Mwahaha. This has to be my favorite chapter of ALL TIME.

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And sorry for not posting before now; my computer at home is flipping out so I had to use the one at school. Sorry. ^.^

Freedom
by Shu of the Wind

***

He'd found her.

Draco Malfoy carried the image of a newer, darker, thinner Greengrass inside the deeper recesses of his mind over the next few days, clinging to that when he could do nothing else. From what little he had been able to see, she was healthy – at least, she appeared to still have a head, anyway. She'd looked like a Muggle, and had changed her hair, but other than that, she was alive.

His instincts about a member of the D.A. keeping an eye on her had been correct. Angelina Johnson was being watched by the Ministry, and it was clear, by her actions, that she knew it; she did nothing to elicit any more suspicion than had already fallen on her, but it was clear she was up to something. Greengrass wouldn't have been in her flat if she wasn't. Which meant that Greengrass was probably in on it.

This, he told himself, was the reason he was keeping such a close eye on Greengrass. She seemed to have a snake-like tendency of slipping out of the tightest of circumstances, and find herself right in the center of an enormous conspiracy – it was more than a tendency, she was downright talented at it. It would have driven him insane if he hadn't known that since he'd first met her.

He interviewed the Snatchers who had been attacked by her and Johnson, and read the Muggle papers, studying everything he could find. (The Muggles, of course, had put it down to a strange terrorist attack involving possible hallucinogens and bombs. He didn't have a clue what either of those words meant, though they reminded him of hallucination and the spell, Bombarda, but at least it was an indication that they weren't suspecting magic.)

It was clear, from what he could tell, that Johnson and Greengrass had been waiting for a family of Mudbloods, who they were going to transport out of the country. He had almost centered on the Mudbloods, as well – the Zellers, a family he recognized as having a daughter at Hogwarts the year before. The Hufflepuff. And it was just as clear that Johnson and the Chain weren't about to let that family remain in Britain when the regime was growing more powerful with each passing day, with the newly wandless Mudbloods lurking in Diagon Alley, watching him with poisonous eyes as he passed, accusing, hateful.

He had allied himself with the winning side. Draco clung to that.

But he couldn't keep watching Greengrass on his own. The other Death Eaters were already growing suspicious of him, and he hadn't even been home for a full two days. He'd spent too much time outside the manor, regardless of the fact that the Dark Lord was nowhere near it. He was acting too detached from the group, too absorbed in his own projects. They had accepted and welcomed the fear he offered them, but not this strange apathy that now possessed him. He had to act like nothing was wrong, like he wasn't planning that? What was he planning, anyway? It was clear from the way Greengrass had torn the curtain shut again that she wanted nothing to do with him, and the fear on her face had simply reinforced it.

He pushed this uncomfortable thought away and decided: he would have one of the black-robes from Hogwarts, one of the Imperiused wizards, assigned to watch the Zellers. One of the black-robes talented at dressing like a Muggle, who could act like nothing was wrong and yet follow the Zellers to the next meeting that they had with Johnson and Greengrass. And he could give the man the same coin he had given to Rosmerta, have him send a message once he became aware of any location or time important to a meeting.

That would work. Yes. It had to work.

No. No, it wouldn't work,. He wouldn't – couldn't – leave this to the black-robes or anyone else. This was too important for the likes of them to deal with, and he couldn't afford the danger of one of them turning on him. He only had the rest of tonight, and maybe tomorrow night, before he was confined to the manor for his odd behavior.

He hadn't spent more than three hours at the manor at once for the past day and a half. His mother had said nothing, remaining mostly in her sitting room with a pinched expression and trying her utmost to keep her tongue between her teeth whenever one of the Death Eaters around the house ordered her to do something. His father remained pale and silent, wandering the halls, mourning the loss of his wand and trying to restore some sort of order to his house, with little success. It was suicide to say anything against any of the other Death Eaters nowadays, especially Snape, though Snape usually stayed as far away from Malfoy Manor as possible. That was one thing that Draco could tolerate.

Frustration made his Mark burn. He was grasping at straws, and his cool, rational side knew it. And what bothered him was the reason he was grasping at straws – why did he give a damn about what happened to Astoria Greengrass? Why did he no longer feel anything similar to hate towards her? Why did he need to speak to her? He'd loathed her, despised her, trusted her, leaned on her for such a short time, and now that she'd been torn away from him like a splinter from a wound, he felt off balance. Like he'd lost a leg or something similar, and couldn't find his equilibrium again.

He wondered if she was feeling the same, disconnected with the world, except for that strange, unsettling connection – the chains – that bound them both together like a charm, a curse. He'd given up fighting the worry for her, given up fighting the changes that she'd wrought in him. He did nothing about them, but he did nothing to stop it. He just hid it, deeply, with everything he had, until not even his aunt Bellatrix – the woman who knew the most about his head as his teacher, the woman who could have broken into his mind with a tied-in Cruciatus Curse – couldn't sense it.

Draco bit his thumbnail, grateful for the fact that there were several nooks and crannies in the courtyards and gardens of Malfoy Manor that the guests in their house hadn't yet discovered. It gave him a safe place to think.

No. He couldn't afford any contact with Greengrass. The thought stung more painfully than he could dare admit, but he couldn't afford it. Neither of them could. This wasn't school anymore; this was the real world. And whatever this was, it couldn't continue.

With that, he pushed himself to his feet and wandered back into the house, unaware of the fact that just outside the gates, a gang of Snatchers led by Fenrir Greyback was claiming the capture of one Harry James Potter, Undesirable Number One, and the Chosen One.

***

Ruined. All of it. It was all ruined.

They had had Potter in their hands, and they'd lost him. And the Dark Lord was furious.

Draco remained in his room, the glass cuts on his face, neck, and hands stinging when he brushed them, and the Dark Mark on his arm burning with pain, and lost track of all time. The only thing he was truly aware of was when his door slammed open, and Thorfinn Rowle held his wand on him, in retribution for the Malfoys' mistake.

***

Forgiveness. We need forgiveness.

The thought pounded through him as the Cruciatus Curse ripped him apart. The Dark Lord kept them alive only to toy with them, now, but once his father had been one of the most highly acclaimed Death Eaters in the movement. He had been somebody. The fall could be reversed. It had to be reversed.

If they could just catch Potter, they would have forgiveness, and he wouldn't have to deal with the pain of this Unforgivable Curse ever again. They needed it more than ever before, and Draco swore to himself so many times over the past few days that the instant he found Potter again, if Potter ever crossed his path, he would bring him to the Dark Lord.

And then, finally, his family would have their respect back.

***

Astoria flattened the Daily Prophet against Angelina's kitchen table, reading it absently. Next to nothing in it was trustworthy anymore, and the Quibbler had been turned by Lovegood's capture. She read the Prophet only to keep herself acclimated with the world outside, and to gain enough information to pass herself off as a loyal Slytherin if she had to.

Ursa sat on her shoulder, preening her wings. She'd been outside all night, hunting, and had only just returned early that morning, tapping at Astoria's window. Ursa was one of the few beings allowed through the Fidelius Charm; Angelina and Astoria were two more, and sometimes, other members of the Chain who Astoria wasn't allowed to see. She was confined to the room Angelina had loaned her every time there was any sort of meeting now. Angelina might have trusted her enough to put them on a first-name basis, but that didn't mean Astoria was allowed to know Chain business.

Contacts with the outside world, however, told them more than the Prophet ever could. Harry Potter – Potter – had been captured by the Malfoys, but he'd escaped, along with his friends and a few other prisoners in Malfoy Manor, and now, no one knew where he was. And the Malfoys had been confined to their house.

Astoria folded the Prophet again, tossing it aside and putting her head in one hand. Her heart was thundering in her throat, and hadn't stopped since she'd first heard the news. There was no way that the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, would let this failure slide without punishment. Malfoy might only be released to go back to school, and that might not even happen; he would be trapped inside that house, where torture was a matter of course.

The fact that You-Know-Who was probably no longer there meant nothing. They would still be punished, regularly.

How much danger have I put him in by insisting he teach me Occlumency? She wondered, feeling sick. Both Snape and You-Know-Who were powerful, powerful Legilimens. If they wanted, they could break into Malfoy's mind and learn about her, and then he would be in even more trouble. He might turn her over in the middle of the Cruciatus Curse.

She shook her head fiercely. There was nothing she would be able to do about it now. There was no reason for her even to care about a sod like Malfoy. But she did care, undeniably, terrifyingly, and she nearly vomited from the fear she felt for him.

She was a masochist, she decided, shaking her head angrily and closing her eyes. Ursa flapped her wings irritably, trying to keep her balance. That was the only reason she would ever choose to feel this way, ever allow herself to feel this way about someone she had threatened to kill not more than two months before.

This is suicide. Absolute suicide.

She missed him. Worried about him. Wondered if he was dead. She was a fool, an absolute fool for even thinking about him as anything other than a traitorous Death Eater, for being drawn to him like a magnet, but he trusted her. She knew he did. She trusted him, in a way she'd never had to trust anyone before, and her chest grew tight when she tried to convince herself that she could never see him again.

She wondered a few times why he had come looking for her, because she knew that the figure she had never told Angelina about had been Malfoy. She knew it, down in her bones, that it had been him. And it made no sense, no logistic sense, for him to have done anything of the sort, unless he, too, was suicidal.

This was because of the fact that she hadn't seen him in over seven weeks before that time. Fifty-five days. Not that she was counting. What was that Muggle adage? Absence makes the heart grow fonder. She'd never been fond of Malfoy, and this was the result. This was her stupid, stupid brain trying to convince her he was something he wasn't, that he could be saved, because that was what she was doing nowadays – saving people. Together, she and Angelina had cast enough Memory Charms and cursed enough black-robes to get the entirety of the Zeller family – Rose, a third year, her younger brother Tommy, and her Muggle parents – out of the country, to their relatives in America. That had left her without any projects to work on, and like a fool, she'd fallen back on Malfoy as a potential scheme.

Her heart pounded in her mouth, insisting that that wasn't the case, but Astoria ignored it. That was the only case it could be.

It wouldn't hurt to try and save one person on the wrong side of the fight.

Astoria went back to her room, locked her door, wrote the note, and let Ursa fly away before curling up under the covers, clutching her pillow close to her chest, cursing the part of herself that had convinced her to walk down this utterly dangerous road on a pure, deadly knife's edge.

***

The evening before he was due to return to Hogwarts, Draco woke from a doze to the tapping of an owl's claws against the window.

He lifted his head from the pillow, staring blankly at the tawny owl standing drenched on his windowsill. It had been three days since Potter had escaped, three days of endless pain and retribution for his utter stupidity. It was the first time he had been left alone in hours. Every inch of him felt sore, like a dragon had stepped on him, and he had only just managed to escape.

He stared at the tawny owl, which was glaring at him reproachfully, battered by the storm that had kicked up about four hours before, and swore to himself. How stupid was she? How could she have sent this to him? Of course the nosy swot would insist on knowing exactly what he'd been doing staring at that flat, in the depths of Muggle London. He'd miscalculated, grievously miscalculated, and that could present a problem.

The note was only a few lines scribbled on a scrap of parchment, hasty and nervous, and the owl didn't stay long enough for a reply.

Two-thirty on Sunday morning. Roe Green Park. And for God's sake, don't tell anybody in that house.

At least she had the sense to set the time at night, when no one would notice his absence. Draco set it alight as he thought. But there was the matter that he couldn't Apparate out of the manor, due to the spells the Dark Lord had cast on the place. And if he left his room…

Draco smoothed his fingers over the parchment, thinking. Why now, you stupid fool? He had to end it. That much was clear. Greengrass's words had thundered through his mind the instant he had been called to identify Potter, that challenge: I dare you. He had known it was Potter from the instant he'd seen that scar stretched tight, known it was Potter from the way he'd refused to look Draco in the face, the fact that when he had his glasses on he looked just as Draco remembered, if one ignored the Stinging Hex, only thinner, with a dark shadow on his jaw. And he knew the Mudblood's face almost as well as he knew his own, from going out of his way to avoid her. And the Weasel, for that same reason. And when he could have saved his family, his throat had locked. His tongue hadn't obeyed him.

No more could he allow Greengrass to continue tampering with his thinking. No more could he afford to let such a golden opportunity pass him and his family by. He couldn't think about her any longer, couldn't try to follow her, couldn't remember the way her fingers had danced over his Mark, simply accepting, not terrified out of her mind like she should have been. He couldn't.

His Nimbus Two Thousand and One was resting against the wall. Draco pulled himself up out of the bed, swung a heavy cloak around his shoulders, and opened the window, cursing himself for doing this. If he was lucky, he could land in the grove about an acre away from the house and Disapparate from there. He would be back within two hours, and no one would know he'd been gone before he collected his things, and Flooed to Hogwarts. His mother's borrowed wand should suffice to allow him Apparition. It was a dangerous gamble, but one he had to do if he ever wanted to survive this.

This has to end. Now.

Roe Green Park would have been dangerous at two-thirty in the morning, if he hadn't been carrying a wand. He left his broomstick leaning against a tree, Disillusioning it to prevent some nosy Muggle from picking it up, and Disillusioned himself to prevent anyone from spotting him where they shouldn't have.

He had been wandering for little more than ten minutes when he spotted a dark-haired figure on a bench not twenty feet from where he'd landed, hunched and cold.

He could feel his heart thundering in his chest as Draco watched from behind the tree he'd landed behind, waiting for any potential trap. Whoever it was, they hadn't noticed his landing; they seemed to be deep in thought, a slender female figure with black hair cut to the nape of her neck.

She wasn't wearing a cloak, or anything he recognized as wizarding dress, and to see her as a Muggle was startling to say the least. But for her, it seemed to work; she looked older, with circles under her eyes and clear scarring on her forehead and bared forearms. It wasn't as grievous as it could have been, but it was noticeable. She was tapping her wand against her leg; anxious blue sparks shot out of the end of it as she checked her watch. Draco wondered whether or not he was late.

Just like in the common room during the Christmas holidays, he must have made some noise without being aware of it. Greengrass leapt to her feet, very pale and tense looking.

"Whoever you are, get out here now." Her voice was hard as rock. "I've already deal with a gang of Snatchers this week, and I don't care if you end up cursed."

He stepped out from behind the tree, breaking the Disillusionment, and pulled down his hood. That was her. As different as she looked, that cocky challenge was Greengrass all over.

Her eyes grew very wide, matching her huge O of a mouth, and she began to lower her wand. Draco stowed his in his pocket, unable to look away from her. There were obvious bruises on her collarbone and arms, as though she'd been pelted with spells; the scars from Sectumsempra were razor thin, gleaming silver in the half-light. Everything he'd meant to say seemed to have vanished.

But to his shock, she pointed her wand at him again.

"My last words to Draco Malfoy before I left school?" She asked coldly.

Cautious as always. Draco crossed his arms over his chest. "You had no intention of ever willingly going inside my mind again."

"And then you…" Astoria – Greengrass, she had to remain Greengrass – trailed off. "You touched my hair."

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then, pure fury overwhelmed the shock in her eyes; Greengrass jabbed her wand.

"Effrego!"

Something hit him hard in the face, and Draco swore loudly in spite of himself, feeling his nose break. Blood began to pour down his face, and he snarled curses under his breath, furious; she'd broken his nose. That stupid, paranoid –

He wasn't aware that she'd even moved before something heavy and scented with lavender hit him, hard, nearly knocking him off balance. Her head was even with his, and he could almost taste the scent of her – he couldn't really taste anything at the moment, thanks to the blood – and despite the bone-crushing shock, Draco slid his arms around her and pulled her closer. His common sense – and the broken cartilage in his nose – told him sternly to push her back, get away from her, end this, but the larger part of him ignored it, and after a long moment, he realized that they were both shaking.

"Are you an idiot for sending me that?" He snapped, before he remembered that he was supposed to be here to break this off once and for all. "If someone else had been in my room when I opened it, we'd both be dead."

Greengrass threaded her fingers into his hair, her voice a hiss. "Don't you dare make this my fault, Malfoy. Not this time."

And then she was kissing him through the blood, time had stopped, and it wasn't full of desperation and death like he might have believed, but of something he'd thought he forgotten, and for the first time in a long time, Draco forgot about the pain and the endless fear and everything else that had been troubling him to taste pure freedom.