Draco's first thought was that he failed. He held his blood smeared wand up in front of him and simply waited for the source of those approaching footsteps to appear, wondering if any of the spells he knew would even work for him at this point.
For a moment, he wondered about the fact that didn't really care if he lived through this or not.
Eyes straining past the trees into the ever-present darkness, Draco's wand hand began to tremble with the effort, then spasm, then finally falter. With one last shudder, his wand dropped to the forest floor. Wearily, he concentrated on holding his head up—he would at least meet his future with some semblance of that famous Malfoy control—but was forced to rely on the tree behind him to hold him up when a spasm overtook him and left him shaking helplessly.
Completely humiliated now, Draco only wished that whoever it was that belonged to those footsteps would hurry up. Head lolling back against the tree, he listened intently, trying to ascertain how close his death was.
After a few minutes, it became obvious that the only sound to be heard was the rushing of blood in his ears and the whisper of warm summer wind through the trees.
Warm summer wind?!
He inhaled deeply, and took in the scent of fertile soil and freshly cut grass. Opening his eyes as wide as he could, he titled his head up—and for the first time in a year and a half, saw stars in the sky that weren't hanging over Hogwart's.
He was out of Malfoy Manor. Away from the chill and clouds that had overtaken the grounds since it was made the base of Death Eater operations, a year and a half ago. Away from the sound of the Muggle prisoners slowly going mad in the dungeon. Away from the blast of cold that would issue forth from every pore of stone when Voldemort was in a venomous mood. Away from his father alternately simpering and demanding. Away from having to be a Death Eater's son.
Away from having to be a Death Eater.
A morbid smile etched itself onto his face, and he picked up his wand once again, pocketing it, not trusting his own hands to keep it safe.
One hand still in his pocket, to guard his wand, Draco moaned and attempted to rise.
This must be the stupidest thing I have ever attempted—and that is quite an accomplishment.
Cheered by the feat of linking a full, coherent sentence together without having to think to hard, Draco somehow found the strength within him to stand.
Looking around, he was dimly amazed.
I apparated rather far, from the looks of it… The lights over there… They look Muggle, it's to bright, and white, and steady.
On sluggish feet, held up by each tree he passed, Draco walked towards it.
I wonder how they stand it… It looks so… stale…
That's it… Just put one foot in front of the other…
Don't think about it, just do it…
Merlin's Beard! Can't feel my feet under me…
Don't think about it! Just go...
The lights swam in front of him, never growing any clearer, only brighter and larger. For a few minutes, everything was almost completely dark as his vision went gray, but he swam back into full consciousness just in time to exit the tree line and stare up at…
That must be a Muggle house… Never seen one like this before, up close… What on earth are those horizontal lines running across it? Maybe some kind of rain repellant?
He was kneeling on the ground in the backyard of someone's house, unaware of the fact that he probably needed urgent medical attention. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, Draco Malfoy knew how to get medical attention in Muggle society about as well as he knew how to mate a grindylow with a phoenix. He merely stared up at the bright, crisp squares of light above him that he knew must have been windows.
Actually, it's rather pretty… The color of it… Like a ray of starlight concentrated to fill a room…
Abruptly, a light flickered, and Draco frowned.
Not supposed to do that… are they?
Then he noticed something else—the light was green.
The color of a wizard illumination spell.
He had a thought forming in his mind, but he didn't dare take it too seriously. He wouldn't hope, not after all he'd lost tonight, that he was still worthy of a miracle at this late date. But the window in front of that flickering green light opened, and even before he heard that familiar voice say, "Just be back before dawn, okay, Hedwig?" he knew where he was.
4 Privet Drive. Home of the Dursley's and sometimes their wayward nephew… Harry Potter… Draco's one-time lover.
"Harry!" Draco attempted to say, but his voice had been shredded with screaming earlier, and he wasn't anywhere near regaining the ability to produce sound.
The figure in the window turned back into the room.
Harry…
Slowly, he crawled through the backyard, over the freshly cut grass (probably cut it under the baking sun at noon today,) and under that faintly glowing window.
Exhausted, and nearly out of his mind with pain that assaulted him relentlessly, he collapsed once more, to lie against the Dursley's aluminum siding.
Have to get up there…
Wearily, he cast his eyes up to the window.
Can I?
Is it even possible?
Might as well try…
Worst comes to worst…
At least I'll die near him…
And maybe he'll know…
Panting harshly with the effort it took him, Draco rose to his knees. Then, inch by inch, he dragged himself up to stand on feet that shuddered and spasmed with the effort of supporting him. Even putting his full weight on the wall, he couldn't stop his legs from shaking, but he supposed that, either way, it wouldn't matter for long. For a few long minutes, he tried to close his fingers around his wand, but it seemed his hand just wouldn't listen to him. Finally, he managed to seize it in fingers that trembled almost as violently as his legs and pointed it, once more, at himself.
Wingardium Leviosa…
Nothing happened.
He could have sobbed. He knew he wasn't speaking the words, but he was experienced enough that he shouldn't HAVE to…. Thinking them should have been enough.
Once more…
TRY!
He took in a deep, rasping breath and thought of Harry, but a little way above his head.
Wingardium Leviosa.
For a few seconds, nothing happened, and Draco was ready to fail after coming so far. Then suddenly, he was lurched off his feet, and began to rise slowly. For the first time, Draco felt the effort that magic cost—the muscles around his temples and chest strained, and his mind felt like it was being contorted into some impossible position. But he never released his wand, never stopped concentrating.
Finally, he was able to look into Harry's bedroom.
And there he was, hair untidy, glasses sliding down his nose, looking at a badly battered book, sitting on his unkempt bed.
Draco had honestly never seen a more beautiful or welcome sight.
Shaking, he raised his wand hand, and rapped at the window.
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