Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the plot bunny.

Intro: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts

Chapter Six

Sixth Year

Hermione's room was bare – every possession had been packed into her trunk and her bed had been stripped of its sheets. She had retrieved every book from beneath the bed, every scrap of paper from the desk. Her hand had hesitated over the slender grey stone which had been stowed in her closest pocket all year. On that first night after it had all happened she had not slept a wink. She had sat there in her desk chair after the others had drifted off into their rooms and she had watched the stone on her desk, her hand cupped near enough to feel it grow hot every so often. He had tried to contact her no more than six times before stopping. He didn't say much.

Are you ok?

Are you there?

There's nothing I can say.

Are you ok?

I'm sorry.

Be safe.

That last one had come in the early hours of the morning, well into the light of dawn, and it unnerved her slightly. It sounded almost like a goodbye. But she could not even register his messages clearly through the roaring storm in her own mind. All she could think of was Harry's pale, weary face as they all stood in the hospital wing, Bill lying bleeding beside them thanks to the work of Greyback, all of them reeling from the shock of the night's events.

"Snape killed him," he had said, his voice flat with the horror of it. "It was a trap… Malfoy trapped him and waited for the Death Eaters."

She didn't think she had been able to speak properly until the next day. Of course they had thought he was up to something. But not this. Never had she believed that it would be this. When the stone glowed with his words, all she could think about was Dumbledore's shattered body on the ground below the astronomy tower. She could not see past that.

The next couple of days had passed in a dead haze. The castle had been almost silent. Surprisingly, they had not found themselves discussing the event or the circumstances leading up to it. Instead she, Harry, Ron and Ginny spent their time simply sitting outside near the lake or in the Common room, sharing in one another's grief. There had never been an appropriate moment to ask Harry what had happened and she very much doubted that one would present itself. And now the funeral was beginning within the hour, and afterwards they would be travelling home.

It felt so terribly bleak.

She had sat at her desk often over the past couple of days and tried to plan out what would happen. Bill and Fleur would marry. Harry's birthday would be around the same time. They would, most likely, all come to stay at the Burrow for the two events and then… and then they would leave. The Horcruxes were out there somewhere. And an impossible task was all they had to fight back against the wave of impending death and destruction Voldemort was bringing down on them. Sitting there at four in the morning one night, she realised that she would have to send her parents to safety alone. And the logistics of that were too terrible for her to contemplate at that moment.

With a sudden rush of cold fury she opened her drawer and put the stone into it. The drawer shut with a clipped thud and she turned away from it, strode to where her trunk and bag waited beside the door. Her resentment was too great for her to take it, or allow her to answer. She wanted to be hopeful, but she couldn't help but feel that she was about to lose everything dear to her due to that night on the astronomy tower. Dumbledore was dead, and they were on their own.

She did not look back as she heaved her trunk down the stairs into the Common room where she stored it with the others, all waiting to be taken down to the Hogwarts Express. Harry, Ron, Ginny and Neville were standing near the portrait hole, waiting for her to join them before making their way down to the grounds. They all looked sombre and dejected. Harry looked as if he was not truly awake, staring dully at the ground in front of him, grey circles beneath his eyes betraying the last few sleepless nights. She reached them and offered them a small smile.

"Ready?" Ron said unsteadily.

They climbed out through the portrait and joined the flood of students going down to the grounds. The sun hit them in a bright surge as they emerged through the great doors of the Entrance Hall and walked slowly down the steps. The funeral was to take place beside the lake – she could see a white marble table and row upon row of chairs waiting there. The sunlight danced on the glossy water. It could not have been a more beautiful day.

"Hermione?"

She blinked, realising that she had come to a halt on the stone steps. Harry had turned to look for her, his hollow eyes meeting hers. She hurried on towards him and, without really knowing what she was doing, linked her arm through his. He seemed grateful for the contact and squeezed her arm slightly as they followed the others down towards the lake.

"It's all so surreal," he said quietly.

"Yes, it is," she murmured. "Harry?"

"Mm?"

She stopped herself, suddenly aware of what she had been about to ask. But he was looking at her expectantly, as if he knew what she had been thinking, and suddenly she could not stop herself. She could not simply not know. She spoke, her voice quavering slightly.

"Malfoy… He planned it all? He was going to kill Dumbledore?"

Harry sighed heavily, his face darkening. Their pace slowed, allowing the others to draw ahead of them.

"He let the Death Eaters into the castle," Harry said slowly. "But when he came upstairs and disarmed Dumbledore, he was alone. And they talked for so long…"

"What did they talk about?"

It seemed like such a meaningless question and she almost blushed, but Harry replied without hesitation.

"Just about… about his choices. Dumbledore wanted him to join the Order or something, get protection. But Malfoy said he couldn't, because he and his parents would be killed if he didn't follow his orders…"

She listened in silence, picturing it all. She could see him there, his wand arm shaking, his lips quirking as he tried to pretend to be in control. He must have been so terrified…

"But he couldn't do it."

"Do it?"

"Kill Dumbledore," Harry explained with a wince. The memory was still raw, and he had not spoken so much about it to anyone yet. "He just stood there. And then the other Death Eaters came, and they told him to do it, and he still didn't. And then Snape came, and…"

He broke off and she rubbed his arm, nodding, releasing him from the obligation to go on. They had reached the back row by now and she looked around at the strange crowd Dumbledore's funeral had drawn. She spotted several famous witches and wizards she recognised from her studies – academics, writers, poets, explorers, alchemists, aurors. All had turned out for the day.

"I keep thinking of him, you know," Harry said, to her surprise. "He was so desperate and… I just wonder what he's doing now."

"Yeah," she murmured.

Ginny and Ron had saved seats for them, and Ron moved aside to let Harry and Ginny sit together. He squeezed back in beside Hermione, reaching out to give her hand a squeeze, tears glistening on the end of his long nose. She squeezed back before withdrawing, folding her hands in her lap instead.

The funeral passed by in a blur. She watched Hagrid carrying the body, wrapped in a velvet cloth, up to the marble table. She listened to Fawkes' keening cries from above them and to the muffled sobs of the crowd listening to a small man's long, unnecessary speech about who Dumbledore had been. She flinched in surprise as the body burst into white flames which flared brightly and then disappeared to reveal a marble white tomb. Ron reached for her hand again, but she pretended not to notice.

Somehow, all she could see was his pale face in the carriage on the first night of term. He had stared at her with eyes that were screaming, with a face so twisted in despair and anguish that she had barely recognised him.

"This is what you don't understand, you little Golden Trio with your Dumbledore's Army behind you! Whatever you do, your family can run. They can go into hiding, they can disappear. My family can't run, don't you get it? Because he's fucking sitting at our dinner table!"

She felt so ignorant now, and his words felt so much more meaningful than they had then. She felt hot tears on her cheeks and brushed at them desperately, forcing herself to take a deep breath. People were rising around them, moving towards the Entrance Hall where they would wait for the carriages to take them to the train. She stood up so suddenly that her chair almost toppled backwards. Ron, Ginny and Harry blinked up at her in confusion.

"I've left something in my room," she said blankly.

She didn't wait to let them ask questions – she just turned and left. She was rushing over their entire year again in her head. His plan had been stupid, and of course it had not worked, but there was the slightest chance it might have if Harry and Dumbledore had not just returned from hunting Horcruxes. If Dumbledore had not been weakened, there would have been ample time to warn him of the impending attack and yet not give anything away… His silence all year was making sense at last. Faced with that task, as punishment for his father, the death of his parents hanging over him, he had panicked. He had not been able to risk her death. And he would have been watched so closely…

He couldn't do it, Harry had said. He just stood there.

And what were the repercussions of that? After all, the plan had failed. Clearly Draco had hoped to be captured by the Order, to never have to face the wrath of Voldemort. And yet, instead, he had been dragged back to his new master with Snape and the other Death Eaters. Where he would have to explain his failure. And somehow, she could not imagine that Voldemort would be sympathetic, even if Snape had done what Draco had been unable to do.

She took the stairs two at a time up to the Gryffindor Common room. Their trunks had gone and a couple of House Elves were beginning to clean the area – they gasped as she ran past, but she couldn't let herself stop to reassure them. Not now. She dashed up the stairs and threw the door open to her room. If it had been cleaned already, if it was gone… and yet, when she threw open her drawer, she heard the rattle and was flooded with relief. She snatched up the stone and held it tight, remembering the final message, sent at dawn.

Be safe.

She sent three in quick succession, holding the stone tight with both hands.

Are you ok?

Can you talk?

Draco?

The stone remained cold in her hand.

She waited until the House Elves came to tell her in shrill voices that the train would leave soon.

~O~

She appeared on the platform on the back of the train where he was smoking silently, trying to think what he would say. He wanted to say something witty and funny and intelligent. She looked nervous. He straightened up and, unable to think of anything else, felt himself lapse back into his cool, cold demeanour – and then she had suddenly come to him and kissed him. And he had felt the breath leave his body. How had she known to do it? How had she known to kiss him like that and destroy any walls that had been creeping up? And when she pulled away he was speechless, and yet she was smiling widely and her face was warm and bright and her hair was frizzy and wildly waving around in the fierce wind.

"It's so good to see you. I missed you."

And the words were so simple, and even so they filled him with something perfect and he was reaching for her and he couldn't stop smiling and the wind was all around them as he pulled her against him, her waist encircled in his arms, her hair flying in his face, her body moving to meet his –

"Mudbloods do not make good wives, Draco."

He flinched violently, dragged her behind him as the voice sneered through the air beside his ear. In the darkness of the carriage behind them, just visible through the doorway, was a white, bald head and two glowing red slitted eyes… He pulled desperately at Hermione, who was asking him what was wrong in confusion, even as her voice became ghostly and her hand disappeared in his and he turned and found her floating away into the steam of the train, her face suddenly bloodless, her eyes blank and staring, one hand still extended as if to reach for him –

His eyes snapped open as hands came down on his shoulders and gripped him tightly. There was one wild moment in which he did not know where he was or who was leaning over him. He seized the sleeves of the stranger, ready to wrestle them off him, and then abruptly recognised the dark curtain of hair and the pale, narrow face hovering above his own.

Severus Snape released him as the recognition registered in his face and pulled the sleeves of his robes straight before sitting back down in the plush, high-backed chair which had been drawn up next to the bed. He looked disgruntled, his lip firmly curled and his dark eyes narrowed icily. It was very odd to find his former Potions master sitting in his bedroom. He wasn't sure if he was about to be given detention or briefed on his next mission. Draco's eyes travelled upwards to the dark hangings of his own bed, over the familiar sight of his room, and then returned to him. He realised now that he was breathing hard, as if he had been running, and that his neck was stinging angrily. His head throbbed as if he had drunk an entire bottle of firewhiskey and his whole body prickled with droplets of sweat. The sheets of his bed clung to his legs.

"Have you quite finished?"

Snape's haughty voice was tight and clipped. Draco didn't speak, still wondering what exactly he was doing in his room at all. Snape jerked his head at the closed door pointedly, his eyebrow arching.

"I don't think the Dark Lord requires any more reasons to punish you."

And, suddenly, the dream he had been having – the dream that had been so horrifically vivid – rushed back over him. He felt as if the air had been knocked out of him. Had he been screaming out loud? He stared at Snape, desperately trying to figure out how much he might have worked out. In the gap in his memory between the bloody floor of his dining room and now, he may have given himself away. Snape held his gaze indifferently, and the silence stretched on between them.

"Does it matter?"

Draco forced himself to break the silence. His voice was a rasping croak – he sounded like a dying banshee. He swallowed, winced as his throat seared, and tried to shift himself upright in the bed. Snape's unblinking eyes watched as Draco pulled a second pillow over and leaned back against it. His arms felt like matchsticks and his head felt like it had been beaten with a sledgehammer. He closed his eyes, taking stock of his body.

"Evidently not."

He would never quite get used to the way Snape's lips never seemed to move when he spoke. He cracked his eyes open warily, but Snape was looking away, out of the wide bay windows. The light streaming through them was the paleness of afternoon sunlight. His expression was completely unreadable, as if a stone wall had been carefully put together just behind his eyes. Draco was still trying to wrap his head around why he was even there. He lifted a hand and felt the side of his neck gingerly. It was covered in a bandage, but he could feel a slight tenderness in the area. A vision of the snake surging in on him made him shudder and he let his arm drop.

"Perhaps," Snape said suddenly, making him flinch, "you should try to make less noise."

He felt as if he had just been blindfolded and shoved into a room of knives. He didn't know what he could say that was safe, or whether he could be sure that Snape hadn't figured out everything he had been hiding for the last two years. But Snape was, as ever, silent and stoic as a shard of flint. If he had learned any unwelcome news, he was not planning to discuss the matter.

"Fine," Draco said eventually, in as polite a voice as he had ever managed to address to a teacher.

Snape's hollowed eyes narrowed and he extended a hand to languidly indicate the bedside table. Draco twisted awkwardly to see a glass filled with thick, orange liquid. There was a larger glass bottle of the potion sitting nearby.

"You will need to drink that promptly. It wouldn't stop bleeding. The antidote took some time to brew, so you lost a lot of blood."

Draco reached for it, furious to find his hand shaking violently as he lifted it. He took a few sips, but it tasted sour and he didn't want it. All he wanted was a painkiller, in any form. His head still hurt, and he was suddenly filled with a deep dread. What if someone had gone rifling through his mind while he had been unconscious? What if Voldemort had come back to check his loyalty when he couldn't hide? And if that hadn't condemned him, shouting in his sleep surely would have. He looked at the door, but it remained closed.

"The Dark Lord had matters to attend to outside the Manor," Snape said, as if he had asked aloud. "No one else remained behind."

He was awarded some luck then, even if only a fraction. He forced himself to take another gulp of the potion and then shoved it back towards the bedside cabinet, screwing his thumbs into his eyes in an effort to relieve the pressure in his skull. He felt horrible, but the silence of the house was beginning to unnerve him. He strained his ears for a little while longer before speaking up.

"Where are my parents?"

"The Dark Lord asked that they accompany him. Your mother was rather keen that I inform her when your condition improved."

"How long has it been?"

"Two weeks since the Astronomy Tour."

The words brought a strange roar to his ears and a blankness to his mind which he now recognised as the only way he was going to make it through the hell he had signed up for. He suddenly felt tired to the bone, his whole body an aching, heavy mass weighing him down. He closed his eyes again. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and never wake up.

"I said I'd contact your mother if you woke up," Snape said brusquely, rising from the chair and turning away. His robes billowed, and he was once again that forbidding, bat-like creature sweeping through the corridors of Hogwarts. He paused, one hand on the doorknob, as if about to speak – but stopped as he saw Draco shoving himself upright and reaching shakily for the side of the bed, preparing to climb out.

"Care to explain what you're doing, Malfoy?"

"I… need something," Draco said lamely, unable to think of a convincing lie.

Snape's reference to Dumbledore's death had brought Hermione to the forefront of his mind. It had been days since he had tried to call for her with the stone and she had ignored him. Maybe she had thought more about it, perhaps tried to contact him? The chance was slim, but he had to know. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and groaned as his head burst with pain. His body was shaking around him, betraying him, and a relentless wave of nausea was building in his stomach. He buried his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, defeated before he had even started.

He heard footsteps and opened his eyes to find himself looking at a pair of black boots and the hem of a long, black robe. A bored sigh came from somewhere above him.

"What do you want?"

He shook his head, unable to formulate words.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe the whole point of me being here was so you didn't end up unconscious on the floor."

It was pointless trying to argue. He was so obviously weak that the very idea of protesting was laughable. He swallowed back the bile that was building in the back of his throat and forced himself to uncurl from his hunched position. Snape was standing in front of him, arms folded, face stony.

"Well?"

Draco hesitated a moment longer before giving in. "There's a stone in the top drawer of my desk. I need it."

Snape's eyebrow arched incredulously, and for a moment Draco thought he was going to simply turn around and leave. But then he moved towards the desk and slid open the top drawer, rifling dismissively through his belongings, moving aside pens and quills. Draco eased himself back into the bed, leaning against the headboard, letting the tiredness descend on him once more. He couldn't find the energy to think of an explanation, nor to try to non-verbally summon the stone himself. His wand crossed his mind and he squinted around the room, concern building until he suddenly caught sight of it lying on the desk. Snape straightened suddenly, the flat stone held between his thumb and forefinger.

"This?"

Draco nodded wearily. Snape came back and stood beside him, looking at it with a suspicious, narrow gaze.

"And what is it?"

"Doesn't matter."

He held out his hand for it. Snape held it for a few long seconds, watching him, as if daring him not to explain. Then, quite unexpectedly, he dropped it into Draco's waiting palm and strode off towards the door, his shoulders stiff and unforgiving. Draco listened to his footsteps echoing away down the corridor until they faded into silence. The room felt oddly tense now that he was alone, and he was ashamed to find himself peering nervously at the ajar bathroom door, searching for the gleam of scales. Where was Nagini? Downstairs, coiled by the fireplace? He tried to push the memory of its weight on him out of his mind, but he could almost still feel its cold flesh twisting around his body. He could still taste the panic.

The stone lay in his hand, cool to the touch. He closed his fist over it weakly and at once it glowed hot. For a few stunned minutes he could only lie there as the warmth rolled over his skin. There were so many messages – numerous messages – the first few just nudges which became formulated words chasing across the stone's surface in golden letters. He could barely catch them. Giddy relief hit him and he felt his eyes water, blinked furiously. She had tried to get in contact. She had cared. Whatever conversations she had had, something had made her reach for him. He hadn't expected the tearful relief that hit him. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the pillows, feeling as if he had finally breathed for the first time in months. It took a while for him to remember that he had to respond.

Still revelling in the miracle, he tried to concentrate on her words. She was asking if he was alright, where he was, asking him to respond… He didn't know how to explain. It didn't matter anyway – when he tried, he found that all he could muster was a soft pulse of warmth – not even a coherent message. Just a signal. It had any remaining energy running out of him like water and he let it take whatever strength he had left. The world was retreating and he gladly fell asleep with his talisman held loosely in his fist.

Now

Hermione had only just started on the stairs to her room when the dining room door flew open and Hestia appeared, tucking a small notebook into her robes. She had slipped downstairs for some lunch after spending most of the day hiding out in the lounge, and had been extremely grateful not to run into anyone. Hestia's was the first face she had seen all day, and was particularly unwelcome – she had been hoping to escape the others, needing time to sort through her thoughts. After meeting Draco on the stairs the night before, she had been forced to revaluate her feelings on his presence in the house. The encounter had resulted in nothing more than an unnerving, alien distance, only proving to her how different they both were now. She wondered if, had he never shown up, she would have ever seen him again.

She ducked her head, hoping Hestia hadn't seen her.

"Ah, Hermione, afternoon."

She stopped, wincing, and glanced down the stairs. "Hi, Hestia…"

Hestia had paused by the front door, smiling. "Would you walk with me for a moment?"

Hermione couldn't think quickly enough to come up with a reason to say no. She hesitated for a moment longer before awkwardly smiling and pulling out her wand. She waved it over her books until they flickered out of existence, sending them to stack themselves beneath her bed, and headed slowly back downstairs. She pulled her coat down from the hooks near the door and followed Hestia out into the street, shrugging her shoulders against the cool city air.

She knows.

She shook off the little voice in the back of her head. There was no possible way that anyone could know about her involvement with Draco – unless, of course, he had told Hestia the whole story. In which case, she could very well be walking into custody of the Ministry for questioning on her relationship with a high profile Death Eater… But Hestia was smiling encouragingly at her, pulling the collar of her coat straight as they strolled down the street and into the park opposite Grimmauld Place. The park was small – after all, it was London – but pleasantly sunlit and framed with tall, leafy trees. It was good to be outside after being holed up in the house all day. She glanced at Hestia out of the corner of her eye.

"How is the investigation into the remaining Death Eaters?" she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral. "Any news?"

Hestia shook her head. "No, no news. They've gone rather quiet recently – I think they know that we're closing in."

She brushed at the sleeve of her coat, peered up at the clear blue sky. Hermione waited, knowing that Hestia wouldn't be rushed. She felt guilty, like a criminal being walked to her cell. And when Hestia finally did speak, her heart began to pound in earnest.

"I wanted to talk to you about your latest resident. Mr. Malfoy."

Hermione tried to look unconcerned, and knew at once that she was not pulling it off. She could feel her cheeks beginning to grow red. Her tongue fumbled around her voice as she tried to speak.

"O-Oh?"

"I know it's a pain having him there," Hestia said with an apologetic smile. "Hopefully it won't be for long. But I wanted to check something with you, just briefly."

Hermione didn't trust herself to speak. She just nodded mutely, pushing her hands into her pockets to hide her anxiously wrung fingers as they came to a halt near the fountain in the middle of the park. Sunlight caught the sparkling ripples of water, and gave her something else to focus on other than Hestia's probing gaze.

"When I was discussing our recent progress with Harry the other night, he mentioned that Malfoy had given him cause to believe that he was a somewhat reluctant Death Eater," Hestia continued. "Would you agree with that?"

She tried to unpick the layers of the question, but it seemed more or less innocent. And Hestia's face was still friendly, still unassuming. She wasn't speaking like an interrogator. Hermione tried to concentrate on her question, on everything it carried. To answer it meant looking back at everything that had ever happened between them, and trying to evaluate what parts were true and what parts lies. Even now, she wasn't really sure which was which. She kept her gaze on the fountain. In its stone bottom she could see piles upon piles of copper pennies.

"Yes," she said finally. "I think… I think he was just scared, more than anything else."

"Do you think he would have any reason to try to gain your trust?"

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Hermione, you're not stupid," Hestia said flatly, shaking her head. "Voldemort was famous for playing the long game. After the first Wizarding War, he remained in hiding for years. It could be that Malfoy – and the other rogue Death Eaters – are simply the pieces of another puzzle. We can never assume that Voldemort is gone."

Hestia's words dropped through Hermione's mind like cold pebbles. And the worst thing was that she was absolutely right. They couldn't take the liberty of believing that Voldemort was gone forever, that his influence would never come back to haunt them. For all they knew, the remaining Death Eaters had found some way to keep a part of him alive, some method of resurrecting him. And Hestia obviously believed that Malfoy was involved. She lifted her head to find Hestia's serious, calculating gaze trained on her.

"You're asking me if I think that Malfoy is part of Voldemort's new master plan?"

"I'm just thinking of every eventuality, it's my job," Hestia reassured her softly. "I'm not trying to scare you. But you've known him since you were eleven – did you ever feel he was dangerous?"

"No."

She knew as soon as her lips had moved that she had answered too quickly. She fastened her teeth over them, tried to pull herself together.

"I don't think so," she clarified, backtracking. "I mean… I think his parents were more involved than him. He was just a student."

"Well, you were all 'just students,'" Hestia reminded her. "And yet you, Harry and Ron managed to win a war. Individuals can be just as dangerous as armies, in the right circumstances."

Hermione nodded silently. All she could picture was the night before, the inherent coldness in his gaze as he had looked at her, his dead, empty tone as he dared her to reach out to him. She hadn't been able to. She had to accept that she didn't know who he was now, not really. Not after so much time had passed. And yet, there was always some part of her that would believe that he was the person she had always known, the person who once risked everything for her.

"Everything alright?"

She jumped slightly, found Hestia looking at her with a touch of concern.

"If he ever tries anything – you know, if he's pushing his luck – just you say the word and I'll take him elsewhere."

"No, no, it's fine," she said, trying to smile. It came out more like a grimace. "He mostly just stays in his room, anyway."

"Well, anyway," Hestia said, winking. "The offer's there."

She turned and made her way towards the gates of the park. She had Disapparated within a few steps, leaving Hermione alone by the fountain. She watched the water rippling brightly, watched the pennies glimmering beneath the surface, wondered how many wishes had been thrown in by passers by. She folded her arms tightly over her chest, happy to have a few more moments to herself before returning to the house. She didn't like the way she had been over the past few days – irrational, uncertain, uncomfortable. She couldn't help it.

At the end of the day, it all came down to whether she had ever really known who he was. Whether any of it had been real.

And that was something she really, really didn't want to question.

Then

On the 1st September, Draco hovered on a sleek black broomstick above cloud level and tried to ignore the frigid, damp air eating into his bones. His thick cloak was one of the most expensive in the shop, but it still wasn't enough to keep out the bite of the wind. To his left Theodore Nott floated into view, his hood blown off around his shoulders by the vicious gale, his mask hanging down around his neck.

"Man, fuck this shit," he murmured, just loud enough for Draco to hear. "It's fucking freezing."

Draco shot him a warning glance as Dolohov soared up to their level, giving them a quick once over before circling around and diving back down to join the rest of the Death Eaters who were hovering in a rough circle a few meters below them. He could distinguish Snape towards the edge of the group by his slouched shoulders and the spidery hands clutching his broom. Once again, he had been sent along in his father's place. His father, who could not bring himself to leave the house, sitting next to his mother, who was unable to leave her bed.

"Hey. Hey."

He looked up sharply. Theo was holding out a stick of exploding gum. Draco shook his head, pulling his mask more firmly over his face.

"You ok man?"

He nudged his broom to the left, scanning the film of grey, rolling clouds beneath them. He could just about see the muffled, glowing points of light that indicated the streets below. Theo cleared his throat pointedly, and Draco tried to think of something to say. And yet what? Both of them were acutely aware that this was the first time Draco had joined the others on a mission since his failure at the end of the last academic year. In fact, if he was honest, it was the first time he had really left the house. The last month or so he had spent in his room, moving slowly between his bed and his desk. The effects of the snake bite had receded relatively soon – perhaps a week after the event – but he hadn't been able to make his way downstairs or attend any of the meetings led by Voldemort in their dining room. He had spent his time silently feeding his owl tiny nuggets of bird feed and lying in a blind stupor on his bed, dreaming that he was in Hogwarts. He had never much liked the place, but at least she had been there. He kept the grey stone under his pillow, clenched inside his fist, but it never grew hot. He could only guess at what she had thought upon the discovery of Dumbledore's shattered body beneath the astronomy tower.

Either way, she had made no effort to contact him after those first few messages. And he did not blame her.

"Draco?"

He turned his gaze on Theo, who floated ringed by the darkness of the edges of his mask. "What?"

Theo shrugged. "Nothing. Just, you know… was wondering how you're doing. You know, since…"

For a long moment, Draco just looked at him. He wondered if he should explain that he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten a full meal, or slept a whole night through, or felt like he cared about anything. He wondered if he should describe the fact that he had not held a conversation with anyone that lasted more than two words for weeks. He wondered if it was obvious that now he only ever wore high-necked clothes to cover the huge, sprawling scars on his neck and shoulder.

"I'm fine," he said.

"Ok," Theo muttered. "Just… I dunno. This thing is… well, it's… different than what I thought. Right?"

Draco looked him in the eye for the first time. Across the freezing, rain-whipped gulf between them he could feel someone reaching out for help, searching for some validation that there was another way out. Theo looked him up and down and then hurriedly pulled his hood up and fixed his mask in place, as if suddenly self-conscious.

"You shouldn't let the others hear you say that," Draco said softly, returning his gaze to the group below them. "People around here seem to have pretty keen ears."

Theo snorted softly, but did not argue. His gloved hands moved nervously on his broomstick. A few metres away the other Death Eaters were still huddled together, deliberating in soft voices, watching the clouds below. Draco kept one eye on them, making sure none of them had overheard. It was, perhaps, the first time Theo had spoken to him – or even seen him – since Nagini's attack. Apparently it had shaken the other boy more than Draco had realised. He wondered suddenly if Theo had been there that morning, one of the dark clad figures, and imagined how it must have been watching. The crowd, to his knowledge, had remained silent but for his mother's cries.

He was still deciding whether to ask or not when, abruptly, Yaxley was pelting towards them out of the close wall of surrounding clouds. He pulled his mask down over his face as he arrived, his shouts muffled by the surface.

"They're on their way! Move, move!"

The Death Eaters had swerved into their formation at once, and Draco took up his place at the back. Bellatrix was a metre or so in front of him. She was already breathing heavily with excitement – he could hear her pants rasping against her mask even from his distance. Her hood was down and her matted hair flying free – she did not care who recognised her. The mask was more of a statement than a disguise.

"There's loads of 'em!" Yaxely called over his shoulder from the front. "The Dark Lord is coming – just distract the others until he can get to Potter."

Draco's Mark was indeed beginning to sting hotly. He gritted his teeth against the uncomfortable prickling. The weightlessness of the flight and the sing of wind over his ears was almost enough to let him ignore it. Yaxley's closed fist lifted into the air as the group climbed higher, higher, stopped – and then, as he dropped his hand, they scattered.

He stuck close to his aunt's broom on their sharp descent, only veering off at the first bursts of fire. There were screams, shouts, flashes of red and green bouncing through the clouds. He flashed past two people on a broom – the Weasley father and a dark-haired, spectacled, scruffy boy he immediately recognised. He pulled up, torn between pursuing and simply pretending not to have seen, when a thestral came by on his other side, its great wings almost knocking him into open air. Astride it was another red-head and another Potter… And then came a motorbike with a huge mass crouched on the seat, which could only be the Hogwarts Groundskeeper, and yet another Potter…

"Polyjuice!" someone was roaring over the medley of curses and hexes. "There's loads of him!"

"Get all of them!" Yaxley's voice now, high and panicked. "Go!"

Draco pulled himself higher, drawing back from the fray and observing the chaos below. Potter after Potter rushed past this way and that, each with a different companion and astride a different steed. He had to admit, it was a decent plan. Death Eaters were scrambling everywhere, formation dissolved, unable to stay on one target for more than a few minutes before switching to another. But what Potter had planned beyond this point was a mystery. People would still die, 'Harry's would change into strangers during the fight until only one was left. Or until he arrived.

A hand collided with his head, slapping him roughly out of his contemplation. Carrow soared past with a bark of laughter, sending a violent hex at one of the many red-heads. A low-set broom zoomed past after him and Draco dodged to avoid a jet of heat, recognising the lumpy, aged face of Mad-Eye Moody. He circled away to the other side at once, sending a few random spells into the mix in a half-hearted attempt at seeming involved. He didn't much fancy going head on with that particular opponent. He was about to stage a dive at one of the thestrals when a red flash broke the air.

"Expelliarmus!"

A wand flew into space. And then, like a tide descending on the sand, the Death Eaters were swarming after the motorbike as it roared out of sight. Draco dodged a spell, remaining behind with several others as the stricken Order tried to distract and detain whomever they could. A number of Death Eaters were forced to stay, but at least seven had managed to pursue. And a chill was eating into Draco's bones and a shadow was approaching. He shook his head. What an idiot… He whirled away and blocked a spell sent at his back, sent a fireball at one of the brooms. The riders hastily surged upwards to avoid it. As they did so he noticed a definite ginger tinge to the Potter doppelganger's hair. Apparently the potion had not been enough to last long. He lay flat on his broom and twisted tightly as he dived out of the way of another attack. His seeker instincts set in and he wove through the conflict like a fly, sending a couple of minor curses left and right as he went.

Up ahead, one of the thestrals had been cornered and was panicking as it struggled to remain airborne on the spot. He recognised Kingsley Shaklebolt leading it, using the intermittent cover of its wings to shield himself from the oncoming fire before returning. The Potter on his back had torn off his glasses as his features began to morph, as black thin hair turned thick and brown. And as the face emerged from the rippling skin, Draco felt his heart plummet like a rock. It couldn't be true – he was hallucinating. Of course she would have never shied away from a task like this, but they wouldn't have let her, surely Potter or the Weasel would have known how she'd be targeted and understood the added risk… But there was her nose, and there was her furious frown of concentration, and there was her hair cascading longer and longer down her back –

And then it happened all at once.

Kingsley found himself open from the front and kicked the thestral in the ribs, driving it harshly upwards out of the line of fire. And she sent a block at the attacker over his shoulder, letting go of him with both hands and rising up on her feet in the saddle to get the angle. And at the same time Carrow was behind her and had sent the stunning jinx straight at her head – her fucking head – and that was it. It was all over in less than a second. One moment she was there, and the next she had lifted off the thestral and tumbled into the sea of clouds, disappearing from sight.

There was no time to think.

Instantly he twisted into a vertical dive and plummeted through the clouds, droplets of moisture peppering his hands and eyes, his hood flying back and off his head. His body was singing with electricity as he plunged downwards through the thick, soupy fog, the wind whipping his robes and skin, his blood roaring in his ears. All the time he was trying to figure out how high up they were, how much time he had. He burst through the final layer of cloud and made out the flickering lights of the occasional house far below. They had left the town behind them during their pursuit and emerged into neatly kept countryside. He could make out lakes dotted here and there, glistening in the dark. The pinpoints of light snaking over the roads below were the only indication of where anything was.

It was so dark that it took him some time to find her limp body, still dropping towards the unforgiving earth even as he approached. He could barely make her out through the baggy boyish clothes she had been disguised in. He flattened himself to his broom, streamlined every inch of himself, urged himself faster. His eyes were watering from the speed and his hands were aching from the cold and she wasn't bloody moving, she wasn't moving – and the ground was so close now, too close, the road rushing up hungrily to meet them, and she was going to hit it any moment now –

He threw himself forwards, launching away from his broom with all his strength, his hands outstretched, and by some miracle his fingers clutched at her sleeve. He was blinded by bright headlights and the howl of a truck's horn as it came at them, felt his broom hit him hard in the back of the head as it caught up with them, and as her weight caught at him he did the only thing he could do. In the rush he could not think of anywhere, there was no time – he could only see the lakes he had glimpsed only seconds before. His body was thrown into that terrible, squeezing nothingness and then he was back, and she was held tight against his chest now, both of his arms wrapped around her, the broom tumbling past them, and the lake was filling his vision.

They slammed into icy water and any breath he had had left was knocked out of him. Their momentum carried them deep into the dark coldness, their descent finally slowing somewhat. He twisted as they dropped and felt the muddy, pebbled bed of the lake collide with his back. Her hair spread across his sight as he squinted through the water, his body automatically trying to breathe, his lungs contracting harshly as water rushed at them. With everything he had he bunched his legs beneath him and pushed upwards, one arm still around her waist. Her dead weight was beginning to move lethargically, her hands attempting to grip his arm, and euphoria filled him as he clawed his way towards the surface one-handed. She was alive. She was alive. Her fingernails dug into his skin and he almost laughed with sheer relief, but water was clogging his nose and mouth and they had to get out, had to breathe…

They had fallen so fast that he had not realised how deep the lake was. His neck was craned back but no matter how hard he squinted he could not make out the surface – everything was dim and misty with particles of mud – all he could see was the glowing whiteness of her face nearby and of his own hand. His lungs were beginning to ache. He dug desperately in his pocket and pointed his wand below them as she began to struggle in earnest, returning to consciousness. He couldn't pronounce the spell properly underwater, but he had been practising wordless magic more and more and he was grateful for it now. He practically screamed the spell in his head.

Diffindo!

At once an unseen force carried them upwards with alarming speed. He wrapped both arms around her as she slipped, her feet kicking violently at him in shock. And then, finally, they had broken through the surface and blissful cold air ripped at his throat as he coughed harshly, water spurting from his mouth, finally sucking in air. He had barely managed to take a breath before her elbow collided with his face and pain blinded him momentarily. He could hear her coughing and gasping too, trying to scream at the same time.

"Get off, get – off – me!"

He caught at her flying fists, still blinking hard as the stars before his eyes retreated. He could feel something hot and wet on his upper lip.

"Let me go!"

"It's me! Hermione!"

She stiffened at once, and he had to grab her with both hands to keep her from sinking into the lake again. Treading water to keep them afloat, he let her turn around in his grip to see him. Her face was stricken, pale with fear and uncertainty. Her hair was plastered to her head, making her look sleek and small. She scanned his face warily, and it was only then that he remembered he still had his mask on. Swearing under his breath he lifted a hand and slashed it across his face, allowing the mask to disintegrate into smoke. Her eyes widened and her body trembled slightly in his grip as relief rushed over her face. She reached for him at once, her hands running over his hair to settle on either side of his neck.

"Draco," she breathed.

And just like that, he felt as if a weight had been lifted. It was as if nothing had changed, as if they could almost be back at Hogwarts and they had fallen into the lake by accident and were laughing about it… but the fear was still shimmering in her eyes, and when he looked up he could see the distant flashes and blasts above the clouds as the fight raged on. They could not hide in the lake forever.

"Come on," he said shakily, pulling her with him as he struck out for the bank.

She swam with him but he kept one arm around her waist, just in case, pulling them both forwards with one arm. When they reached the bank he put his hands on her sides and hoisted her up onto it, waiting until she had found her footing and pulled herself up before following. His robes slid through the thick mud, his boots skidding on his way up. He wiped his hands on his robes as he straightened, still breathless, still reeling from their fall. He looked up once more, trying to figure out how far they had actually dropped.

"What happened?"

She stood nearby, shivering in the thin t-shirt and hoodie she wore. She looked strange in Potter's jeans and trainers, like a child dressing up in an older brother's clothes. She held her arms, rubbing warmth back into her limbs, her wide eyes fixed on him. He had to remind himself to reply – it was so strange standing beside her once more, able to speak freely. He touched his throbbing nose and his hands came away sticky with blood.

"Carrow stunned you from behind," he said thickly. "You fell. How's your head?"

She was holding it gingerly, wincing. "It's alright." She looked at him suddenly, aghast. "Oh, Draco, I hit you – I'm sorry – here…"

"It's fine."

She was already digging in her pockets. Her face darkened in horror as she did so and she span around, scanning the grassy floor around them.

"Oh no, oh damn… My wand…"

He did not remember seeing it – she must have let go when she fell. He lifted his own anyway, despite the fruitless attempt.

"Accio," he said, fixing his mind on her wand.

They waited in silence, but nothing happened. No wand emerged from the bushes. He lowered his arm, defeated, but she just sighed and held out her hand. He handed over his wand without hesitation, and then blanched as she instantly lifted it and pointed it at his face. Even as a thrill of disbelief jolted through him, he was still able to appreciate the seriousness of her face, the tendrils of wet hair swinging around her as she frowned. He was about to raise his hands when she spoke.

"Episkey."

His nose felt hot and then abruptly the pain vanished. He felt it cautiously, found it familiar and smooth to the touch. He dragged the sleeve of his robe across it in an attempt to wipe off some of the blood, ashamed that he had actually thought she was about to curse him.

"Thanks."

"You caught me?" she said, looking up at the sky.

He found himself laughing. "I tried," he muttered, somehow able to smile. "The lake caught us, really."

Her serious brown eyes met his. "Thank you."

He shrugged awkwardly, and he suddenly felt confronted with the strangeness of the situation – she wearing Potter's clothes in an attempt to save him from Voldemort, he in his Death Eater robes. It was such an odd juxtaposition with what they used to have, between what they should be doing and what they were doing. She held out his wand and he took it back, turned away and stretched his hand out towards the lake, shivering as the wind tore at his damp skin.

"Accio."

His broom jerked out of the water with a gentle splash and span towards him. He caught it and brushed off the mud, straightened the branches at its tail. It was a little worse for wear, but somehow it had survived. He was surprised it had managed to come with them when they had Apparated. It must have been stuck between them when they fell. He could feel her staring at him and cleared his throat, trying to seem focused on his task.

"What happened to you?"

His hands stilled on the broom. "What?"

"You… I haven't heard from you since Dumbledore… Well, you answered me once, but it felt so…" She trailed off until he looked at her. Her lips were parted but it took some time before she spoke again. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Are your parents–"

"They're fine."

Silence spread between them. He hated it. It reminded him that they would never really be able to talk again. Their worlds were too far apart. She was looking at him as if she wanted to say something – she always wanted to say something – and yet she didn't. Perhaps because she knew how hopeless it all was. He tried to focus on the flashing clouds high above them.

"How're we going to get you back up there?"

She followed his gaze, clawing her wet hair back from her face. "I don't know."

For one heady, wild moment, he found himself smiling. "Say that again."

She shot him a pointed glare, and it was so familiar that he could almost forget all about the mess they had got into. He swung his broom around and climbed astride it.

"We're going to have to fly back up," he said in answer to her narrowed eyes. "I'll try to get above them and drop you –"

"Drop me?"

He looked at her startled face and a smirk that hadn't crossed his face in months came back.

"Drop you," he repeated delicately. "Yes. You'll make up some story about how a Death Eater caught you and tried to take you away, and you fought them off and managed to fly back in."

"Fly back in?" she repeated, letting out a short laugh. "Everyone knows I can't fly a broom."

"They won't ask too many questions, not if they're happy to see you. Say you fell off and landed on the thestral just by luck."

She shook her head. He raised his eyebrows.

"You have a better idea?"

With a heavy sigh, she climbed onto the broom behind him and put her arms carefully around his waist. He let himself enjoy her closeness for a moment before kicking off from the ground and surging upwards. She shrieked and clung tighter as they picked up speed. He squinted into the clouds, veering off to one side, wobbled as her weight sent them off course a little.

"Lie flat," he called over his shoulder, leaning forwards himself.

He felt her head press against his shoulder and considered flying off into the night and simply never returning. But they were approaching the continuing fight and as they climbed through the cloud layer he became acutely aware of how quickly they could be found out. He carried them up above the commotion and came to a halt high above, feeling her shaking through his robes.

"Can you see them?" she murmured into his ear.

The clouds were too thick – all he could see were shadows. He retrieved his wand from his robes and pointed it cautiously at the clouds. With it, he could just about make out the silvery outlines of several figures. And there, thankfully near the top of the fray, was the large form of a thestral with only one rider. He watched Shacklebolt fending off the three Death Eaters circling around him. With two wands – he must have caught Hermione's before she fell.

"We'll have to be quick," he said.

"Draco?"

He turned his head, and her face was right beside his. Her serious eyes fixed on his own and then, abruptly, she closed the distance and touched his lips lightly with hers. He sank into her, letting himself have the moment. Her warmth was so tangible, so immediate that he couldn't even think about warning her about the Death Eaters swarming below them. He didn't care how risky it was. She broke the contact and he felt her breath on his skin.

"Come back with me."

He shook his head. She rested her forehead against his, and the intimacy was so wonderful, so missed that he might have stayed there forever if a wayward jinx hadn't rushed past them. He quickly turned back towards the fight, urging his broom forwards a few inches. He performed the spell again and made out the thestral, now just below them. He looked back at her, found her staring back at him tremulously.

"If you ever need me," he began, and then stopped.

The corners of her mouth twitched slightly, as if about to smile. He lifted his hand and slowly returned the mask to his face, saw her eyes harden. And then, in one swift movement, he jerked upwards and she let go, and she fell. He surged higher and curved straight down once more, rushing beneath the bubble of fighting, but no body plummeted past him. As he rose once more, wondering breathlessly whether to enter, the thestral roared out of the clouds. He only missed it by rolling upside down in mid-air and tumbling away – even so one of its hooves hit his shoulder, sending a sharp jolt through him that almost dislodged him from the broom. As he rolled right side up again he caught a final glimpse of her brown hair flying as the thestral disappeared into the night – she was on. She had made it.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.