Few things in life were certain but one thing was sure: if you wanted to shut Hermione Granger up, you gave her a book.

The stare-off between them ended when Granger became restless, apparently sick of listening to her thoughts. Once she started, it seemed like she never stopped talking, chirping at him incessantly with endless questions for hours. Draco couldn't ignore her harping, but as the wolf, he was mercifully unable to speak, freeing himself from having to answer.

Blood magic coursing through his veins forced him to keep up with the conversation in his internal dialogue. After any question, Draco would answer with absolute truths — he felt nervous around her, scared of what might come from the deep recesses of his mind.

"How did nobody see you doing all this at Hogwarts?"

Everyone was too busy, battling for glory or dying for a cause that didn't care about them, to notice two traitors slipping away.

"What kind of mother is capable of dismembering her child?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, lip curling to reveal pointed canines. Granger was treading the line of a territory more forbidden than the forest, run by an enemy more hostile than the centaurs. One thing he would not tolerate was anyone insulting his mother.

If it were between the loss of a limb and the loss of your life, what would you choose?

Granger doubled down at his reaction, likely trying to entice him with an argument, looking to get any response from him other than the icy front he had maintained all day.

"What potions did she give you anyway? Reinvigorating Draught, Blood Restorative Potion, egret egg yolk? No," she shook her head, adding, "too simple. It had to have been incredibly expensive, special ordered for the purebloods, like the nectar of the Gods…. Oh!" She exclaimed with a snap of her finger, "I got it, Felix Felicis! That might explain all the series of dumb luck you had while avoiding the fate you so wholly deserve."

Draco tensed. You don't know me, he wanted to snap. His nose twitched as he suppressed a growl, snuffing out the fight within him. She was right; he didn't deserve the second chance he had.

A nightmare of an alternate timeline appeared in his third eye: he was in an Azkaban jumpsuit, shackled and forced to his knees. A shadowy figure approached him, the Dementor. Familiar feelings of crippling depression consumed him at the image. His last moments alone would have been spent in hopeless agony, reliving his life and the choices he'd made during it.

Draco knew he had done wrong, but what choice did he have?

His life was deemed a stolen gift in the eyes of the good — with Granger as their representative, given no one else alive knew of his continued existence — but did that mean that he deserved what would have come from sitting through trials and receiving due process? No, he thought. It might have been just, but he never would accept it, even if it were so deserved.

Draco was, after all, from The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black: he would do anything to survive.

Granger was still prattling on, something about pregnancy and amnesia that made no sense to him. The shrillness of her voice was beginning to agitate him, causing his hair to stand on end. He tried to block it out but failed miserably. It was when she started on about her annoying Gryffindor pals that Draco decided he couldn't take it anymore.

Gods, would you shut up already?!

He stood, and she paused. He stalked over to a corner nudging a few things out of the way with his nose while she craned her neck to watch him. It was the steps of the dance they had established between them. One would push, the other would pull, never getting too close and hardly in sync.

Draco grabbed a book by the spine with his teeth, retracting his lips awkwardly to avoid salivating on the tome. He caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall as he walked across the room, realizing that he looked rabid like this. Granger must have thought so too, as she recoiled into the pillow he had transfigured. Idly he wondered if it was comfortable or not.

Careful of her fleshy leg, Draco set the book by her side. She lifted her dainty hand and slowly ran her fingers over the cover. Draco sat back, his head cocked to the side, watching with scrutiny.

"A Little Princess," she read aloud. A sad smile, not meant for his eyes, ghosted across her lips as Granger pulled the book into her lap and opened it.

She became engrossed immediately. Draco was all too happy to bask in the glorious silence between them. He found a patch of sun, the only warm spot on the dirt floor, and lay there. For hours he watched her read, reciting the healing spells he had been studying, over and over again, in his mind.

After a while, the periodic page flipping had stopped. Draco perked his head up to find Granger, slumped over sideways, and fast asleep. He let out a sigh of relief, but the feeling didn't last too long. If the Skele-Gro were potent, she would start feeling the effects soon. A glance up at the den entrance showed the last rays of the sun leaving and dusk settling across the sky.

Draco settled his chin back over his paws, allowing his eyes to shut for a spot of rest; he would need it. Too tired to occlude, thoughts ran rampant in his mind. Granger knew too much already, but there was no point in hoping that he'd get rid of her before she discovered more about him and his time spent in the woods.

He gulped, guilt flooding him as he thought of the promises made that, if she asked the right question, he couldn't keep.

Leave it to a Mudblood to ruin my life.

The thought made his skin crawl with shame. Draco felt weak and scared, making him vulnerable to the haunts of a version of himself that died many years ago. Time in the forest had shown him that he didn't exist above anyone else. It took much pain and loss to accept that moral imperative.

It was a lesson that hadn't come easily, taught by the most unlikely teacher - someone he once loathed, a traitor whose death was once a celebrated occasion in his childhood home.

Life in the forest hadn't always been lonely; when he had a family there, it had been almost good enough to call home.

Almost.

An Indeterminable Amount of Time After the Battle of Hogwarts, May 1998

Second, minutes, or hours later, Draco's mind awakened. He was being pulled by his shoulders. The weight of his body was dragged through wet sand that would be embedded in his hair and fur for weeks to come. It was cold and dark, the only warmth coming from whoever had picked him up in the woods and brought him here, wherever he was. A cloud of magic surrounded his mind, his thoughts dulled by the potions deterring the pain that fought to ebb through.

Splashing steps were his only warning of what was to come. With one final heave, Draco was dropped at the shoreline, where cold waves came in, each a shock to his nerve endings that pulled him further from unconsciousness.

"His blood…" a fervent voice whispered, "he could be the next one!"

Draco's blood ran cold. His instincts were screaming at him to run, but he was too weak to do anything except hold on for dear life. He tried to lift his head or open his eyes to examine his surroundings, but the world spun faster and faster with each attempt, so he settled into the sand, his body shaking in the cold air that chilled the fire burning him inside. The wolf panted with a burdensome effort that only allowed him shallow breaths.

Draco's body was quaking of its own volition, surges of sensation rocketing through him in rapid succession. He had never felt the pull of The Veil as clearly as he did now, not even when Potter tried to murder him the year before in the toilets. No, the situation he was in now seemed far more dire than even that.

Shock had taken over and left Draco too weak to be concerned with who had captured him. Be they friend or foe, he was at the mercy of their hand now. It took all he had left in him not to fade away, with only the steady rhythm of the water that seemed warmer than it had been moments ago. He set his breath in time with the waves which, if the rising water level were any indication, were coming in quickly.

His left side was submerged from ear to toe. Thick mud cradled his side, and suctioned him against it; he wouldn't have been able to move even at full strength. After the amputation, surprise limb regeneration, and the crash from adrenaline and drugs, Draco felt weaker than he ever had before.

Fur shrank in, revealing blood-stained skin and the tattered remains of his robes. His form elongated, revealing the boy that was surely presumed dead by now. Burned in fiendfyre would be the story told — which didn't feel like a far cry from what he was experiencing: the sensation of being burned from the inside out.

Water splashed into his mouth. Draco coughed, rolling onto his back lest the water drown him. Had he been stronger, he would have sought drier land, but the water was warm and inviting. It wrapped around his body like an embrace he never wanted to end.

He finally found the strength to open his eyes. He appeared to be in a cave with dark, dripping rocks above him. A red glow danced off the rock ceiling as he weakly tried to assess his surroundings, only able to see a black shadow moving about. The strange red glow came from a place outside of his line of sight. Time passed ambiguously as he lay there, unable to move or think coherently. During his bouts of consciousness, Draco heard what he thought might be one side of an argument.

"I know you can help, dear." A man's raspy voice begged.

The glow of the cave pulsed in technicolor. The water he lay in lapped gently over his body, covering his legs. His entire left side felt heavy, and numb as if the fire within him was burning out and leaving nothing but dying embers. Draco was sure he was hallucinating. His body was limp and shapes danced in his vision, leaving streaks of color as his head lolled back to the side.

"I've been here for long enough… I don't care what happens to me, just please, save him!"

Draco tried to pick up his head to find the man speaking, but he was not strong enough. His head collapsed back into the water with an audible splash. The hurried whispering ceased.

Waves washed over him and left him entirely submerged. The ceiling above glowed once more, though more like a watercolor, the bold hues and sharp edges blunted and blended together; it was entrancing, causing him to forget that if he couldn't get up, he would soon drown.

The man approached rapidly, splashing water everywhere as he reached for Draco. His limp body was pulled from the water and Draco met eyes he had seen before, but couldn't place. It was a moment of vague recognition before the water that had entered his lungs began making its way out as Draco coughed and retched.

A strong arm braced under his shoulders, while the other dangled a glowing necklace near Draco's face. Intricate markings outlined the perimeter of an amulet whose color matched the ceiling glow; it turned to a burning orange before the man placed the stone on Draco's forehead.

At the moment the stone rested wholly on his face, Draco lost consciousness once more. When he opened his eyes next, the cave was dark, only the whites of the eyes of the wild man above him shining through the darkness.

"C'mon, c'mon," the man muttered through clenched teeth. His face spoke of immense concentration teetering on the edge of panic. "We can figure out the details later!"

A rough hand soothed the fur on Draco's cheek — when had he transformed? The wolf's eyes fluttered against tears that pooled at the pained expression watching him. It felt like it was the end of his life. There was no other reason for a person to look at someone how the man watched Draco unless they were a breath away from The Veil.

His eyes fell shut, too heavy to keep open.

"Please," the man above him croaked, fat tears falling from his face and wetting the wolf below him, "it's not his time to go yet."

The water level began to rise faster than it had before. Its depths were warm and left Draco feeling weightless, but he was held steadfast, safe from the current that pulled at the wolf, beckoning him into its depths. Through his eyelids, Draco could see that the cave glowed with a soft green light.

Shadow fell over him and he opened his eyes. The man, wild and uncivilized, was all he could see. Mats of black hair dangled into Draco's face, indistinguishable from a lengthy, overgrown beard. The shape of his nose was eerily reminiscent of Draco's mother's, the glint in his eye something that Draco swore he had seen before.

He had no time to contemplate it. The wild man gripped Draco's snout, eyeing him with an almost sympathetic look. Petrified, the wolf bled way to the young man once more, and Draco found himself choking back sobs as he waited for his demise.

"I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt," the wild man said.

Draco's left arm was wrenched from the water, revealing his forearm, or whatever remained of it. His blackened skin crumbled under a strong grip. Screams echoed throughout the cave, rebounding off walls until the glow turned technicolor once more. It was the last thing he saw before Draco was pushed under the water.

After that, there was nothing but darkness.

When Draco came to, he was safe, tucked under a bush mere feet from the boulder he'd been at the night before. He transformed quickly upon realizing he had been in his human form. It was a miracle he hadn't been caught, laying out in the open like that.

He wondered mildly if he had been taken at all or if it was just some hallucination brought on by potions and blood loss. Dim light was streaking in through the canopy of the trees, signifying he had survived the first night.

With the promise of day came the threat of discovery, causing Draco to get moving. He noticed he felt better than the day before, his arm stronger, and his general sense of well-being much improved. He shuffled around in the brush with his snout, discovering that, much to his relief, the stolen wand hadn't gone running off.

The wolf headed toward the northernmost ridge of the forest, seeking higher ground. Draco had helped scout hiding spots and safe houses for the Dark Lord, so he knew exactly what to look for: a high vantage point, inconspicuous, with multiple escape routes. His laundry list of safe attributes was hazy, his wolfish instinctual need for water impeding his search for shelter.

He could hear a bubbling brook and found it easily, only stopping to drink when he determined it was safe to do so. The Forest was distracted celebrating the end of the war and healing the wounded - as was to plan, nobody was looking for him. In the distance, he heard a rumbling: the centaurs were stampeding. He scrambled away from the water source in case the herd was coming for refreshment. Finding a fork in the stream, he instinctually followed the northern heading tributary, edging his way up a hill, his side hugging a cliff.

Dawn was nigh and the threat of discovery loomed in his mind. How long would he have before Aurors flooded the wood, trying to flush out deserters? Draco needed to find a place to hide.

The hill plateaued, exposing a thinly wooded bluff. There was less tree cover up here, his anxiety spiking at the sudden exposure. He caught the scent of something wild, and the urge to discover what it was overwhelmed his senses. Nose to the ground, he followed the smell off the main path, heading toward the edge of the cliff that overlooked the water source.

The oak tree stood at the edge of the bluff. Its limbs were densely packed with leaves, all appendages twisting outward as if they could reach out and snatch someone as they strolled past. The wolf inspected the roots, sniffing closer and closer to the trunk. After circling the tree, he found a small hole leading underneath. The scent was overpowering, flooding his senses. He clawed at the Earth there, digging his way until he could wriggle in through the opening.

The den was small, probably having belonged to a fox in the past. Draco could barely stand on his paws without bumping his back against the base of the oak. It would be much too small for him if he were in his human form. It occurred to him that no one would come looking for him there and that it might be a good spot to hide out for a few days until he could find something more permanent.

Under the tree, at the furthest point from the entrance, was a small groove where an animal had slept. The wolf pawed at the edges of the indentation, enlarging it to fit himself. He dug, and he dug, and he dug until his nails were bleeding, the pads of his paws cracked and aching.

Draco kept falling over, the newly grown limb too weak to move earth or support his weight for more than a few minutes. Exhaustion hit him and he curled into the tightest ball he could muster, tucking his nose under his tail, and praying that sleep would overtake him.

The facts hit him suddenly; effectively, he was dead. He'd never be able to rejoin civilized society; probably no one would miss him. It was just him alone, but only for the time being, he hoped. But until she could join him, he'd be solitary, confined. Not so different than the years previous, hiding away inside himself to self-preserve and survive the Dark Lord's regime.

His occlumency shields were weak. Things he had tucked away, forgotten, were suddenly at the forefront of his mind. Darkness danced across his eyes: smoke, blood, torture. Every memory ripped through him, flaying his soul, leaving only fragments behind.

Draco Malfoy had been a selfish bastard that made all the wrong choices. As the wolf, his self-preservation instincts were no longer a cowardly crutch, but a necessity for survival.

Perhaps his whole life had been leading up to this, his true and inner form.

Perhaps as the wolf, he could forget Draco Malfoy entirely, erase him from his mind. The wolf spent the night whimpering, mourning the loss of his old life, and staring weary-eyed at the den entrance, anxiously watching for the search party that would never come.

Wake up, you're wasting time!

Hermione startled at the sound of a woman shouting so loudly that it roused her from sleep. She shot up with a gasp, eyes frantically searching the dark den for any sight of Her. It was a voice Hermione had heard before amongst the trees, but not one she could identify.

She released her held breath; she was alone, save for the white wolf lying on the other side of the room, ears perked up and staring intently at her.

"Did you hear that?" Hermione queried before she remembered that Malfoy was ignoring her.

The wolf didn't blink.

Hermione sighed, feeling silly. "Never mind."

She patted down her hair, attempting to tame it while avoiding the wolfs' gaze. After a moment of inspection, she noticed that she was cleaner. There was no more dirt under her nails and the bloodstains on her skin were gone. Her eyes narrowed at Malfoy. Her shirt had been lengthened to resemble a hospital gown, now free from holes caused by scraping against foliage during her fall from grace.

The bed had also been improved. It was elevated now, for one, and much more supportive than before. The poor excuse for a blanket had been replaced with a quilt adorned with strawberries of all things. It seemed that Malfoy had been on a transfiguration spree.

A twinge of pain nipped at her backside. She furrowed her brow and shifted to make herself more comfortable. Malfoy stood and entered the kitchen. He cast a look over his shoulder at her before shifting back to his human form and rummaging through his belongings.

Good, she thought, you can't ignore me if you're not a wolf.

He came to the bedside with an apple and a package of biscuits. They were set down next to her and, with her wand, Malfoy filled her empty tea cup with water. Hermione went to reach for the magical core, but he moved it from her reach at the last second. Inside her, something began to boil.

She frowned. "Having fun with my wand, are you?"

He smirked, but it held more of a boyish delight than she had ever seen before. "Absolutely."

She grabbed the green apple and took a loud bite, never taking her eyes off her wand.

Malfoy stood at the foot of the bed. He nodded toward her, "Feel anything yet?"

Hermione grimaced, the pinching sensation having never quite left her. "Maybe."

Malfoy nodded, looking particularly perturbed. It did nothing to assuage her concerns, but it was too late to stop the bone regeneration process, so she settled for the next best thing to ease her anxiety: a distraction.

The sun had set outside, but the den was lit with the soft glow of candlelight. Goosebumps peppered her skin as a chill washed over her body and Hermione shivered. Her eyes met Malfoy's, dark and penetrating in the low light. Hermione pulled the strawberry quilt over her chest, feeling unsettled under his intense stare.

"What time is it?" Hermione asked – anything to cut the tension that had settled into the room.

Malfoy licked his lips. "Dunno," he shrugged. "Night."

"How illuminating," she deadpanned.

"Quite the opposite, actually," Malfoy quipped.

Hermione rolled her eyes to suppress the smile that fought for dominance over her scowl. Who would have thought that Malfoy had retained a sense of humor after all this time? Speaking of time…

Hermione gave an apathetic laugh, mumbling mostly to herself, but loud enough so he could hear, "I don't even know what day it is."

Malfoy sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed and a brooding glare on his face. "Your guess is as good as mine," he muttered.

Hermione followed his gaze, noticing that he was staring at hundreds of tiny lines carved into the dirt wall. She surmised that Malfoy had been trying to track the passage of time one way or another. Craning her neck to look at the wall behind the bed, Hermione noticed that the news articles affixed to the wall weren't organized chronologically if they held a date at all. None were more recent than three years ago – if her recollection of current events served her well.

The corner of the book dug into her side. Hermione rolled gingerly to extract it, her movements still awkward under the remaining restraints. Dirt stained the pale pink cover and several of the pages were dogeared. Out of all the things she expected a Death Eater to possess, muggle literature was not one of them.

Malfoy hadn't transformed again, so Hermione took the opportunity to get him to open up more.

"Where did you get this?" She asked evenly, attempting to leave all judgment from her tone. She was impressed he had kept the novel and not burned it simply because its author wasn't a pureblood wizard.

Malfoy's face reddened and he wouldn't quite meet her eye. "I found it," he muttered.

"Really?" Hermione was intrigued. "Where?"

"In the Dark Wood," he prevaricated, which Hermione picked up on immediately.

He hadn't not answered, but perhaps she had to be more specific to get anything out of him. She flipped through the book pages before pausing at the endpaper where she found an inscription:

Rachel,

Wherever you go, remember that you are royalty.

Love, Dad

"Who is Rachel?" Had Malfoy been out here with a lover all this time?

Hermione noticed that his hands were shaking and could see tears misting in his eyes. The look he gave her spoke of a broken man, one who never wished to relive all he had done. But Hermione would give him no reprieve from his past. She wanted answers, the truth. Luckily, Malfoy had ensured that would happen by enacting the blood oath between them.

He didn't look at her, but he did answer, voice cracking with humiliation as he admitted, "She was a Hufflepuff."

That word "was" stuck out to Hermione. Instantly she feared the worst, "Did you kill her?"

Malfoy eyed her with disdain. "No, of course not. What do you think I am, some sort of monster?"

Hermione bit her tongue, thankful she didn't feel magically compelled to answer the question. However, there must have been something telling in her expression, for Malfoy crossed his arms and turned away, murmuring something unintelligible before burying his face in his hands.

Her face burned with embarrassment. She wasn't necessarily in the best position to make jibes at her captor, the only one between them with a wand, while she regrew three long bones. Regret-laden, she reached out a tentative hand.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He looked up at her, tears streaming down his cheeks before disappearing into his beard. "Don't be," he croaked, "I deserve it."

She made to apologize further, to try and get back to some type of even ground with him, but social niceties and proper apologies were suddenly forgotten as the pinching in her side turned into a sharper, stabbing feeling.

"Ah!" She cried, laying back against the pillows and wriggling in hopes of dissipating the pain.

Malfoy was there with a steady hand and a somber expression. "Strap in, Granger," he warned her, "it's going to be a long night."