Edited 10/14/15

11. The Spark of Morning Light

There's no shortcut to a dream

It's all blood and sweat

And life is what you manage in between

But what you don't know

Is you're too young and eager to love

Seething, I see

You're about to get into

The ditch that you opened up

[October, Broken Bells]

Hexes and curses flying, and shields sparkling into life. Spells hitting walls of stone or magic and rebounding, and screams ripping through Draco's ears, drilling into his skull. He was lost in the bright flashing lights and the sharp ozone scent, the stomach-turning odour of blood and people's insides. He took out everyone, until he was the only one left standing, frantic adrenaline surging through him. But it all fell away in a moment as he lowered his wand and stared. Crumpling in front of him with blood gouting from her slit throat, was Astoria Greengrass, a Slytherin girl two years below him who'd always watched him secretively in the common room with big pretty eyes full of adoration. Too young for him, too young and too quiet, so he'd never kissed her the way he'd half wanted to, and now her pale, thin hand was fluttering at her throat as the blood pumped out.

She reached for Draco, her big eyes puzzled, and he automatically took a step forward, and another, and caught her as her legs went out from under her, forgetting that just a moment ago they'd been trading hexes, and it was only luck and experience that meant Astoria was the one dying instead of Draco. He forgot because she was so young and she'd had a crush on him for years, although she'd never spoken more than two words to him at a time, and he forgot because he'd sliced her throat wide open without a second thought, and there was nothing that could make that right. So he caught her and held her tight to him.

Draco's hands shook as he sank to the floor with Astoria in his arms, her slim form surprisingly heavy, his hand clamping over the blood coming from the horrible wound that opened up her throat like a second, lipless mouth. She was in a white nightgown, her hair in a long honeyed braid down her back and her small nipples ghostly shapes beneath the thin cotton of her nightgown as her chest rose and fell, shuddering for breath that wouldn't come. Draco had severed her windpipe with his diffindo and she was suffocating now, choking on blood, ashen lips moving and beautiful pale green eyes pinned to his.

He cradled her in his arms and rocked her. Astoria. He'd known her for years; the little pale shadow trailing along behind the older kids when they went to Daphne's family manor to visit in the holidays. Always there in the background, those big pale leaf-green eyes fixed adoring on him, and Draco had never really thought of her as anything other than a cute kid but occasional nuisance, until now. Until she lay gurgling for breath and dribbling blood from slack lips, as her severed arteries pumped the last of her lifeblood against his silver hand, hot and thick and horrid. Her hand wrapped around his wrist, and she blinked at him, lips quivering, and Draco didn't know what she wanted. He didn't know what to do, but he felt like he really should do something. There was no hate in her eyes, no blame, like Draco felt there should be. Just a faint sad puzzlement, as the wet sheen to her eyes - the spark of life in them - slowly began to dull.

Confusion on her face, that thin chest shuddering as she tried for breath that wouldn't come, small breasts heaving, her thin, cold fingers blood-sticky around his wrist. Her head rested in the crook of his elbow, his real hand clutching against her slim waist as his silver one pressed against her throat, feeling the weakening spurts of blood. She would have grown up to be so beautiful. And Draco had killed her. Draco had murdered the girl who'd sent him a card the last Valentine's Day he'd spent at school - an anonymous card, but he would recognise her distinctive perfume anywhere, the strong scent of too-sweet cherries clinging to the thick red paper. It would have been easier if there was hate burning in those dying leaf-green eyes - it would have made it easier to bear. But instead there was only a vague, hurt bewilderment, as if she didn't understand what had happened.

Just moments before, Astoria had burst out into the common room from the girls' dorm, which Hermione had chased a female Death Eater into not two minutes before. The ruffles at the hem of Astoria's thin nightgown had already been spattered with blood, and her eyes had been terrified, and Draco didn't think she'd even recognised who he was. She'd just started screaming hexes with each slash of her wand, and he had ducked and blocked, and in the end, on instinct, used the diffindo that had killed her.

Merlin, there was nothing this awful. Nothing was as horrible as fighting his own housemates and being unable to afford to use stunners and disabling hexes, even on the younger ones - but having to use hexes he knew would blow through their shields instead. Would make them drop, dying or dead or horribly wounded. Draco had heard Weasley half sobbing several times, and Longbottom had killed a fourth year and spent the next ten minutes of fighting screaming he was sorry over and over as he duelled, the tears streaming down his face. Draco had lost sight of Hermione once she'd rushed into the girls' dorm, and he didn't know how she was coping. He was afraid she wouldn't have it in her to kill students, and she would die instead of them.

Draco stared down at Astoria - he was rocking her in his arms like a dazed idiot in the middle of a fucking mission, he realised suddenly, but he couldn't bring himself to put her down. To leave her discarded on the cold stone floor in a pool of her own blood. Not until she was dead. He could give her that, at least; hold her as she died. Draco had to give Astoria that, for all the times he'd seen her looking at him with adoring eyes from over the top of Couture Charms or Witch Weekly magazine, a blush rising on her cheeks when he noticed her looking and raised an arrogant eyebrow at her. Still cradling her in his arms, Draco dragged Astoria back a metre or so, behind an armchair in the corner of the empty common room, her bare feet dragging limply on the ground as he hitched her along. In relative safety, hidden mostly from view by the armchair, he held her close and watched her die.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he muttered through lips flecked with her blood, a horrible wrenching pain in his gut. This was the world he was going to bring a child into, apparently. It was a world where children were murdered by those who claimed to be on the side of righteousness, and Draco hated himself for what he had done to Astoria, and for the other bodies littering the Slytherin common room, which he was responsible for striking down.

"I'm so fucking sorry, Astoria," he mumbled and he was crying, because her eyes were open and glazed and unblinking, and she was dead. Dead. Deaddeaddeaddead. Fuck. Draco hadn't thought it would hurt this much; he thought he had become inured to killing those who had once been his friends. But Astoria was so young and so full of potential, and now she was dead, and maybe she didn't have to be, maybe Draco could have stunned her or disarmed her instead, but he'd turned straight to a hex on instinct, and now she was dead.

"Astoria! No. Oh Merlin, no, not Stori…"

Draco lifted his head, and stared up at Daphne Greengrass, in a clinging pink silk nightie, her blonde hair loose down her back and her wand pointed straight at Draco, huddled in the corner behind the high-backed armchair with Daphne's dead little sister limp and blood-smeared in his arms. Daphne's voice was shrill and dangerous.

"What did you do to my sister?" The words wavered as they spilled out, her hand unsteady, but it was as if she hadn't quite realised that Astoria was dead yet; it hadn't sunk in. "What did you d-do, Draco? Stori? Stori?"

"I'm sorry, Daphne, I -" Draco began as he reached for his wand in its holster, and Daphne made a sharp, horrified noise and levelled her wand at his head.

"No. No, don't you dare move, you bastard. You did this to her, didn't you?" Accusation, hoarse and shrill and horrible, and Draco saw the hate in Daphne's eyes that hadn't been in Astoria's, and it was almost a relief. Her teeth were bared in an animal snarl; the cords stood out on her long, elegant neck, and her wand hand trembled with tension. "You k-k-killed Stori, didn't you? Didn't you? Draco? Draco?"

"Daphne." He lifted his hand from Astoria's throat, and heedless of the blood that coated the silver of it like a macabre glove, rubbed a hand over his face, wanting nothing more than to bow his head and sob, because…because… They had been comrades once, Draco and the people down here whom he was killing and wounding and fighting for his life against. Not friends, but allies and Housemates, and now Draco was cutting them down and slaughtering them. Daphne and Astoria weren't even involved with Voldemort's cause, and nor were their parents. They were just defending their House, defending their friends. Daphne flinched back when Draco lifted his head to meet her eyes, and he remembered the blood then, felt the stickiness smeared over his face; Astoria's blood.

"You bastard," Daphne grated out, high and hoarse and hateful, and Draco just stared at her, blank and sticky with blood, her baby sister still cradled dead on his lap. He was in shock, he thought vaguely. He should do something. Daphne was going to kill him. Draco made his hand move toward his wand in its holster, but he knew it was going to take too long. It was too late. He knew he was dead. He didn't want to die, because Hermione and the baby and life - life was something to cling onto no matter how awful it got because it was life, but at the same time…Draco was almost glad he wasn't going to have to kill Daphne. He didn't want to be responsible for the murder of both the Greengrass girls. Merlin, Pansy would be so angry with him - both that he'd killed Astoria, and that he'd let Daphne kill him.

Draco's fingers closed around the end of his wand and Daphne began to scream a curse, and…

"Sectumsempra!" Hermione's familiar voice cried with vicious intent, and Daphne's nightgown was suddenly was rent through in multiple places as deep gashes gouged through the flesh of her torso, arms and thighs. She went stumbling back, her wand falling from numbed fingers and a look of hate and horror on her face, and Draco stared at her with equal horror. Blood began to stain the torn pink silk a dark crimson, and Daphne choked and stared down at her negligee, touched one of the tears with light fingers, ghosting over the deep slice beneath.

"You mudblood bitch," Daphne whispered, glaring past Draco, and then Hermione walked into view at Draco's right, her wand held up and her face pinched and white, her hair coming out of its braid and tension and self-loathing radiating off her. She looked so strange in her battered leather Auror chausses paired with the Muggle trainers and black top - torn at the shoulder, the sleeve wet and clinging to her arm and Draco knew it must be soaked with blood. Relief poured through Draco like a flood; Hermione was alive, she was all right - or not too severely wounded at any rate. He struggled to push Astoria's limp body off him, wanting to get to Hermione, and Astoria was literal dead weight. Merlin, she lolled in his arms like a rag doll, and Draco's skin crawled as he tried to awkwardly shove her body off his legs.

"I'm sorry, Daphne," Hermione said quietly and her voice quavered as the other witch fell, her legs giving out, crumpling to a heap on the stone floor, her blood pooling around her. Draco heard Hermione sob a few times, ragged, choked little sounds, and then she turned to him, wiping at her eyes. She helped haul Astoria's body - really astonishingly heavy in death - off Draco in silence, her lips flattened together and her cheeks tear streaked. She whimpered when the gash in Astoria's throat opened wide, like a terrible, grinning mouth, and Draco swallowed down vomit himself. And then Astoria rolled off him onto the floor and Draco left her there on her face, arms and legs strewn twisted with the undignified awkwardness of death.

"You knew her well?" Hermione asked as she gripped Draco's hand and helped him stand, and he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, and nodded sharply.

"Stupid girl had a crush on me once," he said succinctly, feeling so guilty, and Hermione bit her lip, looking up at him worriedly.

"I'm so sorry, Draco. Your own House; it's not fair that you have to…" She trailed off helplessly and shook her head, and Draco caught her chin, used his real, less bloody hand to wipe a blotch of blood from her eyebrow before it trickled down into her eye; they didn't often bother with scourgifys during missions - it was best not to use unnecessary spells. It wasn't easy to drain oneself of magic, but it had been known to happen in dire circumstances, so the rule was not to bother with cleaning off the blood unless absolutely necessary.

"It's the way it should be. I've already convinced some of the students to surrender rather than fight, and there's no way anyone but me would have been able to do that," Draco interrupted her, and then turned in a circle, studying the familiar common room.

"Where are Weasley and Longbottom?"

"The boys' dorm."

"What's the situation in the girls' dorm? Under control?"

"They've surrendered. I locked them in - they still have their wands, of course, but the locking charm is a good one. Even if they change their minds about surrendering, they won't be getting out any time soon."

"Good job," Draco smiled down at her, kissed her mouth lightly and tasted metallic blood. He hoped it was Hermione's or his blood, and not Astoria's or some stranger's. His stomach turned and he drew away. "We best make sure Weasley and Longbottom don't get themselves killed, hmm?"

"Yeah," Hermione said tightly, and nodded, letting Draco lead them out of the common room and toward the boys' dorm. Daphne's body blocked the entranceway, and Draco stepped over her corpse, refusing to look down at her, but his boots splashed sickly in her blood and his stomach turned at the sound; he looked down despite himself and saw her neck twisted at an impossible angle and her blue-grey eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. He remembered nearly kissing her once at Blaise's summer home, years ago, the smell of hothouse roses in his nostrils and her face turning away from his at the last moment so his lips barely brushed her cheek; remembered her subsequent nervous giggle and the way she'd said, 'no, no, we really mustn't, Draco.' Remembered the haughty way she had about her, the way she tossed her head on that long neck so that her hair tumbled down her back, nose stuck in the air. Remembered her and Pansy gossiping cattily on the train while Draco lounged against Pansy and enjoyed the idle moments.

Merlin. Draco was going to have fucking nightmares about Daphne's dead, blank-staring corpse; he knew it.

Hermione's shoulder and arm hurt right down into the bone, and she still felt physically ill over what had happened in the girls' dorm. God it had been so frightening, leaving Draco in the common room fighting too many people alone, to face too many people herself, also alone - he hadn't been able to enter the girls' dorm, thanks to the charms placed on it to keep boys out. Thank Merlin Hermione had taken out the Death Eater woman with a reducto that had terrified the whey out of most of the girls, even the older ones. Chaos had erupted and some of the girls had fled the dorm, others hiding in or under their beds, and only a handful choosing to fight. They hadn't been very good fighters either. One had gotten in a lucky slashing hex that had gashed Hermione's arm, just up by her shoulder, and Hermione had used the Killing Curse on her without a thought.

After that, Hermione had only had to kill, wound or disarm a handful more girls before their resistance faltered, and she was able to amplify her voice and order them all to remain peacefully in the dorm if they wanted to be released to their families unharmed after the fighting was over. She'd locked the dorm door behind her, and run straight up the stairs into the common room, only to find Draco cradling a dead girl and Daphne Greengrass screaming at him. Hermione just wanted the night to be over; she couldn't take any more of this. It was different when it was students, most of them younger than her.

There was a lot more resistance in the boys' dorm than the girls' - the Death Eaters had organised the Slytherin boys well, and Ron and Neville appeared to be pinned down in one of the bathrooms, only just managing to keep the boys from swarming them. There were bodies on the ground, bodies too young to be dead, but dead despite that, and Hermione felt heartsick. They were killing students. Killing students. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. It was wrong. So, so wrong. She had sent a patronus in search of Remus, to tell him that they were facing more resistance than they'd expected, and to please send reinforcements, but Hermione had no idea if Remus would be able to spare reinforcements. She, Draco, Ron, and Neville might just be on their own for this one.

She threw up another shield, crouching down behind a bed by the door and flinching every time a curse or hex whizzed over her head. Draco was next to her, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders to keep in the slight shelter the four-poster bed gave them, popping up every few seconds to let off a hex. He'd been yelling for the people he had known at school - calling out names and telling them to lay down their wands, ordering them, threatening them, begging them. They couldn't just use stunners, because the older students were too adept at shielding and blocking and could stop a stunner, and only a strong enough hex or curse could cut straight through their shields. Hermione was trying to wound and disable, not kill, but it was hard. She knew that she'd killed at least seven students, not including Daphne, and one of them had been a little first year girl who had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She cleared the memory of the girl's face from her mind, and concentrated on fighting. Her arm ached fiercely, and her heart pounded like a drum. Her breath was loud in her ears and hexes flashed through the air with cracking, whizzing, whining sounds. There were yells and screams, and her own panicked half-sobs. Draco was close at her side and his eyes were quicksilver in the light, shining at her from the mask of drying blood that coated his face. Hermione stunned and bound four younger boys, and Draco cast an incendio that hit one of the Death Eaters, and created enough distraction that he and Hermione could move forward, towards the place further down the dorm where Neville and Ron appeared to be. She threw herself over the bed, rolling over it in a mad tumble, her shoulder screaming at her, shoes hitting the floor and a shock travelling up her legs, scrambling to the bed in front of her.

She blindly sent off a few hexes as soon as she got her back pressed to the next bed, and then Draco was landing on the floor, crawling fast to her side and pressing his own back against the bed next to her. He grinned at Hermione, his teeth white and his skin crimson, his hair streaked red and blonde, and she could see the wild, frantic adrenaline rush of battle in his eyes. The high of nearly dying but not, of fighting and living and killing and the sick, horrible thrill of it, which Hermione had never really experienced, but that she knew he did.

When it got too bad, Draco buried himself in it; buried himself in the gory joy of fighting, and his eyes were cold and hot at the same time, his grin humourless, a rictus. He gritted his teeth, spun and yelled the Cruciatus and Hermione felt her face turn down, screw up, because she hated that Curse almost more than the Killing Curse. But what choice did they have? There was always a choice though, and she wondered for a brief moment if they were really doing the right thing.

And then Neville screamed - Hermione knew it was Neville, she would have recognised his voice anywhere, even over the deafening chaotic sounds of battle, echoing of the dorm room walls. They had to get to him and Ron. Somehow. Had to get there. She stuck her head above the shelter of the four-poster and screamed the Cruciatus herself, feeling sicksicksick inside, and then flung herself over the bed into the cover between the next two. She shouted hexes and curses as she steadily pushed onwards towards the bathroom Neville and Ron seemed to be trapped in, losing track of Draco - losing track of everything, tunnel vision taking over, working on pure instinct. Bodies dropped and children screamed, and now and then the agony of pain ripped through her body and made her stagger.

She was afraid for the baby, afraid for herself, Draco, Neville, and Ron, but Hermione knew they didn't have any other option but to keep fighting, so she did. They couldn't retreat, and from the shouts of her name and frantic cries for help that Ron was making, they couldn't wait for reinforcements because Neville might not last that long.

"I ca- him while - attacking! Can't heal, need - defend - 'Mio- help! He's bleed- it's everywhere. -erlin, 'Mione!" Ron was shouting and shouting, only snatches of his words getting through the noise, but it was enough for Hermione to know that Neville was dying on the bathroom floor, and if she and Draco didn't get to them soon, he would die. He would die just like Daphne Greengrass, and the girl Draco had been cradling in his arms like she'd meant something to him. Only Neville meant something to Hermione - he wasn't just a student that she would be sad was dead but didn't really know, he was Neville and she couldn't lose him.

So Hermione fought, and every time she killed or horribly wounded a student, her heart broke apart a little, and every time a student dropped their wand and surrendered, intense relief buoyed her up, gave her a little bit more of the strength that she sorely needed. It was all a hazy pain-filled blur of blood and horror, and Hermione fought through it all. She thought of nothing but shield, fire, block, duck, painpainpainpain, shield, run fire - she cast, blocked, and stumbled inexorably forward, oblivious to everything but the goal fixed in her mind; the bathroom, and Neville and Ron inside it, who needed her.

They needed her and she wasn't going to fail them.

Terror and breathlessness and blood dripping from a gash in Hermione's side, her eyes so wide and so scared on Draco's. He was limping and pain darted through his bones with every step he took, his chest was molten fire, but he got to Hermione, sitting on the floor slumped against the bathroom wall, heaving in frightened breaths, blood trickling past the fingers she had clamped to the wound in her side. Her legs were twisted under her awkwardly, and her vial of dittany was empty on the floor by her hand - Longbottom's many wounds hissed and sent up steam as the dittany Hermione had drenched Longbottom with sealed the wounds and soothed his ghastly burns somewhat. But Draco could see she needed dittany herself; the puddle of her blood growing, seeping bigger and bigger over the white tiles of the bathroom floor.

Draco stumbled through the bathroom door, throwing glances over his shoulder at the students that still lived; making sure they were all wandless and bound. When they'd all finally surrendered, Draco had accioed their wands, and Weasley had pushed past the pain of his broken arm and begun casting binding charms on them, to make sure no one tried anything. Weasley was just binding the last one Draco saw, and he relaxed minutely as he took one last dragging step to Hermione. He fell to his knees by Hermione's side, fumbled out his dittany; ignoring Longbottom who groaned in pain on the floor, eyes screwed shut and one hand banging hard into the bathroom tiles as the pain from the wounds and the dittany overwhelmed him.

"Fucking hell, Hermione." When she moved her hand away - her eyes fixed on Draco's face wide and bloodshot - he could see that the wound was a deep, deep gouge into her side, and it was going to leave a scar, he was sure of it. He sprinkled dittany over it shakily and she hissed in a breath and whimpered at the pain, her back arching and her head knocking back into the wall with a clunk, her teeth sinking through her lip. The room seemed to be swaying, Draco felt sick. So much fucking pain searing through him. So much blood, everywhere. Longbottom's hand was banging banging banging incessantly on the fucking tiles, and Hermione was crying hard, sobbing and choking as her wound began to roughly seal up a bit. Enough that she wouldn't bleed to death, anyway.

"G-give it here," Hermione gasped through her tears, and grabbed the vial of dittany out of Draco's numb hand, and he let her, blinking and trying not to vomit or pass out. "Sit back," she ordered him and Draco shuffled agonisingly back against the wall beside her, wishing that he could help her as she forced herself to kneel upright, facing him and panting raggedly at the pain.

"Christ, Draco." She was white as a sheet as she tore the ruins of his shirt away and saw the damage the sixth year student had inflicted on Draco with his incendio, before Draco had killed him. She re-corked the dittany vial and gripped it in her teeth to free up her hands - pulled out another vial. Draco watched through a wall of pain that was slowly consuming him, his head lolling against the wall, tears of pain streaking his cheeks. He felt so fucking dizzy, and it was like acid was eating his torso. Just melting it away. So much pain. So much.

Hermione grabbed his face in one hand, tipped his head back and poured a potion down his throat - the bitter taste of pain potion, and Draco choked on it and swallowed. Waited for the sweet relief - it took a while to kick in, sometimes. Especially with burns. Shit. Shit. Hurts. Hermione wet her fingers and palm with the dittany, and stared hard into Draco's eyes, and he struggled to understand her words.

"This is going to hurt. A lot. But we don't have enough dittany left to just…shake it on carefully," she told him. "The pain potion should help. I'm sorry, Draco." And then she smeared her dittany-wet hand over the blistering and charring on his chest, and Draco screamed and convulsed and everything went red with pain and he thought he was going to die from the agony. It was worse than when his leg was burnt, worse than anything that he could remember, and even with the pain potion starting to work he couldn't stand the excruciating touch of her hand on his burns, he couldn't stand it and -

The attack had gone well; Hermione had heard nothing but celebrations since the battle had ended. Their attack had succeeded not just well, but brilliantly in fact, and miraculously, no one in the Order teams had died.

They had succeeded at barricading Hogwarts from the few Death Eater reinforcements who had attempted to aid their fellows, killed all the Death Eaters within the castle, and killed or disarmed any students who put up resistance. The students who had resisted were being removed to makeshift detainment centre type housing, and the other students were being evacuated to their families. Where a student was without family available to immediately take them in, they either went with a friend to stay with their family, or would be placed in temporary Order housing. The castle had been frantic with activity; many students wanted to stay and help fight - especially the Gryffindors - and the uninjured Hogwarts professors were all in a fluster trying to make sure everyone who remained in the castle was overage, and no underage witches or wizards stayed behind.

It was just past midnight now, and Hermione blinked hard, trying not to nod off - she felt like she needed to prop her eyes open with sticks, her eyelids felt so heavy, and her head was a ton weight on her neck. She was sitting by Draco's bed in the infirmary, waiting for him to wake up. Madam Pomfrey was bustling around as if nothing had happened and this was just an ordinary school day, clucking her tongue and doling out potions, ordering assistant medi-witches and other Healers around in a stern, ringing tone.

Hermione sat in the middle of the sea of madness, hands laced over her abdomen - Madam Pomfrey had cast a quick diagnostic spell and assured Hermione the foetus was unharmed - staring at Draco, a little island of numbed calm. Her side ached, as did her shoulder, but the pain potion Madam Pomfrey had all but forced Hermione to take had made her head feel all swimmy, and she was so unnaturally calm she was pretty certain she was in shock.

She sighed and yawned, and blinked, Draco's sleeping form blurring and doubling in her vision for a moment. Madam Pomfrey had told her to go to sleep, but she'd refused. Not until Draco was awake. Hermione leant forward, bracing her forearms on the side of the bed by Draco's arm, and tilting her head toward his face, gazing blearily at him. He didn't look young and innocent in unconsciousness like he used to - not right now, at any rate. Blonde stubble dusted his jaw, and his brows were scrunched down, eyes sunken and bruised in his face and lips compressed with the pain - and if anything, it all made him look older, harder. He was all sharp angles, broad shoulders, and ragged white-blonde hair, his long fingers twitching on the thin pale grey blanket that covered him to his waist, with new scars scattered livid over his pale skin. The Healers didn't have time to waste on extra niceties like erasing scars or the like, right now; there were too many wounded Order members and students alike.

His torso was swathed in pristine white bandages that hid the healing damage from the third degree burns he'd suffered, and his silver hand was still stained faintly with blood, despite the scourgifys Hermione had cast on him and her both. He was so achingly handsome despite his haggard appearance, so achingly all hers, and alive, and Hermione laid her cheek gently against his forearm and sighed with the relief that wended its way slowly through the shock that had numbed her. They had survived. They'd taken Hogwarts, and they had all survived, every single one of them. She couldn't have asked for anything more than that. This, here, in the infirmary with Draco, secure in the knowledge that everyone she loved was all right - this was as close to perfectly happy as Hermione thought she could get, right now. As she ever really needed to get.

She fell asleep with her cheek pillowed on his arm.

"Hermione."

A hand on her shoulder, shaking her very gently, and she grumbled and mumbled and swiped at the drool drying at the corner of her mouth and down her chin.

"Hermione."

She jerked upright, her neck not thanking her for the sudden movement, and she realised that Draco had not made a good pillow, because she was aching all over - back, shoulders, neck - even her bum was sore from the too-hard chair she'd fallen asleep on.

"Harry!" She smiled at him bleary-eyed and stumbled to her feet, flinging her arms around him and squeezing him as tightly as her aching arms would let her. He made a gasping sort of laugh, and then patted her on the back, squeezed her tightly in return, and she clung to him like he was a rock - a port in a storm. She hadn't seen Harry since the beginning of the battle, and although she had heard he was all right, it was such a huge relief to see him with her own eyes. She pulled back slightly, hands gripping his arms, and looked him over with half-maternal concern. He looked dreadfully tired and pallid, his hair was more dishevelled than usual, and his eyes were weary and dulled behind his glasses, but he was one of the best sights Hermione could have laid her eyes on right now. She dragged Harry back into a bone-breakingly tight hug, burying her face against his shoulder and trying not to worry him by crying with a happiness she couldn't explain, and that he would think was distress.

"Jesus, 'Mione. Crushing. Me," Harry choked out after a moment and Hermione laughed awkwardly and let him go, took a step back and bumped into Draco's bed, and checked fast to see if he was awake. He wasn't though, and disappointment turned down the corners of her mouth, her fingers slid over Draco's human hand lightly, and he stirred and sighed in his sleep, his eyes darting beneath his eyelids as he dreamt. She turned back to Harry, and then she saw Ron there standing just behind Harry, grinning broadly at her. She stepped forward to be swamped in Ron's hug, and this time it was her who had to gasp that he was crushing her, and then they all stifled silly laughter, grinning at each other with relief and happiness and triumph. The three of them, all together in Hogwarts again.

"We did it," Harry said, and Hermione nodded, still grinning. "We did, Harry. We really did it. God, I nearly can't believe it."

"Well believe it, because it's bloody well true," Ron said, and they all grinned speechlessly at each other for another moment, before coming together for a hug, arms wrapped around each other. This was an enormous turning point in the war. Now they had Hogwarts back, they had a real chance at winning this war, and possibly sooner than they could have ever hoped before. Their heads knocked together, and Ron and Harry's hands gripped Hermione's shirt as they clutched onto her. The Order was no longer scattered out over the country in safehouses and small groups - they had a place to make a stand against Voldemort, and it was one of the best feelings in the world.

"Get a room, you three," a hoarse croak came from the bed behind Hermione, and she jerked back from Harry and Ron and spun to see Draco blinking sleepily up at her and the boys, a faint smirk on his lips.

"Screw you, Malfoy," Ron said lightly, and Hermione snorted tearfully and elbowed Ron in the side, moving to Draco's bedside and taking his hand in hers.

"You're awake. How are you feeling?" she asked him worriedly, her eyes casting over him, noting that his smirk had already faded to a pained grimace, and his skin was pallid and covered in a sheen of perspiration.

"Like utter shite. I -" He broke off and hissed, his silver hand going to hover over the bandages that hid his healing burns from view. "It hurts." He was deathly pale, swallowing hard, and Hermione squeezed his hand tightly, helplessly.

"Harry, go tell Madam Pomfrey that Draco needs more pain potion," she ordered her friend, and heard Harry's quick assent, his boots thudding hurriedly away.

"How are you?" Draco whispered, forehead deeply furrowed and fingers digging into Hermione's hand as he breathed little shallow gasps against the pain.

"I'm fine. Absolutely, perfectly fine."

"And the…?" Grey eyes slid down from her face to her abdomen, and one eyebrow cocked, his face layered with worry over the pain, and Hermione laughed weakly and nodded, sniffing back tears, because his concern had to mean that he was at least somewhat happy about her being pregnant, and that was such an enormous relief. She couldn't say much with Ron hovering right there, slouching behind her with his hands shoved in his pockets and badly hidden concern at Draco's condition on his face.

So she just nodded, smiling a little and bending to press her lips to Draco's temple, laying a kiss there and whispering her reassurance. "The baby's fine." She drew back and nodded firmly, saying louder: "Everything's totally, wonderfully fine."

Draco gritted his teeth and nodded, his hand still hovering above his chest like he wanted to press his hand against the wound in a futile attempt to ease the pain, but couldn't, because he knew it would just make it hurt more. His hand flexed and curled into a fist.

"I'm - not bloody wonderfully fine. I could do with the fucking pain potion right about now," Draco admitted in a rough whisper, and Hermione glanced around for Harry or Madam Pomfrey, willing Harry to hurry the hell up. "Shit. I don't remember my fucking leg hurting this much."

"You were unconscious while your leg was being healed. You know healing burns hurts a lot. It won't be much longer, though. Only another hour or so before the majority of the healing is done," Hermione tried to reassure Draco, and he flattened his lips together and nodded once, staring blankly up at the ceiling and obviously holding in whimpers of pain. And then Madam Pomfrey bustled over with Harry in tow and several vials in her hand, and Hermione breathed relief.

"Hang on, Madam Pomfrey's here," she said, and Draco nodded minutely; his only acknowledgement, unable to speak, his whole face taut and white with pain.

"Sorry, dears, sorry. I'm so terribly busy," Madam Pomfrey fussed as she shooed Hermione out of the way and took a good look at Draco, tsk-ing and frowning down at him, like he was to blame for waking up. "You're not supposed to be awake yet; there's still too much healing for your body to do, and none of it is very pleasant. Burns never are. Now, here you go, drink this."

She uncorked a vial, but before she could tip it down Draco's throat he held up his hand, stopped her.

"What is it?" he croaked - his infernal need to know exactly what he was being given rather than just trusting the Healer - and Hermione rolled her eyes at him. Honestly, did he want the pain potion or not?

"Pain potion, of course," Madam Pomfrey said briskly, glaring at Draco now. "Now drink up - I'm not asking, I'm telling you." And without further ado she tipped it down Draco's throat, forcing him to swallow or choke, and then before he could recover, she whisked out another vial and uncorked it, tipping that directly down his throat too. He spluttered and swallowed and glared at her.

"What - wha…wass…thh…?" Draco's eyes slid shut mid-sentence, and his breath eased out of him in the deep, slow exhale that indicated a sleeping potion, and then the pain eased out of his face and his hands went limp and relaxed on the pale grey blanket that covered him.

"Well, Mister Malfoy will be asleep for the next several hours," Madam Pomfrey said brusquely to Hermione and the two boys, who flanked her now. "So I recommend you three go and get some rest." She gave Hermione a particular look. "Especially you, Miss Granger. Your body needs its rest in order to -"

"Of course! We'll go do that right now. Thank you Madam Pomfrey!" Hermione said too-loudly, nodding gratefully at the matron and dragging the two slightly bewildered boys away with her, before the older witch let anything slip. "Come on, before she decides to drug us too," she said laughingly, trying to act normal and failing horribly, and Ron gave her an odd look and Harry chuckled.

"Where are we going to sleep?" she asked them, doubting that they could just go up to the Gryffindor dorms, because somehow that wouldn't seem right.

"Ginny and Cho are in the Room of Requirement. Most of the Order members who don't have to guard the castle seem to have decided to sleep in the Room," Harry said as the three of them strolled along the corridors of Hogwarts together, arm in arm, Hermione sandwiched comfortably between the two of them. "No one really…feels safe in Hogwarts yet. And there are still bodies being removed from the corridors and dorms, and…well, the Room seems nice and safe, and Neville's gotten it to portion off with curtains and hangings and stuff into separate little rooms for everyone, so…"

"How is Neville?" Hermione asked, realising belatedly that she hadn't seen him since she'd been frantically sprinkling dittany on his terrible wounds in the Slytherin boys' dorm bathroom.

"He's -" Ron let out a bone-cracking yawn, cutting himself off mid-sentence. "-he's fine. You saved his life, you know, 'Mione. First he saved mine by taking the slashing hex for me, and then you saved his by healing him, and -" He yawned again, and it set off Harry and Hermione into yawns, and she giggled exhaustedly, leaning her head against Ron's shoulder as they straggled wearily along toward the Room. Merlin, she was certainly ready to get some sleep; if she wasn't careful she was going to fall asleep right now, and sleepwalk her way to the Room, she thought and giggled again, warm with Ron and Harry's arms around her, and the thought that Draco was all right and healing, and everything was…just…fine…

Draco gone to the astronomy tower when he'd woken and found the sickbay hushed and still, with no Healers on duty to tie him down to the bed or drug him up again. He wasn't sure why he'd gone there because it hardly had good associations for him, but it had just…called to him. He'd found his wand in the top drawer of his bedside table, and with a bit of concentration that wasn't easy thanks to the pain potion, had cast a warming charm so that he didn't freeze in just the pair of thin blue sickbay pyjama trousers and the bandages that swathed his torso. And then Draco had slipped out quietly on bare feet, the stone floor startlingly cold, although the warming charm kept him from being chilled right through. He'd kept to the shadows, for the most part, and while he'd seen the occasional Order member patrolling the corridors, they hadn't seen him.

Draco had reached the astronomy tower without incident, although by the time he had reached the top his breath had been coming hard, and his chest was squeezed in a vice of fiery pain. He walked to the iron railings and awkwardly sat down, his feet dangling off the edge into empty space, leaning his forearms on the rail that was at chest height, and glancing down. There was something about being so very frighteningly high up that made Draco feel strangely, fiercely alive. He remembered the last time he had been up here, in this tower, and leant his chin on his forearms and lost himself somewhere between the so very long ago past and the coming future, as he watched dawn creep its rosy tendrils over the pale sky.

"Draco!" Footsteps hurrying across to him and he glanced up from his contemplation of the horizon to see Hermione rushing towards him in a stripy jersey and jeans, her hair an untamed explosion of tangled, bushy curls. "What are you…?" She was flushed and panting, and it looked like she'd run the whole way up the tower stairs, fear written all over her, and Draco frowned.

"Watching the sunrise. Why?"

"I - you weren't in the - and I looked on the Map - it said you were up here, and I guess…" She stopped and blushed pinker and shrugged, padding over to him on bare feet and avoiding his eyes. Draco smirked.

"You thought I was going to throw myself over the edge of the tower in a fit of extremely belated guilt?"

She sat herself next to him cautiously, making a face at the height, her feet dangling down next to his, hooking her foot around his leg.

"Maybe," she admitted embarrassedly, fingers white-knuckle tight around the bar in front of her breasts as she glanced down at the ground. "God, this is unnerving."

Draco said nothing, just watched the rays of daylight start to spread out over the sky, blotting out the few stars that still sparkled faintly.

"So why are you up here?"

"I don't know." Draco sighed, frowning at the sky. "It's as good a place as any to think. Nice view."

He could see from the corner of his eye that Hermione was giving him a funny look, but she didn't question him any further, just nodded and made a sound of assent, because, well, it was a nice view, whether Dumbledore had died up here or not. It was still a pretty view. Draco suspected he was still a little high on the pain potion, but that was all right. It felt quite nice, really; all peaceful and calm, and there was no one around to embarrass himself in front of, except Hermione, and she didn't count. Draco turned his head, eyes dragging lazily over her mass of tangled brown hair, her dark, straight brows, and large firewhiskey eyes, the pink flush to her cheeks, and the point of her small, firm chin. Merlin, she was fucking gorgeous.

She saw him looking and ducked her head a little, chewed at her lip and scratched at her cheekbone, looking awkward and half-amused. Draco scooted slightly closer to her, the healing skin on his chest pulling and hurting beneath the bandages as he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her warm against him, the wool of her jersey tickling on his bare shoulder.

"So. I'm going to be a father, then?" he asked her, a little numbly, because it was very hard to know what he felt about it, and then he just ended up feeling numb. Overwhelmed. Hermione sighed, and nodded. Looked nervous.

"Yes. You are. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. This was the last thing I intended to happen, because really, this is not the time to be bloody well pregnant and having a baby. I didn't mean to - but it happened, and…I know it seems silly and entirely impractical, but…I kind of want to have it." She admitted that last bit in a rush, like it was a fault, a flaw, and Draco frowned at her.

"Of course you want to have it. What else would you…?" Oh. Of course. Hermione seemed to think that she should have taken an abortifacient potion, or maybe whatever Muggle method there was. She shot Draco a nervous look and he shook his head at her and shrugged casually. "Don't be sorry, Hermione. Of course you want it; what else would you do?"

"Well, Pansy…"

"Pansy was raped," Draco said flatly, feeling a dull hurt stab through him at the reminder of what his father had done to his ex-girlfriend and friend. "That's different. But other than that…the old families, like the Malfoys and the Blacks, they don't…do that. It might be a common Muggle thing, and that's fine, but the old families have enough difficulty conceiving as it is; accidental children are always treated as a blessing, not a burden, no matter what awkwardness or inconvenience their arrival might cause."

Hermione nodded slowly, her brown eyes full of thoughts. "But I'm a Muggleborn, Draco. This baby won't be a pureblood. Just a half-blood, and not even a respectable 'the Muggle ancestor was several generations ago, and we're suitably embarrassed by it' half-blood, but an actual -"

"And who's going to care about that, Hermione? My father?" Draco huffed a short laugh and winced at the pain in his chest, as the potion began to wear off a little. "The only people who would actually care what blood our child has are the people we're fighting a fucking war against."

Hermione glowed, a secretive sort of smile creeping over her lips, and Draco raised an eyebrow. "What did I say?"

She shrugged. "Our child. It just sounded really…lovely."

Draco saw his chance and took it, risking her wrath, trying to hide his serious question in a way that could be taken as a joke. "It is our child, right?"

She saw right through him; her smile dropped away. "What do you…? What are you trying to imply, Draco?" A frown scrunched her dark brows together, and Draco wished he hadn't said anything; or had at least waited until his head was less fuzzed with pain potion and he was slightly more capable of being sneaky.

"Not that, I didn't mean that…" he said hastily, resisting the urge to beat his head on the railing for his own stupidity. "I meant…ah…"

"Oh." Comprehension took Hermione's face and cleared it of the beginnings of anger, before casting it into mild revulsion and distress, and her hand slid onto his thigh, radiating warmth through his thin pyjama trousers. "No. Um. No. It's definitely yours, Draco. Definitely. They never…never. It's, well, only ever been…you. Of course."

"Oh. Okay. Good." Draco nodded, and buried his face in Hermione's mane of hair to hide the heat of embarrassment and pleasure, both, on his cheeks. "That's very good."

There was a long moment of silence, while Draco tried to absorb the fact that in less than a year, he was going to be partially responsible for raising another human being.

"I think I'm terrified," he said bluntly, and startled a laugh out of Hermione. "No, really, Hermione. I'm terrified. I'm going to fuck this up royally. What the hell do I know about teaching an impressionable child to be a responsible, moral person? Look at me! My father was - is - a cold, hard man, who wasn't that great when I was young, and then when I was older, taught me to follow a Dark wizard blindly, tortured me and cut off my - my fucking hand, and raped my ex-girlfriend, and tried to - to you… Shit, Hermione, I've no fucking idea how to be a good father. I'm going to - going to fail miserably."

He stared at Hermione wide-eyed, a sudden panic overtaking him. "I'm not fucking fit to be a parent."

She just looked at him, full of sympathy, and then leaned up to kiss his cheek. "You'll do fine, Draco. I'll get you a book on how not to raise your child to be evil, and you'll be right." She smirked at Draco and he gave her a scathing look, because he really was bloody worried, and it wasn't a joking matter. He opened his mouth to protest, and she kissed him again, and drew back, eyes fixed to his, and said very firmly: "You will do fine. I know you will."

Draco could hear the total, trusting certainty in her voice, see it in her clear eyes, lit by the rosy gold dawn and sparking with warm amber, and he nodded slowly. "You should probably get me that book though. Just in case."

"I would," Hermione replied with a smile in her tone, leaning her head back onto his shoulder, her fingers warm on his thigh and her foot hooked behind his leg, hanging over the edge. "But I don't think there are any books that specifically cover the topic of 'raising your child to be not-evil', unfortunately." She sighed heavily, as if exhausted by the enormity of what lay ahead of them, and shifted beside him, leaning warm and snug against his side. "Muggles have a lot of childcare and parenting books though, that in all seriousness we might find helpful. I'll have to raid a Muggle bookstore soon. We're going to need all the help we can get."

Draco didn't disagree. He was nowhere near bloody ready to have a child, even if everything else in his life had been perfect; he certainly didn't know how the hell he was going to handle having one in the middle of a Merlin-damned war.

"We'll manage," Hermione said, more of that calm certainty in her voice, and Draco made a doubtful sound of assent, eyes on the glow of the rising sun as it bathed the landscape beneath them, hoping that she was right.