Draco felt his eyes beginning to flicker behind his lids, his subconscious being ripped from its deep slumber. Light filtered into the room around him and he felt inherently warm. Someone was fussing over his arm, which felt shockingly numb, save for his fingertips. Tilting his head toward the individual was a monumental task, as every inch of his body screamed achingly. In fact, he was no longer sure if the warm tingles all over his body were from the warmth of the room, or because he was febrile.

The events of the day before came filtering in to his mind, piece-by-piece. The sight of his parents' blood running crimson over his mother's enchanted winter roses. Carving his Mark away from his flesh and nearly dying as he bled out on the stairs of a home his mother had sworn would protect him, no matter the circumstances. He let out an unintelligible groan as the person messing about his arm pushed his hair away from his face.

"I know, I know it hurts," came the kindly voice of a woman—a voice that seemed vaguely familiar in a remote part of his brain. "Hush now, I'm almost finished."

Draco let his eyes flutter open and he came face to face with a plump woman dressed in a patched apron over a shabby, shapeless dress. Her shock of ginger hair, streaked here and there with grey, gave her identity away. Molly Prewett Weasley. He attempted opening his mouth to say something, but a flash of pain reverberated through his skull, causing his teeth to vibrate as his jaw began to jerk in a violent chatter. The Weasley matriarch was calmly and efficiently cleansing his arm, which he caught sight of for the first time since he had wounded himself.

Red, striated muscle hung in the open, tendons and arteries loose and visible. The sight made his stomach lurch violently; he turned his head just in time to vomit into a bucket, which seemed to have been placed by his bedside for just such an occasion. Mrs. Weasley stopped her ministrations on his arm and pushed his hair away from his forehead as he leaned back into the pillow. "You're fighting an infection—someone really did a number on your arm, dear. Just a few more drops of dittany and I'll wrap it back up."

Unable to formulate a verbal coherent thought, he simply groaned in agony. The feeling of Dark Magic coursing through him was ever-present, as it had since he had first taken the Mark. But with the unsightly blemish gone from his arm, the acidic feeling had dissipated some. His eyes clenched shut, his mouth still shook violently as he fought to clamp his jaw closed.

"Hermione, please go and get Kingsley. And some warm tea and biscuits for Draco."

Hermione? Granger? Draco's eyes opened as he tilted his head at an impossibly agitating angle to watch a tell-tale bushy ponytail exit through an open door. His eyes were leaking with the raw pain searing through his entire body, but he looked to Molly Weasley. She pulled a roll of fresh white bandages from her apron pocket and waved her wand at his arm to hold it upright while she used both of her hands to wrap his wound. She tutted and gave him a sympathetic frown.

"Good as new. Kingsley will want to speak with you, but I'll try to keep it brief—you need to sleep off the fever."

Why on earth was this woman being so kind to him? Draco knew he did not deserve her charity, nor did he feel proper accepting it so readily. But he was groggy and bleary-eyed as Granger reentered the room holding a tray and accompanied by Kingsley Shacklebolt, the ex-Minister for Magic. The tall, dark-skinned man crossed his arms as he came to a halt by Draco's bedside. The wizard was likely trying to appear imposing and intimidating, but as Draco had stared true horror right in its snake-nosed face, he simply closed his eyes and groaned once more.

"Draco Malfoy," Shacklebolt said, his tone more of a sneer than a greeting. "You have a lot of talking to do."

Draco simply nodded his head once. He knew they would want to thoroughly interrogate him—he was a defecting Death Eater and they had no reason to trust in him whatsoever. By now, Mrs. Weasley had finished with his arm and had lowered it back down to rest over the blanket she had laid across his stomach. It occurred to him then that he could not move his fingers, though he could still feel them in a detached sort of way. A panic set in. He had maimed himself beyond repair, and he was still alive. Wandless… a poor, homeless pauper who would rely on his rivals to supply him with his necessities. When had his life come to this?

Opening his eyes, his gaze fell on a terrified-looking Hermione Granger standing beside Mrs. Weasley, the tray still in her hands.

"Can you sit up?" she questioned, glancing at her two companions as if expecting retribution for the not-completely unkind tone of her voice.

Draco tried to swallow, but found that his throat felt all scratchy and burning, as though he had had wild cotton stuffed down it wicking away all of his saliva. His eyes roved over the teacup on Granger's tray and he used his free hand and the heels of his feet to push himself upright enough to be able to drink. The others were regarding him with an exhausted wariness. The blanket he had been covered with fell to his waist and he was acutely aware of his chest coming into plain view.

After seeing his raw and bloodied arm, the scars that scattered across his torso should have come as no shock. Still, Granger gasped, Mrs. Weasley's frown deepened, and Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow.

"Drink," he managed to rasp aloud. Granger seemed almost startled by the noise.

Had he not been in unbearable pain, Draco would have smirked at his effect on her. She was twitchy and hesitant as she lowered the tray before him, watching intently he lifted his good hand and took the cup. His hand shook so greatly that he had to set it back on the tray before he could even take his first sip.

Meanwhile, behind his audience, a third witch appeared in the doorway-one that was startlingly familiar. Draco winced at the striking resemblance she bore to her sister. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed next to him, the woman retrieved the teacup from the tray and said, "Well, don't just stand there. He needs to drink something."

He looked up at his aunt—the one with whom he'd had only had very minimal contact in his life, always behind his father's back and under the hushed cover of darkness. Gently, she held the cup to his lips. Though it wounded his pride, he bent his face forward to take a small sip. The warm liquid felt like fire sliding down his already-raw throat and his vision blurred at the sudden, intrusive pain. Andromeda frowned as he leaned back against the rickety headboard and simply stared at her.

It was the first time he'd really had the opportunity to meet his aunt in broad daylight. Though her features were startlingly close to Bellatrix's, there was a softer edge to them. Crow's feet decorated the corners of her eyes and she had visible laugh lines around her mouth, despite that she was currently frowning. While Bellatrix's wild mane of black locks flowed freely from her haphazard pile of curls, Andromeda's was pulled into a sleek, low chignon similar to the way his mother wore hers. Her eyes, the same crystal cobalt that all of the Black witches sported, bored into him. Draco instinctively knew she was silently imploring him, probing him. Casting his eyes downward, he was unable to look into eyes that were so similar to his mother's.

Andromeda put her hand over the fingers of his wounded arm, and softly asked, "She's gone, isn't she?"

Simply nodding once, his gaze fell down to the teacup in her shaking hand. She shed no tears for her fallen sister, and for that he was grateful.

"Your mother?" Shacklebolt asked, his tone strict and confrontational. "What about Lucius?"

"Dead," Draco rasped once more. "And Astoria."

At the mention of his wife, Granger and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a look, while his aunt frowned ever more deeply.

"How?" Shacklebolt pressed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Dark Lord, slit throats," his voice was weak and feeble. A few of his words ran together, unable as he was to form a complete sentence. Andromeda's hand went over her mouth and Draco felt his stomach lurch grotesquely once more.

"How did you find this place?" the other wizard bluntly asked. Andromeda shot him a look that told Draco she had already answered this question.

"My mother. Blacks in trouble. House would appear," he tried, his throat scalding and his entire being throbbing painfully as the Dark Magic continued to leave him like a demon being exorcized.

"I'm not understanding. Does this mean that all of his followers know where to find us?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her eyes darting toward the window as though a Death Eater's face might be pressed against the glass.

Draco shook his head feebly. "Address in coat. Emergencies only."

He wished they would stop questioning him for five minutes. His trachea felt dangerously close to closing up on him completely.

"You had an address to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix hidden in a coat, in case of emergencies? And this house will appear to a Black in need? So, how do we know Bellatrix did not share in this same information? How do we know she is not the one who planted you on the doorstep as bait?"

"I've already told you, Kingsley. The house would not appear to anyone with foul intentions," Andromeda spoke up. Draco nodded once, lifting his good hand a fraction of an inch to point at her, agreeing with her statement.

"Will tell you all. Get Ollivander," he told them, his breathing becoming labored and shallow.

At this precise moment, Harry Potter waltzed into the door and Draco dropped his head back against the headboard and groaned audibly once more. Of course Potter would be here. But where was here? A glance out of the open curtains told Draco he was not in the heart of London any more. Potter appeared startled to see him alive, let alone awake. "Oh—he's up. I'll go get Ron!"

"That's not necessary, Harry," Shacklebolt said, holding up a single hand to stop him. Turning back to Draco, he queried, "Why do we need to get Ollivander?"

Draco thought back to the task he had been assigned—which he now knew had been a diversion so that the Dark Lord could murder his parents, unencumbered. He had been ordered to question an old, German wizard about a particular wand... and Draco knew the Dark Lord did nothing if not for good reason. "Dark Lord. Wand. Germany."

Energy now spent, Draco sank back into the covers of the bed. Though his attention was on high alert, his head was spinning. These people were not his friends, though he knew inherently that they also would not hex him without good reason. He was not in danger of receiving an errant Cruciatus Curse here, and he allowed that thought to comfort him as he pulled the covers up to his chin. Molly Weasley pulled a vial from her apron and uncorked it before holding it to his lips.

"Pain potion," she said simply, and he allowed the rancid liquid to be dumped down his throat, relishing the cool feel as it washed through his veins.

"I have more questions for you, Malfoy," Shacklebolt told him, glaring at his audacity in lying back down.

Andromeda stood and squared up against the ex-Minister. "He needs to rest. He almost died last night. Send for Ollivander and get him here. You can question Draco when he awakens."

"Andy—don't you need to be getting back to Tonks and Remus? Someone needs to watch over Teddy," Shacklebolt answered coolly before turning to Potter. "Harry, you and Ron send a Patronus to Ollivander. Tell him it's urgent and that his life may be in danger. If he doesn't respond, stop at nothing to find him. Hermione, you and Molly trade off and watch over Malfoy until he wakes up again."

Potter nodded and left the room swiftly, grateful to have some action to dive headfirst into, no doubt. Draco bit back a breathy scoff as he closed his eyes.

"Poor, dear. Lost his wife and parents," he heard Mrs. Weasley say to Granger as the two witches walked toward the corner of the room.

"He's a Death Eater, Molly," Granger's hushed whisper assaulted his ears.

"Yes, and who was the one so valiantly trying to save the Death Eater's life last night? No matter who he is or what he's done, he's just a boy, no older than Ron, who has seen more in his life than anyone should. He's just lost his family," the older witch calmly argued.

In his disoriented state, Draco barely heard anything besides her first question. Granger had tried to save him? The memory of himself from fourth year, hexing her teeth to grow uncontrollably, flashed to the surface of his groggy mind. "Your teeth."

He had not meant to say it aloud, and did not realize that he had, until Granger's voice stilled and she huffed, "I beg your pardon?"

Her question nestled into his brain, but he did not answer her or repeat himself. Sleep claimed him once more.

o-o-o

A cold, damp feeling overtook Draco from under his bedding and he turned his head toward the open door. He felt stronger than he had that morning, though his fever felt as strong as ever. Granger was sitting in a stiff chair on the opposite side of the room with her nose in a book, though she did not appear to actually be reading, as her eyes were not moving.

Huffing at the loss of motor control in his left arm, Draco let out an exasperated sigh. The sound of him stirring caused Granger's eyes to dart to him; she was nestled in a thick blanket to combat the frigid air in the room. Reminded of the reason he had woken in the first place, he grumpily muttered, "'s so cold."

"Sorry not to be more accommodating, Malfoy. But you see, you stink. I thought a little fresh air might do you some good," she retorted, waving her wand toward the window to snap it shut.

"Or hypothermia will kill you slowly. Which we're not entirely opposed to," Potter's voice sprang from the corridor beyond his door. A moment later, his head poked inside. "Sorry, 'Mione. We heard your voice."

Granger waved him away and gestured to the bed. "He's all yours for the interrogating. I'm going to see if Molly needs any help with dinner."

At the mentioning of food, Draco's traitorous belly gave a grumble and Potter's eyes shot to him. "Ollivander is here. Kingsley is on his way. I don't know what you're going on about—a wizard and Germany and a wand he's interested in."

"Not just a wand," Draco told him, growing irritated with the narrow worldview Potter was displaying.

The bespectacled man furrowed his brow and sighed, taking a seat in the chair Granger had vacated, his wand resting against his knee. "Why are you here, Malfoy? After all this time? You've never given us any indication you wished to defect. You led the Death Eaters into Hogwarts."

Draco bristled and ignored his accusations, however true they may be. "I have nothing to lose. Isn't that what orphans do best? Try valiantly to save the world? You've been attempting it for years now."

"You expect us to believe that you were only a Death Eater because mummy and daddy were?" Potter sneered in disgust.

"My mother was not a Death Eater!" Draco raged vehemently, immediately regretting it as his chest throbbed and his lungs felt as though they would collapse.

Potter seemed to get a cruel satisfaction from his discomfort as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, his knee bobbing. "She certainly married one."

Opening his mouth to retort, Draco wanted to say something that would cut Potter down as much as the wizard seemed to enjoy doing to him now, but Shacklebolt entered with Ollivander at that precise moment. The elderly wandmaker wrung his hands anxiously as he slowly approached Draco's bed. Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes, though only because he knew it would renew his thumping headache. "The Minister says you have something to tell me? About a wand?"

Draco's eyes scanned the elderly man, hunched and defeated-looking as his ancient eyes pleaded with him to just say his piece and leave him be. "The Dark Lord—"

The others bristled at hearing such a title of respect come out of his mouth, and he relished the discomfort it brought them. "The Dark Lord sent me… to Nurmengard, to interrogate an old man about a very specific wand."

Draco's voice was quiet as he attempted to regain his composure and not wince too much in the face of his rivals. Ollivander's brow furrowed and he ran a finger over his wet lips. "What kind of wand?"

"An exceptionally powerful one. It once belonged," Draco heaved a heavy breath, "to the wand maker, Gregorovitch? And then belonged to Gellert Grindelwald—whom Theodore Nott and I interrogated."

Ollivander's features darkened and understanding came over him nearly immediately.

"What is it, Garrick?" Kingsley asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Shrugging his hand away, the wandmaker searched Draco's eyes once more. "Those are only myths—legends."

"Well, I went on a very real mission to interrogate an aging and dying Grindelwald about the whereabouts of that very wand," Draco replied, his head feeling woozy once more.

"What wand? What is he talking about, Garrick?" Potter asked aloud, inserting himself where he was not really welcome or needed.

Ollivander turned his gaze away from Draco to face the others, his ashen face and a spooked look making him appear even more ancient. "The Elder Wand. It is said to be the most effective and powerful wand ever to be made. The owner of that wand would be near invincible."

"No wonder the Dark Lord wanted it so badly," Draco shrugged before turning his attention to the aging man. "You need to lie low for a while, Ollivander. If he had me travel to Germany to hunt down Grindelwald about a wand, it stands to reason that he will hunt down wandmakers next."

Shacklebolt begrudgingly agreed. "Garrick, I want you to go with Harry and Ron. They'll take you to Grimmauld Place, where you can get a hot bath and a decent meal."

Now appearing borderline hysterical, the wandmaker's vision bounced from Shacklebolt to Potter, before glancing briefly down at Draco.

"Get Remus on your way," Shacklebolt added to Potter, who nodded and placed a hand on Ollivander's back and led him gently from the room.

"As for you," Shacklebolt turned his attention to Draco, staring at him as though he were an unwanted pest. "You need to start talking."

"I need a wand," Draco told him, feeling his petulance returning.

"I'll have Garrick obtain a new wand for you, if you prove to be useful," the man replied, pulling up a chair next to the bed to sit in.

Draco's body was fighting exhaustion again, but he knew he would not be allowed to rest anymore before the questioning began.

"How did you find Grimmauld Place?" he asked once more.

Draco finally allowed his eyes to roll at the repetitive line of questioning. Insolently, he drawled, "When I was thirteen, my mother handed me a slip of parchment and told me that if I ever found myself in need of a place to go, to go to that address. I hid it in an old suit-coat pocket until yesterday,"

"What happened to your arm?" Shacklebolt asked next, and Draco swallowed thickly.

Remus Lupin, looking possibly more haggard than Draco felt, limped in and stood behind Shacklebolt's chair. "Don't mind me. You were saying—your arm?"

"Something that should have happened a long time ago," was all Draco offered, not wishing to divulge that particular detail just yet.

"Who did it?" Lupin questioned, his eyes roaming over the crisp white linens of the bandages.

"A foolish man," again, not an untruthful answer.

"How do we know that you were not brought here by someone, perhaps even one of our own, as a Trojan Horse of sorts?" Lupin asked.

Draco's brow furrowed. What on earth did horses have to do with this? "Do you not trust your own people, then?" he managed to ask, a faint sneer gracing his lips through a grimace.

"The Order has expanded greatly in the last couple of years. It would be impossible to understand the inner workings of every single member," Shacklebolt supplied. "Answer the question. How do we know you are not here to lure the others to our Headquarters?"

Draco's head gave a violent throb, nearly blinding him for a moment. Feeling his head lull slightly, he breathed in a deep, ragged breath. "You don't. But, as I've told you, I have nothing to lose any longer. My entire family is dead, and I have angered the Dark Lord beyond redemption."

"How?" Lupin asked, his face contorting into confusion.

"By disobeying his orders one too many times," Draco answered simply. "I have nothing—no home or vault to speak of. Those were willingly given to the Dark Lord when he first rose to power. My entire family is dead. My wand is broken. I feel like I'm dying. Why the fuck do you think I'm here?"

Shacklebolt's face turned stony as he mulled those thoughts over in his mind.

Draco realized then how differently he had been trained from the men surrounding him, how warped his thought process must truly be if they couldn't fathom his reasoning for joining them. The bloodlust he felt now was all-encompassing, driving his every thought. "Revenge," he finally answered too many moments later.

Both Shacklebolt and Lupin looked up to him and then to each other. "You want retribution for the deaths of your family? How do we know anything you are telling us is true?"

"Veritaserum? Watching my memories? I don't know. You're the interrogators," Draco retorted angrily, waving between the two of them.

"Why should we keep you around?" Lupin asked him honestly, his face set in what appeared to be a permanent grimace.

It occurred to Draco, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Remus Lupin was a werewolf and the full moon was a mere three days away. "I can tell you everything I know about the Dark Lord, his plans, and his followers."

"And after you've told us everything? Why shouldn't we throw you in Azkaban?" Shacklebolt inquired, leaning back in his chair.

Draco scoffed, glancing out the window at the sprawling countryside beyond. "You and I both know Azkaban is not what it used to be. It's steadily falling more and more under the Dark Lord's control and he's been incarcerating innocents."

Shacklebolt seemed discomfited that Draco had called his bluff so readily.

"I want to fight," he pressed. "I want to kill that bastard with my own two hands."

"Why didn't you do that when you had the chance? He lived in your home," Lupin suggested, waving his hand as though it should have been common sense.

"Yes. A single rogue Death Eater against the most powerful Dark Wizard known to man and his legion of followers. Shouldn't have been too hard," Draco quipped sarcastically.

Shacklebolt sighed and sat back in his chair, eyeing him with unmasked irritation. "Tomorrow morning, we bring in a couple of Aurors and a healthy supply of Veritaserum brewed by one of the best potioneers in Europe. I want a recounting of your entire history, from the day you took the Mark to this very moment. And if we deem you safe enough, I will have Ollivander supply you with a wand."

As Draco nodded numbly, there was a soft knock at the door. Granger was standing, uncertain, in the doorway, tugging at the sleeve of a jumper that looked two sizes too large for her. Next to her, levitated the same tray from earlier with a steaming bowl of something on it, along with a cool glass of water which made his cotton-dry mouth salivate. "Molly wanted to let you know that dinner is ready in the dining hall."

Standing, Shacklebolt pointed a finger in his direction and promised, "Tomorrow."

It felt more like a threat than a guarantee. Draco nodded once, his lips pressed into a tight line. A moment later, the two wizards took their leave, though Granger lingered outside his door for a moment longer. Finally, she seemed to embrace her inner Gryffindor courage and defiance and she stepped into his room. "I don't know how, but I've gotten stuck on spoon-feeding duty."

"How lovely," Draco spat, turning to look out of the window.

"I also brought your bag up to you, after it was thoroughly checked by three different Order members," she claimed, the bag following her into the room like an errant puppy.

The only things of his within the bag were clothing, a pack of Muggle cigarettes (which he was desperate for), and a framed photograph of himself and his parents the summer before third year. But for some reason, he felt defiled further. He knew he deserved it—he was on enemy territory and he had brought all of their doubt and trepidation on himself.

Frowning deeply, he clicked his jaw as a chill swept over him. As she pulled up a chair next to him and set the tray beside him on the bed, Draco was viciously reminded of his fever. Throwing his guards up, he demanded forcefully, "Have fun rummaging through my things, did you?"

Beside him, Granger slowly began stirring what appeared to be beef stew in the steaming bowl. "I found it curious."

"Curious?" he charged, finding some of the old venom in his voice.

Raising her eyes to him, he noticed her bottom lip was between her teeth. "You have a picture of your parents, but not your wife."

Perceptive, he thought to himself. A little too perceptive. He shrugged indifferently. "It was a marriage of convenience. Or so the Dark Lord believed."

"I don't understand," she said slowly, lifting the spoon with a large lump of potato, toward his face.

"You don't need to," he fumed, adamantly refusing to take the food off of the eating utensil.

"Why do you have to be such a prick? You showed up, wanting our help. We didn't seek you out," she reminded him grimly.

Draco had scraped together just enough pride to lower his good hand to the bowl and grasp the spoon. He was left-handed and found the task to be slightly more difficult than he had anticipated, but he refused to be fed by anyone else after the pitiful display that morning with the teacup. As he brought the spoon to his lips, a little of the stew splashed down his front and burned his skin.

"This is ridiculous," Granger told him, patting his bare chest with a cloth napkin in agitation. "If you're going to be stubborn, at least sit at the desk so you can lean over."

She removed the tray and bowl from his bedside and, with a flick of her wand, it was on the barren desk. Draco glowered at her, knowing he would not be strong enough to rise from the bed on his own. Why couldn't she just leave him be, to spill his food down his front and splash cool water down his chin in peace? Why must she hover?

Leaning forward slightly, his muscles felt weak and decayed as he tried to lower his feet to the floor beside the bed. Granger's eyes flickered to his left arm, tucked deeply into his bare abdomen, as he held onto her shoulder and tried to push himself up. Her dainty hand caught him beneath the elbow and kept him from falling back. With a great heave, she was able to get him upright. As the blankets fell away from him, Draco was painfully aware that he wore only a pair of boxer-briefs. Where had his clothing gone?

"Once you're done eating, I'll get one of the men to help you into the bath. Maybe then you can wash away some of that foul odor," she told him, his arm over her shoulder as her petite frame struggled to hold him upright.

Once she had managed to get him to the desk chair, he collapsed into it, breathing hard as though he had just run a marathon.

"We gave you blood replenishing potions. I don't understand why you're still so weak almost a full day later," she told him, sitting on the edge of the desk next to him.

Catching his breath, Draco ran his right hand over his face before gesturing to his limp left arm. "The Dark Magic is leaving my body. Trying to find something to cling to before it's expelled."

"Is it painful?" Granger asked, looking down at where his untrained right hand was wrapping around the spoon handle once more.

"I've felt worse," was his short reply.

The first bite of beef stew slid languidly down his throat and his stomach growled in happy agreement. The thought that it could be poisoned hovered at the back of his mind, but he found he was too hungry and too fatigued to care. Death, honestly, would be such a sweet release.

Granger put her hands on the edge of the desk beside either of her hips and Draco, shamed and abashed at being so helpless, stared, transfixed at her gnawed thumbnail. "You can go have dinner with the others. Send someone in after. Not Potter or Weasley."

"Harry and Ron are far braver and more mature than you give them credit for," she replied. There was an edge to her voice, and he noticed she was anxiously crossing, and then uncrossing, her ankles.

"Yes, well, doesn't mean I want to get all chummy and compare prick sizes, does it?" he retorted in agitation.

"You're incorrigible. And crass," she muttered, snorting her disgust and rising to leave the room.

"Don't forget dashing and a devastatingly good lay," he quipped, tucking into his stew once more.

Granger let out a groan of pure vexation behind him and his mouth formed into the smallest of smirks. He was here as a mutually beneficial arrangement. The Order, he had no doubt, would take him in and give him shelter, and he, in turn, would supply them with more information about the goings-on in the Dark Lord's army than they had ever dreamt of. He was grateful that they had not dumped him out on his arse on Grimmauld Place, though he was certain that his Aunt Andromeda and Molly Weasley were the only reasons that still had yet to happen.

When he had finished eating, he sat slumped over the desk. The throbbing ache in his body came back in full force as the pain potions Mrs. Weasley had given him that morning wore off completely. He watched out of his window as the last of the sunlight sank below the mountains. Completely alone for the first time since he had fled, Draco desperately tried not to think of the scene with his parents, what it had felt like to drag a dagger across his wife's neck. His energy was nearly spent and he did not fancy dragging emotions into the already-hectic mindset he was currently dwelling in. Just as he thought Granger had forgotten to send someone and he was going to have to try and Apparate into the bed, Arthur Weasley knocked at his door.

Set and rational, the man's face was stony. He was not there to be his friend, but Draco could tell he would not be unkind either, at least until his entire side of the story was out. How the Weasley parents could put aside their biases and grudges to welcome a deadly stranger, when their own children wanted to rip him limb-from-limb, was unfathomable to him.

"I understand you are in need of the lavatory and bath?"

Draco looked up at the worn face of the Weasley patriarch and huffed. "Granger has accused me, not once, but twice, of being particularly malodorous. So, I guess that means I should bathe."

"It's all of that rotten, acrid Dark Magic," the wizard replied, running a hand over the balding top of his head. "I suppose it's not too pleasant for you right now."

Taking the hand that was offered him, he begrudgingly answered, "I feel like a herd of hippogriffs had stampeded over me, discovered I was still breathing, and then tried a second time to kill me."

o-o-o