The last time Draco's nerves had reached such heights would have probably been during the Battle of Hogwarts. At least back then, however, he'd had something to do. A purpose. A use. Now all he could do was stand in silence with Granger while it felt like poison was gnawing its way steadily through his insides. Time slowed to a snail's crawl, and for a few minutes he even took to counting inside his head, as if to prove to himself that it had been mere minutes, and not the hours it felt like.

The small blessing was that Granger seemed to accept the silence, finding no temptation to prattle on in an attempt to distract him. There would be no distracting him. Whereas beforehand he might've even found some sort of strange masochistic comfort in 'what if's, he didn't have the energy for them now. If anything, they downright bored him to the point of offence. Oh, they were still in his mind, but he didn't ponder them. What if she isn't here? What if it's too late? What if a fight breaks out and the Aurors lose? Questions that may have once demanded his attention now felt like the whining of an unruly child. All he wanted to do - the only thing he could do - was to wait, and to see what unfolded. He could not act until something happened, whatever that something ended up being. But he wasn't so steeled as to be entirely free of emotion. Because the time, and the silence, left another (laughably futile) pastime. Hoping and praying. Another pastime he'd been forced to indulge in during the battle.

Every time his mental count reached sixty, he took a step forward. Casually, almost incidentally, like he wasn't aware of what he was doing - inching his way down the narrow, muddy country road. If Granger noticed (which no doubt she did), she didn't comment, and nor did she try to stop him. She simply stood there, hugging her arms tightly to herself and doing a terrible job at trying not to look as nervous as she felt, her face pale even in the darkness and her lower lip wedged permanently between her teeth. In his current state, it only annoyed him. There would be a time to discuss the manner in which Serana had found Marilyn. That Granger, sainted and striving to be ever-perfect, had let a blood purist fanatic to Marilyn, and then had the audacity to suggest it was somebody he knew who was the culprit. But, desperate as he was to funnel his endless inner pool of anger towards her, even in this state he knew it wasn't as straight forward as he'd like to believe.

Oh, he wasn't absolving Granger of her part in this by any means. Not at all. Never. But...it was his letter that had gotten the ball rolling. And in that moment, with no idea of what would happen next, the only thing he wanted more than Marilyn to be alive and well, was to get his hands on a time-turner so he could go back and throttle his past self for sending that fucking letter. So he stopped looking at Granger altogether, and instead looked off into the blackness, waiting for the signal and cursing his eyes every time he thought he might've seen the faintest hint of a light breaking up the darkness.

But when he did - see something, that was - it was completely unmistakeable, the crimson sparks racing towards them like a firework, and he was off at a sprint before Granger could say a word. He didn't know the area well enough to apparate his way before the barrier and then enter, he would've brought his damn broom if he thought that it might've gotten him there more quickly, but he didn't spare a thought on the matter. He didn't even bother to see if Granger was following. He didn't care.

They'd found her. They had to have found her. If the lead had been a dead end, the Auror's would've simply returned to them and said so. They'd have had no reason to stay where they were and signal Draco to come to them. He hoped the same logic meant that she was alive - that they were too busy watching her, or even healing her, to come and fetch him. There was no reason to stand guard over a corpse.

Potter met him at the gates of the estate - rusted and in disrepair. Draco barely even slowed his pace, eyes always focused on his next destination - the garden path, house, the entrance hall.

"She's alive," he breathed "We've just revived her. But-"

Where Potter's words couldn't slow his pace, what he saw next did. Before he could reach the large wooden double doors to the building, silhouettes appeared. It was difficult to make them out at first, the lights in the house behind them casting them as nothing but black figures. Two women, he could tell that much, and at first in his blind panic he thought that one of them might've been Marilyn. But then he took in the rest - the outline of their robes, and then the Aurors that stepped out behind them, one of each holding tightly each woman by their upper arms, forcing them to awkwardly stumble along before them.

Draco's pace stammered to a halt, and his wand was drawn before he even fully made up his mind to do so, marching up to them.

"Malfoy," Potter barked behind him.

He recognised Tabitha - well, he recognised both of them, but Tabitha was the more familiar of the two. She was also the only one to show any fear or alarm, her eyes widening as she all but flinched backwards into the Auror behind her, seeking out whatever protection they might offer. Once upon a time such open intimidation would have gratified him - made him feel smug, powerful. Now it just made him even more angry. Not, however, as angry as Serana's look of smug defiance made him.

His wand jabbed beneath her bony little chin so harshly that she made a light choking noise before she gathered herself and glared at him. The Auror behind her tried to pull her back but she fought it, rooting herself to the spot and returning his glare just as fiercely.

"Malfoy," Potter's hand was grabbing at his elbow, trying in vain to pull it back before he whispered insistently into his ear "Don't give her a leg to stand on in the court. If she can allege brutality, she can shoot for a lighter sentence."

He hesitated. Then he lowered his wand.

Serana smirked, squaring her shoulders and leaning forward once his wand was gone from her chin "Go to your little pet, blood traitor. What's left of her, at least."

His lip curled into a snarl, which was a good thing for it covered up the dread he felt at her words. Letting the silence rest between them for a moment to give her a chance to worry over his response, the best thing he could think to say only ended up consisting of two words.

"Enjoy Azkaban."

To her credit (the infinitesimal amount he was willing to give her, and begrudgingly at that), she covered her own dread well. A slight tremble of her lip, a twitch of her brow, but that was it. Unlike her half-sister, though, who heard the words and buckled at the knees. Her reaction rather took away from the cool and collected facade that Serana was going for, the Auror behind her having to bodily keep her from crumpling to the ground. It seemed she'd never stopped to consider what would happen should they not come out on top. He'd have thought the war would've taught them to prepare for that possibility.

Taking a few steps to the side, he didn't watch as they were marched towards the edge of the property so they could be apparated to the Ministry's interrogation rooms. Only after Granger had a few harsh words with her former employee, he had no doubt. The memory of the girl's right hook was still strong from their third year of Hogwarts. He could only hope that Serana might be afforded a similar experience with it. Potter's warning could have held some weight, but the bitch had been caught red-handed torturing a Muggle. Even if the Minister for Magic hadn't been Kingsley Shacklebolt, a known war hero, he wouldn't have been able to let something like this slide so soon after the war without raising some serious questions.

Serana would never know a day of freedom ever again. And the Notts had no money or influence left to ensure a different fate for Tabitha.

Once they'd passed enough for him to enter the building without having to squeeze by them, Draco was striding through the doors. There was no need to ask Potter which way he'd have to go to find Marilyn. He only had to follow the shouts. Weasley and one remaining Auror, the healer of the group, were struggling to contend with Marilyn's panic - for it was Marilyn they were trying their utmost to placate, even if it took him a delayed moment of horror to recognise her.

The sconces fixed to the walls around the dungeon of a room had been lit, torchlight flickering all about them and only highlighting the wildness of her appearance. Gone was her former grace and confidence, and everything about her body language now seemed to have the goal of making herself smaller - curled up where she sat on the ground, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed. Every time the Auror got what she judged to be as too close, she gave a cry that sounded painfully scratchy and hoarse.

"Marilyn," the healer was urging in gentle but intent tones, holding out a small metal cup "You need to drink this, you'll feel better."

A calming draught, in all likelihood. Or…something to help heal the scratches on her face. He caught sight of them for but a second, flashing into view as she looked up just long enough to stare distrustfully between Weasley and the healer, having not yet noticed his presence. Rage filled him at the sight, however brief, and he wondered if it wasn't yet too late to run back and curse those two hags into oblivion. They could always tell the Ministry that it happened during the duel. Who would really care if they told a different story? Who would ask?

The closer the healer got to try to push the cup in her face, the more she shrank backwards until she was pressed tightly into the corner, her knees brought up under her chin. When there was nowhere left for her to retreat back to but the idiotic healer kept trying to push the cup towards her, Marilyn slapped it out of her hand, sending it and its contents flying across the room. It rolled across the stone floor with an almighty clatter, joining a goblet that already lay in the corner. Weasley noticed it at the same time that Draco did, retrieving it with a grimace. A probe of his wand had him sighing and muttering "Veritaserum."

So they'd pried into her mind before they'd tortured her. Or mid-torture, perhaps. Or even as part of it - he imagined there could be little more terrifying to one who couldn't even conceive of magic being real than suddenly having truths to questions they wouldn't otherwise answer spilling from their lips. Well, other than the Cruciatus Curse. He stood there, motionless. Now that he was here, he didn't even know what to do. Marilyn had not yet noticed him - or if she had, she didn't care to acknowledge him, her hands shielding her eyes, and her hair shielding her hands in turn, wild and in disarray from whatever horrors they'd put her through over the course of the day. He'd done this. This was his fault. What could he even say to undo it?

The healer had no patience for his internal torment.

"Mr Malfoy, a little help, please?" She asked sharply.

That got Marilyn's attention, any cries of protest dying on her lips and leaving the room jarringly silent. Her hands slowly fell from her face - so slowly that at first it was difficult to tell if they truly were or not. Then they moved back up again, but only to push her hair away from her face so she could see. It was the first trace of lucidity he'd seen in her yet - and he couldn't even be relieved for it, because he was too concerned with her injuries. The ones he could see, anyway.

The scratches weren't the only marks she bore, the entire left side of her face had bloomed into an angry vivid red, which would soon morph into black and blue if given the chance. Traces of blood also lined the corners of her lips, and were dried into her chin. Each new detail was like a spike of ice through his gut, and he couldn't help the overwhelming grief he felt showing on his face when she finally looked at him. This was a far cry from the woman who'd teased and laughed with him over dinner not forty-eight full hours before. And it was his fault.

Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek so that his upset wouldn't show, if only because he had no damn right to be the one who was upset here, he knelt down slowly on the floor just out of arm's reach of her, the healer moving back to make room for him. Her wide eyes flitted between himself, and then the healer, and then back to him again - like a wild animal, trapped and corners and expecting some kind of trick on the part of its captors. The ice stabbing into his gut turned to steel, like a fucking dagger, and moved up to his chest. Not once had she ever regarded him with fear, or a lack of trust. Even on their first meeting, there'd been nothing but hope there. Like he was a lifeline, not a threat.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he reached a hand towards her "Marilyn."

She exhaled shakily and stared at the hand...but then her focus moved to his other hand, the one that still held the wand, and she was choking on a ragged, terrified sob, trying to scramble back even further into the corner as though the walls might give away and afford her some means of escape. She didn't cover her face again, though. No, there would be no tearing her eyes away from the wand. Until, that was, he threw it to the other side of the room, not even looking to see where it rolled to in the end.

"Marilyn," he tried again "Please. You're safe. We found you."

She would not reach out to accept his hand, not even to meet him half-way. Not out of a conscious decision not to do so (at least he didn't think so), but because she seemed thoroughly unable to, rooted to her corner and too scared to the bone to do anything other than stare, and tremble. Moving awkwardly and painstakingly, he inched forward on his knees as though silently pleading with her to snap out of it. She didn't move towards him, but nor did she shy away like she had whenever the Auror had tried to get close.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of slow and deliberate movements, he clasped a hand gently around her wrist. She flinched, and at first he was prepared to move back again, but then the sleeve of her jacket rode up and he saw the angry red marks around them. Letting go, he moved his grip to her shoulder instead, and could have cried in relief when her hand, freezing and shaking, came up to clamp itself atop his. It wasn't a gesture made to seek comfort, it was like she was checking he was real - tangible.

Only once she was sure did he see a change in her. Her face entirely crumpled, the hand on his remaining there while the other came up to cover what it could of her face. Feeling (and dearly hoping) that he could now move without any dire consequence, he leaned forward and tried to pull her towards him. It was more coaxing than anything, and incredibly awkward at that thanks to the odd angle, and how reluctant he was to accidentally jostle any injuries he wasn't aware of. It took a moment or two, but eventually she used the hand that wasn't on his to push herself away from the wall and towards him, and he wound up sitting there on the floor, practically cradling her as she sobbed.

He was reminded, for a moment, of the time back in the hospital when they'd found themselves in a similar position, after the first attack. He'd thought back then that his situation was terrible, that there was no way for it to get worse. Well, he'd been proven wrong. The cry back then had been that of somebody who was frightened. This one? This was of somebody who was broken - tortured wails that wracked her whole body as he held her tightly against him.

"I'm...losing...my…mind," she breathed out in between sobs, barely able to catch her breath enough to get the words out "I don't….I don't...understand."

"You're safe," he murmured directly into her ear so that there could be no doubt that she'd heard him - although whether she'd listen was another matter "We got them. We have you. They'll be put away for life. Never near you again."

Something touched his arm - his first reminder that there were, in fact, others in the room. The two Aurors who had escorted Serana and Tabitha remained nowhere to be seen, much like their prisoners (which was a damned good thing, because he knew now that if he'd seen Marilyn before seeing them, he'd have killed them both), but other than them everybody was present. The healer was the one who'd touched his arm, offering the cup which had now been refilled with whatever she'd been attempting to give Marilyn the first time round, while Potter, Weasley, and Granger had moved back towards the steps leading out the room. They all looked varying degrees of awkward, sad, and stunned, like they didn't quite know where to look, but still could not manage to look away at the same time. But Draco couldn't muster a shit to give, if he was being totally honest.

Accepting the cup from the healer, he put them all out of his mind, accepting the cup and offering to her.

"No," she shook her head, showing the slightest hints of struggling in his grasp - like she didn't want to move but was fully prepared to if he pushed the matter "No."

"It's medicine. It'll help - look."

Her eyes remained wide and wild, rimmed with tears as she watched him take a sip from the cup himself. It tasted like grass, but it wasn't wholly unpleasant. A wave of calm washed over him as he did so, but it didn't erase the sadness, nor the regret. He couldn't tear from his mind the thought that an hour or two ago he'd been hesitating. While this was being done to her, he'd been thinking of his reputation.

She watched closely as he sipped from the cup, and once he had she continued to watch for a moment, her breath still coming in sharp bursts as if she'd just ran for miles on end.

"What's...What's your...your n-name?" She rasped.

Draco stopped, and then he stared at her. Was this...was this some effect on her mind?

"What?" He asked quietly "What do you mean? You know my name."

His final sentence was said as though he wasn't quite sure whether she did or not. Yes, she'd recognised him. He'd seen it. The fact that she sat in his arms now was proof. But he couldn't wrap his mind around the question - had their torture done something to her mind? Remembering faces but not names? His panic was appeased, though, because it appeared that his answer had been what she was looking for, because she accepted the cup after that (even though he had to steady it with his own hand, otherwise she'd have spilled the contents everywhere from how she continued to shake), and took a gulp from it.

It took him a delayed moment to realise what she'd been asking. The Veritaserum. She was testing him - making sure they weren't giving it to her again. Just as she kept glancing over his shoulder at the others, the ones who still had their wands in their hands or poking out of their pockets, like she had to make sure another attack was not on the way. If he'd had his wits about him a bit more, he might've seen that such a thing was a good sign. If she was lucid enough - mentally present enough - to administer such a test, even in her panic, then surely no long term damage had been inflicted. Hopefully.

By the time she began to reach the bottom of the cup, her breathing had already slowed and her eyes were beginning to droop. When he pulled the cup away she didn't protest, and the sobbing had stopped. Thank god.

"Stay with me," was the final thing she murmured before she began to lose her battle against unconsciousness "Please."

He held onto her tighter to reassure her. Staying was the very least he could do, and not just because he had nowhere else to go. Although he had no idea how they would navigate things once she opened her eyes again.