They thudded down in the deep, soft snow of the cottage's front yard (due to the protections on the house no one, not even its owners, could come any closer to it via apparition or portkey), Draco's heart pounding from the close call they'd just experienced. He struggled to his knees… then, somehow, to his feet, Hermione clasped tightly in his arms. Carrying her should have been easy for him- would have been, under normal circumstances, but as weak and hurt and exhausted as he was, it was a miracle he made it across the yard, trudging through the blanket of almost knee-deep snow, onto the path and, stumblingly, up the front steps to the door. He fell against it, turning himself as he did so in order to protect Hermione; his shoulder hit the wood with a muffled thump.
"Pinky!" he shouted hoarsely, desperate, unable to knock with his arms full of the unconscious love of his life, still shirtless in the snow, teeth now chattering violently, the world beginning to tilt and blacken at the edges as his legs slowly buckled- "Pinky, for God's sake, open the door!"
He heard rushed, pattering little footsteps approaching from within the house, then the door opened inward and he fell through it, landing jarringly on his side in the tiny foyer, cradling Hermione, protecting her from the impact.
"Ngh!" he grunted through clenched teeth, fighting for consciousness. The message he was getting from his body was that he was finally in a safe place, safe and warm, and it was all right now, it was okay to drift away into the darkness that was creeping toward him from the corners of the room. The darkness would hold relief from this throbbing, gnawing, aching, stinging pain that had invaded every inch of him. Just let go, his body whispered, just let go.
But he couldn't, not yet. There was more to be done. With a supreme effort, using the wall as support, he dragged himself back to his feet, still holding onto Hermione, and staggered into the parlor, depositing her on the sofa in front of the fire. "Pinky," he said to the elf, who was standing off to one side with both hands clasped over her mouth in shock and horror, wearing a frilly, too-long pink nightgown that puddled about her on the floor, "Hermione's not well. Get a blanket, immediately."
As Pinky flew up the stairs, he sank down on the edge of the sofa, slipped a cushion under Hermione's head, fumbled for a wand- which one didn't matter anymore- pressed the tip gently to her chest, and murmured, "Ennervate."
Hermione's eyes fluttered open slowly, reluctantly.
"Draco?" she whispered, her voice tiny and cracked.
"Yeah, love," he answered, forcing a small smile. "It's me."
She blinked, and her eyes left his face to wander the room. "Where are we?"
"Home," Draco answered simply, dropping a kiss on her forehead. "We're home."
"Mmh. Is it over then? The battle?"
"I don't know. But I think the fighting's just moved elsewhere. It's over for us, though. We're safe here."
Hermione's brows drew together, troubled. "But Harry… Ron…" But she didn't get to finish this thought. Her eyes were drifting closed in spite of herself and in the next instant she was gone again. Then Pinky was back, holding a folded blanket out to Draco, who took it, shook it out, and tucked it about Hermione's still form. "Hold tight, sweetheart," he muttered, "help's on the way."
He tried to stand- but his body had reached the point where it simply would not obey him any longer. He stumbled backward and fell hard into a sitting position on the coffee table, then wrapped both arms around his midsection and doubled over, groaning.
Damn it all. Damn his weak, uncooperative body straight to-
"Mister Draco?"
He raised his head marginally, surveying Pinky through white-blond bangs that fell forward, still scarlet-tipped with Hermione's blood. He blinked, narrowed his eyes, trying to keep the elf in focus. She was wearing a pink nightcap with a pom-pom at the tip, he noticed detachedly. Everything seemed very surreal to him all of a sudden- he felt like he was floating six inches above his body, much as he'd felt when he'd had that fever so long ago. His mind was finally doing as Hermione's had done- shutting down in order to escape the pain.
"Pinky, listen," he said- slurred, really- "this is important-"
"Mister Draco," the elf interrupted urgently, "you is not looking any better than Miss Hermione. Let Pinky help you lie down, sir!"
"No," he said stubbornly, "I'm fine. Look, there's someone I need you to find for me, right away. Severus Snape. He's a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and a professor at Hogwarts. I don't know where he is right now. But you can find him, can't you, Pinky?"
The elf nodded. "Of course I can, but Mister Draco, you should really let-"
"No. Just find Snape. And if he's alive, bring him here. No one but Snape. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir," the elf replied, though with obvious reluctance. "I is going now, Mister Draco. I is just needing to put on my snow things, sir." With that, she turned and padded back up the stairs, reappearing a moment later wearing hot pink snowboots, and a puffy pink parka over her nightie. She carried another folded blanket over one arm; pink, apparently from her own bed.
"Damn uncooperative elf," Draco muttered as she draped the blanket over his shoulders where he still hunched, miserably, on the edge of the coffee table. "I tol'you I ws'fine." His mind registered distantly that he was now barely understandable.
"You is not telling the truth," the elf said severely, "either to Pinky or to yourself. Now stay put; Pinky will be back with help just as soon as she can." She stepped through the front door, pulled it shut behind her, and Draco heard, faintly, the snapping sound that accompanied the appearance and disappearance of house elves.
It was then that the room seemed to give a mighty lurch beneath him, and he listed to the side. He threw out an arm to steady himself, but there was nothing there to grab- he was already sitting at the very edge of the table. He fell sideways onto the floor, and groaned.
He made one last valiant effort to push himself back up, to no avail. Now sprawled on the cold wooden floor between the coffee table and the sofa, still bare-chested, half tangled in a wooly pink blanket, he found that he was shaking uncontrollably. Turning his head to the side, he saw Hermione's hand trailing over the edge of the couch, reached out, and grasped it in his own. He then spent an indeterminate time drifting in and out of consciousness, feeling, when he was aware enough to feel anything, as though the room was spinning constantly in slow, sickening circles.
He was in a gray place somewhere between consciousness and oblivion when he thought he heard, as from very far away, the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. A door opened and closed and then there was the heavy thud of booted feet hurrying across the parlor toward him.
"Draco!" The voice was deep and familiar, and full of concern. Draco felt a pair of rough, warm hands grip him by the shoulders.
"Severus," Draco breathed, blinking hard, trying to fight off the fog that surrounded him, to bring his eyes into focus. "Thank Merlin you're all right."
"I wish I could say the same for you," Snape replied. "Draco, how are you hurt? Whose house is this? And what in God's name is Miss Granger doing here with you? Your bedamned house elf wouldn't tell me anything except that you were wounded."
"Not wounded," Draco managed. "It's Hermione that's hurt. Serpensortia. Bitten twice."
"Bitten twice?" Snape echoed incredulously. "And she's still alive? Draco, what is going on?"
Draco's eyes drifted closed. "I love her," he whispered, "God help me. I've loved her for… a long time. But I was stupid… so stupid. I didn't listen to you, I'm sorry, Severus-"
"Draco," Snape interrupted, his voice somehow managing to be both soothing and urgent at once, "forget about that now; I failed you, not the other way around. Just tell me about Miss Granger. How could she be bitten twice by a Serpensortia and not die?"
"Life-binding spell," Draco replied, his voice now barely audible. "Channeled through our rings. I shared… half my life-force… with her…"
"Mother of Merlin," Snape said incredulously. "But that hasn't been done successfully in centuries."
"I'm not so sure it's been done successfully now either," Draco replied weakly. "Ask me in the morning… if you still can…"
His implication was clear.
And it was equally clear that Snape didn't like it, not one bit. His face hardened.
"Bugger that," he snapped, "I'm in no mood for your ridiculous theatrics, boy." But the very gruffness of his voice betrayed the depth of the worry he felt. "Draco- Draco! Stay with me, damn it!" Still gripping him by the shoulders, he shook him. "I need to know everything about the spell you used. Where can I find that information, Draco?"
"Upstairs… second door… library. Book is… on th'desk."
"Is there a bedroom upstairs as well?"
"Yeah… end of the hall."
"Right." With that, Snape gathered his young protégé into his arms, stood, and made for the stairs.
"No," Draco snarled, beginning to struggle, "Hermione! Damn it, Severus, I'm fine, leave me alone, help Hermione!"
"I will come back for Miss Granger," Snape replied calmly.
"No- NO! Damn you, Severus-"
But Snape paid no attention; Draco was too weak to back his curses with any real resistance.
00000
They were halfway up the stairs when it hit them; the pain of ten Cruciatus Curses, concentrated in both of their left forearms- the place where they both wore the Dark Mark. Snape gave a yell and dropped Draco to clutch at his arm- the pain was too sudden and too great to be deferred, even at the cost of sending the boy he loved almost as a son tumbling ungracefully to the bottom of the stairs.
Draco actually felt the rib crack as he slammed down on the floor at the foot of the stairs, but it seemed a distant and unimportant pain in that moment; all of his attention was focused on the searing agony that was his arm. Clutching at it, fighting the urge to scream with everything he had, he heard Snape, above him on the stairs, give a hoarse shout of pain and turned his head to regard, through watering eyes, his mentor doubled over, right hand clasped over his left arm, left hand fisted in his dark hair, his often stern face a mirror image of Draco's- shock and pain. And then-
It was over, just as abruptly as it had begun.
Draco's head fell back against the floor with a thwack as all the tension left his body. His teeth remained gritted, though, as he was now becoming aware of the new pain in his midsection. Christ, but it had been a lousy night.
A moment later Snape was there, looming over him, his face waxy-pale and drawn tight with both the vestiges of the pain he'd just suffered and a dawning concern.
"Merlin, Draco, I'm sorry," he said. "Can you sit up?"
"I- don't know," Draco managed, between clenched teeth and shallow, panting breaths. "What… what the… fuh-huck was that?"
"That," Snape said grimly, "was Potter winning this damn war. The Dark Lord is dead. Look at your arm."
Draco, whose right arm was now clamped protectively over his damaged ribcage, raised his left- (it took a distinct effort to do so)- into the line of his sight. The area of his forearm where the Mark had been up until a moment ago was blazing an angry red, but of the Dark Mark itself there was no sign.
"Well bugger me," he said, wonderingly.
Snape uttered a short bark of mirthless laughter. "Indeed," he said dryly. Then, "come on, Draco, let's get you up." And unaware of the extent of Draco's new fall-related injuries, he proceeded to haul him into a sitting position.
Draco expelled a strangled little "huh" sound as he felt- and this time heard as well- yet another crack. His pale eyes grew huge for just a fraction of a second, before rolling back and falling shut as he slumped backward into Snape's arms. As if from a great distance, he heard the older man's panicked shouts of "Draco! Draco! FUCK!"
Then, finally, darkness engulfed him completely.
00000
(A/N: Sorry so many people were confused about the last chapter! As you can see, all is well... well, kinda. Better than it would be if the Death Eaters had gotten their grubby little hands on them, anyway. Also in answer to a question someone asked a couple of chapters ago, yes, sucking poison from a snakebite can really be done- but obviously, only when medical attention is not available and there is no other alternative. It is dangerous to both the sucker and the... er... suckee. And I apologize for the lateness and the shortness of this chapter, and the fact that "Sometimes" hasn't been updated at all this week... or last week... for those who haven't read my profile page, I'm in the midst of buying a house (we sign the papers today- yipee skippee) which is very time consuming and stressful. Also, I started grad school last week. I beg your patience, kind readers!)