A/N: (feels stupid) I was talking to my friend this weekend, and I was like, "blah blah blah, Ginerva" and then my friend said, "her name's Ginevra, not Ginerva". And then I freaked out, because I'd been writing it wrong all along (I did check that my friend was right). So I'd like to apologize to all of you out there for this, and in the future, I shall be sure to spell it correctly.

Chapter 20: Assistance from a dagger

Day two. Water dripped. Draco's eyes wanted to close and let him sleep, but the jutting rock in his back stopped that. Hermione, Hermione, Hermione, Hermione…was all his thoughts said. Water dripped. That, in particular drove him crazy. He was thirsty; he was hungry. His clothes were semi-dry, but had dried with salt from the water in them, which scratched at his skin. Water dripped, a wonderful counterpoint to the chant of his mind. Water dripped, an annoying counterpoint to the constant Hermione, Hermione of his mind.

Draco shakily stood. He had not stood since he had originally sat down in that position, and his legs screamed at him, cramped muscles seizing up. He stretched up high, and eased the pain from his body as well as he could. There would surely be a bruise on his back from that rock. It did not matter, if it brought him home to his precious Hermione.

The wall was rocky and cold against his back as he leaned against it. A shuddering breath. It's amazing that I can still breathe, he thought, his mind being dysfunctional and not remembering that the creature breathed out oxygen. "I don't know if I can do this," he murmured.

"But you must," he insisted to himself. "Draco, you cannot give up yet. It's only day two. Get through today, and then tomorrow and you'll be done.

"And I'll see Hermione," he said, and a look of ecstasy crossed his face as he thought of her.

"Well, aren't you acting high?" he snorted to himself.

"Hey," he snarled back. "I only did that once. And I promised to never do it again. Good thing they stopped me when they did. Bloody stuff didn't last very long."

"Bloody stuff didn't last very long," he mocked himself. "And besides feeling euphoric then, you feel almost the same now. Alert, awake, restless, and you can feel your heart beating faster…"

"This is not by choice," Draco reminded himself. "I have to get home again. And I have to stop talking to myself. I'm not going to do any more cocaine, so lay off! I just want Hermione," he groaned. The rocks cut his back as he slid down the wall. Yes, he had done cocaine once. The effects had worn off in about a half hour, which was disappointing. He had reached for more, when Blaise had walked in and caught him, forcing him to flush the small stash he had. He had only been curious, and other than that one time with cocaine, he had smoked marijuana twice. Of course, all that had been years ago. He didn't use any drugs except as painkillers now, and even that was rare, as there were potions for that.

"Mum's a bitch," he said absently, engaging himself again in a debate about his mother's true motives.

Though this was perhaps a sign of insanity, it passed the time, and Draco decided not to dwell upon it too much.

--

The cozzelt sat far down along the hall, holding its breath. She could hold it for up to an hour, and did so often. Currently she was listening to the boy talking to himself and contemplating what the third task would be for him. She never really was sure what the third test would be, usually coming up with it while the person sat alone in the dimly lit room.

For some reason, this particular human was rather difficult to place. In all her spare time, she thought up new final tasks, but none of them seemed particularly appropriate for this one. He sounded strong, and it had taken him almost half the second day to begin talking to himself.

On the other hand, he also sounded like he wouldn't make the whole three days. The boy's voice was already failing with weariness, his words slurring together as he rambled.

She shook her head and clambered over to the rocks that lined the water's edge so that she could think in peace.

--

"I'm scared."

The chair swiveled, and the man behind the desk looked the girl up and down. He sighed sympathetically and stood to lean against the side of his desk. Ginny came to him, and though she knew no one could see through the door at them, she still exerted caution and merely leaned her forehead against Orlando's shoulder. "About what?" he asked quietly.

"Hermione." She fell silent for a time, and he merely waited. "She's eating less. She looks like she's lost while going to classes. In classes, she's a mess. And as soon as there's any free time, she dashes up to the seventh floor, but she's not in the common room or her room, and I don't know where she goes."

Orlando twisted and wrapped a single arm around her. She tilted her head onto his chest, and he marveled at her strength that she did not cry. It had taken her a long while to come to him about this, and he had seen the worry etched in her face in class. At night, he had asked her if she was all right, and she had nodded. But he had known it was not, and did not wish to distress her by pressing the matter.

And now she had come to him, as he had been sure she would, and he would comfort her as best he could in the relative safety of his classroom. After all, most people would be at lunch at the moment.

"She's getting bags under her eyes, and carries a book around like it's her life. And I don't know where Draco's gone, but I know he's not here to comfort her when he should be. She won't talk to people." Her voice dropped to a whisper and Orlando tilted his head so that he could hear her. "She won't talk to me. And I don't know what to do."

Orlando was, at the moment, in the same predicament. But he at least could do something about it, and reached around with his other arm, watching the door for the least bit of movement and held Ginny close to him. She seemed to take comfort from this, and took a shuddering gulp of air through his shirt. One of her hands clutched meekly at the front of his shirt, and he noticed how tired she looked. Apparently this had been bothering her much.

"Gin, I want you to go and rest in my chambers. I will excuse you from your afternoon classes and get your work for you. I have a class after lunch today, but not after that, so I'll go and see you then. I strongly urge you to get some sleep," he said, looking down on her half-admonishingly, half-worriedly.

Ginny opened her mouth to protest. "Ginevra, please. As Orlando, and not as your professor, I ask this of you. You don't look like you're getting much sleep yourself, and I'm worried about you almost as much as you are about Hermione. Please, do this for me." He saw her open her mouth to protest, but it was rather unfortunate for her that it turned into a yawn before she could speak. She glanced up at him guiltily, as if hoping that he'd not noticed and saw he had. Defeated, she nodded sullenly.

"All right, then. But I'm not sleeping," she said stubbornly. Orlando sighed but agreed, suspecting that she would anyway. He duplicated his key and gave the copy to her so she could enter his rooms.

"Go," he urged her, pressing the key into her hand and kissing her forehead in farewell. Giving up, she nodded sleepily and slogged off into the hallway. In truth, Orlando was feeling every bit as tired as she was, but could not express it so well. Leaving the papers he was grading (or was supposed to be when he began daydreaming) scattered across his desk, he rose to find Professors McGonagall and Snape, hoping they would accept Ginevra's excuse.

--

Water dripped, and Draco felt like shouting at it to shut up. It was driving him crazy! Hermione, Hermione, his thoughts went, his heart beat. But that water even managed to interrupt his thoughts with its persistent tap…tap…tap…. Oh, why would it not stop all ready! He grinned in the half-light. Maybe it was made to make him crazy. Well, it wouldn't. No, no, no! He would not go crazy because of a silly drop of water. Or a million, which seemed more accurate to him than "a silly drop."

He laughed, and in the silence, it was maniacal and even scared him a bit. But he would not sleep, no, because that would be bad. Hermione, Hermione, beat his heart. His tongue was dry and swollen, and it felt like chalk in his mouth. He did not dare so much as lick the walls for the fear that it would count as drinking. Hunger had abated long ago to a steady ache in his stomach.

Drip.

His eyes slowly began to close, and he was ashamed to find he was entertaining thoughts of sleep. He was so exhausted that he was doing the, "I'll keep my eyes closed, but I'll keep thinking of things so I won't sleep," thing. Which never worked, as far as he was concerned, because whenever someone got to that stage, they fell asleep within minutes.

Drip.

Draco gritted his teeth. He would not seek out water. He would not fall asleep. Standing, he paced a while, and his muscles cramped and strained, and he forced them to work. Something clattered, and he looked down. The dagger that Kessen had given him, seemingly so long ago, was laying at his feet. He looked at it as if it were a foreign object before collapsing his legs to fall to the floor beside it.

Drip.

Even in the half-light of the cell, the blade gleamed friendly and sharp. He carefully examined it, grateful to have something to turn his attention to. He had already done this with his Dark Mark, his sneakers. Draco had even dropped so low as to search for split ends in his hair. But this knife…this knife was something different, something that may actually interest him.

"It has been two days," the cozzelt rasped outside his door.

"Thank you," he called out to it. A giggle escaped his lips and he thought, only one more day…This is almost a done deal.

If only it was, and if only he believed his own thoughts.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

--

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"I have a letter from him," she told him, dropping the letter on the desk. She had barely remembered that this was one of his conditions.

"I see," he said, picking up the short letter and reading it. "Usual place?" he asked.

"Shrieking Shack," she responded.

"And the 'now'?"

"The letter was delivered yesterday morning. I do believe he means a week from then."

"All right then. That is all," he dismissed her.

"Um…I don't get the letter back?" she asked, curious.

"If you wish it?"

"I do," she replied, reaching out for it. He handed it to her, and she left. As soon as she was back in the hallway, Hermione headed for the library, to ask Madam Pince what she knew about the book (again), which was currently in the book bag at her side for this very reason. She'd been to Madam Pince before, but the librarian's lack of knowledge, and Hermione's persistence on the subject had finally made the librarian agree to try to find some more information on it.

--

"Now there's a good one," the cozzelt mused to herself. "I had originally thought that too cruel. But for this case, perhaps it is appropriate." She smirked under the water.

"And Kessen now. That's laughable. The girl wanted it, but not quite enough. I do believe she is content where she is now, though. She gives her greetings, he said. Apparently she bears me no ill will, particularly since she still sends her little treats into my den. A pity I must send so many of them back to her."

Her grin turned into one of long deprivation. "A pity she never lets me eat one or two. I suppose it's all just as well that I've never tried one and taken a liking to such flavoring. Then again, I may just as easily hate such meat, being used to fishes. These…humans look like they have so much blood in them. What a mess they would make to eat." To her own amusement, she made a soft gagging noise in the water.

"Ah, food. My poor prisoner must eat none. Nor drink." She took a long breath of water in through her mouth. "It's so…satisfying." She cocked her head to one side. "All ready he wanes." Sadly, she added, "We may not even need such a delightful third task after all." With a smirk, the cozzelt launched off the wall of her den in search of her own food. She would know if he broke her rules.

After all, it was her den, with her rules, and with only her magic.

--

Hours had passed since the cozzelt had told him that it had been two days. He was slipping slowly into sleep.

Drip.

While he did not jerk awake, the soft drip reminded him that he must stay awake, and his eyes fluttered open for a second, closing again a second later. Something clattered at his side. Tiredly, he opened his eyes to see what it was. It was the knife.

Drip.

An idea pierced Draco's fogged mind, a way he could stay awake longer. Slowly, he reached for the blade with his left hand. For all that he'd done before in his life, cutting was never one of them. The one time he had considered suicide, it was from the top of the astronomy tower, before he realized what a ridiculous proposition that was. There was no way he could kill himself by cutting his wrists open, and could not deal with what he was sure was a long period of time as he bled to death.

Drip.

But this was not to kill himself. This was to get Hermione back. He unsheathed the blade, looked at the ivy that was engraved into its surface. It wound around up the blade, beautiful, exquisite, delicate. Shivering, he drew it across his right upper arm, and heard his sharp intake of breath at the pain.

Drip.

Draco's heart pounded. He watched his blood slide down his arm. Obscurely, he was pleased he had thought of this, as he now felt wide awake.

Drip.

Draco sat and watched the patterns the blood made on his arm as it pooled around salt crystals from being in the water. There had been so many encrusted on his skin that, though he'd tried, he could not get them all off. But it was interesting to watch the blood balk before it, and then surge over it a second later.

Drip.

He sat back against the wall and let the dull throb of pain keep him awake.

Drip.

--

Hermione felt guilty for not talking to Ginny about what had happened. But for some reason she wanted to keep this to herself. She would get Draco back. It had already been nine days, counting the day in the library when he had originally disappeared.

For her, there was no option of life without Draco. At least, not without closure, as in this situation. She needed him to stand before her, and tell her that he wasn't coming back. Which had not happened. It could not end like this. No. Not like this.

The girl stretched out on the couch of the Room of Requirement and examined the book for what seemed the millionth time. Madam Pince had no new information, except that this had probably happened before and she doubted he would come back. For Hermione, that was not good enough. She tried to read the book, but the words were blurry to her eyes, and even squinting she could make no sense of it. Frustrated, she flipped through the whole thing. She had done this before, and there was nothing new. All of the pages were too blurry to read. With a grimace she curled her body around the book and closed her eyes to think clearly.

She did not fall asleep until long after, when the small hours of the morning took pity on her and drowned her in a fitful doze. Sadly, even that was more restful than the thoughts that swilled drunkenly in her head, chasing each other until they fell down, each as pointless as the next. No progress was being made with her mind in this state, as the same ideas occurred over and over long after she had ruled them out.

--

As predicted, she was asleep when he came in.

With a soft smile, he took off his shoes and padded over to the closet in his socks, where he took out a blanket and put it over her. Ginny tucked her knees to her chest even tighter, but her face seemed to relax. Orlando smiled and quietly went about making himself some tea, and then carefully went into his room. He pulled down a long rectangular box in his closet and carried them out into the room where the redhead slept.

That night, he reread every letter she had ever written to him, liking her more and more with each one. It would be difficult, but she seemed to be holding up marvelously well with simple embraces and chaste cuddling. He expected that by sheer force of will, she would manage to wait that whole year before he would dare to touch her more than that.

After all, he could lose his job. He could lose his reputation. There was much that could be lost because of this small girl. She muttered in her sleep, and he grinned at her over a letter. Orlando had a sneaking suspicion that he would not lose anything because of this relationship, particularly with Dumbledore as headmaster.

--

Drip.

Draco snapped awake before he even fell asleep. The cut in his arm had faded to a dull ache. Not enough to keep him awake, and he feared he still had a long way to go. Wincing in anticipation, he took the knife and cut himself again, the line parallel and below the first.

Drip.

This one felt the same as the first, and Draco was relieved at this. This meant about another hour of wakefulness, he hoped. Beyond that flexible hour (he really had no idea how long until he began to fall asleep again), he refused to think. "Just take it a bit at a time," he told himself, and was too tired even to respond. Instead, he just watched the blood on his arm.

Drip.

Food, he thought. I'm so hungry, so thirsty. So…tired. He yawned.

Drip.

Food. Hermione. Water. Drip. Sleep. Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. Such was the pattern of his thoughts.

Drip.

--

The water drove him crazy. His thoughts were tangled. Hermungry, he thought, a mixture between Hermione and hungry. I am so…sleered. There was a scary noise, and he realized it was his own laughter at the word. Sleered. Sleepy tired. He needed to wake up…wake up…wake up…

Drip.

"Shut up!" Draco screamed at it. "You can't drip anymore, no more. I'm so thirsty," he whined. Tears hit his clothing with noises slightly different than the obnoxious drip of water. They made a splot noise, and for some reason it was a comforting noise. "I can't take it anymore. No more, no more," he said.

Drip.

A growl rose in his throat, but he did not yell this time. Instead, he directed his frustration at the dagger, picking it up and viciously dragging it across his right arm. His ninth cut. Draco was about halfway down his upper arm now. None had been so deep as this one, and though they had bled, he was not worried about bleeding to death.

"I," he proclaimed, "would rather die trying to get back to her than live a life not having tried at all." There was no need to say it out loud. He had all ready known it in his thoughts.

Drip.

He lay there for longer, leaning against the wall in a cramped position, doing all he could to keep himself awake.

Drip.

Splot.

--

The cozzelt stretched languorously. "I suppose it's time for us to wake him," she murmured. "Though it has been fun. His childhood was interesting. Must be odd to have such a mother. I wonder if he has died. I have not heard anything this third day." She cocked her head to the side, attuning her senses to her magic. A wide grin split her somewhat reptilian face. "Good. So he is not yet dead. Though he touches the boundaries of my rules," she murmured disapprovingly.

"Oh, well. I pass him." She got up and went to retrieve him. "Just one more thing, young man," she said quietly. He could not hear her, and she knew it. "And then you'll be home."

She had nearly reached the door to his cell before she added, "If you succeed."

--

"It has been three days," a raspy voice informed him. Draco nearly jumped out of his skin. Or, he would have, had he been awake enough. Instead, he had almost dozed off, and as it was, he merely blinked blearily at the inside of the cell, which was now dark. "You may come out now, and I have one last task to set before you. This will probably be the hardest yet. Now come, come on out." He tucked the dagger back into his pocket.

Draco came out of his cell, opening his eyes wide to try to see in the blackness. "Very good," the cozzelt informed him. "Now, if you take another step forward, there is a cloth at your feet. Blindfold yourself with it." He did so, nearly falling over when he bent down. "Now, go lean against the wall, that is always easiest. When you want to eat, just say so," she told him.

Before he could question what she said, delicious aromas wafted toward him. There was water sloshing close by, as if being sloppily poured. Draco wanted to throw himself in that direction, drink up every drop that spilled. He could smell pies and meat, fresh-baked bread, fruit. Words rose on his lips, I want to eat, just waiting to be uttered. In the moment that he opened his mouth, though, he realized this was his final test. After three days of not eating, he was starving, and would do anything to eat some of that food and water there.

But to do so would be to give up Hermione.

That he could not do. Sure, they may only be 17. That did not mean they did not love each other. They both knew it would most likely not last, but that didn't make them love any less. To them, they were young, in love, and (for the most part) having fun. Simply thinking about getting back to Hermione, banged up, starved, and tired as he was, he could not help but smile.

The delicious smell of apple pie wafted toward him, and he involuntarily opened his mouth.

--

Hermione went and took a long bath. She was exhausted from all of this, and tired of having her book bag split open from spells that were deflected because of Draco's dagger. Today, she'd even learned that it did not protect her hair. Someone had set fire to it today, and though it had been put out quickly, Hermione had made Ginny cut it so it didn't look so awful. In fact, it was now the length that she had cut it for the ball. Draco would certainly like that if he came back.

When he came back.

She popped a particularly huge bubble and felt like she was popping her dreams. Who was she kidding? Draco, come back? It had been ten days. Ten, awful days full of loneliness, hexes, and insomnia. If not for his dagger, she would have stayed in the hospital wing the whole time, if only to escape the other students. Several teachers had noticed her predicament and offered to walk her to class, but Hermione seethed at this. It would only make everyone hate her more, and it was beginning to look like she was on her own.

Maybe she would go to Dumbledore. He had said he would have information on the book in two weeks. One and a half was almost as much time, right? With a longing sigh, she decided to cut her bath short and picked up the dagger on the edge of the pool, hauling herself out. She stubbed her toe on the cement, and winced in pain, giving a cursory check of the damage (it wasn't much) before dressing to go see Dumbledore.

Professor Dumbledore's office was warm, and she could almost ignore her wet hair that dripped down her back. But something was wrong, and she couldn't place what it was. Frowning, she dropped to the seat in front of the desk. The headmaster arrived a minute later. "Miss Granger," he said. "May I help you?"

"Ah…I hope so," she began. Her brow was still furrowed in thought of what was wrong, but she continued talking. "About the book. Do you have any information that might be helpful?" she asked.

The eyes behind the half-moon glasses glittered sadly. "No. I have not been able to examine the book itself. Do you have it with you now? Mayhap I can get something from it…"

But Hermione was shaking her head. "No, I left it in the…well, I left it where I've been staying these past nights. I believe it is safe there." Safe. The word niggled at her mind, and in an explosive moment of realization she stood. Ignoring all demands of decency, Hermione reached down her shirt and pulled out the long knife from Draco. It scraped across her skin painfully, and she was sure it had slit her body from her navel to her collarbone.

"What?" she shrieked. Still holding the knife, she turned around and kicked the heavy chair she had been sitting in. It skittered away from her slightly, but the pain in her foot was all real, and the chair had moved by the sheer force of her foot.

"What's wrong with it?" she whispered loudly, dashing out of the room. She had to find that note from Draco that explained it. Frenzied, it felt like her feet were winged as she ran through the halls, and people paused and lunged away from her. The dagger that was still in her hand dripped with her blood, and she must have looked half-mad to any that saw her. So it was that they left her alone.

Hermione scrabbled under the couch in the Room of Requirement until her searching fingers finally found the box from inside Draco's trunk. She quickly pulled out the box she needed and reopened it. "This dagger will...exert a shield all around your body so long as it is touching your skin somewhere." Hermione thought. I was holding it in my hand when I stubbed my toe. And it most certainly did not protect my foot when I kicked that chair…

"So what happened?" she whispered in despair. Glancing around the room, she saw the balcony again. In dismay, she stepped out onto it and stared at the stars. The wind was cold, and she shivered in a light rain. "I can't wait for you forever, you know," she yelled accusingly at the few stars that weren't covered by clouds. "It seems like longer," she said more quietly. "I know this is only the tenth day. But it feels like forever."

She stood in silence for some time, and the rain came harder. "It's not fair," she shouted. "You have to come back! You can't just leave me here!" Her voice faded to a whimper, "Not here. Not now."

"Hermione," a voice half-grunted, half-slurred in the dark behind her. She didn't recognize the voice and slowly turned around. A shadow lurched across the room, but she still couldn't make out who it was. Terrified, she pressed herself up against the rail.

I'm going to die, she thought frantically. With that thought lancing through her mind, she couldn't think of any way to save herself, and she cringed, hearing the person (was it even a person?) stagger across the room toward her. They finally found me, and I'm going to die, and Draco will never even know…

Grimly, she pulled out her wand with her left hand clutched his dagger with her right. Well. She would not go down without a fight.

--

You come over unannounced.
Silence broken by your voice in the dark.

—Mae "The Ocean"