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 Thirteen
"Draco? Draco, wake up."
Hermione's voice tugged at him and he opened his eyes, blinking owlishly. After a moment of confusion, he recognised his surroundings as the attic room at Grimmauld Place, and remembered his ungraceful return there the night before. His stomach clenched unpleasantly at the memory of retching into the toilet. He still felt sick, although not as bad as before. Some time must have passed - the light entering the room suggested that it was the following morning. He must have slept the night through without nightmares for once, which was a rare occurrence in itself. His attention was drawn to the person who had woken him - Hermione was there, still wearing the same clothes she had been in the day before, crouched down with her elbows resting on the bed. She looked weary to the core, her hair dishevelled and her eyes red, but when he made eye contact with her she managed a small smile.
"Morning."
It was still strange to see her there beside him, looking at him with warmth and encouragement, after their initial hostility. His eyes strayed to the armchair she had conjured the night before and he wondered if she had stayed with him all night again. Considering how tired she looked, he would hazard a guess that she had.
He started to sit up, and stopped when a pulling sensation drew his attention to his arm. He peered down at the strange plastic string that seemed to have been stuck on to his inner elbow, blinking at it in confusion. Hermione had reached out to stop him, smoothing some kind of opaque white tape back down over the tube with great care, as if reattaching wings to a butterfly. He followed the odd, thin tube to the point where it attached to a plastic bag filled with clear liquid, which dangled from a metal stand nearby. Draco stared at it, completely bewildered.
"Don't move too fast," Hermione warned, her hands coming down to rest on his shoulders. "I don't want it to come loose."
He let her guide him slowly upright, his eyebrows climbing higher with every passing second. Eventually he was able to splutter out a couple of words.
"What the hell is-"
"It's an IV," she said promptly. "I think it stands for intravenous."
His blank expression must have prompted her to explain, as she reached out and tilted his arm slightly to allow him a better view. He was sure he must be wrong, but it looked like a needle had been inserted under his skin.
"You know how you were sick yesterday? I think it's because the curse is going to stop you from eating. But it's ok, because this is going to give you everything you need."
It was rather a lot of information to take in at once. His stomach coiled painfully and he ruefully concluded that she must be right. His appetite had been terrible for days, but clearly the curse must have reached another level. He didn't much fancy starving slowly to death in this little attic. But Hermione seemed to have miraculously found some kind of medicine, although as he looked at the plastic bag and tube again he didn't feel all that comforted. It didn't look magical, it was too static, too crudely fashioned. He frowned.
"Is this from St. Mungo's?"
"No, it's a muggle invention."
"Muggle-?"
"The curse blocks magic. This isn't magic."
"Muggle?"
She shot him a warning glare, amplified by the tiredness hovering over her. "Draco, if you start giving me crap for this I swear I'll -"
He held up his other hand, relenting, still examining the tube at the point where it attached to his skin. It seemed to narrow to a fine metal point which, if he was correct, was indeed inserted directly into his bloodstream. He couldn't help but feel like a victim of medieval instruments of torture, and lifted his gaze to her uncertainly.
"How does it work?"
"It's just gravity. It's feeding a solution of nutrients into your system - just like eating, but no physical food. No magic, no electronics, no problems." She shot him a smirk. "And it seems to be working, so you're not allowed to make fun of it."
"Did you put this in? Do all muggles know how to work this shit?"
The area around the point where it entered his skin was slightly bruised, but it didn't really hurt. He thought he could make out a couple of red pin-pricks where previous attempts at inserting it might have failed. Hermione cleared her throat.
"I, um, went to the library."
"You used a how-to book?"
"No! I… It's fine. Don't worry, it's working."
He did, in fact, feel a little better. He knew that if he so much as smelled food again anytime soon his stomach would be turning to acid, but for now his eternal headache was little more than dull ache in his temples and his chest was only throbbing slightly. Hermione's muggle medicine must have something to it after all. Now that he could see it, he could just about remember flinching awake at some point the night before, hazy and half-asleep, firm hands holding him down, a sharp scratch in his arm... He must have fallen asleep again before he had even really registered it all. He frowned at the strange contraption.
"Where did you get it?"
She looked suddenly guilty and cleared her throat, mumbling her answer. "Um, the hospital... They have loads of them, so I was kind of hoping they wouldn't miss it, but..."
"You stole it?"
He found himself grinning widely at the way her face flushed red.
"No! No, I... I borrowed it," she said lamely. "It was all I could think of."
"Stealing from a hospital," he said, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Hermione, how you've changed."
"Don't," she scolded, rolling her eyes.
She stretched wearily. She looked exhausted - as if she had been on her feet for weeks. He couldn't help but feel responsible. She was trying so hard to find some way to help him - it wasn't like Hermione to spend her evenings stealing from local hospitals. Whenever she looked at him he could see quiet panic lurking behind her eyes, a fierce desperation to do something, to fix him. But she had remained stubbornly silent about the one thing they needed to talk about, and he was beginning to see the damage it was doing.
"I was hoping you'd have some water, or maybe some tea? It's been a while since you had anything."
"Hermione..." he hesitated. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the help. I appreciate it, but you do realise... I mean, Slughorn said-"
"Slughorn's an idiot," she said sharply, her voice suddenly cold. "And he's not a Healer, he's our old school teacher. I'm not taking his word for anything."
"I know you don't want to hear it, but..." he trailed off, the words slowed by his frustration. She was refusing to look at him, glaring at the floor, which was making it incredibly difficult to express himself. Throwing caution to the winds, he finally sighed and reached for her, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. "Hermione, look at me."
She looked up slowly, and he let his fingers linger against hers for a second longer before dropping his hand. The contact brought a rush of familiarity and intimacy through him, something he hadn't felt in a long time. She had seemed more willing to initiate contact with him over the last couple of days, but he was still hesitant to just reach out and take her hand. There was still so much left unsaid. He tried to pick his words.
"I can feel it. Every day that passes, it gets worse. And it's not just Slughorn – I spent a long time researching this thing. Every source I found points to one end."
Her mouth had formed a hard line which trembled slightly as she looked at him. Her shoulders were stiff, hunched, as if braced for a fight. She folded her arms.
"Why are you saying this?"
"Because I need you to understand that you can't help. It's not your fault - it's just how things have turned out."
"How can you say that?" she hissed. He realised with a jolt that there were tears springing to her eyes. "How can you just... just sit there and... and tell me not to care that you're dying?"
"I'm just saying you need to accept that it's happening. You shouldn't be sitting up all night looking for cures and stealing medicine for me. It's... It's already over."
Her tearful gaze grew suddenly hot with anger, and she lifted her chin defiantly. His heart sank - he should have known better than to try to change her mind. She was incredibly stubborn, almost more so than himself. She took a step closer to the bed, her whole body taught with resolve, her determination pouring out of her face like sunlight.
"No. It's not."
"Hermione..." he closed his eyes briefly in frustration. "What good does it do to draw things out? Why would you put yourself through it?"
"Because I'm not giving up on you," she said at once. "I can't just let go like... like..."
She shut her mouth abruptly, breathing hard through her nose as if she had been running, and he stared back at her in silence. Her gaze was burning with such intensity, and he had the feeling that they were teetering on the brink of a confession. As if she were about to tell him that she still... He shut his thoughts down forcefully. It was dangerous to think like that, and it didn't make anything any easier. He couldn't start presuming that she wanted things to go back to the way they were just because she had helped him over the last couple of days. After a few moments she seemed to collect herself enough to continue and took a deep breath.
"You're not going to die, Draco. If it's the last thing I do, I'm saving you."
He couldn't stop looking at her. She looked so serious. The same look she had worn when she held out Professor McGonagall's floo powder for him to take. She closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head and arranged a practical smile on her face. Apparently the conversation was over.
"So. Tea?"
He thought about persisting with the topic, but relented. The longer he was awake and sitting up, the more his chest began to hurt. He offered her a small smile in return.
"Sure."
She looked at him for a moment longer before turning away. Before she could take a single step towards the door there was a soft tap and it opened. He glanced up and saw with a sense of great dread Hestia Jones stepping into the room. He wondered briefly if she had been waiting outside, listening, and sat up a little straighter in an attempt to seem in control of the situation. Hestia's calculated gaze moved from Hermione to Draco and stopped.
"Morning. Feeling better, Mr. Malfoy?"
He settled for a grimace, the hopeful tone of the morning severely squashed. He wondered if Hermione and Hestia had spoken yet - judging by the panic in Hermione's face, they had not.
"You look tired, Hermione."
"What? No!" Hermione's rabbit-in-the-headlights expression was not particularly convincing. "No, I'm fine - I was just about to make a cup of tea - would you-?"
"I think you might be better off getting some sleep," Hestia said without looking at her. "I'm sure Mr. Malfoy and I can manage."
Hermione floundered for a moment, but it quickly became clear that she wasn't about to come up with an adequate response. With a helpless glance back at him, she ducked out of the room and he heard her footsteps trotting down the stairs.
Hestia removed her pocket book from her coat and drew the chair Hermione had recently vacated nearer to the bed. She glanced down at it with an arched eyebrow before taking a seat. Then she noticed the IV.
"Condition improving? I see you've got some new equipment."
"I'm just fantastic," he muttered.
"So I see. Miss Granger is certainly very attentive to you."
He automatically stiffened, but there was little point in pretending that he didn't know what she was talking about. She was watching him with hard, unforgiving eyes, and her tone indicated no wish to beat about the bush. He had to be careful though - he didn't want to give her any information that would get Hermione into trouble. Hestia was tapping her pen thoughtfully against her thigh.
"Clearly you two know each other a little better than you previously let on," she said, her voice remaining neutral. "Although please don't assume that you're off the hook. Just because Hermione seems to have a soft spot for you, that doesn't mean the Ministry's outlook has changed."
"Obviously not," Draco said.
His constant headache was growing worse. He caught sight of one of the bottles of Nightshade on his bedside cabinet and reached for it with a grunt. As he was about to unplug it he suddenly thought better of it - he wanted to be on guard when he spoke to Hestia, and the Nightshade was all too good at dulling his awareness. He held it in his lap instead, poised to open it if things deteriorated.
"And your mysterious injury," Hestia was saying. "That was Bellatrix Lestrange, was it?"
"Yes. At the Battle."
"She certainly had the ability, but I'm a little confused as to her motive. Bellatrix was volatile, but she was anything but careless when it comes to loyalty to the Dark Lord. I checked her record - she cast the spell a few times before she died on various muggle-borns. Never a pure blood though. Traitors were usually tortured or fed to the snake, as I'm sure you recall."
He resisted the reflexive urge to rub his neck. He didn't like where she was going with this. She seemed to catch on far too quickly for his liking. He shifted uncomfortably, looked down at the bottle in his grip in an attempt to escape her unrelenting stare.
"Did you have a point, or are you just monologuing now?"
"I don't think Bellatrix would have cast this kind of spell on you. Why would she? She would have wanted to kill you then and there."
"Well, she did."
"Did she? Can you tell me exactly what happened?"
He pressed his lips together tightly. He hated thinking about the Battle. He made a point of trying to forget everything that had happened, had drowned the memories from that day in firewhiskey in the months immediately following. And there was absolutely no chance he was going to dredge it all up now. No one needed to know how he had ended up with this curse. It would only complicate things. He offered a small shake of his head.
"It was a confusing day. Wrong place, wrong time."
She huffed shortly, and he knew she wasn't fooled. She noted something down in her notebook and he felt again a flair of annoyance. He didn't like the idea that she was making notes about him to go away and hand over to the Ministry, little jotted words sealing his guilt.
"Normally, we would have a lot more time to argue about these kind of things," Hestia said after she had finished writing. "We would be able to consider your options, make a tally of all your victims, weigh up how much time you deserve in Azkaban, and wash our hands of the whole thing over the course of several of these meetings. You would eventually come round to my way of thinking and your eagerness to save your own skin would eventually win out over the silent treatment. But, as you are aware, we don't have quite as much time as I first thought."
He rubbed his forehead wearily, the pain spiking and pulsing at his temples. He wished she would just say what she had to say and then leave him in peace. Why she was even bothering to interrogate him anymore was a mystery, considering he was as good as dead already.
"So, I don't really care how guilty you are," she said lightly. "It doesn't really matter. Once the curse is finished with you, we'll close your file and stamp it 'Death Eater, Deceased'. But there are certain details I want to get straight before then."
"Yeah?" he let his hand drop, resigning himself to it. "What's that then?"
"During your time with the Death Eaters, you participated in several attacks and intimidation schemes on Voldemort's enemies. These included, but were not limited to, the murder of Albus Dumbledore, the abduction of Luna Lovegood, maintaining Death Eater control at Hogwarts, participating in the Battle at Hogwarts and various, should we say, expeditions to ensure Voldemort's success."
Draco's throat suddenly became extremely dry. He swallowed hard, considered speaking, decided against it. He tried not to panic. But the way she was looking at him - as if she had him pinned down and was about to drive a knife through him - made him extremely concerned. He had a bad feeling that he knew exactly what she was about to bring up. She was silent, allowing the silence to drag on, allowing his fear to build. He forced himself to speak.
"And?"
His voice was a thin croak. The corner of her mouth quirked. He hated sitting there while she just looked at him, hated waiting for the blow to come.
"There was a woman, you see," Hestia said at last, forcing him to stop and look back. "A friend of mine actually."
Draco felt his stomach drop away. His hands closed tightly around the bottle of Nightshade. Hestia was lit ominously by the cool morning light, casting half of her face in shadows. Her features were sternly outlined, and he could see a dangerous glimmer in her eyes. She rolled her pen back and forth between her thumb and forefinger, allowing the seconds to crawl by. Unwilling to endure another long pause, Draco wet his lips.
"There were a lot of people in the war. A lot of people died."
"Yes, yes," she said, her voice terrifyingly calm. "To be expected. So you know exactly what I'm talking about, I gather?"
He didn't dare break eye contact. If he had been able to, he would have drawn his wand. From the way she was looking at him, he was convinced that she was about to kill him then and there. But still, in his current state he doubted he would be able to do much even if he did manage to draw first. He was utterly at her mercy.
"Ursula Tavistock," Hestia said, answering her own question. "We were in the same year at Hogwarts. She began training as an Auror a few years after me, though. Still."
Her shoulders heaved in a silent sigh, and she leaned back in her chair. She seemed to be picking her words carefully.
"You see, once Voldemort put his man into the Ministry, once the corruption started to overflow, a few groups of Aurors took up the charge of trying to stop him. Due to the scale of Voldemort's forces, they broke off into small units and disappeared, setting up camp in secret locations to try to track down snatchers and stop Death Eaters however the could. They were only really throwing stones at him, but I suppose it was better than nothing. Anyway, Tavistock was one of those Aurors."
Draco didn't trust himself to speak. He could see it already – the tent in the depths of the forest, his own breath clouding in the frigid night air. He tried to shut his mind off, but still he could hear her continuing.
"So, after the war, we imprisoned the corrupt Aurors and we interrogated them. And there was this one wizard – Hank Mullen – pathetic type of guy. He was initially in the same unit as Tavistock, but he cracked and fell into ranks with the Ministry under the control of the Death Eaters. I asked him about the night he switched sides, and he told me a lot about it."
Draco's chest gave a sharp twinge of pain and he involuntarily let out a hiss. His body clenched in on itself, but he managed to stop himself from doubling over too much. His fists clenching tightly, he forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. He couldn't suffer an attack now, not during this conversation. His interrogation was going poorly enough as it was. He decided that it might be time for the Nightshade. He felt Hestia's eyes boring into him as he uncorked it and took a short gulp. The stuff was much stronger than what Mungdungus had brought him, and he had to be careful not to take too much of it. He swallowed it down with a wince and returned the bottle to his lap, squinting at her. He had to try.
"Look," he said, blinking hard as the back of his skull ached dully. "That's enough games. I know what you're getting at. What do you want me to do? There's nothing I can do or say that will change it. It was a war, and I was a soldier. And what the fuck were you doing, anyway?"
Her right eyebrow lifted slightly. "I was in a different unit. Unfortunately."
He knew from the way she sneered that final word what she meant, and he bit back a sharp response, not wishing to inflame her more. The pain in his chest was, thankfully, dulling, and he was able to straighten up a little. He fixed his eyes on hers, his lip automatically curling.
"So you want your revenge. Fine. I'm right here. I don't think anyone would mind very much if I accidentally fell down the stairs and broke my neck, do you?"
She smirked humourlessly. "I don't just saunter around town killing people, Malfoy. I believe that's more your line of work."
"Then what? Azkaban?" he snorted, wiping at the sweat that had collected on his upper lip over the last couple of minutes with his hand. The potion made his head feel a little lighter, his movements a little slower. "Or you could just wait. Something tells me it's not going to be very long."
She looked at him, her face as unreadable as ever. Her lips hand grown slightly thinner, and she seemed to be rolling her tongue around her mouth. Her dark hair, scraped back from her face in its tight ponytail, made her seem all the more forbidding.
"Tell me about it."
He screwed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, trying desperately to swallow back his frustration. He couldn't understand what she wanted. He saw again the dark forest in his head, saw the faces illuminated briefly with wild flashes of light in the pitch black.
"It was very quick," he heard himself say. "I don't think she felt anything."
"Where did you hit her? In the back?"
He dropped his hand, shooting her as angry a glare as he could manage. "No, actually. We duelled."
There was the distant trill of birds cooing from somewhere beyond the window in the pause that followed. He found himself staring at the interwoven threads of the quilt on the bed. Some of the lines seemed to move and dance, and he closed his eyes rather than watch them. He was beginning to feel tired, that heavy, gnawing tiredness that he couldn't quite seem to shake these days. He sucked in a heavy sigh and lifted his head. She was watching him silently, still playing with her pen.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he said flatly. "She died. Half of everyone's family died."
"So you admit it. That's progress," she said. "Ever think about her family?"
"I think it all the time. Every day."
He didn't like speaking to her like this. She was digging uncomfortably deep, hounding him into a corner, and he had no other option but to explain himself. And yet there was really no way he could explain. She would never understand, and more to the point, she didn't want to.
"Tell me what happened."
It wasn't a question. He couldn't look her in the face and talk about it. He closed his eyes instead.
Then
War Years
It must have been just before Easter. He had thought he was alone in the house, uninvited to the meeting Voldemort had been holding. He had been heading upstairs to bed after fetching himself a drink, hoping to shut himself into his room before the senior Death Eaters came back, when he had heard an odd, crunching sound. He had turned, squinted into the darkness, and then with a thrill of surprise made out a figure emerging from the corridor which led to the pantry. Huge, hunched, a shaggy mane of hair. His heart jerked as the figure reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up. Fenrir Greyback. Draco hadn't even realised he had been in the house. The werewolf was chewing on a huge slab of meat, clutching it by the bone protruding at one end, teeth scraping at the skeleton.
"Evening, Master Malfoy," he said through a mouthful of food, and with mock sincerity. "Fancy a bite?"
Draco's eyes narrowed. The bottle of Firewhiskey under his arm was not something he was looking to share, particularly with an uninvited guest.
"What are you doing in my house?"
"Your house?" Fenrir smirked. "It's the Dark Lord's house, innit? Someone's got t'keep an eye on things."
He looked Draco pointedly up and down, and a sudden thrill of terror ran through Draco's blood. He lifted his hand, trying to appear inconspicuous, laid it against his pocket to reassure himself that he had his wand. Fenrir let out a short laugh.
"What you gonna do, hmm?" he demanded, stabbing the hunk of meat into the air so that flecks of juice spattered over the floor. "Tell you something you could do – you got any little brothers? Or sisters?"
Draco remained silent, his skin beginning to crawl. He knew Fenrir's tastes, and it gave him chills. And somehow, he had been left in the house alone with this crazed maniac, with a lust for children's blood. He contemplated simply cursing him then and there, but he would never be able to explain himself to the other Death Eaters.
"Got one the other day, you know," Fenrir spoke up again, having gulped down another chunk of the meat. "Bout thirteen, I think. Muggle girl. Delicious." He grinned widely. "You might be a little old for me, eh?" His wolfish eyes ran up and down Draco once more, and his head cocked thoughtfully. "Then again…"
The façade could not be broken, not for a second. It was all Draco had. He wondered if Fenrir could hear his heart beating from down in the hall, and surmised that he probably could.
"You watch yourself, Draco," the werewolf growled, and his ugly yellow teeth gleamed in the half-light. "They're whispering about you. They know you ain't pulling your weight. And if anyone gets upset... Well, I'm just downstairs."
Draco stood frozen on the stairs. He was gripping the banister tightly - too tightly - but there was nothing he could do. He steeled himself to keep eye contact, his other hand still nestled against his blazer, just touching his wand in his inner pocket. Fenrir's face split in a massive grin and, with a low, satisfied laugh, he turned away and headed off into the dining room. Draco watched him go, unable to turn his back until he had disappeared through the set of double doors. Only then could he let himself continue up the stairs.
That night he tore through the pages of his advanced charms textbooks which had been purchased for his final year - now never to be used - searching for more advanced spells to fortify his room. And every night afterwards, he could not sleep unless each security measure was in place.
A couple of weeks later, his new chance to prove his worth presented itself. He was sent to a dark forest at nightfall alongside Nott, in support of Rastaban, Dolohov and Greyback.
He kept his eyes on the figures ahead of him rather than returning Fenrir's burning stare. He knew full well that the werewolf would be smirking, barely able to hold back his sniggers, but he could only keep his eyes front and his back straight. He smoothed a hand over his hair, pulled his collar straight. Ahead of them, Rastaban and Dolohov were conversing in soft, wary tones. They moved quietly through the forest, the rustle of leaves and twigs underfoot gunshots in the silent, inky blackness.
"Malfoy?"
He suppressed a groan of frustration, glanced over his shoulder. Nott was looking around anxiously, walking too loudly, tripping occasionally on the uneven ground. His eyes had been slightly glazed when they had convened at the Manor. Draco wondered if, like himself, Nott had downed a couple of glasses of something before joining the group.
"Malfoy," Nott repeated in a hushed voice, "How much further do you think it is?"
Draco just shook his head. Nott seemed concerned.
"How many of them did they say there would be?"
"Oi!" Rastaban turned, stabbing a finger at them. "Quiet."
Nott fell silent, but Draco could still hear him breathing heavily. He kept his eyes on the distant trees, ears pricked. Dolohov had said they would be Apparating to roughly a mile away from the area, which meant that they must be getting close. He wasn't sure how they knew which way to go, but they hadn't stopped to check a map once. To his left, Fenrir growled low in his throat, and he only just managed to suppress a shudder. He spotted a glimmer of light up ahead and slowed his page, noting Rastaban and Dolohov doing the same. Dolohov drew his wand and muttered something - the air in front of them shimmered, like disturbed water, and abruptly the trees closing in ahead of them vanished to reveal a small clearing. Within the clearing was a large tent, complete with a couple of brooms leaning against the side. Draco stopped, pulling his wand from his blazer pocket.
"Alright," Dolohov murmured. "No masks. We want them to know who we are."
Draco could feel his blood beating in his forehead and his palms were growing damp and clammy - he wiped them discreetly on his trousers, tried to maintain his composure. Dolohov looked around at them all, dragging a photograph from the inside pocket of his coat. He held it up, the tip of his wand illuminating it. Draco tried his best to focus on the man's features. Long nose, slightly round cheeks, dark hair. They had seen it before, back in the manor, but he couldn't concentrate.
"Remember," Dolohov said, holding it up to all of them. "They're all Aurors, all attempting to sabotage the Dark Lord. This man can run. Everyone else in there dies."
He returned the photograph to his pocket, turned and strode towards the tent. Rastaban and Fenrir moved forwards to flank him, and Draco and Nott fell into step behind. Dolohov raised his wand and the tent flaps flew open, and all hell broke loose.
Draco lifted his wand as he entered the tent, just in time to see Fenrir fly at one of the figures rushing to meet them. Blood sprayed and stained the canvas wall of the tent, shocking scarlet. A hex flew past his face and he turned towards its source, threw up a shield. Sparks fizzled in the air around him, and through the haze of his defence he took in the duels already in progress around the tent. Dolohov was fighting two men; Rastaban duelling with another; Fenrir had a woman pinned to the ground and was tearing violently at her throat. Her blood filled Draco's vision and his body froze in terror. She had long brown hair – but it wasn't her, it couldn't be, she was on the run with Potter, surely not hiding out here with Aurors from the ministry… The woman turned her head, her face streaked with red, still trying to push Fenrir's huge mass away. He felt a dizzying mixture of nausea and relief. Not her.
A curse hit him in the arm and he yelped, staggering sideways. His arm grew hot at once, blazing hot, his skin blistering in seconds, but he managed to deal with it quickly enough to prevent the curse from spreading. As he clutched his wounded arm, a larger man and a woman sprinted past him, through the open flaps of the tent. Yaxley let out a roar from across the tent.
"Get after them! Get after them!"
Nott dashed past, disappearing into the night. Draco took one last look at the woman, who was no longer moving, caught a glimpse of a body fall like a stone across the space. Then he turned and followed Nott, running as fast as his legs would take him. He plunged through the sudden darkness, back into the trees the way they had come. Roots and bushes caught at his feet, but he could hear the others up ahead and kept his pace fast. He wasn't sure what he was more afraid of – Nott catching up to two highly trained Aurors alone, or Fenrir catching up with them all in the pitch black. So he just ran, wand drawn, catching sight of flashes of light up ahead.
The ground abruptly vanished beneath his foot and he skidded down the steep bank he had unwittingly sprinted into, crashed onto his side as he reached the bottom. He found himself immediately confronted with a duel, lit only by the bursts of light from spells and hexes – it seemed Nott had caught up with his target. Faced with them at last, his face bore a haze of excitement and fear in the flashes of red light, his eyes wide with adrenaline, his wand slashing furiously at the air. The woman was far better at duelling than him. The man, though, was standing aside from the action, looking around uncertainly, and Draco suddenly recognised him as the man from the photograph. The man not to be killed. He scrambled to his feet, and even as the man whipped about to see him, raised his wand.
"Petrificus totalus."
The man fell face-first to the floor, and Nott let out a savage cheer. The woman whirled about, her wand aiming at Draco, who raised his in return. He inched forwards, breathing hard, his heart thundering in his chest. He could feel sweat sticking his shirt to his back. He had never meant to get this involved in the action, and cursed himself for not simply leaving Nott to it. But then the woman let out a cry and sent a spell in his direction, and he remembered why he hadn't. He dodged her, only just escaping the spell, and Nott leapt forwards once again. Draco glanced over his shoulder, for once wishing the other Death Eaters would arrive, but he couldn't hear or see them. He shot the Dark Mark into the sky, hoping it would be enough to show his efforts. Maybe she would run – he was sure she would be able to overwhelm Nott in no time. He would be able to say he was busy with their target.
A ragged scream reached his ears and Draco turned sharply to find Nott backed up against a tree, clutching at his stomach – a rush of bright red blood painted his hands. As Draco watched, a rope-like vine sprang out of nowhere and twisted around Nott's throat, pulling tight. His eyes bulged and his face was turned bright red in a matter of seconds, his bloody hands scrabbling at the snake-like vine. Draco started forwards but found himself caught with a heavy, invisible blow that threw him sideways into a tree. The impact shook him, and he scrambled up only just in time to cast a protective spell. The woman's curse hit it, driving him back once more against the tree, and he realised what she was doing. He hurled himself sideways just in time to avoid the vine that had been about to snatch him up, threw a burst of fire at it to destroy it. The Auror, her face twisted savagely, lifted her wand. Draco cast another protective spell, stealing a chance to look for Nott, whose lips had turned blue. His eyes were rolling back in his head, his scrabbling hands beginning to falter. Draco heard his blood roaring in his ears.
"Let him go," he ordered, trying to keep his voice steady, commanding. "Now. You'll kill him."
Her face twisted in a humourless smirk. "You killed us."
Draco tried to cast a severing spell at the vine but she blocked it, sent a curse at his head. He ducked, sprang back out of the way as another two curses followed. Nott's body was twitching horribly, foam building at the corners of his mouth, and panic seized Draco.
"Nott, fucking do something!" he yelled.
Nott's wand dropped, forgotten, to the floor. Even as Draco tried to send another spell to drive the Auror back, she deflected his spells with a flick of her wrist and sent back one of her own. As he stepped aside to avoid it, a tight grip fastened around his leg and pulled his feet from under him. He fell with a hard thud, felt something fasten around his neck.
Snake. Blood. Suffocating, roaring pain.
He reacted instinctively, even as she levelled her wand at him. His wand was already aimed, the words already rushing from his mouth before the vine could cut them off.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of bright, acid green light, and the vine vanished at once. Draco knew that his whole body was shaking violently, his hands scrabbling at his arms and neck as he dragged himself to his feet, his knees jellied. And yet still, he could feel the snake's scales rubbing against his skin, he could feel the stinging pain as its jaws closed over his neck… He couldn't breathe. Instead tiny, panicked whimpers fell from his lips, his windpipe tight. He pressed a hand against his chest, tried to force himself to feel a rise and fall, tried to blink back the dark spots spreading over his vision.
Eventually, after an indistinguishable amount of time had passed, he was able to suck in some air. He gulped in a few deep breaths, still shaking, still unsteady. He became aware of a hoarse, wheezing, gasping sound from nearby, and looked around to see Nott slumped against a tree. He looked for the Auror, and found himself looking at a motionless body which lay like a cut puppet on the ground a few meters away. He stared at her, his head filled with nothing but white noise.
Oh god. Oh, fuck.
For a moment, he was completely certain he was going to throw up. He could see her hand extended across the forest floor, still curled loosely around her wand. A coherent thought managed to surface.
Nott. Get Nott.
He stumbled over, his legs barely working, dropped to his knees. He could see a lot of blood, could see the purpled bruises from the vine around Nott's neck. But the other boy was breathing, no matter how terrible his lungs currently sounded. Draco drew his wand and pointed at Nott's bloody stomach, then stopped himself and pulled aside the black shirt and blazer with his shaking hands to properly see. He wiped helplessly at the blood, then swore at himself and raised his wand again.
"Scourgify."
Blood disappeared, and then welled up once again. He could see some kind of long, bloody split in Nott's stomach, and tried the only healing spell he knew of. The wound remained open, but the blood stopped flowing. He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, let himself drop back to lean against the tree. Nott felt dazedly at his stomach, and Draco shoved his hands away.
"Don't, it'll be fine. Don't touch it."
Nott tried to croak something and dissolved into a coughing fit.
It was at that moment that Fenrir, Dolohov and Rastaban appeared, emerging out of the dark wood at the top of the bank Draco had fallen down earlier. Dolohov and Rastaban might have just stepped out of the office – not a hair out of place, suits neat. Fenrir… well, he was a different story. Draco looked away from the blood staining his chin and shaggy hair, directed his gaze instead at Dolohov.
"Where's our man?"
"He's there," Draco said thickly, his own voice alien to his ears.
Dolohov looked down, observed the prone figure on the ground nearby. "Where's the other one?"
Draco pointed. The others looked. Dolohov made his way carefully down the bank and over to the man's rigid body. He looked at it carefully, and then waved his wand. The round-faced man jerked into motion and at once began scrabbling at the ground, attempting to crawl away. Dolohov put a foot on his robe, holding him fast, and he let out a shrill whimper.
"You know my name, don't you?" Dolohov said, speaking loudly over the man's muffled cries.
The man nodded. Dolohov reached down and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck with both hands. He lifted him, holding him tightly by the collar.
"Your little secret service team – they're all dead. And any more which are out there won't last long. Do you understand?"
Another nod.
"Good." Dolohov drew his wand and held it in the man's face. "Now, I suggest you go home. Go home, and tell everyone exactly who is currently running the Ministry. And congratulations for making the right choice."
He threw the man away. Draco watched as he scrambled to his feet and took off into the forest, never looking back. A distant crack reached his ears as the man Disapparated. Draco wondered where exactly he was running to.
Rastaban, meanwhile, had also descended and was inspecting the limp body on the ground. He nudged it roughly with his toe, and got not response. Her body rocked lifelessly under his touch, like a bottle bobbing in the ocean. A smile spread across Rastaban's face.
"Congratulations, Draco," he said. "The Dark Lord will be pleased."
A sense of complete horror and dread filled Draco's lungs. His chest felt too tight to breathe. He was distracted by Fenrir, who leapt down from the bank and headed towards him in long strides. Draco grabbed the tree and hauled himself to his feet, clutching his wand tightly, his hand shaking. Fenrir sniffed, looked down at the shuddering, hacking Nott.
"Not dead?"
"No," Draco muttered.
"Oh." Fenrir looked him in the eye, his own gaze piercing yellow and gleaming. "Shame. Lovely smell."
Draco wasn't sure what happened after that. Somehow, he ended up back at the Manor. He went straight to his room and locked himself in. He retrieved the bottle of firewhiskey he now kept on his desk and gulped down as much as he could. He sat on his bed while Nott's blood dried slowly on his clothes. At one point, he heard his mother's voice and a worried knocking on his bedroom door. He didn't move. He stayed there all night.
Now
After he had finished telling her the events of that night, Hestia sat very still in her chair and kept her gaze trained on the window, her face turned away from him. When he had started speaking, she had been making careful notes. Now, her grip on her pen was lax and she barely seemed aware of his presence. Draco wondered how well she had known Tavistock. If he hadn't been screwed before, he surely was now. As he sat there, waiting for his judgement, he realised suddenly that he had never actually talked about it before. He had never mentioned it to anyone.
"It doesn't really matter now, but I'm sorry for your loss," he said. "If I could go back... It was..."
"She was the only person you killed on Voldemort's orders?"
Her voice was stony, unfeeling, unaffected. He raised his head. The question caught him off guard. He had expected her to react somehow, but her face was the same mask it always was. She flicked invisible dust off her knee and looked at him at last, waiting for his answer. He had to take a moment before he could reply, trying to pull himself together.
"I... Yeah."
"You seem to have a soft spot for Nott. Are you withholding information about his whereabouts?"
He couldn't understand how she could be so deadpan about it all. He was left scrambling for words.
"I... No, I told you, I don't know where Nott is. I don't-"
"How much were you involved in the Battle?"
His chest stung, forcing him to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, completely wrung out from the conversation, unable to understand what she was getting at. But he suddenly heard the creak of floorboards and opened his eyes to find her standing up, pocketing her book, pulling her coat straight.
"Well, perhaps you can try to remember. I'll be away for a few days. When I come back, we'll talk further."
He resisted the urge to demand what the hell they had left to talk about. Away for a few days? Wasn't she supposed to be keeping him under house arrest? But his headache was still there, still persistent, and he didn't have the energy to demand more answers. He wished he had never woken up that morning.
"When you decide what to do with me, you know where to find me," he muttered.
Hestia offered him a short nod. Then she was slipping out into the corridor, and the door fell shut behind her. The silence after she left was deafening. He stared at the chair she had been sitting in. What if she tells Hermione... He couldn't bear to think about it. Eventually he lay down again, curling awkwardly around the arm that was connected to the IV, and stared at the wall.
~O~
Hermione considered listening outside the attic room door, but she felt like Hestia would somehow know. And after recent events, she didn't want to give the Auror any more reasons not to trust her. Reluctantly, she tore herself away and headed downstairs. Her eyes felt like paper and her mouth tasted fuzzy. She scrubbed her face with both hands. The house was quiet, coated with the pale haze of early morning, and the kitchen, when she reached it, was deserted. She waved her wand to set the kettle boiling and sank down on one of the kitchen chairs, rubbing her aching temples. After she and Harry had got back from raiding a hospital for the IV line - something she still felt incredibly guilty about - she had spent some time trying to figure out how to actually get it into Draco's arm. She had managed it eventually, and thankfully Harry had remained to help her. By that point it was considerably late at night, and Harry had left to go to bed. His help meant the world to her, even though he still seemed uncomfortable about the whole history between her and Draco. She hadn't been able to leave him, concerned that something would go wrong with the IV or that the curse would get worse. Instead, she spent another night in the chair beside his bed, dozing on and off, checking on him every now and then.
Now the pots from the dinner she had missed the night before were piled in the sink and there were crumbs peppering the surface of the table. She stared at one of them, picking out the fine details of its granular surface. It took her a while to realise that the kettle had been boiling away beside her over the fire. She fumbled her way around fixing herself a cup of tea. After almost pouring the milk down the sink rather than into her cup she sat down again and sipped slowly.
Her head felt like a ball of cotton wool.
She wasn't sure at what point it had become so hard between them, when she and Draco had fallen into this horrible habit of letting space develop, letting silence replace everything they used to have. His words during that first night she had sat up to watch over him had brought back how it used to be with a harsh jolt, and brought into perspective how different things were now. Although, perhaps things weren't quite as different as they seemed.
"Did you fly thr' the window?"
The memory those words had sparked had been so real, so tangible, that she had not been able to stop thinking about it. The feel of his heat against her skin, the easiness with which they had used to lie together and simply be. No Voldemort, no Death Eaters, no war – it had just been the two of them. She couldn't pin-point the moment it became hard to be around him. Maybe after he had decided it was too hard to be together in the face of everything. Maybe after he had saved her from Bellatrix. Maybe when she had seen him fleetingly in the Battle, and not known which side he was fighting for. Maybe when he had appeared suddenly at Grimauld Place, and she had understood that so much had happened between them that they had turned into completely different people.
Only now, staring into that mug of tea, she couldn't help but see it from a different perspective. She couldn't scrub out all of those things that had happened. She couldn't pretend that they could just go back to being who they were before. But when she had sat alone with him that night, with nothing to think about but how fucking terrified she was that he might die, something had become extremely obvious. Something hadn't changed at all. When she was alone with him, she became all too aware that he could still move something in her.
Somehow, after all this time, she was still in love with Draco Malfoy.
She sat there for a long time. Eventually, the tea went cold and she got up again to make another. She was just adding the milk when the kitchen door swung open. It was the silence that followed that told her who had just appeared. Her heart sank and she took her time stirring the tea, drawing the process out as long as possible, before turning around and facing him.
"You're up early."
Ron raised and lowered one shoulder in a slow shrug. "Hestia's taking me and Finnigan up to Scotland on a mission. Apparently there's some kind of hideout we need to investigate. I said I'd go with, try to learn a bit."
"Oh, right." Her voice sounded falsely bright, even to her own ears. "Well, be careful. Look out for the Loch Ness Monster and all."
He was looking at her as if she were speaking in French. She felt her smile faltering and directed her gaze at her tea instead.
"Do you want a coffee? The kettle just boiled…"
She trailed off, but he made no effort to break the awkward pause growing between them. Instead he just stood there, one hand still holding the door open, his face twisted as if there was a bad taste in his mouth. Just when she thought she couldn't stand the silence any more he let go of the door and moved forwards into the room, crossing to stand on the other side of the table. She fastened her teeth on her lower lip, sucking a deep breath through her nose. Ron's fingers were picking at the zip on his jacket and his ears were red. A bad sign.
"What the hell's going on, Hermione?"
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.