"Malfoy."

He woke, shivering, to someone gripping him by the shoulder. Thomas was leaning over him, and Draco was so startled by both the person and the proximity that he almost head-butted the Healer as he sat up. The blanket fell off him, and to Draco's groggy surprise the air in the room felt very warm, as if the blanket itself had been holding in the cold. There was a silvery shimmer on the walls of the room in addition to the warm firelight, and Draco saw a Patronus in the form of a small terrier dog sitting quite still by the door. Potter stood behind Thomas with his arms crossed, also watching Draco. He looked worse than Draco felt; there were dark circles under his eyes and his face was pinched and very white, although it might have been the silver quality of the light.

"What's going on?" Draco asked, badly disoriented and alarmed. "What happened?"

"How do you feel?" Thomas asked him. Draco eyed him uncertainly.

"Fine—"

"We couldn't wake you," Thomas said. "We've been trying for almost ten minutes."

"What?" His sleep had felt light and disturbed.

"Do you remember anything? When did you fall asleep?"

"I'm not sure." He had lain down around mid-afternoon after several hours of restless pacing during which he'd felt progressively worse, but recalled tossing and turning uneasily for what seemed like many hours, unable to get warm and wondering if he was becoming ill. "It was cold…"

He had felt sick, with the semi-delirium often induced by a high fever. His restiveness had been punctuated by half-dreams that had slipped away as soon as they startled him awake, leaving only a clinging residue of horror.

"I'll bet it was," Potter said with grim exhaustion. "There were half a dozen Dementors in the square outside when I got here."

"Dementors?" Draco recoiled in instinctive horror. "I thought—you said—" There were too many implications to process in the moment. Draco stared from one to the other in shock. "But…"

"It's a good thing you were in a properly warded house," Potter said.

"Scorpius!" Draco gasped, struck suddenly with the thought that if he was a target, his son might be also.

"He's fine," Potter said. His voice was flat with what seemed to be weariness. "Andromeda's house is warded too, and I've placed an Auror guard nearby just in case. But there's nothing there so far, only here."

"You said this place was safe," Draco said, trying very hard not to whine.

"It is, sort of. They couldn't get any closer because of the Fidelius charm…but you're right, in that they shouldn't be able to find the house at all."

"Who knows about this place?" Thomas asked grimly, but it seemed to be a rhetorical question, for Potter did not answer. His forehead was creased. He rubbed a hand unconsciously through his hair, and even his hands looked pale.

"They're gone now," Thomas said, to Draco. "You should start to feel better soon. Eat some of this." He offered a small square of chocolate to Draco, who took it reluctantly, realizing as he did that his hands were freezing cold. He was beginning to dislike the taste of chocolate.

"What if they come back?"

Thomas glanced over his shoulder at Potter, who responded belatedly.

"I'll post an Auror guard outside until we find a more permanent solution."

"Or you could find the person responsible and stop them," Draco suggested, in an aggrieved tone. Potter shot him a thoughtful, troubled glance.

"Actually, that's what I'm here to talk to you about."

"You know who it is?" Draco sat up straighter. He was shivering both from lingering chill and angry excitement.

"Ron and Hermione are downstairs," Potter said, not answering the question. "If you're up to it, we need to talk to you. Is that alright, Dean?"

"Do you feel okay?" Thomas asked Draco, who nodded. Thomas shrugged. "He seems fine, Harry. I think it was just proximity to the Dementors…but they didn't get too close and they're gone now, so he should be alright. Keep eating chocolate, though," he added, to Draco.

"Thanks for coming," Potter said, clasping hands with Thomas, who gave him a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Yeah."

Draco abandoned the blanket reluctantly, still shivering, and followed Potter down to Grimmauld Place's kitchen as Thomas left through the front door. The dog Patronus accompanied Potter, bounding lightly on air a few paces ahead of him. Granger turned from the stove as they entered to hand a large mug of freshly-made hot cocoa to Potter, who took it with a nod of gratitude. Granger sat at the table and pushed another steaming mug across the table to Draco as he sat warily across from her and Potter. Potter seemed to sag as he sat down; by the fleeting glance that Granger shot him, Draco decided that it was not his imagination. There seemed to be something actually wrong with Potter. That alarmed Draco more than he cared to admit. He watched Potter's hands tremble around the mug of cocoa and wondered with morbid curiosity about what could have left the Head Auror so shaken. Weasley leaned back against the counter, watching with a grave expression.

"What's going on?"

"There's been another attack," Weasley said gruffly.

Draco felt a cold claw of fright strike at his stomach. "Is Scorpius—"

"I told you, he's fine," Potter said tiredly. "It wasn't anywhere near Andromeda."

"It was on another Wizarding village. Not as many people around this time, thank Merlin," Weasley said. "One person was Kissed. Marcus Flint."

A curious sensation of surrealism crept over Draco. Marcus Flint had been a schoolmate of his back at Hogwarts, a fellow Slytherin several years older than him who had captained the house Quidditch team for part of the time that Draco had been on it. Flint had served two years in Azkaban for his role in the war, and Draco had not heard from him since the end of the war. He'd never had a particular fondness for Flint, but the thought that someone who he'd shared meals and Quidditch games with for years was now nothing more than a soulless husk made Draco's skin creep.

"That's not all," Potter said. "I should have told you earlier, but…two weeks ago, on the third, there was an attack in Bulgaria. It was a Lethifold, not a Dementor…I'm sorry to tell you this, but Gregory Goyle was killed."

Potter was still speaking in a low, drained tone when the buzz faded from Draco's ears and he found that he could breathe again.

"…why Ron and I wanted you in protective custody at the time, a second attack involving Dark creatures in a few days, and given who the first victim was it occurred to us that you might possibly have been the target of the attack on Hogsmeade. Now at this point, there's no doubt at all…"

"Wait." Draco's voice sounded high-pitched to his own ears. "Gregory Goyle…is dead?"

Unlike Flint, Goyle was someone who Draco had known more than from a distance. Although his relationship with Goyle had been more about power than loyalty, they had grown up together and had been practically inseparable at Hogwarts, even if not exactly from friendship. Goyle was someone he'd known closely, and even though Draco had not had much contact with him after the war—Goyle had also served time in Azkaban, and afterward had left the country to live in Bulgaria—the revelation that Goyle was dead shook him deeply and hurt more than a little.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" His voice had definitely gone shriller.

"It's part of the investigation," Weasley said dispassionately. "You didn't need to know."

"I didn't need to know? He's—he was my friend!"

It wasn't quite true, but it was the nearest description to the truth that Draco could readily find.

"It was part of the investigation," Weasley repeated impatiently. "And the Bulgarian Minister didn't want it public. Still doesn't. But we're telling you now."

"You need to drink that," Granger said in an undertone. Draco glanced at her, distracted, and found that she was speaking to Potter, who was staring blankly into his mug of cocoa.

"Why now?" Draco demanded, returning his attention to Weasley. "What, you've decided that I need to know? Now that you can't hide that I'm a target anymore?"

"I'm not gonna argue with you, it's not worth it," Weasley said bluntly. "Will you listen, or not? The investigation is over, so the trial is back on tomorrow. Either you can hear what we have to say now, or you can hear it in the courtroom tomorrow."

They were throwing information at him too fast and too hard. Draco's head spun with it. He nodded weakly.

"The Dementors are acting on their own," Potter said, raising his eyes with an effort from his cup of cocoa. "No one is orchestrating what they're doing…but it's not a good, thing, because they're acting in concert on their own." He fell silent, and Weasley finished the explanation for him.

"They're hunting everyone who sided with Voldemort during the war."

Draco jerked so violently that he almost toppled his mug. Hot brown liquid spilled onto his fingers, but he didn't notice the burn.

"Why—how—"

"They're not under anyone's control now," Potter said in a flat voice. "But thirteen years ago, they were under his control. He promised them a feast on all the victims they could want, but he never gave them that. The Dementors have waited for thirteen years, just like they did before. But this time he's not coming back, and they're not waiting any longer. If they can't have what they were promised, then they'll have the ones who promised it."

Draco's mouth was dry. He wanted to scream in anger and horror, but he couldn't even breathe. After more than a dozen years, the misdeeds of his past had re-emerged like the head of a Hydra—and now, it seemed, his past was not only haunting him, but actually hunting him. He thought of Scorpius, who had so nearly been collateral damage of the evil that had come for Draco alone; of Astoria, and the Dark magic that had ripped her apart before his eyes. Panic and helpless fury swelled like a bubble in his chest, threatening to burst.

"How—how do you know?" he challenged. His voice quavered audibly.

"I've just spent the last hour interrogating a Dementor," Potter said dully. "We've been hunting to get one since the attack. Finally managed it."

Draco hadn't even known that it was possible to interrogate a Dementor. He shuddered to think of what that could entail. Granger rested a hand lightly on Potter's arm, but let go quickly. Potter took a sip of the cocoa.

"How are they finding us?" Draco asked, trying to steady himself. Weasley snorted.

"How do you think? The Mark. They can sense it—told them not to touch you during the war, didn't it? Now it's a bloody beacon for any Dementor within miles."

"The—and there's no way to stop them?"

"Haven't found one yet."

"Then," his voice had gone shrill again with panic, "then they'll always be hunting me?"

He could never be around his son again. It struck him like a death knell. He would draw danger to Scorpius like blood drew Thestrals. He was going to lose his son, and eventually they would get to him, eventually he would meet the same grisly fate as Marcus Flint and Cressida Steward…there was no way to stop it…

"Pretty much, yeah," Weasley said, "until we can find a way to stop them."

Draco did not hear the qualification, only the affirmation that his fears were true. He sprang up and backed clumsily away from the table.

"You have to stop them!"

"Don't be a prick," Weasley snapped. "Harry's doing his best, alright? You're safe here, just calm the hell down."

"Safe?" Fear turned all too easily to anger. Draco gestured around him with a hand, in a motion that attempted to encompass the outside of the house. "Here? Where Dementors were swarming not twenty minutes ago? Where Boggarts get in every other day? Maybe other things than Boggarts can get in too, did you think of that? This place isn't safe!"

"You're welcome to walk right out," Weasley shot back. "Be my guest. This is as safe as you're likely to get with that bloody Mark on you."

"Then get it off me, I don't care what it takes to do it! Take my whole bloody arm if you have to!" He glared furiously at Weasley. "I'm sure you know a good cutting curse? If not, I know Potter does—"

"Shut the hell up," Weasley said scathingly. "If you can't keep your head then next time we won't tell you the truth, now sit down and stop—"

"Nobody's using a cutting curse for anything," Potter broke in firmly, though a pained expression had crossed his face. "I doubt it would work anyway. That mark was placed by the most powerful Dark wizard ever known, physically removing it wouldn't do a thing. And anyway, we're not cutting anyone's arms off, that's ridiculous."

"One thing at a time," Granger said. "We need to talk about the trial. Malfoy, sit down."

After a long hesitation, he sat rigidly. Granger motioned to the untouched mug of cocoa she had given him earlier. "Drink some of that. It will make you feel better. Look, it won't do any good for us to argue about this. We know it's a serious situation, Malfoy. None of us takes it lightly, okay?"

Draco nodded stiffly, slightly mollified by Granger's placations. He took a very small sip of the cocoa and felt its warmth spreading inside him. Granger gave a small sigh.

"Although it may not look this way, in one sense this helps you," Granger said. "The trial is as good as over. The evidence from Harry's interrogation is very sound, and procedurally correct, if not exactly precedented. It shows that the attack on Hogsmeade, while a result of your presence, was not intentionally caused by you. That puts you in the clear. You should be free as far as the Ministry is concerned by tomorrow evening. The Wizengamot's agreed to convene tomorrow, given the special circumstances."

"Are you expecting applause?" Draco asked nastily. Weasley made an angry movement toward his pocket, but Granger didn't need his defense.

"I've told you nicely already, but I'll tell you one more time," she said coolly. "We're fully aware of the gravity of this situation. If you don't keep a civil tongue in your head, I'll jinx you. Is that clear?"

"Not exactly a fair fight, is it?" Draco sneered. Granger smiled, but her narrowed eyes looked dangerous.

"It won't be a fight at all, Malfoy. Now, will you listen?"

"I'll listen," Draco gritted resentfully, "if you have anything worthwhile to say."

"Good." Granger gave a self-satisfied nod. "As I've said, the trial will be over soon. After that, we have two problems: the Minister's illegal spying on you, which we still intend to bring to the Wizengamot, and the issue of the Dementors."

Draco had almost forgotten about the illegal surveillance that Dawlish had enacted against him. In light of the newest problem, it had sunk very low on his priority list.

"Obviously the Dementors are the more serious issue," Granger said. "Since this house is warded, you'll continue to stay here for now, except when you're at the Ministry. It's warded well enough for you to go there. Harry is going to post an Auror guard here to keep the Dementors away, but obviously that's only a temporary solution. In the meantime, we need to find out exactly how the Dementors are finding you."

Potter raised his head and something in his eyes gave Draco an uncomfortable crawling sensation in his stomach. He knew before the Auror spoke that Potter was about to say something he didn't want to hear.

"I think we know that, Hermione," he said, looking troubled. "Dementors don't sense things the way animals or people do. They sense emotions, and people's souls." Potter glanced between Granger and Weasley. "Think about what Riddle did—to me, and to Ginny, let alone to himself…and Dementors can only sense emotions when they're close to a person. The Dark Mark must leave some kind of imprint on the soul."

Appalled, Draco pushed his chair backwards as if by distancing himself from the words he could soften their effect. Weasley did not seem nearly as surprised; he looked only slightly revolted.

"That would make sense," he agreed, nodding. "What—d'you think he left something inside of—"

"No," Potter interrupted, sounding more firm than he had all night. "Not left something in. He wouldn't have trusted them with that—we saw how careful he was, especially with Nagini. And I doubt he could have made that many, even if he'd wanted to—"

They seemed to be talking about something of which the three of them had a shared mutual understanding, for the faint fragments of information left behind no impression of familiarity in Draco's beleaguered mind.

"Some kind of mark, then, like a scar?" Granger asked thoughtfully. "Obviously something lasting…"

"I don't know that it matters," Potter said. "Whatever it may be, it allows the Dementors to find you, Malfoy. We can't remove the Mark, and until we come up with a way to stop the Dementors finding you, you'll have to be in protection at all times. That means under a Fidelius charm, or with someone who has a strong Patronus. And obviously, not around groups of people in public."

Draco had begun to feel as if he'd had a losing encounter with an over-enthusiastic Bludger. There had been too much information tonight, and all of it burdensome, and the chill of nearby Dementors had not yet faded. He took another sip of hot chocolate to delay having to react. He knew he ought to be having some reaction to the news that his very soul had been branded by the apparently all-powerful Dark wizard whose hold on him extended over a decade past death; but he had been clubbed over the head with so many revelations tonight that this last one had finally stunned him. He could not work out what to say.

"We can put your house under a Fidelius charm," Potter said. "At least while we try to stop them coming after you. I've already sent Aurors to warn everyone else who's—affected. We'll find a way eventually…but it may be a while."

A while. How many weeks, Draco wondered, could he ask his five-year-old son to live cooped up inside a house with nothing to do and nowhere to go? Scorpius needed more than that. He needed room to be a child, especially now. Already his childhood had been twisted by tragedy; Draco would not allow what remained of it to be stolen from his son.

"Let's not get too far ahead," Granger said. "First, we have the trial tomorrow. It's already really late…Ron and I will put together what we need for tomorrow. Harry, you need to sleep."

Potter nodded reluctant agreement, and Weasley helped him up with a hand on his arm.

"Is that it?" Draco asked helplessly, looking between the three of them. They seemed so nonchalant about delivering news that had shaken him to his core and would shape every aspect of his life for the foreseeable future. Surely they could not intend to leave him with so few answers?

"What," Weasley said in surprise, "isn't that enough?"

It was difficult to think.

Draco wanted to convince himself that he had been dreaming the last few hours, but as he paced slowly around the nearly-empty bedroom, the physical sensations of heartbeat and breathing exaggerated themselves disobligingly.

Gregory Goyle was dead.

Even now, an hour after the three Gryffindors had left, Draco was not sure what he felt about that. Goyle had been a friend, of a sort; an ally and lackey until suddenly he wasn't—until that hideous year during the war when suddenly Draco's intelligence hadn't been enough, it had been more about ruthlessness, and though Lucius might have taught his son manipulation he had not taught him guts. When it came to it, Goyle and even Crabbe had picked up spells of torture and pain quicker than Draco had, and not because he wasn't trying. He hadn't had the stomach for it, and Goyle and Crabbe had both seen that. They had gone with him to capture Harry Potter in the Room of Requirement…but really, it had been him going with them. By that point they had known that he didn't have the commitment to follow through.

Draco turned to pace in the other direction, as if he could leave behind the memory of flame leaping in his mind—

It had been a year before he'd been able to walk into a Floo fire without flinching.

But regardless of what their relationship had been in seventh year, there had been six years of having someone to depend on. Not a confidant, maybe—but Goyle had been there, and he'd been reliable if reliably stupid. That had been nice, in its way. And now Goyle was dead too.

Not dead, Draco corrected himself. He was the empty shell of a body that had lost what made it alive. The heart still beat, the lungs still drew air, but what was left was not a person. That was the same fate that had so nearly befallen him and Scorpius.

And the Dementors were hunting him.

Draco peeled back his sleeve and ran his fingers roughly over the Mark. No matter how many times he had touched it before, it always seemed as if he should be able to feel something there; but the skin was smooth, lacking any unevenness to indicate that here lay the physical manifestation of a brand that reached to his very soul.

He wondered what Astoria would think of this. Would she be as sickened as he was, or would she shrug philosophically and say that finding out something that had been true all along wouldn't make him a different person? In the first few weeks after her death, Draco had been able to imagine her reaction to almost everything, but as time went by without her, he found himself progressively less sure of what she would have said or done. He had lost her once, and now he was slowly losing her again, bit by bit, as time gradually blurred the memories of everyday moments with her.

Draco sat on the edge of the bed and tried with every ounce of effort he could muster to bring an image of her face and voice into his mind, picturing what she would say to him. But whether from the lingering effects of the Dementors, or because of his own imperfect memory, he could not do it.