Edited 10/13/15

5. I Feel the Darkness

The drops of rain they fall all over

This awkward silence makes me crazy

The glow inside burns light upon her

I'll try to kiss you if you'll let me

(This can't be the end)

Tidal waves they rip right through me

Tears from eyes worn cold and sad

Pick me up now, I need you so bad

[Down, Blink 182]

Hermione landed on the floor of the foyer with a crack, sprawling on her hands and knees, Lucius' wand falling as pain tore through her side, and a scream tore from her lips. She slammed her hand against her side and felt a bleeding, raw hollow of meat at her waist instead of smooth skin, and jerked her hand away. The light was so bright it made her eyes sting and she squeezed them shut, thinking Draco, Draco, Draco with a horrible, hollow pain that the physical agony couldn't eclipse.

"Harry!" she screamed his name as multiple footsteps pounded towards her, and shocked gasps and cries rang out, her name being called over and over amongst the babble of voices.

"-Mione!"

"Oh Merlin, she's splinched -"

"What happened to -"

"Hermione!"

"Someone get Tricia!"

"- fucking kill the bastards!"

"Fuck, Hermi -"

"-ere's Malfoy?"

A stupid rush of shame hit Hermione as she realised she was shirtless, her chausses unlaced, covered in blood and scars and her - her trousers had caught fire. She screamed again and rolled to the side, falling onto her back and struggling to wrench the coin out of her pocket. There were hands grabbing at her but she didn't realise what they were doing, reacted instinctively to the way she did hands grabbing at her, and screamed and tried to buck away - expecting pain, expecting violation.

"Don't touch her!"

The hands dropped back and raised voices were shouting and babbling and everything sounded like chaos, and her side and her hip and Draco.

She snapped her fingers around the coin and yanked it out, flung it weakly away onto the carpet and then shoved her burnt fingers in her mouth, sucked on them. She could feel blood pouring out of her side, and hear Tricia Fideloff's voice as she bent over Hermione and muttered charms and other healing spells, trying to heal the wound. There was the drip of dittany and the searing sting of pain as it healed over slowly. The gasps of people staring at her. But Hermione was locked behind her eyes - picturing him in that last second, before she'd disapparated.

"Someone, deactivate that bloody coin before it sets the bloody carpet on fire!" Hermione vaguely identified that as Tonks, sounding uncharacteristically panicky.

"Bloody he - why don't you?" George - or maybe Fred - shocked and yet still being cheeky through the panic of the situation.

"I haven't got my wand on me, I've got Teddy, now just hurry up and bloody do it, Fred!" Tonks shot back and Hermione's lips made a faint smile past all the pain and the hollow grief at the thought of Draco - DracoDracoDraco oh god I left him I left him. She was home. She was home.

He wasn't.

"Jesus, Hermione. Jesus." That was Harry, she realised, and she squinted against the bright light and saw horrified green eyes behind round glasses and a shock of dark hair, filling her half-blinded vision.

"It's okay. You're safe. Tricia'll fix you up. It's all right. Jesus." He turned his head away as someone barked out a question she couldn't quite make out, and Hermione tried to snag his arm with a trembling hand.

"Harry - Harry."

His head snapped back to hers, eyes so wide and so green, and she blinked back tears of pain and grief and the wateriness the light caused.

"It's going to be all right, Hermione," he told her again, the way he sounded like he was going to start crying not reassuring her at all, and that wasn't her problem anyway. She didn't care about herself because she was home, she was safe, she was fucking fine - it was Draco who… She shook her head minutely and winced at the movement.

"No - Harry… I…"

"What is it, Hermione?" Ugh, why wouldn't he just shut up and let her speak? But after that last question, and her ferocious if dazed glare, he fell silent at last, waiting, eyes glued to hers.

"Harry - I - I left him." It hurt so much, saying that - saying it like that - so she tried again, rephrasing with swollen, numbed lips. "He made me leave him. I - I left him, Harry, oh god, we have to go get him - we hav…"

"It's all right. It's going to be okay…"

And then everything went utterly dark, and Hermione knew nothing more.

Voldemort was angry. Extremely, extremely angry. Draco could tell, because his already high voice had risen several octaves, and was vibrating with force, even though he wasn't speaking over-loudly.

Lucius was on the floor of the Malfoy Manor, in nearly the same spot Hermione had been tortured in, and Draco watched through slitted eyes, thinking there must be some sort of ironic justice in that. His father writhed and screamed as Voldemort crucioed him mercilessly, releasing the spell every few moments to berate his father while he gasped for mercy and pleaded for Voldemort's forgiveness.

The floor was hard on Draco's knees, and he swayed, trying not to fall over - so weak, and with his arms wrenched back and bound behind him at the elbows, there would be no way to catch himself if he fell.

He wondered what Voldemort was going to do with him. He wondered if Hermione had gotten away safely. He wondered if she would forgive him for telling her to go without him. He wondered if he would ever see her again. He tried not to cry; keeping the tears back behind his slitted, swollen eyes where they stung and stung. His entire body hurt, but his hand - his magically reattached finger - was a particularly bad pain, and throbbed in time with his pulse. He was acutely aware of it as he waited for Voldemort to finish with his father.

Yesterday - Merlin, had it only been yesterday? Yesterday, Lucius had leaped to his feet when Hermione had disapparated, horrified and terrified beyond what little reason he had left. He hadn't been expecting her to be able to disapparate - Draco had. She hadn't told him that was what she needed the wand for, but what else could her plan have been?

His father had started screaming something about the wards, and Draco had wondered dizzily, how exactly Hermione had known the wards were coming down. A fierce elation and despair had battled in his head for a moment, before calling a truce - he had been happy beyond belief that Hermione had escaped, but the fact that he had still been trapped laid a ton weight on his chest.

His father had started raging, ripping the cell door open and screaming for the others, too far gone to even think of coming up with a lie to save his skin - just screaming about the mudblood being gone, and yelling Draco's mother's name over and over. And then someone had come and dragged his father away, and finited Draco's bindings, reattached his little finger, and slammed the door on him. And he had sat there and gone over and over what had happened in his head. He had taken in the emptiness of the cell, and the patch on the rags where Hermione had always sat, and he had realised he was all alone.

Rostan had taken him that night.

"The last time before the Dark Lord gets here - let's make this something special, shall we?" he had leered, and special was certainly one word for it, although Draco would have thought horrific and sadistic fitted better. He didn't know how he'd survived the last twelve hours with any of his sanity left, but somehow…he had. Unless he was completely mad now, and just didn't know it. Draco hung his head, trying not to remember it now, because if he remembered any more of last night, with Rostan, he thought he might start crying. So instead Draco pictured Hermione in his mind, and listened to his father scream with a faint sense of satisfaction.

"Take him away," Voldemort said to his followers at last, the words slithering from his mouth, "And remove his little finger. Lucius? Lucius, can you hear me?"

Voldemort glided forward over the floor, holding his wand in that delicate grip of his, and bent over Draco's father as he shuddered on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. Voldemort's pale, bare feet delicately avoided the pools as he stepped over and around Draco's father, circling him like a predator prowling about its wounded prey.

"There will be no more chances, Lucius. The next time you fail me…I shall not be so merciful." Voldemort drew the last word out, smiling that thin, lipless smile, and straightening as several Death Eaters hurried forward to seize Lucius and remove him - and themselves - from Voldemort's presence before his displeasure fell upon them. And then Voldemort's eyes fell on Draco, burning into him, inside him, and Draco jerked his head away sharply, his fringe falling over his eyes.

Terror pounded hard and sharp in his veins, but he kept his face expressionless, but for a twist of his mouth at the pain aching and throbbing through him.

He wouldn't let Voldemort read him. He wouldn't. He didn't want Voldemort seeing all those precious moments between him and Hermione, didn't want him tainting them by the mere fact of him viewing them with his twisted, evil mind. Draco shut his eyes and tried not to shatter, repressing his tears hard, a tight ball of emotion all knotted up in his chest and another clogging his throat.

"Draco…Malfoy…" Voldemort drew out slowly, and Draco hunched his shoulders and tucked his chin to his chest, eyes shut and thinking of Hermione, tensing himself for the pain he knew was sure to follow.

Hermione catalogued the things she noticed first in her head when she drifted up to consciousness from what felt like a very long sleep. There was a large, warm hand in hers, with calluses at the base of the fingers, from holding onto a broom. The ceiling was white and clean. The bed was springy and the pillow plump. She was naked under soft, warm blankets. There was a dim, warm glow suffusing the room. The pain was much less. She looked around with vague eyes. The hand wasn't Draco's. Her heart sank, stupidly, and Hermione reminded herself of what she knew.

She was safe in Godric's Hollow, Ron was sitting by her bedside holding her hand, she had been healed as much as possible, and she had left Draco behind. That was what she knew. Those were the facts.

"Hermione?" Ron said gently as she swivelled her eyes from his face back up to the ceiling without saying a word. She felt her face start to crumple.

"Hey, 'Mione…hey…" Ron tried to soothe helplessly, clasping her fingers loosely in his and stroking the back of her hand with his other hand, and Hermione kept staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, until her eyes stung from the dryness and watered over, and she had to blink. She'd left him behind. He was probably - probably dead by now. Or Voldemort was torturing him, before he killed him. Her chin quivered and her lips twisted and her eyes screwed up, and then she covered her face with her free hand as her shoulders shook, and she started to cry.

Those were the facts.

Oh Merlin, Draco…

"'Mione, 'Mione please, don't cry…hey, hey it's all right…" Ron said softly, obviously utterly lost and not knowing what to do or say, and saying it was all right was not helping, because it wasn't all right. Draco was dead or dying, while Hermione lay in bed with one of her best friends at her side, safe and healed. She yanked her hand out of Ron's and hit at him, hard, and he yelped and grabbed her wrist. She made a whining, snarling noise that sounded wrong in this clean, white room, and tried to jerk her wrist out of Ron's grip, glaring at him through tear-streaming eyes.

"It's not all right! It's not! Don't you ever say that again! Ever, ever, ever!" She punctuated each ever with a thwack at Ron of her free hand, until he caught that too, and then they stared at each other, both panting and wide-eyed, her wrist caught in his so that she was twisted around on the bed to face him, and he standing up from his chair to get a better hold. The sheet had dropped to her lap in their struggle, and Ron was beet red, seeming to be trying to decide between staying or fleeing, but definitely not looking.

"It's not all right, Ron," Hermione said very, very calmly, in a small, hoarse voice. "I left him there. You know what that means."

Ron did know. He stared at her speechlessly for a moment, and then his hands dropped hers and his arms came up around her, crushing her into his chest, and he smelt like Muggle beer and sweat and that indefinable scent that was Ron.

She stiffened for a split second, and then she heard his heart beating against her ear, his voice rumbling in his chest - "I'm sorry, 'Mione. I'm so bloody sorry" - and she let herself go slack against him. His voice was a familiar comfort in Hermione's ears, his hands soothing her naked back felt so kind, so gentle. In the end she gave into the grief and the horror of it all, and the guilt that she was all right when Draco wasn't, and she cried and cried until Ron's tee-shirt was saturated with her tears.

Ginny came to the room that was the designated makeshift infirmary in the Godric's Hollow house two hours later, an hour after she had brought Hermione a quill at her request, so she could write down everything she could remember about her and Draco's imprisonment. She'd only given the barest facts about the ordeal, focusing mostly on what the Order would need to know to rescue Draco, and then handed it off to Ginny, who had taken it down to Harry, Kingsley, and Remus, and then come back to keep her company.

Hermione had insisted on getting out of bed, despite Tricia's orders to rest, so Ginny had gone - under protest - to get Hermione some comfortable clean clothes. She came back in, shutting the infirmary door behind her and holding out a bundle of Hermione's things.

"How long was I out for?" Hermione asked Ginny for the sixth time, feeling small and hollow and utterly fragile as she snatched the clean clothes off the redhead and clambered achingly out of bed when Ginny turned her back.

She felt like a balloon filled with too much air - one wrong sharp touch and pop, she would explode into little pieces. All the other times she'd asked, Ginny had distracted her, and Hermione had been fuzzy-headed enough to let her. But now she was determined to get an answer.

"How long, Ginny?"

"Two days," Ginny said nervously, and Hermione had to pause in dragging her knickers on when she heard that, clutching at the bed and swaying for a moment. Be calm, she told herself. Be calm - Voldemort might not have killed him yet, or might have decided not to kill him at all. Draco could still be fine. Relatively speaking.

She shivered as she dragged her jersey on, thinking about him going through more of what they had been through together over the past six weeks, only alone now, without her there for him. She dragged her fingers through her soft, clean hair, and pulled it back into a messy bun at the nape of her neck.

"It feels strange to be wearing actual clothes," she said to Ginny without thinking, and the redhead turned around and looked Hermione up and down with a deep sympathy that Hermione didn't like to see. She could feel herself drawing back - pulling in onto herself and shutting away from Ginny, like she was sealing a shell up around her. She had to, or she felt like she would just all spill out everywhere.

"I know," Ginny said, very softly for Ginny, and Hermione pursed her lips up. She didn't want pity, or sympathy. She wanted to find Draco, and bring him back alive. She didn't want softness or gentleness, she wanted people to strap on their wands and go and rescue Draco, before Voldemort killed him. Her breath hitched despite herself as she thought of the possibility that he was already dead.

"Hermione? Are you…?"

She lifted her chin and cleared her throat. Well, if nothing else she could bring his - his body back. Merlin that was the most awful thought she had ever had. The most awful situation she could imagine. Finding him, only to discover that he was dead and there was nothing she could do. Her hands shook as she smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles out of her jersey. She had to keep it together.

She swiped away tears, taking a deep breath and then making herself smile at Ginny - except the expression felt alien and wrong on her face. And from Ginny's worried expression, it didn't look too convincing either.

"I'm fine, Ginny. Let's go downstairs. I need to talk to Remus, Kingsley, and Harry.

"Why?" Ginny asked, easily keeping pace with Hermione, who limped painfully and slowly despite her hurry, her broken ankle having been reset when she'd first arrived at Godric's, and not quite knitted fully back together yet. Her side ached, and she still felt trembly from the Cruciatus and half-starvation, and her head felt all torn to little shreds that floated on the breeze.

It was hard just to concentrate, with all the doors, and the brightness, and the space and people and… Hermione focused on the floor, on where she put her feet, trying to ignore Ginny as she hovered anxiously behind Hermione.

She took the stairs slowly, and eased herself onto a chair in the dining room with a sigh of relief at being off her feet, and with her settled safely, Ginny went off to yell for the others. Mrs Weasley brought Hermione a cup of tea that she thanked her for even though she wasn't thirsty, and she sipped at absently, staring at the table as she waited.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice was worried.

"Hmm?"

"What - what're you doing?"

She glanced up at him, eyes curiously defocused - they still weren't used to all the light. "Drinking tea," she said, as if he were an idiot, and he shook his head, dark brows all crinkled together, flapping his hand nervously at the side of her head.

"No, that. What're you…?"

She realised suddenly and dropped her hand from her head like she'd burnt it, staring down at the strands of hair that littered the table. She'd been plucking her hair out like she had in the cell, and she hadn't even known she was doing it. Her cheeks went hot.

"Nothing," she said quickly, burying her face in her tea cup, and Harry eyed her and seemed about to prod and probe and ask questions she didn't want to answer, when Remus and Kingsley came in.

"Hermione - you're looking…better," Remus said diplomatically and with a gentle smile, which Hermione didn't mind, because that was how he always smiled at everyone. She put her tea cup carefully on the table, hands trembling faintly, but she'd drank enough that the tea didn't slosh over.

"How do you feel?" Kingsley asked cautiously, and Hermione shrugged.

"I'm healed. I'm…I'm fine." She looked sharply at the three men. "But Draco isn't."

"Shit…" Harry said, sitting down heavily and rubbing his hand over his forehead. Hermione's chin quivered.

"And what does that mean, Harry?"

"You're not going to react well however I put it, so I'm just going to say it," Harry said, and Hermione forced herself to stay calm, staring at Harry blankly. "We read your…report…talked it over, and…we're not going in after Malfoy. We can't afford to."

Her tea cup hit Harry in the shoulder hard enough to shatter just as he finished speaking, and he winced and pulled the scalding, wet fabric of his shirt away from his skin as bits of china rained to the ground.

"Hermione…" he began placatingly, and she shoved her chair back with a squeal of the legs.

"No!" she shouted, aiming her finger at him and shaking. "No. No, you don't get to say Hermione like that when you've just told me you're leaving Draco there to be tortured and - and killed and…you won't even try to save him."

"Hermione, please. I understand," Remus began and Hermione opened her mouth to yell at him but realised that wouldn't help, so she sat back down in the chair with a thump, knotting her hands in her lap.

"No you don't. You don't understand at all, Remus."

She looked up at each of the three men's faces, and saw that they wouldn't allow her to change their minds - they had decided, and she would just have to wear it. She hated their sympathy, right then. She hated it more than anything, because if they really cared at all, they would get Draco back. She tried to convince them, despite knowing it was a losing battle before she'd even begun.

In the end she resorted to a frayed and furious - "If it was me you'd go in for me! If it was me you would - I know it! Hasn't Draco fought for us, for our side, long enough? Hasn't he risked his life and gotten injured enough to prove himself? He's one of us, you can't just leave him!"

"I know this might be hard to hear, Hermione," Remus began, and Hermione made a harsh, derisive sound at the back of her throat. "But even if it were you still imprisoned there, and Draco who had gotten out, we probably wouldn't have attempted a rescue. For starters, the anti-apparition wards will be back up by now and we wouldn't be able to apparate in, so we'd have to figure out where it could be from your limited description - the cell, the hallway, the torture room. It could be anywhere large with a cellar. There are too many Death Eaters, too many -"

"We can find a way! We can!"

"And then there's the fact that…Voldemort has probably already killed him, Hermione. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, but -"

She went red as Remus said that.

"You would go in if it were me; you would, even if you thought I was probably dead!"

"No, we wouldn't have," Kingsley said in a horribly kind voice for the words he spoke, and Hermione balled up her fists and resisted the urge to scream.

"I would've gone in after her," Ron's voice came from the doorway, and Hermione flashed a look at him, his brows drawn down and blue eyes thoughtful. "And you would've too, Harry. We both know that we would've tried."

"Malfoy's not Hermione, Ron," Harry said, and Hermione stumbled to her feet, feeling like Harry had just spat in her face.

"You - you - you honestly didn't just say that!" If she'd had a wand she would have hexed him where he stood for that. Draco was probably - possibly, she told herself, possibly - dead, and Harry was just writing him off without another thought.

"Well he's not you, Hermione! I'm sorry, that came out wrong to how I meant it to, but - but I would die for you, Hermione, but I'd be lying if I told you I was willing to die for Malfoy! I like the bloke well enough, and I'm sorry that he's -"

"He's not dead!"

"That he's still captured, but I'm not going to throw myself into some suicidal mission for his sake! I would for you, but…"

Hermione nodded numbly, feeling all cold and shivery, staring at Harry - his shirt all wet down one side, and shards of china tea cup still clinging to it, his hair utterly dishevelled, and his eyes pleading with her to understand.

"Fine. Fine, Harry." She looked to Ron. "Ron?"

He spread his hands helplessly. "I just got married, Hermione…I'm sorry but I'm not…I can't…"

She nodded her head briskly, tears stinging behind her eyes and her palms clammy, heart thudding, everything seeming very odd and dreamlike, even the anger she felt. "All right then. Well, that's settled, I suppose."

They all four of them looked at her suspiciously, nervous of her sudden, eerie calm. She turned her head to Harry, feeling like some sort of robot, all cogs and wheels and electronics and oil and circuits; not human at all.

"I need to speak to you in private, Harry," she said, thinking about Snape and his message for Harry, because no matter how much she wanted to murder him right now, it was important for Harry to know Snape was on their side. She didn't think she'd tell Harry about Snape's instructions to Obliviate her though; she didn't think she trusted Harry near her mind right now.

After she had told Harry about Snape, Hermione had gone down to the cellar, and found it empty of everything but Draco's things, and she assumed Karkaroff, Viktor, and the others, must have been transferred to another safehouse. She didn't bother going back upstairs and asking anyone - it didn't really matter, after all.

She'd tugged Draco's bed, table, two chairs and dresser back to where they had been when they'd first been moved downstairs for Draco, sweating and panting by the time she was done, ankle aching fiercely. She was still so weak, and every single one of her muscles burnt with soreness. Hermione stared around at the cellar; just how it had been before - before everything had happened. Except Draco wasn't here. She sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling lost, staring at the wall.

It still didn't seem right. Hermione fumbled around in the dresser and found the Scrabble board, and set it up on the table ready to play. She pulled one of Draco's shirts out of the dresser and pulled off her jersey shrugging his shirt on over her head. She thought she could still smell a trace of his cent beneath the crisp, soapy smell of the washing powder. She smelt his pillow - it smelt like Pansy, and she frowned at flipped it over, smelt the other side. That smelled like Draco. She smiled to herself and crawled into the bed, buried her face into the side of the pillow that smelt like him, and tried to think about nothing at all.

She spent three days down there without stepping foot on the stairs once.

Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly…they all came down at some point, under the excuse of bringing her food, but really to gently persuade her to come back upstairs. Hermione avoided their hints every time, or changed the subject. Refused to talk. Generally just ignored them.

She found she kept up the habits she'd fallen into in the cell, with Draco. She sat and stared at nothing. She plucked out her hair. She counted her scars, not having let Tricia remove them yet - they were, in a sick sort of way, a memory of Draco. She had a bite on her shoulder that had scarred, and she was almost positive it was one Draco had left there, on a night he'd been particularly rough and angry, and she constantly found herself absently rubbing her fingers over it, remembering that night.

He was everywhere - in the traces of scent clinging to the bed and his clothes, in the Scrabble and Risk games, which she set up on the table and fiddled with, remembering. He was in the books set up on top of the dresser - all ones that she had given to him, dog-eared from multiple readings, and she could tell The Godfather had been his favourite from the fact that it was more worn than the others, and it made her smile that that had been Draco's favourite Muggle book. He was - yes he was - even in her scars, because she realised on the second night, with a little jolt, that he'd been present for every scar that she had acquired since the start of the war, and that seemed right, somehow.

He was everywhere, surrounding her. And yet he was gone, and she was utterly alone.

On the seventh day in the cellar, Hermione was sitting on the bed reading The Godfather - even though she wasn't really that keen on it - when Harry and Ron came down together, looking determined about something.

She thought she could guess what. Hermione placed a bookmark in her place, and laid the book down gently. She was reading it carefully and thoroughly, instead of skimming through quickly like she often did with books she wasn't that interested in - she wanted to see if she could figure out all the things that would have made it appeal to Draco so much. If she knew him well enough to pick them out - or if maybe just reading it and knowing he had liked it would reveal more of him to her.

So far she wasn't sure if it was working.

"Hermione…?" Harry asked cautiously, and she shot him a narrow-eyed look; she still hadn't forgiven him for what he'd said about Draco.

"What, Harry?" she asked him briskly, a note of pique in her voice, trying to sound like ordinary old Hermione Granger being ticked off at her best friend Harry Potter, and, she thought, succeeding. She sounded almost normal.

"Can we…sit down?"

"If you like," she said, staring hard at the pair of them, swivelling on the bed so she sat cross-legged by the edge facing them, each boy - although really they were men now, she thought, Harry and Ron would always be her boys - taking a seat at the table. Ron eyed the Risk game she'd set up with a half-nervous curiosity, and picked up a little plastic cannon.

"Don't touch it!" Hermione snapped with an edge of panic before she could stop herself, leaning forward and flinging her arm out, and nearly falling off the bed. When she had regained her position, Harry raised an eyebrow at her as Ron carefully put the piece back where he'd found it, on Australia. Well, maybe that wasn't quite so normal. She bit her lip and shifted nervously. "Sorry, Ron…I just have it set up a particular way, and…"

"'S fine, 'Mione," Ron shrugged and grinned at her, a little tightly, and Hermione twisted her hands up in the hem of Draco's shirt, which reached mid thigh and had to have the sleeves rolled up or they hung down over her fingertips. She looked washed out in charcoal grey, and it didn't smell like him anymore, but it was still his so she wore it anyway.

"So…what brings you down here…?" she asked at last, to break the silence, and Harry and Ron exchanged a look and she frowned at their silent communication. She could see what they were doing.

"We…think you should come upstairs for dinner. Mum cooked a roast, 'specially, and -"

"No thank you, Ron."

"But Neville's coming, and he wants to see you!" Ron tried wheedling, looking at her hopefully, but Hermione shook her head hard.

"If Neville wants to see me, then he can just come down here."

"'Mione, you've been down here seven bloody days now! You can't just hide in the cellar forever!" Ron burst out with, losing patience, and Hermione looked away.

"It's not normal, Hermione. You're not coping. You need…"

"What, Harry? What do I need?" Hermione snapped at him when he trailed off, and he shrugged limply, looking like he regretted saying anything.

"Help. You need some help. You're not coping, Hermione. You're worrying us. We're worried about you - we want to help, and be here for you, but you won't let us."

"I'm coping fine," she told him blankly, and he gave her a steady stare.

"No you're not."

"Yes I am!"

"You're doing the hair thing again…" Ron pointed out wearily, and Hermione glared at him, furious at him for pointing it out right now, and at herself for forgetting herself enough to do it in front of them. She scowled at the hair, holding out her hand and wriggling her fingers, letting the strand she'd yanked out float slowly free to the cellar floor.

"Okay. So maybe I'm not coping that well," she admitted, and saw Harry's shoulders slump with relief as he smiled encouragingly at her. "But it's only been a week! I was locked up and - and tortured for six weeks, and Draco's still there and none of you are willing to try to rescue him! How am I supposed to cope with that!"

"Hermione. Hermione…" Harry gave her a very gentle look and she bunched up her fist, knowing what was coming, and hating Harry for it, for all that he was probably - possibly - right. "It's been a week…you said that the Death Eaters were talking about Voldemort wanting to make an example of him. You left with Lucius about -"

"He made me go!" she gasped shrilly, unable to let that slide, her heart suddenly juddering in her chest as sick guilt washed over her, jabbing her finger at Harry, and he held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"All right, all right. Sorry, Hermione. When he told you to go, Lucius was about to kill him. I - I hate this, I hate it because of how much it hurts you, but…Malfoy's dead. Draco's dead, Hermione. You have to accept that if you want to move on. You're clinging onto shreds of the past, you're losing yourself in it. You're my best friend! I don't want to see you wither away your life in some dank old cellar - and Draco wouldn't want that either."

"Don't tell me what he would have wanted! You don't know! And you don't know that he's dead either! It might be - might be probable, but there's a chance he isn't." She stared Harry down. "There's a chance."

"Fair enough. There's a chance," Ron repeated. "But staying down here in the cellar won't bring him back whether he's…gone…or still a prisoner. It's only hurting yourself, and worrying us."

Hermione nodded, her fingers absently shoving down the neck of Draco's shirt to trace the bite mark she was almost positive was his. She saw Harry and Ron watching and swapping worried looks, but she tried to ignore them and be calm, and not hurl her book at Harry or beat Ron over the head with the Risk box.

She nodded again.

Picked up her book and opened it to page 183, and took out the bookmark, laid it neatly next to her on the bed, and started to read.

They tried to bother her a little longer - calling her name, bending down in front of her, and in Ron's case, swearing at her in worried annoyance - at least fucking look at me, 'Mione! Merlin's balls, you're bloody impossible!

Hermione just ignored them though and eventually they gave up and went away, and she kept reading.

"If you feel better down here, then stay. Why not? You wouldn't be allowed out on active duty yet anyway, so…if you feel…close to him here, then I don't see what's wrong with it, Hermione," Neville said, and Hermione smiled at him weakly, topping up her glass with the bottle of firewhiskey Neville had smuggled down to her - he hadn't thought anyone would approve of her drinking, right now; and he'd told her matter-of-factly that he wasn't going to leave her with the bottle. She hadn't been able to resent him for that, not with the earnest, honest way he'd said it.

There was something about Neville that was very soothing.

"Well, I'm glad someone doesn't think I'm mad," she said with a trace of bitterness, sighing as the firewhiskey slid down her throat with that hot burn.

"I didn't say that." Neville grinned at her teasingly and shrugged a shoulder, half-joking and half-truthful. "Honestly I'd think you couldn't avoid being a little mad after what you've been through, Hermione. But I don't think wanting to be down here is mad, no. I think it's pretty normal."

"Thank you, Neville," she nodded at him, swirling the firewhiskey in her glass and remembering all the times she'd drunk with Draco. She wondered if she ever would again. Hermione got lost in her thoughts for a while, and pulled herself out of them to find Neville still sitting there across the table patiently, watching her and sipping at his drink, and she had no idea how much time had passed. It was like she just went blank - zoned out in her own head, and it frightened her a little.

"Sorry, I - I was just thinking."

"That's all right."

"About Draco," she admitted in a small voice, and Neville eyed her softly.

"He - was a good guy in the end. Still a bit of a prat, I s'pose, but all right."

"Everyone always talks about him like he's dead," Hermione said, fingers tightening on her glass of firewhiskey. She stared into its depths and then swilled it all back at once, topped herself up again, starting to feel warm and a little tingly. Neville looked stricken.

"I'm sorry - I didn't mean to - I just… I - Harry and Ron and everyone else were talking about it like…and I…"

"I know. It's fine, Neville. I'm getting used to it."

"But you don't think he's dead."

"I - I don't know. I can't. I can't think he's… I don't know." Hermione broke off, feeling a lump form in her throat as she thought about it. Merlin. Draco. "I can't. Maybe if I saw his body, then I might - I mean, then I'd have to believe it. But until then…no. He could be alive. He could. And everyone's just written him off, and are all acting like he's dead and buried and I should be getting over it by now!" Her voice rose and wavered. "It's only been a week, Neville! It's only been a fucking week and they're essentially telling me to get over it!"

There was a long silence.

"They're worried, Hermione. That's all. You know what I think?" Neville offered, and Hermione smiled at the hopeful-helpful tone to his words as he leant forward and looked at her earnestly over the Scrabble board she'd set up that afternoon in place of the Risk board.

"What do you think, Neville?" she asked obediently, and he nodded at her, gesticulating with his glass of firewhiskey as he spoke, sweeping and jabbing it through the air and nearly sloshing it over the rim.

"I think that it's not Draco being…missing…that you need to get over. It's the imprisonment, the torture. Not - not that I'm just saying 'get over it' or anything; I mean…that's what you need to learn to cope with - the after-effects of that. If you feel more comfortable with Draco's things around you, then sure, sleep down here. But from what I've heard, you won't go into bright light, you're…pulling at your hair and -"

"They told you that?" Hermione asked, flushing red with humiliation and anger, and Neville shrugged, looked a little uneasy.

"I heard it mentioned out of concern…not -"

"By who?"

"- and does it really matter who I heard it from? Because the fact is that -"

"Was it Harry? Because -"

"- Didn't have to tell me -"

"- Swear to god I'm fed up with his -"

"- You're doing it right now!"

"Oh." Hermione dropped her hand from her head and bit her lip, swearing at herself on the inside for bloody well doing it again. Again. Damnit. She couldn't seem to stop herself. "Well. Maybe you have a point."

"Just think about it, Hermione. Okay, Draco's missing - that's…awful. And all right, so you've been through a lot of trauma, and that's horrible too. But you have to keep living life, Hermione - you can't just give up, because then you may as well just lay down and die, and I know you - you'd never do that!"

Hermione looked down at the table, the glass sitting there in her tight grip, feeling suddenly a little embarrassed by Neville's heartfelt speech, and blushing with it. "No. I guess I wouldn't, would I? It's just…" She trailed off and he patted her wrist.

"I know. You'll be okay in the end. These things just take time."

"Yeah. Time… Th-thanks, Neville. I actually…feel a little better now."

"Is it me, or the five measures of firewhiskey you've downed since I've been down here?" he asked mischievously, and startled an actual laugh out of her, to her own surprise.

"Both," she said decidedly, and grinned at him, and it was true - she felt all warm and glowy inside right now, and it was thanks to both the burn of the firewhiskey, and Neville's company. She glanced down at the table.

"Would - would you like a game of Scrabble?" she offered hesitantly, and Neville stared down at the board, and then smiled up at her willingly.

"Sure. I've no idea how on earth to play it, but if you wanted to teach me, I'm game…"

Six Days Earlier

"Draco…Malfoy…" Voldemort drew out slowly, and Draco tensed, preparing himself for the pain to come, shoulders hunching and muscles tautening, head hanging down and eyes squeezing shut. The silence ticked out over long seconds, and no pain came; just the sound of Voldemort's bare feet circling Draco's kneeling form slowly. He tried to remember to breathe before he passed out from lack of air, but it felt like the room itself was airless, like Voldemort's presence created a vacuum, and he couldn't breathe, and when he finally did gasp in a lungful of air it sounded loud and panicked in the silence.

Fuck. Fuck he couldn't deal with this - not now after everything that had happened. But he didn't have much choice, did he?

"Voldemort," he said, breaking the silence, and heard the collective gasp of the Death Eaters who remained, and the sound of sliding skin on stone as Voldemort spun around. Something jabbed right between his eyes - Voldemort's wand point - and forced his head up. Voldemort stared down at him as Draco opened his eyes, a cold, arrogant offence burning in Voldemort's gaze.

'You will address me, as, my Lord," Voldemort said carefully, and Draco clenched his jaw and steeled himself. Turned his head and spat on the floor by Voldemort's foot; red-tinged saliva, and then it was too late to take it back.

"You aren't my lord anymore," he grated out hoarsely, eyes flicking to Voldemort's and then away again, thinking of Hermione, and of always having choices, even if they weren't good ones. Thinking of how she would have died before serving Voldemort, before grovelling to him, and how Draco hadn't. Not the last time. But now he had a choice. Not a good one, but sometimes there were no good ones. But there were right ones, and wrong ones.

Besides, Voldemort wasn't likely to want Draco back again after his failure and betrayal, so maybe he could provoke Voldemort into killing him quickly. Then again, maybe Draco's insolence would just provoke him into stringing his torture out over weeks instead of days. Either way, it was done now. No taking it back.

"Am I not?" Voldemort asked, high and thin and filled with a dreadful power that made Draco's stomach turn and clench with terror. "Am I not, Draco? You would spurn me? Turn away from me? You would dare to do that?"

Draco stared up at him; met those eyes in that inhuman face, and smirked. "That's what I said."

Voldemort stepped back lightly, quickly, head canting to one side as he studied Draco like he was some strange type of insect Voldemort knew nothing about - beneath the wizard, powerless to hurt him, and yet still intriguing.

"Perhaps…" Voldemort said, turning away and walking around Draco once more, stopping in front of him again and sliding his wand around so it aimed not a foot from Draco's head. "Perhaps you have more spine than I thought, boy. You have…developed…" He said the word like he was tasting a fine Meershoch over his tongue - rolling and drawn out. A cat playing with a mouse.

Draco waited silently for the Killing Curse to come, or the Cruciatus, trying to think only of Hermione and not the agony or death awaiting him, Voldemort's words washing over him without meaning or purpose. He wondered if it had been worth it; falling for her, now that it meant he was likely going to die instead of turn traitor to the Order, or beg and plead like he would have before. Her Gryffindor idiocy must have seeped into his head more than he'd thought, because fuck, Draco thought it was worth it.

"Perhaps…perhaps I may as well put you to use, hmm?" Voldemort's voice came, slithering like a snake's in Draco's ears, sinuous and insinuating and dangerous. "Make an example of you…"

Draco looked up at Voldemort, grey eyes wide, and at last, openly frightened. His thoughts of Hermione fell away from him, and then it was just him, him alone. Alone. He thought that maybe everyone was alone when they died, even when they weren't, they still were, in the end. His last traces of hope, of any comfort to get him through what was to come, until the end…they all vanished like vapour - ephemeral, unreal. Nothing. Useless. It wasn't fucking fair.

He was only fucking eighteen, and had been tortured more than half-to-death - he was unarmed and bound on his knees in front of Voldemort, and he didn't want to die - no, he wasn't that fucking noble that he took delight in the thought of self-sacrifice and martyrdom. But when he looked up into Voldemort's eyes and saw the cruel, gleeful, malice there, Draco thought that maybe he just wanted it to be over. To not hurt too much when it happened. Maybe that would be best.

Then there was a sound - a word, and then a flash of magic, and then Draco looked up from his knees at the Dark Lord as his bonds fell away, and inside his head, he screamed and screamed and screamed.