Chapter Six

Uncertain Intentions

Stepping into the library, Harry let out a sigh of relief to find the room empty, but the silence set his nerves on edge. He closed the doors behind him as quietly as he could and tapped the seam between them with his wand, locking them, and sealing in any sounds he might make in his search.

He turned on his heel to face the shelves and dropped the hood of his cloak, but didn't remove it—he was too wary that someone still might storm in at any moment, and tossing the hood back into place was a far quicker action than putting the cloak back on. With a determined nod, he made his way to the Restricted Section. He'd work his way back to the main room if that proved fruitless.

Wand drawn, he raised it and closed his eyes. He concentrated on Nicholas Flammel, summoning any volumes with information about the alchemist from their places. Hearing sounds of scraping and shuffling, he opened his eyes to see a few books slide from the shelves and hover in the air, awaiting him.

The tension in his shoulders eased as he directed them gently to the floor. He walked to the first book and picked it up, eager to skim its contents.

Maybe there was hope, after all.

Thayer winced as Fenrir tore about the outside of the Forest manor for what had to be the fifth time. He bellowed and growled, terrifying in his anger over being given the slip.

Goyle leaned toward the younger wizard as the two stood on the manor steps, mirroring one another's stances as they kept their arms folded across their chests, and their wands gripped tightly. "How could he have lost their scent? What bloody hell good is he, then?"

"Oy, like I'd know?" Thayer sucked his teeth, his head shaking. He only cared about keeping his voice low enough that he didn't set Fenrir off. "Do I look like a bleedin' lycanthropy expert to you?"

Struck with a rare, bright thought, Goyle rolled his eyes as his frame slumped. "They must've Apparated. It's the only thing that makes sense."

Frowning, Thayer wondered if that rather obvious assumption might have occurred to him—or to either of them sooner—had they both not been focusing so very much on keeping a safe distance from the enraged werewolf.

Fenrir emerged from around the side of the building sooner than his circling of the area dictated he should have, startling the two already-nervous wizards. Stopping to meet their gazes in turn, he merely curled his lip and turned on a heel, stalking off.

Thayer and Goyle exchanged a look before starting after him. "Fen? Where you headed?" Thayer said, somehow managing to keep the tremor out of his voice.

The beast shook his head, his voice rumbling out of him, deep and guttural. "New plan." Losing the trail of Lord Malfoy's little pain in the arse, and his own prize, ignited his wrath anew, but there was one scent leading away from the antiquated manor.

Fenrir turned his head to meet Thayer's gaze as they moved through the trees. The young man repressed a shudder at the malevolence in the lycanthrope's eyes.

"We follow Potter," Fenrir growled, a savage grin twisting his lips.

"So . . . ." Draco paused to help her over a bit of tree root so wide and thick as it cut across the tunnel that it half-filled the already cramped space. "You're telling me this super smooth secret agent character only survives because the villains constantly neglect to kill him outright when they have the chance?"

With a soft giggle, Hermione nodded, careful not to release his hand as she set her feet on the ground. "Exactly." Though, how they'd gotten on the topic of James Bond was beyond her. Oh, wait, she'd made a vague reference to sneaking into an enemy stronghold, like some wizard-version of the fictional spy. Which, of course, led Draco to ask who James Bond was. But then her thoughts were so fuzzy, for all she knew, she might've simply begun spontaneously babbling about the character.

She was relieved that he was no longer focusing on the whole It could have been Harry issue.

His face pulled into a thoughtful scowl, though he was grateful for a reprieve from thinking on their rather dire circumstances. "Okay, here's the question: Why?"

Shrugging, she said, "They thought a quick death was too simple."

Draco furrowed his brow in question but remained silent

She glanced at him and rolled her eyes in response as she smiled. "They hated him so much that they wanted him to suffer some horribly imaginative torture-death. But that would give him time to think, and then he'd figure a way out, or some extremely lucky thing would happen and give him the opportunity to break free."

"So . . . it's kind of like Potter and Voldemort, really."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up and she stopped in her tracks as she turned to face him. "How do you figure?"

He pivoted on a heel, meeting her eyes. Merlin, the tunnel must be getting narrower by increments. He'd not realized they stood so close together. After that kiss—that really, really great kiss—he wasn't certain how he felt about having her so near that she had to tip her head back to hold his gaze. While circumstance forced her to hold his hand, no less.

He cleared his throat, trying for the noise to not come across as one born of awkwardness. "Well," he said shrugging, "after he tried to kill Potter during the Triwizard Tournament, Voldemort could've sent anyone in his sway after Potter. But he didn't, because he wanted to do it himself and have this perfect timing, and have it be this big, public, messy thing. That only gave Potter time to get stronger and actually become his equal."

She laughed, nodding—and oblivious to the gulp he forced down his throat at the light and warmth in that sound—as her eyebrows lifted. "So Voldemort allowed Harry to be the death of him by acting like a James Bond villain. I'll have to remember to tell him about the comparison if I make it through this."

Draco's face fell, a spot of ice forming in the pit of his stomach. He could tell from her tone that her statement was facetious, but still . . . . Biting his lip as he shook his head, he could only stare back at her for a long, silent moment.

Unable to help himself, he lifted his free hand to cup her cheek.

Her brow furrowed as she held his gaze. "Draco?"

With another gulp and another shake of his head, he said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be weird."

Hermione arched a brow. "I don't think you're being weird."

"I haven't said the thing I was getting to, yet." His expression was mildly affronted.

Laughing again, she nodded. "Oh, okay. Sorry."

"I was trying to say how strange it is that I still remember clearly when we were twelve and I said I wished the monster from the Chamber of Secrets would kill you. And now here we are with me trying to help Potter save your life, and you . . . believing that I can."

She became aware of the distant, humming sensation of butterflies zipping around in her stomach as she stared up at him. Her lips tingled, a pleasant shock against the backdrop of so many other dulled feelings as of late.

"I want to kiss you, again," she said breathlessly, before she could even stop the words from spilling out.

His eyes flashed wider for the briefest second and then narrowed ever so slightly as his face tightened. "Thoughts clouding over again?" There was a subdued, but clinical iciness to the question, making her wonder if he was trying to be realistic, rather than hurt.

She was glad she could analyze his emotions without having to put in an effort to do so. It meant she was—at least for the time being—able to think clearly on her own. Brow furrowing, she simply blinked as she said, "No."

He bit his lip, holding her gaze as expression softened a little. Was he really having a moment like this with Hermione Granger? "So why?"

Once more, her brow furrowed, this time as though she didn't understand the question. "Because I want to."

Nearly before he realized he'd moved, Draco ducked his head, covering her mouth with his own.

Hermione tilted her head, giving in easily and opening to him. She knew there was something they were supposed to be doing . . . some urgent reason they'd been making their way down this tunnel—was something after them? Yes, she dimly recalled something like that, but she couldn't focus on that just now. Not as she eagerly caressed his tongue with her own and gripped her hands into his shirtfront to pull him closer.

Not as his fingers slipped away from her face so that he could clamp his hands over her hips. He moved her a few steps, pressing her back to the tunnel wall as he leaned into her.

"Lucius?" Narcissa called as she entered what had been the Head Master's office on delicate footsteps.

His sleek, pale head popped up from behind the desk. "Hmm?"

Arching a perfect brow, she stepped further into the room. As she drew closer, she saw that he knelt on the floor and was—or at least clearly had been a moment prior—rifling through a set of short, gold-lacquered cabinets hidden from view at many angles by the desk.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open in a small O. She merely watched for a moment as he went back to plucking books and scrolls from the shelves and perusing them.

After a long moment filled with nothing but the sounds of parchment shuffling, she asked, "Whatever are you doing, my love?"

"Albus Dumbledore was a crafty old man; both highly intelligent and quite guarded. He has information contained in these walls that no one even knows exists."

The reason for his rash curiosity was immediately obvious to her. "You're looking for another copy of that prophecy?"

He nodded, but didn't look up as he carelessly tossed aside the book he'd been checking and picked up a scroll. "Yes. I want to see if there was more to it than I recall."

She held in a sigh. Certainly, if this prophecy was true—and being faced with the sudden existence of not one, but two silver-eyed beings, she was tempted to believe it was—then there was no telling what it could mean for the Wizarding world. But she did worry about how much Lucius' belief in it had seemed to consume his thoughts. Perhaps, she told herself in a hopeful inward tone, this was simply his way of distracting himself from knowing that their son was out there, rather than by their side.

Clenching her hands into fists so tight her nails dug into her palms, she forcefully ignored the terrible idea that if they didn't find Miss Granger, than whatever the prophecy brought them rested upon the beastly shoulders of a vile creature like Fenrir Greyback. Narcissa repressed a shudder, working harder to bury the thought as she plastered a smile in place.

"Is there anything I can do to assist you?"

Lucius sat up, his grey eyes lighting in a way she'd not seen since before the War. "You know, there is. Would you go to the Library? There's many forgotten books in the Restricted Section, check the volumes on prophecies for anything that might have bearing on this."

She kept the smile in place as she nodded. "Of course, dear."

As she turned on her heel and headed back out of the room, she held in an aggravated groan. Aggravated groans were not ladylike, but honestly, this was servant's work! If not that he wanted to keep his precious prophecy a secret, neither of them would be relegated to such menial tasks.

By the time she reached the Library, her unrefined flash of temper had settled. She needed her wits about her, she seemed the only one who feared for the well-being of that girl, should Fenrir be left alone with her after he found her. The very thought of being touched by that beast-man was revolting, let alone the disturbing idea of being . . . claimed by him . . . . She paused as she put a hands on the doors, allowing a shiver to wrack her so that she might get the sensation out of her system.

She pulled, but the doors would not open. Frowning, she stepped back and examined them. Could they be stuck?

Harry's head snapped up from his reading at the sound of someone pulling at the doors. Cursing under his breath, he threw up his hood and tucked the book in his hands beneath his cloak.

Hurrying into the main room of the Library, he gave a flick of his wand, unsealing the doors. If anyone with half a brain was left to wonder about the entrance being magically blocked, they might come to suspect they had an intruder. Death Eaters on high alert was the last thing he needed.

The doors eased ope, and Narcissa Malfoy appeared. Unlike her ruffled appearance following the battle, she was her usual, elegant self, once more. The suspicious way her gaze moved over the doors as she stepped inside caused Harry to hold in a sigh of relief at having heard her attempts to enter when he had.

Draco's teeth sank into his bottom lip as his head fell back. The way she pressed against him as she stood on her toes, dragging her lips and the very edge of her teeth over the skin of his throat was . . . . Well, there were no words for it, really.

His eyes opened a little and he noticed a bit of muted light reflecting off the wall, just above her head. He followed the illumination with his gaze, only to find precisely what they'd been hoping for.

Yet his shoulders slumped and a displeased sigh rumbled out of him.

Before she could respond to his instant change in demeanor he shifted, nudging her head up to kiss her, deep and rough once more, before he broke it off. Waiting for her eyes to open, he slid his hands over hers where they gripped his shirt.

She blinked rapidly a few times, a bit disoriented. As his face swam into focus, she was strangely warmed to see that his skin was flushed and his eyes looked just little hazy. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" It took him a moment to realize she thought he'd stopped because she was doing something wrong. Honestly, with what she'd been doing, he hadn't even minded that the way she'd placed her hands had meant he'd had a wand pointed at the underside of his jaw the entire time. "Oh!" His eyebrows shot up. "No, no, nothing, just . . . we're here for a reason, remember?"

He nodded, guiding her gaze toward the grated opening in the ceiling of the tunnel, just a few meters from them.

"Do you think that leads into Hogwarts?"

Draco nodded. "I remember that design. We should come up in the dungeons."

A smile spread across her lips and she popped forward—still grateful for her momentary ability to feel and think clearly at the same time, and determined to make the most of it—to kiss him again. A quick, chaste planting of her mouth on his, before she bounced backward, moving her hands beneath his to interlace their fingers. "C'mon, then, Draco Malfoy. Let's go help save my life."

Thayer felt a coil of ice-cold uncertainty unwind in the pit of his stomach. Goyle was too busy grousing about wild goose chases as he stormed along behind and increasingly agitated Fenrir to notice their direction, apparently.

The familiar path led him to drop his gaze. Surely, there beneath his feet, he could make out their own shoe impressions from a few hours earlier. He forced a gulp and looked up once more as he hurried after them. Fenrir was following Potter's scent, and it was leading them right back to the castle.

He winced as he imagined the scene that would unfold if the Malfoys found the boy before the werewolf did. Fenrir's thoughts were not right—more savage, and far less reasonable than usual, and that was saying something. If he mistakenly thought they were trying to trick him, or that they were attempting to shield the young wizard from his rage . . . .

This wasn't going to be pretty.