AN: Wow! Thank you for all the feedback! Here's the next chapter…

Oh yeah, and here's my lovely disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

…Or maybe I'm secretly JKR in disguise, covertly spreading the awesomeness of DM/HG fics. Woot. No, scratch that, I'm just me.

000

"Honey?"

Mrs. Granger stood at the bottom of the stairs, clasping the railing. Her honey-brown eyes were full of concern. Hermione looked up at her mother. The woman had tolerated a great deal of strangeness over the years, but this was the first time she had ever watched her daughter drag an unconscious teenage boy into their house.

Hermione was standing in the doorway, a pale figure in black robes draped over her shoulder. She struggled to support his weight.

Her mother caught sight of Draco's pale, bloodstained face and gasped.

"Oh, my goodness," she said, rushing forward. "Who—what happened—oh my—is—is he all right?" She and Hermione hauled his prone body towards the couch.

"I don't think so, Mum," said Hermione, grunting with exertion. "Here, this is silly—I keep forgetting—home, in the summer—" She pulled out her wand and flicked it. Draco floated upwards, as if on an invisible stretcher, and landed gently on the couch. At that moment, Mr. Granger raced down the stairs and skidded to a halt in the living room.

"What are you two doing up?" he asked, panting. "Is something wrong? I thought I heard—why didn't you wake me? I—" His eyes widened as they fell on Draco. "Who is that?" he demanded in surprise.

"He…" Hermione paused. That was a very good question. "He goes to my school," she said finally, which reminded her of something. She darted forward and yanked the wand out of his dirt encrusted fingers, tucking it safely in her own pocket.

Her parents stared at her silently, waiting for an explanation. They were always waiting patiently for an explanation, and usually she gave one. But tonight…

"He needs help," she said, after a pause. That much was true, at least.

"Shall I take him to the hospital?" asked Mr. Granger. "I can call Dr. Bartz, I'm sure he'd be willing to—"

"No," said Hermione, shaking her head. "No hospitals. They won't be able to help him."

If her parents thought this was odd, they said nothing. Hermione sighed.

"Mum, could you get me some hot water and a washcloth?" Her mother nodded and silently left the room. She turned to her father, but her eyes lingered on Draco, who still lay motionless at the fringes of her peripheral vision. She couldn't help but feeling a deep sense of unease.

"Dad, watch him. If he even moves—yell for me. I'll be right back." She raced upstairs, rooting frantically through her trunk for—what else?—a book. Or two. Or four. And some potions ingredients. She tossed Draco's wand into her trunk and slammed it shut, before hurtling back downstairs.

000

Draco groaned slightly and attempted to move. A pair of gentle hands eased him into a sitting position. Someone pressed some kind of hot liquid into his lips. He swallowed instinctively, liking his dry lips. Potion? It was thin and kind of salty.

He opened his eyes and the face of his caretaker swam into view. For a moment he thought it was Hermione, but the face was different, older, with darker hair and lighter, hazel colored eyes. The Muggle woman was touching him. A Malfoy.

His eyes moved to the steaming mug in her hands and he recoiled slightly. Mrs. Granger obviously could tell if he was cringing in fear or disgust, because she smiled gently at him. Just what the hell was she feeding him? Some kind of Muggle filth obviously. Had he really sunk this low?

"Chicken soup," said Mrs. Granger warmly, answering at least one of his silent questions. "My mum used to make it for me when I was sick. Do you feel up to eating now?"

This situation was so incredibly alien to Draco that he practically gaped at her, lost for words. "I—" he stammered. He swallowed hard. "Where's Gra—er—Hermione?"

"She's upstairs," said Mrs. Granger. "She'll be right down. My husband had to go to work, but I thought I'd stay here and make sure you're all right." She smiled at him, as if they were making small talk. "We own a practice together, you see."

Draco stared at her. "Mmm…" he muttered vaguely. He took in his surroundings. The house was much, much larger than he expected, and rather richly decorated with various Muggle objects. What did her parents do for a living? He was fairly sure he had heard her mention teeth; Granger's huge molars had amused him endlessly for his first four years in school. Apparently "dentimestry" or whatever the hell it was is a very lucrative career.

"Would you like some more soup?" She offered him the steaming mug. Draco looked at it. It was a very rare occasion that he ate something that had not been prepared by house elves. The thought of the dirty veined Muggle woman feeding him something that she had prepared with her bare, filthy hands was absolutely repulsive to him. Still…he was absolutely starving, and he doubted Hermione would be quite as generous in the distribution of food when she came back downstairs.

He stared at the cup for a long time. "Yes," he said finally. He pulled the broth out of her hands and chugged it down. His mother would be repulsed by his manners, but then again, his mother would also be repulsed that he was interacting with a Muggle with borderline civility.

"Petrificus Totalus!" cried a voice from the corner of the room, near the stairs. The now empty mug flew out of his hands as his limbs snapped into a rigidly shut. Hermione stomped over to him, wand raised, looking furious again. For a moment, he had the wild notion that she was going to kick him in the nose, but she didn't. She rounded at her mother.

"Mum!" she scolded. "You were supposed to tell me the second he regained consciousness!" Malfoy could see her out of the corner of his eyes, if he rolled them to the very edge of his paralyzed lids. Her hair was dripping wet and clipped back behind her head. She was wearing a jeans and a tank top. Muggle clothes. How disgusting.

"He's obviously not well, dear…" Hermione's mother protested. Casting another disapproving look at Draco, Hermione pulled her mother aside and conversed with her in hushed tones. Draco caught snatches of words…"bad people" … "dangerous" … "father" … "prison." Mrs. Granger's eyes widened in concern, and perhaps, fear. Good. Hah. Stupid woman. Oh, if his father could see him now…

Something was crawling across his chest. He rolled his eyes downwards and watched as the Mudblood's ugly ginger cat crept up and stared him in the face with its lamp-like yellow eyes. His entire chest was covered in bandages, his shirt and robes now conspicuously missing. Each furry pawed step sent pain lancing across his body. Hermione was still talking to her mother, who was now casting worried looks in his direction. The cat hissed at him, eyes narrowing. Draco was beginning to hate this cat on a personal level, even more than he already hated it for simply being the properly of Hermione Granger, Mudblooded suck-up-know-it-all extraordinaire. If he could have moved, he would take his wand and blow the cat to tiny pieces. He smiled inwardly at the vision of little tufts of ginger hair floating wildly about the room…

"Malfoy," said Hermione sharply, snapping him back to reality. Mrs. Granger had left the room and the Mudblood was once again towering above him, wand aimed at his throat. The stupid cat jumped heavily off his chest and landed on the table next to Hermione's leg.

"I'm going to unbind you now, and if you try anything—you're going to spend the rest of your natural life as a ferret —or possibly a tea cozy." The cat purred in apparent delight at the prospect of him becoming a tiny, furry animal. "Got it?"

Being completely paralyzed, he could not give any indication of whether or not he agreed to these terms. After a moment's pause, she released him anyway. He felt an immediate rush of relief as his limbs relaxed. He did not however, feel relieved that her wand was pressing against his temple.

"You said you knew where to find a Horcrux," she demanded, her voice was shaking slightly. She had clearly been waiting a long time to ask this question.

Draco frowned. "I…" He trailed off. His memories of last night were fuzzy, at best.

She scowled. "Don't screw with me, you ponce. How do you know about the Horcruxes?"

"Horcruxes are nasty things, Granger," he said, a playful edge in his voice. "I wouldn't go chasing after them."

There was color rising in her cheeks. She opened her mouth and began to utter a spell. "Sentatr—"

"OK!" he interrupted loudly, throwing his hands up defensively. Clearly he was not going to be bartering with the very little information he had. "I don't know much. I—last night I think I stumbled onto something I should have…I don't know. They tried to modify my memory, but they couldn't do it properly because I took off…still, I'm not sure I remember anyway…"

He stopped again, his brow furrowed in concentration. He remembered running…He had been hit with a curse, several in fact—all of them rather nasty and at least one of them was definitely a memory charm. He remembered there was something important, he just couldn't place it. It was a shadow, lingering on the fringes of awareness, taunting him. Horcrux? That sounded familiar. His father had told him about Horcruxes of course, showed him the diary…but that was long gone now. Why did it matter?

He was quite lost in his own thoughts. He barely noticed that the Mudblood looked ready to burst.

"HORCRUXES!" she shouted, shocking him out of his reverie. "What. Do. You. Know," she demanded through gritted teeth.

"Huh?" Draco looked up at her. "Oh, that." He smirked at her, the precious feeling of vague superiority creeping back to him for the first time in awhile. "I skimmed it off the top of your mind." He tapped his skull. "Legilimancy. Didn't much fancy spending the night outside on your lawn."

His grin widened as her eyes bulged in fury. He was quite pleased with himself for this. He wasn't much of a hand at Legilimency, particularly when he was about ready to pass out. He was far more fortunate with Occlumency.

000

Hermione fumed. She couldn't believe the gall of him—she had taken him into her house, saved his bloody life—and he was still behaving like…well, like the great arrogant git that he was and had always been. She sighed. At least he hadn't called her "Mudblood" in awhile. Why was she helping him?

Malfoy, meanwhile, crossed his arms and stared at her sullenly.

"Where's my wand?" he asked.

She glared at him incredulously.

"Are you kidding me?" She could have laughed, it was so ridiculous. "My family lives here. You're lucky you aren't tied up. You would be if it wasn't for your stupid wounds."

"I don't want to be here," he snapped stubbornly, glowering at her. "Living in this filthy hovel you call a home…Mudblood." Well, so much for that.

She stood up, raising her chin haughtily. "I suppose you'd rather be dead on the back lawn?" she huffed. "You might as well be I you don't have any useful information," she added, clutching her wand and drawing herself up to her full height. "You don't know anything."

"I do," he protested. "I just don't remember what it is," he added, mumbling.

"What do you remember?" she asked crossly.

"Why would I tell you?"

She leaned into his face, a very saccharine smile on her lips. The tip of her wand occupied the very short distance separating their noses. "I can think of one very good reason, and it involves a lifetime supply of rodent pellets," she said sweetly.

"Ah."

000

"What else?"

Granger was pacing wildly about the room, her frustration quite evident, and from Draco's perspective, quite entertaining.

"I told you," he snapped. "That's all."

"You found something…you were attacked…and you ran away?" she recounted scathingly. "That's ALL you remember."

"Yeah," said Draco shrugging. Granger slumped down in defeat in an armchair across the room from him. She let out a groan of frustration. It was getting late and she had insisted her parents go to bed. She was up alone frustrated, and much to Draco's delight, looked exhausted and miserable.

They had been going on like this for several days. Despite the constant barrage of questioning, neither one of them had recalled or discovered any useful information whatsoever.

She had been sending and receiving letters from the same, snowy white owl pretty much nonstop. He recognized the owl. He half-expected Potter to break down the back door and murder him at any minute. Draco had taken to asking her what the letter said each time she received one, and each time he had received the same icy "it's-none-of-your-goddamn-business" glare from across the room. He never got tired of this, because it was his only form of entertainment.

One day however, Granger seemed to have had quite enough, and she chucked a black, plastic rectangle covered in buttons at his head. This discovery afforded Draco an entirely new source of entertainment—the Muggle television. It was his sincere opinion that Muggle television was utterly and offensively stupid, but had been so far unable to tear himself away from watching it.

"I'm going to bed," she said finally. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a mug full of something steaming. Draco guessed that it wasn't chicken soup.

"What's this?" he said suspiciously, as she thrust it into his hands. It had a smiling, oversized white molar holding a toothbrush and waving obnoxiously emblazoned on it.

"It's sleeping potion," she snapped.

"Why the hell do I need sleeping potion?" he demanded. "I'm mostly healed now, thanks."

"Because," she said flatly. "I don't want you trying anything while I'm not here to watch you." Draco didn't see how that would be a likely scenario, considering that Granger kept him stuck to the couch in a ceaseless Leg-Locker Curse, which she showed no sign of relenting on. He imagined she had horrible visions of him bunny hopping up the stairs and murdering them all in their sleep. He got a tiny grain of satisfaction from that. At least she was still somewhat afraid of him.

"It's probably poison," he said, sniffing it.

Granger clenched her jaw. "Drink! It! Now! Ferret boy!" she hissed through gritted teeth. Draco gave a long suffering sigh and swallowed it one gulp.

Granger stomped away up the stairs, muttering something about wishing he would choke on it. "I'm going to take a shower and go to bed, before Harry and Ron get here in the morning," she said, before disappearing into her room.

Draco could already feel the potion, dragging his mind downwards in a dark, soft haze. He did not relish the thought of facing Scarhead and the Weasel tomorrow, but he didn't think it was going to be avoidable.

…Hmm…Granger in the shower. He tried to banish the thought from his befuddled mind, but it stuck with amazing resiliency.

He had never seen a naked Muggle before though. For all he knew, he consoled himself ruefully, she could be sporting a layer or coarse brown fur beneath those ugly t-shirts.

He doubted it. He fell backwards against the couch, relieved that he didn't have to ponder naked Granger for a moment more.

000

Draco strode purposefully into the cavernous stone room, his stomach writhing uncomfortably. Snape had brought him here hours before, and he was not looking forward to what was to come.

The Dark Lord sat lazily on his throne in the front of the room, watching Draco approach in a manner that was eerily similar to the way a hungry cat watches a mouse. There was a slightly amused smile playing on his lips.

Draco bowed low before him. It was not his inclination as Malfoy to bow, but he had little choice in the matter. That was just the way things worked. The room was full of Death Eaters, masks off, spread against the walls and surrounding Draco in a wide circle. Rabastan Lestrange was leering at him from a standing position near the foot the Dark Lord's pedestal raised throne. Snape stood elevated next to his master, on the right side of the throne, his sallow face inscrutable and his gaze fixed on his former pupil. In the back of the room near the door, his mother stood next to her sister in a dark blue traveling cloak, her face white, her hands trembling.

"My Lord?" Draco inquired quietly.

"Draco," said the Dark Lord in a cool, silky voice. "Can you tell me what task I charged you with one year ago, in this very room?"

Draco felt like the walls were closing in on him. "Kill Albus Dumbledore," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. A few of the Death Eaters laughed darkly at this prospect. Draco felt his pale face flush with anger.

"And were you successful in this task?" Long, spindly white fingers drummed idly on the granite arm of his throne.

Draco swallowed hard, trying to suppress the bile building in his throat. "No, my Lord."

For a moment, the Dark Lord did not move. He stared at Draco, a kind of casual merriment dancing in his snake-like red eyes, his chin resting indolently on his curled hand. Then quite suddenly, Draco was rolling on his back, screaming and writhing in agony that he had never dreamed possible.

His mother cried out from the back of the room, only to be shushed impatiently by Bellatrix. "He needs to be taught the price of failing his Master," she cooed, in the most obvious, comforting tones she could manage. They both sounded very far away.

Then the pain ended just as suddenly as it had began. He struggled to his feet, sweating and shaking.

"Draco, I understand that you did try your very best," said the Dark Lord, his voice dripping with sarcasm and condescension. "And thanks to Severus, you utterly abysmal failure ended as quite a monumental success." Snape did not even blink.

"But I find," he stroked a ling white finger against his wand, "that I have no—place…for you here..." He smiled darkly. "And you are as yet too young to be joining your dear father in Azkaban." Draco paled, lost for words.

Near the far back of the room, Fenrir Greyback was crouched on a bench, licking something that looked suspiciously like blood off of his fingers like a greedy child. He stood suddenly, and advanced towards Draco, caressing the air with his filthy hands.

"Perhaps, my Lord," said Fenrir, smiling. "I have a place for him amongst my brethren. Or at the very least…" His unnaturally yellow eyes glittered with a feral hunger. "We will be very hungry come the next Moonrise."

Draco backed away from him in revulsion, horrified. Were they really going to feed him to the werewolf? Or worse…

"I will consider it, Greyback," said the Dark Lord lazily. Fenrir retreated to his former spot, and grinned like a faithful dog that had just been tossed a table scrap. His mother gave a dry sob from the back of the room.

"We will deliberate your fate, young Master Malfoy," he said, almost chidingly. "Wait outside." The assembled crowd laughed in amusement. Draco turned and left the room without looking at his sobbing mother, furious at being treated with such disdain. How dare they make a fool of him?

The chamber door slammed shut behind him. He sat alone at a long wooden table in the room outside, his body still aching fiercely from the Cruciatus curse. He could hear more laughing from inside the throne room. He glared at the ground, fuming.

When he looked up, he found himself gazing into a pair of huge, mud colored eyes. He yelped in surprise and toppled backwards. The most ancient, ugly, wrinkled old house elf he had ever laid eyes on was staring at him from the tabletop. He was wearing nothing but a grubby loincloth and a stained woolen hat perched between his huge, bat-like ears.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, you little piece of vermin?" he snarled at it, furious at being caught off-guard. "Sod off. Dinner was cleaned up hours ago."

The elf stared intently at him, muttering, though he seemed to be talking to himself more than to Draco.

"Kreacher sees it in his skin, his eyes, yes, yes, but is his blood the same as the most Ancient, the most Noble kindred?" The elf squinted at him.

Draco scowled. "I said—"

"He seeks to banish me, but I do not take his orders, no, no, but I do not listen to them either, Mudbloods and traitors and werewolves and thieves…now that he's dead I have a moment free of secrets, just a moment, oh, what would my poor Mistress say?"

The elf was obviously quite mad. Draco took out his wand to get rid of him, but he leapt forward onto the bench and pushed something into Draco's hands.

"My poor Mistress loved her proper son so much, broke her heart, loved him, can't let them destroy his pretty things, pretty, pretty, not for vermin and filth."

The elf leapt away back onto the table and looked at Draco. "Kreacher has watched him. His blood is pure, his mother helped Kreacher before, yes, nice witch, powerful and pure…guard his mistress's things, Kreacher must, hide them…"

With that, the deranged creature snapped his tiny fingers and disappeared with a pop. Draco gaped, momentarily stunned. He looked at the object in his hands. It was a book. A diary to be more precise—dark green dragon's hide cover inlaid with silver filigree, studded with emeralds on the edges. Slytherin colors. Draco recognized it, his parents had given him something similar from Flourish and Blotts when he first started school.

He opened it and looked inside. On the first page, written in a flowery black script, it said quite clearly, "Journal." How exciting, thought Draco dully.

Below that, in the same handwriting, the initials "R.A.B." were printed.

Who the hell was that? Not that he much cared, he had quite enough to worry about at the moment. He began flipping through the pages. Something caught his eye, but as he opened the book wider to read it, it all began to blur together.

He knew he had seen it! Something important, what was it? He grasped madly at it, but it slipped through his fingers like sand, like smoke. The journal, the writing, the room, it all faded away into a blur of darkness and muddled thoughts…

000

Draco felt something sharp poking against his forehead.

"Where?" he mumbled tiredly, opening his eyes. Ron Weasley's wand was pressing down, directly between his eyes. Next to him, Harry Potter stood, glaring down at him, his emerald eyes narrowed in dislike. They towered above him menacingly, their expressions somewhat less then friendly. Draco suddenly missed Crabbe and Goyle fiercely.

"Hermione," said Weasley, his fiery red hair burning into Draco's dilated pupils. He looked over his shoulder, speaking to someone Draco couldn't see. "You really need to learn to clean your house better."

"Yeah," said Potter, his arms crossed. "You've got a rather large piece of vermin living on your couch."

000

AN: Well, what do you guys think? I hope I didn't disappoint anyone too badly. And don't worry—things will start coming together more soon. The Flamel thing will come more into play next chapter. Please review! I love the feedback. YAY!