Chapter Six

Draco's mind was a blur. Snatchers (Scabior among them) stalked into the Manor with Weasley and Potter. At least, Potter with a messed-up face, bloated and harsh looking, but it was evident that it was Draco's nemesis. The scar was stretched but the green eyes were unmistakable, the look of pure fear that the hero use to save for Dementors on the Quidditch field. Draco had called him nothing but weak, but the ugly truth was that Draco was afraid of them too. It was impossible not to be, everyone had things to be afraid of, things they weren't proud of. That didn't mean he would ever admit to it, and that definitely didn't mean that he would ever faint from it.

His parents and Aunt Bellatrix ordered Draco to identify them so they could call upon the Dark Lord. Yet he couldn't give a clear answer, something inside him screamed against it. Two years ago, he would have loved nothing more than to be in the position to hand the blood-traitor and Scarface (the boy who denied his friendship) over to the Dark Lord. It would have been sweet justice. Suddenly, he found that cruelty didn't have the same allure that it used to. He had seen enough of it, and his hectic thoughts lied with the girl in the cellar (if she was indeed in the cellar and hadn't come to take a sneak peek at what was taking place).

He had to say something. Giving them up would mean that the Dark Lord would be called. Draco couldn't bear to be in his presence, the ever-constant fear that the people he loved most in the world were going to die. It took a simple flick of the wand for the Dark Lord. The single upside to the whole doomed situation was that Hermione was already dead. It was uncanny - and maybe a bit sick - to be glad that she was dead. Then again, if she was alive, she would be there in the Manor with him. He had seen what they did to mudbloods...

There was nothing he could do. He could rule the minds of most of his fellow Slytherins, but not in the big leagues. No, he had no influence, especially not when they were not in the graces of the Dark Lord. Even Goyle was turning against him. The boy followed him around like a lost Puffskin since the day they met in Diagon Alley. Now he had himself and a ghost to rely on.

"I can't – I can't be sure."

Potter and Weasley were thrown into the cellar. The cellar. With Hermione.

While the others were debating and arguing on what the next move would be, he snuck away. It wasn't hard as he had become a recluse since he received the Dark Mark. They wouldn't know he was gone for at least ten minutes. That gave him more than enough time to check on the capture.

When he arrived in the hallway, his right foot slipping on the Persian rug, his houself popped in front of him. He held out two wands for him to inspect.

"Check them, will you?" He couldn't be bothered, not then. It couldn't have come at a worse time.

The houself picked one, a knobby short one and held it out for him. He had already checked, apparently.

Draco accepted it, and exhaled a gust, whistling as he did so. "Which one did this wand belong to?"

"To the ginger one, sir."

Oceans of sickness sloshed inside his head. Draco knew it. Pushing the houself to the side, he spoke through the door announcing himself, ordering them to stay away from the door where he could keep an eye on them. Then he entered and trotted down the steps.

The first thing he saw was Weasley's face stark white, and frankly, a little green. His head looked like it belonged to a collection of morbid Christmas decorations. When Draco killed him perhaps he would use his head as an ornament on his tree.

Potter didn't look so good either, as though he was about to be sick all over the wall he was leaning against. Luna was the only one who seemed perfectly at ease with the situation, for even Hermione appeared as if she would die, and that was a stretch.

Hermione hung her head, refusing to look him in the eye. He didn't know what that meant, but he answered her unasked question. "I got the wand."

"I know."

Her hair fell in front of her face, but he saw a glimmer on her cheek. At that, Draco pointed his wand at the stupid Weasel. "Time to say goodbye."

Hermione floated forward faster than his eyes could take in the frigid wind, the blear of white. His arm was encased in a bucket of ice, and Hermione looked up at him pleadingly. "Don't."

"He murdered you!"

"It was an accident! We were all running, we were escaping Snatchers! I cursed a Death Eater and I told them to go - to disapparate without me, but Ron didn't... It happened so fast, we... Ron was trying to protect me. It was an accident, Draco!"

"So he says."

"Ron has never lied to me."

"Murder is a good incentive to do so, don't you think?"

"For you it may!"

He paused, bearing into her, ignoring every impulse to jerk away from her. "I've never took anyone's life, Hermione. I especially wouldn't take yours!"

"Please?" Her hands still stayed near his, without holding, without really touching. The greatest ache he had ever known was that if she was alive, then she was close enough to embrace. He could never embrace her again.

It was impossible to deny her, not with the way her eyes were watering. He cursed under his breath, and let his arm fall to his side - if for nothing more than to escape the cold. "Fine. So be it. He'll be dead anyway when the Dark Lord comes. I must go."

"No. Draco!" She cried as he walked away.

He spun and waved her off. "Go! You're reason for staying is gone! Weasley killed you, that's the end of it."

"It's not! You have to get them out of here!"

"Then what, Hermione? I get them out and then I go with them? Are you going to stick around to make sure their heads don't get blown off? Do you want to stay to see their children? The grandchildren? You're dead, Granger. Come to terms with that and leave. You're not wanted here."

She stood stoic, unaffected. "I will leave you alone forever, Malfoy, when you get them out of here."

"I can't. And I have to go before they know I'm gone."

"Malfoy -"

"Shut. Up!" She flinched, but the burning in his veins stopped him from caring, stopped him from feeling anything but the anger he felt toward her. "I kept my end of the bargain."

Before he closed the cellar door, before it clicked closed, he heard her broken sob. It seared right through him. He leaned his back against the door, his head banging softly, cushioned by his hair. Closing in his eyes, he tried to feel angry again, but it slipped away.

Draco had made her cry. Again. He made a girl that set a star's gleam in his life to tears, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he whispered.

Without looking, he flipped the lock. He hoped they heard it clicked as he rejoined his family in the drawing room.