The days crept slowly along and Draco began to feel stronger. The searing dizzying pain in his head dulled and the static tingle in his fingertips began to fade away; the bruising and swelling around the stab wound began to heal and the wound itself began to tighten. To his great annoyance though, the walking stick was still a necessary accessory. He refused to believe Amelia's half-convincing proclamations that it made him seem 'mysterious', cursing it every time he would concede and snatch it up to aide his walking.
It was tense in the resistance. George Weasley and a few others were constantly huddled around the small radio, broadcasting warnings under pseudonyms, using different passwords each time. They weren't even sure if anyone was on the receiving end, but Draco admired their optimistic persistence. If they weren't broadcasting, they were listening to the Ministry's station which seemed to vomit out propaganda around the clock. Draco could only handle about a minute of it before having to leave the room for frustration when people were listening in on this station. Still, a voice would list the names of 'High Level Threat' witches and wizards – most of whom Draco now shared accommodation with at the resistance. Occasionally though, new names would be added. Every now and again a news bulletin would play on the station, occasionally stating that a number of arrests had been made in conjunction with their crackdown on resistance movements around the country. Listening to these broadcasts was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle in the dark; they were armed with some information of the outside world and other people resisting the Death Eaters, but were left to fill in the blanks beyond that.
One thing was certain though. They had been right: the Death Eaters were keenly pursuing the resistance.
Others in the resistance had been rationing all of the supplies, a task which appeared to take a lot more manpower and organisation than Draco would've imagined. Ginny was in charge and whenever he saw her she was wiping her brow, talking in an animated and quick pace to whoever was with her, giving precise orders.
The protection and security of the shanty town had increased dramatically, with people stationed in pairs around the perimeter at all times, surveying the landscape beyond the protection charms and ready to defend the resistance should anyone attack. Extra charms had been cast around the tents and Harry seemed confident that they were impenetrable. Draco just hoped he was right.
Throughout all of this, Draco had spent most of his time shoulder to shoulder with Harry and Henry and a carousel of others in the cramped meeting tent as they hypothesised, planned and prepared for an attack. There was a desperation that burned inside of him that confused him at time – was it the need to prove himself, or the desire to avenge everything he felt so responsible for? Whatever it was, if he wasn't in that small and dimly-lit tent then he was feeling suffocated by his own dark thoughts.
It was late in the afternoon: Draco and Amelia had volunteered to do a shift of perimeter patrol before dinner. The yolky afternoon sun was slowly melting behind the peak of a mountain, casting long shadows across the land below as a gentle but icy breeze rolled through the surrounding trees. Beyond the mountains the sky looked heavy and grey and Draco silently wondered if the storm would come their way. They sat on the grass, hugging their knees to their chest as they gazed out onto the forest of trees beyond the grassy clearing which enveloped the shanty town on all sides. Draco was briefly reminded of their secret evening liaisons at Hogwarts, when they would spend hours in the shadows by the lake watching the fingertips of the weeping willow trace patterns on the water's edge. Looking back at that, it was almost as if the image were of two different people under the tree. So much had changed, so much had happened. The mountains here were not so different from those surrounding Hogwarts; he wondered if their feeling of familiarity had factored into the decision of settling here. Then again, were people that sentimental amidst a war?
Amelia's head was resting on Draco's shoulder. "Draco?"
"Hmm?"
Amelia looked up at him. She looked hesitant and bit her lip nervously. "Can you tell me a bit about your marriage to Pansy?"
Draco frowned and looked at her with hooded eyes – it was the last thing he expected to come out of her mouth. Looking at her expression though, she only seemed curious. He supposed it was natural to ask about the woman he was – even now - legally bound to. Since they had reunited they hadn't really discussed the aching years they had spent apart – something Draco was quite happy to continue for as long as possible.
"What do you want to know?" He asked, shifting himself and instinctively grabbing the tin from his pocket to roll a cigarette as he felt the muscles in his stomach seize up at the thought of his forced marriage.
"I don't know… Like, did you ever…"
Draco chuckled despite himself, understanding what Amelia was steering towards, but quickly regained composure at the earnest look on Amelia's face. "Our lips never even touched," he said plainly and honestly.
Relief washed over Amelia's face and Draco grinned at her in amusement.
"We shared a bedroom quarters," he admitted slowly, "but if our skin ever touched, it was by complete accident. Besides, I didn't sleep much anyway." He averted his gaze as he said this – she didn't need to know how dark and tormenting those endless nights were. He cleared his throat, "My father eventually told me I had one month to conceive an heir, or I'd be breaking the Vow of compliance I had made… that's when my mother stepped in. You know the rest."
Amelia nodded sadly and grabbed his hand.
"What was she… like? Pansy, I mean. She seemed so awful at school."
Draco looked out to the endless green grass before them as it swayed in the evening breeze and took a long drag on the cigarette.
"Well, I don't think the two of you would get on particularly well," Draco said dryly – Amelia laughed at this and rolled her eyes. "She could be insufferable, true – but the night I fled, I did feel guilty. She's a Death Eater, and she's stood by and watched awful things… I don't think she's evil though. She grew up the same as I did – told that she and her blood was superior from the day she was born and apparently never questioned that. I think we both signed our life away on that wedding day – but perhaps she just didn't know it at the time."
Draco recalled Pansy on their wedding day – while he was concentrating on not being sick or bursting into a fit of rage, she had lapped up the attention from all angles, demanded a series of photographs together (and of just her) and spent a lot of the day gazing adoringly at Draco. He had stood opposite her as an elderly wizard – the father of a close acquaintance of Luscious – spoke with pomp and ceremony during the wedding service. His mouth was dry and acid burned upwards through his chest to his throat, giving him the most awful taste in his mouth. He looked at Pansy knowing that his grey eyes were dull and muted and his stomach gave another lurch as her eyes began to fog over, tears pooling at the rim as she grinned coyly at him. He swallowed vomit and hastily wiped his brow on his sleeve. It was not a proud moment of his. He hoped one day he could apologise to her.
Amelia was nodding as he spoke, and Draco could see her mind ticking over as her eyeline followed a bird circling in the distance.
"Do you think she loved you? I remember her at school – she used to be all over you," Amelia said as if she could hear his thoughts, and something flipped inside Draco as he detected a fait hint of jealousy in her voice.
He considered this. "I think… she loved the idea of us. I don't think it's ever really been about me personally. I think she liked that my name had prestige, that I came from money… that I was pureblood. Power and status are the main things she cares about."
A familiar wave of nausea washed over him as he recited this: the qualities he had admired in himself for so long; how he had defined his entire worth.
"All the things I like about you, then," Amelia said with a wry smile, making Draco chuckle at the irony of what she said.
"I don't think I was a very easy husband to love," he continued in a mumbled voice, taking to absently pulling out tufts of grass, "but I could tell she wanted more. I knew that she was lonely. Maybe she thought that one day I would just give in to the whole situation."
"Did she know that you were forced into marrying her?"
Once again Draco chuckled, though there was no humour in his voice. "Everyone did. Too many people knew my situation and despised me for it – my parents couldn't feasibly pretend that I had suddenly had a change of heart and had fallen in love with Pansy bloody Parkinson." His voice was dry and sneering as he recalled this.
"Then why do you think she agreed?" Amelia's voice was calm, non-threatening, but laced with intense curiosity.
He shrugged. "Who knows… perhaps she was forced as well. Or maybe she was manipulated… we never discussed it with each other. We were like strangers acting in a play the whole time we had to be together."
Amelia looked out into the vast green in front of them, a thoughtful expression on her face as she rolled this information around in her head. "I remember seeing the picture of you two in the Prophet… I can't believe that I had thought it was all real. I should've known you would never…" She gave a little shake of her head as her voice trailed off.
A darkness had cast over her face that made guilt swell painfully inside Draco like a hurricane. "I hate that you had to see that," he muttered, the hatred he felt for everyone involved in keeping them apart flickering behind his eyes.
Amelia pecked his cheek, looping her arm through his. "It's not your fault," she offered quietly.
"Was there anyone who you… I know that we were apart for a long time…" Draco tried to form a sentence, clearing his throat and shifting again.
Now Amelia smiled with amusement. "Well obviously – there were suitors lining up outside my tent just dying to ask me out," she said with fake grandiose, giggling as she raised her eyebrows at Draco. He smirked and shook his head in embarrassment.
"There's only ever been you, Draco," she said quite seriously as their laughter subsided. "I tried very hard not to, but I completely adored you – even when you weren't here. Even when the whole world seemed to tell me that it made no sense."
Draco kissed her, scooping her face into his hand. He pressed his head against hers; "I'm going to win this war for you. I'm going to give you the life you deserve, Amelia."
He felt Amelia smile. "It's what we both deserve," she said softly. He tried to believe her as the simmering guilt which lived inside of him bubbled at these words.
Time was a strange thing. Draco and Amelia had only been reunited a handful of days but all of the years they'd spent apart had completely melted away. Everything felt exactly as it had when they were 18 and on the run from the Death Eaters: their bond was even stronger, their love was even deeper and the barriers that had kept them apart for so long felt far away. Malfoy Manor, a place Draco had spent the majority of his life, seemed a million miles away as if those memories had happened in another lifetime, or perhaps not at all. He imagined the hallways – dimly lit with flickering torches, framed by dusty portraits of old, snoozing fair-haired men and all lined with a dark-red carpet – and could see his mother walking through with billowing robes and a neat low bun, or three house-elves scampering through as they discussed household chores. It all felt foreign to him. Was that even happening, or was his mother hauled up in her bedroom quarters, her lips tight as she gazed out the window. His heart lurched at the thought of her.
Life in the resistance was all consuming in itself, and combined with living once again in a small tent with Amelia Collins, Draco's life as a Death Eater felt like an impossible nightmare. Draco thought that if he and Amelia were ever reunited that his anxiety and the intense guilt he carried around would dissolve, but if anything, having something so precious that could be snatched from him by the war had only increased this fear.
His nightmares had begun again. The blissfully long, uninterrupted sleeps the Dreamless Sleep potion had given him had ended abruptly as soon as the small vial of liquid had. With everything in the medical tent now being carefully rationed for emergencies, Draco had not asked for any more. And so every night he would wake in a sweat, gasping for air, clutching the sheets, an suffocating pressure weighing down on his chest.
His nightmares were as they always had been: warped and mangled images all leaking into each other. Dumbledore endlessly falling from the Astronomy Tower; Snape shouting a warning at Draco as his face decayed in front of him and turned into the rotting corpse of Charity Burbage who charged towards Draco with an accusatory finger pointing at him; his mother standing in a dark and cold corridor telling him to run as his father stood behind shaking his head; running through a forest, branches and thicket whipping his face as he ran towards a light which always felt just out of reach. Disturbing images of Amelia would weave their way through his dreams as well. He'd sometimes find himself running through a crumbling Hogwarts, dodging the duelling either side of him as sparks flew like fireworks overhead, jumping over bodies as if they were hurdles as an instinct carried him onwards through the endless corridors. It would always end with him finally reaching her body, her limp and tangled limbs lying unceremoniously on the cold floor of the Great Hall. What was even more disturbing than this image which burned into his subconscious night after night though was that as he would lunge forwards to reach her body, strong arms belonging to Death Eaters and Resistance members alike would hold him back, tossing him aside and guarding her body from him.
These images had plagued his mind since he was barely seventeen, but being back with Amelia seemed to only aggravate this darkness which lived inside of him even more. He was unworthy of her love, of the acceptance of everyone in the resistance. The blood he had on his hands stained him completely and the lives he had ruined hung in front of him like a thick fog. Amelia – so pure – had led a miserable life ever since she had met him and let him into her life. She had been hurt, tortured, heartbroken, all because of him. He didn't deserve her.
Every night some combination of these images would eventually thrust him out of his nightmare and back to reality with a gut-wrenching pull. Soft and tired hands beside him would usually pull him back down as he sat bolt upright and panting, mumbling soothing words as he tried to swallow the sickening feeling he had brought with him from the torturous realm of dreams.
"It's okay… we're safe," Amelia's sleepy voice said on a particularly windy night just before Christmas. It was the third night since Draco had the last drop of Dreamless Sleep potion and had enjoyed a full night of sleep devoid of any monsters.
He stared into the dark room: streaky blue moonlight shone through the front window of the tent, casting long spindly shadows across the room of outside tree branches creaking in the wind, looking like the long and crooked fingers of goblins scraping at the door and trying desperately to enter. He clumsily patted the small bedside table and grabbed his wand, brandishing it in front of him as he stumbled from bed.
"Draco, no one's there…" he heard Amelia's faraway voice as he clambered through the dark tent.
He yanked the door open – a furious wind almost knocked him down, making his eyes stream with its icy, dry force. Rubbing his eyes, he scanned the outside row of tents, looking for any sign of movement. The only culprit though was indeed the nearby trees dancing manically in the wind.
He felt soft warm hands gently slide over his shoulders, pulling him back from the outside.
"There's nothing out there," Amelia said again, her voice no longer tired but instead laced with understanding and a patience which he didn't feel worthy of.
"Sorry – I thought I – I don't know what I saw," Draco mumbled, his brain leaping between exhaustion and a tingling alertness.
He dropped his hands to his side and allowed Amelia to link her fingers through his, leading him slowly back to the bed. She pried the wand from his balled fist and pushed him gently back down to the sheets, cold and damp with his sweat.
"Sorry," he repeated, embarrassment flushing through him as he started to disconnect from the images in his nightmares.
Amelia said nothing and instead placed her head onto his chest. He tried to echo her deep and slow breaths, blinking heavily to try and banish the paranoia he felt. He felt her hand caress his cheek; he unclenched his jaw, trying to relax under her touch.
"People are on watch… The Protection Charms are impenetrable…" Amelia said in a soothing voice and Draco nodded in reply, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling.
Amelia woke in the morning, her eyelids resisting the sun that poured through the front windows of the tent. Her limbs tingled with a stiff tiredness, but her mind had sprung to life the moment she awoke.
She looked beside her and saw – with relief – that Draco was still asleep. A small occasional twitch in his upper lip, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest were his only movements. With great caution she swung her legs to the side of the bed, grabbed her oversized knitted sweater, and tiptoed to the kitchen. She hoped to Merlin that Draco was able to sleep for another hour or so.
His nightmares had crept back into his sleep the past few nights; a combination of a sleep without the Dreamless Sleep potion and the renewed anxiety around the resistance, she hypothesized. They had existed back when they were much younger and on the run – he would mumble and toss in his sleep. Though he never liked to talk about it, she knew that he was plagued with the awful things he had bared witness to and felt responsible for.
No sooner had she put the kettle onto the stove, she heard movement from the bedroom and saw as Draco slowly sat up in bed. Amelia waved her wand and two mugs came soaring gracefully from the cupboard, landing in front of her just in time for the kettle to boil and for her to pour two mugs of coffee.
She frowned with concern as she watched Draco limp towards the kitchen, discarding his walking stick as he sat at the small kitchen table and rubbed his eyes. Amelia came to sit opposite him, thrusting the mug of coffee towards him. He looked exhausted: his hair hung around his face which seemed to be in a perpetual frown, and dark circles encased his grey eyes.
"Morning," he mumbled, looking up at Amelia with a half-smile which appeared to take all the effort in the world. Amelia shared in his frowning face.
"Sorry if I woke you last night…"
Amelia reached out for his hand, taking it in hers. "It's okay – really. I just worry, Draco…"
He dismissed this with a shake of his head as he took a large gulp of coffee. "It's nothing – few things on my mind, is all. Worried about all this…" he gestured to nothing in particular, "Same as everyone's feeling."
Amelia knew he was deflecting and chose not to press it.
"How's your wound this morning?" She asked.
Draco looked down to his stomach; he wore only trousers. Between the slashed Dark Mark tarnishing his left forearm and the bandage wrapped around the deep gash in his abdomen, he certainly looked like a man living through a war.
"Better than yesterday – I'll be fine."
She examined him with inquisitive eyes over the rim of her coffee mug, keen to lift the anxious cloud that hung over their tent was unsure how. Impending doom seemed to lie thick in the air like smoke; inescapable.
Outside of their tent it was a dreary Christmas Eve. Amelia and Draco had never spent a Christmas together, and it seemed like this year the celebrations would be completely overlooked in favour of constant vigilance around the resistance. Amelia knew that Draco had never been a fan of the holiday, having grown up spoilt by his cold parents and being presumably miserable in the subsequent years they had just spent apart, but growing up Christmas Day was the best day of the entire year for Amelia.
When she was little she and Henry would spend Christmas Eve decorating a tree her father had cut down from a nearby forest in a clumsy and garish fashion. Their parents laughed on and complimented their hapless design as she and her brother beamed at their creation. They would spend Christmas Eve to Boxing Day in their little house, not seeing anyone else and instead basking in the company of each other. Her father would play games with her and Henry, or if the weather was clear Amelia and Henry would ride their broomsticks in the back garden while her mother cooked and her father watched his children, a lit pipe dangling from his beaming mouth.
She had looked up to Henry enormously – still did. He had always been perfect to Amelia, like he could do absolutely no wrong and everything that he said was true and wise. He had been the safest place in the world to her, along with her parents. When he had gone to Hogwarts and left her alone she remembered the days being twice as long and half as interesting, with no more adventure or fun until he would come back for Christmas and revitalise her life.
Draco was discussing the possibility of recommencing duelling practice and his voice brought her back into the room. She smiled in acknowledgement and clutched her coffee mug in her hands – the tent had a morning chill.
"Sorry?"
"I won't go full on, obviously – but if the Death Eaters do attack in the next few days I'm going to have to fight no matter what, so I may as well keep training. Get used to fighting with this bloody thing," he said, gesturing with annoyance to his stab wound.
"You barely slept, shouldn't you rest?" Amelia said, coming to his side of the table, sitting lightly on his lap and snaking an arm around his shoulders.
"Who needs sleep?" he replied with a wry grin, bringing her face to his and kissing her gently.
Despite Amelia's clear unease with the idea, Draco did take himself to the duelling practice tent – which now had a round-the-clock occupancy by various resistance members. He tried to put less weight on his walking stick as he hobbled through the rows of tents but felt a tight and painful pull on the healing wound as he did so. Eventually he had to give in and let the sodding walk stick take the pressure off.
As he suspected, there were already others in the tent: George Weasley and Dean Thomas were facing each other, wearing frowns and grunting loudly as they threw and deflected spells in a manner which almost looked choreographed. A radio sat on a bench against the far wall, a piercing nasal male voice floated through the room. Draco immediately recognised it as the Ministry station.
The two men clocked Draco as he came in; Dean's lip seemed to curl despite himself. The last time they had spoken was before Amelia had been rescued and though that experience was largely a panicked blur, he remembered the words they exchanged being far less than friendly to each other.
" 'Lo Draco – come to see if you can still dance with that thing?" Gorge said with a nod to Draco's stab wound, panting and taking to sit on the bench by the radio.
"Hi," Draco replied, glancing between the two of them. "Seemed like the wise thing to do." He looked to the radio and tuned into the nasal voice: it was discussing the long-term plans of the Ministry (Death Eaters masquerading as politicians) which included a lot of the word 'eradication.'
"Sickening," Dean remarked as he too came to sit on the bench.
"Yeah, I think that's enough of that," George said. He flicked the dial on the radio a few times, clicking past loud static until a much more panicked voice filled the room.
"If anyone out there is listening – we know this isn't a protected airwave – we are a small resistance under attack by Death Eaters. Repeat: we are under attack and require back up."
The three of them exchanged alarmed glances. George turned the volume up.
"Please, if anyone out there is listening," the transmission continued, "if those who have been putting out messages are there – we are at an old muggle hospital on Johnstone Street in Norfolk."
The men were all rooted to the spot, until Dean broke the silence. "What do we do?"
Draco heard his voice without realising he was speaking. "We have to help them."
He grabbed his walking stick again and started out of the duelling tent and towards the small tent where he knew Harry or Henry would be. The other two were close behind him.
Henry was indeed inside the tent as predicted, with Neville Longbottom by his side. Both clutched coffee mugs and wore deep and pensive frowns as they spoke in low voices when they were intruded. Their heads snapped up.
"Attack – on another resistance," George panted, catching his breath as they spilled into the small dimly lit tent.
"What?" Henry said, quickly rising to his feet.
"They radioed through – on the channel I've been using… said they were being attacked – asked for back up," George explained.
Henry let this wash over him for a moment. "How do we know this isn't a trap?"
"We don't," Draco offered plainly, wiping his own brow after the frantic trip to this tent.
"Still – we can't just ignore it!" Dean said with great indignation, glancing at Draco with wide eyes.
"I didn't suggest that we do," Draco hissed through gritted teeth, glaring right back at Dean. He wanted to argue that it was him who had only just now suggested that they help, but there wasn't time. "Either way it's a trap – we're walking into combat any way you look at it," he directed impatiently to Henry.
Henry seemed to contemplate this all. "What details did they give?"
"Not much, mate," George said. "They're stowing away at an old hospital in Norfolk by the sounds of it – sounded pretty panicked in the broadcast."
"We're not prepared for a battle," Neville said quietly.
"We never will be – we'll never feel ready to go up against them," Henry replied, looking at all the men in the room. He clearly felt conflicted. "We've just had a successful rescue mission – who's to say we can't have one more?"
They stood in silence, their feet collectively planted to the floor with tense muscles. Eventually, Henry spoke in a low voice. "We have to try. What do we stand for if we even don't stop them from attacking our own? What message does that send to the Death Eaters?"
George was the first one to clear his throat and nod. "You're right – if they want to target us then we have to respond. We're the ones sending those messages on the radio – we need to show those out there that we'll stand together against the Death Eaters."
Draco felt a pulse of adrenalin wash through him like a crashing wave. Where they were rooted to the spot in shock a moment ago, suddenly there was pacing and raised voices and plans being hastily made.
"Right, we need to hurry – Neville, send up an orange flare and make sure the protection charms are doing what they need to be," Henry said. This was one of the many things they had been planning for. There would be people on standby who would know to come to this tent if they saw orange sparks from a wand fire into the sea of pointed tent tips. "We need to take up relevant positions – Dean, can you make sure that the medical tent is staffed and ready? We might be bringing back casualties."
Henry was rifling through a drawer of the desk; he threw four items onto the desktop – an empty ink pot, a bent fork, a chipped china saucer and a large brass key. "Portkeys," he explained to George and Draco. He began pointing his wand at each item in turn, muttering an incantation under his breath.
"I'll go to the radio – send out a message to anyone listening to stay vigilant and reinforce protective charms wherever they are," George said, turning his heel and leaving the tent.
Draco was rolling a cigarette – he handed it to Henry and began rolling his own. "Henry – I want to come," he said, offering the other man his lighter.
Henry frowned as he exhaled a light cloud a smoke. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea, Draco," he said, with a glance to Draco's abdomen.
Draco touched his wound absentmindedly. "Practically healed," he said hastily.
To Draco's surprise, Henry grinned. "You're still using a stick to walk, mate," he said.
Draco dropped the walking stick by his side and shrugged, willing Henry to respond the way he needed him to. His fingers tingled: he needed to fight. He wasn't sure why he felt so desperate – it sounded like the whole thing could be a suicide mission – but there wasn't time to question his feelings. He needed to go. It needed to be him.
"You know I'm a good fighter. I know the Death Eaters – you need me there," he said, his jaw locking against his will as Henry turned this over in his mind.
"You sure you're up to it?" Henry asked tentatively. Draco could see the reluctance in his eyes, but what choice did he have? The more people willing to go, the better chance they had to helping these people. If the plea was genuine…
"Wouldn't volunteer if I wasn't," Draco replied. Even standing upright without the support of the walking stick pulled painfully on the healing wound carved deep into his side, but he swallowed the wince that was in his throat and tried with all his might to stay upright.
Six people came stumbling into the tent: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Seamus Finnigan, Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour. All were red-faced and out of breath. Seamus slumped into an empty chair by the desk, wiping his forehead. Bill and Fleur stood close together, his hand firmly sitting atop her shoulder.
"We just saw the flare," Harry confirmed. Draco saw that all six wands were drawn. He had to remind himself that these people no longer thought him to be a target – they were on the same side.
Henry explained what was happening and what had been said over the radio to wide eyes. They began devising a plan but it was hard not knowing what they were walking into – it was a lot of guesswork – it could be three Death Eaters, fifty, many resistance fighters or – their worst fear: none at all. Everyone huddled in a circle as this half-plan was devised as if before a quidditch match, nodding with concentrated frowns and leaning their hands on each other's shoulders. Henry gave out the portkeys – one between two people. Draco's heart thumped in his ear as he nodded to what Henry said; his fist was wrapped tightly around his wand.
"And if this is some elaborate rouse and we're just walking straight into a trap made by the Snatchers or Death Eaters?" Seamus asked after each Portkey had been tucked safely away.
"It's like Henry just said," Harry said firmly. "All we can do is prepare for the worst – but in case this is real… we can't abandon our own."
"We face the Death Eaters with a fight – even if it's a trap… it tells them that we're not going to hide forever or go down without a fight," Bill added. Draco felt an electricity pulse around the room between the fighters standing there as Bill spoke and he gripped his wand even tighter.
