Chapter Eight

Crashing Down

Hermione dreaded the moments after Draco had boosted her into the dungeon—moments for which he'd had to relinquish any hold on her to pull himself up through the hole in the floor. Yet, as quickly as that terror set in, it had vanished.

She stood pin-straight, darting her gaze about the wide, darkened space as she listened to the sounds of him shuffling against the floor. In her periphery, she could see him stand up and dust himself off.

Try as she might, she couldn't focus on him just now. There was something . . . . Something just beneath her awareness she was trying to catch. Was it . . . . She shook her head, her silver eyes narrowed. A memory? Something she was supposed to do?

No. Find Harry—that was a clear and distinct thought. Avoid Fenrir—equally clear and distinct. Do not get caught—perhaps the clearest of them, all.

Something else. Uncertainty twisted in the pit of her stomach and then stopped; a touch of ice skimmed along her skin and then ceased. Once more, the void snapped into being around her and she realized those momentary flashes of heightened sensation were some sort of signal of her impending numbness.

The recognition was jarring—as though her body was fighting to feel one last, sharp thing, before she lost the ability to feel anything. Her brow furrowed. Was this her own doing, somehow? Was she trying to give herself memories of sensation to cling to while numb?

Hermione was certain it wasn't working, as even though she puzzled over that in a quiet corner of her mind, in the forefront of her thoughts, she fished and searched for this fragile, elusive memory she couldn't quite catch.

Perhaps it was something she'd dreamed?

Her face scrunched in determination as she tried to grasp a fleeting image. Was that . . . a unicorn? Not the one Fenrir had killed, no. She didn't know how she realized that, it simply . . . felt different.

And . . . flickering light. Campfire, perhaps?

Draco's hand slid around hers and the memory fell away as life and sensation flooded back into her.

She shuddered, stumbling in place. Holding her hand, still, he caught her with an arm around her shoulders.

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry, it couldn't be helped." He shifted and angled his head to peer into her face. "Are you all right?"

Hermione forced a nod as she drew in a deep breath. "Yes, I . . . I think so. It's just still disconcerting, is all." She didn't like omitting things from him, given their circumstances, but she didn't know how to explain the odd fragmented imagery, nor the half-remembered thoughts and sensations to him, either.

He didn't like the way her eyes looked as she nodded. The silver of her irises seemed . . . perhaps clearer, now? More crystalline and metallic than they'd been before.

Draco kept the observation to himself, uncertain what it meant, but he knew he wasn't going to lose touch with her again, if he could help it. Whatever was happening to her, any lapses in physical contact seemed to expedite the process.

He nodded back, plastering a small smile in place. "Right, okay. Let's get moving, then." He kept a firm grip on her hand as he let his arm drop from around her shoulders and started through the dungeon.

A dark frown marring his features, Harry crept closer to Lucius.

"Silver eyes, silver eyes," the older wizard muttered, stopping Harry short.

"Why are you not here?" Lucius stood, his hands balled into fists as he propped them on his hips. Exhaling sharply through flared nostrils, he brought his displeased gaze up to rest on Dumbledore's portrait. "Even from the grave you stymie efforts to improve our world!"

Of all the wizards in the world who might have held such information, he'd have imagined Albus Dumbledore to be the one, but there was nothing here which even hinted at the ancient prophecy!

Silver eyes? His wand lowering as his arm fell to his side, Harry shrank back, his eyes enormous beneath the hood of his Cloak. His shoulders drooped suddenly with the weight of understanding Kreecher's death. The elf hadn't simply been killed for being his servant—as he would have concluded, had he the luxury of time to think at the moment he'd stumbled upon that horrible scene—he'd been tortured for information.

The Death Eaters knew about Hermione! He had to get back to the Forest manor so he and Draco could get her as far away from here as possible. Heart hammering in his chest, Harry spun on his heel and bolted out the door.

Narcissa's brows shot up as she scanned the index of the fourth book. Another book with an entry about Nicholas Flammel . . . . Two people who'd ingested unicorn blood—only one of whom had been in the castle, and he certainly wasn't intelligent enough to work out the connection for himself—and now someone researching into the creator of the now-destroyed Sorcerer's Stone?

Shaking her head, she snapped the book shut and called the texts into a stack before her. Gathering the tidy pile into her arms, she headed for the doors, her elegant stride nearly more hurried than her ladylike demeanor allowed.

Harry jetted down the corridor, glancing back over his shoulder toward the Headmaster's office, once more. This was bad, really, really bad, he thought. He couldn't think about what they might possibly want with Hermione, but he'd be lying if he tried to tell himself he wasn't curious what it was they knew about her condition that he didn't.

The sound of light, quick footfalls drew his attention and he whipped his head back around to see Narcissa Malfoy stalking his way. He stepped aside just in time to stop her from bumping into him.

That wasn't what made him nervous, no. What lodged his heart in his throat was that she darted past him with the books he'd drawn out in her slender, black-sleeved arms.

Eyes rolling, he turned on his heel and followed her. He hoped that whatever conversation might spring between the new leaders of the Death Eaters might give him more information.

Draco stepped out into the main corridor, his head held high and his shoulders squared, looking every bit as though he had the right to be there. If what Potter'd said was true, than his presence might be a shock, surely, but he'd be welcomed. What better way to play lookout? It would be the perfect ruse, as long as nobody noticed the way he held one hand behind himself. After a strained moment of listening and hearing nothing, of darting his gaze about and seeing no one, his lanky body drooped and he turned back to where Hermione was ducked around the bend of the stairwell, one of her dainty hands clinging to his from the shadows.

"C'mon, it's clear."

Hermione nodded, feeling a bit ridiculous in the thick, black cloak he'd nicked from one of the dormitory rooms in the dungeon. Pulling the dark material tighter around herself, she stepped out to follow him.

They hurried through the corridor toward the staircase that would take them to the library, and he tugged her behind him as they neared the Great Hall's open double doors. He ducked his head around the entryway, peering into the massive chamber.

"Okay, no one's . . . ."

The way his words slid off caused distant alarm bells to ring in Hermione's skull. Blinking drowsily, she tried to step around him to see what caused his distress. "Draco, what—?"

He spun suddenly and stood painfully straight, blocking her view of the room by sheer matter of his height over her. "Granger, trust me, you don't want to see what's in there."

Those silver eyes rolled eloquently at him, her lids fluttering almost prettily. "Oh, please, Draco Malfoy. After living through the horrors of war, and what we've been through the last few days, do you really think whatever's in there is something I can't handle?"

Before he could work up another protest, she'd already used her hand on his to raise his arm & slipped under it. He twisted around, his expression pinching as he braced for her reaction, his gaze on the tattered, bloodied and bruised little heap on the floor over her shoulder.

"Oh . . . ." Hermione felt her lower lip tremble and pull into a pout. "Oh my God, Kreecher . . . ." She shook her head, uncertain how to process the sight before her. "I don't understand why they'd do this!"

Draco pulled her away from the Great Hall and she reluctantly backpedaled. Only when she finally turned on a heel to face him, peering up at him from beneath the voluminous, dark hood with those silver eyes enormous and her mouth still fixed in a pout, did he let out a sigh, giving a head shake of his own.

He dared to lean down, brushing his lips over hers. The quick kiss stole a quiet gasp from her, and he knew he had her complete attention—at least, as complete as she could muster—once more. "I told you not to look," he said in a whisper.

"I know," she whispered back, nodding. "I just don't understand why."

"Neither do I," he admitted, forcing a gulp down his throat, "but we shouldn't linger out here in the open, like this."

With a glance back toward the Great Hall, she nodded. "You're right, of course. Let's go."

Draco started up the stairs, and as Hermione moved to follow him, she felt the wind get knocked out of her. She lost her grip on his hand, clutching her hands to her chest as she fell to her knees.

He dropped beside her, pulling her up to try to look into her face. "Hermione! What's wrong?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but all that escaped were harsh, stuttering breaths. Hermione felt her eyes welling from the fear pounding through her, but couldn't form the words to warn him . . . couldn't make her muscles and limbs respond to her commands to get up and run.

At first, Draco's panicked mind worried that her cursed half-life was catching up to her, but then he recalled . . . . He'd seen her like this earlier that morning.

Earlier, when . . . . Curling around her protectively, he raised his free arm, holding his wand at the ready as he looked around. He was certain she could feel the hammering of his heart against her back as he waited.

Harry listened, tense, his entire frame rigid, as Narcissa explained what she'd found in the library. All the while, Lucius nodded and hmm'ed, sounding more and more intrigued as she went on, drawing her conclusion.

He was invisible to them, but he still couldn't help his caution, he'd kept himself tucked away behind the wall. Now he couldn't help tipping his head to look around at their expressions.

A smile—crafty, yet delighted, Harry thought—curved the Slytherin wizard's lips. "I do believe you are correct, dear wife. Which can only mean that we have a guest."

Harry didn't stick around to hear any further realizations, he spun and darted down toward the staircase.

He realized he must've bumped something on his way, because though they could not see him, he heard the footsteps of the Malfoys trailing not far behind him. He was sure they must believe they'd been overheard, but simply lost sight of their intruder. That made perfect sense, and they certainly had their wits about them.

As he gratefully reached the stairs, he heard the crash and the sound of wood splintering. Too late, he saw the pale hair of Draco Malfoy on the floor below. He understood with a terrible, foggy delay who the cloaked figure Draco was wrapped around must be.

Harry wasn't close enough to react as the castle's door appeared to buckle and flew open. Sooner than he could move, Fenrir barreled inside.

Raising his wand beneath his Cloak, Harry hurried down the steps, but somehow Draco reacted faster than he could reach them—maybe Draco'd had some warning the rest of them hadn't—and the Stunning Spell shot forth, hitting the werewolf dead-on.

As the beast fell to the floor, an oddly relieved looking young wizard in his shadow, a voice rang out from behind Harry.

"Draco!"

Harry managed to sidestep the Malfoys as they darted down the staircase.

In the sudden calm, Draco couldn't help snapping his attention to the sound of his mother's voice calling out to him. He was grappling with the realization that he'd just taken down Fenrir Greyback without a second thought, nor a moment's hesitation.

Hermione felt the fear drain from her, slow and painful, like a needle being drawn out of her skin. She collapsed against Draco, her breathing labored. She found no comfort there, as his frame was still tensed. As she slowly regained her bearings, she remembered where they were . . . recalled the voice that rang out just a moment ago.

She turned her head toward the sound of footfalls drawing near. Blinking rapidly at the two pairs of feet that stopped before them, she looked up.

Narcissa Malfoy's relief turned to shock as she saw the person huddled against her son, though she should have known who it would be, she thought. Perhaps it was not so much the girl's identity, as the sight of those clear, perfect metallic eyes—brighter and more crystalline than Fenrir's—staring up at her.

"Draco, you return to us," Lucius Malfoy said in a whisper, a smile gracing his lips as his gaze moved from the girl, to his son, and back. "And you bring quite the special prize."

Hermione turned in Draco's arms, sharing a bewildered look with him, before they both turned back to give his parents expressions that were fear and puzzlement, combined.

Harry pocketed his wand and continued down the stairs to stand on the outskirts of the group. He watched Fenrir warily and pulled the Cloak tighter around himself. He needed to know what was happening—their prize, what could that possibly mean—but if they caught him now, he'd never get Hermione away from them.