Chapter Seven

Draco led the way to the split oak with Ivan Nuxoll, a brawny fifth-year who had volunteered to be his second, hurrying after him. The crisp night air cleared Draco's mind; he'd been feeling slightly befuddled from the butterbeer Pansy Parkinson had snuck up to the common room for his "sending off," as she called it.

And damn Hermione Granger, I couldn't even enjoy that rousing good-luck kiss Pansy gave me…

Shoving thoughts of Granger aside, Draco reviewed for perhaps the millionth time that day the range of spells he could use against Potter. The trick, Draco had decided, was to catch his opponent off-guard with a powerful spell right out of the gate – at least that was what the dueling books he'd been reading recommended. Deep down inside, where he didn't like to poke around too much for fear of what he might discover about himself, he had to admit, though, that he was a bit worried about setting the bar too high up-front: Just as he had with Quidditch, he had to realize that Potter was a more talented wizard than he was; unpleasant as that might be for Draco's ego, correctly estimating his opponent's power was crucial to not only surviving but winning this duel.

So he couldn't defeat Potter through an out-right contest of innate power, Draco had accepted that. But power wasn't everything; there was still cunning, determination and strategy, all of which Draco had in abundance.

The split oak loomed into view. Weasley stood in front of the tree, arms crossed belligerently over his broad chest; Potter stood calmly to one side, clad, like Draco, in his school robes.

"Thought maybe you'd changed your mind," Weasley called as Draco closed the distance between them.

Dream on, Weasley, you over-grown carrot. I wouldn't miss this for the world.

"Hardly," Draco answered smoothly. He stopped a few yards away and nodded at his opponent, noting how perfectly at ease Potter seemed. He couldn't help wondering if it was just a façade, like his own bravado – inside, was Potter feeling as shaky as Draco?

Careful to keep his voice steady, revealing none of his inner nervousness, Draco called, "Ready, Potter?"

Potter pushed off from the tree he'd been leaning against and took a couple of confident steps forward. Draco wondered if he, too, was remembering their duel in second-year, when Lockhart had attempted his ill-fated dueling club.

"Whenever you are, Malfoy."

Ron took control as Draco and Potter stared each other down. "Produce wands!" he barked. Instinctively, both pulled their wands from their pockets and raised them in front of their faces. Draco's palm was slippery with sweat.

"Present wands!"

They flourished their wands at one another, bowing low without breaking eye contact. Draco's heart hammered painfully in his chest.

This is it – this is it – this is-

"Commence duel!"

-it!

Draco drew a breath, saw Potter do the same. He winged up a silent prayer for victory to whatever gods existed, leveled his wand, and shouted –

"Harry! Harry, stop!"

Draco's voice froze in his throat. Glancing over his shoulder, he was shocked to see Hermione Granger, cheeks flushed from the cold, racing barefoot toward them over the frosted ground. Her pretty eyes were wide with terror.

A flash of rage shot through Draco. So she had come after all, to protect the man she really loved, to save Potter, without even a moment's thought for him…

Well, damn her. Ignoring the ache that had opened up in his chest, Draco swung his eyes back to Potter, who, completely distracted by Granger's unexpected entrance, appeared to have forgotten about the duel.

Draco saw his advantage and used it well.

"Crucio" he cried.

A purple light shot from the end of his wand and connected solidly with his opponent's chest. Potter's green eyes widened in surprise and then, with a scream that made Draco's hair stand on end, he crumpled into a writhing mass on the ground.

Draco's wand felt hot, like a poker left in a hearth. The energy surging through his fingers was different than any he'd ever felt before – stinging, grating, like a poison dumped into his veins. His arm trembled with the effort of keeping the spell aimed at his shrieking enemy.

This is wrong – lift it, stop it –

Before Draco could respond to his inner voice, he heard Granger scream from behind, "Ron, watch out!"

Draco half-turned, ready to tell her off, to inform her that he was not going to attack Potter's second without provocation. But in that awful instant he saw what had drawn Granger into the middle of their duel in the first place.

Standing directly behind Ron, crouched in obvious attack position, was a werewolf.

Draco's stomach dropped into his shoes. His wand fell limply to his side, the spell ended. Terror, cold and paralyzing, welled up inside of him, overpowering his urge to flee for the castle as fast as his feet would carry him.

And underneath the fear, his inner voice berated him: A full moon. A full moon, you bloody idiot – you'll be lucky if you don't all die...

Potter had stopped writhing but remained moaning on the ground. Weasley turned and stared in mute horror at the monstrously beautiful creature, all spindly limbs and dagger-sharp teeth, its silvery brown fur glowing in the moonlight.

Slowly, the werewolf looked from Weasley, to Draco, to Ivan, to Potter, to Granger. In one awful instant, Draco knew who it had chosen.

Granger-!

Hermione, reading the intent in the werewolf's coal-black eyes, uttered a terrified shriek and took one tiny step backwards. But she had nowhere to go.

Potter was still incapacitated, and Weasley didn't even have time to raise his wand before the beast leapt past him and sprang directly for Hermione. Draco didn't think; he reacted. No one else was near enough to do anything, and he knew, from the reading Snape had forced them to do about werewolves, that a single stunning spell would hardly phase the monster while it was under the direct light of a full moon.

So he did the only thing that he could. He sprang to the side, tackled Hermione, and shoved her as far away from the werewolf as he could.

For one elated second, Draco thought they had both escaped, that the monster had jumped over them and that Potter, Weasley and Ivan would have a chance to stun it before it could do any damage. Then he was caught around the mid-section in mid-fall and shaken roughly in the air; an excruciating pain exploded in his left side, ripping the air from his lungs and tearing a scream from his throat. His bones rattled with the force of the shaking. He felt like a rag doll – a rag doll whose insides were being torn out by long, incredibly sharp teeth.

So this is it, this is how it ends…

Pain narrowed his vision to a tiny pinpoint of light. Voices shouting spells rang out all around him, but he could know longer understand the words; the world exploded in bursts of pain, and his sight failed completely.

Draco would never know that Ron Weasley saved his life, that he broke the most sacred wizard laws by shouting the Killing Curse at the werewolf, which flung Draco to the side before collapsing in a lifeless heap.

Draco's last thought before the darkness closed in was that he had picked a beautiful night to die.

With rivulets of pain still shooting through his limbs from Draco's curse, Harry stumbled to his feet and wobbled over to the tangle of limbs a few feet away.

"Hermione," he cried hoarsely, tugging on her arm to pull her out from underneath Malfoy, who had been tossed on top of her in the werewolf's final moments. "Hermione, are you hurt?"

She was shaking from head to toe, her teeth chattering, her face totally white, her clothes and hair smeared with blood, but she managed to whimper, "No…But Draco…"

"I know." He handed her off to Ron, terrified of finding out how badly Malfoy was hurt.

Harry nearly gagged when he rolled Malfoy over. The werewolf's powerful jaws had turned Malfoy's left side into a mass of blood and gore, tearing away chunks of flush and exposing ivory-colored rib bone. His breath rattled strangely in his throat; his eyes were half-close, unseeing; with every beat of his heart, blood gushed from the horrid wound, forming a sticky pool on the frozen ground.

Harry didn't think; he reacted. The pain and weakness in his own limbs was forgotten as he scooped Malfoy into his arms, cradling the other boy's head against his shoulder to protect his neck. Without a word to the others, he turned and ran harder than he had ever run in his life toward the castle.

Harry was vaguely aware of footsteps echoing behind him. If he would have turned, he would have seen Nuxoll bringing up the rear, his wand sweeping around them as he watched for more werewolves, and Ron half-carrying Hermione, who was starting to sob dryly. But Harry didn't turn. He had one purpose: Getting Malfoy to Dumbledore.

His wand, though Harry didn't realize it at the time, still lay beside the split oak, where he had dropped it when Malfoy's curse hit him full-force. He didn't think about wands, didn't really think at all, as he reached the enormous oak doors of Hogwarts – he just shouted the spell to open them, and the doors instantly obeyed.

"Go get – " he started to command Ron, then stopped.

Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape were already in the entranceway, all obviously roused from sleep, led by a white-faced Ginny Weasley. Dumbledore's eyes locked with Harry's for one second before sliding down to the bloody, mangled form in his arms; Harry couldn't have felt smaller in that moment if Dumbledore had outright accused him of murder.

"Hospital wing," was all Dumbledore said, tersely.

Harry's feet fairly flew over the marble staircases. Madam Pomfrey appeared from seemingly nowhere the moment he burst into the clinic; he wondered vaguely if she ever slept, or if she stayed up all night awaiting some emergency.

She barely arched an eyebrow at the bloody crew. "Here," she instructed Harry, brusque but perfectly calm. "Put him down here." She gestured at the nearest cot, where Harry lay Malfoy down as gently as he could and stepped back to give her room to work.

"What was it, Mr. Potter? What bit him?"

Harry's throat was so dry he could barely rasp out, "Werewolf."

A collective gasp arose from Snape and McGonagall. Madam Pomfrey offered no reaction. Dumbledore stepped up beside Harry. Surveying Malfoy gravely, he asked, "What do you need, Poppy?"

"Staunching salve, third shelf of that blue cabinet," she replied in clipped tones. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron rush to the shelf and hurry back with the salve. Madam Pomfrey used a pair of scissors to cut away Malfoy's robe. After studying the wound briefly, she announced, "He needs a Healer. I'd say Simon Fairmont, from St. Mungo's. He's the best."

"Can we take him to St. Mungo's?" Dumbledore inquired.

"No. He can't be moved."

"Severus," Dumbledore turned to Snape, who was looking even paler than usual. "Can you…?"

"I'll have him here in an hour," Snape promised. With one murderous look at Harry, the Potions professor swept from the room.

Hermione, still bloody and trembling all over, stepped around Harry and took the salve from Madam Pomfrey. "Let me help," she whispered.

Madam Pomfrey took in her blood-matted hair and stained clothes. "Are you hurt, Miss Granger?"

"No." Hermione's voice was terribly small. "It's his." She touched Malfoy's forehead tenderly.

After a moment's hesitation, Madam Pomfrey nodded. "All right. Smooth that salve all over the open wounds. I've got a potion over here – should repair the bone and the internal organs – watch his respirations, I'm afraid a lung's been punctured."

While Madam Pomfrey and Hermione worked on Malfoy, Dumbledore ushered McGonagall, Nuxoll, Ron and Harry to a corner of the hospital wing. "Should I notify his mother?" McGonagall asked the Headmaster, glancing fretfully over at Malfoy. "I think Lucius is still at Azkaban, awaiting release."

"Not yet. We should wait until we know more," Dumbledore replied.

He turned to the three boys, all of whom stared guiltily at their feet. Harry had begun to wish he could disappear rather than face explaining to the Headmaster how such a tragedy occurred.

"I have many questions," Dumbledore told them quietly, "but they will have to wait until morning. If none of you are hurt, I suggest you return directly to your dormitories, and say nothing about this to anyone."

They all three nodded obediently. Harry wanted to stay, to be there when the Healer arrived, yet he knew he had no right to ask for special treatment, so he moved silently with the others to the door.

There, he paused and glanced back at Dumbledore. "Is he going to die?" he managed to ask.

"I don't know, Harry," Dumbledore answered honestly, his blue eyes sad. "Go to sleep now. I'll call for you in the morning."

And with that, Harry had no choice but to leave, to spend an interminable night alone with his questions, his fear, and his guilt.