She awoke to the brief whistling of a kettle, it lasted only a moment, but it was enough to stir her from the black depths of a night full of restful sleep.

Dreamless Sleep had become a coping mechanism for her shortly after the war and then again when she returned from Australia. It hadn't been a problem but a necessary evil, as good sleep was crucial but hard to find, given that she was always plagued with nightmares. She hadn't touched a potion in over two years, other than whatever she had been subjected to in Malfoy's wolf den. Hermione had forgotten how calming a full night's rest could be. In fact, she almost felt comfortable upon waking.

Until something in her brain clicked and reality dawned, reminding her that she was back in hell after all.

Her vision was hazy in the aftermath of the Dreamless Sleep potion and she had to shield her eyes from the light that streamed across the room, blinding her. Hemione stretched, bringing forth a smile accompanied by an onslaught of tears — she had forgotten that she could move her arms. It felt so wonderful to be uninhibited, but then she made to flex her knee and was reminded that not everything was feeling so wonderful.

Hermione clenched her teeth as she wriggled against the leather binds around her legs, contorting herself to roll onto her side, push up on her hands, and come to a seated position. Her vision was clearing rapidly as deep, aching pains fought through the magical reprieve that had carried her through the night.

And there was Malfoy, sitting in his chair across the room, one leg crossed over the other and sipping a cup of tea.

He wore a white oxford and navy trousers, both tight across his frame. His shirt sleeves were pushed above his elbows, revealing the chords of his arms, lean and strong. His feet were ever dirty and bare. The hem of the pants was too short for his long legs. A large book rested across his lap. Her wand was clutched lazily in his grasp. A curtain of long hair, that looked much cleaner than the night before but was still ludicrously tangled, hid his face from her.

Upon noticing her awake, Malfoy closed the heavy book on his lap and set it on the table.

"Morning, Granger," Malfoy tipped his glass to her before downing the rest of his tea.

He motioned with his empty glass to Hermione's left, where she found a dainty-looking teacup adorned with tiny pink peonies. She was taken aback by it and cast him a wary glance over her shoulder.

He stood with an impatient sigh. "Are we really doing this again?"

He strode across the room, snatched her cup, and sloshed a sip of tea into his mouth. He then held it between them, careful this time not to spill a single drop. Hermione took it from him slowly and guardedly took a sip, as her mouth felt dry in his proximity.

"Good?" he asked her with a hopeful look.

Hermione licked her lips and nodded. Malfoy smirked, turning back to the kitchen area where he rustled about for a moment before returning with a rolled-up bag of Cheerios which he tossed on the bed beside her. Her stomach rumbled as she reached for them with more trust than she had in the last meal he provided. At least one thing in the underground room felt safe.

She fed herself by the handful, wondering what else he had left from the stolen food. The supplies were to last Hermione a few weeks, but what could they last a man that looked so starved? Her eyes roamed the room, again noting the hardly habitable surroundings until her gaze finally fell on Malfoy, where he stood at the kitchen table, arranging scraps of parchment across the tabletop. Hermione quietly had her fill of cereal and tea while actively combating the empathy that weighed on her conscience.

Malfoy turned around, finding Hermione staring. He exhaled slowly, straightening his posture. "Ready to get started?"

Hermione found herself sitting up straighter, nervousness flooding her veins at the anticipation of the pain that was to come. She had to get out of here. Malfoy or no Malfoy, she had a life and a job and the real world waiting for her on the other side of the wood. The sooner she healed, the sooner she could return to that and, more importantly, find a way to break the oath she so stupidly stumbled into. Only then could she see justice found where it was due.

Malfoy brought the Skele-Gro toward her, Hermione reached for it, but Malfoy drew back when it was just out of reach.

He tapped her wand against his chin in thought, "Let's get a few things straight first, shall we?"

Hermione allowed her hand to drop with a furrow of her brow. This couldn't be good. Didn't he say that he wanted her out of here? What could possibly be so important now to cause yet another delay?

"What now, Malfoy?" She sighed.

His eyes narrowed into a hardened stare, "Who sent you to the Forbidden Forest?"

Hermione shook her head, only imagining what this line of questioning would lead to. But she supposed there was no point in being coy, seeing as he knew whom she worked for. "The Ministry," she stated plainly, with a scoff of irritation.

He strode back to the table, setting down her wand and the Skele-Gro vial with a shaky breath. She tried pulling at the restraint around her thighs while he ran his hands over his face, cursing expletives. It rolled down just a bit before Hermione had to stop when Malfoy turned back to her, his whole body shaking with barely contained emotion.

"What do they know about me?"

Hermione frowned, "Nothing."

"You're lying!" Malfoy pounded a fist on the table, knocking over the potion bottle. Hermione held her breath as she watched it roll toward the edge, stopping only just before toppling over.

"I'm not!" she cried, her eyes not leaving her only hope for leaving this dugout intact.

"Then why are you out here, huh? What business does the Ministry have with the Centaurs?"

Hermione explained the census, trying to stop herself from providing too much detail about the project that had been such a large part of her focus before Malfoy had gone and disrupted everything, halting her progress. Well, she supposed her mishandling of things with the Centaurs also screwed things up, though she wouldn't mind blaming Malfoy for those troubles, either. She babbled on about the areas of the Forbidden Forest she had yet to survey, but skirted around making any comment about the Herd; that was still a problem that Hermione needed to figure out on her own.

Malfoy's temper seemed to cool during her explanation for he made himself comfortable leaning against the table and crossing his arms over his chest. When Hermione finally ran out of steam, he drummed his fingers against his bicep. "And this, count, this census, that you're creating… does it say anything about a wolf?"

"No, Malfoy," Hermione bit, crossing her arms across her chest, "it doesn't. And if it did I'd be magically compelled to remove the information, wouldn't I?"

Malfoy huffed as if offended by her brusqueness, but Hermione didn't care. She was starting to become sick of his presence, let alone his treatment of her so far.

"Satisfied?" Hermione pushed with a condescending tone. "Anything else you'd like to chit-chat about or can you please give me the potion so we can get this over with?"

Malfoy's eyes flashed with what Hermione thought might have been hurt but was steeled into a more guarded look as he snatched the Skele-Gro from the table and finally gave it to her. She unstoppered the vial and Malfoy kneeled, staying her hand before she could bring the glass to her lips. His expression was vulnerable and filled with dread. She moved her arm roughly away from him but held the vial tight in her lap when his eyes dropped to the floor.

"There's one more thing I should warn you about," he admitted, thrusting his hands into his pants pockets.

Gods, what now? The blood oath was fake and – surprise! – I'm going to kill you?

He withdrew two skinny vials containing thick orange liquid and set them down next to her. His eyes met hers with a look of shame that Hermione couldn't make sense of. He licked his lips, "These are the only doses of pain elixir left."

Hermione's heart seized in her throat – from what she had read, regrowing one bone was hell to endure unmedicated, but regrowing three long bones. She shuddered, reminding herself that there was no other choice to be had.

Malfoy sat back against the dirt wall next to the bed, watching her from where his head rested atop bent knees.

Hermione took several steadying breaths, gathering her Gryffindor courage. She reminded herself that Harry had endured Skele-Gro as a preteen and under much less dire circumstances. Realistically, she had no choice but to ovary up and drink the potion.

She unstoppered the bottle, wrinkling her nose at the pungent curl of smoke that crawled from the vial. She glanced warily at Malfoy, who watched her quietly, his eyebrows high on his forehead and his fists clutched tightly, hugging his legs. A shaky breath escaped her lips and Hermione shook out her shoulders, gathering her determination to do the damn thing.

She brought the vial to her lips.

"This is going to hurt," Malfoy warned.

She met his comment with a frown and disdain, but Hermione didn't break eye contact as she tipped back the potion, swallowing the contents in one go. The liquid set a line of fire down her throat and she shook her head to try and shake off the foul taste. A coughing fit hit her after a greedy inhale, one that wracked her entire body until she thought she might fall over – but fall over she didn't, for Malfoy was there with a strong hand steadying her shoulder, and the pink peony tea cup filled with water.

She took the water and chugged it, leaning back against the wall and catching her breath.

Malfoy stood and dusted the dirt off his pants while addressing her, "Well, fuck. Cheers, I guess." He chuckled, shuffling back over to this chair. "I can't believe you chugged that in one go without any hesitation; hopefully it works." He picked up his text again, mumbling, "stupid Gryffindors."

It wasn't the insult that made her cross, but rather one particular disjunct that set her on edge. Her voice was hoarse over the burning of her throat. "Hopefully?" She croaked.

Malfoy sat back in his chair, opening his book. "Yeah," he confirmed while crossing one ankle over his other knee, "hopefully it works."

"What do you mean 'hopefully', Malfoy?" Her voice was becoming shrill, panic rising. Had she fallen for yet another one of his traps?

He massaged his temples with a sigh, clearly not wanting to answer her based on the reddening of his face and neck, but the words came tumbling forth against his attempts to control them, "Well," he hedged, "I'm not quite sure about Skele-Gro efficacy past the shelf life. Typical apothecary variety is good for a year or two, but that's with stasis charms and precise brewing. That, " he motioned to the empty bottle in her fist, "Well, we'll see what it does for you."

Hermione was fuming, her anger burning more than the harsh potion moments before. Her stomach turned, threatening to bring forth the Skele-Gro once more, but she choked down her bile, though she found herself unable to contain her rage. With a deep breath, she unleashed upon him, "Do you mean to tell me that you've had me drink an expired potion without any idea if it might work? There are thousands of terrible outcomes that could happen! I could die!"

Malfoy shifted in his seat and stared down at the book in his lap, avoiding her gaze. When he spoke, his voice was solemn and low.

"I vowed not to hurt you; it's a promise I intend to keep."

That kind of reassurance held no clout coming from him . Hermione was beyond the point of relationship building or reason. Her teeth were bared and she was ready to fight. "But you could do so unwittingly, make use of a loophole in the oath, and end up killing me. I bet you would call it a happy accident."

"Oh, fuck off, Granger." He scowled at her from across the room, a faraway look coming to his eye as he insisted – more to himself than her, really – "I'm not like that."

"Oh really?" She laughed, "Well, pardon me for assuming that a Death Eater would want a Mudblood to die."

Malfoy winced at her words, but muttered darkly to himself, "You don't know anything, Granger. You know what they say when you assume…"

Hermione was seething, filling the room with palpable rage. "I know nothing?! Please, illuminate me Malfoy! What is it that I don't know!?"

Her voice reverberated off the Earthen walls until only the sound of her panting remained. Hermione was shaking, her magic alive at her fingertips. Powerful, strong enough to distract from the monster that sat before her, not that her attention could stay off him for long. A part of her expected him to be on her again with the knife, but instead, he stood slowly and carefully set his book aside.

Malfoy prowled to stand at the foot of the bed where he hung his head while taking shaky, steadying breaths. His voice cracked as he corrected her, "You don't know me , what I think, what I feel, or what I've been through."

He looked at her, really looked at her, and Hermione found him unrecognizable. It was the first time that this damaged, wild version of the snotty bully she once knew could no longer be called Malfoy. His eyes spoke of a thousand pains. The story of his survival carved into his body in the form of scars. He even exuded the very essence of the Forest with his dirty nails and untamed hair. He was certainly not the Malfoy Hermione knew.

But she burned with the curious desire to discover, to understand why.

"Then tell me!"

He sat on the edge of the bed slowly, bewildered, his spirit appearing broken and dampened by the mere thought of his past.

"Where would I even start?" He asked himself with a bitter laugh.

"Start with the moment you supposedly died, if you don't mind." She gestured toward him, "Clearly, there's a big part to that story I don't know and I think we have days worth of bone growing to fill so talk," she demanded.

Malfoy sighed, powerless to the magical compulsion that had him spilling forth truths on whatever topic she inquired about just like magic .

"Fine," he breathed, defeated. His face was gaunt, dreading, and his body had begun defensive posturing, unable to meet her eye. "Let's start with The Battle of Hogwarts."

2 May 1998

Silence filled the hall, all fighting seemed to stop as Potter and Voldemort approached each other. Followers on both sides rallied behind their chosen representatives for this Final Battle. Draco found himself among those in somewhat neutral territory between the two groups, standing at the back of the disheveled throng. His eyes scanned the scene, noting the location of notable Order members and his schoolmates to his right.

He continued looking around the circle, disgust washing over him when he caught sight of a familiar shock of platinum blonde and the proud smile of his father, his silver mask having been discarded some time ago. Draco's disgust was replaced with complete hatred as he then spotted his maternal Aunt hissing like a lunatic, her eyes shining wildly from her blood-splattered face.

He had completed his visual search through the soldiers, panic level rising when he couldn't find her . Heartbeat thrummed in his ears, the level of rage within him rising, as a thousand unthinkable scenarios flooded his mind. If something had happened to her if she-

Draco gulped, tears threatening to escape his lower lashes.

All of his sacrifices and every ounce of pain he had endured under the Dark Lord's regime had to have been worth it. Draco would have done anything to guarantee her safety. Protecting her, as she had always protected him, was the only thing left in the world that mattered to him. If something had happened to her with the end of their suffering so, so close…

Draco had no time to contemplate the hell fury he was prepared to unleash at the thought, for bright flashes of green and red met at the center of the circle.

His eyes widened in shock as everyone held a collected breath- this was it, the final spells of the final battle. When the magic stopped flowing, one would remain and one would die for neither could live while the other survived. The intensity of the magic at the center of the circle reverberated outwards, charging the air with energy and causing sparks of electricity to appear at his fingertips.

Draco felt powerful despite his lack of a wand - he briefly lamented the magical core that burned in the Room of Requirement, hoping that she would forgive him for losing her lifelong wand. He felt as though he could cast anything from drawing on the magic in the room alone, a feeling foreign yet intoxicating. Tension in the air was palpable until finally, the red and green spells let forth a blinding light from their meeting place, causing most onlookers to shield their eyes.

At the moment the light blinded the crowd, a hand wrapped around Draco's bicep and tugged him backward, pulling him away from the fight.

A small figure in a hooded cloak led him hastily away from the Great Hall and down a corridor toward the west wing of the castle. They pulled him into an alcove just as cheers resounded beyond, the sounds of fighting resuming shortly after. At their distance, it was impossible to determine which side was celebrating victory and which side was giving a last-ditch effort to avoid defeat.

Draco didn't even know which side he wanted to win, his position in either future so precarious, potentially lethal. Could he keep up pretenses under the Dark Lord's regime forever? Would the side that represented goodness ever allow him the opportunity to repent?

He couldn't risk finding out. If she was here, that could only mean one thing: it was time to enact Plan C.

In the alcove, Draco removed the hood of the black cloak, revealing the elegant profile of Narcissa Malfoy. A small cry slipped from his lips and he threw his arms around her. The sight of her released a tension that had been with him for years. One way or another, the war would be over soon and he had succeeded with the only task that truly mattered: keeping his mother alive.

Draco was relieved to see his mother alive and well but knew exactly what her presence at Hogwarts meant for him, which caused his heart to drop into his stomach as it twisted with dread. Despite this, he clung to his mother desperately, muffling his sobs in her hair that rested over the junction between her neck and shoulder.

She soothed him for a moment before pushing him back against the alcove wall, her eyes shimmered with the threat of tears. Her face was dirty, her cloak stained with debris and blood. Before he could inquire, she placed her hands on his shoulders, gazing intently into his eyes.

"I'm fine," she assured him, "I've just arrived. Only stunning the ones I've come in contact with, obliviating others… I'm so glad I found you, my dear."

Narcissa drew back the torn curtain covering the alcove slightly, sticking her head out to scan the corridor. All was according to plan; they were alone. Satisfied with only the distant echoes of battle, she shut the curtain tightly and set privacy charms before turning to her only son.

"You know what to do, my dragon?" She gently swept back the fringe from his forehead with a loving, yet pained look. "Do you remember how we planned to survive?"

Draco nodded wearily, a shiver running down his spine as a knot formed in his stomach, twisting with impending nausea.

"Good boy," she praised him, her voice quivering with the threat of tears that she wouldn't allow to fall.

Draco watched his mother straighten her spine, a misty look crossing her eyes as she pushed her emotions away until she was in a state of occlusion. It was the last good look he would have of her in this life, that Draco was certain. He drank it in, vowing to remember her poise, fierce loyalty, and loving protection. His mother: the only person alive that loved him.

"Let's make haste, Draco."

He found himself smiling briefly before they set forth on their dastardly plan, not even minding that she spoke to him like he were a boy. They had been happier in those times when the darkness of the world wasn't at their doorstep. Could he ever be happy like that again?

He focused on hope for a future — any future — as they sprinted through the corridor under hooded cloaks, dodging rubble and debris in the aftermath of battle. Draco spluttered as he struggled for breath, his mother pulling him along at an urgent pace. Every corner they turned had his nerves set ablaze, fearful they might run into someone on their way out of the castle.

They came to a staircase that would lead them to the grounds, both of them pausing to catch their breaths. The air was thick and heavy with dark magic. Draco made to take a step backward, but Narcissa was quick to grab his elbow and drag him forward. Their footsteps echoed as they raced down the stairs, every step closer to the bottom a step closer to his second chance at life. So close he could taste it-

Narcissa let out a surprised shriek, quickly muffled by the hand she clamped tightly to her mouth. Draco pushed her behind him, stepping before his mother to see the cause of her fright. At the foot of the stair lay the body of a girl. She could have been no older than a fourth year, rigid and staring frighteningly at the door beyond. Had she been murdered at the beginning of the battle and laid here unfound? Or was she hiding in the wrong spot when evil sought to flee the castle?

Who or what else might have run for the Forbidden Forest, just like they were?

Draco eyed the door apprehensively, swallowing a lump in his throat, "Mother, I don't know about this…"

Narcissa sighed, stepping forward and patting down the corpse, until she turned, holding the wand of the dead. She approached Draco slowly, backing him against the stone wall. Her eyes leveled on him with a look that made Draco feel like a small, scolded child, paralyzed to do anything but listen to the matriarch and do as she bade.

"Remember how much we have suffered, Draco. This is your chance to be rid of it all." She sniffed, "Father and I have invested a lot of work, and money , into this. You can't bow out now, just because you're scared."

They were the same words she had said to him before he had gotten the Dark Mark, despite how he had protested then. His will had been lost then and Draco was certain it would again now. Besides, there was no time to argue.

Narcissa placed the stolen wand in his hand. Draco grasped it, feeling a weak connection with the magical core. He frowned, but held on tightly, knowing it could be his only lifeline starting the moment they went through that door.

"You can do this, son." Her eyes bore into the depths of his soul, "you are strong enough to survive."

Draco wanted to believe her. Narcissa cracked open the door.

The grounds were eerily quiet. Bright rays of golden sun bathed the lawns that shimmered with morning dew. Narcissa scanned their surroundings from behind the castle door. Draco took deep breaths, preparing to dash away from his past and toward his future, though where he was headed no longer seemed quite as bright.

They dashed across the lawn, heads low, not stopping until they found refuge in the dark leaves of the Forbidden Forest. He leaned against a tree trunk to catch his breath while Mother set charms to keep them from being overheard. If Draco had imagined anything close to what this process might be like, he knew that he would scream.

When he lifted his head, she stood before him, her face looking ghastly pale. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, leaving black lines of soot and ruined makeup in their wake. She pressed her cracked lips against his cheek, he was far too tall now for her to reach his forehead as she had when he was a child.

"Remember," Narcissa cooed gently, stroking the front of his hair before cupping his face, "change and run. Once you've run, hide . I will find you when it's safe."

Draco closed his eyes to stop the tears from falling and wrapped her into another crushing hug. This could be his last moment alive. Nothing was guaranteed to work, there was no certainty behind Mother's plan. And even if it worked, the long-term plan could go astray. He could get found, caught, jailed… kissed. Or worse, something could happen to her. This could be the last moment he ever saw her, ever saw anybody .

The tears slipped past his lashes, his anxiety spiking as she removed herself from his embrace.

A horn sounded in the distance, a jubilant roar rang out behind it. The war was over, but there was no time to waste. They couldn't be certain which side was cheering in victory. His fight for survival was far from over, but they had to act if they stood a chance. Now.

"This is going to hurt," she reminded him, seizing his left wrist. She drew a wand from her cloak, and Draco flinched at the unfamiliar wood. Her hand was shaking as she pressed the tip of the russet wand to his left arm, just above his Dark Mark.

"Who's is that?" he asked apprehensively, wiping his slick right palm on his trousers.

Narcissa dismissed him with a wave, "It won't be missed."

Ah, so she had taken it off another dead body. They were going to execute this one-in-a-million-chance-of-working plan with a stranger's wand. He prayed the wand genetics were a good match for his mother, a brilliant witch in her own right, a powerful woman from the House of Black. At least Draco wouldn't be wondering for long what would happen; it was finally time to find out.

"Be smart, Draco." She whispered, choking back a sob, "stay strong. I love you."

The snake danced menacingly about the skull branded on his skin as if sensing her intention. A loud cheer chorused from the castle, the victors must have been in power now. He wondered if his Father was out there cheering or if he was among the fallen.

His tattoo remained a visceral black making him question if Potter had failed after all. Draco had hoped that if the Dark Lord had died, it would have faded away - it would have been his only chance to flee untraceable and intact. There was no place in this new world for a child soldier from the wrong side.

Perhaps light couldn't beat the darkness. It was the scenario that had his future fucked worst of all. For if he wasn't a monster in the eyes of the Wizarding World when the fighting stopped, then he was a deserter. The lethality of the punishment for either was the same

This was his best chance, his only chance, at having any sort of future.

While Draco anxiously contemplated what might happen to him if he didn't go through with this wild scheme of his Mothers, Narcissa was narrowing her focus and preparing to pull off the most important spell of her life. Not wasting a moment to discern who was cheering or what that implication held for herself or her son, Narcissa clenched her jaw and began twisting her wand as she muttered a series of incantations.

Splitting, burning pain worse than he had imagined shot from his elbow, up his arm, and through his shoulder where his neck muscles strained in response. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, fighting the anguished yell building in his chest. Narcissa, sensing his breaking point was rapidly approaching, silenced him with a snap of her fingers. Draco released his silent scream, the noxious smell of cauterizing flesh meeting his nose as he noticed a weight falling from his extremity, the appreciable difference between limbs causing his head to spin.

He leaned over, heaving the contents of his stomach all over the Forest floor. Sweat dripped out of every pore as the pain took over his senses. Draco fell to his knees, unconsciousness threatening his peripheral vision with a black haze.

Mother caught him as he fell, stuffing a fistful of potion vials into his mouth, pouring their contents, and rubbing his throat to force him to drink. The pain subsided slightly, rapidly replaced by a new pressure. Narcissa slung Draco's right arm… only arm?... over her shoulders, pulling him along with the help of a weightless charm. They rushed away from the forest edge, his body overloaded with sensation as his mother's curse and the restorative potions fought for dominance at his magical core.

As they fled the perimeter of the castle grounds, an amplified voice came booming from the castle: Kingsley Shacklebolt announcing victory for the light, calling for an end to the fighting. His promises of peace and due process fell on deaf ears as Narcissa shoved her son into the brush of the Forbidden Forest, her face drenched with sweat from her exertion and the fresh tears free-falling from her pale blue eyes.

"You know what you must do, I will find you," she promised him with a sob before rushing back toward the castle, flanking around the back of the building, away from where she had deposited Draco, deformed, hiding under a plant.

His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding against his chest. Everything seemed unreal. He was in pain everywhere and nowhere at the same time. His arm burned right below his left elbow, hotter than any summoning he had ever experienced by his Master.

There wasn't time to do this, he reminded himself. Occlumency shields clicked back into place as Draco quickly assessed his physical condition. It was taking a moment for the potions to take effect, but they seemed to be working as he was no longer mindless to the pain and he hadn't blacked out. The biggest unknown was answered: the curse would not kill him instantly and the potions were doing as they hoped they would. Draco was stable enough and time was ticking… time to face the second, most deadly unknown.

He closed his eyes, the image of the white wolf coming to his mind.

The shift had been flawless before; painless and as natural as breathing. This time was different. Draco had hoped his form would respect his body's new configuration, but the wolf inside him had other plans. He let out an agonized howl as his forearm regrew from the stump point below the elbow; flesh ripping as muscles elongated, new bones growing from the remnants left behind. Had he watched the regeneration of his limb in human form, Draco would have lost consciousness. But it was easier to be the wolf: he felt disconnected from his human nature, instead thriving on instinct. But things could still hurt like hell.

Draco rolled against the underbrush as his metatarsals sprang forth from the junction above his newly formed carpal bones. Brown and green stained his white fur as he shoved his snout into the soft Earth, muffling his cries of pain as the pad of his paw split, new phalanges growing into sharp, black talons. The wolf took over his consciousness, one clear thought resounding in his head: run.

It took him several tries to stand, his newly grown limb weak under his weight. There wasn't time to waste finding his footing at the edge of the woods, with the castle - and his many enemies - looming behind him. It was his last glimpse at his last known life. When the new day came, Draco Malfoy would be pronounced dead. And the Draco Malfoy of the wood could be Draco Malfoy no more.

He hopped along on three legs for a few moments, the nerve regeneration potion causing the left side of his chest, and neck to sting with the firing of electric pulses. Draco kept to the undergrowth, his alabaster fur a stark contrast to the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. He had to find a place to go, somewhere to hide, and fast. Soon enough the victors would raid the forest to collect the bodies left behind, those who made the ultimate sacrifice to their cause. He moved as quickly as he could, gingerly placing weight on his newly grown limb that was not accustomed to such loading yet. If Draco wasn't careful, he'd push too hard and could lose the limb entirely.

So he slinked along, his human emotions shouting fears from the recesses of his mind, but they soon faded away to the sound of his panting and the eerie forest around him. The leaves were rustling, spreading the good news that the war had ended amongst the forest occupants. Fairies flitted past him in celebration, either not noticing the wolf below or being too enraptured in celebration to care.

With each step, he put more weight on his paw, which roared with pain, but gave no sign of giving out on him yet. He stuck to the undergrowth until he felt confident enough to pick up his speed. Sprinting through the forest, away from the noise of the battle, the smell of darkness and death permeated the air. He passed fallen Death Eaters and Resistance members alike, the stolen wand held tightly between his teeth.

When he was finally at a sufficient distance west of the school, and with his human self a far distance in his mind — Draco did not dare think of himself as a human for fear of inadvertently shifting back — the white wolf set its snout to the ground, sniffing as it tracked its way to the heart of the forest. With his olfactory nerve hypersensitive in his animal state, it didn't take long for Draco to find the centaurs congregating. He observed them from a distance, stalling while he formulated a plan. They were having a loud gathering around a large bonfire, wood instruments hooted melodically in a celebratory tune.

The stars themselves seemed to dance above them as the sun began to rise, the entire universe celebrating the loss of darkness from the world. Inadvertently they were celebrating his death, or at least the death of his former self, though the rest of the world wasn't privy to that distinction between the two. At the thought, his arm began to burn with a hollowing pain. Draco fought from crying out until he was far from the Forbidden Forest herd, heading where he hoped was North.

Thundering hooves approached from the East, and Draco leaped with the sudden urge to distance himself from the beings in the wood; they'd sell him out as soon as they discovered him. He dashed blindly down a winding path, his instincts carrying him through the labyrinth of the Dark Wood. Several times he ducked into the coverage of bushes and weeds to refrain from being seen when he thought he may have heard something close by.

Fatigue was creeping up on him, the pain potions at their peak effectiveness left him feeling groggy. That, coupled with the exertion of regrowing his limb and then running on it, left the Wolf leaning against a large boulder, struggling to remain conscious. His body was shutting down and he felt as if he were rotting from the inside. So tired, Draco wanted nothing more than to rest — even die — to escape the hell flame that burned him from the inside.

He barely registered the chill of a shadow across him. Time was starting to seem uncertain as he lay, boneless, only able to let out a small whimper as he felt his body lifting off the cold rock.

Sky and shadows moved above him, scenery shifting as he fought to stay awake. He was losing against the weight of his eyelids, a drugged sleep wanting to envelop him. Pale blue skies one minute, the whites of eyes above him the next. Large hands stroked his fur, soothing his shaking body. He wasn't alone.

He remained carefully still, not daring to think too hard lest he reveal his wizard form. For all he knew it was an Order member there, trying to save what they thought was an animal. Or perhaps they had been watching all along, come to take him to the authorities. Draco had no time to contemplate these thoughts or to fight off the fear welling inside him for everything quickly faded to black.

Hooves thundered above them, shaking the ground of his home, and causing Draco to take a defensive stance before the root entrance to the den. He felt relieved to be interrupted from his tale of tribulations, stopping just before unearthing a secret he had promised to take to the grave. The beating of his heart was almost painful in his chest. His throat was taut with emotion, a sheen of sweat creeping over his skin. It was traumatizing to recount the events that Draco would rather forget, — a baring of his soul he'd never planned to endure — but he had vowed himself to honesty, so honesty was what he gave.

Saying the words aloud was akin to reliving them, but telling Granger everything was another form of torture. The witch had tears in her eyes at certain moments, eliciting visceral reactions that were either due to the onset of the Skele-Gro (which seemed too soon) or worse, the formation of a pity for him. He had seen the disbelief in her eyes when he mentioned his dismemberment and the slow relaxation of her jaw that spoke of commiseration that eviscerated him, leaving nothing but feelings of embarrassment and shame.

Draco couldn't look at her, turning back to the scattered notes on the table instead. Notes on healing, counterspells to stop the effects of potion overdose, mocked him from where they sat. If something bad happened, would he even be able to heal her? Or was trying to fix her, to keep her alive, all prolonging his inevitable capture or demise?

Granger's sniffling interrupted the runaway train that was his thoughts. Draco tightened his hands into fists, his shame sparking the angry inferno within him. He cast an angry glance over his shoulder, finding exactly what he feared: a watery pair of doe-eyes and a compassionate look that he didn't deserve. It burned a hole in his chest.

Draco knew well enough how horribly his life had turned out, he didn't need the confirmation of such from Saint Mudblood. Somewhere beyond the veil, Lucius Malfoy was rioting at how low the bloodline had sunken – hiding amongst beasts, living in squalor. And now, spilling all his secrets to the enemy…

Draco's breathing had become ragged, his body shaking as he contained his rage. It wasn't fair . His life wasn't supposed to be like this. He shouldn't be the one who had to hide from society like some wretched beast, it was people like her that deserved to be in this position, not him.

But that thought didn't sit right with him, either. For no one deserved the conditions he had endured. At one time he had wished every Mudblood dead, but now he found himself working very hard to keep the most irritating one of them all alive. It went against every moral fiber he had been put together with – so why was he actively going against what he had always known?

Draco had spent so many years abstracted from society, and his humanity, that his old ideals no longer appealed to him. It was an alarming realization to come to. One that left him feeling confused, and vulnerable.

"Malfoy?" Her voice fell gently upon his ears, dripping with concern. "Are you okay?"

He stilled, holding his breath. She doesn't care, he had to remind himself. No one truly cares about me.

The roof of his mouth itched with the desire to speak. No, he wasn't okay. Draco Malfoy hadn't had any human contact for over three years and hadn't even been in his human form much during that time. He was scared, angry, teetering dangerously on the edge of insanity; holding on to the hope for something that he couldn't explain. He wanted to live a long life, but what kind of life would he live? Was all he had been through really worth what he had now? Or had all his pain and suffering just been the beginning of the long road of life that would be one plight after another?

His fortitude wavered, the first chink in his armor. He opened his mouth and this time he didn't need a blood oath to force him to say the truth, for it sang forth from him in a way that carried his misery, his pain.

"I can't do this anymore," he croaked.

Behind him, the witch stiffened. Draco took a deep breath and all he could smell was her . He wanted to crawl into the bed, and he wanted to cry… but he was too scared to face it all. So he thought of the wolf instead, shifting seamlessly to him in a single breath. He didn't have to speak as the wolf, couldn't say anything even if he wanted to. It was the best way to run from the human things that haunted him; it was why Draco had done it for so many years.

Granger sank back at the sight of him, but was less fearful than before and twisted her face into a frown.

"So that's it?" She asked. "That's the whole story?"

While Draco didn't have to speak, he still couldn't lie to her. He shook his head, No.

There was so much more.

She crossed her arms, gesturing with her hand that he should get on with it.

Draco lay down on the dirt floor, resting his head atop his paws in dejection. She watched him, the expectant look never leaving her face.

"I'm waiting."

And wait she did. For over an hour Draco, the wolf, and Granger, the idiot who didn't know when to quit, had a stare-off. She, waiting for him to carry on with his story, and he, waiting for the Skele-Gro to kick in so Granger could grow her leg back and get the hell out of his life for good.

It was a battle of wills, one he knew he had already won, for if there was one thing Malfoy had gotten good at doing during his time in the Forbidden Forest, it was waiting. He had waited for the war to end, waited for someone to find him, waited for his inevitable downfall… He spent so long waiting that he forgot what he was waiting for.

Draco had always hoped that somehow, someday, he would have freedom and he would find peace… Always strived for, but never found. If he waited, would that come?