A/N Okay, okay, I know. Another delayed update. But just so you guys know, I don't abandon fics! I just… fall into writing funks from time to time. Hopefully I'll be able to update once more after this while I'm still on semestral break (and while still capable of forcing myself to write). Otherwise, updates will again be somewhat slow. Really, really sorry! *puppy face*

Okay anyway chapter time. This chapter and other following ones will be reasons for my upping the rating of this fic.

xxxxx

"Bellatrix?" Harry asked incredulously for the tenth time that night. He stared at his glass of Firewhisky uncomprehendingly.

"Bellatrix." Draco nodded a bit harder than he intended, his head jerking up and down like those demented bobble-head toys humans were obsessed with. "Bloody hell, Potter, why didn't we ever notice anything?" he asked, taking a long drink from his own glass. The conversation had been pretty much the same ever since they'd come to the pub.

"Because we never expected Bellatrix." Harry sipped his own drink, glad for the slight numbness it brought. Draco wasn't exactly supposed to be drinking again –especially not after the last incident- but Harry felt alcohol was necessary to soften the blow they'd just received.

"I know but-!" Draco snarled in frustration as he slammed his glass down onto the countertop. "I just wish I'd seen any of that. Nightmares, late nights… anything."

Harry laughed and took another swig of his drink. "Sod off it, Malfoy. Hermione was damn freaking good at hiding things she didn't want people to know." He belched and stifled a giggle. It was their fourth round of the night and he was starting to feel the effects. "You didn't even know she owned a diary until Kingsley sent it to you."

"But Bellatrix?" Draco raised his head and met Harry's eyes with a bewildered expression. "I mean- we all saw- Hermione-"

"Killed her." Harry nodded solemnly and waved his glass in the air, signing the barman for a refill. "I know."

"So how could she be alive?" Draco shook his head slowly, bringing it down so his forehead rested on the damp rim of his glass. He studied Harry through his peripheral vision.

A dark look crossed Harry's face, his fist clenching on the counter. "I think I know."

"You- what?" Draco shot up, upsetting his glass and spilling the rest of his Firewhisky on the counter. "Why the bloody hell haven't you said anything? You could have saved me a couple of galleons here, what with all the booze I've drunk, Potter." He glowered at the boy sitting next to him.

"Sorry." Harry's lips tightened to a thin line, his gaze flicking from Draco to a spot on the counter surface. "I've just- I've been trying to think of another way- any other way- for her to be alive right now. A doppelganger, Polyjuice Potion, Metamorphmagus –but none of it makes any sense; none of it adds up. I've spent the last three rounds of whisky trying to find even the smallest, the most impossible loophole, and I can't." He slammed his glass down on the table so hard it cracked, and dropped his head to the counter, his hands clutching at his mess of hair. "God, Malfoy, I'd give the world right now not to be thinking this, but it's the only thing that explains this crap."

"Spit it out already, Potter!" Draco's heart was cranking out a thousand beats a second. He'd rarely seen Harry this- this- frustrated. This angry. "What the fuck is it?"

Harry lifted his head slightly, palms digging into his temple. Draco heard him grind his teeth in frustration, and braced himself. After a long pause- so long that Draco was tempted to just hex the answer out of Harry- Harry let out a long breath and whispered two words that made Draco wish he'd never even asked:

"A Horcrux."

xxxxx

The clock on the bedside table read 3:41 am, but Draco wasn't asleep. He couldn't sleep. Who could, after going through what he had today? He'd pried into his beloved wife's memories, found out she'd been hounded by his own insane, homicidal aunt, and learned that said aunt was back from the dead via a bit of dangerous, dark and demented magic. He'd be lucky if he managed to get any sleep, ever again, after that.

Sighing, Draco sat up and rubbed exhaustion away from his eyes. He hated this feeling- when you were tired, but not sleepy. Harry had explained the particulars of Horcruxes back at the bar, detailing how he, Ron and Hermione had rounded up Voldemort's Horcruxes back in their seventh year while Draco was busy playing double agent. The conversation had pretty much died after that, as each of them attempted to absorb the day's events and the newfound knowledge it brought. After their eighth round of drinks, they'd noticed the hour and decided to part ways, resolving to meet up again tomorrow to view more of Hermione's memories. Draco had been given leave from work "to act as consultant and agent" in this "official Auror investigation," something he was grateful to Harry for setting up. He doubted he could face all that paperwork in his current condition.

Growling in frustration at the memories of all these particulars, he got up, craving a cup of tea, if only for something to do at this godforsaken hour. He padded downstairs, the moonlight rippling over his bare torso. He flicked on the kitchen lights, set up the kettle, and approached the table- and stopped. Hermione's memories were still fresh in his mind, and he could still see it in his mind: the image of her sitting at this very table, scribbling in her diary, verging on hysterical as she muttered about her dreams and her haunter. He flinched. But then the thought piqued his other memories, and leaving the kettle to boil, he returned to his room, searching. After a few moments of fumbling and cursing inanimate objects, he found what he was looking for: her diary. At the very least, it would give him something to do.

Making his way back downstairs, he lazily flicked through the pages, skimming over various entries. The post-Christmas ones slowly –almost imperceptibly- decreased in happiness as their various attempts at planning Voldemort's downfall came to dead ends. The kettle began to whistle and he moved over to the stove to turn it off. As soon as the knob clicked, however, his eye spotted a rather…sexual reference and a faint blush crept to his cheeks. Tea quite forgotten, he sat down on the floor and began to read.

xxxxx

I don't know what to make of this day.

It's 4 in the morning. The curtains of my room are parted slightly. I can see the moon, the stars; it all looks so peaceful out there. A complete opposite of how I feel. I'm so rumpled up inside I don't even know where to begin explaining.

On the bed, just a few feet away, Draco lies on his chest, one arm flung out over where I'd been sleeping. His hair falls over his eyes and he snores lightly –it's almost like a purr, which makes me smile. He's pushed the sheets down in his sleep, so they barely come up to his hips. The moonlight plays on his sleeping form, his scars showing against his skin. If I hadn't been looking I might have missed most of them. Scars from his fight with Harry in the bathroom in our sixth year, scars from other fights; scars from his most recent attack, some of which are still quite red. They criss-cross over his back, his chest, his shoulders; they go down his arms, even on his face. I'd never really seen the full extent of all he's been through until tonight.

I look at them, at him, bathed in moonshine and temporary serenity. He is beautiful.

Today was another frustrated attempt at coming up with a plan. We've gotten almost all the Horcruxes out of the way; it's just Nagini left. Blasted snake. We've pieced together and written down any and all information we've gathered over the past few years, from Voldemort's childhood to his choice of wardrobe. But until we have more information about his current activities and potential whereabouts, we can't really do much. Fred and George, in a surprising move (surprising given how they've been acting for the past few months), volunteered to go out and hunt information (disguised, of course). They left yesterday morning; we're waiting for them to come back with their first report. Trying not to think about the possibility of their not returning.

I don't know why, but all the frustration of dead-end plans, of arguments, of not much food and far less sleep, of deaths and attacks built up and in the middle of our planning session, after Harry started reading aloud everything we knew, from the very beginning, for what felt like the thousandth time, I snapped. I started going on about how it was all useless, how we were getting absolutely nowhere, how everything we did was just a failure. Before I could stop myself I was screaming about how much I hated all this: the confinement, the ignorance, the lack of anything useful to do. I screamed and screamed and Harry and Ginny and everyone else just stared at me, not knowing what to do, and I screamed and then Draco came up and slapped me and I shut up. I shut up and looked at all of them, horrified at what I'd done, and I turned and ran out of the room.

By the time I made it to the bedroom I was practically sobbing. I don't know what made me do it- I just did. I exploded and everything I'd tried so hard to keep inside just flooded out. And the worst thing is, now I realize how incredibly stupid I was to think that way. Now I realize how wrong it all was.

The door opened and I looked up. I hadn't realized I'd been on the bed until then. It was Draco. He approached me hesitantly, almost fearfully, probably thinking I might lash out at him. A wave of guilt washed over me again and I hurled myself at him in a bruising kiss. All we'd ever done up until now was kiss, but after everything that's happened, I felt the need to something –anything- to make me feel even the slightest bit of pleasure. Even the slightest bit alive. I pressed up against him so hard it felt like I was embedding myself into his body, which was exactly what I wanted. I only pulled back when the kiss started becoming asphyxiating. When I did, Draco looked fairly dazed. I almost laughed.

"Sleep with me," I whispered, not even pausing to think about my actions anymore. I needed this. It was my first time and it would be far from perfect, far from tender and loving and gentle. But I wanted it that way. I wanted something to make me feel.

"W-what?" he stammered, his eyes widening. In response, I only kissed him again, harder. He pulled away, murmuring my name, but I only caught his lips again. He tried again and this time, a little put off, I listened. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"I need this," I replied, kissing him again as I unbuttoned his shirt. Once more he tried to protest but I ground myself to him, biting down on his lip for emphasis. He finally gave in and slipped one arm around my waist, the other one moving behind him to lock the door.

It was incredible. I don't want to ruin it by writing it down –flattening the experience into words would only taint it. But I will write down some things, like the way he flinched when I got his shirt unbuttoned all the way, exposing all his scars. The way he inhaled sharply as I traced each one with my fingers. The way he blanched away. The way the passion flared in his eyes when I turned his head toward me and whispered fiercely, "never be ashamed of these. They say you are strong. They make you beautiful." The way he kissed me after that. The way he handled me, almost reverently, and yet with a force I never knew existed inside him. The way he went down on me, with obvious experience, then shared the taste of it with me. The way I gripped the sheets so tightly I ripped through them as he entered me for the first time, flooding me with passion and pain. Ripped the cloth as he ripped through me.

And we came together. Adagio, andante, allegro. Affannato, acceso, appasionnato. Crescendo, finis. (*)

I will never forget the sound of my name on his lips as he climaxed. I never want anyone else to call my name that way, ever again.

I never want anyone else to make me feel so alive. So complete. So loved.

Up until now we have never told each other, "I love you." We don't need to. Our love is louder than words.

xxxxx

Draco's face was flushed as he reached the end of the entry. He remembered that day very well. He remembered her fingers dancing over his scars. He had always been embarrassed about them, had even hated them, but Hermione had shown him how to be proud of each mark, each cut, each slash of lighter skin. They make you beautiful.

She had been so beautiful that night, pressed unto the bed by their actions. She was a silent lover, but her eyes and her hands said more than any scream could. She had left marks on him: crescent moons from her nails on his shoulders, nips of red from her teeth on his neck and chest. Lips swollen from kissing. When she had climaxed, shuddering against his body –his name was the only noise that escaped her lips. Low, whispered, breathless, and enough to drive him over the edge. One word. That was all.

So beautiful.

Draco stood, grabbed his cloak, pocketed the diary. The Ministry would be practically empty at this time but it would be open. It always was, for those who worked late nights, international shifts; for emergencies. He was shirtless but it didn't really matter, since no one would really see him. He belted the cloak and grabbed a fistful of Floo powder, flinging it into the flames. Almost before they turned green he was stepping into them, and whirling away.

By the time he reached Harry's office, the first rays of light were peeking over the horizon. There were small hints of pink and orange and green in the sky. He quietly opened the door. The shimmering silver light of the Pensieve winked at him from the glass cabinet it was stored in. He stepped inside, hardly daring to breathe.

"I had a feeling you'd come."

He was almost surprised to hear Harry's voice, but only almost. "You're starting to get to know me too well."

"I know."

They stepped up to the Pensieve at the same time. "After you," Draco bowed, smirking.

Harry nodded and plunged in. This time, with no hesitations, Draco followed.

xxxxx

A/N For the (*), these are terms in music. They're in Italian. The first three indicate tempo: slow, moderate, fast. The next three describe ways to play: anguished, fierce, passionate. Crescendo describes increase, finis for finish or ending.

"Our love is louder than words" is from one of my favorite songs, Sunday by Bloc Party. I don't know about you guys, but I think it's semi-appropriate for their intimate scene. It makes a good soundtrack in my head.

Did I get cheesy up there? I damn well hope I didn't.

Why does FFnet keep cocking up my italics and making them stick together?

Worth the wait?