Hermione stood with her hands clapped to her mouth, staring between Harry and Draco, aghast. This can't be happening, her mind screamed at her; I did not just see Harry stab Draco- this cannot be happening!

She remembered watching Draco gracefully mount his top-of-the-line broomstick, before climbing up behind him. Like Harry and Ron, he was attired in flying leathers, but unlike them his were certainly not filched. They had been purchased in one of the trendiest shops in Diagon Alley, and custom tailored to his physique. They were soft, supple black leather (as opposed to the scratched, battered brown that Harry and Ron wore), against which his white-blond hair stood out in stark contrast, and they were well charmed to keep their wearer warm in flight. She thought they probably cost as much as the broom itself. As for Hermione, she owned no flying leathers, nor did she have any inclination to steal any. She wore muggle jeans, a turtleneck and sweater- the warmest clothes she had been able to find while quietly and hastily riffling through her trunk, in terror of waking Lavender or Parvati- with a cloak thrown over them.

She remembered the long flight from Hogwarts with Draco, sitting behind him on his Firebolt, pressed close against him with her arms wrapped around his waist and her hands shoved into his pockets from behind for warmth. She remembered the cold she had felt through every inch of her body, and how she had willed the broomstick to go faster, just a little faster, not because of the chill or discomfort of the flight but our of fear for her friends' safety, in addition to her own; she had to reach Voldemort before Harry and Ron!

She remembered Draco's deft handling of the broom, with no doubt in her mind that he had gotten every ounce of power and speed out of it he possibly could; he hurtled them through the night, flying with an innate talent and ease that rivaled Harry's- after all, it was this natural ability in both boys that made them such perfectly matched opposing seekers.

She remembered finally cresting that last hill and seeing the manor house crouching forbiddingly below them, and Draco guiding the broomstick right through one of the gaping holes in the nearly nonexistent roof to land on the second floor. She remembered closing her eyes and gritting her teeth as the broomstick came in for a landing, thinking they were going too impossibly fast, thinking they were going to crash- and then they had stopped, so smoothly she hadn't realized it and kept her eyes shut until she felt Draco swing his leg over and dismount easily, and when she had opened them again he had been standing there, a small smile playing about his lips, with his hand extended gracefully to help her to the floor.

She remembered him asking her to wait there with the broom, not to expose herself to any further danger, to stay where she was while he faced Voldemort, and her flat and angry refusal. She had stalked ahead of him down the decrepit stairs, and when he had caught her from behind halfway down, gripping her shoulders and turning her, gently yet forcibly, to face him, she hadn't waited to hear what he had had to say. She had slapped him for the second time, hard across the face, and when he had released her, stepping back and looking wounded, she had spoken coldly. "I'm grateful to you for bringing me here," she said, "but this is my battle. Back the hell off, Malfoy, and go wait with the broom yourself!"

Turning, she had run the rest of the way down, pulling out her wand as she went. She was aware of him coming silently right behind her. In the downstairs hall she had turned instantly toward the sound of voices coming from a door to her left, had barreled down a short hallway and burst through the door at the end of it. She remembered that she had made it halfway across the room before stopping, gasping, with Draco still beside and slightly behind her, to face her enemy.

Voldemort, who had been deep in conversation with Wormtail under the large arching window at the far side of the room, turned toward her. His eyes swept over her, making her shudder, but she held her ground as a cruel smile spread across his face. "Leave us, Wormtail," he had commanded, and the short, round man had scuttled across the room for the door, closing it behind him with his silver hand as he had left.

She remembered that for a long moment, silence had reigned. Then, his face splitting into what was unmistakably a leer, Voldemort had hissed "back for more, are we?" And he had laughed. And now that the time had come for action, she found herself rooted to the spot, unable to move, and it was Draco beside her that gave a shout of outrage, leveled his wand at Voldemort and fired off a spell.

Hermione didn't hear what spell it was- the wind was rushing in her ears again, as it had just when Voldemort had kicked her after the rape, knocking the wind out of her, making the world spin. But whatever spell Draco used was ineffectual; Voldemort simply blocked it with a lazy flick of his wand, sending the jet of light that had issued from Draco's wandtip careening harmlessly into a wall.

"Is that the best you can do?" the Dark Lord hissed to Draco, "the son of my right-hand man? I expected better of you. I expected so much better of you, in fact, that I am appalled to see you here, challenging me, at all. You will have to die, of course. And all because you seem to have fallen under the spell of this mudblood wench. What a waste. Stupid boy, hasn't anyone told you-" and here his cold eyes flicked back to Hermione- "she's used goods."

At this, Draco made as if to leap forward bodily, but before he could do so, Voldemort extended his hand and clenched his fist, and Hermione felt a sick, dizzying pain throughout her body as the ground was yanked out from under her. She was unaware of falling or of Draco catching her, unaware of anything that passed until she suddenly found herself standing again, clutching Draco tightly for support, her cheek stinging- and then Harry was there- and then…and then….

This can't be true. I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing. I can't be.

Harry and Draco stood as if frozen in place, their eyes still locked on one another. Then Draco, who had gone sheet white, slowly lowered his gaze to stare at the hilt of the dagger protruding from his chest, high on the right side. It had missed his heart by some distance, but had pierced his lung. He stared down at it, and the blood blossoming around it, then back up at Harry.

"Potter," he said, his voice blank with shock, and that one word encompassed everything- six years of bitter enmity culminating in this one bloody, horrendous act.

Moving very slowly, as if in a dream, Draco reached up, gripped the hilt of the dagger, and, clenching his jaw, yanked it from his body. He held it up before his eyes, scarlet with his blood, and actually seemed to be examining it. Recognizing it for what it was, a replica of Gryffindor's sword, his lips twisted into what may have been a mirthless smile- or may have been just a grimace of pain. "How fitting," he murmured, and then the dagger slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter.

He swayed on his feet then- but remarkably, remained upright. A ghastly silence had descended on the room, as all eyes were locked on him. And then Voldemort began to laugh again.

"Lovely," he exclaimed. "This is just too perfect for words! Here you all came with the same goal in mind- to kill me, as if that could be done- and then you turn on each other instead. Bravo, Harry! You've just saved me an unpleasant bit of work. Though necessary, it would have given me no joy to kill Lucius' son. Let's have an encore, shall we? Would you care to save me the work of killing the other two as well?"

Harry simply stared back, his brilliantly green eyes wide and shocked. Then, slowly, comprehension dawned, and horror. "Malfoy-" he stammered, addressing Voldemort, "Malfoy…came here…to kill-?"

"Me, yes," Voldemort replied, his voice fraught with cold amusement. "And I can see by your expression that you are not going to oblige me by finishing the bloody work you have begun." He sighed theatrically. "I suppose it is up to me, after all, to deal with the little whore who has just deprived me of such a promising member of the Death Eater youth." His eyes once again rested on Hermione, who still stood with her hands over her mouth. "You will suffer before you die for the trouble you've caused me today," he hissed, and, finally raising his wand, pointed it at her.

"Crucio!" he cried.

After that, things happened very fast.

00000

Moving with astonishing speed and purpose considering that he had been stabbed a moment before, Draco threw himself in front of Hermione, catching the full force of the Cruciatus Curse that had been intended for her.

He grunted as it slammed into him, throwing him several feet backwards where he landed hard, flat on his back. It was a testament to his remarkable will power and self control that he neither screamed nor flailed as the pain ripped through him like a thousand knives; he simply curled tightly into a fetal position, clenched his jaw, bit straight through his lip, and endured in silence.

Fortunately, in the next instant Voldemort's attention was diverted as Harry, Ron and Hermione all yelled "Expelliarmus!" with one voice, training their wands on him. It didn't work; he was able to block all three spells with a casual wave of his wand- but in doing so his focus left Draco, and as soon as Voldemort's attention- and wand- were otherwise engaged, the curse lifted.

Draco lay still, drawing in great, ragged gulps of air for a long moment, nearly blinded by the pain in his chest as he did so; then, incredibly, he dragged himself slowly to his knees and began to crawl toward his wand, which lay a few feet away, where he had dropped it when the curse hit him.

I am NOT going down until this is over, he told himself grimly, though his head was spinning and large black starbursts were blossoming before his eyes. Bloody Voldemort- talking about me as if I were already dead- maybe I am, but I'm still going to take that bastard with me. Reaching the wand, he gripped it in one blood slick hand, then absently ran the other through his pale hair, leaving a bright red track. He gave his head a slight shake in an attempt to clear it, but this had the opposite effect; his vision went black and he pitched to one side, just barely managing to catch himself on an elbow, but nearly losing his wand again in the process.

Struggling back to an upright position on his knees- he had realized his original plan of regaining his feet was simply not possible- Draco lifted his eyes and surveyed the battle going on around him through the fringe of now bloody hair that hung in his face, waiting for an opportunity to act.

Harry, Hermione and Ron had ranged themselves in a sort of arc around Voldemort; each standing about twelve feet back from him and six feet from each other. Naturally, Harry was in the middle, with Ron on his left and Hermione, who had regained her composure and was holding her own admirably, on his right. The three of them, displaying a sort of intense, non-verbal communication, bordering on telepathy, that was the result of six years of close friendship and countless other shared brushes with death, were taking turns firing off spell after spell at Voldemort, in rapid succession.

For his part, Voldemort was displaying none of the tension of his three opponents. He was standing at ease, deflecting each spell that came speeding toward him with casual flicks of his wand; sending them back toward their originators and causing Harry, Ron and Hermione to have to block their own spells. He gave no indication that he would be tiring any time soon- in fact, he rather seemed to be enjoying himself.

Time dragged slowly by, and as he struggled against the increasingly powerful waves of pain and dizziness that were washing over him, Draco was aware that the battle was heating up. Spells were flying fast and furious now, and even Voldemort's patience with the exercise appeared to be wearing thin.

Suddenly, as Draco watched, Harry inclined his head ever so slightly toward Ron and a brief yet intensely meaningful look passed between them. Then, without so much as speaking a word, Ron began to back away slowly, step by step, towards where Draco knelt. He still kept his eyes fixed on Voldemort, and still fired off and deflected spells every couple of seconds, but he continued to walk steadily and deliberately backwards until he was standing beside Draco.

Draco raised his eyes, blinked hard, wondering if he was hallucinating, then stared up in bewilderment at Ron, who was still standing there, apparently quite real. But why in the hell-? As he watched, Ron shot off one final spell, then dropped quickly and fluidly into a crouch beside him. Keeping his eyes still locked on Voldemort, whose attention was now engaged wholly by Harry and Hermione, Ron inclined his head toward Draco and muttered, "how you holding up, Malfoy?"

Draco was utterly taken aback. Under these circumstances, an inquiry into his welfare was the very last thing he ever would have thought to expect. Never, he thought, Never will I understand what makes these bloody Gryffindors tick.

He glanced over at Ron, whose attention had finally left Voldemort and who was now looking at him (with an expression of- is that concern? Impossible- I must be mistaken…), then down at himself, at his clothes that were now drenched in blood, and then, with all the cool insolence he could muster, he flicked his eyes back up to Ron's face. His expression as much as said, what are you, stupid? When he spoke, he was trying for his customary nonchalant drawl; unfortunately, what he got instead was a painful grunt.

"Been…better. Weasley. What's it to you?"

Ron rolled his eyes. Did I honestly expect any different? he asked himself in annoyance, before recalling the fact that, even after six years of animosity, Malfoy had proven himself an ally here today, and now this ally was badly wounded. Badly wounded, yet showing an unbelievable endurance that had to be respected. "It's just that you look like Hell, Malfoy-" he said, but his tone was gentle. "-and I wouldn't trade places with you right now, even if you ARE worth a hundred million galleons. So- I guess what I'm trying to say is- I'm worried about you."

Draco snorted, and immediately regretted it. The snort caused more pain than it was worth. Especially since Ron ignored it completely.

"Anyway," Ron said, as though he hadn't just been rudely interrupted, "Harry wants me to stay with you now. He and Hermione are going to finish this. It's their right- they're the ones with the strongest claim to vengeance. Harry for his family and Hermione for- well, for herself. And- why are you looking at me like that?"

Draco was staring hard at Ron. "What do mean, Potter wants you to stay with me?" he demanded. "I was watching you both- he never said a word. Just looked at you…what are you, bloody mind readers?"

Ron shook his head. His expression said, I wouldn't expect you to understand. "Not mind readers," he replied; "best friends."

He was right- Draco didn't understand. He tried to, but it eluded him. The concept of a friendship so deep, so strong, so intuitive that body language and eyes could be read easily and accurately and words were practically superfluous, was incomprehensible to Draco. Until now, he had had no idea that such a bond could even exist between two people, much less two teenage boys. Certainly he had never experienced anything like it. With Crabbe and Goyle- if those two could even be truthfully called friends- every specific detail of what he wanted them to know or to do had to be carefully spelled out, preferably in monosyllabic words. The sort of easy communication displayed by Potter and Weasley was completely alien to Draco, and as with all things alien, his natural response was disdain- and yet, before he could control it, he felt a brief, but intense, pang of envy. Of course, he denied it to himself, immediately and vehemently. So strong, in fact, was his denial that he almost believed it….almost.

His reverie was abruptly cut short, however, as he heard Potter's voice ring out loud and clear- "Let's end this, Voldemort!"

"With pleasure," came the hissing response. The battle was reaching a crescendo.

Now Voldemort began hurling taunts, as well as spells.

"Don't worry, Harry," he said in a confidential tone, "I'll make your death swift. It's the least I can do to repay you for coming all this way in order to offer yourself to me like a lamb to the slaughter. I can't say I promise the same mercy for the girl, though-" his scarlet eyes raked over Hermione again- "although she's proven to be entirely more trouble than she was worth, still I can't help remembering that she was a spectacular lay. Yes, I think I'll keep her around for a while, if you catch my meaning, and when she does die-" he paused and licked his lips lewdly with his serpentine tongue- "she will die screaming."

Hermione blanched, and tears sprang to her eyes, but she kept her composure. Taking a deep, if somewhat shaky, breath, she stood taller than before and kept flinging spells at her tormenter with lightning speed.

Harry was literally growling; an animalistic sound of raw emotion deep in his throat.

Where he crouched on the floor, Ron tensed as if to spring forward. He had his fists clenched and he was gripping his wand so tightly that each one of the myriad freckles on his hands stood out in angry contrast against his pale skin.

As for Draco, all he felt was a weary, miserable sort of disgust with his family and with himself, for ever having allied themselves with this monster. "Don't let him bait you, Potter," he called out hoarsely, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the pain this caused. "He wants you to lose your cool!"

The exertion of yelling caused him to collapse sideways again, and he had just a split second in which to think; bugger me, if I hit the floor now there's no way I can get up again, and then he felt Ron catch and steady him, helping him to right himself while murmuring, "Whoa, Malfoy- Jesus Christ!"

"Ugh…thanks, Weasley," he whispered, before he even had a chance to remember that one of the Malfoy family cardinal rules was Thou Shalt Never Thank Anyone.

Ron was staring at him and that expression- the one that looked suspiciously like concern- was stronger now. "Maybe you SHOULD lie down, Malfoy," he began, but Draco cut him off.

"No. Have to stay alert…me and you both. Hermione and Potter…will need us in a minute."

"I told you, Malfoy," Ron replied, "They don't want our help. Harry and Hermione are going to finish this. It's their right."

"You're forgetting who I am, Weasley. I'm privy to a lot of information about…You-Know-Who. Take it from me…one person alone can't kill him, even Potter. Two…maybe, but I rather think not. Unless everything I've been told is wrong…you and I will be called on before this is over. They can try to exact their vengeance on their own…but I think necessity will compel us to help them in the end."