Disclaimer: all recognisable characters (no matter how distorted they have become) are property of JK Rowling.

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Chapter 47: Racehorse

There was a rattling breath as the Dementor approached. Draco wondered if it was his. He didn't care – he knew he was dying and he was dying alone with nothing done for or in his name. His vision was gone and his bones had all the strength of a jellyfish. He was dimly aware that the Dementor was touching Simon now. He was meant to protect Simon, who staggered as if he couldn't control his long legs any more. But Draco couldn't do anything because he was blind. He was blind as he sat there watching the Dementor push Simon's head to the side as it reached past the horse and up to him, Simon jerking at the touch, white-rimmed eyes staring at nothing and everything as if the horse couldn't see the monster breathing the same air as him. And Draco sat paralysed, watching the tall figure glide and raise its hands, watching those scabbed fingers as they trembled towards his face, watching, watching, watching while all the time knowing he was blind.

The world pulsed with a killing fever and rapidly faded as what felt like hoarfrost thickened over his eyes.

The world drew back and left Draco more alone than he'd ever been in his life.

The world –

The world burst under him. Recalled almost too late to the fact he was sitting on a horse, Draco lurched in the saddle. He leaned forward just in time, one hand grabbing at the mane, the other trying to find the reins. And then the ground was falling away as the world tilted and rose…

Simon reared high, panicking, and struck out wildly with his front feet.

By some miracle the hooves found a target. There was an ear-splitting wail as silver shoes hammered at the Dementor. The ragged spectre fell back, arms flailing, diminished but not killed.

It rallied as Simon plunged back to ground, ragged robes swirling around it as it drew itself back up and raised its hands again. There was that sucking, rattling, indrawn breath and the world iced around the edges again as it tried to draw in all warmth.

The moon dimmed. Draco felt faint as his vision faded.

Simon didn't wait. He spun around and kicked out, once, twice in a different direction when the first kick didn't connect. Simon couldn't see the Dementor but the horse knew something was there. Draco clung to the saddle and a handful of mane as Simon twisted to kick out again. And again. Draco heard a hollow crack and another of those unearthly wails. Grunting with effort, Simon lashed out one last time; Draco felt the impact as the back hooves hit jolt all the way up his own spine, and the wail broke off in a breathy gurgle. Then Simon gathered all four feet beneath him. Warned by the millisecond sensation of sitting on a bomb about to explode, Draco tightened his fists.

Draco didn't get the chance to look back: the speed with which the horse shot forward nearly snapped his head off his neck. Draco tasted blood. He clung to mane and saddle as the horse accelerated faster than his Nimbus 2001.

In a few seconds Simon was stretched out at full gallop. The cold air blew Draco's hood back and warred with the hot blood pulsing with terror in his ears.

The moon sailed high between faint stars now, lighting up the night, light and shadow crisp and clear. The sudden release from the Dementor's foul magic was like coming up for air after nearly drowning and Draco gulped gratefully at the fresh air that was forcing itself down his throat. Realising it was futile to try and pull his hood back up – or not if he wanted to keep holding onto the mane and thus stay on board the runaway horse, that was, because with every stride Simon threatened to bounce his rider out of the saddle – Draco hoped there wasn't going to be anyone noticing his fair hair. He leaned forward again and tried to find the rhythm of the gallop.

Simon's feet hit the ground with all the noise of a cat out hunting and for Draco it was close to flying over the ground. While Simon's trot was bouncy and the canter made Draco seasick, this flat-out sprint was in another realm altogether.

Luna had told him thoroughbreds are bred for speed.

Simon was fulfilling his heritage at what felt like forty or fifty miles an hour. The wind force was making Draco's eyes water. He blinked faster, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them wide to peer into the night ahead.

Draco hoped thoroughbreds were also bred not to run into obstacles. Like the house he could see coming up on them.

Simon changed course only slightly, skimming past the cottage so closely Draco saw the shutters tightly closed like those of Hogsmeade; extending stride just enough to cross the road without touching it.

They were far past the house by the time a few chickens clucked and the collie wondering what the hell had just woken it up began to bark. If there was a Dementor following them, the dog didn't seem to notice. But then animals weren't supposed to notice Dementors, Draco remembered. He didn't have time to follow up this thought; Simon was rocketing around a corner. Draco leaned into the bend, which didn't slow the black horse a jot.

Luckily this part of the country was reasonably flat farmland and the hills weren't steep, certainly not steep enough to slow Simon down, although Draco worried about him tripping as they sped down the hills.

The Dementor's chill was gone long before they reached a nice, flat stretch of country. The sprint eased infinitesimally, and Draco took the opportunity; he released his death-grip on the mane with one hand and picked up the reins, sitting back slightly to suggest to Simon that perhaps they might slow for a moment. Please. If it wasn't too much trouble.

Simon eventually took the hint several miles east of Hogsmeade after a nasty leap over a small fence Draco hadn't seen until the last moment, and Draco (once he'd recovered again from the surprise jump) brought him around just before an old stone wall much higher than the shorter hurdle they'd just cleared. Luckily Simon wasn't inclined towards being a steeplechaser tonight or Draco would have been in real trouble.

A few cows stood up and shook their ears in bewilderment at this nocturnal juggernaut now cantering jerkily in an approximation of a circle, but Draco and Simon ignored them. Above and beyond tilting an ear in their direction, Simon didn't seem to have a problem with cattle, which relieved Draco. He didn't know anything about cows himself, or nothing beyond the fact that you don't mess with the white ones which have red-tipped ears. These cows were shorter and hairier than the ones that he thought of as stage one in milk production. But they didn't seem in the mood to do anything beyond staring at Draco and Simon with bovine interest, and as Simon wasn't in a hurry to leave them, Draco tuned them out in favour of concentrating on Simon. And any Dementors who might be following…

The horse refused to stop completely and was still quaking with fear. Draco ignored his own fright along with how his kidneys were being jolted out his ears and ran his hand along Simon's crest as the horse settled into an awkward jog between the cows. "Shh. It's alright now. The Dementor's gone. You outran it. Clever Simon. Wonderful Simon. Damned sight faster than the Hogwarts Express Simon. There we go. Good boy, Simon."

Simon lowered his head and snorted, then threw it up again, nearly breaking Draco's nose when Draco didn't recover fast enough from being jerked forward by the reins.

"Ouch! Watch it… Er, I mean, there, there…"

Simon flicked an ear, but seemed to be trying to concentrate most of his attention on seeing invisible monsters. He jinked at a dark patch on the ground and Draco grabbed at the saddle before he could slide off into the cow pat.

"Argh. Careful. Whoa, Simon. It's just… well, never mind. These cows have been busy and I'd like to stay on your back if it's all right with you."

He checked that the bags were all there – by some miracle they were – and rode Simon in a series of circles and figure eights, threading between the cows which turned to watch them pass, until Simon was able to keep a calm walk. And in between keeping an ear pricked for Dementors or Death Eaters (and potential Muggle farmers wondering why some mad kid was riding a horse around their farm in the middle of the night), Draco considered two very different directions.

The first was, of course, Hogwarts. With its obvious disadvantage of Dementors and Infernii hellpits along the road. Plus a barrier that turned a horse ride into a whole-body toothache.

On the other hand, how hard could it be to ride a horse down through Scotland and England to Malfoy Manor? Surely that would be feasible? There was lots of food in the sacks, also places he could buy or steal food, and there was grass along the way for Simon to eat. Apple orchards. Carrot farms. Ride a horse from one place to another? That was what Muggles did all the time. And how hard could it be to pass himself off as a Muggle? Of course calling out "Ho there, fellow Muggle" would be a dead giveaway, but Draco wasn't that daft. He'd just nod and comment on the weather. Or the state of autumn mobile trafficking. Yes.

Think of the benefits!

He'd be home. Malfoy Manor. His room. His books. The old troll cage could be converted into a stable and the lawns – well, there could be trouble if hoofmarks suddenly broke up the centuries-old green sward, but what were house elves for? And he didn't need to take over any of the paddocks already taken up by sheep. He only needed to convert a small fraction of the estate into riding areas and paddocks for Simon to relax in – say a measly five acres or so – and buy hay off local Muggle farmers. Simon would be very happy. It was easy to picture Simon grazing out past the East Wing, the horse meandering down past the folly towards the trout stream when it got hot, Draco riding Simon through the fields on a warm summer day or through the orchards in autumn, picking apples from the saddle as they went under trees laden down with fruit…

Home.

His mother, waiting to welcome him and his new pet. Narcissa didn't like animals, that was true, but she'd warm to Simon. Draco loved his mother but even he had to admit she was a bit of a snob, so surely a horse as top-notch as Simon would win her over.

His father, waiting to welcome him into the Death Eater fold. Killing Simon would probably be quite tame as initiation rites went.

Draco tightened the reins and ran his hand down Simon's crest again as the horse tried to break into a trot. Maybe Simon was psychic after all.

Damn Lucius for bringing politics into things!

Draco and sat straighter, squaring his shoulders. He'd show his father politics. If politics was what Lucius wanted, politics was what he'd –

Simon shivered the skin on his withers and threw his head up, eyes wild. One of the bags bumped gently into Draco's knee as the horse arched its neck and pranced sideways, tugging on the reins.

And the cold descended around them like a shroud.

Dementors – it could be nothing else.

Draco looked up.

The Dementors were grouped so thick even the cows sensed them dimly. Draco heard them lowing in unease, but he was too busy wrenching Simon's head around and driving his heels into the horse's sides to worry about stupid Muggle cows. What felt like twigs grazed his hair as he ducked on instinct until he almost lay flat along the horse's neck.

Simon didn't need any urging: the horse went straight into a gallop, nearly crashing through the fence and only seeming to remember that there was one there at the last millisecond, right before he gathered his legs for the jump. Draco, holding onto the reins rather than the saddle, lost a stirrup and nearly lost his seat. He only kept it through sheer luck and the fact that Simon was determined to keep a straight line. For some reason the horse had chosen to go back the way they'd come. Well, Hogwarts was closer than Malfoy Manor… Draco spared a moment's regret that he wouldn't see his home instead, then concentrated on slipping his foot back into the wildly swinging stirrup and hanging on for the chase.

The Dementors were all around him. He could sense them. He could see them. But this time he wasn't going to let them get to him. Or Simon. Could the horse see the Dementors? Animals weren't supposed to be affected by them, but even the cows had been upset and Simon, poor suffering beast that he was, seemed possessed by nightmares when they were near.

They had just galloped back up the hill where Simon slowed for a moment as he tried to get his breath back, then passed the farmhouse where the collie barked, yelped at the coldness of the mind even a dog could feel and dived into its kennel, when a ragged figure swooped in front of them, blocking their path.

Draco, who had given up on any hope of steering Simon, gave the horse another kick in the ribs just in case Simon had any ideas about slowing, covered his face and clung to the saddle.

Simon charged right through the Dementor. Or he would have, but the spectre veered off at the last second. Draco heard its high-pitched whistle of rage and felt ice crystallise along his spine.

So Simon couldn't see them after all. Those kicks had been lucky hits.

But now more of them were massing, trying to snag Draco's cloak as he passed them, ice sifting through his lungs. The Dementors seemed to have decided en masse to use sheer cold to slow their prey. It was working: Simon's breaths were coming laboured now. The cold was like a wall, turning the sweat on Draco's face and Simon's neck into ice which cracked at every movement.

The moon went behind clouds.

The horse stumbled. Slowed. Its head sagged to the level of its knees, which Draco could feel trembling.

Then the Dementors were swarming thick around them, stirring the air and sucking out the last of the oxygen. Simon reared and they fell back out of reach of the striking hooves. There was a concerted wall of cold that hit Draco and winded him. Simon groaned and for a moment Draco thought the horse would fall. Draco pulled on the reins as the horse foundered, hauling up the horse's head like it was a lead weight, and although Simon staggered for one horrible moment, going down onto his knees, he managed to get back on his hooves. But when Draco tried kicking the horse into a gallop again, Simon seemed to have gone numb.

Draco's vision was going. It was narrowing down, losing itself in the darkness of the night, of Simon's mane, the last light reflecting from his pale knuckles where they clung to saddle, reins and mane.

His wand… Draco should use his wand to protect himself… What was the name of that spell? The one he'd never successfully cast? The one that was meant to save him from the Dementors but which he couldn't remember?

Then he heard a shrill yapping and the ice over the world melted just enough for his vision to clear.

He looked down and his eyes widened.

Racing into the circle of Dementors were two little silver dogs. They looked like Crups except their tails were not forked. One had a patch over its left eye, the other had a patch over the right. The terriers charged the Dementors and snapped at the ragged cloaks and whatever passed for ankles beneath. There were more shrill whistles of Dementor rage and dismay. Draco's vision cleared more, and he realised the dogs weren't real. The silvery stuff they were made of seemed to be spun from pure magic.

Patroni. He hadn't known they could make noises, but the little silvery dogs were yapping and snarling as they tore into the Dementors, which snarled and hissed back as they scrambled out of the way.

Patroni…

Expecto patronum. That was what he'd tried to remember. And you needed a happy memory to cast that… Try as Draco might, he couldn't find a happy memory right now – not even to save his life.

"Run, you moron!"

Fred – or George – was running towards him, wand extended. Further back towards Hogsmeade was the other twin, a grim look on his face as he too ran towards them. Both were panting. With a small start of surprise, Draco realised they weren't too far from the village now, almost back where he'd seen the first Dementor. There was the road – the moon coming out just as he looked up it, shining off the stones and the barrier surrounding Hogwarts.

"Go, Simon!" He pulled the horse's head up, pointing the nose left along the road to Hogwarts.

Simon swayed. Draco's skin prickled, cold with the sudden terror that Simon was going to fall.

There was a yap followed by a surprised grunt from Simon. Draco looked back and down: one of the silver terriers had bitten Simon's heel; off it went again, savaging a Dementor which reeled away, flailing its arms.

Simon surged forward, his ears back, crescent moons around his eyes.

Draco pulled out his wand. This time he'd be ready. All he needed was a happy memory…

Simon was in an uncertain canter now, but it felt almost mechanical as if the horse had to concentrate hard on each hoof falling where it should. Draco looked back – the twins were holding their own. "Get back to the village!" he shouted, frightened they would be caught and no-one would find out about the Dementors… if Draco was going to die he wanted to be remembered as a hero, which meant someone telling his heroic escapades. Die? Hang on a minute… what happened to finding a happy memory?

"Get back to Hogwarts, you great pillock!" one of the twins yelled back.

"On my way…" He gave Simon another kick. Poor Simon was going to have sore sides tomorrow, but as long as they had a tomorrow Draco didn't think the horse would begrudge a few bruises.

Simon rounded the last bend. The twins were almost out of sight, them and their terrier Patroni, and Draco looked back to see the Dementors milling about in confusion. They rallied, gathering together, and for a moment Draco considered turning Simon to go back and help, because surely Fred and George wouldn't be able to hold off so many of them… but then two streaks of silver – no, three – that looked like a cloud of bees – flew from the road towards Hogsmeade. Other than the cloud of darting silver specks, a wolf and what could be a salmon were also there, leaping into the circle of Dementors who had turned on the twins. Dementors scattered, pursued by small dogs, a wolf, a cloud of silver bees and a fish. Tonks and Flume running along the road, wands out, one running as silently as her wolf and the other gasping for breath from the exertion, for all the world like a fish out of water. Back behind them, limping but determined, stumped a wild-haired figure Draco couldn't immediately place.

The silver fish, Draco noted with pleasure, had just plunged through a Dementor, knocking the creature to the ground where it struggled weakly.

The twins were safe.

Draco turned back to his own problems. He cast the spell to show the hellpits in the road, this time putting a spin on the spell so that it skipped down the road like a stone over a lake, making at least four of the hellpits glow before Draco, pleased with his idea, sent out a few more.

There. That looked like all the hellpits on the road up to the gates were glowing, now.

"Come on, Simon. Let's go."

Simon didn't need much more urging now that the Dementors were falling further behind. He moved out of his canter into a slow gallop and then into a sprint as soon as his hooves touched the smooth surface of the road. Draco hung on to the saddle with one hand, ignoring the sacks bouncing against his knees, his wand in the other hand.

The moon caught a ragged shadow coming in from the left. Draco wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't already been alerted by the cold and looking that way.

Simon's gallop faltered, although the horse kept heading towards the gates as straight as an arrow. But his gait became more wooden and Draco was jolted in the saddle.

Happy memory, happy memory…

His father, hand on Draco's shoulder, pride in his eyes as he told six-year-old Draco that the book which was still burning was Draco's first piece of magic. Draco had kept that memory above all others for just this day. (But would his father look that proud when Draco took the Dark Mark? Or would he disown Draco for refusing it?)

The memory soured.

As the Dementor neared, it was obvious that Lucius would be ashamed and turn his back on Draco, never to acknowledge him as his son again.

Draco flailed for a happy memory.

His mother demanding of Lucius that Draco accompany them to the Quidditch World Cup. Draco was almost grown – time he developed some social polish. And she'd smiled at Draco and winked when Lucius agreed.

Death Eaters had attacked the camp that night and his parents had been busy attending to matters, or that was what they'd told their son – Lucius had known something would happen, thus his reluctance to bring Draco… and had his mother been wearing a mask and a hood?

That memory soured, too.

Professor Snape choosing Draco to stand up before all others and duel Potter in second year…

Snape was dead.

Draco would be dead soon, too. The Dementor paced them now, sending tendrils of frigid doubt snaking into Draco's mind.

Draco realised it was enjoying itself.

And he was out of happy memories. Well, not completely, of course. He had dozens more. But every happy memory he had was tied inevitably into an accompanying grief. That was simply the truth of life. There could be no happiness without sorrow, and the sorrow weighed truer than joy.

The Dementor reached out, ignoring Simon this time. Simon had slowed and was trotting determinedly towards the gates, breath rattling in his throat like a Dementor drinking in a soul.

Draco clung to the mane, trying to absorb some of the horse's strength, anything to break the cold that was turning the world dark.

Had the moon gone behind clouds again? His vision was narrowing as the Dementor grew closer and closer. It could have been less than a minute since Draco had left the twins, but it felt like a lifetime.

The Dementor's hand reached out and touched Draco's cheek almost lovingly.

Hand.

Draco was looking at his hands, one gripping black mane, the other a wand.

Hands.

He had been blind but he'd had his hands. He had mapped out the contours of a horse's head with his hands. He'd found decayed spells and, with the aid of a sorceress, removed them. He'd put on gloves and relearned to read and write and move things and find things and control things and now he could see again, that terrible time of being blind was over, and right now he could see his hands. He'd spent a night in a stable with a horse, blind and forgotten by the rest of the world, and he'd realised how blessed he was to have such simple things, wondrous things, as hands.

His right hand lifted his wand as his left picked up the reins.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

Simon pricked up his ears as the silvery phantom image of himself materialised, solidified, prancing next to him, hooves not quite touching the ground. It reared and pirouetted, striking out at the enemy he could sense but not see.

When the silver stallion broke into a canter, so did he.

ooOOoo

Tonks and Flume reached the twins just in time to drive off the last Dementors. The creatures scattered, leaving behind bitter cold as Mad-Eye Moody's swarm of bees whirled. The darting silver bullets evaporated as the old wizard stomped up, wheezing from the effort. An old bathrobe flapped around his knees – Tonks had risked calling him as soon as the wards around Hogsmeade warned her about the huge congregation of Dementors. Fearing the worst, she'd almost found it. And now she was grateful to have him. Those damn bees – one had stung her, she was sure of it – had tipped the balance in their favour.

"They're going after Malfoy," Tonks said, her teeth chattering as they jogged along the road after the fast-disappearing horse and rider.

Fred turned his wand towards Hogwarts. "Go get 'em," he said to his Patronus. The little silver terrier sped down the road, followed by its twin, a wolf and a silver salmon that knifed through the air like it was water. Moody, eye spinning wildly as he concentrated on whatever happy memory he had (Tonks wasn't going to speculate), raised his wand and sent a cloud of silver bullets down the road just as the horse slowed to a trot. The Patroni raced down the road, homing in on the last Dementor. They were going to be too late: Tonks groaned as she strained her eyes to make the most of the moonlight and saw the Dementor reach out to the pale-haired rider.

Then she saw Draco lift his wand.

Silver light shot out of it and sent the Dementor reeling back. A silver horse pranced and reared, striking out at the Dementor, which wailed and fell back, diminished into shadows and was gone before two small dogs, a fish, a wolf and some bees swarmed around where it had been.

The silver horse tossed its mane and arched its neck. When it began to run, the black horse flicked its tail and followed, doggedly taking up the challenge until the two, silver and ebony, were flank-to-flank, eye-to-eye, galloping up the road, manes and tails flying like moonlight and shadow, black cloak rippling out behind the rider with moonlight gleaming off his platinum hair, horses galloping silently until they hit the barrier and disappeared without even a ripple.

Tonks and her friends stood for a moment, recovering from the strain of casting their Patroni. Wand in her hand, Tonks leaned forward and braced her hands on her knees as she gasped for breath.

That was bloody impressive, she thought. Her wolf Patronus was considered sizeable. Eyeing her companions, she noticed the twins looked both impressed and irked, which made her smile despite the severity of tonight's Dementor attack. Voldemort was getting confident, having so many group near Hogsmeade… what did he have in reserve if he could squander such a large number of Dementors by keeping them in reserve for such a relatively piddling annoyance as someone going in or out of Hogwarts – didn't he have much faith in his barrier? Did he –?

Moody coughed, distracting her. What was the old boy thinking now? He must have some idea, cunning old bastard that he was…

Moody cleared his throat and spat.

Tonks waited.

"Bugger this for a game of soldiers. I'm for a hot cup of tea."

Tonks sighed. "Yeah. I'll second that. Come on."

She looked back once before they turned the bend. The spell illuminating the hellpits was fading, red glows only visible now if you didn't look straight at them. The barrier still stood, not even a ripple to show someone had passed through.

Safe journey, little cuz.

ooOOoo