Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Warnings: None.

Authors note: Torse, your kind words made me smile this morning after a hard night at the farm. You can't keep praising me though, my little head will swell and explode! Thank you so much for your support, I'm glad you're enjoying my story!

Anyhow, we have 4 new lambs, and a foal, and no one else (livestock wise, anyhow) is due to give birth until the weekend, so until saturday, I'm all yours! Comments and criticisms appreciated. Enjoy!

Adrian Pucey - Phobos

Liam Baddock - Deimos

Theodor Nott – Oberon

Draco Malfoy – Chaos

Vincent Crabbe - Moros

Gregory Goyle - Pallas

Blaise Zabini – Pan

Pansy Parkinson - Nyx

Daphne Greengrass - Hebe

Morag Macdougal – Nike

Millicent Bulstrode - Cerberus

Elijah Harper - Cratos

Anthony Vaisey - Tyche

Malcolm Baddock – Hecate

Astoria Greengrass - Eris

Flora Carrow - Nemisis

Hestia Carrow – Hypnos

Ginny Weasley – Tartarus

Seamus Finnegan – Hyperion

Neville Longbottom - Chiron

Dean Thomas – Prometheus

Demelza something or other - Selene

Anthony Goldstien - Styx

Terry Boot - Perses

Zacharias Smith - Chronos

Kevin Entwhistle - Pontus

Jack Sloper – Morpheus

Ritchie Coote - Erebos

Colin Creevey - Metis

Dennis Creevey - Eos

Mandy Brocklehurst – Leto

Michael Corner – Charon

Stephen Cornfoot - Atlas

Orla Quirke - Lamia

Ernie Macmillan –Minos

Sally-Anne Perks – Aether

When Draco used his weird beast magic, it drained him, putting a pull and demand on his magic that he wasn't actually built to tolerate. He knew that, was a bit used to it. He could heal fast, but only if her slept, rested, took it easy enough for his magic to be able to sustain the accelerated healing that came so easily to much more magical creatures than man.

He curled his toes, wriggling slightly, before opening his eyes. Potter was sitting up against the wall, leaning on Tart's bed, but asleep. Draco yawned, stretching slightly, and outstretched his arm, lazily giving Potter a solid prod.

Potter had been staying pinned to Tart's bed since they'd come back, and for some reason he was being pleasant enough to Draco as well, as they both slept off their injuries. Tart had broken several ribs, her hip, and since they didn't have any skelogrow, there was only so much Leto could do to speed her healing. Draco had been burnt, by wand fire on his back, but no one would tell him how badly the burns were, all he knew what that if he moved too much or laughed, his back hurt excruciatingly.

Potter opened his eyes, blinking owlishly, a confused expression on his face for a moment. "Potter," whined Draco, not caring how pathetic he looked. "I'm thirstyyy."

"So go get yourself some water."

"I was wounded saving your girlfriend. Very wounded."

"She's not my girlfriend," muttered Potter, his cheeks turning red, but he got up and stalked off to the kitchen nonetheless. When he returned, he shoved the cup of water into Draco's hand and plopped down gracelessly, cheeks still tinged pink.

"It's alright, Potter, I know she's moved on from you, but there will always be other deserving fans," Draco said, giving Potter his best simpering gaze.

"I don't have fans!" Potter sounded outraged, and Draco just raised an eyebrow at him doubtfully.

"Potter, are you lying to me? I am sick, you can't lie to me."

"Where the hell is that written," muttered Potter darkly, clearly sulking, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.

Draco laughed, sipping at his water awkwardly. The angle of having to lay on his stomach as he tried to drink water was less than graceful, he finally gave up and put his cup down, glancing up to find Potter looking at him with his weird, eyes bugged out, deer about to be shot facial expression.

"What the hell is the matter with you Potter? Do you have rabies or something?" Draco laid his head on his pillow, doing his best to look judgmental even though he was one hundred percent certain his hair was a wreck.

"You kissed me, when you were, you know, smoking, whatever it was," blurted Potter, freezing the moment the words left his mouth, looking like he might have an apoplectic fit any moment now.

"Well I don't have rabies, so you can't possibly be blaming this one me. Just because I'm a werewolf? That's racist, Potter," quipped Draco automatically, cursing his inebriated self. He sort of tended to become a nice, and even friendly person when he was intoxicated, and he'd been known to occasionally snog people who didn't really ask for it, but he was gentle enough, easily turned away, sort of like an over affectionate kitten. Why did Potter have to have been there for it? Merlin, this was awkward.

"No-! I just! I!" Potter spluttered, and Draco was amused enough to note that Potter appeared to be having a seizure. Huh. Gryffindors were so weird.

Tart yawned, raising her head, clearly roused by Potters hysterics, and smiled sleepily at them. "What're we yelling 'bout?" She asked drowsily.

"Potter took advantage of my maidenhood, and is now accusing me of giving him rabies," supplied Draco cheerfully, feeling that the more embarrassment Potter felt, probably the less embarrassed he would have to feel once this conversation caught up with me.

"You do not qualify as a maiden, also shame on you for getting the hero of the wizarding world sick," admonished Tart, propping herself up on her elbows, giving Potter a curious look. "Also, wait Harry, you did what now?"

Before a very red Potter could respond, Nyx burst in, and the look on her face sucked the laughter from Tart and Draco instantaneously. She silently moved over towards Draco's bed, holding her hand out to him. Draco got to his feet, and took her hand, allowing her to help him walk out of the room, wincing as the tender skin on his back stretched and gave.

She helped him along, to the Lair, where just the oldest of them were gathered, faces drawn and pale just as Nyx. They were gathered around the fire place, the rooms long shadows of the room dancing along with the flames. Draco's back was stinging, but the warm smoky scent of the fire, the familiar scent of this room made Draco feel a bit better. Pan held up a piece of parchment, without looking at Draco, his face stony. Draco picked up the small scrap, and glanced at it. Scribbled across the parchment, ink smeared, were the words: The ministry has fallen. Hide them well.

Draco closed his eyes for a moment. This was it. This was the end of any denial anyone could thrust at them. This was it, it was real now, with no hope of quiet, peaceful turn around. This was war.