Dear readers,

I have worked on this story for the past six years. In that time, it has been loved, neglected, rekindled, revised, and (at last) finished. Yes, finished. Twenty-five chapters. 52,543 words, to be exact. I refused to allow myself to post the first chapter until the last had been written. Thank you all for reading, and for your dedication to Dramione after all these years.

~Megan

"There are much older and stronger forces at work in the world than a Dark Lord, Harry Potter.
There is an unsleeping power too raw to be enslaved by a single cause.
Magic itself is as deep and as old as the earth, and so, tied to it."

-Firenze, Hogwarts Professor of Divination

The Earth was angry, it seemed. Magic was angry. It was very rare for human creatures to see raw magic. Earth magic is what it was called in the dusty tomes now strewn across the Hogwart's library. Shredded pages rustled amongst the broken glass… the broken furniture… the broken bodies that lay there, oblivious to the screaming.

It had started with the rain. As the battle raged throughout the school and the grounds, it had begun to rain. Hexes were dodged; curses deflected into the sodden ground beneath students and Death Eaters alike. Horrible curses from the Elder Wand and others had rent open the earth as the Dark Lord and his followers carved through the mass of human resistance. The Earth suffered its wounds and slowly reabsorbed the magic of the dead.

Unnoticed by those fighting and dying, a storm had come down upon them. The sky was unnaturally black, and the torrential rain was whipped about carelessly by the strong winds.

There was something strange happening in the Forbidden Forest and in the Lake – the creatures within were stirred suddenly in a way they could not describe. The Earth had been scarred and torn in ways that seemed impossible to repair, and it was reacting. The only way to stop the damage being done was to remove those inflicting it. And so the creatures' minds and hearts were turned against the humans destroying each other and the world around themselves.

A great cry arose from within the school – a cry of triumph and relief – for a single boy had just defeated one of humanity's great foes. For precious minutes loved ones were held close and comforted one another. Professor McGonagall, however, had never been one to linger over either happy moments or sad, and quickly took stock of their surroundings.

Night was surely closing in by now and the abnormally violent storm outside was growing stronger. The high winds blowing through the broken panes had made even the joyous scene seem chaotic, and thunder had long ago begun to sound like enormous boulders splitting and crumbling around them. She had seen the weather affected by magic before, of course – on a microscopic scale. If her instincts were correct about this storm, they needed to leave. Now. Her very presence demanding order, McGonagall shouted above the winds, her 'sonorus' sounding eerily like the earlier broadcasts of Voldemort. The nearly 100 survivors finally took in the ferocity of the storm, and began moving at a panicked run toward the Room of Requirement and, it seemed, the only safe way out of Hogwarts.

As the magic of Voldemort was reabsorbed into the Earth, a spine-chilling sound rose up and filled the air around them. It was a chorus of screeching and wailing, of snarling and shouting. From among the group of survivors, a horrible, strangled scream emerged from Firenze and he fell to the ground. His muscular legs began to kick out in all directions, and his hooves scraped menacingly against the stone. His face twisted desperately toward McGonagall.

"They…are coming!" he ground out as he panted, fighting to control his thrashing movements and failing.

"All the beasts… coming!" he gasped for air "… kill you if they can!"

After this last bit, he became still, breathing deeply. He seemed to master himself and rose upon his sturdy legs. But his face was all wrong. It was frightening. His eyes gleamed and he smiled maliciously as he began slow, deliberate paces toward the wary survivors. In a barely audible growl he addressed them.

"Kill you... kill..."

That death was hard on Harry too, but then he should have been accustomed to death by now. Firenze had saved him once from the cloaked shadow that stalked him in the Forbidden Forest. Now he lay twisted and broken upon the floor. He should have died as a friend fighting by his side. No… he should have lived. But now they were coming and this was no time to entertain memories of the dead.

It felt like suffocation. Too close together to breathe, but too scared to back out of the crush of flesh and sweat pressing desperately toward a single, small portrait hole. The shrieking of the creatures closing in on them was becoming louder.

Draco Malfoy, despite his panic, stood away from the crowd beside McGonagall and Potter, somehow frantically confident that the old woman could provide a solution for their escape. He had only ever seen determination on her face. Now he beheld fear.

He heard her whisper to herself.

"We cannot get out…. too fast… it's just too fast… we'll die here."

The last line was said with such certainty that he looked to Potter, whose eyes darted to the screaming crowd.

Weasley was a blur as he ran past Draco with a face full of terror and latched onto Potter's arm, trying to pull him away from the mob.

"Go! We've got to get out of here – this is where they'll come!"

Draco watched Potter fight him off, still searching for something as Weasley left him.

Potter was beginning to look frantic.

"Ginny!" he shouted.

Malfoys, above all things, were survivors. And so when Draco sprung toward the head of shining red hair, he told himself that with McGonagall overcome, Potter was his escape plan. If Potter wouldn't leave without the girl, he needed to get her to him now. Shoving roughly through the crowd, he reached an arm around her waist. When he saw a bushy-haired brunette crushed into the crowd several feet away, he fought his way to her too. Reaching his other arm around her, he bent his knees and hurtled himself backwards with all his might. He landed badly, both of the girls tumbling down upon him.

Harry rushed forward and took a dazed Ginny into his arms, while offering a hand up to Hermione. He looked past them to where Malfoy had struggled to his feet and gave the would-be rescuer a shocked stare.

"We're even, Potter. Now get us out of here."

"Where are you taking us?" Ginny demanded as she was pulled down a hallway toward a set of stairs.

"I've got an idea," Harry responded.

"Where's Ron?" Hermione asked, jogging up next to him.

"I don't know," Harry said darkly.

"Your boyfriend was too fucking scared to wait," Draco spat. "He didn't even go for his own flesh and blood," he said looking ahead of him at Ginny.

"Shut up, Malfoy!" Hermione shouted in a hurt voice, "Why are you even following us?"

"I'm not stupid, Granger. We weren't all going to make it through that portrait hole and Potter here seems to know another way out."

"I don't!" Potter said in frustration, stopping in a dark alcove.

"Then what's the fucking brilliant idea you had?" He asked angrily. That they could hear the stamping of the creatures' feet meant they were certainly inside the castle, or nearly there.

"Kreacher!" Harry called out, looking viciously back at Draco.

A faint pop was heard before a cowering house elf appeared before Harry.

"Master?"

"Kreacher, I need you to apparate us out of here. Take us to the Burrow. Start with the girls. You can…"

"Kreacher is sorry Master. Kreacher has tried. Kreacher cannot even apparate to the grounds. Only in the castle. Something is blocking the house elves."

Suddenly from behind them came screaming. Blaise Zabini, Lavender Brown, Neville Longbottom and Terry Boot were running frantically up the stairs pursued by at least a dozen beasts of all kinds.

"Shit! Then apparate us somewhere safe! Now!"

Just as Harry had barked 'now' the elf disappeared with Ginny and Hermione, and the group began to run up flights of stairs, trying to get to higher ground away from the flood of creatures trying to kill them. Looking behind him, Draco could see three centaurs bearing down on them. The entire group visibly cringed when they heard agonized screaming coming from the direction they had left minutes before. People were dying. There was nothing they could do. Lavender and Blaise were rescued next, leaving four of them running for their lives. The four of them were spread too far apart. Kreacher would have to take them one at a time now.

"Harry! Help!"

It was Neville. He was certainly the slowest of the group and was dangerously close to being trampled by the beasts. Not far behind the centaurs were two thestrals, their movements surprisingly nimble. These, the fastest of the beasts, blocked the view of countless others that followed in their wake… spiders, manticores, nundus, griffins, erlkings, red caps, trolls, owls... all of them united in their purpose.

"Impedimenta!"

"Stupefy!"

"Levicorpus!"

There was a terrible danger of hitting the boys behind him, but without stopping to turn around, it was all Harry could do. Another 'pop' effectively silenced Neville's cries for help.

"They aren't even slowing down!" Terry Boot exclaimed. "They're not even tired!"

It was the first chance Draco had to recognize the burning in his lungs and the fatigue quickly overcoming his legs. But hallways inevitably ended in stairwells and down meant more of them. So they went up. And up.

After the 'pop' that signified Terry's rescue, relief began to wash over Draco. Just a minute longer, he thought to himself. I'll be next – no more running. And it was with only a few feet separating him from his pursuers. Soon, he encouraged himself, just keep running – it's just a little farther.

'Pop.' But he was still running.

"Fuck!" That bloody house elf had taken Potter! Suddenly a single thought came crashing down upon him. What if he didn't come back? What if Potter told him not to come back? It was bad business, wasn't it? Bringing a Death Eater into whatever safe place was left in Hogwarts. He felt sick. After everything – after surviving sixth year, after being tortured by Voldemort for his failure, after his father's displeasure and his mother's fear, after the final battle, for fuck's sake, and keeping both sides from killing him – he was going to die. He could see his mother's face – hear her voice telling him to keep safe at all costs.

"Someone will win this war, Draco," she had whispered to him before he left for school. "And someone will lose. Always be careful, my son. Make sure you will be taken in no matter who succeeds."

He knew he couldn't run much longer, and Boot was right. They weren't getting tired. He was closing in on the end of another hallway and that would mean stairs. He just couldn't do it. He felt the breath of an angry thestral upon his shoulder and closed his eyes before blacking out.

"I am sorry, my love, if I am not here when this war is over."

"Mother don't be foolish," he remembered saying harshly. He wanted her to stop talking about this.

"When can I tell you these things if not now?"

Her voice had sounded so sad – so resigned. The manor had long been a headquarters for Voldemort, and the Malfoys had become increasingly unnecessary. When her husband's wand was taken by the Dark Lord, she had begun to put their affairs in order for Draco, fearing that she and Lucius would soon become martyrs for the Dark Side.

"Draco, no matter what happens to us, there is a battle coming. Fight for the people who will protect you, no matter their side. I need to know you'll be safe. Promise me."

It was a goodbye. What could he say if she was telling him goodbye? He couldn't bring himself to say what he had meant to. He couldn't tell her he was sorry for every tear shed on his behalf, every fear realized as her son accepted a life that would surely mean death. He had realized too late that the mark carved into his flesh meant an existence plagued by fear and loss. He simply didn't hate the way the rest of them seemed to. The blood that stained the floors of the manor had changed him. He remembered all their names – their faces. There were Death Eaters who had angered the Dark Lord scattered in with the Mudbloods. They had all pleaded for their lives as he was made to watch, and their blood all looked the same to him.

He looked into his Mother's pleading eyes, and he couldn't promise to be alive at the end of all things any more than she could.

Pain. It overwhelmed him. He was bleeding somewhere inside – he could taste it. But… had he survived then? Had the creatures attacked him and then left him for dead? He tried to look around but his vision was blurred and his head was thudding dully in rhythm with his pulse – he must have hit it somehow. He took a deep breath to regain equilibrium, but Gods! that was painful – as though someone had stabbed him in the back. Suddenly the blood was blocking his air flow and coughed desperately, bringing up more.

"Anapneo."

"...G..Granger?" He wheezed, shocked that she, of all people, was next to him. The blood was gone from his airway.

"Malfoy, don't try to move, alright?" She said softly.

"…Can't breathe," he choked out, "…stabbing… stabbing in my back…"

He needed to stop talking. He was sure it was making things worse. He could hear muffled voices beside him.

"You're the best chance he's got…"

"I could kill him if I tried!"

"He'll die if you don't do something."

Silence.

"Merlin help me," Hermione whispered to herself before kneeling at his side. "Harry, help me turn him on his side. Malfoy, I'm really sorry – this will hurt."

With a tormented scream as her only assurance, Hermione said the words she hoped were mending his broken ribs, pulling them from the lung tissue she suspected they had punctured.

Blood. A lot of it. It was filling his mouth and air way again. Hermione inhaled sharply as it trickled from his mouth into a pool on the floor. His breathing had become raspy and gurgled.

"Anapneo," she said, sounding much shakier this time.

It took her a full minute of watching his impassive face to convince herself she hadn't killed him – that he had only blacked out from the pain. Setting to work once more, she nervously spoke the words that she had only ever read about, hoping and praying that she had diagnosed him correctly, and that she was healing and not hurting him.