yanked the boy forward into his arms, crushing him against his chest, holding him tight.

Draco stiffened and attempted to wrench his arms free, but Snape just held him all the tighter. The traumatized boy responded, after a moment, by unleashing a veritable howl of rage and grief into his mentor’s chest, then sagging forward into him, only briefly, before tensing up again as he began to do battle with the sobs that wanted to come.

His breathing became ever more erratic as he tried desperately to hold the tears at bay, and he just kept repeating the same two words, his voice muffled by the fabric of Snape’s robes, into which his face was pressed; “I can’t... I... can’t...”

Snape said nothing, just held on; he didn’t know what to say. Words of comfort had never been his strong suit.

And then Hermione was there, beside them on the floor on her knees, reaching out to grip Draco firmly by the shoulders and pull him around in Snape’s arms so that he faced her instead. She straddled his legs, kneeling in his lap, getting herself as close to him as she could, then took his face in both her hands and lowered hers to it, resting her forehead against his. He was still whispering over and over again, “I can’t...”

“Draco!” She was nearly shouting in an effort to get through to him. “Draco... Draco... listen to me... LISTEN!” When this failed to elicit any response, she pressed two fingers to his lips, finally shushing him.

“Draco,” she said again when he had fallen silent, except for his hitching, painful-sounding breathing and swallowed sobs, “please hear me.” She removed her fingers from his lips, cupping his cheek instead. Her other hand was tangled in his hair, her forehead still pressed to his.

“I love you,” she said urgently, “do you understand that? Draco? I love you- YOU- and this changes nothing, all right? Nothing. I love the person you are and your magic is one part of that, and maybe it will come back and... and maybe... maybe it won’t. But it doesn’t change who you are and it doesn’t change how I feel about you, God, Draco, please believe that, please.” She dropped her hands to his shoulders and gave him a small shake, frustrated that his eyes still had the glazed, shocked look they’d held since he’d realized just what had happened to him.

“Draco,” she whispered then, “I need you. Oh God, I need you so much. Please... Draco... don’t let this destroy who you are. Please... stay with me. Stay with me. Draco, I’m begging you... if you love me at all... please...”

At that, his eyes finally seemed to clear a bit. She pulled her head back a few inches and they stared at one another for a silent moment, both breathing as if they’d just run a marathon, then Hermione dropped her head to his shoulder, burying her face in his neck. Draco brought his arms up then- Snape finally released them, judging, correctly, that the fight had gone out of him- and wrapped them about her, pulling her into a tight embrace, holding her against him almost frantically.

He let his head fall back onto Snape’s shoulder and stared up at the ceiling with lost, despairing eyes. Then, sandwiched in a secure embrace between the two people who loved him most in all the world- magic or no magic- he gave a deep, shuddery sigh and let his pale eyes fall shut, his exhausted body drifting easily into sleep, granting him reprieve from the waves of hopeless misery that had been crashing over him since he had tried to accomplish something so simple as summoning himself some water.

00000

A long moment later, Hermione rocked back onto her heels, and wiped her forearm wearily across her eyes, which were steadily leaking silent tears. She met Snape’s eyes then, and saw in them the same question that was foremost in her own mind at the moment-

How in the hell were they going to get Draco through this?

Hermione couldn’t imagine the devastation she would feel if she were faced with the loss of her powers, and she hadn’t even known magic existed until she’d been eleven years old. To someone like Draco, who’d been born and bred in the wizarding world, who had been raised on the belief that witches and wizards were as far superior to non-magic people as those non-magic people were to, say, chimpanzees, and that it was magic that accounted for this superiority, a loss of magical power had to be just about the worst blow he could suffer.

Dear God, what would it do to his pride?

On top of everything she had been through and was still going through, a new and cold and gnawing fear was born deep within her; that under the circumstances, death might be more appealing to Draco than life at this point.

He wouldn’t... ever... consider....

Would he?

As Snape returned Draco, now mercifully unconscious once more, to the bed, murmuring over him the very same spell that Sirius had recently used on Harry, she reflected, in a state of mounting panic, that yes- he might. He might very well consider it, because to Draco, the state he found himself in now would be worse than castration. He had lost a fundamental part of what, in his mind, made him....

Well, human.

00000

And indeed, Draco’s suffering was something terrible to behold.

But then, they were all suffering; on the day of Ron’s funeral, which dawned clear and cool, what Ron would have referred to as perfect flying weather, Harry ended up having to be supported between Hermione and Sirius in much the same manner as Molly Weasley, standing on the other side of the open grave, was being supported between her husband and eldest son. Had such bodily support been withdrawn from either one of them, they would have collapsed to the grass of the tiny Ottery St. Catchpole churchyard in which Ron was being laid to rest.

Harry’s grief had a wretched, hopeless quality to it that suggested that Ron had not, as yet, “visited” him. Draco and Hermione, by contrast, though still beside themselves with sorrow, were able to bear their grief a little better; thanks to their respective sessions with Ron, they possessed a serenity which Harry did not.

In keeping with wizarding funeral tradition, each person at the graveside had brought with him or herself an item of personal significance to place atop the casket before the grave was filled. When Draco’s turn came to present his “gift”, he placed on the coffin, with infinite care, a small square of parchment; it was a single sheet which had been folded over several times and sealed with wax. If the seal were to be broken and the parchment unfolded, only nine words would be found, written in Draco’s elegant script;

Rest easy, mate. I will not leave her. Ever.

00000

As the group of mourners trod slowly back toward the Burrow for the post- funeral meal- the preparations for which had been overseen largely by Ginny, with the help of numerous family friends; Molly was so overwrought by grief as to be incapable- Harry was accosted by a witch wearing violently purple robes, and glittering spectacles to match; one Rita Skeeter, who had reclaimed her post as wizarding Britain’s queen of gossip, lightly disguised as news.

She just started firing questions at Harry- who merely stood where he was and stared at her with dull, miserable eyes- declaring that the wizarding world wanted to know how he felt about seeing his best friend buried today, and didn’t he think that Ron’s death could have easily been prevented?- the press, true to Sirius’ prediction, had been fed a story about how he had perished in a flying-related accident; only his family, the Hogwarts staff, and a select few others knew the true heroic nature of his death.

Before Harry- or Sirius, who was beside him and appeared to be in the process of rapidly forgetting the “boys don’t hit girls” rule- could respond, Draco stepped up, placing himself between the obnoxious reporter and his friend as solidly and protectively as Harry had once placed himself between Draco and his murderously angry father.

Without a word, Draco reached out, plucked the parchment from her fingers- it was still blank except for the headline; that was already in place at the top- GRYFFINDOR FOUR NO MORE, it read- and tore it, very slowly and deliberately, into several pieces, which he threw in her face. Then, as Rita’s mouth opened and closed, fish-like, in silent indignation, he took the quill from her other hand, snapped it in half, dropped the pieces at his feet, ground them into the dirt with the heel of one dragonhide boot, spat on them for good measure, turned, and walked away- all without having said a single word.

Rita Skeeter was left staring after him in astonishment; no one had ever treated her that way. A thousand things to say or do in the face of such an attack sprang to her mind, yet she acted on none of them. The reason was his eyes.

They had been the cold, dispassionate eyes of a man who has lost so much that he cares very little anymore for the consequences of his actions...

And is, therefore, a very dangerous man indeed.

00000

They had only a week after the funeral, and then N.E.W.T.s were upon them.

Harry, Hermione and Draco were all offered the opportunity, circumstances being what they were, to forego them and still progress with the rest of their class, yet all three declined the offer. Harry and Draco were both too proud to accept, Hermione was horrified at the thought, and when it came right down to it, they all needed something to occupy their time and attention; something into which they could throw themselves wholeheartedly, and the last-minute cramming the N.E.W.T.s required was just the ticket.

Draco was by necessity adjusting to his new condition, though no one but Hermione and Snape dared to discuss it with him. In fact, only Hermione, Harry, and, by necessity, the faculty knew about it. The faculty had to know because, obviously, Draco was going to be prevented from taking several of his N.E.W.T.s. Those which would require hands-on magic were now closed to him. Ordinarily, a Squib would not have been allowed to take any wizarding exams, much less graduate from Hogwarts, but it was generally agreed upon that an exception could be made in Draco’s case, seeing as he had been a singularly gifted student for seven full years.

It was a grim day indeed when Snape called him into his office to go over with him which exams would be open to him, and which would not.

He started with the good news.

“You will still be able to take quite a few of the N.E.W.T.s- a majority of them, in fact; History of Magic, Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, and... Potions,” Snape said quietly.

Draco’s face was devoid of expression. “That’s all?”

Snape sighed unhappily. “That’s all.”

“Charms?”

“No.”

“Defense?”

“No.”

“Transfiguration?”

“No.”

“Divination?”

“You’re not even in that rubbish class.”

“But if I were, could I take the exam?”

“Draco... no.”

Draco had stood, his face tight. “All right- thank you, professor.”

Behind his desk, Snape had also gotten to his feet, just as Draco had started to turn for the door. “Draco-”

“Yes?” The tone was flat; dull.

“You could have a very bright career ahead of you in potions-making, you know, regardless of whether-”

Draco cut him off. “Thank you, professor,” he said again, this time with an edge to his voice, and moved toward the door.

“Draco.”

“Yes?” This time the word was positively ground out.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine.”

He’d said that when he’d been dying too. Snape felt a monster headache coming on.

“You know I’m here if-”

“Thank you, professor.” And he was gone.

“But Mr. Malfoy, your parents would hardly have approved of-”

Draco held up a hand. “Let’s go over this one more time,” he said, in a quiet, dangerous voice.

00000

It was two weeks to the day after Ron’s funeral, and N.E.W.Ts were a thing of the past. Draco had been summoned to Dumbledore’s office at about ten in the morning, to find two respectable looking, middle aged wizards waiting for him there. He’d recognized them at once; the senior partners of the wizarding law firm that had handled his family’s affairs for years. They had both stood when he'd entered the room.

“Mister Malfoy,” they had intoned as one.

“Gentlemen,” he’d returned, taken aback, but not showing it. His eyes had scanned the room and settled on the headmaster, standing beside Fawkes’ perch, absently stroking the magnificent bird.

“Draco,” Dumbledore had said gently, “these men are here to discuss your inheritance with you. I have taken the liberty of sending for Miss Granger as well; as your fiancée, I believe she has a right to be present for this. I trust you make no objection?”

“Of course not,” Draco had replied smoothly, concealing his immense relief at the fact that he would not have to face this ordeal alone. At that very moment, the door had opened once more and Hermione had entered, looking bewildered. She’d been in the library when she had received Dumbledore’s urgent message, using the first day after exams were done to launch an exhaustive research effort into wizards and witches who had lost their magic as adults, and whether they had ever recovered their powers. The information she had yielded so far was not encouraging.

The headmaster had smiled benignly at her. “Just so, just so,” he’d said. “And now I will be leaving you to your palaver. Take as long as you like,” and he’d been through the door and gone before it had even closed behind Hermione.

The four people remaining in the room had pulled chairs up to Dumbledore’s large desk, whereupon the solicitors had wasted no time in spreading forms and parchments over every inch of its surface, and informing Draco in their stiff and formal way that all affairs regarding his parents’ finances were now in order, and he stood to inherit a rather tidy sum of one hundred and twenty million galleons.

How fortunate that the manor and everything in it had been heavily insured.

Draco had glanced to the side, to see Hermione’s dark eyes as wide as saucers. He’d smiled inwardly. She was probably the only girl on earth who would have been dating him for over a year without ever having given a thought to how much he was potentially worth. She was also the only girl on earth who, engaged to him now, wouldn’t castrate him for what he was about to do.

Because he wanted no part of his parents’ blood money.

“How does my inheritance from my grandparents stand?” he had asked. “The one I came into when I turned seventeen?”

The solicitors had seemed faintly surprised at the question, but had, obligingly enough, dug out the appropriate paperwork. “It stands at twenty- seven million galleons,” said the elder of the two, bending over a parchment and reading carefully through a monocle.

Draco had frowned, puzzled. “Has that sum grown since I inherited it?”

“Why, yes,” said the solicitor, “it has been very wisely invested. Is that what you would like to do with this new inheritance as well?”

“No,” Draco had said decisively, reaching to clasp Hermione’s hand in his. “Here is what I want you to do.”

00000

Which brought them back to the present, in which the solicitors were staring at him, appalled, as he repeated his plans for the money, in a tone that brooked no argument.

“The only money I am interested in keeping,” he said, “is the inheritance from my grandparents, which I came into on my seventeenth birthday. Is that understood?”

“Yes, but Mister Malfoy-”

Draco cut the man off. “As for this new inheritance, this hundred and twenty million galleons. Listen carefully, and you may want to take notes, because I expect my instructions to be carried out exactly.” He waited while the younger of the men set a quick-quotes quill over a fresh sheet of parchment before continuing.

“All right,” he said then. “The money is to be divided into three equal sums. Forty million galleons are to be converted into Muggle money and donated to the Muggle charity known as the Red Cross, with a stipulation that the money be used only for the purpose of educating Muggle youth in the Muggle lifesaving technique known as CPR.” He paused for a moment, waiting for the quill to come to a standstill once again before continuing. “The second forty million galleons are to be donated to Hogwarts, with a stipulation that this sum be used to implement a program at the school whereby all wizarding youth in attendance, ages fourteen and older, shall also be taught the Muggle lifesaving technique known as CPR. Students shall be taught CPR within one month of entering their fourth year at Hogwarts, and shall receive a refresher course during the first month of their fifth, sixth and seventh years as well.” Again he paused, allowing the quill to finish writing. “Finally,” he said then, “the last forty million galleons shall also be donated to Hogwarts, as a scholarship fund for promising Muggle-born witches and wizards, who would not otherwise be able to afford the school’s tuition and fees.” He smirked inwardly to himself, hoping that wherever his father was now, he could see exactly what his son was doing; using the family fortune, which had been jealously guarded for generations, to benefit exactly the sort of people that Lucius and Narcissa had despised the most; POOR MUDBLOODS.

Still, it wasn’t quite enough. It was time to add insult to injury; to put the icing on the cake. “Furthermore,” he said, once the quill had caught up again, “all three of these gifts are to be made in loving memory of my parents. My mother was very gifted with healing magic, you know, and I’m sure would have been most interested in learning about CPR, if, alas, she had ever been given the opportunity, so the donations to Hogwarts will be named thus; The Narcissa Malfoy Memorial Fund for Muggle Lifesaving Techniques, and the Lucius Malfoy Memorial Scholarship Fund. The gift to the Muggle charity shall be made in both their names, with all appropriate fanfare.”

He was quiet again then, no longer out of consideration for the quill that was transcribing his every word, but simply now because he was thinking hard, his mind working over any loose ends that could use tying up. At length he asked, “out of the twenty-seven million that I am keeping, how much is not currently tied up in investments? How much is available in hard currency in my Gringott’s vault?”

The solicitors, though both looked extremely put out by this point, clearly disapproving heavily of Draco’s plans for his new inheritance, nevertheless wasted no time in shuffling through their parchments until they came up with the information Draco desired.

“Just shy of half a million galleons,” one of them reported.

“Hm.” Draco thought a moment longer, then said, squeezing Hermione’s hand as he did so, “better add another million to it; I’m going to be getting married and setting up house very soon. As for the rest of the twenty- seven, carry on with the investments. And as to the one hundred and twenty... I trust my instructions in that matter will be carried out to the letter, and in good time?”

The younger of the men nodded silently as he began organizing the scattered parchments back into neat stacks in preparation for leaving, but the elder, who looked by now as though he’d just been force fed about a dozen large lemons, could no longer contain himself.

“Mister Malfoy,” he burst out suddenly, “may I have permission to speak plainly?”

Draco inclined his head slightly. “Please.”

“You have to know that your parents would hardly approve of the plans you have made for their money! I have personally served your family for nearly two decades, and I know perfectly well, as you yourself must, that if they could... could see... THIS-” and he seized the parchment that contained Draco’s instructions and waved it across the desk at him- “they would be rolling over in their graves!”

Draco leaned forward in his seat and graced the man with a smile so cold, so feral, so deadly, that he shrank back, effectively silenced. “That my good man,” said Draco, calmly, but with an unmistakably wicked gleam in his eye, “is precisely the point.”

At this, the solicitor was reduced to stuttering, “but- but-”

Draco raised an eyebrow. He did not raise his voice. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he said matter-of-factly. “My parents are dead. This is now my money, and you are now my- bloody- lawyers. So... once and for all... can you, or can you not, carry out my instructions? If the answer is no, tell me now, so that we can all stop wasting our time and I can start looking for a different law firm to handle my affairs.”

The two wizards sitting before him may have felt loyalty to his parents after years of service to the family, and may even have sympathized with his parents’ viewpoints concerning Muggle-born witches and wizards- though not strongly enough to have ever participated in illegal activities- (these were upstanding citizens and strictly law abiding men)- but they were, first and foremost, businessmen, and realized that even if he were hereafter to be worth a “mere” twenty-seven million galleons, Draco Malfoy was a client worth keeping.

“We are more than capable of handling your affairs, Mister Malfoy,” the younger man said. “We will owl you once it has been done; I think you will quite satisfied at how quickly and competently your orders shall be carried out.”

Draco stood, Hermione following suit. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, as the solicitors both rose as well.

The young couple was through the door, it was just whispering shut behind them, when they heard the older solicitor murmur to the younger one, “no wonder they in the process of disowning him.”

Draco stopped stock still, and turned very slowly back around, his foot catching the door, holding it open.

“Procrastination, gentlemen,” he said, smiling that same deathly cold smile. “It has been over a year since my parents and I... fell out, if you will. They had plenty of time in which to complete the process, yet they procrastinated. I can lay claim to as many faults as the next man, but thankfully, procrastination was one fault of my parents that I did not inherit from them. I neither indulge in it, nor put up with it. Therefore. I had been going to trust in you to carry out my instructions in your own time, but no longer. You now have thirty-six hours in which to see them completed, or I take my business elsewhere. Good day.”

00000

Hermione and Harry shared a brief, surreptitious glance, careful not to let Draco catch them at it. They were both beginning to rethink the wisdom of this little outing; a day in the Muggle world, introducing Draco to such Muggle pastimes as seeing a movie, visiting a video arcade, and going to the mall. It was the middle of their last week at Hogwarts- commencement would be on Saturday- and though the younger students were in the midst of exams, the seventh-years, who had completed their N.E.W.T.’s already, were free all week long, with leave to come and go from the school as they liked during the daylight hours, seeing as they were now considered fully functioning adult witches and wizards.

Harry and Hermione had hoped that over the course of this day they would encounter something- anything- that would capture Draco’s interest, that would cause him to show even a hint of enthusiasm, but so far, no dice. He was so obviously miserable, though he was putting on an effort to be stoic about the whole thing.

Even his occasional queries of “what the hell is that?” were dull and listless.

Hermione ran a hand through her curls. “Draco... what time is it?” she asked. She had bought him a digital watch earlier in the day, before lunch. She’d been encouraged to see that he had at least put it on his wrist (his right wrist- being a leftie), and had fiddled with the buttons, squinting at the instructions, in an attempt to set the time- refusing, typically, to ask either Harry or herself for assistance. He had not, however, so far as she could tell, glanced at it again since.

He did now, and his brow furrowed immediately. “Eighteen-forty-two? What the fuck does THAT mean?”

Hermione took his wrist in her hand and bent over the watch. She was glad in that moment for her long, thick hair, which tumbled over her face, obscuring it from Draco’s view and hiding the small, almost reluctant smile that tugged briefly at the corners of her lips. It was gone in the next instant, though, as she looked up and met his pale eyes, which bore an expression of irritated frustration that he had apparently not managed to set the watch correctly.

She did not smile often these days, and when the smiles did come, they never lasted long.

“It’s perfectly correct,” she informed him. “It’s just that you set it to military time. It would have looked the same as ‘normal’ time this morning, when you set it, but after noon it’s different. All it means is that its six-forty-two and we should look for a little place to have some dinner before we get back to school.”

Harry glanced up and down the street they were on, his eyes finally settling on a small restaurant decorated with colorful paper lanterns strung across the door and windows. With a small, and somewhat forced, smile, he suggested, “how about sushi?”

“What the hell is that?” Draco asked tiredly.

00000

He dodged to the left, yanking the hood of Potter’s cloak back up over his head as he did so, vanishing entirely from sight once again. Two jets of green light whizzed through the air where he had allowed himself to be seen a fraction of a second before- followed by two muffled thumps as a pair of bodies fell heavily to the grass, dead.

Nott and the elder Zabini; apparently in their excitement at spotting him they had forgotten his mother's No-Avada-Kedavra rule, and now he had two fewer adversaries to worry about.

He was making it a point to kill as many of his mother’s followers as he could in this manner; selecting a pair who were standing fairly close to one another and then appearing directly between them, allowing them a brief, tantalizing glimpse... and then vanishing again and moving- fast- as they both unleashed spells in his direction. If he was lucky, the spells would cross and his enemies would end up doing his dirty work for him; killing each other.

This didn’t work in every case, of course; plenty of them he had to kill himself. But the more of them he could trick into killing one another, the better- because that way, when the Aurors showed up to investigate- and oh, they would come; this was the largest scale bloodshed since before the fall of Voldemort- they could run tests on the victims’ wands and discover that they had been turned one against another with deadly intent. The whole incident would be chalked up to infighting amongst the former Death Eaters, the Ministry would say good riddance, and that would be the end; case closed.

This was what Draco was hoping for... assuming, of course, that he made it out of here alive.

He crouched down a few feet away from the bodies and waited in silence as Blaise, who had witnessed his father’s demise from a distance of several yards, approached at a run.

“DAD!” Blaise threw himself to his knees beside his fallen father, and Draco couldn’t help envying him for the briefest moment- envying him that he and his father had been close enough that Blaise was grieved by his death. Draco couldn’t imagine ever having been moved to make such a display for Lucius, even before the time they had been mortal enemies. There had always been a certain... coldness to the relationship, long before it had disintegrated into outright hatred.

But Draco had no time to reflect, as Blaise was on his feet again in the next instant, wand at the ready, staring around with wild eyes. “Malfoy!” He howled, breathing hard. “You fucking coward! You sorry son of a bitch! Show yourself!”

Draco straightened up as silently as he could, thinking, that’s pretty fucking rich, him calling me a coward because I won’t just come out in the open against fifteen-to-one odds... but the odds weren’t fifteen-to-one anymore; they were down to about five-to-one now, including Blaise. The grass was littered with bodies.

Silently, stealthily, he crept around behind Zabini. When he got close enough, he reached out and hit Zabini with the flat of his hand, hard on the back of the head. As Blaise first stumbled forward, then rounded on him, snarling, Draco pushed back the hood of the invisibility cloak once more.

Here was the bastard who had delivered Hermione to his father, after all. There was no doubt in Draco’s mind that Lucius must have had an inside man at Hogwarts, and Zabini had been it. Zabini had delivered Hermione up for torture... for rape... for death.

Draco was going to look him straight in the eye as he sent him to join his bloody father.

For a long moment, the two boys, former Housemates, former dorm mates, former playmates- stared at each other in silent hatred. Then, the sound of running footsteps and a shouted curse alerted Draco to the fact that someone besides Zabini had seen his head hovering there, apparently disembodied, the rest of him still concealed beneath the cloak.

He jerked his head back, and a stream of purple light (purple? What the hell does that do?) zinged past his nose. Blaise, taking advantage of his momentary distraction, unleashed a spell of his own; a jet of yellow light that Draco recognized as a knife-edge curse.

It had been aimed squarely at his chest, but his quick reflexes saved him. He threw himself to the side, and the curse managed only to open a deep, but not life-threatening, gash on his upper arm. He hit the ground, rolled as yet another curse flew over his head, and came up with his right hand pressed to this newest wound, blood seeping through his fingers- but his left hand, despite the pain high up on his arm, was steady, his wand trained unwaveringly on Blaise’s heart.

His hood was still thrown back, his head still visible, and so he got his wish. He got to look Zabini right in the eye as he spoke the words of the killing curse. A flash of green light, and Blaise crumpled beside his father.

It occurred to Draco briefly, and without the burden of much emotion, that Mrs. Zabini was going to have a rough day tomorrow.

Then he was yanking his hood up and throwing himself to the ground once more, gritting his teeth against the flare of bright, hot pain in his arm, to escape the onslaught of yet more spells as the elder Crabbe and Goyle, who did everything together, much like their sons, bore down on him. Once he took care of them, there would be only two left; his mad bitch aunt... and his mother.

00000

And that was what it all came down to; Draco and his mother, facing off in a wizards’ duel on the lawn of their home, which was strewn with bodies, and glass from the dozens of broken windows, out of which great billows of black smoke were now pouring. Clearly the fire which had started in Draco’s private library was spreading fast.

After pulling the old tease-em-with-a-glimpse-and-disappear trick on Crabbe and Goyle, and successfully getting the two not-overly-bright wizards to off each other for him, he had taken on his Aunt Bella. He had not been looking forward to this as, ironically enough, it was the two women present- his mother and aunt- whom he feared the most; they were vicious, the both of them, and the hatred they bore him was of a more personal nature than that of the others, and burned all the brighter as a result.

Yet in the end he had triumphed over his aunt, though she had given him something to remember her by; one of her curses, a lucky guess as to his position, since he’d been invisible at the time, had picked him up and hurled him several feet through the air and into the side of the house; he’d seen stars when he’d smacked it, and as he’d fallen the four feet or so to the grass, his vision had darkened. He’d been sure that this was finally it. It would have been, too, had his legs supported him when his feed hit the ground- but as luck would have it, they had not. His legs had buckled and he had collapsed to his knees, so that her next spell had slammed into the wall above his head, showering electric blue sparks down on him. He had realized then that his hood was askew and his head partly visible; he’d thrown himself flat, pulling his hood up just in time to avoid yet another curse, then rolling over and over, several times until he was a good few feet away.

With his vision still doing alarming things, with the world feeling as though it was rocking and tilting beneath his feet, with his breath coming in short, harsh gasps- he thought he had cracked, or at least badly bruised, a rib or two when he’d hit that wall- he had managed to drag himself back to his feet and aim the killing curse at her as she raced to where she’d last seen him, on his knees in the grass, and began swearing and kicking savagely at thin air.

“Aunt Bell,” he had said, his voice ragged, pushing his hood back once more.

She had whirled about, her expression shocked at finding him on his feet. He was rather shocked to find himself on his feet, actually, but he wasn’t about to lose the advantage her surprise gave him. He’d acted fast. A flash of green light later, she’d been dead on the grass, that amazed expression still on her face.

00000

Draco swayed on his feet. His injuries were catching up to him. They were, by this point, really beginning to impair his reflexes; his strength, his speed, even his awareness of his surroundings; of anything outside the pain in his ribs, his arm, the numerous other cuts and bruises and gashes he’d sustained all over his body. Then there was the fact that the ground beneath his feet, like some vast, ornery animal, still seemed determined to buck him right off; it was still tilting and rocking and attempting to throw him to his knees.

It was no great surprise, therefore, that his mother managed to walk right up behind him and shove the tip of her wand hard into his back, right between the shoulder blades. The most impressive thing about this feat, really, was her ability to find just that spot, seeing as only his head was visible.

She could have killed him right then.

She could have, but she didn’t.

Instead she said- nearly purred- in his ear, “turn around, Draco. Turn around and face me. I want to look into your eyes, my only son, my traitor child.”

Draco obeyed silently, turning slowly to face her. She took a step back, but kept her wand trained on him. He stood there with his legs slightly splayed for balance, his right hand, by now entirely crimson with blood, once again gripping his left arm, his wand held in his left hand, but loosely, pointing down toward the ground, his teeth gritted and head bowed slightly forward, staring at her through the fringe of hair that hung forward over his brow, which was now beaded with perspiration.

“Mother,” he said simply, still through clenched teeth.

Narcissa shook her head. “I would it were not so,” she said. “I wish I had been barren.”

Draco made no reply. Really, what did one say to that?

She regarded him a long moment more- committing him to memory, perhaps? then abruptly shook her head as if to clear it.

“I haven’t seen you in over a year,” she said then, almost conversationally, “and you look more like him than you ever did. Your father, whom you murdered here tonight. You wretched, ungrateful boy. How is it that you can look so fair, so like him, and yet be rotted on the inside, rotted clear through?”

Draco only glared. If his mother had been hoping to engage in some lively verbal sparring while holding him at wandpoint, then she was just going to have to be disappointed. He’d been through too much today. He didn’t have it in him to stand here and trade insults with this woman. He was on the verge of collapse, and was making a conscious effort to hold all his strength, all his focus, together for one final act- the act of killing her.

But if he didn’t get the opportunity soon...

It appeared to Draco that behind Narcissa a wall of darkness was gathering. Gathering and beginning advance upon him.

No. He was not going to pass out, not here, not now, not like this. If he did, he would never wake up; she would see to that. And in the near future she would discover that Hermione was not dead at the hands of her husband, that she had been rescued... and then she would see to Hermione too.

This last thought affected him far more than the reality of his own danger at the moment. The fact that if he allowed this woman to kill him and walk away she would undoubtedly go on to hunt down his beloved- that was what gave him a second wind. It could not be allowed to happen.

He blinked hard and gave his head a single, decisive shake to clear it. The darkness receded. It still hovered at the very edges of his vision, but it no longer threatened to overwhelm him- not for the moment, anyway.

Narcissa saw his eyes clear- and hers hardened.

“What do you want to do, mother?” he asked.

She answered him with a single word.

“Duel.”

Immediately upon saying this, she whipped her wand sharply up and then down in a salute, then simply stood there, wand at her side, no longer pointing at him, and waited for him to follow suit.

The first thing Draco did was to push the cloak back over both shoulders, so that it hung straight down behind him and his body was entirely visible again; it was only fair, after all, that she should see him as clearly as he could see her, in a duel.

He would fight with honor, by God.

He then returned the salute, slowly, wearily, and they each turned to pace off the prescribed distance.

He had gotten nearly the full ten paces before his every instinct screamed at him to dodge. He threw himself off to the right, and that was how he came to have the deep, jagged wound in his side; had his instincts failed him, his mother’s curse would have hit him squarely in the back.

The pain didn’t hit him right away, which was a good thing. It was eclipsed by his outrage at her treachery. He had expected something like this from his father- but for some reason, it had never occurred to him that his mother was equally dishonorable- if not more so. Cruel, yes, he knew she was cruel, and cold, selfish and ruthless. But he had never pegged her for a cheater. The last attempt of a disillusioned little boy to think well of his own mother had been shattered.

He rolled and came back to his feet, aware only that his side was very warm, warm and wet and sticky. He shook his hair out of his eyes just in time to see his mother hurl another spell at him, and dodged it with rather more success than he had the first... as he could see this one coming.

Bitch! His mind was screaming. That- conniving- bitch!

He fired off a spell of his own, and the battle was joined.

00000

He had no way of keeping track of time during the vicious, desperate fight that followed. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours, as Malfoy Manor burned in the night and the last two Malfoys waged open war upon one another.

It was all he could do to keep up with his mother; dueling her was like fighting three merciless opponents at once. They had fought until they were both on their knees, until more of the spells they hurled at one another went astray than found their target. They had fought until Draco was clinging to consciousness by a thread, and it appeared to him that his mother was in similar condition.

He gathered all his remaining concentration for one more spell; he could feel that that was all he lad left in him- only just that much strength, and no more. This showdown with his mother was about to end, one way or another. He hurled a final spell at her without even being aware of what spell it was- it was a simple spell, that was all he knew for sure. It had to be, at this point, if he wanted it to be effective. Out of the past several spells he had sent her way, two of the more complicated ones had not even reached her; they had petered out halfway, dying in a shower of sparks, and he had never seen such a thing happen before; hadn’t even been aware that it could happen- and it scared the shit out of him; something was not right.

She sent a spell at him almost simultaneously; the two jets of light seemed to collide in mid-air, and careen off of one another- or at least it appeared so to Draco, but he couldn’t be sure; that wall of darkness was rushing at him again, nearly as quickly as his mother’s curse. It also seemed to him that his curse continued toward her and struck her, though not full-on as he had intended, having been knocked off-course by the collision. Her spell missed him entirely, shooting off past his shoulder, and, watching her, he thought he saw her fall; fall from her knees flat onto her back. But he didn’t get to see whether she stayed down, for at that moment the darkness struck him and knocked him flat.

He didn’t lose consciousness- he held onto it grimly, through an act of sheer will. He found himself staring straight up at the smoky sky and repeating over and over again, like a mantra, “Hermione is alive... she needs me,” until the darkness had passed.

But he wasn’t able to keep track of his mother. To have done something even as simple as turning his head to the side would have threatened his tenuous grip on consciousness. It was several moments before he managed to fight off the darkness to the point where he could roll over, push himself first to his knees and then to his feet, and look, finally, over to where she’d been lying.

And he didn’t see anything there.

The place where he’d been sure he had seen her collapse was empty. The grass appeared trampled, but there was no body there.

Again heeding a strong instinct- he was operating largely on instinct by now- he pulled the invisibility cloak forward over himself once more, and reached back with his uninjured arm to tug the hood up over his head, vanishing completely from view again. Then he turned his back on the place where his mother had been and began to stumble toward the gate.

He only made it halfway.

The wall of darkness slammed into him again, and this time it slammed into him from behind, just like his mother’s first, dishonorable curse. He never saw it coming. It threw him forward, flat on his face, and the last thing he saw before his eyes won out over his will and dragged themselves slowly shut was the iron gate he’d been making for- the gate that marked his freedom from this cursed land he had renounced; the gate he needed to pass through to escape this killing ground that had once been his home.

It looked so far away.

And even after his eyes had closed, he didn’t slip into unconsciousness immediately; no, there was a time, an indeterminate time, that he lay there on the grass, feeling it tickle his face, smelling smoke and blood- his own blood- and death, aware of the hot stickiness that was his side, and aware of something else, too- a voice, it seemed, calling him.

Was it real? It could have been nothing more than fevered imagination- he simply didn’t know. But he knew he heard it, sometimes closer, sometimes further away; a familiar voice with a sweet, lilting tone that he remembered from rare- oh, so rare- occasions in his childhood.

He had learned long ago that that lilting tone was false- it boded no good for him- it only meant that she wanted to find him for some purpose of her own. Still, even now it was like a siren song, making him want to answer, and so perhaps it was a blessing that he was too weak to do so. If the voice was, in fact, real- answering would surely have sealed his fate.

“Draco!” the voice was calling; sweet, affectionate, concerned. “Draco, darling? Where are you? Mother knows you’re hurt, love... show me where you are, so I can help you! Draco? Draaacooo...”

It was at this point that all consciousness fled.

00000

He awoke on the morning of graduation, in the early hours before the sky had lightened, groggy and disoriented, soaked in clammy sweat from the nightmare reliving of his one-man war. He was alone in his bed, in his Head Boy room (he had not shared Hermione’s bed since they had returned from Malfoy Manor- they had not discussed it, but he knew she was not ready). He was curled in a fetal position, one arm pressed to his side, the other thrown over his head as if in an attempt to conceal or protect his face, and before he could come back to any awareness of his surroundings, a single whispered, half-choked, lost-sounding word escaped his lips;

“Mummy.”

Commencement was a solemn affair indeed. For this special event, the graduating students were seated alphabetically, rather than by House- and no one could fail to notice that the final two chairs, which should have belonged to Ron Weasley and Blaise Zabini, were left painfully, glaringly empty; a set of each boy’s dress robes, neatly folded, lying on the seats of their respective chairs in tribute.

The mood wasn’t helped any by the near-constant, barely stifled sobbing of both Molly Weasley and Roberta Zabini; the Weasleys and what was left of the decimated Zabini family- namely, Roberta herself- having been invited to attend as honored guests. And then there was the fact that at least half of the graduating Slytherins had lost family members- mostly parents, but in Pansy’s case, a sibling as well- in the now well-documented battle royale of the former Death Eaters. Draco and Hermione, when they rose to give their respective Head Boy and Head Girl speeches, were both subdued; at one point Hermione trailed off as her gaze was drawn inexorably to Ron’s empty seat and, gripping the podium in front of her with white-knuckled hands, tears standing out in her eyes, she clearly had to struggle hard to maintain at least some semblance of composure. The hurt in her eyes was so deep and so clear that it was all Draco could do at that point to stay in his seat- his every instinct screamed at him to vault up onto the conjured stage, and, spectators be damned, wrap her in his arms and never let go.

Nor did things get any easier after the ceremony. At the reception for graduating students and their families, in the Great Hall, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife as Mr. and Mrs. Granger met their daughter’s boyfriend for the first time- and learned simultaneously that he was, in fact, no longer her boyfriend, but her fiancé- and that the young couple had already begun making plans to wed in the fall.

While the Grangers were aware that in the wizarding world it was accepted and, indeed, commonplace for couples to wed at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen years of age, this did not change the fact that it was practically unheard of in the society of which the elder Grangers were a part- they had never imagined that their only child would marry just after her eighteenth birthday; the announcement stunned them. But the thing that added insult to injury was Hermione’s quiet, yet firm, declaration that she would not even be returning home for one last summer; she and Draco had been granted permission by Dumbledore to remain in their Head rooms at Hogwarts for the next eight weeks, the better to supervise the construction of their new home in Hogsmeade (wizarding construction taking far less time than that of Muggles, the house would be completed easily within two months.) The land had already been purchased; a good-sized parcel overlooking the Hogwarts lake- and the groundbreaking was scheduled for the very next day.

Eventually the foursome- Draco, Hermione, and her parents- split in two, with Mr. Granger taking Draco off for a mano-a-mano out on the grounds, and Hermione remaining in the company of her decidedly distraught mother, attempting to placate her. When they reunited some time later, back in the Great Hall, which was by now nearly empty, the reception drawing to a close, both parents were at least somewhat pacified- though still rather less than pleased with the turn their young daughter’s life had so rapidly taken. Draco had put across to Hermione’s father, though not in so many words, that he would readily kill or die for his daughter (he had neglected to say that he had already done the former, and very nearly done the latter), and Mr. Granger had sensed that the boy was sincere. As for Hermione’s mother, well, her ruffled feathers had smoothed themselves with near miraculous speed when she had demanded of her daughter just how two seventeen-year-olds without jobs as of yet planned on supporting themselves... and had learned, consequently, just what Draco was worth. Not that she was an overly materialistic woman, but still... what mother doesn’t dream that her daughter will find true love with a fabulously wealthy man? And when one factored in that the galleon-to-pound exchange rate was better than five-to-one... well, Draco’s fortune looked very appealing to his future mother-in-law.

Still, both Mr. and Mrs. Granger begged Hermione once again, before leaving, to reconsider and accompany them home, at least for a few weeks. They had been treating her like glass ever since the “incident” in sixth year... she could only imagine how they would react if they were to hear of her much more recent trauma. But they knew nothing of it, nor would they, if it were up to her... and, it just so happened, it was. In sixth year, she had been underage, and so her parents had been notified as a matter of course. Now, however, she was seventeen and a legal adult in the wizarding world, and the decision of whether to tell them about the recent... events... at Malfoy Manor rested on her and her alone.

And she would never tell them.

It could do no possible good, she reasoned; only harm. They would be beside themselves; flat-out hysterical. They had often wondered over the course of the years, even before the Voldemort incident, whether allowing their daughter to become a part of the war-torn wizarding world had been a wise decision... and last year she had had to beg them to allow her to return for her final year at Hogwarts. If they knew what she’d been through in her seventh year... she had visions of them going so far as to attempt to have her “kidnapped” back from the wizarding world, as some parents have their children kidnapped back from malevolent cults. And once she was back in their custody, in the Muggle world, she would have to abide by Muggle laws, which stated that she would be under their guardianship for months yet.

Months before she could decide, as a Muggle adult, to return to the wizarding world which, as bleak and dangerous as it could be at times, had become her home.

Months without Draco.

She honestly didn’t think she could survive that.

So she made the decision that she considered best for both her parents’ peace of mind and her own. The past was the past and couldn’t be altered- well, except for certain rare instances, she allowed- but this wasn’t one of them- so why add to her parents’ grief- and by so doing, add to her own? It didn’t make sense.

Still, her parents were her parents, and she their only child, and so it went without saying that they sensed something amiss in their daughter on this day. A deep and desperate sadness, lurking beneath her surface, that had not been there even in the wake of last year’s attack... that they weren’t entirely sure even the death of one of her best friends fully accounted for. And so they reached a conclusion that was quite natural, given that they knew only part of what was troubling their daughter. If this sense of melancholy that she was conveying so strongly, if unintentionally, to their parent-radar went deeper than her rape last year, and deeper even still than Ron’s death, as they sensed it did- then it must have to do with this boy, they concluded; this Draco Malfoy. She seemed adamant about marrying him, but... was she being coerced in some way? The fact that she refused to come home with them for even so much as a single week was, to them, yet one more red flag.

So it was only with great reluctance, many worried backward glances, and not a few tears on Hermione’s mother’s part, that they at long last allowed themselves to be herded away with the rest of the Muggle relatives, for group transport back to London.

00000

As soon as they were out of sight, Hermione literally sagged against Draco, as if too exhausted to stand another moment. He wrapped both arms protectively about her and they left the Great Hall like that, Harry- who had had no relatives in attendance and had been standing with the Weasleys, feeling miserably- and not entirely erroneously- that though they were as warm and loving toward him as ever- almost- they would never quite forgive him for not being the one to die- joining them on the stairs. He had also obtained permission from Dumbledore to stay at Hogwarts that summer while he sorted out what to do with the rest of his life, seeing as he had nowhere else to go- his relatives, understanding that he was now a legal adult in the wizarding world, had flatly refused to allow him into their house again... and that was fine, because wild thestrals couldn’t have dragged him back there anyway. Sirius had, of course, extended him an invitation to stay with him until he got on his feet, but Harry had declined- he only had one best friend left, and she was nowhere near recovered from her ordeal yet- not emotionally, anyway- and he had the distinct feeling that she needed him close. And if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he would have to admit that he needed her close as well. Needed her desperately right now.

So it was a subdued group of three that made their way back up to Gryffindor Tower, wending through corridors and up staircase after staircase amid the whoops and shouts and laughter and general, milling chaos that was the last full day before the Hogwarts Express would chug out of the station for another summer holiday. A third of the way up the final flight of stairs Hermione stumbled- she was so exhausted, wrung out from emotion, that she could barely see straight- and Draco swept her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way, Harry opening the portrait hole for them and saying a quiet goodbye in the common room.

Draco headed down the short hallway to their rooms, shouldered open her door, which she had left ajar in haste on her way down to the ceremony some hours before, and, crossing to the bed, laid her gently on it. Pressing a kiss on her forehead, he turned to leave then, but was stopped in his tracks by her voice, low and hesitant, from behind him.

“Draco... stay with me?”

He turned and gave her a long, searching look, and she raised herself up on her elbows, though he saw that even this was a struggle for her- her eyelids were literally dropping with fatigue- and held out a hand beseechingly.

"Sure?" he asked at last.

Her voice was the barest of whispers when she answered, “I don’t want to be alone.”

That decided him- as if he could ever deny her- he crossed to the door, but only to close and lock it, then shrugged out of the dress robes he had worn to commencement while she, on the bed, did the same. And then he was beside her, both of them in only their underthings, and he was holding onto her as if his life depended on it, and it did, God, yes, he had learned that lesson well enough; it did.

This was how they fell asleep in the same bed- other than when they’d been barely alive in the hospital wing- for the first time since their breakup, well before Hermione had been taken.

00000

He shouldn’t have been surprised at her reaction upon waking, really. But seeing as they awoke at nearly the same time, the result being that he was groggy, and disoriented at finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings- they had once been familiar, but that had been some time ago; it felt like a lifetime ago- he was caught off-guard and it took him several long seconds to realize what was going on. What it all meant- Hermione stiffening suddenly in his arms, the muffled sound of distress she made against his chest before pushing him violently away from her, nearly causing him to fall off the bed- and by the time he’d regained his own balance, she was off the bed; she’d scrambled off the other side of it, landed in a heap on the floor, as uncoordinated as he was in her half-awake state, and scooted backwards until she was sitting pressed against the wall.

“Hermione,” he said cautiously, his voice hoarse and croaky with sleep.

She stared at him with wide eyes, but they were alarmingly blank- she wasn’t seeing him, not really, she was seeing something else entirely, and as his faculties returned to him, he thought he had a pretty damn good idea of what.

That sick fucking bastard. One death was too bloody good for him.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

She pulled her legs tightly up to her chin.

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

“Look at me, Hermione,” he said quietly. “Please, love. Really look.”

No dice. She buried her face in her knees and began to rock slightly.

“Shit,” Draco muttered. “shitshitshit.”

Should he stay where he was? Should he keep trying to talk sense to her? Or go over there? Pull her into his arms and hold on no matter what, as Snape had done for him in the hospital wing when he’d realized...

(Don’t want to think about that now. Or ever, really.)

Was that what she needed? Would it help? Or only make her hysterical? She looked to be making herself hysterical.

Some sort of action was called for.

He eased off the edge of the bed, advancing on her very slowly, as unthreateningly as he possibly could. It really hardly seemed to matter. She appeared to be lost to him anyway, with her face still hidden from view, burrowed between her knees and obscured by her vast amounts of sleep-tousled hair. She didn’t react until he was right there beside her, until he decided that Snape’s way was probably the best suited to this situation, and drew her into his arms.

Then she went berserk.

00000

“Hermione... Hermione...” Draco kept saying her name over and over as he gently stroked her tangled hair, at a loss for what else to say. She had fought him kicking and screaming, fought until she could fight no more, could barely move, and now she lay in his arms, panting, her struggles having finally lessened to the point where she at last lay, defeated, against him- not due to acceptance of him, but rather because her strength had given out.

Though she lay against his chest now, no longer trying to break away, her body was far from relaxed; she was taut and trembling, her breathing harsh, shallow and erratic.

Hence his efforts to comfort her by stroking her hair and murmuring her name. It seemed to be having little, if any, effect, however.

“Hermione,” he tried again, “listen, remember... remember the unicorns. Remember... the time I took you down there, and we saw Pansy. You didn’t believe they’d come, but they did. Remember the last night, when I took pictures of them in your lap.” He could feel the tension beginning to leave her, could sense her going suddenly very still, listening. He was getting through to her. “It’s me, Draco,” he said quietly. “I know what you were thinking when you woke up, but that’s over, love. I swear to you, you’re safe, and you’re going to remain safe. I swear, Hermione, so help me...”

She raised her head abruptly, her eyes intense, boring into his. “How did you know that?” she whispered.

“How did I know what?” he asked in confusion, and reached out to cup her cheek, to wipe a tear away, but she shied back from him, her dark eyes still locked on his pale ones.

“How did you know what I was thinking when I woke up? How did you know what your father did to me? That he turned himself into you when he- he-” she looked down and away then, swallowing hard, fighting for composure. “I never told you about that, Draco, so how did you know?”

Oh, Draco thought, Bugger. Me. “I- shit. He made a penseive, Hermione. I looked into it when I went back the manor to get Potter’s cloak. I- I saw it there, in my old bedroom, and I realized right away what it must contain, and I... I wanted to understand what you’d been through, so I could support you better, but I never imagined...”

“You saw everything he did to me?” Her voice was barely audible.

Draco pressed his eyes closed briefly, wishing fervently. Wishing he hadn’t seen it. Wishing it hadn’t happened. Wishing he could go back in time and change this moment, change everything from their breakup on.

“Yes,” he said finally, quietly, opening his eyes again, seeking her gaze- but she was still looking away from him- “I saw everything, love.”

“Oh God,” she whispered, hands coming up to shield her face entirely from his view, “oh God,” and now her breath was hitching sharply, “I never... wanted... you... to....”

“Know?” he supplied gently. “You never wanted me to know?”

She shook her head, sucking in deep breaths in an apparent attempt to calm herself... an attempt that didn’t seem to be working.

“Sweetheart, why? You must know by now that I will love you through anything? Why would you want to deal with this all on your own? Hermione?”

He reached out, intending to draw her into his arms again, but she shied away from him.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, almost frantically. Then, through breaths that were rapidly piling one on top of another, “please, Draco, I just... I n-need to be... alo-hone right now. Please... please leave.”

Draco, stunned, didn’t move- so Hermione did. She pushed herself up, using the wall for leverage, and then backed along it, away from him.

“Bookworm,” Draco said, his tone wary, as he unfolded gracefully to his feet.

“Don’t,” Hermione half-sobbed. “Please, Draco, just- just go away, please. Please!” She had reached the door into the bathroom; she fled through it, shutting and locking it behind her, leaving Draco standing there in her room, in only the boxers he’d slept in, utterly shocked and wounded to the core.

00000

He didn’t leave her room.

He paced back and forth for a while, went to her dresser, opened a drawer low down, pawed about for a moment and drew out a soft old tee-shirt of his that he remembered leaving there back when he had slept in this room quite frequently, pulled it on, ran a hand through his hair which was still staticky and stick-uppy from sleep, resumed pacing, stopped as he heard the shower go on in the adjacent bathroom, considered calling to Hermione through the door, decided against it, considered unlocking the door via Alohomora, remembered that he could not, that he would never be able to use that spell, or any other, ever again, fought the urge to howl out his rage and frustration and despair at the whole miserable situation, won- barely- and paced some more.

He paced restlessly around the perimeter of the room for a long, long time.

Far longer than it should have taken her to shower- and he ought to know, he had showered right along with her in that bathroom often enough. She was not the sort of ultra-feminine girl who regularly soaked for an hour; Hermione’s practical nature extended to her bathing habits and though the showers they took together had often ended up being... pleasantly prolonged... he knew that normally, when left to her own devices, she’d be in and out in ten minutes. Just long enough to work up a nice lather, and run some shampoo and conditioner through her hair, that gorgeous bloody hair, nowhere near the... he paused and glanced at her bedside clock, an ornate antique that ran on cogs and magic... forty minutes he’d been pacing?!?

He’d been pacing for forty minutes?

A bolt of cold fear shot through him. Something was wrong in there.

“Hermione!”

He rounded on the bathroom door- crossed to it- pounded on it. “HERMIONE!”

No answer.

“Hermione, Goddamn it, answer me! NOW!”

Still nothing.

Well, magic be damned. There were other ways of getting through that door. Backing up nearly to the bed, he steeled himself, then ran at it, ramming it with his shoulder, bursting through into the small room beyond.

“Hermione?” he asked, approaching the tub. When there was still no response, he yanked aside the curtain, then just stood where he was for a moment, aghast.

“Merlin,” he breathed finally, grabbing for the nearest towel, “Hermione, what the hell are you doing?”

In point of fact, she was doing very little; only sitting on the floor of the tub, knees drawn tightly up to her chin, arms clasped about them and head resting on them, face hidden from view by dark curtains of sopping wet hair, directly under the spray of the shower. The truly alarming thing was that the water had long since run cold- and in a large and ancient building like Hogwarts, when the water went cold it went cold- it was like ice.

Draco turned the shower off, went down on one knee, pulled an unresisting and still silent Hermione out of the bathtub and into his lap, wrapped the large white towel he held around her, and began to rub vigorously. Hermione just let her head fall onto his shoulder. After a while he picked her up, still wrapped only in the oversized towel, carried her back into the bedroom, and settled in a large and cushy armchair- a favorite reading spot of hers- between the bed and the hearth. She remained utterly pliant in his arms, a life-sized rag-doll of the woman he loved.

Hermione- his Hermione- bright and vivacious and strong-willed and independent Hermione- was nowhere to be found.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Hermione,” he said, his voice ragged with emotion, “what in God’s name were you playing at in there? What are you trying to do?”

He thought he felt her lips move against his shoulder.

“What?”

She raised her head marginally, and repeated herself. “I said, please just leave me alone.”

“LIKE HELL I WILL!” Draco exploded, finally at his breaking point. “Are you FUCKING MENTAL?!? What exactly is freezing yourself to death going to accomplish, Hermione? WHAT?”

She shoved herself away from him so suddenly and violently that he very nearly dropped her. “Maybe then I won’t have to REMEMBER ANY MORE!” she shouted back at him, her eyes blazing with fury and despair.

“Oh. Right,” Draco said, in a falsely calm voice, before fuming, “and where exactly does that LEAVE ME?!” A voice inside of him was protesting that this was wrong, all wrong, a shouting match was the last thing either of them needed, for God’s sake, call it off now- but he was beside himself, and unable to heed it. She had scared him half to death with that little shower stunt, and had cut him to the quick with her repeated requests that he leave, when all he wanted to do was help her, hold her, and he found himself reacting to these two emotions, fear and pain, as he always had- with anger and the desire, rational or not, to lash out; to hurt back. “You’re not the only one with bloody problems right now, Hermione, so stop being so GODDAMN SELFISH!”

WHAP.

By the time Draco had raised a hand, uncomprehendingly, to his stinging cheek, Hermione had scrambled entirely off his lap and was standing in front of him, flushed, breathing hard, looking angrier than he thought he’d ever seen her- except, perhaps, for that day in the library when he’d intentionally humiliated her in public and broken her heart- and even that was too close to call with any certainty.

“I spent,” she said in a voice that shook with rage, “three days... and two nights... being raped... so many times I lost count... by someone who looked like you, spoke like you, moved like you, smelled like you- convinced all the while that the real you HATED me- would never come for me- would probably do no more than sneer and turn away if he- if you- could have seen what was happening to me. I wanted to die. I WANTED TO DIE! And then you sit there and tell me that I’m not the only one with bloody problems right now. I-” tears were streaking down her cheeks, fast and silent and apparently unnoticed by her. She swallowed hard. “I have nothing more to say to you, Draco Malfoy, except that I’m through asking you nicely. I want you OUT OF MY ROOM! NOW!”

Draco stood. His legs felt wooden, foreign. The voice inside of him was yelling now, that it still wasn’t too late to set things right, if he would only go to her, pull her to him and hold onto her- that that was truly what she needed, what they both did.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was wounded too deeply. “Fine,” he said dully, and then again, “fine.” He turned and crossed to the door, not stopping even when he heard a thud that could only be her body crumpling to the floor, followed by the sound of gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching sobs. “Fine,” he muttered to himself through tightly clenched teeth, refusing the impulse to turn around; if he turned around he would go to her, and he was not gonna do that.

He stepped through the door and pulled it decisively shut behind him.

“Fine.”

He spent the day down at the building site, supervising the groundbreaking and the beginnings of the construction of his future home, thoroughly miserable all the while. This was something he and Hermione had been supposed to do together, but she was nowhere to be seen. Who knew where she was today, or what sort of state she was in? Worry gnawed at him, but though what he wanted more than anything was just to say the hell with this and go find her, his pride refused to allow it.

He didn’t see her at all that day, or that night either. He took dinner, along with Harry, down in the kitchens with the house elves- Hanni was as ecstatic to see him as Dobby was to see Harry. To Draco, Dobby was rather cool and cautious at first, but soon warmed up to him as Hanni had been singing his praises for weeks, and as Dobby now had an opportunity to see for himself that his former tyrant of a master was indeed a changed man.

Once Draco and Harry had finished eating, as they were preparing to leave, Dobby and Hanni, hand-in-hand, and amongst fits of giggling and playful prodding from the other elves, joyfully announced to the two boys that a romance had been blooming between them, and that they planned to wed in a month.

Draco, though he couldn’t suppress a small shudder at the thought of house elf lovin’ that crept, unbidden, into his mind at this announcement, was as genuinely pleased for Hanni as Harry was for Dobby. He took her aside into a quiet corner of the kitchen and asked her if she would perhaps like her freedom as a wedding gift. Hanni promptly burst into tears, but it didn’t take long for Draco to discern that these were the good sort of tears, and that yes, she would like that very much indeed. Draco then promised to buy her abridal gown, and, by giving it to her on her wedding day, simultaneously set her free. Hanni was over the moon at the prospect of being quite possibly the first house elf ever to get married in a traditional white gown, rather than the standard extra-heavily-embroidered pillowcase female elves usually wore.

By the time Harry and Draco actually left the kitchen, it had been decided by the happy elf couple that Harry would be best man and Draco would give the bride away. Draco made a mental note to speak with the construction foreman then next day about an additional wedding gift, this one to be a surprise- there was a charming and private little corner of the property he and Hermione had bought, a short distance away from the site of the main house, near a small grove of trees and a raucous little brook, that would be perfect for a cottage. A cottage in which two freed house elves could raise a free family, away from prying eyes and any possible harassment or molestation.

00000

As they climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, Draco filled Harry in on the fact that he and Hermione were arguing, though he skimped on details. Harry still didn’t know all of what had happened to Hermione in the manor, and as far as Draco was concerned, he never would unless Hermione decided to tell him. He knew that it wasn’t his place.

Not that Harry was completely clueless, of course. He knew that whatever it had been, had been atrocious. That much was patently obvious just from the condition she’d been in when they’d reached her. He was sure there’d been torture- he guessed there’d been rape. What he would never guess was the precise thing that had sparked the morning’s blow-up; the unimaginable cruelty Lucius had displaying in taking on Draco’s form for the worst of it.

In any event, by mentioning the argument Draco achieved what he had hoped for; Harry agreed to check in on Hermione before going to bed, and to report to Draco. Draco’s fears could be assuaged without his actually having to make the first move toward reconciliation.

He paced in his room until he heard Harry’s knock at the door.

“She seems all right,” Harry said without preamble, “if a little… sad. Look, Malfoy, this argument, or whatever it is, is no good for either of you. I can see you’re both hurting from it. And you know that Hermione is every bit as stubborn as you are. This thing could drag on for days. So why don’t you just face the music and go talk to her yourself? It’ll be better for both of you in the long run.”

Draco pretended to give this some serious thought, but there was no way he was knocking on Hermione’s door tonight. She’d made it clear she wanted him nowhere near her. And if that was what she wanted, fine, that was what she’d get.

Sad or not.

As soon as Harry left, he grabbed his broomstick- (it had recently been specially enchanted by Dumbledore; whereas most broomsticks relied on the magic inherent in their riders, this one was now endowed with a magical essence all its own, so that it could carry Draco regardless of whether he had magic or not)- unlatched the window, and took off into the night. He flew for hours, fast and hard… and alone.

Utterly alone.

00000

This miserable, self-imposed isolation between the two of them continued for three entire days, with Harry acting as an increasingly frustrated and foul-tempered go-between. On the third night, Harry threw up his hands and refused to have anything more to do with either of them until they sorted matters out between themselves.

That night, when Draco returned from his solo flight- he’d been doing it every night since the argument- it was to find the door of his bedroom ajar and Hermione, looking heartachingly small, fragile and alone, curled up in the middle of his bed, asleep on top of the blankets. He closed the window quietly, leaned his broom against the wall, shut the door she’d left open, shrugged out of his flying things, and approached the bed.

“Bookworm,” he whispered, sinking down on the edge of it and reaching out to smooth her rumpled hair, inwardly terrified of what might happen when she awoke. Would it be the same nightmarish scene all over again?

She blinked slowly, drowsily, and focused on him. “Hey,” she whispered, and he could tell that she was seeing him- really seeing him.

He smiled slowly. “What’re you doing here, love?”

“I don’t wanna fight anymore. I don’t wanna sleep alone anymore. I’m sorry, Draco-”

“Shh,” he cut her off. “S’alright. I’m sorry too. C’mere.” He gathered her into his arms. “I love you so much, bookworm,” he murmured, stroking her hair, “so much more than you’ll ever know.”

Hermione seemed so sleepy she could barely keep her eyes open. She dropped her head to his shoulder and yawned hugely. “I took some dreamless sleep potion,” she murmured, snuggling against him, feeling, to Draco, like a lost part of himself finally returned home. “So I should be okay… when I wake up….”

And just like that, she was gone, drifted off into a deep and peaceful slumber, still in a half-sitting position, leaning heavily against him.

Draco shifted her gently off himself and down onto the bed, pulled back the covers, eased both himself and Hermione under them, and curled himself around her small, warm body. For the first time in three days, he slept well too.

00000

This time, it was Draco’s turn to awaken disoriented and confused- though in his case, it was not an unpleasant sensation, seeing as it was liberally mixed with large doses of arousal. It was the cause of the arousal that confused him; Hermione was already awake and was- doing things- to him with her hand.

He dragged in a deep, hitching breath as his entire body shuddered involuntarily with pleasure. It had been a long time since he’d felt that warm little hand wrapped firmly around… well, yeah. She was lying halfway on top of him and he couldn’t see her face, but he felt her smile against his bare chest as she did something that wrenched a groan from his throat.

“Hermione,” he managed at length, his voice hoarse and shaky, “are you sure you want this, love?” It took all of his willpower to ask the question, even as his body responded to her ministrations, standing rigidly at attention.

She looked up at him then, a slanting band of morning sunlight falling across her face and hair, illuminating her. Her hair was sleep-tousled and her eyes held only love and a hint of mischief- no fear, no pain, as far as he could see. He thought she was the most beautiful thing on earth. Then she buried her face in his stomach to stifle a yawn before moving her lips lower.

“I want this, Draco,” she murmured, her lips moving against a very sensitive part of his anatomy, which she’d freed easily from his boxer shorts. “I want it now, with the sun shining in, so I can see you clearly all the while. I want you.”

“Nnmph,” Draco choked out, strangling a moan. Merlin, was he still dreaming? He didn’t think so….

But he wondered just the same as Hermione began tracing patterns with her tongue- it felt so damn good.

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It was almost like their first time, in that it took them a long, long while to reach the point where they were both ready to dispense with the foreplay and actually make love. Draco was nearly superhuman in his resolve to take things slow. When the moment finally came, he rolled onto his back, pulling Hermione over so that she was on top, straddling him.

“You’re calling… all the shots, love,” he panted. “S’up to you… how fast and how far we go. You can stop… any time. All right?”

She bent close over him, planting one hand on each side of his head- they sank into his down pillow, right up to the wrists. Their noses bumped together as she whispered, “I love you, Draco Malfoy. I trust you. Show me it can be good. It can be good, right?”

Draco grinned- she was repeating what she’d said to him the first night she’d given herself to him. “Hell yeah, it can be good,” he said raggedly. He plunged a hand into her thick hair and grasped the back of her neck, pulling her down into a kiss. At the same time, she shifted her body- rising up slightly, and when she came back down-

Merlin… oh Merlin, so good-

When she came back down, settling herself low on his hips, it was with his entire length buried inside her.

She gave a soft cry into his mouth, then wrenched her lips away from his, leaving him to draw in a sharp breath between suddenly clenched teeth, and burrowed her face into the hollow where his neck met his shoulder. She stayed like that for a long moment, her body taut, trembling and perfectly still, her breaths bursting quick and erratic on his throat, her hands tightly clenched in his pillow, on either side of his head. Her every muscle seemed to be clenched tight and God Almighty, she felt so good, it was all he could do to keep from grabbing her hips, rolling her onto her back and…

No. He had told her she was calling the shots, and that was how it was going to be. If she decided to call the whole thing off right now, then so be it. He withdrew the hand that had been buried in her hair and began rubbing her back in light, soothing circles, while his other arm snaked around her waist, pressing her down even tighter against him

‘Hey,” he managed, after swallowing thickly, “you wanna stop, bookworm? Just say the word.”

She raised her head then, only marginally, but enough to meet his eyes, and he saw that hers were swimming with tears, but she wasn’t allowing them to spill over. “It’s okay,” she said, her words choppy as a result of her fast, frantic breathing- she hardly seemed able to suck in enough air- “I’m just… I need…” She wetted her lips with her tongue, the completely unconscious eroticism of that simple little act nearly pushing Draco over the edge. “I need you… to talk to me… Draco. Talk to me… please.”

He knew immediately what she was asking for. Gentle words, loving words, the sort that would reassure her throughout that he was who he was- the person who loved her more than anything else on earth- more than his own life, more than his own soul.

So he lifted both hands to her face, framing it, and began to speak as she began to move.

He told her all the things he could think of that he loved about her (the same things that had flashed through his mind when she’d been dead on the school’s front steps and he’d thought her lost forever). The way her hair looked in the morning, the scent of her shampoo, the furrow she got in her forehead while reading, a thousand things that had each been like a dagger in him when he’d thought she was gone.

Not to mention the way she looked- and felt- now… almost too bloody good to be real. In the end, nearly all coherency fled him and it all came down to “I love you, I love you, God, how I love you,” as his hands finally found their way down to grasp her hips and help her along, and far from minding, she responded by gasping out her release, tightening around him until he thought he couldn’t bear it anymore, and went tumbling after her over the brink, groaning aloud in spite of himself.

The afterglow lasted them both the rest of that day- they were still euphoric when they met up with a very relieved Harry for dinner that night, all three of them eating in the kitchens together this time, so that Dobby and Hanni could fuss over Hermione and tell her of their wedding plans in person. She’d gotten the low-down from Harry already, but was very good at putting on a pretense of surprised delight- and after all, the delight, at least, was entirely genuine.

Over the course of the next few days, taking most breakfasts and dinners with the elves (lunches were usually had in Hogsmeade Village, either at the Three Broomsticks where the young engaged couple were quickly becoming regarded as “regulars”, or picnicking at the construction site), Draco and Hermione even convinced them to push back the date of their nuptials by a month, so that the wedding could be held on the grounds of the new Malfoy home, the very first day it was complete. It would be a joyous occasion that was half housewarming party and half wedding celebration. Draco had hired an additional team of builders to ensure that construction was completed on time, and to take responsibility for the cottage that was now being erected in secret, on that secluded little corner of their land. Hermione had been beyond delighted when he had asked her opinion, and was nearly as enthusiastic about selecting furniture and décor for the cottage as for the main house. The time passed quickly with so many things to plan for; the completion of their home, Dobby and Hanni’s wedding, which they’d be hosting, their own wedding which would follow in a few months’ time.

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It seemed like no more than a few days had passed, and there they were, out in the newly landscaped garden overlooking Hogwarts Lake, toasting the newlywed elves along with most of the Hogwarts faculty and a select few friends, who could be counted upon to be as supportive of Hanni and Dobby as Draco and Hermione were themselves. Hanni had all of a bride’s radiance and, though very homely by human standards, was obviously completely captivating to her new husband. The party lingered on through the evening with dinner and dancing, cake and champagne, and culminated in a lantern-lit procession to the cottage, led by Draco and Hermione. The newlyweds, at the sight of this stupendous surprise wedding gift, promptly went absolutely berserk with amazed gratitude, racing from one room to the next, marveling at the elf-sized furnishings and accessories, the closets (his and hers) and drawers overflowing with miniature clothing, and the fully stocked and furnished nursery, ready and waiting, which caused Hanni to blush to the tips of her oversized ears.

Hermione’s parents, who attended the event, were floored by the newly completed house, and put considerably more at ease by witnessing the easy interaction that now existed between their daughter and her intended, as they played gracious hosts to their thirty or so guests, snatching time away every so often to join the candlelit dancing down at one end of the rose garden, beneath a canopy of lavishly flowering vines. When Mr. and Mrs. Granger left that night it was with a markedly better impression of their son-in-law-to-be than they’d taken away with them from the commencement ceremony.

As for Draco and Hermione, they fell into bed exhausted once the last of their guests had left, the bed being the only piece of furniture they had bothered situating in its rightful place on their first day in their new home- most of which had been spent outdoors, of course, at the wedding. The rest of their furniture, that which had arrived, at any rate- there were still several pieces on order that had yet to be delivered- was scattered about haphazardly; most, but not all, of the items in or at least near their appointed rooms. Boxes littered the floors of every room as well. This was all work for tomorrow; they’d be indoors setting up house while a hired- and generously paid- team of house elves would be out in the garden, cleaning away all signs of the event that had so recently transpired there.

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The next morning they slept late, awakened only when a wide band of sunlight fell across the bed- the windows did not yet have curtains up. They made love with decadent abandon as the sun shone in, not caring a whit for the house elves that were scurrying hither and thither outside- they weren’t tall enough to see over the windowsill!- then rose to try out their new bathing facilities, which easily rivaled the spacious prefects’ bathroom at Hogwarts.

The rest of the day was spent in unpacking boxes and crates, moving furniture around through a mix of Hermione’s magic and Draco’s good old fashioned manly strength, and debating the permanent placements for this floor lamp or that chaise lounge. The day passed too quickly, the only breaks being for meals and when Hermione, with considerable excitement, took delivery of a gigantic book she had ordered from Diagon Alley and had been awaiting eagerly for some time. When they finally sought their bed that night, nearly stumbling from fatigue, their muscles warm and loose from a day’s worth of heavy lifting, it was with less than half of their household organizing done, yet with a feeling of immense satisfaction and well-being in their hearts.

It was a feeling that was to vanish all too soon.

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It was far and away the worst nightmare Draco had ever had.

He was witnessing a scene straight out of his father’s penseive; one of the many vicious rape sessions that had taken place over the three days of Hermione’s captivity, Lucius- (sick- fucking- bastard- Draco thought helplessly)- having of course taken on Draco’s form, so it was like watching himself brutalizing the girl he loved more than his very soul.

He was struggling frantically to reach them, to put an end to this horror, to snap his father’s neck with his own bare hands- but it was as if there were invisible bonds restraining him; just as with the pensieve itself, he could do nothing to interfere; only watch, knowing that this had happened and could not be altered, and weep with frustrated rage.

Hermione had tried desperately to escape- even toward night of the second day, when this scene had actually taken place, the fight had not left her entirely- but she’d been sick and weak, and had never had a chance. Her captor had thrown her face-down on the bed and taken her that way, pushing her face hard into the mattress until she had nearly passed out, then, just as he had climaxed, winding a hand through her thick hair and yanking her head back, wrenching a hoarse, sobbing cry of agony from her throat.

Draco watched as her hands had wound helplessly in the bedclothes, and a long, shuddering moment later, Lucius had collapsed on top of her, biting her hard on the shoulder as he’d waited for his breath to return to normal- all this managed to elicit from her, nearly unconscious by now, was a low, despairing moan. As he had pushed himself off the bed, the polyjuice potion had lost its effect, and so Lucius had appeared himself again as he had walked around the bed on which Hermione now lay like a discarded rag doll and, reaching down, pulled her head up by the hair one more time.

“Smartest witch of your age,” he had sneered, “where is all your book-learning now, hmm? Let me tell you something, mudblood; THIS is what you were made for.” And releasing her, he had stalked through the door, throwing one last taunt- “filthy little whore”- back at her before slamming it shut behind him.

Left on her own now, Hermione had slowly, very slowly, curled up into a tight ball on the bed, her head cushioned on one arm, the other thrown over her face in what appeared to be a futile effort at self-protection. She was shaking violently- shock, Draco thought, where he now slumped in defeated misery against his invisible bonds; she’s going into deep shock- and her body was heaving every now and then- whether in an attempt to retch or to sob he couldn’t tell, but either way the attempt was futile- there appeared to be neither tears nor bile left in her; no fluid at all save for that with which his father had just injected her.

Vile. Disgusting.

He felt sick himself, at the thought.

And then he heard her speak his name.

“Draco,” she had whispered, “Draco, where are you… please help me, please… don’t… let him hurt me anymore… oh God… I can’t take anymore… Draco… please?”

He knew it was useless, but he tried to shout to her anyway, to tell her he was coming and to hold on, just hold on, love, don’t give up- but of course she didn’t hear him. She’d been drifting into darkness and just before unconsciousness had claimed her, he heard her whisper aloud again; “God, please don’t let me wake up… I don’t… wanna… wake…”

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“HERMIONE!!!” He shouted, sitting straight up in bed, his pajamas, soaked with perspiration, sticking to his body, his hair plastered to his forehead, shaking almost as violently as she had been doing in the dream.

Not dream, memory; he remembered seeing that exact scene in the pensieve, which meant that it had actually happened- dear God, it had actually HAPPENED that way.

He had to force back a wave of nausea at the thought. It took him a long, long moment of sitting there, breathing hard, before he even registered his surroundings enough to notice that Hermione was missing from the bed.

A bolt of fear like ice shot through him.

“Hermione?” His voice was ragged with the vestiges of the dream. He kicked off the topsheet- all that had been covering him- and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Hermione?”

No answer.

His heart now pounding in his chest like a drum, he stood. Something was wrong. He knew it as clearly as he had known it the night his father had taken her. Something was very definitely wrong here.

“Hermione, damn it, answer me.” His voice was little more than a whisper. Fear had constricted his throat.

He took a few stumbling steps before stopping abruptly, having barked his shin hard on a box set in the middle of the floor. In his distraught and sleep-muddled state, he had forgotten that was no longer in his Head Boy room at Hogwarts.

“Shit!” he ground out, reaching down to rub his injured leg. Of all the ways to be awakened on only his second night in his new home. “HERMIONE!”

Still no answer.

He stayed where he was for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then, slowly, he made his way out of the bedroom and down the hallway of the house’s “nighttime wing”, pausing at every doorway to look in, squinting against the darkness, searching for any sign of fiancée before moving on.

He had meant what he’d said when he had told Ron that any house he bought in the future would not have stairs. The new Malfoy residence was indeed a single-storey home, laid out in a rough L-shape. There was the nighttime wing, as he and Hermione had dubbed it, which contained four bedrooms and two bathrooms, not including the large master suite, which sat at the very end of the hall, and then there was the daytime wing, which consisted of the entryway, living room, dining room, kitchen, game room, yet another bathroom, and- of course- the library.

It was in the library- all the way at the opposite end of the house from the master bedroom, that he found her.

She was lying full-length on the floor, stretched out on the hearth rug in front of a fireplace that had long since gone dark and cold, asleep with her head cushioned on the pages of a gigantic book which he recognized even from the doorway and even in the dark, simply by virtue of the fact that he knew it was, without question, the largest book in the house at the moment. It was the one that had arrived just that day by owl post; it had taken four large birds to transport it. He had commented on its size, refusing to remark upon its subject, which was, predictably, a comprehensive study of the loss of magic in adult witches and wizards; its causes and possible remedies. It was the kind of all-encompassing reference book she had been searching for at Hogwarts to no avail.

He should have been relieved to find her so. Apparently unable to sleep, even after their busy day, she had crept from bed for a late night session with this new book, the arrival of which she had been awaiting with such anticipation. She had stretched out with it in front of the fire, read until she had fallen asleep, the fire had gone out, and here she was. Nothing had happened to her; there was no cause for alarm.

So why did he still have that strong and distinct feeling that something was not right?

He realized why in the next moment. She had been lying on her stomach, her arms folded over the pages of the book and her head laid upon them, but now she tossed over onto her back- it was an abrupt, restless motion; the motion of someone engaged in a nightmare, and was accompanied by a whimpering sound deep in her throat. When her face was revealed to him, he saw three things at once; first, that several tendrils of her dark hair were stuck to her forehead and neck with perspiration- second, that her brows were knit in obvious distress- and third, that there were tear-tracks on her cheeks; she was crying in her sleep.

He knew then, without knowing how he knew, but beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she was wrapped in the same nightmare he himself had just awakened from… and God, he thought, if it had been bad for him, what must it be like for her?

“Hermione,” he murmured, starting toward her. “Oh, sweetheart.”

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened when he reached her.

Kneeling beside her, he bent down and took her shoulders in his hands. “Hermione,” he said, more loudly this time, and gave her a little shake. That was when all hell broke loose.

“NOO!” she screamed, her eyes flying open; she raised both hands to his chest and shoved him away with a strength born of adrenaline, and by the time he had recovered himself, she had scooted backward on her bottom, to a distance of several feet.

“Neh… ver… ah… gain,” she gasped out, her eyes huge and wild, her body wracked as if by sobs, though her eyes were dry. “Never again. Get away from me… get AWAY!”

“Hermione.” Draco forced himself to keep his voice calm. “Hermione, it’s me. You’re safe. You’re home. It’s just a dream, you need to wake up. It’s me, Draco. I love you. Please wake up.”

“Don’t lie to me!” she screamed then. “Don’t… you… dare! You’re not Draco, he wouldn’t say that, he never has! He doesn’t love me, he isn’t coming, I’m going to die here!”

Each word was like a knife in Draco’s heart. God, that she had actually thought this… could he ever, in all his life, make it up to her?

But, as it turned out, he had a more pressing problem to deal with at the moment- Hermione, now well out of his grasp, suddenly cried, “Accio!” and her wand flew to her from where she’d left it lying on a low side table before drifting off to sleep on the pages of her book.

She grabbed it both-handed and leveled it at him, and her hands were shaking slightly, but her aim was true; it was trained directly on his heart. “Even if I do die here,” she said, “you’re never going to touch me again. Never!” Her eyed narrowed, now blazing with rage and hate and agony, and Draco had just a split second, his own eyes widening hugely, to realize holy shit, she’s going to KILL me, she’s really gonna kill me in her sleep and dear God, what will that do to her when she WAKES UP?!? before she started to form the word “Av-” and he acted without pause for rational thought; the only idea that flitted through his mind in that instant was that she would stop if she could see him, really see him for who he was- that would snap her out of it, and so, with a burst of panicked adrenaline, not remembering in that split second that he was now supposedly a squib, he shouted “LUMOS!”

And it worked.

Oh, how it worked.

The darkened fireplace, and every wall sconce and lamp in the room, exploded into light with nearly deafening popping sounds and a ferocious energy that lit the room as brilliantly as if it were a professional Quidditch Pitch at night- in other words, more brightly than the brightest daylight.

Draco, already on his knees, doubled over with a hoarse shout, clutching at his temples; when the room had exploded with light, his head had exploded with pain. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his eyes shut against the hurtful glare that now permeated every corner of the library. “Ngh!” he grunted with the effort not to cry out again, folding himself right in half, until in the next instant he felt Hermione’s hands, small yet insistent, pulling him up to face her, her voice muzzy with sleep, frightened, confused.

“Draco! Draco, what’s wrong? How are you hurt, did you make this light, what’s going on?”

He forced his eyes open to look at her, realizing dimly, belatedly, she didn’t kill me, I’m still alive- her face was blurry; he blinked and she doubled, tripled- he realized then that there were tears streaming from his eyes, in silent protest of the screaming pain in his head.

“Head… hurts!” he gasped out. “Just… hold onto me… please!” And wrapping his arms around her, he yanked her close to him and buried his face in her chest.

A long time passed, as the grinding, pounding, stabbing pain in his head gradually subsided, Hermione cradling him and stroking her fingers soothingly through his hair. Finally, after what seemed a small eternity, he raised his head enough to face her, though his teeth were still gritted and the pain, although bearable now, was still there, lurking; waiting, he felt, to strike.

“Draco,” Hermione whispered, taking his face in both her hands, “what happened? Did you make this light? You did, didn’t you?”

“You were dreaming again,” he said hoarsely, “you didn’t believe it was me, I had to make you see, I had to- and- God- it’s too damn bright in here, it’s hurting my eyes.”

“Then make it dark again,” Hermione said.

“You know I can’t bloody well do that,” he ground out.

“I think you can. I think you made this light, and I think you can unmake it. Do it, Draco.”

“I can’t!” he cried hoarsely, almost frantically, pressing the palms of both hands hard against his temples. Merlin, the pain…

“Draco,” Hermione said calmly, reasonably, insistently, “Draco, you have to try this. We have to know.”

Draco glared at her for a moment. Though he would never admit it to her, he was terrified- of what it would mean should he speak the spell and nothing happened. He didn’t think he could stand having his hopes raised this way- and they were raised, despite the pain in his head- and then having them dashed again.

Hermione, however, seemed unfazed by the hostile expression he was directing her way. “Say it, love,” she whispered.

Draco took a deep breath, steeling himself, then said, still through gritted teeth, “Nox.”

The lights extinguished immediately, but another bolt of pain went surging through Draco’s head, knocking him backward this time, to sprawl flat on the rug, both hands pressed over his eyes, groaning. The room, pitch black, was beginning to spin.

“Draco? Draco!” He knew that Hermione was kneeling over him, her face just inches from his, but he could barely hear her. The headache had a sound to it now; a pulsing, pounding, ringing roar. He tried to say her name but couldn’t. Attempting to speak caused an unbearable crescendo of pain. He thought he heard her say she was going to get help, then the room spun faster and faster until it tipped off at a mad angle and Draco went slipping over the edge of consciousness and was gone.

Draco groaned hoarsely, fighting his way slowly back to consciousness. It felt like swimming up through a noxious, thick substance- it was black at first, then varying shades of grey passing from darker to lighter, and then, finally-

“Ow,” he whispered, raising a hand slowly to his throbbing forehead; he found a cool, damp rag resting across it. “Mmph,” he muttered in protest, struggling up onto his elbows and wrenching his eyes open, only to slam them shut again.

He was still in the library, though he’d been lifted onto the sofa, and the only light in the room was the flickering orange glow from the fireplace, which had been stoked back to life- but even that seemed to Draco like far too much light at the moment. He turned his head sharply, burying his face in the sofa-back.

“Draco.”

He started at the sound of his name, but did not remove his face from the sofa cushion, even as surprised as he was- for it was not Hermione who had spoken. Instead he mumbled, “Severus… s’bright.”

He heard some movement behind him, then Snape spoke again.

“I’ve banked the fire a bit, Draco. Try again.”

He pried one eye open, then the other, grimacing as he did so. The room still seemed too bright for comfort, though he knew rationally that under any other circumstances he would have considered it far too dim to be appropriate for anything save perhaps lovemaking. Snorting softly at the thought, he swung his legs over the side of the couch, planting his feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees, and dropping his face forward into his hands. The cool rag fell from his forehead to land on the floor between his bare feet with a wet plop.

He felt the sofa cushions shift as Snape sat beside him.

“Where’s Hermione?” he asked, his voice croaky and too loud in his own ears.

“Just over there,” Snape said. Draco raised his head for a moment and saw her across the room, asleep sideways on a large armchair- her legs hooked over one of the upholstered arms, her head resting where the other arm met the chair’s back. Her face, pale, surrounded by the rumpled glory of all her dark hair, was turned toward him; she looked peaceful now, her lips slightly parted in sleep, but the flickering firelight revealed silvery tear tracks on her cheeks.

Draco dropped his head into his hands again. “She called you,” he said, muffled.

“Yes,” Snape replied. “She was a degree or two past hysterical. She said your powers had come back, and stronger than ever- but that they nearly killed you. What happened, Draco?”

“She was having a nightmare. She nearly killed me. She thought I…” he shook his head, his hands clenching in his pale hair. “She thought I was my father,” he choked out. “She had me at wandpoint, she was- her eyes- she wasn’t really there, I could tell. She was trapped in the dream. She really was about to kill me, Severus.”

He paused, dragging in a deep, unsteady breath, and felt his mentor’s hand come to rest on his back. “All I could think of,” he continued at length, “was that I had to make her see it was me- I only had an instant in which to act, I didn’t have time to stop and consider that my magic was gone, I just did the first thing that came into my head. I cast Lumos. And it worked, Severus- but it knocked me on my arse, let me tell you. My head- it felt like it exploded. Shit, it still feels that way. But Hermione convinced me to try Nox- and that knocked me right the hell out.”

He raised his head then, and Snape could see fear battling with hope in his eyes. “What if my magic is back, but I can never use it again because of…” he waved a hand vaguely- “all this? What if I can never use it again for fear of being knocked flat? Knowing it was there- that would be worse that being a Squib, I think.”

“You’re getting way ahead of yourself,” Snape said calmly. “This was the first time you’ve used magic in months. And it’s entirely possible that it has been building up inside of you for all this time, just somehow inaccessible to you until a moment of great peril and need wrenched it to the surface. It was bound to have a kick to it, Draco.”

“Yeah?” Draco asked, his uncertainty making him seem much younger than he was- not at all the same person who had single-handedly killed over a dozen former Death Eaters in the not-so-distant past.

“That is my theory at the moment, yes,” Snape replied, “and this book I’ve just been looking through-” he indicated Hermione’s enormous new book, lying open where the potions master had apparently been studying it while waiting for Draco to wake up- “seems to corroborate it. I have more reading to do, though, and you need your rest. Drink this and then take Miss Granger to bed. I’ll just stay right here with the book, if you don’t mind; your library really is quite comfortable.”

So saying, he held out a vial of liquid, which Draco took after a moment’s hesitation, looking wary. “What is it?” he asked, turning the vial in the dim light of the fire, examining its contents.

“Simple headache remedy,” Snape said. “My, aren’t we suspicious?” his voice was tinged with dry humor. “You can always pass on it, Draco, if you like feeling as if the Knight Bus just ran over your head.”

Without another word, Draco uncorked the miniature bottle with his teeth and downed the potion in one swallow. Almost immediately, the room stopped looking so painfully, unnaturally bright. He got to his feet- and breathed a sigh of relief when this simple action did not cause his head to swim dizzily.

“Will you need my assistance with Miss Granger?” Snape asked.

“I think we’ll manage, thanks,” Draco said with a small smile. “Make yourself comfortable. If you get tired, the couch folds out into a bed. Some Muggle thing Hermione insisted upon. I’ll have Hanni look in on you in the morning.”


“I thought your elf was free?” Snape inquired.

“Oh, she is, but you know house elves- they would implode if they had nothing to do. Dobby’s kept his job up at Hogwarts, but we’ve hired Hanni on to be our ‘household manager’. She’s so ridiculously proud of the title that Hermione says she’s going to order her some business cards that she can pass out.” He shook his head at this notion, but then added, “there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that elf, Severus. Nothing. She saved Hermione’s life. And since Hermione is my life, she saved mine as well.”

He stood for a moment lost in thought, then shook his head as if to clear it and crossed to where Hermione lay curled in her chair. Scooping her effortlessly into his arms, he turned and headed for the door. “Good night, Severus,” he said quietly, “and- thanks for always coming when I need you.”

Snape however, once left on his own, found that he was still thinking about Hanni the house elf, and how her courage and integrity had indeed been responsible for saving Hermione’s life. Saving Draco’s life.

“Well, then,” he murmured aloud before turning back to the open book, “I suppose she saved mine too.”

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Draco’s magic, it transpired, was back indeed.

Over the next few weeks, he spent every free moment he had with Snape, learning to re-cultivate his magical abilities, pretty much from the ground up. When Hogwarts classes began again and Snape was no longer free during the day, Draco altered his sleep-wake cycle so that he could be with his mentor from six in the evening until two in the morning. (Merlin only knew how Snape coped with it all.) It was difficult and taxing work, and Hermione worried as he returned home every night seeming more exhausted than the last… until the night when, long after Draco should have been home, just as she was throwing on a robe and preparing to go in search of him, she answered a knock at the door to find Snape on the stoop, with Draco unconscious in his arms.

Once the rush of complete panic subsided, Hermione found herself torn between two fundamentals of her nature; her deeply ingrained respect for her elders, and her strong inclination to speak her mind, no-holds-barred. In the end, it was her inclination to speak her mind that won. After all, Draco’s health was at stake here. And there were few things in the world that could change bookish little Hermione Granger into a Force-To-Be-Reckoned-With like a threat to her Draco’s well-being.

So Snape certainly got a very loud and vehement earful as he carried Draco down the long hallway to the master bedroom and laid him carefully on the bed. The stern and much-feared potions master looked unusually chagrined as the petite girl who had been his student until just a few weeks ago continued to lecture him in a voice that was very near to shouting-

“-think for one minute, professor, that I’d rather have a dead wizard than a live squib for a fiancé, then let me tell you, you’ve another think coming! Draco is too desperate to recover his magic to know when to stop, he depends on you to set those limits for him- he looks up to you, and you’ve let him down! And you’d better believe me when I say that he’s not-”

“Miss Granger.”

“-going to spend even one more-”

“Miss Granger.”

“night making himself sick while-”

“Miss Granger!”

Hermione stopped abruptly mid-tirade, flushed with anger, hands planted firmly on her hips, clearly nowhere near done speaking her mind. Her expression- one eyebrow arched challengingly- clearly said, hurry up and say what you need to say, so that I can get on with tearing you a new one. Snape sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Draco is done,” he said, tiredly. “He doesn’t need anymore practice; he’s-” Snape shook his head slightly- “frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it. When his magic returned, it returned tenfold. That’s why it was so painful to him at first- without the proper controls in place, it nearly ripped right through him. In terms of sheer, raw power, he’s easily the strongest wizard alive today. Perhaps the strongest that’s ever lived. Do you recall, Miss Granger, on the night of Draco’s Resorting, Dumbledore telling him that the handful of witches and wizards who have been Resorted through the ages tended to prove themselves… very, very special? Went on to do great things- make history? I have a feeling that such greatness is in store for Draco. Without question, Draco is-” he paused, groping for words- “well, Miss Granger, he is something remarkable to behold, now that he is in full control again. But enough talk.” He glanced at the bedside clock, which showed the time to be nearly four in the morning. “When your fiancé awakens, tell him that I do not want to see him up at the school for any reason other than a social visit-” his lips twisted into a small smile- “and even then, not for at least a week. You are correct; he does need to rest and recuperate.”

He made for the door, but paused a moment to lay a hand on Hermione’s shoulder- she looked so small and so pale, standing there shell-shocked in her blue robe, her night-wild hair tumbling down her back and dark little smudges of worry and fatigue beneath her eyes. “It’s all right, M- Hermione,” he said quietly. “It’s really all right. It was his love for you that wrought this change in Draco, and so as far as I am concerned, it can only be for the good. Get some rest as well, and when he wakes, make him give you a little demonstration.”

Hermione tried to smile. “Sure,” she said, in a cracked, tired voice, “I’ll have him conjure me up some flowers straight away.”

Snape gave his head a half-shake. “Flowers? Hermione, he could conjure you a rainforest.”