Chapter Four

Strange Senses

Seventy-two hours earlier . . . .

Harry frowned, ducking another trailing cobweb as he walked through the decrepit manor's kitchen. The rooms on the upper floor had proved mostly useless—at least to him—but he did have the hope Hermione would be strong enough to explore soon, herself. The books lining the library shelves were in surprisingly good condition, but a few of the ones he'd checked were in a language he didn't recognize. Perhaps she could decipher their pages.

He waved his wand, the illumination casting ghastly, angular shapes against the darkened walls from countertops, table ledges, and cabinet doors hanging off their hinges. With any luck, they could do a little magical tidying, as Draco had done with the room upstairs, so they might at least have a few more basic comforts for however many days they might be stuck here.

As he turned to take in the room, he spied a door, tucked away beside a wide, shelved nook he guessed was the pantry.

He reached for the knob, turning gently, but it would not move. "You're either locked, or stuck," he murmured, hoping for the latter. Mysteriously locked doors had a habit of proving ominous.

Harry gave a sharp twist to figure out which, accidentally snapping off the knob in his hand. As he was about to let out a soft curse—so much for being able to tell if it was locked or stuck—the door eased open a jar, creaking on its hinges as a musty breeze tickled past his nose.

Easing the door open, he grimaced as the hinges gave another loud, elongated creak. For a strained moment after the unnerving sound—made only more disquieting for the stillness surrounding him, he suspected—he simply stood at the yawning entrance and listened. He wasn't certain if he was hoping to hear something, or nothing at all. The silence that met his ears was what he should have expected, yet it still jangled his nerves; like the unnatural dearth of noise in the Forbidden Forest since the battle ended.

He'd been through so much and faced so many terrors, Harry'd have thought he had lost the ability to fear things; yet as he held out the tip of his lit wand to gaze down the winding stone staircase, he felt a trickle of ice wind through him, sharp and thudding. He only hoped this meant he still had an iota of common sense left.

Hermione was jarred by a sudden loss of sensation, leaving her to drift in a numb, colorless limbo. Forcing her eyes open, her gaze immediately locked on Draco's fingers slipping from her hand.

"Draco?"

Her voice, weak and light as it wound through the room, jolted him. She hadn't surprised him, not really, but he wasn't certain he'd ever heard Insufferable-Know-It-All, Hermione Granger sound so very fragile. And, though that made it twice, now, he was still unaccustomed to hearing her call him Draco to his face.

He turned his head, but couldn't bring himself to look at her—not if she was going to stare at him with those eyes. Those eyes hurt in a strange way; he blamed himself for what was happening to her. Perhaps if he'd not run, he'd have seen Fenrir drag her away.

But who was he kidding? Even had he seen, he wasn't sure he'd have done anything, what with his long and storied history of cowardice. Then again, maybe he felt responsible for the simple fact of having been on the same side as a detestable creature like Fenrir—for being allied, however loosely, or indirectly, with a being who could do what Fenrir had done.

Draco was self-aware enough to grasp that he was not weak, physically or magically, nor was he lacking for intelligence. Honestly, why was he such a coward?

"I'm sorry," he said softly, instead locking his eyes on her fingers; they grasped at the blanket beneath her as she reached toward him. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't sleeping," she said with a confused pout.

Draco couldn't help a smirk. "Tell that to your snoring."

"Draco Malfoy, I'll have you know I do not snore."

Her voice was still low, but her tone was fiery, and that familiar uppity spark put him at ease, if only a little.

He shrugged, pivoting on a heel to face her, yet still couldn't lift his gaze to hers. "You got me there, but you did fall asleep." After Potter had stepped from the room, she'd dozed right off—while Draco cupped her cheek with one hand, and her chilled fingers grasped his other, no less. He was afraid to move at first, only slipping his hand from her face to turn and sit beside her, allowing her to continue holding onto him. But Potter had been gone a while, and Draco was sure he'd just heard a dull, metal wrenching sound from somewhere below.

Then her head fell onto his shoulder. He turned to look at her slowly, as one might when expecting to see a dragon stalking them. For a few silent moments, punctuated only by the delicate sound of her inhaling and exhaling, he simply watched her sleeping face. And suddenly he couldn't seem to breathe. He'd successfully eased his shoulder out from beneath her cheek and settled her head on one of the pillows.

But the way her fingers had twitched when he finally worked his hand free of hers should have alerted him to her waking up.

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head as she pushed herself up to sit back against the pillows. "I didn't realize."

His eyebrows drew together as he risked sitting down close to her again. "You're apologizing for falling asleep after fighting through the grand finale of the Second Wizarding War, getting roughed up by the fiercest werewolf our world has ever seen, and being fed unicorn blood?"

When she didn't reply, he finally forced his eyes to meet hers. He thought if he stared close enough, he'd see himself reflected in her silver irises. The thought made him wonder briefly if that was why he feared looking at her.

"If you don't have the right to nap, who does?"

She smiled wanly at him, laughing half-heartedly, but as quickly as she smiled, the expression faded. The sensation of nothingness, of dull, numb emptiness pressing on her was maddening, and she inched her fingers toward him. "Can . . . Can I hold your hand again?"

Draco looked almost frightened, forcing a gulp down his throat as he held her gaze. "Why?"

Hermione bit her lip. "It's all I can feel; you have no idea what it's like. I've only been this way for such a short time, and already I feel like I'm slipping away. When I touched you and Harry, I didn't feel that way. Please," she finished in a whisper.

The distant fear in her voice and the lost look in her metallic eyes were so strangely innocent that it bothered him. "All right," he said after a moment, reaching out to interlace his fingers with hers.

Anchored to reality instantly, the warmth of his skin flooded through her, cushioning the jarred feeling of being so suddenly tethered. That a touch on her hand could be so potent stole her breath for a moment and her eyelids fluttered closed.

Her reaction startled him—she was either in pain or . . . . Oh, no, it couldn't possibly be the other type of physical response it sounded like.

Unable to stop himself, he shifted closer to her, still, watching her expression carefully as he asked, "Are you all right?"

Lids drifting upward, she met his gaze, catching her breath. "Yes, I'm . . . ." She forced another breath. "The contrast between feeling something and nothing at all was just . . . a bit stark, is all."

Against his better judgment, he once more cupped her cheek with his free hand, titling her head to observe the way the flickering candlelight reflected against her silver irises. "I'm—" Draco swallowed hard and tried again. "I'm sorry this happened to you, Granger. I wish I knew how to fix this."

"Why Draco Malfoy," Hermione couldn't help the small smile that curved her lips as she laughed, "if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were worried about me."

"I'm only mildly concerned. Wouldn't want to muck up the whole mutual loathing thing we have going."

Her smile faded as she lifted a hand to rest her fingers over his. "Liar, I heard you and Harry talking, remember?"

Draco scowled. "You could at least spare us both some dignity by pretending you didn't, you know."

There were more important things to worry about, she knew there were, but somehow she couldn't seem to think beyond the current moment. "When did you realize you don't actually hate me?"

"I . . . don't think I did realize, not until Potter put it all out there." Grey eyes squeezed shut. "Not until he pointed out that it seems like you don't actually hate me, either."

He shifted to pull his hand from her cheek, but she clung to his fingers, holding them against her skin. "Please don't," she whispered, her voice trembling, "it's the only thing keeping me anchored."

Wincing, he shook his head, but did as she asked.

"You could have been a little less vile to me, all these years."

"And you to me," he pointed out.

"Touche."

He smirked, once more shaking his head. "Would it have mattered?"

"Probably not." Hermione arched a brow. "What with my mudblood status and all."

Shoulders drooping, Draco rolled his eyes. "Granger, when is the last time I even—"

"What the bloody hell is this?" Harry's voice sliced through the room, causing them both to turn and look at him.

Hermione seemed completely unfazed, Harry noticed—probably that stupid unicorn blood at work—but Malfoy looked like he was ready to jump out of his skin. Likely he hadn't wanted to be seen in any sort of vulnerable light after everything. Despite working out the scene relatively quickly and painlessly, Harry couldn't stop his gaze from tracing her hand over Draco's as he cupped her cheek, or from noticing in his periphery the way she clutched his other hand in hers.

"Something's wrong," she murmured, her brow furrowing as she finally allowed Draco's fingers to slip from her cheek. "What is it, Harry?"

"I, uh . . ." Harry shook his head and cleared his throat. "Well, I found something in the basement that, well, you're just going to have to come see for yourself" He smiled, forgetting any awkwardness for a moment. "Hermione, I think you're going to love it!"

Reflecting his brightened expression, she turned on the bed to set her feet on the floor, though she didn't relinquish her grip on Draco's hand. She pushed up to stand, but wobbled, immediately falling back into a sitting position.

Shaking her head, she held up her free hand as both young men gave a start. "I'm okay, I just . . . I'm still a bit weak, I guess."

Sighing, Draco stood, using his hand on hers to pull her arm around his neck. "C'mon, then." The sooner they could get out of a candlelit bedroom, the more comfortable he'd be.

"Oh, th—thank you," she said, the mumbled words colored by surprise.

Draco only nodded, his expression tight as he started walking her to the door. Potter's watchful gaze hadn't gone unnoticed, however, he could feel the weight of the other boy's stare on his hand as it rested over Granger's. "This is her doing," he explained as he held back for Harry to lead the way. "She's going a little mad from losing the sense of touch."

"She is capable of speaking for herself, thanks very much," Hermione said, irritated, as Draco pulled her to trudge through the house after Harry. She wondered—as they stumbled, as a unit, over a fallen railing post—if it wouldn't be easier for him to simply carry her. But then, she wasn't naive, though everyone always seemed to want to paint her with that particular brush. Hermione understood that Draco probably didn't want anymore physical contact than was necessary, given what his earlier conversation with Harry had revealed about his . . . non-hatred of her.

Harry looked at her over his shoulder as he led them down the first flight of steps to the main floor.

"He's right, though," she said, knowing Harry was expecting her to elaborate on, or deny, Malfoy's statement. "I think I can only feel other living things, maybe. But without that sensation, I'm just . . . numb."

Frowning, Harry nodded and faced forward again, holding out his wand to keep their path illuminated while they made their way to the kitchen. "Does it . . ." He caught himself; he'd been about to ask if it hurt, but she'd just said she was numb, a person couldn't be both, could they? "Are you frightened?"

"No," she whispered, an air of confusion in that one, small word. "I know I should be, but I just am not. I wonder if I can't feel that anymore."

Once more Harry glanced back, but this time he met Draco's gaze. The pale-haired young man was brandishing an odd sort-of-scowl that Harry actually wanted to believe was a look of concern.

"This way," he said, shaking off the oppressive feeling of fear on her behalf—he needed to focus and worrying about something they were currently powerless to change was a waste of time and energy.

Pushing the door open with his shoulder, he nodded for Draco to take her through. Halting for a moment, Draco slipped away the hand that kept Hermione's arm securely around his neck and withdrew his wand. He reached across, pressing it into the fingers of her free hand.

Only when he held her firmly, once more, did she lift her arm, tiring, though it was. "Lumos."

"Why do I have a terrible feeling about this?" Draco muttered as he carefully guided her down the steps.

"Because you're a pessimist," she said quietly, craning her neck to try to catch more of the room below as it was revealed.

When they reached the blank, grey stone floor, Harry trotted down the stairs and stepped around them. He slowly circled the area, revealing shelves, several mortar and pestle sets, scores of ceramic jars, tattered books, and, in the center, a long stone table with what looked like a large bowl molded into one end. Chalkboard-like slabs were propped up against the nearest wall, showing formulas that looked strikingly familiar, though she didn't recognize them.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Harry nodded, biting his lip as he grinned. "Yes."

"All looks like a room full of broken-down rubbish to me," Draco said in a miserable whisper.

"Stop it," Hermione said, though her voice lacked the snapping tone which had once been natural when speaking to him. "It's perfect."

"Then you know what I thought once I found it, right?"

She managed a grin, small, but genuine. "Of course, Harry. I actually knew what the solution was as soon as this happened to me, I just had no idea how to do it."

Grey eyes rolling, Draco clenched his teeth, bristling at the way they talked like they were the only ones in the room. How had Weasle-bee ever tolerated it? "Would someone like to share whatever it is you two are nattering on about?"

Hermione turned her head, capturing his gaze. "Well, we only know of one cure for this curse, and that's the sorcerer's stone. But, of course, it was destroyed, so the obvious answer is to create another. All we were lacking was an alchemy lab to do the work."

Staring back at her, and obviously not joining them in their enthusiasm, Draco nodded to indicate the room. "Fine, we have an alchemy lab. But unless you've got the recipe for creating a sorcerer's stone in your back pocket, I still don't see what good this does us."

"There's a library up on the second floor, and plenty of books down here," Harry pointed out, interrupting the thoughtful pout Hermione attempted to give. "One of them might have something."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we think of something else," Harry said from behind clenched teeth. Malfoy was just determined to make this seem fruitless before they'd even started. Hermione was right—he was a pessimist. "And trying is better than doing nothing."

"Fine." Pulling Hermione over to the table, Draco turned her around, placed his hands on her hips and lifted her to sit on the stone surface. He picked up the nearest book, blew the dust from the cover and set it in her lap. "But I'd like to go on record," he said as he selected another falling-apart tome and eased it open, "that I think this is a huge waste of time."

Shaking his head, Harry joined them at the table, picking up a book. "Noted."

After nearly two days of reading, sleeping, and managing to squeak by on water summoned through their wands, Kreacher had finally returned with food and fresh clothes. Harry asked him—almost politely, since Hermione was watching with a raised eyebrow—to fix the kitchen. He was a little put off that the elf, normally so hostile toward Hermione because she was muggleborn, merely bowed his head, refusing to look directly at her whenever she spoke.

But only after he'd seen her eyes.

Harry demanded to know why, but Kreacher claimed not to truly understand his own reaction. "Kreacher only knows she is more," he said, leaving them with just that cryptic statement as he turned and hobbled off to the kitchen.

The third morning, Draco tossed the final book in the library across the room. Hermione looked up from where she sat in Harry's lap, like some startled doll. Potter had drifted off to sleep and Draco had deposited her there to keep her in physical contact with someone while he poured over the last of the books.

Now he ignored that he was irked by her hands on Potter's, and his head fallen forward against her shoulder as he dozed.

"That's it, then. That was the last book."

She frowned, forcing a shrug. Granger was trying so hard to act like there was nothing wrong, but the forced nature of her motions, the way her eyes looked dull and lifeless when she wasn't in contact with one of them, made her facade painfully obvious. "Well, we can . . . . Oh, I've got an idea."

Nudging her shoulder beneath Harry's cheek, she whispered his name.

"Hmm?" He raised his head, blinking sleep-bleary eyes and was immediately surprised to realize he'd been so deeply in slumber he'd not even noticed a girl in his lap. "Oh," he chuckled, "good morning."

"Good morning," she said, smiling back. Though the expression fell a bit flat, he'd give her credit for trying. "We're out of books here, and nothing. But do you remember what we read on Nicholas Flammel in first year?"

"Which part?" He turned his head to yawn, the last thing he wanted was to unleash morning breath directly into Hermione's face. She'd seen many aspects of him over the years, but he didn't wish that included.

"About being Dumbledore's partner. Maybe there's something in Hogwarts—in the restricted section of the library, or in Dumbledore's office."

"If the Death Eaters haven't destroyed everything," Draco said, bewildered by how easily the most obvious points always seemed to escape their notice.

"No, she's right." Harry said, chewing his bottom lip as he thought. "There are a lot of secret nooks and things in Dumbledore's office. After everything we know, I think we can be confident that Snape didn't disturb anything Dumbledore left behind. And if your father's in charge, I have the odd feeling they'd protect the ancient knowledge of the Wizarding World, especially considering those books were probably written by purebloods."

"Well, when you put it that way," Draco nodded, his eyebrows disappearing beneath his pale, mussed bangs. "But again, Death Eaters. Like, everywhere."

"I have my cloak, and no one knows Hogwarts better than me." Harry frowned, "But, God, what I wouldn't give for my Marauder's Map, right now."

Draco furrowed his brow.

"Never mind."

"Wait, Harry, couldn't you have Kreacher go, instead? House elf magic is probably powerful enough for him to slip in and out without notice."

Frowning, Harry eased her out of his lap and climbed to his feet. "No, I already sent him off. He's got to check the safehouses, still. And besides, he wouldn't know where to look."

She pulled herself up to stand, meeting his gaze. "All right, but just know that I don't like this."

His eyebrows drew together. "Hermione, this was your idea."

She shrugged. "Still."

"I'll slip in, poke around, and come right back, whether or not I find anything."

"But—"

He pressed a finger to her lips, ignoring the way it caused her to shudder. She couldn't help her reaction, she seemed to do that every time one of them touched her after any lack of skin-to-skin contact. "I promise, I'll be careful." He snapped his gaze from hers to look at Draco. "And you watch over her 'til I get back."

Draco scowled, but stepped forward, taking her hand as Potter's finger slipped from her lips. He didn't want to witness that reaction again, and touching her while she was still touching Harry was the only way to prevent it. "What'd you think I'm going to do? Stick her in a box and wander away?"

Harry gave a lopsided frown. "Yeah, because sneaking away is so unlike you."

"Fair enough. You have my word I'll watch over her until you're back. Happy."

"Not really, but it'll have to do."

Hermione had found several books worth rereading to pass the time as she waited for Harry to return, though she honestly wasn't sure how she understood them. She wasn't even certain what language they were written in, only that she could read their words as easily as if they were English.

Piling books into Draco's free arm, she'd then tugged him back to the bedroom and perched by the window, so she'd see Harry as soon as he rounded to the manor's front door.

She found it amusing, though she couldn't work up a true laugh, that Draco kept attempting to pace, only to find himself restricted by the length of her arm's reach and give up.

At least it was better than awkward chit-chat, even if she was acutely aware that he was deliberately avoiding getting into any more discussions with her.

Fear thudded through her suddenly. So sharp it edged on painful as she fell from her perch, the book spilling out of her lap. She hit the floor on her knees, forcing him to tumble down beside her.

"Granger!" He shook her hand from his and grasped her shoulders. She trembled so violently he needed to slip his arms around her and pull her against him to stop her tremors. "What in Merlin's name—"

"Fenrir," she whispered, her voice thick with tears as she choked out that single word in explanation. She could smell him, could feel that terrible revulsion that had made her skin crawl when he'd touched her. The pain in her breast from where his teeth had bruised her ached anew. Everything, everything, sharper, more exquisitely profound than any other sensation she'd felt in days.

Draco was rocked by the terror in those watering silver eyes as she looked up at him. "What?"

"He's . . . I don't know how I know, but he's coming!"

"Shit!" Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to keep calm, but knowing that blood thirsty beast was out there, drawing near, and likely wouldn't hesitate to rip him limb from limb to get to Granger, made calm a far-off dream, at best.

"Are you strong enough to apparate?"

"I don't know," she muttered, breathing so fast she was surprised she hadn't started hyperventilating.

"Well, we're going to have to try." Draco frowned as he reinforced his hold on her, knowing her weakened state meant they couldn't go far, and pulled her with him to another section of the Forest.

Thayer exchanged a concerned glance with Goyle as Fenrir tore into the manor. "I didn't really want to believe it."

Goyle didn't respond, only following Fenrir inside, though he shared the younger wizard's sense of ill-ease.

"They were here!" Fenrir bellowed, sniffing at the air like some great, starved beast.

"Were?" Goyle echoed as Thayer stepped into the crumbling foyer. "Where'd they go?"

"I don't know," Fenrir said, his words more the growl of an animal, than the voice of a man as he granted them a ferocious grin. "But I'll find them."

They appeared in the mouth of a cave he'd stumbled over after running away from Potter during that awful detention in first year. It was the only place he could think of that wasn't far, but also wasn't known to the Death Eaters, or a centaur haven.

As soon as they had their feet firmly beneath them, Hermione swayed.

"Dammit, Granger," he whispered in a hiss as he caught her. He found it no use, she'd fainted from the exertion, but then he didn't see that they'd had a choice.

Sighing heavily, Draco shook his head and scooped her up. He ventured a few meters inside, listening closely every step to assure himself there was nothing else in here. He set her carefully on the cave floor and hunkered down beside her, withdrawing his wand and holding it at the ready.

Draco pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly from between pursed lips as he tried, again, to tell himself to stay calm. Granger would probably wake up soon and have a brilliant idea about where they might be safe. And then they'd apparate, and she'd faint on him again . . . . He dreaded the vicious cycle of it, already.

But for now, he only had to worry about thinking of a way to let Potter know where they'd disappeared to before Fenrir Greyback managed to find them. "How did I get myself into this mess?" He shook his head, grey eyes trained in the direction of the cave's entrance.