Rose and Sword

by SanaNGU

Draco Malfoy, due to the prolonged absence of the Ancient Runes teacher, has been stirring up the class as he pleases with the help of his cronies, preventing the other classmates from studying. Hermione Granger, a responsible and persevering student, is not going to sit idly by.

47. Godric's Hollow

Hello everyone, how are you? 😊

Thank you very much, from the bottom of my heart, to all of you for your comments 😍. In general, to all of you reading this, of course. You don't know how much I appreciate you. Thank you for sticking with me on this story, I adore you guys! 😍

I would like to warn you that this chapter may be a little harsh at times, in which some of the horrors of war are recounted. I don't intend to make the story too raw and bloody, far from it, but I want to try to do justice to what war is. And, unfortunately, for me, that means telling some harsh stories to make it believable. I hope you enjoy the chapter despite this 😊.

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CHAPTER 47

Godric's Hollow

"They are here, My Lord."

Severus Snape stood in the doorframe, both hands behind his back, not entering the room. His face, sallow, showed no terror. Only respect.

Voldemort turned his body without moving. The black robes that covered his body swirled with him, revealing his bare, white feet. He stood beside one of the bookshelves in Albus Dumbledore's old office, staring at its contents. Barely a metre from him, a fireplace burned fervently, with the light from the flames the only illumination in the office that night. The moonlight was not visible through the clouds.

"Thank you, Severus. Send them in."

The professor bowed slightly, and was about to leave the room when Voldemort spoke again, "How is Jugson, Severus? And the others? Have they recovered from their wounds?"

Snape paused and hesitated for a moment before turning to look his master in the eye again. His face was impenetrable.

"Jugson is still alive, My Lord, but I don't know for how long. And I don't know if a blind Death Eater can be of any use to you either... The rest of them will recover, but he was the one who came off worst in your skirmish with that dragon."

Voldemort let out something akin to a deep sigh from his vertical nostrils. After a few seconds' reflection, during which Snape did not even think of saying anything, he commented, as if discussing the score of a Quidditch match:

"Indeed, he's useless to me like this. There's no point in keeping him alive. Finish him off. Quickly. Let's spare him any more suffering," he turned back to the bookshelf. "What squadron did he belong to?"

"Onyx Squadron, My Lord. Rowle is his sergeant."

"Order Rowle to pay my respects to his widow."

"It shall be done, My Lord," Snape assured him, lowering his voice. Just a little.

"Stand down, Severus."

The alluded one bowed ceremoniously again and made to leave the room, but his lord's voice stopped him again.

"Severus, on second thought... Bring Jugson to me. Now."

The man hesitated for a moment. Then he simply left the room with determined stride. Voldemort continued to stare at the bookshelf. He was looking closely at the old, wrinkled, tattered hat on the top. It was dirty, and full of patches. Voldemort's cold red eyes barely blinked as he saw the crack that corresponded to the mouth slowly begin to move of its own accord.

"I have had doubts with a great many students. I dare say all of them. But with you it was very easy," the Sorting Hat said in a deep voice. "You couldn't have fitted into any other House. If it had been up to me, I wouldn't have put you in Slytherin either. I would have simply cast you out of this castle forever."

Lord Voldemort's lipless mouth curved into a grin-like grimace. His forked tongue protruded from between his lips as he let out a sound akin to a guffaw. He raised a white hand with sharp nails and grabbed the hat by one of the flaps, pulling it down from the shelf. Without ceremony or hesitation, he threw it into the fireplace, enveloping it in a cloud of ash and suddenly more vivid fire. The flames glowed in his elongated pupils, dilated with satisfaction.

"You are no longer needed. There will be no more Houses at Hogwarts, ever again."

He heard a muffled sound behind him. He raised his head slightly and turned slowly.

"Welcome, comrades," he greeted politely. "Thank you for coming to my call so quickly."

Before him, two tall figures had materialised in the centre of the room. They hovered several inches above the floor. Their black robes, partly torn to shreds, billowed around them in a ghostly manner. Hoods covered their faces. The temperature in the room dropped so low that the fire in the fireplace shivered and went out, leaving the remains of the hat on the embers. The Dementors breathed heavily, as if with each inhalation they were devouring a little of the life near them. They reeked of rot. Of death.

"I am grateful that so many of you are in my ranks. You are, indeed, very useful to my cause, and I hope you are pleased with the souls I provide for you." Voldemort began to pace in front of them, walking around the office as he spoke. "As you know, some of my men are now in the fortress you guard. That Ministry shack called Azkaban," Voldemort explained. He did not seem the least bit frightened by their presence. "And I think the time has come for you to allow me to retrieve them. I know you have a signed agreement with the Ministry, and I respect that. I am, first and foremost, a wizard of my word. But..." he hesitated, pausing in front of them and looking at them with a wicked grimace of satisfaction, "I think we can come to an agreement. I need you to let us in. Just for one night. We will take only what is ours. In return, I promise you free reign to satiate your appetite with all the souls you can consume. If you join me, if you help me bring the wizarding world to my feet, I assure you that you will have no shortage of souls to feed. What do you think?" There was a light tapping at the door. Voldemort's mouth curved into a mirthless smile. "Oh, there's Severus. I have something for you, a small foretaste of what I can provide. Consider it a gift. Or an advance payment."

The Dementors did not answer. They did not speak. They didn't know how, and Voldemort didn't care. He just needed to be sure they would obey him. And he was sure.

---

"Expecto Patronum..." muttered Nott, once again. Under Samantha's watchful eye. The girl was sitting on the bed next to him. Trying not to move a muscle, not even to change position, afraid to break the concentration surrounding the boy.

A thick stream of light left the tip of Nott's wand and formed a white ball before him. It illuminated the darkened room for long seconds. The boy frowned and gritted his teeth, focused on his happy memory, trying to increase the power of the spell. But he didn't succeed. The ball slowly faded, allowing only the candle on the bedside table to illuminate the room. It was late at night, and the thick curtains at the window were closed.

Theodore let out a frustrated gasp and flopped onto his back on the bed. Resting. He turned his face to look at Samantha, looking disappointed. She returned a look that was meant to be encouraging. Smiling hesitantly.

A loud, hurried knocking on the door made them startle and gasp. It took them a couple of seconds to react. They looked at each other, now worried. They were in Draco's bedroom. Waiting for him. Apparently, he had gone out, and they didn't know where. But whoever was knocking, it wasn't him. He wouldn't be knocking on the door of his own room.

"Hide," Nott whispered, jumping out of bed. Whoever it was, it would be better if they didn't see them together. No one was aware of his and Draco's friendship with the prisoner.

The girl stood up in turn and looked around. After hesitating, she jogged over to the tall cupboard on the opposite wall. She slipped inside, and squeezed through Draco's shirts and robes. Closing the door behind her. As soon as Nott ascertained that the girl's presence was no longer detectable, he pulled the door open with a cautious tug. And his mouth opened with it. And he stopped listening to his own heartbeat.

"Theodore," Lucius Malfoy greeted, arching a thick, blond eyebrow. "My boy... I didn't expect to find you here."

His eyes looked over the young man's shoulder. Scanning the deserted room. Searching, no doubt, for his son.

Stunned and mute, Nott, for long seconds, could only stare at the man before him. A man he had not seen in almost five years. From the short distance, he could clearly see the hollows of his sunken, terribly thin cheeks. His skin was dull and almost cracked. The shadow of a neglected beard. His hair, shorter than he remembered ever seeing it. His grey eyes, deep set in dark sockets surrounded by wrinkles. But as bright and feline as his son's.

Lucius Malfoy had come home.

And it took Theodore several stunned seconds to conceive of such a thing.

"Mr... Malfoy," he finally managed to articulate. Catching his breath. "I didn't — I'm sorry, I didn't know you had —"

The boy fell silent. He didn't know how to finish the sentence. He had what? Escaped from his life sentence in prison? He had no idea that the Dark Lord was planning to attack Azkaban. It had been a massive surprise. So much so, that he didn't know where to start asking questions.

Samantha, hidden in the cupboard, had her eyes wide open. Seeing nothing of what was going on. But hearing everything. Mr Malfoy? Draco's father? The one who was in Azkaban prison?

Lucius stretched his lips into a cold smile. And he also brought forward a parched but firm hand.

"I've only just arrived. It's all been rather hasty, from what I understand. Good to see you, boy," he said, in a calmer voice. With his characteristic composure. He retained all the elegance befitting a man of his bearing and former status, but it was clear that Azkaban had been cruel to him. His face had aged alarmingly prematurely.

Theodore swallowed hard before he managed an uncertain smile and shook the man's hand. Then he heard voices outside; angry voices and phrases he did not understand. He saw several people hurrying down the corridor behind them. There was great agitation. Then he noticed Narcissa, standing motionless behind her husband. Looking at Theodore. And the young man took in with difficulty the discreet layer of pain in her haughty, beautiful eyes.

Still dazed, his brain struggled to make sense of the whole situation. The Dark Lord had attacked Azkaban. He had freed the prisoners. He had freed the prisoners.

"My father," he gasped then, hoarsely. Suddenly he found it hard to catch his breath. And the urge to shove the Malfoy family out of the doorframe and run off to his own room almost overwhelmed him. "Is he too — is he downstairs — where — ?"

He watched as Lucius made no attempt to answer. He merely scrutinised his face as he asked about his father in a clumsy, incoherent manner. Theodore fell silent, and the thickest silence he had ever experienced surrounded them. A silence that became unbearable. He gasped, wanting to ask more questions. If he asked more, maybe they would tell him where his father was waiting for him. Maybe he hadn't asked the right questions. And that was why the Malfoy's were so quiet. He glanced at Narcissa again, out of inertia, seeing that he was getting nothing from Lucius. And he caught himself panting, trying to find the breath he needed to speak again. But the woman's face had turned gloomy. Her eyes glittered. The veiled pain he had seen in them had become more evident.

And Theodore understood the truth. And he realised that he didn't want to hear it from her lips. Not from her, not from anyone.

"I'm sorry, Theodore," Narcissa whispered, her voice trailing off. Taking a step forward to stand beside Lucius. "The Dark Lord didn't bring him... Your father is still in Azkaban."

"After what happened in the Department of Mysteries, his health was never the same," Lucius corroborated. He hadn't taken his eyes off the boy before him. His voice controlled. As if forcing himself to speak maturely to someone he considered a child. "He was very weak. He would have been of no use to the Dark Lord in his condition. And it was better for his health if he remained in prison; moving him would have been dangerous," he added, as if he realised he had been too sincere in his first comment.

Nott said nothing. He just looked away from the eyes of the two adults and down at the floor at his feet. He knew he must be thinking about something. Crying, even. But he couldn't. What for? Nothing had changed from an hour ago. He was still alone.

"I'm so sorry, darling," Narcissa repeated, her voice broken. Taking another step forward. "But it was the best thing for your father. He's in no condition to fight this war..."

Her voice sounded a little harsher. As if her own words did not please her. As if she regretted that her husband was.

Nott's stiff neck nodded once. Without him having made up his mind. While he still stared at the floor. Looking at anything else required too much effort. The floor was fine. It was uniform. Sober. It allowed him not to think. He didn't want to think. Not about anything.

He heard Lucius's discreet sigh before him. And felt his large, slender hand resting on his shoulder. Subtly. As if he wasn't sure he was doing the right thing.

"Surely in the future —" he began, his tone peaceful. But Theodore couldn't take it anymore.

"Draco's out," he interrupted. And his voice sounded steady. As if the previous conversation hadn't happened. Though he still couldn't look up. "Or so I think. I don't know where he's gone. I don't think he'll be long. I was here, waiting for him."

Lucius and Narcissa were silent. Noticing his abrupt and urgent change of subject. The Malfoy patriarch pulled his own hand away. Straightening before the boy, regaining his composure.

"I see," Lucius agreed, in a lighter tone. But he let out a discreet snort. "I do need to speak with him, though. The Dark Lord has given us instructions to pass on to the Black Sergeants. You have a mission tonight."

Nott looked up at last. Feeling his presence of mind return slightly. He forced himself not to look at Narcissa's still strained empathetic face. He didn't want her pity. Or anyone else's. He wanted his father.

"A mission?" he repeated, speechless. Not knowing at this point how to react to so many revelations in such a short time. It felt like he'd been standing in that doorway for an eternity. "Now?"

"It was a bit hasty, but I understand he wants to use the distraction of the Azkaban escape to keep the Order of the Phoenix's attention on another task, while we continue to move across the board."

Nott assimilated this information. Understanding the logic. Fascinated by his master's strategic potential. The Dark Lord definitely did not want to waste an opportunity. It was genius. Almost inhuman to his troops, not allowing them the physical and mental rest they needed. But, if all went well, they would gain a lot in a single night.

"What is the mission?" Theodore asked curiously. Lucius pursed his lips, pondering for a moment, and ended up taking a step forward. Showing that he wanted to enter.

"Sit down, I'll tell you all about it. Narcissa, try to locate Draco," he requested, glancing over his shoulder at his wife. Nott's eyes then fixed on her. He saw the nod and the steady gaze she gave her husband. Filled with a longing that was impossible to conceal. A new strength. As if she could scarcely conceive that he had returned to her side. That he was there, speaking to her. But she kept her poise and merely turned and hurried away down the corridor.

Theodore, swallowing his breath, agreed to step aside. Allowing Lucius to enter the room with graceful strides, he went to sit on the wide bed he had occupied with Samantha minutes before.

Samantha, who was still in the room. Inside the wardrobe. Holding her breath. Who had heard everything, and would continue to do so. With a muted sigh, she dropped onto the floor of the wardrobe, as quietly as she could. She closed her eyes. Trying not to think about the four walls that surrounded her. So much like her old cell. In the darkness. There was no light. The light from the cracks was not enough. The room was lit only by the lamp on Draco's bedside table. And she was in a very narrow place. She could barely catch her breath through her nose. She parted her lips and took several desperate breaths. It was better, but it wasn't enough.

But she couldn't get out of there. There was no escape. Not as long as Mr Malfoy was in the room. And she wasn't sure she wanted to listen to the conversation they were going to have either. She didn't want to know what mission they were going on. What lives they were going to shatter. What new accomplishments they were possibly going to add to Lord Voldemort's list.

She felt one of Draco's shirts brush against the crown of her head. Trembling, she had a sudden thought. One that made her eyes water. It was... humiliating, she thought. But she needed it. Otherwise, she'd be forced to run out of there. The claustrophobia threatened to leave her out of breath.

She reached up with one hand and tugged blindly at the fabric. Several cautious tugs. Causing it to fall from the hanger on which it hung, landing on her. She clutched the cloth in trembling hands, without opening her eyes, and held it up to her face. She inhaled tremulously. It smelled like Draco. It smelled familiar. It smelled like a person who treated her well. It wasn't the smell of the cell. She wasn't in the cell.

She inhaled again. More calmly. She had never had one of the boy's shirts so close to her before. She frowned. She had never hugged him... No, of course she hadn't. She wasn't in a position to hug him. But they were... friends. Or so she thought. They were close. He treated her well. He cared for her, in his restrained, detached way. And it would be so... nice to hug someone who smelled like that... It would be so nice to be able to hug that boy without any kind of remorse...

She closed her eyes, picturing Draco's face in her mind, and resigned herself to listening and taking in the Malfoy patriarch's instructions. His father had come home. How would he react? The girl bit her lip to hold back the sad smile that took over her mouth. Imagining how excited he would be to know that his father had returned to his side...

The memory of Nott's breathy voice, asking for his own father, pierced through her chest. And it wiped away her smile. He was her friend, too. He was. And it pained her to no end to know that he was suffering. She didn't even want to imagine how he would feel... And she was in there. Unable to support him.

"I'm so sorry, Theodore..."

---

Draco breathed an audible sigh of relief as he reached the top of the stairs. He had even had to lean on the handrail to finish climbing. He felt exhausted. His shoulders sagged. And his legs were shaking, the after-effects of the treatment he had just received. Besides, he was starving. He had missed dinner. It was almost one o'clock in the morning. He would ask one of the elves to bring some food up to his room.

He had given in. Against his will, but he had. Granger had been right. The burn from the Fiendfyre Curse needed a Healer to check it out. In the days following the mission to Berry Pomeroy Castle, the discomfort had increased. He had been forced to take, almost daily, potions to keep the pain at bay. And he understood that he couldn't go on like this. He couldn't fight like this. And if he couldn't fight, he wouldn't survive this war.

So, with only three days to go before he was due to meet Granger again at Blucher Street, he had gone to visit Rutherford Poke. The thought that had finally made up his mind was the irrefutable certainty of the scolding that the girl would bombard him with when she saw that his wound was still the same a week after her treatment, or even worse.

Poke, the Healer in charge of treating the Dark Lord's troops settled in the counties of Wiltshire, Hampshire, Sussex and Surrey, was holed up in a shelter in Dorset. He was Draco's assigned Healer.

They barely spoke during the treatment. The Healer treated him with formality, and an almost impossible to conceal apprehension, but Draco realised that he had not recognised him as the Death Eater who had tortured and mutilated him during his kidnapping. He simply didn't know what to expect from him. Draco realised that some of his comrades might not have treated him with much respect while receiving his healing services. Poke, despite being intimidated by his position as a Black Sergeant, or perhaps because of it, was a professional and respectful man. And he gave superb treatment. Draco now felt exhausted from the many powerful spells and potions with which he had bombarded him. But the wound no longer hurt. There was barely a faint mark left. Feeling pain-free for the first time in days felt almost unreal.

He had administered him a couple of Invigoration Draughts, at the urgent request of an almost knackered Draco, but they still hadn't had enough effect. So climbing the stairs to the first floor of his manor had been a more arduous task than he had imagined.

As he walked in the direction of his room, his weary mind allowed itself to think of Granger. He wondered if she was all right. If she had been on a rescue mission these days. From time to time, he managed to get trivial details about some rescue from one of his comrades. Less often than he would like, knowing that he was not going to allow himself to arouse suspicion. Barely any information relevant to his rank of Black Sergeant, about where it had taken place or how many prisoners had been taken. If the Order had been successful.

Would Granger know about the dragon? Would the Order know?

And suddenly he found himself telling her everything that had happened at Berry Pomeroy Castle. Talking to her in his head, practising the story he would tell her. Telling a member of the Order of the Phoenix that the Dark Lord had gotten hold of a weapon with which he intended to rule the wizarding world.

Those thoughts almost made him stop walking. He was so used to talking to her about anything, everything, that he sometimes got lost in the situation. He forgot that she was part of the enemy's side. That he couldn't tell her such things. It was sensitive information. Crucial.

He was not a spy. He wasn't a traitor. He was seeing a Mudblood behind the backs of his entire side, kicking his ideology, but he wasn't a traitor...

If he were... If he were a traitor... If he were to confess to the Order information about his side... He could change everything. Change the course of the war. It was in his power. And it felt almost macabrely satisfying to be in a position like that. He truly believed he could change everything. The Order could win. And he would ruin his own life and the lives of his family. Why would he do such a thing? He would have to be completely insane to condemn himself...

But the other part of the equation was that, if his side won, Granger would be in danger. A resigned little voice in his head told him that Granger would be done for. Doomed. He would lose her in the way he had always feared. But that would not happen. He refused almost blindly. Because he wasn't going to allow that. He could save her. He would save her. Only her. He only had to save her. Let the rest of the world burn, along with her bloody side of deluded people. He would keep her from defeat. He didn't know how, yet, but he would find a way. He didn't even consider a future by her side at this point. But if his side won this war, he would make sure to save her. He could do that for her.

Even if he had to lose his life in the attempt.

He almost stopped again at the sudden thought. How ridiculous... How could he let himself be killed to save someone else? It was against nature. No one could be that crazy. That kind of bravery was absurd. But... Fuck, at that moment he felt he would do it. To save her? To really save her? Anything. Whatever it took. He didn't care. Damn right he didn't care. This was about her. He wanted her to be all right. And the price to pay was the least of it. And heat rose in his neck at such a spontaneous conclusion. Possibly it was all a side effect of the Invigoration Draughts. They were making him delirious.

But what if he couldn't save her...?

What if he didn't need to? If, on the other hand, the Order of the Phoenix won the war... She would automatically be saved. He forced himself to accept that reality, though he preferred to ignore it. Ignore that saving her would be so easy.

He closed his eyes as he walked and rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger. He didn't even know why he was thinking all this. It wasn't in his plans to betray anyone. Nor to be a spy. Too much was at stake for that to be a plausible option at the moment. He wanted to survive. And for his family to survive. And to do that, they had to remain on Lord Voldemort's side. Granger had made her own decisions. She had chosen sides. She could have stayed out of the war, but she was in it.

And yet, at that moment, he was certain that he would throw it all away if it meant, really, saving her...

He was surprised at himself. At the way he thought. He had never been altruistic. When had he begun to think of the safety of others before his own? Actually, only Granger's safety...

He sighed, trying to stop thinking such catastrophic thoughts. He was going to see her again in three days. He hoped they could see each other, that nothing unforeseen would arise. That the girl would be all right. If given the choice, that she hadn't been harmed in any way in any battle. He thought then that he should also have some basic knowledge of healing, as she did. It was useful. It was an intelligent course of action. That practical, stubborn woman always carried healing potions in that tiny beaded handbag with an interior the size of an ocean liner. If he knew a modicum of healing, at least basic first aid, he could heal her if remotely necessary, using her potions. Perhaps in the library of his manor there were books on healing...

He opened the door to his room, still deep in thought, and his first impulse when he saw that the light on his bedside table was on was to pull out his wand. He reached to touch it, hidden in his belt holster, but did not take it.

He realised that his bed was occupied. And by whom it was.

"You've disappeared again," Nott accused him, as soon as Draco set foot inside his room, without even greeting him. He was sitting on his bed, still in his combat dress despite the late hours of the night, next to a Samantha dressed in Narcissa's old robes that, like all the clothes she had lent her, were a bit too big for her. "Where were you?"

Nott was deadly serious. Samantha looked self-conscious. And nervous. Possibly because of Draco's wild stare at the two of them.

"What the hell are you doing in my room?" he spat in return, slamming the door behind him with a furious shove, causing the door to slam. Samantha shrank back a little more. Nott was unfazed.

"Wait for you, you cretin. I asked where you were," he hissed. Grumpy and unimpressed at his friend's annoyance. "Are you in trouble again?"

Draco noticed that Theodore had his wand between his fingers. Almost threatening. And it didn't take him long to understand. He was ready to erase his memory again if necessary. The young blond felt a furious warmth rushing up his back, making it itch.

"What are you talking about, are you spying on me? Did you put the Trace Charm on me like I'm a bloody underage child to see when I'm doing magic?" Draco exclaimed, feeling his anger rising.

"You've been missing for hours, no need to spy on you to notice that," Nott snarled, arching an eyebrow. Draco gritted his teeth. And a childish stubbornness came over him. He had no business telling where he'd been. Gossipy git.

"It's none of your business where I've —"

"It is if you're in trouble," Theodore snapped in a louder voice. His eyes glittered. "I don't know what you're into, Draco. But you probably won't be so lucky next time..."

Samantha gave Nott a sidelong glance. Realising that she didn't understand what they were talking about. Luck with what? 'Next time'? Had something happened? When? Why could Nott care where Draco was? What did he think he was capable of doing?

"Shut your mouth or I swear —" Draco stormed, tired of the interrogation, approaching with slow but menacing steps.

"Your mother has been looking for you," Samantha interjected then, almost afraid that the discussion was getting out of hand. "That's how we know you weren't at the manor."

Draco looked at her, stopping his pacing.

"My mother?" he mumbled. He looked at Nott. And then at Samantha again. Frozen. "Why? What happened? What...?"

"Your father was released from Azkaban," Nott revealed, his tone more peaceful. "This very night. Like... a few hours ago. It was — I swear I didn't know anything about it. Did you know they were going to attack the prison?" he questioned, forgetting to sound annoyed. Assuming his friend would share his bewilderment.

Draco was silent. Taking in his words. His questions. Failing to formulate a response. Unable to understand. He was sure he wasn't understanding.

"What are you talking about? My father?" he repeated. And he barely heard his own voice. "Is he here? My father?"

"Yes, and so are most of the other Death Eaters convicted because of what happened in the Department of Mysteries. Also many of the ones they've been imprisoning over the years," Nott added, his voice impersonal. "He's set them free."

Draco took a breath. Realising he had forgotten to breathe. Fighting a sudden euphoria. That he still wasn't entirely sure he could allow himself to feel.

"Fuck," he stammered, wheezing. He ruffled his hair with his hands and spun around, not quite believing his ears. "Fuck... Then... But why now? What about the Dementors? What about the Ministry?"

"Apparently the Dementors are now fully on the Dark Lord's side," Samantha reported sheepishly. Repeating the words she had heard Lucius say. "They have stepped aside, no longer guarding Azkaban. They've abandoned the Ministry of Magic to its fate."

"Fuck," Draco repeated, finding it very difficult to manage to say anything else. His brain wasn't working normally. He was out of breath. "So they've really taken them out? Bloody hell, they've got them out!" he exclaimed louder, his lips curving into an incredulous smile at last. Samantha seemed unable to suppress a hesitant smile, caught up in the boy's enthusiasm. She'd never seen him smile like that before. Theodore merely stared at him. "Nott, your father...! They're out!"

"No," he replied, still looking at him. And resignation filled his serene voice. "Not mine. He's still there."

Draco shook his head and almost laughed in an exhalation. Playing it down. Not understanding his words.

"No, it can't be. If he has released —"

"My father is still in Azkaban," Theodore repeated, and now his lips curved into a sad smile. It was the first grimace Samantha had seen him make since he'd been given the news. "He was still too badly wounded and he's of no use to the Dark Lord. They've left him there."

The glow on Draco's face slipped off like rainwater. He looked at his friend's sad smile and felt almost all of his elation replaced by angry disbelief. It wasn't possible...

He sneaked the Death Eaters into Hogwarts at the age of eighteen out of the certainty that they would free his father. Theodore had helped him against his will in the hope that they would free his father.

'Now it's his turn to do his part. He has to free my father from Azkaban. And yours too. He will free them both. He won't attack the prison for just one prisoner. He'll get them all out.'

It had been his fault. He had given Theodore hope. He truly believed he would free them all. And, in fact, he had. Draco had been right with his rash predictions. Only his friend's father was of no use to him. And he hadn't expected such an outcome.

The silence that settled over the room pressed on his eardrums. He swallowed as discreetly as he could and gathered his courage to look at Nott again. He was aware of the stiffness of his own posture. Of the defensive air of his body language. Unconsciously expecting reproach. Resentment in Nott's expression. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Theodore's eyes were locked on his as well. Eyes too tired to look disappointed. Eyes simply devastated. And that was almost worse.

Draco wanted to say something, but he couldn't get his jaws apart. An 'I'm sorry' died in his tightly clenched throat, unable to say it out loud. To say anything at all. Samantha kept her dark, concerned eyes focused on Draco's feet.

Realising that Draco seemed unwilling to say anything, Theodore's eyes averted from him and dropped to the floor in a free fall. And the poise that kept Draco on his feet fell with them.

"I've been to Dorset. I've been to see Rutherford Poke. About the burn from the Fiendfyre Curse. I suppose it didn't occur to my mother to look for me there," he confessed, his voice slow. Nott looked at him again. One corner of his mouth turned up in a lazy smile. Seemingly relieved at such news.

"Is your wound better, then?"

"Uh-huh..."

"I'm glad, because you need to be fit tonight. You missed something else. There's a mission. In an hour," Theodore then stated. And his voice returned to a considerably more normal tone.

Draco frowned. Feeling like he was having a hard time taking in so much news at this point.

"What...? Another mission? About what? Didn't you say they just attacked Azkaban?"

"Yes, and the comrades who took part in that attack are not going to be part of this mission. The rest of us will. Apparently, a large deployment..."

"But how do you know? Has there been another meeting?" Draco interrupted, incredulous and almost suffocated. He couldn't believe he'd missed another meeting. He didn't even want to imagine the Dark Lord's reaction... But he hadn't noticed the Mark at all...

"No. Your father told me about it. It seems He has ordered the newly freed Death Eaters to relay it directly to the Black Sergeants. The Generals of the Shadows didn't act as go-betweens this time..."

Draco ran his tongue over his lips in a quick gesture. Still breathing heavily. Hardly noticing an attentive, mute Samantha, who was just staring at him from the bed.

"I have to go talk to my father," he mumbled through his teeth, turning away with the intention of leaving the room. But Theodore's voice stopped him in mid-stride.

"He is not here. He's sent all the released prisoners to see — Smith, I believe his name is. The Mediwizard for Essex, Kent and London, I think. They're still weak, they need to be checked. For obvious reasons, they are not going to participate in this mission..."

Draco snorted in open frustration, as he turned around again.

"Well, what mission is it? Where are we going?" he finally questioned, impatient. His eyes flicked to Samantha involuntarily, remembering her presence, and she took it as an invitation to respond.

"You are going to attack a place called Godric's Hollow," the girl replied quietly. Draco arched both eyebrows undisguisedly. Doubly surprised. By the place, and by the fact that the girl was aware of it.

"Godric's Hollow?" Draco repeated, now looking at Nott. He just nodded lazily. "But that's not — that's very bold," he frowned. As his thoughts progressed, he became more and more confused. "It's stupid. It's not a particularly useful war location. It's nothing more than a small, dinky village where wizards live among Muggles... It's famous for being Godric Gryffindor's birthplace, but that's about it..."

"Who is Godric Gryffindor?" Samantha dared to ask, blinking, hesitantly.

"One of the four founders of Hogwarts, our school," Nott replied quietly, barely glancing at her. Still watching Draco, who was running a hand impatiently through his hair. Looking frustrated.

"And what has he explained about it? What's the plan? What are we looking for? Another fucking dragon?" Draco sneered, cynically. Nott merely shrugged.

"I wish I knew. But there's no plan. We just have to go in there and tear it all apart."

Draco arched a blond eyebrow. Unimpressed.

"Take over the village, you mean? Set up a new facility, a military site, temporary prison for prisoners, or — ?"

"No, Draco. I'm telling you. Just tear it all apart. Create chaos and leave."

Draco blinked twice. An impressed snort escaped him when he realised his friend wasn't going to add anything more.

"What are you talking about? What kind of mission is that?" he argued. Getting angry again. "'Tear it all apart? What are we, petty criminals now?"

"Those are his instructions," Nott repeated, beginning to grow impatient with his friend's questions. "He says that's all we need to know. We need to wreak havoc and kill everyone who gets in our way."

"There aren't that many Muggles in that place either. What can there be, eight hundred people...?" Draco calculated reluctantly. Finding it absurd to organise such a display for the sake of killing a few Muggles.

"Not just Muggles," Nott corrected then. And his voice changed. "All of them. We have to kill every living thing we see. Wizard or Muggle. Those are his orders."

Draco looked him straight in the eye. For once, without asking any questions. Looking for the lie in his friend's blue eyes. Now he really didn't understand anything. He was finding it very hard to take in what he was hearing. Since when did they attack entire villages without the intention of taking them over? Kill for the sake of killing? Wizards?

He felt like he was in a dream. A confused and bizarre dream. Roughly mixed with bits of reality.

"How are we going to...?" he ended, indeed, asking.

Theodore sighed. And shrugged again, as if it were obvious that he shared his friend's thoughts.

"I don't know, Draco, I don't understand it either. I don't know what this is about. Maybe he thinks it's unworthy that the birthplace of one of the founders of Hogwarts has become half-blood, and he wants to... eradicate it. Clean it up. Just another way of showing that he can do whatever he wants with the wizarding world. I don't know."

"It doesn't make any sense," Draco muttered, still in disbelief.

"He's... let it slip that there's a more specific intention behind it," Samantha whispered. And when Draco looked at her almost sceptically, she hastened to clarify, "Your father said so. I overheard his entire conversation with Theodore," she confessed, without going into detail. "The Dark Lord has not revealed it to anyone, but your father is sure there is a plan behind it. A plan He's not telling anyone..."

"Yes, that's right, he has mentioned it," Theodore corroborated, nodding in the girl's direction. "He'll want to make sure that no one betrays him and leaks it to the enemy ranks... It must be something important."

Draco was silent. Feeling out of place. Yes, it made sense that the Dark Lord would have an ace up his sleeve and that was why he would send them on such an unprecedented mission. And yet... he couldn't think of a single reason to justify what they were about to do.

Indiscriminate, cold-blooded killing of wizards? Wizards who were not necessarily a threat, who were not part of the Ministry, or the Order of the Phoenix? He had been on many missions. He had spied on people for weeks at a time. He had tortured wizards more experienced than him. But always with a specific purpose in mind. To find someone, to undermine enemy troops, to steal information... But to wipe out an entire village? To kill pure-blooded wizards?

He was plagued by the creepy feeling that Lord Voldemort would stop at nothing. Not even his own kind. His lust for power was killing his scruples, if he'd ever had any scruples at all. And Draco could not be indifferent to what they were about to do. He was... disillusioned. Or more than that. He didn't agree. He was considering how to stop it.

"I find it as hard to like it as you do, but what can we do?" Nott muttered to him, despondently, snapping him out of his thoughts. Draco looked at Nott and realised that he had been watching him. While he was staring at his bedpost. In his chaotic thoughts. And he didn't know what expression he'd been wearing for the last few seconds.

"Alert the Order of the Phoenix to stop it..."

That was the thought that ran through Draco's brain upon hearing his friend's question. And which, of course, he didn't utter out loud. In fact, he continued to say nothing. He was paralysed by the reflexes of his subconscious. He was considering even warning the enemy?

He was going mad. That was not him. That was not his way of thinking.

"Enough. Don't go there... You're not a traitor, you can't be... You're not going to warn anyone, and you know it, so stop even thinking about it..."

He forced himself to take a breath. What was he thinking, what was wrong with him — first the idea of telling Granger about the dragon, and now this?

Why was he questioning the orders of his master, the greatest wizard of all time? Who was he to decide if a mission was worthwhile or not? He just had to obey. Blindly.

But his spoiled inner child wasn't used to doing things he didn't want to do. And it was hard to fight against that feeling. Against the frustration of not agreeing.

He couldn't disagree with his master. He was their leader. And he knew what had to be done to achieve their ends. To restore the purity of the wizarding world. Make them all rich and powerful. Influential. Ends he no longer wanted. But he had pledged to obey. Forever. To follow him always. He could never leave his ranks. Even if he wanted to. He condemned himself to death if he tried...

He closed his eyes again...

He didn't even know how to contact the Order of the Phoenix...

"Do you hear that?" Samantha whispered. Breaking the silence. And the boys were aware then. Rapid footsteps came from the other side of the door. The whole manor was buzzing. The hour was approaching. Everyone was mobilising.

Nott took a deep breath and picked up the silver mask that rested on the bedside table.

"Ready?" he asked his friend, rising to his feet. Draco fixed his eyes on him. After two seconds, he moved his head in a stiff nod. "I'll tell you more details on the way, so you can pass them on to the squadron. Or, at this rate, they'll give me your job as Black Sergeant..." He gave Samantha's leg a couple of gentle pats by way of farewell, eliciting a faint smile from the girl. "Don't get into trouble while we're gone..." he mumbled, joking half-heartedly, with another sigh. Already walking towards the door. Slamming the silver mask on his friend's chest as he passed him. Pulling his own from inside his robes.

Draco took it out of inertia, but did not go after him. He didn't move at first. He stared into Samantha's gaze. Still sitting on the bed, hands clasped, her dark, anguish-laden eyes fixed on his as well. Insecure.

"Go back to your room as soon as we leave," Draco said in a gentler tone. Nott, at his back, stepped out into the corridor, and then shut the door again so that the inside of the room could not be seen from the outside. "Don't come out of there. And don't let anyone find out that you have listened to the orders my father has given to another Death Eater. They can't find out that you know anything. Understand?"

The gleam in Samantha's eyes increased. Her shoulders relaxed, though her face looked more upset. Draco saw her purse her lips as she swallowed, but then she nodded her head quickly. Grateful for his concern.

"Understood..." she murmured. She took a breath and opened her mouth to say more, but Draco interrupted her.

"We'll be back in a couple of hours," he assured her, somewhat apathetically, finally turning and walking towards the door. As he had his hand on the handle, Samantha spoke again behind him.

"Draco," she called, haltingly, making him stop. Although he didn't turn completely around, only his face did, just a few inches, indicating that he was listening to her. It took her a few seconds before she managed to speak again. "Take care... Take care of yourselves," she whispered. Almost voiceless.

Draco stood still for a few moments longer, not quite sure why. But he ended up leaving the room, following Nott, closing the door behind him. Without another word.

Samantha closed her eyes tightly and swallowed the sob that threatened to escape through her closed mouth. Swallowing it at the same time as other words she wanted to say. But it was too ridiculous. And she hated herself for it. Because she didn't feel in control of her feelings. She didn't feel like she owned herself. And she didn't know how to change it. It was all wrong. It was hopelessly wrong. And yet it was the purest and... warmest feeling she'd had in a long time.

How could she be so stupid?

"Come back..." she let out in a broken whisper, speaking to the silence of the room.

---

A warm orange light was the first thing Draco saw around him, before he identified where he was. He had Apparated, along with his squadron, into the middle of a deserted cobblestone street. Dimly lit by a few lampposts that emitted such a warm light. As he took in his surroundings, more hooded figures were Apparating, judging by the sounds that tore through the night's silence, in the adjoining streets as well. It was a warmer night than usual. The houses were small, humble, with russet bricks and pointed roofs.

Draco allowed himself a deep breath of air, trying not to notice the lights in the windows. He raised his head to the sky. He couldn't see the moon. But judging by the illumination of the night, he knew it was a full moon. And that complicated certain things.

He turned to Opal Squadron, who was watching him intently, scattered around him. Waiting for orders.

"Mulciber, that house over there. Gibbon, that one. And then go on to that intersection over there. Abbey, follow that street and go down to the church. Take charge of that area," he pointed to the end of the alley. "Nott, you're with me. Fenrir, to the square, with Abbey." He allowed himself a second's hesitation. But a sudden wave of reckless heat came over him. He was the sergeant. He could order anything he wanted. "And only wand attacks. Don't infect anyone, Fenrir."

The cloaked Fenrir Greyback, who was breathing loudly, laboriously, under his robes, raised his head slightly. His almost wolfish physiognomy, even without being transformed, did not allow him to wear the combat dress and silver mask of the Death Eaters. But he was covered in black hooded robes.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" he questioned in his gruff voice. In a harsh, menacingly sarcastic growl. Draco kept his back straight.

"You heard me perfectly," Draco spat, and he himself was surprised at the authority he managed to bring to his own voice. "The Dark Lord said we have to be quick. So don't engage in unnecessarily long-winded maiming," he remonstrated, acrimoniously. He knew his comrade was not as skilled with his wand as he was with his jaws. Stopping a werewolf from infecting half the population of this place, or murdering them in the bloodiest way possible, was the only thing he felt capable of doing for them without being found out. "Have you taken the Wolfsbane Potion?"

Several eternal seconds of silence followed that question. None of the rest of their comrades moved. In fact, it seemed to Draco that none of them were breathing.

"Yes," Fenrir finally grunted, coldly.

"Then there's no reason why you shouldn't obey me when you transform," Draco spat again. He couldn't see his eyes, but he knew he was looking at him. And that he didn't like his order at all. Draco turned to the rest of his squad, not paying any more attention to him. "What are you waiting for? Move."

And they all obeyed instantly. Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of Godric's Hollow, the village was in a frenzy. The hooded figures moved at full speed, each in a different direction, heading for the nearest houses. Draco felt Nott, beside him, pat him on the back discreetly. Second guessing and supporting his orders towards Greyback. Draco took a deep breath and broke into a run, wand in hand. No direction, no particular destination, really. Still assimilating their task. Nott followed after him, unquestioningly.

Down the street they went, crossing paths with others of their own, from other squadrons. The first shriek echoed through the night. More lights from windows lit up the village. The screams, charged with more and more panic, set the mood of the night. A detonation resembling thunder was heard. A bright light illuminated their backs and made them turn around by inertia. A house had burst into flames.

Draco and Nott continued on. They walked down several streets together and ended up in the small square as well. A large stone obelisk stood right in the middle of it, silhouetted against the night. A memorial to the war dead, Draco guessed. They stopped to scrutinise the scene, assessing where to go. They saw a few grocery shops being ransacked. The inside of one was on fire. They saw two of their comrades entering the post office, melting the grille that protected it and smashing the front window. Several people, villagers, began to run out of the pub on the corner, seeking shelter in the streets.

The lights of the spells began to surround them. Draco kept running, heading for the other end of the square. To one of the alleys that seemed to be less crowded, away from what looked like it would become the epicentre of the battle. Turning to confirm that Nott was following him, he found himself staring at the obelisk that dominated the square. Or what was once an obelisk.

He stopped, staggering. Too surprised at what he saw. The great stone boulder had been transformed into a different statue. A sculpture of a family. A father with tousled hair and glasses, a mother with a realistic mane of hair surrounding a beautiful face, and a fragile baby in her arms...

What was that? Why did that statue have a Masking Spell? Who was that family?

He frowned, sharpening his eyes. The man who symbolised the father looked vaguely familiar...

"Draco, what are you doing?!"

He heard the shout in front of him. Nott had stopped to wait for him. And Draco almost had to shake his head. He heard the screams of people again. He saw the pub windows explode across the concourse. A Muggle fell to the ground, writhing, a few feet away, struck by a potentially deadly spell.

Without a second thought, he hurried to his friend's side to continue running alongside him, until they reached the alleyway. Other Death Eaters had already passed by. Smoke was billowing out of the upstairs window of the house to his left. There were bodies in the streets. Draco could smell the magic. The blood. He could see spells in the distance, in front of them. Feeling the figure that belonged to Nott a few paces behind him brought him to a stop. He glanced at his friend, his back to him, and followed his gaze.

Theodore was staring at one of the corpses. Draco looked at it as well, out of inertia, before he was forced to look away. He was... used to, you could say, seeing people die. To having corpses in front of him. To produce them himself. Over the years, it had ceased to shock him. They had been at war for two years. The body, the stomach and the heart got used to it. At least you were forced to if you didn't want to become one of them. But the corpse Nott was looking at appeared to be just a child...

They did not kill children. They fought against experienced wizards. On equal terms. Aurors from the Ministry. Members of the Order of the Phoenix or associated with them. Not children, dammit...

"We have to continue," he managed to articulate. Looking around. Anywhere but the corpse of that little boy. His friend didn't move. "Nott, we can't stop..."

"I'm not going to continue."

The words, whispered in the silence, entered Draco's brain and reverberated there for several seconds. He looked back at his friend. He was turning, facing him. And he was removing the hood from his head as well. And the silver mask.

Theodore's face was contorted into a grimace of anguish. Draco's heart skipped a beat.

"Nott..." he mumbled, looking around quickly. Making sure no one saw him do that. "Nott, stop it, you can't —"

"I can't do this," Theodore said, his voice cracking. He tossed the silver mask aside with open contempt. "I can't go on. I'm out of here. I'm... I'm leaving this side."

Draco felt his own muscles stiffen. And he was running out of air. He approached Nott, with quick strides.

"Don't talk nonsense," he spat, standing in front of him, speaking in a cold whisper.

"Do you think I'm joking?"

Draco's heart was pounding. He understood perfectly well what was going on. What had changed inside his friend. He had ended up breaking down that night. And Draco wasn't liking it one bit. Theodore had endured a lot for two years. He had fought in a war he didn't support, for a man he hated. He had committed horrors from which he might never recover. And all for the chance to see his father again.

'And, if they're really going to release our parents from Azkaban... I want to be there. If my father finds out that I've run away, or that I repudiate the Dark Lord, he won't want to come near me. And he is the only family I have left. I have no one else.'

But he wasn't going to see him again. He had found out that night. His father hadn't been rescued like the others. His health would not improve by being in prison. On the contrary. He would never be useful to the cause again. The Dark Lord would never release him.

And Nott no longer had any reason to fight on his side.

"You can't do this. They'll kill you. If you walk away, they'll kill you," Draco let out an almost resigned exhale, "I'm your sergeant. I'll have to track you down and kill you for being a traitor."

"Fine, do it," Nott said, breathlessly. As if it were self-evident. Without fear. "Do it, I'm warning you, because I'm not staying. And I'm not going to put you in danger. It's my decision. So find me and kill me if you have to..."

"Nott, stop it..." Draco exclaimed, a little louder. Holding his friend by the forearm, fearful that he'd Dissaparate treacherously at any moment.

"Let go of me," he demanded. Struggling. Trying to pull back. "I'm not going to kill these people. No more. I refuse. I have nothing to lose. Not any more..." his voice broke into a sob, "I'm leaving, and if —"

But Draco interrupted him, letting go of his forearm and pushing his own hand against his cheek. Hard. It wasn't exactly a slap. Just a quick thrust that turned his face, intended to make him mute. Then he planted his forearm across his chest so he could push him against the wall. Cornering him. Draco was taller and had more strength than his scrawny friend.

Draco removed his own mask with his free hand. So that Nott could clearly see his tense expression. To see that he meant what he said.

"Enough," Draco hissed, an inch from his face. "I'm done. You're not going anywhere, do you hear me? Forget about your father," he ordered in a quieter voice, "and move on. We're going to survive this night, and this war. It's all going to end eventually. And we have to stay on the Dark Lord's side if we want to survive. This isn't over."

"Draco, I don't care..." Nott moaned. His blue eyes filled with tears. Draco could feel his muffled sobs against his forearm as he held him still against the wall. Draco let go of his chest and clutched his face with one hand, digging his fingers into his cheeks. Forcing him to look at him. Hurting him, he was sure.

"I do," Draco blurted out. I care about you... "And I'm not going to let you do it. I'm not going to watch you die. Stop thinking you're alone."

Nott sobbed, stifling a listless laugh, looking away. As if amused that his friend had guessed perfectly well how he felt, even though he hadn't said so. Tears slid down his cheeks. Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him so broken. Maybe the first day he had to murder someone.

They looked at each other. The steadiness in Draco's expression didn't waver. He felt Nott sobbing, but he also felt him try to nod despite his tight grip. Draco released his face, but didn't pull away. Theodore wiped his face with his sleeve. Looking at the opposite wall. Fighting to breathe.

"Draco, I can't kill these people," he wiped his face with the sleeve of his robes again. "It's not fair. They're not — are you seeing what we're doing? I can't do it. Bloody hell, not to wizards or Muggles. I can't... And they'll probably find out and end up killing me for it."

Draco took a stealthy breath and looked away as well. He could hear the shouts from the square, coming muffled into the alley. The houses around him, were already shattered. He couldn't either...

"We can do this," he muttered then. He felt Nott glance at him again. He was staring at the obelisk, visible in the distance. "Let's pretend to cooperate. The rest will take care of it. It's getting chaotic. Let's find an empty house and smash it up. Let's do as little real damage as we can and get out of here as quickly as possible."

He dared to look at his friend. Theodore was staring at him. He nodded again when he met Draco's eyes. Approving of his idea. Relieved. And Draco decided to trust him. He agreed to let go altogether, moving away from the wall. Trusting that he wouldn't treacherously run away.

Theodore sighed, and opened his mouth. Hesitantly. Draco guessed from his expression that he meant to thank him. And he didn't want him to.

"C'mon, move," he snapped, not letting him speak.

Draco started to walk, sneaking into an adjoining alleyway. It was narrow, barely three feet from one house to the next. Nott's staggering footsteps behind him were the best melody. They emerged onto a parallel street. Draco looked around. Death Eaters were approaching from his right. They were beginning to tear apart the farthest houses.

There was a detonation, and the building to their right suddenly became a large fireball. Draco instinctively shrank in on himself and jumped several steps away, startled, almost running Nott over. They raised their wands to shield themselves from the embers. They stood static, staring at the flames licking at the façade. Feeling the heat of the fire on the front of their bodies. The Death Eaters who had set it on fire were out the door at that moment.

Draco grabbed Nott by the robes at once and strode confidently off, pulling him along with him. As if they, too, had a specific destination they were heading for. They could not be seen standing there. It would be a terrible risk if they were identified.

They passed two more Death Eaters coming out of a nearby alley. Dragging a couple of people they couldn't identify in the harsh light of the fire. Draco waved his wand, nimble as a fox, and knocked one of the lampposts in the street to the ground in one sweeping motion. The glass exploded as it crashed to the ground, as did the bulb. It generated a loud, exaggerated clatter. The Death Eaters left them behind without even looking at them. Satisfied.

Nott then tugged at his robes and pulled him aside. He led him unhesitatingly to another of the houses. An old structure of weathered stone and rusty wood that, unfortunately, would burn easily. A small garden surrounded the house, with parched grass growing in all directions. They advanced to the porch. An old wooden plank blinded the door from the outside.

"It's abandoned," Nott whispered. "Surely no one lives here. It'll be good for pretending we're doing something useful..."

"Maybe it's just a trick of the owners," Draco argued warily. He took a step back and waved his wand in an almost automatic motion. The plank fell at his feet, cut in half. Another wave of the wand, and the old door gave way, falling into the house, torn from its hinges. Raising a great cloud of dust. The tall flames from the house opposite tinged the hallway with a vivid orange hue.

Draco advanced first, wand held high in the air. Despite what he had said, as soon as he entered he was certain that the house had been abandoned for many years. No Masking Spell could be as good, or be cast as quickly. The whole place was ravaged by the years, dilapidated and filthy. There were stairs leading to the upper floor, but they dared not touch them for fear they would give way. They walked down the ground floor hallway. There were empty picture frames, covered with dust, on either side. They caught a glimpse of a living room to their left and a kitchen at the far end. Nott passed Draco to enter the dingy kitchen. He turned to head for the living room.

It looked even worse than the rest of the house. Old, dirty, overturned armchairs; chairs with broken legs and splinters scattered everywhere; a partially destroyed fireplace; broken window panes, which had let mountains of leaf litter seep inside... Even the wallpaper was beginning to peel off. It looked as if a tremendous explosion had been unleashed here. An unmistakable smell filled the room. Magic. A great deal of magic.

A small table in the corner had survived whatever had happened there. Or perhaps it had been put back together afterwards. On the table, picture frames. Draco walked over to them. He picked up the first one he saw, with his free hand, and lit it with his wand. The black and white photograph moved, enchanted to do so. Two young boys, barely twelve years old, with very similar faces, were smiling and waving their hands in the direction of the camera. They must have been brothers. At the bottom of the photograph was a date written in neat handwriting. 1893.

Draco frowned. It was a very old picture. He put it back and picked up the one next to it. It was of a very pretty girl, photographed only from the waist up. Her hair was long and probably blonde, and her eyes were also light, even though the photograph had no colour. This time there was no date in the corner, but a name. Which he didn't have time to read.

The glass in front of his eyes suddenly changed. It became progressively covered, at full speed, with a thin layer of ice. The boy inhaled sharply, caught by surprise, and dropped the frame to the floor by accident. The glass covering the photograph shattered. Draco exhaled. And his breath turned to mist before his eyes, escaping through the slits in the mask. He felt his arms freeze under his robes and armour. What the — ?

He spun around. The remains of the window had frozen as well. And the fabric surface of the overturned armchair was also covered with frost. The temperature in that place had dropped an inordinate number of degrees. Draco could see his breath leaving his mouth rapidly. He made to move towards the door, but something stopped him.

A dark figure occupied the doorstep, completely. From top to bottom. Easily ten feet tall. It hovered several inches above the dusty floor. And his black, flowing black robes floated around him without following the laws of gravity, ignoring the fact that there was no wind in this place.

Draco raised his wand in front of him, instinctively. Stepping back. Feeling the cold seize the inside of his chest.

"Get out!" he shouted, in dread. Still pointing the wand at the creature. "I'm on your side! Get out of here!"

He smelled the putrid odour. He tried to catch his breath. Gasping. The chill in his chest wouldn't let him. The figure moved forward. Draco raised his wand higher. And took two more steps back.

"I said get out!" the boy shouted again. Loudly. Trying to control the desperation in his voice. "I am a Black Sergeant! I order you to step back! Expecto — !"

A terrible feeling of unease was coming over him. As if he had been put in a cloud of Garrotting Gas. He could no longer shout. His legs gave way. He blinked, feeling the room flicker before his eyes. The being was right in front of him now.

"Expecto...! Expecto Patronum!" he managed to articulate, no longer shouting. But he wasn't thinking anything happy. On the contrary. Something bleak was coming to his mind. He saw the room in Blucher Street. He was sitting on the mattress. But he was alone. And Granger...?

He felt a cold, huge hand, with long, clammy fingers, wrap around his throat. He could feel the rotting flesh even in the encroaching darkness. He felt it pull him back, until his back hit the wall. His chest heaved, gasping for air.

He was sitting in the room on Blucher Street. Granger wasn't there. She hadn't come to the arranged meeting of the night before. Nor had she come that night. And he wasn't sure how worrying that was. His heart was pounding. He was clutching his head with both hands. Trying to breathe. He thought he'd seen her at the Riddle House. And it had seemed to him — shit, he'd needed to dismiss that theory. He hadn't been sure what he'd seen. It didn't have to have been her. It couldn't have really happened... But now she hadn't come to meet him. Fuck. Fuck — he couldn't — what if it had happened? What if he'd killed her?

He opened his eyes, not knowing when he had closed them. But he didn't see clearly until tears trickled down his chin, clearing his eyes. He was able to see his attacker, from the short distance that separated them. It was definitely not human. The hood showed that its eyes were covered by some kind of membrane, and, where its mouth should be, there was only a dark gaping hole.

The tightness in his chest choked him. And it had nothing to do with the Dementor's grip. It was his own memories. He was still lost in them. Living it as if it were happening all over again. Losing himself in the anguished feeling of not knowing what fate had befallen the girl. The helplessness. The fear of the irremediable. She hadn't kept their appointment... He could have killed her... He had killed her...

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

Suddenly, the darkness of the atmosphere lessened. A bright light pierced Draco's closed eyelids. The Dementor's hand released his face, and the boy slumped to the floor, sliding down the wall into a sitting position. He opened his eyes at the stab of pain in his lower back.

It was a glowing raven, made entirely of light, that was at that moment lashing out at the terrible hooded being. Pushing it back. Making it leave the room through the broken window in a swift flutter of cloak. The temperature began to rise, returning to normal. The gloom also returned to the room as the raven slowly faded into a bluish cloud, having done its job.

Draco still didn't move, as he breathed in large gasps with his mouth open. Shaking from head to toe. Nott, standing in the doorframe with his wand held high, was breathing in the same way.

Two quick strides, and Theodore dropped to his knees in front of him, holding him tightly by the shoulders.

"Are you all right?" he wheezed, breathless. Clutching and feeling Draco's arms almost anxiously. "Draco... Draco, shit, are you all right?"

"Gra — Granger," was the first thing to leave Draco's mouth, hastily, between ragged breaths. His breath echoing like a low whimper each time he exhaled. Nott, before him, fell silent. Still holding him by the arms. Staring at him with his mouth ajar. It had been years since he'd heard him utter that name.

"Wh-what?" Nott muttered, in an almost inaudible tone. But Draco didn't even seem to be aware of where he was. He took a couple more deep breaths and then let out a deep sigh. Pulling himself together.

"Nothing... Shit, nothing, I've — it's made me remember things," he then articulated. Still panting. Pausing to swallow his saliva. "Fuck..." he mumbled, pulling his head back to lean the back of his head against the wall.

Nott stared at him for a few moments longer. Managing to catch his breath. But blinking absently. Feeling a sharp pang of unease, which quickly turned to sorrow for his friend. Had he remembered something painful about Granger? Perhaps when they were forced to separate, at Hogwarts, on the night of the attack on the castle? It was possible... Or any memory from that time, in fact... Was Granger still on his mind, so many years later?

Unwilling to start thinking deeply, still shaking from the stressful moment he'd been through, he leaned a little closer to Draco and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Pulling him tight against him.

"Yeah... Fuck. You scared the shit out of me," he muttered.

"I'm... fine. Shit, by a hair's breadth, but I'm fine," Draco articulated, a little dazed. Still too shaken up to even bother to pull away from his friend's embrace, as he probably would have done under normal conditions. "What — what the hell are the Dementors attacking us for? They're supposed to be on our side..." he began to protest then. Sounding angry.

"They're not on anyone's side," Nott replied, resignedly. He pulled away from his mate, straightening up, sitting back on his heels. "They just want to feed. They don't care about anything else. The Dark Lord won't be able to control them. If he wants them in his ranks, he risks losing his own soldiers."

Draco let out an exhalation and finally pulled the mask from his face. Covering his features almost instantly with his forearm, he wiped his skin with his sleeve, rubbing it roughly. Pretending to wipe away the sweat. Not wanting his friend to appreciate that it was embarrassingly soaked in almost dried tears.

But Nott was discreet enough to turn and look at the door, pretending to make sure they were alone. Giving him privacy to compose himself. Without any difficulty guessing the state Draco was in.

"Did you do the Patronus?" Draco asked then, his mask still in his hand, but his face dry. Theodore looked at him again, silently confirming. "Are you joking? Since when have you known how to do it?"

Theodore smiled wistfully at his friend's disbelief and almost anger. Looking away.

"I've been practising for a long time. Most of the time I've only managed to make balls of light. It's taken me an awful long time to learn how to do it. And I can't even do it when I want to," he shrugged apathetically. "The theory sounds so easy. A happy memory, that sort of thing. I once managed to make a corporeal one, like this one, thinking of Daphne," he let out a soft chuckle through his nose. "Now I've managed to do it thinking of you," he looked at his friend, a sad smile on his face, "Do you think I'm actually in love with you?"

That unexpected quip drew a dry laugh from Draco before he could contain it. Incredulous to hear his friend joke at such a moment. He ran his hand across his forehead, tossing his hair back. Finishing pulling himself together.

"The truth is, yes. I've always thought so. But I'm too good for you, Theodore. Deal with it," he played along, reluctantly, eyeing his friend with mock haughtiness. Nott laughed through his nose again. They looked into each other's eyes. And Draco nodded, no longer mocking. Silently thanking him for what he had done for him.

Nott gave his shoulder a final squeeze, sighed heartily and stood up. The voices outside the house were getting louder. The chaos in the village was increasing by the minute.

"Are you in one piece?" Theodore asked, in a low voice. Draco nodded more firmly, putting his mask back on. "Then let's go. Or they'll set this place on fire with us in it."

Draco helped himself to the wall and his friend's hand to get to his feet. He still felt terribly sick. As if he'd just come down with a nasty flu. In fact, he was still shaking like he had a fever. He even had chills. But he didn't tell Nott, and just followed him with the widest strides he could manage, heading for the exit door.

No sooner had they both crossed the doorstep than they raised their wands and created the first flames that would spread across the façade, sweeping away everything in their path. Taking a few cautious steps away, they turned their backs on the abandoned house and took in the view, returning to reality. The town was a hive of turmoil. The street they were on had filled with people, running in all directions. Draco could see shadows that corresponded to some Dementors hovering at the end of the street. The light from the various spells was almost blinding. And the colour green presided over the night. They looked up and saw dozens of Dark Marks glowing high in the sky above Godric's Hollow, like macabre signs warning the world of what was happening there.

"Sergeant!" shouted a loud voice to his right. Draco turned on instinct, finding a silver mask before him. He recognised the hoarse voice of Thorfinn Rowle. "I've lost my squad near the church. Things have turned nasty there, some of the wizards in the village are fighting back tooth and nail. Those two houses over there have yet to be inspected. Come with me, Malfoy... Nott, is it?" he added, glancing at the latter, standing motionless at his side. "You go to the square..."

Draco rolled his jaws, holding back his anger. Outraged that this other sergeant would dare give orders to his troops. He also looked at Nott, who still didn't move, in mute protest. Waiting for his own sergeant's orders. His face, with no mask to cover it, was effectively undaunted. He looked at Draco and Draco nodded reluctantly, finding no reason in time why Nott should remain at his side. He reciprocated his nod and ran down the street, saying nothing.

Draco took a deep breath, trying to shake off the weight that had settled in his stomach. He was not at all happy to be separated from Theodore that night. Still, he followed his comrade towards a house that did, indeed, seem to have escaped the attack unscathed.

Rowle waved his wand quickly as he reached the door and brought it down with a quick Bombardment Spell. Draco turned his face to avoid the splinters of wood that flew through the air. He scowled with contempt at the man's lack of subtlety. His comrade stepped into the darkness and Draco was forced to follow. Heart pounding. Praying that the place was empty as well. That the possible occupants who lived there had gone outside for help.

The layout of the place was similar to the house he and Nott had just burned down. Stairs to their left led to the upper floor. Several doors before them that led to the ground-floor rooms. Draco lit the tip of his wand and strode down the hallway to the kitchen at the end of it. Rowle climbed the stairs to his left with heavy, clattering strides. The house lights were out.

Draco entered the kitchen. His gaze lingered on the worktops in front of him, and the table in the centre, surrounded by chairs.

He heard a whimper to his left. Movement in the darkness.

He turned, in the direction of the sound, and the light from his wand illuminated the wall to the left like a huge spotlight.

No...

There, huddled on the floor, side by side, were a grown man and woman, with a small child sitting in the middle, almost hidden between them. The woman was covering the child's mouth with one hand. Seeing the light coming towards them, the woman cowered over the child, covering him with her own body. Draco could hear her sobbing. The man tried to get to his feet. He held a wand in his right hand, which he pointed in Draco's direction. His face contorted in rage and fear.

Draco didn't even catch his breath. He waved his own wand, casting a quick spell in the direction of the family. He saw the woman's mouth open, but he didn't hear her scream of terror. His Silencing Charm had worked. The man, reacting on instinct as he thought he was attacking them, opened his mouth as well. Shouting words that were not heard. Casting a spell that did glow from the tip of his wand.

"No, stop..." Draco mumbled, raising his hand in his direction. Trying to appease him. But adrenaline won the battle. And the man didn't even hear him. His spell whizzed through the air in Draco's direction, and he had to wave his wand to deflect it. It hit the worktop, knocking off a piece of porcelain. Causing a noise that reverberated through the house.

The man generated a silent spell again, which Draco deftly deflected, but he couldn't help but make noise again as he did so. This man was no warrior. They were just an ordinary family. He didn't know if the woman was a witch, but her husband certainly was. He could not allow that —

Two more spells from the man, cast more quickly, and Draco's battle reflexes betrayed him. He ended up disarming his unskilled victim, though he didn't want to. The woman shrank back even more. The man, panting, stood before his family, arms outstretched. And his face was broken. Shouting things Draco couldn't hear.

"Listen to me, you have to —" Draco hissed hurriedly. Taking two steps towards them.

"Sergeant, have you found someone?" a voice shouted from somewhere in the house. Coming closer.

Sooner than Draco expected, Rowle appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. The father dropped to the floor on his knees, still in front of his family. Draco turned to Rowle. He raised a hand in his direction.

"Stop! They're not —" Draco began to say, hastily. His mouth acting faster than his sanity. Than his survival instinct. His brain was blank. His skin was electrified.

But the word 'Muggles' died on his lips.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The window panes shook as a surge of energy swept through the room. The green flash that erupted from his comrade's wand blinded Draco, who was forced to turn to the side. Magic rumbled like thunder through the place. Several of the kitchen utensils that sat on the worktops fell to the floor, bouncing in all directions. Shattering into pieces.

As the wave of energy subsided, Draco was able to turn around again. In slow motion. In disbelief. Still full of frenzy, now senseless. The family lay collapsed on the floor, fallen on top of each other. Undoubtedly dead.

He had to restrain himself with the last traces of lucidity he had left from holding on to the table. His legs could not support him. He couldn't close his mouth, and yet he couldn't breathe. His chest convulsed, protesting the lack of air. He was forced to take a shallow breath.

He turned to Rowle. And saw that he was looking at him. Attentively. With suspicion. And he was able to realise that he had not behaved like the Black Sergeant he was. Like the Death Eater he was. And his survival instinct came back to him, breaking through the stupor. And it told him that his priority now was to fix that. There was nothing he could do for that family now.

"There was a child," Draco whispered. And his voice didn't tremble. "I didn't want to kill the child."

He saw Rowle blink. And took a quick glance at the family. As if he was then aware of which members made up the family. Draco saw discomfort creep into his stance. But he stood his ground.

"A Muggle child is worth as little as an adult Mugg —"

"They were wizards," Draco interrupted, articulating each syllable. His tone was cold as an air stream. Rowle dragged one of his feet across the floor.

"Well, but they were traitors," he replied, scornfully. "They lived among Muggles. And you know the Dark Lord's orders as well as I do. He's told us to kill everyone. Wreak as much havoc as possible." He looked around sharply, scanning the kitchen. "We can set fire to this..."

Draco couldn't move a muscle. He was thankful that his face was hidden behind the mask, for he could not hide the disgust in his expression. At Draco's lack of response, a tense silence fell between them that was suddenly broken by a faint whimper.

Draco's heart turned upside down. He and Rowle looked at each other. Surprised. The family hadn't died?

Rowle pointed the light of his wand at the figures on the floor and confirmed that they were not moving. Draco looked around, scrutinising the floor with his own wand. Another whimper was heard. A small dark lump under the table suddenly attracted his attention. Paralysing him. Unfortunately, Rowle saw it too. He walked over and resolutely pushed aside the chairs surrounding the wooden dining table.

The light from his wand revealed another toddler, this one barely two years old, sitting on the floor. Looking up at them with big black eyes filled with tears.

"Bloody hell, they thought they were so clever, these traitors," Rowle mumbled next to him. Draco's skin crawled with goosebumps. His eyes scanned the narrow space between the legs of the chairs. Perhaps only one of their children would have fit in there, the youngest. Or they wouldn't have had enough time to hide them both before he appeared.

"He's just a kid," he managed to articulate, in a hiss so low he didn't know if the other had heard him.

"Yeah, well, orders are orders," Rowle muttered. But Draco could tell his voice faltered. "You got this one?"

And Draco would have laughed disdainfully if the situation hadn't had him on the verge of tachycardia. He realised that, as much as his companion was stubbornly defending what they were doing, he was not happy about killing a baby in cold blood. He had killed the other boy because he hadn't even seen him, hiding behind his parents.

Draco straightened to his full height. His blood was roaring in his veins, but his hands were cold. And he suddenly felt so frustrated and angry that he thought he could handle the situation and come out unscathed. Without thinking carefully about the consequences, which was not like him.

"No," he spat, categorical. Rowle, beside him, let out an almost nervous chuckle.

"No?" he repeated, with unsteady mockery. "What's the matter, afraid he'll perform uncontrolled toddler magic and finish you off?" he snorted, laughing at his own joke. Draco could sense his nervousness, though. But his bravado and his desire to feel superior to Draco won out over everything. "Stand aside, then, so an adult can handle it..."

"I said no," Draco repeated, determinedly. Turning to stand between the table and his comrade. The latter seemed momentarily stunned. But he recovered quickly. And straightened up as well. Thorfinn Rowle was a head taller than Draco, and almost twice as burly.

"I take my orders from the Dark Lord, Malfoy, not from you."

"Well, now you're going to take an order from me. Out."

"I don't have to obey you, you brat. We're of the same rank," he growled through his teeth, menacingly. Draco didn't flinch.

"Maybe, but we're not on the same level," the boy hissed back. With a subtly mocking tone that he had learned from his father. It made him seem sure of himself. Certain that the person in front of him was, without a doubt, one step below him. "Get out of here."

Silence fell. As they both looked into each other's eyes. An explosion was heard in the immediate vicinity of the house. A tremor that shook the floor slightly. Perhaps one of the houses had collapsed. A few shrieks were heard. Rowle looked over Draco's shoulder. Worried about the sounds from outside.

"Go out and check what's going on."

Rowle fixed his eyes on Draco again as he heard his firm command. Two grey mirrors flashed through him without a hint of fear. He looked at the table, then at Draco again. Finally, he turned on his heel and left the room without another word.

Draco, on the other hand, stood there, unable to take a step. He managed to rest his weight on the table. Blinking. What was he doing?

He had just put his position, his life, at risk. He had stood up to a fellow soldier. He had not carried out his master's orders. And he didn't know how much he could trust Rowle not to report him for it. Though a little voice inside told him he would not. He recalled the tremble in his voice, and was sure that he did not agree with the situation either.

A babble from the child brought him back to reality. The little boy watched him silently, his huge eyes blinking slowly. He was no longer crying, but his lips trembled at the sight of the tenebrous silver skull covering Draco's face. Draco drew in a loud gasp of air. Forcing himself to react. He had a lot to do. And he was being silly, standing there. Behaving as if this family were the first corpses he'd ever seen. As if this was the only mission where innocent people had died. As if he hadn't killed dozens of people.

He took a quick glance to make sure the child wouldn't move from his spot and then looked around. Scrutinising the kitchen cupboards. Then he saw the door leading out to what must have been the back garden, judging by the grassy ground he glimpsed through the gap in the curtain. He approached it and pushed it aside with an impatient hand. A stone wall surrounded the sparse grounds of the narrow garden. And a wooden shed stood in one corner.

Without thinking too much, he returned to the table. He pushed one of the chairs a little further away, so that he had room to squat down. Removing his mask in the process, not wanting to scare him. The child looked at him, indeed, with a new curiosity. He stared at the mask in his hand, and then at him, as if he didn't understand that it was no longer on his face. But he did not seem to be afraid of him.

"Come on, little rascal..." he whispered. In a gentle, measured tone. The boy didn't move. Draco clicked his tongue almost absently. Feeling awkward and idiotic. He reached out a hand in his direction, and tried to draw him in with a few quick gestures, hoping he understood. The little boy blinked and began to crawl out. Draco stood up, relieved. As soon as the boy came out, staying on his knees, he stretched his little arms upwards. In Draco's direction. With his thick lips pursed.

Draco clicked his tongue even more gruffly. That was all he needed. He grabbed the child by one of his small hands and pulled him to his feet, leading him towards the back door. The child whimpered in protest. Stumbling forward on feet that barely supported him. And Draco realised that it would indeed have been wiser to hold him in his arms. They would move faster. But he had no idea how to hold a baby and no desire to practise it at the moment.

They made their way across the garden to the shed, Draco bending awkwardly so that he could guide the toddler by the hand from his own considerable height. He opened the wooden door and found a space barely three feet square. Nearly empty shelves before him. A flying broom, a rake and a bucket, which he hurried to take out and leave outside. Making more room. He tugged the boy inside with a measured pull and pushed him down to sit on the floor. After examining the place for a moment, he cast a small ball of light that floated to the ceiling of the shed. He would die of fright if he left him in the dark and would probably start crying, attracting anyone.

He crouched down in front of him again and snapped his fingers to get the child's attention so that he would stop staring raptly at the ball of light. When he succeeded, Draco put his index finger to his own lips, asking the boy to be quiet. The toddler, thinking it was some kind of childish game, mimicked him, putting his tiny finger to his lips.

Draco then closed the door, getting back to his feet. And his eyes were lost for a moment in the void, feeling alien to himself. What was he doing?

He closed his eyes. And he had the sudden urge to have Granger by his side at that moment. His fingers hovered around the nothingness, reflexively, as he imagined himself holding her hand tightly. With her there, by his side... He had the almost ridiculous idea that everything would be easier. And in reality, the situation would be the same. But she would be there. She would tell him if he was doing the right thing. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing. He had never done things this way before. Thinking about himself was easy, but doing things for others was not. But she, luckily, wasn't there... And he had to go on if he wanted to live to see her again.

Opening his eyes again, more self-possessed, he pointed his wand at the wooden surface of the shed.

"Salvio hexia," he muttered, waving the wand in a wide circle. "Repello Inimicum."

The air around the shed changed, thickening. He would be protected. And, as soon as the Aurors arrived and scanned the place, they would detect his protective magic. Thus locating the child.

Finally, he pointed to the sky above his head.

"Morsmordre," he uttered in a louder voice than he would have expected of himself. The great green skull materialised high above. Without a second glance back, he stepped back into the house. He muttered a quick Smokescreen Spell and smoke filled the kitchen. Coming out of the windows. So they would think he had set the place on fire and would not go back inside to examine anything. Only then did he stride out of the house.

No sooner had he passed through the front door than he had to create an instantaneous Shield Charm to avoid being hit square in the head by a bright spell. Things seemed to be getting more complicated. One of the nearby buildings had indeed collapsed completely. Rowle was nowhere to be seen. He walked down the street, following the path Nott had taken earlier.

Godric's Hollow was a relatively small village, and all the streets seemed to lead to the aforementioned square. It was the same one he had seen before, with the statue of that mysterious family standing in the centre. Now it was partially destroyed. A stray spell, or a malicious one, had torn off the top of the woman's trunk, along with her arms and the baby in them. The remains lay on the ground beside her, the statue having lost its Masking Spell.

As soon as he reached the square, he identified the situation Rowle had mentioned. In the area between the pub and the church, a group of citizens, wizards armed with wands, seemed to be dealing with the Death Eaters as best they could.

Draco strode across the crowded concourse. His grey eyes not missing a single detail of his surroundings. With quick reflexes, he dismissed some stray charm that was about to reach him. He came upon a woman who was backing away, fighting two Death Eaters at the same time. The witch saw him out of the corner of her eye and tried to fight him off as well. Throwing a couple of desperate, rather simple spells at him. These people were not warriors. They didn't know how to attack. They had no more idea of battle spells than Hogwarts students. After two fleeting Disarming Charms and three Impediment Jinx cast by the woman, Draco defeated her with a swift Stunning Spell. He didn't feel in his right mind, but he knew for sure that he wasn't going to kill anyone that night if he could help it.

He heard an unexpected roar from behind him. He didn't have time to turn around, but he didn't have to. Something massive slammed into his back, knocking him down, then leapt over him. Paying him no further attention. Draco raised his head as soon as he fell flat on his face. Just in time to see it walk away. It was huge, dark and hairy. It trotted, on all fours, towards one of the village's wizarding defences, a group of half a dozen men and women standing a good few yards away. Just outside the entrance to the local graveyard, next to the church.

The lycanthrope knocked several of the wizards to the ground, and then jumped without hesitation, with a mighty leap, onto a woman who fell under its weight. She was hidden under the body of the werewolf, completely transformed into a wild beast by the full moon. The wand in the woman's hand flew into the air.

It was Fenrir Greyback, transformed. Draco had not the slightest doubt. Just as he had no doubt that he had been telling the truth about drinking the Wolfsbane Potion. He had been transformed, but he retained his human mind. Therefore, he was consciously disobeying his direct order by attacking the villagers in this way. Son of a —

"No!" Draco heard a voice shout, to his right, above the turmoil. He turned his face, still lying on the ground. Feeling like he knew that voice.

Nott, standing quite a few feet away, with no mask or hood to maintain his anonymity, was running, wand held high, pointing at the werewolf and the woman. Draco felt as if the cobblestones beneath him were cracking.

"NOTT, NO!" he shouted, without thinking, scrambling to his feet and running after him.

Still several feet away from the creature, Theodore attacked. The beam of light that left his wand struck the lycanthrope in the shoulder, sending it howling loudly and rolling to the ground. It broke away from the woman, who lay still, unmoving. Her blood glistened around her on the pavement. Nott was still running towards her. Chased in turn by Draco.

"No, no, no... Nott, for fuck's sake!"

There was another roar. The lycanthrope appeared again, his shoulder bloody, now running towards Nott. He staggered, stopped, and raised his wand, pointing it at it. Not enough reflexes. The beast stood on its hind legs and swiped him with its huge paws, sending him flying through the air. Theodore fell into the graveyard, rolling among the gravestones.

"CONFRINGO!" shouted Draco, still running through the crowd. Towards Greyback. But he couldn't aim as he ran, and the spell just hit and blew up the low wall surrounding the graveyard, which the werewolf had just jumped over. "CARPE RETRACTUM! CRUCIO!"

He couldn't make it. He couldn't hit it. It was too far away and he couldn't aim while moving. Greyback reached Nott when he had barely landed on the ground. His claws gleamed in the night as he swung a wide swipe at the boy's body. His huge maw closed over his shoulder and, in one mighty gesture, threw him into the air again like a rag doll, flinging him further away.

Draco felt like he was running as fast as he had ever run, but he was unable to close the distance between him and Nott and Greyback. The latter just kept throwing Nott further and further away as he attacked him. It was a nightmare.

The boy leapt nimbly over the stone wall and into the graveyard, but he was still a long way from them. The façade of the church flanked the graveyard to his left. Beautiful, colourful stained glass windows decorated it, reaching almost to the ground. During the day they must have glittered spectacularly in the sun's rays. A gravel path that he didn't bother to take meandered between the graves. He leapt over a gravestone too, with no time to go around it, and found himself with enough distance to take aim. He stopped, with a cry, raising his wand. Holding it in both hands.

The mausoleum next to Draco cracked, and he himself was thrown backwards by the force of the curse he used. The echo of the powerful spell reverberated through the graveyard. The bright beam streaked through the night and slammed into the side of the huge beast, knocking it into the air as if it had been struck with a huge invisible sledgehammer. He saw its gaping mouth stained with blood and heard its howl of pain. His spell hurled it into the forest surrounding the graveyard, lost in the undergrowth. Several of the trees were felled by the power of the spell. As were some of the more unstable gravestones.

Draco had fallen backwards and rolled a couple of feet across the parched grass, tangled in his robes, until he stopped. He didn't even wait for the dizziness to subside before raising his head. He was breathing heavily, his body trying to catch air. His vision was unfocused, but he saw that Greyback was gone. He thought he saw the black shade of Nott's body lying on the ground between the tombstones.

Draco tried to sit up and stand. He had to go on. Something horrible was happening. He couldn't stop. He had to get to Nott. But everything flickered before his eyes, and he had to stay on his knees. He fell into a sitting position on his right hip and held his weight in one hand. Trying not to collapse. He was shaking from head to toe. And his chest ached with every inhalation.

Draco's eyes dropped to the ground as he noticed something unusual in the grass. A wand lay in front of his dazed nose. He grabbed it without thinking, awkwardly realising that he needed that contraption. But then he felt it differently in his grip. The handle was different. It was not his wand. He looked behind him. And discovered the corpse of the woman Nott had tried to save, a few feet away. It possibly belonged to her.

Draco felt like his brain wasn't working. As if it had been left further back, by the statue in the square. He could hear the screams. If he turned his head further over his shoulder, he could see the spells. He could see the smoke rising into the sky from the burning houses. The Dark Marks hovering above them. And Nott lay motionless, on the ground, still several feet away from him.

And then he felt himself suddenly awaken. And he made a decision.

'Patronuses are useful. They're also helpful for sending messages. To warn someone immediately.'

'Think of something very happy. The happiest thing that's ever happened to you...'

He concentrated. He fought against the frenzy. A happy memory. A happy memory...

"Expecto Patronum..."

White light shone from the tip of his wand. But it was extinguished. Draco didn't even flinch. His silver eyes glittered in the darkness of the night. He waved his wand again, more eagerly.

"Expecto Patronum..."

No light shone this time. Again, he didn't succeed. His chest felt heavy. He was able to visualise happy moments, to replay them in the back of his mind, but he couldn't feel that happiness. Not alone, in the middle of that mess. With Nott's body just a few feet away, still unaware of his fate.

A happy memory. The happiest thing that had ever happened to him. He closed his eyes. Lost himself in his memories. Reliving it all. Forcing himself to feel it.

To feel happy. Happy. His happiness in the darkest moments...

She...

"Expecto Patronum!"

And the tip of that wand glowed, alerting him, making him open his eyes again. Obeying him, without having really chosen him. And a silver ball emerged from it, a brilliant light that darkened the night around him. And it hovered before him, without disappearing.

He had made it.

He had to take a deep breath before he could shout the words that, he knew, would change everything.

"Bring them to Godric's Hollow, quickly!"

The glowing ball was suddenly distorting in front of his nose, growing in size, and taking on a shape he couldn't quite make out. Nor did he make much effort to do so, painfully blinded by the light. Moments later, it sped away from him, disappearing into the darkness.

Draco then rose to his feet. Regaining his stability. And he was no longer shaking. He felt steadier and more self-possessed than he had in a long time. Never, even. He tossed the woman's wand aside, and searched for his own in the neatly trimmed grass. He located it and picked it up, holding it firmly. He then returned to the scene that required his attention. He still couldn't see Greyback. But he could see Nott, still lying on the ground.

He moved forward, eyes locked on him. Looking for a movement. A breath. But he didn't even make it two metres.

He felt something suddenly tangle around his ankles. Causing him to lose his balance in mid-stride. He fell to the ground again, flat on his face, and instantly felt himself being dragged backwards. As if he had been caught by the legs with an invisible rope. He tried to spin around, now sliding on the gravel road, and point his wand at his captor. He saw two figures. In black robes. Silver masks.

No...

They were Death Eaters. And they were attacking him. They had to have seen the Patronus. Or maybe they'd seen him attack Greyback. They'd seen his treachery. Either one. He was sure of it.

Draco raised his wand.

"Impedim — !"

He hadn't finished saying the spell when his captor flicked his wand in a wide motion. And Draco felt himself leave contact with the ground. He flew through the air, towards the front of the church. He saw the stained glass window approaching his body at great speed. Or, rather, it was he who flew through it with a chilling crash. He heard the sound of shattering glass all around him. He felt a sharp pain, though he couldn't identify the area. All over. And finally, he felt another sudden blow, ending up crashing into a painfully uneven surface. Wood. Wooden benches.

Draco fell inside the deserted church, onto several benches, perfectly aligned before. Knocking them over. He didn't even hear himself cry out in pain. He tried to cough, out of breath, but his chest wouldn't respond. His whole body ached as he tried. He groaned, trying to move. He managed to raise a hand and bring it to his stomach. He felt the firmness of the leather of the armour. Intact. He felt his chest too, and then his bare throat, and there he did feel a warm liquid against his hands. He rolled over a little, and lay on his stomach. He heard the wood creaking around him. The remains of the bench he had smashed slid down his body and fell to the floor. He pulled off his silver mask with great effort. The cold of the church hit the skin of his face. He coughed and saw a trickle of blood leave his mouth and land on the floor.

The silence that surrounded him then felt eerie in comparison to the frenzy outside. Away from Greyback and Nott. Away from everyone. But a movement to his left caught his attention. The two Death Eaters who had attacked him were crossing the stained glass window he had smashed, entering the interior of the building. Draco moved his hand around, feeling the floor. Searching for his wand in the wooden debris. He needed it. He couldn't fight hand-to-hand in that condition. He couldn't defend himself like that. He could barely breathe.

He rolled over, to get a better look, but a hard kick in the ribs knocked him back onto his back. He barely found enough breath to cry out in pain. He looked up. Two figures stood over him. Two figures whose outlines he suddenly realised he knew perfectly. Still, just in case, they removed their masks.

"So, betraying your side, huh, Draco?" Crabbe snarled, his soft voice audible even above the din coming from the streets beyond. "It's an old habit of yours... We've seen what you've done to Fenrir..."

"To save that twat Nott," Goyle added in a murmur. "You're... pathetic. It was only a matter of time before that prat did something stupid like that. He's always been a piece of shit. He got what he deserved," he looked at Crabbe, who nodded.

"We should let the Dark Lord handle your punishment. He usually has great ideas for traitors. But you know what?" Crabbe muttered, a choleric gleam in his tiny eyes. "I think we deserve that right. You've given us the perfect excuse. Our master won't blame us for taking on a traitor like you directly. And we've got a good mind to... Do you remember why?"

Draco ran his tongue over his lips. Sizing up the situation at full speed as his companions spoke. And he allowed himself, in a display of cockiness that he knew would infuriate his interlocutors, to let out a harsh chuckle. Trying to ignore the sharp pain it caused in his side.

"You flatter me, Crabbe. I've always suspected you got a hard-on thinking about me."

Crabbe gave an irrepressible grimace of rage disguised as a condescending smile. Two explosions were heard outside, reverberating through the ground beneath Draco's body. He heard several screams. They had become louder than before.

"You deceived us," Crabbe continued, unfazed by the sounds. "You betrayed every value you proclaimed through that big mouth of yours. But you were cynical enough to pretend. To keep us behind you. Us, and all our classmates. You're nothing but a lowlife who needs to be told fifty times a day how good you are at everything. And you're good for nothing," he swallowed nervously. "We thought you'd end up dead on any mission. That your fanaticism for Mudbloods would play tricks on you. But you've kept it well hidden. You were even promoted to Black Sergeant. We came to think you'd been rehabilitated. But... that doesn't seem to be the case," he laughed hoarsely, mirthlessly. "Tell us... who did you send that Patronus to, Draco?"

"If you think I'm going to tell you anything, you brainless arseholes, you can sit down and wait," he muttered, nodding at the shattered benches around him. As he spoke, his hand continued to discreetly feel around him. Hardly heeding the words of his former classmates.

Goyle made to raise his wand higher at his insult, but Crabbe held his arm. Still glaring at Draco.

"To the Order?" Crabbe snarled. "Are you really on the Order's side? Are you a spy?"

"He must have warned his Mudblood," Goyle muttered then. "The one she had at Hogwarts. Did you send her the Patronus? Are you still with her? Wouldn't surprise the shit out of me," but he did look surprised, actually. He looked at Crabbe again. "That was that Granger, wasn't it? That nasty, buck-toothed know-it-all... Or maybe he's got someone else now?"

Draco then felt the hard, rounded touch of his wand against his fingertips. He gripped it tightly. And in other circumstances — ten seconds ago, in fact — he would have hesitated. Waiting for the right moment to attack. Sensibly realising that it was two against one. And that he was at a disadvantage in his position on the ground. But hearing them talk about Granger was magical. Instantaneous. And he raised his wand before he even realised he was doing it, pointing it at Goyle.

"Cru — !" he shouted, his voice harsh.

But, predictably, Crabbe was quicker. As Draco pointed at Goyle, Crabbe pointed at Draco. At his raised hand.

Thin, frantic black threads shot out from the tip of Crabbe's wand, and attached themselves to Draco's hand. Wrapping around it. Then penetrating his skin, digging into his flesh. And an excruciating pain jolted Draco's nerves. He reflexively released his wand as his throat let out a scream.

He clutched his injured hand with the other. He could see the black threads running under his skin. Running down his forearm. In his veins. He couldn't quite guess what kind of curse it was. But he did manage to assimilate that he wouldn't be able to use his wand again. Not feeling that pain. He was unarmed. They were going to kill him.

Goyle had frozen, staring at Draco's hand as well. He scrutinised Crabbe out of the corner of his eye, seemingly unsure of what to do next. Crabbe was panting. He swallowed loudly and pointed a wand at Draco, which he held inches away from his eyes.

"Enough, Malfoy. Any last words?"

Draco managed to raise his eyelids. He could see Crabbe's face, contorted with spite, above him; but he didn't see it. He wasn't going to waste his time with a face he didn't want to see. He focused, almost accidentally, on her. He saw only her. A vague image hovering at the front of his mind.

Granger...

He wasn't going to see her again. But... he needed to see her again. Because he was trying desperately to visualise her face, and, in the midst of the daze, the pain, the frenzy, the terrifying anticipation of death, he wasn't able to. And that was scaring him more than the wand pointing at him. He didn't even waste time trying to breathe. He urgently needed to see her. One last time. Just one last time... He had no more time...

Granger...

He managed to recall what her eyes looked like. With a clarity he hadn't expected. Large, dark, glowing and strong. And that was the last, most beautiful sight he could ever ask for.

Hermione...