A/N: This chapter was sooo hard to write. My muse completely abandoned me. Luckily, I have the best and most inspirational beta ever. She asked all the right questions and got me back on track. Thanks iwasbotwp!

Anyone who watches Grey's Anatomy will see my nod to the show in this chapter. :-)

Thanks for your patience guys.

Chapter Eighteen: To Forget the Past

March 2003

London

Draco watched Potter limp out from the shadows.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

"Hit with a curse," Potter explained with his usual reckless grin. "Can't seem to get better. Hermione has been trying to figure out what it was, but no luck so far."

"Describe it," he demanded.

Orange light, the scent of sulfur, and a scar in the shape of an eight-pointed star. Draco recognized that curse. It killed. Every time. There were no cures because none was ever needed. Draco said as much.

"You're like a fucking cockroach," he marveled.

Harry laughed without humor. "Could you do a little research?"

There was fear buried deep in his voice. Draco knew it was pointless, especially if Granger hadn't been able to find any solutions. The Chosen One was going to die, the Order was going to fail, and probably long before Draco could perfect his new idea. Damn it all to Hades.

"I'll look into it," he promised, then added, "You shouldn't tell Granger."

He wasn't sure where the suggestion had come from, or why he felt such an urgency about it. A brief vision of her flashed through his mind. What stuck in his ribs was the expression on her face when she discovered that she wouldn't be able to save her friend. He quickly decided his reasoning centered more around the almost nonexistent possibility that she might, indeed, find a cure. Hope was dangerous, but also incredibly powerful. And if anyone could figure out a way to help Harry, it would be Granger. Better to let her strive for a cure.

Harry squinted at him. "I didn't intend to."

The relief was instantaneous.

"I can't decide if you're being pragmatic or noble," Potter pondered aloud.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Both. Of course."

That door. That fucking door. It looked just like the one that led to Draco's room. Innocuous, old and faded, the damn thing looked completely at home in the dusty hallway. It was keeping him from Hermione. He hated it. It had taken him less than ten minutes to return to the spot where he had left her. Deciding he wouldn't take orders from a controlling, meddling, overly-intelligent witch, he had paced in front of it three times, demanding entry. It ignored him. The mechanics of the Room of Requirement were still a bit of a mystery, but Draco knew that someone inside had to want to keep him out for it to deny him.

Two whorls directly in the middle of the wood looked like smug little eyes, daring him to lower himself to banging, to pleading. He briefly considered using his wand to tear the thing to shreds. He wondered if such a thing were even possible. Taking a stranglehold on his pride, he plopped down across the hall, stretched his legs out comfortably, and waited.

Draco had been at his post for several minutes when Neville slid down the wall to his right, and Weasley to his left. The three of them stared at the door to the Room of Requirement in silence. Draco made a point to control his breathing. It was an effort, for there was a tight ball of rage building in the center of his chest. The dragon was pacing in the back of his mind, and he was in perfect agreement. How dare that old piece of wood try to keep him from her?

"She's strong," Neville observed.

Draco rolled his eyes. Salazar's salty ballsack. Were they trying to comfort him? He'd rather get stabbed in the eye. The Dragon was scratching at him, lashing his spiked tail and demanding action. With a short sigh, Draco did his best to tune the animal out.

"She's studied this inside and out."

This came from Weasley as if the wanker knew the first thing about studying or had even bothered to check on his ex-fiancee for the last few weeks.

"There's no way she'll fail."

Identical nods of agreement on either side.

"We don't need to do this." He had no interest in sharing anything remotely personal with two Gryffindor twats. The fact that they thought he needed comfort was bad enough, but being trapped in a hallway with them was pushing it.

"Remember the time-turner in third year?" Weasley chuckled.

"A time-turner?" Draco scoffed.

"It's true," Weasley defended himself. "Though she hid it quite well."

"None of us knew," Neville confirmed. "Not until later."

"She went through all of that stress all by herself."

"It's how she saved Buckbeak."

"What the hell is a Buckbeak?" Draco asked wearily.

He could still feel the Dragon stirring angrily despite his attempts to block him out.

"Buckbeak," Weasley answered. "Is the delightful creature that tried to chew your face off in third year."

"The Hippogriff," Longbottom clarified as if there were another animal that had violently attacked Draco in his third year at Hogwarts. What did Pansy see in this idiot?

"She saved that mangy animal?"

Draco had been secretly relieved when the creature had been spirited away just before its execution. After his humiliation had faded, he had realized that killing the Hippogriff made little sense. The altercation had been Draco's fault, regardless of how hard it was to admit. Avoiding the wrath of his father was far more important, however. After being publicly humiliated by the flight of a creature he had vocally condemned as well as the escape of a fugitive the Dark Lord desperately wanted, Lucius Malfoy had taken his anger out on his family.

Bloody brilliant girl. It was not surprising that she had requested the use of the time-turner to pack more classes into a single day, but he was impressed that the Ministry had thought her responsible enough to use it. He sniggered silently. Guess they were wrong. Using it to rescue a magical creature condemned to death by the Ministry itself was definitely on the wrong side of "approved uses."

The Gryffindors were still talking quietly on either side of him. Draco rubbed his chest. It felt sore. He took a deep breath and coughed. He made a silent note to take a Pepper Up potion before bed. The last thing he needed was to get sick right before a battle. Possibly the last battle. He supposed his chances of survival were pretty low in any case. Maybe he'd spare himself the trip to the infirmary and the condescending eyes of Madame Pomfrey.

"She scared every House Elf so badly . . ."

". . . faced that thing with only a mirror . . ."

". . . taught us all how to use it properly."

They wove stories of her like a soft blanket. The rage was fading, he realized. These buffoons needed to leave him alone and stop trying to make him feel better. He needed the violent anger to keep him together because on the other side of that festering sore was fear. It was the kind of fear he hadn't felt since he was a child, staring into the face of a monster.

"Are we done now?" he snarled. "Is it possible for the two of you to shut your gobs for more than five minutes at a time?"

They didn't leave. Draco closed his eyes, trying to ignore the steady sensation of quiet comfort surrounding him. He rubbed at his chest and coughed again. It was getting difficult to take a full breath. There was a lead weight on his ribs. Something was wrong. Snapping his attention back to the Dragon, he realized the angry growling had turned desperate. The beast was screaming at him.

He gasped, lurching upright.

"What is it?" Weasley demanded.

"Hermione," he choked.

Then he was banging on the door.

"You let me in, you fucking rotted piece of shit!" he roared.

The door flipped open, dumping him inside before immediately swinging shut. Draco scrambled up from his knees in time to see a blue-lipped Hermione suspended in mid-air. Before he could take a step towards her, the circle blew apart in a blast of white light.

Sarah wasn't supposed to take the shortcut home. It was late at night, and she probably should have accepted a ride from Rick Propers, but he had wandering hands and, she wasn't a child anymore, after all. If Sarah wanted to walk home after a party, she could do so. Except the well-lit path took more than an hour to walk and she was already past curfew.

The shortcut stared at her from beneath the trees. The small deer path wandered dangerously close to the old, abandoned castle. Everyone in the village knew to stay away from that place. Some said it was haunted; others said it was cursed. Sarah didn't believe in such things anymore, and if she walked a bit faster than normal, it was because she didn't want her parents to worry not because she was afraid of the specter of a long-dead monarch.

The strange people appeared with a crack. One moment she was passing through a clearing that was empty but for a few late fall flowers and an old, rotted stump, and then it was full of milling people in cloaks. Sarah shrank back against a tree. Two men spotted her, one blonde, the other with a shaggy grey mane of hair, and approached.

"Lookie what we got here," the wolf-like creature growled.

"A lovely little morsel," the other added. "Ripe for the plucking."

Sarah whimpered. Her back was pressed so far against the trunk she could feel the rough bark cutting into her skin. The monsters wouldn't go away if she closed her eyes, but she still did it with the hope that it might work the way it had when she was a child.

"Enough."

Sarah's eyes popped back open. The woman who had spoken strode past without a glance, her wild black hair trailing down her back. Her eyes were blazing; a shiny stick gripped tightly in her fist.

"We have a war to wage," she growled over her shoulder.

The two men paused in their advance, exchanged a glance and then backed away. Sarah thought her heart would beat right out of her chest. She knew she should be running, but her body was frozen.

"Don't worry, little one," the blonde chuckled. "We'll come back for you when we've finished."

Dark laughter filtered through the trees, chasing her as she sprinted home.

George was dying. There was no other explanation. Hermione had barged into his workshop some days before and confiscated all of his illegal alcohol, just before marching into his quarters and doing the same there. She had then laid into him about abuse of his Calming Draught.

"What difference does it make?" He had been trying - as unobtrusively as possible - to determine if she had found all of his hiding spots. "I'm going to die in that circle."

"You will die in that circle if you don't change your ways," she had corrected him, foot tapping. "I'm going to give you your best shot at survival."

It was hard to muster the strength to care either way. Until she had flicked her wand and yanked the last bottle of hidden liquor from inside his chimney.

"You can't!" he had shouted, panic clawing up his throat.

He had lunged for the bottle, only to have her casually slide out of his reach. Overbalanced by her swift movement, he fell on the floor, his face scraping against the cool stone.

"I won't let you die!" she had screamed at him. "Not like this."

"It's not your job to save me!"

"I'm doing it because I love you," she had murmured. "And you are worth so much more than this."

"Fuck you," he had spat out, his mouth already dry at the thought of sobriety.

She had left him on the floor. Not long afterward, his heart was racing, and his head was breaking open. The first day was the worst. He lay curled in a ball on his bed, sweating and shivering. Madame Pomfrey had come to check on him and had placed a bucket by his bed. It wasn't long before it was foul-smelling and not responding to his emptying charm. He didn't care. The need for relief was an animal clawing at his insides.

The second day was better. He could think clearly enough to hate her. It was the part of his brain that was aching with the need for drugs. That part wished her dead, wished that she would fail in the transformation she was attempting at that very moment. If he was suffering, so should she. The other part of him hoped she succeeded. It would be further proof that he could survive as well. It didn't matter in either case. In the morning, he would walk into a circle with four other people and fail so spectacularly that his death would be talked about for decades. He chuckled, the air aching in his lungs.

George turned over on the bed painfully and found Fred sitting in the chair across the room.

"You're not really here," he croaked.

Fred looked to either side, then lifted his hands and inspected them closely. "You sure about that?"

George wasn't sure. That was the problem. The line between reality and dreams had always been a bit blurry. It was why George was so good at inventing things. Now he had to drown himself in narcotics to keep his dead twin from dogging his every step.

"Go away, Fred." He closed his eyes.

"I can't go away," Fred said solemnly. "Things are about to get a bit hairy. I'm here for you."

"I don't need your help." His head was pounding.

"It's okay, Georgie. I'm here for you."

The way Fred was speaking set off alarm bells in George's mind. He brushed it off. It was far too difficult for him to think properly.

"Just shut up, will you?" he complained. "I need sleep."

George let his eyes slide shut, praying for the respite of unconsciousness.

"Whatever you need," Fred parroted. "I'm here for you, Georgie."

Hermione woke up to knives slicing up her skin. She started screaming; her eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

You're burning up.

Not knives. Ice. Small daggers of ice were beating into her body.

"You're safe!" She could hear Draco's voice through the fog of pain. It didn't matter. She needed to get away from the cutting pain. Her fist made contact with something warm and firm. He grunted.

"You need to cool off, dammit!"

She was fully awake now. Through the veil of cold water - a shower? - she could see his face, pale and smudged with dirt. Why was he torturing her? Her body hurt. Her skin was being torn apart by ice. She lashed out again.

"Stop fighting me, Hermione!"

His voice held a deep thread of power that snapped her mind into focus. It was Draco speaking, but the command came from deep inside him. It vibrated on a level that was familiar to her very soul and yet entirely new. Something base and wild awoke inside her, and she stilled, listening to him intently.

"You have a very high fever," he enunciated very clearly. "The cooling spell didn't help. You need to cool down."

The rational side of her agreed. Hermione's logical mind started working. She was alive; that much was clear. Draco had said she had a fever, which was probably why the water felt so frigid and painful. Though it felt less like blades slicing into her skin and more like a cold October downpour.

"The ritual went wrong." Her voice cracked.

"Yes." He reached up and adjusted the spray, so it was out of her face. She noticed the muscle along his jaw ticking.

"The fever is a side effect of the ritual," she guessed.

"And the potion," he added. "You have dragon's blood in your body."

Now that the water was out of her eyes, she could see a bit more clearly. She was indeed in the bathroom, tucked into one of the showers. Just behind Draco, she could see the large bathing pool set into the ground. At least he hadn't thrown her into a vat of ice water. She was still in her underclothes, the last of the blood runes swirling around the drain. There were fields of goosebumps cropping up on her arms and legs.

"Why am I naked?" she croaked.

He looked away. "You are not naked."

She was shivering, alternately sweltering and freezing. The water felt less torturous when focused on her back, so she sat up carefully and drew her knees into her chest, allowing the spray to pelt along her spine.

"What a waste." She felt tears stinging her eyes.

Draco sighed. Hermione watched as he toed off his shoes and socks, removed his expensive leather belt and stepped into the shower stall fully clothed. He slid down the wall next to her, cursing at the water temperature. They ended up with their shoulders pressed together, knees tucked up against their bodies. The pressure of his body was deeply comforting, and she sighed, letting her head rest on her knees.

"It worked," he stated.

She looked at him. "How can you know that?"

He squinted and pushed his wet hair back, putting his face in sharp relief. He could cut glass with that jawline, Hermione thought hazily.

"You're not dead."

"That's not entirely c-conclusive." Her jaw was shuddering. "Did anyone see me actually transform?"

"No, but you also knocked them all over with a blast of magic."

"Are they ok-kay?"

"A few scrapes. Pansy's got a bump, but Longbottom is taking care of her. My mum twisted her ankle."

It took Hermione a moment to figure out he was referring to Narcissa.

"I don't think I've ever heard you call her that."

He shrugged.

"Can I get out now?"

Draco's cold hand pressed against her forehead. After a moment, he nodded to himself and stood up before pulling her to her feet.

He brushed a drying spell over the both of them, then wrapped her in a towel without meeting her eyes, his movements polite, but unfeeling. A great weariness was tugging at Hermione, she was still groggy from the Fangjuice and the effects of great magic, but she still managed to feel the sting of rejection. They shuffled across the hall into her room, their bare feet slapping against the floor.

How was he not shivering? And had he poured soap into the shower? There was a lingering scent in the air tickling her nose. It wasn't flowery, but neither was it overly masculine. She couldn't quite put her finger on it in her current, unsteady state-of-mind.

The air still felt cold against her skin, her damp hair curling against her neck. She wondered if she still had a fever. She certainly felt ill. Tremors had taken over her hands, and her knees felt weak. Everything was too bright, every tiny movement grabbing her attention so that she found herself following shadows with her eyes.

She watched listlessly as Draco moved around her room, lighting candles and searching for dry clothes in her drawers. Hermione squinted against the light. Why did he seem so different? Not different. Illuminated. Magnified. His every move was amplified as if something powerful moved just beneath the surface of his skin. An idea was scratching at her mind.

As he approached her with a shirt, Hermione could suddenly smell him. Tea leaves, honey, black ink, and slowly warming skin. It was that scent from the shower, but stronger and very clearly Draco. She ignored the outstretched shirt in favor of sucking in a lungful of air through her nose.

"Please put this on," he gritted out, his eyes anywhere but on her.

"You were right," she said, ignoring his request. "I think it worked."

His pale brows frowned at her comment, finally meeting her eyes. "Why the sudden change?"

"I'm not sure," she replied vaguely, her head swimming with him. "But I can smell you."

His gaze sharpened. A thrill of victory shot through her. It had worked. Nothing else could explain this change in her senses, or the sudden and overwhelming need to be close to him. Well, almost nothing else. The hunger for his presence had hounded her from the beginning, even against her better judgment. Now that she was experiencing him with new eyes - and a new nose - she found it not only desirable but imperative that she touch him, taste him, know him.

She closed her eyes and leaned in, pressing her hands against his flat belly and her nose into the base of his neck. A wave of electricity lanced up her spine.

He groaned and stepped back slightly.

"Is this what it's like for you?" she gasped, swaying into him.

"Yes," he gritted out, his hands closing on her elbows, keeping her at arm's length.

"Why won't you let me touch you?" she complained.

She needed to taste him, to see if his skin was as sweet as she imagined. The human side of Hermione was flabbergasted by her own confidence, but the new presence in her head was incredibly persuasive. It reassured her that Draco wanted her just as much as she wanted him.

"You're not yourself," he protested.

Hermione ignored his words since they were so obviously ridiculous. Instead of arguing, she flicked open the top button of his shirt. He grabbed her hand.

"This isn't you," he argued breathlessly. "It's your Dragon."

"Maybe," she shrugged. "But you know it's not as simple as that."

"How do you know it isn't making you do something against your will?" he asked, his voice strained. "You're suddenly willing to just give up control to some alter ego?"

"It's not like that."

"How do you know?" he demanded. "Where does Hermione end and the Dragon begin?"

The question was important to him. He had been fighting for his own free will from the beginning, afraid that his choices were no longer his own. It may have been the last strains of the potion in her system, but Hermione found herself completely willing to trust that her beastly guest was just a newly recognized part of her own mind and not separate in any way that mattered.

"You're a warrior," she snapped at him. "You know what an enemy looks like. Tell me, does the Dragon feel like a threat?"

There was a glint of doubt in his eyes as he considered her question. He was so unwilling to face the truth. Now that she knew, there was no going back.

"This is me." She spoke precisely, so there would be no mistake. "I want you."

He searched her eyes for a moment, his face a mask of disbelief. He must have seen what he needed because his face cleared and he was cradling her cheeks, and finally - finally! - pressing his lips to hers. There was no more doubt in the way he moved. His kisses were heated, but deliberate. Draco took his time possessing her mouth with long sweeps of his tongue, his hands traveling from her neck to her breasts to her hips and back again.

Fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, Hermione was desperate to create more contact with his skin. Her Dragon was urging her on as she swept the fabric from his shoulders. His skin was smooth and warm against her own. She ran her hands down his torso, the small blonde hairs tickling her fingertips, before releasing the button and zipper of his trousers. As she delved down into his underpants, he paused for a breathless moment and let her touch him.

It wasn't long before he had removed her brassiere, still slightly damp despite the drying charm. His hands came up to cup her breasts, his long fingers playing lightly over the peaks. When she let out a tiny moan, he pulled her to the bed. When he settled on top of her, the wild part of her exulted in the weight of his body even as her human mind felt a twinge of anxiety. Then he pulled a nipple into his mouth and all she could do was whimper and clutch at his hair.

"Draco," she gasped, needing more but unable to say the words.

The single utterance was enough, however, for he stood up quickly and shucked his pants. Bloody hell, he was beautiful; all pale skin and scars and sinister black ink. He hooked his fingers into the band of her knickers, ready to remove the last bit of clothing separating them, but Hermione found herself gripping his hand to stop him. What if she truly was broken? What if she couldn't go through with it? What if she lost control and hurt him with her wild magic?

Grey eyes met hers with understanding. "I'll stop if you want."

It was the last thing she wanted, but it was difficult to explain why she was hesitating. The Dragon was impatient, and Hermione got the distinct impression of reptilian eyes rolling in her general direction.

"I'll make it good for us," he promised.

"I know," she reassured him, softening at the earnestness in his face.

If she was being honest, Hermione didn't know Draco well at all, and yet somehow she understood that he would take care with her. It was obvious this new presence in her mind, which was so completely drawn to his other half, had succeeded in convincing her. She knew on a deep level that it went against his dragon nature to harm her.

Mate.

Hermione thought she saw the glint of scales move beneath his skin, and there, invisible and yet entirely clear, was her Dragon. A deep howl of recognition echoed in her heart. She released her hold on him and nodded her consent. Keeping his gaze on her, he slid the scrap of cloth down her legs before tossing it aside. Dressed in nothing but a blush, her usual insecurities were belied by the light of approval and desire as he looked at her.

The bed shifted as he crawled up her body.

"Now you're naked," he teased her between kisses, settling between her legs.

It took only moments of his tongue and lips and the hardness of him pressing against her thigh before she was squirming and panting in want. When he finally slid inside her, a burst of exultant joy flashed behind her eyes before quickly fading away.

It was uncomfortable. She knew that she had tensed up at the last minute in reflexive anticipation of pain, the memory of her time at the Lestrange Mansion hitting her full force. Her Dragon hummed soothingly. There was no pain, it pointed out. Only an incredible fullness, and Draco whispering to her - beautiful, soft, wet - and running his hand under her knee to pull her closer. He paused when she tensed.

"Are you okay?" A brief moment of panic flickered across his face. "Am I hurting you?"

"No," Hermione reassured him quickly. "I'm just. . ." she wiggled a bit, making him groan. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." His voice was rough with strain. "Do you want me to stop?"

Hermione shifted, bringing her hips closer to him as she considered his question. There was no real fear, and only a bit of discomfort paired with the promise of something better. He had his eyes squeezed shut, flags of color high on his cheeks as he tried to hold still and let her find her comfort. She could see his Dragon struggling to lay quiescent, and her own alternate consciousness rose to greet him joyfully.

"Don't stop," she whispered, drawing his face down to hers.

He growled his pleasure at her acquiescence and started moving. Slowly, so slowly. They breathed in each other's breaths and communicated with kisses and gasps. It was lovely, but she needed more. An impatient itch had started at the base of her spine, demanding full attention. She hooked an ankle around his leg and flipped him over, rising above him. After a glare of disapproval, he sank back and watched, his hands bracketed around her waist as she moved. She picked up the pace, a slick sheen of sweat forming on her skin.

Hermione sucked in a breath. There it was. That feeling. It was familiar, and yet so strange. It built low in her belly, then flowed outward, rushing down her legs and dancing across her collarbone. With hands on his chest, she moved over him while he watched with glittering eyes. The delicious pressure was building low in her belly with every thrust. It was there, just out of her reach though she chased the feeling desperately.

Oh, Merlin, there was something wrong with her. How long before he noticed? Could she hide it?

"Relax, Granger," Draco told her, stilling her movements. "I can see the wheels turning. Stop thinking so much."

A sharp retort was on the tip of her tongue. How many times would she need to hear him say those words? He sat up, bringing his chest flush with hers and took control of her mouth. His position brought him so close that his pelvis ground against the most sensitive part of her with every slow circle of his hips. A part of her wanted to chastise him for taking control again, but another part - the part with wings - was delighted by his actions.

It was working. Small moans escaped from her throat, gaining volume and tempo as Draco worked her closer and closer. He hummed deep in his throat and turned his attention to her breasts, nipping and sucking lightly. The pleasure was like a coil winding tightly inside her. Suddenly, it snapped, and she was thrown headfirst into a churning sea, a heated wave rushing over her from head to toe.

He peppered kisses along her neck and chest as she came down from her high. Through the warm haze muffling her every intelligent thought, she could feel the tiny nips he was placing along her collarbone. Warm hands wrapped around her hips and he restlessly shifted her up, then down, then back. After a moment, he grunted in exasperation.

"What's wrong?" It was difficult to form a coherent word around the sweet lassitude pulling at her limbs.

"I need - I have to," he stopped with an embarrassed grimace before focusing his eyes on her.

The Dragon was looking out at her again.

"I'm going to flip you over and fuck you," he warned her.

A thrill went up her spine. It was what she needed, what the base and wild part of her wanted the most.

"Gods, yes," she gasped.

And then it was nothing but Draco over her, moving inside her, helping her forget all the shame and terror that still lingered. Hermione watched him come undone and felt a few of the broken pieces in her heart meld back together. It was bittersweet, the realization that she may have found something special in the middle of Hell. The end was coming soon, one way or another, and there was no guarantee either of them would survive to see if this meant anything more.

Some time later, Draco drowsed next to her. The emotional implications of what they had just done were so large and looming that Hermione was perfectly willing to squirrel them away for inspection later. Draco seemed similarly inclined, and so they merely lay together, indulging in small touches and a few murmured words. As the haze of sex faded from her brain, she found herself less able to relax. Those questions that had seemed insignificant in favor of undressing Draco Malfoy now prodded at her.

"What if I can't change?" she wondered aloud. "Despite the evidence that I have a form of Dragon consciousness, there's no reason to believe I'm capable of a full transformation."

"Worry about it tomorrow," he murmured, not opening his eyes.

Hermione felt a familiar call to action, that itch in her brain that kept her awake at night. She needed a quill and ink. She needed to make a list. "We should go to the Room and try it, just to be sure."

"Tomorrow," he repeated.

Turning on her side, Hermione gathered her arguments. As if he could sense her intention, Draco rolled over and pulled her close.

"Focus on your breath," he directed her. "Clear your mind."

His hand was drawing small circles on her hip, mimicking the scars put there by Bellatrix. It took a moment to narrow her thoughts to the feeling of his fingers and her quiet breathing. His breath matched up with hers and she felt herself falling into the in-between space created by meditation. The last thing she remembered before falling asleep was the weight of wings on her shoulder and the flash of pearlescent scales.