(A/N: Disturbing flashback to Hermione's captivity. Rape- yucky. You've been warned.)

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The afterglow lasted them both the rest of that day- they were still euphoric when they met up with a very relieved Harry for dinner that night, all three of them eating in the kitchens together this time, so that Dobby and Hanni could fuss over Hermione and tell her of their wedding plans in person. She'd gotten the low-down from Harry already, but was very good at putting on a pretense of surprised delight- and after all, the delight, at least, was entirely genuine.

Over the course of the next few days, taking most breakfasts and dinners with the elves (lunches were usually had in Hogsmeade Village, either at the Three Broomsticks where the young engaged couple were quickly becoming regarded as "regulars", or picnicking at the construction site), Draco and Hermione even convinced them to push back the date of their nuptials by a month, so that the wedding could be held on the grounds of the new Malfoy home, the very first day it was complete. It would be a joyous occasion that was half housewarming party and half wedding celebration. Draco had hired an additional team of builders to ensure that construction was completed on time, and to take responsibility for the cottage that was now being erected in secret, on that secluded little corner of their land. Hermione had been beyond delighted when he had asked her opinion, and was nearly as enthusiastic about selecting furniture and décor for the cottage as for the main house. The time passed quickly with so many things to plan for; the completion of their home, Dobby and Hanni's wedding, which they'd be hosting, their own wedding which would follow in a few months' time.

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It seemed like no more than a few days had passed, and there they were, out in the newly landscaped garden overlooking Hogwarts Lake, toasting the newlywed elves along with most of the Hogwarts faculty and a select few friends, who could be counted upon to be as supportive of Hanni and Dobby as Draco and Hermione were themselves. Hanni had all of a bride's radiance and, though very homely by human standards, was obviously completely captivating to her new husband. The party lingered on through the evening with dinner and dancing, cake and champagne, and culminated in a lantern-lit procession to the cottage, led by Draco and Hermione. The newlyweds, at the sight of this stupendous surprise wedding gift, promptly went absolutely berserk with amazed gratitude, racing from one room to the next, marveling at the elf-sized furnishings and accessories, the closets (his and hers) and drawers overflowing with miniature clothing, and the fully stocked and furnished nursery, ready and waiting, which caused Hanni to blush to the tips of her oversized ears.

Hermione's parents, who attended the event, were floored by the newly completed house, and put considerably more at ease by witnessing the easy interaction that now existed between their daughter and her intended, as they played gracious hosts to their thirty or so guests, snatching time away every so often to join the candlelit dancing down at one end of the rose garden, beneath a canopy of lavishly flowering vines. When Mr. and Mrs. Granger left that night it was with a markedly better impression of their son-in-law-to-be than they'd taken away with them from the commencement ceremony.

As for Draco and Hermione, they fell into bed exhausted once the last of their guests had left, the bed being the only piece of furniture they had bothered situating in its rightful place on their first day in their new home- most of which had been spent outdoors, of course, at the wedding. The rest of their furniture, that which had arrived, at any rate- there were still several pieces on order that had yet to be delivered- was scattered about haphazardly; most, but not all, of the items in or at least near their appointed rooms. Boxes littered the floors of every room as well. This was all work for tomorrow; they'd be indoors setting up house while a hired- and generously paid- team of house elves would be out in the garden, cleaning away all signs of the event that had so recently transpired there.

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The next morning they slept late, awakened only when a wide band of sunlight fell across the bed- the windows did not yet have curtains up. They made love with decadent abandon as the sun shone in, not caring a whit for the house elves that were scurrying hither and thither outside- they weren't tall enough to see over the windowsill!- then rose to try out their new bathing facilities, which easily rivaled the spacious prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts.

The rest of the day was spent in unpacking boxes and crates, moving furniture around through a mix of Hermione's magic and Draco's good old fashioned manly strength, and debating the permanent placements for this floor lamp or that chaise lounge. The day passed too quickly, the only breaks being for meals and when Hermione, with considerable excitement, took delivery of a gigantic book she had ordered from Diagon Alley and had been awaiting eagerly for some time. When they finally sought their bed that night, nearly stumbling from fatigue, their muscles warm and loose from a day's worth of heavy lifting, it was with less than half of their household organizing done, yet with a feeling of immense satisfaction and well-being in their hearts.

It was a feeling that was to vanish all too soon.

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It was far and away the worst nightmare Draco had ever had.

He was witnessing a scene straight out of his father's penseive; one of the many vicious rape sessions that had taken place over the three days of Hermione's captivity, Lucius- (sick- fucking- bastard- Draco thought helplessly)- having of course taken on Draco's form, so it was like watching himself brutalizing the girl he loved more than his very soul.

He was struggling frantically to reach them, to put an end to this horror, to snap his father's neck with his own bare hands- but it was as if there were invisible bonds restraining him; just as with the pensieve itself, he could do nothing to interfere; only watch, knowing that this had happened and could not be altered, and weep with frustrated rage.

Hermione had tried desperately to escape- even toward night of the second day, when this scene had actually taken place, the fight had not left her entirely- but she'd been sick and weak, and had never had a chance. Her captor had thrown her face-down on the bed and taken her that way, pushing her face hard into the mattress until she had nearly passed out, then, just as he had climaxed, winding a hand through her thick hair and yanking her head back, wrenching a hoarse, sobbing cry of agony from her throat.

Draco watched as her hands had wound helplessly in the bedclothes, and a long, shuddering moment later, Lucius had collapsed on top of her, biting her hard on the shoulder as he'd waited for his breath to return to normal- all this managed to elicit from her, nearly unconscious by now, was a low, despairing moan. As he had pushed himself off the bed, the polyjuice potion had lost its effect, and so Lucius had appeared himself again as he had walked around the bed on which Hermione now lay like a discarded rag doll and, reaching down, pulled her head up by the hair one more time.

"Smartest witch of your age," he had sneered, "where is all your book-learning now, hmm? Let me tell you something, mudblood; THIS is what you were made for." And releasing her, he had stalked through the door, throwing one last taunt- "filthy little whore"- back at her before slamming it shut behind him.

Left on her own now, Hermione had slowly, very slowly, curled up into a tight ball on the bed, her head cushioned on one arm, the other thrown over her face in what appeared to be a futile effort at self-protection. She was shaking violently- shock, Draco thought, where he now slumped in defeated misery against his invisible bonds; she's going into deep shock- and her body was heaving every now and then- whether in an attempt to retch or to sob he couldn't tell, but either way the attempt was futile- there appeared to be neither tears nor bile left in her; no fluid at all save for that with which his father had just injected her.

Vile. Disgusting.

He felt sick himself, at the thought.

And then he heard her speak his name.

"Draco," she had whispered, "Draco, where are you… please help me, please… don't… let him hurt me anymore… oh God… I can't take anymore… Draco… please?"

He knew it was useless, but he tried to shout to her anyway, to tell her he was coming and to hold on, just hold on, love, don't give up- but of course she didn't hear him. She'd been drifting into darkness and just before unconsciousness had claimed her, he heard her whisper aloud again; "God, please don't let me wake up… I don't… wanna… wake…"

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"HERMIONE!!!" He shouted, sitting straight up in bed, his pajamas, soaked with perspiration, sticking to his body, his hair plastered to his forehead, shaking almost as violently as she had been doing in the dream.

Not dream, memory; he remembered seeing that exact scene in the pensieve, which meant that it had actually happened- dear God, it had actually HAPPENED that way.

He had to force back a wave of nausea at the thought. It took him a long, long moment of sitting there, breathing hard, before he even registered his surroundings enough to notice that Hermione was missing from the bed.

A bolt of fear like ice shot through him.

"Hermione?" His voice was ragged with the vestiges of the dream. He kicked off the topsheet- all that had been covering him- and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Hermione?"

No answer.

His heart now pounding in his chest like a drum, he stood. Something was wrong. He knew it as clearly as he had known it the night his father had taken her. Something was very definitely wrong here.

"Hermione, damn it, answer me." His voice was little more than a whisper. Fear had constricted his throat.

He took a few stumbling steps before stopping abruptly, having barked his shin hard on a box set in the middle of the floor. In his distraught and sleep-muddled state, he had forgotten that was no longer in his Head Boy room at Hogwarts.

"Shit!" he ground out, reaching down to rub his injured leg. Of all the ways to be awakened on only his second night in his new home. "HERMIONE!"

Still no answer.

He stayed where he was for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then, slowly, he made his way out of the bedroom and down the hallway of the house's "nighttime wing", pausing at every doorway to look in, squinting against the darkness, searching for any sign of fiancée before moving on.

He had meant what he'd said when he had told Ron that any house he bought in the future would not have stairs. The new Malfoy residence was indeed a single-storey home, laid out in a rough L-shape. There was the nighttime wing, as he and Hermione had dubbed it, which contained four bedrooms and two bathrooms, not including the large master suite, which sat at the very end of the hall, and then there was the daytime wing, which consisted of the entryway, living room, dining room, kitchen, game room, yet another bathroom, and- of course- the library.

It was in the library- all the way at the opposite end of the house from the master bedroom, that he found her.

She was lying full-length on the floor, stretched out on the hearth rug in front of a fireplace that had long since gone dark and cold, asleep with her head cushioned on the pages of a gigantic book which he recognized even from the doorway and even in the dark, simply by virtue of the fact that he knew it was, without question, the largest book in the house at the moment. It was the one that had arrived just that day by owl post; it had taken four large birds to transport it. He had commented on its size, refusing to remark upon its subject, which was, predictably, a comprehensive study of the loss of magic in adult witches and wizards; its causes and possible remedies. It was the kind of all-encompassing reference book she had been searching for at Hogwarts to no avail.

He should have been relieved to find her so. Apparently unable to sleep, even after their busy day, she had crept from bed for a late night session with this new book, the arrival of which she had been awaiting with such anticipation. She had stretched out with it in front of the fire, read until she had fallen asleep, the fire had gone out, and here she was. Nothing had happened to her; there was no cause for alarm.

So why did he still have that strong and distinct feeling that something was not right?

He realized why in the next moment. She had been lying on her stomach, her arms folded over the pages of the book and her head laid upon them, but now she tossed over onto her back- it was an abrupt, restless motion; the motion of someone engaged in a nightmare, and was accompanied by a whimpering sound deep in her throat. When her face was revealed to him, he saw three things at once; first, that several tendrils of her dark hair were stuck to her forehead and neck with perspiration- second, that her brows were knit in obvious distress- and third, that there were tear-tracks on her cheeks; she was crying in her sleep.

He knew then, without knowing how he knew, but beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she was wrapped in the same nightmare he himself had just awakened from… and God, he thought, if it had been bad for him, what must it be like for her?

"Hermione," he murmured, starting toward her. "Oh, sweetheart."

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened when he reached her.

Kneeling beside her, he bent down and took her shoulders in his hands. "Hermione," he said, more loudly this time, and gave her a little shake. That was when all hell broke loose.

"NOO!" she screamed, her eyes flying open; she raised both hands to his chest and shoved him away with a strength born of adrenaline, and by the time he had recovered himself, she had scooted backward on her bottom, to a distance of several feet.

"Neh… ver… ah… gain," she gasped out, her eyes huge and wild, her body wracked as if by sobs, though her eyes were dry. "Never again. Get away from me… get AWAY!"

"Hermione." Draco forced himself to keep his voice calm. "Hermione, it's me. You're safe. You're home. It's just a dream, you need to wake up. It's me, Draco. I love you. Please wake up."

"Don't lie to me!" she screamed then. "Don't… you… dare! You're not Draco, he wouldn't say that, he never has! He doesn't love me, he isn't coming, I'm going to die here!"

Each word was like a knife in Draco's heart. God, that she had actually thought this… could he ever, in all his life, make it up to her?

But, as it turned out, he had a more pressing problem to deal with at the moment- Hermione, now well out of his grasp, suddenly cried, "Accio!" and her wand flew to her from where she'd left it lying on a low side table before drifting off to sleep on the pages of her book.

She grabbed it both-handed and leveled it at him, and her hands were shaking slightly, but her aim was true; it was trained directly on his heart. "Even if I do die here," she said, "you're never going to touch me again. Never!" Her eyed narrowed, now blazing with rage and hate and agony, and Draco had just a split second, his own eyes widening hugely, to realize holy shit, she's going to KILL me, she's really gonna kill me in her sleep and dear God, what will that do to her when she WAKES UP?!? before she started to form the word "Av-" and he acted without pause for rational thought; the only idea that flitted through his mind in that instant was that she would stop if she could see him, really see him for who he was- that would snap her out of it, and so, with a burst of panicked adrenaline, not remembering in that split second that he was now supposedly a squib, he shouted "LUMOS!"

And it worked.

Oh, how it worked.

The darkened fireplace, and every wall sconce and lamp in the room, exploded into light with nearly deafening popping sounds and a ferocious energy that lit the room as brilliantly as if it were a professional Quidditch Pitch at night- in other words, more brightly than the brightest daylight.

Draco, already on his knees, doubled over with a hoarse shout, clutching at his temples; when the room had exploded with light, his head had exploded with pain. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his eyes shut against the hurtful glare that now permeated every corner of the library. "Ngh!" he grunted with the effort not to cry out again, folding himself right in half, until in the next instant he felt Hermione's hands, small yet insistent, pulling him up to face her, her voice muzzy with sleep, frightened, confused.

"Draco! Draco, what's wrong? How are you hurt, did you make this light, what's going on?"

He forced his eyes open to look at her, realizing dimly, belatedly, she didn't kill me, I'm still alive- her face was blurry; he blinked and she doubled, tripled- he realized then that there were tears streaming from his eyes, in silent protest of the screaming pain in his head.

"Head… hurts!" he gasped out. "Just… hold onto me… please!" And wrapping his arms around her, he yanked her close to him and buried his face in her chest.

A long time passed, as the grinding, pounding, stabbing pain in his head gradually subsided, Hermione cradling him and stroking her fingers soothingly through his hair. Finally, after what seemed a small eternity, he raised his head enough to face her, though his teeth were still gritted and the pain, although bearable now, was still there, lurking; waiting, he felt, to strike.

"Draco," Hermione whispered, taking his face in both her hands, "what happened? Did you make this light? You did, didn't you?"

"You were dreaming again," he said hoarsely, "you didn't believe it was me, I had to make you see, I had to- and- God- it's too damn bright in here, it's hurting my eyes."

"Then make it dark again," Hermione said.

"You know I can't bloody well do that," he ground out.

"I think you can. I think you made this light, and I think you can unmake it. Do it, Draco."

"I can't!" he cried hoarsely, almost frantically, pressing the palms of both hands hard against his temples. Merlin, the pain…

"Draco," Hermione said calmly, reasonably, insistently, "Draco, you have to try this. We have to know."

Draco glared at her for a moment. Though he would never admit it to her, he was terrified- of what it would mean should he speak the spell and nothing happened. He didn't think he could stand having his hopes raised this way- and they were raised, despite the pain in his head- and then having them dashed again.

Hermione, however, seemed unfazed by the hostile expression he was directing her way. "Say it, love," she whispered.

Draco took a deep breath, steeling himself, then said, still through gritted teeth, "Nox."

The lights extinguished immediately, but another bolt of pain went surging through Draco's head, knocking him backward this time, to sprawl flat on the rug, both hands pressed over his eyes, groaning. The room, pitch black, was beginning to spin.

"Draco? Draco!" He knew that Hermione was kneeling over him, her face just inches from his, but he could barely hear her. The headache had a sound to it now; a pulsing, pounding, ringing roar. He tried to say her name but couldn't. Attempting to speak caused an unbearable crescendo of pain. He thought he heard her say she was going to get help, then the room spun faster and faster until it tipped off at a mad angle and Draco went slipping over the edge of consciousness and was gone.