Her skin was beginning to crawl with a sensation that made finding a comfortable position in bed impossible. Weakness made tossing and turning difficult. Any movement to her left side would have Hermione wincing or taking shuddering breaths. A Little Princess found her hand, but the light was too low for reading, and Hermione longed for something to distract herself from the pain.

She remembered Malfoy's words, waiting for her… Could it be Rachel, a Death Eater, or someone else? Despite the pain it cost her, Hermione reached for the side table, anxious to discover the person Malfoy waited for in the woods after the war.

The gold frame felt cold and heavy in her hands and the broken glass threatened to bite her shaking hands. Hermione threw herself back against the pillows, panting from the exertion. Even small movements, like scooching herself into a sitting position to gaze upon the picture, had her jaw clenching with pain.

A jagged piece of glass protected the woman in the frame. She sat on a chair wearing powder blue robes. The identity of the young woman was indisputable, so distinct and familiar. Light blonde hair fell in perfect waves down her sides and dainty lips that, in the image, pulled into a tight smile – vaguely reminiscent of the smirk that her progeny wore so often – before faltering ever so slightly at the end of the frame. Narcissa Malfoy was young when the photo was taken, Hogwarts age if Hermione had to guess, and she was beautiful, coming into her womanhood with the grace and distinction of a pureblood heiress.

While the girl in the picture may have looked content as she smiled, Hermione noticed a flatness to her eyes and a slight downturn of her mouth as the reel cut. She watched the magical image loop: a happy face once more, but there was something else – a teenage girl's dislike for pictures? Knowing who her sisters were and remembering all the horrid things they'd heard from Sirius, Hermione wondered if there was something nefarious captured in the young woman's eye.

What wicked things took place growing up in the House of Black?

Waiting for her…

Hermione's grip on the frame tightened – what had happened to Narcissa Malfoy? Was she out there, in the Forest? Would she be coming back soon?

After so many years – and the absolute trauma of the last few days – the details seemed fuzzy. In fact, Hermione noticed her vision was blurry and the room started to spin. Hermione closed her eyes, the memories hitting her like Daily Prophet headlines: Death Eater Lucius Malfoy is Kissed. Narcissa Malfoy Exiled by Wizengamot. Malfoy Assets Seized, Manor Condemned.

That's right, she'd been sent away. Hermione recalled the shift she'd seen in Andromeda during that time— the trials had been dragging on for years and Teddy's terrible twos were in full swing—but the woman never commented on it. Even with probing questions to discern her disposition, Andromeda Tonks appeared unaffected. He's the family I have to worry about now, she would say of her grandson. A tear came to Hermione's eye and she let it fall, too weak to dismiss it. They had promised to catch up after the census was over—Hermione just hoped she would make it to that reunion until she remembered that she would have to lie or omit most of what had happened in the forest so far.

Every responsibility and commitment she had attacked her mind at once; the Census, Luna's babies shower, Harry's birthday; plus whatever in the hell was going on with Pyronesia and the prophecy about a dying magical forest. Her whole body wobbled. A sweat broke out at her hairline while simultaneously she shivered. Lying back on the pillows, the roots in the ceiling of the den seemed to dance like the waves of the ocean. The sight made Hermione want to retch.

She rolled to her side, but in doing so the foot that hung limply from her boneless leg twisted behind her other foot. The sight was sickening and she lurched to untwist her limbs, pulling futilely at the last two straps of leather that bound her legs together. The sudden change in position sent her blood pressure plummeting, not quite losing consciousness, but throwing her balance off enough to tumble from the bed and onto the floor. She lay in that spot, panting until Malfoy returned.

He wasn't happy to find her like that.

"Are you fucking kidding me? I leave for two hours and you try to escape!" His arms, hard and strong and wet, pulled Hermione into a sitting position before he scooped her up, cradling her body against his chest. Hermione expected him to smell disgusting, like a wet animal. She wasn't expecting the smell of fresh-cut grass, spearmint, and the essence ink on parchment.

Hermione's heart hammered harder than it had when falling down the ravine. Her eyes went wide, locking onto his, which burned her like fire. His mouth was tight as held her, looking up and down her body to assess any damage, drops of water dripped off his hair and beard, peppering her skin. Her mouth was dry as all words died in her throat.

Just then, her pain spiked and Hermione could finally feel the bone growing in her leg. The pain in her arse had moved into her thigh, hopefully signifying the successful joint creation between the femoral head and the acetabulum cup. She cried out and Malfoy's grip on her tightened as he quickly lowered her to the bed.

He set her down, the flames of his anger looking more like a smolder. An analytical look fell onto his face and before Hermione knew it, Malfoy was waving her wand at her body. Tiny glows of different colored lights danced above her skin in response to the diagnostic spells he performed. Hermione watched him taking in the information, his eyes moving back and forth as he, undoubtedly, wracked his brain for a care plan based on the diagnostics. It certainly wasn't anything that Hermione herself understood – when she had studied up on healing before the Horcrux hunt, she had only focused on simple healing, as in, she knew how to keep someone stable until they could get to a proper Healer; but she had never attempted anything as complex as this.

"Malfoy, I wasn't trying to…"

He held up a hand, "Save your breath, Granger. I'm not done looking at you yet."

He tucked the wand into his back trouser pocket and bent over the bed. Hermione's breath caught in her throat when the hem of her gown was slowly, hesitantly, pulled up over her thighs, exposing them to the early morning air. Hot fingertips probed gently at her skin. Hermione had to look away, not wanting to see her disfigured limb, but mostly because she found herself watching Malfoy's face more than what he was doing.

His strong hand wrapped around her thigh and gave it a squeeze. Hermione cried out in pain, "Ow! What are you doing?!"

She pushed hard against him, but she was weak and he was solid, immovable. Malfoy backed away, hands up as if he meant no harm. He plopped back into the armchair, while Hermione dug her head back into the pillows, wishing her pain away, though knowing the worst was yet to come.

A cooling sensation washed over her limbs. She looked up to see Malfoy casting an analgesic charm and in that moment of reprieve, Hermione didn't care how he'd learned healing or why. He was here and helping her and, although she was shocked and afraid of what was to come, Hermione felt grateful that, for now, Malfoy seemed to be on her side. She could only pray that his knowledge would be enough to keep anything from going astray now that her bone growth was set in motion.

His expression had softened with a bit of relief, but the flames of anger were restoked and burning behind his eyes.

"Are you daft?" Malfoy spat. It was not a question Hermione was supposed to answer, not that he gave her much opportunity anyway. "You could have shifted your bone out of alignment, you could have hurt yourself."

Hermione blinked, confused – why was he so concerned with her well-being? Other than keeping her alive and getting her to a state in which she could leave without bringing him any unwanted attention, he should have had no concern for her. She never thought that Malfoy was capable of empathy and this was a fact Hermione had a hard time reconciling in her mind.

"I'm fine."

Read: anxious, confused, uncomfortable. The pain was subsiding a bit, though the discomfort persisted. Her thigh throbbed where his hand had been, reminding her of what it had felt like for him to be so close to her, touching her. Her body was tight, reliving the proximity. She reached for the book next to her but changed her mind when she saw Malfoy relax in his chair. "Can we just talk about something else?"

He pursed his lips slightly, not buying her act, but seeming too tired to argue. "Like what?"

"Well, a question came to mind while I was waiting for you to come back." Hermione paused.

The tight line of Malfoy's mouth barely fought against the involuntary movements that the blood oath elicited. "And?"

He leaned toward the bed, elbows resting on his knees. The den was dark, even though the first streaks of sunlight were beginning to shine through the entrance, hiding most of him in shadows.

"A shopkeeper, in Hogsmeade, told me that, over the years house pets have gone missing at night. She suspected it was due to a pack of wolves that visited the village…" As she spoke, Hermione watched Malfoy flush and then turn pale. "Do you know anything about that?"

He was on his feet at once, wand in hand, testing his wards. Muttering so quickly in Latin that Hermione couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Malfoy," she interjected, struggling to sit up in bed.

"No one ever saw! It was only a few times!" He turned, the look in his eye wild and untamed. Hermione shrank back into the mattress.

"I was so hungry!" He stalked over to the kitchen table, slamming his fist into it. "I was careful, but somebody noticed! How many more people fucking know?! Merlin, I am so stupid!" He cried out with a sob.

The sound, for whatever reason, brought a tear to Hermione's eye.

It wasn't that she felt sorry for Malfoy, it was just her human nature hurting for the plight of a fellow person. She was sure it wouldn't be long until the sins of his past tampered down her sympathy for him yet again. This feeling was only temporary and it certainly would pass.

"Malfoy, calm down. No one is coming to look for you. No one from the Ministry ever responded to her letters and–"

"Letters to the Ministry?!" He moaned, throwing his head back, and pleading with the dirt ceiling, "Just kill me now, please? You're just having fun with me at this point."

"No one is dying!" Her heart was beginning to race again, the next wave of pain inevitable, but her thoughts felt suddenly effortless, her mouth moving on its own accord, "I have Madame Marian's copy of the letters, I'll see to it that they end up conveniently lost or destroyed. And the ones sent to the Ministry, I... I'll seek to destroy those, too."

Hermione felt shocked at her own words, but also surprised at the level of conviction in which she meant them. It was the blood oath, foreign yet unmistakable. Was this what Draco felt like when she demanded a retelling of his past?

"Besides," she carried on, trying to assuage her discomfort at the promises she'd made recently, "a letter hasn't been sent in years, and I'm sure most villagers associate the nighttime howling with a centaur's horn."

Malfoy came to perch on the edge of the bed, his brows knit tightly together. "Howling?" He scoffed, "I don't howl."

"Yes, you do," Hermione insisted, "I've heard it myself."

He suddenly became very interested in staring at the book next to Hermione's lap, eyes downcast and a miffed look on his face. Hermione allowed her own gaze to drift, finding the picture frame had fallen to the floor during her tumble; Malfoy's feet rested in the broken glass.

"Oh, Malfoy, you're bleeding."

Malfoy followed her gaze, looking surprised to find a pool of crimson soaking the dirt floor. He brought one bloody foot up and crossed it over his knee. Shards of all sizes were stuck in the bottom of his foot. He began picking them out one by one without so much as a wince.

"The shopkeeper also said there used to be more wolves around and you said you hadn't always been alone… are there any other wolves I should know about?" The question felt heavy, dangerous, as it fell from her lips.

He paused his ministrations, looking over at her with a pained expression in his eyes. "More than I'd care to admit."

Her breath was labored, her chest shaking with every inhale, "Where are they?"

Malfoy frowned, fresh tracks of tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked down, tears falling and mixing with the blood, dirt, and glass that stuck to his skin. When he spoke, his voice was filled with sorrow.

"Dead."

One word: bitter, painful, and familiar. Hermione's eyes closed. The grave in the forest belonged to another orphan after all. It was a sadness she knew, to be all alone in the world, to live with half the heart of someone who had passed beyond.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered. And she was. Which might have been the strangest feeling she was experiencing, though the splintery sensation that crawled through her leg was a close second. She practiced her breathing through the pain, recalling a quote from the novel at her side: What you have to do with your mind, when your body is miserable, is to make it think of something else.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Malfoy had drifted far away, staring down at the wand resting across his palms. It wasn't fair to ask him, for she knew he'd be compelled to answer, but Hermione was feeling selfish and a part of her knew, from her own experience, that letting it out would do him some good, too.

"What happened to them?"

Malfoy gave her a wicked sneer. "Don't play a fool. I'm sure your little friend told you all about what happened and the price I had to pay."

Her eyes narrowed, confused, "What friend?"

"Your escort," he waved a hand, "the one you helped smuggle a unicorn away from The Herd."

Realization of whom he meant and the implications of such dawned on her.

"Pyronesia?"

"Sure, that one."

So he had been watching her the whole time; well, she shouldn't be surprised. If one expanse of Forest had been all you knew for years, you'd be privy to its going-ons, too. Who else had seen Light's great escape?

Burning, stabbing deep within her leg. Hermione rolled, futilely, riding out the wave. Finally, she came back down, panting as she anxiously anticipated another.

Malfoy was there to hand her a damp cloth and to apply another analgesic charm, though this one felt significantly weaker. Hermione's eyes fell upon the vial of pain elixir on the nightstand, but she felt it wasn't time yet.

"What about Pyronesia? She didn't tell me anything!" Nothing she wanted to share with Malfoy, at least.

"Oh, fuck all, Granger." Malfoy sighed as he settled back into his chair and scooted it closer to the bed. "Here we go again."

The First Anniversary of The Battle of Hogwarts, May 2, 1999.

Draco survived the rest of winter fueled by jealousy and bitterness alone.

He had braved Hogsmeade thrice out of desperation for food but also with an unquenchable thirst to know what everyone else in the world — his schoolmates, his Mother, and the mighty Order — had been doing after his 'death'. A Remembrance Gala, healing, moving on… it burned him to watch it.

Everyone else had a chance at a full life and happiness. What was he? Pathetic and utterly alone.

To distract from his despondency, he set to improve the den over the winter. Digging with his paws had been his primary excavation technique, his body too weak to manage much magic. The few spells he had in him were saved for warming charms and emergencies. So he dug until his nails were bloody, careful not to disrupt the root system of the oak tree.

Aligning with the season, the leaves of the gigantic tree had changed their colors that fall, fading from glorious oranges, reds, and yellows to a deep brown. Draco watched the rest of the forest wilt and die as winter arrived, save for the tree above his home, whose leaves clung to her branches all winter long — strong and stubborn through cold, snow, and strife.

His days were spent pouring over the pages of the newspapers and magazines he nicked from rubbish bins, his nights spent in a desperate search for food. The jealous loathing he had for everyone who came out on the right side of the war fueled the animalistic beast within. Through rage and Occlumency, Draco was determined to do whatever he had to, justifying it all as necessary means to stay alive.

He would learn to subtract himself from the boy he'd been, knowing that to make the most of his second chance, he couldn't be that person anymore. It pained him so, but Draco swore he was ready to leave it all behind — he had to become this different form of himself if he had any hopes of survival.

Spring came, breathing new life into the Forbidden Forest.

Trees that had shed for the winter, sprung leaves anew. Gone were the days when the wolf was the only one prowling the woods, barely discernible against the snow that matched his coat. The creatures were out of hibernation. Centaurian soldiers trotted through the woods, chanting, and dragging some bloody corpse. Draco steered clear from their routine path, which ran between the deep woods and the outskirts — Hogwarts, the Black Lake, Hogsmeade, and the Northern mountain ridge.

Instead, he ventured deeper into the woods, into regions not yet explored, hoping to find a proper food source so he would never have to brave Hogsmeade again. The thoughts of never leaving the forest, never seeing people again, were tucked neatly away through occlusion — the outside world couldn't matter to him anymore. He had only this, it was time to give the rest of it up.

Nose to the ground, Draco let his senses lead him. Somehow the wolf knew where to go, weaving through trees and brush until he found a pond whose surface was a mirror-like reflection. He crept toward it, ears perked with curiosity.

The smooth surface showed him his first good look at the wolf he became at the end of the war. His alabaster fur was tarnished by remnants of the forest: dirt, leaves, and blood. Dark eyes that spoke of stormy nights, loneliness, and pain. Sharp teeth, bloodied paws.

He was a terrifying yet mesmerizing sight.

Draco sat, stoic, for a time, lost in his own reflection, until the sound of a snapping branch broke the spell. He flinched before taking a defensive stance and scanning the perimeter of trees surrounding the pond.

Unwittingly, hope abounded within him. Is she here, has she finally come? He edged back into the cover of trees, low and quiet.

He was getting ahead of himself, it was probably just another creature going about its creaturely business… they'd all gotten into habits recently of seeking him out as if he weren't a threat to them, despite the fact that he was predator personified. The thestrals were especially creepy to run into — the first that snuck up on him was enough to startle him right out of his animagus form.

The woods were quiet as Draco watched, waiting for another sign. While observation was key in hunting, time was also of the essence. He prowled toward where he thought he had heard the noise, fur on edge and searching.

There.

Barely a scent, half a whiff of a memory, foreign and familiar, one that reminded him painfully of home. Draco sprung after it, sniffing the ground with anxious excitement as he drew nearer, nearer.

Yes! Fresh tracks.

Draco flinched, the paw prints were too large – could they be his own? No, he had never been this way before.

He followed the trail, walking in what seemed like circles for hours until he was suddenly assaulted by a cacophony of scents brought by a wind that whipped through the trees. The wolf crouched, trying to cling to the Earth beneath him. His head was dizzy and he became powerless to the whirl of it, surely hallucinating when he heard an instruction whispered amongst the trees, Say goodbye.

The wood spat him out at the foot of the mountain. In shock, Draco jumped out of his animagus form just in time to hurl the meager contents of his stomach into a bush. He lay there, panting — What the fuck just happened? And who was that speaking to him? — until the skirl of a bagpipe floated through the trees, bringing him a distant, haunting melody.

He sat erect: alert and afraid. Draco sprang back into his wolf form, running as fast as he could away from the sounds, the threat, of people. Under the rapidly setting sun, Draco skittered up a rocky incline until he found himself a nice, flat surface on which to lie low. When he settled, he looked out over the expanse. What he saw made his heart sink, heavy with the burden of the memories he promised to forget.

The wolf looked out over the dark sea of trees, eyes trailing unwittingly to those that flanked the castle grounds. Hogwarts stood proud in the distance, her grandeur aglow with flames that adorned every sconce and candle. The lawn was dotted with light — hundreds of witches and wizards singing hymns for the fallen. Dusk had given way to navy blue night and the moon hung low in the sky, lighting the night for those in continual mourning and giving Draco a bird's eye view of what he was missing. Distantly, more mourning music played.

He shuddered at the sight, overcome suddenly with wrought emotion. It was a vigil. Perhaps it was finally the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, not that Draco had a clue, having given up tracking the days at some point over the winter.

He knew the milestone was coming, but it felt shocking to contemplate. One year of being a wolf. One year of agony, loneliness, unrelenting paranoia, and torturous survival.

He wondered what things would have been like had he not gone down this path… would he have lost his life like his Father? Gone into exile with his Mother? What other fate could have befallen him and, more importantly, had he gotten the better outcome?

His thoughts had him frustrated, and regretful of the decision he made. It was too much to bear at times. Certainly, it was all worth it to live, but what kind of life was he truly living? And would it get any better? At least in Azkaban, he would have had a cot and meals provided… but none of it was worth the risk of being sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss.

Draco might be the last Malfoy – good riddance – but he wanted a bit more living to do before he went beyond the veil.

The voice among the trees was right — it was time to say goodbye.

Goodbye to the outside world and life beyond the leaves. The wolf allowed a single tear to fall but then closed his eyes to choke back the others. He was a man, a wolf, of the woods now. There could be nothing else but this.

A sudden thought seized him. What if the mourners spilled over into the Forest and found my home? He all but leaped off the mountain, his paws carrying him through the unfamiliar wooden path with purpose, like a homing beacon calling to his bones and muscles, directing him on which way to go.

It was dark by the time he found the oak tree. A chilling wind had followed him down the mountain. Suddenly Draco was quite cold despite his warm, fur covering. He hid under an adjacent bush, waiting to ensure he was alone.

He couldn't hear anything above the roar of the water of the two rivers, rushing together to meet at the corner of the bluff. The churning was soothing, but not enough to dull out the final cries of mourners and music. The night turned darker, only the light from the stars and an otherworldly, large moon illuminating streaks of the forest from above.

There would be no better time than now; he had to act before it was too late. The wolf slipped into the den and resurfaced as a human, wand clutched in hand. The Forest had not seen Draco's human form in over a year. Being exposed now felt wrong, risky – but he had to take action before he was found out. It was set the wards now or be discovered soon – a little magic with no one around felt like the easy choice between the two.

Clouds rolled in on the gusting wind, shrouding some light from the moon. Draco's cloak hung off him in scraps, his shadows looking like a ghost revisiting the world on the anniversary of his death as he waved his arms in a practiced manner, uttering spells ancient and sacred. A harrowing feeling accompanied his movements – the last time he'd set wards had been as a Death Eater, during a kidnapping. Draco occluded, pushing the memories to the back of his mind where he'd buried the rest.

Draco was adding the sixth ward layer, his masking key that would allow him to see the hidden entry points he had added to the den. It was a complex spell that required careful attention. It was difficult not to rush through the incantation – the threat of discovery sat heavily on his chest — but Draco managed it well enough. As good as any eighteen-year-old with magical disuse atrophy could manage, anyway.

One last swish of his wand and one final incantation remained. With his home secure, Draco would guarantee his safety, his longevity. He could be safe, and fully enjoy his new life. He shook his shoulders out, beginning to perform the last movement of the spell when a sharp twig snapped behind him. The sound broke Draco's concentration, nullifying the blood signature needed to cross the ward – a fact he didn't notice, a fact he'd pay for later.

His silver eyes widened, Draco whipped around, his wand trained on the intruder.

A white Centaur foal stood, startled, before him. Two bright-blue eyes were wide and the only movement of the beast came from the twinkling of stars in her black hair. They stared each other down, neither daring to move, as if they were both waiting to see what the other would do.

Draco's blood was rushing through his ears, and his heart pounded against his sternum, threatening to break free. The centaur padded closer to the oak tree, maintaining a small distance between them. His grip on the wand tightened. This was the wild, he reminded himself, kill or be killed.

He raised his wand, pointing it at the Centaur's heart — he had to do this to survive. He wouldn't give it time to reach for the quiver strapped to its back. The Centaur lifted one hoove, perhaps as if to run or maybe to fight back, but Draco wouldn't allow himself to be bested by a beast. He didn't give her the chance.

"Organum Eviscero!" A white-hot jet of lightning shot from his stolen wand and struck the Centaur in its right eye.

The Centaur whinnied with anguish, its arms clutching at the orbit. The beast charged forward blindly, hind legs thrashing in response to the pain. Draco fell as he scrambled backward, narrowly avoiding being trampled. The wand, however, had fallen from his grip and was not so lucky. He watched in dismay as it was crushed by her hooves.

The beast continued to buck, blood pouring from the wound and staining her white coat. The foal was loud, her cries echoing off the trees – surely the noise would attract attention this way. Draco fled to his den while the centaur continued to cry out, ducking inside just before a stampede of hooves signaled the arrival of the Centaurian guard.

A jumble of voices called out, some English and others not. The foal cried incoherently; it was a slow curse, and the damage would take hours to be done if the creature lived at all. It was a terrible spell, the curse designed to burn the organ closest to the contact point.

Wandless now, there was little Draco could do to block out the cries of the injured foal. He cowered in the corner, hands clamped tightly over his ears. His regret mounted with every moan from the animal; why couldn't he have just killed the damn thing? What misery was death compared to the pain it was suffering now?

He shut his eyes tightly, he wasn't a killer. That should be a good thing, but for Draco, it had been absolutely horrible. Couldn't stand up to Voldemort, his parents, or his Aunt and the entire Wizarding World paid for that. Couldn't kill Dumbledore, oh how he suffered for it. Most Death Eaters acquired a taste for blood, longing to kill. It was disconcerting, terrifying… not to his taste.

But right now? He wished he was a person trained to kill – to put the beast out of her misery or perhaps, himself out of his.

Immediate regret echoed through his mind, increasing with every pained cry of the young beast. As determined as he was to leave the past behind, it seemed the darkness would follow him wherever he went. Draco held his breath, waiting for a soldier to reach into his den, pull him out, and kill him for what he did; an eye for an eye, the way of nature; kill or be killed.

Nothing happened.

Mercifully, the centaurs' cries distanced and Draco allowed himself a minute to breathe. Darkness had wound its way into Draco's chest, squeezing his heart until he thought it might break. Not even occlusion could dull the shame he felt, the remorse that would eat at him for years to come.

A distance away, witches and wizards cried and mourned for the hateful atrocities that had sullied their beloved school. The same distance away, but in the opposite direction, the Centaurs prayed to the Dark Wood, asking her to heal the young foal, whose eye had melted out of its socket.

Just outside the den, the first leaf fell from the mighty oak tree, landing in a puddle of magical blood.

As he spoke, Draco watched Granger succumb to the pain of regrowing her femur.

Her cheeks had flushed as her body temperature rose and she began to sweat. It started as a ghost of perspiration on her upper lip. Eventually, her curls were wet against her forehead, clinging to her neck, and wrapping down to her collarbones where they disappeared under her night dress.

Until now, she had just tensed or wiggled when the pain hit her, but it seemed to be getting worse and she appeared to be able to handle it less. She was green, as if she would vomit at any minute, and took small sips of water, holding the cup with shaking hands. Draco's lips had told a story, but his mind was flipping through a healing text all the while, thinking of all the ways this could go wrong and what he should do if she took a turn for the worse.

She tried to hold back the sobs, but a cry escaped her lips and she called out in distress.

The cries that echoed through his memory melded with the cries of the witch that writhed in pain on the bed before him. The noise rattled something inside of him, pain and remorse so intolerable he almost wished he were regrowing his leg instead. He tried to block it out, hoping the episode would pass, which it did, but the next waves came in quick succession.

Draco dropped to his knees next to the bed, leaning on the edge of the mattress with his elbows. Granger's hand scrambled to grip his forearm. She squeezed, her nails digging into his skin. Draco winced — she was stronger than she looked — before using his free hand to remove her vice grip from his arm and offering his hand instead. Her grasp was crushing, but Draco didn't mind. When she poured her pain into his palm, it stopped her from sobbing — he would do anything to get the crying to stop, to not think of the time she cried off walls that were much grander than the ones surrounding them now.

Her grip loosened, but she didn't let go. Granger was winded, chest heaving as her body relaxed and sunk back into the bed. Draco let out a breath, allowing his eyes to leave her face for a moment to examine her leg.

The thigh was beginning to look formed as the shaft of her femur elongated within. A little past the halfway mark, if he had to guess based on her stature. His finger ghosted along the side of her thigh, looking for signs of edema or hemorrhage.

Suddenly, the hand she had previously occupied was empty, Granger having ripped hers away. It came back quickly, however, to slap him sharply on the wrist.

"Paws off," she warned with a haggard breath.

He recoiled, unsure if he should laugh or be offended by her comment. She let out another cry and Draco pressed his eyes shut at the sound, becoming flooded with memories of when her harrowed cries echoed off halls of marble. His fingers found her wand and gripped it tightly. Draco started occluding, tucking the thoughts away into a little velvet box that held a silver mask, reeking of brimstone and ash.

The cries of yesteryear faded, but, when he slowly opened his eyes, the witch before him remained, her cries having mercifully quieted to a shaky whimper. In his fragile state, it was almost enough to break his occlusion and send him into a spiral.

Draco summoned the pain reliever, uncorked it, and held it next to her face.

"Take the potion," he bit out through clenched teeth, staring into her face. "You're in pain."

Her expression read of misery and exhaustion, but she schooled it to her hallmark look of determination. "No, I'm fine," Granger sniffled.

He felt that pull again, the one that kept leading him back to her side in the first place. Draco resisted the urge to grab her face and give the witch what they both so desperately needed — reprieve. The feeling made his skin crawl with confusion. Was it merely the blood oath causing him to care or some other force of nature entirely? He placed the vial aside.

She cried again and it felt like something was twisting his heart. Draco couldn't take it anymore. He gripped the leather strap around her thighs, pulling so hard that the material stretched, no longer holding Granger's body down. Draco shimmied it down her leg, slipping it over her feet and tossing it hastily over his shoulder. He then repeated the process with the last strap around her calves.

Granger rolled to the side, bending her good leg appreciatively, finally fully unencumbered for the first time in days. The light of midday caught her face, showing that it was pinched in pain, fresh tracks of tears trailing down her features, like rain falling from petals.

Her pain was known to him, the splintery feeling that would set into her skin, the creaking of bones as they formed at the joint, and the weakness that would follow when the process was through. It wasn't an experience he'd wish on anybody, not even Gryffindor's Princess. His rough hand found her soft cheek, wiping away evidence of her misery.

"Please," he begged in a fervent whisper, "please stop crying."

She froze at the contact and Draco withdrew his hand, their eyes locking for a brief moment before he retreated to the other side of the room, breathing heavily. How could she have such an effect on him? Or had the years of solitude made his heart soft?

Granger was quiet and Draco found her studying him when he glanced over his shoulder. It looked as though she would break at any moment and Draco again worried that he'd have to do more healing on her.

They were both weak. He busied himself with opening packages containing meat and cheese, ripping them into pieces, and placing them on a cloth. Draco only stopped when her voice, hoarse from shouting and spitting venom, cut through the space between them.

"Tell me," she practically spat, "what was the price?"

His mind was frazzled, unable to think clearly in the fog that always hung over him after revisiting the dark spaces he had long forgotten… or tried to forget. "Huh?" He crossed the room, snacks in hand. "What are you talking about, what price?"

"You blinded Pyronesia!" Granger shouted, body quaking as her body attempted to dissipate the pain that no longer dulled between episodes. Her eyes shone with a bitter loathing that pierced him straight through the heart, "Please tell me how anything you have suffered could ever atone for that?"

He frowned, looking down at his hands that were clenched tightly in fists. Draco's entire body was tight with shame and regret and he didn't even need the blood oath to force him to tell the truth this time.

"It won't."

Nothing would ever make up for it. Nothing would ever return the sight to the Centaur, just as nothing could ever redeem Draco in the eyes of the world. They were both condemned to live with their plight, hers a disability and his the unfortunate circumstance of being born Draco Malfoy.

"What's your muggle saying, an eye for an eye? Her eye may have been ruined, but I lost so much more."

Granger's eyes widened with fury, one he had seen in the past moments before being hit by her. Draco approached her side of the bed slowly, only moving just fast enough to dodge A Little Princess as the Muggleborn Princess threw it at his head.

"Why does every being in this bloody forest talk in circles around me? I am SO sick of the riddles! Malfoy, tell me what the fuck happened here before I take us both out of our miseries!"

Her chest heaved after her outburst. Draco's mouth ran dry watching her. So this was the real Hermione Granger: a cunning snake in lion's clothing. Draco wondered for a moment what would have happened had she been sorted into Slytherin – though he knew what the young Draco would have done: treated her like an outcast, a freak, and bullied her until she went back to the muggle world where she came from.

But now, he, the outcast, felt sick with such thoughts. He didn't want his second chance sullied by the burdens of his past, not all of them at least. The only one he had to contend with now was Granger, but in her pursuit of wanting to know things, Draco quickly realized he'd be facing them all anyway. He sighed and hung his head, the baring of his sins was upon him. But he dreaded telling her, reliving, what happened next.

Of course, she knew just what to ask to get the information out of him. "Whose footprints were by the Reflecting Pond?"

How could she pick up such minute detail in all that he had told her while she was dealing with such pain?

"Granger, I–," tears, pain, shame, regret. "Please don't make me tell you."

Her eyes hardened, narrowing at him. For all the pain she was in — and given the fact this whole mess was because of him, really — Draco supposed it was only right if he suffered a bit, too.

"Fine," he croaked, unable to keep from telling her anyway. "But promise me you'll take the potion when I'm done before you get to your knee."

It was a complex joint, one that would require proper alignment of her bottom leg when forming. She was already hurting and tender to movement, he couldn't imagine it would be a pleasant experience for either of them to endure with Granger conscious.

The stubborn witch bit her cheek as if only contemplating his proposition.

Draco let out an exasperated sigh, looking down at her with a look that spoke of the extreme stress he'd been experiencing. Upon seeing it, she softened.

"Please, Granger," he begged. "I can't listen to you cry anymore. Your screams are already the tortuous ghost of a memory that has haunted my dreams for the last seven years."

Her mouth fell open and then shut gently. Instead of talking, she nodded. Draco transfigured two more pillows from books and gently placed them under her good leg. He sat on the bed next to her, not willing to meet her eye.

It is a disgusting feeling to know you are about to break a promise you made to someone who had only ever looked out for you and had your best interest at heart. Every second that passed increased his sense of self-loathing, knowing how much it was going to hurt him to break the promise he made, even if the other party wasn't around for the betrayal.

Before he carried on his tale, Draco whispered a prayer, hoping to be heard beyond the veil, "Oh Brother, please forgive me, for what I am about to say."

Granger shook with pain, but Draco held her steadfast attention.

"The footprints belonged to—,"