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.

46. Berry Pomeroy Castle

Hello everyone, how are you doing? 😊 I hope you're doing great...

Thank you so much to all of you who are there, joining me in the story chapter by chapter. 😍 Whether you leave a comment or not, of course. I love, indeed, to read your hypotheses and your always so kind and enthusiastic words. I couldn't ask for more, I adore you, thank you so much! 😍

There's a chapter with some more action coming... hope you enjoy it!

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CHAPTER 46

Berry Pomeroy Castle

The sun was slowly setting in a blood-red sunset. A beautiful sight that was visible from the wide windows on the west side of Malfoy Manor. Most of them had their curtains drawn, only the curtains in the upstairs drawing room were wide open. A figure was gazing out of the large windows at the sunset. The tall figure was wearing very long robes, as black as the night that was coming. A hood covered his head, and his hands, clasped behind his back, were hidden by the long flared sleeves. Only his eyes, red as the sunset he was contemplating, were visible beneath the opaque clothing.

The furnishings of the room were sparse in comparison to its large size. A thick, lustrous carpet took up almost the entire floor, a pair of armchairs in front of a fireplace. A large bookcase filled with collections of books lined one wall. An ostentatious iron chandelier, composed of dozens of metallic undulations, and a few candles, hung from the centre of the ceiling. Extinguished.

A knock sounded on the thick wooden door. The figure at the window did not let the visitor in. He did not even move. Yet, moments later, the door opened with a creak.

"My Lord?" a hoarse, terrified voice stammered, just poking the head in. "You wanted to see me, My Lord...?"

Lord Voldemort did not take his vertical pupils away from the windows or the setting sun. He continued without making a gesture. Wormtail swallowed and entered the room, closing the door behind him, trying not to make the slightest noise. He dared not go any further. Nor speak again. His master was thinking. And his life was at risk if he interrupted.

The silence dragged on. Wormtail was sweating. Had something happened? Had he done something wrong?

Finally, he was unable to bear the uncertainty, "... M-My Lord? Can I help you with — ?"

"I've found him."

Wormtail fell silent as if a Silencing Charm had been cast upon him. Silence came again from his leader, and the little man dared not break it. He waited, compulsively biting his lower lip with his jagged teeth, until Lord Voldemort spoke again, almost to himself.

"The time has come. We will do it tonight. I know where he's hiding... There is no point in delaying it any longer."

Wormtail blinked. His mouth fell open in astonishment.

"Do you know where Potter is, My Lord?" he asked without a second thought, puzzled and hopeful.

Voldemort's snort, widening his slit-like nostrils, was audible even from the doorway. Wormtail recoiled instinctively, horrified that he had blundered.

Voldemort finally turned away from the window and turned towards Wormtail. This one was sweating profusely.

"I am not talking about Harry Potter," said the Dark Lord, in a voice so soft that it terrified his interlocutor even more. "No... I am talking about a weapon that will allow me to proceed with all my plans... Including Harry Potter. A weapon that once slipped through my fingers. Which I will not allow to happen again."

"I understand, My Lord." Wormtail had barely understood what his master had said, but he didn't even think to ask. "What would you have me do, Your Lordship?" he asked, feigning more courage and willingness than he felt. He tried to regain some of his poise to please his master and make him forget his gaffe about Harry Potter.

"Summon the Black Sergeants. We will assemble after midnight. Tell them to have their troops ready. I need as many people as possible. The best ones. We've got a lot of work to do tonight."

"Yes, sir. As you command."

Wormtail bowed emphatically, and then he was out the door in a quick flutter of his cloak. Lord Voldemort turned again at dusk.

Before dawn, he would have the power to conquer the wizarding world in his hands.

---

"Don't even think about it, Granger."

Hermione stopped midway through what she thought was a discreet wave of her wand. She had fully met his grey eyes. He'd caught her. The girl let out an immediate frustrated snort and resigned herself to lowering her hand.

"I need to know if there's an infection," Hermione protested, adamant.

Draco was lying on the old mattress in Blucher Street, face down, the top half of his body bare. His shirt, robes, and combat dress lay on the floor. His arms were folded under his face, like a pillow. At the moment, his temple rested on his forearms, so that his head was turned to stare at the young woman. With hostility.

"No spells," he reminded her, exasperated. "This is no exception."

"I need to check a few things to make sure I'm doing the right treatment," the girl argued impatiently. "I'm not a Healer. And I don't want to make any mistakes."

"No. Magic," Draco repeated, mumbling, slurring his words. Hermione held his gaze, angry. But she lost against his stubbornness. She let out an irritated sigh and placed her wand on the floor, out of her own reach. She took the opportunity to move one of the small glass jars she had just lit with her lighter closer to her. She needed some more light to get a good look.

Hermione pushed her hair out of her face, tucking it impatiently behind her ears, and continued with the treatment. She rummaged through the bulky wooden case, filled with vials, that she had taken out of her beaded handbag earlier. She chose one of the vials and poured some of the yellowish Murtlap Essence onto the cloth handkerchief resting on her leg. Then she pressed it against the boy's skin. Draco closed his eyes tightly and merely hissed through his teeth at the pain.

In the region of his left shoulder blade, and part of his side, there was a wide burn that covered a considerable area. The skin was still tender, almost raw in places, and some blisters were visible on the surface. It did not look as if anyone had tried to heal the wound.

When the two met that night in Blucher Street, and lay down on the mattress to talk, Draco was discreetly startled in the process and asked to switch places. To lie on his other shoulder, he reluctantly admitted in response to her suspicion-laden gaze. Hermione, perturbed at the presence of injury, insisted that he show her what had happened to him. After a brief discussion, which she won, Draco agreed to take off his clothes.

He told her that he had been injured on a mission a few days ago. Injured with a Fiendfyre Curse. According to the boy, a curse that had gotten out of hand by one of his own comrades. Hermione didn't know what mission it had been, and hadn't wanted to ask. That was the least of it. The important thing was to treat the wound immediately.

So she set to work and decided to make an emergency treatment. Ignoring the boy's adamant refusal, she had forced him to lie on his stomach and started pouring potions over him.

She applied the handkerchief with Murtlap Essence with gentle touches along the burn, drawing shudders of pain from the boy. Until most of the abrasions were gone. Then she rummaged through the beaded handbag again, inserting her arm up to her shoulder. The inside rattled like a hold, as if hundreds of items were stored inside. Draco glanced sideways at it almost derisively. Hermione, two hundred per cent focused on her task, didn't notice his mocking expression. She pulled out a clean handkerchief as she rummaged through her wooden case again. She picked up a new bottle, this time with a purple liquid in it. The contents were half full.

"I'll have to order more," she muttered to herself, popping the cork with the same hand that held the handkerchief. Draco raised his light eyes to her, sweeping them over her features.

"Don't waste your potions on the enemy," he muttered, coldly, making to rise, propping himself up on his elbows. But Hermione reached out a quick hand and held him in place, pushing him back down with her palm.

"We've got plenty of supplies, don't worry," she assured him, curtly. She taped the handkerchief to the neck of the vial and tipped it over so that some of the liquid soaked into it. "Your people still haven't tracked down all the wizards who supply us with potion ingredients. Nor those who create them."

It was a half-truth, for in truth, the Order was at a low ebb. Especially in potions. They couldn't fetch ingredients as regularly as they would like, and the people in charge of making them, Terry Boot among them, couldn't go as fast as they needed to. Some potions took hours to weeks to create. They worked hard, but unforeseen events such as sudden battles, or attacks of any kind, further depleted supplies. And, lately, battles were occurring with little margin in between. Voldemort's army had been trying to take over Oxford's territory of late. The Order suspected that their avid interest was due to the presence there of one of the most important headquarters of the Ministry of Magic's Werewolf Capture Unit. With control of that headquarters, it would be much easier for the werewolves that were part of Lord Voldemort's ranks to roam the wizarding world at will.

Hermione set the vial aside and opened a side, pull-out drawer. Pulling out the mortar and pestle. Then she rummaged through a bunch of nettles and a bezoar. But then she stopped. And pursed her lips as something dawned on her.

"I need to use the wand to make the Anaesthetic Potion," she said, earnestly. Trying to make it sound like a fact he couldn't change. Draco didn't flinch.

"Don't make it, then."

"Draco, I'm going to really hurt you."

He had the courage to compose a grimace of resignation, then transformed it into an arrogant one.

"I wondered when it would start to hurt," he teased, burying his face in his arms. Leaving his forehead resting on his forearms to stare at the mattress. Getting ready. Hermione pursed her lips, this time in anguish. She didn't want to hurt him. Stubborn idiot...

She understood that doing magic was dangerous. That it was trackable. That they had to keep a low profile there. But, for God's sake, it would only be a couple of spells... She didn't want to hurt him.

She looked at the soaked handkerchief in her hand, hesitantly. It was a powerful antiseptic. It was often used in conjunction with Anaesthetic Potion on such wounds. On normal wounds, it stung like hell. She didn't even want to imagine how much it would hurt on the sensitive raw skin on his back.

She used her free hand to caress the top of his blond hair. She leaned as close as she could to his head and pressed her lips against the nape of his neck. Placing a kiss on the area.

"Honey, it's going to hurt..." she insisted in a murmur, earnestly, speaking against his hair. He merely emitted a stoic grunt. Not budging in his stance.

Annoyed, steeling herself, Hermione straightened up and began to apply the handkerchief with gentle touches to the underside of the burn. Draco bit his lower lip, contorting his face tightly, wrinkling his expression completely.

"Son of a — shit — fuck," he couldn't help but let out, his body jerking in obvious spasms each time the liquid touched his skin. Mauve smoke rose from the wound where the young woman applied the potion.

"I'm so sorry, do you want me to stop?" the girl offered worriedly, pulling the handkerchief apart and holding it in the air. Her eyes shone with empathy. His skin was standing on end because of the pain.

"Have you ever heard me answer 'yes' to that question?" he mocked reluctantly, breathlessly. Hermione smiled censoriously, catching the perverted meaning he had brought to it. Against her will, she pressed the handkerchief to his sensitive skin again. "Fuck..." he growled again, out of humour by now, his voice choked from his mouth being pressed to his arms. He was breathing in heavy gasps. And his arms were shaking. She saw him bend his knee and tap his foot on the mattress intermittently to cope with the discomfort. Hermione wrapped her fingers around his arm, trying to comfort him. But when she focused on the area in the worst condition, the one closest to his shoulder, he squirmed all over. He took a long, hissing inhale and exhaled shakily when she pressed the area again.

After a few seconds, though they seemed interminable to Draco, she finished. The wound was disinfected. Most of the blisters had shrunk. At least it was no longer raw. She finally pulled the handkerchief away, but his musculature remained rigid, waiting for more pain.

"That's it," Hermione whispered, running a hand down his back in a gentle caress. She watched as his muscles loosened, sinking into the mattress. He moved his shoulders in circles, as if they were stiff from the tension. "I'm going to put some ointment on you, and we'll be done..."

"You're not going to get laid tonight, Granger, just so you know..." he mumbled, exhausted, still against his arms. Hermione smiled without him seeing her, picking up a small jar filled with a greenish paste.

"What a pity," she whispered, mischievously. Starting to apply the paste with her fingers, carefully. She saw the boy's shoulders vibrate as he chuckled quietly. "Have you put a Cushioning Charm on your clothes so they won't hurt you?"

"And to the combat dress."

"Good idea."

"Someday you'll get it into your thick head that all my ideas are good ideas."

Hermione shook her head resignedly, taking advantage of the fact that he couldn't see her, and put the jar back in the case when she was done. She took a third vial before leaning over and giving him another kiss on the back of the neck.

"Take this. It's an antidote. Just in case."

He straightened up at last with difficulty, sitting down in front of her. Looking somewhat defeated. He reluctantly took the vial she offered him and downed it in one long gulp.

"I can do no more," the girl lamented, touching her earlobe with thumb and forefinger as she looked down at her wooden case. Thoughtfully. "If you say it's been done by a Fiendfyre Curse... It is a wound caused by very dark magic. It is difficult to heal with such general potions. It will heal over time, but more slowly than a normal wound. I'm not sure if it will leave a scar or not."

"I know," he replied, not giving it any thought. Just another scar. He rotated his shoulder, trying to relax it. Checking the pain.

"Better?" Hermione wanted to know, watching him, her expression wavering. She looked a little discouraged, almost guilty, for not being able to help him more. He gave her a much softer look of silent thanks, and nodded his head a couple of times. "Hasn't anyone healed you? Don't you have Healers?" she questioned then, looking indignant.

"My mother applied a paste for burns," Draco admitted, reaching down to pick up his shirt and putting it back on. He winced uncontrollably as he pulled his arm back to reach inside the sleeve. "But, as you say, it's a dark curse. It didn't do much. We have a Healer, but I don't want to go see him."

"Don't be so proud..." she scolded him, sternly, getting angry. Willing to get involved in a string of arguments as to why it was necessary for a professional to treat the wound if there was a chance.

"It's not arrogance," he corrected, and something in his tone made her mute and not insist further, waiting for his explanation. "He was a Healer at St Mungo's. The Dark Lord kidnapped him months ago. There was a problem with the previous Mediwizard and he urgently needed someone to heal his troops. And he couldn't find any volunteers."

"I think I know who you're talking about," Hermione whispered, looking at him with a dejected expression. "Rutherford Poke? Is he alive? We weren't sure..."

Draco just nodded, not looking impressed by her good memory. His gaze was fixed on the mattress as he fastened the buttons on his shirt.

"He didn't want to help us at first," the young man recounted, his voice low and serious. Lost in his memories. "I was in charge of convincing him. The Dark Lord doesn't usually say 'please'. When he refused repeatedly, they were going to kill him outright, and I proposed — we... mutilated him. They cut off one of his feet. The hands were valuable for his role as a Healer, but the feet were not. I wanted to get him to agree no matter what. They were going to kill him... And, luckily, he agreed. So he's alive. But I haven't seen him again. I couldn't. My mother healed me whenever I needed it."

Making a visible effort, he raised his grey gaze to stare at the girl. Not knowing what he would find. She gave him back a look that was more serene than he had expected. Her brown eyes looked concerned, more glassy than before, but her expression was steady. There was no judgement in her gaze.

"I understand," she murmured, quietly. Oddly, the serenity in her voice seemed to set him off. His brow furrowed and he stared at her in disbelief.

"No, you don't understand," he protested, suddenly irritated. "Don't pretend you understand. You've never patronised me, don't start doing it now. Don't pretend that what I've done isn't a terrible thing."

"I didn't say it wasn't terrible," Hermione corrected him, not looking upset. "But I can understand that it was something that — you found yourself compelled to do. You wanted to save him. Your intention wasn't to hurt him."

"What does my bloody intention matter? Does that change anything?" Draco argued angrily, seemingly intent on proclaiming his guilt. "What does the motive matter? Did you hear what I just told you? I proposed that a person's foot be cut off."

"To stop him from being murdered," Hermione repeated again, her voice rising in pitch. Draco looked away, biting his lip to contain his anger. "Draco, you did it to prevent a greater evil, you said so yourself. And you're telling me about it with self-loathing. You're not proud of it, as many of yours would be. For me, that changes everything. Of course it's a terrible thing but I — I can't think badly of you for doing it."

Draco shook his head reluctantly as if she still didn't understand his point. He rubbed his eyes heavily, apparently trying to control how much she was infuriating him.

"Why do you insist on justifying what I do? To make yourself feel better? To feel like you're doing nothing wrong by sneaking around with a Death Eater? Are you looking for something good in me to clear your conscience?" he snapped unusually sharply, raising his gaze again to glare at her fiercely. Hermione blinked, giving herself a few seconds to take in his reproach. Puzzled.

"I'm not trying to justify anything. I don't have to justify anything. I'm aware of what I'm doing, and I don't regret it. How do you clear your conscience for sneaking around with a Mudblood, while you spend the rest of your time looking for ways to kill people like me?"

Her question was not an accusation. It was a simple reflection. Still, Draco had to take a couple of deep breaths.

"I've never killed anyone," he revealed in a very low voice. Without looking away from her eyes. She frowned, confused. An indication that she knew that wasn't true. "Not with the Killing Curse," he specified, seeing her expression. "Yes, with other spells, but not that one. Not ever."

Hermione blinked, taking it in. Any murder left scars on the soul, but those perpetrated by the Unforgivable Curse, Avada Kedavra, tore it irreparably. And the girl was grateful to hear such a thing. Draco's soul was still as precariously intact as humanly possible despite the all-out war they were engaged in.

"Neither have I," the girl replied, her voice quiet. "But of course I have also killed. We are at war. It is expected of us. But you'll agree with me that just being here, in this room, makes you different from the rest of your side."

"That doesn't justify —"

"Draco, what do you expect me to say," she questioned now, frustrated, glaring at him with burning eyes, "That I hate you, that I hate what you do, and that I never want to see you again? Would that make you feel better about yourself?"

He clenched his jaws tightly. As he breathed through his nose loudly.

"I'm just trying to understand how can you not hate me, knowing what I do. Knowing what I fight for. I don't understand."

"We both know our situation and how we got here. And what we've been through," she defended him from himself, quietly. She turned, still sitting, to begin putting the dirty handkerchiefs back in her beaded handbag. He would not allow her to use magic to clean them, she was sure.

"Exactly, we've known each other for a long time. And I'm still trying to understand how you could —" he interrupted himself, not knowing how to continue. She said nothing, giving him time to rethink his thoughts. "You saw the worst of me first, and yet you're here too. And to this day, I don't understand it."

Hermione stopped her movements and looked at him for a long moment, scanning his expression. She could almost visualise him in his school uniform, with his tie and white shirt. With the Slytherin crest embroidered on his black robes. His face covered in shadows, inside a tiny broom cupboard, asking her how her Arithmancy exam had gone...

"Because I love you. Always. And that includes the days when you hate yourself."

"Maybe that's precisely why. Because of all the good things I saw afterwards," Hermione mumbled out loud. He snorted and looked away. Exasperated at her sentimental response. "The first thing you saw of me was a social hierarchy that didn't even allow you to know me. And here we are. And look at you. What are you fighting for, you say? You're fighting for your family, for yourself. For survival. You're not doing it for ideology," she added, more emphatically. "You can't deny that."

"I support the cause, I suppose, but I'd be an idiot if my main goal wasn't my survival and the survival of those I care about," he sputtered, defensive. But then he realised what he had said. He himself flinched at the words. "I suppose? Did I say 'I suppose'?"

But Hermione didn't seem to have noticed. She was putting the potions away in her wooden case, closing the various compartments carefully. Looking exasperated.

"Draco, I don't understand what this is all about... Do you really think you have no right to have someone want to be with you?" she mumbled, with renewed disbelief. Draco looked away once more.

"I'm talking about you," he muttered. "You, for obvious reasons, shouldn't want it. You can't deny that either."

"Well, luckily I don't need your permission to love you," Hermione protested coolly, tucking the wooden case carefully back into her handbag. Draco clicked his tongue, and was about to add something, but she wouldn't let him, "This conversation makes no sense at all..."

"Don't —"

"You should have this same treatment again in a few days," she interrupted him, unwilling to listen to him any longer. Changing the subject, in a brusque tone. "We could meet here again, but it might be risky. I can tell you what potions I've used, even give you some samples so that your mother can make the treatment for you."

Draco didn't respond immediately. He was still looking at her with resentment. Wanting to go back to their earlier argument. Realising that her stubbornness would not allow it. He ended up snorting.

"I'll manage."

"No. I'm telling you, you have to get this treatment again," she insisted, resolute. "I know you, and I know you're not going to do anything on your own."

"I don't think I'm going to have time," Draco hissed, reluctantly honest. "I still have a lot to — put right for everything that happened in the battle where I got hurt," he rolled his shoulder again, distractedly. But now his eyes were lost in the mattress. And his disdainful glare had faded.

Hermione stared at him for a few seconds. Analysing him. Softening her expression.

"In what battle was it?" she questioned, discreetly. "In Oxford territory? There was a rather significant skirmish there last week."

Draco continued to stare at the mattress. He ran his tongue over his lips. He ended up nodding his head.

"We came off badly in that battle. One of my people created the Fiendfyre Curse in a desperate attack. I was wounded, but others... I lost — one of my men," he spoke in a low whisper. Almost to himself. Lost in his memories again. "He was a great wizard. Very competent," his voice trailed off and he had to swallow. Hermione realised he was trying to control the trembling of his lips as he bit them furiously for a few moments before he managed to speak again, "As Black Sergeant, I had to tell his family before the Dark Lord did. He had a wife and a... two-year-old daughter..."

He fell silent, looking as if he could say no more. He swallowed again. His bottom lip was a furious red. Hermione tried with all her might to hold back her own tears.

"I'm sorry..." she whispered, breathlessly.

"Don't be sorry," he replied, almost annoyed, and seemed to regain some of his voice. He tried to fill his lungs with a deep breath. "He was a loyal follower of the Dark Lord. He believed in the cause wholeheartedly. He believed you were inferior. He killed many of your people. But, those ideas aside, if they can be put aside, he was... a good bloke. He was — he had an incredible sense of humour... But it doesn't matter now."

He fell silent again and raised his face, turning it to one side, blinking hastily. As he sniffled with forced composure, and ran the back of his hand across his nose in one swift gesture, Hermione was already crawling towards him. She knelt as close as she could and wrapped her arms around his body. Pulling him tight against her. She felt him lean his head on her shoulder and try to draw in deep breaths of air. Though his back trembled with every breath he took. Still trying to control himself. Hermione knew he wasn't going to let it out if he could help it. She ran a hand over the back of his neck, trying to at least comfort him. The girl closed her eyes. She was pretty sure he hadn't talked about it with anyone else.

Not everything was black and white. There wasn't just absolute light and darkness. No one was completely good or completely evil.

Perhaps only Lord Voldemort broke that rule...

She turned her face and kissed his neck twice before he broke the embrace. Pretending to pull himself together. He cleared his throat and sniffled discreetly again. Almost angrily at the loss of control of his composure. Without looking her in the eye.

"Promise me you'll try to make the treatment?" Hermione murmured. Draco, sighing vehemently through his nose, merely nodded. Grateful that she didn't mention his moment of weakness.

She reached out a hand and ran it over his shirt. Getting him to look at her. Her lips stretched into a soft smile. The tension in his face softened as well. The girl moved to lie on her back on the mattress, inviting him with a glance to join her. Draco gave in to her gesture silently and lay down next to her, on his uninjured side, resting his jaw on one hand. Hermione tugged repeatedly on his shirt, however, urging him closer.

Guessing her intentions, he hesitated. He raised his hand and wrapped it around hers, so that she would stop tugging at his clothes.

"I weigh a lot," he grunted as if it were obvious. But she smiled more pronouncedly and shook her head, dismissing it.

"Lie down, you stubborn..."

She tugged at his shirt again, until he was forced to give in. With a restrained sigh, he rearranged himself to rest partially on top of her, pressed against her body. He rested his head on her chest and draped an arm over her stomach, loosely around her waist. This way, the boy's injured side was facing the ceiling and not rubbing against anything.

Hermione, pleased that he had agreed, put her arms around him, pulling him closer.

"Lie down properly, you're not heavy," she demanded, tapping him on the back. Noticing some stiffness in his body. He seemed reluctant to drop his full weight on her. He finally gave in and relaxed more, getting more comfortable. "Doesn't hurt like that, does it?"

Draco grunted in denial. And, being sure she couldn't see him, he couldn't help but close his eyes. The heat of her warmth enveloped him all over. The movement of her breath beneath his face. If he concentrated, her heart was in his ear. And her hand was now stroking up and down the arm over her stomach.

"I heard there was a rescue at one of the prisons," Draco made himself mutter. Forcing himself not to get carried away in the placid position. "At Cartertone's, maybe?"

"Yes," Hermione whispered above his head. And Draco heard her voice reverberate inside her torso.

"How did it go?"

Hermione smiled ruefully, grateful for his interest in the enemy's side. Though she was aware that he was only asking about her, and that he didn't care about the Order. Ever since what had happened at the Riddle House, he'd often asked her about the rescue missions he knew about. He never asked her for details. Only whatever she wanted to tell him. He only asked how she was.

The girl thought for a moment as she ran her fingers down his long arm.

"There were no casualties on the Order's side, and we managed to rescue all the prisoners. You could say it was a success..."

"But...?" the boy questioned, noticing that she had gone silent and realising that she hadn't finished.

"Dementors," she added, tersely. "They attacked us, and we didn't... we didn't expect it. We thought they were on our side. And the Minister hasn't said anything about it yet."

"You could say they're on your side..."

The girl frowned.

"But...?"

"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 —"

"— but some are already starting to defy the Ministry of Magic," Hermione completed, almost to herself.

Draco gave a lazy grunt, agreeing with her, but said no more. Feeling her chest beneath his face, moving rhythmically with her breathing, was making him drowsy. And her scent... And it didn't help that she suddenly brought the hand with which she was caressing his arm up to his face. Covering his cheek with her palm and stroking his temple with her thumb, while the rest of her fingers were in contact with his neck. Shit, he was going to fall asleep if she kept this up...

"They're horrible creatures," Hermione muttered, breaking the silence again. She lowered her chin, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy's face. Unsuccessfully, his blond hair filling her field of vision. "Do you know how to cast the Patronus Charm?"

"I've never tried it," he admitted listlessly, and Hermione realised that, beneath his vanity, he meant 'no'.

"You have to concentrate on a happy memory. A very happy one. The happiest one you have. And say the words 'Expecto Patronum'," Hermione explained instantly, without his prompting. Her voice taking on that remote, know-it-all tone that she was losing as the years and the war wore on.

"I know the theory too, smart arse," Draco lied, again half-heartedly. "But I don't need to know it. The Ministry isn't using Dementors to attack us. Big mistake, if you ask me. If anything, you're the ones who should be worried. They'll end up in the Dark Lord's ranks sooner or later."

"Patronuses are useful. They're also helpful for sending messages. To warn someone immediately," Hermione added, still stroking his face. Feeling the boy's calm breathing against the palm of her hand.

"That's enough of class for today, professor. I'm not taking notes, stop it," Draco muttered with boredom, not opening his eyes. The caresses and her arms around him would definitely make him fall asleep soon. He didn't want to fall asleep, but it was too peaceful a feeling to give up.

"Maybe one day you'll need to do one," Hermione objected, speaking aloud to herself. "You said it yourself. We don't know what will happen in the future. What role the Dementors will play. Who knows what the Ministry will do with them, or if the Dark Lord will get them on his side. They are unpredictable creatures. You're right, they don't know what loyalty is."

The girl straightened up suddenly, breaking the caresses on her companion's face. Forcing him to get up as well, despite his stunned resistance. Hermione swung her trunk around and reached an arm out for her wand. Draco stared at her, obfuscated, propped up on the mattress.

"What are you supposed to be doing?" he wanted to know, irritated by the interruption.

"Take your wand, we're going to practice," she said, kneeling down on the mattress. Draco arched both eyebrows, not moving.

"No. Of course we're not."

"Yes, we are," Hermione replied, unperturbed, reaching for the boy's wand herself.

"No, we're not. Cut the crap. We can't do magic in here, has the brain cell that knew that gone on holiday?"

"We've done one-off spells and nothing's happened," she replied, firmly. Handing him his wand. He didn't take it.

"A Patronus Charm is far more powerful magic than a Contraceptive Charm," Draco replied, in a quieter but harsher voice. He agreed to sit down as well but still didn't pick up his wand.

"I don't care. You wouldn't let me use magic to heal your wound, and I gave in. But I stood firm on this," the girl said, glaring angrily at him. "Let's do this. I need to know you're safe. It'll only take a couple of tries. No one will detect it."

Draco rubbed his face with his palms, weary.

"It's one in the morning," he protested as a last-ditch attempt.

"Just a couple of tries," Hermione asked, more gently. "This is important. Please, just one try."

He let out a snort, giving her a heavy look. Seeing the resolve and anguish in her eyes, his anger seemed to subside, but not his weariness. He shook his head and reached up to yank the wand away from her.

"And who do you expect to teach us how to do that?" he questioned, scathingly. "The theory is all very nice, Granger, but the practice —"

"I'll teach you," she replied, as if it were obvious. She settled herself more comfortably, moving a little away from him so that they both had room to move their wands. "You need to focus on a happy memory. The happiest one you can think of. Then you move the wand as if —"

"Wait, wait, wait," Draco blurted out, speaking over her. His brow was firmly furrowed. "You're going to teach me? Do you know how to make a Patronus Charm?"

"Of course I know, why else do you think I'm telling you?" she replied, impatiently. She took a breath, as if he was exasperating her, and repeated, "You're waving your wand in this —"

"That can't be," Draco interrupted again, with complete certainty. "It's very advanced magic, far beyond the level of the N.E.W.T.s. You couldn't have gone that far."

"Harry taught me," the girl specified, annoyed by his constant interruptions. Draco let out an exaggerated snort.

"And Potter even less so... Are you kidding me?"

Hermione sighed as deeply as she could. She closed her eyes, ignoring the boy, and concentrated. She rummaged through her mind, searching for pleasant memories. Happy ones. She focused on the feeling of joy they gave her... She raised her wand and waved her hand in wide circles.

"Expecto Patronum," she whispered.

A point of light began to glow from the tip of her wand, which gradually grew larger and larger until it became a huge sphere. The sphere became disfigured and stylised, until it turned into a small silver otter, which looked at the two youths with curiosity in its bright, magical eyes. It darted through the air, leaving a luminous trail in its wake, as if fleeing, only to vanish in a puff of whitish smoke. It took a while for its glow to fade.

Draco was absolutely bewildered. So much so that he could barely conceal it.

"Holy... shit," was all he could manage to say. Still staring at the spot where the otter had disappeared. Hermione giggled, pleased at his astonishment. "An otter?"

"Yes... I don't really know what it means," the girl admitted, shrugging. "And you saw Harry do it once, don't you remember? In our third year. When you guys dressed up as Dementors during a Quidditch match to scare him," she refreshed his memory, unable to help but speak censoriously at such an act on the boy's part. Draco blinked twice. Not looking embarrassed at all, just disoriented. And then his eyes went wide.

"Shit, I remember... Was it a Patronus?" he mumbled. Dismayed. "I didn't even notice. I just saw him cast something at us... Unbelievable, he was just a thirteen-year-old brat..."

"Yes, he was. And since he's not here, I'll teach you," she said smugly, earning a look of annoyance from her partner. "Go on, you try it. Find a happy memory. Very, very happy. And imitate the movement I made with my hand," she exemplified again.

Draco, with a tired sigh, closed his eyes to concentrate better and searched his mind. Apathetically. Happy memories... Did he have those? He tried to think, but the more he did, the more dazed he felt; almost blank. As if he had run out of memories of any kind. He realised that he was unable to remember anything that had ever made him completely happy. There was always something that... spoiled it. The instinctive fear of feeling threatened; the feeling of guilt; of, despite being doing something that made him feel good, he knew it wasn't right...

"Expecto Patronum," muttered the boy, waving his wand in the air. Nothing happened. A drop of light shone from the tip of his wand, but it was quickly extinguished.

Hermione clicked her tongue with benevolent impatience.

"You've come up short. It must be a very happy memory, what were you thinking?"

He scowled at her, but looked haughty. Pretending that the disaster of his first attempt hadn't bothered him. That he had even done it on purpose.

"I'm not going to tell you. It's my memories. It's private."

Hermione rolled her eyes and held back a sigh.

"All right, then try another one. A happier one. And concentrate on it."

Draco reluctantly went back to rummaging through his memory. With the nagging feeling that he was doing something useless. He didn't like feeling so ridiculously clumsy, especially not in front of Granger.

"Expecto Patronum," he said, again, in a louder voice. More confidently. Perhaps that was the key...

Some sort of silver gas spurted from the tip of his wand. But no majestic silvery figure swept across the room.

"Not bad," the girl praised, her smile full of admiration. But Draco gave her a spiteful look.

"It's been shitty, Granger..."

"You've only tried twice, what do you expect?" she protested, exasperated. "Come on, try it again..."

"That's enough," the boy protested, unwilling to try again and see himself fail so humiliatingly. "It's dangerous. We're leaving a trail of magic that's very —"

"One last try," the girl begged, placing a hand on his knee. "Just one more. You've almost got it. Think of something very happy. The happiest thing that's ever happened to you..."

Draco, that time, instead of closing his eyes, he locked them on hers. On her pleading expression. Looking at him with optimism at his meagre progress. Proud of him.

'The happiest thing that's ever happened to you...'

"You, you silly witch... How can I put you in a single thought?"

But something suddenly interrupted his musings. An excruciating pain that shook him from head to toe from one moment to the next. Causing him to drop his wand with a start.

Hermione, shocked, dropped hers as well. Seeing the boy's face suddenly break down and his head duck, contorted in effort.

"What's wrong?" she exhaled, throwing herself upon him and holding him by any part of his body she could find. She felt him tremble. "Draco, what is it, your — your side? Did I — ?"

But Draco shook his head, still shaking sharply. Unable to speak. Eyes tightly shut. He brought his right hand to his left forearm, squeezing it as if he wanted to tear it away from himself.

"The... Mark. It burns. He's calling me," the young man managed to articulate, between gasps. He seemed to calm down slightly and managed to straighten his back and look her in the eye. "I have to go immediately."

Hermione felt her heart pounding in her ears.

"Did he notice that you're not there?" she stammered, feeling her breathing quicken. He reached down for his shoes. His hands were shaking.

"I hope not," Draco replied with grumpy sarcasm, tying his laces anyway.

"What might he want? How much time do you have until — ?"

"I don't know," he sputtered, speaking more sharply than he would have intended due to his nervousness. He tried to add something more calmly, reluctantly, "Maybe it's just a meeting. But we don't normally get summoned by the Mark unless it's an emergency. Our superiors tell us. Maybe they're looking for me..."

Hermione couldn't breathe. She could only stare at him, helplessly, as he buckled his chest armour now. Suddenly, the boy stopped his movements and, gritting his teeth, brought his right hand to his left forearm again. Clutching it tightly to soothe the sudden burning. He shrunk in on himself to endure the pain, and couldn't help but hiss through his teeth. The girl, without hesitation, reached down to finish buckling the two remaining buckles while he recovered.

"Go quickly," Hermione begged, her voice trembling. Grabbing the shoulder armour next to her and putting it on as well. "Hurry up..."

Draco managed to move so that she could put the other shoulder armour on him as well. And then he stood up in all his tall stature; though the pain didn't seem to have subsided yet, judging by the way he was still clutching his forearm compulsively. But every second counted.

He moved across the room until he reached his black Death Eater's robes, lying on the floor a few paces away on the old carpet. He tucked his arms into them, covering his clothes, but did not fasten them. He picked up his silver mask from the floor as well. Hermione didn't move from the mattress. The helplessness of wanting to help him and not being able to had her paralysed.

Draco returned to her side, his expression imprecise. The fact that he was trying to hide how scared he was with a mask of serenity made Hermione more distressed.

The boy squatted down in front of her, now fully dressed. The skull brooch he wore on his chest, indicative of his position as Black Sergeant, caught her gaze momentarily.

"Next time, when?" he asked sharply. His grey eyes, a whirlwind of emotions that his serene face did not convey. At first, she thought it was silly to waste time on that. But then she realised he was right. If they didn't clear it up now, they wouldn't know when they would see each other again. They couldn't leave notes there. No non-verbal evidence of what was going on there.

"Next week," Hermione answered immediately, not wanting to waste any more of his time. They didn't have time to check their calendar.

"I can't wait three weeks to make sure you're okay," the girl thought, distraught.

Draco merely nodded his head curtly. Unable to open his mouth. But then he leaned down and gave the girl a quick kiss before getting back to his feet. Barely a hasty, fleeting collision of mouths, in which they almost failed to even bring their lips together.

"Be careful," Hermione managed to whisper, her voice quiet. But she forced herself to tinge her eyes with a look of composure. Trying to reassure him. Assuring him that everything would be alright.

"And come back..."

She was dying to give him a hug, to calm the covert anxiety she could see in the rapid blinks of his eyes, but fear at the thought of detaining him any longer than necessary held her back. Draco again did not respond. He put on his silver mask, and after giving her one last glance through the slits, he spun around and Disapparated before her in a billow of black robes. They hadn't cast any Anti-Apparition Charm on the building, though they always used to go out into the street before Disapparating. Trying to keep the magic inside that place to a minimum. But this was an emergency, and the Apparition was justified.

The girl suddenly found herself alone and freezing in that old room. The fire in the jars seemed to her to be barely warm. She looked up and fixed her gaze on the window, blinded with old boards, and covered with the blanket Draco had placed there weeks ago. Her heart was still pounding. And she was panting. She wrapped her arms around her legs and resolved that it would be best if she left too. She wasn't doing anything there. Not if he wasn't there.

She closed her eyes tightly. If Voldemort had demanded the presence of his Death Eaters it meant something terrible was going to happen. But it was impossible to know what it would be, or to pre-empt his plans. There was no point in alerting the Order if she knew nothing concrete. She could only wait.

"Please...," Hermione kept pleading, distraught, in her mind. Resting her forehead on her arms. She let out a sob that broke the silence around her. "Please don't let anything happen to you..."

---

Draco was running as fast as his legs would carry him through the more hidden and off-the-beaten-path parts of Malfoy Manor. He had Apparated into the back garden and entered through a service door leading to the kitchens. In truth, it didn't matter what precautions he took, or how unnoticed he tried to be. Lord Voldemort knew everything. If he tried to find out whether Draco was there or not, he would.

After running over and trampling the few sleeping elves huddled in little nests on the stone kitchen floor in his haste, he was out the door like a gale. He went through a deserted dining room, which at this time of night was not in use, and slipped through a side door to go upstairs without passing through the entrance hall. He heard distant voices. The Mark burned as if it were red-hot. But the pain in his chest almost overshadowed it. He was out of breath, but it didn't even cross his mind to stop running. His life was at stake.

After a few long seconds that felt like the longest and most anguished ones of his life, he reached the first floor, where he could already hear footsteps and people's voices. Suddenly he saw them, at the end of the corridor, coming out of a door leading to the War Room. A dozen comrades. Hooded as they were, he did not know who they were. But he recognised the brooches on their chests. They were the Black Sergeants. He had assembled the Black Sergeants and Draco had not attended.

They were heading for the stairs leading down to the entrance hall. There were other Death Eaters on that floor, scattered here and there. He recognised his mother's very long blonde hair, her back to him, no hood covering it. He ran towards her.

"Mother," he gasped when he reached her side, his voice almost a whimper. The woman turned instantly. Her blue eyes were wide with panic.

"Thank Merlin! Where were you?" she groaned, grabbing her son by the shoulders and placing him before her. She scrutinised him with a fleeting but sharp glance, anger in her eyes. "He spoke to the sergeants in the drawing room..."

"I know, I couldn't — when did he summon us?" Draco asked, with no air in his lungs. He was feeling a sharp pain in his side that made him fold slightly in on himself. "Why was it such a quick meeting? I just noticed the Mark..."

"Wormtail has warned everyone after dinner," his mother objected. She tucked a straight blonde lock of hair behind her own ear impatiently. "He says he hasn't found you. The Dark Lord has assembled all the squadrons in the entrance hall and has only given a few instructions to the sergeants... You must have been alerted by the Mark when you didn't show up. Where have you been?" she repeated, between affected wheezes.

"Busy," he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder and checking that the sergeants had already left. "I've got to sort this out..."

He made to leave, but his mother grabbed his arm.

"Theodore has gone in your place to the meeting. So he can report the Dark Lord's instructions to your squadron. Speak to him. And — for Merlin's sake, apologise to the Dark Lord," she added breathlessly. Terribly distressed. Draco swallowed and nodded quickly.

He took long strides towards the grand main staircase. He descended it hastily, seeing that the entire entrance hall was filled with Death Eaters. At a glance, he could tell that he had assembled almost every available squadron. They were arranged in small groups, being briefed by the appropriate sergeants. He located his own, and the hooded figure that was Theodore, talking quietly to his men. He took his place in the group and watched his friend give some instructions which his racing brain made no effort to understand. It was buzzing with panic. He and Nott made eye contact. But his friend looked away and kept talking. All around him, several squadrons were already making their way to the front doors, wide open to the cold night.

When Nott seemed to have finished, judging by the fact that the rest of his men broke off and started walking towards the front doors as well, Draco moved closer to his friend. Nott stood still and waited for him. His blue eyes glittered with anger behind his mask.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Nott hissed angrily, emphasising every word. "You scared me half to death, I didn't know what had happened to you..."

"I was busy," Draco mumbled, looking around. They both started towards the front doors as well, joining the rest of their comrades. "What did the Dark Lord say, did he notice I wasn't there?"

"How could he not, you cretin?" Nott spat, his voice trembling with rage. "Wormtail said he couldn't find you anywhere, and that you were supposed to be at the manor today. Luckily, he allowed me to take your place. Busy doing what?"

"I can't — forget it," Draco managed to articulate. His heart was about to burst out of his chest. What now? "Why has he assembled so many? Where are we going?"

They reached the front gates. The Death Eaters that were coming out of them were Disapparating into the darkness of the night like soap bubbles, to a destination Draco didn't know about.

Nott gave him a strange look of unease. He took him by the hand to Disapparate together.

"To hunt a dragon."

---

The leaves of the old hedges surrounding the imposing castle rustled as a score of hooded figures Apparated at the foot of the fortress. It was dark night, and several stars decorated the sky, peeking through a few, almost invisible clouds. A cold wind was blowing. They stood atop a hillside covered with knee-high grass. At their feet, in the distance, a small village of humble houses with lights out. And, beyond, valleys, rivers and various mountains that they could only dimly make out in the darkness. Their contours illuminated only by moonlight.

When Draco Apparated there, next to Nott, he felt his soul drop to his feet at the sight of the huge wall before him, surrounding a low, but large castle. Because of the darkness, he could barely make out the sheer size of it.

"Where are we?" he gasped, the wind carrying his whisper.

"Berry Pomeroy," Nott replied, shivering with cold and something else. He let go of Draco's hand and covered himself better with the silver mask to keep the wind from hurting his face. "Berry Pomeroy Castle. In Devon. It's been abandoned for centuries."

"And you say we have to find a dragon?" Draco turned to his friend, his eyes shining with disbelief and dismay. "To hunt a dragon?"

"Exactly, that's our task," Nott confirmed, looking considerably calm. His eyes were also scanning the wall. "Apparently it's hiding in here. And we have to get it out."

"Why does the Dark Lord want a bloody dragon?" Draco mumbled, still not quite getting the hang of it.

"No idea. His exact words were 'we'll catch a dragon that will make the wizarding world ours'."

"The wizarding world can go to hell," Draco thought remorselessly. He didn't feel the slightest bit like facing a dragon.

There were still whispers all around them. People still Apparating. And Draco couldn't stop panting. He had to act fast.

He tugged at his friend's robes and walked away with him a few discreet metres. So that no one would hear them.

"You have to help me," Draco murmured, stepping in front of him. He took a quick glance to make sure they were far enough away. "I need an alibi. I need you to erase the memories of the last few hours from my head. Can you do that?"

Nott stared at him for a few seconds. Taking it in. Not denying that he could do it. But visibly reluctant to do such a favour.

"Why?" he protested, in a thankfully low voice. Draco felt like punching him, but felt too stressed to recruit the muscles necessary for such a gesture.

"Just do it, will you?" he urged, sharply. And that only increased the coldness in his friend's eyes. He tried to catch his breath and speak more kindly, "Listen, I have to justify my absence to the Dark Lord, and if he searches my mind, I'm dead. I need you to change my memories from dinner to now. And don't ask me about it," he had to inhale again. He felt the situation was overwhelming him. His life hung by a thread. And Granger's too. "Please, Nott," he begged, more quietly. He reached out and grabbed his friend's arm. Urgently.

Theodore, before him, relaxed completely. Looking him up and down discreetly. He had never heard him implore him like this before.

"What are you up to?" he whispered, almost to himself. Not really hoping Draco would answer. He snorted loudly and seemed to pull himself together, "I can implant false memories to cover yours. Copies of my memories. It's... a bit sloppy, but it's unlikely he'll search me too and see that the memories match."

"Where have you been?" Draco asked, quietly, with a surge of hope so strong that he almost felt dizzy.

"This afternoon, in Nurmengard," Nott had already pulled out his wand. His blue eyes had regained the poise that made them sparkle in the moments when he kept his cool when Draco couldn't. "We'll make them out to be night memories. You'll be able to tell him that you couldn't leave your duties. That they dragged on. In the memories there are no witnesses, he can't ask anyone."

"Good," Draco whispered. And there was relief in his voice.

Nott seemed about to ask again what he was trying to hide, but he restrained himself. Resigned. Accepting that time was running out. He held his friend discreetly, so that no one would see him destabilise, and waved his wand without even raising his hand. The spell did not glow in the night. Draco blinked for several seconds once the spell was cast. He focused on Nott. He looked around. This way and that. He looked back at Nott.

"Where are we? What are we here to do?" he muttered. With some impatience. And he tried to take a deep breath as he realised he felt slightly breathless. Perhaps the after-effects of the recent Apparition.

"It's Berry Pomeroy Castle. In Devon. We've come to hunt a dragon," Nott explained patiently. His friend looked at him with astonishment.

"Hunt a dragon?" Draco repeated, incredulous.

"Yes," Nott corroborated, putting his wand away again without his friend noticing. "Looks like it's hiding in here. And we have to get it out."

"Why does the Dark Lord want a bloody dragon?" Draco mumbled, unable to comprehend such a mission.

"He didn't specify..." Before Draco could add anything and they could repeat the same conversation they'd just had minutes before, Nott added, "I went in your place to receive the Dark Lord's instructions because you couldn't —"

Draco snorted impatiently, interrupting him.

"I know, you idiot. I was delayed in Nurmengard, I came as soon as I could," he shook his head, as if his friend was exhausting him, and strode off into the crowd. "I'm going to apologise to the Dark Lord. Assemble my squadron."

Draco moved through the last murmurs of the Apparitions, trying to locate their leader. Nothing could be heard apart from the whistling of the wind ruffling the robes of those present. He spotted a tall figure standing in front of all the others, almost next to the entrance to the castle.

Before he could get any closer, the figure, which was Lord Voldemort, started to walk towards the castle gate. His bare white feet glistened against the dry grass. The rest followed in a shadowy night procession. Draco tried to move faster to overtake his companions and get closer to their leader.

They passed through the gate in the wall, small in comparison to the massive barbican that formed it. The two towers flanking it, possibly guard towers, were towering. No sooner had they crossed the gate than they appeared in a huge parade ground. They stopped. From there, there were endless places to go. All was complete silence. Draco couldn't imagine what a dragon was doing hiding in the ruins of that castle. Nor why the Dark Lord would want that particular bloody dragon.

"My Lord," Draco called, approaching his leader with serene strides. Voldemort, who had been looking around the place, agreed to turn his face to look at him. Two Generals of the Shadows were escorting him, a few feet away. He also saw another masked one turn. Judging by the black, curly hair, billowing in the night breeze, and by the successive comment that followed, it was his Aunt Bellatrix.

"Useless child..." he heard her mumble, between her teeth.

The young man paid her no heed. He dropped to one knee before his master, without hesitation, and took the hem of his cloak to brush his lips against the fabric.

"Sergeant Malfoy," Voldemort hissed. Glaring coldly at him as he rose to his feet again. Despite Draco's considerable stature, his master towered over him. "We've been looking for you..."

"I beg your pardon, My Lord," the boy excused himself firmly, bowing his head respectfully. "I was in Nurmengard. I was unable to leave the task at hand in time. I made it back just as we were moving here. I understand that my second-in-command, Theodore Nott, has taken my place at the meeting. I know he has done a great job of briefing my troops."

Voldemort scrutinised him for long seconds. Not bothering to say anything. His advanced Legilimency skills, it seemed, told him he wasn't lying. Or Draco would be dead on the floor by now. But then he flicked his wand in a nonchalant motion. Wanting to check the veracity of his words. He hadn't got where he was by trusting people.

And Draco found himself plunged into his own mind. A dark place. An interior. Everything was stone. There was no light. An oil lamp. Yes, there was a dirty flickering oil lamp. A man cowered at his feet. The floor was dirty. There was straw. There was a bowl of food in the corner. Overturned. It was a black-haired man. He was shouting. A woman was also screaming in the corner. Complaints could be heard from outside the room. That man had done something bad to someone outside that room. A wand was raised in front of Draco, in his own hand, pointing at the man. Torturing the man. His wand...

Wait. That was his wand...?

Voldemort came out of his mind. His ophidian face managed to sketch an emotion as human as boredom was.

"Very well. But don't let it happen again. If I summon you to my presence, cease whatever you are doing," he demanded, in a high-pitched, lazy hiss.

"It will not happen again, My Lord. I'm sorry," Draco assured him, bowing again. His heart pounding. Why wasn't the wand in his memory his own?

Trying to ignore that murky thought, he concentrated on the task at hand. On Voldemort's shrill voice, which echoed through the empty space. He turned to his impatient men, all looking around uncertain of what to do.

"Deploy," he commanded. His sharp voice reverberated clearly in the silence. "Seek it out. And bring it before me."

At that direct order, all the Death Eaters were on the move. Organising themselves in low murmurs, they divided into their appropriate squadrons. Being summoned by the Black Sergeants. Draco caught a glimpse of the two Generals of the Shadows, approaching to manage everything. Voldemort remained in the centre of the parade ground. He looked as if he didn't need to move. As if he could see through walls or hear things they could not.

"Opal Squadron, with me," Draco ordered, regrouping his men. Half a dozen masked people approached.

"We're in charge of the new area," Nott told him quietly. Possibly, the Dark Lord had divided up the zones earlier in the meeting. Draco nodded, looking at the area he pointed out. The long sequence of columns that formed a colonnade. A door was visible in the wall that rose behind the columns.

"You heard him," Draco said, turning to the rest of the squadron. He started walking towards the area.

"We follow you too, kid," said the huge Thorfinn Rowle to his left, catching up to walk beside him. He was the Black Sergeant leading another squadron. "You guys take the lower floor and we'll take the towers?"

Draco merely nodded, and Rowle slowed his pace to catch up with his own squadron and relay orders to them. Nott took Rowle's place moments later.

"Everything all right?" he asked quietly. Draco frowned, still staring straight ahead. Studying the structure before him.

"Of course, why?" he questioned, impatiently, uncomprehending. Theodore was silent for a couple of seconds.

"No reason…" he finished saying, in a lower voice.

"Then concentrate... Mulciber! Go ahead," he urged, paying little heed to his friend, as they reached the stone doorway that led into the ruined castle. There was no door. The wood must have rotted away years ago.

Mulciber lit his wand and entered the place first, followed by Draco and the rest of the Death Eaters. They stepped into the dense darkness. A not-too-wide hallway greeted them. There were several entrances all around them. To their left, a flight of stairs ascended in a spiral shape as far as the eye could see. Surely heading for the upper floors. A few more wands lit up. The ceiling was very high.

"It can't be upstairs," a raspy voice suddenly mumbled next to Draco's ear. An almost wolfish growl. "The rooms above us can't possibly be big enough. And the towers even less so. It has to be under the castle."

Draco instantly recognised the owner of that voice, and was surprised he hadn't done so earlier because of the foul smell of sweat and dried blood that emanated from it. Fenrir Greyback. He was part of his squadron, much to his own chagrin. He was not a man Draco liked to have around. He was more unpredictable than the worst of beasts.

"It's possible. You should look for an entrance to some underground chamber. We'll search this," said Rowle, who had heard him, also entering the place with his wand lit. "You two, stay outside. You three stay here. The rest of you, upstairs with me," he indicated his men.

"The whole Opal Squadron, with me," Draco ordered in turn, emulating and surpassing Rowle's firm tone. "Look for a staircase leading down, or a hidden trapdoor."

Greyback, beside him, let out another hoarse growl.

"Rowle is a coward. He won't go down because he knows the dragon will be down there," he hissed. Draco didn't answer. His heart was beating too fast, and he was having enough trouble coming to terms with the fact that they were going to face a gigantic dragon without having to accept that they were going to be the ones to find it.

He simply preceded his group forward. All with lit wands pointed at the stone floor and walls. They split up around the place. Their footsteps echoing in the silence. Many walls leading outside had fallen, and weeds had crept inside. Climbing up the walls. From the windows, only the holes remained. The steps leading to the various empty rooms were in good condition. But several of the interior walls were missing, with only the remains of low, mossy walls as a reminder.

Draco had managed to sneak into a room whose floor was almost entirely taken up by the remains of the collapsed ceiling. The whitish moonlight illuminated the ruins and the moss that covered them. The boy was standing in front of one of the walls. A thick layer of vegetation, which he was busy removing, covered something colourful that stood out against the black stones. It was a mural. A painting. Off-white, bluish and copper-coloured. He looked up once it was exposed and pointed his wand at it, illuminating it. He could barely guess what it was. He could make out several people there. Two on the left; three, maybe. Another to the right. Some wooden beams. A stable? No idea... It was a very old mural. Fifteenth or sixteenth century, judging by Draco's general knowledge of painting. If painting in the wizarding world could be equated with Muggle painting, that is. That was a painting with no movement whatsoever. Created, no doubt, by Muggles.

Some words caught his attention in the lower right-hand corner. He pushed more weeds aside with a wave of his wand.

Adoration of the Wise Men(*), said the old scripture. He frowned automatically. Wise men? Wizards. Wizards adoring Muggles, in such an age? Weren't they, as Death Eaters, supposed to be trying to restore the old ways? That everything used to be in balance, Muggles in their world and wizards in theirs? That they didn't interact? How could they be sure at this point that everyone remained pure-blooded? He was watching a meeting between wizards and Muggles in the 15th century... What if he himself had some Muggle blood in him?

What difference would that make...?

"Sergeant Malfoy!" a female voice called in the distance, breaking the silence.

Draco blinked awake from his reverie. He had to swallow. Looking away, forcing himself to breathe. Remembering where he was. Almost thankful that someone outside needed him, he clambered as nimbly as he could over several sizable boulders and made his way out of the room again.

Once back in the hall, he tried to guess where the voice was coming from, and a couple of his comrades silently pointed him in the right direction. He found a masked figure standing in a sober inner corner. The wall had an opening to the night outside; there had been a fall at some point in history. It had been some time ago, judging by the undergrowth covering the collapsed stones at his feet. He moved further, and saw his companion peering hesitantly behind the mask.

"Did you find anything?" the young man questioned, looking around. There was no trapdoor. No stairs either. Other companions were coming after him.

"No," the Death Eater admitted, her voice unsure. He recognised from the tone of her voice that it was Abbey. "But the wall is different here, sir. And it caught my eye. I thought you might want to take a look..."

Draco scrutinised what she was pointing at. And he admitted that she was right. The walls were composed of narrow stones, neatly arranged by the hand of man. But, on the wall she was pointing at, the stones were much larger. Worse stacked. And the undergrowth did not cover them. Draco scanned the surface with the light of his wand. He got closer. There were cracks between the stones. Which there were not in the rest of the skilfully erected walls.

"Where does this wall lead to?" Draco wanted to know, in a low but audible voice. Two Death Eaters immediately left the room, intending to go around and check. Abbey stepped outside through the wide opening in the wall, intent on seeing the same thing.

Draco removed his mask and brought his face close to the wall. He pressed his cheek to one of the cracks. A rush of air tickled his skin. He could hear nothing on the other side.

"It's not clear," one of the Death Eaters said when he returned. Draco guessed it was Gibbon. "We can't find the other side. It seems to lead into the structure."

Abbey came back and said the same thing. Draco pulled his face away and put his mask back on. He hit the wall with the edge of his fist. Twice. Hard. He heard a crunch in front of him. Gravel fell on his shoes. He took two steps back and pointed his wand at it.

"Reducto."

The beam of light hit the wall and cut one of the stones in half. Breaking it. Tearing it from the wall. Others fell. They were not properly secured. The clattering reverberated in every corner. A small hole had opened up. He had not made a breach in a wall, but a hole that led to the other side. The wall was hollow. Draco waved his wand again as he approached, pushing the stones aside, levitating them with several Wingardium Leviosa. The opening grew larger.

Draco lit his wand again and steep stairs, curving to the left, materialised before them. He heard someone sigh behind him. Maybe it was Nott.

The dragon could not have entered through there. It was impossible. It was a tiny hole. But perhaps there was another entrance to the caverns, or wherever those stairs led to, somewhere else. As Greyback had pointed out, there was little chance that the huge dragon could hide in the earthly ruins of the castle.

"Everyone downstairs," Draco ordered, his tone firm and clear in the silence.

Displaying his leadership status, he preceded his small squadron down the stairs. Pointing his wand at the floor so as not to stumble on the worn, narrow steps. It was a spiral staircase of greyish stone. The walls were made of earth, firmly compacted, and rocks. Only a few seaweeds here and there indicated the presence of some underground water. After a long, silent descent, they found themselves in a short corridor that ended on another doorless doorstep. It was pitch black down there.

"I can't hear anything," Mulciber muttered. His voice turned to ghostly mist as soon as it left his mouth. The temperature had dropped thanks to the insulation of the cold earth. "The dragon must be huge. If it were down here, wouldn't we hear something?"

"Gibbon, take a look," Draco ordered, pointing to the doorstep that awaited them a few feet away. "But don't use magic yet."

The Death Eater stood still for several seconds, fighting the inevitable. He didn't seem at all prepared to face something like this alone.

"Didn't you hear your sergeant?" Greyback questioned, slowly, his voice hoarse. When he slurred his words, he was even more terrifying. Gibbon jerked. Faced with the prospect of being perhaps gobbled down by a dragon or undoubtedly killed by a werewolf, he seemed to prefer the former.

He pushed his way through the small group and advanced with hesitant steps into the darkness. They heard his feet stagger. He reached the wide doorstep and stopped there. He seemed to peek out a little and look both ways.

"It's — it's a huge room. There are pillars. I can't see much of anything. But... I think it's clear," they heard him say, his voice unsteady.

Draco, having taken in this information, allowed himself to catch his breath. He started to walk against his own will towards where his comrade waited. The latter stepped aside, relieved, to let him see. He listened as the rest of their comrades caught up with them.

Wands held high, they almost unsuccessfully illuminated what could possibly be the most immense place Draco had ever seen. Once their eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, they saw before them a simple stone esplanade, filled with wide round columns that were lost in the dark altitude. They could only see about ten metres ahead of them. They could see neither the other end of the place, nor the walls on either side. Draco guessed that there was room for at least six Great Halls like the one in Hogwarts Castle in this place. The silence was shattering.

"All this is hidden under the castle? Bloody hell," Greyback muttered, his voice drifting like a faint echo through the vastness of the room, echoing off the nearest columns. "What's the point? What is this place?"

"With those columns all over the place, it looks like some kind of foyer. Maybe it leads to other areas," Abbey whispered. "Judging by the entrance we had to go through, the rulers kept this place hidden?"

"The last rulers were Muggles," Nott specified quietly. "Maybe the wizards were hiding down here... It's reputed to be one of the most haunted castles in Britain."

"As usual, wizards in hiding," Abbey muttered with audible rancour. "Loathsome Muggles..."

"Whatever this place is, I don't think it's here," Gibbon opined in turn. "It's awfully quiet. And a dragon is not exactly silent. We'd hear any movement from it."

"There might be another room in there," Greyback growled in a slow, low voice. He pointed a long, sharp fingernail in front of them. The end was lost in shadows they couldn't even see.

"Okay, maybe so, but how do we... get the dragon out of there, if it's really there?" Gibbon questioned aloud, worried. He looked at Draco uncertainly. His eyes were still fixed on the room full of columns. Quiet and focused. Gibbon wasn't sure if he'd been listening to the conversation. "Maybe we should go back and get some help?"

"Lights out," Draco ordered then, earnestly. Opening his mouth for the first time in a long while. And they all understood that he hadn't missed a word. And he reminded them that he was in charge. "Nott, leave yours."

His friend, standing beside him, obeyed and left his wand lit, while the rest of them extinguished them. Draco reached into his robes, and his belt, and pulled out two items. One was a small candle. The other, a shrivelled hand. His Hand of Glory.

He had finally gotten it less than a year ago. He had not been able to forget its existence since he had seen it at the age of twelve in the Borgin and Burkes shop in Knockturn Alley. He had finally asked Borgin, who had been working for them since the beginning of the war. Since he was kidnapped by the Dark Lord, really, but the little old man claimed he did it with great gusto. He provided them with all sorts of dark artefacts, potions and potion ingredients free of charge, and on demand.

A contraption that gave light only to its owner, and that illuminated even through the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, had been useful to him on many a mission.

He made the disturbing hand float before him to keep his hands free as he used his wand to light the candle. He placed it inside the hand, then held it firmly in his own fist. It was cold and rough.

"Here's the plan," Draco began, looking at them one by one in the dim light around them. "We're just going to find the dragon. There are six of us, and you will agree with me that a direct attack is suicide. I will lead you through the room," he raised the hand that held the Hand of Glory slightly, indicating that only he would see the way. "If the dragon is in there, I will give two tugs on your hands as a warning and we will return here immediately. And we will report to the Dark Lord. Any questions?"

"They'll come up as we go along, sir," Greyback snarled mockingly. Draco pursed his lips in irritation behind his mask. He hated how they belittled him as a sergeant and took such a haughty tone with him...

"Ensure no one gets separated from the group," he warned coolly. As if he hadn't heard him. "I'm not going back for anyone who makes a mistake. So hold on tight. And be quiet."

Indeed, no one said another word. Everyone hastened to obey. Draco felt Theodore's hand clasp his, and, one by one, they all took hands, lining up to follow Draco. Only he would see the way. The Wand-Lighting Charm was too conspicuous for a surprise attack. This way, the darkness would be total. And the dragon would not notice their arrival.

When the last in line signalled that they were ready, Nott turned off his wand and Draco started to walk, tugging at his friend's sweaty hand. He took a couple of steps into the vastness of the place and the rest followed one by one, adjusting to his pace. The light from the Hand of Glory was illuminating the place metre by metre, just for him, revealing the true size of the vastness.

Draco looked around frantically. Scrutinising every nook and cranny that the candlelight was revealing. Every huge pillar. Some of them were lying on the floor, in several pieces that made it impossible to really guess their size. Their diameter was Draco's height. There seemed to be no end to this place. He suspected they were halfway to the opposite wall, but he couldn't see it yet. He thought he caught a glimpse of the wall to his right at some point, and a shadow that looked like a doorstep. Possibly this place was really a lobby. When they got to the other side, and made sure the dragon wasn't there, they would split up to inspect it more calmly and cover more ground.

A couple of times, he felt Nott tug on his hand to stop him and make him wait. He suspected that one of their comrades had stumbled, or had let go of another's hand. He couldn't blame them. Marching in the dark in that place couldn't be easy. Another tug from his friend, and Draco continued his slow walk. No one was saying a word. He could hear Nott breathing heavily behind him. And his hand trembling in his grip. Every time one of their footsteps sounded particularly loud, or some tiny stone broke loose from a pillar, falling beside them, everyone held their breath.

Suddenly, a flash of metal shone before Draco. Barely two metres away. He stopped suddenly, and Nott collided with him silently. Holding back the primal urge to recoil, the young blond raised his hand higher, with the Hand of Glory in it, to better illuminate before him. He felt his heart pounding against his Adam's apple.

The light illuminated a fallen column in front of them, blocking their way. And a huge iron chain, its links as thick as a grown man's arms, swayed in the air. It was ascending, disappearing into the darkness. Draco raised the candle higher over his head, following the path of the black metal, trying to see the end. It was attached to a huge ring. And the ring surrounded a structure covered in thick copper-coloured scales.

Draco let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. And he was about to drop the Hand of Glory. He held it tighter, keeping the light illuminating that monumental reptilian leg, resting on a broken stone column.

He noticed that his legs had stopped working. Perhaps because he couldn't breathe and no oxygen was reaching his muscles. He forced himself to remain calm. Even if his senses couldn't take it in, only he could see that light. The dragon couldn't see it. Couldn't see them.

They had to back away. That was it. They had found it. They had to get out of there. Ask the Dark Lord for help. To the other squadrons. It was colossal.

Fighting his stiffness, he forced himself to tug twice on Nott's hand. He noticed how he passed the gesture on to his next companion. He couldn't hear his friend breathing at all. Holding his own breath, Draco began to pace, spinning on his heels. Intent on leading the group back to the exit.

There was a metallic clinking sound that brought him to a screeching halt. He glanced over his shoulder, out of inertia. The chain was swinging back and forth before his eyes, untouched by anyone.

And then Draco's vision went out of focus. For a terrifying voice from beyond the grave thundered inside his head, and, judging by the way Nott's hand nearly broke his in its grip, that of all his companions. A voice that said nothing comprehensible. Just a ghastly, strangled hiss. He heard gasps behind him. Two wands lit up. Who had said that?

"I know you're there..." the boy would have heard, if he knew Parseltongue. But he didn't. So he could only watch, unable to react, as, in the light of the wands, a huge stomach covered in coppery scales rose from the column. Broad bat-like wings spread from the reptilian trunk, unfurling into the huge room, lost in the darkness due to their size.

And then it roared.

Draco felt his skull tearing from the inside. It felt like his brain was swelling, trying to run away from him. He dropped his Hand of Glory to put his hands to his ears, in a basic protective instinct. The candle burned out. The roar spread through the huge room, reverberating off the walls, and echoing to every corner. It had to have been heard even in the village on the hillside outside the castle.

As the sound died down, he could tell that his comrades were shouting as well. He saw the flashes of spells behind his closed eyelids. When had he closed his eyes? He opened them. He removed his hands from his ears.

Everything around him was reduced to dozens of incantations slamming against the creature's tough skin. Doing nothing. Just illuminating it more reliably. Showing its wingspan. How it stood upright on its hind legs. Pushing some columns around it, making a hole for itself. Disgruntled by the attacks.

Draco didn't even hesitate. He slipped his hand under the sleeve of his robes and pressed his wand into his left forearm, stabbing the tip mercilessly. Calling out to his master for help. He knew that his Dark Mark had become blackened. He knew Lord Voldemort had received his warning. He looked around. But nothing had changed.

No one had come.

He stepped back, away from the pitched battle. Not intending to run, though every nerve in his body demanded it. Trying to see everything as a whole. Rethinking their strategy. A twenty-metre dragon stood in front of them. Roaring. Ready to finish them off. He still had his wand in his hand. He was the sergeant of that squadron. He had to get them out alive. Nott. Where was Nott...?

They had to get the dragon outside. It was his mission to take him to Voldemort. He wasn't going to come to their aid.

He tried to see, in vain, behind the creature. How had it got in there? Where had it come in from? They had to stop it from fleeing through the same place. They had to get it out of the parade ground any way they could. They were alone.

Draco tried to calculate as the adrenaline roared in his brain. His men giving him several precious seconds to think as they attacked the dragon for him. He tried to remember the road they had walked to get there. He looked up. The parade ground had to be just above.

He thought he saw the dragon try to back away, moving its heavy body slowly. Moving away from the spells.

"SURROUND IT!" Draco shouted, trying to make his voice heard above the powerful din. "COVER THE OTHER SIDE! DON'T LET IT ESCAPE!" Two of his comrades Disapparated at his side. Apparating to the other side of the creature, he supposed. Cutting off its getaway. "DIFFINDO!" he shouted, pointing at a thick pillar to his right. He watched as the base tore away, and the structure began to fall away from the ceiling. "DEPULSO!"

With a quick flick of his wand, he managed to snatch the pillar from the floor and with another sweeping gesture involving his whole body, hurl it at the dragon. He watched as it fell on top of it, and as it shattered against its body into dozens of debris that kicked up another cloud of dust. Making it roar again. With rage. He knew he hadn't actually hurt it. But he wanted to keep it in place, to delay it, to stop it from running away, if that was even possible. While he worked on smashing the ceiling. Giving it a way out. Giving it the ceiling as the only way out.

He saw something move to his right, at the edge of the Wand-Lighting Charms. The animal's tail was lost in the darkness, on the floor, between the columns. It must have been at least ten metres long. And he saw it hurl it at them.

One of his men shouted a warning. Draco threw himself to the floor, narrowly dodging the huge, sharp spikes that ran along the surface of that giant whip. He managed to roll to a crouch as soon as the tail whizzed past his head.

Two of his comrades stood before him, covering him. They were also casting one hex after another at the creature, keeping it occupied. Draco pointed his wand at another of the columns. Repeating the same process. Breaking it at the base and taking advantage of the fact that he had enough magic to levitate it and use it as a throwing weapon against the dragon. Another roar deafened him, but he managed not to cover his ears. More debris fell from an increasingly weakened ceiling, without the support of the columns. Draco was out of breath, but he couldn't stop.

"Just get up there, you stupid lizard...!" he mumbled, backing up a few steps. Casting several Bombardment Spells at a ceiling he couldn't see. Generating rubble that fell all around them.

The floor suddenly quaked, making him stagger and almost fall, as a new column collapsed in front of them. Dust surrounded everything around them. The creature bellowed again. The light from the wands still illuminated it. And it had straightened up again. Its wings were moving.

Draco watched as it flapped them once, heavy and thick and hard, like giant leathery fans, producing a sound like a hurricane that dulled his ears. Instantly he felt a tremendous draught of air that pushed him forcefully backwards, making him roll over himself uncontrollably on the stone floor. He stopped his unstoppable momentum as his body slammed into the remains of a stone pillar, cutting off his breath and, he was almost certain, cracking several ribs in two. His head bounced painfully. A hellish whistling noise filled his ears, replacing the sounds of the dragon.

He hadn't managed to catch his breath when he saw a scarlet glow behind his closed eyelids.

He felt the heat of the fire.

Draco opened his eyes in time to see the flames approaching him. Hurting his sensitive vision, accustomed to the gloom. He barely noticed the fragments of the column beside him. He reflexively rolled over, still lying on the floor, so that he could hide behind them. Just in time. He felt the flames surround him at the sides of the column. Judging by the way his throat hurt, he was screaming, but he couldn't hear himself. He was breathing in the dust on the pavement. The fire then disappeared around him. And he could hear nothing. Only that deafening whistling sound. Gasping, trembling, he looked around. The stones and the floor around him were burning, incandescent. He tried to see over the wreckage of the column. The dragon was now engulfed in smoke, having spat out the huge fireball. Draco saw spell lights again. His squadron was still fighting. The dragon had not defeated them.

And then he saw it propel itself on its hind legs and fly upwards, disappearing from the light of the wands. Ascending towards the ceiling. He saw more stones falling around him, silently. He couldn't hear them smashing against the rocky floor.

Yes... Yes! They had made it. The dragon had seen a possible way out. It was going to try to escape through the ceiling. A ceiling that was collapsing uncontrollably over their heads.

"WITHDRAW!" Draco shouted, at the top of his lungs. He hoped he was shouting. He still couldn't hear himself. "OUT! EVERYBODY OUT!"

He felt a black body suddenly loom over him. He focused his gaze and saw Nott's face barely an inch away, unmasked. Contorted with fear, dirty with smoke, his mouth opening and closing. Shouting things at him that he couldn't hear. Before he could tell him he couldn't hear him, his friend pulled him to his feet. Nott broke into a run without a second thought and Draco followed, assuming the exit was nearby. Stones continued to fall all around them, now producing a faint echo in Draco's ears, as if they were falling in the middle of a Quidditch pitch and he was in the highest stand.

They suddenly crossed a doorstep and found themselves in the narrow corridor again. With the staircase just a few metres away. There was no sign of the other Death Eaters. They stopped to catch their breath. Draco leaned against the wall, shaking from head to toe. Nausea welled up in his stomach. Barely able to breathe. There was a painful throbbing in his ears.

Nott hurried away from him towards a corner, probably to vomit. Draco followed him with his gaze for only a few moments before he turned his gaze back to the room full of columns. Trying to see what was going on. To no avail. He saw smoke. He saw dust. But he couldn't see the dragon. And he couldn't hear anything.

He put a hand to his ear, rubbing the inside of it with his thumb, in an instinctive attempt to regain his hearing. Then he sensed Nott returning to his side. His wand lit in his hand. The light illuminated his face, pale and tense with terror. Almost frantic. Nott fixed his eyes on Draco's attempts to regain his listening skills. Figuring out the problem. Draco then watched as his friend waved his wand in front of his face. Moments later, he felt the ringing in his ears disappear. He could hear his surroundings again.

"Better?" he actually heard Nott whisper in front of him.

He couldn't catch his breath to thank him and just nodded. Relieved. Now he could hear the sounds the dragon was making in the next room. They could be heard above their heads. He was trying to finish breaking through the stone ceiling, and the earth above their heads, to get out of there as quickly as possible. Draco hoped that his plan would work and the parade ground would indeed be above them.

"What about the others...?" he questioned, still breathless. And his voice sounded rough as sandpaper. He could taste the earthy tang of dust in his mouth.

"I've seen a lot of them run this way," Nott muttered. "I don't know about everyone. I don't know if there's anyone left..."

They both looked down the lobby of now shattered columns. No one could be heard calling for help. Nott waved his wand again, casting a Human-presence-revealing Spell. Nothing happened. If there was anyone left there, they certainly weren't alive.

At the sight of his friend's wand, a faint sanity came over Draco. His own hands closed around the nothingness.

"My wand..." he gasped. He didn't have it with him. He couldn't even remember when he'd lost it.

Nott shook his head and held out his other hand. Draco's wand resting in his palm. Intact.

"It was on the floor..." he mumbled.

Draco didn't know what to say. He just picked it up and held it firmly. He looked at his friend. He saw that he was still shaking from head to toe despite his steady gaze. And he knew he was thinking the same thing he was. They were alive.

"I've touched my Mark," Nott admitted then. He looked ashamed. As if he had failed Draco. "We needed help. We weren't going to be able to — I'm sorry, I didn't think — but He didn't come," he finished, his voice lowering.

The young Malfoy clenched his jaws. He felt an intense heat on his face.

"So did I," he corroborated, in a low voice. Trying to control it. Theodore blinked as he looked at him, now in awe. "I touched my Mark, too. And, no, He didn't come."

They shared a long look. Sharing the same resentment. Thinking alike. Saying nothing more. Their master hadn't come to their rescue... He didn't care if they died...

"The parade ground is right above us, or so I think..." Draco said. His friend nodded silently. As if he had already guessed and approved of his plan. Draco relaxed against the wall, finishing catching his breath. He couldn't believe they'd succeeded...

"Have you broken something?" Theodore questioned, leaning against the wall beside him. "Your back... The burn from the Fiendfyre Curse... It's got to be killing you with pain."

Draco frowned and shook his head lazily.

"No. I don't even feel it. It doesn't hurt anymore. I'm fine."

His friend looked at him intently, quizzically, though Draco didn't notice. It didn't hurt? Earlier that afternoon he'd been writhing in pain all over the place, putting Cushioning Charms on his clothes so they wouldn't even touch him... Either he was full to the brim with adrenaline, and that was masking the pain, or there was something weird going on here...

"Before I forget..." Nott mumbled, coldly. He'd find out later.

Draco looked at him and only caught a glimpse of him waving his wand in front of his face again. He felt like he was being punched in the brain. And confusing things came rushing back into his racing mind. Dizzying him until he nearly collapsed.

Granger healing the burn caused by the Fiendfyre Curse... Granger hugging him as he tried to regain his composure... Granger's heart beating against his ear... Granger teaching him how to cast a Patronus...

"What... what have you done?" Draco managed to articulate. Frightened. Grateful to be leaning. Not trusting his legs at all. Nott watched him with undaunted attention. Almost curious.

"Give you back your memories of tonight. Or, rather, remove the ones of mine that I have placed over them," he explained, his voice low and serious. "The Dark Lord is never going to doubt you again after you hand him a fucking dragon. Do you remember everything?"

Draco opened and closed his mouth. Yes, he did...

"And you?" he whispered, unable to contain himself. Breathlessly. "Have you — ?"

"No. I haven't seen your memories," he said, resentfully. "You can rest easy. Whatever shit you're involved in, it is still only your business. Now we'd better go upstairs..."

He turned jauntily, approaching the stairs. But Draco reached out and stopped him before he got too far, holding him by the arm tightly. Nott stopped walking but didn't turn around.

"Thanks," Draco murmured to his friend's back. And there was no trace of coldness in his voice. Theodore didn't move. Not for several seconds.

"Any time…" he said. In a kinder voice, too.

Draco let go of his arm and they both, without speaking, knew they had to go on. They managed to find the strength to run up the stairs together, lighting them with their wands so as not to fall, though stumbling was inevitable. As they went up, the sounds of the dragon smashing through the ceiling grew fainter and fainter.

They passed through the opening in the wall that led into the halls of the castle. There was no one there. They walked through the deserted corridors and out into the colonnade. They came in sight of the parade ground. There the sounds came over them again. All the Death Eaters had gathered there, scattered everywhere. All looking in the same direction. Towards the other large structure to their left. The oldest part of the castle. A large square building, the tallest in the place. There was no door in its façade leading to the parade ground. Possibly it was accessed from the inside, from the area Draco and Nott had come from.

It didn't take long for them to wonder why everyone was pointing their wands there. The building was falling apart. They could see the dust floating around it. The stones of the facade, crumbling. Falling faster and faster, as a colossal figure emerged from the earth. A shower of rock rained down on the parade ground with the force of an earthquake. The Death Eaters barely had time to create protective spells to avoid being crushed.

The dragon emerged from the rubble and its wings unfurled into the night, flapping to free itself from the stones. A new thunderous roar broke the silence of the place. It was a huge dragon, mighty and majestic, the likes of which Draco had never seen in his life. At last he could see its features, even if it was in the distance. He could see its terrifying snout. Its scales, the crest of sharp spikes all over its back, and its powerful claws. The thick membranes of its wings. Its eyes, milky white like two moons. It was blind. He hadn't expected that. But it knew they were there. Just as it'd known Draco's squadron was downstairs in the columned room.

The Death Eaters raised their wands higher. Pointing at the creature. Only a few backed away. Dozens of spells of all kinds pierced the night, bouncing off its tanned skin covered in scales that formed the finest of armour. Illuminating the ruins of the castle. Further shattering the building that still enveloped it.

Draco and Nott, crouched behind the columns of the colonnade, did not move from the spot. They did not attack. They just stared at the scene. Stupefied. Knowing that no one would notice their absence amidst the chaos. They had risked enough for their lord that night...

Draco made out Greyback, in a corner, roaring in the night as he waved his wand. Near him, two other people with dusty robes and singed sleeves must be the rest of his squadron. They were alive. He caught a glimpse of his Aunt Bellatrix's agitated gait and flowing hair as well, leading the way, casting spells left and right, further tearing that part of the castle apart. Trying to trap the creature there.

The dragon shifted its huge body heavily, trying to get out of the prison the rubble had become. Several stones knocked down the nearest Death Eaters.

And then everything stopped. The dragon was suddenly still, standing upright, still waist-deep in rubble, making no attempt to run away. Breathing in the night with difficulty, watching them all with its blind eyes. It did not attack again. Neither did the Death Eaters. They lowered their wands as the seconds ticked by. Confused. Not understanding what was happening.

Draco felt Nott straighten up beside him, as if something had caught his eye. He followed his gaze.

Lord Voldemort had materialised in the empty space between the Death Eaters and the dragon. He stood there, motionless and tall, like his adversary. Staring at the huge creature. All of the Death Eaters had retreated to make room. Draco's mouth fell open in shock. The Dark Lord didn't stand a chance against such an enemy... It was going to kill him. The dragon would kill him. How did he intend to capture it? Even He couldn't be that powerful... Was he seconds away from seeing the end of Lord Voldemort? Seconds away from seeing this war end?

Granger's face materialised in the depths of his eyes... The unexpected but extraordinary possibility of being with her, of really being together... Forgetting for an incredible instant that what separated them went beyond Lord Voldemort...

Draco was breathing at the same pace as the dragon.

"What are the orders now?" he mumbled, unable to tear his gaze away from the now motionless creature.

"Do nothing," Nott whispered, also unblinking. Draco looked at him.

"What?"

"The Dark Lord said he would take care of everything when the time came. Not to interfere," his friend muttered.

A new roar from the dragon drew the gaze of both friends. The creature's stomach had lit up like a huge, incandescent fire. And the snake-like head bent down to shower the courtyard with a mighty stream of flame.

Theodore screamed at Draco's side, watching the fire shoot through the place where the Dark Lord stood. Many other Death Eaters followed suit, as they created protective spells so as not to get hurt. Dozens of Shield Charms and Water-Making Spells cast in time enveloped the place in a huge cloud of steam. Draco had to hold on to the column. Falling to his knees. His head was spinning. He felt like everything he was going through was stupid. Was this how it was all going to end? Was this how this bloody war was going to end? In an instant?

As the dragon closed its mouth and the last of the flames and steam died away, they saw that a black-robed figure was still standing in the middle of the courtyard. Lord Voldemort still stood there, imposing, still facing the dragon. His head was raised, his red eyes fixed on the animal. His face, a white mask that expressed no emotion. The fire had not affected him.

Draco rolled over, sitting on the ground. Needing to lean his back against the column. Turning his back to the parade ground. He was panting. He was disappointed. His leader was still alive. And he shouldn't be holding back tears over it.

Lord Voldemort then raised his wand, in an indecipherable motion, and created a glowing golden net that grew larger and larger, until it stretched over the dragon. Another complicated gesture, and the net fell down, digging into the creature's strong skin, burrowing between the scales. It shimmered in the night magically and the dragon roared. Everyone knew it was in pain.

The creature shrank in on itself. Smoking from its nostrils. The golden net of the dark wizard still shone on its scales in the night's darkness. Blind eyes, spectral white, rested unseeing on Lord Voldemort. It did not open its mouth, but the Dark Lord heard it clearly in his mind:

"You cannot understand what you are up against, Dark Lord. I am more powerful than you think, more than you can control. You have no idea of the evil you would unleash if you try to control me. I'm giving you one last chance... Let me go. Set me free."

Lord Voldemort's lipless mouth stretched into a mirthless smile. Barely a grimace of condescension and disbelief.

"You are mine now, Wyvern of Wye."

A new roar from the creature echoed through the walls of Berry Pomeroy, matching the sun's rays that were beginning to break over the distant mountains.

---

(*) I had a hard time making sense of this scene in English. The Spanish name of the painting — which, by the way, exists in reality — is "La Adoración de los Magos" ("magos" = "wizards"; in this case, it refers to the "Reyes Magos", whose correct English translation is "Magi", but, just so you understand me, the literal translation into English would be "wizard kings"). That is, in Spanish, the word "wizard" is contained in the expression. And that's why Draco makes the connection. In English, the name of the painting is the "Adoration of the Magi" or "Visitation of the Wise Men". I have combined the two to make sense of the scene since, as far as I have been able to understand after much research, "wise man" can refer to "man who knows about magic". It is not clear to me to what extent Draco, being a wizard, understands what the Magi are. I hope you will forgive me this little concession to language. I like the scene and I think it's important for our favourite blond. Thank you 😊