ELEVEN: Run!

"Excellent; right on time," said Snape when the scraggly group of men surrounded them, which was certainly not Draco's first thought.

"Snape," said one of them with a low growl. "What're you doing here?"

Snape sidled forward until his voluminous robes hid Harry, Ron and Draco almost completely. "Fulfilling the Dark Lord's plans for the Boy Saviour," Snape said in the icy tone he reserved for Longbottoms, Potters, and other fools who dared waste his time. "The young Malfoy heir has achieved his purpose and netted The Boy Who Lived. I am escorting them all back to Malfoy Manor."

The man in front elbowed his friend and attempted to peer behind Snape who, without seeming to shift at all, continued to block their route to Harry. "Going – awful quiet-like, ain't they?" he inquired of his men.

Snape lifted his nose. "They are Imperio'd," he said shortly. The you dunderhead was quite clearly implied.

For a moment of wonder, Draco thought the men would let them be on their merry way. They looked as though they weren't the brightest of sorts; unkempt and shiftless, they looked, in fact, like the sort who'd do anything asked of them for a bit of coin.

Then, a faint spark glimmered in the darkness of the ringleader's eyes. "Wot, all of 'em?" he challenged.

"Of course not," Draco said imperiously, moving to stand at Snape's side. "I've got Weasley; he's got Potter." He hoped he'd infused enough hatred for Potter and awe at Snape's prowess into his words; from Snape's exasperated glance, he'd used too much of one or the other.

"The Boy Who Lived," one of the men towards the back muttered, staring at Harry, awestruck. It looked as though the thought had finally sunk in to his thick skull.

"Yeah, tha's right. And we ain't sharing the credit, are we, boys?" the leader inquired with a nasty smirk.

Snape's features froze, but his eyes danced. Draco could almost see him calculating the odds.

"You two could run any time, now," Draco hissed behind him.

"Are you mad?" Ron hissed in return. "They'd shoot us down before we could spring two steps."

"I've tried to Apparate several times," replied Harry's most panicked voice.

Draco blinked up at Snape. "…run?" he suggested.

"Stay behind me," Snape replied, herding Draco behind him with the others, as though he were shooing ducklings.

"Right," Draco snorted, and drew. "You will never rise in my Lord's estimation by stealing the credit that belongs to your betters," he shouted, waving his wand about in what he hoped to be a threatening manner.

Of course, he took a Stunner to the side of the head before he could so much as fire off a curse.

When Draco came to, the unsavoury men were gone and Death Eaters were in their place. Not that it was much of an improvement, or any kind at all, really, but that he no longer got the impression he was about to be shivved and left in a ditch. Snape looked pale but determined, with a long, bloody scratch on one cheek; one of his sleeves was steaming foul red smoke. He still clutched his wand in one pale, steady hand.

They were at an encampment with tents and torches – the sun was now low in the sky – but the land looked devilishly familiar, down to the oak tree with the twisted knot at its centre –

Ah. Malfoy land, then. Draco scanned the horizon until he could see the tiles of the Manor's roof, hiding beyond the hills, and the evergreen-studded pathway that snaked up to the manse.

" 'Lo, young Malfoy," a broad-shouldered brute greeted him. "Able to stand, now?"

Draco pushed himself to his feet. "Yes, thank you indeed, Rowle." He peered around at the tents. "Are we hosting an army?"

"Gathering one, Malfoy, gathering one," Rowle replied, and Draco blinked in surprise. For Merlin's sake, he hadn't been serious. But now that he looked around, he could see that this could be nothing but the mustering of a host.

Ron and Harry were not anyplace to be seen.

"Reckon you'll want to get back to Hogwarts, now Mistress Malfoy is going," Rowle commented. "Now your job is done with the Potter boy."

"Just so," Draco replied, watching Snape cast at his still-smoking arm, but the older man looked more irritated than injured. "How did you know to find us?"

"Snape's a clever one, he said the magic word," Dolohov said, coming up beside Rowle. "Not that he mayn't pay for it later, I suppose, but, in the circumstances…"

"Of course," Draco agreed, having no idea what he was agreeing to, but making sure that his expression was suffused with concern. "Do you know where my mother is just now?"

"Offices, getting ready," Rowle replied, "and I certainly don't envy 'er that! Reckon she'll want to see you even before his Lordship. Come along, we'll escort you."

Draco tamped down on rising panic as he was led away; he sent a shot of reassurance through Necto fiddes and could feel Ron somewhere off to his left being absolutely terrified, but he did not seem injured. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Greyback take Snape by the arm and Apparate, but Dolohov and Rowle stayed with Draco until they reached the North Wing, his mother's favorite haunt, and paused outside of the double-doors that led to her spacious offices.

Draco pushed the door open to his mother's study and felt something in his chest flutter and tighten and finally release, leaving him weak with relief and an obscure thankfulness. Narcissa was clad in robes of a diaphanous blue-violet, belted at the waist in silver, hair piled atop her head in the Grecian style, silver at her throat, silver at her wrist. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat she'd allowed to creep in through the open window, and she was standing, bent over some large piles of parchment that were spread across the surface of her desk; two packing trunks, half-full, sat side-by-side at her feet. "Mother," he said.

Narcissa's head jerked up, and she blinked once, slowly. "Draco," she said, calmly. "Come in, darling. It seems it's been ages."

Draco nodded at Rowle and Dolohov behind him. The pair smirked and elbowed each other before departing, but Dolohov had enough respect to carefully join the door to the jamb – a dramatic alteration since Draco's last visit.

Draco ducked his head and gazed up at her through lowered lashes; Narcissa nodded in consent, and Draco approached the desk. "You seem busy," he said.

Narcissa smiled craftily. "Indeed I am. It is our Lord's belief that I shall best serve him as Headmistress of Hogwarts, and the bureaucracy is staggering. I must square everything away before I leave tonight."

Draco's eyes flew up to meet hers. The last time they had spoken, she had made a point of saying that it was foolish to pretend worship of the Dark Lord, when they were alone: you needn't call it 'our' side…

Which meant they were not alone.

"I believe you will serve our Lord well at Hogwarts," Draco replied, warily.

Narcissa gestured to the chair opposite hers and he seated himself in the plush, midnight-blue velvet; for as much as the rest of the house was a wreck, no one had, so far, touched Narcissa's things, which gave Draco hope.

"You must have returned on hearing of the interloper in our midst," Narcissa said, dipping an ostrich feather into the midnight-blue ink that was her signature colour and signing the bottom of a magical contract.

"Of course," Draco said blankly as the contract lifted into the air, scrolled itself into a tiny tube, and popped out of existence.

"I can assure you, the doppelganger is secured in the Malfoy dungeons," she added.

A thousand connections sparked in Draco's brain. "That… is good news, indeed. Did he – try to pass himself off as a Malfoy? Laughable, if it weren't also such a disgrace."

"Oh, he was very convincing... at first. He knew everything about you, down to your favorite color and the name of your beloved childhood Elf. But he knew nothing of your most recent comings and goings: how the Dark Lord had tested you; how you were returned to Hogwarts to spy. I had no choice but to imprison him."

"I see," Draco replied, mind whirring – but of course. Once Malfoy proved his ignorance of Voldemort's latest plot, he had to be the false one. "Well, even the Order's intelligence can only be so up to date. What is to be done with him?"

"Our Lord has shown interest in feeding him to Nagini as this evening's entertainment," Narcissa said plainly, filling in what looked like some sort of financial accounting; her finger slipped and smeared a zero until it was a dark splotch. "Or Crucio until death. Only, they are quite interested in discovering his true identity, for our sake. Our Lord finds himself offended on our behalf –"

"There, Mother," Draco said quickly. "I don't mind if you're unhappy about it – he looks just like me. He knows well enough to act like me. The imposter supposes it'll make you weak, so long as he maintains the façade."

Narcissa swallowed and nodded.

"Only one thing, Mother. How did our Lord find us so quickly?"

"Oh, a simple matter," she replied. "I reminded him of an ancient spell, called the Taboo. He performed a limited aspect of the spell only yesterday. Right now, it only works within a certain radius, but soon any fool who dares to call our Lord by his name will be called to heel."

"Brilliant," Draco said faintly.

Narcissa did not reply; indeed, she had a puzzled look on her own face, as though the numbers before her did not quite match up. Draco could hardly blame her, but he couldn't stop himself from thinking, if you had only believed me in the first place…

Then you would be down there, a sensible little voice told him. It sounded a bit like Hermione Granger's.

Suddenly, everything she and Snape had done to him when he'd first arrived at the Manor: imprisoned him, ensorcelled him, treated him as though he'd gone mad – made a terrible kind of sense. What if he'd kept on spouting that he was from another world, that he wasn't the Draco Malfoy promised to Voldemort? Of course both Snape and his mother had done everything in their power to make certain he wasn't believed: if Snape hadn't been quite so quick on his feet, it would have been him in those dungeons – or worse.

"You seem to be entirely recovered," Narcissa said, ice-blue eyes pinning him from across the sea of formality – contracts, accountings, affidavits – that stood between them.

For a moment, he thought she had performed Legilimency. Draco hadn't known she could, but he wouldn't put her past picking it up in self-defense. Then he remembered her slim arm around his waist, helping him hobble back to Hogwarts. "I am well as can be expected," Draco replied. "Thank you."

She looked up at him from under her lashes, and Draco wondered what was behind her inquiry. She'd learned that he wasn't her son – unless she was trying to charm him the way she had everyone else, behaving as though she cared for him seemed a foolish pretense. She took his hand in hers, and when Draco squeezed, he felt the rasp of high-quality paper between his palm and his mother's. "I am glad," she said. "No matter how foolish it may be, a mother worries."

He kept the paper concealed in the cup of his palm, unsure of how, precisely, their conversation was being monitored. When he looked down at his hand, he saw, in his mother's firmest hand:

He is in the dungeons. My carriage departs promptly at seven-fifteen.

Draco looked up and caught her eyes with his own. "It's not foolish at all," he replied. "I will take especial care of myself in the coming trials, if only for your sake."

She pierced him with eyes the color of Wedgwood. "See that you do," she replied, and bent back to her letter.

The first thing Hermione noted was that the clearing was wild with honeysuckle, which filled the air with its heavy, sweet scent and draped the trees hither and yon, providing good cover for an enterprising pair of rescuers. Hermione re-tied her hair in its knot and looked around:

1) Plantlife, check.

2) Same oak trees as before, good.

3) Path leading to Malfoy Manor. Horrifying, but also, yes, good.

4) Panicking Remus Lupin.

Check.

"You don't know anyone who's got a Dark Mark, do you?" Hermione inquired. "Only, to get in, we'll need one. You have to hold up the Mark to the gates."

Lupin's eyes narrowed. "We could wait until someone arrives, Stun them, and then –"

"Hold on," Hermione interrupted. "We don't really want to attract attention." She'd also interrupted because she wasn't sure what Lupin was going to suggest they do with their Stunned prisoner, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know. "If this is the Stronghold of the Dark, you're right – people should be coming and going. In fact…" She paused to cast the Disillusionment Charm over both of them, and the telltale trickle-of-icewater feeling crept down the back of her neck. "Muffliato," she added. "There. In any case, someone could come along at any moment," she whispered; even a good old Muffliato had its limits, after all. "We wait for the gates to swing open and we slip in, behind. No need to Stun anybody."

"In that case, we ought to wait right by the gate," Lupin replied, and strided forward.

Hermione surged forward to grab at his arm. "Wait! Listen, we've already broken into Malfoy Manor once –"

"What?"

" – when we rescued Snape –"

"When you – what?"

" – so it's entirely probable that they've placed additional security measures around the place," Hermione finished, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "I expect that Snape could have left the Manor for any number of reasons apart from duplicity, there's nothing that points to… I mean – suppose they haven't discovered that we stole the locket, yet…" She frowned. "There's nothing to say they will have instituted any further security measures. But – better safe than sorry," she tacked on.

Lupin gave her a long, hard stare that said that they'd be discussing these things in greater detail in the future, but extended his wand hand to cast Specialis Reveleo. "Stealth Sensoring Spell," he whispered when a wisp of blue smoke popped into existence twenty meters ahead, swirling and curling before dissipating into the air. "Repello Muggletum, of course," he added when a red shimmer flew up in a huge half-sphere before them.

Hermione nodded. "Is that all?"

"That's all along this particular pathway," Lupin grimly replied. "We'll cast again at the gate."

The pair crept along until they were close, as Hermione judged it, to the Stealth Sensoring Spell. "How do we dismantle it?"

Lupin shook his head. "We don't. The key to a Stealth Sensoring Spell is to behave as though you have perfectly legitimate business. You belong where you are headed, and the occupants are expecting you."

The occupants expecting Hermione was a bleaker notion than she liked, but she got the general idea. "Can we… do that?"

Lupin raised his eyebrow in a way that straightened Hermione's shoulders and firmed her jaw. "I can. Can you?" he replied.

Hermione closed her eyes and pictured Draco Malfoy's face. This manse belongs to Draco Malfoy, she thought serenely. He lives here. Draco Malfoy is my friend; I am going to visit him. When I arrive… She searched her mind for some innocuous image. We shall have tea.

She was all too aware of the fact that this would have been entirely impossible to picture two weeks ago. At least – not without a lot of laughter involved. Now, when she closed her eyes, she could easily picture Draco receiving her in some sort of Austinesque drawing room, inquiring politely after her parents and pouring her an elegant teacup full of Darjeeling. She imagined sipping it and nibbling on tiny cucumber sandwiches.

She strode forward, eyes closed, and felt the tingle of the spell as it searched her intentions. She thought, in as serenely unconcerned a manner as she could manage without sliding out the other side to panic, of Draco, and of tea, holding the image firmly in her mind's eye.

Hermione emerged from the other side of the spell with a gentle pop; the remnants of the magic clung to her skin just a bit, dragging behind her as she strode forward, like the recoil of a disturbed soap bubble. She thought she heard an ancient female voice whisper Welcome, just at the edge of hearing.

Better safe than sorry. She turned towards the house – now visible on the horizon – and gave a little half-curtsey. "Thank you," she said aloud, and turned back around to beckon her companion forward.

Remus Lupin was staring at her. For the briefest moment, she got the impression that he had thought she would fail. That he'd wanted her to.

Panic blossomed in her chest. She hadn't fumbled things – again! – because of Remus Lupin, had she? Ron was right, the man's behavior was different than how she recalled it from school. But she hesitated to label it mad, per se – she wasn't sure she wouldn't have screamed if she thought a murderer had Harry and Ron.

But then – a murderer had them now, didn't he? and she wasn't. She was getting ready to do something about it.

Lupin jerked his head towards her in acknowledgement, and closed his eyes. Slowly, all of the tension drained from his shoulders, his mouth; the lines around his eyes smoothed. Hermione caught her breath: he looked just like the man she remembered.

He opened his eyes to smile at her – that wry, gentle smile she'd always loved, and, truth be told, had a little bit of a crush on, once upon a time – and stepped through the bubble of the spell.

"Did it work?" she whispered.

"No one is spilling out of the Manor, wands raised," he replied, still hanging on to a fragile calm. "So: yes."

Hermione let her breath out in a whoosh, and together the pair made their way to the gate. Hermione cast the spell, this time: "Specialis Reveleo," she incanted softly.

Well, of course – the entire gate lit black, black as the darkest Dark spell Hermione could imagine. The gate itself had been charmed to admit only those who carried the Mark.

"Now… we wait," Hermione said, and sat, setting down her satchel and pulling up a side of grass. She patted the earth beside her. "Come have a seat, Professor. Just because people are coming and going a lot doesn't mean it won't be hours. There's no need to – " She briefly tried to classify Lupin's motion. " – pace, so," she said.

But it took Lupin a half an hour of prowling before he was content to seat himself beside Hermione.

By that time, Hermione had already cast a little circle of Cave inimicium, Protego horriblis, Protego totalum, and Salvio hexia… just in case. When Lupin finally joined her, she saw a little reluctant respect in his eyes. Of course, she'd read all about those protective spells, but honestly, she wasn't sure that they worked. It was good to have Lupin's eye on them – and nice to think that she could rely, just a little, on someone else's expertise for a change.

Over the next hour, she and Lupin both renewed their Muffliato and Disillusionment Charm – twice. A little paranoid, perhaps – Hermione hadn't felt the trickle of warmth down her back that meant a natural dissolution of the latter charm – but the last thing she wanted was for it to wear off at an importune moment.

Hermione's plan, as such, wasn't looking so good once the sun set and the temperature dropped. She and Lupin were jumping at shadows when Lupin's fingers closed 'round her upper arm and squeezed.

Hermione squeaked quietly, then froze, head tilted: listening, listening.

It was a long while before she, too, could hear noises coming from the brush with her non-werewolf ears. It sounded like several people crashing through the brush, actually, and grumbling loudly about it all the while.

Hermione pushed herself to her feet and dusted off her robes, swinging her satchel over one shoulder. Lupin rose beside her, and they feverishly cast their charms again.

"…wanted us to go back and look fer the wand. Dunno why 'e listens," Hermione heard a big, hulking man say as he tumbled out from the underbrush and onto the yew-lined pathway that led to the Malfoy gates. "Taken wi' her, I suppose."

"You'll watch your tongue, Rowle," said a second, more slender man – and more fastidious, Hermione noted as he brushed his robes free of plantlife with a disdainful, elegant air. "Whom our Most Glorious Lord decided to entrust with Hogwarts is his own business. Unless you'd enjoy teaching the little brats?"

Rowle huffed a chuckle under his breath. "Not for a sack of Galleons," he replied. He held his arm up to the gate, which swung wide. "Open sesame," he intoned.

"You'll want to watch that attitude of yours, Rowle," the slender, aristocratic man repeated, straightening his robes as he strode down the walkway to the Malfoys' rather impressive front door. "Or Lestrange will straighten it for you." Hermione and Lupin slipped along behind them. Hermione kept casting frantic Muffliatos as they strode along, terrified that the two Death Eaters would hear their footfalls.

The pair of Death Eaters (and their unwanted guests) strode right through the door without knocking, and indeed left it standing open. Hermione, agog at her luck, tripped and nearly windmilled into something indubitably expensive as she rushed through. A minute later, a House Elf rushed up to close the door the Death Eaters had left ajar.

Hermione felt her cheeks heat when she saw the state of the house: food had been left on random surfaces. The fireplace mantle. An end-table. In a corner, on the floor. One of the windows had smashed open, and no one had bothered to so much as cast a Reparo. The furniture was so inharmonious that Hermione knew without having to ask that it had all been dragged, hither and yon, to suit the interlopers. There were streaks of dark red here and there on the carpets that Hermione fondly hoped were summer mud. The entire place stank: like unwashed bodies and rottenness and dark, red wine.

It was no wonder the poor house and grounds was so happy at the promise of a civilized caller.

"Sorry," Hermione whispered aloud, running her fingers along the scratched wallpaper as she passed. "Don't worry, they'll be gone soon."

Lupin stared at her with such wariness that she immediately subsided.

Meanwhile, the thuggish Rowle and the Death Eater with the elegant manner were continuing their gossip. Hermione opted to continue to follow them, for fear she and Lupin would be closed off into a room they could not escape without being seen. Even in a magical household, doors opening and closing for no reason at all were looked on as suspicious.

Draco closed the doors behind him and peered up and down the hallway. He didn't see anyone coming, so he pressed back against the doors and cast a quiet Incendio on his mother's note.

All right, he thought. All right. Take stock; one thing at a bloody time, Malfoy, it can't be all bad.

Weasley and Potter'd been led off in one direction, and Snape in another. Snape would be off giving his report to He-Who-Draco-Had-Bloody-Well-Already-Killed. Most likely, he'd be saying that Draco had fulfilled his purpose and captured at least two-thirds of the Trio: it was the only possible reason for Snape to have been with Draco and Weasley and Potter concurrently. The story would have to be that Hermione either had escaped, or was dead…

Draco was going to go with 'dead'. Even though reality could prove Snape wrong later, he wasn't expecting it to matter by that point; and a dead Granger sounded more impressive than an escaped one.

Right.

"Malfoy."

Draco started and turned; it was Rosier, at the mouth of the North wing, beckoning him forward.

"The Dark Lord will see you now."

Marvelous.

Draco's heart began to race in his chest, and his hands began to tremble. He reached for the calm he'd found the last time he'd faced Voldemort, and could not grasp it though he reached with both hands. In his mind, he rationalized: of course I'm terrified, I remember what happened last time I faced him -

Bellatrix, poised over him, laughing: "Crucio!"

...and I'm not a fool.

Unsurprisingly, this allowance did not help, so he took the opposite tack, instead. He heard his father's voice, snapping at him to straighten up, to be a man, to be a Malfoy, but that only made him feel smaller and weaker. He saw his mother's steady blue eyes, and felt a now-familiar upwelling of fierce pride that he was Narcissa's son: Narcissa Black, who faced having the Dark Lord Voldemort and his merry men as guests in her home, and yet rose every day and washed and coifed her white-blond hair and put on her loveliest robes and, in general, did what must be done. Draco imagined himself with that serene sort of energy, like a glacier that had weathered far worse storms.

It helped, a little. Enough to remind himself that sweet Merlin above, there was no way he was facing the Dark Lord again. Draco knew about Horcruxes. He knew that the locket (indubitably still around Bellatrix's neck) was false. He knew that the other Malfoy was the true Draco Malfoy of this world.

And I know my mother knows. The thought hit him like a bolt.

When Draco came to his senses, he was standing over the Stunned body of Rosier, in the middle of an empty hallway. An empty hallway anyone could stride down, at any moment.

"Fuck," Draco whispered. "Fuck!" He added an Obliviate for good measure and then stood there shaking for another few, stupid seconds.

He stashed Rosier behind a suit of armor – barely hidden in shadow, but anyone peering down the hallway might not notice.

Maybe not right away.

Draco tapped the top of Rosier's head to cast the Disillusionment Charm. He'd never been very good at it; Rosier's boots remained stubbornly brownish, and Draco could see the tip of his nose moving back and forth as he breathed.

It would have to do.

"Tempus," Draco whispered.

It was six forty-three.

Pardon…

Draco froze and melted against the wall when he saw a Death Eater cross the hallway in the distance.

You have a guest.

Draco flapped a hand beside his ear in irritation. What on earth was that?

A Miss Hermione Granger. Would that be the Hogsmeade Grangers?

"Hello…?" he whispered.

Good evening, young Master Malfoy, said the voice, which grew clearer and sharper as Draco focussed on it. It sounded a bit like Draco's elderly great-aunt before she had died. I only bring it to your attention because of your other guests, the voice went on in prim, aristocratic disapproval. I assume you would like the young lady to be brought someplace quiet and out of the way. Very improper, but in this case…

"Yes," Draco hissed. "The dungeons."

Well! said the voice. Surely things are not that bad.

"I am afraid they are," Draco whispered, beginning to move again down the hallway. "Miss Granger and I are here to help some of our friends, who are being held downstairs."

Surely not the pretender, the voice exclaimed.

"Him as well. And another pair of young men, who –"

They are all gathered together in one cell downstairs, the voice said. Do forgive me for interrupting you, but I sense a certain degree of urgency.

"Yes, madam," Draco replied, and felt a flush of pleasure from the voice.

Good to know there are some who still possess manners in my hallowed halls, the voice – the Manor? – said. They are all together.

Draco peered out from behind the corner that ended the North Wing and led back to the rest of the Manor. And they haven't killed one another, yet?

To his pleasure, it seemed the Manor could read his thoughts just as easily as he could the Manor's. Not yet, she said. Shall I show you the quickest way down?

I should like, rather, to find Miss Granger first.

The young lady is not two halls away, the Manor informed him.

Draco knew he'd reached her when he smelled the distinctive scent of apple blossom.

"Hermione," he whispered. "I know you're there. I smell your perfume."

"Blast!" came a disembodied voice several paces ahead and to Draco's left. "And it's shampoo, I'll have you know."

"Come along, we don't have much time," Draco replied, and stretched out one hand.

Feeling Hermione's palm press into his own dissolved more tension than Draco would have thought possible. Just knowing that someone else was with him – and being able to feel that – was surprisingly consoling.

Merlin: he was turning into a Gryffindor. Next he'd begin spouting the virtues of kindness and friendship and steadfast bravery, and also: wearing red-and-gold.

Which was terrible for his complexion.

When a pair of Death Eaters walked by, Draco made sure to angle his palm down, and Hermione pressed to his side in any case, shivering despite the pleasant temperature indoors. And then they were through the kitchens, past the Malfoys' numerous House Elves and to the door that led… down. They slipped through it, and into the dark.

Hermione cast Finite and appeared beside him, all flyaway hair and wide, dark-smudged eyes. "Professor Lupin," she said, turning. "…Professor Lupin? Oh no."

"He was with you?" Draco neglected to release Hermione's hand; the steps that led down to the Malfoy dungeons were ancient and crumbling, not to mention narrow and slick with moisture. "Lumos." Also: dark.

Hermione nodded frantically. "Right behind me, or so I thought. Oh, he'll get himself killed."

"Lupin is far too sensible –"

Hermione shook her head just as emphatically as she'd bobbed it a moment before. "Ron was right! He's changed since last we saw him, like he just doesn't care, since Sirius died." She paused soberly. "It's like he's picking up where Sirius left off, all angry and stubborn and reckless. And he was so furious with Professor Snape…"

"One thing at a time," Draco said, turning right and tugging Hermione in his wake. "The step down is a bit much, here."

"…thanks," Hermione said faintly, giving a bit of a jump. "So, this is… your house, eh?"

Draco looked around with new eyes. Malfoy Manor was built atop a series of caverns, and magic had been used to press iron bars into the natural caves and apertures found there, smoothed by ancient, long departed water, and time. The walls were slicker here, and rounded enough to appear untouched by human hands. It was a place Draco had adored exploring as a child, in his own world; but the iron bars, and the distant sense that the welcome of Malfoy Manor had retreated made it feel just that much less familiar: it was as though this place was older, and less tame, indifferent to the acts of man.

"Welcome," he dryly replied. "Now hurry."

"Hush!" Hermione exclaimed. "Hear that?"

Draco tilted his ear to one side. Company?

The voice of the Manor sounded faint to Draco's ears. I cannot hear so well what goes on beneath me; I do apologize for my mistake, the Manor said with a creaking sigh. However: three of the brutes descended not a quarter-hour before. It is perhaps they who are with your facsimile.

"Wand at the ready," Draco said, and he heard Hermione remove hers from her pocket. They crept forward for a few minutes without discovering a soul – the dungeons could bend sound so that a whisper at his ear was carried away, or a distant shout seemed to carry miles – so Draco cast Tempus, only so loud as he dared: seven-oh-one. He turned to face Hermione and clasped both of her hands in his. "At seven-fifteen, my mother's carriage is going to depart the carriage-house for Hogwarts," Draco said. He lifted one of her palms. "Here is the pathway out –"

"What are you doing?" Hermione said, yanking her hand away for the first time. "You're not –"

"There's no time for this. Let's say I'm Stunned or Cursed rather than dead or left here, shall we?" He reclaimed her hand. "Here's the way out." He drew his finger straight across her open palm and then turned it at a ninety-degree angle. "From here, left. Then, right," he said, dragging his finger in that other direction. "Then, pass three branches. Three. On the fourth, turn left again. Do you think you can remember that?"

Hermione nodded. "Left. Right. Fourth hallway left. Of course, but –"

"Good," he replied. "Because the Malfoy dungeons are a labyrinth. If you make a mistake, it will rearrange itself into Merlin-knows what pattern."

"Oh," she squeaked.

"Come on."

By and by the voices became clearer, and eventually they could make out several voices.

"Come now, this part's easy," said a cool, slightly bored voice. "Tell us who you truly are, and all of this will be over."

"Draco Malfoy," said a voice that aimed at the same sort of laconic world-weariness, but missed it a mile. The voice sounded exhausted-but-brave, and something clenched unexpectedly in Draco's chest.

Hermione gaped beside him, and Draco hushed her. Her eyes narrowed, and she re-cast her Disillusionment charm, creeping forward.

Draco considered this same tack and rejected it. He supposed that someone catching sight of his face would be… well, startled, to say the least. He strode forward.

"Hullo," he said.

Three men turned and gawped at him.

The fourth, leaning back against the wall to the cell, looked up at him and blinked. The Malfoy in the cell was slenderer than the boy Draco saw when he looked in the mirror, with thick, purple half-moons under his eyes. His clothing looked as though it had once been rich, but now it hung about him with that ragamuffin slovenliness lent to those who had lost too much weight, too quickly.

"Oh, look, Travers," Malfoy said. "It's the cavalry."

Travers turned to smirk through the iron bars. "No matter how many times Barty Crouch did it, it's always rather a kick to the head, seeing people two-by-two," he commented, examining his nails. "I suppose your lovely mother has vetted you, has she?"

"Let me in," Draco said. "I want to face him."

"Oooh," Travers replied, elbowing the man beside him. "Look, Mulciber. The boy wants to face him."

"Let 'im, I say," a rather heavyset man said with a shrug. He spat before continuing; Draco wasn't sure the Manor had seen anything more disgusting and unmannerly, even in its dungeons. "Boy's got a right to face a thief."

The third Death Eater gave a shrug and unlocked the door.

"Where are the other two?" Draco asked, slipping inside. He waggled his fingers and Hermione slipped her hand into his. He brought her forward like a dancing partner, and she preceeded him into the cell.

So terribly sorry! the Manor exclaimed. I assumed, when I sensed so many people…

"Other two?" Mulciber repeated, dimly.

"He means the boy wonders, of course," Travers said in that same, infernally collected manner. "Who knows? Perhaps our Lord had something special planned."

Draco's vision actually sparkled a little in warning at this news. He felt as though all the blood had drained from him at once. "None of you know what happened to them?" he pressed.

"Not our business, I say," said Mulciber, with a nod. "Don't go meddling, that's what I say."

"Very wise," said Draco.

Malfoy, still propped up in the corner, snorted loudly.

"Yes?" Draco inquired archly. "You had something to add?"

"They don't even know if it's Potter and Weasley," he replied. "Or Potter but not Weasley; or Weasley but not Potter. On account of, when they first came in here, I punched them both full in the face. That's why Avery had them removed."

"Their faces were so swollen that they couldn't be identified?" Draco blurted, suspended someplace between approbation and horror.

Malfoy shrugged.

"This little idiot's the only one who saw 'em intact," Mulciber growled. "Snatchers're all run off or licking their wounds, thanks to Severus Snape, and the Dark Lord wants to be truly certain."

"Well?" Draco asked. "Was it they, or wasn't it?"

Malfoy blinked. "I couldn't rightly tell."

"He's not worth the air 'e's breathing," Mulciber roared.

"Please, allow me," Draco replied. "If you would leave us…"

Travers tilted his head to one side. "He's not to be damaged, Malfoy. We need him; our Lord wishes to know his true identity, amongst other things. I don't feel I ought to leave him alone with the wizard whose identity he has stolen." He executed a polite bow.

"Do I appear upset?" Draco said, lightly.

"Forgive me, young Master," the third Death Eater interjected unexpectedly. "But I've seen Lucius Malfoy smile like he was at a fine dinner party when he killed a man. Now you'll get to ask whatever you like, but you'll let us do our jobs, thank you."

Draco inclined his head, moving Hermione to face the third, unnamed man, as though they were dancing the minuet. "Too right," he replied, with a gracious bow, darted to the attack. "Stupefy!"

"Stupefy!" Hermione shouted at his side, and Draco shot his second spell at Mulciber, who went down like a sack of bricks; it was all over in an eyeblink.

Hermione cast Finite on herself, and grinned at him. "Well, bless the element of surprise, anyhow." She peered down at the Death Eaters and sniffed. "Hrmph. Obliviate. Obliviate. Obliviate."

Ron was right: she was a bit scary sometimes, and now was one of those times. Looking at Hermione Granger, Draco knew he'd never want to cross her… with rather the same vehemence he'd felt when she'd slapped him 'round the face, actually.

"Well," said a thin voice from the corner.

Draco looked up to find that his counterpart was staring at them, finally evincing the surprise Draco had expected from the first.

"Let's go," Draco said, and he and Hermione turned towards the door.

"No," Malfoy said.

Hermione whirled and put her hands on her hips. "We've just saved your hide, there'll be time for questions later –"

"I demand you tell me where I am to be taken, and what is to be done with me," Malfoy interrupted – but looking at Draco rather than Hermione, as though he hadn't even heard her speak. As though anything Hermione had to say was worthless by default.

Suddenly, Draco lost his temper. "It's for bloody-well-certain our plans don't involve feeding you to Nagini," he snapped. "If you're attempting a power play, now is not the time. I'll make it simple: Stunned and Mobilicorpus'd, or under your own power," he said. Draco brought his wand to bear.

"Fine!" the other boy exclaimed, hands raised. "Fine, I'll follow you." And suddenly he looked very young and very troubled. "I want your promise I will come to no harm."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Merlin, Malfoy, if that's what you need, I promise I'll protect you."

Malfoy's eyes darted nervously from Hermione to Draco and back, but at length, he nodded.

Draco moved forward into the slick stone hallway again, re-casting Lumos. He reached out with Necto fiddes for Ron and found nothing. For a moment, his mind was filled with a blank horror.

Nothing. Nothing. What did nothing mean?

Draco cast Tempus to distract himself from that. "There isn't time to find them," he muttered.

"Were you serious about looking for those two?" Malfoy said. "I thought it was just for show. In any case, they didn't go far. I heard Potter shouting imprecations at Avery for quite some time. That way," he added, jerking his head in the opposite direction to the carriage-house.

Draco took off in the direction Malfoy indicated at a swift trot. "How far?" he demanded after they'd been walking a few minutes and had seen nothing.

Malfoy shrugged. "You know, these stone walls do the funniest thing to echoes…"

"Wait!" Hermione began tapping at her pockets, and eventually withdrew the locket, which swung madly on its chain like a hound dog on point. "This – I was thinking, magical signatures – Harry had it, held it last –"

"Brilliant, Hermione!" Draco exclaimed, and she took the lead. Soon, the three of them were running, huffing down the hallways, their treads slipping on the uneven stone ground and the persistent wetness. Seven and seven, Draco thought; and seven and ten...

"Here – here!" Hermione panted, drawing up on a cell. Draco flew to the bars and peered inside, where Harry and Ron were slumped against the far wall, insensate or -. Insensate, Draco thought firmly.

Hermione trotted inside and shook their shoulders. "Episkey!" she said, pointing at the pair of them, and some of the bruising on their faces disappeared.

Draco was close behind her; he shook Ron with both hands and cast Ennervate on both he and Harry. "Come on, Weasley! Up, we're going to miss our train…"

Ron's lashes fluttered, and he stirred. "Malfoy?"

Draco shook his head. "No; it's me," and a smile blossomed on Ron's face.

"Oh, good. The other one's got a sound beating coming to him."

Draco hauled Ron to his feet, and everyone turned to stare at Malfoy, still standing in the doorway.

"Touching," he drawled. "But as you said…"

Draco cast Tempus, then turned to the Trio. "Okay, we may have to run –"

"Room for one more?"

Draco looked up to see that another figure was standing beside Malfoy just beyond the bars; Draco moved until he could see his face: a much-beloved, and very much missed face.

"Hi, Draco," said Ronald Weasley, warmly. He rounded on Malfoy. "You I am not letting out of my sight. Now do as the man says, and run."

They ran.

A/N: Another vast sigh of relief on my part as the latest of our action-bits is past! (Along with our longest chapter so far...) Action always makes me tense: then, I guess that's its job. ;)

This chapter had three incarnations; what you see now is a melding of the second (Hermione's POV) and third (Draco's).

I also admittedly agonized over when to re-introduce Ron. ("Oh, yeah, hi, I just figured we might run into each other one of these days...") But Ron rescuing canon!Draco...? Yes. If you are confused, it's quite all right. Mr. Exposition will be by later to explain everything.

Thanks again to the reviewer who mentioned the Headmaster/mistress position. ;)

To the reviewer who mentioned the kitchens and the dining room being on the same floor at the Black house, I double-checked. According to the Lexicon, the kitchen is in the basement and the dining room is on the first floor. At first blush, this may not seem to make any practical sense, having the kitchen and dining room be separated by a stairwell. However: many old houses built in the days of live-in servants often had a basement kitchen with servant-stairs leading to the upper level. Thus the servants could be as unobtrusive as possible, and the noise of the kitchens (significant in a large house with many servants and the archetypal bellowing cook) was tucked quietly away, unable to disturb the gentility.

There is a table in the kitchen downstairs, so perhaps you meant: why do the Trio seem to prefer the dining room/upper floors to work?

My brilliant response is that sometimes people like things. More than other things. Because... stuff.

REVIEW, people! I am serious, when reviews pop up my inbox I close my email and I write things for that story. Feedback = motivation. :D

-K