Chapter 17

Orla stared at Draco, seeing her own panic mirrored in his face. This had been his only plan, his only way to escape the school wards undetected. and it had been scuppered before it had even begun. What on earth should they do now, creep back to the infirmary as if nothing had happened, return to their beds and suffer the abuse and the death threats?

No. There was no way they could go back now, they'd made their decision to run, but there was no way that anything in this huge room would be useable, even if they did manage to locate the vanishing cabinet under the waves of solid black that covered every item in the room like an iron blanket.

It certainly looked very different from the last time she had been in this room, when she had arrived to find it strung with hammocks and filled with students who were hiding from the regime within the castle, all of whom soon joined the fray and most likely paid with their lives.

She wondered …

"Draco, we need to get out of this room. I have an idea. It might not work, but it's better than standing here like a couple of gaping fish."

Malfoy was so keen to grasp any straw of a replacement idea that he did not question her, but allowed her to chivvy him out of the door they had just entered through, and close it behind them, leaving them exposed in the thankfully empty seventh-floor corridor. The door rippled and disappeared, and the wall was solid stone again, bearing no sign of the secrets that lay behind it.

They were not safe here, and they both knew it; there was little time to waste. Orla stood close to the wall, and whispered quietly against it as Draco had done.

"I need the room that the students used to hide in."

Nothing happened. The wall remained resolutely the same.

"I need the room that Dumbledore's Army hid in."

She tried again, noting the raise of Draco's eyebrow at her mention of the DA, but still nothing happened, and she was still panicking.

"I need the room that has the secret passage to the Hog's Head," she hissed, in desperation, not sure what else to try.

It seemed that this request had been specific enough, for the wall rippled and began to form into the door again. Draco grabbed her hand as if he could not contain his excitement without screeching, which would be most inadvisable at the present time.

When the door was fully formed, she pushed it open, finding herself back in the room through which she had first entered Hogwarts on the night of the battle. The hammocks were still there, discarded bags, piled up cups and plates, the wizarding radio and blankets everywhere.

"This is where they were hiding?" Draco asked, looking in barely-concealed surprise around the vast room.

"Yes. But there's no time for a tour. Come with me, now."

She led him across the room, negotiating their way through the mess, and up the flight of stairs that led to a large portrait of a witch attempting to pose a warthog. It came away from the wall quite easily at her touch and she yanked it open, seeing the familiar passage stretching away from her.

"Cast Lumos," she instructed, "and follow me. Do not say a single word whilst we are in the tunnel, because all sound travels up through the airholes in the roof and if anyone should be walking in the grounds, we will be heard."

He nodded to show that he understood, drawing his wand and illuminating the tip. Orla took a deep breath, and headed into the tunnel, hoping against hope that it was still the secret passage that led to the Hog's Head inn.

There was no logical reason why it shouldn't be, since the passage itself was a facet of the Room of Requirement, and therefore unplottable and unreachable. There was no way the Death Eaters could have discovered it unless they had been able to access the exact room that had been used as a hideout. Given the state of the room, which looked clearly like dozens of teenagers had just left it, she thought this was unlikely.

The tunnel seemed to go on forever, completely pitch dark with the only light available coming from the end of their wands. Finally, finally, they reached a dead end and she ran her hands over the wall, looking for the catch that would release the portrait the other end.

With the help of Draco shining his beam over the wall, she eventually found and unfastened it, climbing down from the portrait hole, onto a table conveniently placed there and then down on to the floor. They were in the same room at the back of the Hog's Head tavern from which Aberforth Dumbledore had bid them farewell a few short weeks ago.

As Draco's feet hit the wooden floor, the door on the other side of the room flew open, and a tall, shabby-looking man with lots of straggly hair and a long grey beard filled the entrance.

"I was wondering when some of you would start coming back through," he growled. "What's been happening up there?"

"Mr Dumbledore, I'm very sorry to arrive in your back room like this," Orla began, but the old barman held up a wrinkled hand to silence her.

"I'm only surprised it wasn't sooner, Miss. Now, you were here a few weeks back, weren't you? I remember your voice. An Irish lilt like that, you were pretty distinctive."

"I was. I came to … help."

"There was nothing any of us could have done to help, once Potter fell to the Dark Lord."

They were all silent.

"Can we Apparate from here?" Draco asked.

Aberforth looked over at him as if seeing him for the first time, his blue eyes travelling up and down before carefully examining Draco's face, and then her own.

"Are you two both Malfoys?" he asked, suspiciously.

"I am, Sir, but Orla is not. She's Muggle-born."

"Gone over the other side, Malfoy?" Aberforth asked, and he looked hopeful he continued to stare at Draco.

"You could say that."

The old barman seemed to appraise the two of them, narrowing his eyes suspiciously as if wondering whether she was there of her own free will.

"You can leave from this room. It's got no charms on it. Whatever you're doing, stay safe. And I never saw you, okay?"

"Thank you, Sir."

Aberforth nodded curtly and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him and they heard the key turn in the lock.

"I'm all yours," Draco said, softly, taking her arm.

Orla concentrated hard on the quiet, deserted alleyway a few roads away from her Muggle flat, closing her eyes and focusing on the destination, for this was one Apparition she could not afford to mess up, and she'd never Side-Alonged anyone before, either.

Crack.

They were pulled through the constricting tunnel of her inexpert Apparition and landed hard in the dirty alleyway. Draco spun against the wall and supported himself with his hand against the red bricks, retching towards the floor, but thankfully nothing was coming up, since neither of them had eaten so far that day.

"Fucking hell, Roach," he chided, when he finally stood up. "I won't be travelling with your transportation service again."

"Sorry it wasn't a smooth ride," she replied, with a touch of sarcasm, "but you'll be happier when I tell you that my destination at least, was correct, and we are exactly where we need to be. Come on."

He followed her down the narrow alleyway until they reached an equally grotty-looking street, and then drew alongside her as they walked along the pavement, the grey terraced houses and surfeit of litter strewn around making the run-down road look even worse.

"Where are we?"

"This is York. It's a city, but smaller and less well-known than London. I actually come from a small village in Ireland, but obviously I had to get away from there after my parents were killed, I'd have been found in a heartbeat if I'd tried to live there. Turn here, and we're getting into a better area, this is a nicer street, I just use the one we landed in for Apparition as they alleyway is always deserted."

Orla and Draco walked down two more residential streets, before turning into the main high street, a relatively busy thoroughfare with shops, cafes and businesses down both sides of the road.

"I'm a few doors down. My flat is over the pharmacy, which is where I used to work."

"What is a pharmacy?" he asked, wrinkling his nose, and she laughed.

"I suppose a Malfoy wouldn't lower themselves to take Muggle Studies?" she asked, and the slight blush of shame on his face suggested that she was correct.

"I'm sorry, it doesn't matter. This is what you needed me for. A pharmacy is a place that Muggles go to get medicines and tablets for when they are ill, or first aid items, toiletries, that kind of thing."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Orla."

She rolled her eyes.

"Like an apothecary, Draco!"

"Oh. So, for potions and stuff?"

"They definitely do not sell potions. Anyway, here we are. I'll tell you more about exactly what purpose a pharmacy serves at another time. Don't look in the window, I don't want my boss to see me until I've got back into the flat and I can go and beg her for my job back. I told her that I had a personal issue to sort out and that I hoped to only be a couple of days, and I've been gone over three weeks with notice. Up here, come."

There was a small door with peeling brown paint next to the pharmacy and between the shop next door, a bakery. She had already been rummaging in her rucksack for her door keys and had them out ready, and was most pleased to find that they still fitted the lock – at least Brenda hadn't changed the locks during her unexplained absence. Her rent was paid until the end of the month, so Orla supposed her landlady couldn't really have done much until that time anyway.

She pushed open the door and gestured to Draco to walk up the stairs that were straight in front of them as they entered. In fact, they were so close that the door bumped on the edge of the bottom step. As he passed her, she closed the front door firmly and double-locked it before following him up the steep flight of stairs, carpeted in a threadbare red stair runner, with a wonky bannister down one side.

Malfoy was already standing in her room when she reached the top, looking around at the very small space within.

"I told you it wasn't much," Orla muttered, embarrassed, but strangely glad to be back here, at the same time.

The studio flat was over the pharmacy, but did not lead directly down there. To get to work, she would leave her flat via the stairs and front door, and then enter the pharmacy by the main door of the shop, which she was grateful for as it protected her privacy from the other shop workers.

There was a small shower room that also contained a sink and a loo, through a door to the rear of the flat, but the rest of the space was open-plan, and very cramped for two. Her bed took up most of the room, and there was a tiny kitchenette to one side, and a sofa to the other with a crappy television that she entertained herself with. All her belongings were stored in a single wardrobe and chest of drawers.

She was rather disconcerted by his lack of response.

"This is it. Sorry if it disappoints you."

"No one will try to kill me here," he replied, quietly and seriously. "That makes this flat the only place on earth I want to be. Thank you, Orla, genuinely, for bringing me here. I'll try my best not to be a complete arse to live with. Oh, and I'll sleep on the sofa."

"We can think about that later. It's a tiny sofa and I'm sure with a bit of Transfiguration we can either make the bed bigger, or divide it in to two smaller ones. Right now, I'm just so exhausted from the night's drama and everything else, all I want to do is crash out, knowing that no one is here to hurt me. Join me?"

His eyes widened in surprise.

"I'm not asking you to jump into bed with me, Malfoy. Fucking hell, that's the last thing I'd want after everything that's happened. Nope, I'm asking you to jump on the bed with me," she grinned. "Seriously. We need to sleep so that we can think clearly."

Orla opened a drawer under the bed and pulled out a couple of soft blankets, that she'd used over the harsh winter to avoid spending money she didn't have on heating the flat, and tossed one to Draco, before kicking off her trainers and pulling the blinds closed on the big window that looked out across the High Street. Throwing herself on the nearest side of the double bed, she lay down and covered herself from chin to foot in the blanket, and told him that if he didn't do the same, she'd banish him to the sofa forever.

That made him move, and he followed her movements, toeing off the transfigured trainers and making the bedsprings creak as he lay down next to her, pulling the blanket over himself.

"We slept together last night, too, remember? In the infirmary," she teased. "We're just a little closer this time."

His eyes were already closed, and his pale eyelids looked so thin and fragile, littered with blue thread veins across the surface.

Orla suspected that he was already half way to the best sleep he'd had in months, and she closed her own eyes, feeling curiously safer in the flat with Draco Malfoy than she'd ever felt on her own.

-xxx-

Remus was seated with a goblet of red wine on one of Fleur Weasley's sofas; sated and full after the excellent French meal she had just cooked him. The lamb in the casserole had been deliciously rare, and when he'd complimented it, she had pointed out that after Bill's werewolf bite had left him with a liking for rare meat, as a Frenchwoman, she'd been happy to indulge him, saying that the British always overcook their meat.

She'd poked her head through the Floo early that morning, before leaving for work at Gringotts, and invited him for dinner, saying that she wanted to cook something properly but the thought of putting all that effort in for one person depressed her. He'd accepted immediately, knowing that he could travel to the secret-kept Shell Cottage by Floo quite safely without leaving himself exposed.

Remus had Floo-called the Hogwarts kitchens to advise them he would not need a meal tonight, but the earnest little elf who usually brought his food seemed to misunderstand and brought two servings of dinner rather than one. At lunchtime. Ah well, extra food was always welcome, he seemed to be permanently hungry these days, which was strange, after so many years making do on the meagre provisions that were all he could afford, a regular delivery of food was making him hungrier.

Fleur had sat next to him with her own wine, pronouncing that in France it was no problem for women to have the odd goblet of red wine whilst pregnant. He didn't know enough about pregnancy to contradict her, only knowing that Tonks had stayed well away from alcohol whilst she was expecting Teddy. But it her was Fleur's pregnancy, and her business.

He felt warm and comfortable in the little sitting room of the cottage, the excellent wine coursing through his veins and making his head feel pleasantly fugged. Her blonde hair was sparkling in the light of the fire, returned from the dark brown that she changed it to each morning, to conceal her distinctive part-Veela looks from any unsavoury witches or wizards that might have cause to visit Gringotts, or Diagon Alley.

They sat in companionable silence, the two Order of the Phoenix members who, by a most hideous coincidence, had both been widowed on the same day.

Lupin's brain unfugged with lightning speed at the sound of a hard thump on the cottage door that made them both startle, and leap up from their relaxed seats on the sofa.

"Are you expecting anyone?" he demanded, a little more forcefully than he'd intended.

"Of course not! 'Oo would be visiting me, and at zis time in ze evening?"

They both drew their wands and moved cautiously towards the front door. Remus indicated that Fleur should speak, since this was her home, and he would be unexpected.

"'Oo is eet?" she called out, sharply.

"It's me, Charlie! Open the door!"

They both stared at each other, excited that this could really be the last remaining Weasley here on the doorstep, but they had to exercise extreme caution. Fleur opened the door, and Lupin stood his ground, brandishing his cypress wand in Charlie's face.

He looked exactly as they had seen him at the wedding last year, only with longer hair. Charlie was tall and broad, with rough, burnished skin and a multitude of dark freckles that could only be earned by working outside all day. He wore a dark-green shirt, and baggy khaki trousers, tucked into heavy boots, and his curly ginger hair was tied in a scruffy knot at the back of his head. His hands were ruddy and coarse, with scars, bites and scratches all over, which one would expect from a person who worked with dragons.

"Identify yourself," Remus demanded, sternly, and received a look of consternation in return.

The man they believed and hoped was Charlie raised one hand in surrender, the other one holding a rather squirmy bundle under his arm in a sack made from thick, grey material.

"I am Charles Weasley, son of the late Molly and Arthur Weasley. I received letters informing of the deaths of my parents and all my siblings. I work at a dragon reservation in the hills of Romania, and have done since leaving Hogwarts, where I was a cohort of your wife, Lupin, the lovely Nymphadora Tonks, although if she's around to hear that, please don't hit me, Dora. On the day of your wedding, Fleur, my mother cut my hair so brutally short that I had to use a growing spell on it when I returned to Romania as the baby dragons didn't recognise me. On that day, I distinctly remember hearing you refer to my Great Aunt Muriel as a 'crabby old bitch'. Should I continue?"

"Oh, Charrrlie!"

Fleur's eyes were full of tears as she leapt forward into Charlie's arms, which was actually only a single arm since the mysterious wriggling bag appeared to be making a bid for freedom, but he embraced her one-armed, nonetheless, and held her as she sobbed on her own doorstep.

Charlie gently released her and held out his free arm to Lupin, who took his hand and shook it warmly, placing his other hand over their joined ones.

"Charles Weasley. You are here, my friend."

"I am indeed. Any chance of being invited in, now that I've passed the test?"

"But of course!" Fleur exclaimed, stepping back and gesturing into her small living room. "Sit, sit, Charrlie, would you like tea?"

"Seems like you two have already cracked open the wine, so I'll have some of that if there's any going?"

She summoned another goblet from the kitchen cupboard and set the bottle to pour a healthy measure for their visitor, who took a great gulp as if he had not drunk for days.

"Oh, Charrlie," she began. "Before you zey any more, you should know that poor Tonks, she … she did not make eet."

"What? Remus?"

His head swivelled in the other direction.

"It's true, Charlie," Lupin confirmed. "Tonks was killed at the battle of Hogwarts, during a duel with the Death Eater Dolohov. He bested her."

It was the first time he'd had to say the awful news out loud to someone who didn't already know, and it was a horrible feeling. He coughed to clear the lump in his throat.

"No! But Dora was an amazing duellist?"

"She'd not long had the baby. Her reflexes were slower, maybe. Who knows? Possibly, he could have just got the right shot in at the right time."

"I'm so sorry, mate. Really. With a new baby and all. And you, Fleur, you know – Bill …"

"Charrlie, it ees you zat is most deserving of pity. Your 'ole family … we are so sorry … zey were all so brave."

The room was silent, all of them thinking about the loved ones they had lost. There was no need to argue who'd suffered the greatest loss, for they all had.

"I've done my crying back home," Charlie said, quietly. "Maybe at some point, we can talk, and you can tell me how each of them died? But not right now, not yet."

"Of course, we will," Remus said. "Whatever you need to know we will tell you. I think for now the only news that is most pressing is yours, Fleur? For this is not my news to tell."

She nodded and turned to Charlie, who was sitting next to her, with Remus on the opposite sofa, the coffee table in between them.

"I am 'aving Bill's bebe, Charrlie. We found out just before ze battle."

Charlie's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in shock, before, most surprisingly, tears began to fall from his eyes and his face scrunched up with the effort of holding them in. He put his bag down on the floor by his feet and reached for his sister-in-law's hands, grasping on to them as the tears finally fell.

"A little piece of Bill," he sobbed. "I'm not the last Weasley at all. There will be one more alongside me. Fleur, I promise I will be the best uncle I can to your baby, to my niece or nephew – I promise."

"I know you will," she replied, and was about to lean forwards and hug him, when she screamed instead, as what looked like a scaly, hairless cat escaped from the bag and darted across the floor of the cottage.

"Oops, come back, Garth!"

Charlie jumped up and headed the creature off before it could reach the kitchen, which was clearly its ultimate destination.

"Mind if I feed him your leftovers? He can smell the meat, you see?"

Fleur indicated with a wave of her hand that he should go ahead, and looked at Remus in a quizzical manner, as Charlie returned to the sofa which what they could now see was a tiny dark-green dragon, about the size of a large cat, and Fleur's cooking cauldron of casserole, into which it was dipping its small snout, lapping up the leftover meat, vegetables and gravy.

"Charlie," Remus began. "You appear to have brought a dragon with you. Might I be the first to point out the impracticality of this?"

Charlie grinned, not at all abashed.

"Don't worry. It won't grow any bigger than this. This is a miniature Romanian Longhorn, goes by the name of Garth. He's perfectly tame, was part of an intensive breeding programme at the sanctuary, as Longhorn numbers took a dive because there's so much demand for its horns, among hunters who poach them. The horns of the Longhorn, when powdered, are highly prized as a potion ingredient, and is a Class B Tradeable Material."

Both Fleur and Remus looked at the little dragon's horns, which were glittering gold, and sticking straight out of its head like a bull, rather than on the top like most dragons. It didn't look particularly menacing, especially as it was snuffling rather sweetly as it gulped down what was left of the casserole.

"Garth, for some reason, didn't grow like the other Longhorn's in the breeding programme. He got to this size and just … stopped. He can't be released into the wild, he'd be dead within a day, killed by other dragons, so we just … kept him at the sanctuary, where he roams around as he pleases."

"But why," asked Fleur, "did you not leave 'im zere, at his 'ome?"

Charlie looked rather guilty.

"I couldn't. He's attached to me. He follows me everywhere, snaffles my food, and even sleeps in my quarters. He's my family out there."

"You do realise you sound like Hagrid?" Remus told him, smirking in spite of himself.

"Oh, I love Hagrid! He'll love Garth! Oh … did the old boy survive the battle? I'm sorry, I should have asked."

"It's fine," Lupin replied, "and yes, I believe he did. I saw him during the final moments. He was battered, but alive. He was carrying … oh. Look, don't worry. Now is not the time. I'll tell you everything you need to know when we're all ready, including what our current plans are. But for now, you must need rest after your long journey. I have use of Grimmauld Place, there's plenty of spare bedrooms there."

Garth suddenly made the most curious sound, like a bird warbling, but in a deep, throaty rumble with a clicking sound in the background. They looked down. The tiny dragon had licked the cauldron clean and was now on Charlie's other knee, extending its neck towards Fleur who was actually tickling it under the chin and making silly faces at it, as one might do to a small baby.

"Is that dragon smiling, Charlie?"

"Of a fashion, Lupin,"

The two wizards grinned at one another. It seemed that the question of where Charlie and Garth would stay was already settled.

"What do you say, Fleur? Can Garth and I stay in the spare bedroom? He's house-trained, I promise. Can't say the same for me, Mum always said she never managed to domesticate me, hence why I've been living in the wilds of Romania for so many years."

"You can both stay," she answered, still crooning at the little dragon rather than addressing Charlie. "But you 'ave to cook, Charrlie. I am so tired when I get 'ome from ze bank every day."

"Consider it done. I shall make Mum proud, I promise."

Remus returned home to Grimmauld Place later that night with his heart lighter than it had felt for a long time. Somehow, the arrival of Charlie brought unquestionable proof that Voldemort had not fully destroyed the Weasleys on that dreadful day. He, and the baby growing in Fleur's belly, meant that the family would live on, its ranks decimated, yes, but still alive. The presence of a small dragon that seemed to think it was a house cat was unexpected, but somehow no less welcome. It had brought a smile to Fleur's face, in any case.

He realised that he himself was smiling as he climbed into bed for the night, the thought of Garth with gravy round his little mouth being a welcome diversion from the horrors that usually besieged his dreams.

-xxx-

Severus slammed his office door shut, warded it heavily and headed straight for his drinks cabinet, grabbing the decanter of firewhisky and pouring himself a large measure that he knocked back in one gulp, before slopping a second into the squat glass that he carried to his desk and sat down, intending to drink this one more leisurely.

It had been one hell of a fucking awful day, and returning home from a private audience with the dread Lord himself was just the stalk on the fucking pumpkin.

His post-coital glow from a night of sex had soon disappeared with the news that Madam Pomfrey had been discovered unconscious in her office in the hospital wing by Professor Sprout, who had attended there by chance after falling foul of a particularly vicious cutting of Devil's Snare. Sprout had raised the alarm, and had Rennervated the Medi-Witch, suspecting correctly that she had been the victim of a Stupefy cast from behind.

Pomfrey's health aside, for she seemed to have no lasting ill-effects, the more pressing concern was the disappearance of Draco Malfoy and Orla Roach from the infirmary.

Malfoy had been there since receiving his 'punishment' from Macnair and Yaxley, still recuperating with broken ribs, and Pomfrey's records indicated that Miss Roach had been admitted during the night with whipping wounds to the back and severe anal trauma – both of which she had healed.

Corban Yaxley was a psychotic fucking deviant to wreak that kind of damage upon a young witch, and could only think of Miss Granger and how she would have been exposed to that kind of abuse had he not stepped forward and requested her. As guilty as he felt about taking his sexual pleasure from her, the thought that she could have been subjected to far worse from someone who cared far less, helped to ease his self-hatred.

What was unexplained, was the whereabouts of the two missing students now. Were they together? Macnair had seen the two of them holding hands and presumed there was something going on between them, but would either of them have the balls to pull something like this? Draco was an insufferable coward, and Miss Roach … well, Roach was a Hufflepuff.

Neither were in the castle, it had been thoroughly combed both manually and magically, but the school wards were undisturbed, indicating that no one had entered or left for a good few days now.

The Carrows had ensured that all the 'secret' passages to Hogsmeade had been sealed last year, and using one of them would have disturbed the wards, in any event. If they'd arranged to fly from one of the towers, it also would have created an alert as they breached the airborne wards that covered the school like an invisible protective dome.

Malfoy and Roach had either managed to pull off the most breathtakingly audacious piece of magic, or there were darker components at play here. He shuddered to think that one, or even some, of the resident Death Eaters had got hold of the pair during the night and killed them, disposing of their bodies in the same way as they had rid the castle of the many fallen casualties of the battle. It would have been easy enough for them to Stupefy the Medi-Witch before attacking. Amycus Carrow and Walden Macnair, in particular, were incensed at the disappearance of the two students, suggesting that there could indeed have been an escape, and the missing pair had in fact not fallen foul of their many predators, since those predators were so very angry.

Without any concrete information, he had requested an audience with Voldemort, which had been granted that evening, and he had just returned home. It was rare that he voluntarily went before the Dark Lord, but the disappearance of a Death Eater, with a Muggle-born that was under the 'ownership' of another, was not something he could sweep behind a tapestry, as much as he would have liked to.

"Is the Malfoy boy really such a great loss, Severus?" Voldemort had asked him, crossing his skinny legs as he sat elegantly in a huge black armchair, silky robes falling from his stark-white bare limbs, which were hairless and scaly, and looked so revolting that Snape wanted to vomit.

A naked, resigned-looking witch was kneeling on the floor by his side, in a submissive position, and Riddle toyed with her hair as he spoke, not appearing particularly concerned about the disappearance of one of his followers, a disdain and lack of interest which might actually save the boy's life if indeed he had managed to run away.

"I suppose not, My Lord. Shall I advise Lucius? As Headmaster I am duty-bound to inform parents of any … issues regarding their children."

"I shall do that, Severus. I will anticipate gleefully the defeated look in the eyes of Lucius and Narcissa as I tell them their precious boy is likely dead."

He looked down at the naked witch, an unpleasantly lascivious look in his slit-like eyes.

"Maybe I shall tell them tomorrow. If I remember. There is so much here to jostle for my attention, isn't there, pet?" he drawled.

"As you wish, My Lord."

"Return to Hogwarts, Severus. I would invite you to share in this Mudblood with me, but as you have been entreated your own, you have no need of mine."

He flicked his pale hand dismissively, his thin robes sliding down and revealing his bony white wrist and long, hooked fingernails. Tom Riddle truly was repulsive.

Severus sipped the firewhisky at his desk, dousing the fire and blocking off the Floo with a wave of his wand from where he sat. What Voldemort hadn't thought of, was that Draco was traceable via the Dark Mark that he bore. It was how the Death Eaters had found Igor Karkaroff – the Durmstrang headmaster and former Azkaban resident was dead less than a year after attempting to flee from Voldemort.

Severus was not going to remind the insane bastard of this.

If the two students had managed to get away from the castle, if they were together, he would buy them the longest amount of time he could for them to hide themselves, and for Malfoy to find a solution for traceable conduit of the Dark Mark, even if it meant cutting his own arm off.

Snape would protect them for as long as he could. He owed it to them both.