We've been spending a lot of time with Hermione lately. Let's see what Draco has been up to.

My longest chapter to date! Thanks to my fantastic beta highlyintelligentblonde!

mhcalamas - I really wanted to get in Hermione's head for that last chapter. It is like her to try to be logical about everything.

Kyonomiko - Thank you! Yeah, Hermione is likely to need assistance. Anyone would!

Guest - Who knows? *I do*

MAGIUSTHEELDER - I mean, your bad feeling wouldn't be all that misplaced.

addictedtoloveandfanfiction - She really does have a lot to do! Who knows if she'll tell him? Thank you!

HeartOfAspen - Hermione's got a rough road ahead, that's for sure! Thank you so much!

SpuffyCarrie - Well, she can't keep it a secret forever. That's for sure. And that was a big aww moment for me as well.

MotekElm - Thanks!

ZoeyOlivia - Yeah, all signs point to not-good for that part of the story...

Horses8 - *shrugs and smirks*

Snow fell in big fat flakes over The Burrow, burying most of the garden in a thick, white blanket. From here, the world seemed peaceful and quiet; silence filled the air and Draco breathed it in. The snow felt like a calming draught; its presence quieted the worry that had been plaguing him as of late, filling him with an odd sense that perhaps, just for now, things were all right.

Christmas Eve had snuck up on him. It shouldn't have, really, what all the decorations and baking he had helped prepare with Mrs. Weasley. Not to mention the recent return of Ginny for the holidays. Yet, Draco had lost track of time over the past few months. One day blended in with the next. He couldn't even rely on a weekly routine to keep himself on track. The Order never met at a regular time or place, and gatherings at The Burrow happened only occasionally.

With Mr. Weasley off at work, Draco was left to the company of Mrs. Weasley much of the time. He had grown rather fond of the woman, and he believed she felt the same way about him. After Hermione, Ron, and Harry had departed abruptly, he had moped around, refusing to come out of Charlie's room, much in the same fashion as his first few days at Granger's house. To his surprise, it was Weaslette that at eventually lured him out with the promise of Quidditch.

Flying had always cleared his head like nothing else could, and zooming around the garden on an old Cleansweep Five with Ginny Weasley had been no different. His anxieties about his parents and Hermione's mysterious journey still weighed on him immensely, but as he faced the wind, air filling his lungs, he couldn't help but feel a little lighter. He hadn't flown since fifth year; last year he had taken himself off the Slytherin Quidditch roster. It felt like coming home. Since that day, he had made a point to go flying as often as he could, even after Ginny returned to Hogwarts.

In the beginning, Mrs. Weasley had always kept an eye on him through the kitchen window or from the garden as he flew, but as time went on, she didn't seem to bother keeping close tabs on him. That she trusted him meant the world to Draco; he was grateful to her that living there felt less like imprisonment and more like…life. Draco had taken a huge emotional blow following Hermione's abrupt departure from the inn in Princetown. He had been ready to lay his feelings on the line, but they clearly hadn't seen eye to eye. She disappeared back to her mission and he was left broken, cursed to remain at The Burrow. Mrs. Weasley helped him pick up the pieces. After his break down almost four months ago, he had grown close to her; she never pestered him to explain his tears that night, and for that, he was entirely grateful.

With only the two of them around most days, Mrs. Weasley had taken him under her wing. Members of the Order came and went from the house, so she liked to keep a stock of food under stasis charms and various healing potions readily available. Draco had become her apprentice, so to speak. At first, he had only assisted with potion prep work, but one could only make bruise salve and pepper-up so many times before boredom set in.

So he had learned to cook.

Roasts, meat pies, stews, puddings – he had attempted them all after some coaching on Mrs. Weasley's part. And he wasn't too bad.

Old Draco would be embarrassed to admit it, but he enjoyed taking raw ingredients and turning them into something delicious – something people could enjoy. Buried in the heat of the kitchen, he could temporarily forget all of the shit happening outside his purview. He could ignore the dread he felt when he thought of his parents. He could overlook the squirming feeling in his stomach whenever Hermione crossed his mind.

They had written a handful of provocative messages, but the frequency of those sorts of notes had waned with time. Now their journal mostly consisted of short check-ins, none of which contained heat.

"Things are OK here," or "On the move again" from her end. Nothing terribly personal or even particularly affectionate, really.

Why the sudden change? Draco wondered. Even a couple months after their Princetown encounter, they had been writing meaningful messages filled with passion and what Draco had assumed was love.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

The one thing that gave him hope was the warmth that still radiated from his pebble every day before he went to sleep and when he woke up each morning. It relaxed him and gave a soft rhythm to his life. It was almost like she was there with him in bed, providing comfort. At least, that was how he imagined it.

Living in this sort of cycle, time had apparently marched on. Draco tore his eyes away from the snow to focus on the Weasley's sitting room. Lupin and a very pregnant Tonks sat on the sofa while Ginny regaled some tale about a Christmas many years ago at The Burrow. It sounded fun. Draco took a seat beside Ginny on the armrest of her chair.

"You're looking well, cousin," Tonks said, rubbing her belly. She was dressed in a soft red jumper and had turned her hair green for the occasion. He honestly thought she looked more than a bit ridiculous, but seeing as she was pregnant, he managed to hold his tongue. "Molly's been keepin' you busy, then?"

"Yes. There's always something for me to do around here, it seems." He leaned back, grabbing a biscuit off a platter and taking a bite. Draco smiled. They had come out perfectly – buttery, flaky, and sweet.

"Did you make these biscuits?" Tonks continued. "Because you might be a godsend. This little one – " she indicated her stomach, " – can't get enough of them."

Draco smiled and carried the platter nearest him over to his cousin. "Eat up, then." He patted Tonks's stomach. "Happy Christmas, baby cousin."

Ginny gawked as he returned to his seat.

"Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?"

"I'm not Imperiused, if that's what you're implying," Draco chuckled with only a hint of a smirk. "I'm just far nicer than you could have previously imagined."

Ginny rolled her eyes and elbowed him as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley came bustling in, wrapped packages in hand. Fred and George weren't far behind, and they eyed Draco with suspicion as they sat beside him. The other Weasley siblings were too busy to join in the festivities. There had been hope that Bill and Fleur would make it, but they had apparently insisted on spending their first Christmas away from the family just the two of them.

"Happy Christmas, everyone," Mr. Weasley said, sinking into his own armchair, a worn-out smile on his stubbly face. "It's so nice to have you all here, even just for a bit."

"Yes. Since we're only all together this evening, I thought we could hand out presents now." Mrs. Weasley indicated the small pyramid of gifts she had set on the floor. The two Weasley parents began to dole out presents one by one, first to Tonks and Professor Lupin – they received a tin of cakes and some pale yellow hand-knit baby booties. Tonks tucked into the tin after placing the tiny shoes on her distended stomach.

Fred and George each received one of the signature Weasley Christmas jumpers he had seen various redheads wear throughout his years at Hogwarts. Theirs were blue with identical Weasley's Wizard Wheezes logos on their fronts. Ginny received a violet jumper with a Quaffle knitted it. Draco watched each Weasley sibling open a jumper, a sad smile plastered on his face. He wished Hermione could be there with him, even if it meant sharing attention with Potter and Weasel.

Ginny, Fred, and George had pulled their new jumpers over their heads by the time Mrs. And Mrs. Weasley exchanged presents – a new scarf and a simple necklace, respectively. Draco sank lower onto the armrest, basking in the warmth of the moment. This might not have been the Christmas he was used to, but it was lovely in its own right. A Weasley Christmas was nothing like a Malfoy Christmas. There was no extravagant tree and no giant pile of gifts exclusively for him covered in shiny wrappings. Yet, it was warm and inviting, and he almost felt like an intruder sitting there as this family opened gifts together.

"Draco, dear? Did you hear me?" Mrs. Weasley's voice called him from his thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley. What did you say?" Draco swiveled around to face her.

"I said, this present is for you, dear." She held out a package wrapped in simple red paper, a single green bow sitting on top. Draco reached out, hands shaking, to accept the present. It looked identical to all the other gifts. Could it be…?

"You didn't have to get me anything," he looked up at the Weasley parents, his voice fumbling. Mr. Weasley looked at him with a gleam in his eye that he couldn't quite place. Somehow, the word fatherly came to mind. Mrs. Weasley beamed, her eyebrows raised in anticipation.

"Nonsense," she said, waving his comment off. "It's our pleasure. Go on, then. Open it."

With trembling fingers, he pulled the ribbon undone and ripped the edge of the red paper with care.

A hand-knitted, forest green jumper with a silver 'D' on the front slid into his arms. It felt feathery soft to the touch, but he could tell that it would keep him plenty warm through the winter. The jumper seemed to radiate love, if that was possible. Somehow, this gift meant much more than some silly toys he had received as a child. This gift was significant.

It meant he belonged.

To think he had ever made fun of these jumpers as a child made him a little nauseous.

Draco felt everyone's eyes on him as he pulled the jumper on over his clothes. Straightening it, he looked up at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley; the former wore a soft smile and the latter had tears in her eyes.

"Thank you very much," he whispered, is own eyes stinging a bit.

"You are very welcome, Draco," Mr. Weasley responded with a nod.

The Weasley siblings watched the interaction with their mouths agape. Professor Lupin's only indication of surprise was his raised eyebrows. Tonks stuffed another cake into her mouth, a small grin on her face.

"Right, you lot. Off to bed," Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands, shooing them away. Everyone stood and stretched. Professor Lupin went to fetch his and his wife's coats.

"Happy Christmas, Draco," Tonks reached out and clapped Draco on the back. Even heavily pregnant, it seemed she was a force of nature.

"Same to you. Take care of yourself and the baby."

"I will, of course. I've got Remus here. He's a godsend. Don't know what I'd do without him," she looked adoringly up at her husband as he handed her coat. He shook his head, a doting smile dancing on his lips.

"Nonsense. You're doing all the heavy lifting. I'm just here to bring you your coat."

Draco watched the interaction with a hint of envy squirming inside him. His mind wandered to Hermione again. Where was she this Christmas Eve? Was she somewhere warm and safe? Were she, Potter, and Weasel exchanging gifts? The thought made his stomach sour. He bade everyone goodnight and Happy Christmas and disappeared upstairs to what had become his bedroom.

Closing the door, he reached under his bed to pull out his journal and his wand, all the while reaching into his trouser pocket to retrieve the pebble. It was cold. He pinched it in his fingers for a moment before squeezing it in his fist, his eyes falling closed. Visions of lovely Hermione danced on the inside of his eyelids. Warmth bloomed in his chest, and the ghost of a smile graced his face, if only for a moment.

He crossed the room and sat at the desk to write, placing his wand nearby. His quill scratched as he wrote line after line, paragraph after paragraph as the candle illuminating his work dripped lower. He had gotten much better at writing his honest feelings down in the journal. Younger Draco would have accused him of being an overly-soft Hufflepuff, but now, it just felt cathartic to get his thoughts out in the open. Or, at least, open to his girlfriend.

Dear Hermione,

Happy Christmas, love. It's Christmas Eve, and I can't stop thinking about you. The Burrow is covered in copious amounts of both snow and fairy lights. It's so beautiful and peaceful, but it's entirely incomplete without you here.

The whole house smells of cakes and roast that I made alongside Mrs. Weasley. I daresay I could open up a restaurant one day when this is all over. Forget healing. My true calling is making the world's most perfect chocolate gateau. Though, if I am being completely honest, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop myself from sneaking a spoonful of batter. Don't tell Mrs. Weasley. She'll have my head.

I was gifted a Weasley jumper this year. It's so warm and soft and it was really special to get one from Mrs. Weasley. She looked like she was going to cry when she gave it to me.

I can't stop thinking about you. We haven't been writing nearly as much recently and it's honestly driving me mad. I'm not sure if you're in some sort of danger or if you've gone and fallen in love with Weasley and forgotten about me. I'm not sure I could live with either answer. Please tell me you're just… distracted or something. We've been writing less and less and I can't help feeling as though something is wrong.

Draco paused. He flipped through their old notes in the journal, chewing his lip. Sweet words from August. Love notes from September. Dirty thoughts from October. Draco lingered on those October pages. Hermione was many things, but poetic was not one of them, especially when it came to discussing sex. Her messages to him had been fairly clinical; he felt bad, but he had fought back a chuckle when these notes appeared. In the heat of the moment, she could be sexy as hell; with words on paper, not so much. He could practically see her in his mind's eye, hunched over in some armchair, tongue sticking out in concentration, trying to think of the sexiest phrases she could, but drawing a blank.

It was adorable. She was adorable.

Gods, he missed her.

He continued his letter.

I miss you. I miss everything about you. Your smile. Your brain. Your body. Merlin, I miss your body. Even just to hold you when I sleep. There's no chance you can Apparate here for one night so I can hold you close, is there?

Memories of her soft curves filled his head, and Draco leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. If he concentrated, he could recall with perfect clarity the weight of her supple breasts in his palms, could hear the soft keens she gave as he kissed his way down her body, could taste the sweetness that lingered on her lips and unique flavor of her gorgeous pussy.

Draco set his quill down and pressed his hand to the front of his trousers. His cock twitched as his imagination roamed, and he made quick work of his button and zipper, allowing his member to spring free. Keeping his eyes closed, he grabbed himself and stroked with a practiced hand. Visions of Hermione swam before him, and he pictured her beside him now; he imagined her kneeling before him, sucking lightly and licking him from base to tip before taking him all in her mouth.

Draco groaned and continued pumping as he pictured taking Hermione right here on this desk. It could have been a reality if they'd both gotten bolder earlier in the summer. He could have had her in all kinds of places. They could have made far better use of the inn before they arrived at The Burrow…all those unsupervised hours at her parents' home…

His hand reached a frenzied pace as imaginary Hermione moaned his name, his hips lifting off the chair in a swift rhythm as if to meet hers. Pressure built up past the point of no return, and with only a couple more thrusts he spilled into his hand.

Boneless and completely spent, he flopped back into his chair. His chest heaved as he pushed his hair off his sweat-soaked forehead. Gods, he missed Hermione. This was far from the first time he had wanked to his memories of her, but it was probably the loneliest he had felt in a long time. Being included in the Weasley's Christmas had been lovely, but it had also made him realize just how much he wanted to be near Hermione.

Instead of feeling sated like he wanted, he just felt like there was a hole in his chest. With a sigh, Draco tucked his now-flaccid member back into his trousers and leaned back over the journal. He wanted to wrap up his note to Hermione. No more distractions.

Please take care of yourself and come back to me. I feel like a part of me is missing. Life without you doesn't really feel like living, especially at Christmas.

I love you, Hermione Granger. I can only hope you still love me. Stay safe. Happy Christmas.

Yours, Draco

He looked up from the desk to see the snow still falling gently outside. The whole world was still and silent, and Draco felt as though he was disturbing it as he stood and stretched, padding across the room, tucking the journal and his wand under his pillow, and burying himself under the covers. As he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come, his stomach twisted in knots, as though trying to tell him something wasn't quite right.

He tried to push the feeling down as he rolled over, pebble clutched in his fist.

Christmas morning dawned, cloud-covered and frozen. The snow had stopped falling and now sat, gleaming on the ground. From the moment Draco woke up, he felt off. His stomach churned, the rest of his body acutely sensitive. He shivered, sending goosepimples shooting down from his shoulders to his toes.

Something wasn't right. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but it was as though the ground beneath his feet had shifted overnight. On an impulse, he reached under his pillow to check the journal.

There was no response. The lack of one yet wasn't exactly surprising, but Draco couldn't help the bile that began to creep up his throat. Nothing felt right – not the way air filled his lungs, not the way the light filtered in through the curtains, and certainly not the way the blank page in his journal stared back at him.

"Oi, Malfoy! Come downstairs. Mum's got breakfast going." Draco bolted upright at the sound of Ginny Weasley's voice outside his bedroom door. Stuffing the journal under his pillow once more, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, swaying a little. All the blood had rushed to his head.

Something wasn't right.

In the kitchen, Draco seated himself next to Ginny. Despite it being Christmas morning, she looked slightly forlorn as she leaned on one elbow. Fred and George were presumably still upstairs, as their spots across the table were empty. The atmosphere had dulled since last night; Draco wasn't sure if it was a foggy layer of sleep that hung around, or if there really was something wrong.

Breakfast seemed to pass in a haze. He ate his fry up without really tasting it. The Weasleys chatted amiably around him, but nothing seemed to stick. Multiple times, they had to call his name to get his attention.

"Are you all right, Draco dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked after the third time this happened.

"Erm, yeah," mumbled Draco, pushing food around his plate. "I just didn't sleep so well."

"We don't have much planned for today. Go and have a kip upstairs if you like." Mr. Weasley spoke up from the head of the table. Draco nodded gratefully in his direction and pushed his chair out to excuse himself.

While walking up the stairs, he felt it again. That funny feeling in his body. Everything seemed to have shifted internally. Something wasn't right. His walk turned into a run as his insides twisted once more, his breathing growing shallow. The moment his door closed, he crossed to his bed and tore the journal open. Still nothing.

Draco wasn't sure why this bothered him so much. She had taken longer than this to respond in the past. With a jolt, he looked up. The pebble! Digging through is pocket, his fingers made contact with the smooth stone residing inside.

Cold. Like ice. As though it hadn't heated in hours.

Hermione was in trouble. He just knew it. He didn't know how he knew it, but he just did.

A sharp wave of panic crashed over him. He leaned forward, placing his hands on his bed, his eyes wide and searching. He knew it seemed crazy to just know something when there was no support to his claims – Hermione would have a field day with these types of assertions.

And yet.

Draco forced himself to sit and attempted to control his breathing. In and hold. Out and hold. Repeat. After thirty seconds of attempts, Draco's heart had not slowed down and his mind only swam more. He stood and began to pace.

If Hermione was truly in danger, what could he do? He was not a prisoner at The Burrow, but the thought of leaving here left him feeling uncomfortable. Not only had the Weasleys been exceptionally kind to him, but he had also promised Hermione he would remain here out of harm's way. Even if he did leave, he had no idea where she was or what trouble she was facing. He could end up walking into a trap. No, acting on his impulses to save Hermione from unknown danger was a terrible idea.

Draco rubbed his temples, his eyebrows furrowed. Suppose he didn't go…suppose he just stayed here. Hermione might be fine, and his worries might all be for naught. But if they weren't? If she was truly in mortal peril and he had just sat on his laurels and done nothing?

Nausea built in his stomach at the thought. Draco growled and cursed. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't.

The blank journal page sat open on his bed as if mocking him. By this point, he was surprised he hadn't worn a hole in the floor from all his pacing. How had Hermione made the decision to obliviate her parents and leave? How had she known the time was right? He groaned.

There had to be a correct decision – a more objective way to know what to do. As his mind raced, a familiar feeling of dread filled his already-squirming stomach, turning it to lead. Moisture gathered in his eyes as his jaw tightened. He had to choose a path. He couldn't fuck this up; for all he knew, lives could be at stake.

To his horror, he recognized this feeling. He knew it all too well.

Memories of this past year surfaced all at once: watching the appalled expressions on his parents' faces as he received the Dark Mark; panicking when the vanishing cabinet failed again and again; coming apart at the seams day by day as his choices seemed to evaporate around him.

Draco had failed at his previous task. He wouldn't fail again. Not for Hermione's sake.

He couldn't sit around anymore. He had been sitting for months. There was a war going on, and he was too entangled in the participants to stand idly by.

It was time.

His back straightening with a confidence he hadn't felt in months, Draco made a beeline toward his dresser and began emptying it into his trunk. With a sigh, he pulled off his Weasley jumper and tucked it away. If he was going to be traveling, he didn't want to wear something as easily-identifiable as that. No, anyone who wore a Weasley-made creation would have a target on their back.

When his trunk was packed, he shrank it, much as Hermione had done months before, and placed it in his day pack. Jacket on and wand in his pocket, Draco scanned the room. He didn't have a plan, exactly, but several of Hermione's more recent journal entries had mentioned intense cold, snow, and mountains. That led him to believe that she might be in Scotland. It was almost nothing to go off of – her descriptors were so broad – but it was better than nothing.

He was about to do the stupidest thing he could possibly imagine: act like a bloody Gryffindor, charging ahead without a plan. Acting on an intuition was not how he normally functioned, but nothing about this war that was normal. Taking out a piece of parchment, Draco leaned over his desk to write a farewell note. How was he to do this? His thoughts lingered on Ginny, who had grown on him immensely; on Mr. Weasley, who had accepted him from so early on…

He gripped his quill especially tightly when his thoughts landed on Mrs. Weasley. She had cared for him like another one of her sons and had given him a real chance, trusting him when so many hadn't. She had knitted him a jumper meant only for family members.

He sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve before putting quill to parchment.

I'm sure you'll be upset when you see this, but know that short of Stupefying me or putting me under Incarcerous, there was nothing you could have done to stop me from leaving. Don't think for a moment that I'm not grateful for everything you've done for me these last few months. I will always consider The Burrow a second home – I was wrong to have ever looked down on this family.

I have come to the realization that I can't just sit back and let this war happen. Unfortunately, I played a part in it before, and I regret my actions every day. I must atone for my sins, or guilt will continue crushing me until I die. I'll tune into Potterwatch when I can. Forgive me for leaving without saying goodbye. I'm terrible at goodbyes, anyway.

Draco

He paused after signing his name, his thoughts drifting momentarily to the warmth of the previous night. Visions of his cousin rubbing her belly swam to the forefront of his mind, and his mouth twitched to a smile.

P.S. Give Tonks my best for when the baby arrives.

There. He folded the parchment in thirds and placed it in the center of his desk. Everything packed, he walked toward the window, opening it and sticking his head out. As far as he could see, no one was outside. He knew that his bedroom window faced a side of the house with very few other windows. If he was very careful and covered his tracks, he could slip beyond the property line and Apparate from there. Yes, that plan would do.

With a little wand work, he floated down the side of The Burrow and landed with a soft crunch on fresh snow. Another wave, and his tracks were wiped away with each step he took. Though he was sneaking away, his heart and breathing had become surprisingly calm. Having a course of action and hope, however sparse, kept the panic at bay for now.

As the Burrow faded into the distance, Draco took one last look back. In his honest opinion, the tilted house still looked unsafe. But rather than through a critical eye, he now saw what Hermione had seen when they had arrived together in July: a loving home.

For all its grandeur and history, that was something Malfoy Manor was not. Especially not now that the Dark Lord had defiled the place with his presence. Draco shivered at the thought as he turned back around.

Scotland. He needed to get to Scotland. Immediately, a holiday home from his childhood in the highlands came to mind. The area surrounding the villa had been mountainous, and it was a good place to start if nothing else; he would have access to a house elf and could scout out locations nearby.

He drew his wand.

Destination. Determination. Deliberation.

With a pull behind his navel, he flew through space to arrive moments later outside an old, stone house that sat beside a frozen lake. The cold air barely had time to hit his skin before he heard voices behind him.

"Oi! You there – stop!"

Draco whipped around to see a tall man with a thick, dark beard and beady eyes stalking toward him, wand in hand. And he wasn't alone. Several other wizards and witches stood up from where they had been sitting around a campfire. They were all dressed in thick, raggedy robes, and they looked as though they hadn't seen a proper meal in a while. Based on their feral expressions, none of them seemed particularly friendly.

"Shit," he whispered, backing away into a sprint.

Snatchers.

"Get back here!" a woman cried in a high-pitched wail. He could hear their footsteps as they chased him away from the house and into the wilderness.

"Impedimenta! Stupefy!" he shouted curses, blindly pointing his wand over his shoulder as he ducked under branches at the edge of a group of trees. Blood hammered in his ears as he ran; around him, flashes of light and blasts propelled him to move faster. He didn't have time to consider Apparating away. His mind was too adrenaline-fueled to process any action except running as fast as his feet could carry him. It was as though his brain had shut off. Instinct took over as he jumped over obstacles, his feet pounding the rocky terrain. He had to get away. He had to find Hermione. This couldn't be how it all ended for him. It just couldn't.

Draco took a sharp right turn toward the mountains, where a forest sat at the base. Perhaps he would get lucky and lose them in the thick trees. If not, he could find a rock to hide behind to collect his thoughts for half a second once he got high enough.

He shot another jinx behind him and heard it smash into something solid. Likely a tree. Where had the snatchers gone? He was sure they were directly behind them.

From his left, he heard the crunching of fast-moving footsteps. Shit. They had changed their angle of attack. Before he could point his wand, a gravelly voice that was too close for comfort barked out, "Stupefy!"

Everything went black.

Draco knew this place. He had opened his eyes only moments ago, his vision swimming and his head pounding. Though he didn't know where the snatchers had taken him, the place seemed familiar. The light filtering into the room seemed heavy somehow, and everything he saw through his bleary eyes was dark. Dark floors. Dark walls. It was so familiar…

No.

"Well, well. Looks like we finally found you, nephew."

Draco's eyes shot wide open as the deranged voice of his Aunt Bellatrix reached his ears. That could only mean one thing.

He had been brought back to Malfoy Manor.

His faculties returned to him in a rush as he became acutely aware of his situation. Chains bound him to a chair at his wrists, ankles, and torso. He now sat in the drawing room at Malfoy Manor. Surrounding him were high-ranking Death Eaters: Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Yaxley, Wormtail, and Dolohov.

Behind the immediate ring of Death Eaters, two new figures emerged from the darkness. Two familiar figures. Draco wanted to cry as their faces came to light.

His parents.

Gaunt. Disheveled. Alive.

He couldn't help the sob that escaped his lips.

"Pull yourself together, Draco!" Rodolphus spat, smacking him across the face with his ring-clad right hand. Draco felt the metal cut into his cheek as the back of the man's hand struck him. It stung, but he bit back a yelp.

"Now, now, dear husband," Bellatrix simpered, "We mustn't be too hasty to judge poor Draco. It is not our place. That is a job for the Dark Lord." As she spoke the last two words, she turned to face him, her eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. "He shall decide whether a punishment is necessary."

Draco looked out among the crowd surrounding him, locking eyes with his mother. The woman he knew to be upstanding and regal now seemed entirely too small in her own home; the pride in her eyes had dulled in his absence. Draco tried to search her expression for a hint of assurance.

"Looking at mummy, are you?" Bellatrix taunted, "You'll find, nephew, that the name of Malfoy has fallen greatly out of favor these days. My sister – your mummy – has been sick with worry about you for some months. She has been so preoccupied, it seems, that she can't even be bothered to be a proper host to the Dark Lord. Isn't that right, sister?"

Draco watched as his mother swallowed, looking at her feet. "No, sister."

"No, indeed," Bellatrix continued. "Well, never fear. Cissy. Your darling heir has found his way home. Now you can focus your energies back to the task at hand."

Draco felt his hair stand on end; a shiver made its way down his spine. He didn't like his aunt's tone of voice. It only grew this sickly sweet when she had a particularly nefarious train of thought.

"If not, well.." Bellatrix whipped her wand around to face him. "Crucio!"

It was as though a thousand knives were ripping his flesh to shreds. A fog seemed to settle over his brain as he tried to push through the torture. He heard himself screaming, vaguely felt his bonds cutting into his skin as he writhed in the dining room chair. The pain seemed endless, twisting his insides until he was sure he would snap in half.

And then it was over.

Instantly, he resurfaced, cold air filling his lungs in sharp gulps. Bellatrix stood before him, an icy smirk painting her face.

"Is that understood, Cissy?"

His mother must have nodded, because the next moment Bellatrix waved her wand once more and the chains around him fell away with a great clank. Draco fell forward on his knees, spluttering.

"Take him to the cellar to wait," Bellatrix called to someone.

It was a full ten silent seconds later before footsteps made their way over to him. He braced himself for a body-binding or another Incarcerous, but it never came. Instead, a warm arm enveloped him, supporting his weight as whoever it was pulled him to his feet. "Easy, Draco," a reassuring voice murmured.

His mother. Draco wanted to melt into the woman he had missed dearly over these past months, but with the eyes of half a dozen Death Eaters upon him, he didn't dare show signs of what these people viewed as weakness.

But Draco knew. He knew the secret that everyone in this room would deny. Wanting to be held by his mother was not weakness. Mrs. Granger had showed him that, as had Mrs. Weasley, and most importantly, his Hermione. No, desiring love wasn't weakness; rather, it was the opposite.

Already, he felt stronger with his mother's arm around him. He could do this.

He was guided toward the cellar, where his mother swung the door open and led him down to the dark and damp space. She flicked her wand and the torches along the walls burst into light. Still not saying a word, she leaned him against a wall near the stairs, helping him to slide to a sitting position on the floor.

Draco looked up at his mother, searching for some shred of hope. The expression on her face said it all. Love.

Her eyes seemed to be doing their own searching, her pupils vibrating with intense concentration. They shone in the firelight. It was as though she was trying to speak to him only through her gaze.

I'm so glad you're safe, my son, she seemed to be saying. My sweet boy.

Draco bit back tears.

And then she was gone. He watched her steel her expression before disappearing up the stairs. With a groan, he shifted his body on the wall. The Cruciatus curse had left him aching all over.

"Draco Malfoy? Is that you?" a familiar voice spoke from nearby. He couldn't place the dreamy sound until Loony Lovegood squatted in front of him, her eyebrows quirked.

"Yeah," he coughed. "It's me."

"That was a lovely moment you and your mother just shared. I didn't want to spoil it by coming over sooner."

Draco nodded, turning his head to the side to spit out bloody saliva.

"Did you get hit by the Cruciatus curse? I always bite my tongue or cheek when it happens. Sorry I don't have any water to help you wash out your mouth."

Draco looked up. "You, hit by the Cruciatus - ?"

"I'm a captive here. We all are." She indicated a huddled figure in the opposite corner that was grey and shivering. "That's Mr. Ollivander. He's been here for months."

He nodded, only half paying attention. His mind still lingered on his mother's eyes. They had seemed so despondent.

"It's nice to have a bit of company, if I'm being honest." Luna had settled herself beside him, her back leaning against the wall. "Mr. Ollivander isn't up for conversation usually. I've only been here a handful of days. It's rather unpleasant, isn't it?"

Draco couldn't believe it. Loony Lovegood was actually talking about being held captive and tortured in his parents' cellar as though it were a rainy day at the beach. He scoffed, closing his eyes. He was in no mood to talk.

Over the next two days, Lovegood attempted conversation a handful of times. He took the bait twice, offering short answers to some of her questions. Though when the topic edged toward the Gryffindor trio or the time he had been 'missing,' he would turn away. She seemed to pick up quickly, because their conversations often turned to her blathering on about some absurd creature or another. Draco found he didn't mind as much as he thought he would. The constant stream of words kept him grounded as his confrontation with the Dark Lord grew inevitably closer and helped a hurricane of negative thoughts from encroaching on his already-battered psyche.

He had failed Hermione by getting caught. And now he would fail himself.

It had to have been two or three days later when the door to the cellar creaked open once more, a heavy set of feet stumping down the stairs. All three captives jumped to their feet at their arrival, but Draco knew the others needn't have moved. This man was here for him. It was time. As Wormtail motioned for him to follow at wandpoint, Draco took deep, steadying breaths. He needed to erect his mental shields, just as he had practiced so often during his sixth year.

Empty your mind he repeated like a prayer in his head. No thoughts of the past few months. Just darkness and certain emotions. Fear. Regret. Anger. Anxiety. Draco let these feelings filter to the front of his mind as he pushed the true nature of his defection to some musty, forgotten corner.

Wormtail led him not to the drawing room, but rather, to the dining room, where the Dark Lord's most faithful sat around the long table. At the head sat the Dark Lord himself, face trained, but eyes ablaze. The snake, Nagini, slithered at his feet.

"Welcome back, Draco," the Dark Lord stated, indicating a seat three positions to his left. "Please, sit."

Draco obeyed, sliding into the chair. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers as he kept his eyes trained on the Dark Lord.

"Tell us, Draco, where you have been since your rather disappointing performance this past June," the menacing figure inquired with such nonchalance it made Draco feel nauseous.

He felt the uncomfortable prod of his mind being infiltrated, but his walls remained sturdy, allowing only the bits he wanted to show.

"I've been held captive by a bunch of blood traitors for quite some time. They confiscated my wand right away. It took far too long, my Lord, but I finally managed to give them the slip a few days ago while they were distracted with Christmas." He sneered, trying to put on a convincing show.

"And whose watch were you under?" the Dark Lord pressed.

"I had numerous jailers," he spat. "They kept me hidden away; I only received food from a house elf. I was blindfolded any time they interrogated me, so I never got a good look at where they were keeping me. I was moved a handful of times – never in the same spot for more than a couple months." Though his heart pounded in his chest, the lie rolled off his tongue with ease.

"How did you escape, dare I ask?" The Dark Lord's eyes bore into his own and he felt the pressure in his head grow; he was really pressing in now. Draco took a breath to keep his composure.

"Some idiot fell asleep while on guard duty. Too much holiday firewhisky. I managed to steal his wand and get out of my bindings. I found my own wand and my belongings and snuck beyond the wards until I could Apparate. I had planned on returning to the manor, but they caught sight of me just as I was about to leave. Managed to focus on the wrong destination. I consider myself quite lucky that I didn't splinch."

The Dark Lord seemed to consider his words. The other Death Eaters looked back and forth between their master and the Malfoy heir, waiting for a decision to be made.

"And why did you run away when confronted by my lowly associates?"

Draco quirked an eyebrow. "Surely, you don't expect the Malfoy heir to come quietly when confronted with…people like that." He sneered and spat the last word for emphasis.

The tension around his mind eased as Draco felt the Dark Lord's presence begin to withdraw.

To his surprise, a cruel laugh burst forth from the evil wizard. "Arrogant as ever, young Malfoy. Though you failed the task I gave you, you were clever and returned to me…willingly," the Dark Lord paused on that last word, and Draco felt him press into his mind so forcefully he thought he might cry out. "I must, therefore, commend you for your loyalty, Draco. I will see that you are rewarded for your return."

Draco felt the Dark Lord release his mind entirely. Immediately, he felt light-headed. He needed to lie down or pass out, but he couldn't show any signs of weakness. Not now. He had to be strong – to get through this. For Hermione. For all the people who had shown him kindness, despite all the awful things he had done.

Things like run away.

Karma, it seemed, had finally caught up with him.

"I will forgive you, of course, Draco. For what am I, if not merciful? Isn't that right?"

"Yes, my lord," Draco looked down at the table as he spoke.

"Now, now, Draco. You really need to learn manners. Didn't you ever learn to look at your superiors when they speak to you?"

Draco felt his neck stiffen as the Dark Lord forced his head up until his eyes were level with the red slits. He felt red-hot hatred bubble in his stomach, and his fists clenched the armrests of the chair, digging into the dark wood.

"Much better, young Malfoy." The Dark Lord pulled his eyes away and spoke to the group at large. "Yes, it's true, I can forgive mistakes such as Draco's. And yet…" and he paused, and Draco watched his gaze linger on his parents. The anger froze instantly, turning to icy fear. "…I cannot let him simply return without punishment. Isn't that fair, Lucius?"

"My lord?" Lucius Malfoy spoke up in a whisper – the first time Draco had heard his father speak in so long. His voice sounded weak…defeated.

"The boy must be punished. I will leave his punishment up to you."

"My lord, I cannot-"

"Oh, but you will, Lucius."

The Dark Lord's eyes flashed dangerously, and Draco watched as his father's shoulders slumped, his will crumbling. Lucius stood from his place at the table, pointing his wand at Draco.

His arm didn't shake.

"Petrificus totalus!"

Draco felt his body go rigid, and with a swish and flick, Draco found himself lifted from his seat. Unable to struggle or speak, he remained aloft, slowly drifting toward the center of the table. He faced upward, his eyes wide as he stared at the chandelier. Fear filled his veins; he knew what was to come. Surely not…not at the hand of his own father. If he hadn't been under the body bind curse, he would have been shaking from head to toe. Draco squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on something other than the impending hell.

"Crucio!"

The world was fire.

"Crucio!"

He knew nothing but pain and suffering.

"Crucio!"

Draco felt like dying. Why couldn't he just die already? Please. Anything would be better than this.

"Crucio!"

After the fourth time, the pain sank into his bones, slowly ebbing. His body bind was released, and he fell with a crash onto the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw his mother flinch, but he couldn't really be sure. A single tear escaped his eye; he felt it roll down his cold cheek. It was warm and somehow, comforting. It grounded him – reminded him that he was human. Darkness threated to overtake him as the moments passed.

"There," cooed the Dark Lord. "That wasn't so bad, was it? Learned your lesson, have you, Draco?"

"Yes, my lord," he managed to croak.

"Good. Now get him out of my sight."

Draco fought to keep his eyes open as multiple figures reached for him, but the pull of the darkness was too great.

When he came to, he was not back in the cellar, but rather, in a large four-poster bed. Wincing, he managed to sit up. Every inch of him seemed sore, and he had to hold his torso to keep from falling back onto the mattress.

His mattress.

They had brought him back to his childhood room. All around him, remnants of the life he had vowed to leave behind surrounded him. On the wall directly across from his bed hung an austere photograph of him as a child. He stood, tall and proud, a newfound smirk on his young face. Occasionally, little Draco folded his arms. If he could talk to that little Draco, what would he say? Would he be able to speak of the horrors he would witness? Of watching Dumbledore die? Of being tortured at the hand of his own father?

He wanted to scream, to vomit, to cry – but all he had the energy for was a half-sob as he fell back on his pillows.

All those months spent in the custody of the Order – the promise Dumbledore had made – they had all been for naught. He had still ended up in the Dark Lord's clutches. Draco Malfoy was not just a failure anymore. That, he could live with. Not fulfilling the Dark Lord's task had saved his life.

What he couldn't live with was disappointment – disappointment from someone that mattered. From Hermione. She had poured her heart and soul into helping him, and he had fallen right back in with Death Eaters. How long would it take before they forced him to commit heinous crimes? How long before he would lose himself? Draco shuddered, his mind spiraling into the abyss of self-loathing and dread. His breathing came in pants and his whole body began to tremble.

Just as his negative thoughts seem to stand before him like a tidal wave – a miracle.

A warmth came from his trouser pocket. He felt the warmth spread from his leg, up through his stomach to his chest and out to his fingertips. The vice grip on his lungs released, and he drew a deep breath. With shaking hands, he removed the pebble from his pocket. Sure enough, it radiated heat, strong and intense.

Hermione.

Hope bubbled in his chest as he stared at the little object in his palm. She was out there. She was safe. He had not left her thoughts.

Draco reached for the wand at his bedside. As quickly as he could muster, he slid off his bed and had a look around his room. Sure enough, his pack sat at the edge of his bed, clearly pilfered, but intact.

Opening it up, he found his shrunken trunk. A prayer on his lips, he enlarged it to its original size and pulled it open. With a sigh of relief, he found none of his belongings missing. The Weasley jumper had been tucked into the trunk inside out, and therefore, hadn't been a giveaway. No one would have thought much of a plain green jumper. He pulled it on, leaving his initial tucked against his chest.

It still smelled of his Christmas fry up.

Underneath his jumper he found the object he had been looking for – the journal. It, too, seemed untouched. Then again, Hermione's brilliant spell work would have just shown potions notes to an onlooker.

He flipped the journal open to the page that had taunted him merely nights ago.

There, plain as day, was Hermione's handwriting. His sob returned in full, fat drops falling onto the parchment. How had he been so stupid? Shame washed over him as the past few days' events finally settled.

Wiping his eyes, he tried to focus his blurry vision on her words.

My dearest Draco,

Happy Christmas! I'm so glad you were able to celebrate properly with the Weasleys. The thought of a proper Christmas dinner is enchanting, really. And a Weasley jumper? I am amazed. Even I don't have one. Mrs. Weasley must really love you.

I wish I could Apparate to your side. Nothing would give me greater joy than to be by your side. But for now, you must accept your lot, and I will accept mine.

All is fine here, I suppose. I won't lie, it's dangerous at times, but it will be worth it in the end, won't it? When this is all over, I'll have so much to tell you – to show you. I wish I could divulge more details, but we've got too much riding on our shoulders to reveal much of anything. Know that I constantly think of you. It's as though you're always with me, really. I can feel a part of you lingering and even growing within me, and it gives me strength. Our love has given me the greatest gift, Draco.

The letter ended there. Draco traced Hermione's handwriting with her fingertip. She always looped her g in a specific way that made his heart ache, for some reason.

He held the journal to his chest and wept.

She just told him...kind of?

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