A/N: Hi friends, we are coming to a close here. One more chapter only to go. Thank you all SO much for your kind reviews and support. You have made my first foray into the Dramione fandom a very wonderful experience. All tags and warnings from chapter 1 apply, and of course, any reviews are always appreciated. I'll see you soon with the last chapter.
Saturday, January 22nd - The March for Marital Rights, Part 2
Draco is terrified. It's a familiar feeling, but it never gets any easier. This time, unlike in the war, he's got Neville Longbottom and Theo Nott standing at his side, and the knowledge that he's doing the right thing.
It still didn't make watching Hermione disappear into the Floo beside Potter and Weasel any more bearable. As much as he's always hated her two idiot friends, even Draco admits that they're an incredible team. If he was going to entrust his wife's safety to anyone, it might as well be them.
As of right now, he is creeping through the lowest levels of the Ministry. While the Golden Trio went for Shacklebolt's office, intent on finding anyone in their way, Draco's team was searching below. Hawksworth would either be with Shacklebolt on the top floor or else in the Wizengamot chamber.
So far, it had been suspiciously quiet. The only people they'd run into were civilians, just doing their jobs. They'd been stunned and placed gently against the hallway walls; Draco had no intention of hurting anyone who wasn't directly responsible for the WPG.
"I fucking hate this," Theo breathes. "Where the fuck is everyone?"
Draco grimaces. "I don't know, and I don't like it any more than you do."
Neville hisses suddenly, his hand plunging into the pocket of his robes to dig out a familiar galleon. He glances at the coin for seconds before his face falls — and Draco's stomach drops.
"They're fighting on Diagon," Neville announces quietly. "George says we have to make the move now."
They run, forgetting all thoughts of secrecy — if a battle has broken out on Diagon Alley, they're running out of time. It's the best distraction they have.
A witch turns the corner in front of them; she's an Unspeakable, and her wand doesn't have time to leave her pocket before Neville's stunned her. It's the first time they don't bother moving anyone out of the way. They just run past her prone body. Draco pushes down memories of a different battle, where bodies laying on the ground weren't just stunned or unconscious.
They burst into the Wizengamot chamber, and dread coils inside Draco's stomach, because he knows this scene.
There is a black wrought iron cage suspended above the ground, menacing and heavy with spell work. Draco has been inside that cage, and he'll never forget the feeling of humiliation and helplessness that coated him.
Inside, is Gawain Robards. His eyes are wild, and his hands are bound, but he's conscious. He spots them and throws himself against the bars of the cage. Neville raises his wand arm to cast, but Draco and Theo slap it down at almost the same time.
"It's warded," Theo says breathlessly. "We've both been in there."
Horror washes over Neville's face and Draco spares a moment to swallow down the guilt he carries — how he had tormented the man in front of him when he was only a boy! And now, Neville Longbottom is someone Draco trusts; furthermore, he's someone Draco genuinely likes.
"How do we get him out?" Neville demands.
Theo shrugs, but Draco knows the answer to this. "We don't — we either need a member of the Wizengamot to pronounce him innocent of whatever they sentenced him for or a very talented curse breaker who could take down those wards on the cage."
"We can't leave him like this!" Neville argues hotly. Draco winces because he's always known the weakness of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. It's their emotions. His parents had taught Draco from the moment he could walk that logic must rule passion. The way of Slytherin — and Ravenclaw, though they deny it sometimes.
"We don't have a choice, Longbottom," Draco says sternly. He raises his wand, though, because there is something he can do. He casts the counter-curse to the tongue-tying spell that is obviously afflicting Robards, and the wizard falls to his knees in relief.
"Thank you," he croaks.
"I'm sorry we can't help you further," Draco says. "We need to find Hawksworth."
Gawain nods. "It's fine. Hawksworth is in the upper levels — Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He's taken control of the Aurors; the few loyal to me have run."
"Kingsley did this?" Neville demands.
Gawain stiffens. "Kingsley Shacklebolt is dead. They killed him weeks ago after he proved too strong for the imperius curse. Hawksworth thought he had it all under control — he was going to be the next Minister when Shacklebolt's death was officially announced. But Alecto and Amycus are pulling the strings now. Hawksworth is nothing but a pawn."
Draco curses. "Fuck. The Carrows escaped Azkaban?"
"So did Dolohov."
"Dolohov is dead." Theo barks — and Draco nods weakly. He'd been so sure, and he's desperate for Theo to be correct.
Robards shakes his head slowly. "I'm sorry, but it's true. Months ago, before the WPG came into effect, four people escaped Azkaban. The Carrows, Macnair, and Rookwood. I tracked them myself and found out Dolohov was responsible. Hawksworth and the Wizengamot came down hard on Kingsley, demanded it be kept out of the news."
Neville is halfway through another question, but Draco can hardly hear the words — he feels like he might collapse. Hermione is somewhere in the Ministry, and she has no idea what they're up against. "We have to go. We have to go NOW!"
"Go!" Robards says, "I'll be fine."
Draco turns without further encouragement, and they burst out of the Wizengamot hearing room at a sprint. Draco casts stunners at anything that moves, and he isn't the only one. They leave a trail of Ministry workers on the ground and throw themselves into the elevator.
"Fuck, fuck!" Draco shouts, slamming buttons to take him straight to the DMLE. Neville is shaking, but his face is determined.
"Take a breath, mate," Theo cautions. "You need to be sharp for them."
Draco forces air into his lungs because Theo is right. There are no darker or more dangerous witches and wizards than those inside the Ministry alive today — Dolohov made the Carrows look like kittens during the war.
The elevator lurches to a halt, and the permanent lights go dark. It's pitch black until the door slides open, and when it does, all Draco can see is the sunlight filtering down from the atrium, lighting up the golden statue in the centre of the hall, remade in the war's wake to depict a witch and two wizards holding hands. Although it was not supposed to be the golden trio, it was suspiciously similar. Hermione hated it.
"Little Draco Malfoy, come to join us once more?" A raspy voice intones, and goosebumps break out over Draco's skin.
Rookwood emerges from the shadows, and the sunlight shows an expression riddled with madness and hate. He's got scars all down one side of his face and he limps with each step he takes. Draco isn't foolish enough to believe his injuries from the war or his stay in Azkaban make him any less dangerous.
"Augustus," Draco says, stepping towards him. He's proud that his voice doesn't shake, and he reminds himself that Hermione needs him. His magic is strong — he stands a chance against Rookwood, but two oily figures step out behind his shoulders, and Draco forces himself to remain aloof in the face of the Carrow twins.
"The very last Malfoy," Alecto coos. "Unless we count your mudblood wife."
Amycus grimaces. "When we find her, we'll rid you of her, Draco. Lucius would want that."
Relief blossoms inside Draco's chest — they don't know where she is. He wants to laugh with joy.
"But… how curious?" Rookwood murmurs, with a familiar cruel expression. "Lucius Malfoy, dead in his cell, at only 46."
"Yes," Amycus agrees. "Can you explain that to us, Draco?"
Draco stiffens his spine and reminds himself that he has two friends at his back. "I can."
Rookwood gestures with the hand holding his wand, and Theo flinches in the corner of his vision. They've both been on the receiving end of that wand's crucio.
"It was easy to kill him," Draco admits suddenly. "You might have been proud, Augustus. All those times you told me I didn't have it in me, and yet I didn't even blink as I cast the avada that killed him."
Rage mottles the Carrows' faces, and they raise their wands, curses on their tongues. Rookwood raises a palm and they freeze. Draco knows exactly who is in charge here.
"Forgivable, perhaps." Augustus Rookwood says suddenly, and Draco blinks. "Your mother was a treasure, and Lucius had no idea what to do with something so valuable."
At this, rage ignites inside Draco. His mother was not an item to be bartered — and it is not so difficult to remember the way so many Death Eaters stared at her, as though all of her robes and dignity and honour were nothing more than a gauzy film they could undress. The only thing Lucius ever did right by her was not sharing her with these monsters.
"My mother is dead." Draco hisses. "And I'll not hear a word about her."
Rookwood laughs darkly. "Sensitive, little Malfoy. How about that mudblood you call a wife? We thought you'd kill her, you know."
"Yes," Alecto sneers. "It was your chance, you see, to be redeemed. If you'd killed the bitch, we'd have taken you back."
It happens quickly after that. Draco casts the fastest stunner of his life at Rookwood, while Theo's powerful protego appears in front of them. From the corner of his eye, Draco sees Neville plunge his hand into his robe to snatch the enchanted galleon. He taps his wand against it frantically and then takes aim at Amycus Carrow.
Rookwood counters Draco's stunner easily, but Draco had expected that and sent a leg locking jinx in quick succession; however, he loses valuable time with the second cast, and Rookwood's next spell strikes him in the chest. It's only a silencing charm, though, and while Draco struggles to breathe, he doesn't panic, just channels his focus and casts a non-verbal petrification spell. It hits a barely upright Rookwood in the shoulder, and his locked legs end up toppling him over, his socked feet slipping out of his still-stuck shoes.
Theo's duelling Alecto, and Neville's got Amycus — they're both losing ground, though, and it's only a matter of time before something gets through. Draco casts a combination of protego's and curses, praying they connect. The Carrows may be followers instead of leaders, but they're experienced duelists and it shows.
Green flames down the hallway startle him, and Draco spares a moment to glance away. Aurors and unfamiliar witches and wizards are stepping out of the Floos, wands drawn and scowling.
Panic rolls around in his stomach — these are not allies. It's three against dozens, and the numbers keep increasing. Draco slams his hand on Theo's shoulder.
"Protego, all of us!" He shouts, and Neville and Theo instantly follow his order. A visible wall of protection lights up in front of them. Draco has only seen a combined protego maxima charm once, and it had been at Hogwarts Castle, with all the staff coming together.
Theirs is strong, but Draco knows it won't last. Even now, curses are slamming into the wall, and it sputters before reforming.
"We've got to get out of here," Theo pants, sweat staining his brow,
"No way out," Draco hisses, pouring more magic into his wand.
Neville huffs, "They'll come. You'll see. Just wait."
Draco turns to look at the Gryffindor, and dread coats him when he realizes what's happened — the coin.
"You told her to come here?" Draco demands. "She'll be killed."
Neville snorts, and Draco's always known Gryffindors were brave, but Longbottom seems to be enjoying this. "Have a little faith, Malfoy."
He has no faith. He only has desperation coating his bones. He told Hermione he'd follow her anywhere, but he doesn't want her to die. Fuck — he wants to live. He wants them both to live, and expand their cottage, and get a dog or a kid or a fucking library. Anything she wants.
"STUPEFY!" A voice cries, and Draco realizes he's seeing familiar red hair among the crowd. George Weasley, covered in blood, is casting like a madman. Pansy and Blaise are beside him, and for every stunner George sends, they shoot out dark curses.
Wizards go down — one grasps at his chest before he coughs, and a spray of blood mists into the air. The sound of bones cracking echoes in the chamber, and Neville flinches.
A few more familiar faces appear; Molly Weasley is magnificent; she's nearly dancing around two witches half her age. Draco watches as she casts a household charm meant for collecting dishes, but the two witches go flying against each other, stacking in a perfect heap.
"Incarcerous," Draco shouts, letting the protego drop. It hits the witches, and Molly glances up at him with a thankful smile.
"CRUCIO!"
The word registers at the same time as the pain. Draco hits the marbled floors of the Ministry and writhes. His blood boils under his skin, and it feels like every vein inside of him expands while his skin contracts. His bones are cracking and reforming, and he can feel himself slamming his face against the floor, simply to feel something else.
It's not his first crucio — but it is just as terrible as always.
In between silent screams and sobs, Draco sees flashes of Theo's wand — and it's shooting green, not red.
Time seems suspended, and Draco wonders if he's finally going to die.
The entire atrium rocks and even Draco feels it within his haze. The pain stops, and he's twitching on the cold floor.
He looks up, and in front of him is the most beautiful sight he's ever seen in his entire life. Hermione's hair seems larger than life, and she's got blood coating one side of her abdomen. But her arm is in front of her, and her wand is steady. A peculiar copper cube is settled in her other palm, extended and glowing in ancient ruins.
The atrium is silent.
Hermione leans down and sets the cube on the ground, wincing with every movement. Draco tries to force himself to stand, to help her, but nothing cooperates.
She turns and looks at him, and her eyes are wild and wet with tears. Her knees crack against the floor as she drops, and her hands are cold and shaking when she presses them into his cheeks.
"You're alive," she croaks.
He nods — or at least, he tries to.
She closes her brown eyes and leaves them that way. Draco wants to ask her to open them, to talk to him, anything; but all he can manage is moving his hand to the top of her thigh.
Hermione's eyes open, determined and furious.
She stands again, and he forces himself to follow her with his gaze. Hermione steps over bodies — and Draco isn't sure if they're alive or dead.
He realizes what she's about to do when she stops, exactly in the centre of the battle. She raises her wand.
"Hermione, no," Draco hears Ron Weasley's voice as though from far away.
"Yes, Ron," Hermione says. "Enough. This is enough."
And Draco Malfoy watches as Hermione Granger, a muggleborn witch, casts three killing curses in a row without a single break or falter; a feat that not even Lord Voldemort himself could pull off so rapidly.
When she's done, Hermione looks up at her friends, still standing amongst enemies. Draco pulls himself to his knees because even though he doubts his legs would hold him, he's not about to lie down while this happens.
Harry Potter is a few arm lengths from Hermione, and he watches her with exhausted, resigned eyes.
"Can we all help tie up everyone who is unconscious? They'll need to be tried and sentenced." Harry asks loudly. "Hermione, how long will the sleep from that box last?"
Hermione shrugs weakly. "I'm not sure. They weren't done testing on it when I nicked it. I think a week, but it could be less."
"Robards is in the Hearing room," Theo's voice comes from Draco's left, and he turns to see his best friend cradling a broken arm, but otherwise healthy. "We need a curse-breaker or a member of the Wizengamot."
George Weasley steps forward, alone. "We also need to collect the dead. There are bodies on Diagon."
"I need St. Mungo's," Theo admits. "Anyone who needs medical attention should come with me. The Floos are connected again."
A small crowd moves towards Theodore Nott; among them are some former classmates, but also grown witches and wizards Draco barely recognizes. Charlie Weasley is half-carrying a slumped over Zacharias Smith. Blood pours from a slice across his left eyebrow, but he doesn't seem particularly bothered. Draco almost hysterically thinks that he'll look almost as rugged as Bill now.
Pansy Parkinson appears in front of him, and Draco takes in the sight of her. She's got a bruise forming on her neck that looks suspiciously like hands, but she tucks her fingers under his elbows and drags him to his feet, without asking whether he's ready. He sways at first, but it turns out he's stronger than he thought when his knees stop shaking. Pansy is solid under his grasp, and after a moment Draco realizes Neville Longbottom is standing half a step away from him, eyes on Pansy.
"You okay, Pans?" Neville asks quietly.
Pansy nods easily. "Yeah. We have to get Draco to St. Mungo's, though."
"No," Draco argues. "Take me to Hermione."
He's lost sight of her in the crowd's movement. Unconscious bodies are being trussed up and placed against a far wall under Molly Weasley's careful supervision. Theo is disappearing in green flames, with a line out of the same Floo, all headed to Healers. George Weasley drags the four death eater bodies to a space in front of the golden statue and conjures a sheet over them. Draco wonders if he does so out of guilt for their deaths, or just because he'd rather not look at them.
"Where is she?" Neville asks — and Draco snaps his eyes to the Gryffindor. So he's not the only one who can't see her.
He forces his muscles to stop seizing under him and steadies his feet. "We have to find her. Hawksworth and Dolohov are still out there."
"Where would she go?" Pansy questions, scowling at the room. She takes a step away from him, and Draco stays steady on his feet with pure willpower alone.
Neville sighs. "Ron and Harry are gone, too. I'm guessing they either went to Shacklebolt's office or the DMLE."
Draco opens his mouth only to feel the strangest sensation — he's only felt it once before, and it grows stronger and wilder with every moment, just the same as it had then. The last time he had followed it and found Hermione curled over in Malfoy Manor, standing in the spot he had last seen his aunt torture her in, hand clamped to the bracelet he'd given her.
He apparates away instantly without thought of where he's headed.
Draco lands hard on stone floors, but he's still on his feet. His wand is clenched in his hand, and he glances around wildly. There are glowing orbs on shelves stacked all around him, and he can't see anyone — can't see Hermione.
He hears them though, suddenly. Dolohov's voice echoes around viciously, punctuated by a shrill scream of pain. It's not Hermione's voice, though, and relief seeps into his bones for a moment. The noise had covered the crack of his apparition, and Draco raps his own wand against his head. His disillusionment spell blends him into the murky dark of the room, and he's praying the advantage of surprise will be enough. Draco creeps quietly towards the screaming, and freezes when he's finally close enough to see the source of the noise. Rage unlike anything he's ever felt storms through him, and he has to force himself not to move.
Hermione is limp on the ground. She's got blood all down her side from earlier, but her left leg is splayed out in a terribly crooked manner. She's twitching, and Draco's not fool enough to believe she hasn't been crucio'd. She must have pressed her hand into her bracelet as a last resort.
Hawksworth hasn't been quite so lucky — he's still conscious and shrieking so loudly Draco can hear his vocal cords nearly shrivelling. He's got blood coming out of his ears and eyes, and the last time Draco had seen a crucio this intense had been with Bellatrix and a Muggle.
The Muggle hadn't lived.
It's hard to summon any pity for the snivelling wreck in front of him. Hawksworth has played with a fire he can't control and ruined so many lives in doing so. He should have known better — but instead, he thirsted for power and it's destroyed him, the same as Voldemort. The same as Draco's own father.
"Please, please," Hawksworth begs when Dolohov takes a break from his torture. His voice sounds like garbled glass shards in his throat. Draco's not sure if he's begging for his life or for Dolohov to put him out of his misery.
Hermione's lashes flutter, and Draco stills — there's no sign of Potter or Weasley around, but at any moment Hawksworth will succumb to Dolohov's wand, and his attention will turn back to Hermione. Draco can't afford to wait for them.
Draco's hands are sweaty, and he grips his wand tightly. He raises it slowly so Dolohov won't notice his disillusionment from where he's hidden behind a shelf, and wonders if he's strong enough for this. Antonin Dolohov was always exceptionally gifted in both spell work and cruelty. There is no room for mistakes.
Then — Hermione groans. It's a pathetic sound, and Draco's tentative plans fly out of his brain at her obvious misery.
Dolohov flicks his wand and Hawksworth goes sliding along the stone floor into a shelf. He doesn't move.
"Wakey wakey little Mudblood," Dolohov nearly coos. "The last time I met you here, I nearly killed you. There is no escape this time."
He twitches his wand hand, and Hermione is suddenly being levitated into the air. She gasps as her leg catches on the stone, biting back a cry. Draco flinches — but for the smallest moment Hermione glances in his direction and he stills. She can't see him, he knows she can't, but Draco is suddenly sure that she knows he's there. He hopes she does — because no matter how this plays out; he has no intention of watching Hermione be tortured again without interfering.
When she's finally stationary, floating nearly a foot above the ground, Hermione blinks up and stares at Dolohov. Fury paints her face, outshining the sweat and blood and pain.
Brave Gryffindor.
"Fuck you," she bites out.
Dolohov tuts at the curse. "Dirty mouth on a dirty bitch."
Hermione spits — mostly blood, and it lands on the lowest hem of Dolohov's robes. His face mottles in fury, and he flicks his wand again. Hermione crashes to the ground, and the scream she releases when her leg hits the stone raises the hair on his arms.
Dolohov is raising his wand, torture and death written on his face, and Draco can't wait any longer.
"EXPELLIARMUS," Draco bellows, his spell connecting into Dolohov's back. His wand flies out of his hand, and Draco catches it as though it is a live snake.
Dolohov turns around, shock clear on his face. It morphs into pleasure at the sight of him.
"Young Master Malfoy," Dolohov greets. "Come to play with the Mudblood?"
Draco stiffens his spine and doesn't let his wand drop a single inch. "Get the fuck away from my wife, Antonin."
Dolohov sneers, "Blood traitor — but I should have known. You always were as weak as your mother."
"Deprimo," Draco hisses. It's not necessarily a dark spell, intended for shattering doors or glass or earth; when aimed at a person, however, it rips a cavernous hole into their flesh. Draco hopes the shelf behind Dolohov gets painted with his blood.
The spell dissipates moments before connecting, and Draco realizes Dolohov's hand is in his pocket and actively casting a shield. His meaty fist drags a new wand out of the pocket and aims at him, and Draco flinches and throws up the fastest protego he can. It's just enough that it blocks the curse Dolohov shot at him; luckily, the curse is weak for Dolohov — the spare wand must be Hawksworth's, and not cooperating very well.
It's all the edge Draco needs. Antonin has decades of experience, but Draco is a Malfoy. He's born and bred from a powerful and clever line, and Dolohov is holding a shoddy wand.
Draco shoots anything he can think of at the Death Eater in fast succession. Dolohov is reduced to throwing himself out of the ways of the jinxes, his protego's barely holding off simple spells.
It's only once Dolohov collapses after a particularly nasty hex that Draco approaches. Even kneeling at his feet and gasping for air, Antonin Dolohov is terrifying. Draco can feel hatred coiling and poisonous inside of him; a familiar feeling he was bathed in during the war. Draco reaches into the memories he usually tries to forget and remembers his Aunt Bella — the lessons she taught him.
He sucks in a breath and pictures the hatred he feels as a tangible thing; he summons any memories of fury and pain. It's almost how Hermione had described casting a Patronus, only in reverse.
Dolohov flinches in preparation for what's coming; he'd trained under Bellatrix, too, after all. Any shield charm Dolohov attempts will be destroyed utterly under the force of Draco's spell, and he knows it.
He doesn't cast a protego, though. Instead, Dolohov throws his arm towards Hermione, who is still flat on the floor but watching with wide eyes.
"Crucio—"
"Avada Ked—"
Dolohov's words are choked off, and instead, the air is filled with the sound of screaming. Draco doesn't let up, and he watches as Antonin Dolohov contorts under the power of his fury — it's not enough. Draco's not sure if it will ever be enough. It's addictive, the power, and Draco hates Antonin enough that he's prepared to take this exactly as far as Bellatrix would.
"Draco," Hermione calls.
Antonin's gone silent — his screams unheard but still sounding in his mind. Draco doesn't need to imagine all the people Dolohov has done this to; he watched firsthand, so many times. This is the most powerful crucio Draco's ever cast — the first one with any real hatred behind it, and it shows.
"Draco," Hermione begs. "Please."
It's this, more than anything else. He's never heard her beg before. Never heard her so helpless, not even on the floor of Malfoy Manor.
He breaks the spell and turns to her. She's got tears down her face, but she's alive. She's so fucking alive it takes his breath away.
"That's enough, Draco," Hermione tells him. "No more."
He blinks.
Dolohov is wheezing on the floor, and his eyes are rolling around in his sockets, taking in the room as though he's got no idea where he is anymore.
Draco's not about to be fooled though. He murmurs an incarcerous and watches in satisfaction as thick bindings coil themselves around Dolohov's limbs. Draco stumbles over to Hermione and collapses beside her.
"Episkey," he mutters, dragging his wand lightly against the slice across her ribs. It doesn't close, and he casts the spell again, panic filling him.
Hermione's hand reaches up and touches his gently, breaking his focus. Draco blinks at her; the world feels muted yet vivid, and he only realizes that he's in shock when he meets her endlessly tender expression.
"It needs dittany," Hermione explains gently. "I left my bag with Ron. We'll have to go get it."
Draco nods — all the words he's ever known have suddenly left him.
"Draco," Hermione says softly. "Draco — we're both okay. It's over. You're safe."
Her fingers are still twitching, and Draco can't even bear to look at her leg, but when she reaches both hands towards him, he nearly falls into her. She wraps her arms so tightly around his ribs he can hardly breathe — but he doesn't want her to let go.
She's shaking in his embrace, and he realizes the shoulder of his robes are getting damp. He wonders if he's crying, too.
"Granger," he rasps. "Where the fuck are we?"
She laughs wetly. "The Department of Mysteries. Hall of Prophecy. This is where — in fifth year… this is where Dolohov cursed me."
Draco suddenly resents the fact that Dolohov is breathing, even if it sounds like it is coming out of his chest in gasping waves.
"I should have killed him."
Hermione shakes her head against his collarbone. "No. No. I killed the others. We need him to confess. We need everyone to know the truth."
"Let's not worry about it right now," Draco says. He feels suddenly like he's coming back into his body, his own personal gravity provided by Hermione's grasp. "Where are Potter and Weasley, anyway?"
"They're… they're in the Death Room. Dolohov surprised us. Hexed Harry pretty bad before Ron and I could counter him. I left my bag with Ron and followed Dolohov in here. He had Hawksworth petrified on the floor here, and when I approached him, Dolohov managed to sneak up on me. That's when I grabbed my bracelet."
"I felt it," Draco assures. "I came right away."
She releases her hold on him only enough that she can stare into his face. Her eyes are wet with the shadows of pain and relief.
"I didn't know if you'd be able to apparate in here," she whispers, frightened all over again. "But I knew you'd come if you could."
"Of course I would," Draco murmurs. "I'd follow you anywhere. Even this incredibly creepy fucking place."
Draco leans in and kisses her — it's small, but it feels like everything falls back into place when he does it. When he pulls away, he helps her lay back on the stone gently.
"I'm going to have to immobilize you," Draco warns. "You know that, right?"
She nods. "Yeah. My leg. Can you levitate me out? You must be exhausted."
He is, but he's never going to admit it. "I'm fine. Which way to the Death Room — which, by the way, is a terrible name for a room and let it be known that I never want to go there."
Hermione laughs weakly and points down an incredibly dark hallway lined by glowing orbs. "It's down there. Just… just don't go near the Archway, okay, Draco? Please."
"I won't," he promises, before drawing his wand. "Immobulus."
Hermione freezes, and Draco levitates her beside him. He feels bone-tired, but he heads the way she had pointed, struggling to put one foot in front of the other, but never letting Hermione drop.
The doorway to the Death Room is covered in ancient runes, and Draco tries not to glance at them before pushing open the heavy iron lock. He steps into a chamber, empty except for a mound in the centre, on which sits a large Archway surrounded by an eerie mist. Draco immediately wants to go to it, but he forces his eyes away.
Ron Weasley has his wand pointed at him and surprise on his face. "Malfoy? How the fuck did you get down here so fast?"
Draco stumbles in, Hermione following behind him. Her leg is still bent at a horrifying angle, but it's not moving. Ron goes pale.
"I… I know how to apparate to her. Through any barriers." Draco explains, before stumbling to a stop beside Weasley. Potter is laying on the dirt, pale and covered in blood, but his green eyes are blinking open with awareness.
Draco lays Hermione down on the dirt beside him and tries to summon up enough energy to cast another spell. Ron must see the exhaustion on his face, because he points his wand at Hermione and mutters, "Rennervate."
Hermione blinks at the sight of them and promptly bursts into tears. "You're both okay!"
"Of course we are, 'Mione!" Ron assures her. "Did you doubt us?"
Hermione sniffs. "I doubted you'd find the dittany in my bag."
Ron laughs. "You're right. That was the hardest part — not duelling dark wizards or anything, but instead accio-ing a tiny bottle I've seen you pull out a million times."
Draco smiles when Hermione laughs at Ron's words. Weasley hands the tiny bottle over to him, and Draco pulls her shirt up to reveal a terrifying amount of blood and a deep laceration.
"It's fine," Hermione says, noticing his expression. "Put the dittany on. It's fine."
Draco pours far more dittany than strictly necessary on the wound and ignores all of his wife's protests. Dittany is expensive, sure, but he's more than prepared to buy gallons of the stuff if it will help.
The slice closes before his eyes and Draco can almost feel Hermione's relief from where he's sitting.
"I can hear him," Potter says suddenly.
Draco blinks and turns to him — both Ron and Hermione are already watching him, a mixture of sadness and pity coating them.
"I'm sorry… who are we talking about?" Draco asks.
Harry Potter meets his gaze. "Your cousin, actually. Sirius Black. He was my godfather, and he died here. I can hear him."
Draco blinks. "Potter, after all those years at school where people thought you were crazy, have you not learned that perhaps you should not say you can hear dead people?"
Harry laughs, and the darkness of the room feels less.
"He'd be proud," Hermione adds. "Sirius, I mean. Of all of us, I think."
Ron Weasley nods and then looks at Draco. "I think he'd be proud of you too, mate. Thanks for coming to help."
Draco realizes abruptly that his throat feels clogged at the praise — praise from Ron Weasley. He clears his throat and glances away.
"Let's get out of here," Hermione declares. "I need St. Mungo's, and so does Harry. Plus, we left Hawksworth and Dolohov tied up, but they need to be tried and put in Azkaban."
Ron winces. "I need St Mungo's too, actually. Not as much as you two, but I think I broke a rib."
Draco drags himself back to his feet, but Ron is the one who immobilizes Hermione and levitates her this time. Draco lets Potter wrap an arm around his shoulders, and together their rag-tag crew stumbles out of the Department of Mysteries.
They don't have to make it far; they run into Neville just outside of the Wizengamot chamber. His eyes bug open at the sight of them, and he rushes forward to grab Harry.
"What happened to you four?!" He demands. "One minute I was standing by Draco, and the next he disapparated inside the Ministry!"
"It's a long story," Harry says wearily. "But Draco left Hawksworth and Dolohov down in the Department of Mysteries. Take a few people and go get them — they need to be locked up."
"They may, uh, they may not be conscious," Draco warns. The sight of Dolohov's eyes rolling around in the dark feels far away, but Draco wonders if he took the crucio too far. He doesn't regret it — but Hermione was correct. They do need Dolohov to admit to these crimes.
Neville shouts down the hallway until Pansy appears with Molly Weasley in tow. Molly rushes to their side, embracing them all gently, one at a time. Draco doesn't even flinch at her hug.
"Set her down, Ronald," Molly commands, gesturing at an immobilized Hermione.
Ron does, and Draco sighs with relief when he does it slowly and gently. Molly Weasley gently brushes them aside and flicks her wand at Hermione, who blinks her eyes at her sudden freedom.
"Dolor Torpet," Molly says, and a soft pink glow surrounds Hermione, who sighs in relief. "That will feel better, dear. Numbing spell — only works for a few minutes, so I must be quick."
Hermione opens her mouth, and Draco can already hear the thousands of questions his witch wants to ask about the spell, but Molly is already running her wand down Hermione's leg, a shimmering diagnostic appearing above her knee. Draco's only ever seen a diagnostic cast by actual mediwitches, and he's surprised Molly Weasley knows one.
"Where did you learn that spell?" Draco asks.
Molly huffs, "Draco, honestly, I have seven children. I learned how to cast a simple diagnostic and a few healing charms after we went to St. Mungo's for the thirteenth time with Bill."
"I wish I had asked you," Hermione groans. "I read so many healing books when we were on the run. I never thought to ask!"
"Don't worry, darling. I can show you later," Mrs. Weasley assures. "Now, brace yourself. Brackium Emendo!"
Hermione's leg snaps straight again with a sickening crunch, and Draco watches his wife go a greenish shade before fainting, her head clunking against the floor.
"Oh dear," Molly mutters. "Should have put a cushioning charm there. She's alright boys, she will still need St. Mungo's, but the break is re-aligned and on its way to healing."
"You're amazing, Mrs. Weasley," Harry breathes, relief written all over his face.
Molly stands and dusts her hands off on her robe, turning back to them. "Now, you lot go straight to St. Mungo's, you hear? Arthur and I have things covered here."
"Is everyone alright?" Ron asks eagerly. "I saw George earlier… there was a lot of blood."
Molly purses her lips, pain flickering across her expression, and Draco's stomach drops. "Your brothers are fine, Ronald. Go to St. Mungo's. We'll handle it here."
She spins and begins marching away before they can ask anything else, and Harry sags into the wall where he's standing. He's pale and drawn, and Draco wonders if this is what the war had been like for him. How jealous he had been of the Chosen One in those months, when he had been stuck as an unwilling Death Eater — but perhaps it had been its own kind of torture.
"We've lost people," Harry murmurs.
Ron nods and casts a new immobilizing and levitating charm on Hermione. He tugs Harry upright again and claps a hand on Draco's shoulder.
"We did," Ron agrees. "And because of them, for them, we must start over again."
Draco huffs, but he starts taking steps forward, Harry Potter's arm looped over his shoulder, and both of them limping towards the elevators.
"How the hell do you propose we do that?" Draco grouses, achy and tired and filled with sorrow.
"Together, of course." Harry Potter answers, glancing at his best friends, bloodied and battered and determined. "It's the only way to start anything worthwhile."