The instant that Hermione's lips had touched Draco's, Ron felt as if he had taken a bludger to the gut. All the air seemed to be sucked out of the room, and it was all he could do to remain upright. His vision narrowed to a dark tunnel at the end of which he could see, seemingly at a great distance and yet with perfect, startling clarity, his beloved Hermione kissing Malfoy- not on the cheek or the forehead as a friend might, but on the mouth- a deeply intimate gesture.

My God, he thought, what have I missed? How blind have I been?

And then everything fell into place.

Hermione's absences many nights a week over the past several months- she said she was in the library, but was she? Was she really?

Malfoy's desperate attempts to wake her from unconsciousness as Ron had held her on the corridor floor after the rape.

Malfoy's face thrust into his own after Snape had carried her away, as he held him by the tie and growled at him not to go telling him what was and wasn't his business again.

Malfoy's silent presence in the hospital room during all the days that followed.

And, of course, Malfoy and Hermione's arrival here, together.

They've been carrying on an affair right in front of me, for probably over a year now, he thought sickly, and I was too stupid to see…stupid, STUPID! No wonder she chose him over me. I waited too long to tell her, and I was stupid and blind, and I've lost her, and- and- how COULD she choose him over me? Malfoy! That's- that's nothing short of TREASON!

Never mind that Malfoy had proven himself an ally today, and was now paying for that allegiance with his life. On some deep level, Ron knew he was being irrational- but he couldn't help himself. His mind was reeling; he couldn't think straight- he could barely breathe. Outside on the steps, when he had laughed until he cried, he had thought things were as bad as they could get. He now saw how wrong he had been.

And now she was coming toward him, concern etched deeply into her face, asking him what was the matter and he could barely hear her because he was screaming inside and just what the hell was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to DO?

She reached out toward him, but he stepped quickly backward, flinching away from her touch. She stopped in her tracks. The concern still showed on her face, but now there was something else there too- a dawning of hurt. "Ron, what is going on with you?" she demanded.

So he gasped out the only three words his mind and his mouth seemed capable of coordinating; "You…kissed Malfoy." And then again, "You kissed MALFOY- on the lips!"

Hermione's mouth fell open in astonishment. THAT was what this was all about? "You don't

understand-" she began.

"I understand what I just saw with my own two eyes," Ron countered. "You kissed Malfoy on the lips-" here his eyes narrowed- "and it didn't look like the first time, either. It looked like something that you're fairly used to doing!"

"Ron, I-"

And here came the anger, out of the midst of the bewilderment and pain, crashing over him in black waves.

"Ron, I-" he mimicked viciously, cutting her off. There was such fury in his voice and eyes that she staggered back a step as if she had been slapped. "I don't want to hear your explanations. I just want one simple question answered. How long have you been sneaking around with him, eh? HOW LONG?"

"Ron, we're FRIENDS! We have been for over a year. We've been meeting in the library to study….What! It's true!"

Ron was nodding sagely. "Oh, yeah. Right. Friends. Study buddies, eh? So that's what they're calling it these days."

Color flooded her cheeks. "You incredible bastard," she whispered.

Now Ron actually had the gall to look stung. "Well, answer me this, then- if you're just friends, why didn't you ever tell Harry and me?"

Her hands balled into fists as she screamed, "BECAUSE I KNEW YOU'D ACT JUST LIKE THIS! I know I should have told you and Harry, all right? I KNOW that! If I had told you about our friendship then Harry wouldn't have thought- then Draco wouldn't be DYING right now. His blood is on my hands and I can't even begin to think how I'm going to live with myself knowing that! But I was scared to tell because I knew that you would automatically jump to the worst possible conclusion- just like you're doing! And- and- and you have NO RIGHT to berate me, Ron Weasley, even if we WERE more than friends, because I'm not your girlfriend and I never have been….not because I didn't want to be, but because YOU NEVER ASKED! "

Ron stood silently, his mind whirling as he attempted to absorb everything she had just said. He had no idea what part of her tirade to address first. As for Hermione, she turned her back on him and stumbled, suddenly blinded by tears, a few feet away where she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, sank to her knees, and proceeded to sob broken heartedly; huge, wrenching, painful sobs that shook her whole body.

Seeing her like that, Ron felt his anger vanish as suddenly as it had come. My God, he thought, I AM an incredible bastard! I love her SO much and I just- keep- hurting her! What the hell is WRONG with me?

He went quickly to kneel beside her. He reached for her, but now it was her turn to flinch away. "Leave….m-me….alone," she gasped out between sobs. Ron withdrew his hand and realized with a sick feeling that he may just have crossed a line that there could be no recrossing; he might not- EVER- be able to fix this. He remained where he was, silent and still, as she struggled to regain control of herself.

"So," he said finally, lamely, once she seemed to have regained her composure several long moments later, "just, um, just friends, huh?"

"Yeah," she said in a hoarse voice, still facing away from him. "For years I thought he was stupid just because of what house he was in- stupid and mean just like his cronies- you know those Slytherins aren't generally a very bright bunch. But he's not stupid. I found out he was smart and funny and well-read, and he takes his studies as seriously as I do. We would…we would read the same book and then debate….anyway, we've been friends for months and never more…until- until last night."

Ron felt his heart jump into his throat. "What- what happened last night?" he asked, unable to help himself.

"He told me he loved me. He said I'd be the death of him…and I guess he was right. And- and then he kissed me."

"I see," Ron said in an odd, strangled voice. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for his next question, and the answer he dreaded. "Do you love him?" No reply. "Hermione- DO YOU LOVE HIM?"

Her voice was so quiet he could barely make out her words. "I don't know."

"Well…do you…" He swallowed hard and stared at the floor. How he even had the nerve to ask her this was beyond him, after the way he had just treated her. But he had to ask; had to know. "Do you…could you…love me?"

"Sometimes I think so," she whispered, still not looking at him, "and then you do something like this."

Ron winced. I deserved that, he thought; so help me, I really did. But it didn't make it any easier to hear.

He could think of nothing else to say, so he got to his feet and went to retrieve his broomstick. Coming back to where she still knelt on the floor, he held out a hand to help her up. "Come on, Hermione- we'd better start back. There are two of us, and this is no Firebolt. It's gonna be a long trip, and it's almost dark. If we want to reach Hogwarts by tomorrow morning, we need to get going."

Ignoring his proffered hand, she stood up on her own.

Without another word, he mounted the broom and she settled herself behind him. He waited until he was sure she had a firm grip on him, then took off through the gaping window and into the dusk. As Hermione leaned her forehead against the back of his shoulder and pushed her hands into his pockets from behind for warmth, it was almost possible for Ron to fool himself into believing that things might be okay between them again. Almost.

00000

Night had fallen when Draco regained consciousness, as Harry sped them toward Hogwarts on the lashed-together broomsticks. Raising his head weakly from where it lay against Harry's shoulder, his pale eyes blinked slowly open, silver in the moonlight.

When he realized where he was and what was happening, he began to struggle weakly in a vain attempt to throw himself into space. "Lemme go, Potter," he croaked. "Goddamn hero-boy…just lemme go!"

In answer, the arms that were holding him from behind, one around his waist and one around his chest, tightened. "Not bloody likely," came a calm, quiet voice in his ear.

"You don't care about me, hero-boy," Draco whispered bitterly as he slumped back against Harry's chest in defeat. "You just don't want my death…on your bloody perfect conscience…th'sall."

"Not true," came that calm voice. "You did some things back there, Malfoy, that made me think I've been wrong about you all these years…and Hermione, she sees something in you, something good…and she's always right. About everything. I don't want you to die, because I think you deserve to live- even if you don't. And once you've pulled through this, I hope you'll give me a second chance to take your hand in friendship."

Draco's lips quirked upward faintly. "I didn't…just hear that," he mumbled. "Must be delirious."

Harry gave a soft snort of laughter in his ear. "You heard me fine, Malfoy. And we're almost there now. So just try to stay with me till we get there, okay? Malfoy? Stay with me, Malfoy- hey! C'mon- Malfoy!"

But Draco was no longer answering. His body sagged limply against Harry, who tightened his arms still further about his former enemy, as if attempting to hold the last remaining sliver of life within Draco by sheer physical force.

"Please, Malfoy," Harry whispered brokenly, "please stay with me. Please don't die. I will make this up to you somehow- I don't care how long it takes- I will find a way. Just don't- damnit, Mal- Draco- don't die!"

Draco heard this plea as if from far away, but though he tried to form an answer he could not. Unable to speak, unable to move, convinced he was living out his last few moments on earth, he allowed his mind to wander.

Damn, but the boy can fly, he thought somewhat wistfully. There seemed no point in denying it to himself, not anymore- what did it matter now if he finally admitted what he had known in the back of his mind for years; Potter was a superb flyer, maybe- maybe even better than him.

After all, the power of one Firebolt broom was more than many people could handle- only professionals used them; professionals and the very rich, who could pay for professionals to train them. And Potter, of course. Somehow golden-boy Potter always ended up with the best of everything- but that was beside the point. Just one Firebolt contained more power than most wizards could tame- let alone two. But Potter had harnessed the power of two Firebolts and was controlling them now with perfect ease- using only his knees to guide them!

And why was he using only his knees to guide them? Because his arms were otherwise engaged, of course. Yes, about that…Draco could feel Potter's arms tight around him; warm, solid, protective. He remembered the horror he had felt, back on the floor of the ruins, at the thought of being held by Potter- but really, this wasn't so bad. He could almost allow himself to imagine that they were the arms of a friend- someone who truly cared whether he lived or died. Not that he had any idea what the arms of a friend would feel like- he had never had a real friend in his life (not until Hermione, anyway)- just lackeys and hangers-on. But he thought that being held by a friend, the way he had seen Potter and Weasley hold on to each other in the corridor after Snape had carried Hermione away, might feel quite a bit like this.

And though one corner of his mind screamed at him that it was Potter who had done this to him in the first place and DON'T YOU FORGET IT, he responded immediately that Potter had had good reason- he had thought that Draco was endangering Hermione, and considering the scene he and Weasley had walked in on, it was no wonder he had thought that. And wouldn't Draco do the same thing to anyone he perceived to be a mortal threat to Hermione? Damn straight he would, only he'd keep stabbing till the bastard was dead. So no, he couldn't even really blame Potter for what he had done. He understood perfectly.

What he still did not understand, no matter how he looked at it, was this- being sped back to the Hogwarts infirmary despite his protests, as if- again, as if Potter actually cared that he lived. And not just because he was a heroic Gryffindor whose duty it was to save others- that was true, but it wasn't all. No, it seemed from his haste, from his desperate pleas and from his use of Draco's given name a few moments before- (that had not been lost on him)- that Potter actually DID care, and Draco now realized something else- he wanted to believe it- WANTED to, though he still couldn't quite bring himself to do so.

It was just that this was so far outside his realm of experience that his mind could barely grasp it. If it had been a fellow Slytherin that had stabbed him back there, for whatever reason, whether intentional or accidental, he knew damn well he wouldn't be on his way back to Hogwarts right now. A Slytherin would have finished the job, buried him in a shallow grave, and concocted a foolproof alibi before heading back to school and denying having seen him since last period on Friday. He knew this with absolute certainty.

And yet he wasn't dead. (Yet.) He hadn't been left. His exhausted, fevered, pain-riddled mind kept returning to this thought like a dog worrying a bone. He hadn't been left though it would have been easier on the Gryffindors to do so. He hadn't been left though any one of the Slytherins, those he had counted as his "friends" for the past six years, would have done so. He hadn't been left though he had specifically requested- no, make that demanded- that Potter do so. He hadn't been left. Instead, here he was, cradled securely in the arms of his nemesis, being rushed back to Hogwarts with the same frantic speed that Potter would have used if Hermione or Weasley had been the one mortally wounded. Potter would be acting exactly the same if it was one of his best friends who was bleeding to death in his arms, and so really, was it all that difficult to imagine that Potter might actually care whether he lived or died? No- no, it wasn't difficult. It was amazingly easy, and amazingly pleasant as well.

I guess if Potter cares, then at least that makes one, he thought wryly. Actually, wait- I think Hermione probably cares too…all right, that makes two then, two people who might be genuinely upset by my death. One of whom is the person who stabbed me in the first place. Well, aren't I mister popular?

Not that his death wouldn't cause a stir. The weeping and wailing that it would generate would be epic. But it would all be a show. Financed by his parents and enthusiastically participated in by his housemates, he had no doubt that the lamentations would go on for weeks, months- for however long it took to see Harry sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss for his murder, to be exact. Not because they would care to see justice done on his behalf- especially once word got out about his betrayal of the Dark Lord- no, simply because Potter was Potter, and they wanted him dead, and there was no longer a Voldemort to see to that. This was what Potter had gotten himself into by bringing him back instead of doing the sensible Slytherin thing and leaving him behind. Because he WOULD die- he had to. Sheer willpower on Potter's part was not going to keep him alive, when it felt like there was virtually no blood left in his body, except for what had seeped into his damaged lung and was slowly but surely drowning him.

Now Potter was speaking again, low, urgently, and Draco's train of thought was broken because it took all the focus he could muster to listen and make sense of the words being murmured in his ear.

"Malfoy- look, we're back. Open your eyes and look! I can see the castle ahead, I can see the lights…Malfoy, please open your eyes. We're almost to the Quidditch field…all the times we've faced each other there…please stay with me…if you die there's not a person left at this school who can challenge me…not the way you can…I've never said that to anyone before, but it's true…we're gonna be team captains against each other next year…Malfoy, please!"

The panic in Potter's voice was palpable, and it made Draco want to respond. He wanted to say something light, something absurdly reassuring, something like, the next time I beat your sorry ass to the snitch, Potter, you'll wish you HAD left me like I told you to- and he tried, he tried mightily. He actually managed to get his mouth open but then, to his horror, instead of his intended words, all that came out was a wet gurgle and a great quantity of blood. Shit, this was so NOT good. Try for reassuring and this was what he got. About the farthest thing from it. It wasn't that he hadn't accepted the fact of his own impending death- he had- all the way back at the ruins he had- accepted and welcomed it- but for some reason he couldn't quite fathom himself, he hadn't wanted to worry Potter any more. Well trust himself to louse that up in a big way.

He felt, distantly, Potter reach up with one hand and brush cold fingertips against his chin. He didn't need to open his eyes to know that the next thing Potter did was raise his fingers into the moonlight to inspect the blood on them. Potter tensed behind him.

"Christ, oh Jesus Christ! No! Shit, Malfoy, no! Not now, not when we're so close- it's thirty seconds more, for the love of God, you can hold on for thirty seconds- do you hear me? For Christ's sake, PLEASE, Draco- YOU HAVE TO HOLD ON!"

Draco was dimly aware of light blooming on the other side of his closed eyelids as they approached the castle; it was the light from the windows and it was growing brighter, brighter, as, unbeknownst to him, Harry hurled them toward the large window at the end of the infirmary wing , barely slowing down as they approached it.

Harry simultaneously lowered his head and raised his hands to protect Draco's face as the boys crashed through the window with terrific force. Draco barely registered the impact as glass flew everywhere and Harry yanked sharply back on the broomsticks, causing them to stop so suddenly that the temperamental Firebolts skidded sideways in the air in protest. Then, at Harry's command, the brooms sank gently to the floor leaving Harry standing in the midst of the havoc-strewn ward, arms wrapped tightly around Draco, supporting him from behind, head thrown back and screaming for Dumbledore like a man possessed.