AUTHOR'S NOTE: small TW with this chapter, mention of minor character deaths (one being a child). none of these are described explicitly by any means, but I want to respect those who would appreciate a heads up. These aspects take place in the italicized scenes toward the middle and end. shoutout to astrangefan and Stein048 for their alpha work on this chapter; forever grateful for the feedback!

Once upon a time, there was a seed. The seed had sprouted from a mighty, royal oak, but fell one day and was taken far from where she should have grown up, on the grand estate of a magical family.

The seed traveled on the back of an animal to a tiny village outside the castle walls. There, a small boy caught the animal, slitting its throat before beheading it with a cleaver. After, the boy plucked the seed from the animal's coat and tucked it into his pocket. Later, the little boy bartered with a man: a handful of seeds for a basket of fruit.

Transaction complete, the seed was left alone in a jar where she sat for many, many years.

Over the years, many more seeds were added to the jar, while others were removed and sold to patrons. At first, she used to perk up when farmers would come shopping. But no one ever came in asking for oak, so the royal seed sat and seethed.

It was disparaging, a disgrace to her good grooming, but what could she do? She was trapped in a jar, her glass prison. It seemed she was doomed to die there, forgotten at the back of a shelf.

For what was a seed without someone to sow it?

Her spirit was much dried out, the will to live and grow leaving her slowly day after day of being passed over for other seeds. Did no one desire the powers of the royal oak? Of course, she would require a level of care and devotion that others might not; other seeds were more simple than she, they would sprout and bloom more quickly with less effort.

Eventually, the seed gave up hope of ever being selected. Instead, she found solace in memories of the sun and the wind. Taking comfort in the thought of the children that used to play beneath her mother's mighty leaves at the estate where the seed was born.

Just when she thought that she would die, that her life force would end at the bottom of a jar on a shelf covered in cobwebs in the shop of a man who was too drunk to even hand the person the right seed half the time, a traveler came into the shop. And suddenly her years of solitude were over.

He didn't sound like the others that had cockney accents, rather much more like a rogue. The man came in with one specific request: he was looking for something special. He told the shopkeep how he needed the best seed and asked to look through the jar to hand-select it himself.

It was a moment of fate, a turn in the road of the seeds' life. When his finger touched her, she nestled into his warmth, absorbing some of it as her own. It was a moment of instant connection.

He plucked her from the jar curiously, examining her stripes and ridges, before placing her in a white silk handkerchief that smelled of honey and wildflowers. There he wrapped her up delicately before placing her in his breast pocket.

"Pyronesia," Hermione interrupted when the centaur took a breath. "I have a question-"

"Too bad." The centaur spat, irritated with the impatient human. "No questions. Just listen."

Hermione's jaw dropped, affronted by the brusqueness of the centaur. She could have sworn that she heard snickering, but Pyronesia's face was impassive, devoid of even a hint of amusement.

The witch eyed the surrounding trees suspiciously and the centaur drew her bow, but after several moments they both relaxed, hearing nothing but the chirping of insects and the faint rustling of the surrounding trees that swayed with the wind.

Hermione gazed into the night sky, seeing Ursa Minor through the barren branches of the oak that sat atop the bluff. Her eyes traced the branches to the trunk of the tree, smiling as she thought it might be an oak, like the seed of the story.

Her eyes found the centaur again. Pyronesia glared at her crossly.

"May I please continue? Or would you like to waste more of my time?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose, trying to remind herself why she was helping the centaur, despite her abhorrent attitude that permeated their every interaction. "By all means," she bit out through clenched teeth.

Pyronesia sheathed her arrow, studying the wall of Earth behind her for a moment. Her body was tense when she turned back to Hermione. The light of the moon through the barren tree limbs above highlighted the scrapes on her torso, brightly contrasting parts of her still covered in shadows.

Hermione expected a snarky retort from the Centaur who always seemed angry, but the beast closed her eye and took several breaths, recentering as she continued where she left off with her story.

The man was no ordinary human, but a wizard hiding amongst men. Every day the beating of his heart strengthened the seed, the thrum of his magic against her hardening her resolve. The man who had saved her — the man who would plant her, tend her, make something out of her — for him, she would do anything. For him, she would give her eternal devotion.

He had suffered from loneliness just like the seed. The tears he cried at night were dabbed with the white silk cloth he kept her in, the intensity of his emotions fueling the increasing depth of the feelings the seed developed for the man who had lost so much.

He had once been a rich man, who lost his wife to sickness. The man had stayed by her side, watching the light fade from her, tending to her sickness until the bitter end. Despite his wealth, his power, and his influence, he could not save her.

He tried valiantly to save his beloved. Rituals, potions, and spells, but nothing could cure her of her ailment. His efforts, however, attracted the attention of nearby villagers, who feared the strange family in the woods that could do supernatural things. Eventually that fear spread to the woods where strange lights could often be seen at night accompanied by equally peculiar noises.

The villagers feared the power of the wizard, so they set fire to his home on the night of the woman's death. In his grief and agony over the blaze, the man did not notice that his son ran back into the house to rescue the body of his mother.

His son never made it out.

The man wanted to kill the villagers for their attack, but knew that they couldn't understand, wouldn't understand what was being done to them. Allowing his rage to drive him would do nothing but draw more attention. It would only bring him more pain, more judgment, and more suffering. So he fled instead, too grief-stricken to face the deaths that had happened under his watch.

The man went away for many years, convincing himself that to heal he had to stay away from that place of pain. It was better to find more people like him where he could be accepted and avoid the persecution that claimed his wife and son. So he took off, heading south to the great city of London.

While the man was away, the fire that burned his home and his family was left to fester, spreading to the surrounding wood and burning the entire forest until nothing was left but a thick layer of ash. The blood and ash soaked the soil, nourishing it, but without seed or anything living, nothing could grow.

"So this man," Hermione interjected, trying to be sure that she understood exactly what Pyronesia was saying (for once), "he ran away to London where he bought the seed… did he plant it somewhere here? Is he the Hero of the Wood?"

"Have you been listening to anything I have said?" Pyronesia blustered, a strong crease forming along her brow.

"Of course, I have been!" Hermione was offended, having never found herself distracted during a lecture. She opened her mouth to defend herself further, but Pyronesia cut her off.

"Please," the centaur implored, "for once in your life, stop asking so many questions. You say you want to understand, but you're not actually listening… all you're doing is waiting for your turn to talk!"

At that, Hermione stretched out her legs in front of her and crossed her arms over her chest, her face scrunching into a pout much like a scolded child. Pyronesia was right: Hermione was so focused on the wolf, the census, and her promotion that she had been treating the troubles of the Centaur as something she would deal with when she had to. Hermione's search for answers was blinding her to the information being presented to her. And, if her constant scanning of the surroundings were any indicator, Pyronesia was going out of her way and putting herself at risk by telling the tale.

How selfish Hermione felt at that moment when the implications of the health of the Forbidden Forest hit her. To Hermione, it was upsetting and presented an issue in completing her work assignment, but to Pyronesia, the forest was her home. Presumably, the place she had lived her entire life.

Safe land was rare for Centaurs, sovereign land even more so – without their forest, what would come of the herd? Or any of the other creatures in the wood for that matter?

"I'm sorry," Hermione exhaled sadly. "This is important and I haven't given it the attention it deserves."

Pyronesia snorted in agreement.

"Go on," Hermione encouraged, promising, "I won't say anything else until you're through."

Trouble can have a way of finding you when you're hiding out, even if you assimilate perfectly to your environment.

The man found his way on the streets of London, playing cards and gambling in hopes to amass his wealth quickly. But it wasn't safe. The men he was associating with were dangerous and powerful. They didn't take well to the newcomer in town, especially when he started winning poker games at an alarming rate, despite other players holding competitive cards.

But in every trick he learned, in all the money he gained, he couldn't mend the hole in his heart that begged to be filled with love, with someone to nurture and care for. He thought about the laughter and joy his boy had brought to his life, he imagined hearing his delighted shrieks echoing under the trees that had once been their home — he searched for that joy in every jin joint in London, but never found the solace he was looking for at the bottom of any bottle.

While the word wizard never escaped their lips, the man could feel his peers growing suspicious of him. He had found nothing he was looking for in London, so he figured that now would be a good time to move on.

But where was he to go? What other city could he roll through, make some money, and run? Small villages were the norm, and too intimate for the types of schemes he was trying to pull. And besides, how far could he run until someone from his past caught up with him?

No. The man knew that he couldn't live like this forever. He had to make a change.

He took his poker winnings and bought some supplies, landing on the thought that it might be nice to go home and try to rebuild what he once had. He even picked out a strong-looking seed, one that he hoped would grow and thrive despite any adversary, unknowingly saving the seed from the bitter death of an unfulfilling life.

The man found his way home, swept there by the waves of grief, with no trouble having found him on the way. He returned to find that the destruction and damage done to him by the muggles had burned everything to the ground until nothing remained. The land of this wood was barren: a desolate wasteland of nothingness stretching between peaks of mountains in Scotland.

The man ran then, sprinting through layers of ash and debris, to a spot between two streams that trickled with black water. There he planted the seed and watered it with tears he shed in memory of his home, his son, and his beloved wife.

Every day the man would travel to the center of the wasteland and kneel above the planted seed, weeping; streams of tears the physical manifestation of his grief. After two weeks when he returned, there was a tiny green stalk peeping out of the black dirt. This small little seedling was enough to give him hope and the next day he returned with water and a book. He sat there reading to the seedling, so proud every day as it grew under his devoted watch.

With every bit of growth, the man felt his soul rejuvenating. It was a beautiful thing, to see new life in a place where so much had been lost. The work made the man feel so good that he wanted to do more. So, he traveled back day after day, bringing with him the seeds of flowers and trimmings from plants so they might take root and populate the rest of the barren soil. After all, it just wouldn't do to have his seedling be all alone as it grew to a sapling.

After some time, the man built a shelter and began to stay in the field, tending to and nurturing the ground, still allowing his love and mourning and sorrow to soak into the dirt with the tears he shed of the memories that haunted him.

The seed that he had planted began to thrive; it grew and it loved the man for tending to her. She grew and she gained power from his love. His power was strong, his love for his lost family even stronger, and it took not but three years for the wasteland to be transformed into a young forest. The most interesting of creatures found the place, seeking refuge, like him, among the hidden leaves.

Eventually, his little seedling was no longer a sapling, but a full-grown oak. He slept under her canopy and climbed her branches for sport, but most of all he loved and cared for the tree. He read to her every night and when he finally stopped leaving the forest entirely and had no more books to share, he would tell her stories that he knew. Most of them were fantasy, tales of wonder and magic, but they all held a shroud of his life within them. A bit of shadow from the past that wouldn't stop hanging over him.

For no matter how far you run, no matter how much good you do, the past always comes back to haunt you. You can't run from your former self.

You can't run, but I can hide. Draco thought bitterly as he pressed his ear against the damp wall of Earth, where he strained to hear the words of the Centaur as she told a fabled tale.

Draco had always enjoyed a good story, though the ones the house elves made up for him as a child rarely stood out as memorable. More so it was his mother who would read to him fanciful tales, reminding him not to inform Lucius of their special story times. Though he never understood why he had to lie to his father. He supposed his mother just wanted to cherish the time between them, as Draco had so dearly.

Her stories now were long gone. His heart ached to hear one again, but he would never get the chance.

Hell, there was a high chance he'd never read a book again, let alone have a story told to him directly.

Eavesdropping would be a good substitute, he supposed.

Not like he had much of a choice in the matter for he was confined to the bounds of his hole while Granger remained on the hunt for him. Luckily, his haul of food kept him sustained for now; there was only so long he would be able to stay completely hidden. His fingers twitched for a bag of crisps, but he had already had his ration for the day – Draco needed to remain strong against his urges, all of his urges, if he wanted to survive.

He settled down next to the exterior wall that adjoined the split of the creek, leaning against the dirt and roots, allowing his eyes to close as the words of the centaur took him back centuries, to a time when the wood became dark.

Trouble found the man as those from London found a nearby village filled with humans who feared the man, the wood and their power. The humans came hunting for the man, but the Forest protected him fiercely, striking down those who dared to attack her human. Their blood soaked into her roots, making her stronger, the darkness within her acting as a magnet to attract the extraordinary and repel those without magic.

The Wood became abundant, powerful… greedy. She stretched to her current size and the duo enjoyed many years of harmony, but after all the years of growth, the man had grown old and tired. The creatures of the Forest challenged him for dominance and in his older state, he could no longer defend against their attempts to gain power over him under Her leaves. He wanted to move somewhere quieter, safer, even if it meant leaving everything he had worked for behind.

The Forest was not happy about his desire to leave. He had raised Her from a single seed, saved her from a life of solitude, developed her into the bountiful wood that thrived under his care. He was her hero, one that she was not willing to let go of.

So the Wood went to great lengths to keep him, drawing forth the magic and power of all her inhabitants to tie them together so he would not leave her, bound together by life, by blood, and by magic.

And though the man was physically rejuvenated, he was still tired and grew sad as the years passed. Everyone he loved, every person he had known, had died. To any human living, it was as if he didn't exist.

The wood tried to cheer him up, bringing forth wonderful creatures within her borders that fascinated him. A magical school was built beyond the border and he marveled at it, the excitement of watching the towers be constructed elating him. Their proximity ignited a fervor for life within him, causing the Forest to grow and strengthen in turn. It was a summer of joy and abundance for all.

Her hero made a friend, a maiden that would visit from the castle walls. At first, the forest was happy for them, watching him delight in the birthday celebration made special by a display of fairies as the man, the maiden, and his maiden's companions delighted, treasured, and celebrated the Forest and her bounty. It was lovely to have more humans within her wood, to feel the love and magic emanate from them; the Dark Wood soaked up every drop.

The woman and her companions came to the wood to visit the man frequently, in between their time spent building their castle and reinforcing it with wards and spells. After a time, the woman began to visit more frequently, without the accompaniment of a chaperone. The wood was happy to look after the woman, but soon the man took a keen interest in her. The woman continued to visit, often under the darkness of night.

It was strange the way they would whisper and how the man would light up when he made the woman giggle. The forest had never seen him like that before. The happiness the forest felt at the man's connection to other humans was quickly replaced by bitter jealousy when the man began focusing more heavily on the maiden and spending less and less time concerned about the welfare of the wood.

The man couldn't leave the wood, a fact that he grieved at night when he thought no one was listening. He wished to be back with others like him, to reintegrate into wizarding society, but it was a world that didn't belong to him anymore. He only had the wood and the wood would always be there for him.

The man would wait anxiously at the edge of the forest on the days in which the maiden promised to come. She always stuck to her word until one day she didn't; she never showed up and didn't come back. While the man was sad and worried about the woman who hadn't come, the wood was more than happy to comfort him, sheltering him from the wind at night and the cold loneliness he felt with the warm embrace of her leaves.

There was no sign of her for many months. Winter came, but the harsh conditions did not stop the man from standing at the periphery of the forest every day from sunrise to sunset, waiting for the woman he loved. When the iciness of the winter equinox became too much for the man to bear, the man implored the wood to bestow a gift upon him so he may be protected from the weather just as well as the other creatures of the forest. The wood was happy to oblige, but required further modification of their standing arrangement: in addition to the physical linkage that already bound them and ensured their collective immortality, he had to submit as her servant, as well.

They were already bound for life, he figured. The wood loved him, so the man was sure that nothing could possibly go wrong.

The man accepted her offer, submitting himself as an extension of her power and will, known forevermore as The Hero of the Wood. Under the light of a full moon, the Dark Wood gave the man the ability to shape-shift; marking him as her protector, a great and powerful wolf.

Draco's eyes snapped open as his face pulled into a sneer.

Did she just say wolf?

He backed away from the wall, pawing at his cheek as if he could rid himself of the dirt that was practically ingrained into his bones. His body itched with the desire to escape his own skin. The words of the centaur were having a strange effect on him and he felt as though someone was sitting on his chest. With the blink of an eye, Draco shifted to his animal form. The wolf paced his den several times, the routine beginning to calm the pounding of his heart.

But he remained incensed after learning that yet another wolf had called the wood home. It made him wonder, how many of them were there, anyway?

A sense of warmth crept from the roof of his home. Draco relaxed, tuning his own energy into the aura, safe and warm like a mother's hug. He stopped pacing, feeling better, yet still wary. With his adversaries just beyond his outer wall, now was not the time to let his guard down, despite the feeling of protection that always accompanied him when he was in his wolfish form.

Ears up and alert, he panted while the centaur carried on with her story. This part was one that Draco thought he knew well: the reason the Dark Wood became forbidden.

Spring brought the blooming of flowers, a promise of new life. The wolf prowled the edge of the forest daily; lying in wait, hoping to catch sight of the maiden. He finally saw her and shifted to his human form so he could call out to her.

She approached reluctantly, a grim smile on her face. The forest wasn't the only thing growing new life: the maiden was pregnant. Her condition had forced her into marrying the father of the child, one of her companions, who forbade her from returning to the forest ever again. This was it, her time to say goodbye.

It crushed him to lose her, but the hero knew his time to have a family had passed. The forest and her creatures were his family now, but that didn't stop the hole of loneliness, the longing for his former life, to eat away at him night after night.

Years passed with no sign of the maiden or anyone else for that matter. The castle was finished and after some time, children began flooding the area every autumn, but few dared to enter the wood, most too scared of the creatures that they might find.

One day the maiden's companions came to the wood, talking in hushed whispers. The man wanted to listen in without drawing himself attention, so he shifted his form so that he wouldn't be recognized by the wizards. It was the maiden's husband, the one that had forbidden her from seeing the man. The husband was angry, cursing the maiden by name.

It was then the hero heard a plot: the husband was going to poison his wife. The wolf flashed his teeth, he wouldn't allow the maiden to be harmed, not if he could help it. He'd kill them both if he had to, he would do anything for the woman he loved.

The wood wrapped vines around his back paws, preventing him from attacking with a whispered command: stay.

Shouts could be heard coming from the castle's lawn: a young boy was being chased by his mother. They were heading straight for the woods. The hero watched curiously from the undergrowth as the maiden appeared, out of breath from running after what must have been her child. The devious men hushed at the intrusion, trying to act normal as if they weren't just planning a murder, though the way the maidens' husband was gripping his wand gave clue that something was amiss. The maiden noticed, pushing her son behind her and drawing her own wand from the folds of her skirt.

The hero could take no more watching; he ripped through the vines that held him and ran toward the group with a predatory growl.

His sudden intrusion startled the maiden and not knowing the heroes' animal form, she cursed the wolf in fright.

The wolf crumpled with a yelp, revealing himself as a man, alive but dying. The Forest was enraged and she struck out, throwing the maiden against a tree, the arms of the tree reached out and snapped her neck. A similar fate fell the two wizards from the castle: one was swallowed by the forest floor, never to be seen again, and the other was flung into the air where he was caught by a flying thestral and taken off to the mountains, where it is presumed he was eaten.

The little boy stood terrified, before he found his mother's wand, and held it aloft, eyeing both the trees and the fallen man with horror.

The hero gasped for breaths among the tree roots where he had fallen. The little boy came to his side, kneeling next to him with wide eyes. Roots of the tree snaked forth from the ground, wrapping around the child's extremities, one coiling toward its neck.

"No!" The hero wheezed, speaking with the forest. "Don't hurt him!"

The restraints on the child loosened, roots retreating into the ground lazily. The little boy whimpered, terrified of what he had just seen. "Where is my Papa?!" He shrieked, tears falling freely from his eyes. "What happened to him?"

The man coughed, feeling the life escape him. The forest seemed to wilt in that instant.

The little boy continued to cry, "Who will look after me now?"

"What is your name, son?" The dying man asked the little boy.

"Perseus," the boy answered with a trembling voice, his tears slowing. "Perseus Black."

"Care for him, my love." The man commanded the forest, "Give Mister Black sanctuary in your Dark Wood and breathe life and power into him as you have me." He gasped, finding it harder and harder to fill his lungs with oxygen. "And Mister Black," the dying hero instructed, " serve her and protect her until you can find another to take your place."

The man gripped the boys' arm, which warmed with the transfer of power and magic. The trees stood erect once more, life pooling into their limbs. The man laid weakly on the ground as the last trickles of magic left him and he closed his eyes one last time.

Since that day, the Dark Wood has held Mister Black tightly. Embraced him, nurtured him, and helped him find light in the darkness of his life. The cause of the deaths of the maiden and her companions was never discovered. As a precaution, the castle made the Dark Wood forbidden, warning those who entered that it was likely they would die a most painful death.

He contemplated her words, which penetrated him in an unexpected way. If Draco had been born in a different time, under different circumstances, the man from the story could have very well been him. When the identity of the young boy in the story was revealed, it sent Draco flying out of his canine form.

Fingers threaded into the long, matted locks of his hair and entwined at his crown. His mind was reeling with implications. Draco knew that he wasn't the first Black to live in the Forbidden Forest, but apparently, he hadn't been the first by far… centuries, even.

How could his cousin forget such a vital detail? Or had he really just not known?

Know it all git, of course he had.

Endless questions formulated in his mind; answers to which he wouldn't be able to find on his own. Dread gripped him. Draco hated to admit it, but if he wanted to make clear the things about the Forest — about his life — that perplexed him, he might just need Granger's help after all.

He turned and rested his hands on the simple table he had transfigured from a tree limb many years ago, allowing his head to sag with the weight of the Centaurian tale.

Atop the table, Draco had spread all the objects he had stolen from Granger. Several he was trying to figure out their usage: an eagle feather quill that leapt from his hand when he tried to use it, a pocket watch that also held a mirror, and a smooth, egg-shaped stone that was pale pink and iridescent.

Other tools were obvious;. The silver blade he found in the grass above his den the night Granger slipped through the wards, literally, was meant to cut, to wound. He gripped the hilt, trying to quiet his breathing as he sensed the presence of the witch and the Centaur stirring just outside his emergency door. His eyes fell then to the sneakoscope which sat stationary on the table before him.

Huh. How unexpected.

Finally, silence permeated between the two at the water split. Hermione waited for Pyronesia to signal that she could finally speak, but the centaur never did.

Instead, the beast stood, raising her hand up, presumably aligning it with the stars that were dotting the navy sky. Hermione was curious, wondering which constellation the creature was aligning to. When Hermione stopped staring at the stars herself, she noticed that Pyronesia was edging toward a path in the wood, readying to leave.

"Pyronesia," Hermione hurried to her feet. She grabbed the centaurs' arm before the beast could gallop away, "please, one more question."

The centaur rolled her eyes. "Fine, one. Quickly," she snapped.

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to word the question in a way that would lead to a clear answer from the beast. "If the wolf in the woods is the Hero, then why is the forest still dying?"

Pyronesia gave Hermione a mischievous smirk. "I see he's found you already then; I thought it might take him a bit longer to notice the newcomer down south."

"He who?" Hermione asked desperately, a plea.

Pyronesia shook her head, chuckling. "Bright little witch girl, asking all the right questions though I am unable to give the answers you seek. It has to happen on its own, you see. It remains on plan to allow it to fate."

Hermione sighed dramatically, allowing her head to fall back so she could gaze up at the moon. She let out a small cry, "Why doesn't anyone speak plainly anymore? I'm sick of talking in riddles!"

Pyronesia regarded her severely, "You must discover the secrets of the Dark Wood. Open your eyes, your heart. Follow the tracks, back to where you've been, B4. There's nothing more I can say."

Hermione dropped her gaze to her shoes, frustrated. The flow of information between the centaur and she hardly seemed fair. Never in her life had Hermione been able to just listen without asking questions.

"Nod if you understand, Hermione. It is imperative that you succeed… our lives-"

"And the entire fate of the Forbidden Forest rests in my hands. Yes, you've made that perfectly clear." She regarded the centaur with a pained expression, the weight of saving everyone suddenly on her shoulders once more.

Pyronesia huffed at her before galloping off haughtily, deeper into the Centaur's land, leaving Hermione alone at the split in the stream. She stayed there for several moments, replaying the story of the Hero of the Wood over and over again.

As Hermione took her leave, she noticed something new and strange. It seemed there was a crack in the side of the cliff, but it was hard for Hermione to make it out in the dark forest at night. She was drained from her encounter, too tired to even inspect it. Plus she didn't feel quite safe in the forest alone, the feeling of being watched ever-present.

It wasn't a feeling that Hermione enjoyed, so she made leave for her camp, wand aloft and anxiously listening for any predators that lay in wait. However, Hermione made it back safely to her tent, thoughts of unicorns, babies, and prophetic centaurs weighing heavily on her mind.

She still had more questions than answers, but one thing was clear: Hermione needed to find The Hero of the Wood.

Hooves and shoes splashing through the water were music to his ears, the sounds of his enemies leaving his home. After another twenty or so minutes of stillness, Draco took a breath, allowing his shoulders to relax for the first time in what felt like hours, days… maybe years even.

And though he felt relatively relaxed, a residual tension stayed with him. The knowledge, the threat that his life, his future, was going to be fated to Granger's hand.

He studied his reflection in the flat edge of the blade, the first time he had seen himself for more than a passing glance in a body of water in seven years. Lines had set in on parts of his face, potentially a side effect of the prolonged exposure to his animagus form, or perhaps more time had passed than he realized. His aging face was a shock to him, something tangible that said 'yes, you really have been hiding in the Forbidden Forest for seven years.'

His skin was practically translucent; Draco wondered how long it had been since his face had seen the light of day. Had it been two or three years now? It was difficult to recall.

The simplicity of being the wolf allowed him to stop caring about the passage of time as much as a normal man would have. No, his internal clock ran on a much simpler schedule, set by cleaner parameters. He had to eat, he had to sleep, and most of all, he had to remain unseen.

He'd really cocked that last one up recently, hadn't he?

Anger spiking, he bent the elbow of his knife-wielding hand and launched the weapon across the room. It hit the wall and stuck in the dirt, scattering scraps of parchment in its wake.

This whole life he had built for himself, the safety that he had. It was over. He would be found and probably die at the hand of Hermione Granger.

Despairing, he threw himself atop the scraps and padding that had constituted a bed for his last known state of existence, lamenting that it would soon be no more.

Draco wept himself to sleep, cursing that their sacrifices had been for nothing, that he had ruined his one chance at survival, and that soon it would all come crashing down.