Thirty-Six

Time passes. Days. And then several weeks. Draco watches Hermione carefully for signs that she's crumbling beneath the strain – for any indication that her fears about him being out in the field are becoming too much for her again. He doesn't know what he'll do if she is. Pull back? Be like Potter, restricted to unfulfilling reconnaissance missions in some miserable attempt at a compromise? Probably. Because regardless of what she says, Draco won't be responsible for breaking her again.

But while Hermione's up and down and not always coping – much like him on the inside – there's never another incident like the night of the Kenmare attack. He wonders how much memories of the dinner had to do with it. That evening had been a cascade of trauma and stress for her.

Since then, Draco has been on reconnaissance missions in Appleby and Tutshill, and carefully planned raids in Banchory and Caerphilly, the latter of which had involved taking out a nest of werewolves. He's been frustratingly cautious and managed to avoid any more injuries, which has helped reassure Hermione, he's sure. And despite his frustration at the extra care he's taking, it's been good. He works well with Weasley and Johnson, usually with Nymphadora or Potter, depending on the risk level of the mission. They make a good, well-oiled team now. As for Creevey…well, he hasn't attacked Draco again, but he keeps shooting him odd, intense looks that make the hairs go up on the back of Draco's neck. He supposes that Creevey still harbours a hatred for him, and fair enough. But the younger man keeps it to himself now, which is all Draco wanted.

And Hermione is coping. Which is the most important thing, to him. The second most important is that he gets to fight. And he does. He makes a difference, and it means something.

It's an ordinary Tuesday morning when it all changes.

"Oh shit," Hermione stares down at what she's just written. Her hand starts trembling as she scrawls the 'a'. Tonks looks up from her position, seated opposite Hermione at the table in Lupin's office – she's been looking through reports. Her hair is a minty green, and she raises an eyebrow at Hermione.

"What's up?"

"Hang on," Hermione says distractedly, entirely focused on scribbling out the rest of the intercepted owl she's decoded. She double-checks the message and her deciphering, and then triple-checks, aware of Tonks's curious, slightly worried eyes on her. She checks the date of the owl. This one came in yesterday; part of a large packet of non-urgent owls. Hermione worked through most of them while Draco was out on a mission – his fourth over the past few weeks. But once he got back, she had set the remainder aside so that she could go and fuss over him and spend the next several hours reassuring herself that he was alive and well. It's becoming a habit, and often seems to end up with them both in bed, clothes on the floor and mouths on each other.

While he's gone, though, working herself until she can't think seems to be the only way Hermione can – just barely – keep a handle on her fear. She worries about Draco constantly when he's out in the field. She clings to the fact that so far, he hasn't been injured again, Ron has given her no more near-death stories, and he comes back to her so happy. It's as though it's giving him back himself. He feels like he's rebalancing the scales, she knows. And while Hermione doesn't think it really works that way, or that it's necessary, he does. For him, it lifts some of the terrible burdens placed on him by the Order and Voldemort, and ultimately, that's what matters.

She blinks and focuses her scattered mind. Right now, what matters is the message in front of her.

Bertha has been moved to Mould-on-the-Wold while the Dark Lord is in America. Be aware not to use the farmhouse to move prisoners.

She repeats it aloud, and Tonks stares at her, eyes boggling wide and hair turning bright, fire engine red. They've come across mention of Bertha before and had long ago worked out that the codename can only refer to Nagini, the last horcrux left. The last stumbling block to be overcome before Voldemort can be confronted. The Battle of Hogwarts had failed because Voldemort had sent Nagini away, safe and hidden, and since then, he's kept the snake at his side or near to him. If Nagini is just hidden in some safe house while Voldemort is absent… This could mean the end of the war within weeks. Days, even. Just like that, it could all be over.

"Oh my god." She stares at Tonks, agape, hardly able to process what she's just decoded. Disbelieving. In shock. "It could be a trap."

"It wouldn't be a very good one. We're hardly going to send Harry in, and he'd know that."

"Oh my god," Hermione repeats dumbly, still holding her quill.

"I'm going to go get Remus," Tonks says, scrambling to her feet, urgency rising in her voice. "Stay – stay right here," she adds, although why Hermione doesn't know. She's hardly planning on going anywhere, she thinks, feeling strangely numbed. And besides, she's deciphered the information. She's hardly necessary – she's done her part. "Don't tell anyone yet," Tonks adds, which explains the instructions. And then the older witch clatters out of the room, her hair flying behind her like a flag, the door banging open as she disappears.

Hermione stares down at the piece of parchment for a long moment, running through what could happen thanks to this one small scrap of paper. Playing out all the possibilities in her mind. Wondering what Lupin will do. And then her heart suddenly begins to race, sweat springing out and fear making a sick, cold ball in her stomach. She knows with a terrible certainty which team Lupin is going to send. Even if he sends more than one team – if he can scramble more than one to go today – Hermione knows he'll send Ron's. Which means Draco will go. He'll go to face Nagini, who will undoubtedly be under heavy guard; no doubt actual Death Eaters, not just Snatchers or Voldemort's other assorted minions.

Hermione feels ill. She gulps, clutching her quill too hard in her hand as she sits there, waiting for Lupin and Tonks to return, her heart pounding in her chest.

Everything happens very quickly after that. When Lupin comes back with Tonks, Hermione shows him the missive she deciphered, and he presses his hand over his mouth, as if overcome by emotion. He walks to the large wall map and stares at it, his focus on Mould-on-the-Wold, the decoded message clutched tightly in his hand. "A farmhouse," he says quietly, as if to himself. "Well, that narrows it down."

"Have we done reconnaissance there before? Getting the lay of the land?" Tonks asks, standing beside her husband with her hair still blazing red, eyeing the map. "We might have a local map with more detail."

Hermione swallows thickly, a lump in her throat as she shoves to her feet and moves to a file cabinet. "We do," she says, digging through the files that she had organised weeks ago and pulling out the one on Mould-on-the-Wold. A team led by Oliver Wood had gone in months ago looking for Death Eater activity, taking photos, as well as making a detailed map. The Order has always made a point of keeping abreast of what's happening on the ground in wizarding villages. She flips the file open and pulls the map out, checking the date in the corner. "This one's nearly seven months old, but it has all the dwellings on it," she says, laying it flat on the table as she sits back down, and Lupin and Tonks turn to look.

She listens quietly as they discuss the situation, obviously meaning to send in a team now – as soon as they can – and then they call Harry and Ron into the room, and Hermione excuses herself. She's just getting in the way, and she can't work while they're planning. She doesn't go upstairs; if she does, Draco will know immediately that something is going on, and she doesn't want to be the one to tell him. Not when the thought of him going on the mission makes her feel cold, sweaty and as though she's about to start hyperventilating. But when she walks into the kitchen, he's in there. In a long-sleeved t-shirt to cover his Mark and joggers, feet bare and hair damp and shining in the light, two mugs on the bench as he gets the milk out of the fridge. The kettle is on, a bit of steam wisping out of the spout.

He looks up, and the corner of his mouth hooks up. His expression turns soft. "I was just making coffee." And then his eyes narrow. "Are you alright?"

Hermione gulps. There's no way she can hide it, and he's probably going to get called through in another ten minutes or so anyway. She rubs her hands over her face and then feels his hands at her waist. She looks up at him as he brushes a lock of hair back from her face, concern in his expression as he waits for her answer. "I decoded a message about Nagini," she says reluctantly, looping her arms around his middle and pressing her cheek against him. "Apparently, the snake has been hidden in Mould-on-the-Wold under guard while you-know-who is in America." She feels the tension thrum to life in Draco, running through him like an electric current. He stiffens and straightens, and although he keeps sliding a hand up and down her back, it feels slightly forced now.

"Without the Dark Lord?" he asks, and Hermione can feel the eagerness churning up in him. Thanks to his viewing of Snape's memories so long ago – the thing that led to his defection in the first place – Draco knows about the horcruxes, something that otherwise only those closest to Harry and high up in the Order have been made aware of. "Shit." He draws back enough to look Hermione in the eye, and his expression is complicated. A burning eagerness is mingled with a touch of worry for her. "Are they talking about it in the office now?"

She extricates herself from him as the kettle begins to whistle, moving around him and lifting it off the hob. "Yes. I think they want to send a team in as soon as they've figured out a rough plan."

"Weasley's?" he asks, standing there in the middle of the kitchen with his hands at his sides, his wand in his hand now, fidgeting with it as he rocks on his heels, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He's all but flinging himself into battle already, Hermione thinks with a pang of fear as she takes over making the coffee, pouring the milk he'd gotten out and shoving it back in the fridge before adding the boiling water. Trying to distract herself from the suddenly threatening tears with menial tasks. If she cries, it'll look like she's trying to convince him not to go, and she isn't. She accepts what he needs to do. She just hates it, particularly at times like now, when she knows he's about to go rushing into imminent danger without a second thought.

"I think so. Ron's in there. And Harry, although I doubt he'll be going." She can't help the resentment that shapes her expression for a moment, corners of her mouth pulling down. Ginny gets to keep Harry safe at home. It isn't fair. "Hopefully, they'll be able to scrape up more people. Nagini will be heavily guarded." She sets the kettle back down rather harder than needed, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She imagines Lupin and Tonks will both be joining the team, and likely Justin and Hannah as well, but that only gives them seven fighters, and Colin.

Hermione wishes – not for the first time – that she wasn't too twisted up to fight. But she knows if she goes out in the field, she'll be more of a liability than anything. As determined as she might feel to contribute, if she actually had to face an enemy fighter, she'd probably freeze up and get herself killed. Tension builds in her skull. There's an ache behind her eyes, and the hinge of her jaw feels tight. She should be able to be an asset. She should be there with him, watching his back. At least then, if it all went wrong, they'd be together. But she wouldn't help. She'd make it go wrong, probably.

"You don't want me going," he says, and Hermione shoots him an almost angry look as she stirs the coffee. Tears are stinging her eyes.

"Of course I don't," she snaps. "You know that." She flings the teaspoon into the sink, and it clatters over-loudly. She blinks hard and swipes at her eyes, glancing up at him as he stands there helplessly, looking like just as much of a useless lump as Harry or Ron, suddenly. This is one area where Draco can't really console her. He can't make her feel better, or reassure her. He can try, but it never really works because the only thing that will make her happy is him not going out on dangerous missions. He swallows and shoves his hand through his hair, looking as unhappy as she feels.

"I can not go," he offers, his expression tight, and she shakes her head in the negative, leaning back against the bench as she holds out his coffee to him.

"Don't be stupid. Of course you have to go," she says, trying to make her voice firm, but it trembles very slightly. Draco gives her a look of abject gratitude. He steps closer and puts his coffee back down on the bench, and then he wraps her in his arms, his lips pressed to the crown of her head. His embrace is crushingly tight, and he murmurs a thank you that makes her heart swell and hurt. His heart is racing against her ear, beating hard behind his ribs as she squeezes him back tightly around the middle. She hates this fear and worry, but she loves him so much more. She sighs.

"You should go and see how the planning is going," she says, and he lets her go with a kiss that makes her feel breathless and giddy despite the fear that bears down on her.

"You'll be okay?"

"I'm fine." She offers him a tired smile as she picks up her coffee, cradling it in two hands. "I might go sit on the porch for a while." Spring is in full force now, and she's enjoying it. The warmth, the green, and the new life in the back garden. If she's wearing a jersey, she doesn't even need a parka anymore. He gives her a quick but careful look and then nods. Neither of them is totally happy – she can see his concern for her eating into his joy – but they're both okay. And that's enough. "Go," she says again, nodding at the doorway, and he takes his coffee with him, a lightness in his step that she loves to see.

It only takes half an hour or so before the back door opens and people spill out, just barely prepared for the unexpected raid. Hermione stands and greets them, shifting out of the way. Draco takes her in his arms, heedless of everyone else for a moment as they stand in the corner of the porch, Lupin, Tonks, Angelina, Hannah, and Justin already heading down the garden path. It'll be just Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and Mrs Weasley left at the safe house. Ron hovers behind Draco, waiting.

"Well?" Hermione asks Draco, nerves making her feel sick to her stomach, fingers fiddling with the buttons on the light coat he's wearing. His hands are on her, pushing through her hair and touching her face like he's soaking her up.

"We're all apparating into the village, in teams of two, with about a dozen farmhouses on the outskirts of the village to investigate. Creevey, Shacklebolt, and a few others will be joining us. There's not much of a plan since we're going in blind. Just checking every building in every farmhouse until we find Nagini and then sending up a locator charm."

Hermione grimaces. It sounds horribly ill-thought-out and dangerous, but intellectually she knows it's worth the risk. It's a horcrux; even if people die, strategically, it will be worth it. She bites her lip. She can't take it if he dies. He hugs her tightly, as if he knows what she's thinking. "It'll be fine. I swear. But I have to go. We don't have time to waste," he says. And then, in front of Ron, he kisses her gently on the lips and tells her, "I love you."

She firms her trembling chin. "I love you too. Please be careful."

"I will." He lets her go then and descends the stairs, pausing at the bottom as Ron strides over to Hermione at her gesture, and she gives him a quick hug.

"Please keep him safe," she says to Ron as she releases him from her hug, cutting her eyes toward Draco, who's listening.

Ron huffs. "And what am I, chopped liver?"

"I know you won't do anything stupid and reckless," she says, which still feels odd to be saying about Ron, but it is true, "but I don't know that about him."

"I'll bring us both back alive, 'Mione," Ron says with a grin as he walks back a couple of steps and then turns and trots down the stairs. She clutches the porch railing hard as they walk off toward the garden shed, Draco's stride easy and long, his hair shining in the sun, twirling his wand idly in his fingers. He doesn't look back, which is good because she's crying.

In the end, the team consists of five pairs. Wood and Shacklebolt, Nymphadora and Creevey, Abbott and Johnson, Lupin and Finch-Fletchley, and Weasley and Draco.

They have to side-along apparate to Mould-on-the-Wold in several trips with Lupin, Nymphadora, Shacklebolt, and Wood because none of the rest of them have been to the small market town in Gloucestershire before. It sits on a small hill surrounded by sheep farms, one of which is where they arrive — in the cover of the lee side of a stone outbuilding, in a field. Fluffy sheep with their winter fleeces still on are ambling about, baa-ing, some taking an interest in the small group of Order members and trotting over to examine them. One butts against Draco insistently as he pushes at its head, muttering for it to go away, which it refuses to do.

Weasley laughs at him and the persistently friendly sheep once he's apparated in, and Draco scowls in order to hide his twitch toward a smile.

"Right. Disillusionment Charms everyone, but stick close in your pairs. Don't lose each other. Send up the alert once you've found a warded farmhouse – we can presume that's where the snake will be," Shacklebolt says. Draco finds it still strange to see his old handler in person – he's only seen him once, briefly, since their escape. Once Draco had lost his use, it seems Shacklebolt had dismissed his existence entirely. Part of him wants to hex the bastard for the way he threw Hermione to the wolves. For the way he used Draco and threw him aside. But now is not the time. "There will undoubtedly be disapparition wards around the place, so keep them pinned in the house until reinforcements arrive, and they shouldn't be able to flee."

Everyone nods in understanding, Draco included, and then they're all peeling off in pairs, almost invisible save for a slight, tell-tale waver in the air. They've memorised the houses they need to check. Draco and Weasley have the two on nearly the other side of the village, and they take off at an easy lope – they can't risk apparating in close enough to set off any wards, not that anyone had been to those two farms in order to be able to apparate them close. Wood's team had drawn up their map months ago from a nearby hilltop, using a Farseeing Charm.

So, lucky Draco and Weasley have a fifteen-minute run ahead of them. The tussock is uneven under Draco's booted feet, and there are too many bloody kissing gates and stiles to navigate before they get onto a narrow country road, running along unseen. Faster than a jog, but not a sprint.

Mould-on-the-Wold is a town of nearly 2,000 people, most of them Muggles, but there's no traffic on the road. Draco imagines much of the populace has taken to staying inside as much as possible – the Muggles won't know what's going on in their village, but they will know that something isn't right. They'll leave, or hide. And some of them will be getting picked off as entertainment and slaves. He grimaces, disgusted, trying to focus on the mission as they traverse the roads and keeping a close eye on the ripples in the air beside him that indicate Weasley's presence. He can hear the other man's breathing, getting heavier the further they go.

"Fucking hell, why didn't we bring disillusioned broomsticks?"

"Don't know," Draco says shortly, huffing a breathless laugh. "No one thought of it, I guess."

"Well, it would've made things bloody easier," Weasley puffs, irritated, making Draco grin.

"I'll remember that for the next time we hunt a horcrux."

"Fuck you, Malfoy." There's a pause, and Draco feels as though Weasley is looking at his own almost invisible, wavering outline, even though neither of them can actually see each other. "Why aren't you tired?"

"Exercise," he says, one word, because quite honestly, he is getting very slightly winded, even though they've only been running less than ten minutes. Draco's not as fit as he'd like, it seems.

"Fucking exercise," Weasley grunts disparagingly, and then silence falls again, leaving only the sound of their breathing. And then, just as they reach the first farmhouse, after nearly fifteen minutes of loping along at an easy run, the wristbands they wear hum, and Draco skids to a halt and turns, casting an eye over the sky. Despite it being early afternoon and quite sunny, he sees the red bolt lance up into the sky. Shacklebolt and Wood have found Nagini.

"Fuck!" Weasley swears as they both spin and start hurtling back in the direction they'd just come from, Weasley taking wheezing breaths as Draco laughs silently. "I swear to Godric – if we end up spending this attack running – instead of – fighting –"

"Save your breath, Weasley," Draco says, and then does so himself. They're running faster than before, and his leg muscles are beginning to feel the burn as he breathes deeply and steadily, trying not to pant. Luckily, Shacklebolt and Wood's location is almost halfway between where they first apparated into Mould-on-the-Wold and the farms assigned to them, down a side lane, so they get there quickly, out of breath and sweating. From the looks of it as they get close to the farm, Shacklebolt and Wood haven't yet triggered any wards because the farmhouse is quiet as they approach carefully, looking for any sign of the others.

The farm is bordered by dry stone walls, and a few trees and shrubs shield part of the two-storey house from view. A couple of men stroll between the house and the outbuildings, looking as though they're on patrol. Draco doesn't recognise them at this distance, but they seem far more alert than the Snatchers at Kenmare were. They disappear out of sight behind some outbuildings.

"How are we supposed to find the others?" he asks Weasley as they approach the farm entrance cautiously, keeping low and close to the hedgerow, and the other man grunts acknowledgement.

"Look for the ripples?" But it seems as though the others were already doing that because Lupin blinks into view crouched down behind the dry stone wall, near the gate onto the farm, raising his hand slightly as he looks in their direction. They hurry over toward him, Draco with his adrenaline rising, his heart already pumping from the run. He feels energised rather than tired as they crouch down close to Lupin and the others. They're all there, save Nymphadora and Creevey, who had one of the farms further out from the village.

"– they should be here any minute," Shacklebolt is saying of Nymphadora and Creevey, all the rest of them visible now, crouched in the shelter of the dry stone wall. "We won't wait for them. Wood and I have seen movement in the farmhouse and the large shed there –" he nods to a large, low-roofed structure that looks more like a hay barn or shelter for the flock in winter than a mere shed. He's drawn a sketch in the dirt outlining buildings, and jabs the large one on the left. "We'll take the farmhouse. Go around the back and get in that way, while disillusioned." Shacklebolt seems to be taking the glory on this mission – and the danger, to be fair. The farmhouse is the likeliest place for Nagini and any Death Eaters to be.

Lupin nods. "We'll be a distraction then. Once we breach the wards, most of the guards will spill out into the yard," he says, indicating the area between the farmhouse and the outbuildings with a circle of his finger. "Hannah, Angelina, Justin, and I will head there. Ron, Draco, you go around to the right while disillusioned," Lupin says, sweeping his finger through the dirt, "and check the barn. It's unlikely, but Nagini could be in there. Remember to remove the charm before you join us." Draco nods – he doesn't need to be told, and neither does Weasley. Friendly fire is a killer, with Disillusionment Charms. "Everyone clear?" They all nod solemnly. "Right. Let's go," Lupin says without any further ado, and they move.

As expected, a Caterwauling Charm goes off as soon as they enter the property, and figures boil out of the buildings with their wands out – enough of them to make Draco swear under his breath, his adrenaline rocketing. Too many, really. They're outnumbered even if Nymphadora and Creevey turn up. He and Weasley book it around the back of the building, and he beats Weasley by several strides, only for the other man to catch up and crash into him while they're both still disillusioned. They go tumbling, Draco swearing furiously as they roll through the dirt, holding his wand up over his head to try to protect it, and then scrambling to his feet with undignified speed and looking around.

Even disillusioned, that roll kicked up a lot of dust and would've made them easily visible. But they're alone. His shoulders slump as he lets out a sigh.

"Fucking careful, Weasley. You'll get us killed," he hisses, dropping his disillusionment a second before Weasley does. The redhead appears slightly worse for wear after his clumsy accidental tackle – grubby with dirt, some smeared on his cheek and caught in his pathetic attempt at a beard, his hair a mess. Draco is annoyed that he probably looks the same.

"You just stopped!"

"Yes, because I didn't want to go running headlong into trouble!"

"Dragon dung you didn't. You love doing that," Weasley snipes absently as he takes point, creeping along. Draco casts a homenum revelio under his breath before he responds. Both of them can see the glow of three figures clustered in the large shed up ahead, ignoring the small mass of people revealed in the farmyard. It sounds like a pitched battle is taking place, and it looks from a glance like people have settled into cover and are taking quick shots at each other. But Draco has to focus on this, not the battle.

"I'm being careful," he says as they reach the small, open-sided firewood shed just before the barn, staying low.

"I'll careful you," Weasley mutters incomprehensibly, but when Draco glances at him, the redhead's grinning.

"Hermione says you have to keep me alive," Draco shoots back as they pause behind the stacked cords of firewood. There's one figure by the barn door, and two more further back, close together. They seem to be doing something. Packing something? The glow of the revelio is fading, and Draco can't tell.

"She didn't say you needed all your limbs," Weasley mutters darkly. "Come on then, let's go. The others need us. Take out the guy at the door, and then take cover to the right, yeah? You take the one on the right, me the one on the left." He's talking about the wizards inside, and Draco nods.

"Yeah." And then they're both running in, casting as they go. The best defence is a good offence. Draco lashes off a depulso and then a confringo in quick succession, and he thinks Weasley must use similar because the old barn doors fucking explode, inwards and into splinters. The wizard peeking out from behind the doors – not having had a shield up – suffers a similar fate, and for a moment, the air they're running into is a cloud filled with wood chips and the red mist of an obliterated body. Draco presses his left forearm up over his mouth and nose, so he doesn't inhale anything as he barrels into the stone wall to the right of the doorway. Splinters and blood rain down over him.

"Fucking hell," Weasley is swearing, disgusted, and when Draco looks over, the other man is coated in reddish paste and pale brown dust. He swallows hard and resists the instinctive urge to lick his lips. From Weasley's horrified look at him, Draco is just as coated as he is. He doesn't care. His blood is running hot, and he's in the zone. That hyperalert, calm, happy place he goes to when things get very real – balanced on a knife edge, with sheer, terrified panic on one side and a cold, bloody rage on the other.

He laughs. "Eau de person," he yells to Weasley, who's ducking his head around the doorway to try to get a look inside. And then a lance of green spears out of the barn, along with a snarled "Avada Kedavra!" and Weasley jerks backwards, white as a sheet where he isn't filthy. The Killing Curse had come within centimetres of him. And Draco recognised that voice. "It's Rodolphus!" he hisses to Weasley, frustrated that the Death Eaters inside will probably hear.

"Who?" Weasley whisper-yells.

"Rodolphus Lestrange!" the man in question calls helpfully from inside the barn and then cackles a mad laugh. Draco's skin crawls. The last time he'd seen his uncle, the Death Eater had been doing things to a disembowelled, dying woman that Draco would rather not picture again. He'd had to dispose of the body afterwards. Despite himself, he remembers vividly, and he chokes down a retch, turning his head and spitting on the ground. "Is that you, Draco?"

He doesn't answer. Weasley shoots him a weird, uncomfortable look as if he expects Draco and Rodolphus to have a polite chat before they try to kill each other. "Bombarda!" he hisses and aims blindly into the barn. There's a small explosion, and Rodolphus's laughter. Weasley follows up with a confringo, but they can't see what the fuck they're doing, it's so gloomy in the barn. "Incendio!" Draco snarls, a gout of fire springing up in the place he struck, and a set of shelves laden with small bits of potions-brewing equipment burst into flame, illuminating Rodolphus and Augustus Rookwood.

Both tall, dark-haired men of medium build, they nonetheless look entirely different. Rookwood is athletic for his age and as well groomed as ever, grey-streaked brown hair and beard clipped short, eyes cautious as he raises a shield. Rodolphus doesn't bother with a shield – hunched slightly, he holds his wand ready to cast, looking as mad as his wife is, with dark eyes peering out from behind straggling hair. They've been caught in the middle of packing vials of potions into cases. It seems from the equipment scattered around that the shed has been repurposed as a potions lab, most of the vials filled with what seem to be defensive and healing potions, from the colours.

"Diffindo!" Draco snarls, going for Rodolphus on the left, and the man bats the curse away even as Weasley makes a sound of disapproval, and Draco ducks back into cover.

"I take the left, you take the right," Weasley says sharply, and Draco clenches his jaw. This isn't fun anymore. Not when he's facing down his damned sadistic uncle and Rookwood – who may not be as insane as his uncle, but is definitely just as dangerous. But he wants Rodolphus. He wants to kill the bastard, painfully. He's seen what the Death Eater has done over the years, and he'll never be able to get the images out of his head. He wants him dead.

"I take Lestrange," he tells Weasley from behind cover, a hard edge to his voice as he meets the other man's eyes, blue peering out of a mask of red-brown.

"I'm your uncle! Treat me with some respect, boy," Rodolphus yells glibly, and Draco can't hold back the sound of disgust he makes. He spits on the ground, bile sharp and acid at the back of his throat.

"You're an evil cunt!" he yells back furiously and feels an Unforgivable on the tip of his tongue, barely biting it back. He's not supposed to use those, he thinks, with a resentful glance at Weasley.

"Language! Whatever would your poor mother think," Rodolphus taunts, and Draco's heart convulses and skips a beat. It feels as though someone grabbed it in an icy fist and squeezed, his lungs catching on nothing and his stomach lurching. He's aware of Weasley's eyes on him and wonders how much the other man has figured out about what Draco's defection may have meant for his parents. He takes a breath with an effort, feeling like he's about to vomit.

"Don't you fucking mention my mother," he snarls at Rodolphus, with less force than he'd like, and then slices off another diffindo. The fire in the shelves is spreading, he sees, to the small loft. Good. Weasley trades curses with Rookwood, and Draco and Rodolphus are glued to each other. He tells himself not to listen to what his uncle says; the Death Eater will say whatever he thinks will fuck with Draco's head the most, true or not. Whatever he says is just as likely to be a lie as true. He lashes another incendio at Rodolphus, who deflects it into another corner of the barn.

"The dear woman shouldn't be upset, in her condition –"

"Shut up, Lestrange!" Draco shields against a curse from Rookwood and then dodges a wordless crucio from Lestrange, who finishes –

"– it's bad for the baby." The man grins, viciously, and Draco can't see any trace of a lie. He's lying, though. He must be. He says nothing in return, trying not to rise to the bait, even as he feels nearly dizzy with the force of his rage, his fingertips tingling and his breath harsh and frantic. He flings off several curses, shielding and deflecting in between each one as Rodolphus hurls curses right back, including Unforgivables, and Rookwood sends a couple his way too. He flattens himself back against the stone wall beside the doorway, although even that doesn't feel safe – either of the two Death Eaters could explode the wall outward and kill him.

He darts a look at Weasley, who's also flattened against his side of the doorway, panting, his wand clutched tightly. Smoke is billowing out of the shed now, and both Death Eaters must have Bubblehead Charms on to not be coughing.

"Rookwood's a tough bastard," Weasley calls across almost apologetically, and Draco grimaces.

"Yeah." They both are. Fuck. There's a reason they're both valued servants of the Dark Lord. This is taking too long. Draco listens for a second, and can hear fighting from the yard still. At least the Order are still holding out while they're tied down with these two.

"She must be about four months along now. She'll be showing soon. I do so like it when they're all round and succulent," Rodolphus yells, and Ron makes a disgusted, sympathetic face as Draco snorts air through his nose, hands in fists and trembling, every muscle in his body whip tight. He's lying. "Of course, we can't hurt her. Not with our Master's seed in her belly. You'll be getting a new half-sibling soon, nephew. Won't that be nice?"

"Avada Kedavra!" The curse comes out quietly and filled with deadly intent as he whirls out into the doorway and whips the curse from his wand, squinting at his uncle through the smoke. Rodolphus's eyes widen as he sees the curse almost too late, and then, fast as a striking snake, he grabs Rookwood and yanks the other Death Eater into the path of the green bolt. Rookwood drops like a stone, dead on impact, and Rodolphus lashes his wand and an inferno erupts from it. Draco shields and skitters back from the doorway. And then the fire dissipates and there's the sound of stone exploding and Rodolphus's fading laughter.

Casting a Bubblehead Charm, Draco runs into the barn with his wand raised, and peers through the flame and smoke to see that a chunk of the back wall has been blown out. He runs to the hole, vaguely aware of Weasley racing to join him, and they both look out to see Rodolphus running in a madcap flail across the field outside. They send several curses flying at him, but Draco doesn't expect them to hit; Rodolphus is already too far away. They don't. The Death Eater flings himself bodily over a fence, tumbling to the ground in an almost comedic tangle of limbs. And then he scrambles to his feet with a hop, turning and waving mockingly to Draco before he disapparates with a crack.

"Fuck!"

"Well, I guess that's where the disapparition wards end," Weasley says, as though thinking aloud. Draco could fucking punch him.

"Who gives a shit, Weasley?" he snarls and stalks out of the barn, rage vibrating through him. His uncle is a liar, he tells himself. A fucking liar.

He pauses by the doorway, checking that no one has turned up while they were preoccupied, but the area seems clear. "Come on. We need to get to the others," he snaps as Weasley pauses to grab Rookwood's wand. The redhead looks down at Rookwood, and then up at Draco.

"We said no Unforgivables."

"What, am I in trouble?" Draco asks, so caustic he nearly burns himself, and Weasley gives him a careful look as he jogs over out of the smoke-filled barn, the loft and roof merrily engulfed in flame.

"No. I won't tell if you don't," Weasley says, and a knot in Draco's chest loosens slightly at that. "I get why you did. Just…don't do it again."

"Yeah. I'll do my best." He sounds indifferent, but he's thankful.

"It fucks with your soul, mate," Weasley says. "Every time you do it successfully." And Draco knows that legend – not exactly confirmed fact – and shrugs.

"My soul is fucked already," he says, sidestepping the issue and ruthlessly crushing down any thoughts and feelings about his mother and what Rodolphus said. They can be dealt with later. "Come on, Weasley. Hurry up."

It has to have been ten minutes since they left the others and the battle erupted, and it still seems to be going hot. They circle around to join the Order. They briefly considered coming up behind the Death Eaters in the yard in some kind of pincer manoeuvre, but given they haven't discussed it with the others beforehand, the possibility of crossfire is too high. Instead, they sprint around behind the outbuildings and come up on the Order members from behind.

Nymphadora and Creevey are there now, Draco sees, all of them pushing forward against the enemy, using the cover of the scatter of buildings and a large wagon loaded with winter squash. Abbott lies on the ground behind the house itself with a great wound in her abdomen and Finch-Fletchley tending her, while five of the enemy lie dead – and there seems to be bloody, messy evidence of at least one other enemy death. Draco and Weasley dash in, staying low and shielding, skidding to a crouched halt next to Lupin and Nymphadora whose hair is radium green.

They're behind the wagon, which really doesn't seem like enough cover.

"What's happening?" Weasley asks, and Lupin flings off a silent curse and spares the redhead a glance before sending another curse over top of the squash.

"We need to get inside. Shacklebolt sent some sparks out the window a few moments ago, but they're defending the door heavily."

"Should've used fiendfyre on the whole house," Draco comments, eyeing it, and Lupin shoots him a look.

"That would've been a useful suggestion ten minutes ago, Draco," he says in a dangerously calm voice.

"Wouldn't have had confirmation Nagini was dead then, though," Nymphadora says shortly, breaking off her near-constant mutter of curses and hexes.

Draco shrugs. "Still could use it, if need be," he points out, ready to be as ruthless with Shacklebolt as the man was with him, and they all shoot him a horrified look. He grits his teeth. "Shall some of us try to peel off and go in the back?" he suggests, which is how he ends up dashing through another hail of curses before scrambling through a small, broken back window after Weasley – which seems to be where Shacklebolt and Wood made their ingress. He spills out into a small, old-fashioned kitchen, cutting his elbow on broken glass and falling on his arse, the impact jarring right up his spine.

And then Creevey tumbles in after them, a determined look on his face. "Oh shit, Colin," Weasley groans, but Creevey just squares his shoulders and gives them each a steady glance, his wand clutched tight in his hand.

"I can help," he says, and Weasley looks at Draco, who shrugs.

"Fine. But…be careful, yeah?" It seems Creevey has never been amazing at duelling. Useful at reconnaissance, but more backup than front-lines material, although from what Weasley's said recently, he has improved a lot lately. The younger man nods earnestly, and then Weasley leads the way as the three of them move through the crowded, maze-like house. It appears to have been magically expanded, and it's filled with boxes, ornaments, and furniture. Like the Room of Requirement when it became the room of hidden things, Draco thinks with a grimace at the memory, ducking into a room with his wand raised, and clearing it.

The house seems empty. And then, as he returns to the corridor, he realises he's lost sight of Weasley. Fuck. He spins and looks for Creevey, but the wizard is nowhere to be seen. He checks the nearest few rooms quickly, and doesn't find Weasley, Creevey, or Nagini – Draco's starting to think the house's defences involve wards and charms to confuse and separate. Divide and conquer. He hears noises though, after a moment, and follows them. The bangs and cracks of battle, and the sound of voices, growing louder. And then he turns a corner and finds the stairs, and Creevey just visible in the corridor above. A sense of relief washes through him, and he races up the stairs two at a time. "Creevey!"

The younger man is standing frozen in the doorway to the room the ruckus is coming from. Of course he is. He always seems to be right where the trouble is. He's short enough that Draco can see over his shoulder.

There's a panther in the room, in front of the snake, facing down the terrified Creevey.

Oliver Wood is half inside the snake. The bottom half of him. His head and torso are still out, one eye staring blankly, the other a mass of jelly filling the socket and smeared down one cheek.

Shacklebolt has his wand out but he seems dazed, and it's his wand arm that's been mauled, down to bone in some places.

"Shit," Draco says blankly, and then the panther springs, and running on automatic, he grabs Creevey by the collar and heaves him bodily out of the way, the younger man flung stumbling into the hallway and off to one side. "Avad–" And then the panther hits Draco like the Hogwarts Express. The breath is punched out of him as he goes flying back, thinking, fucking Creevey, and then his head smacks off the floor, and his wand falls from nerveless fingers. He can't get his breath. Stunned and stupid, the first thing he does as the panther removes its paws from his chest and stands over him is roll over and try to scramble for his wand. He's not sure there was a better decision he could've made, but that one doesn't work.

The panther plants its paw at the top of his spine, and he feels its claws unsheathe into his flesh like hot steel needles. It slams him into the floor hard enough to properly wind him again. And then it drags down, over vertebrae and nerves, shredding everything in its path. He screams. He wishes he'd pass out, but he doesn't. Draco stays fully aware of the agony that spears through every nerve in his body, and of the way he loses proper feeling in his left arm and leg as the panther drags its claws very slowly down.

"Stupefy!" Creevey's voice yells, and the claws retract, although the agony still burns excruciatingly through Draco's body, and something falls heavy on his back. And then there are footsteps up the stairs, and he turns his head to see a blue flash of light which lightens the weight on his back tremendously. A second later, Lupin is visible in Draco's blurred vision, rolling a stark naked woman off him and casting an incarcerous on her. He blinks in confusion, pain radiating through him, except where the sensations are all strangely dulled, through his left side. It's hard to breathe.

Lupin stands and then aims his wand into the room that Nagini and Shacklebolt are in. "Avada Kedavra," he snaps coldly, and Draco thinks through a muzzy head, oh, so he can use it, can he? There are more footsteps on the stairs.

"He saved me," Creevey keeps saying, in a small, shock-numbed voice. "He saved me."

"Ron," Lupin snaps over his shoulder as he crouches down beside Draco. His eyelids are feeling increasingly heavy, and he struggles to keep them open. "Go help Kingsley. I have Draco."

"Oh shit, Malfoy," Weasley says breathlessly as Draco's eyes slide nearly shut before he jerks them half open again. Then, with more horror dawning in his voice: "Oliver. Oh fuck. Kingsley. Creevey, get in here and help. G-get Oliver out of the snake. I'll grab Kingsley and –" He goes on, but Draco can't keep track.

Lupin is talking to him, but it doesn't make sense.

His left arm and leg feel weird. Dulled, and numb, like he's slept on them funny.

Nerve damage, he thinks. He tries to focus, but everything is sliding sideways. It's getting very hard to think, but his mind fixes on Hermione with a pang of longing.

Hermione. She's going to be so angry with him. He'd promised her he'd be careful. Guilt rises up, swamped in pain, as the world finally goes dark.