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.

48. The prisoner

Hi, hi, how are you? 😊 I hope very well!

I'm so sorry for the cliffhanger and for making you all suffer with the previous chapter, believe me when I say I also suffered writing it ha ha ha

We're already halfway through this second part of the story, eleven chapters from the end... Ugh, I'm getting nostalgic, how I'm going to cry when it ends ha ha ha 🙈

Thank you so much for reading! If you feel like leaving me a comment, I'll be happy to read it. Thanks in advance if you do 😍.

And I will stop now, what really matters is to know how the battle in Godric's Hollow ends...

---

CHAPTER 48

The prisoner

Grimmauld Place street was deserted and silent in the wee hours of that morning. Only one thing disturbed the stillness of the night, and that was the sudden and mute appearance of a dark silhouette on the pavement in front of the eleventh and thirteenth buildings. No sooner had the hooded figure set foot on the ground than the buildings trembled and hastened heavily, almost reluctantly, out of the way. The person advanced, walking with nimble steps, and, by the time she had left the pavement behind them, number twelve had come into full view. A set of worn steps had been revealed before her, which she hurried up. A silver knocker in the shape of a twisted snake was the only decoration on the battered front door. There was no handle or anything of the sort.

The figure waved her wand in a mechanical gesture as she reached the door, which opened instantly as if inviting her in. Once inside the long, narrow hallway, Hermione Granger finally removed her hood. Her eyes strayed to an old clock on an old-fashioned sideboard that decorated the wall to her right. It was three in the morning.

She sighed and removed her cloak, leaving it folded over her forearm. Also, she removed the Phoenix Mask she wore on her face. It had turned out rather warm that night and she was looking forward to removing both. She walked slowly into the house, careful not to trip over the umbrella stand made from a Troll's severed leg, so as not to wake Walburga Black's painting under any circumstances. The curtains that concealed it were peacefully closed, and it was better that they should remain so.

The silence was almost absolute, which was to be expected. It was a very late hour. She knew that many of her comrades had gone out, as had she, and those who were there were surely trying to sleep. Except for those corresponding to the hospital ward, on the third floor, who took turns to be always awake.

So she was surprised when she saw a small shadow move on the stairs leading to the upper floor. She felt a slight startle come over her, but it didn't take her long to figure out what it was. Or who it was.

"Good evening, Kreacher," Hermione greeted politely, softly.

The little house elf turned at the sound of his name. His bloodshot eyes fell on the young woman, but not for long. He soon looked away and snorted through his bulbous nose. Now pretending he hadn't seen her.

"The stupid Mudblood is back. And she talks to Kreacher. She always talks to Kreacher, but he ignores her," he mumbled in his hoarse voice as if she couldn't hear him. He went on cleaning with a feather duster the row of shrunken house-elf heads, mounted on the wall on plaques. "Ah, Kreacher hopes that, every time she leaves, she doesn't come back. But here she is again. Kreacher pretends not to see her. If Kreacher doesn't see her, maybe she'll go away..."

"It's good to see you, too," Hermione muttered reluctantly. One foot on the stairs.

"The Mudblood keeps talking to Kreacher. But he doesn't listen to her, no, ma'am. She shouldn't set foot in this house. But the godson of that layabout Master Sirius brings her here... Oh, my poor Mistress! She would turn in her grave..."

Hermione was about to try to go around Kreacher and up the stairs, but then she heard muffled footsteps coming from the staircase leading to the underground kitchen. Hermione stopped, ready to greet whoever was awake.

A sleepy Fleur Delacour appeared through the doorway almost gliding. The young Frenchwoman was dressed in a fine nightgown that emphasised her slender figure. Her blonde, almost silvery hair seemed to always have the same attractive length, falling silkily to her waist. All of her seemed to emit an intriguing silvery glow, even in the gloom of the hall. Her beautiful blue eyes looked at Hermione with affection as she recognised her, and her white-toothed mouth smiled along with them.

"You've arrived very late," Fleur greeted, in a low voice. "'Ow did it go?"

Hermione sighed wearily, still smiling kindly back at her. Kreacher's voice, hoarse but audible in the silence, did not let her answer:

"Mudbloods and veelas, this house is full of filth. Of monsters. Oh, my poor Mistress...!"

"Kreacher, please go to bed!" Fleur pleaded, frustrated, rolling her eyes, surrounded by blonde lashes. "It's zree in the morning. Tomorrow you'll clean up and keep insulting us..."

The house-elf hesitated, but finally started up the stairs heavily, still muttering.

"The veela dares to speak to Kreacher. She thinks she can command him. But no, she can't order him around. But Kreacher leaves, the hall filled with filth. I don't want, oh, my Mistress, I don't want..."

"We can still 'ear you," the young Frenchwoman protested, jaded. Hermione laughed feebly.

"Don't listen to him. He'd want to stay and gossip. I'm surprised he agreed to leave."

"Creepy creature," Fleur mumbled disdainfully, wrinkling her nose and then returning a kindly glance at Hermione. "So, 'ow are zings in Azkaban?"

"Complicated. What happened with the Dementors was an impressive setback. No one expected it. No one knew they'd decided to go over to the other side. So when the Death Eaters went in to find their comrades, the few Aurors guarding the prison found themselves alone. They did their best."

"Ronald said earlier zat about a dozen Deaz Eaters were taken," said Fleur, her beautiful face turning worried. Hermione nodded in corroboration. "Do we know zeir identities?"

"Yes, Kingsley's got their files. For some reason that escapes us, they've... left some of their people there. But they've taken most of them," she looked at the top of the stairs, impulsively, as if she expected to see Ron at the top. "Ron's here now? Harry too?"

"No, just Ronald," said Fleur. "'E said 'e was going to wait for you and 'Arry so you could talk, but 'e's out like a ligz. 'E went to bed a little while ago."

"It's been a hard day. I'll talk to him tomorrow," Hermione planned, scratching her tired eyes with her thumb and forefinger. "There are a lot of people to talk to tomorrow. Tonks is the only one who's been able to go to Azkaban in person as an Auror. Kingsley is with the Minister. Tomorrow he'll let us know what he plans to do."

Fleur looked down and sighed, crossing her thin, white arms.

"What do you zink is going to 'appen now?" she questioned, thoughtfully. Hermione shrugged, almost apologetically.

"I'm not sure. Remus told me that there's going to be a meeting first thing tomorrow morning. To see what Kingsley has to tell us about the Minister's plans, and to see if Tonks has discovered any way of tracking the escaped prisoners in Azkaban. And Elphias is talking to some spies we have close to Voldemort's ranks, at least close enough that they might know something," she rubbed her sore neck a little. "But Remus has told me that we're out of luck so far. Voldemort has planned this in the utmost secrecy, he hasn't even trusted all his Death Eaters. It's... frustratingly clever of him."

Fleur pursed her lips into a tight smile.

"To look at it wiz some... optimism, I don't zink a few more or fewer Deaz Eaters can make a difference," Fleur opined, staring at her. "Twelve more Deaz Eaters in the ranks of You-Know-Who won't make 'em win the war."

"Possibly not," Hermione smiled tightly in return. "But a whole army of Dementors, yes. In fact, Remus has told me that he wants to introduce a little mandatory Patronus Charm training for all members. To be better prepared."

Fleur sighed and nodded, almost absently. She seemed to ponder the repercussions of it all.

"Je comprends..." Seeing Hermione's mouth open in an impossible-to-disguise yawn, she smiled and pointed up the stairs. "Go to sleep, now. You've earned it."

"I think so, thanks," Hermione agreed, smiling gratefully. "Don't you sleep? Don't you have the night off?" she questioned, seeing her dressed in a nightgown instead of the usual hospital uniform.

"I do, yes, but I can't sleep," the young Delacour confessed taciturnly. Without giving any more details. Hermione nodded, with nothing to add. It was a regular occurrence in their day-to-day lives. They all had similar nights.

Hermione briefly squeezed the girl's arm in a friendly gesture and headed up the stairs towards her room. As she reached the fifth step, Fleur's voice stopped her.

"'Ermione... 'ave you read today's Daily Prophet?" she asked quietly. Suddenly, her crystalline voice had turned a little bitter. Hermione stopped and turned to look at her. Fleur was staring at her with a sorrowful look on her face.

The girl hesitated for a moment, for she happened to have been reading several copies that afternoon. But she didn't remember reading the one from that day.

"I don't think so," she confessed, trying to remember if she had. "Why?"

Fleur pursed her lips. Frustrated, it seemed, at her own thoughts.

"Nozing, just... If you read it, don't believe everyzing zey write, s'il vous plait," she asked, looking at her almost pleadingly. Hermione reassured her with a tired smile.

"Don't worry. I haven't given the Daily Prophet any credibility for a long time."

The young Granger resumed her walk towards her room on the first floor. She opened the door and almost sighed with relief to find herself there again. It seemed like an eternity since she had last set foot in it, and it had only been a few hours. But it had been a very long night.

It was still as she had left it, hours before, when they received the unexpected news that several Death Eaters had broken out of Azkaban that night in a swift but devastating attack. The Dementors, charged with the security of the place, had left. They had betrayed them. They had let Voldemort in. They were undoubtedly on his side. And that was dangerous. Very, very dangerous. It meant that he was attaining a power and resources that they had not expected at this point.

'That their loyalty is very fragile. I am sure you are aware that the Dark Lord is after them, that he wants to bring them into his ranks. He has probably already convinced a few of them. I know that the bulk of the Dementors have not yet made up their minds, and in theory, they remain on your side, guarding Azkaban, but —'

Draco had spoken sensibly in telling her that. And he'd ended up being right. They were already in his ranks. The war was still going on. And she wasn't sure they were nearing any end.

In the midst of her exhaustion, she was almost grateful for the solitude that reigned in the room. She shared it with Ginny, but she wasn't there. She didn't know if she was in the house or if she had gone out.

Hermione lit the candle on her bedside table with a wave of her wand before closing the door behind her. Crookshanks, sleeping peacefully in the centre of her bed, stirred slightly at the sudden but dim light. The girl moved forward and laid the cloak and mask on the duvet, then sat down on the edge of the bed. She set the wand on her bedside table and scrutinised its contents with an absent-minded air. She had two photographs there. One of herself and Harry in the Hogwarts Entrance Hall, both of them smiling somewhat sheepishly, suitcases in hand. It was from their last year, before the Easter holidays. Colin Creevey had taken the picture, almost treacherously. Next to it, in another slightly larger frame, was one of Harry, Ron and her. At The Burrow. In the summer, though she couldn't remember which one. Possibly fourth year, judging by Ron's hair. They'd gone to the Quidditch World Cup a few days after taking that photograph. An act so normal it felt unreal compared to the darkness their world had been plunged into for the past few years.

She caressed the glass with her fingertips. With a sudden thought in mind.

She didn't have a single photograph with Draco.

If anything happened to the young man... She wouldn't have a single physical proof of what had happened between them. Not a single tangible memory. She had nothing of him. Not an article of clothing. Not an object. Not a thing.

Maybe she could go to Blucher Street. To get the blankets. To get the calendar. And that dreary thought almost made her burst into tears. Her only memory of Draco couldn't be a worn calendar or a moth-eaten blanket...

She rubbed her face with her hands. Blinking to clear the treacherous moisture from her eyes. Why was she suddenly thinking things like that? He was alive. They would see each other again later that week, in a few days. Surely everything had gone well. Surely that unexpected call through the Dark Mark on the last day they'd seen each other had been of little consequence. They would see each other in two days...

She couldn't help but wonder, in an unexpected fit, if Draco had been one of those involved in the escape from Azkaban. If he had freed his father. If he had been injured, after fighting with the Aurors guarding the prison. If the Dementors had attacked him, despite being on his side. He still didn't know how to cast a Patronus... The next day they met, they would have to practise it again...

She felt suddenly exhausted. Almost overcome. She couldn't go on going round and round about the war. She needed to rest for the day. She could bear no more worries, no more hypotheses, no more fears.

But she did want to check one last thing...

Still without taking off her street clothes, she slid down the edge of the mattress until she was sitting on the floor next to her bed. In the same spot she had occupied hours before. She stretched a hand out to the side and picked up one of the newspapers that lay open on the floor around her in an orderly manner. She had spent the afternoon examining old Daily Prophet newspapers on her own.

As she had discovered in her last year at Hogwarts, a lot of interesting news didn't make the front page and went unnoticed by those who only skimmed the big headlines. And, when her duties with the Order's rescue division gave her a break, she would devote a few hours to the task.

She dipped the quill that rested on the floor beside her into the inkwell again, then wiped off the excess, trying not to let it drip onto the floor. She took the quill to the newspaper resting on the floor in front of her, and in one swift stroke rounded off a small news item at the end of a column. It was the last news item she had seen before the call from the Order.

Arabella Figg, missing without trace.

The girl reached for another newspaper in front of her. That day's paper. She put it down on the floor, next to the one she had just marked, and turned the pages slowly. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she suspected she would know as soon as she saw it. And sure enough, the news didn't take long to arrive.

In the middle pages, she found it. Again she made a circular stroke on the fragile sheet of paper, a little wider than the previous one.

Olympe Maxime, headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, missing.

Is she a spy for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?

Hermione sighed. That was, no doubt, what Fleur was referring to. The young woman was apparently concerned about the slanders surrounding the headmistress of her dear old school, as was to be expected. Hermione, as she had promised Fleur, gave no credence whatsoever. Nor did she find it hard not to. Perhaps it was because she was exhausted, but at the time it seemed as far-fetched a hypothesis as Harry being a Death Eater.

Beauxbatons...

Hermione looked up, her eyes lost in nothing. Beauxbatons. Samantha. The young prisoner Draco had told her about. Voldemort had kidnapped her years ago. And he was keeping her alive. Why would he kidnap someone for so long? And Draco had mentioned that she had some privileges. Which was why she was a valuable prisoner.

What did he want from this girl? She wasn't someone important. There had been no ransom demand...

Beauxbatons...

What if... what he wanted was Beauxbatons Academy of Magic?

Voldemort had taken over Hogwarts. And he was using it to create an army of young wizards. To train them in his blood-purist ideas. Owning the rest of the most important schools in the wizarding world could be an interesting goal. It would make sense. Beauxbatons, Durmstrang... Why settle for educating in his radical ideals only in Britain? Why not train hundreds, or thousands, of other young students for battle, all over Europe? He could have the most powerful army in the world...

But perhaps he was not yet strong enough to take over the other schools. Maybe that's why he was keeping this girl alive.

But how could Samantha help him with that? Why her?

Because he hadn't been able to get anyone else...

What other attempts had he made?

A sudden hypothesis took hold of her head. She stood up, still holding the newspaper, grabbed her wand and left the room without even switching off the lamp on the bedside table. She ran up to the upper floor, lighting the stairs with her wand, and hurried into Mad-Eye's office. There, she lit another, smaller, lamp on the large desk. She put the wand aside, and began to rummage through some of the drawers. She found what she was looking for in a few seconds. Files on members of the Ministry of Magic that Mad-Eye had kept there from his days as an Auror. Powerful wizards whom he had protected in his golden age as one of the most competent Aurors in the Ministry.

She located the thick paper folder containing the files of the Ministers for Magic. She flipped through the pages quickly, helping herself with her index and middle finger, to the period she was interested in. The 1980s. The end of the First Wizarding War. The fall of Lord Voldemort.

Millicent Bagnold. She had been the Minister for Magic at the time. The Minister who had been attacked by Death Eaters during Hermione's seventh year at school, according to The Quibbler in an exclusive interview. The old woman the Dark Lord had tried to catch, unsuccessfully, before Samantha.

Hermione had looked for any connection between Millicent Bagnold and Samantha Minette. Common relatives. Places of birth. Places where they tried or succeeded in kidnapping them. Without finding any pattern.

They were not related. Samantha was French, and Bagnold was English. Samantha was kidnapped at night from a hostel near Warminster. The old minister was attacked at her home in London without being kidnapped.

At the time, it didn't occur to Hermione that Beauxbatons might be the link between them.

But what could Minister Bagnold have to do with Beauxbatons? According to the file in front of her, she had entered Hogwarts in 1935, having been selected in Ravenclaw. Coincidentally, Hermione realised after some quick mental calculations, with Lord Voldemort. Being three years older than him.

And then she read it on the parchments in front of her. And all her hypotheses took on new strength.

She had been the Hogwarts champion in the Triwizard Tournament in 1939, when she was only fourteen. At that time, apparently, underage children were still allowed to participate. And, as mentioned in the same report, in brackets, the venue had been Beauxbatons.

Millicent Bagnold was familiar with Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. She would have stayed there for the year of the tournament. And Hermione knew from Harry that Lord Voldemort was sentimental. He would not let the opportunity to kidnap the Minister for Magic who was in power during his downfall pass him by, and, moreover, get information from inside the French school at the same time. Kidnapping a professor would be risky, too obvious; but kidnapping Bagnold could have multiple purposes. And surely he thought he would be easier prey. But his plan didn't work, and he was forced to kidnap a dull student. Samantha.

And, that same day, Madame Maxime, its current headmistress, had disappeared...

And it was beginning to seem more worrying and urgent with each passing minute.

Voldemort wanted to enter Beauxbatons. Hermione had a terrible suspicion that he intended to do so imminently. And possibly Durmstrang as well, although it was possible that he didn't need spies to get in there. As Hermione remembered it, that school's policy on the Dark Arts and Muggle-borns was quite in line with the Lord's ideas. Finding someone there to help him get in would be a piece of cake.

But did he have the means to attack the two most important schools in Europe after Hogwarts? They had to check. Urgently. They had to talk to their spies. Watch the schools. They had to —

A sudden white light was added suddenly to the illumination of her wand, behind her back. Interrupting her thoughts.

What the — ?

Hermione was startled and instantly spun around in surprise. Intending to grab her wand to defend herself, but she was petrified. A glowing, corporeal Patronus was advancing across the narrow room towards her, silent footsteps on the wood.

It was a wolf. A large grey wolf. With small but gleaming eyes that glared at her. Hermione held her breath. She'd never seen such a Patronus before. Who did it belong to?

It stopped right in front of her. Its ears wiggled as it gazed at her. And then the animal's mouth opened, revealing its sharp teeth, and a voice she knew perfectly well, but had rarely heard speak so desperately, spoke to her.

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

Before the shining silver wolf had completely disappeared, vanishing like candle smoke, Hermione was already running out of the room, ready to wake up the whole of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

---

When the first members of the Order of the Phoenix Apparated in Godric's Hollow, the first thing that attracted their gaze was the dozens of glowing green Dark Marks that lit up the night sky. Then it was the light of spells. Then the screams.

Arthur Weasley adjusted his Phoenix Mask, which had shifted slightly as a result of having Apparated. He stood in the middle of a narrow, dark, slightly sloping street, surrounded by picturesque houses. Their rubble, rather. There was no one there, but spells glowed at the end of the street. He sensed a presence to his right, and had no trouble identifying Mad-Eye despite the mask he also wore. More to set an example for the other members of the Order than for any real reason of anonymity. His build, bearing, and claw-tipped metal leg were enlightening.

Both of them, after a gesture of encouragement to each other, ran down the slope, straight into the shouting. Moody's wide coat flew around him as he limped furiously, as did Arthur's long cloak. They came to a square, with a flashy church on their left. They saw before them that more members of the Order had Apparated in other areas, and were already fighting Death Eaters. Some of the inhabitants of Godric's Hollow, wizards, were cornered in various areas. Still fighting.

The air smelled of blood. Of dust, fire and magic. Several houses were burning brightly, like bonfires, creating great wisps of smoke that billowed up into the night sky. Some of them were just smouldering, turned to rubble. The wind blew the ash away, carrying it over their heads. The ground was strewn with corpses.

"Put out those flames!" shouted Arthur, as he saw Doge standing before him, pointing to the house in question. Without a word, the man obeyed and ran over, wand in hand. Arthur turned on his heel, looking for a target. There were plenty to choose from.

"Where are the Aurors? What's taking them so long...?" he wailed in despair.

He saw Mad-Eye, a few feet away, wave his wand in several complicated movements and take down nearly half a dozen enemies with a single spell. Two Bombardment Spells by the ex-Auror tore up a good chunk of pavement, and three others flew through the air. There was some shouting. There was a group of wizards at the door of the church, defending themselves as best they could. Retreating. Death Eaters cornering them. One of the wizards fell to the ground as Arthur took in the scene. Then he moved in without hesitation, running, dodging bodies, and raising his wand in front of him, aiming as firmly as he could.

"Rictusempra!" he shouted, catching one of them in the back. He burst out laughing instantly, and fell to the ground, writhing helplessly, uncontrollably tickled. Another of the three Death Eaters turned and pointed his wand at him, but his cry was no spell:

"It's the Order! The Order is here!"

The third Death Eater moved swiftly and hurled a hasty spell at Arthur, who managed to block it. Judging by the vibrating, metallic sound it made as he repelled the spell, and the cold air that hit his skin, it had been an attack of dark magic. He lashed out with a swift lash of his wrist, but his enemy was quicker. He blocked his spell and created a sparkling shade of red, which hovered over him at full speed. A figure then positioned itself next to the Weasley patriarch and blocked the curse. Managing, moreover, to knock the Death Eater down. Arthur looked up and saw John Dawlish, wearing battle robes, his face uncovered. The Aurors had arrived.

Arthur saw the remaining Death Eater levitate the fellow who was laughing uncontrollably, and the one who had been knocked down by Dawlish, and flee with them in the direction of the graveyard. And he also saw two more, coming running in from the adjoining streets. He spotted Mad-Eye a few yards away from him, near the remains of the statue in honour of the Potters that stood in the centre of the square. He was fighting a particularly skilled Death Eater, but it didn't take him long to bring him down.

"Alastor!" Arthur shouted, running towards the graveyard. In pursuit of the enemy.

He slipped through the gate, which hung on its hinges, and ran between the graves. The light of the fire behind him illuminated his way. He saw the shadows of bodies. To his left, one of the polychrome stained glass windows of the façade was completely shattered. The battle had reached there. He waved his wand, but his spell grazed the head of one of the Death Eaters and hit one of the niches instead, cracking it. Mad-Eye was on his tail.

"Locomotor Mortis!" the ex-Auror shouted in his powerful voice, and the spell whizzed by Arthur's side. The legs of the last-placed Death Eater clamped together, impeding his movements. It caused him to stagger and fall awkwardly to the ground. The other Death Eaters kept running. Looking for a head start so they could safely Disapparate.

"Don't let them Disapparate!" a voice shouted behind them. Dawlish was catching up with them. "Don't let them get away!"

Arthur raised his wand again, but Mad-Eye was quicker. With a sharp wave, the wall of the church to their left was blown into the air in a stunning detonation. Arthur created a Shield Charm to stop the stones from hitting them. The wall collapsed completely, covering the graveyard. And also, as a result, the roof of the church collapsed, crashing down on the inside of the building. Several of the Death Eaters were struck down by the rocks. Others were able to get away. Arthur saw some of them take advantage of the chaos to Disapparate.

It seemed that their work there was done.

---

Half an hour later, a chilling silence had fallen over Godric's Hollow. Still under cover of darkness, members of the Ministry of Magic, and Aurors, were scouring every street, road, avenue and alley. Discovering with astonishment the disaster and atrocities committed there. Of the vast majority of the buildings, only rubble remained. The pavement of many streets was shattered. There were wounded everywhere, more than could be taken care of. And even more dead. The embers that several of the houses had become were smouldering lazily, with no one bothering to extinguish them completely. There was no time. There was too much to do.

"Why...?" Elphias Doge muttered in his breathy voice, full of despair. Almost to himself. Just to break the depressing silence. He turned to look at Arthur. "Why have they done this? Nothing like this has ever happened before..."

Arthur was waving his wand, carefully brushing aside the debris from one of the houses that lined the square. Looking for more bodies. Survivors. At his companion's question, he sighed and waved his wand in further frustration, dropping the remains of the house onto the cobblestone ground beside him anyway. There was no one alive there.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice flat. They walked a little further, approaching another of the buildings. It was the post office on the square. "I don't understand it either. This wreckage is... inhuman. Even for them. They have not appropriated the village, to add it to their list of victories. Of villages 'allied' to the regime," he chided, bitterly. "They have not turned it into a hideout for prisoners, nor have they turned it into a militarily useful location. This village was not a threat."

"Did they take prisoners?" Elphias murmured, beginning to carefully move the melted remains of the metal door protecting the post office with his wand.

"We won't know until all the victims are identified. There are many missing," Arthur replied, pushing aside the glass surrounding them. Trying to clear the entrance, in case they had to pull someone out. Judging by what they could see from outside, though, there didn't seem to be anyone. Neither dead nor alive.

"Why hadn't they notified the Ministry as soon as the Death Eaters showed up?" Doge questioned, impatiently now.

"There weren't too many wizards in the village," Arthur confessed, stepping inside and looking around. No one. "They've ended up informing, but too late. They've prioritised defending themselves and saving their lives. And their neighbour's. It's all happened so fast. In barely an hour they've razed the village to the ground. Thanks to Hermione's warning, the Order mobilised first, even. The Ministry arrived soon after."

"As soon as we appeared, they fled like rats," said a deep voice they identified as Mad-Eye's, coming from outside. He limped in inelegantly with his metal leg, and paused in the doorway. "They have no honour. Dawlish has caught one... Supposedly he's yet to be identified, but I've seen his pig face. It's Selwyn."

Arthur sighed. All three were wearing Phoenix Masks, maintaining their anonymity. Even to the Aurors of the Ministry they were working alongside. Every precaution was too little.

"Hopefully we'll get something out of him. He should tell us what the hell they were up to... What does the Ministry say?"

Alastor shook his head and watched the scene around him with anger and experience glinting in his good eye.

"They are busy keeping the press under control. They've isolated this place. As soon as things calm down, they'll force us to leave and they'll get cocky, wanting to control this. So hurry up... Damn creatures, they're everywhere," he muttered next, shaking his prosthetic leg to shoo away a small creature that was running close behind him, back and forth. It resembled an exceedingly small dwarf with a strange red cap covering its entire head.

"They are Red Caps," explained Arthur patiently. Stepping back out into the street, accompanied by Doge. "They appear where there's been bloodshed... And they'll have a field day here today," he added, lowering his voice, and rubbing his tired eyes with two fingers.

"Have you looked in the church yet?" Elphias asked then, distracted, craning his neck to watch one of the dwarves go inside the now-ruined building, following other Red Caps.

"Not yet," Arthur muttered. "It's one of the buildings in the worst condition. It's going to take a lot of work to repair it..."

"If there's that many of those creatures in there, there's got to be bodies..." Elphias commented quietly. "I'm going to take a look..."

As the man walked away, Moody turned to Arthur again.

"Have you spoken to Nymphadora?" he asked, his prosthetic eye, and his real eye, fixed on him. Arthur shook his head. "Or Kingsley?"

"Johnson has tried to put me in touch with them, but nothing. She'll still be in Azkaban, communications there are disastrous. And I imagine Kingsley is busy too. It's been two very hard blows. We have to divide our forces. What happened in Azkaban isn't over yet."

"Are the Aurors who were injured in the prison attack at St Mungo's?" Mad-Eye questioned. The two of them walked across the square. The Potter statue had been repaired with a quick spell hours ago.

"Yes," Arthur confirmed, poking his head inside the pub. There was no one there. Other comrades had already cleaned it out. "Are you thinking of moving some of the wounded to the hospital at our headquarters?" he asked, looking back at Moody. The latter's magical eye spun on its axis. And it suddenly went blank, as if looking inside his own head.

"I'm going to raise it with Fudge," the ex-Auror admitted in a grunt. "They can't cope with that many wounded at St Mungo's. We just need to make sure none of them discover the location of our hospitals. If we spread them out in the shelters —" he cut himself off abruptly. Keeping quiet for a few seconds. His magical eye was still blank. "What now...?" he mumbled then, turning in on himself. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, and then saw Elphias appear, running towards them as fast as he could. His face was contorted.

"He's alive!" he managed to articulate with difficulty, still reaching their side. He stopped, breathless, pointing to the church with a trembling hand. "A Death Eater! A — a boy! He's still breathing, but — Merlin's beard, help me, I can't get him out...!"

---

Harry almost tripped on the last step as he hurried down the eight steps leading to Grimmauld Place's subterranean kitchen. Panting, in a rush, he paused reluctantly on the doorstep, assessing the situation.

Ron and Ginny were seated at the long table, occupying a corner of it to be closer. There was steaming tea, freshly brewed, on the table. Hermione was standing near them, her arms folded across her chest. Molly had pulled a chair up to the worktop, to stand in front of the old radio they used to communicate with Wood. The woman had some scrolls in front of her, some blank and some written. A push button, like the ones that generated Morse code, in front of her. An earpiece in her ear, and her fingers resting on the wheel that tuned the channels. Waiting. Harry could hear low, discontinuous murmurs coming from the earpiece. From different voices. Apparently, Lee and Angelina had opened several channels of communication to make the alerts faster.

Except for the Weasley matriarch, everyone looked up when they noticed his presence. Ginny had a written memo in front of her, and another half-written one, probably coming from the third floor of the same building, the hospital ward. A quicker way to communicate than ascending three floors at a time. Ron was biting angrily at fingernails that were possibly already dangerously short. Hermione's cheeks were flushed and she looked suffocated. Harry sensed that they had just been shouting at each other. Ginny's desperate expression confirmed it.

"Well?" Harry questioned, moving towards them. "I couldn't come earlier, I just found out... What happened?"

"Godric's Hollow," Ginny began, stopping her writing. "It was attacked tonight. It was razed to the ground."

"The same night they attacked Azkaban prison?" Harry said incredulously, leaning on the table with both hands. "What is Voldemort thinking?"

"He's not thinking about his troops, certainly not," Ginny commented resignedly, tapping her quill on the kitchen table absentmindedly, smudging it with ink without realising.

"According to the estimates of the survivors and Order members who were there, they say about fifteen Death Eater squadrons attacked," Ron chipped in, and looked at Harry, shaking his head in disbelief. "Can you believe it? Fifteen squads for a town of less than a thousand people?"

"And how's it going?" Harry insisted, glancing sideways at a focused Molly, her back to him, listening to the radio. "Have we managed to drive them out? Or have they settled in?"

Ron and Ginny exchanged a glance. Hermione was silent, her gaze fixed on the table. Her frantic eyes were on fire.

"That's the strange thing," Ginny confessed, leaning back in her seat. "From what Dad dropped in his last communication, it doesn't sound like they wanted to take over the place. They've left the place in shambles. They wouldn't attack in such a manner if they intended to take it over. It would be shooting themselves in the foot. It was disproportionate."

"Any prisoners, then?" Harry wanted to know, urgently. His brow furrowed in anticipation. Ginny shrugged helplessly.

"Not at the moment, as far as we know. But we're still doing a head count of the dead and missing," she tapped her quill on the memos in front of her. "They're moving some of the wounded here. And also to Shell Cottage, and Aunt Muriel's house. I'm working out how much room there is. St Mungo's won't be able to cope with that much work..."

"Who's there? In Godric's Hollow?" Harry wanted to know, straightening up. As if he intended to go there too.

"Mad-Eye and his squad; minus Ron, who's the communications liaison," she gestured lazily to her brother, who sat before her, "Fleur, my father, Doge, Tonks should —"

"I should have gone," Hermione interrupted, suddenly. Her voice trembled with suppressed anger. "It was my notice. It was my responsibility."

"It's not your job," Ron protested through his teeth, not looking at her. And Harry suspected they'd just had that argument. "You're in charge of rescues."

"This was a rescue!" the girl exclaimed, her voice shrill.

"We didn't know that," Ron blurted out, glaring angrily at her. "We didn't know what was going on there. We couldn't mobilise everyone. The available battle squads have gone."

Hermione let out an undisguised angry snort and raised her hands to the sky. Slamming them on her hips as she dropped them.

"You say it was your notice, Hermione?" Harry asked, looking at her hesitantly. Hermione opened her mouth in an angry inhale, intending to start explaining herself, but Ron cut her off.

"Yes, exactly. Now, apparently, Hermione has contacts that notify her of unexpected attacks," he spat scathingly. She glared at him in such a way that Harry was not surprised to find that Ron recoiled almost imperceptibly in his chair as the girl took two strides towards him.

"How can that seem the most relevant of all that to you?" she was shocked, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"You don't inform about these things. It's Oliver, or even Mundungus, who might have this kind of information," Ron protested, still standing his ground.

"But who warned you, Hermione? Who's your contact?" Harry wanted to know, somewhat confused. For the second time, Ron interrupted the girl before she even parted her lips.

"She says she can't reveal it," Ron quoted, with sarcasm. Hermione's chest rose and fell under her tightly crossed arms again.

"No, I can't," she corroborated, bitterly. Lowering her voice slightly.

"Well, but it's someone you can trust, I suppose, isn't it?" Ginny interjected sharply, seeming to have had enough of the argument. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for Hermione's gaze.

"Of course it is," she confirmed, confidently, clearly.

"Then that should be enough for us," Ginny said emphatically, looking at her brother. "We should be thankful that someone, anyone, has been able to warn us about this. And we've been able to mobilise as soon as possible..."

"I'm just saying," Ron protested, still mock-calmly, between his teeth, "that warnings like this have to pass through several filters. Oliver's among them, to check the Death Eaters' communications. It's risky to send half the Order somewhere without more serious confirmation. It could have been a trap."

"But it wasn't," Ginny finished, adamant. Giving him a warning look.

"I don't doubt Hermione," Ron hastened to say in a louder voice. Almost angrily. As if anyone had even hinted at it. "I doubt her... stupid informant. They should have contacted Mad-Eye, or Wood directly. Not her. Just —"

Ron continued to rant, but Hermione wasn't listening to him anymore. She had turned around, her back to her friends. So she could close her eyes. Biting her lip. She didn't want to hear any more. She didn't want to be there. She wanted to be in Godric's Hollow. She needed to go there. She needed to find Draco.

But she hadn't been allowed to. In less than five minutes she'd mobilised every member of the Order that was in Grimmauld Place that night. And they all told her the same thing Ron was telling her. That she couldn't go there. It wasn't a proper rescue. And her squad, unprepared for the unexpected, used to planned missions, would take time to be operational that night. It didn't make sense for her to go alone. Especially after she had been the receiver of the message. That made her a possible target in case it was a trap. Hermione knew it wasn't, though.

Draco had sent her a Patronus asking for help. Help. He had managed to cast such a complicated spell to ask her for help. Her. While he was in Voldemort's ranks. While she was in the Order. And Hermione had never felt such terror in her entire life.

By saying 'bring them', by speaking in the plural, he had indicated to her that he meant the Order. He needed help from the Order, he wasn't calling her exclusively. And Hermione couldn't imagine what the young man was going through to come to such an act. To ask the Order for help through her. He could be in danger. He had to be in danger. And she wasn't there to help him. And the anguish was taking her breath away. She felt like she was running without really running. Nowhere.

If she didn't hear news of what was happening in the next ten minutes she would flee Grimmauld Place without further hesitation... She would never forgive herself for not having —

Intermittent, uncoordinated beeping broke Ron's chatter and Hermione's thoughts. Molly, who hadn't been involved in the conversation at all, completely focused on the radio, straightened up. She turned the little wheel gently.

"M'aidez, m'aidez, m'aidez..." came loud and clear from the radio, in an urgent voice. A voice with a familiar French accent. It was Fleur. Using the French expression for 'mayday'. The distress signal.

Molly adjusted the earpiece in her ear, pulled down two levers and held a communicator up to her mouth.

"Headquarters speaking, over," she answered immediately. And they all heard Fleur's muffled reply, now in the earpiece, only to Molly. She began to write hurriedly. Her children, Harry and Hermione watched her. Now in solemn silence. They listened to the woman's quill for several seconds, writing intermittently. Short sentences.

"Ginny," her mother said hurriedly, still writing. Her daughter straightened up, attentive. "Get the empty room on the first floor ready as best you can with a healing kit. They're bringing in a badly wounded man. An enemy."

Ginny jumped to her feet. But she hesitated at the last bit of information.

"An... enemy?" she repeated, wanting to make sure she'd heard correctly.

"We can't keep him in the hospital, with the rest of the wounded," her mother clarified, not looking at her. As if it were obvious. "And he needs immediate care."

Harry and Ron exchanged an excited glance. Surprised. Unless this badly wounded enemy finally died, they would have a hostage on their hands. It wasn't often that happened.

Hermione was frozen in place. Ginny still looked confused, but she recovered.

"What healing equipment does he need? Any curses, creature attacks...?" the girl questioned, efficiently. Molly let out a tense sigh.

"They don't know. Bill hasn't been able to go to Godric's Hollow yet," the woman complained. "You'll have to examine him yourself when he arrives to check for curses... Male, age twenty," she added, reading her own notes. "Bring down standard equipment."

Hermione felt the skin on her arms got goosebumps. She reached out her hands so that she could hold onto the back of the empty chair in front of her. As slowly as she could so as not to draw attention to herself. Her whole arms were shaking. "Oh my God, please..."

Ginny ran out of the room, and up the stairs, without another word. Harry approached the woman and the radio.

"Twenty years old?" he repeated, suspiciously. "He's very young. Maybe we know him. Have they given a name? Do we know who he is?"

Molly shook her head.

"They spoke of him in masculine terms. I don't know any more..."

Then there was a knock on the floor above. A creak. Footsteps. Voices, many voices. Sounds difficult to identify. And then a new voice, loud and clear:

"BUT WHAT IS THIS? YOU FOUL TRAITORS, DEFILING MY PARENTS' HOUSE WITH YOUR FOUL PRESENCE, DESTROYING WHAT'S LEFT OF THE BLACK BLOODLINE...!"

"Oh, Merlin, they haven't silenced Walburga," Mrs Weasley moaned. She dropped the quill and picked up her wand, which rested at her side. She tapped on one of the little wheels on the radio. "Quidditch," she muttered, by way of a password, and the wheel spun of its own accord. "Closing communication, River," they all knew that was Lee Jordan's code name, "I'll call again at zero-six-zero-zero. Over and out."

She took the earpiece out of her ear at last, and, clasping her hands around the hem of her robes, hurried up the stairs. Harry and Ron followed her immediately. Hermione took only a moment longer to get her legs going, and went up last.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Molly, Ron, Harry and Hermione huddled at the doorway, unable to move any further into the narrow hallway due to the great turmoil that reigned there. Hermione stood on her tiptoes to try and see over Ron, who stood before her, though she barely managed to do so. Only the light of one small lamp had been turned on, and the hallway was in darkness. She made out Doge's face before them, talking to Molly, the woman at the head of their little group. More like shouting over Walburga Black.

"…We'll be bringing more wounded here. We've started by filling Shell Cottage. We need Pye and Strout, one at Shell Cottage and the other at Muriel's house. I've already told Fleur to organise the Healers as she sees fit... Is the room ready?"

"It should be ready in a few minutes," Molly assured him, also in a raised voice. "Ginny is on it..."

They were still holding the front door open as if waiting for someone to enter. Two figures, one corresponding to Arthur, and one that Hermione couldn't see, were trying to close the curtains of Mrs Black's portrait to avoid having their eardrums shattered. To no avail.

"YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE HERE, YOU OUTCOME OF FILTH, YOU DEGENERATED MUTANTS! MUDBLOOD IN MY HOUSE, YOU BASTARDS...!"

More figures then came through the door. Hermione watched the tops of their heads advance down the hall. The silver hair of one revealed to her that it was Fleur.

"Upstairs," Hermione heard Molly say, shouting to make herself heard. "Second floor. The second door on the right... Good Merlin..."

She didn't shout that last part. It was a low moan. But Hermione could hear it.

As the two people apparently carrying a third ascended the stairs, Hermione could finally see something. A stretcher levitated between them. With a large dark lump on top of it. It was wearing what looked like black robes. Hermione saw a clump of platinum blond hair. And also the striking crimson flash of blood.

"TRAITORS!" Mrs Black continued to bawl from her painting. "BLOOD TRAITORS DISHONOURING THE PURITY OF MY HOUSE WITH YOUR DECAY! CENTURIES AND CENTURIES OF PURITY...!

"Fuck," Ron gasped in front of Hermione. She saw her friend turn to look at her and Harry, his blue eyes wide open. "Guys, it's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. They've got him."

---

"What time is it?" asked Ron, leaning on the bannister of the stairs leading to the third floor. Harry, pausing his lazy stroll along the second-floor landing, took his left hand out of his pocket to scrutinise his old wristwatch.

"Almost six," he reported, half-heartedly. Ron looked surprised.

"Bill's only been in there for fifteen minutes? Seems like an eternity to me," he protested, mumbling. Harry shrugged. Then he rubbed his tired, reddened eyes.

"We've been here for over an hour, so it's normal..."

"Aren't they going to bring in any more wounded?" Ron muttered again. Clearly about making conversation. He seemed to be too nervous to keep quiet for long. "It's been a while since anyone else has been up here..."

"The hospital was almost full before tonight's attack," Harry opined, agreeing to talk. Pointing his thumb at the floor above, he said, "I don't think they'll be bringing in many more. The rest will be taken to Bill and Fleur's or Muriel's?"

"Yes, it's possible," Ron corroborated, vaguely. Thinking of what else to talk about. His eyes fell on the figure that corresponded to Hermione, but she wasn't looking at him. Nor did she seem to have any intention of joining in the conversation.

Hermione was on the other side of the landing, leaning against a wall, next to the door behind which Draco Malfoy was struggling between life and death. She had taken a sideways position, her shoulder resting on the bare surface. Facing the closed door. Standing sideways to his friends was easier. Because that way she didn't have to look at them. Because she couldn't look at them. Because she was at the end of her rope, and she didn't know how much longer she could control the tears. She had had to cross her arms so that she could clench her fists with all her might and not be seen. The pain of her nails digging into her palms was the only thing keeping the tears at bay.

Draco was in Grimmauld Place. Behind that door. Badly wounded. Or so it seemed, judging by the amount of time they were spending healing his wounds. Fleur had taken care of him hours ago, when he arrived at the headquarters, but her care didn't last long. Her services were soon urgently required by the villagers of Godric's Hollow. The Order could not put the life of a Death Eater ahead of the innocent people who had been attacked that night. Partly, moreover, by that same Death Eater. Fleur, feeling morally bound by her code as a Healer, insisted heatedly that she had no intention of abandoning the boy's treatment in favour of other wounded. But, after a heated argument with Mad-Eye, in which Walburga Black was again awakened in her frame as a result of the shouting, she had to give in to her position. There was no time to lose. There were many lives at stake.

The rest of the Healers were equally busy in the various shelters. Fleur and Hannah went together to Shell Cottage, where most of the wounded were accommodated. Augustus Pye went to Muriel's, where the most seriously injured were. Miriam Strout took care of those on the third floor of Grimmauld Place. So it was Molly Weasley who was left in charge of Draco Malfoy's health.

Molly had been behind that door for over an hour, taking care of the boy. Ginny had been with her the whole time, helping her as much as she could, and, in particular, analysing the extent of any dark magic injuries the boy might be suffering from. Fifteen minutes ago, Bill had arrived at the headquarters and had gone into the room to help his sister with her task. Everyone assumed that he had actually done so at Fleur's request.

Hermione felt a tear fall from her left eye, sliding down her cheek. Without even having to blink. Luckily, the eye that was hidden from her friends. She didn't move a muscle to wipe it away, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

She didn't know what to do. She couldn't do anything. And that felt terrifying. She wanted to go in there. She knew something about healing, but she also knew that it was nowhere near what Draco needed at the moment. She'd really just be in the way. But... she needed to be there. If only to be by his side. Because maybe he was scared. To tell him that everything was going to be okay. Because they were going to save him. They had to save him. She didn't even know if he was conscious. Actually, she didn't think he was. But he had to be alive.

Her jaw began to tremble and she had to clench her teeth tighter. Though that only increased the tightness of the muscles that formed her throat. She was clutching her arms so tightly around her torso, holding herself up, that she could barely puff out her ribs for air. Her eyes burned.

Molly wasn't a Healer like Fleur, or Pye, or Strout, or even Hannah. She was only a support on certain occasions. And now Draco's life, hanging, it seemed, by a thread, was in her hands.

The door suddenly opened, and a small, masked figure rushed out, closing it again behind her. Hermione straightened up with a jump, and Harry and Ron muted their vague attempt at conversation. Ginny removed the Phoenix Mask, which everyone entering the Death Eater's room had agreed to wear, as a precaution. She also removed her dark hood, hiding her recognisable flame-red hair. They all saw her freckled face glistening with sweat. She looked exhausted, but frantic at the same time.

"How's it going?" Harry asked instantly. But Ginny pursed her lips and sighed loudly through her nose, walking towards the stairs leading down to the hall.

"I have to go find Fleur. Mum said to bring her here anyhow. She can't... She's doing all she can, but —" She hesitated, pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs, leaning on the bannister, so she could look at the three of them.

"It doesn't look good?" Harry wanted to know, more quietly. With a serious expression. Even a little confused. The girl shrugged slightly, with subtle helplessness.

"He doesn't... come round," she admitted, quietly. "I can't say anything, I'm sorry, understand me. It's confidential. But I have to go and find Fleur," she said more emphatically.

She gave them one last parting glance. Her brown eyes lingered on Hermione's face for a second longer than on her brother's and her friend's. And then she ran down the stairs.

Harry let out a slow, rumbling sigh, breaking the tense silence that had formed. Scratching his tousled hair with one hand, still staring at the spot where Ginny had disappeared. Lost in thought.

Hermione dropped back against the wall, sideways. Turning her face a little more towards the wallpaper, turning it even further away from her friends.

She couldn't anymore. She couldn't. She needed to go in. She needed to find an excuse to go in. But there was no excuse possible, not in front of Harry and Ron. But Draco was in there. And she was losing him.

She was losing him.

She was losing him.

Her stomach lurched in silent but visible convulsions as she clenched her throat to keep back a sob. As she refused to breathe. Because, if she took a breath, she would moan. She would scream. She would break. It was a nightmare. It was a nightmare...

She couldn't cry for him. Not there. Not in front of her friends. Because that would mean telling them the truth. She had to tell them the truth. To tell them that she was in love with the person who was in there. This enemy they were trying to save for the sole purpose of extracting information.

If she lost Draco that night... What would be the point of telling them everything that had happened between them? It would end their friendship, for nothing. Because Draco wouldn't be there anymore. Ever again.

But how could she hide from them the way she would be broken if she lost him in the next few minutes?

She was losing him...

If she had gone that night to Godric's Hollow... If she had gone instead of obeying his instructions and alerting the Order... Maybe she would have saved him...

She was losing him...

She didn't have a single photograph with him...

Hermione turned her face further away. Pressing part of her forehead against the wall. She felt the hot tears overflowing her eyes and caressing her cheeks. The mucus building up in her nostrils. She would be forced to sniffle at any moment, and she tried her best to delay the moment.

"Draco, please..." she pleaded, staring at the bottle green painted wall. "Please, I can't... Not this. Don't do this to me. Wake up. Please wake up..." She closed her eyes, and her chest heaved in suppressed sobs. She pressed her forehead against the wall harder. "Wake up!"

"Is this really necessary?" Ron muttered then. In a quiet voice. Turning to lean against the bannister, his back to his friends. Arms crossed. "We've already got Selwyn and Yaxley. We can question them. Malfoy — he asked for it. Fleur has to attend to the people he's attacked."

"I don't know, Ron," Harry mumbled, running his hand through his hair again. "Letting him die, doing nothing, would be so —"

"Isn't that what he did tonight?" Ron protested, raising his voice. "He was there. He killed all those people."

Harry pursed his lips. Then he nibbled on his lower one.

"I know. I know that. And I know you're right. But... fuck, I think I've got the Malfoy from school in my head. He was a... coward. A stupid coward. I can't imagine him actually killing anyone," he glanced sideways at Hermione, watching her silhouette. Seeing her turned towards the wall. Shrinking in on herself, her face hidden from his eyes. Before he could fully register that image, Ron's voice distracted him again.

"I wouldn't have believed it either. In fact, it wouldn't have even crossed my mind that You-Know-Who could need a brat like Malfoy," his tone became a little firmer. "But he was there. And You-Know-Who's not going to have him in his ranks if he's no use to him. He must have turned into a... a mass murderer, or something. He's always been a fucking bully..."

"Crabbe and Goyle were fucking bullies," Harry objected quietly. "Malfoy just hid behind them and made them do his dirty work. The tricks he played on us were never solo. I can't imagine him fighting like that..."

"Well, I can. And you know something? My mother doesn't need to be there, putting her life on the line for that pig," Ron said then, straightening up on the bannister. "If he wakes up and attacks her, if he touches a hair on her head, I swear —"

"It looks like he's too badly hurt for that. Besides, he's unarmed," Harry reminded him, trying to placate him. "Aberforth has taken his wand to check it."

"What if he knows dark magic that doesn't require a wand?" Ron protested again, more emphatically. Restless and stressed. "We should have let the Ministry take him to St Mungo's..."

"So they could send him straight to Azkaban afterwards? If it turns out that he survives, why not question him? He might be of use to the Order if —"

A hasty sob silenced them. And made them turn in unison. Ron even bumped into the corner of the railing as he turned abruptly.

Hermione was still standing still by the wall. Leaning her weight against it. Shaking from head to toe. She seemed to realise that her moan had been audible, because she put a hand to her mouth. Covering it. Trying to muffle the rest of the sounds that escaped her strangled throat. Desperate sobs. Anguished. Breathless. Out of strength.

She let herself slip to the floor, squatting down. Still leaning against the wall. Coughing chokingly against her hand. The crying taking over her completely.

"Hermione..." Harry whispered, hurrying towards her. He crouched down beside her, trying to wrap his arms around her. "Hermione, what...? Oh, c'mon, now, don't —"

"I... c-can't," the girl sobbed, her voice turning into a whimper. Shrinking in on herself. Hiding her face as best she could. "This is — I can't —"

Harry pursed his lips. He looked over his shoulder. Ron was beside him too. He was standing. With no room to go over to hug his friend. Staring at her with his blue eyes filled with helplessness.

"Hermione, calm down," Harry murmured. He slipped an arm under her armpits and gently pulled her up. "We're all — I understand you, we're all nervous. What happened tonight is horrible, but it didn't go as far as it could have. Thanks to you..." he whispered, as softly as he could muster. Trying to make her feel better. "You warned everyone. You saved a lot of people..."

"That's right," Ron muttered in return. Still not getting close. Letting Harry take care of the physical contact. But with a sorrowful expression at his friend's unexpected fragility.

They both seemed to think that her outburst of feelings had happened because, quite simply, the girl had a big heart. Out of empathy in the face of so many horrors that had happened that night. Which was a more than understandable conclusion. More logical than the actual reason.

Hermione continued to sob frantically. Head down, hand against her mouth. Now that she had started, stopping was impossible. Lack of sleep was surely taking its toll as well. And nothing they said could comfort her. Because the reason for her crying was dying behind that door.

She couldn't look them in the face. Not without them knowing what was going on inside her... The need to tell them, to be honest, was overwhelming. She couldn't even think if it was the right time to do it. She was catching her breath to do it. To tell them that she couldn't lose Draco Malfoy. She needed them to understand why she was crying. To help her bear it. To tell her that everything would be all right. She needed them. She needed them...

The door then opened a second time, and another masked figure stepped out of the room. Much taller than the last one. Taller than all of them. Bill Weasley stepped forward and removed his mask, surveying the scene with frank bewilderment. Before he could speak, a shorter figure left the room directly behind him, closing the door behind them.

"Are you still there?" was the greeting of a pale, haggard Molly, having removed her mask as well. She narrowed her intelligent eyes, looking at them disapprovingly. But then she took in the whole scene, and her features softened. "Is everything all right?"

Hermione had stood up and raised her head to look at the people who had left the room. But the tears on her flushed face were more than evident.

"Yes, all right," Harry hastened to say, determinedly, still with his hand on Hermione's back. Ron also gave his brother a sly gesture, so that he wouldn't say anything. "We're just tired..."

"You should have tried to get a few hours of sleep. It's going to be a long day today..." Molly chided them, a little more gently, but just as sternly. "Hurry up, Bill," she instructed her eldest son in a more pressing voice, who nodded and descended the steps to the first floor with quick steps.

"We weren't going to leave you two alone with that twerp to do anything to you," Ron said, straightening up and raising his head proudly.

"Don't be ridiculous," his mother said, shaking her head, playing it down. "But as long as you're here," she said, looking at them with an uneasy gleam in her eye, "please go down to the kitchen and radio Mad-Eye. And, if you can, Remus. Although I don't think he's quite recovered from tonight's full moon... Tell them it's urgent. They told me they wanted to question him during the day, tomorrow already, but... he's a Black Sergeant," she articulated clearly, albeit more quietly. Visibly concerned. "I'm sure they'll want to talk to him right away..."

"A Black Sergeant?" Ron gasped, forgetting to lower his voice, not quite believing it. "Malfoy?"

"He had the brooch on his robes," his mother revealed, again in a controlled voice.

"But he's awake, then?" Harry interrupted. His face tightened. "Is he alive?"

And the light returned to the landing. Or so it seemed to Hermione. For at that moment she realised that she could see clearly again. Sharply. In focus. Suddenly she felt she recognised the people around her. Where she was.

Draco was alive. He was alive.

"I've managed to stabilise him. And I've reduced the sedation enough to wake him up safely. But he still needs —"

"All the more reason not to move from here," Ron replied, not letting his mother answer. He reached a hand to his belt, pulling his wand from his holster. "Now that he's awake, he's dangerous. That stupid a bloody Black Sergeant..." he mumbled almost to himself in disbelief. "He can do anything to you, Mum..."

"Ronald Weasley, I hope you don't think you have a useless mother who can't defend herself," the woman hissed then, straightening up in all her short stature. But the twinkle in her eye seemed to light up the landing. "I think, being a member of the Order of the Phoenix as I am, and the mother of seven children, I can stand alone against an unarmed boy half my age! Now, do me a favour and go down to the kitchen immediately and tell Mad-Eye..."

"Mum, don't —" exclaimed Ron, taking a step forward.

"It's not a suggestion!" the woman roared, glaring at him so fiercely that her son took two steps backwards. "Do it, or I swear on your father's head I'll make you sleep in the cupboard with Kreacher for a week!"

Ron's face fell. He glanced sideways at Harry and gave him a quick nod, pointing towards the stairs. They both hurried off, with identical looks of dread on their faces. Hermione made to follow them, without even thinking about it, but Molly stopped her, holding her elbow gently.

"Hermione, are you all right?" she asked softly, looking at her carefully. The girl allowed herself to take a breath and give herself two seconds to recover. To regain control of herself. She sniffled her nose, removing the last traces of mucus. And forced her lips to stretch into a weak smile.

"Yes, Mrs Weasley. Don't worry. Too many... emotions in one night. That's all," she managed to articulate. Hearing her own voice hoarse from recent desperate crying. But firm in her words. Convincing.

Molly also forced a fleeting smile. She took the girl's hands in hers, squeezing them firmly.

"A terrible night for everyone, indeed. But you should be proud of what you've done. You saved a lot of people. Once you're more rested, you'll understand what you've done..." the woman assured her, looking at her tenderly. Trying, no doubt, to cheer her up. Empty words in Hermione's heart. She hadn't saved anyone. Draco had. The woman patted her hands comfortingly again. "I need your help, my dear. Leave those two," she waved her hand dismissively towards the stairs that Harry and Ron had disappeared down. "I'll keep an eye on the boy, you hurry up to the hospital ward and get me some ingredients. Talk to Strout, or, if she's too busy, one of the trainee Healers. I've got to get on with the cure, and I need more Asclepias tuberosa balm, do you know what it looks like? It should be in a bluish bottle. I imagine it will be labelled. Also rat spleen and Boomslang skin powder to mix with roots of daisies. Also a Potion for Dreamless Sleep, and —"

"Mrs Weasley," Hermione interrupted, "why don't you go up to the hospital ward? It'll more than likely take me a while to find all that, or I won't even be able to memorise it... I can keep an eye on Malfoy," she managed to articulate. Trying not to give any special intonation to her offer. Without her voice trembling. And she wasn't sure how natural it sounded. But Molly didn't seem to be surprised. Though she did look at her with a sudden unease that she had hidden in front of her son.

"I don't know if it's a good idea, dear," she murmured worriedly, glancing sideways over her shoulder.

"Mrs Weasley, I hope you don't think I can't take care of myself," the girl replied, forcing a more sincere smile. She brought one hand to the holster strapped to her thigh and gripped her wand tightly. With the other hand, she also took hold of the Phoenix Mask that hung on her hip, clipped to her belt. "He's no match for me."

"He's a Death Eater, darling," Molly protested gently. "More to the point, a Black Sergeant. You know as well as I do what that means. He is precisely because he's a match for both of us. And for everyone in the Order."

"I know Draco Malfoy," Hermione was forced to add. And this time her voice trembled uncontrollably. But she concealed it by pulling her mask over her face as if she was sure of what she was doing. "I've lived with him for years. I think... I'll know how to handle him. Besides, he can't be fit to fight in his condition."

Molly stared into her eyes and then let out a deep sigh. She moved away from the doorframe at last, clearing a path for her. Heading for the stairs leading to the third floor.

"I'll only be a minute. He's weak, but keep an eye out for anything he might do. Don't lower your guard."

Hermione nodded as Mrs Weasley went up the stairs. Her legs feeling weak, she turned towards the old black-painted wooden door and wondered if she was sure of what she was going to do. But then she thought she had no time to back out. Her hands were also shaking as she took a step forward and gently pushed the door open with a creak that didn't reach her brain.

Before it was fully open, she saw him. The bed was positioned just in front of the door, its left side against the opposite wall. He was sitting half up, his back propped up on a pillow. His face turned away from the door. Looking at the sober wall on his left. She couldn't tell from his posture, but she was pretty sure he was awake. Only he didn't bother to turn when he heard her come in. Hermione closed the door and flicked her wand fleetingly, blocking it with a quick nonverbal Locking Spell.

Bedclothes covered him up to his waist. His chest was bare. She could see dried blood in his throat. His right arm was raised at the ribs in a sling, his elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle. His blond hair was reminiscent of a full moon on a dark night.

It was the second time in her life that Hermione had seen him in a bed covered in bandages.

A black cloth was lying in a corner. Probably his Death Eater's robes. The clothes he appeared to be wearing underneath, dirty and with stains of an identifiable red, lay on a chair. The single bedside table next to the bed was cluttered with potion bottles, concoctions, antidotes, bandages, dressings, and various ingredients. Hermione effortlessly identified Jobberknoll feathers, mistletoe berries, and unicorn horns in powdered form, judging by the distinctive glow. She spotted some chocolate pieces. And also a couple of larger, empty glass jars, and several bloodstained cloths. High up in the room, near the ceiling, floated the remains of a subtle golden smoke. It was quite warm in there. The ceiling lamp was lit, although it did not give much light.

Having clearly heard the door open, but not noticed any movement again, Draco turned his face in her direction. Reluctantly. Wary. Alert. And the sight of him moving reactivated her limbs. He was very pale, almost ash-coloured. There was a bandage stuck to the left side of his forehead, almost covered by his blond fringe. His silver eyes focused on her out of the corner of his eye, standing in front of the closed door. They were fixed on her Phoenix Mask, his expression unperturbed. Grim. Arrogant. Full of hostility. A look she hadn't seen him give her in a long, long time. He was now imprisoned by the enemy ranks. They were his enemies. He thought she was an enemy.

'I'll only be a minute.'

The girl reached up and removed her mask as quickly as she could. Showing him her face. And she could see his expression change immediately. How his body straightened slightly on the pillow, of its own accord. Turning more towards her. His features completely lost their resentful air. His eyes opened wider, focusing on her completely. Without blinking. Without breathing.

And she looked at him too. And she felt herself losing her composure. The stuttering in her chest started again. Tears were coming to her eyes again, growing wetter and wetter as the seconds ticked by. A sob left her tight lips.

And then she ran the distance between them.

Draco stretched out his left arm, the healthy one, as soon as he saw her move. Stretching it out towards her. Wrapping it around her when she reached him. Hermione crouched down as she reached the foot of the bed. Placing a knee on the mattress to steady herself so she could get closer. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pressing him against her own chest, one hand on the back of his neck. Leaning her profile against his. Sobbing in his ear. Wetting his face with the tears that hung down her cheeks. His arm went around her back, and Hermione could feel his open hand on her. Pulling her tight against him. Digging his fingers into her.

He was holding her. He was in her arms. He was alive.

Hermione, without releasing him, managed to position herself better. Lowering herself to a more comfortable position, sitting on the edge of the bed. She ran her hand up and down the back of his neck, combing his short hair urgently. Feeling it dirty and tangled between her fingers. She turned her face just a little, without separating, so that she could kiss any bit of skin she could reach. She kissed his ear, his temple, and his cheek. She pulled away just a little further, just enough to locate his mouth. Pressing her tight lips against his, very hard. And it was at that moment that she realised she hadn't been breathing for a while. Because she found herself breathless against his mouth. Her nose crushed against his cheek. And she had to break the kiss sooner than she would have liked so that she could inhale in a shaky, rushed breath. But no sooner had she filled her exhausted lungs with air than she kissed his lips again. Twice more, urgently.

Still struggling to find her breath, sobs piling up in her throat, she pulled away from his mouth. And from his body too. So she could look down and examine him. She needed to ask him if he was all right. How bad his condition was. How much he was in pain. But she couldn't say a word. So she tried to find out on her own.

There were a couple of scratches on his torso. And a nasty, broad, greenish-violet bruise on his ribs. Dried blood in places. Old white scars, here and there, that Hermione was familiar with. That she'd seen and listed every night they'd met on Blucher Street. Those didn't worry her.

She patted his body randomly and he didn't protest. The more serious wounds seemed healed. She reached down with one hand to feel his thigh. He had both legs. He was naked under the blankets. Even his underwear had been removed. Possibly he had some injury to his pelvis, or his hips.

He felt Draco's hand move up her shoulder, wrapping around the back of her neck. Entangling in her hair. Pressing her against him again, stopping her scrutiny. Pressing his mouth against hers. And his lips did move now. Just enough to capture her lips between his. Feeling her better. And she could feel him inhale against her skin. A long breath. Almost with need. His hand massaged the back of her neck as if he needed to caress her more intensely. To compensate for the unavailability of his other hand to hold her. Or to make sure she was real.

Hermione hugged him against her again. Ducking into his neck. Listening and feeling him breathe. His hand returned to her back. Holding her close. Hermione reflexively licked her lips. His skin tasted like dust. Ash. Blood. But he was alive.

"I received your Patronus," Hermione muttered. Of all the interesting or relevant things she could have said, or asked. But she could barely think. She could only be thankful to have him in front of her. "I sent the Order."

Draco was silent for a few seconds. Without loosening his grip on her back.

"I suppose so," was the first thing that came from his lips, in a hoarse whisper against her ear. His voice was rough as sandpaper, and, matching the dusty state of his hair and skin as well, Hermione confirmed that he had been in contact with debris.

The girl took a breath and forced her breathing to regulate itself. To calm herself. To cool her mind. To focus her heart. He was okay now, that was a fact. Now they had to fix everything else.

"Don't you remember what happened? Didn't you see the Order arrive?" she questioned, curious. Frowning. He shook his head in her grip.

"I only remember bits and pieces. I've got it all mixed up. I was in... the houses in Godric's Hollow. Various houses. The square. And... the church," he then said a little more firmly. "I know I was inside the church, but I don't remember seeing anyone from the Order... I have lapses of memory..."

Hermione glanced sideways at the bedside table. She noticed the Jobberknoll feathers again. They served to clear the memory. Possibly he had suffered a concussion, either from a blow or a malicious spell. The bandage on the left side of his forehead could be because of that. If he had been pulled out of a collapse... it was more than likely. Post-traumatic amnesia was not unusual in such situations. He would gradually recover his memory of what had happened in the last few hours.

"They pulled you out of some rubble, or so they said," Hermione corroborated. "They might have mentioned a church... They found you next to two dead Death Eaters. They didn't give names."

Draco stood very still in her embrace. Attentive.

"Dead?" he repeated, his voice trailing off. Hermione nodded cautiously.

"Yes, dead... They —"

"They were... Crabbe and Goyle," the boy then revealed. "I'm sure of it. It was... them."

Hermione held her breath. She was having a hard time digesting the news. Not quite sure what his reaction would be. But his voice expressed neither sadness nor joy. He didn't sound upset. Just a little unsettled. He just kept quiet for a few moments, trying to assimilate the death of these people...

But then she did notice Draco tense up in her arms. And the sudden change in his body frightened her so much that she instinctively held him tighter.

"Nott," Draco said then. And now his voice broke at the brief word. Hermione felt something cold slide into her stomach. "Is he here? Has the Order kidnapped him as well?"

Hermione pulled away from his body, breaking the embrace, trying to see his features. Worried at the sudden distress in his voice that he failed to hide. And that was unusual for him. She scrutinised him inch by inch. He was managing to control his expression. To look earnest. But his grey eyes shone with something that the girl could only define as anguish.

Struggling to ignore the fact that he identified his situation as a kidnapping, considering they'd just saved his life, she focused on what was important.

"I don't know anything about Nott..." she managed to articulate. And she could feel Draco trying to breathe under her hands. His shoulders shaking in her grip. Hermione lifted her hands higher, cupping his face between them. "I'm sorry, I don't know anything. They didn't mention his name. Was he with you?" she asked, lowering her voice.

And Hermione realised at that moment just how well she knew Draco. Because anyone watching him at that moment would surely be amazed at the serenity of his posture. At his erect shoulders. At his controlled features despite the gravity of the conversation. But she could see the effort he was making not to break down. The abnormally rapid succession of blinks. His unsteady but low breathing. The trembling she could feel in his jaws, under her fingers.

Hermione squeezed his face a little tighter. Helping him to hold on. Urging him to speak. Reminding him that she was there.

"I couldn't save him," he mumbled then, hastily. Almost incoherent. His eyes were unfocused. Breathing unsteady. "Shit, I — Greyback... attacked him... I attacked him, but I didn't manage to — I don't know if he's okay. I-I think —"

He interrupted himself. Because his voice broke. And it chilled Hermione's blood even more than his words. She opened and closed her mouth, not knowing what to say.

She felt an unwelcome tingle in her back, reminding her that time was against them. With a rush of anxiety, she looked over her shoulder to make sure the door was still closed. But they had gone to look for Mad-Eye. Who could see through walls.

Reluctantly, she turned back to the boy, kissed his forehead firmly and stood up. Moving away from him and away from the bed. Draco's eyelids quivered with confusion at first. But, as he watched her put her mask back on, he understood. And he didn't mention anything about it.

"As we speak, they are still searching Godric's Hollow. So far, as far as I know, they've brought you in, and two others. Two men called Selwyn and Yaxley. But they are elsewhere," Hermione whispered, now standing in front of him. And the distance between them felt like an abyss. "No one else has been brought in in the last few hours. Only wounded. Villagers."

Draco said nothing. His eyes were lost in the quilt. And Hermione knew he was thinking about Nott. Not about the villagers, not about his dead or trapped comrades, not about his own health. Not about the details of the end of a battle he hadn't even asked her about. Just Nott.

Hermione swallowed, dying to say something to reassure him about his friend. But it was all empty words. If Greyback had attacked him, as Draco maintained... Hermione had to make an effort to hold back the tears. It was the last thing Draco needed.

"I'll try to find out something about Nott," was all she could articulate. Draco's jaw quivered. But Hermione saw him clench it tightly, then nod.

At that moment, someone knocked at the door. Their eyes met, in an inopportune and dangerous reflex, but then they looked away from each other, without speaking. Draco looked back at the wall to his left, while Hermione waved her wand to remove the Locking Spell.

The door opened, and several people appeared in the doorway. Hermione turned to face them. She clenched her wand in her hands to make sure she still had it and that her presence there seemed credible. Mad-Eye was in the lead, masked, and was the first to enter the room, limping on his metal leg, which only went silent when he stopped in front of the bed. His huge electric blue eye looked at Hermione shakily, greedily, for a few uncomfortably long seconds, and then fixed its full attention on the person occupying the bed.

"Well, well, what do we have here, Sergeant?" he growled in his raspy, sly voice, both his eyes, magical and normal, fixed on the boy. Draco didn't answer. He merely returned a fierce, hostile glare. Spiteful. With an almost ridiculous haughtiness given his position and appearance. But the boy's bearing, and the practice he had in generating such looks, managed to give him some dignity.

Another masked person, perhaps Arthur, or Remus, entered behind Mad-Eye. Shutting the door behind them. Though Hermione caught a fleeting glimpse of Harry and Ron, waiting outside again.

"Please come out," the second masked man who had entered asked, looking at Hermione. Recognising her. And she could tell from the slow voice that it was Lupin. "We need to talk to Draco."

Hermione thought that perhaps he remembered the boy's name from his days as a professor at Hogwarts. She nodded to Lupin respectfully and left the room without looking back, closing the door behind her.