Erstwhile on TUB:
"Look, Hermione... Harry isn't like them. He's about as far from it as you could possibly hope to be; He just wants to prove to you how much he cares about you. I'm like them. I used sex to get to you, to make you trust me. You can hate me for that, but don't misjudge Harry. He only has the best of intentions."
"That's easy for you to say," she said, taking his hand between her own and squeezing it as she continued. "You didn't feel it, Draco. I didn't want it. I didn't want any of it."
"He knows that now," Draco promised, bringing their hands to his lips and kissing her fingers. "He won't do it again. I can promise you that." Hermione paused a moment to think over Draco's words, then sighed and cuddled up to his side.
"God, Draco," she said softly, almost as if speaking to herself. "Why weren't you here when I needed you?"
-
Chapter Eleven: Wings
"Hermione, now we really have to move," Draco said for what could have been the hundredth time, expressing amazing self discipline as he lounged his aching body on her glove-like mattress, basking in comfort. Hermione, who was glued to his side, shook her head and tightened her grip.
"Just a little longer; please, Draco."
"Harry's still waiting for you in the hallway; I've already been in here for half an hour. He'll start to get suspicious, even in the state he's in," Draco reminded, running fingers through her hair. Hermione's frown deepened and she opened her eyes, tilting her head to look up at him.
"I don't want to see him," she voiced, eyes pleading with Draco's misty grays. "I don't know if I'll ever want to see him again."
"Hermione, please be rational," he begged. "You must have seen how your absence has affected him, and even more your recovery. He could die if you don't compromise and make some sort of effort. I wouldn't say that if I didn't mean it." Hermione fell victim to a violent shudder and buried her head into his chest. Draco gave a swift nod of agreement and forced himself into a sitting position, clambering out of the bed and helping Hermione to stand. Her expression was blank and her eyes calculating, even as she stared at the floorboards. Just as Draco was about to open the door, her head jerked up and she held fast to his hand, startling him.
"Draco," she said so softly it could barely be heard. "Will you talk to him first? Please; tell him not to touch me... I don't want to feel that way again. I know it sounds dramatic, but I can't stand it." Draco sighed, but agreed, slipping through the door and into the hallway, leaving Hermione to prepare herself for a second reunion with her childhood best friend.
Harry was still seated across the hall, as it was assumed he would be, head bent forward and eyes closed from emotional exhaustion. With a sigh, Draco stepped forward and crouched down before him, moving a hand to rest upon his shoulder. Harry jumped clean out of his skin and Draco nearly fell backward in his attempt to move out of harm's way.
"Harry; Harry! It's all right! It's just me," he said quickly, and Harry calmed, breathing slightly labored and a rosy glow painted on his cheekbones. It took the raven haired man a moment to realize his situation, but he turned on Draco the moment conscious thought was granted on his mind.
"What did she say?" he demanded, eyes locked on the blond's. "She isn't coming out. She hates me, doesn't she? I told you; I told you..." Harry chanted, digging quaking fingers into his disheveled hair. Draco shook his head, placing a calming palm on his friend's shoulder.
"No, Harry. She's coming out; I told you she would. I just wanted to talk to you first," Draco lied, but it eased Harry's mind; his breathing calmed and his body relaxed, eyes turning toward his addressee. "Just be careful Harry. I'd avoid touching her at all for a while." Harry began to shake his head with intense conviction.
"I wouldn't. Not now, not ever again," he vowed, then added in an undertone, "not without permission."
"I don't just mean that," Draco corrected himself, brows crossing as he struggled for words. "I literally wouldn't touch her; not a finger, anywhere. Trust me on this, Harry; it'll only make things harder for you." Harry swallowed hardly and thought over his friend's words, then gave a sturdy nod.
"I suppose you're right," he agreed and Draco sighed, patting his back.
"Good," he assured. "I assume you want to see her?" Harry looked up with widened eyes and could feel his heart pounding in his temple. With an awkward smile, Draco stood and moved toward the door, knocking once to alert its occupant before opening it fully. Harry stood and rushed into the room, not to his better judgment, looking in all direction for any sign of Hermione.
"Where?" he asked desperately, spinning frantically in the center of the space. Draco's half smile disappeared instantly and he took a step into Hermione's bedroom. The window was open and Fagan fluttered from it at Harry's outburst. Draco was left with his jaw slacked, staring in shock as his friend dropped to his knees. "She's gone."
-x-
Hermione emitted a tiny scream as she lost her footing and fell the remaining meter and a half to the ground. There had been no trellis leading from her window to the earth three stories below, and not time to construct any sort of climbing apparatus, leaving Hermione no choice but to jump from rooftop to rooftop and hope for the best. Luckily, the Hogwarts Inn was decked on all sides with wooden awnings to protect against wind; a feature Hermione took use of. She had begun to shimmy down a pole holding up the tiny covering that resided above the front door, but the wood was wet from the rain and slippery.
Hermione fell to the ground with a thump which wracked her body. She was winded for a moment, but regained herself quickly, hurrying to stand and spin toward the road. The sight was devastating; Hermione had never truly seen the front of the farmhouse. When leaving to visit Tully, her hurry prevented any image intake of her surroundings until she was met with the open backyard. It was this reason, as she stood at the little gate, that Hermione was surprised.
It seemed there were no houses for miles. The cracked cement road ran endlessly in both directions, but not a touch of human life was anywhere apparent. Her plan of escape had only flowed this far in her mind and Hermione was at a loss. She had no way of knowing just how far the next town was or which direction to choose and it would be sheer suicide to run off without such knowledge. With a heavy heart, she turned back to the little house of horror, seeing no other choice but to climb the steps to the door and face them all; Harry, Ron... and Draco.
Pausing momentarily to look her oppressor in the eye, Hermione lifted her gaze to the peeled paint and country trimming of the building before her. She allowed herself a moment to gaze over the front of the building, taking in every flaw and detail, from the small wooden onion at the tip of the roof to the cracks in the stone which composed the inviting steps. Hermione's gaze stopped and her reverie was broken as she stared with wide eyes at a foreign object lying haphazardly on the uprise.
A million thoughts jumbled themselves in the highway of Hermione's mind, trying to fit a broom shaped piece into the puzzle of her plan. In the time it took for her eyes to widen and her heart to race, the leaf had been squeezed between leaving and freedom, directly in the middle of the imageless beige picture that was her immediate future; waiting with anticipation to be flipped over or painted anew.
When surprised had dropped its guard and allowed conscious thought to permeate the nerves in Hermione's brain, she snapped into action and ran with incredible speed to the stone steps. In an instant, she held Harry's forgotten flyer in her palms, gripping the smooth wooden shaft with protectively curled fingers.
"Hermione!" She heard from above her, a voice she knew well to belong to Draco Malfoy. "Hermione!" he called again, voice cracking slightly and causing his tone and volume to suffer. Hermione frowned slightly to herself, letting her eyes gall the head of Harry's broom. She had never wanted to hurt Draco.
When he did not call again, Hermione assumed him heading down the stairs for the foyer and quickly mounted her broom, ascending slowly as she forced herself to remember the finer points of control. The shaft felt odd and uninviting between her legs, and only served to grant motivation; Harry had made her feel the same way.
Like riding a bike or tying one's shoes, Hermione easily recalled her childhood ease and grace on a broomstick. She flew high into the evening sky, thanking the twilight for its acceptance of her alien body. Unable to smother the biting urge, she turned back for one last look, slowing her airborne sweeper to a near stop. Harry was no longer in her bedroom, but instead in his own, hanging out the window in a loose and bent position as if someone had just washed him and hung him out to dry. One arm was crushed beneath his body while the other stuck out in front of him; he looked almost to have lost consciousness while reaching out to her. His eyes were wide and alive, though glazed and out of focus. Hermione shuddered. Harry was staring directly at her; had he blinked and breathed a breath of air into his sadly immobile body, he would surely have seen her, but he did not. Harry stared, but did not see.
"Hermione! Come back, please!" yelled a voice which most certainly did not belong to the raven haired rag doll in the windowsill. Hermione turned her face downward to where Draco immerged from the front doors, followed by two or three others. She paid them no attention, instead focusing her gaze on her savior. His blond hair gave him no advantage in the dim moonlight, making him blend in with the cobble path and lush lawn he ran across. "Hermione!" he called into the sky, in much a better state than his ex-enemy and comrade. Against her better judgment, Hermione blew him a kiss, putting into it all her apologies and regrets, leaving her free of burden and clean of conscience. "Hermione, no!"
She turned, maneuvering the broom with expert ease, and disappeared into the night. From the trees, a little orange owl followed in her wake.
-x-x-x-
Draco growled as he stomped up two flights of stairs, teeth clenched and hands balled into fists.
"Draco?" Janelle called from behind him, holding her stomach as she climbed. "Draco, what are you going to do?" He ignored her, turning around the platform on the second floor, where his own bedroom was located. He paused not a moment as he held out an upturned palm, beckoning a broom which loyally came when called. "Draco?" Janelle said again, now following him up the second flight. His pace and her stomach combined became too much for Janelle and, halfway between the second floor and third, she could take it no longer and slowed to a stop, dropping down to sit on the stairs and breathing quickly. Though labor was more than a month off, Janelle found herself falling into Lamaze rhythm, holding her stomach and practicing her exercises.
Draco paid her no attention as he continued his ascent of the stairs, marking a path of fire as he set a direct course down the third story corridor, turning sharply to enter Hermione's room where his cloak lay forgotten on her wrinkled duvet. He donned it quickly and made to turn back, fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft of his broom, but something on the bed caught his eye. Pausing and lifting a curious brow, Draco knelt on the mattress, still holding his broom, and reached across the length to the half filled sheet of parchment Hermione had been working on when he made his first appearance. He lifted it carefully, as if it were key evidence in a murder mystery, and began silently to read. There was no greeting or salutation; the note simply began.
I don't know how to begin to say this. First, please sit down; I would not want to be the cause of any injury. My last visit with you occurred six years ago, almost to the date, at a little London train station. I stood with a cart full of books and a cage for my cat, wearing a pleated skirt and mary-janes to coordinate my vest and robe, and bid you goodbye with a promise to write. You asked me to stay safe and eat my green vegetables; to not overwork myself with prefect duties or get into too much trouble with my friends. I waved away your worries and boarded a scarlet train, heading off to the start of another
That was all that was written. A few elegantly composed sentences, setting someone up for something unexpected. She had planned to mail someone and notify them of her return and pre-mortem state. The only question to ask was who? Draco had a suspicion; a logical, true to form piece of the puzzle, a perfect explanation for her whereabouts. He knew exactly the place to find her. He simply had no idea where this place stood built.
With renewed vigor and determination, Draco spun on his heel and strode through the doorway, heading again for the stairs. When he passed Janelle again she was no longer out of breath, but merely resting and enjoying her few moments of inactivity. As Draco made his way around her bulky form, she looked up with wide eyes and stood as she called out to him.
"Draco, wait," she said, attempting to catch his shoulder with her palm, but he moved unexpectedly and she missed the support of his frame, losing her balance and wobbling dangerously three steps from the ground. Draco, upon hearing her gasp in sheer terror, spun with expert timing and caught her before she could come to any harm. He righted her feet and held tight to her shoulders, staring with wide eyes her bleached face. Janelle could not do so much as move for a moment, paralyzed in shock and fear, and Draco held her steady as she regained steady breathing and calmed her frantic heart.
"Hey," Draco said softly, thoughts of Hermione pushed centimeters back to allow room for concern over Janelle's immediate condition. His eyes flickered downward to the impediment placed at the front of her waist. "Everybody all right?" She was trembling, putting much of her weight against him, and tentatively opened her eyes to stare up at him. "Nell?" She gave a terse nod, swallowing.
"I think so. Thank you." Her voice was soft, childlike and frightened.
"I'm sorry," Draco said, ignoring the single shake of the head he received in response. "It was my fault. I should have listened." To this, he received no reaction. Janelle seemed to be attempting to control herself and quell her trembling extremities. Draco sighed. "Come on; let's get you to bed; I'll send Neville up. Promise me you'll go to sleep and stay there the rest of the night?" Janelle allowed herself a heavy sigh, nodding and fixing a forced smile onto her face. Draco returned one more genuine for her benefit. He helped her down the remaining stairs to the second floor and the bedrooms closest to the foyer and dining area. Because of Janelle's extenuating circumstances, it was thought best by all that she sleep as close to the bottom floor as possible during her stay at the farmhouse.
Once she had crossed the tricky threshold and was safely standing within feet of her inviting bed, Draco allowed Janelle release of his firm grip. She smiled a thank you and he backed away, bidding her a friendly goodnight and renewing his promise to find Neville.
Hermione was locked inside his brain, itching and scratching at the back of his eyes, starved for attention. She had been emancipated from the world for half a decade; she knew not what had transpired during her absence and could not be fully trusted to make it on her own in the wild of England, be it small town Canterbury or the heart of golden London. She screamed and cried inside his head, her voice ringing in his ears as she wailed and called out to him, pleading for him to save her.
Draco, in a world of torment, mounted his broom to fly to the foyer more quickly and called in his most persistent voice "Longbottom!" The word slipped from his lips before he could consciously think it and passed his memory before he had time to ponder his use of the man's surname.
Neville, always jumpy and burdened with slight paranoia, skidded into the foyer within seconds of his summons, looking pale and panicky.
"For God's sakes, Draco, what is it?" he asked, pressing a palm to his chest as the rush left him. Draco quickly stepped closer to his comrade and forced himself to remain calm; agitating Neville Longbottom was not something one would do if at any length it could be avoided.
"Janelle's upstairs, waiting in your room. She had a bit of a fright; tripped on the stairs. They're both fine, but she'd like if you'd come up as soon as possible," Draco stated, remaining as calm and businesslike as possible. Neville blanched the instant he registered 'danger' in his mind's monologue and made no indication that he had heard a word of Draco's speech save 'Janelle', 'fright', and 'fine' as he spun and bounded up the staircase without so much as a word of thanks or explanation of intention.
Draco sought naught of Neville's gratitude or explanation and turned himself in the opposite direction, bursting through the front doors and inviting the rush of air, perfumed of the night and feeling fresh against his tired brow. He could waste no more time; Hermione's image was driving him crazy, pulling at his mind's chords like harp strings and lulling him to her will.
"Draco?" asked a new voice, laced with surprise, but Draco's face contorted as he heard it. He made to ignore her, but Teige Ackerly was not one to be easily overlooked. She stepped directly in front of his retreating form, placing the heels of her hands directly on his broom head and preventing his take off. Draco glared at her.
"What?" he spat, sharp grey eyes boring into her hard hazel orbs. Draco had never liked Teige. When they had attended Hogwarts he had made a point of avoiding her and after the attack, she became a prick in his side. In truth, until a few months before Hermione's rescue he had no real reason to despise her. It was an instinct; a gut-feeling. He loathed her with ever fiber in his being.
For years he could not explain to even himself why he found her so appalling, but she had recently given him excuse. When Neville had approached her father to ask for Janelle's hand in marriage, she had washed her mouth of all opinion and let them proceed as natural, wedding as a happy couple though she approved not of their difference in age.
When Neville had approached her father again, just over a year ago, to express his thirst for parenthood, however, she had let her biased conscience impede. At that point, both Janelle and Neville had lived together at the farmhouse and Draco could remember countless nights lying in his bed and listening to the blonde bride sob into the ceramic of the bathroom tile, comforted to the best of his ability by Neville, but ultimately miserable in her indecision. She wanted nothing more than to get a head start and throw away her contraceptives; volunteering to become the bearer of the next generation of Longbottoms, but was conflicted in that she loved her sister dearly and greatly valued her opinion. Teige knew of her sister's torment, but did nothing save a shake of the head and a dirty look whenever the topic was mentioned.
For this, Draco despised her. She had let her own flesh and blood suffer at her own hand, forcing her to live in a life of emotional conflict; an unneeded addition to a long list of obstacles. Draco himself had done a lot of immoral things in his time and had made his share of bad choices, but if there was any lesson to be remembered of his childhood, it was that of family loyalty. For family, Draco believed rather to take fall than build burden.
There was no statement in the rulebook which depicted the unconditional love and unquestionable agreement with every decision a blood relative could make, but there was definitely a chapter on faithfulness and support which clearly stated that no one person should ever inflict pain upon another of their gene pool. It was for this reason that Draco could not avoid a stir of anger in synapse with thoughts of Teige Ackerly.
"You can't go," she stated bluntly, gaze unwavering and hands still holding tight to his broom. Draco bit back the rage; he had no time for Teige when Hermione's health was at stake.
"Clear off," he bit back harshly, trying to move past her, but she held firmly to her position.
"You can't go, Draco," Teige repeated. "It's dark, you've no idea where she's gone; it's suicide. Not to mention you're tired and probably haven't eaten a proper meal all day. I don't want your plunge to death hanging over my head just because you had an impulse and I let you go. That girl is the least of our troubles right now. What about Harry? There's something wrong with him, Draco. Something that goes beyond just depression. He threatened Janelle today. Threatened her. God knows what would have happened if Neville hadn't stopped him. Deal with Harry first." Draco's eyes narrowed farther and he ripped the broom tip from her grasp.
"Don't you ever make to lecture me," he warned and pointed to the sky. "That girl has a name. She has a life, and a mind, and a right to be rescued. She wouldn't admit it, but she's naïve. The world to her at this point is as unfamiliar and dangerous as Knockturn alley to a muggle; to Janelle. If Neville had a breakdown amidst all the crowd of farmhouse residents and you saw Nell wandering into that darkened passage, who would you attend to first?"
"That's different," Teige stated, crossing her arms. "Janelle is my sister and I love her. Neville is barely even family. He could rot for all I'm offering by way of assistance."
"Hermione is my friend and I... I care about her," Draco mocked. "Harry has a houseful of others to assure he doesn't commit any act of sin, but Hermione seems not to have anyone trying to help her, does she? She's even got you impeding her redeemer and prolonging her pain. Would you rather her death rest on your shoulders?" Teige struggled for words, but remained silent as they were lost on her, glaring heatedly at the blond before her. Draco made to move past her and she didn't stop him, sparing not a word of luck or blunder as he rose into the night sky at incredible speed.
-x-x-x-
Hermione, shivering and victim of painful tremors which racked her body and disoriented her flight, found herself without the strength to fly more than a few feet from the ground. Her progress was slow and she held tight to the broom handle, closing her eyes against tears of torture.
When she opened them again, Hermione found herself no longer in the air. She instead was lying on the pavement below a streetlight, her skin laced with strawberry burns and body aching from the cold. Fagan was perched on her wrist, pecking lightly at her hair to wake her, and Hermione smiled at him, lifting a heavy hand to run fingers along his feathers.
"Hey, baby," she said softly and Fagan cooed concernedly, nibbling lightly on her thumb. She laughed delicately and shifted her tired body, making the little orange owl flap his wings in excitement. With a groan, Hermione lifted herself into a sitting position, shivering against the cold, and looked tiredly around. "I don't know where we are, Faygie, but it's a long way from where we want to be," she told him and he hopped onto her shoulder, hooting soothingly.
With considerable effort, Hermione climbed onto her feet and held tight to Harry's broom, starting slowly down the boulevard in search of somewhere warm to sleep.
-x-x-x-
Draco flew at such a speed the world below seemed not but a blur. The air rushing past him and combing though his hair made him feel confident and important, sure he was doing the right thing. The feeling was incredible and addictive and Draco found himself flying much too far than anticipated. He forced himself to slow and come to a halt in an empty alleyway, walking into the sparsely inhabited city street with an air of determination.
"You there," he said sternly to the first man to pass him by. "Can you tell me where to find a phone booth?"
The man gave him an odd look and wordlessly pointed down the street to the large red closet on the corner. Draco spared no time to thank the man and started down the street, squeezing himself in front of an old woman who was approaching the booth, shutting the door quickly behind him and ignoring her knocks and curses at his youth.
"Let's see," he mumbled to himself, picking up the thick directory which was hanging below the phone. He opened it to the section labeled 'London' and flipped through the alphabet to the latter 'G's. "Granger, Granger, Granger... where are you?"
The little old woman was making an awful racket and, in his tired state especially, Draco was having a hard time concentrating on the tightly typed script on the thin pages open before him. He leaned against the door to keep it closed and narrowed his eyes at his tome.
"Ah, here," he said, smiling in triumph. "Michael and Sharon." Draco paused and his smile dropped slightly. "Or Ralph and Linda, or Gregory and Eileen, or Alfred and Walter... well, I doubt that's it." Draco placed a hand to his temple and tried desperately to remember the names of the two middle-aged muggles he had met only once, on a very somber autumn day. His eyes roamed over the list of Grangers, looking for anything that might spark a memory. "No, no..." he mumbled to himself, pleased that the old lady had finally taken leave, and sighed. Suddenly, Draco felt himself start. Clive and Lavinia. "Livy," he whispered in awe and quickly memorized the address indented below. "23 Westchester Murray, 23 Westchester Murray."
-x-
Draco had barely landed before his fist began pounding on the door.
"Open up!" he shouted angrily, frustrated by lack of response, and the light in an upstairs room flickered on. Draco continued knocking.
"Coming! Coming! For Christ's sake!" called an unpleased male voice from inside, followed by the more feminine reprimand for language of his wife.
The second the door opened, Draco felt a rush of relief. They looked much older and tired, but were without a doubt the parents of the lost and found, only to be lost again, Hermione Granger. Mr. Granger, who had answered his incessant knocking, looked at him strangely, as though he were trying to remember if he should be expecting company at nine in the evening.
"Can we help you?" asked Missus Granger, coming to stand beside her husband and lying a petite hand on his arm. Draco felt a shutter run through him; Hermione definitely had her mother's hands.
"Where is she?" he asked, softly but still with a demanding force, and Missus Granger found herself taking a step backward. Her husband instantly pushed her into his protection, shielding his consort from danger.
"Who?" he demanded, and Draco's eyes narrowed. He felt his jaw lock and tightened his grip on the broom in his hand as he pushed past the older couple and into the house, looking in all directions for any sign of life. "Who, boy?" Mr. Granger repeated, now growing somewhat angry at the intrusion. He pushed his wife further behind him.
"Who the hell do you think?" he shouted at them. "She's here, I know she's here. She has to be."
"Lad, I asked you a question; tell me who you're looking for and I'll try to be of aid, but your shouts are hardly helping anything and you are frightening my wife," Mr. Granger reminded sternly, but Draco ignored him.
"Hermione!" he called, voice echoing in the empty chambers. "Hermione, please! Where are you?" When there was no reply but silence, Draco turned back to the Grangers and was forced to bite back the demand making its way past his tongue.
Clive Granger's skin blended into the crisp cotton of his clean white sleepers and he stood perfectly still, as if afraid to breathe. Lavinia, his wife, was sobbing quietly into the back of his shoulder, holding great wads of fabric tightly in her lovely feminine hands.
Everything was silent for an extended moment; time seemed to stand still and Draco was stunned to silence by the sight before him, hearing nothing but his own breathing and the sound of his pulse rushing through his ears. After what felt like hours, Clive swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat and parted chapped lips in a sigh.
"Lad," he said softly, sympathetically. "I'm sorry to tell you this in such an informal manner, but our daughter passed away nearly six years ago. Hermione lost her life in the Wizarding World War; I regret you never knew." Draco stared at them in disbelief; he had been so sure.
"She hasn't been back? Not earlier this evening; hours ago?" he asked and Lavinia emitted a heart wrenching sob which made her husband flinch in sympathetic pain.
"Lad, I'm going to have to ask you to leave now. It's an indecent hour and, as you can very well see, neither of us are in any state to entertain. If you'd like to come back for tea at another time, we would love for you to tell us your relationship with our daughter. Please, boy; goodnight," Clive instructed suggestively, holding the door open to its fullest extent. Draco shook his head, lodging nervous fingers into his pale locks. They didn't know; they really didn't know.
"Look, Mr. Granger..." he began awkwardly and Clive straightened in anticipation. "I wasn't supposed to be the one to tell you this; Harry, Harry meant to but he..." Draco sighed. "My name is Draco Malfoy; I went to school with Hermione. I was there the day of the attack and I've been helping the Hogwarts Alliance to usurp establishments. I..." he paused. "I've never been good with this sort of thing, so I think it's best to just tell you. We've found Hermione; she isn't dead."
Clive turned, if possible, a paler shade of white and Lavinia fell to the floor in a dead faint. Draco's eyebrows lifted at the sight in surprise and he felt somewhat guilty; perhaps he should have requested they sit down. In an instant, Clive was at the side of his wife, gently patting her face to bring her around. Draco, feeling awkward and out of place, took a step forward. Clive's shoulders tensed.
"Get out of my house," he demanded in a cold voice, speaking over his shoulder without bothering to turn around.
"But, sir; I need your help. Hermione, she..."
"I said leave, boy. Sick is what this is. Sick as hell," he cursed, before again speaking in low and hushed tones, words like "C'mon love" and "Please, Livy, wake up" to his unconscious wife. Draco, with nothing left to say and his welcome obviously outstayed, shrunk back and slouched in a depression, slipping through the door and closing it softly behind him. Clive continued to shake his wife. "Livy... Livy."
"Clive?" she finally said, her voice the lowest of whispers. Slowly, Lavinia's eyes fluttered open. "Oh, Clive, I had the most wonderful dream. A man... he came to us in the middle of the night. He told me my baby was still alive. Alive, Clive; did you hear? Alive." He frowned deeply and nodded.
"I heard you, love, but it was a dream; just a dream. No man came to us."
"I know," Lavinia said, sighing softly, and sat up to rest her head on his chest and Clive held her closely to him. He felt her smile against the skin of his forearm. "I don't think he was a man, Clive. I think he was an angel."
-
A/N: Unedited version available at http:tangledupinblue.