Thirty-Three

For every two steps forward, there's always a shuffle back.

Hermione wakes from uneasy dreams the next morning, having suffered a restless, nightmare-ridden sleep, and turns to Draco, looking to have him sweep away the clinging negativity. There's something delightful about morning sex, Hermione is discovering. Still hazy with sleep, limbs lax and lazy, a hum of energy buzzing through her, not yet tired and beaten down by a long, exhausting day. The sun spills pale gold warmth over their bodies, and everything feels fresh and new.

"Morning," Draco says, warmth in his voice, eyes shifting from the parchment in his hand to her and then back again. He's been awake for a while already, she thinks drowsily as she watches him, sitting there looking through what she suspects is the debrief report assembled by Lupin. There's a coffee on his bedside table – she checks and yes, he got her one too, and from the steam curling off the surface, he charmed it to stay hot. She smiles at that, feeling deliciously warm inside. When she rolls to him, Draco sets his papers aside, all his attention shifting to her. And when her hand creeps to his crotch and she smiles meaningfully, he's all too happy to oblige her desires.

Everything feels delicious and sweet as Hermione kisses him, tasting coffee hot and bitter on his tongue. Hedonistic. She sheds her clothes like autumn leaves, and the sun streaming across the bed is a balm on her skin as she lies there, watching him strip too. Draco's shirt comes off over his head in one drag, and he's lean, like a big cat – all svelte, sleek, and wiry. She loves the sight of him. His boxers come down next, and he's already hard as he stretches out beside her and kisses her gently, his hand smoothing over her side. And then they sink into the bedding, pressing together, entangled as they kiss.

Eventually, his mouth goes from her lips to her bare shoulder, her stomach, her hip, and then her clit. She lies back with her fingers curled in the short strands of his hair, and comes with a gasping, sighing moan. And then she tugs at his hair, pulling him up her body, over her, fitting against her so perfectly, and she moans as his cock slides inside her. He's lighting up her nerve endings, bliss rippling through her as he moves above her, held up on his hands, and then his elbows, her hands clutching at his shoulders as she holds him close to her.

It's something in the way he mouths at her throat. He's done it before without any issue, and Hermione can't remember it being done to her then, but regardless, this time, right now, it flips a switch in her head. Suddenly a sick, crawling sensation digs through her belly, cold and slimy. She wants his mouth off her – the ticklish, tingling arousal shooting from her neck to her clit feels wrong. Repulsive. His cock inside her feels invasive, and shameful, and makes her want to scream. The weight of him over her, up on his elbows, feels heavy and suffocating.

Hermione stiffens, a low moan escaping her throat, frozen, eyes screwed shut, as Draco's head stays bent to her throat, his mouth nipping and licking, his hips moving, slowly stroking a wretched pleasure into her cunt. She hates it, but she can't seem to move, or speak. If she could, he'd stop in an instant. He would, she knows. But she's lying there like a slab of meat, the words trapped on her tongue, her hands leaden. She whimpers again, opening her eyes and trying and failing to speak, and perhaps he feels how stiff she suddenly is because he lifts his head and looks at her. She doesn't know what he sees in her face, but it must be terrible because he goes ashen and horrified, and shoves up from her without pause.

His cock slides out as he kneels upright between her legs, and she goes scooting back, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her. Eyes shut, face buried against it, distress and embarrassment searing through her as she tries not to lose herself in muddled, nightmarish memories. Faces, pain, and hands. Other…things. She retches into the pillow, gagging, trying not to throw up.

"Shit. Hey, it's alright," Draco says softly, his voice tight, sounding out of breath. "You're safe. You're safe, and you're in control. You're the one who has control," he goes on, and Hermione feels the bed sheet being draped lightly over her arms and body as she huddles forward, clinging to the pillow, her eyes still closed and her stomach roiling as she presses her lips tightly together. She feels like vomiting. She's crying quietly, wetting the pillow with her tears. "It's alright," Draco repeats, and Hermione clenches her jaw, trying to let the words sink in. Trying to accept it. "It's over," he tells her, and she takes a juddering breath and lifts her head with an effort, opening her eyes.

There are two wet marks on the pillow. She shoves it aside and pulls the sheet up under her armpits, arms wrapped around her knees as she meets Draco's gaze. He's sitting on the bed edge turned to face her, in his boxers and – inside out – t-shirt already, his hair mussed and his expression fraught with worry for her and guilt that he shouldn't be feeling. "Hermione?" he asks carefully, and she rubs her eyes and swallows hard, still feeling sick. Still fighting the feeling of violation.

"I'm okay," she whispers and holds out a hand to him, letting him know it's okay to touch her. Draco looks grim and sad as he settles onto the bed beside her, and she shuffles over to him, under the sheet still, and presses up against him. His arm comes down tight around her.

"I'm sorry," he says, and there's strain in his voice. Uncertainty, and misery.

"It's not your fault."

"What triggered it?" When this happens, whether it's while they're just kissing or more than, Draco likes to know what set her off. Hermione doesn't particularly like telling him because she notices that, of course, he then tries to avoid doing whatever it was. Not on purpose. But subconsciously, he seems to be avoidant. And sometimes it's as simple as a touch to her side – or like this, a kiss to her neck – and he's done it before without any problem, and probably could do so again. Right this minute, even. Or, well, in an hour's time, perhaps. But sometimes things just go wrong. Maybe she shouldn't have tried to chase away her clinging bad dreams with sex. Hermione sighs, her arm draped over his waist, her head on his chest.

"The way you kissed my neck," she admits unhappily but honestly. "It's never been a problem before. It just…felt wrong this time."

"Okay," he says simply. Just that. Okay. The simplicity takes half the tension out of Hermione. And then he kisses the crown of her head, and they lie there for a while in a restful, easy silence before he runs his fingers up and down her arm. Soothing and nice. "Do you want your coffee? I can round up your clothes if you like," he offers, and Hermione smiles. Her clothes ended up everywhere. Leggings flung across the room, t-shirt on the bed, knickers on the floor somewhere.

"Yes, please," she says, watching him with love sharp in her chest as he patiently gathers up her things, the possibility of sex – or him coming – entirely set aside without comment or complaint. They can always try again later, Hermione thinks.

"I'm scared," she admits, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring up at Draco with worry churning in her gut as he pulls on the dark, woollen jersey he wears for missions. The first rays of the setting sun shine bloody through the window. They're leaving for the Order's mansion now and disapparating to Kenmare at 7 pm, two hours from now. Earlier than initially planned, but Ron wants to get there early enough to do some last-minute reconnaissance before they go in, in case the situation has changed.

"I'll be fine, Hermione," he says, eyes flicking to her as he tugs his sleeve down over his wand holster. His eyes are grave, his features set and calm, giving nothing away. He's already in that cold, composed state he sinks into before a mission – so similar to how he'd been at Voldemort's mansion, much of the time. Like a statue. Always wearing a mask, both visually and mentally, his surface thoughts kept well hidden from his Master. But then Draco smiles, faintly. And he takes her hand and tugs her to her feet, pulling her into a hug. He's not the same as he was then.

"Honestly. I'll be fine. I've been in far more dangerous situations as a Death Eater and come out unscathed. I'm good at this, Hermione. I'll be home by 2 am if it all goes smoothly." He rubs her back. He smells like soap and wool. "You can apparate over to the estate if you want. Wait with Lupin. I should be back there by midnight, for the debrief."

"Maybe I will apparate over before midnight then," she says, still unhappy, holding fistfuls of his jersey. It's been three days of stress and worry, ever since his first damn mission. She wouldn't stop him now – she couldn't, not now she sees how much it means to him. He's in his element, out in the field. By Ron and Harry's accounts, he's careful, efficient, and very skilful, and when he gets back, he's filled with a focused, alert kind of energy that radiates off him. Purpose – that's what it is, she realises as she looks up at him now and sees it in his expression, her hands still fisted in his jersey at his sides. He has a purpose. Hermione can't take that away from him.

"I'm going to try to work this evening, though," she says, forcing a smile. "Distract myself."

"That's a good plan." He kisses her temple, trying to reassure her. Hermione is not reassured.

"Hi, Hermione." Hannah pokes her head into Lupin's office, looking windblown and pink-cheeked, in a thick jersey, and Hermione automatically checks the time. It's nearly 6 pm. Draco will be apparating into Kenmare in an hour, along with Ron, Angelina, Colin, and Tonks. It's really not enough people, but then the Order doesn't have enough people. Harry is sitting the mission out despite many fraught arguments about it with Lupin, Ron taking Harry's side, of course.

"Hi, Hannah." She adds, "What's up?"

The blonde girl usually never turns up in Lupin's office, and she looks like a witch on a mission – she has a satchel over her shoulder and digs through it as she crosses the office. Hannah yanks out a thick sheaf of parchments, all tied up with string and checks the label attached. "I'm playing messenger owl today, and you're my second-to-last delivery – I've got some new intelligence for Lupin, or so I've been told." The sheaf of parchments hits the desk with a thud, and then Hannah rifles through again, yanking out a much slimmer file. "And these are some documents for you to decipher – and probably generally organise," she tacks on with a grin, passing the file to Hermione.

"Thanks," Hermione says genuinely. The others tease her gently at mealtimes about being a swot, as if they're still back at Hogwarts, studying. They don't seem to understand that the satisfaction of being able to crack a Death Eater code is comparable to a successful raid, for her. Anyone with a decent, logical brain could do what she does, but Hermione has a knack for seeing patterns and an ability to bury herself in her work for hours without being overwhelmed by frustration. It makes her good at it.

Now that she can't bring herself to fight, it's the best way she can contribute. And it helps that she can do it any time of the day or night, tucked away in Lupin's quiet office, usually alone. The stress is low, and if she's having a bad day, she can usually either set the work aside for later or, sometimes, lose herself in her work. She's useful but not essential, and that's how she likes it.

Hannah had said 'second-to-last delivery'. "Where are you headed next?"

"Grimmauld," Hannah says and blushes. Long since re-secured and made safe for Order use, it's often used as a hub and waypoint. People stay there short-term in between assignments, they meet there for romantic assignations, and they leave news and messages for family and friends. "I have a letter from Neville's grandmother for him," she says, which explains the blush. "She sent it to his last safe house, but as it turns out, he'd moved on to Grimmauld already. He's waiting for permission to set up a post at the Shrieking Shack."

"God, really?" Hermione grimaces. "I suppose it could be useful, but it's deep in territory controlled by Death Eaters." It's a risky move. She remembers a time when she would've considered doing something like that herself, with Harry and Ron. Not any more. The idea makes her feel cold with dread and fear. The possibility of recapture makes her feel more frightened than anything else, now, aside from Draco being captured or killed. Hermione wants to think that if she's captured, she'll be decisive enough to kill herself rather than consign herself to the horrendous suffering she knows will come, but she's afraid she won't. Not if she knows Draco is still out there, alive.

He'd come for her, whether she's alive or dead. Rescue, or vengeance.

She shivers, trying to shake off her dark thoughts as Hannah speaks.

"Well, you know Neville." The other witch beams with unconscious adoration, flipping her hair back over her shoulder as she straps her satchel shut and pulls her wand out of her arm holster. "If he's suggesting it, he probably has a good plan." She smiles at Hermione. "Anyway, I should go. I'll see you soon, at dinner!" Hermione isn't sure if she'll bother with dinner, but she nods and smiles at Hannah anyway as the witch whisks out of the room with a wave, clearly keen to get to Neville. And Hermione turns her attention to the file in her hands.

By 8 pm, Hermione has sorted her work into three rough piles; completed, needs to be done in the next few days, and doesn't need decoding, just organising. She can't stop worrying about Draco. And Ron, and the others, but honestly, more Draco. So much more. They'll be about to make their move soon if they haven't already, and panic is rising in her chest. She's so afraid. What if he's captured? They'll take him to Voldemort, and oh god, she knows what the sadistic monster will do. He'll make it slow. He'll make Draco beg for death, and then withhold it. He'll –

Her thoughts spiral down, and Hermione finds herself burying her head in her hands and breathing slowly and carefully, trying not to panic. She needs a distraction. She looks up, gulping down her tears, and her gaze falls on Lupin's file. Maybe she can get it preemptively organised and ready for him. Hermione pulls it over and undoes the string, opening up the stack of parchment only to be greeted by a MACUSA emblem. She flips the folder open, and a face she knows is grinning out of the magical photo on the top file. Suddenly, her panic goes from a hum to a roar.

She snatches up the file and tosses it down next to the pile, which reveals another familiar face. She swallows down bile. This is a distraction, certainly. Of the worst kind. A horrible, sick feeling warps up in her. The stack of parchments suddenly seems to be emanating evil. Corrosive. Tainted. Her skin crawls and her throat feels tight. Shame burns out beneath her skin. MACUSA has sent Lupin the dossiers of the wizards who were at the dinner. She recognises them all.

The names mean nothing to her – D. Jones, J. Garcia, C. Miller, H. Hill – they go on and on as Hermione spreads the parchment files out around her with shaking, sweaty hands. About twelve of them. Her heart is racing, and there is a sharp pain in her chest. She feels dizzy. No, the names mean nothing, but the faces…the faces are imprinted in her mind, nightmarish, warped. Snatches of memory swim up in her mind, vivid and sickening, overwhelming her.

The wizard who had force-fed her the meat, as she'd knelt obediently by Draco's side – that had been Caleb Miller.

The one who had held her head still while she'd thrashed and wept, and had spat in her mouth had been José Garcia. She'd thrown up, and he'd ground her face into the mess.

Daniel Jones had put his fingers in her until she'd bled while Draco laughed and made small talk with the others about what they were doing to her, and she'd wept silently.

The first one to urinate on her had been Harry Hill. She chokes a sob and backs away from the dossiers. He'd put her under the Imperius and made her –

Hermione clamps her hands over her ears, eyes shut, refusing to remember, refusing, but the memories keep coming, a dam broken, and she is crushed beneath the weight of the torrent. There's so much. And there's always something she doesn't expect. Some small thing, or a large one, that she didn't remember. That claws its way up into the forefront of her mind, brutal and vivid. Cruel. Horrific. She lets out a strangled sob, backing up against a file cabinet with a crash she doesn't register, sliding down it and ending up sitting on the floor. Knees drawn up and face buried against them, her hands still pressed over her ears as though she can shut the memories out.

She can't.

They keep swirling through her head; vivid and visceral. Eyes shut, heels of her palms pressed into her ears so that all Hermione can hear is her own pathetic moaning reverberating in her skull, her blood thundering. It's as though she can smell it. Feel it again, ghostly echoes on her skin. The taste in her mouth. She's crying. Sobbing, as she bites the inside of her cheek raw, copper on her tongue, the iron tang of blood cleansing and grounding, but not dispelling the memories. She can't get a handle on herself. Hermione's spiralling, and she knows that, but she can't stop it.

There are voices; someone must have heard her blundering into the filing cabinet, probably. Or maybe the whimpering moans she's making are louder than they sound inside her head. Either way, Hermione hears voices, muffled and dim through her hands, her heaving breaths, and her whimpers.

"Oh dear. Oh dear, Hermione." It's Mrs Weasley, filled with concern and warmth, but Hermione's too far gone to yank herself out of her spin, even as mortification scorches through her. "Hermione, my dear, are you okay?" Her voice is close. Hermione hears it, but it's a background hum to the panic seizing her, sweat breaking out all over her skin, her heart pounding, her mind a maelstrom. She still shrinks back though. She doesn't want the motherly witch trying to touch her. Her whole body cringes from the thought, and she huddles up smaller. "Harry, love," Mrs Weasley bellows, "you'd better come quick!"

And then the woman stays close, murmuring reassurances and attempts at comfort that fall on deaf ears. Hermione is locked in memories. In nightmares, reared up sharp and bleeding in her mind.

After a while, she realises someone is talking to her. "Hermione?" It's Harry. She doesn't know how long he's been trying to get through to her, but her throat is sore and her chest hurts, her eyes wet and swollen with tears and her nose running. She's breathless and gasping, choking on her tears, and her mind is crowded with horrors. Filled to overflowing. There is so much that she remembers. So much that she wishes she didn't remember. And so much more locked away in the recesses of her mind, waiting to be triggered. She huddles down with every muscle in her body rigid and screaming with tension, and sobs, shoulders shaking and face wet, buried in the hollow between her knees and her body.

She wants to disappear. To vanish.

"Hermione. 'Mione. Shit. It's okay. You're safe, " Harry says, his voice muffled and meaningless. It's not okay. Nothing is okay. Shame sears through her, hot and disgusting. Hermione feels filthy. Dirty. Ruined and tainted, as she remembers what they did. Jones had hurt her the worst. He'd liked making her bleed. Making her scream, and beg for the pain to stop. Damaging her in ways that Draco had needed to heal later, as she'd sat there catatonic and violated. But Hill and Garcia had liked humiliating her the most – in ever more awful, inventive ways, using the Imperius to force her to be complicit. To do as they told her.

She tries not to think about it, gagging as the memories lurch like corpses in her mind. Before that night, she could never have imagined the sheer extent of human depravity. Hermione had thought she'd known, but she'd had no clue. She'd been so fucking innocent. And now she's not. She never will be again. She twists to the side, hand slamming sweaty to the floor, and retches. Gagging, bile sharp and acrid in her throat and the back of her nose as she huffs desperately for air, willing her stomach to settle.

A hand settles at her shoulder, and she makes a horrible gurgling sound of protest as she flinches away, scrambling back, stomach still threatening to vomit. Scooting back across the floor, clumsy and frantic. A small sliver of her mind is hot with embarrassment and begging her to pull herself together, but she's too lost in the depths of sickened panic. "'Mione! It's just me. Harry. It's okay. You're at the safe house. You're safe." He pleads with her urgently, and she looks up at him, teary and snotty, eyes feeling swollen, blurred with tears. All she can think of is the pain. The violation.

The way Draco had watched.

"No, I'm not," she says in a very small, tear-choked voice, scooting back against the wall beside her. She buries her head back into the hollow between her body and knees, and closes her eyes. He watched, she thinks, and the thought kills her. It drives a knife through her chest and twists. She knows Draco had no choice. She knows how much he hates himself for what he'd had to do – he feels like he failed her, he loathes his inability to protect her, it haunts him. But still, the image of him amused and unconcerned, laughing with the American wizards as they brutalised her, is burned into her mind. She can't forget it.

He watched while they hurt her. And then afterwards, he'd healed her with trembling hands as he apologised over and over like his heart was breaking. She'd fallen into the slumber of Dreamless Sleep to the sound of him sobbing in the bathroom, broken and wretched. Her heart lurches.

"I want Draco," she says in a tiny voice, nearly inaudible.

There's a heavy sigh. "He's on the Kenmare mission, Hermione. You know that, right?" She does. Or rather, she remembers now that Harry's reminded her of it, and now she feels a resurgence of fear for Draco joining the chaos of her feelings. Every fibre of her body wants him, and she feels like vomiting, and she wants to claw the fucking memories out of her brain, and she wants to stop thinking, and everything is so awful. Her mind keeps looping, around and around – blood, laughter, flesh, pain, violation. Harry goes on when she doesn't respond. "He'll be back soon. But in the meantime, you should have a Calming Draught. Please, 'Mione?"

"No." She shakes her head, panic seething hotter at the thought. She hates that calm, dull deadness more than she hates this. "No. Leave me alone."

Harry doesn't leave her alone. He keeps trying to convince her, and then, when he finally runs out of arguments, he falls mostly silent, but still stays. In a way, she's nearly glad for his company. Nearly. Hermione can still hear him breathing though, and every so often he says something. She hates that. She wishes he'd just sit silently. He sounds exhausted and drained, guilt saturating his words, and they slice into her, awful and wounding even though he means them well, she supposes.

"I'm so sorry, 'Mione." Sorrys don't fix anything, she thinks bitterly.

"If I'd known what they were doing to you…" You would've what? Still done nothing?

"We should've gotten you out sooner." Well, you didn't. You didn't, did you, you bastard, she thinks with a rage that frightens her, her hands curling into fists, nails denting deep and painful into her palms.

"We should've –" he goes on, and she tunes him out. Trapped in her memories and her fear for Draco, her tears a steady leak, her eyes sore, her head aching, wrapped in a ball as Harry prattles on.

Kenmare is glorious, and awful. Mostly awful. They go in at 9 pm, after extensive reconnaissance that shows tonight the Snatchers are just as disorganised and sloppy as the past two nights. They're sitting around the fire drinking, three single-person patrols circling the tower, and like the past two nights, noises from inside that make Draco feel sick and coldly furious. The screams drift over the field toward the small team, who are clustered by the stream – despairing and pained, wrenched from women's lips. They remind him of Hermione, and his heart twists, and his grip on his wand firms, his skin clammy.

They remind him of raids he went on as a Death Eater, too; of the rape and torture that went on in the aftermath, an orgy of violence that Draco could only barely avoid joining in on. As innocents screamed and begged, and the best that he could do was provide the mercy of death or unconsciousness. And a swift death dealt grimly was one thing in war – Draco can understand that – but the sadistic degradation of the Death Eaters is something else entirely. Evil.

They're raping those women. Innocent Muggles who have been captured as breeding stock, slaves, and entertainment, and who are being used for sport until they're collected by Death Eaters. For three nights now, Draco has watched silently as the men have taken turns sitting outside drinking at the fireside, and inside the tower doing things he doesn't want to think about. And every time one wanders out and claps his mates on the shoulders, laughing, Draco wants to murder them. He's been complicit in that shit for years. He stood there around fires like that one so many times before, hating himself as he'd listened to the sobs and the moans, and rejected the offers made with an aloof chill.

And now these Snatchers are doing it, and Draco has spent the past two nights, and tonight, just waiting. Listening. And he's desperate to fucking kill the lot of them. Because now he can. Finally.

Instead, they're clustered in a small group down by the stream, in amongst the trees, with Weasley going over the plan one more time before they go in. It's unnecessary – they already covered the plan in detail with Lupin back at the Order's estate, and nothing has changed. Creevey and Johnson are taking the patrols out and then establishing a perimeter, with Johnson in charge of ferrying the captured Muggles out to Creevey by the stream, to apparate away. Back at the pre-mission briefing, Johnson had grumbled about Creevey having the easiest job, as usual, and couldn't they have someone more skilled on the team. Draco had almost felt sorry for him – he'd looked utterly crestfallen as Lupin had sighed wearily and reminded Johnson that Creevey had to learn somehow.

Those two aside, Nymphadora is heading into the tower immediately, and Weasley and Draco are mopping up the Snatchers by the fire before they head inside. It's all very clear.

Johnson looks just as impatient as Draco feels right now, shifting from foot to foot, filled with tense energy. Creevey keeps shooting Draco weird looks that make him feel oddly uncomfortable, and Nymphadora's hair is a bright, garish orange. And the occasional scream, or sob, keeps drifting on the air. At least the Death Eaters didn't fuck about, he thinks. They went in hard and fast, and didn't waste their time with unnecessary fuss. They all know what to do.

"Let's go, Weasley," he says urgently, and Nymphadora shoots him a warning glance. Her serious expression and tired eyes look ridiculous paired with her neon orange hair.

"This is a mission, not a personal crusade, Draco. Keep your head in the game."

He gives her a scathing look in return, suppressing an eye roll. He really doesn't deserve her doubt. Unlike Creevey, he hasn't jeopardised the mission previously – he's stuck to protocol rigidly. He's been fucking perfect. "I'm fine. But we're wasting time."

"Then shut up and listen, Malfoy," Weasley says, and Draco clenches his jaw, irritated.

"I'm listening." He stares at Weasley, waiting for him to finish. The redhead looks around the group, his face hard as a whooping yell splits the air, and Draco looks back to see a shower of sparks fly up from the bonfire, five silhouetted figures around it. They're drinking and laughing, and Draco eyes them sharply. Hungrily. His blood is hot, and adrenaline floods him. He's so ready for this. So fucking ready.

"Use incapacitating spells unless you see your target, or you might hit a hostage." He casts his eyes toward Draco. "We're not taking prisoners, but no Unforgivables. Yes , Malfoy, I mean you."

Draco bites back a sarcastic response. The Order has already made it clear that Unforgivables are verboten, but lethal spells are fine. Why the difference, he doesn't know, but he can stick to the rule easily enough – he never used Unforgivables often anyway. Other spells are just as effective, and don't require emotion to cast. He nods, and Weasley draws his wand. "Right. Disillusionment Charms until you get up to the tower, everyone. Try not to catch each other in friendly fire once you're in, yeah?" Weasley grins, cold and eager. "Let's go."

Draco takes the first Snatcher by surprise. A silent sectumsempra that crumples the man, bleeding and dying, and absolutely helpless. Standing one second, and on the dirt the next. He won't be making anyone scream again, Draco thinks, satisfied. Nymphadora is already slipping inside, her Disillusionment Charm dropping as she ducks through the tower door, and Weasley has just used a diffindo that drops the second of the five Snatchers around the bonfire. Neat and tidy. They'll clean the bastards up easily. This'll be a walk in the park.

"What the –" one of the other Snatchers starts, twisting to face his two fallen comrades but slow with drink, and Draco casts a silent expelliarmus, and then a depulso that blows the wizard into the bonfire. Draco grins coldly. The flames lick up hot and devouring with a flick of his wand, and then the Snatcher's screams fade into the background as Draco throws up a protego just before a curse splashes against it. The other two Snatchers have their wands out now, and Weasley takes one and Draco the other. The burning Snatcher finally stops screaming as he duels his opponent, who isn't half bad.

It's invigorating.

He shields and ducks as the Snatcher throws up shields and flicks Draco's spells away, exchanging fire for a few moments before one of Draco's spells finally gets through. He hits the wizard with a petrificus totalus, of all things; the man falls, stiff as a board, and Draco stalks forward as Weasley's opponent drops to the dirt on his back, eyes glazed and dull in death. Draco grabs his downed opponent and hauls him up by the front of his shirt, hefting his stiff body up with a grunt.

"Malfoy," Weasley snaps sharply. "What're you –" Draco drags the Snatcher to the fire. "Fuck, Malfoy, that's not –" He throws the man on. He can't scream, jaws locked shut, but the Snatcher's eyes follow Draco desperately as he walks away, a weird, dizzy satisfaction burning vicious in his chest, his breath coming hard.

"Diffindo," Weasley snaps from behind him. "Merlin's fucking balls."

The tower is badly lit, and a maze of stairs and small rooms, most of them intact but with enough ruined walls that rubble is strewn across the floor to be a hazard. They've swept the ground floor, and it's clear, with no sign of Nymphadora. And then, as Weasley and Draco start up the stairs, her shock of orange hair appears at the top, three women following behind her in various states of undress, one of them splattered thickly with blood. "Outside's clear," he calls, and she comes thundering down the stairs, the women clustered behind her like ducklings. He scrambles up the stairs over two bodies, followed by Weasley.

"I took the first floor," Nymphadora snaps as she squeezes past them. The stairs are narrow, and Draco flattens himself against the wall to let the terrified women go past. "Don't know if I cleared it," she says succinctly.

"I'll double-check the first, you take the second," Weasley says, and Draco nods. He takes the stairs fast, too eager to get into battle, and sloppy with it. His adrenaline is flowing, and it's been too long since he's fought – and he's never wanted to do this so much before. He's on the right side for the first time. Helping save people rather than hurting them. He's about to make the second-floor landing when a person comes barrelling down the stairs toward him. They all but run into each other, and the other wizard begins screaming the Killing Curse. "Avad–"

Draco swears as his adrenaline spikes further at the thought of imminent death. There's nowhere to go on these narrow stairs. No way to dodge reliably. So he lunges forward instead of dodging, grabbing the man by the wrist and yanking as the man spits the Killing Curse. The Snatcher's curse cuts off into a scream as he goes plunging down the stairs, hitting the flagstones of the first-floor landing head first. There's a crunch, and the scream cuts off very abruptly.

"Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck," Draco swears as he scrambles up the last few stairs to the second floor, his heart galloping and his hands shaking from the near-miss as he – cautiously – steps into the small corridor. He's alert, and focused, and so alive. There are two doors that he can see, and the corridor bends off to the left. He ducks that way with his wand ready, and finds just more empty corridor. He checks fast and carefully to find the two rooms down that end are empty. The next room, back toward the stairs, holds a Snatcher who tries an expelliarmus on him. There's a naked woman dead on the floor, and for a moment, all Draco can see is Hermione.

Draco shields, uses his own expelliarmus, and then he loses it, just a little bit. When he comes around, the Snatcher is definitely dead, and he's wet with blood. And the young woman on the floor is of Asian ethnicity – she looks nothing like Hermione, not even close. Shit. Maybe Nymphadora was right, and he does need to get his head in the game. A worm of panic rises in him. He suddenly feels like he's losing it. Draco sets his jaw and tells himself to get it the fuck together as he feels for the woman's pulse, but she's as dead as she looks, though still warm. The Snatcher must have killed her only moments ago. He leaves her body and moves on.

He heads for the last room and pushes the door open to see a girl who can't be more than about thirteen, jammed terrified into a corner, as if she can sink through the wall by sheer force of will. She's huddled under a filthy blanket, and with a lurch of despair, Draco thinks she's naked beneath it. Keep it the fuck together, he tells himself.

"It's okay," he begins and then sees movement from the corner of his eye. "Confringo!" he spits on instinct, just barely having time to half turn away, forearm coming up to shield his face as the Snatcher explodes in a shower of liquefied flesh. The girl screams. She keeps screaming.

"Silencio!" Draco snaps as she sits there screaming, face, exposed arms, and blanket covered in the Snatcher. The sound cuts off, though she's still silently screaming, wide-mouthed, her eyes dumb with an animal fear. The poor child doesn't understand what the fuck just happened, Draco thinks grimly as he yanks her to her feet by one arm, her mouth shutting, and the blanket slipping from her grip. She is indeed naked under the blanket, and Draco grabs the blanket off the floor and shoves it at her, an aimless anger churning through him. Just a few months ago, he would've been taking her to the dungeons, not safety.

He hates himself.

She clutches the blanket to her front, not covering much, but his eyes are on her face as he takes her by the arms, turning so he can see past her to the door. Safety first. Merlin, he has to pull himself together. She's sobbing silently. He shakes her hard enough that her teeth clatter, and that seems to get her attention. She stares at him, dull with shock through the mask of a liquefied person splattered over her face.

"I'm getting you out," he says, loud and clear, as he stares into her dazed, dark eyes. He thinks of Hermione again. "You'll be safe. Okay?"

He doesn't know if she does understand because she just stares at him blankly. The girl's been kidnapped, brutalised for days, and then had Draco blow a man into a rain of pink liquid meat in front of her. She's most likely deep in shock. She drops the blanket as he drags her by the arm to the door, as though she lacks the presence of mind to even hold onto things, her feet stumbling. She trips and falls at the doorway, and Draco swears. He has to get her downstairs, outside the tower walls, and hand her off to Johnson.

He lifts her up, and like the child she is, she half climbs him and clings to him, arms around his neck and legs around his waist, head tucked under his chin, and fucking Merlin, he doesn't know where to safely grab her to hold her secure without going to hell. He remembers the blanket and accios it off the floor with a flick of his wand, shoving his wand in his teeth as he tucks it around her, trying to give her some measure of modesty. He gets her covered up with the blanket and wraps his left arm around her back. This is going to get him killed. He can't move freely, can't see properly, and one arm is out of action now. He moves out into the corridor, and just as he approaches the doorway to the stairs, someone hits him with an expelliarmus.

Fuck. Well that was quick, he thinks with an odd calm. His wand goes flying, and he silently curses the girl clinging to him. He steps back as the Snatcher moves into the doorway with his wand raised and words on his lips. There's nowhere to go, and a tired resignation lurches in Draco's stomach; an acceptance that this is it. He's done.

It's not so bad.

He twists sideways, trying – probably uselessly – to shield the girl with his body as he thinks of Hermione. At the end, she's all there is. Just her. He feels guilty for hurting her like this, after everything he's done to her, the feeling stabbing through him.

"Sectumsempra!" There's a thump. Draco isn't dead. He turns his head and sees Weasley standing there over the body of the Snatcher, panting, his face streaked with blood and his eyes gleaming bright. The redhead stares at Draco for a second, and then bends and retrieves Draco's wand from where it's rolled against the wall near him. He tosses it to Draco, who snatches it from mid-air.

"Thanks," Draco says numbly, and Weasley nods.

"Hand her off to Tonks. She's coming up the stairs now. And then take the fourth floor. I'll be on the third."

"Fourth floor," Draco repeats, and then Weasley is gone, and Draco carries the girl out to the landing. Nymphadora is halfway up the first-floor stairs, and Draco carries the girl down to meet her on the first-floor landing.

"Weasley says to take her," he says to Nymphadora's questioning look. She nods, eyes hard and sad as she pries the girl off Draco – she's clinging to him like a limpet now that she's decided he represents safety after all. The witch bundles the blanket around the girl as she stands silently on wobbly legs, and it makes Draco think of Hermione, after the revel, as he'd tried to put his shirt on her and cover her as she'd stood there, dull and broken. Nymphadora hurries the girl down the stairs, tucked against her side, and Draco swallows hard and heads back up the stairs, moving fast.

The top floor is just two big rooms, split by a corridor. Draco's heart is pounding with adrenaline, and his legs are burning slightly thanks to the stairs as he turns to the left room. His exposed skin feels stiff with blood thanks to the Snatcher he'd beaten to death, and the liquefied remains of the other one, and he knows he must look more monster than man at this point. He's unwounded though, and focused. He's had two near-death experiences today, and doesn't want another. So now, on the fourth floor, he doesn't take chances. Once this floor is cleared, they'll be done, after Weasley clears the third floor.

Draco reminds himself to keep an eye out for Nymphadora – when she's done with handing the girl off to Johnson, he imagines she'll join either him or Weasley.

"Reducto!" he snaps at the left-hand door, standing out of the line of fire as the door blows into a cloud of splinters, and there are screams. A curse comes whipping out of the gloom, a red bolt that flies past a good two feet to Draco's right. He can't see anything inside; the room is enveloped in a shadowy darkness. He follows its trajectory back and lets loose with a stupefy in that direction, followed by a petrificus totalus, and another stupefy.There are captives in there, and he can't risk a wounding hex or curse, even if that would be easier. That's one of the negatives about being on this side, he supposes. He needs to be more careful. His actions actually matter, now.

As a Death Eater, Draco had figured that killing civilians was more merciful than leaving them alive to be captured and taken away, or tortured and then killed on the spot – or just thrown on a heap and burned alive. So the only time he tried to be cautious with his spell work was when they had orders to capture someone alive. He preferred not to kill Order members during engagements, but he had to keep up appearances lest his Death Eater comrades become suspicious, so while he went for wounding curses that gave Order members a chance to flee, he would kill them if need be. As horrible as it had been, it had been less restrictive, at least. He swears inwardly, trying to figure out what the hell to do.

Several more curses come streaking out in immediate succession, as if the caster is frantic and fearful, and there's a small shriek of fear and then a cluster of panicked sobbing from the Muggles trapped inside the room. Shit. Draco sends off another stunner, and an orange bolt comes flying back. There's only one Snatcher in there, he thinks. And then he hears movement from the other room, and swears under his breath. The other door rattles and begins to open. His mind races.

He could turn and fight whoever is coming out, safe out of the line of fire of the Snatcher he's currently engaging, except then the man could come up and flank him while he's occupied with this new combatant. Or potentially more than one. Fuck. It takes Draco a split second to think it through and decide – he moves out into the dark, open doorway, and slashes off three diffindos in the direction of the Snatcher, each slightly lower than the other. He hopes the man isn't using a human shield. There's the meaty thump of a body hitting the ground and he casts a lumos. A wizard lies on the ground, the top half of his head missing, sliced through from just beneath the eyes.

Draco gulps down nausea and looks around. There are three women and a girl on the floor, as he suspected, huddled in a corner on filthy mattresses. They're clothed, mostly. One of the women tugs the girl close and tries to shelter her with her own body as the girl cries quietly, little hitching sobs that shake her frame. Draco clenches his jaw as they stare at him silently. Well, he's hardly a reassuring sight, he supposes. The sound of a door opening reaches his ears. "Stay here," he says, an order. "Stay here, and I'll get you out safely soon. Yes?" One of the women nods mutely, fear and anger burning in her eyes, and he nods back. "Stay," he says again, then moves to the doorway, cautiously and quietly.

There's Snatcher poking his head out into the corridor. He sees Draco in time to shield the curse Draco sends flying at him. In situations like this, the Killing Curse would be useful, Draco finds himself thinking as the Snatcher blocks and flicks away his quick barrage of curses. Especially when the Snatcher can – and is – using Unforgivables. The duel goes for several minutes, and Draco's bleeding from a deep slice to his arm before he finally gets an incendio past the Snatcher's defences. The wizard goes up like a human torch and stumbles blundering into the wall of the corridor, falling, screaming and thrashing.

Draco moves up to the wall beside the other room's doorway, flattening himself against it and throwing up a shield as he ducks his head around the corner. He sees one man, and two women from his quick glance, although there could be more. A spell streaks out the doorway, and Draco swears under his breath, bracing himself as he ducks out, aims, and flicks off a depulso. The wizard goes flying back against the far stone wall, arms flailing, and Draco scans the room swiftly to see if there are any other Snatchers. There aren't. The wizard moans and stirs, and Draco snaps his attention back to him just in time to see one of the two Muggle women struggle to her feet. The dark-haired woman is dressed in nothing but a dirty bra and a blanket around her waist like a skirt, as she lifts a chunk of rubble over her head and slams it into the Snatcher's head with a yell of fury.

She scrambles to her feet, clutching the blanket around her waist, and then kicks the man's corpse. "You fooking cunt," she snarls and then takes hold of the other woman, a blonde, and hauls her to her feet, the pair of them swaying together, the blonde clinging to the dark-haired one, sobbing. Draco watches silently for a moment as they press their foreheads together and share a brief, wretched kiss, and then he clears his throat, feeling oddly intrusive.

"We have to go," he says. "There are more women in the other room." The dark-haired woman looks at him assessingly, eyeing his wand. "I'm here to rescue you," he snarls impatiently. He grits his teeth and tries to be reassuring. "It's going to be okay." The woman laughs, half hysterical as she looks down at the man she just killed.

"Oh, okay y' say? Fook, more-e-ya it's okay. It's up t' shitter, is what it is," she says and he hardly understands even half of what she says through her thick accent. She glares at Draco, tears streaking her cheeks that she dashes away.

"Just follow me," he says bluntly; no time for kindness. "Hurry up."

They follow, silent and distrustful, flinching away from the other Snatcher's burned corpse in the corridor as Draco strides past, uncaring. And when they get to the other room, the dark-haired Muggle is helpful in getting the other women up and moving. Draco's leading them down the stairs when he runs into Weasley with three more women. He's helping one walk, the woman leaning on him heavily. "Clear upstairs?" the redhead asks, and Draco nods, shooing the Muggles ahead of him and behind Weasley, bringing up the rear.

"Yeah. Down here?"

"Seems to be. I think the whole place is clear now, but stay alert." Weasley glances over his shoulder back at Draco as they make their way down the narrow stairs, the Muggles bunched between them. "Good work," he says shortly, and Draco manages a faint smile, blood flaking off his face with the motion as he runs through the past half hour in his head again. Some things could've gone better – he thinks of the moment where he'd slipped, mentally – but overall, he feels good. There are over a dozen Muggle women and girls that they've just saved, and he got to kill Snatchers. And both things felt fucking amazing.

When Draco apparates back to the Order's mansion estate, Ginevra Weasley is waiting by the gate, wrapped up in a parka, hat, scarf, and gloves, her breath puffing white in the air as she clutches her wand. He thinks her presence worries everyone as they shake off their nausea and notice her standing there, but then Draco realises it's him she's looking at. He forgets the stinging pain in his forearm – the deep slice healing thanks to a splash of dittany. He feels suddenly sick for reasons entirely separate to having just disapparated, his chest squeezing tight and his heart rate shooting back up.

"Malfoy," Ginevra says and then pauses. He could strangle her.

"What?" Draco demands, stalking forward, and she flinches back half a step before firming her stance, glaring at him.

"Hermione's alright, but she saw some files that upset her, and now she's – she's not responding. She's –"

"Fuck," he swears, and disapparates on the spot, leaving Ginevra mid-sentence.