Draco had often thought of what would happen when the war ended, playing it out in his mind on days when he wanted nothing more than to set himself on fire (to get rid of the blasted thing on his left arm; to get rid of the memory of all the terrible, unforgivable things he'd done).

He'd take his mother somewhere quiet and peaceful, where she could rest and recover. Somewhere where she wouldn't be surrounded by the constant reminders of everything that had happened, of everything she'd lost.

He'd get a job doing something perfectly ordinary. Maybe he'd be a shopkeeper. His father would've murdered him for even mentioning something so absurd as a Malfoy becoming a shopkeeper, but Draco thought he might like it — a quiet, ordinary, unremarkable life. He could sell books, or cauldrons, or wands. Maybe he'd become an apothecary.

He'd find Hermione and tell her everything. He'd tell her all the things he'd done, and he'd tell her why; he'd tell her about Dumbledore, and about the memory spells that had kept them safe, that had kept all of the Order's other inconvenient secrets safe.

He'd tell her about the promises they'd made to one another, the two of them, about the stolen moments in the draughty, old attic room at Number 12, about that last night before everything changed. He'd tell her everything, and she'd know, and everything would be as before, and they'd be happy.

Maybe she'd like to be an apothecary's wife. Maybe she'd want to open a bookshop and they could have their shops side by side, and pop in for a visit or for a cuppa when things weren't busy. Maybe they could have a little flat above the shops. He'd like that.

It was a fantasy, of course. It was a beautiful delusion that had kept him sane and alive, but that didn't — had never — had a hope in hell of coming true.

His mother would never recover, things between him and Hermione could never again be as they had once been, and Death Eaters did not become apothecaries.

He did tell Hermione everything, though. Everything she needed to know, at any rate. He told her about Dumbledore and the Order and his own role in the war. He told her everything that was pertinent, and left out everything else. There was no point. All the things that had happened between them had been erased as thoroughly as if they'd never happened, and neither of them was the person they'd been back then. Hermione remembered none of it, and she never would again.

She remembered plenty of other things, though, things he would've sold his very soul to forget. She remembered him catching her outside Tabitha Jorkins's home, and the questions he'd asked her deep in the Ministry dungeons, and all the things he'd done — all the horrible, painful, terrible things he'd done — to tear the answers out of her. She remembered her friends burning to death in Nevin Square.

They might be allies again, but they were not friends, and they would never again be anything more.

"We have to act now," she said for the tenth time as he walked out of his mother's room.

"Granger—"

"There's only the diadem and that vile snake left. If we can destroy them—"

He stopped short and turned to her. "Getting into Gringotts was a walk in the park compared to getting into Hogwarts. And even that would be easier than taking out Nagini. She doesn't leave his side. Not ever. So kindly leave me alone."

He stalked away, but that little tirade had only earned him five seconds of peace.

"If I could go to Number 12, if I could see what state the Order's forces are in, we could—"

Draco stopped halfway down the stairs, trying to remind himself that he didn't really want to strangle her. "You are not leaving this house." Forget the fact that it would give him away as sure as if he tattooed traitor on his forehead. He couldn't protect her out there.

"I could be useful; I could be doing things. What am I supposed to do locked in here?"

"I neither know, nor care," he said, making for his study. "Read a book. Try the patience of my house-elves some more. I really couldn't care less. I'm going out."

"Malfoy, don't you dare leave me here. I swear—"

But by the time she finished the sentence he was already on the other end of the Floo connection to the Ministry.

It had been relatively easy until now for him to ignore how absurdly angry he was at her, but he was angry. He'd been angry for the better part of three years. The decision to carry on spying for the Order had been his and his alone, and he'd made it for a lot of complex, complicated reasons, only some of which had to do with the fact that he'd have cut off his right arm at a word from her. He didn't get to be angry about it now.

And yet he was.

He was angry at her for making him want to stay rather than cut and run, and he was angry at her for making sure no one — not even herself — was in a position to give him away if captured, and he was furious at her for getting herself caught like a bloody amateur.

Mostly he was mad at her because he alone had had to live with all the things she'd chosen to forget, and if he dwelled too much on it, if he thought too much about it, he'd hate her till his dying day.


Draco's day had started off poorly, and several hours spent in Albus Dumbledore's company had done nothing to improve it. By the end of it, Draco was about ready to tell Voldemort everything, if only because if the Dark Lord killed him, he'd no longer have to put up with any of this nonsense.

The problem with Dumbledore was — had always been — that the old headmaster was the worst sort of Gryffindor. He was rash and reckless, and could never understand why everyone else was not as eager as he was to lay down his life in the service of a higher cause.

Much like Hermione, Dumbledore's first reaction upon learning that Hufflepuff's Cup had been destroyed had been to declare that now was the time to act. Unfortunately for Draco, Dumbledore was not — unlike Hermione — someone he could keep safely locked away like a princess in a tower. (Draco was more familiar with the desire to do just that than he'd ever expected or hoped to be. He had been Dumbledore's Secret Keeper for years; he never thought he'd actually come to like the old fart.)

In a flash of inspiration that had never led to anything good as far as Draco was concerned, Dumbledore had immediately drawn up an ambitious, mad, desperate plan that involved overthrowing the Ministry, retaking Hogwarts and taking out Lord Voldemort all at the same time. And as if that weren't enough, he meant to accomplish this using nothing more than the exhausted, broken, pathetic leftovers of an army that had never been worthy of the name even back when it had had ten times the amount of people it currently did.

Potter would've loved it.

Draco had argued and threatened and yelled, but there was no dissuading Albus Dumbledore once he made up his mind to do something foolishly heroic, not even when his heroism was to be bought and paid for — as it so often was — with the blood of others. Maybe it was the callousness in that that appealed to Draco, the ruthless Slytherin streak amid all that Gryffindor earnestness. For all his moral high-ground and nobility of purpose, Dumbledore could be curiously cold-blooded.

Dumbledore would have to sell the plan to McGonagall, of course — and she might just kill him for letting her think he was dead all this time — but if anyone could be convinced to go along with a daring, glorious, heroic last stand that may well end in her death, and everyone else's besides, she could.

Draco often thought the war might have played out very differently if fewer of the people in charge had been former Gryffindors. Might have helped the mortality rate a little, if nothing else.

He left Dumbledore to it. Draco was still the Order's best kept secret, after all, and besides, he didn't want to see Dumbledore and McGonagall's reunion, didn't want to witness the heartfelt joy and affection and relief. He had enough things weighing him down.

It was dark outside by the time he made it back to the manor, and lamps had been lit in his study. Hermione was asleep on the sofa in the corner. He wasn't even surprised. She would've wanted to be there when he returned, the better to keep harassing him about leaving her there, no doubt.

She whimpered in her sleep, something like a sob escaping her lips, and Draco leaned over her, placing a hand on her arm.

"Hermione, wake up."

She startled awake, her eyes wide with terror, and she instinctively flinched away from him. He let go of her and flicked his wand, causing all the lamps around the room to shine brighter.

"Don't you have a bed?" he asked, and she immediately hid her fear behind a well-practiced glare, as he knew she would.

"You need to stop avoiding me." Her voice was steady, even though her hands were shaking.

"I wasn't aware that I was."

"Bullshit. You were before, too, I just hadn't realised it." She stood up and he turned to the tray in the corner and poured himself a shot of Firewhisky, just for something to do. "I'm either your prisoner or I'm not, and you need to decide which. If the latter, you need to stop keeping me in the dark and let me help, and if the former, you better hope the wards around this place are really good, because if not, next time you take off, I won't be here when you come back."

He tossed back the drink, relishing the slight burn of the Firewhisky. "That's a lot of talk from someone without so much as a wand to her name." He poured himself another one.

"You think I couldn't do it?"

Oh, he knew she could. Given enough time to puzzle it out, she could and she would. He'd found that dogged obstinacy charming, once upon a time.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Granger," he said before tossing back the second shot of Firewhisky. "Dumbledore has as much of a martyr complex as you do. You'll get ample opportunity to get yourself killed."

"Meaning what? Malfoy," she called after him when he walked past her. "Draco." She grabbed his sleeve and he whirled around, jerking it free.

"You need to back the fuck off, because I'm about to lose what little patience I have left."

She blanched, but held her ground. "I'm not afraid of you."

He scoffed at that, and smirked a little wider when she mirrored his step forward with a step backwards. "Yeah," he said, hearing the bitterness in his own voice. "I can tell."

This time when he turned to leave, she did not try to stop him.


Early next morning, someone knocked on the door. Draco heard it, but did not get up from where he was, sitting at his desk. Malfoys did not answer their own door. That's what they had house-elves for. When whoever was outside knocked again a few seconds later, Draco frowned and got to his feet. He made it to the entrance hall just in time to see Hermione open the door, and immediately realised why none of the house-elves had done it. Outside stood a Muggle boy, no more than ten or so. Behind him, on the ground, was some sort of Muggle contraption with wheels.

"I'm looking for a Mr Malfoy."

"I'm Mr Malfoy," Draco said, opening the door wider and standing next to Hermione. He could not remember the last time a Muggle had walked up to the house. He doubted it had ever happened.

"Right. Mrs Dalloway said to say the party is tonight, and to bring everyone round, 'cause it's gonna be a real big one. She said the bus goes at eleven sharp, and not to be any later than midnight, or you'll miss the fireworks." He pulled a small, rectangular object out of his pocket and handed it to Hermione. "Said to give this to you, miss."

"Is that all?" Draco asked with all the equanimity of one used to being addressed by strange Muggle boys carrying cryptic messages and mysterious Muggle items.

"Yes, sir," he said, but did not move, staring up at Draco expectantly.

Draco stared back. Perhaps there was some sort of Muggle social protocol that escaped him. Hermione sighed next to him.

"Hold on a second," she said to the boy. She walked to the side table in the corner, fishing Draco's wand out of his back pocket in passing. After looking around her, she pulled a tendril out of the miniature Devil's Snare on the table, and then tapped it with the wand, transfigurating it into a Muggle banknote.

"Thank you, miss," the boy said when she handed him the money, his smile so bright it could probably be seen from two counties over.

"Off with you, then," Draco said, followed by, "Hand it over," to Hermione, once the door was safely closed. She rolled her eyes, but gave him his wand back.

"Care to share what that was about?"

"Mrs Dalloway is having a party," he said, heading for his study. "Misty, Ziggy, Flix." The three house-elves immediately materialised next to him. "Pack up my mother's things. Send house-elves ahead to the house in France. Close down the manor. No one gets past the wards in or out after tonight."

"Yes, master," they said as one, disappearing again with a soft pop.

"Mrs Dalloway is a character in a Virginia Woolf novel." She placed her palm over the top of the Firewhisky bottle when he reached for it. "Out with it, Malfoy."

He glared at her, but Hermione did not budge. And what did it matter, anyway? He was well aware that at this point he was being evasive out of nothing but spite and pig-headed stubbornness.

"Fine. Now kindly get your hands off my alcohol."

"So long as you're sharing."

He wasn't sure she meant the plan or the Firewhisky, but he poured her a drink anyway. No one should be sober for this.

Dumbledore's plan was the sort of reckless gamble that only a Gryffindor brain high on its own cleverness could come up with. There wasn't much left of the Order's forces, and what little there was, he chose to split, because why wouldn't he?

Moody would gather what few Aurors were left — those still free and loyal and just enough out of their bloody minds to agree to it — and together they'd storm the Ministry and attempt to overthrow the wizarding government. So far, so likely to get them all butchered.

At the same time, the bulk of the Order's so-called army would be waiting just outside the wards that protected Hogwarts for a small group of intrepid daredevils to sneak into the castle. This elite task force on which so much of Dumbledore's plan hinged included the likes of George-I've-Been-Trying-Really-Hard-To-Get-Myself-Killed-For-The-Better-Part-Of-Two-Years-Weasley, Luna-Oh-Look-A-Nargle-Lovegood, Albus-I-Haven't-Been-Able-To-Take-Two-Steps-Since-I-Took-A-Dive-From-The-Astronomy-Tower-Dumbledore, and the poor excuses for Auror Programme rejects that were Padma Patil, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Astoria Greengrass (who, as a Slytherin, really ought to have known better).

After they managed to get into the castle (and Merlin only knew how they meant to accomplish that; the Carrows had destroyed all the secret passages into the school), they would locate the missing Horcrux, but rather than destroy it — that would've been far too simple — they would cause enough of a commotion for Voldemort to know they were there and to come running to protect the blasted thing.

Dumbledore meant to lower the castle's wards long enough for the Order's forces to cross into the grounds, and then he meant to turn the school's defences against the Death Eaters, never mind the fact that Hogwarts was bound to the current headmistress, and that Alecto was unlikely to just let him take over out of the kindness of her heart.

"It could work," Hermione said, a statement somehow undermined by her pouring herself yet another glass of Firewhisky.

"Could it?"

She shrugged. "We'll have He Who Must Not Be Named, the snake and the diadem all in one place. His forces will be split between the school and the Ministry, and if Dumbledore can wrestle the school's power away from Carrow, it could work." She took a sip and made a face. "And anyway," she said, sitting back down on the chair across from him, and propping up her feet on the corner of his chair, "the way we're losing people, soon enough there won't be anyone left. We do this now, or not at all."

Desperation. Now there was a good reason to do something. "To being backed into a corner," he said, holding out his glass towards her.

She stared at it for a moment and then touched her glass to his. "To being backed into a corner."

They drank in silence for a few moments. Hermione glanced at the desk, where the black rectangle the Muggle boy had given her lay, and reached for it.

"So sometime between eleven and midnight, this should activate."

"What is it?"

"A Portkey," she said as if it were self-evident.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you. I meant—"

"I know what you meant." She smiled at him then, and something twisted painfully inside of him. "It's a cassette. It's for playing music. Spice Girls' Spiceworld." He had no idea what that meant. "It will probably land us with the rest of the main group."

"It will land you with the rest of the main group."

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Where will you be?"

"Herding Death Eaters." He emptied his glass. "I'll be making sure the Dark Lord walks into Dumbledore's clever little trap." That and he needed to find out exactly where Ravenclaw's Diadem was. Dumbledore had an informant inside the castle looking for it, but he hadn't found it yet, and Draco wasn't holding his breath.

Hermione stared at him as if he were out of his mind. "Crouch was on to you. If you go back there—"

"Crouch is paranoid; he wouldn't trust his own shadow. No one will take him seriously."

"You hope."

"I know," he said, trying and failing to keep the irritation off his voice. They'd had a very different conversation, once upon a time. "And if I'm wrong, what does it matter? I'll get myself killed one hour earlier rather than one hour later. Do you really care?"

He stared at her as if daring her to disagree, but Hermione merely stared back, looking thoughtful.

"Yes," she finally said. "Merlin knows why, but I do."

It was possibly the most honest thing she could have said, and Draco still found it more depressing than the alternative.

He placed his empty glass on the desk, getting up. "Better get some rest for tonight," he said. No more drinking. No more talking. No good had ever come of either. "I have stuff to take care of."

It was getting late, after all, and the end of the world wasn't going to organise itself.

"Draco," Hermione said, and he paused at the door, looking back at her. The fire lit her profile in just the right way, and for a split second it could have been any of dozens of days they'd spent waiting for orders at Grimmauld Place. "What else did I forget?" she asked, and the illusion was gone. "I knew you were in the Order, once. What else did the memory spell make me forget?"

He knew what she was asking, but he wasn't drunk enough to give her a real answer. Not nearly, not yet. Not by a long shot. He doubted he ever would be.

"The wands in the library," he said instead, "find one you can use."

And with that he turned and left.