Notes: Sorry if Draco seems like kind of a pussy. That isn't my intention. I just figure that on the inside he's a train wreck on fire, and really good at hiding it. Or, he used to be really good at hiding it, but not so much anymore.

Warnings: PTSD


Chapter 4: A Dance With Death


The Grim was nowhere to be seen when Draco returned to the manor at dawn. Narcissa was having her morning tea in the drawing room while reading the Daily Prophet. She nodded her head to him, but thankfully didn't ask where he had been, or why he was wandering around barefoot. Dejectedly, he went to his bedroom and quickly dressed himself in a pair of grey slacks with a white dress shirt and vest. He left his robes draped over the back of the chair near his writing desk. He didn't bother trying to tidy up his messy hair. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself to go and talk to his mother about patching the manor's defenses.

Narcissa looked up from the Prophet when Draco sat beside her. He hated the drawing room, and how empty it felt with only them sitting together at one of the small tables in the corner. To be fair, if he'd had his way, Draco would have had the entire area stripped and redecorated – from the floor the ceiling. Too many unspeakable things had happened in that room. Yet, His mother sat there drinking tea like it was all a bad dream. To be fair, she hadn't been there for most of it. She never became a death eater. Draco, on the other hand, couldn't even look at the shiny black marble floor tiles without having flashbacks to the multiple times Voldemort, or one of his lackeys, had cast crucio on him for being a shit death eater. He spent a lot of time on that floor writhing in pain. He gripped the tea cup his mother handed him so hard he wondered how it didn't break.

"Mother, I need your help to strengthen the manor wards. Potter and I ran into some foul cursed object on the job yesterday, and well... There may or may not be a Grim hunting me," Draco forced himself to say. Yes, that would do. She didn't need to know that it wouldn't have happened if they hadn't been colossal idiots.

"Well, it's not a real Grim or we wouldn't be having this conversation," Narcissa answered flatly. "They don't 'hunt'. They're just omens of death, and normally one dies within an hour or so of seeing it."

"Yes, well-"

"Are you sure it's not in your head? I heard you screaming last night, I assumed it was the usual nightmares. The house elves assured me that nothing was amiss – other than you running out of the manor in your pajamas," Narcissa replied. "Draco, you should see a mind healer."

"Are you implying that I am imagining this? We've been over this, mother. I am fine. A little damaged, I'll admit, but fine," Draco said wearily. It couldn't be in his head, right? Potter had seen it. "I'm going to work on the wards," He added and got up from his chair. He was almost too tired to function, and his stomach growled at the sight of a plate full of scones on the table. He grabbed one and shoved it in his mouth, ignoring his mother's visible disapproval of his lack of manners.

"Sometimes I wonder, Draco. You haven't been yourself in long time."

"How could I be, after everything that's happened?" He snapped.

"I know you won't listen, but I truly believe you should rethink your career choice," Narcissa pressed. "I worry for you."

"You worry too much."

"Someday, when you have children of your own, you will understand," She said icily, and rose from her chair. "I will help see to the wards if it will put your mind at ease, though nothing should be able to get through them as they are."

"Thank you, mother. Just work on the west wing and the drawing room; I'll see to the rest."

By sunset, the manor wards were enhanced to be as close to the strength of the Ministry's as Draco and Narcissa could manage. Only the drawing room had been left untouched, as they had both ran out of energy and doubted it would be a problem. Frankly, it wasn't perfect, but if his calculations were right, the shields would repel almost anything and prevent apparition throughout the entire manor grounds. Feeling confident that he had thwarted the Grim for the time being, he decided to turn in early. He could hardly remember the last time he was this tired. He didn't even bother to change out of his clothes before he collapsed into his bed.


Draco was running through the woods – again. This time he knew which woods, though. He was near the manor, just outside the gardens, where he sometimes played as a child. The ruins of a medieval village rested nearby, nearly swallowed whole by the thick undergrowth. There was a little church there built entirely of crude stone. If he could make it there, he might be safe from the Grim. It shadowed his every footstep. Draco hoped the old church was still hallowed ground, where something so blatantly evil wouldn't be able to set foot. Yes, we would be safe there. At least until the sun came up. He hadn't seen the thing during the day yet, after all.

The village was in Draco's sight now, and the glow of torches shone through the haze of trees. That didn't make any sense. The place had been abandoned for centuries. As he approached, he realized that light came not from torches, but from a bonfire. No, not a bonfire. A pyre. A ghostly woman screamed in agony as the not quite real flames licked at her body. All around, more ghosts seemed to appear out of thin air, chanting 'Burn the witch!' and waving torches. Behind Draco, the Grim growled. He came to his senses and bolted through the open door of the church. He wished he had something to block the opening with, but the wooden doors had long since rotted away. When he entered, the vision of the burning woman and the frenzied villagers vanished. He sat on the floor as silence descended around him, echoes of 'Burn the witch!' resounding in his head.

He leaned against the crumbling remains of an old wooden pew and finally allowed himself to breathe. I'm safe, Draco told himself. Just as he started to relax, he felt hot breath on his cheek. Flinching, he threw himself behind the stone alter nearby. He gripped his wand tightly, wondering if it would slip right out of his sweaty palm.

"No! No! Fuck!" Draco swore and picked up a strip of dry wood that had broken from one of the mouldering pews and held it in his spare hand. The Grim snarled and slowly approached as if it was savoring the moment. It knew full well that it had him cornered.

"Incendio!" He whispered, and set the end of the wooden piece on fire. The Grim balked and took a few paces back, the hair bristling along its back. It doesn't like fire, Draco noted and cautiously inched forward. The Grim stepped back, but never far enough to be out of striking range. It knew the makeshift torch wouldn't last. His whole body shaking, Draco managed to maneuver himself so that the exit was to his back. He threw the burning wood at the Grim and kicked the remnants of another pew in its direction in one fluid motion, as he turned and ran out of the church – only to stop dead in his tracks. The screaming started again, and the chanting. He covered his ears with his hands, as if it would all stop if he willed it away. It wasn't the words that gave him pause, though. It was the woman tied to the stake in the pyre. She reached her hand out, beckoning him.

His moment of hesitation, of course, was fatal. The enraged Grim, with it's fur still on fire, was upon him in an instant. He had only one thought in his mind as he woke up screaming – he needed to get out of the manor.

Gasping for breath, he sat up and felt for his wand beside him. It took a few seconds for his sleep-hazed mind to realize that he was touching something soft, and not his bedside table. ...Something soft and covered in coarse fur. Draco's heart leaped into his throat as low growling filled the room. If anyone ever asked him, he'd never be able to explain exactly how he managed to summon his wand with a mere thought, and simultaneously punch a Grim in the face without dying – but he did just that. Running on pure terror and adrenaline, he vaulted out of the opposite side of the bed and booked it into the hall as fast as his legs would carry him. The grim howled; Draco only heard a battle cry. Everything the night before had been a rehearsal. Tonight though, the real battle began. It was war, and Draco refused to be defeated.

The Grim was fast, faster than it was in the nightmares. Draco's legs burned as he tore through the halls, but the Grim knew to lurch ahead and block him as he tried to turn in any direction that led to an exit. If he didn't find a way out, he was going to die. Even before enhancing the wards, apparition was impossible inside of the manor itself. Panic seized him as he realized he was heading straight for the drawing room. It was a dead end behind the huge oaken double doors at the end of the hall before him. He was cornered. It doesn't like fire, he reminded himself and hoped there was still a fire burning in the grate. He whipped his wand in the direction of the doors and thanked fucking mercy that his wand didn't malfunction as they slammed open. Somehow, he managed to throw himself forward and shut the doors behind him before the Grim was able to slip through.

Panting for breath, and on the verge of passing out from sheer need of air, he cast a non-verbal incendio at the fireplace that contained only the faintly glowing embers of the previous fire. It roared to life as the Grim threw itself against the doors, threatening to burst into the room. Except, it didn't. All Draco heard was a high pitched yelp, and the distinct sound of something being flung forcefully against the far wall. Frowning, Draco reached out and pressed his hand against the doors to test the defensive charms in place. It was an enchantment he didn't recognize, but he knew dark magic when he felt it – and the unique signature of the one that cast it. A shiver ran down his spine and he pulled his hand away. Voldemort must have added extra shields to the drawing room when he was using it as his own little throne room. Did the Dark Lord just unwittingly save his life from beyond the grave?

Draco laughed out loud at the irony of it all, and collapsed on his knees. Out in the hall, the Grim let out a howl of frustration and charged the doors again, only to be repelled even harder. Draco laughed himself hoarse and wondered how the hell this had become his life.

So, he knew three things he could use to his advantage: It hated fire, didn't come out during daylight hours, and it couldn't get into the drawing room. The only downside, was that he would never be able to sleep in the drawing room. Just being in there made his skin crawl. He could still see Nagini slithering across the meeting table, devouring the fresh bodies of whatever poor bastard that the death eaters brought for her. He'd have to stay at the ministry. ...But staying at the Ministry meant explaining why he was there. No, his only option was to take Hermione's advice and stay with Potter.

...Hermione. Hadn't the woman in his nightmare looked a bit like her?

"Fuck," Draco swore, and grabbed a handful of floo powder from the silver urn next to the grate. He didn't dare call one of the house elves, it wasn't worth the risk of the Grim being able to get through if the doors were opened. He knew he couldn't travel by the floo, but he could make a fire-call at least. "Auror Potter's office, Ministry of magic fourth floor." He said, he voice raspy from his still labored breathing.

"Potter?" He called, only to be met with silence. He gave it a few minutes and stepped back from the fireplace. Absently, Draco picked at his sweat drenched undershirt. He'd give anything for a bath. Who else could he call to check on Hermione? He didn't know Potter's actual address and he'd mentioned a Fidelius charm, so he wouldn't be able to do shit without knowing it. The reverse was also true if any of the others tried to contact him at the manor, except the golden trio, of course – since they'd actually been there during the war.

"Shit. Shit. Fuck!" Draco paced the length of the drawing room like a caged kneazle. "Wait. The kneazle!"

"Auror Potter's office, Ministry of magic fourth floor!" He repeated throwing another handful of floo powder into the fire.

"Princess!" He yelled, hoping she was still in the office. A few moments later, he was reward with a soft mewling. He hoped she was as smart as kneazles were supposed to be. "You need find someone – anyone – and bring them to talk with me! Hurry!"

He was answered with another soft mewl, and he sat on the carpet in front of the fire hoping this idiotic plan would work. About ten minutes later, he heard the tell-tale squeak of someone opening the door to the office and frantic mewling. "Sod off you little bugger. What do you even want?"

Oh, hell, Draco complained inwardly. "Weasley!" He shouted.

"What do you want, Malfoy? You know normal people are asleep at this hour," Draco barely managed to remind himself that this was a very bad time to start a pissing match with Potter's best friend, as Ron's face appeared in his fireplace.

"Hermione, is she safe?" Draco asked breathlessly.

"Yeah? I mean she's downstairs in the library, and buggered if I know how I got sucked into helping to fix your mess, but she won't let me sleep until I find something useful," Ron answered, frowning. "Why? What are you on about?"

"I thought the manor wards could keep it out with a few added defensive spells. I, well, I fucked up. Badly. I'm trapped in the drawing room. But I had this nightmare and... Never mind," Draco explained, realizing he was rambling. "I... I can't stay here."

"So, just sleep in the drawing room, you bloody ferret," Ron complained. "'Mione says it'll die if it's out in the sunlight so, just stay there until morning and it won't get you."

"You don't understand!" Draco whinged. "I can't sleep in the drawing room."

"Why? No, you know what, I really don't care," Ron snapped.

"It's kind of hard sleeping in a room where you spent more hours than you can remember writhing on the floor while Volde – You know who practiced his curses on you!" Draco cried. "I wouldn't even live here if I could get my bloody mother to leave! I can barely sleep in my own room!"

He pulled back from the fire, and tried to remember how to breathe. This was actually the first time he'd even been in the drawing room alone since the death eaters had used the manor as their base of operations. He never went in there alone. There wasn't any reason to. He shook his head, trying to banish the memories. Outside in the hall, he could still hear the Grim pacing. He'd let it have him, if it weren't for the fact that there would be no one to look after his mother other than the house elves. As much as she appeared to have all of her ducks in a row, Draco knew he wasn't the only one who had nightmares. Narcissa wouldn't even leave the manor, unless she absolutely had to.

"Are you having some sort of panic attack? Are you alright? I still hate you, but you better not die on my watch," Ron asked, actually sounding concerned.

"Piss off Weasley," Draco snapped, almost sobbing and ended the fire-call. He'd never live that little rant down, he knew that. It didn't matter. If the Grim didn't kill him, his own demons would. Still, the shame of mentioning those things to Weasley was physically painful. He shuffled over to one of the plush armchairs next to the fireplace and crawled into a fetal position. What time was it? How many hours until dawn? The old grandfather clock on the other side of the room had stopped working some time ago. He could still see stars through the windows. He wished he could stop shaking.

"Draco?" That was Hermione's voice. He was glad she was safe. She was downright scary when she wanted to be, but even Draco knew she was their best hope for finding a solution for the mess they'd made.

"Leave me alone," He snarled without moving from his pitiful position in the chair.

"Ron says it has you trapped? What's keeping it out? Something physical or part of the wards?" She asked, ignoring him.

"I don't know. I didn't get a chance to work on the wards here. It's something left behind from when... I don't know it's some kind of defensive dark magic. It has... His signature," Draco answered, trying to focus. His mind screamed not to think of him, anything but that.

"Stay with me Draco, what does it actually do?" Hermione pressed.

"I don't know. It repelled it, sent it flying backwards when it tried to get in. It's still out there. I can hear it pacing," Draco told her. "...What time is it?"

"A few minutes past eleven."

"Oh fuck, no!" Draco whinged.

"Why? What is it?"

"...I can't stay in here that long. I'll kill myself. I hate this room," Draco said miserably.

"Draco, listen to me. It's just a room. What happened in there was terrible, yes, but Voldemort is dead and there's nothing in there that can hurt you right now, " Hermione told him.

"You don't understand!" He cried. "I watched his snake eat a little muggleborn girl alive just because she wasn't a pure-blood – on my table – and all I could do was watch. And I'll have you know you aren't the only one my aunt has practiced her unforgivables on in here, and my father – he never once tried to save me. I... I never come in here. Never. I'd rather let that thing have me than stay in here!"

The silence that followed was suffocating. When Hermione replied what felt like a century later, he expected her to tell him to grow a pair. "It knows, somehow. That must be why it cornered you there. It's not really a Grim. This is going to sound positively mental, but it's a ghost of one. Someone is controlling it, someone who might be be familiar without the layout of your manor if they were a death eater. There's nothing I can do to right now; you have to just wait it out." ...Was what she actually said.

"That's hardly reassuring. How do you summon a ghost of a Grim? And more importantly, how do you kill the bloody thing?" Draco asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

"I have no idea, not yet. It's some pretty dark stuff, so it goes without saying that the Ministry doesn't have much on it. The summoning bit isn't hard to figure out. Obviously I'm lacking a proper understanding of the magic at work without a solid resource, but your blood is sort of an anchor for it. It can trace you, probably anywhere since it's a ghost and physical boundaries don't apply to it. I'm not sure yet on how to break that link yet, but I doubt the Grim itself can actually be killed. It can definitely be temporarily dematerialized. Harry cursed the absolute shit out of the one after him until it literally got blown to bits, but it showed up again after a couple hours," Hermione explained, confident as always. "Whatever you do, don't leave that room and don't pick a fight with it. Harry did it from his upstairs window where it couldn't get at him to retaliate."

"So, the trick to making it out of this alive is tracking down the bastard controlling it?" Draco supplied, trying to keep his focus on Hermione's face in the fireplace. It was too quiet, too cold and the sound of the Grim pacing was fraying the last bit of his nerves. How was going to make it until the morning?

"Probably," Hermione replied. "We definitely need to catch him, but banishing that thing is a priority. That will probably be easier than tracking someone, when we have no leads on their identity."

A gust of wind blew outside the window, sounding like a wolf howling in the distance. Draco nearly jumped out of his skin and spun around. His heart felt like it was about to leap out of his chest. Out in the hall, he heard the Grim pawing at the wall beside the door. He backed away on reflex and almost fell over one of the chairs near the long table. The smooth wood pressed into his back, and suddenly he didn't care about the stupid Grim anymore. He was backed up against the table, with nowhere left to run, while the tip of Voldemort's wand hovered a few inches away from his chest – right over his heart. A handful of death eaters stood around, blocking any hope at escaping. His father was among them, watching from the shadows. Always watching, but never intervening. At least his mother never had to see this, but he hated Lucius for refusing to protect him.

"You know that I do not tolerate failure," Voldemort said, the words chilling Draco to the bone. "So imagine my surprise when I found out that not only did you botch killing those Aurors, but you hexed one of our own to save them!"

Draco shrugged noncommittally. "I hit the wrong target; he got in the way."

"Liar," Voldemort whispered. "Crucio!"

The world exploded into white-hot pain. Draco wasn't sure when he wound up on the floor, but it felt like Voldemort had literally shoved his pale, boney hand inside of his chest and was trying to rip his heart out. And it just wouldn't stop! He could see Lucius watching, his face unreadable.

"Help..." Draco pleaded, and Lucius turned away.

The floor was cold, but not as cold as Voldemort's fingers as they wrapped around his neck.

"Never lie to me again," He hissed, his breath hot on Draco's face.

"Draco?" That was a woman's voice, not his mother's but familiar nonetheless. "Draco!" They called again, and it registered in his mind that it was Granger's voice. Not Granger, Weasley. He shut his eyes and shook his head as reality came crashing back down around him.

He was laying on the floor, staring at the candlelight dancing across the many crystals of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling above him. He still feel the pain of the curse as he moved. Shaking like a leaf, he sat up and pulled himself to his feet.

"I'm here," He ground out.

"What happened? Are you alright?"

"No..." He wheezed and curled up in a ball on the floor by the fire. "Yes. I don't know anymore."

"What happened?" Hermione repeated.

"Nothing. Being in here messes with my head. It's like it's all happening again," Draco tried to explain. "I know it's not real, but... Maybe it is."

"Listen to me Draco, breathe. Try to stay calm. I'm going to take a few minutes to see if I can properly connect your floo to Harry's house without disturbing your wards," Hermione suggested.

"Can't you just connect it to the ministry?" He whinged. He couldn't deal with Potter in this state. He'd never live down the shame. Sure, Ron and Hermione would tell him all about this debacle, but he wouldn't have to see it. He was a fully trained Auror, not a seventeen year old. This was beneath him, and he knew it. He was being a fucking coward. Yet... Why couldn't he just let go?

"Some of the higher ups in the Auror department have already been asking questions. Ron managed to get them to believe we're working on one of his cases. There won't be any keeping this quiet if you show up here," Hermione explained. "Don't do anything rash. It's going to be okay." She said reassuringly, and her face vanished from the hearth.

Now he had lost his shit in front of Hermione, too. ...When had he started calling her by her first name? When had she started calling him by his? What the bloody hell was wrong with him? He hid his face in his hands and sulked, momentarily too disgusted with himself to even try to rationalize it. He wished he could at least change into clean clothes before having to deal with Potter. He glanced at the doors. The grim dragged its claws down the wall outside.

"Fuck you," He said to the Grim.

It barked in response, and it almost sounded like it was laughing at him.