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.

51. Nurmengard Prison

Hello everyone! How are you? 😊 Hopefully great! Happy New Year! I'm back with a new huge chapter. A long one, I'm warning you ha ha ha 😂 In fact, my intention had been to shorten it a bit, but... What can I say, I like the way it turned out, so I've left it like that, I didn't feel like cutting anything ha ha ha 😂 Read the different scenes when you feel like it. Without any hurry heh heh heh 😊

As always, thanks to all of you who are behind the screen following this story and enjoying it 😍 I can't thank you enough! 😍

Without further ado, we leave an "Obliviated" Draco back in Voldemort's ranks, and an Order of the Phoenix that now, thanks to Hermione (and Draco), knows where Dumbledore is...

Do you want to know how it continues? Well, let's get reading! 😊

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CHAPTER 51

Nurmengard Prison

Draco had taken off the, to him, rags that the Order of the Phoenix had dressed him in, after healing his wounds. A red T-shirt, which even had a hole in one sleeve. And a pair of well-worn jeans. Back in his bedroom, the first thing he'd done was to change into his clothes. A grey shirt and dark trousers that he'd pulled out of his wardrobe. The first thing he could find. He didn't look too hard, he just needed to get out of those clothes. But even dressed in his own clothes he didn't feel like himself. It was as if he was occupying a body that didn't belong to him. And the feeling almost made him dizzy.

He had been unable to put on a new set of armour, nor had he been able to put on black robes that were characteristic of his rank as a Death Eater. The ones he had worn in Godric's Hollow had been left behind in that Order of the Phoenix hideout, and it hadn't even occurred to him to look for them when he had escaped from there. It didn't look like he was going to leave his room that day anyway, so he didn't need them either.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed. And the red T-shirt and jeans lay on a chair in the corner. He hadn't got rid of them. He didn't really know how to do it. Not without magic. He could have put them out of sight, but he hadn't. And he couldn't stop looking at them.

He'd done it. He'd gotten away with it. He had escaped from the lion's den into the den of an even fiercer lion. But this was his lion, his pack. It was where he belonged.

He had managed to keep Lord Voldemort from knowing how fragile his loyalty was.

That was the reality he was shouting to himself, alone in his bedroom. He wasn't even aware of the silence around him. His mind was screaming. He could do nothing but think. Because he didn't understand himself. Because he had fought in Godric's Hollow, yes... but against his will. That was the reality. Doing just what was necessary to survive. Not out of loyalty. Not approving, at all, of such acts. And he felt he needed to stop and understand himself.

He had thought there was no reason for such an attack. But he was wrong. The members of the Order who interrogated him, anonymous, masked, told him. Those idiots. They asked him about the attack on the schools. An attack Draco had no idea about. But they assumed he did. They asked him about the attack on Godric's Hollow, which had been planned as a distraction for the Order. A way to keep them busy. Draco didn't know a word about it, but he just pretended he had no intention of answering. But now he knew. Thanks to the Order of the Phoenix, he knew. And it didn't change anything...

Slaughtering an entire village, with dozens of pure-bloods, for a distraction?

Draco raised his left hand to cover his eyes. He wanted to... he really wanted to... but he couldn't support something like this. And he didn't understand why. What was wrong with him.

He forced himself to think coldly. And he told himself that, whatever his stupid brain might think, he had behaved unacceptably. In a way he couldn't allow himself. What he thought was irrelevant. He had a set of duties, that was the reality. But instead, he had confronted Rowle directly, to try to save that family. A family he knew nothing about. He had refused to kill that child. A child who was not his own. He should have done it. He should have done his duty. He had stuck his neck out, for people he didn't know. He could have been accused of being a traitor, with good reason. But Rowle hadn't denounced him... Because, perhaps, even someone as loyal as Thorfinn Rowle thought it unnecessary to murder a toddler...

Draco hadn't killed anyone that night, despite being a Black Sergeant, and yet he'd gotten away with it. And he could hardly conceive of his good fortune. And he knew he wouldn't always be so lucky. He couldn't behave like that again. He wasn't sure how much they trusted him, but at least they knew he hadn't warned the Order. A detail that perplexed him... Had someone really warned the Order, ahead of time, of what they were doing in Godric's Hollow? Was there a traitor in their ranks? Who could it be...?

Nott would be able to do it... Perhaps he had...

He hadn't seen him yet. Nor had he been able to find out anything about him.

He exhaled sharply. He needed to get out of there. He was going crazy. But the last thing he wanted right now was to cause trouble. He had been explicitly ordered not to leave his bedroom.

After talking to the Dark Lord as soon as he fled the Order, and telling him about the trap the Order was planning to set for them, they locked him in his room. In his own house. Awaiting confirmation that his information was true. He knew it was. The Order had been transparent with their plan. They had never imagined that Draco would escape, that this elf would betray them... They had underestimated him. And Draco couldn't help but feel a pang of smug satisfaction at that. But other things were overshadowing that feeling...

He uncovered his eyes and looked down at his lap. His right forearm rested on his thigh. His hand fell between his knees. Inert. He wrapped his other hand around it, and moved it to a better position on his leg. His heart raced at the phantom sensation. Or lack thereof. He pushed hard, gritting his teeth, trying to activate something, but he knew for a fact that it was useless. He let out the breath he had been holding and took a deep breath. He brought his index finger and thumb close together and pinched the skin on the back of his hand. Very hard. Nothing...

He took another shaky breath and exhaled it through pursed lips. Holding back the anguish in the pit of his stomach. But he had to go on. He didn't have time to worry about it. He didn't want to take it in yet.

He had seen thousands of maiming in the course of that war. But to think that he wouldn't be able to move his arm again...

"Don't think about it. Don't. Think. About. It..."

He looked up again. To stare at the red T-shirt. And he didn't try to stop a wave of selfish rage from sweeping over him. Had the Order really been unable to do anything about his hand? Or had they not wanted to? They'd wanted to leave him defenceless to fight. Bloody hell, they'd surely —

Shit, no. Even his hatred for them couldn't make him close his eyes to reality. And the reality was that the Order of the Phoenix had saved his life. They had healed his wounds. He was well aware that he had arrived at their hands half dead. Why heal his wounds and leave him with a useless hand? They could have left him to die... Although, logically, it was in their interest to keep him alive for interrogation. And they had done it... but in a very human way. Almost ridiculous. They had given him a chance to speak. Not a single Cruciatus Curse, or any other curse. They hadn't killed him...

And he had betrayed them.

Wait, betrayed?

No, that wasn't the proper term. It wasn't his side. He couldn't betray the enemy. Hell, of course he couldn't...

He had only learned information useful to his own people, and he had passed it on. It was his duty. It was what he had done for almost three years. He was a Black Sergeant. He had earned that position, on his merits. He was valuable. He was competent. And he had more than proved it. If the Order was soft enough to save an enemy's life, it wasn't his problem. He owed them nothing. Only his life...

Fantastic, he'd managed to feel like a doubly traitorous...

He heard a whisper near the door. A whisper he identified as a spell. He jumped to his feet and turned in that direction, at the same time as the lock clicked. The door opened, and a familiar figure loomed on the doorstep.

And it turned out to be one of the last people Draco, to his own surprise, expected to see.

"Draco..." Lucius whispered in his deep voice, the syllables slurring as he spoke his son's name. Just as Draco remembered him doing.

The boy didn't move. Without looking away from him, Lucius walked across the room in his direction, not closing the door. His mother appeared in the doorway, stepping into the room as well, this time closing the door behind her.

Draco watched as his father approached him. He knew it was his father, but everything about him was different. He had never seen his hair so short. His face so battered. He was clean-shaven, but also pale, and his skin was blotchy. Even some new wrinkles. He looked as if he had aged ten years. And Draco was absurdly surprised to see that he was not much taller than he was. He remembered him as being much taller.

He hadn't seen him for almost five years. And suddenly he told himself that nothing had changed. He felt the pride of the Malfoy family wrap around his soul, reminding him that he was on the right side. That he stood with his family, fighting for a better life. That his ideals were the most logical. That wizards were superior beings and deserved everything the Dark Lord promised them.

He was once again an eleven-year-old boy arriving at Hogwarts and making it into Slytherin House. Just as his father had wanted. And he had always wanted to be like his father. Pleased with himself, he mimics the pride he sees in him. Because there is nothing better than making his father proud. Because he has taught him everything. Because he is what he is because of him. How could he turn his back on him...?

But Hermione Granger's face materialised before his eyes, superimposed over Lucius' image. Reminding him that he had done it, almost three years ago now. That he had betrayed everything his father had taught him. That he had fallen in love with a Mudblood. That he had done, for the first time in his life, fully conscious of his actions, something that would not make him proud at all.

And every bloody second of it had been worth it...

And he had been separated from her. And he hadn't seen her for over two years. And he might never see her again. Not because he had repented, or he had regained his sanity and the rationality of his ideals. But because their paths had had to separate for the safety of both of them.

And he was still in love with her. And he didn't know when he would stop being in love with her.

A Mudblood had turned out to be the person with whom he'd ever understood best, physically, mentally and emotionally, and he'd broken away from her against his will... He'd let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts only in the hope that they'd free his father... He found that mural in Berry Pomeroy Castle, Adoration of the Wise Men, a visual example that purity of blood may not be as unquestionable as the Dark Lord would have them believe... The Dark Lord abandoned them to their fate when they asked for his help in defeating the dragon... He forced them to murder pure-bloods in order to continue his plan and take over the wizarding world, contradicting the very purpose they were pursuing...

Draco wished he could look his father in the eye honestly, and tell him that he still believed in purity of blood. But he couldn't. Because so much had changed since he had been torn from his side. Everything had changed. He had changed.

"Son..." Narcissa stammered, interrupting the flow of his thoughts.

And Draco suddenly found himself looking at his father through his mother's blond hair. She had strode across the room, past Lucius, and thrown into her son's arms. He forced himself to stop thinking, and to raise his stiff arms to encircle the woman with them, holding her close. But the discomfort that his memories with Granger had generated, stirred up in the presence of his father, was still inside him. And suddenly he didn't feel worthy of his mother's strong hug. Nor the satisfied look that came from his father.

"They didn't let me come in before," the woman mumbled in his ear. And she sounded angry. "Not until they heard of the battle. Merciful Merlin, this is madness..." She broke away from him and looked at him carefully. "How is your hand?"

She took her son's limb in her slender white hands, examining it as if it were a piece of porcelain. She didn't even seem to remember that Draco hadn't seen his father in years, and merely acted as if it was irrelevant that he was there. The boy looked away from his father for the first time, blinking hesitantly, and looked down at his own hand as well.

"I'm fine," he managed to articulate. "It doesn't hurt..."

"Was it the Order?" Narcissa spluttered, with furious vehemence. Lucius, a step behind her, did not move. Nor did he stop staring at Draco. "Did they do this to you?"

But Draco was quick to shake his head. Perhaps too quick.

"No... Not while I was a prisoner, at least. It was during the attack on Godric's Hollow. I don't remember who it was... Maybe I fought a duel with someone and they cursed me," he said, half-heartedly.

"But you were interrogated," his mother protested, her voice trembling. Then she added, almost in a whimper, "They'd — torture you —"

"No," Draco denied, again too quickly. "They only asked me questions. They didn't do anything to me. I suppose they meant to, but they didn't have time before I escaped..."

Narcissa inhaled sharply. Concerned. And then she rummaged through her emerald green robes. She pulled out a fine contraption, made of leather and metal. A curved base for the forearm, with an elongated end that would hold his hand at the palm.

"I've spoken to Rutherford Poke," Narcissa explained, more composedly. "As soon as the Dark Lord allows it, he will examine you. I'm sure he can do something. At the moment, he has given me this. It's to prevent the hand from getting used to the wrong position."

As she spoke, she rolled up the sleeve of his shirt herself and placed the splint on her son's wrist. She adjusted it to his forearm with two flicks of the wand, correcting the size, and made sure that the end that held his hand in line with his forearm was comfortable. Draco was unable to say anything. He didn't feel his mother's hands running over his skin. Nor did he feel the contact with the splint. But now, at least, his hand wasn't hanging lifelessly at his side if he raised his arm.

"Is it all right like that? Does it bother you?" she wanted to make sure, examining the placement from different angles. Draco shook his head. Looking back over her shoulder at his father as she slid his sleeve back into place. And he sensed that his father hadn't taken his eyes off him at any point. His mother looked at Draco, and then caught where his eyes were going. She looked over her own shoulder and stepped back slightly. Looking calmer.

"The Dark Lord released him just before the mission in Godric's Hollow," the woman reported, sounding moved. Then she smiled with tight lips. As if it had just dawned on her that her son didn't know, and she was happy to explain. "It was a perfect coup in Azkaban prison... Go on, say hello to your father."

Draco had to swallow. But that didn't help his speech. He wasn't sure if he should move forward. But Lucius did it for him. He circled in two slow steps around his wife and moved closer to him. Lifting slender arms that the sleeves could not embrace, to wrap around his son. And Draco, standing completely rigid, was unable even to close his eyes.

Never, in his twenty years of life, had he ever received a hug from his father.

And he had never deserved it less.

"Well done, Draco," Lucius whispered in his ear. Without loosening his grip. "The information you brought was authentic. The Order was in the schools, and it was a humiliating defeat. The schools are ours. The Dark Lord has done magnificently, the Order will not be able to recover from this attack," he broke away from his son, placing his hands on his shoulders and looking him intently in the eyes. His voice was the same as always, cold, but with a different tone. Something akin to thrill. Narcissa, standing to one side of them, gazed at them with a look full of emotion. As if she could not conceive of the three of them being together again. "The Dark Lord is very pleased with your service. He has promoted you."

Draco looked away, unable to hold his gaze. Hermione's abundant hair danced before his eyes again and he had to blink.

"Promoted?" he managed to articulate, his tone neutral. His eyes fixed on the carpet, knowing that his father would take it as a gesture of respect if he didn't look him in the eye, rather than the gesture of embarrassment it actually was.

"You're a General of the Shadows now," the almost bony fingers tightened their grip on the boy's shoulders. "You're doing it perfectly, Draco. Your mother told me all about it," he added, glancing briefly at the woman beside him. "You've been a great help to the Dark Lord. He holds you in high esteem. When I heard you were a Black Sergeant... I never thought you'd make it this far," he lifted his chin, still looking at his son full of satisfaction. As if what he had just said was a great compliment. "And now you have to work harder than ever. Now is the time to prove ourselves to everyone. The worth of the Malfoy family. We'll go far, I'm sure of it. We'll win this war, and we'll get the place we deserve."

And Draco felt he needed to sit down. It was too much. His heart had been beating too fast for too long. He was clenching his jaws so tightly that he didn't know if he would be able to separate them afterwards.

In another moment, his words would have taken him to the highest cloud. His father had rarely shown pride in him. On the contrary, he was strict, and, whatever Draco did, he could have done better, and so he should do it next time. But now, for the first time, he was praising him. And Draco was unable to look him in the eye. Because it had been so long since he had heard such words, and they had never meant less to him. Because his betrayal, his feelings for Hermione Granger, were pounding in his ears. Why was he suddenly thinking so much about her...? He usually managed to keep her safely tucked away in the recesses of his memory... He was no longer with her, he was no longer betraying anyone... It had been almost three years, for Merlin's sake...

But he supposed that confronting his father, the physical form representative of his ideals, had unsettled him completely. Stirring up his inner self. Stirring up a betrayal he could never forgive himself for. That he felt he could never make amends for. And for which he had no regrets. And he was still in love with her...

"Where's Nott?" Draco asked, unperturbed, unable to listen to him any longer. "Is he all right?"

Lucius hesitated for a moment and glanced sideways at his wife, as if looking to her for an explanation for such a change of subject. But she merely gave him a quick, eyebrow-raising glance. As if she didn't know either, but indicated that enough was enough. So Lucius ended up standing up a little more and letting go of his shoulders. Keeping the usual distance from his only son.

"Come and see him. You can get out of here now," he reported, his tone low.

He turned on his heel and left the room, preceding Draco. Narcissa took her son by the arm and escorted him out, following her husband. And Draco struggled to start walking.

'Come and see him.'

Nott was alive...

They walked around the first floor in complete silence. They passed a few people. Most greeted Lucius. Many greeted Narcissa. And they all looked at Draco with undisguised curiosity, before giving him a respectful nod and a congratulations on his promotion. And Draco reciprocated every gesture and every word. With great courtesy. Forcing himself to let satisfaction replace the other feelings that danced inside him. Because he was a General of the Shadows now, and he deserved all the respect and attention of those people. He was a General of the Shadows...

They arrived, at last, at one of the rooms in the east wing. Nott's room. They stopped in front of the door, and Lucius turned to his son. As if he had just remembered that he was after him.

"We'll leave you two alone," Lucius said gravely. "Then look for me. We have much to talk about."

His son bowed his head in respectful deference. Unable to open his mouth. Lucius waited a moment for Narcissa to release Draco and decide to follow him, and then the two of them walked off down the corridor.

Draco couldn't even remember that maybe he should knock on the door. Certainly, it was his house. But the room belonged to his friend. But he was in too much of a hurry.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside, his heart pounding. The first thing his eyes caught was Samantha's presence, hiding quickly, without much success, behind one of the narrow bedposts. His heart skipped a beat. Samantha...

"It's me," Draco said loudly, reassuring her. And he barely recognised his own voice. He closed the door behind him.

Samantha then poked her head out from behind the post and searched his eyes. Still looking frightened. And Draco heard from where he stood the groan of relief she emitted when she recognised him.

"Grâce à Dieu..." he heard her mumble, in nervous French. And then the girl came running out from behind the post, towards him. And Draco was unable to do anything but wait for her to catch up with him, still motionless in front of the closed door.

Samantha then threw her arms around his neck, hugging him with all her might. Letting out a desperate sob. Pressed as she was against his torso, Draco felt her chest heaving intermittently in sharp spasms. He didn't move a muscle.

"My God, you're all right..." she mumbled in his ear, pulling him tight against her. "You're alive... Oh, mon Dieu... We were scared to death. W-we thought you were — you disappeared — we thought —"

Draco was barely listening to her. His eyes were glancing over her shoulder, fixed on the bulge visible in the bedclothes. Nott...

But then Samantha broke away from him, drawing his attention back. He felt her trembling hands cup his face, and only such contact woke him up enough to look into her eyes. The girl was barely controlling her tears. Her lower lip was trembling. And her eyes were two mirrors.

And Draco realised that this was the first time since they had known each other that the girl had hugged him...

"Are you all right?" Samantha whispered. Her eyes wandered over his face. Draco unconsciously tried to nod, even if her hands prevented him from doing so easily. Samantha looked down. And then she seemed to become aware that he was standing still, arms at his sides. Not touching her.

Swallowing hard, she released his face slowly. Almost cautiously. And she took a step back, giving him some space. Seemingly at a loss for what to do with her hands, she decided to wrap her arms around herself. Looking at him uncertainly now.

A small part of Draco's brain urged him to ask her if she was okay too. But he could see that she was. She was unharmed, at least physically. And it seemed unnecessary. He couldn't think clearly. Other things were filling the space of his worries.

He couldn't help but look over her shoulder again.

"Nott...?" he whispered, barely moving his lips.

Samantha scrutinised his expression. And her shoulders relaxed. She looked over her own shoulder, toward the bed.

"He's there," she whispered into the silence of the room. She turned away from Draco then, approaching the bed again on her own. Draco, without thinking, without thinking at all, followed her.

They approached the large canopied bed, surrounded by dark curtains, tied to the posts. There was a small bedside table next to it, with a large amount of half-spent potions on its surface. Draco paused beside it. Observing his friend, lying on his side, in a foetal position, his back to him. Dressed in thick brown pyjamas. Before Draco could react and move around the bed so he could face him, Nott was already rolling over on his own. With some difficulty.

And their eyes met when he made it. And Draco felt the ground beneath his feet again.

"You bastard, where have you been?" Nott muttered. And his lips stretched into an attempt at a smile. "I was beginning to assume the worst..."

Hearing his voice was like drinking Firewhisky. Draco felt his blood heat up again. And he let out some of his breath in a low, almost disbelieving gasp.

"You assumed the worst? Fuck off," he snapped at him. Holding back the urge to pull that stupid pillow out from under his head and hit him with it. Fucking moron...

To the naked eye, Nott looked almost unharmed. And it seemed almost unreal to Draco, judging by what he remembered seeing. He was very pale, and didn't look like he'd slept since the last time he'd seen him, judging by the black shadows that decorated the lower part of his eyes. But he did have an elongated, gaping gash on one cheekbone, which appeared to have been made minutes ago. Draco knew that was impossible, though. And that he'd probably had it since the attack on Godric's Hollow. Possibly it was a wound that didn't heal easily. His dark hair, uncombed, perhaps a little sparser, was tousled around his head. Judging by the effort he had to make to roll over, Draco guessed he had some kind of back injury. He didn't know what was under his pyjamas. But he was alive...

"Sorry I didn't get up to say hello, but I'm knackered," Theodore muttered, again in an attempt at a jocular tone. He looked exhausted, but Draco's presence seemed to have cheered him up. His eyes glittered as they looked up at him.

Draco didn't really think about it, but he found himself taking two languid steps and sitting on the edge of the bed. Unable to say anything. Concentrating on controlling the strong urge to fall onto his friend's body and hug him with all his might. But he would do no such thing. It wouldn't show too much dignity on his part, would it? He could see that he was alive. He was fine, at least in general terms. Any mawkish gestures were unnecessary.

His left hand disagreed, though, and reached out on its own, coming to rest on Nott's forearm. Squeezing his flesh with his fingers, over his pyjamas. Nott said nothing. But he did wipe away his attempt at a smile. And he moved his other arm, too, to wrap it around his friend's wrist. The tight squeeze he gave him, almost as if to reassure him, was enough. Draco was in control of himself again. And he regained his voice.

"How are you?" he managed to utter, not knowing what tone of voice to use. They looked into each other's eyes. And Nott's lips twitched into a bitter smile.

"Scared shitless," he confessed, his voice unsteady. Almost holding back a nervous laugh. His eyes sparkled a little more. Draco swallowed, not moving. Still staring at him.

"Are you — ?" he began. But he felt his voice echo too loudly in the room, and he couldn't finish the question. He could feel Samantha's presence, standing behind him. She was silent. Nott's eyelids trembled.

"Infected?" his friend finished for him. Helping him. "Uh-huh."

And Draco confirmed the terrible suspicions he'd harboured since the first blow he'd seen Fenrir Greyback deliver to his friend.

"The Wolfsbane Potion works perfectly," Draco heard himself say. Automatically. "It will keep your mental faculties after transformation. You'll be able to live a normal life. You'll just... have to take it once a month. And take certain precautions. And —"

"I know," Nott interrupted, softly. And his lips quivered. "I know all that. It's not... the end of the world. I'm alive, and I should be glad of that. But... I don't think I'm getting used to the idea that this is going to be my life from here on out. That now I'm... this."

His voice broke off again. Draco felt a surge of unexpected irritation wash over him.

"You're still you," he said, vehemently. Annoyed. "That hasn't changed. This isn't... this isn't you."

Nott smiled a forlorn smile. But wider than before.

"I suppose," Theodore admitted. "Thank you," he added. And Draco had to make an effort to keep the hand he held on his friend's forearm from shaking.

Nott was a werewolf.

It was irremediable. It was real. It was happening.

Because of him. For not letting him leave. It was all his fault... The thought of it was unbearable.

"Greyback wanted to kill me," Nott recounted then, in a more controlled voice. Pulling him out of his thoughts. "Not infect me, but kill me. But he didn't succeed, and I'd say it was thanks to you... I don't remember much of what happened, but I know you helped me. I heard you trying to curse him. You distracted him. So... I think I owe you my life."

This time Nott's serene voice couldn't stand his own words. It trembled and cracked, breaking apart at the last word. He had to swallow saliva, and sniffle through his nose as quietly as he could. A tiny tear slipped from his eyes, falling discreetly down his temple due to the position of his head, until it was lost in the gap between his hair and the pillow. Draco said nothing, nor could he continue to hold his gaze. But he did tighten his grip on his forearm, almost digging his nails into it. Wanting to instil... he didn't know what. Something. That he was holding him. That he was there.

"Who brought you?" Draco questioned, needing to change the subject. He managed to look at him again.

"Gibbon and Dolohov," he replied, finishing his story with more poise. "When the Order arrived, they found me as they fled and Disapparated with me. They brought me back."

"The Dark Lord knows what happened with Greyback, he asked me about it... I told him I attacked him for disobeying my orders," Draco mentioned. Nott looked astonished. And, to Draco's surprise, he smirked.

"I told them the same thing. That I attacked him for disobeying your orders," he revealed with unexpected delight. Draco frowned. Incredulous that they'd agreed on the alibi. "They weren't quite clear on what happened in the first place. Greyback was the only werewolf involved in the battle, so he alone could have given me the injuries I had. I told them I didn't remember. But they weren't happy, and when they searched my mind, they saw me attack him first. So it occurred to me to use his insubordination as an alibi."

"And Greyback didn't protest? What version did he give?" Draco questioned, still frowning. Nott watched him carefully for several seconds. Sizing him up.

"None. He's dead," he revealed, more quietly. "You killed him that night. They brought his body back."

Draco's eyes went unfocused. And he was able to hear his heart thudding inside him. Very fast.

He hadn't expected that.

Not that he cared. Not in the slightest.

"Good," he heard himself mutter, unperturbed. Nott looked him in the eye for a brief moment longer, then looked down.

"I thought they'd still punish me somehow, but it really doesn't suit them," Theodore continued, his tone neutral. "They're not going to get rid of me. They only have me."

"What are you talking about?" Draco wanted to clarify, frowning. He felt a figure move to his right, and remembered Samantha's presence. The girl had taken a few hesitant steps over to the wall next to the bedside table, resting her hands and back against it. Perhaps tiring herself out by standing. But not daring to sit with them, it seemed.

"You know that Fenrir was the leader of his community of lycanthropes," Theodore explained. "And that they all served the Dark Lord. Well, now that Fenrir is dead, they've all left. They have given up the war. They will fight no more."

Draco blinked, averting his gaze to stare at the bedside table. A heavy blow for the Dark Lord. And he was to blame. He had killed Greyback. But apparently, the students he had gained from the attack on the schools made up for the loss of the werewolves.

Then he heard a sudden intake of breath to his right.

"What's wrong with your hand?" Samantha blurted out, her expression frightened. Draco looked at her to confirm that she meant him. The girl, from this new angle by the wall, was looking at the splint her mother had placed on his right hand.

"Nothing," he heard himself mumble. Nott propped himself up on one elbow to sit up slightly, his expression serious. Making Draco have to let go of his forearm. "A... curse. I'm fine."

"Is it broken?" Nott mumbled in a whisper. He had reached out a hand and felt the rest of the splint under his shirt. "Can't you move it? What curse is it?"

"It's not broken. And I'm not sure what curse it was. But no, I can't move it," he admitted. His eyes were also fixed on his own skin.

"But it's — ? There's no cure for it? Draco, it's your wand hand," Nott insisted. Seriously. Breathing raggedly with worry. "What are you going to do? How are you going to fight now?"

"I'm working on it. I'll work it out," Draco snapped. Ending the interrogation. He was uncomfortable to hear his friend's concern. And then he remembered that he had many more questions to ask. "What happened at the schools? Do you know anything?" he asked, now looking at Samantha, who looked back at him, hesitant at the change of subject. Still looking worried about his hand. "My father told me that we've conquered them."

"That's right," Nott corroborated. With some effort, he propped himself up on his hands to sit up in bed, leaning back against the pillow. He bent his legs slightly, trying to get comfortable. Grimacing a couple of times in the process. His eyes kept glancing at Draco's hand intermittently. "Your mother told us the same thing. The schools are ours."

"What about the Order?" Draco wanted to know impatiently.

"I'm not sure. They haven't been... defeated. Not entirely. But they lost the battle. I think they retreated as soon as they could to avoid further casualties."

Draco blinked, taking in the news. It sounded coherent. And intelligent. And then he looked back at Samantha. She was already looking at him.

"Did they take you to Beauxbatons?" he questioned, sharply. The girl sank further into the wall. She nodded her head, apparently unable to open her mouth. And Draco felt a surge of worry tangle in his stomach. "What happened there?" he added, rather more softly, though he didn't mean to.

Samantha's eyes flickered to Nott, and back to Draco. Her lip trembled. She bit down hard on it before she managed to articulate anything, her voice faltering.

"They wanted me to... open a door. A way in. They used me to get in. They kidnapped... Madame Maxime," her voice threatened to break. "The headmistress of my school. And she told them where a secondary entrance was that they, as I understood it, had been looking for. But only someone from the school could open it. Someone who is — er — imprégné — ah, imbued with the magic of its walls, I suppose. And... I opened it," she ducked her head. Her eyes were watering with tears. "They threatened me, I-I didn't know — I couldn't —"

"Of course you had to," Draco spat vehemently. Almost scornfully. "Don't even think otherwise. Don't you dare blame yourself for any of this."

She nodded, indicating that she understood his point, but dropped her head altogether. Letting out a couple of thick tears. Her chest heaving.

Nott was silent, watching them both. Draco turned a little more towards her, but without standing up from the bed. His brain refused to think of anything to say that might comfort her. He could only ask questions.

"Why didn't he kill you afterwards, if you did what he wanted?" he asked, with brutal sincerity. No time, no desire, to be gentle. "What else does he want to do with you?"

Samantha shrugged her shoulders very slowly. Wiping her face with one hand.

"I've been told I'm being transferred to Nurmengard Prison," she revealed, her voice trembling.

"What?" Draco sputtered in disbelief. Sitting up further on the edge of the bed. Closer to her. "Why?"

"We're not sure," Nott took the floor, seeing that the girl was finding it increasingly difficult to speak. "But we think it's because they suspect a traitor in our ranks. Someone tipped off the Order of the Phoenix in Godric's Hollow, and that's why they came early, before we'd even left. Or so they said. Maybe they don't feel safe keeping her here, she's too exposed in this house. They might think that this person can free her, or something like that. Maybe they think Samantha will be useful to them in the future, if their control of Beauxbatons is in jeopardy... They'll want to keep her in their power a little longer. You know how cautious the Dark Lord is."

Draco caught himself tapping his foot on the floor intermittently. Worried. Nurmengard was a terrible place. Quite possibly, even without the presence of the Dementors, far worse than Azkaban. There was too much dark magic in that place...

"What nonsense, why can't they just leave you here...?" Draco mumbled, jumping to his feet. He ran his hand through his hair and started pacing the room. "When are they going to take you there?"

"They were supposed to as soon as they got back from Beauxbatons... But your mother's trying to stop them," Nott answered again, in a low voice. "She wants her to be here, too. She's been talking to the Dark Lord, but he seems determined... He's very worried about this so-called traitor."

"Speaking of which..." Draco turned to his friend, frowning. "Is this for real? A traitor? Do you know anything? Do you have anything to do with it?"

Nott blinked. Staring at Draco intently. Almost studying him. As if he wasn't sure if he was serious.

"Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing," he admitted, slightly mockingly, arching both eyebrows. "I don't know anyone on the Dark Lord's side who would have reason to betray him... Only us."

Draco let out an instant chuckle.

"I have no reason to betray the Dark Lord," he said, almost with derision. And, he quipped, sulkily, "You had a reason or two that night..."

Now it was Nott who let out an incredulous gasp.

"I couldn't even get my wand to defend myself against that son of a bitch, I wasn't about to send a bloody warning to the Order..." he hissed, exasperated. But he continued to glare at Draco. "But don't mock. You know perfectly well where we stand. You didn't want to obey their orders that night either. In Godric's Hollow. We both have every reason to," he muttered. Then he added, cynically, "Perhaps you have more..."

Draco felt the rage take hold of him. Even injured, and bedridden, Nott still managed to infuriate him. As usual.

"No, I have none. I've fought faithfully for three years. You know I have. If we win this war, my family will have its rightful place at last. There's no better reason than that," he mumbled, looking him in the eye. Knowing his friend would understand. What he himself didn't understand, and didn't like, was why his chest heaved as if nothing he had said was true.

But it was. The reasons that ran through his mind, that made him doubt everything, were not enough for real betrayal. Not by a long shot. He might feel like a traitor, but he would never let it be anything more than a feeling. An old, stripped painting, in a ruined castle... Questionable orders... It wasn't enough.

And he didn't have her.

"And yet you've done things you don't want Him to know about," Nott replied then, unperturbed. Snapping him out of his thoughts. "Things you haven't wanted to tell anyone, not even me. At least these last few weeks... Why else did you ask me to erase your memory at Berry Pomeroy?"

Draco didn't reply immediately. He just stared at his friend. Bewildered. Erase his memory? What was he talking about?

"What do you mean?" he mumbled, indeed. "What nonsense is that? Erase my memory? Why?"

Now it was Nott's turn to laugh weakly. Though he had to put a hand to his ribs to control a twinge of pain.

"Why? That's what I'd like to know... C'mon, Draco. I'm not joking. You told me to erase your memory because you didn't want Him to see where you'd... been. Or what you'd done. I don't know. But whatever it was, you were afraid that He'd find out, and that doesn't seem to me an indication of any great fidelity on your part..."

But Draco had stopped listening to him, as he rummaged frantically through his mind. Nott was right. He remembered... He had a vague memory... Yes, he had asked Nott to erase his memory, when they were both on the grounds of Berry Pomeroy Castle. But to erase what? He didn't remember... Why didn't he remember? What had he done? Where had he been?

"How should I know, then, if you erased my memory?" he asked, cautiously. Hoping that was the answer to his surprising amnesia. Nott arched both eyebrows.

"I gave you back your memories, and you know it. Stop bullshitting," he retorted, impatient. Seemingly immune to the genuinely confused expression Draco was unable to control.

"Well, no, I don't remember. And that means it would be stupid," Draco forced himself to say aloud. Heart racing. "It would be unimportant. I'd buy... something on the black market. I'd have got drunk, or —"

"Draco, the last time I saw you drink more than a glass of Firewhisky was when you witnessed Macnair and Amycus abusing that woman, about a year and a half ago," Nott spat sharply. "If you don't want to tell me, fine, but don't take me for an idiot... You ask me to cover up for you with the Dark Lord, and a week later, a mysterious traitor shows up in our midst? To tell you the truth, I was convinced that you had warned the Order."

"I repeat, I don't know what you're talking about!" Draco protested, raising his voice. It was full of irritation. "I have nothing to hide. That's just bullshit. Why would I warn the fucking Order?!"

"I don't know!" Nott shouted in return, getting upset for the first time. "Fuck, I know you're not that kind of traitor, Draco. Your only reason for betraying everything has always been —" He fell silent abruptly, turning pale. He looked at his friend as if he wasn't quite sure he recognised him. And Draco wasn't sure what was going through his head. "It's impossible... You can't be such an idiot," he muttered then, puzzling Draco even more. "Have you seen her again?"

Draco didn't blink.

"See? Who?"

"Granger."

Draco let out an instant breathy laugh. Almost a reflex action. But Nott didn't laugh. Confirming to Draco that his friend had gone mad.

They had never talked about it. Never, in the nearly three years they had been fighting side by side, had Nott brought up the subject of Hermione Granger. He had asked him about her after the battle in which the Death Eaters had taken over Hogwarts. Draco had told him that she was going to leave. That he had managed to get her to safety. And something in Draco's voice made his friend not ask any more questions. And he hadn't mentioned her to him again in all that time. Until now.

"Granger?" a small voice whispered behind his back. Samantha's voice. But Draco barely took it in. It did serve to wake him up, though.

"Are you kidding me...?" he mumbled as best he could. He didn't know what else to say. Did Nott really think he'd seen her again?

"That would explain everything," Nott continued, musing to himself, absently. Not paying much attention to him. "It's the only betrayal you'd commit. You would do it for her. You'd warn the Order for her. Why the hell didn't you tell me...?"

Draco's face fell into a complete breakdown. It was the last straw...

"Are you serious?" he spat, his voice unsteady with rage. "Are you out of your mind? I've been a prisoner of the Order, you stupid git! Those bastards captured me and I managed to escape! How could I be the traitor who tipped them off? Stop talking rubbish..."

Samantha, who had been listening to the two friends' discussion with her mouth ajar, put a hand to her lips, inhaling in surprise at the revelation. Nott, too, fell silent. Shocked now.

"The Order imprisoned you?" he repeated, slowly. Taking it in. His face looked less accusing as he asked, "Did they — ? What did they do to you?"

"Interrogate me, what were they going to do to me? About the war, in general, and also about the attack on the schools," Draco confessed, reluctantly. Agreeing to relax slightly. Although he wasn't breathing normally. "I managed not to tell them anything. They're pathetic. They didn't even torture me. They just asked me silly questions..." he scoffed, slipping his left hand into his pocket. His brain tried to put his right hand in too, but it, of course, didn't answer him. "They healed... my wounds. And interrogated me. That was all. You can ask the Dark Lord if you don't believe me. He searched my mind and proved that I was not the traitor. You know I wouldn't be here talking to you if I'd kept anything from him..."

Nott then straightened up a little more. Looking at his friend with new concern.

"Has the Dark Lord searched your memories?" he asked quickly. Draco frowned.

"Are you deaf?" he mumbled, not understanding his alarm.

"Draco, that's very serious. How much has he seen?" Nott insisted, emphatically. Now without looking accusatory. Just uneasy. "He hasn't seen what happened at Hogwarts, has he? He hasn't seen her..."

And it took Draco several seconds to compose himself from that question. It was true. He hadn't even thought about it. He had allowed the Dark Lord to use Legilimency on him. Without any qualms. While hiding in the depths of his memories a relationship with a Mudblood. From almost three years ago. But it was there. In his eagerness to forget about her so he could get on with his duties, he had forgotten she was still there. Amidst the adrenaline of the situation, it hadn't even dawned on him that he could find her in his head. He had attacked Greyback to save Nott. Risking his cover. Exposing his darkest memories. Risking Hermione Granger being found inside him.

"No, of course he hasn't seen her," Draco admitted. Impassively. As if he'd had the situation under control from the beginning. Nott took a deep breath and leaned back against the pillows. Looking a little calmer.

"All right. Bloody hell, thank goodness..." He closed his eyes and shook his head. But then he looked at him strangely again. "And you didn't see her there?" he questioned then, bluntly. Firmly. "In the ranks of the Order? She didn't contact you?"

"I told you to stop talking rubbish," Draco said instantly, impassive. Or at least trying to. "Granger isn't there."

"Oh, yes, of course she's there."

"Of course she — have you seen her?" Draco interrupted himself. With that sudden idea suddenly shaking his mind. Nott composed an exhausted grimace that did not satisfy Draco. "Nott, have you seen her?" he repeated his question, more sharply.

"No. I haven't," he admitted, patiently. And Draco inhaled deeply, mechanically. Without thinking.

"Then shut your big mouth and don't talk about what you don't know. Granger isn't —"

"— part of the Order?" Theodore completed his sentence. More impatiently. "Of course she is. I don't need to have seen her to know that she is."

"Don't be stupid," Draco replied, his tone dangerous. Warning him that he was on the verge of crossing a reckless line. "Of course she isn't. That's absurd."

Nott let out a chuckle.

"Absurd?" he repeated, mockingly. "Are you telling me she's not enlisted in the Order, side by side with her friend Potter? That she's not fighting in this war? Have we met the same Hermione Granger? It's bloody obvious. She'll be wherever Potter is, and Potter is one of the ringleaders of the Order of the Phoenix. And we've discussed before that the Weasleys are probably around too, so you're telling me Granger isn't with her best friends? It's absurd that you've been deluding yourself like that all this time... I thought you were aware —"

"I told you she isn't," Draco hissed, gruffly. Taking a provocative step towards the bed. "She left. She told me she would leave," he reminded, as if such a statement could not be refuted. "Don't you dare even — you're out of your mind."

Because he had to be out of his mind. Because Granger couldn't be fighting in that war. Because that would mean, indeed, that they could have met. Not in any way as Nott implied. That much he knew. Not on purpose. But what about on the battlefield? Maybe they had attacked each other to the death, without knowing it, under the anonymity of their respective masks. What if he had hurt her?

What if he had killed her...?

"Who's Granger?" Samantha whispered behind them, her voice barely audible. But neither of them paid any attention to her.

"How did you get away from the Order, you say?" Nott then questioned, and Draco didn't like the sarcastic undertone in his voice. "How did you escape?"

"A house-elf. They have a house-elf who was a servant to the Black family. He helped me escape," he revealed, proud and defensive. Nott arched an unimpressed eyebrow.

"So that's it?" he questioned, incredulously. Draco looked at him with open annoyance, surprised at his reaction.

"Did you expect some mind-blowing story with Chimaeras and explosions, perhaps?"

"I don't believe their security would be so awful as to escape so easily, in one bloody day," Nott replied, nonchalantly. Draco laughed.

"I'm not surprised you don't want to admit that I'm a fucking powerful wizard, capable of punching that stupid Order and their defences in the nose," Draco snorted scornfully. "But I don't understand what this is all about now..."

"The fact that you asked me to erase your memory, and a week later a traitor shows up in our ranks? And frankly, it seems too much of a coincidence to me," Theodore spat sharply. "You're up to something, and I'll bet my head that Hermione Granger is behind it. I know you, and you're not going to be an Order spy out of pleasure. You'd rather adopt a bloody Blast-Ended Skrewt... The only betrayal you've ever committed has been Granger, and I doubt that's changed. You wouldn't risk your life if she wasn't involved," he let out an audible exhale. "I'm not surprised I didn't think of it until now, either. You're expert liars, and experts when it comes to meeting each other right under the nose of everyone... When did you get back in touch?"

"We have not!" Draco shouted then, taking another menacing step closer. "Have you gone mad? I haven't seen her again! I haven't seen her since we left Hogwarts, and you know it!" His voice trembled at those words, and he didn't know if it was from anger or the harshness of reality. Because it was getting harder and harder to breathe. Because his breath was shaking. Because he had thought Granger had disappeared from his life, but maybe she hadn't. And Nott had slammed reality in his face. And maybe he'd seen her, behind a mask with a phoenix engraved on it. And maybe he'd fought her.

And maybe he'd killed her and didn't know it...

'It's absurd that you've been deluding yourself like that all this time...'

He couldn't breathe...

What if he had killed her?

"Funny, I've had déjà vu. That's exactly how you denied to me at Hogwarts that you were together, and in the end I was right," Nott couldn't have sounded more scathing. Not noticing that Draco had had to reach out and grab hold of the bedpost with his hand. "Spare me a year of denying me obviousness, Draco. And tell me what your bloody problem is. When did you become so fucking suicidal. Either get the hell out of here with her, or stop doing things like this...!"

"SHUT UP!" Draco shouted in return. Letting go of the post with a jerk and turning to his friend. His voice echoing in every corner of the room. And along with his voice, a wave of magic swept through the room, invisible, palpable, like the shockwave of a bomb. Curtains fluttered, not quite coming loose from their grips. Personal items on a nearby dresser rattled against the wooden surface. The potions still on the bedside table exploded in a cloud of crystals.

Samantha let out a gasp of surprise at the noise, along with a start. Nott suddenly fell silent.

There was silence in the room. Samantha, trembling, managed to look away from the broken crystals to look at Draco. He was standing by the bed, staring at Nott with a lethal expression. It wasn't... visible, exactly; but all of him was buzzing. His magic was buzzing. She could almost see his fine hair fluttering as if a light breeze was ruffling it. She could see his left hand trembling. He had lost control of his magic. Or he had not wanted to control it. His face expressed no remorse whatsoever. He was furious. At his friend's accusation that he was in contact with this Hermione Granger, it seems...

Nott merely glared back at him. Serious. Much calmer than his friend. Almost calculating. Prudent. Obeying him, for once, and saying nothing more. But Draco didn't seem able to keep quiet.

"Granger isn't in the Order of the Phoenix, and I haven't seen her all this time. And I'm not going to let them hear you say otherwise," Draco hissed into the crushing silence. "I'm a Black Sergeant — no, I'm a General of the Shadows. I've been promoted, and I'm not going to let my position be jeopardised because someone hears you telling made-up stories about me being a bloody traitor."

Nott was silent for a few more seconds. Holding his friend's fierce gaze. Draco was panting loudly. And Nott didn't seem to be breathing.

"Are you a General?" he repeated, in a neutral tone. It was the first news he had had on the subject. At his friend's proud, affirmative silence, he merely sighed listlessly. Regaining some composure. "You don't want that position, Draco," he muttered. "You don't want to be a General of the Shadows. Don't mock me." Draco moved his jaw from side to side. Without saying anything. Without looking away. And he managed, for once, to get Nott to look away. "You really... haven't seen her again?" he muttered then. Already out of strength. Almost hopeful at his friend's outburst of anger. Because maybe it meant he was telling the truth. Though it had never been like that...

Draco let out a choked exhalation.

"Do you think me irresponsible enough to be sneaking around with a Mudblood in the middle of a bloody war between — ?"

But then he heard the door creak open behind him, the sound of the wood above his voice. He immediately fell silent, his heart frozen in place. The hopeless possibility that his father was standing in the doorframe, listening to this conversation, made his hair stand on end. He even felt himself turn pale. He turned his head in the direction of the sound, instinctively, and saw that the door was closed. And Samantha wasn't there.

He forced himself to take a breath of air. Awash with relief. Which was replaced within seconds by an uncomfortable confusion. Slight guilt even.

He looked back at Nott. And found that his friend looked, quite simply, apathetic. And he looked at him in such a resignation-laden way that Draco felt his arms grow warm.

"What?" Draco sputtered, defensively, at the look on his face. Still burning inside from the earlier argument.

"Talk to her," Nott spat simply. And there wasn't a hint of sympathy in his voice. But he wasn't still angry either. "Right now. It's the least she deserves."

Draco blinked. Trying to make sense of such an indication. Deserve? What was he talking about? He'd just lost his temper, he'd let his magic get out of control, it hadn't been that big a deal...

"Why?" he insisted, more sharply.

"Because you'll have to tell her something."

And Draco restrained himself at the last second, grumpily, from asking why again.

"What are you talking about?" he spat instead, starting to get irritated again. He added, trying to sound coherent, "This has nothing to do with her. And I have nothing to apologise for —"

Nott let out a laugh that felt like a kick to Draco. He hated with all his might to feel that his interlocutor was openly demonstrating that he knew something that he didn't.

"She already knows she has nothing to do with this. And I think that's precisely where the problem lies. How can you be so blind to these things, having an ego the size of a dragon...?" Theodore muttered, scratching an eyebrow. Draco opened his mouth, fully intending to argue, but then his friend added, impatiently, "Have you really not noticed how she looks at you?"

And Draco was out of breath. The anger was completely gone from his face. From his body. And he felt as if he'd been hung upside down with a Dangling Jinx. He held his friend's gaze for several seconds. Assimilating such words. He then realised that his back was abnormally stiff. And it almost seemed to him, that, if he tried to move, it would break. So he didn't move. He tried to clench his fists, but only succeeded in hurting his left palm with his fingernails.

The silence pressing against his eardrums was too much to bear.

"Don't fucking talk to me about dragons," Draco growled, his voice flat. Trying to feign normality. Making his friend smile.

"Just go, now," Nott whispered. "I'm fine. I've just got a thrashed back. I'll get this," he gestured lazily at the potions still dripping over the edge of the bedside table. "We'll talk later. And you can tell me more about this nonsense about you being a General of the Shadows now."

Draco said nothing. He didn't even dare to grimace. He just spun on his heels on the carpet and walked towards the door. Without even thinking about it. Obeying his friend's orders. Because he wasn't capable of making any decisions at that moment.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, he scanned the corridor on both sides. It was deserted. Or almost deserted. Samantha had moved several feet away, until she was leaning against the railing of the stairs leading down to the lower floor. Her back was to him. Hunching slightly over the railing.

Draco had to count to three before he could get his legs to agree to walk down the corridor. He felt almost empty inside. Undecided on any emotion. Barely trying to understand that the girl's flight had nothing to do with having witnessed his involuntary display of magic. Was he supposed to have guessed? She had never —

"Everything all right?" he uttered, in a dry tone he couldn't control.

Samantha gasped, as if she hadn't heard him coming. And she probably hadn't. She turned her head only to look over her shoulder at him. Her eyes widened in surprise. She opened and closed her mouth for a moment, before turning around.

"Yes, I just — I thought you wanted to be alone. It was a private conversation," she said quietly. Looking around as well, noting that they were alone, before returning her eyes to him.

'Have you really not noticed how she looks at you?'

"It wasn't," Draco replied, his voice slow. "It was just... nonsense. Nott's just a knucklehead, and he thinks he's smarter than anyone else. And he gets on my nerves. He's always been like that."

Samantha forced a fleeting smile, before looking down.

"Don't tell me any more. In case... they search my mind in Nurmengard, or whatever," she muttered. And it sounded like an excuse to Draco. "I don't want to put you in danger."

"You won't," Draco muttered in return. Taking a breath and looking around. Just so he wouldn't have to look at her. "Listen to me. We'll get you out of there. Out of Nurmengard. Just give us time to come up with a plan..."

"No, don't even try. They'll kill all three of us," she protested, interrupting him. With a firmness in her voice he'd never heard before. "I'll be fine, just... Just be careful yourself."

Draco fell silent in the midst of his awkward attempt to sound comforting. He glanced sideways at her as she spoke. The girl was staring straight ahead. At the centre of his chest. Her eyes moving in their sockets frantically.

"Me?" he repeated, though he had heard her. How had he not noticed before how she looked at him?

"Don't let them find her in your head. That girl you were talking about. Granger," she said, more quietly. Her smile grew a little wider. Sadder. "I don't want you to get killed."

Draco looked back at her, unable to say anything at first. There was some warmth in his neck, but at the same time, he felt very cold. Detached to it all. It all seemed so... absurd. It made so little sense. Everything was cold. They were at war. They were killing people. They were fighting for their lives day after day. There couldn't be time for these things. For... relationships like that. Was there still love in the world? Did people still fall in love? It seemed so far-fetched to him...

He'd forgotten all that. Fighting, curses, power, meetings, plans, hierarchies, orders, injuries, blood, death... That was life. That was his life. But apparently, in reality, people still felt. And it seemed almost unfair.

Granger was in his head. No, somewhere else. Because he couldn't see her. But he felt her, so he sensed she was in his chest. She was always there. Like another feeling, like sadness, or fear, inherent to him. And if it wasn't possible to get rid of feelings like sadness or fear forever, how could he make his love for her disappear? He didn't know how to do it. He didn't want to.

He managed to restrain the urge to swallow saliva and made an effort to raise one corner of his mouth languidly. Faking a sly smile that he had no desire to generate.

"Let them try."

Samantha pursed her lips, softening her smile, grateful for his joke. For his attitude. That he didn't ask her any questions. That he didn't make her confess anything. Because she could see in his eyes that he had found out the truth. He was looking at her differently. And she didn't want him to. Not like this.

If she couldn't have what she wanted from him, at least not change anything...

The young woman blinked frantically and turned her head away, moistening her lips with her tongue. Perhaps suspecting that she wouldn't be able to control her tears for much longer.

"Maybe one day you'll be able to be with that girl again," she whispered, haltingly, not looking him in the eye.

Draco was unable to say anything. Samantha didn't speak again either, and just gave him one last, quick smile. Then she stepped around him, without touching him, and walked down the deserted corridor. He didn't follow her.

---

The Adriatic Sea pounded intermittently at the base of Nurmengard's tall, black tower, gnawing at the rock platform, making it sharp, worn and slippery. The back of the tower was sunk into the dark cliff, cast into the limestone surrounding it. The sea, churned up on this cloudy day, foamed against the platform, then slowly melted back into the broad greenish-grey watery blanket.

From out of the water, several figures suddenly emerged. A white hand reached out of the foam and groped the eroded, slippery rocks. After several attempts, during which the tide engulfed the figure, they managed to cling to one of them, and propel themselves with their arms until they could pull their torso out of the water. The figure was wrapped in a cloak as black as night, camouflaged by the glistening rocks.

Beside them, another cloaked person barely made it out of the water, just enough to cling to the rocks. The first figure had managed to climb up to stay clear of the power of the waves, and reached out an arm to help the second figure up. Pulling on their hand, they pulled the second figure's torso out of the water, and then wrapped their arms around their torso to pull them out. The weight of their wet robes made the process difficult.

A third person emerged from the churning sea and tried desperately to cling to the slippery rocks. The two hooded ones who were already on dry land rushed to help the third one. Their combined strength made it easier for them to pull them up. The last figure collapsed onto the rocks at last, coughing and spitting water. The waves broke almost upon them, raising white foam that vanished along with their hands.

Harry, as he coughed, pulled back the Death Eater's mask he wore; and also, beneath it, the fuzzy, wet glasses, fortunately still over his nose and ears. Hermione, next to him, took off her hood for a moment so that she could wring her hair out with her hands. Shivering from the cold. Ron, the first who had managed to climb onto the platform thanks to his long arms, was looking up at the impenetrable black walls that towered above them. The narrow platform on which they stood was barely two metres between the walls and the sea.

"It worked," Ron muttered, relief in his voice. The sound of the sea partially muffled his voice. "We're here. Thank Merlin..."

"Thank the Order's infiltrators in the Austrian government, not Merlin," Hermione replied, pulling her hood back over her head in a hurry. "Are you all right?" she then muttered, looking down at a panting Harry, who was still coughing residually. His friend nodded, catching his breath.

"I almost lost the Portkey," he admitted, his voice faltering, raising a hand in which he held a worn wooden comb. "A wave knocked it out of my hand. But I got it back."

"Well done, mate," Ron muttered, glancing at him for a moment and then looking around again. "At the moment... What do you think? Looks good, doesn't it?"

"It looks like the information was correct," Hermione corroborated, also gazing around with tense shoulders. "The walls are protected against magic, no doubt; and the entrances will have the usual Cursed Barrier... But they haven't bothered about the water around it. It hasn't occurred to them that someone could use a Portkey to get here," she summarised, not that it was really necessary. But as if she couldn't help reciting the plan again to reassure herself.

"Because they don't think anyone would survive such a sea. Least of all a whole army," Harry added, also looking around carefully. "There's no alarm. No defensive spell. No one seems to have noticed us."

"I don't think there's anyone looking out of the window," Ron corroborated, with faint humour. He added, with resigned glee, surveying the black wall before them, "Well, if there were any windows, that is. Which doesn't seem to be the case."

"One problem at a time," Harry replied with a heavy sigh. "First we have to find the entrance that the first squadron has unlocked. I'm going the other way. And remember, no wands," he added, as his friends stood precariously on the rocks and held on to the wall as best they could. The three of them began to circle the tower, in different directions. Walking carefully so as not to trip, helping each other.

Vaisey, Remus and Mad-Eye had been the first squad to enter the place. By taking a Death Eater with them, they could remove the Cursed Barrier that was likely to protect any kind of entrance, leaving the way clear for the rest. Harry, Ron and Hermione were the second. If headquarters didn't hear from them in three hours, they would send a third squad consisting of Arthur, Hestia and Tonks.

"Opening a gap with a Bombarda would activate the Anti-intruder Jinx, wouldn't it?" Ron muttered drily, staring at the slippery wall. Impossible to climb.

"There's a hole there," Hermione snapped in turn, pointing to a jagged opening ten feet above their heads. The wall was almost bare, but holes could be seen from time to time, seemingly in no particular order, high above their heads. Perhaps remnants of some bombardment from some past battle, from the time when it was owned by Gellert Grindelwald. Ron let out a long whistle.

"I see it more feasible to ring the doorbell... I don't think that's the entrance they've used."

"It's the only way," Hermione replied impatiently. "They've had to go up that way. We've got to find a way to —"

A particularly large wave hit them full in the face, filling their masks, hair and clothes with white foam that soon disintegrated.

"There's nothing on the other side," Harry's voice said then, catching up with them. Wheezing, and even more drenched than seconds before, when they separated.

"Harry, what about that opening?" Hermione hastened to point it out to him. Harry looked at it, but shook his head almost instantly. Another wave engulfed them and delayed his response.

"It's too high," Harry protested, as soon as he could speak without spitting water. "Without magic, we're not going to —"

"We'll have to try," Ron replied, looking around as he spoke. "If you say there's nothing on the other side... There don't seem to be any stairs, or any lifts," he scoffed, no humour in his voice. He leaned his back against the wall, placed his feet as best he could on the jagged rocks, legs bent slightly, and put his hands clasped palm up. Then he looked at his friend. "Come up, Harry."

"I won't be able to," his friend dismissed in exasperation. "It's a waste of time. We've got to look for —"

"You'd better hurry up, I'm freezing," Ron replied, gesturing impatiently to him with his clasped hands. Harry sighed in frustration and relented with a reluctant gesture.

He hesitated, unsure how to proceed, but ended up resting one foot and being flung upwards by his friend with all the strength he could muster. He stood on Ron's hands and stretched as far as he could with the momentum, but missed the window by a few inches. Ron took a step forward, giving him stability to lean against the wall, but, at Harry's negative answer above him, he dropped his arms, allowing his friend to leap ungainly to the ground. Twisting his ankle as he fell, stepping on the bottom of his robes.

"Are you all right?" Hermione muttered uneasily. With her hands comically covering the place where her mouth would be, above the Death Eater's mask.

"I can't reach the opening. But only just," Harry protested, frustrated, managing to straighten up. Turning his ankle in circles to ease the discomfort. And caressing his friend's arm in response to her concern. "But you're right, Hermione. It's an option. Maybe we can do it. Could you pull me up higher?"

Ron, his hands on his hips, and wheezing under his mask, shook his head.

"I don't think so. The first attempt is always the best. I'll have less strength now," he corroborated his words by shaking his arms to loosen them. "I've stretched my arms as much as possible..."

"We've got to find a way to get you up, Hermione," Harry then said. "The three of us could make it..."

"All right, second try..." Ron mumbled, looking down at the ground again. Scanning it. He hesitated for a moment and then wrapped his hands in the sleeves of his robes. He positioned himself on all fours, offering his back for support, and positioned his knees as best he could so that the sharp rocks wouldn't hurt him. "I'm the heaviest," he insisted, as he saw Harry hesitate and heard Hermione start to protest. "I've got to get underneath. C'mon, let's do it..."

Hermione looked at Harry, unsure, but he just took a breath, gathering his courage. The boy placed a foot carefully on his friend's back and climbed on top of him, trying to rest his feet so that the weight was balanced. Ron pressed his lips together under his mask to keep from moaning. Harry studied the back of his neck, making sure he wasn't on the verge of mortal pain or something similar. And then he got into position, his back against the wall to steady himself, and his hands up, ready to catch the girl.

"Come on, Hermione," he urged, firm. "Do it quickly. As soon as you get up there, we'll fall."

The girl hesitated. She was wringing her hands. But she realised she had no choice. She approached her friends and tried to be as fast as she could. She put one foot on top of Ron to gain momentum, and get within Harry's reach. She felt him wrap his arms around her knees and lift her over his head with a grunt of effort. They both heard Ron's sob of pain as he felt the rocks dig into his hands and knees under the weight of his two friends.

Hermione, determined not to fail, stretched as far as she could, and managed to get her small, cold hands to cling to the sheer edge of the opening. Hardly believing she had succeeded, she concentrated every cell of her being on holding on with all her might; all the more so as she felt all the support beneath her vanish. Harry and Ron had predictably lost their balance and the human tower had collapsed. Hermione didn't dare move her fingers an inch. She knew they wouldn't get another chance. Cautiously, she tried to rest her feet on the vertical, slippery walls, to no avail. She had never been a particularly physically fit person. And she was nowhere near strong enough to support her weight with only her hands for very long.

"Hang in there!" she heard Harry underneath her. Making her close her eyes to force herself to obey that command. "Almost there... That's it!"

And then the girl felt a surface giving subtle support to her feet. Her friends had moved into the same position, only now Harry had raised his arms, giving the young woman, with his hands, the support she needed to support some of her weight. Hermione took a shaky breath, feeling a little more secure. But reminding herself not to take any false steps. She dared to release one of her desperate grips on the steep edge, feeling her fingers cramped, to feel the opening with that hand. Cautiously. She reached out a little further, into the crevice, trusting the grip of her other hand and Harry's hands beneath her. She found some bars. She managed to wrap her fingers around one. She then quickly moved her other hand, and grabbed another bar with it as well. She allowed herself to catch her breath as she panted.

"Wait," she managed to mumble. Her forearms hurt like hell. "Hold me, Harry. There are bars. I'm going to —"

She stopped talking. Finding herself breathless. The girl then tentatively let go of one of the bars and reached down to feel almost frantically for her beaded handbag under her robes. She rummaged through it greedily, and, fortunately, it only took her a few seconds to find what she wanted. She took out something that looked like a tube of toothpaste, but in a striking bright orange colour. Fred and George's creation. She put it to her mouth and hastily unscrewed the cap with her teeth. She felt Harry's hands tremble under her weight.

"Almost..." the girl stammered, holding the tube between her teeth. She spat the plug in any direction and brought the tube close to the iron bars. She squeezed urgently and ran the pasty substance inside over the surface of the iron bar. Soaking it in. She could see a faint smoke rising from the metal, rising above her head. She held the tube in her teeth and then took hold of the bar again. Finding it as soft as rubber. She pushed it aside, with absurd ease, and felt the gap it had opened. It was not enough. Her shoulders were burning.

"H-Hermione..." she heard Ron sobbing, several feet below her.

"Almost done, I'm so sorry..." the girl mumbled, a feverish gleam in her eyes. Concentrating on her task. She grabbed hold of another bar, ignoring the numbness in her muscles, to repeat the manoeuvre on one that wasn't holding her up. Attempting to open a larger gap.

"Hermione, leave it," Harry hissed. The support on her feet was becoming more and more unstable. "Let's find a —"

"Ready!" Hermione then exclaimed. Holding on tightly to a still stiff bar, and pulling apart the ones she had softened. Creating a hole between them that a grown man could fit through. "Harry, you're going to have to push me...," the girl pleaded, with a whimper.

She heard her friend mumble beneath her. After several seconds of preparation, Harry's exhausted arms made a massive effort and lifted her higher. Giving her the momentum she needed to cling to the inside of the opening. There was another wail from Ron. Hermione sobbed at the cramps in her forearms. But she clung to the rock as if her life depended on it and managed to pull herself inside. Taking advantage of the fact that her Blast-Ended Skrewt armour would protect her from most friction against the rock. Using her feet as a final push, already against the edge of the opening, she let herself fall any which way into a dark stone corridor.

She could do nothing but breathe urgently for a few seconds. Completely exhausted. Sobbing from the pain in her arms. She heard a clatter of rocks outside and various moans. She forced herself to open her eyes and pull herself together. They were not safe.

She pulled her wand in a quick gesture from the holster on her thigh and looked around her carefully. The silence in the narrow stone corridor was absolute. The atmosphere, icy and damp, seemed to amplify the stillness of the place even more. Mist was created in front of her mouth with every exhalation. The light was almost non-existent as you moved away from the barred opening.

"Homenum revelio," she muttered. Nothing happened. There was no one in the immediate vicinity.

She waved her wand again and generated a glowing golden ring that hovered in the air near the end of the corridor. It would warn them if anyone approached. They weren't finished yet.

She stood up then, trying not to rest her weight on her aching arms, and peered out of the window. She saw her friends below, their eyes fixed on her.

"I have a rope," she said. She was still out of breath, but her nervous hands were already fumbling in her handbag. "Don't move. Just a moment..."

She finally pulled a thick braided rope out of the tiny bag. They knew that Lord Voldemort, in his arrogance, would never think that the Order would attempt to break into any of his strongholds using Muggle methods...

She looked around. If only she could tie it somewhere... She didn't trust the strength of her arms at the moment. Then she saw a round iron bracket, which at one time must have held a torch, nailed to the wall. Without much hesitation, she walked over and tied the thick rope there, tying a couple of knots. Reluctantly, ignoring the pain in her limbs, she pulled with all her might, even resting one foot on the wall for leverage and using all her weight. It would hold. She threw the other end out of the window and leaned out. Her friends were still below, looking into the opening.

"Will you be able to climb up?" she questioned, worried. "It's a bit short..."

"Don't worry," Harry murmured, assessing the situation. The, indeed, short rope dangled above their heads. He studied their surroundings and decided to stand underneath it this time, with his back against the wall and his palms up to support his friend. "Let's try it like this. If I step on those hands of yours, your screams will be heard from London," he added, seeing Ron look at him hesitantly as he saw him move first as a support.

Ron agreed to move closer to his friend and placed a foot in his hands to propel him upwards. Ron was the heaviest of his friends, due to the fact that he was also the tallest, so he reached the rope with relative ease. Hermione heard him groan before her, though. She leaned closer to help him, to tug on his clothes. Harry pushed him off his feet to help him. Once Ron collapsed in the corridor, panting sonorously, Hermione managed to get a glimpse of his hands. They were still wrapped in his sleeves, and soaked with blood. The stones must have been stuck in them when he helped her climb.

"Tell me you've got Dittany, Merlin's beard," Ron muttered, holding back a groan. Unrolling his robes from his hands and examining his cuts. Flexing his fingers with difficulty. Hermione nodded her head frantically, worried, beginning to search her handbag. Ron, however, didn't dwell too much on the pain in his hands, and, as she searched, he leaned outside the window.

"Come on, Harry, we'll help you from here..."

Harry, below, moistened his lips with his tongue. Unable to get a running start on the unstable, narrow rocky surface, he merely leapt upwards with all the momentum he could muster until he caught hold of the rope. After several gruelling and exhausting attempts, he managed to pull himself up, barely managing to hold on to the wall with his feet. Ron, who was applying the Dittany to his hands, couldn't help him, but Hermione leaned down and pulled every part of him she could get her hands on until she could pull him into the tower.

The three of them dropped to sit on the floor, panting and exhausted. The mist began to rapidly escape from their mouths, matching their agitated breaths. The golden circle on the other side of the corridor was still spinning peacefully.

"Damn it..." mumbled Ron, handing the Dittany back to Hermione. Before that, Harry poured some on his hands as well, which had been slightly burned by the rope. "That wasn't easy. I'm going to kill Mad-Eye. They could have left the opening secretly open, who would notice...?"

"Mad-Eye risking leaving even the slightest hint of his presence, on purpose?" Harry scoffed, rising to his feet. Staring at the golden circle. "We are inside. Now we just have to find Dumbledore. If we haven't activated any Anti-intruder Jinx, we can easily pass for Death Eaters in these robes. They shouldn't suspect us."

"We can use magic in here," Hermione reminded them, removing the rope from the ring and putting it back in her handbag. "It'll go unnoticed with the magic in the place..."

"Right. Have your wands on hand, but out of sight," Harry advised, making sure the skull mask covered his face. They had a small arsenal of them at Shell Cottage, spoils of battles past, for moments like these. His friends complied and, after drying their sodden clothes with a few quick Hot Air Charms so as not to arouse suspicion, they removed the golden circle and entered Nurmengard.

They walked quickly but stealthily through the narrow stone corridors. Forced to walk in a line. The dampness of the air dried out their throats, and the cold crept into their bones. The walls and ceilings were covered with mould and algae, from the dampness of the ocean below them, outside the fortress. The floors were full of centuries-old dust that muffled their nervous footsteps. There were no windows. Just the occasional jagged gap like the one they had just passed through to enter. And, as they went deeper and deeper inside, any contact with the outside disappeared.

They had, for obvious reasons, no map of the place. They found its location, but that was all. So what surprises they were going to find were a mystery. They came across no one during the first few minutes of the search. There was absolutely no sound. It was the heaviest silence their ears had ever endured.

"The path splits," Ron mumbled, looking over Harry's shoulder. Informing Hermione, who was right behind him. "What a bloody maze..."

It was true. Three identical paths ahead of them, plus the one they'd just walked down, and no clue as to which direction to go.

"Is it normal that we haven't seen anyone yet?" Hermione asked, rubbing her icy hands together. The place looked deserted. But they knew, for sure, that it wasn't.

"I don't know," Harry mumbled, frustrated. Even with his mask on, they watched him fight with himself for a few seconds. But he couldn't delay any longer. Time was pressing. "Each of you take a path, but don't go too far. Just see where it leads. Or if they have no way out. I'll meet you back here in two minutes. If anything happens, abort the plan immediately and send a warning."

"Security phrase?" Ron remembered, cracking his knuckles nervously. "To recognise each other. Because looking like this..."

"Oh, right... Let's say... 'I could eat a grilled Hippogriff'," he proposed, earnestly. And the others agreed. It was ridiculous enough that no one else in the place would utter it by mistake, but at the same time, they could get away with saying it by mistake to a real Death Eater.

"Be careful," Hermione muttered. Her advice was directed at both of them, of course, but her eyes strayed to Harry. The boy wore a determined look behind his mask, almost anxious. He had wanted to see Dumbledore again, his mentor, his friend, for so long...

The entire Order of the Phoenix had unanimously recommended that he not be part of the mission. It was too dangerous, going into Voldemort's secret prison, blindly, without plans, unable to send an army, and protected by a thousand enchantments they couldn't predict. Anything could go wrong. And, militarily speaking, losing Harry Potter was not something the Order could afford at the moment.

He was too valuable, both to Voldemort and to the Order. But the boy had turned a deaf ear. Just as he had reluctantly agreed to stand aside on the mission at number four Privet Drive, he hadn't for a moment considered staying behind on this one. He was going to rescue Dumbledore, and, to avoid that, they would have had to hex him against his will, which they barely did.

Hermione took the path to the left and advanced with quick steps. Walking straight. With confidence. As she reached the end of the corridor and found another intersection, she looked back. The corridor she had just walked down looked terrifying, like the mouth of a dark tunnel. It was so creepy that it gave her goosebumps. She could no longer hear Harry or Ron's footsteps. She began to think that the walls had a spell that silenced any disturbance. There was no way they could have gotten that far away. And where were the cells? She hadn't seen any yet. Just bare walls. No doors, no bars...

She continued walking to her left. All the corridors were just as narrow, dark and cold. And silent. She wondered what it would be like to be a prisoner in there, and watch the hours, the days, the years go by... in that terrible silence.

As she turned the corner, she discovered that there were two other directions. Forward and to the left. Moistening her lips under her mask, she paused, weighing both options, and ended up going straight ahead. At the end, she could see a flight of stairs, which she started to climb when she reached them. Maybe it was a good idea to go up to another floor. As soon as she set foot on the top step, she found an iron gate blocking her way. And a figure in black robes identical to hers stood on the other side, facing away from her.

Hermione held her breath. Her instinct screamed at her to turn around and go back the way she had come. But she realised at the last instant that it would be suspicious. She had to pretend to know the place. And if she had come up there, it was for a reason.

Before she could move a muscle, the figure turned to look at her. And the sight of that skull mask chilled the girl's limbs. Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. A glint on her enemy's robes caught her attention. A skull brooch. It was a Black Sergeant.

Draco...?

No. She shouldn't even consider it. She couldn't take the risk. Not without the slightest proof of it. She couldn't get carried away. It could spoil the whole plan. It could be anyone...

"How are things going here?" Hermione asked, her tone believably firm. "I'm here to lend a hand."

She stopped breathing as soon as she finished speaking. The Death Eater before her didn't say a word. Merely waved a wand that Hermione hadn't seen in their hand, opening the grille in front of her with a creak. The girl nodded her head with deference and stepped through the door, passing the Death Eater. With her heart in her ears, she disregarded her survival instinct. And looked straight into the wizard's eyes.

It was not him. She barely saw his eyes in the darkness, through the holes in the mask. But she knew it wasn't him. She would recognise his eyes in any darkness.

She continued walking down the corridor. Regaining her composure. Forcing Draco out of her head. She had to concentrate... She realised that she couldn't go back the same way, back to Harry and Ron. She had to find another way back down to the intersection. She had to try to get her bearings.

There were no windows or lights to illuminate the corridors. However, as you entered a new corridor, your eyes became accustomed to the darkness with the feeling that there was light in the next one, which illuminated the one you were in. But, as you turned the corner, there was still no illumination at all, except for the dim blue light that seemed to come from the next corridor.

She felt that there were too many spells in the place.

She came to a new, deserted corridor and saw that one of the walls was no longer even. Bars revealed the inside of the walls. Her heart skipped a beat. She walked up to them and peered inside, squinting to try to discern something. The floor was covered in straw, and she could not see the opposite wall, such was the darkness. She waved her wand and a faint Wand-Lighting Charm illuminated the place. There was a bulge on the other side. With their back to her, lying face to the wall, in a foetal position. And she discovered another bulge to her right, closer.

"Professor?" whispered the girl, her voice trailing off. Neither figure moved. "Professor Dumbledore?"

Nothing. Breathing heavily, she tried to identify the figures. She saw the face of the one on the right in the light of her wand. He was asleep. Or so it seemed. It was an old man, but it wasn't Dumbledore. And the figure in the background, she realised, looked like a woman. Her hair was very long, and it was not silver.

The girl's hand trembled around her wand. She knew this was going to happen. She had prepared for it. She had, finally, agreed. They couldn't rescue them all. They only had one Portkey per squad, and they couldn't walk around the place with a line of prisoners. They would be discovered. Anyone would raise the alarm at any moment when they saw people disappearing. Besides, these prisoners did not look as if they could walk. They had only come for Professor Dumbledore...

With a shudder of pain in her chest, the girl turned off her wand and continued walking. The lump in her throat wrenched a sob from her, but she forced herself to take a deep breath and continue. She found another cell a few feet away. She checked it in the same way, but she couldn't find her old teacher either. And its occupants showed no sign of being alive either.

She herself felt fatigued. She noticed at one point that it was hard to breathe. And she felt it was not because of the helplessness of abandoning these people there. Her arms felt heavier and heavier. It was as if... her magic was shaking inside her. Making her uncomfortable. Wanting to get out. She felt like just the thought of generating spells was draining her. Her magic was weighing her down.

She gritted her teeth to keep walking. She was a Muggle-born. She could live without magic. If they took it away from her, they wouldn't defeat her. If that was their best weapon, it wasn't enough.

She found herself in another corridor. She saw a hole with more bars, indicating the presence of another cell. And there was a Death Eater on the other side of the corridor, several feet away. Oblivious to her. Hermione bit her lip. There was a different path she could take, behind her back, but she couldn't go through without checking that cell...

In a burst of inspiration, she waved her wand, silently, in the direction of the Death Eater's back. A very faint light shrouded their hooded head for an instant. A Muffliato Charm. Hermione hid behind the corner and waited. She saw the wizard put a hand to their hood. Rub an ear. Waiting, then rubbing it again. Look in several directions. And then slowly walked away down the corridor, out of sight. Perhaps thinking that the altitude of the place was affecting their hearing. The girl took a deep breath.

She approached the bars and generated a Wand-Lighting Charm again to scrutinise the interior. It was the same as all the other cells. And there was also a shape at the bottom. A small figure. It was too small, but, perhaps...

"Professor?" she called, in a very low voice. "Professor, is that you?"

Her stomach lurched. The figure had moved. When the person straightened up, and turned their face in her direction, she discovered that it was only a young woman. Now she saw that her hair was black, dirty and dishevelled, so full of dust that she had mistaken it for the white of her old teacher's. She had white skin, but her face was also dirty, and made her features indistinguishable in the gloom. But her dark eyes glowed.

Hermione relaxed. It wasn't Professor Dumbledore.

"Are you all right?" she whispered, unable to contain herself. "Are you hurt?"

The girl in front of her said nothing. And Hermione wondered for a moment if she didn't speak English. But then she realised that she was looking at her with hatred. With open accusation in her eyes. And it was then that she remembered her own disguise, and realised that she thought Hermione was a real Death Eater.

"I'm part of the Order of the Phoenix," she whispered, unable to contain herself. Wanting to reassure her. "I am not an enemy. Trust me, please, I don't have much time... Are you all right?"

The young woman frowned slightly. Blinking. Visibly dazed. Hermione wondered when was the last time she had eaten.

She didn't know this girl. And yet there was something about her face that looked familiar...

"Of the Order?" the prisoner repeated. Her voice sounded soft. But Hermione sensed that she didn't believe her.

She remembered the Death Eater she had left at the end of the corridor, hexed with a Muffliato Charm. They were surrounded by enemies. She couldn't take too long. She had to get back to her friends.

"Yes, I'm... I'm looking for someone," Hermione said in a burst of inspiration. But she measured her words. "Can you help me?"

The girl kept looking at her. Confused.

"How did you — how did you get in here?" she asked, in a whisper. And Hermione was reassured to hear such a coherent sentence. That girl hadn't gone mad in there yet.

"I'm not alone. My companions and I are looking for someone," she repeated, slowly. And, after a final, worried hesitation, she added, "Albus Dumbledore. Professor Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster of Hogwarts School. Do you know who he is? Where in the prison is he...?"

The young girl straightened up a little more. More attentive to the conversation.

"Dumbly-dorr...?" she said. And then Hermione realised that she spoke English, but with a slight, musical French accent. She had much less of an accent than Fleur. But she was, at least in part, French.

French...

"Yes, exactly..." Hermione corroborated, hastily. And she opened her mouth to insist again, to claim that they were in a hurry, but the girl anticipated her.

"You have to go up two more floors," she said. She leaned on one hand and stood up. She moved closer to the bars. "I know he was on this very floor not long ago, because I saw them walk past here with him," she pointed to the corridor on the other side of the bars. "But he's been moved. I... I heard them say the north wing." Nott had told her on one of his wards. When he went to visit her. But she wasn't going to reveal so openly that one of the Death Eaters was talking to a prisoner like that. Not even to someone from the Order of the Phoenix. She didn't know if she could trust her to that extent. "It will be difficult to find your way around this place. Try to find one of the few windows so you can find the north. The top two floors have no cells, only meeting rooms. And the most heavily guarded cells are two floors up."

Hermione watched her. That girl's eyes were shining brightly. Bravely. And her face still looked familiar to her...

"Thank you. Thank you so much," Hermione whispered, closing her eyes for a moment at the valuable information. "I'm so sorry, I can't — I can only take one person," she said, feeling like the worst person in the world. The girl just looked at her uncertainly. "What's your name?" she asked, unable to contain herself.

The girl blinked. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then realised that her identity was not a particularly valuable piece of information. So she lowered her voice, and confessed, "Minette. Samantha Minette."

And Hermione found herself breathless.

Samantha...

She knew who she was. Of course she did. Then it dawned on her why her face was familiar, even though she had never seen her in person. She had recognised her from those photographs published in the Daily Prophet and The Quibbler in her last year at school. When she disappeared. And Draco had told her about her... But what was she doing there? Wasn't she supposed to be close to Draco? A valuable prisoner? She didn't understand. And she didn't have time to think it through.

That girl knew Draco...

The temptation to ask her about him, to ask if he was safe and sound, if they had believed in his innocence, was too tempting, but she restrained herself. It wasn't safe. She couldn't reveal so openly that she herself was in contact with Draco. That Draco was in contact with the Order of the Phoenix.

"I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger," she revealed, in an outburst. Even though she knew she shouldn't. But it was the least she could do for her. Or maybe not...

Hermione raised her wand and waved it in front of the bars. Casting a couple of quick charm-detecting enchantments. Impossible to open. It had the Cursed Barrier, of course. Bloody hell...

She put a hand to her handbag and began rummaging through it hastily. Barely catching the whisper that Samantha's voice turned into, before her.

"Granger...?" she repeated. And she sounded surprised.

But Hermione then pulled out what she was looking for, and focused on it. A small, rounded device. A capsule, transparent and golden. She pointed her wand at it. And the inside of the capsule lit up with a flickering orange light.

"I've put a Tracking Spell on it," she said. After looking around, she set it down in a crevice. She couldn't get any closer to the bars, or she'd set off the alarms. "The other squad will detect it. They have a Portkey, they'll come and get you out of here. In theory, that Portkey was for Dumbledore, but we'll find him and use ours. They'll get you out of here, I promise."

Samantha was staring at her with her mouth ajar. Opening and closing it hesitantly. Trying to make out something behind Hermione's silver mask.

"I... can't," she whispered then. Scared. "I can't get out of here. They keep my parents. Right here. In this place. If I leave — t-they —"

"Where are they? Do you know where they are?" Hermione was quick to ask. Samantha swallowed. Yes, she did. Draco and Nott had made sure to find out during their watches.

"Upstairs," she whispered, her voice cracking. "They can't be far from Dumbly-dorr... Can you — ? Please get them out... I-I beg you..."

"I will, I promise," Hermione said firmly. "What are their names?"

"Adrien and Grace," the girl answered immediately, her eyes brighter than ever, clutching the bars with both hands. "T-thank you... Thank you so much..."

Hermione forced a quick smile, though she knew her interlocutor wouldn't see it because of the mask.

"I have to go. They'll be coming for you soon. I'll... see you soon."

With no more time to waste, she walked away as fast as she could down the corridor. In search of Harry and Ron. And Dumbledore.

---

The almost empty room was lighting up sporadically. The intermittent spells brightened the dark wallpaper on the walls. It was not a room that was usually used. In fact, it was often used for the interrogation of prisoners. Hence the presence of a couple of chairs leaning against one wall. Otherwise, there was virtually nothing. Two tables pushed roughly aside in a corner. And a chandelier on the ceiling. The thick, expensive carpet had long since been removed. For interrogating prisoners, only a wand was needed.

Draco was sweating. He could feel the salty droplets tickling the skin of his chest, sliding down his thin shirt. The fringe on his forehead was bothering him. His face was too hot. It was hard to breathe. And his left hand was beginning to cramp.

Nott stood before him, wand held high. And a Shield Charm cast between them. It lit up sporadically as the spells Draco was casting slammed into it. The Ebublio Jinx glowed with a whitish light, illuminating Nott's serene face. The Bombardment Spell ripped off yellowish sparks. A Blasting Curse sounded like a loud detonation as it hit the shield. It took two attempts for Draco's unaccustomed left hand to generate the tricky movement of the Flagrante Curse...

When he saw Draco pause for a moment, shaking his tired hand vigorously to loosen it up, Nott broke the Shield Charm and lowered his wand.

"Do you want to rest?" he asked, looking at him intently. Draco shook his head. He didn't feel like answering. He moved his feet into a duelling stance and looked his friend in the eye decisively, wand held high. Nott hesitated for a moment and then mimicked his stance. Two seconds of politeness, and the duel began.

Draco attacked first. He cast a quick and easy Full Body-Bind Curse, which his friend effortlessly blocked. And the latter threw two Stinging Jinxes at him. One of them managed to hit him in the wrist. Draco grunted and shook it quickly. Knowing he would have a reddening itch there for several hours. A quick Densaugeo Hex that Nott had no trouble dodging, and Draco dared with a complicated Cruciatus Curse. Knowing he would block it as well. Sure enough, his opponent dodged it and moved to the side. Forcing Draco to move and turn on himself. Like a real duel. He had to practice with his whole body, and get used to the feel of the wand in his left hand...

The door opened at that moment, and Narcissa stepped into the room. She surveyed the scene before her, a scene she had come to expect, and simply closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Silently.

Theodore cast another Full Body-Bind Curse, which his friend slowed with an automatic Impediment Jinx, giving himself time to generate the appropriate counter-spell. Satisfied, Draco in turn cast a Bombardment Spell that reverberated around the room as it slammed into his opponent's counter-spell. Nott then cast a Dangling Jinx, which Draco inelegantly blocked for his own liking with a general Shield Charm. At least that one he had mastered. His intention then was to generate a Confundus Charm, but his brain short-circuited. He knew what the move looked like. He had it automated. But now it was... the other way around. It was with his other hand. Shit... how was it with his left...?

In the two seconds that his internal debate lasted, Theodore cast a quick Dancing Feet Spell at him, which Draco had no reflexes to block. His feet launched into an uncontrolled dance, throwing him backwards onto the floor. Nott flicked his wand instantly, breaking the spell. Narcissa dropped her eyelids and bit her lower lip, straining to control the tears that rushed to her eyes.

Draco punched the ground with his left hand as a way of venting his anger. Hurting the edge of his hand. He remained lying on his back on the cold stone. Feeling his chest empty, though it rose and fell rapidly, searching for air. He was out of breath. And all for nothing. He couldn't fight like this in a real duel. Being defeated by a mere Dancing Feet Spell.

He gritted his teeth hard, holding back the lump of helplessness in his throat. Staring at the ceiling. Feeling shamefully incompetent. He closed his eyes and let out an irritated huff through his mouth. He opened them again when he heard the sound of footsteps. Nott had approached him, and was reaching out a hand to help him up. With an impassive expression that was scarcely believable. And a concern in his eyes that Draco couldn't bear to see.

He sat up on his own and stood, ignoring his hand. Picking up his wand from the floor again. With an almost deadly expression. Nott said nothing at his surly gesture. He could understand, and share, his friend's frustration. Draco had always been an excellent duellist. To find himself in such a situation could not be bearable. And Nott was terribly worried about his vulnerability. If he went into battle, he would be killed.

Draco turned to his mother, remembering that he had sensed her presence in the midst of the duel. The woman's face looked serene. There was no pity in it. And Draco was grateful for it with all his heart.

"Is it time already?" asked the boy, his tone slightly curt. Narcissa nodded, unfazed.

"The meeting is about to begin," she corroborated, clasping her hands together in front of her. Draco inhaled deeply, barely regaining his composure, and placed his wand in the holster on his belt.

"Do I have time to change my clothes, or...?" asked the young man, his voice more measured. But with frustration at his meagre progress still rumbling in his chest and buzzing in his veins.

"No, wait, your — your father has spoken to the Dark Lord," his mother informed him, taking a couple of steps forward. Draco fell silent, not understanding. "He has... come to his senses. You don't need to take part in tomorrow's mission. He's letting you recuperate for a few days."

Draco was silent. His face felt warm. His master was aware of his situation. He knew that, right now, he was just a burden...

"And who will be in charge of the mission?" he replied, gruffly. "I was the General of the Shadows who was going to —"

"Theodore can take your place at the meeting. And on tomorrow's mission," Narcissa proposed, gently. "They can make an exception to protocol, given your situation..."

Draco let out a disbelieving exhale.

"The Dark Lord won't allow —"

"He's given his approval, son," his mother specified, gently. "And your father will take care of the Nurmengard escape. Don't worry about that."

Draco could say nothing. He was burning inside with frustration and helplessness. He turned his face, and met his friend's blue eyes. Nott just nodded his head, shrugging his shoulders. Indicating that he was fine with it. Draco looked away again. Not overtly protesting, he gave him his silent approval to take his place.

Nott thanked Narcissa for her news and then walked out the door at a brisk pace, heading for the impending meeting. Leaving mother and son alone. Draco didn't move from his spot, though he knew he had to go. He wasn't doing anything there anymore, not without an opponent. He wanted to keep practising, he wanted to regain his duelling skills as soon as possible. He wanted to be useful. He needed to feel useful.

But he couldn't even rub one hand against the other. His left palm was stiff, and his fingers trembled with fatigue. He moved them gingerly, and as he did so, he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. His mother had positioned herself in front of him. And she had her wand in her hand.

Draco looked into her eyes, and she gave him a surprisingly calm look in return. As she moved into a graceful and professional combative position. With considerable ease despite the low mobility of her ostentatious scarlet robes.

"Go ahead, my dear. Attack me."

The corners of Draco's mouth trembled. The air that filled his lungs was full of gratitude. He moved into a combative position as well, and began to attack his mother.

---

Rubeus Hagrid was peeling potatoes. He planned to prepare one of the pheasants hanging from his ceiling, with a few stewed potatoes. Fang, lounging in his corner in front of the front door, wagged his tail enthusiastically. As if he approved of the dinner his master was about to treat him to. The hut was warmly lit by the fire in the fireplace, counteracting the darkness that was visible through the window panes. It was dark at night.

Leaning over a huge wooden bucket, into which he was pouring the potato chunks he was going to use, Hagrid didn't bother to raise his head when Fang began to bark loudly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him even get up from the floor.

"Easy, Fang," growled the gamekeeper, beneath his bushy beard. Without taking his eyes off the potatoes. But Fang continued to bark thunderously. "They'll be ready in a moment. Don' be impatient. Now I'll give yeh a piece o' jerky ter —"

But then Fang abruptly fell silent. So suddenly, that Hagrid did raise his head. Fang had fallen back down again, his head between his paws, his ears flat on his head. And his eyes were raised to something behind Hagrid. The half-giant frowned, but he didn't have time to make a single movement before he heard a cold, sharp voice behind him, "Good evening, Keeper of Grounds."

Hagrid got up in such a hurry that the bucket of potatoes went flying with a clatter of tubers and wood. The stool tipped over as well. He snatched up his pink umbrella, which was leaning against the side of the fireplace, and turned on his heel. But the umbrella flew off almost instantly, landing on the other side of the room, snatched from his hand by an instantaneous Disarming Charm from his opponent. Hagrid then stood motionless, gasping, unarmed, face to face with Lord Voldemort himself.

"Out o' my property," Hagrid said instantly, in his thunderous voice. Voldemort did not flinch. He merely gazed at him condescendingly.

"I regret to inform you that this is my property," he hissed back. "This — place you call home is on Hogwarts grounds. And Hogwarts is my property."

"Out o' my house," Hagrid repeated, straightening up even more. Fang whimpered behind him and Lord Voldemort fixed his eyes on him. Hagrid tensed slightly, clenching his huge fists. If he so much as touched a hair on Fang's head...

"Don't worry," Voldemort assured him, still staring at the dog. "I will be brief. My time is considerably valuable, as you can imagine." He began pacing the place. Looking at the pheasants on the ceiling with little interest. "I've come to see my former schoolmate because I know you're a member of the Order of the Phoenix..."

Hagrid let out a brave, disbelieving laugh.

"Tha's not —"

"It wasn't a question," Voldemort corrected in a very low voice. "You fought in the First Wizarding War. It was you who rescued Harry Potter as a baby from the ruins of his home. It was you who brought him to Hogwarts. I know your friendship with that boy. I know many things, Rubeus," he turned to look at the half-giant again. His red eyes glittered. "I also know that you are still in contact with the Order of the Phoenix after all these years. And they are still in contact with you. Which brings me to the reason for my visit," he waved his right hand in a quick flutter of his sleeve, and Hagrid saw that he had a long wand in his hand. "Right now, I don't know who to trust. I have a traitor in my ranks, Rubeus," he lamented coldly, almost to himself. His gaze was lost. "Someone who betrayed me at Godric's Hollow, and who has told the Order of Albus Dumbledore's whereabouts. I will not allow one more mistake. I will even the odds. And the Order will have a traitor in its ranks too," he looked at Hagrid again.

Hagrid glared at him with his black eyes burning."If yeh think I'm goin' ter betray —"

"Oh, you will. Of course you will," Voldemort asserted, undeterred. "I know they're planning something. And you are the only person at Hogwarts who is in contact with the Order of the Phoenix rebels. And so you're going to be very, very, useful to me in getting them to do what I want them to do." The Dark Lord's lips twitched into a smile as he raised his wand. Hagrid stepped back, his arms outstretched, shielding Fang with them. "If they contact you, I'll know about it... Imperio."

---

"— and we've lost all contact with Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. They belong to him. And we have no means of getting them back. The scales are not tipping in our favour, Albus."

After Remus's lengthy explanation, there was silence in the room. All eyes, with or without dissimulation, were fixed on the person occupying the narrow old bed in Grimmauld Place.

Albus Dumbledore, sitting with his back propped up on a pile of old pillows, covered to his waist with several blankets, stared at his bony, clasped hands. He was pensive.

The raid on Nurmengard had been a success. They had managed to rescue Dumbledore, thanks to Samantha's instructions, as well as six other people. Among them, Samantha's parents. And Samantha herself. And they had got out of there unscathed, before the Death Eaters realised what was happening.

Lord Voldemort was possibly the angriest person on the planet at the moment. Harry had been rubbing the old scar on his forehead and moaning in occasional pain since the night before. Sensing his adversary's fury.

As the third floor of Grimmauld Place, the one corresponding to the hospital ward, was considerably crowded, they had accommodated only Dumbledore in the house. In the same empty room that Draco had occupied weeks before. And they had moved the other prisoners to the other shelters. Three of the captives went to Andromeda Tonks' house, and the other three, which corresponded to Samantha and her parents, to Aunt Muriel's house. Hermione hadn't had a chance to go and talk longer with the young woman, but she knew she was safe and sound, and that was enough.

Tonks and Aberforth had questioned her in the hope of getting some insight into Voldemort's plans, but the girl knew hardly anything. And what she did know, she couldn't talk about. She could not even reveal the location of their headquarters, even though she had been housed there for years. There was a Fidelius Charm involved, which would only disappear with Lord Voldemort's death.

But she was able to talk about the attack on the schools. How she was responsible for getting into Beauxbatons through a secondary entrance. She had to be given a Calming Draught, overwhelmed as she was with guilt. She didn't know much about Durmstrang, but she could tell them that Voldemort had his own spy there. A boy whose name, really, she didn't know. They set out to find him, and it didn't take long. They managed to contact the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic, and got hold of communications and newspapers in the country, until they found the identity of some young man who had disappeared even three years before. Within two days they had the answer. An old student, a pupil of the late Igor Karkaroff, seemed to sympathise more than he should have with the Death Eaters. And he was the one who willingly helped them get in. Samantha saw his photograph and identified him without difficulty as the young man she had seen sporadically at Malfoy Manor.

Professor Dumbledore's blue eyes shone as brightly as they had before he had been at Nurmengard. His thin, haggard face had regained a modicum of colour after two hearty meals of hot food prepared by Molly, and several Invigoration Draughts. The professor's long silver beard, now clean and neatly combed, hid his mouth as he began to speak.

"I understand the concern and urgency about Voldemort having the schools in his possession. But that is a real concern in the medium to long term," he opined, his voice hoarse but firm. The room, occupied by more than ten people, was silent. "In the short term, he won't do anything to put those students at serious risk. He still has to train them, at least minimally, and that gives us an advantage. Even if he sends them into battle, as he did in the battle of the schools, you are not willing to harm them, and he knows it. Right now, it's that dragon we should be most concerned about."

"Charlie, my brother, wrote to us about it from Romania," Fred reported, sitting in a chair by the window. "He's an expert on dragons. He told us he knew the legend of Wyvern of Wye. The one about its battle against Sir Cadogan, and all that, but he'd always thought it was just that, a legend. No one has been able to study this dragon, so he has no information about it. In fact, he's always believed that such a creature couldn't exist."

"It is the oldest dragon in the wizarding world," Dumbledore corroborated in turn. "It is wise and powerful. I would go so far as to say it is the most powerful creature that ever walked this earth. In Voldemort's hands, it can do great harm. Under his spell, it is bound to obey him, and it will destroy anything that stands in its way if Voldemort commands it to do so. At the moment he's just learning how to use it. And that also gives us a small, brief advantage. It is now, or never. We have to release it from his yoke before he learns to control all of its abilities. Once he discovers and knows how to use its full potential and magic, he will be terrifying and unstoppable."

"He didn't want to serve Voldemort," Harry commented. He was the only one sitting on the edge of the bed next to his old headmaster. "Wyvern of Wye. He asked me to free him so that he wouldn't fall into his hands. But even though I freed him, he found him..." he added in a whisper. "I should have sought him out. I should have protected him better. Maybe I could have —"

"It's not your fault, Harry," Dumbledore whispered, unperturbed. His voice sounded soft and sympathetic. "You could never have protected him from Voldemort. This was bound to happen, and I'm sure Wyvern knew it too."

"Did you know that dragon was at Hogwarts?" Aberforth wanted to know then, looking at his brother coldly. Albus shook his head, unperturbed.

"Not at all. I had heard rumours, but no trace of the dragon was ever found in all the searches that were made. I know firsthand that Armando Dippet, my predecessor, searched for it ad nauseam..."

"Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hermione interjected, softly. "Can we do it? Can we free Wyvern of Wye from Voldemort's yoke?"

"I trust we can do it, Miss Granger," the old man corroborated. Looking at his former student with wide-awake eyes. "We had better succeed, or the whole wizarding world will fall without remedy."

"How are we going to do that?" Molly muttered from a corner, her plump arms folded. "He'll never neglect it long enough to —"

"Voldemort knows that, with the dragon, he won't lose any battles," Albus commented. "He will use it in them. Like he did in the battle of the schools. That's when it will be most unprotected. And that's when we'll be able to free it."

"We're in no condition to fight a pitched battle, Albus," Mad-Eye protested, standing near the bed. Leaning with both hands on his gnarled walking stick. "We still haven't recovered from the battle of the schools. And I don't think he would use the most powerful dragon in the world in a simple skirmish..."

"No, indeed, we need a battle. A big battle. A battle close enough for him to decide to bring in the dragon. Let him think that with its help alone he will defeat us," Dumbledore said. And a few seconds of silence followed those words. George let out a long whistle full of disbelief. Remus was shaking his head.

"We can't win such a battle," Moody protested, gruffly. Pointing out what they were all thinking. "Unless your intention is not to win... and only to finish off the dragon. Sacrifice the Order for that dragon."

"I never said to finish it off, only to free it from Voldemort's influence," Albus corrected him, raising his blue eyes to look at his old friend. "It is magically bound to Voldemort, but that bond can be broken. We have to get close to the dragon, though, it's the only way. But I don't intend to sacrifice anyone if I can help it."

"Is there no other way? Do we have to walk into the jaws of You-Know-Who, in a battle we know we can't win, just to free the dragon?" Tonks complained in a low voice.

"We can approach it another way, too," Dumbledore commented, arching his bushy white eyebrows.

"We could provoke it ourselves, bring them onto our turf?" Hermione ventured, her cheeks flushing.

"Indeed, Miss Granger. That would be a good option," the old professor corroborated warmly.

"Bring You-Know-Who onto our turf. To a ground we know. Where we feel safest," Ron muttered, almost to himself, from a nearby chair. "And trust him to bring the dragon with him to face us. Then we'll set it free."

"Get Hogwarts back," Harry whispered, his green eyes glowing in the gloom of the room. Dumbledore looked up at him. The corners of his lips turned up.

"Yes, Harry. I think it's about time. If I know Tom Riddle well enough, and I think I do, the thing that worries him most is losing Hogwarts. The bond he has with that castle is nothing like the bond he has with the other schools. He will do anything to keep Hogwarts in his possession."

"Perhaps he doesn't need the dragon," George protested from his corner. "As few as we are, maybe he doesn't consider us a threat. With You-Know-Who in the castle, surrounded by his fucking Death Eaters, he might be enough to finish us all off."

"George," his mother warned him, giving him a stern look at the swear word.

"I agree," Albus said, looking at George benignly. "But there may be one thing that works in our favour. Voldemort can't stand not being in control of the situation. And he won't be if we decide to attack Hogwarts in his absence. We'll make sure we do it when he's gone. By the time he realises what's going on, we won't let him in. And I'm convinced that, in a situation like this, he'll bring the dragon."

"And how will we know when he's not there?" Molly asked, narrowing her eyes.

"We'll contact Severus," Remus muttered, scratching his badly shaven cheek. "He might be able to warn us..."

"And wouldn't Hagrid be better?" Tonks suggested in turn, standing next to Remus, both of them with their backs against the curtained window. "Snape is too close to You-Know-Who. And he can't find out about this mission, or it'll all go down the drain."

"Rubeus is a good chance," Aberforth corroborated.

"It could work. We could kill two birds with one stone, at best," Lupin considered. "We'll take back Hogwarts and free the dragon in the same battle."

"We'll kill Voldemort, at best," corrected Harry, briskly.

"It's not the end goal we should have in mind for this battle, but it wouldn't be a bad outcome," Dumbledore admitted cautiously. "Let's focus on the dragon. It is our priority."

"With you, we can do anything," Harry stormed, rising to his feet. He exuded a strength as if he had drunk a glass of Firewhisky. He could feel the blood burning in his veins. Now they had a plan. And now they had Dumbledore. "Let's take back Hogwarts. Let's call everyone, and enlist as many allies as we can. Let's take back what belongs to us."

"Let's do it as soon as possible," Remus corroborated, with unexpected decisiveness, and the same gleam in his eyes, moving away from the window. "Let's not give them time to react. Let's make a plan and implement it, without giving anyone time to leak it into the enemy ranks."

"I'm afraid I've beaten you to it, dear Remus," said Dumbledore, straightening up, and showing for an instant that, beneath those old features, the greatest wizard of all time glowed stronger than ever. "I have a plan in mind. And I need the help of all of you. If you approve, I firmly believe it can work."

"Albus, you can't go into battle," Molly protested, looking at him with a concerned expression. "Your magic is too weak..."

Dumbledore sighed heavily, dropping back into his pillows.

"As always, you are right, Molly, my dear. Unfortunately, this old body is not what it used to be. I've been too long at the mercy of spells that weakened my magic. Tom has managed to make Nurmengard a monstrous place," he closed his eyes for a moment as if the memories were overwhelming him, but then he opened them again. "But it won't stop me from coming up with the best plan we can. I can give you all the information you need about Hogwarts. And let me tell you, erring on the side of egocentrism, that you won't find anyone who knows Hogwarts as well as I do. With the permission of Messrs Weasley here, and also Mr Moony," he ventured to joke, looking at them. Fred and George gave identical proud smiles. Lupin shook his head in amused resignation.

Harry grinned from ear to ear. He swept his gaze around the room, looking at all of his comrades, one by one. Watching their glowing, excited expressions. At last, luck was smiling at them. He finally stopped his gaze on Ron and Hermione, both of whom smiled back at him.

"Let's go."