Thirty-One

It's twilight when they arrive with a crack on the side of the N70 in County Kerry, on the banks of a creek, about two miles out of Kenmare. It's all fields and copses of trees and shrubs, and more trees line the creek and the roadside. Draco has side-along apparated with Potter, and he lets go of Potter's arm immediately, hands on his knees, coughing and gagging briefly as nauseated dizziness sweeps over him. He staggers further away from the road, bracing himself against a tree at the creek edge. Side-along apparation is always rougher on the passenger, but even so, Potter coughs and spits into the long grass.

Weasley, Creevey, and Johnson are with them; Weasley's leading the mission. Creevey has been shooting Draco dark looks since they'd gathered for their pre-mission briefing, at the mansion the Order had held Draco in during his debriefing process. Draco strongly suspects that he's going to have to watch himself around Creevey. He doesn't think the younger man will risk the mission to get at Draco, but he might do something stupid and inadvertently put them all at risk in his fixation on Draco. He doesn't know why Lupin let Weasley put them both on the same team, considering Lupin knows from the debrief that Draco killed Dennis, unless it's some kind of test for one or both of them. Or maybe Lupin just didn't think of it. He looks up, taking stock.

The wind is chill, but Draco's in a thick navy woollen jersey, dark jeans, and his own boots. He's not cold, just invigorated.

The stars are coming out, shining faintly between the foliage, and the dark water of the creek gleams with moonshine; the moon is about two-thirds full, and waxing. The road isn't busy with Muggle cars right now, but they're well back away from it anyway, hidden amongst the trees. The Snatcher encampment is about 300 metres southwest, according to Weasley's briefing. Potter is accompanying them on reconnaissance, but he won't be joining them for the assault in a few days. And whether Draco does is conditional on Weasley's approval.

"Everyone alright?" Weasley asks in a low voice, and they sound off alphabetically; Creevey, Johnson, Draco, and Potter. "Good. Let's go." The redhead leads the way, picking his way up along beside the creek through sparse undergrowth, feet quiet on the ground. Draco falls in behind him, beside Potter. He's just as quiet as Weasley, and he feels body memory kick in, old habits sliding back into place. His boots are careful, eyes flicking between the ground and the environment around him, avoiding larger twigs amongst the leaf litter and branches at head height alike. His breath is slow and controlled, his pulse a steady thud, heat radiating under his skin as he keeps his body alert, muscles ready.

He feels alive.

It's only reconnaissance – like he told Hermione as he kissed her goodbye on the porch, her expression worried, although she hadn't said a word against it. She'd just told Draco she loved him, her voice quiet and her eyes filled with unspoken fear. His heart had panged at that, and he'd nearly backed out. I'll be back before you wake up, he'd told her instead, thumb tracing her jaw from ear to chin, and she'd nodded, lips pressed together. And then Weasley and Potter had come barging out, having said their own farewells to Ginevra and Mrs Weasley inside, followed by Lupin at a more sedate pace and Johnson at the rear, all of them heading to meet Creevey at the mansion. Hermione had watched them go silently, forcing a smile for Potter and Weasley.

Really though, this part of the mission is nothing particularly risky or complicated. Not what they're doing tonight, and again tomorrow night. It just requires quiet, care, and patience. And the ability to cast a good Disillusionment Charm. The Snatchers have set up their camp under Death Eater instructions in Dunkerron Castle, a four-story stone tower house that has been ruined for many, many decades. A minor Muggle tourist attraction, the intelligence the Order has already gathered says that the Snatchers are using it as a base of operations. They're moving Muggle women and girls through the place.

The wards the Snatchers set around it are keeping Muggles at a short distance – sightseers and tourists losing interest in actually entering the old ruin once they get within about a few hundred metres. The Order members who have investigated up until now seem to think that the Snatchers are taking advantage of the tourists who wander to the edge of the wards – leisurely picking off any women who appear to be of childbearing age. The Order wants to take it out entirely, rescuing the Muggles in the process, but before they do that, they need to take proper stock of the situation.

Which is where Draco and the rest of their small team come in.

He ducks a low hanging branch, a clawed shape in the gloom, the trees they're wending through turning the twilight to full dark. They can use no lumos charms, though; those would give them away in a heartbeat. Draco is glad he has good night vision as he hears a stumble and crunch, and then Johnson swears under her breath. It won't be so bad once they start fanning out to survey the place. Once they're out in the open more – in the fields surrounding the tower – they'll have the moon, so long as the sky remains cloudless.

He hears Creevey and Johnson whisper to each other in low voices and rolls his eyes impatiently. If he were in charge, he'd shut them up, but Weasley just glances over his shoulder and lets it slide. Bad form, Draco thinks, silently judging. It's a strange thought. Whenever he went on missions as a Death Eater, a large part of him was hoping for the other members of his team to screw up. To give them away. To fuck the mission thoroughly. He never did – he wanted to remain blameless and above suspicion – but he was always pleased when the others did. Now, however, he wants perfection. If something goes wrong on this mission, Hermione will never let him out of her sight again. And he doesn't want that. They haven't even done anything yet, and he's loving this.

Weasley leads them up the embankment and over a little rise and then holds up a hand, and they all pull up to a halt. And Draco sees it just before Weasley points it out – lights, up ahead and off to the right, about a hundred metres away, half screened by several large trees. The tower, lit up by magical torchlight, as well as what looks like a small campfire. He can see the shapes of several people silhouetted black against the light of the leaping flames. "Disillusionment Charms," Weasley orders. Draco murmurs the charm, tapping the top of his head and feeling that cold, viscous feeling trickle down over him, as though he's cracked an egg on his head, the sensation lingering. It'll feel that way as long as the charm is active. The people around him disappear, leaving only vague ripples in the air when they move. Distortions of the world.

"Alright, everyone," Weasley begins. There's a casualness to him still, but he's different out here – alert and cool, an air of leadership radiating off him as he assumes – correctly – that everyone knows what to do. They had gone over the mission plan thoroughly during their briefing; there's nothing they should need to discuss now. "Remember, stay out of range of the wards. And when in doubt, retreat. We're coming back tomorrow, so don't give us away just for the hope of more information. Yes?" There's a quiet murmur of assent. "Off you go, then. Meet you back here in three hours. Set your timers." They all wear small wristbands that will pulse when the time is up; Draco presses his now and feels a single pulse as it activates.

And then he crouches low and heads off in the direction discussed. He's circling right around from behind, heading further south than most of the others, and then right out to the west past the castle, followed by Creevey, who won't be going as far west as him. It seems as though Creevey is the least experienced member of the team, and Weasley has given him the safest placement, besides Potter. Weasley is going toward the western side from the north approach, followed by Johnson, while Potter remains nearest the creek. Draco's fairly sure the Boy-Who-Lived isn't happy about that, from his expression during the briefing. The wind bites deeper as Draco skirts the encampment, out in the open with no trees for cover, staying low and moving silently, eyes always shifting, scanning the area. There could be patrols of Snatchers around the tower, and the last thing they need is to be so focused on the tower that they run smack dab into a patrol.

Draco circles around and finally finds a good vantage point out to the southwest. After casting a number of revealing charms as he approaches, he manages to get within about fifty metres of the tower, in the shelter of a rather prickly shrub. The wards the Snatchers have to alert them to intruders are haphazard, badly set, and fairly close to the tower proper. He supposes they haven't had any reason to be worried about an attack. Yet. He goes to his belly in the grass and dirt, his wand clutched in his right hand, muttering a charm for far-seeing. And then the next three hours spin out like years.

It gets chillier, and he casts a warming charm. A Snatcher who appears to be on a meandering patrol wanders within about twenty metres of him and pisses into another bush; Draco is exceedingly grateful it wasn't his bush. His knees begin to ache, his legs slowly going numb no matter how much he wriggles his toes inside his boots. His elbows hurt. His neck. It sucks, and it's boring, and time drags. It's fucking fantastic.

He's doing something. And sure, it's just surveillance, and tomorrow will be too, but then the night after that, they have a tentative plan to attack. And Draco could be in on that – he could be part of that attack. He could be involved in capturing or killing the Snatchers and saving the Muggle women and girls currently held there. Saving them instead of mercy-killing them. Instead of passively watching them be raped into dull, blank objects, or tortured to death, or shoved into the dungeons to waste away. He might actually be able to do something good. And fuck, he's so hungry for that. Desperate.

So Draco stays alert as time oozes by like treacle. He counts the individual Snatchers he sees, and the lights at the windows. He takes mental note of the drifts of conversation that carry across to him. And he slowly puts together their patterns of movement from 6 pm to 9 pm – the time they plan to attack. The hours from dusk until full dark. He hears women crying and his jaw clenches. It makes him remember things he'd rather forget. He thinks of Hermione, his heart aching, and he shoves thoughts of her aside and focuses on the moment. The people, the numbers, the movements, the data. He'll only have pieces of it, but between them all, the team should be able to put together a fairly full picture at the debrief afterwards. And then tomorrow, they'll double-check and make sure nothing major has changed.

And if it's all still fairly similar, they'll assault the place the following night. Draco thinks of that with relish, knowing Weasley isn't likely to prevent him from joining the assault. He almost feels sorry for Potter, getting to do all the boring grunt work and take none of the dangerous, thrilling glory.

Full dark falls and the sky is a beautiful bowl above when he eventually rolls over to give his body a break and looks up, the moon a gleaming semicircle, and the MilkyWay spilling out across the velvet black, surrounded by the freckling of shining stars, strewn thick and beautiful. A woman screams, a sound that breaks into a series of choking sobs, before rising into a wail that cuts off sharply, and the beauty is shattered. His lips press together. He feels sick as he rolls back over and stares at the tower, but he can see no sign of the woman. Silence reigns again, save the faint murmur of conversation and laughter, the clinking of bottles, the occasional scuff of feet on the ground as a lone Snatcher patrols past.

Finally, just when Draco is starting to want to beat his head against the ground out of sheer boredom, his wristband begins to pulse. He presses it and slides out from under the bush, alert and aware, a groan held behind his lips as his body protests movement. He circles cautiously around, heading eastward almost to the creek before he begins to move north. He removes the Disillusionment Charm before he reaches the meeting point, once he's down by the creek, because he can't stand the slippery cold feeling a minute longer than he has to.

And that's when the depulso hits him. A hard smack against his side that knocks the wind clean out of him and makes his ribs groan as he goes flying back into the creek, hitting a rock hard with the small of his back. Bewilderment hits him along with the pain. He saw no one. Draco would have seen one of the Snatchers, surely. With an effort, he just barely keeps the yelp of pain that bubbles up on impact locked behind his lips – silence, silence is key. He struggles to his feet, dripping wet and smeared with mud, his wand still clutched tight in his hand and at the ready, when he sees a shape unveil from beneath a Disillusionment Charm. He's about to snarl a lethal curse, the incantation on his lips when he realises it's Creevey.

It's fucking Creevey. Rage boils through him at the realisation. Draco nearly killed the idiot. Creevey nearly compromised the whole Merlin-damned mission with that ambush. The stupid, vengeance-addled little shit. Draco flicks his wand, and the idiot's wand comes zipping into Draco's hand before Creevey can even react. Pathetic. Another flick and the man is silenced – unable to make a sound even if he tries. And then Draco is surging across the creek and up the muddy embankment, Creevey's wand jammed in his back pocket, fucking furious.

The younger man's face is twisted with anger, and he's mouthing something as he marches forward to meet Draco, but Draco has more momentum and weight behind him. He seizes Creevey by the front of his jersey and his arm and lifts him off his feet before he slams him down against the muddy ground, hard. Hard enough to smack the wind out of the other man. He crouches over him, lifting him and slamming him down again, and then as Creevey rolls half onto his side, winded and silently wheezing and gasping for air, Draco drives his knee into Creevey's diaphragm once – pauses – twice.

Creevey's face is dark red in the moonlight, and he's gasping silently like a fish, eyes streaming tears of pain as his gaze rolls up to meet Draco's, the whites showing all the way around as Draco leans down over him. His hand fits to the man's throat, and something wild and hot beats in his chest as he squeezes. "If you wanted payback, you little shit," he snarls into Creevey's ear, "this is what you should have done." He lets Creevey's throat go, sharply. "You silence and disarm your target first. You don't risk the mission by letting me yell out. Or kill you. You fucking idiot." He stands – back and ribs killing him – and yanks Creevey's wand out of his back pocket, dropping it beside his face. "Now get up," he tells him scathingly, lifting the silencio.

He waits for Creevey to get up and then follows behind him, listening to his nearly silent, quivering breaths, feeling deeply conflicted. He's faintly ashamed for unleashing on Creevey like that, but Salazar's sake, it had felt good. He thinks perhaps the younger man had forgotten Draco was a Death Eater. He was so used to seeing Draco as a prisoner, Creevey had forgotten he was a seasoned, dangerous duellist and fighter. He hadn't survived for over three years as a Death Eater by being incompetent.

He follows Creevey in silence, boots squelching wetly and jeans rubbing uncomfortably until he uses his head and casts a drying charm. He doesn't bother with a scourgify. He'd rather just have a hot shower when he gets back to the safe house later. A bit of dried mud won't hurt him, although his jeans do feel stiff. He's pretty sure his arse is printed with mud, and up the back of his jersey as well. The small of his back feels badly bruised and swollen, radiating heat, but there's nothing he can do about that. He's not about to show his back to any of the Order members so they can put on the dittany or bruise cream they all carry, and he can't reach to do it himself. So he grits his teeth and walks on.

When they reach the meeting point, the others are all already gathered there, although it seems like Weasley has only just turned up. They all look toward the two approaching men as Creevey ducks between two shrubs, Draco in his wake. "All good?" Weasley asks, uncertain, no doubt able to feel the dull anger radiating off Draco and Creevey's discomfort, although in the dark, he won't be able to see any sign of the scuffle – certainly not front on, at least.

"Yeah." He nods at Weasley. Talking about what Creevey has done can wait until they're safely back at the mansion, debriefing.

"Y-yes," Creevey adds, surprised, shooting Draco a wary glance.

"Good. Let's go then; we'll disapparate from here."

Draco lands at the gate to the mansion grounds with a jolt and gulps down his nausea, pressing his fist against his stomach and clearing his throat hard. Ugh. He shakes his head and lifts it to look down the driveway to the moonlit manor house the Order is currently using as their organisational hub. A small shudder runs through him. It looks eerily like Voldemort's mansion tonight. There are small crunching sounds as the others land on the fine gravel around him, and the sound of Johnson retching.

Success, Draco thinks as he looks around and sees everyone there, igniting lumos charms rather unnecessarily. The mission had been as easy as he'd thought it would be, aside from Creevey's little trick. And just as satisfying as he'd hoped. "Come on, everyone. Time to head in for debriefing," Weasley says, and they all start off, feet crunching on the driveway. Draco jolts as Weasley claps him on the shoulder in an almost comradely fashion.

"What happened to you? Fall in the creek?" The redhead grins with a kind of vicious humour, a hard, focused edge about him that Draco thinks is from the mission. There's always adrenaline and tension, even on simple reconnaissance missions; Draco's feeling that himself, and enjoying it. He feels sharp and alive, hyperfocused on what is happening around him rather than how he feels inside or what he's done in the past. He exists viscerally, wonderfully in the moment.

"Sort of." Draco grimaces. He shoots a glance at Creevey, who is walking off to one side, keeping to the shadows. "Creevey may have helped."

"He is a bit clumsy," Weasley agrees, hands in his pockets, and Draco shakes his head.

"No. He came up behind me on the way back. Used a depulso on me and blew me into the fucking creek. I wouldn't say anything now because I'm fine, except he jeopardised the mission doing that. If I'd made a sound or been badly hurt…"

Weasley's face transforms with anger. "He what? I mean, I don't blame him for wanting to," he says wryly, "but –"

"You know about Dennis?" Draco asks, his voice tight, before he realises too late that Weasley was just making a joke. The redhead's expression shifts to one of delayed comprehension.

"Oh shit." He shoots Creevey a look and slows his pace, the two men dropping back behind the others, Weasley waving Potter on when he gives them a curious look. "I did read that. Merlin's balls, I totally forgot. You –" he lowers his voice further "– killed Dennis."

"Nott Sr had set him on fire," Draco gets out through clenched teeth, feeling guilt writhe up in his gut. "He was going to burn to fucking death. I ended it quickly."

There's distaste and horror on Weasley's face, but he nods. "I'm betting Colin doesn't see it that way, though."

"No. He doesn't."

"Well, shit. You should've said."

Draco shrugs. "You might have dropped me from the mission, rather than Creevey. Besides, I didn't think he'd be so damned stupid."

"Hm. This could be an issue. I can't just let him do that. But –"

"I already made it clear to him not to do it again," Draco says, expression grim, and Weasley huffs a slightly concerned laugh.

"Should I ask? Is that why he keeps looking over his shoulder at you like he's afraid you're going to jump him?" They're nearly at the house now; Johnson and Potter ascending the stairs. Draco shakes his head.

"You can ask him. I'm sure you will. But I just roughed him up a bit," he says honestly. "Told him to do it silently, next time."

"Hah, giving him tips, Malfoy?"

"Why not?"

"So how do I deal with this, then?" Weasley's watching him out of the corner of his eye as they approach the stairs, and Draco gets the feeling the question is a test.

"I don't know. Ask Lupin." He shrugs, nerves jangling as he sees the opportunity to go back out to Kenmare slipping through his fingers. He stops at the bottom of the stairs and fixes Weasley with a steady gaze. "I want to stay on the mission, and I don't have an issue with Creevey being there. Or with him hating me. That's fine. But he needs to keep it together when we're out there." Weasley's silent for a moment, and then he nods.

"Yeah. Shit. I'll talk to Lupin, then."

The debrief goes on for hours. They sit around the table in the briefing room and start off by writing down everything they recall as they drink strong cups of tea or coffee – Draco has coffee – while the information is still fresh in their minds. When he's done, Draco gets up to find a bathroom. It hurts to piss, and his urine is faintly pink-streaked. He swears under his breath and lifts his jersey, craning his neck to look in the bathroom mirror. Fuck. There's a rather swollen, violet-red bruise about the size of his hand, right over his right kidney. He curses Creevey under his breath as he returns to the briefing room. Hermione's going to be upset when she sees that.

Maybe it'll help that Creevey gave it to him, Draco thinks hopefully, still in that tactical headspace. It wasn't the mission; it was Creevey. She might be upset, but she won't need to be worried. He glares at the man when he sits back down at the table.

Eventually, Lupin magically makes copies of their notes and skims through them, and then they share their information, figuring out total numbers, patrols, defences, and any patterns that had emerged during the three hours they'd been out there. Only six Snatchers, they think by the end of their debriefing, including the two patrolling. There are potentially a few more inside, with the women, but of course, they can't know their numbers. No more than another six, and probably only two or three. It's nearly midnight before they're done, and Lupin asks Creevey to stay behind when he dismisses the others. Draco raises a brow, wondering if the lycanthrope wants him to stay, but Lupin just gives him a tired smile and flaps a dismissive hand at him.

Interesting, and hopeful. If Lupin doesn't need him there, maybe he isn't about to take him off the mission.

"Are you coming?" Potter asks as they traipse through the mansion, and Draco stops in the entrance hall, leaning against the wall instead of heading out the door.

"I'm waiting for Lupin. And Creevey," he says, having already decided on a probable course of action, and Potter looks confused. Weasley explains, saving Draco the trouble of doing it, although his explanation is typically Weasley in flavour – short, unflattering, and lacking nuance. Johnson grimaces and shoots them all an uncomfortable look, eyes lingering on Draco before she says she's heading back to the safe house. Potter and Weasley stay, somewhat unexpectedly.

"So what's your plan, Malfoy?" Potter asks, sounding genuinely curious as he leans against the opposite wall, beside Weasley, fiddling with his wand – Draco's old wand. "Why are you sticking around?"

"I want to see what Lupin says," he prevaricates. Not untrue, but he could do that back at the safe house, and they all know it. "Why are you two sticking around?"

"Eh. Making sure you don't kill Colin too," Weasley says laconically, shrugging, and Potter makes a horrified, strangled laugh.

"Hm." Draco resists the urge to snap. He shoves his hands in his pockets and waits, silent as Potter and Weasley make quiet, inane conversation. Hermione says there's a rift between the two of them, but Draco doesn't really see it. They still seem joined at the hip. There's a tension and strain that arises between them at times – both of them seemed displeased when Lupin went over the fact that Potter wouldn't be able to join them on the assault, for instance, but they seem fine otherwise. They talk, and they certainly manage to gang up on Draco well enough. He supposes he's never had close enough friends to understand what Hermione's talking about.

The friendships he'd had were all relationships of convenience and mutual benefit, in the end, and as soon as they'd stopped being useful to one or both parties, they'd faded away. Draco gets the feeling Potter and Weasley – and Hermione – are all more like family, except Hermione's drifted apart from them now. What has happened has cut her off; she's been isolated and altered by what happened. Broken, he thinks, jaw clenched, back aching, his head tipped back against the wall as he waits. But hopefully, she's healing. Although he knows there's no way she'll ever be the person she was before.

It takes nearly half an hour for footsteps to approach, and Potter and Weasley are both looking distinctly bored, having fallen silent a short while ago. Draco pushes off the wall, straightens, and catches sight of Creevey walking quickly down the corridor, staring at his feet. The shorter, skinnier man looks thoroughly chastised, his expression angry and resentful. Huh. Draco had been expecting the cards to fall in Creevey's favour to some extent, but Creevey just looks miserable, and Draco sees his eyes are red-rimmed when he looks up. He groans and looks nervous when he sees Draco there, but slightly reassured by the presence of Potter and Weasley.

"What do you want, Death Eater?" he asks, jutting his chin up defiantly, and his voice is rough and wet, like he's been crying.

"What did Lupin say?" Draco counters.

"That I'm off the damned mission if I can't 'work professionally' with you." Creevey sounds disbelieving and utterly betrayed. He scowls at Draco, ignoring the other two. "He wants me to play nicely with you. After what you did!" Draco's silent, hands still in his pockets as Creevey marches up to him. "You're a fucking murderer."

Draco swallows. "Yes," he says. Creevey makes a harsh, angry scoff.

"Don't play this fucking game. You killed my brother. In cold blood. You cut his throat." Creevey's face is a mask of anger. "He was barely sixteen, and you fucking killed him!"

"Nott had set him alight. Would you have preferred I let him burn to death?" Draco inquires calmly, quirking a brow, and Potter makes a horrified sound. Creevey's punch is not unexpected, but Draco can't help flinching. The other man catches him square in the mouth, and he feels his top lip split. Fuck, it stings. He resists the urge to put his hands up to shield his face and holds one hand out to stop Weasley and Potter from intervening, although, in honesty, it didn't look like they'd been going to. They were watching with interest.

"Hitting me won't bring him back, Creevey," Draco says, and little flecks of blood burst from his mouth. One spray spatters Creevey's cheek. "I still killed him." Creevey's eyes swim with tears. He holds up his wand in threat, and Draco swears internally, although he'd been half-expecting it. He grabs for the thing, and there's a brief struggle before Draco elbows Creevey in the throat and then rips the man's wand from his hands, tossing it toward Potter and Weasley. Potter catches it, bright eyes wide and startled behind his glasses. And then Creevey smashes his forehead into Draco's nose, and pain blooms as sharp as broken glass through his sinuses.

Fuck. He staggers back against the wall.

"You fucking cunt," Creevey gasps, rasping thanks to Draco's elbow, and hits Draco again, a punch to the stomach this time. "You murdering fucking scum." Again, a fist to the stomach, and Draco wonders why he thought this was a good idea. He doesn't fight back, though. He's committed to the course of action. Creevey grabs him by the jersey and tries to slam him back against the wall, but he's not strong enough, and Draco just stumbles back against it slightly. They're eye to eye. Bloodshot, grieving blue locked to Draco's cold grey, probably also wet – with tears thanks to his damned nose.

"See this – this is the way you sort it out, Creevey," he chokes as they stand there facing each other for a moment. "Like this. Not on a fucking mission."

"Fuck you!" Creevey slams his open hand against the wall by Draco's face, and he flinches despite himself.

"I didn't have a choice, Creevey," he says, mouth swollen and nose almost certainly broken – nasal and slurring. "You think I wanted to do it? I fucking didn't. But I don't regret it."

"He was sixteen! He was still just a kid! You fucking monster." Creevey backs up, staring at Draco helplessly, tears running down his cheeks. "You fought on their side! You killed innocent people! Tortured them! And now you're here, and I have to look at you. To look at the bastard who took my brother away, and I'm not allowed to even bloody hurt you. Not allowed to give you what you deserve." The younger man's fists are clenched, his shoulders rising and falling raggedly with his breaths.

"Well. Now's your chance, Creevey." Draco spreads his hands wide at his sides, grinning. "Take it. Get your kicks in. I doubt you'll find it as fun as you think it'll be, though."

He certainly doesn't find it fun, although there is a certain cleansing absolution that comes with having the shit kicked out of him for the minute or so Creevey gets before a slightly horrified Potter and Weasley yank him off Draco, writhing and swearing, and still lashing out. Draco lies on the floor on his back, panting and trying to orient himself as Potter and Weasley sort Creevey out.

"Go home, Colin," he hears Potter say. "Go home, and get some sleep."

"But he – he –" Creevey says, sobbing, as Draco pants through the pain in his diaphragm and ribs that flares brighter whenever he takes a breath, and he tries to figure out what hurts and what doesn't. Thank Merlin for the dittany, he thinks. He'll need it.

"He's done a lot of shit, to a lot of people," Weasley cuts in, cold and hard, and Draco shuts his eyes, misery churning through him. "I read his debrief. But – shit, I can't believe I'm saying this, Colin, but he was our man, almost from the beginning. He didn't want to do what he did. He didn't want to do any of it –"

"But he still did!"

"Yeah, well… That's the shit part, innit?" Weasley says, and Draco tries not to cry. That is indeed the shit part, he thinks. Weasley – as eloquent as always. And yet, absolutely correct. He tunes out the short exchange that follows, focusing on the blood whooshing in his head. And then something nudges his thigh. He opens his eyes. Weasley and Potter's faces swim into view above him. He thinks Weasley was prodding him with a booted foot.

"I feel like he gets off on being hit. I swear to Merlin." That's Weasley, grimly amused.

"Christ, Malfoy. Do you hate yourself or something?" Potter, sounding slightly horrified.

Draco laughs and gurgles blood, spitting it onto the floor. A molar feels loose in its socket. Hermione is going to be so mad. "What gave it away?" he slurs on a gasp, rolling onto his side with a pained groan, and from there onto all fours, slowly. "Fuck, that hurts."

"I bet." Potter holds out a helping hand, but Draco waves him off. He pushes to his feet, stumbling, wobbling, and making for the wall, which helps hold him up. "Episkey," Potter says twice in a row, and Draco's nose snaps back into place, and then his lip seals. Ouch.

"Thanks," he mumbles, and Potter nods, shrugging.

"Come on," Weasley says. "Creevey's gone home, and so should we. Hermione will be worried." He shoots Draco a sideways glance, clearly uncomfortable with the sentence he'd just had to say. "And I'm tired."

Draco shoves off from the wall with a groan, falling in behind Potter and Weasley. His recently injured knee is sore again – Creevey kicked it – but otherwise he thinks he'll be fine. Just a few bumps and bruises. The other two men had yanked Creevey off Draco before he could do too much damage. The night air slaps some sense into him as they step out the door, heading toward the disapparation point and Hermione, and Draco sighs, his breath a cloud of steam in the air.

Overall, tonight has been a good night.