Chapter Seven

Raw Moments

Forcing a gulp down his throat, Draco stretched, standing on the tips of his toes and craning his neck to peer up through the spaces in the grate above their heads. Luckily, the tunnel had narrowed enough that twisting metal wasn't too high for him to reach.

No sounds reached their ears from the floor above, nor did he see any shifting of light to indicate movement. He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath, hoping to God that meant no one was in the dungeons, at all.

He turned to her, momentarily startled by the way the light from the room above the grate reflected in those silver irises. She only stared back at him, clearly unaware of what caused the sad expression drifting across his features, which managed to make him feel worse.

Shaking his head, he cleared his throat, deliberately ignoring the way her brow furrowed in question. "The grate might be stuck. If it is, do you think you think now you might be strong enough to handle Apparating? It's only the few meters travel, after all."

Hermione bit her lip as she nodded. She thought she understood what the look he'd given her meant, now. She was such a useless thing in a moment like this. He could have been long gone from this mess, free from Death Eaters and bloodthirsty werewolves, but he'd stayed to help her.

And her current state made her a hindrance to him.

"You don't have to stay, you know," she said, the words tumbling from her lips before she even realized she'd spoken.

Grey eyes flashed wide in surprise at her statement. "What?"

Biting her lip once more, she backpedaled, but she clung to his fingers still so that their arms outstretched. She swallowed hard, the sound of it so very loud in the cramped, earthen space around them.

Once more, she said, "You don't have to stay. It's okay." The numbness was setting in, despite that she was touching him. An uncomfortable lump of ice lodged itself in the center of her chest and began radiating outward.

Draco saw the change in her instantly. The dull sheen that entered her eyes, the way her fingers went slack in his grasp. It worried him—by all they'd observed of her condition, she should not be losing sensation now.

But then neither of them were stupid. He grasped the connection between what she clearly thought he was feeling and the moment she started looking lifeless and doll-like, again. He understood that her belief that he wanted to leave made her feel abandoned.

Yet this was no time for sentimentality. They'd wasted enough of it already, hadn't they? There would be nothing more imprudent at the moment than to stop in the middle of what they were doing to explain what was actually going on in his head and heart. . . . And in one other area of thought—but that was a matter for a time after she was cured, wasn't it?

Using his hand on hers, he pulled her close. He slid his free hand into her hair as he brought his mouth crashing down on hers. The way she parted her lips against his, gasping so that she drew the air from him, made him shiver.

He broke the kiss, meeting her livened metallic gaze. "Not going anywhere, Granger. Now, I've got to let go of you so I can see if this grate will move, all right?"

Nodding, she let his fingers slip away from her, her eyes wandering the expanse of tunnel behind them. She focused on sights and sounds coming from the other end—Hermione'd finally remembered they were fleeing something, not merely trying to track down Harry.

A terrible, itching cold crept along her skin before she began to feel the void wrapping around her. Draco grunted as he lifted his arms to push upward, drawing her gaze back to him. Her silver eyes traced his form while he stretched, head tipping to one side as a thought occurred to her.

His fingers gripped into the grate for purchase and he began wedging the metal back and forth. He didn't feel his shirt tugging out of the top of his trousers until after it had happened and Hermione's hand was pressed to the bare skin of his abdomen.

She let out one of those trembling breaths. He could feel the tremor of her body against his.

Did she really have no idea what she was doing to him? Or could she simply not appreciate it in her current state?

He dropped his gaze to find that she'd returned to watching the far end of the tunnel. "Granger, what the bloody hell . . . ?"

She immediately snapped her attention to him. Her silver eyes were huge and . . . . Utterly clueless, he thought bitterly. Of course, she was.

"Sorry," she said softly, realizing what she'd done. "I wasn't thinking." Yet even as she said that, she didn't pull her hand from him.

After a moment of staring at her as he shook his head, he finally returned to pushing the grate back and forth. "You just wait 'til you're cured, Granger," he said, muttering the words.

Hermione furrowed her brow as she tried to make sense of what he meant. It sounded like a threat, but there was a warm, gravelly pitch to his tone that made his intent seem something other, entirely.

She pretended she didn't notice the blush she felt flaring in her cheeks as she went back to playing lookout.

Narcissa stepped carefully through the library. Her pale gaze skimmed the shelves as she made her way toward the Restricted Section.

The books laid on the floor caught her attention immediately. The entirety of the main room was untouched. Lifting her head to look over the shelves, she saw the spaces from which they were drawn. Each misplaced volume lined up with an empty spot in the book cases.

With stilted, almost birdlike motions, she looked around, again. Walking back out into the main section, she took in the entire room.

Despite the War that had raged outside these walls, the Library hadn't a scroll or page out of place. Nodding to herself, she leaned around the partition separating the main room from the Restricted Section.

"Someone was looking for something," she said, her voice soft.

None of the Dark wizards or witches, nor the Death Eaters themselves had been in this room, that she was aware of. Which could only mean this had happened during—or just before—the battle.

Brow furrowing, she drew her wand and summoned the books into a stack before her. Lifting the first tome, she skimmed its table of contents, and then its index, before setting it aside and moving onto the next one.

Lucius' task could wait. She was far too curious what someone had deemed so urgent that they'd ignored the Battle to visit the Library.

Harry eased backward, into a dark corner of the Library's enormous bookcases as he waited for her to leave. If she ever would and at the moment, it seemed like she might not.

But then she whispered that sentence which made a ball of ice drop into the pit of his stomach. Someone was looking for something. Well, the Malfoys were a sharp lot, he'd give them that. She was probably a bit off-base, but anyone else might've overlooked the books on the floor, entirely.

It didn't matter, though. Even if she guessed what he was researching, she would have no idea why—not exactly—nor the faintest notion what he needed the information for. She still wouldn't know he was even there.

Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief at that realization.

Time to check the headmaster's office, he thought. He could come back to the Library afterward. It was a painful thought, the idea that he'd be standing in that office without Dumbledore, yet with the knowledge of what Snape had sacrificed for them all. Never before had he had any true appreciation for Severus Snape's suffering . . . .

Now he found himself strangely glad the man hadn't lived to see all that sacrifice gone to waste.

He knew something else stood in his way as he neared the spiraling lift to the head master's quarters. The lift was lowered, the staircase exposed. Dipping his head inside the conspicuously open doorway, he could hear someone rummaging about.

Frowning darkly—if he found Dark wizards in there destroying the place, he couldn't be certain he wouldn't compromise his task by coming out of hiding to curse the lot of them—he drew his wand once more and started up to the room.

"Merlin's Beard," Goyle said, nearly growling the words. "He's leading us back to Hogwarts!"

Fenrir paid no mind to the whining man. Thayer, however, paused entirely, swiveling in place to pin the older wizard with a look that was mix of impatience and disbelief.

Goyle caught the choreographed motion from the corner of his eye. Halting himself and turning to face the young man, he shrugged. "What?"

Thayer's dark eyes widened further, still. Casting a pointed glance down the path and then bringing his attention back to Goyle, he said in an exasperated tumble of words, "Did you really only just notice that?"

The skin around Goyle's eyes tightened as he shook his head, his face twisting up in an unpleasant expression. "So what if I did?"

Now he understood; now the situation was clear to Thayer. Because of how easily cowed he was by Lord Malfoy and how timid he showed himself in the wake of Fenrir's unpredictable rage, Goyle thought him a coward. This thick, useless lump of a man thought he had someone he could push around.

Well, Thayer considered as he nodded to his own thoughts, he wasn't a coward, but Goyle was thick.

"I get why Lord Malfoy sent you with us, sir," he said, grinning brightly. This was a pleasant distraction from worrying about Fenrir's tantrums.

"Clearly he thought you can't keep your friend there in line." Despite the certainty with which Goyle talked, the way he stood straighter and rolled his shoulders as the words fell from his lips spoke volumes.

"Really?" Thayer shook his head, his dark, shaggy hair brushing his collar as he chuckled. "'Cause I realized we were headed back to the castle a bleedin' hour ago! You noticed it now . . . now! It's right there, i'n it?"

Goyle squared his jaw. "Maybe I was too distracted with keeping an eye on that rabid werewolf of yours to notice."

Pearly teeth shone as Thayer let out a laugh. "No, you daft bastard! It's because you're thick. You're so thick Lord Malfoy sent you with us so you wouldn't get under his feet!"

"I won't be spoken to like this by some pretty-boy barely out of diapers!" Goyle reached for his wand. To his chagrin, the younger wizard was faster; moving second, yet his wand drawn and at the ready in the same moment.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Thayer said, hearing the crunching of leaves beneath the sound of his own voice. Finally Fenrir had realized they weren't following and circled back. He didn't really care though, he needed this distraction from how surreal the situation had become. "Big, scary Death Eater can't handle being sassed by a pretty-boy?"

"I can. I just don't have to." Goyle smirked—Thayer wondered briefly if he wasn't intentionally mimicking Lord Malfoy's most infamous expression—as he aimed. "Avada—"

"Stupefy!"

Goyle flew back. Before he even hit the ground, the werewolf barreled past Thayer. Wand lowering, the younger wizard watched in a mingling of shock and disgust as Fenrir caught Goyle's stricken form, set him on the ground . . . and began tearing into his throat.

Yet is wasn't only his teeth. The beast's claws hacked and shred into Goyle's chest and arms. A feral rumbling sounded from the back of Fenrir's throat as he feasted.

Putting away his wand, Thayer stepped in a wide, careful circle around the creature. He pressed the back of one leather-cuffed wrist against his mouth as he watched, nauseated by the spectacle, but too overcome with simple, imperfect morbid curiosity to look away.

When at last Fenrir raised his head, his chin and mouth were stained crimson. To his extreme displeasure, Thayer noticed bits of flesh caught in the stubble there.

Fenrir stood and began loping toward the castle once more. Realizing the young man didn't follow he turned on a heel.

A thousand things swept through Thayer's mind. Turning and running were immediately discounted, as he imagined that would land him a fate similar to that of the thick, useless lump on the Forest floor barely two meters from him. Stunning or petrifying the werewolf seemed out of the question, as well. He'd probably have the beast's teeth sunk into his neck before he could finish half the incantation.

"What?" Fenrir asked, impatience lacing his tone.

Thayer's mouth dropped open, but nothing came so he closed it. Nodding as he swallowed hard, he tried again. "You've . . . ." He made a waving gesture toward his own face. "You've got a bit of Goyle on your chin."

Fenrir carelessly wiped his face with the back of his arm—as though he was just told he'd dribbled a bit of juice—and turned. Starting toward the castle again, he said, "If we miss Potter, I'm going to be angry."

Swallowing hard once more, Thayer shook his head. He quickened his pace, eager to not irritate the creature any further. Yet, he couldn't help the sudden need to find out. "Why'd you attack him?"

"He was going to kill you."

Thayer's brows shot up. "I stopped him."

Fenrir shrugged his massive shoulders.

"He was a Death Eater."

"So?" Fenrir turned to face the young wizard for a moment, a rare second of lucidity gleaming in his eyes. "You're my friend. Anyone's gonna kill you, it'll be me."

Thayer repressed a shudder. Thanks, Fen, he thought, uncertain if he should be flattered or terrified.