Edited 10/15/15

20. The Battle, Part Four: No Saving Anything

Throw your arms in the air tonight

We don't bleed when we don't fight

Go ahead, go ahead

Lose our shirts in the fire tonight

What makes you think I'm enjoying being led to the flood?

We got another thing coming undone

But I won't be no runaway

'Cause I won't run

[Runaway, The National]

Draco woke to Voldemort's voice burning through his head and filling up the air around him, leaving nothing for him to breathe. He jerked bolt upright with a sound that could only be called a whimpering scream of terror, pressing his hands to his ears and trying to block the sound out. In that dazed place between wakefulness and dreams, he first thought he was back under the Imperius, and horror flooded him, leaving him feeling leaden and icy. The terror didn't retreat when he realised where and when he was; Draco was then simply deathly afraid that Voldemort had won. That this was his victory speech. And they were all going to be tortured and enslaved and killed, and Hermione -

But then the words registered, sinking into Draco's fuddled brain.

"…Fought valiantly, but in vain. I do not wish this. Every drop of magical blood spilt is a terrible waste. I, therefore, command my forces to retreat. In their absence, dispose of your dead with dignity.

"Harry Potter, I now speak directly to you: on this night you have allowed your friends to die for you, rather than face me yourself. There is no greater dishonour. Join me in the Forbidden Forest and confront your fate. If you do not do this, I shall kill every last man, woman and child who tries to conceal you from me."

A warm body shifted against Draco's side and made pain splinter dully through him as it woke all his bruises and other wounds. A hand twisted and searched over his side and wrist, and found the fingers of his real hand. He smiled; smiled and squeezed the fingers hard - warm and small and trapped in his - and opened his eyes to Hermione, propped up on one elbow beside him on the narrow cot.

Her face was cleaned of blood and filth and her hair had been re-braided, and although her skin was ashen and marked lividly here and there with scratches and bruises, the marks had obviously been treated. The bites the Inferi had inflicted at her throat were half-healed already. She looked all right considering what she had experienced tonight, and relief began to thread weakly through Draco at that realisation. Some of the tension coiled tight in his chest unwound just a little.

"You're awake," she said unnecessarily, a weary smile tugging at pallid lips, relief and warmth shining bright in her dark-circled brown eyes. "How are you feeling?"

Draco tried to speak and his voice broke over the words, hoarse and ragged. He cleared his throat - raw and dry - and tried again, still scratchy and slurred just a little bit. "Like utter shit. But better. How long have I been out? Are you all right?"

"That's good. Almost an hour. And I'm sore, but fine," she said with brief, crisp efficiency, and looked up across the Hall at the sound of a raised voice. There was a gradual increase in the activity amongst the people crammed into the room, which began to peak, filling it with a hum of panicked frenzy. Voldemort's words working their purpose, Draco supposed. I shall kill every last man, woman and child. Hermione's tired eyes narrowed, and her gaze darted about - searching worriedly. Distracted…by Voldemort's words? Draco tried to summon them back to mind. Confront your fate, the Dark Lord had said. Voldemort wanted Potter to surrender himself - Hermione was probably worrying he'd do just that, and wanting to find him and strictly forbid him from doing so. But that was what Potter needed, wasn't it? To die? The thoughts skittered through Draco's head in confused tangles. That was right - Hermione didn't know, did she? Fuck.

"The baby?" Draco asked aloud as he struggled to sit up, fogged mind finally thinking of it, more fear rising as he thought of how the injuries Hermione had sustained could have impacted the pregnancy. Salazar's sake, he hurt all over, even with the treatment it appeared he'd received. The burns on his arm and side were much improved, the cut in his cheek had been sealed shut, the bruising that covered much of his body was less intense, and his left leg awkwardly immobilised. Better, but still shit, yeah. Draco managed to get sitting upright with his feet planted on the floor with a grunt of effort and pain, and Hermione's help. His broken leg stuck out awkwardly stiff in front of him.

"Perfectly all right, according to the Healer's diagnostics," Hermione said of the baby, her wan smile shifting to a worried frown as Draco shifted his broken leg experimentally and whimpered despite himself. Merlin, it hurt like hell, even splinted. "Careful," she murmured, standing and hovering, all full of nervous concern. "It was a bad break. The Healers were worried you might not regain full use at first. You could still do permanent damage."

""I'll be fine." Draco brushed off Hermione's worry, shoving a hand through his hair and biting his lip as the pain flared like knives in the bones of his leg, right up into his thigh. "So. We have an hour then," he said grimly, and forced himself to stand, wobbling on his feet and splitting his healing lip open and bloodied again as pain seared up through the core of his leg like fire and needles. Shit. Hermione shoved him back down hard with frightened hands and Draco went with her pushing, too weak to stay up. He growled at her under his breath, and began trying to drag himself up to his feet again, body quailing at the pain. "Don't, Hermione. I need -"

"You don't," she snapped back, furious and frantic. "Didn't you hear me? Your leg is badly broken, you idiot. That means you shouldn't walk on it."

"I don't have much fucking choice, do I? In an hour, we're going to need to be out there. ...Where's my wand?" he demanded, his voice going up at the end as he realised it was gone from its holster and panic rolled over him. Without his wand he couldn't damn well fight, and for a moment he wondered if Hermione had taken it and hidden it from him. He wouldn't put it past her. But she held it out to him without a word, distaste and apology warring in her eyes. It was snapped clean in half, the gory faerie spine core hanging limply out of one of the pieces. Draco stared at it, his stomach sinking and a weary kind of hopelessness falling over him. "Shit. Shit…it's broken. Merlin fucking damnit!"

"I'm sorry. When we fell…you must have landed on it somehow." Hermione's face was utterly innocent as she held the broken wand out to him in her palm like a sacrifice, and for a flicker of a second, Draco caught himself wondering just how well she could lie. Because wasn't that just convenient for her - except there wasn't a trace of deceit on her tired features. Either way, it was broken now, wasn't it? No point in crying over spilt potions. Draco shut his eyes and rubbed at his temples in little circles, trying to think, the two pieces of his broken wand knocking together and making a little clicking sound as Hermione tossed them onto the cot beside him.

"Are the dead in here?" Draco asked brusquely after a moment, gaze flicking up to Hermione's, and her confusion was obvious, all mingled with the pain of grief.

"Um. Yes, some of them. I can tell you who - who - died, if you like," she offered in a small voice, and he shook his head, standing again and biting back the whimpers and groans that wanted to escape him when he put even the slightest bit of weight on his broken leg. "Draco! For god's sake, just sit down!"

"The wands," he got out succinctly through gritted teeth. "The dead will have their wands, won't they? Some of them, anyway. One of them has to work reasonably well for me." He limped forward, lurching and hissing long and hard between his clenched teeth, and Hermione planted her hand on his chest. He raised an eyebrow as he looked down at her. "Just stop," he told her tiredly. "Just stop. You can't fucking protect me. It's stupid. It's fucking stupid."

"If you go out there like this, with a wand that you haven't been able to get properly familiar with, unable to dodge, unable to - to do anything…" There was a naked pleading on her face as she stared up at him, angry and determined and utterly terrified - not just by the situation, which would at least be understandable, but for him in particular. And it staggered him that after everything he had done and everything that had happened, she could still look at him like that. Draco didn't understand it.

"I can still duel, Hermione. And I have to. We don't exactly have a choice. Not fighting isn't exactly going to save my life, is it? Every fighter we have is going to be needed out there when Voldemort comes, and even then…" He closed his hand over hers, where it splayed on his chest, trying pathetically to stop him. The chances that they would live through the night were getting slimmer and slimmer, and she stood there before him trying to protect him, frail and fragile and carrying his child, and Draco couldn't fucking stand it. He swallowed hard.

"Would you run?" It was a barely audible murmur as his eyes locked to hers, and her brow furrowed as she tried to figure if she'd heard him right. He repeated himself. "Would you run? At the end, if it looks like we're going to lose?" His voice and eyes were urgent and pleading, and he laid his hands over her shoulders, desperately searching her expression for acceptance.

"You want to run?" There was burgeoning disappointment in her tone, and Draco shook his head hard, realising with vague surprise that he hadn't even considered that.

"No. Not me. Just you." He swallowed, his heart pounding and his stomach lurching sickly. She had to understand, she had to realise; there were bigger things at stake here. Now it came down to it - down to the wire, down to the line, Draco couldn't bring himself to accept the inevitable conclusion of them fighting side by side, and losing. His hand edged over the curve of Hermione's cheek, and he licked his lips, ducking his head down so their noses and foreheads nudged together. Her eyes were big and round, and her hands pushed up into his matted hair, grabbing fistfuls of it. "Just you," he repeated.

She shook her head, nose bumping over his, and her voice was calm and final. "No."

"Hermione. Please. The baby…" he pleaded, trying to convince her, the people around them in the Great Hall bustling and moving; panic threading through their voices, mirroring his own as he pictured Hermione dead.

"No." Calm, composed, her brown eyes clear and wet on his.

"You can't do this," he told her, quietly furious, and then tried another tack. Urgent. Angry. His hands were shaking, and he clenched them tighter into her shoulders to still the tremors that gave away his lack of control. He pleaded with her, desperate. "I don't want you to leave now, just…if we lose. If we lose, then I want you to disapparate out of here and run."

"Run where?" she asked, and there were tears in her eyes, and her hands interlaced behind his neck, her forehead pressed firm against his, her breath hot on him. She was warm and clinging and real, and he couldn't stand the images of her death in his mind. "Run where, Draco?"

"Anywhere," he grated, and deliberately put weight on his broken leg to try to distract himself from his seething emotions; he refused to cry right now. His voice wavered the tiniest bit as he spoke, and was a ragged, hoarse whisper. "America. Asia. Brazil. Anywhere that isn't here. Live as a Muggle. Forget you could ever do magic. Lose yourself in the crowd. Make sure he never finds you. I know you can do it. If anyone could manage to stay hidden, you could, Hermione."

She blinked, eyes wide and bloodshot and wet with tears. Her lips flattened a little, and then curved into a faint set, smile. "But I don't want to."

"Fuck." Draco staggered a step back from her, as though she had slapped him, and a helpless anger raged up hot. He stared at her with wounded eyes, feeling betrayed. "You'd try to stop me from fighting to keep me safe, but you won't save yourself when I ask you?"

"I can try to stop you. But I'm rather certain that, as I'm not going to listen to you, you're not going to listen to me," she told him, and smiled again, wry and so sad.

"It's different!"

"No it's not," she said calmly, backing away from him.

"Hermione!" Draco called after her low and angry, and then took a step and cried out, nauseated, eyes squeezing shut. It fucking hurt to try to walk, and by the time he had gotten three limping, pain-filled steps, he was panting and sweating and nauseated from the exertion. When he looked up from his feet to see where she had gone, he saw she was standing only a few feet away from him, at the end of the cot he had been lying on, her arms crossed over her chest and an exasperated expression on her face. Draco took a step and his leg would have buckled beneath him if not for the splint. Another and he almost pitched forward, biting into his lip and screwing his face up with the pain, panting through it. And then her hands were on his arms.

"Don't. Just - don't, please, Draco. I only want to go and find Harry and make sure…well." There was fear in her eyes, of course, because she had no idea that Potter had to die. "I'll be back. I swear it. But I need to know that you're not hurting yourself unnecessarily like this. I need to know I'm going to come back, and you'll still be sitting right here. On the bed. Not hurting yourself."

"I'd listen to the lady, mate. You know how she gets when her orders are ignored." Potter's voice came from behind Hermione, who whirled around and flung herself at him. He didn't look in the best shape, but he was walking and talking, which was one better than Draco, and there was a grim determination on his features as he met Draco's gaze over Hermione's shoulder. And Draco knew right then that Potter was going to go into the forest to meet his doom; it was clear as fucking day in the other man's eyes.

"Harry! You're not thinking of going are you? You can't. You know it won't make a single bit of difference. It's what he wants, and you know that means it can't be good," Hermione babbled as she squeezed Potter tight, and then exuding nervous energy back-stepped quickly to Draco's side, seizing his elbow and steadying him just as he wobbled and nearly lost his balance with a quiet curse. "You can't. I won't let you, Harry."

"Don't worry, ''Mione," Potter said with an affectionate smile, his eyes fond on Hermione. "I don't plan to."

And yeah, the bastard really could have been in Slytherin, Draco thought to himself, searching Potter's face for the hint of a lie and finding none. If Draco hadn't seen the truth in Potter's expression as he'd held Hermione a moment ago, he would believe Potter. As it was, he clamped his lips shut and hobbled back a step or two with Hermione's help, sitting heavily on the edge of the cot. There was no point in staying standing right now, and his leg really fucking hurt if he was honest.

He needed to talk to Potter without Hermione around. And then he needed to talk to someone else - Longbottom maybe, or one of the Weasleys - and make sure that, like it or not, Hermione would be leaving the battle if their side looked like it was going to lose. And for that, she needed to not be around. Ask for Longbottom, he mouthed at Potter, and for a miracle, Potter seemed to understand, if his tiny nod was any indication. He'd better fucking have.

"Good," Hermione said, standing by Draco and wavering an uncertain smile at Potter. "Good. I was worried you'd try to do something stupid."

"For once, surprisingly no," Potter grinned, and then cast his eyes around. "Hermione, have you seen Neville? I need to talk to him and Draco about - about tactics for the battle. I've looked everywhere, but…"

"If you make sure Draco doesn't go anywhere, I'll have another look for him if you like," Hermione offered, and Potter nodded and agreed with effusive thanks. "We'll talk when I get back, all right?" she whispered in Draco's ear, and he nodded, reaching out blindly and finding her hand, squeezing her fingers tightly in his for a brief moment.

"I love you," he told her in a voice pitched only for her ears; their cheeks pressed together, his lips brushing her skin. It was important that she knew, now more than ever. "Hermione. I love you." She pulled back a little to eye him, suspicious and concerned, but Draco had nothing to hide in this; they were likely going to die, no matter what he did to try to save her. And through the leaden horror of that, one thing burnt strong and bright - that she was everything good in his world and that he loved her. Hermione bent back down to him:

"I love you too." She whispered it hot in his ear, fingers clasping on his, before pulling back with an attempt at a smile. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't go anywhere, okay?"

Potter was looking at Draco with pained empathy in his eyes as Hermione walked away, a slight limp in her step, her hands knuckling into her lower back - a reminder of her pregnancy that he didn't want right now. He couldn't cope with the thought of what he was losing. The future that could - likely would - be stripped away from him. Not just her, but the child they would have, the future of being a family. Draco clenched his jaw and looked down at his hands, flexing human and silver in unison. "You want Neville to take her away from the battle," Potter said, a vague question behind the words.

"Yes." Draco nodded, looking down at his hands and relaxing them consciously. Sliver and flesh; one smooth and shining despite a few splotches of blood, the other marked here and there by faded scars and small fresh nicks and cuts, stained with flecks of dry blood and blooms of soot and dirt. "I don't think we're going to win this, Potter. Even if you can bring down Voldemort, I don't think that will stop his forces from overwhelming us and slaughtering and raping and - well, I'm not optimistic. His army is far larger than I thought. So I want her taken away."

Potter sat down beside Draco, rubbing his hands through his dark hair and leaving it wilder than ever. "She won't go, you know." There was sympathy and understanding in the other man's quiet tones.

"I know. But I have to try. What - what about Ginny?" Draco arched a brow. "Don't tell me you're just going to let her stay here and die."

"Her family will look after her. I trust them to keep her safe." Potter didn't look too sure though; Draco recognised the look on his face. He was ashen and taut with strain, grim at the thought of his fiancée in danger, and him dead, unable to even try to defend her. "I need to believe that. Anyway. Here." Potter held out his wand, butt first. "I won't be needing it, and I heard yours broke." It was enough of a shock - Potter giving him his wand? - that it took Draco a second to process the offer, before reaching out hesitantly and closing his fingers over the polished wood of the wand.

"Are you going then?" he asked in a low voice, meaning to the forest and certain death, already knowing the answer, and sure enough Potter nodded, still ashen-complexioned and grim.

"I have to. I - I think I can slip away now without being noticed. I can't - can't say goodbye without them trying to stop me." Potter sounded numb at that thought, but no less determined to carry it out. "Will you, erm, tell them all that I love them? Especially Ginny and Hermione and Ron."

"Might be a bit awkward with Weasley," Draco tried to weakly joke, and then swallowed hard and nodded, eyes shifting to meet Potter's. "But yeah, Potter. I'll tell them."

"Thanks." Potter stood. "I'm glad I got to know you, Malfoy."

"The same goes for you, Potter. Au revoir, right?" Draco felt an odd lump in his throat as Potter shoved his hands in his pockets and managed the shadow of a smile, nodding, before swivelling on one foot and striding away, shoulders hunched and head down. Unnoticeable in the crowd, and quickly lost from sight, and Draco stared down at Potter's wand for a long moment, a strange grief blanketing him at the thought of the other man, walking to his death alone. And then he bent with a wince and slid the wand carefully down inside his sock and boot, tugging his chausses over the butt of it, so Hermione wouldn't see it. She couldn't know about Potter until it was too late. No one could.

Hermione found Neville kneeling by a cot bed, trying to comfort a boy who was draped over another dead boy on the bed, weeping inconsolably. Neville looked up at Hermione helplessly when she placed gentle fingers on his shoulder to get his attention. "Harry says he needs to see you, Neville," she murmured apologetically, and he sighed and nodded.

"I'm so sorry, Hamish," he said to the boy, who clung to the bloodied body beneath him like it was his anchor to the world. "I have to go." He pulled back his hand from where it had laid on the grieving boy's back, and rubbed it over his tear wet eyes as he stood with a grimace of pain. The boy ignored him; too lost in his grief, shoulders shaking and hitching, muffled sobs wrenching from his throat. Hermione slipped her arm through Neville's and smiled one of those tight, sympathetic smiles that felt wrong on her face. Neville tried to smile back, but his chin wobbled and he had to wipe away more tears, his breathing a little unsteady.

"Come on, Neville," she said kindly. "We'd best go then."

"Hamish and Jonathan," Neville said after a moment without being asked, as Hermione led them on a slow, weaving route through the Hall, arms still linked. "They only got together two weeks ago, after fighting side by side ever since the war began. Everyone knew how they felt about each other, except for themselves, the blind idiots. They - they were stationed in the Room with me for a while, and I got to know them well. Everyone liked them, and people used to take bets on when they'd finally realise they were madly in love. And they did, finally, and now Jonathan's dead." Neville looked at Hermione with raw, sorrowful eyes. "Everything about this is so wrong. I hate it. How can he do this? Why?" The crack to Neville's voice and the bewilderment in his face was heart-breaking. He was too good for war, for any of this.

"Because he hates himself, and everything else," Hermione said simply after a pause - an obvious answer that couldn't really answer the actual question behind Neville's words. She didn't know why either, and she railed and raged against the pointless horror, but ultimately why isn't important. Reality was what it was, regardless of the maddening unfairness. "Because he's evil and broken, and he can't stand anything that isn't." She squeezed Neville's arm with hers a little tighter, trying to give comfort, but she had so little left.

"I know. I just..."

"I know."

They moved past still-warm bodies and mourners, and people who had been maimed forever, people who would live, but not fight again tonight. Past those stained with the blood of their friends and bone weary with exhaustion, numb and blank and lost to shock. They went past people who sobbed, or screamed, or wept quietly and wretchedly. And all of them would likely be dead before long, if not for a miracle. The horror pressed in on Hermione until she felt she couldn't breathe, suffocating under it all. And then a flash of silver swept up bright and swift before her, and she jerked to a halt, pulling Neville to a stop too. It was…

"Oh my god…"

"...What? Who...?" Neville asked bewilderedly as the elegant silver doe pranced to a stop in front of Hermione, bright and shining and pure in the dimly lit, crowded Hall, which stunk of blood and effluent and terror.

"Snape..." Hermione whispered wonderingly, sliding her arm free from Neville's and stepping forward toward the patronus. This was either very good, or very bad, and her heart lodged in her throat as she waited for the patronus to deliver the message it had been sent with, fists clenching at her sides and pulse thundering too fast. Gr-granger... issued in a choking burble from the patronus, rasping and wet as though Snape were drowning in his own blood as he struggled to speak, and Hermione gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the whimper of horror that wanted to escape. Her chest ratcheted tight and her heart plummeted, leaden. She knew what was coming.

I...have...failed to kill...the snake. It is - with the Dark Lord. Each word sounded as though it caused Snape sheer agony, ripped out of a destroyed throat, and Hermione realised with surprise that she was crying hot tears. He was dying - she didn't have to be clever to know that. Snape had saved her life and tried to save both her and Draco, and now he was dying, in agony and failure - clearly alone or he wouldn't have been able to send the patronus - and it wasn't right.

T-tell Potter…I am...sorry. There was a pause then, the doe bowing its head, and Hermione's gaze flicked to Neville, who glanced at her at the same moment, shock imprinted on his features. "The snake?" he murmured, looking as though he was bursting with a million questions, and Hermione nodded.

"Nagini is a horcrux," she said succinctly, and then looked back to the doe, still present in the Hall, all eyes on it. Its front legs buckled and it sank to the stone floor, insubstantial silver and beginning to lose cohesion at the edges in wisps and blurs.

And here - a rasping, bubbling cough - it ends. I wish... Snape's voice was a gurgling whisper, barely audible, and then there was nothing more. Just silence deafening in her ears as the deer lay down, and then dissipated, drifting into nothingness. Hermione wondered whether that meant she had just witnessed Snape's death, and recoiled from that possibility, telling herself no - no, not necessarily. He was dying, yes, but not necessarily dead. There was no way to know for sure. Hermione blinked and wiped at her wet cheeks, trying to think coherently through the shock and the unexpected emotion that had seized her. So Snape had failed. The snake was still alive, and so was the horcrux inside it, and he was dying for nothing. Merlindamnit.

"That...was that Snape? Right? I didn't just…imagine that Snape sent his patronus to speak to you?" Neville asked her disbelievingly, eyes wide on her, and she nodded, sniffing wetly and slowly breathing in and out several times, steadying her emotions.

"Yes," she told him, and then looked around herself as prickles ran up her spine. She realised that all of the people who were nearby her and Neville had seen the doe, and heard the message, and were staring at her now. Just staring, and whispering to one another, and staring some more, trapped in shocked disbelief that Voldemort's right hand man had apparently been on their side. It was eerie, the sudden quiet that spread right across the Hall, underpinned by a faint susurrus of whispers as people passed the news from ear to ear.

"Snape's on our side?" Neville asked, as though he still couldn't quite comprehend it, and Hermione didn't blame him for it.

"He…well, yes. He's been a double agent, all this time." And now he's dying, Hermione thought, and suddenly snapped violently from her daze, her brain whirring into motion, a small, sharp pain blossoming unexpected in her chest at the thought of Snape dying. "Shit. Shit. And he could still be alive. He - I have to try to save him. Neville." She turned her gaze wide and urgent on her friend. She owed Snape her life, and she would repay that debt if she could. "I have to save him," she said again, frantic all of a sudden, because if there was a chance that Snape could be saved, she had to move now. "Neville - Neville, I need your help."

"You what?" Malfoy snarled, and Neville took an involuntary step backward from the other man, nearly bumping into Professor McGonagall. He swallowed hard, throat dry and palms sweaty, Malfoy's rage palpable and rather frightening to be honest, even with him wounded; sat battered and weary on the edge of the cot with his leg stretching awkwardly out in its splint.

"She asked me…she had a plan…it seemed reasonable. I couldn't say no…" Neville said weakly, knowing that wasn't going to help even as he said it, and Malfoy shoved himself to his feet with a whine of pain, face strained and taut with pain and anger.

"Yes you fucking well could have, Longbottom. Yes you could. You just - just let my pregnant fiancée go out there alone, and you expect me to be all right with it?" he grated, taking a lurching step toward Neville, and Neville winced, hoping very hard that Malfoy wasn't going to lose it and try and attack him. He didn't think getting dragged off him would help Malfoy's injuries very much. He understood Malfoy's anger, really he did. But it wasn't Malfoy's choice to make, whether Hermione went or not. It was Hermione's. She'd been perfectly sound of mind when she'd made the decision to go, and even if it was dangerous, well…it couldn't be any more dangerous than anywhere else on Hogwarts' grounds right now. They were in the middle of a bloody war - even if she hadn't gone she wouldn't be safe. But Neville was smart enough to know that Malfoy wouldn't accept that reasoning.

"I didn't let her do anything," he said though, clear and calm. "It was Hermione's choice."

"She shouldn't have taken action without informing us, really, and -" Professor Lupin began mildly, whatever he was going to say drowned out by Malfoy's voice, shaking with his anger, twisted and grating.

"I got Potter to send Hermione to get you because I wanted to tell you to protect her. To keep her alive if - if this…" Oh. Oh. Neville stared at Malfoy as the other man gasped the words out, wobbling on his feet, furious and wretched. "I trusted that you could keep her and our child safe despite her fucking Gryffindor love of running into danger, and then you do this." Neville felt sick, now. He understood why Malfoy was so angry with him now. Oh Merlin, this was awful. Draco Malfoy was bloody well crying, a few tears welling in his red-laced eyes and silently sliding down his cheeks, dashed away roughly by the back of the man's hand. "And instead you help send her into danger." Malfoy tried to take another step and nearly fell, and Lupin caught him, steadying him. Malfoy tried to shake him off, and nearly fell again.

"I - I'm sorry. So sorry, Draco. I - I didn't know," Neville said miserably, stepping forward within striking distance and tensing himself for a half-expected assault. It didn't come. Instead Malfoy sighed and slumped, the rage running out of him. Neville took hold of the side of him that Professor Lupin wasn't supporting, and between the two of them they got Malfoy settled back down on the low cot bed. "She - she knows how to look after herself, and she took Harry's invisibility cloak. She'll be okay," he offered as he straightened, and Malfoy looked up at him with bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes, a flicker of anger flaring briefly on his face.

"Don't try to placate me, Longbottom. She could die out there, and we both know it. So don't tell me that she'll be okay, because it's a fucking lie." Malfoy turned his attention to the others as Neville shuffled back, feeling stupid and sick and guilty. He couldn't imagine how Malfoy must feel right now - he did know that if it was Luna out there he'd be frantic with fear and worry. But given a chance to do it over again, he'd still help Hermione go. "We need to send someone after her."

"We don't even know where she went, Draco," Tonks said apologetically, wringing her hands together, and Malfoy stared at her bleakly.

"Then we need to figure out where she went," he said numbly, voice rasping, and if Neville didn't think Malfoy'd take his hands off for trying, he'd want to hug him. He just looked so miserable. "She didn't say anything to you, Longbottom?" Neville shrugged helplessly

"She said she knew where he might be. That - that it was only a guess, but worth looking. Like I said, already." Neville bit his lip, feeling stupid and useless, and wishing Luna was here. She always made things easy, somehow. He looked around at the faces surrounding him, avoiding Malfoy's desperate, accusatory gaze. "She told me to tell you all what was going on, took a Healer's kit, and the cloak, and slipped out through the portrait entrance up by the high table. I'm sorry; I wish I knew more but…"

"But what?" Malfoy snapped furiously, hands balling into fists.

"Hermione wouldn't tell me," Neville said, cringing at the irony, eyes flicking to Malfoy's. "She was afraid you'd try to follow her, Draco. She - she wanted to keep you safe." Malfoy stared up at Neville, sick disbelief spreading over his features.

"Of course she did," he whispered. "Of course she fucking did." And then Malfoy dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking, and Neville turned his face away, unable to bear the other's misery.

"Can't we do anything?" he asked a worried-looking Professor Lupin quietly, and the man shook his head slowly, looking weighed down by his worry and exhaustion; bags under his eyes and a bruise blooming vivid on his jaw, his hair matted and messy.

"I wish there was, Neville. I'd go out myself, if we knew where she was. But if we don't know where she went…well, all we can do is hope." Professor lowered his voice to a whisper, after shooting a quick glance at Malfoy, head still buried in his hands, shoulders slowly stilling as he obviously struggled to get control of himself. "She really didn't tell you?"

"No. She really didn't. Merlin, I'm so stupid. I should have at least made her tell me where she thought Snape was…" Neville felt like an idiot, and he hoped desperately that he hadn't just sentenced Hermione to death, hunching his shoulders and hugging himself as the nausea roiled in his gut.

"It's not your fault, Neville," Lupin told him, clapping a hand on his shoulder, and giving him a small, reassuring smile. Neville appreciated the sentiment, but it didn't really make him feel better. "You were doing what you thought was right."

"Yeah," Neville said softly, staring at Malfoy, sitting alone on the cot bed, having shrugged off Tonks' attempt at awkward comfort. Malfoy's head was still hung low but Neville could see the desolation on his face, as he wiped at his tear-wet cheeks and streaked clean patches over the backs of his bloodstained hands. "That doesn't mean it's not my fault."

Hermione gasped and clamped a hand over her mouth as her stomach rebelled against the unpleasant sensation of apparating, staggering on her feet under the cloak, and swaying back against a nearby wall. God, if it felt bad usually, disapparating during pregnancy was even worse. She hoped it wouldn't hurt the baby; the image of a splinched fetus popping into her head and making her feel even sicker. There was a reason apparition was not recommended during pregnancy unless absolutely necessary. She pressed her hand over her stomach, and hoped that everything was fine. Nothing felt wrong however, so Hermione pushed the worry back firmly, and focused on the current situation. Snape didn't have time for her to be fussing over what-ifs and things she couldn't change.

The hallway she stood in was empty as far as she could tell, and she couldn't hear any voices - Hermione felt a small measure of relief at that. She had apparated directly into Shrieking Shack, and had worried that there would still be Death Eaters here, if it was indeed where Snape had been. She was in the second floor corridor, and it was dark, and the musty smell of rotting furniture and damp walls filled her nose, little draughts cutting through the cracks in the walls and floor making her shiver. She clutched her wand tightly, holding the Healer's kit clamped between her arm and side, and whispered: "Homenum Revelio." Her eyesight shimmered and warped in a most disconcerting way as she held her wand out, the spell still active, and then as she turned in a slow circle looking everywhere around her, she saw a bright shape down near her feet.

Someone was here, on the first floor, but the spell was only detecting them faintly - the light that indicated a person flickering and weak. The person was dying. It had to be him. She ran for the stairs, abandoning all efforts to be quiet. "Snape! Snape, are you here?" She clattered down the stairs with her wand up and ready, just in case, calling frantically for him. And then she saw him - slumped against a wall, his hand clutched to his throat. And oh god, his throat. Blood ran thick and dark past his fingers, and his face was grey from blood loss; but he still retained enough awareness to look up at Hermione, dark eyes glassy but still filled with intelligence. The lines of his face were carved in pain, and his breaths were gurgling, awful things that couldn't be getting him enough oxygen.

"Snape. Oh Merlin." She ran to his side, kneeling and examining the wound as best she could with his fingers still clamped to it, unsure what on earth to do but needing to do something, preferably now, before he died in front of her. She could tell that somehow, the attack that had mauled Snape's throat had avoided completely severing the carotid artery - if it had, he would have bled to death already, or at least be losing blood faster than rather than the steady trickling that was happening. It could still be nicked though, and that was almost as bad. She needed to stabilise him, fast, and apparate him to the hospital wing.

"You need to let me look." He shook his head at that, a weak, tiny motion, eyes glittering feverishly. Right. He was probably holding himself together, almost literally. She opened the Healer's kit with shaking hands and dug out the blood replenishing potion, trying to pour it down his throat - he choked on it, at least half of it going everywhere but down his throat, but she thought he'd gotten enough to stave off death by blood loss for now. She scrabbled for the dittany next, shaking it between his fingers, so that hopefully some would seep down into the wounds. There was a loud hissing, and steam roiled off from around his hands, and he screamed, a mutilated wail that made her flinch, hands tightening on the bottle of dittany.

She had gotten out pain potion, the other bottle of dittany - she thought she might need it all - rolls of bandages, a scalpel, and a loop of tubing, when Snape finally managed to speak. "Snake...bit…venom," he choked out in a tiny whisper, hardly any air in his lungs to create the sounds. Shit. Hermione swallowed hard and nodded quickly, casting a simple numbing charm on Snape's throat and hoping that it helped as she belatedly realised she wouldn't be able to give him pain potion with the trauma to his throat. He could hardly breathe as it was. He was drowning in his own blood, and she was the only one who could do anything about it. Her stomach turned, and she wanted to shy away from even the thought of doing that, but she couldn't avoid reality. She cut the tubing down to around an eight inch length, and then sterilised it, her hands, and the scalpel, with a spell.

"Okay. Okay. Um…breathing…" Hermione stared at his hand, clasped to his throat as hard as his failing strength could manage. It was coated in his blood, like a crimson glove; long thin fingers pressing into torn flesh, as he gasped for air that couldn't come. She looked up into his eyes. "You need to move your hand, Snape. I'm going to do something to help you breathe, but you need to move your hand for me, all right?" Snape shook his head again - a bare shift to the right, fear blazing up stark in his eyes, and he was so afraid and so human, and Hermione's heart ached and with an empathy she hadn't known she could feel for the cold, bitter potions professor. She closed her hand over his gently; his hand was cold except for where it was sticky-wet with his blood, and Hermione remembered with a physical shudder the feel of his cold, bony finger sliding down the side of her breast.

There was no time to be lost in memories. Snape's throat was in tatters - there were multiple deep puncture wounds from the snake's fangs, and Hermione was honestly amazed he was still alive. It was sheer luck that the snake hadn't struck his carotid or jugular directly, although it seemed as though the left carotid had been nicked, because that was where the blood was welling from. Hermione's hands shook as she took the scalpel up. "This will hurt," she told him, and the look in his eyes seemed to say:

"Do you think it could hurt any worse, you stupid girl?"

There was about a fifty percent chance that what she was about to do would just end up killing him quicker, seeing as she'd never done it before, and only had the most basic idea of what to do thanks to time spent in the cellar reading up on emergency medical aid, but if she didn't do it there was a far bigger chance he'd die. Cringing from the feeling, Hermione felt for his Adam's apple in the wreckage of his throat, feeling soft, raw flesh, and hot blood wetting her fingertips. She didn't end up having to make the first incision properly - instead she only had to widen a puncture wound, which was still horrible. Snape groaned in pain despite the numbing charm, a wet, animal sound, and one hand clutched weakly at Hermione's knee, fingers scrabbling. She swallowed down bile, and used her finger to hold the wound open, making the next incision - cutting carefully, and trying to ignore the bubbling sounds Snape was making and his clutching fingers on her knee, the blood welling up in the wounds, which ran hot over her fingers.

Hermione pushed the scalpel handle into the hole she'd made and turned it, her bloodied grip slipping on the scalpel, and her heart stuttered as she nearly sliced her own finger open and fucked the procedure up completely. Her hand shook as she carefully tried to insert the tubing, and it took her three false starts and some deep breathing before she did it. But then she did, and she was done. With no more time to lose, Hermione snatched up some wads of gauze and pressed them as hard as she could against the side of his throat where the blood seemed to be coming from, limbs feeling weak and trembly and heart slamming in her chest. "Can - can you breath?" The tubing stuck out of his throat, and the sight was horrific, but after a short pause he tried to nod, his eyes dark and glossy and fixed unblinkingly on hers. Thank Merlin. "I'm going to get you out of here, all right? I'm going to get you out."

He mouthed something silently, breath hissing in and out through the tube - it looked like don't, and then leave, and Hermione didn't entirely understand. She guessed. "I'm not going to leave you. Now don't try to talk - as soon as I get some of this stabilised, we need to get you to the hospital wing to treat the venom. Don't try to talk." Then she braced herself for his reaction and shook dittany liberally all over his throat. He couldn't scream, not with the tubing in, but his back arched and his face contorted, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream of agony, as steam wisped up in curls, and the wounds began to slowly seal - not altogether, but enough to give him a chance. Hermione didn't know whether the dittany would be enough to heal a damaged artery, but she lifted up the gauze she'd been jamming against his throat and poured half a vial directly into the wound there. Snape's hand beat against the floor pathetically, and tears ran out from his eyes.

And then it was over and he stared up at her and mouthed something again, and it took her too long to figure it what he was trying to say. "Venom. No cure." It was like a physical shock; Hermione blanched, and despair and anger hit her hard. No. No - she couldn't have done all that for nothing. He couldn't just die on her, after all she'd risked and tried and - fuck it she was not just leaving him to die. Enough people had died tonight already, and she wasn't going to let another person die when she could do something. She swallowed hard, a mad idea burgeoning in her mind.

"I'm - I'm going to try something. And it's not going to be pleasant. But if I don't do it, apparently you're going to - to die, so…" Snape just stared at her, expressionless but for the pain etched into his features, and she could see the coherency fading from his eyes. It had to be the venom working. She didn't have a choice but to try, and if it killed him, then at least she'd know she'd done all she could. Oh god. Hermione took the scalpel up in trembling fingers and tried very hard not to hyperventilate, as she located and opened a minor vein in Snape's wrist with a quick, decisive slash of the blade. The blood flowed out immediately, a small but steady leak of it, and she snatched up her wand and shut her eyes, sending up a silent prayer to whatever or whoever might be listening. "Accio snake venom," she whispered as she flourished her wand with exacting precision, and Snape gasped and his teeth slammed together, grinding as his whole body jerked and arched and shook, and Hermione tried desperately to pin him down with her own body weight even as she held an empty dittany vial beneath her wand.

"It's okay," she gasped even though it wasn't, and her hair got in her face and so did his blood, and he was screaming soundlessly and his blood was flowing everywhere and making everything dark crimson in the dim light so she couldn't see what was going on… "It's okay." The vial was slowly filling with venom, some of it missing the vial and splashing onto the floor, and her wrist - it stung and hurt and she hoped desperately that topical application wasn't enough to be deadly, and that it hadn't seeped into a cut. But Snape was thrashing beneath her as she half sat on him, and slamming his hands against the ground with loud thuds, and his chest was heaving for air, his complexion even whiter than it had been before, and everything was too chaotic for Hermione to spare a thought for things like that. She couldn't think straight, mind fractured with panic.

And then the trickle of whiteish fluid ended, and Snape fell back to the ground and went limp with a shudder. Hermione corked the vial of venom and leaned forward over his face. "Sn-Snape?" He looked dead. "Snape?" But then she felt the whisper of air through the tubing in his throat, and knew he was still alive - for now. She sobbed out a cracked sound of relief, and laid the vial of venom down by her knee on the floorboards, grabbing the other vial which still held dittany, dripping it carefully over the cut on his wrist. He didn't even twitch as the dittany did its painful, healing work, and Hermione wondered if that was a blessing, or a very, very bad sign. But she had done all she could now, and if that wasn't enough to stabilise him for the apparition to the castle, then…well, then that was the way it would be. "Live, please," she told him in a whisper, staring down at his blood-smeared, hollow face, because she needed him to.

She needed to save someone.

Then there was a sound. The scrape of a sole on floorboards, the creak of a door, a bolt of terror right through her chest as Hermione realised they weren't alone anymore. She braced her hand on the floor as she spun around from her awkward position above Snape, feeling the vial of venom fragile under her thumb as she lifted her wand up to train it on the sound. Please Merlin, be one of the Order, she thought desperately - but she knew with a leaden certainty that it wasn't. There was a tall figure standing silhouetted in the doorway in the dim light and Hermione felt fear choking her as she began to move her wand in a vicious swipe. But before she could finish the hex, a jolt struck her hard and her wand flew from her grasp, clattering across the uneven floorboards to roll up against the wall opposite. She lunged for it, flinging herself bodily across the room, only for agony to rip through her body.

Pain. Pain hot and squeezing and tearing and fire burning in her bones. Hermione's fingers curled tightly closed, locked that way against the spasms of the Crucio, tips of her ragged nails biting into the heel of her hand like a caress compared to the agony searing through her. The baby, she thought with horrified fury and grief through her pain, what would it do to the baby? And then the pain washed even that desperate thought away in a sea of red and fire, torn apart under the crashing waves of the Crucio. And then the tsunami of agony that had borne her under beneath its overwhelming, crushing weight was gone in a flash, and Hermione went limp on the ground, a rag doll, her fingers still locked white-knuckled tight.

Footsteps came across the room as she blinked up at the ceiling and tried to breath, thinking again of the baby, and her own life, and Draco, and Snape, and everyone. She didn't want to die here, Snape dying too, all her efforts for nothing. Draco would never forgive her, Hermione thought, a cracked half-sob half-laugh escaping her; hysteria and shock creeping up on her quickly. He would be so angry at her for running off without him, to try to save Snape, of all people. She coughed and tasted metal on her tongue; blood. A booted toe prodded at her side, and she rolled her head to look up at the person who planned on killing her.

"You," she said brokenly, voice raw and wretched and tongue feeling swollen and painful where she'd bitten it during the Cruciatus. Laughter bubbled out of her, just as raw and wretched. "You." Of course. Of course it was. It struck her as bitterly hilarious, and she laughed in coughs and rasps, staring up at the man, face framed by his fall of long, white blonde hair - no longer so neatly groomed, it was matted with blood and streaked with dirt, and looked as though he'd taken to trimming it with a blunt knife.

"Mudblood," he said, and a bloodied smile split his face. Lucius Malfoy had not gotten through the night unscathed, it seemed. His mouth was swollen, the right side of his face bruised almost beyond recognition, and he was holding his off-hand awkwardly at his side, and hunching over slightly as if his ribs hurt him. He didn't appear very concerned by his injuries though - grinning widely and humourlessly, his eyes flat and filled with hate, the pupils pinpricks in silver. "Of all the people… How lovely. Perhaps we'll be able to finish what I started back in that cell, you filthy bitch." She tensed on the floor as his booted foot prodded its way further down, to the junction of her thighs, kicking lightly at her crotch through her chausses. It was abhorrent more than it actually hurt, and Hermione lay there rigid and disgusted, skin crawling as she met his eyes.

"Your wife doesn't love you anymore," she said bluntly, her swollen tongue making the words thick and slurring. She grinned at him, just as hateful as he was. "She told Draco that she's moved on. She knows what you did, Lucius. She knows that you're a monster, and -" Lucius snarled and kicked her hard in the crotch, and Hermione cried out as pain gripped her hard and her body jerked, legs pulling up to her chest, half rolling to the side, one hand clutching at herself, trying to shield her. He kicked her again and she tried to roll away, and his boot caught her little finger and thigh with a crunch and a bruising impact. She tried to bite back a yelp of pain that broke free anyway, and coughed wretchedly before she spat: "She hates you!"

"No - no, she doesn't, you - you filthy little mudblood bitch. You're lying." Lucius' eyes glittered as he looked down at her, sprawled at his feet. He was mad - if Hermione had ever doubted that fact, she would believe it now - it was a madness that burnt in his eyes, and snarled out his throat, and she knew with cold certainty that he would never let her out of here alive. He gesticulated at her wildly; wand raining down sparks that burnt her wherever they landed on bare skin. "You're lying to me. I know that. My Narcissa wouldn't turn on me. Never. She wouldn't believe you."

"What about Draco? Don't you think she'd believe him?" Hermione shifted minutely, muscles coiled. She didn't want to die. Lucius' face transformed with disgust at the mention of his son, and Hermione thought that really, he was not the man that she had met as a child. He had always been bad, but now he was insane, because once upon a time she had seen that he loved his son, and now…now he undeniably loathed him, with every ounce of his being. "Don't -" she had to pause as she coughed up more blood, gasping for breath and hoping desperately that whatever the Cruciatus had done, it hadn't hurt the baby. "…Don't you think she'd believe your son?" Her thumb flicked and there was a faint sound she covered with another wretched cough, blood spattering her lips.

"That pathetic piece of filth is not my son," Lucius said coldly, sinking to a knee and sliding a hand up over Hermione's hip, eyes flat and dead and touch disgustingly lascivious. Her skin crawled, and she felt filthy at his touch, remembering the last time, the feel of him, jabbing impotently against her while his son watched. "I have no son." Lucius grinned, grey eyes flashing and tongue sweeping out to caress his lips as his fingers tugged firmly at the laces to Hermione's chausses. She thought again how much Draco looked like his father, and her stomach flipped and churned. "Now be still bitch, or I'll restrain you," he warned her, trailing the tip of his wand over the swell of her breasts, and she was; lying frozen on the cold floor. Lucius smirked and shoved a knee between her thighs, kneeling above her as he finally pulled the knot to her chausses loose, and Hermione… She threw the contents of the uncorked vial in Lucius' eyes.

He screamed, dropping his wand as he clutched at his eyes, tearing at them as the snake venom soaked in, doing Merlin knew what to him except that it must hurt. A lot. Hermione tossed the empty vial to one side and snatched up Lucius' wand as he fell back - screaming and dragging deep, bloody furrows down over his screwed shut eyes with ragged nails. Sickened by the sight, Hermione kicked out violently, wrenching her legs out from under his weight as he collapsed, writhing and screaming and seemingly insensible to anything save the immense pain. "Incarcerous!" she snapped out, and ropes were conjured from nowhere, snaking around Lucius' limbs; trapping his wrists together in front of him, and pinning his ankles too. He made a horrific wailing sound as he tried desperately to claw at his face and the bonds prevented it, and Hermione flinched and turned away, crossing the room unsteadily but quickly and finding her wand on the floor, where it had half-lodged between two uneven floorboards.

As much as he might deserve it, Hermione couldn't leave Draco's father to die. It wasn't who she wanted to be, and it wasn't fair to Draco. If his father were to die, it should be Draco's choice and at his hand - she had no right, and she didn't want it. She swallowed hard and trained her wand on the agonised man. His screaming was driving her to distraction and her pulse was racing, palms slick with Merlin knew what, and breath rasping in and out like sobs. "Accio snake venom," she gasped out past revulsion and near panic and the wobbliness of total exhaustion, and Lucius shrieked like a wounded rabbit. It was one of the most awful sounds she had ever heard. The poison threaded fast through the air to the tip of her wand, and she flicked it away into a corner once the last drop had been extracted, and Lucius' shrieks had become wretched sobs.

"I can't see," he cried on a sobbing gasp as Hermione knelt beside an unconscious Snape and took his hands firmly in hers, and she wanted to silencio him only it seemed…it seemed like he should be allowed to cry. "I can't see." And then there was only rage in his voice: "What have you done to me? What have you done?" She didn't answer. The sucking pressure of disapparition crashed down on her, and Lucius' rage was silenced.