A/N: Hey, thank you all for your patience. It's been such a busy month, and for the longest time, I couldn't get into the right headspace for this story, but your lovely comments helped so much! Thank you! It's so heartwarming to know that some of you even liked it enough to keep rereading the earlier chapters over and over again.
Then, maybe you would like to go back to Chapters 14 and 16 and take a quick look at the modified backstory of Ruth Cooper, as well as the extended bit of dialogue where Draco and Ruth discuss their views on dating/courting. I think it adds a bit more depth to their characters. But, as always, you don't have to. None of it really impacts the plot.
Also, I now have a blog on tumblr ( raven-ember). For those of you interested, you can find visuals of Ruth there, along with my favourite excerpts and behind-the-scenes stuff.
Anyway, enjoy!
In the darkness of his bedroom, Draco sat straight on the edge of his bed—eyes closed, hands on his knees—and breathed.
One breath in. Hold. One breath out.
Too fast.
Slowly, slowly, slowly breathing in.
Holding, holding, holding.
And breathing it all out.
There was a phantom sensation of a Galleon burning in his back pocket. He now had two of them: one—old and scratched—for communicating with Snape, and another—smooth and brilliant—for communicating with the Order. He'd been checking them relentlessly, wondering, as he was now, if perhaps—
Focus.
Breathing the suffocating air—all the particles of dust floating by, all of it—in, in, in.
Holding.
Something was bound to go wrong.
Draco exhaled sharply and snapped his eyes open.
The last day of March, at midnight—that was when they had agreed to execute the Malfoy Manor mission. Today was the last day of March, and the clock, barely visible through the darkness, showed half past six in the evening.
Through the Galleon messages, Snape had told him that, outside of regular meetings, there weren't a lot of people in the Manor.
"Peter Pettigrew is always there," he said, "but he won't put up much of a fight, I don't think. That is not to say you should underestimate him or anyone else you might encounter."
"I understand," Draco replied. "We'll be careful."
He thought the conversation was over then, but an hour later, as he was suffering through magically doing the dishes, the Galleon burned him again.
"Good luck. And if no one is going to say it, I will. I'm proud of you, Draco."
The soapy dishes froze in the air above the sink as Draco stared at the coin. It took him a solid five minutes to come up with a response.
"My efforts seem to have paid off, if that is what you mean. My parents will soon be free, in more ways than one. Ultimately, I'm doing this for them."
Before Snape could comment on that, Draco followed it up with a question, "Why are you doing this?"
He'd asked him that a thousand times.
Snape never answered.
Draco shook his head and moved away from the edge of the bed, leaning his back against the wall. This was not important right now. Right now, he needed to breathe.
But no sooner had Draco managed to concentrate than he was broken out of his meditative trance by the loud swearing coming from outside.
Great.
Ruth didn't hear him as he pushed the front door open. Cursing, glaring and ever-struggling with the curls escaping her ridiculous three-inch ponytail, she continued to slash her wand through the air, pointing it at the brass object on the ground. Draco leaned against the doorframe, watching her.
"Reparo. Reparo! Oh, for the love of God... Reparo!"
Cursing profusely, she flung the wand to the ground and kicked the brass object. It hit a tree stump, breaking further into pieces.
Without a glance in Draco's direction, Ruth stormed off into the woods.
Draco shook his head and hopped down onto the grass. The clouds hung low above his head, almost touching the treetops. Having made his way to the muggle trinket that lay there, discarded and broken, he picked up its base. It was an orrery, a cheap but pretty little model of the Solar System. Ruth had lifted it when they swung by a muggle store a few days ago.
With a gentle wave of his hand, Draco collected the scattered planets and gears, allowing them to levitate near the base. He then pulled out his wand and whispered an incantation. As the parts flew to their original positions and swiftly reattached themselves, the bent structure straightened and gleamed—better than new.
Draco summoned the forsaken wand and walked to the front of the RV. Near it stood a small foldable chair on which a dozen more wands were laid out. He'd told the Order they could have the Snatchers' wands, but later. He wanted Ruth to have her pick first (seeing as she had lost both of her wands), though he didn't actually say this out loud, so they probably thought he wanted to use the wands as extra leverage or something. They would always think the worst of him. He'd been ready for that. He was fine with that.
Before long, Draco's thoughts were interrupted by the crack of a tree branch. He turned and saw Ruth stepping out into the clearing.
She approached him slowly, her expression gloomy and guarded. Wordlessly, he handed her the repaired orrery. She hesitated a moment before taking her hands out of her kangaroo pocket and accepting the trinket. Her fingers ran along the orbits, spinning the Solar System into motion.
Then her shoulders slumped, and she looked away from it, resigned.
"So..." Draco began. "No luck with the sticks?"
"Ju-u-ust more of the same," Ruth mumbled. "Starting it all from the beginning, I guess."
She placed the orrery on the chair, sighed, and sidestepped him.
Draco frowned. How was it that not a single one of these wands was a good fit?
He was about to ask her to try some more but was cut off by a dull thud. Turning, he saw her lightly kicking a tyre with her dirty boots, her eyes fixed on the ground.
Oh Merlin.
She couldn't go to Malfoy Manor without a working wand. And he... they needed her there.
Draco shook his head again.
No. This simply wouldn't do.
Suddenly, a single look at the repaired orrery gave him an idea. He reached inside his pouch and retrieved the long-forgotten pieces of his old wand.
It had never occurred to him that he could do this, but why not? It was worth a try, right?
Gingerly, he aligned the splintered halves in one hand and pointed the Elder Wand at the spot where they joined.
"Reparo," he breathed.
With a seamless grace, the unicorn hair core and hawthorn wood melded, becoming one as if they had never been apart. That very moment, a few sparks of vibrant red erupted from the tip, drawing Ruth's attention.
Draco stared at the wand in disbelief, feeling its warmth spread through his hand.
"Is that your—" Ruth began. "Wait. You could do that the entire time?"
Apparently.
Now he felt stupid. Stupid and a little bit ashamed. He had abandoned the thought of mending it long ago, too preoccupied, too fascinated by something new and shiny.
"Uh, no, of course not," he said. "It's a new spell Snape taught me."
Her gaze lingered on him a moment too long, as it usually did whenever he tried to explain away his powers. At times, though, she simply assumed that the stunts he pulled were too advanced for her, and as much as he felt bad about it, he didn't correct her.
Remembering what compelled him to repair the wand in the first place, Draco held it out to Ruth.
"Take it."
Her eyes flew to his. She didn't take the wand.
"But it's yours," she said.
"So what?"
"You would... You would do that for me?"
"Oh, come on." Draco rolled his eyes. "I almost forgot it existed."
Tentatively, she reached out her hand. When her fingers slowly closed around the hawthorn wood, he let go of the handle.
Ruth took a deep breath and pointed the wand at the patch of grass where a pair of bluebells was beginning to bloom.
"Aguamenti."
Water trickled from the tip of the wand, nourishing the flowers.
She beamed at him.
Draco sensed the corners of his lips curling up as well. "I take it you'll no longer be needing these, then?" He gestured at the wands lying beneath the orrery.
"Guess not. Feel free to donate them all."
With a flick of his wand, the sticks flew into his open pouch, one by one.
They were all set now.
But were they? A thousand things could go wrong.
What if the Order backed out at the last minute?
What if his parents got caught up in a fight and were injured, or worse... He was going to enter the Manor wearing a mask, so they wouldn't know they had no reason to fear.
"Hey." Ruth placed her free hand on his shoulder. "You do know it's going to be all right, right?" After a pause, she let out a short laugh. "Hell, what could possibly go wrong as long as we stick together?"
Many things.
Draco didn't voice that thought, but his sombre expression must have said it all, because Ruth stopped smiling and moved to stand in front of him, grasping both his shoulders.
"Hey," she repeated. "We'll be there. You and I, we'll make sure nothing bad happens to your parents."
He wanted to believe her so desperately, and, looking into her serious dark eyes, he almost did.
"It's going to be okay," she whispered. "Everything is going to be okay."
Hours later, as he stood amid the thick ash trees just outside the Malfoy Manor grounds, these words echoed in his mind like a mantra.
Everything is going to be okay.
Draco adjusted his mask and peered through its slits at the mansion in the distance. Home sweet home.
He cleared his throat and prepared to utter one word.
This was going to work.
"Tibbles."
At once, a sleepy-eyed house-elf with large pointy ears appeared before him with a crack. The elf looked around in confusion, hugging himself through his thin, tattered pillowcase, before spotting Draco and immediately jumping back with a squeal.
"Tibbles," Draco repeated.
Although the voice was completely foreign to the elf's ears, the fear in his big, expressive eyes slowly gave way to understanding.
"M-master?"
Draco gave a single nod of confirmation. Tibbles had been his personal house-elf since early childhood. Still was, judging by the fact he had answered his call.
This meant that, although the residents of Malfoy Manor believed he was dead, the Manor itself knew the truth. Its walls would still welcome him, and the wards would not be disturbed upon his entry.
Draco had been counting on that.
He spoke to the house-elf, "Tibbles, I need you to—"
But the elf was not listening. Falling to his knees, he hugged Draco's ankle and began to cry loudly.
"Tibbles is so, so happy Young Master is back. Tibbles never believed that—"
Taken aback, Draco didn't move. Although he was never a cruel master—better than his father, at any rate—he didn't remember being particularly kind to Tibbles either. Honestly, the house-elf had no reason to be this delighted to see him.
"Hey, cut it out," Draco muttered, but his voice was drowned out by the elf's wailing.
"Ti-ti-tibbles is glad, so glad..."
Slightly annoyed, Draco was about to shake him off when his eyes fell on long red marks on the elf's tiny bare shoulders—marks that, no doubt, continued beneath the edges of his pillowcase.
He waited until the elf's crying subsided.
"Tibbles," he said then in a softer voice. "Can you tell me who's at the Manor right now?"
The house-elf stood.
"Of course," he replied, still sniffing. "Master and Mistress, and their esteemed guests."
"What guests?"
"Mister Yaxley and his two assistants—Tibbles doesn't know their names, please forgive Tibbles, Master."
"It's fine, go on."
"Mister Pettigrew, Mister Rowle, Mister Dolohov, and Mister Crabbe."
Draco frowned. That was a lot of Death Eaters. Was there a meeting of sorts that Snape didn't know about?
"And what are they doing there?"
"Mister Yaxley and his two assistants arrived this morning to visit the library. They're still there. Tibbles was ordered to serve them lunch and dinner right there, in the library, but Tibbles doesn't know what they're doing."
"And the rest?"
"Mister Dolohov, Mister Rowle, and Mister Crabbe are in the drawing room on the second floor, but Tibbles wasn't the one who served them. Bramble was. Tibbles can ask Bramble if Master so wishes."
Draco shook his head, and the house-elf continued, "Mister Pettigrew is in his room. Tibbles guesses he is already asleep."
"And what of my parents?"
"Master and Mistress are in their chambers as well. They usually retire for the night early."
"Is there anyone else you haven't mentioned?"
The house-elf hesitated.
"There are also prisoners... But Tibbles is not sure if Master was asking about them too."
"Yes, them too," Draco said patiently.
"There are four prisoners in the dungeons. Tibbles doesn't know their names. Tibbles is not allowed to talk to prisoners."
Draco nodded, watching the Manor in contemplation. Did they have a chance? It would be seven Death Eaters against, what—him, Ruth, Shacklebolt, Lupin, and a couple of Aurors they'd promised to bring. Not exactly reassuring.
Their recent success at the Snatcher's Camp did not guarantee a victory. Snatchers were one thing; experienced Death Eaters from Voldemort's inner circle were another.
No. Pondering this was useless.
It was now or never.
Draco gripped his wand and turned to Tibbles once again.
"Take me to the kitchens."
Not a single ward was triggered upon Draco's entry. The crack with which he and Tibbles appeared in the darkness of the Manor's kitchens startled the rest of the house-elves, who were currently preparing for bed. As they jumped up, their tiny sleeping barrels tumbled in different directions.
Here they all were: young Pippin, Mother's personal elf, Glimmer, and Father's personal elf, Bramble.
As he addressed each one of them, they must have sensed the magical bond that tied them to him, for they rushed to him, exclaiming in joy.
"Young Master!"
"Master Draco!"
"Master! Master!"
Draco looked them over sadly, noting more injuries and scars. They must have truly been through hell if they were this happy to see him.
However, now was not the time for such thoughts, so he banished them and held up a hand, quieting the elves. From his cloak pocket, he retrieved a piece of parchment and gave it to Bramble.
"Now," he said, "the three of you will drop everything and go to the place specified here."
They looked up at him, confused, waiting for him to clarify the order. Draco repeated it, and now that they knew they hadn't misheard him, they were beginning to get nervous.
Glimmer moved, and before she could Disapparate and find Mother, as Draco suspected she was planning to, he spoke again, "You will not warn my parents. And no, you will not be coming back."
Even if they call for you.
The location he gave them was a hidden spot near the Tonks' house. It was so far away the elves wouldn't be able to hear their masters' summons, should those masters get ideas of their own.
The elves stood, wide-eyed and rooted to the spot, unable to object but also terrified of complying.
They weren't his personal house-elves, which meant that commands from Mother and Father would always take precedence. But neither of them had given any conflicting orders prior to this moment, so the elves had no choice but to listen to him now.
Even so, they remained motionless, seemingly on the verge of tears: they knew this wasn't what their masters would want.
Draco sighed and run a hand through his hair.
"Listen," he said. "I'm here to save them. I can't do that if you interfere."
Upon hearing that, the house-elves stopped trembling and looked up at him with cautious curiosity.
Finally, one of them spoke. "Young Master is here to save Master Lucius and Mistress Narcissa!" exclaimed Bramble. "Bramble will not stand in Master's way."
The others nodded vigorously.
When Draco repeated his request the third time, they all disappeared in a series of loud cracks.
Next, he had Tibbles Apparate him into the Grand Hall. Once the house-elf had left to keep watch, Draco approached the main fireplace. Flanking it were two torches, the only sources of illumination in the vastness of the room. They cast a spotlight on him, making him feel especially exposed.
Without wasting any more time, Draco pointed his wand at the hearth.
While the initial connection to the Floo Network was a Ministry-regulated process, creating pathways between specific households was something a wizard could do on their own—that is, if they knew the spell.
Recalling Shacklebolt's instructions, Draco lit the fireplace and pressed his Galleon, signalling the other team to do the same. He then took a pinch of Floo powder and tossed it into the flames.
With his mind fully focused on the destination, he chanted, "Ignis Vinculum! Ignis Vinculum! Ignis Vinculum!"
The flames flickered and turned a deeper shade of green. Draco smiled beneath the mask: the link had been formed.
Crack!
Draco spun around to face a panicked elf.
"Master! Someone's coming!"
"Hide yourself!"
Tibbles was gone in a blink of an eye, and Draco retreated to a dark corner, quickly Disillusioning himself.
Three men entered the Grand Hall: Dolohov, Crabbe, and Rowle. Crabbe Senior was telling a story, and the other two continually interrupted him with fits of raucous laughter.
Draco gripped his wand in his right hand and the new Galleon in his left.
If he called in the Order now, this would quickly escalate to a full-on battle, one that didn't have a predictable outcome.
If he let those three Death Eaters go, however, the odds would definitely fall in his favour. It would be an easy win.
But in that case, their haul would be far less impressive, and the Order, risking as they were, wanted to capture as many Death Eaters as possible.
Dolohov, Rowle, and Crabbe approached the fireplace, still laughing.
Draco's hold on the Galleon loosened.
Screw the Order.
The fewer Death Eaters they had to fight, the smoother the operation would go and the safer it would be for his parents. At the end of the day, that was what mattered most; and to Draco, that was the only thing that mattered.
So he stood by and watched the men go.
It's for the best, he thought. And the Order doesn't even have to know.
Having waited a minute or two, Draco finally called them.
Ruth stepped out first and was quickly followed by four Order members—Shacklebolt, Lupin, and two men Draco didn't recognise.
The air rippled.
As Shacklebolt opened his mouth to speak, Draco held up a finger. He definitely didn't imagine it. It was the wards he'd just felt, as they informed Malfoy Manor inhabitants of an intrusion. The question was, who exactly did they inform?
"Shit," he muttered. "They know we're here."
"Let's not waste time then," said Shacklebolt, and they all got moving.
It was over before Draco knew it. Yaxley, Pettigrew, and two other men were running down the Grand Staircase when the six of them ambushed the group with a barrage of Stunners.
"Is that all?" asked Shacklebolt, taking in the sight of four men lying on top of each other.
"That is all," confirmed Draco.
"Neat," said Ruth, coming up a step to stand beside him.
As their upraised hands met in a resounding high-five, the others turned sharply and gave them apprehensive looks; Lupin alone watched them with undisguised bemusement.
Shacklebolt barked, "Williamson, Grant, take these men to the safehouse. Remus, take him—" He nodded at Draco. "—and go fetch the Malfoys."
His gaze settled on Ruth who was about to head upstairs as well. "Not you. You're coming with me to free the prisoners."
Draco and Ruth both frowned at the man. He didn't trust them, that much was obvious. But what exactly did he think they were going to do? The operation was nearly over.
Ah, but what did that matter now?
He turned to Ruth and gave her a reassuring nod.
Everything is going to be okay.
Still unsure, she nodded back and turned to descend the stairs with Shacklebolt.
In a few minutes, Draco and Lupin stood in the third-floor corridor, facing the large double doors crafted from dark ebony wood.
Draco was going to enter alone. The ancient wards that protected the estate were strong, but those safeguarding the master chambers were nearly impenetrable. Only a Malfoy could pass through them.
Somehow, it was only now that his heart began to beat faster. He was finally going to reunite with his parents, but the thought, unexpectedly, filled him with dread rather than joy.
He turned to Lupin.
"Are you sure Mrs Tonks will be fine with housing my parents?"
"You're stalling, Draco."
Draco was about to object, but no words came out. He was stalling, and they didn't have time for that.
With a sigh, he took a final step forward, placed his hands on the ornate silver handles, and slowly pushed the door open.
The anteroom was dark, every single candle and lantern out. Cold, dim light filtered through the translucent silk fabric draped over an arch that led to the master bedroom. Draco inched closer, reflected in a dozen different mirrors that adorned the room.
As he gathered the silk curtain with his fingers and pulled it aside, he saw them—the rigid and hostile figures of his parents, standing by the open windows. His mother was pointing her wand at him.
Draco's heart ached, and he found himself incapable of uttering a word.
The soft rustling of their robes swaying in the wind was the only sound disrupting the stillness as they stared at each other.
Shielding Narcissa, Lucius came forward and demanded, "How did you get through the wards?"
Instead of replying, Draco simply pocketed his wand and reached for his mask. As he removed it, his parents froze where they stood.
"I'm home, Mother," he whispered, forcing himself to look at them. "Father."
Narcissa lowered her wand and stepped out from behind Lucius.
"Draco?" she said quietly. "Is it really you?"
He lifted his right hand and tugged down the cloak sleeve. The golden bracelet gleamed in the moonlight. His father's uncomprehending eyes flickered between the two of them.
His mother let out a small gasp. "Oh, Draco."
She started toward him, but Lucius grabbed her arm.
"It's a trick! Don't you see, Narcissa? Draco is dead. He died a long time ago."
"No, he didn't," she said. "He didn't die in that explosion."
Draco's eyebrows shot up. "You knew?! How?"
Narcissa freed her hand and rushed to Draco, embracing him tightly. After a moment of hesitation, he hugged her tighter still, inhaling the flowery scent of her hair.
"The bracelet..." Her voice trembled as she spoke. "That's how I knew. However, a week ago... something happened. I could no longer feel you. I thought you had died then."
"I'm alive," he murmured. "I'm alive."
She looked up at him and took his face in her hands. As her fingers touched the ridges of his scar, her eyes widened.
"What's that? What happened to you?"
"We don't have time for that. I'll tell you everything, but later."
Mother didn't seem to be persuaded, but her next words were abruptly cut short: Father finally spoke.
"All this time..." he said in a low voice. "All this time, you let me believe our son was dead. You let me grieve."
Narcissa turned to him, her hand still lingering on Draco's shoulder.
"Lucius, please. It was risky. The Dark Lord had looked into your mind before. He could have done it again. And he had no reason to examine mine."
Draco felt one of the Galleons grow hot in his back pocket—probably Shacklebolt, telling him to hurry.
"We need to go," he said, trying to ignore the heavy silence that had settled between his parents.
"Where?" his mother asked.
"To the safehouse. The Order's safehouse."
At this, his father's gaze sharpened. "You're here with the Order?"
Draco's throat went dry. He swallowed, digging his nails into the skin of his palms.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am. I've secured pardons for both of you. We're here to rescue you."
His father burst into scratchy, humourless laughter.
"How can you be so gullible? They would never pardon us—"
"There are... conditions."
As Draco carefully relayed them to his parents, his back pocket burned again, interrupting him mid-speech. For Merlin's sake, couldn't they give him a bloody minute? He pursed his lips and continued, "You won't have to return to Azkaban. Shacklebolt won't go back on his word, I know that."
But his father was no longer listening.
"You would have me live as a muggle," he said, his voice devoid of all emotion.
"Honestly, it's not that bad."
Right away, Draco knew it was the wrong thing to say. His father's expression went cold, and he averted his gaze, as if the very sight of Draco disgusted him to the core.
"This changes nothing," he said to Narcissa. "My son is dead. Whoever this dressed-up, muggle-loving blood traitor is, he's no son of mine."
Draco's throat tightened, and he said nothing, his eyes fixed on a book on the side table.
"Draco," his mother said softly, "would you give us a moment? I'll talk to him."
He gave her a stiff nod, put on his mask, and exited the room.
Outside, Lupin and Shacklebolt both stood waiting.
"What's taking you so long?" Shacklebolt asked. "Everyone is already back at the safehouse."
Draco took a deep breath, glad they couldn't see his face or hear his voice. "They just need a few minutes."
"You have five," Shacklebolt said sternly. "And when the time is up, if your father doesn't come willingly, he'll be taken as a prisoner."
Draco remained silent.
His parents must have reached the same conclusion, for they came out in four, looking scornful and apprehensive.
"Your wands," Shacklebolt demanded, extending his open palm to them. "You'll get them back later."
Wrinkling her nose, Narcissa handed over her wand, while Lucius mockingly displayed his bare hands.
Only after an extensive search and a few exchanged glares did Shacklebolt deem them ready to go.
Draco cleared his throat and called, "Tibbles."
The house-elf appeared, his ears perked up, prepared to take orders.
"Take my parents straight to where Shacklebolt tells you to."
"What about you?" Narcissa asked him.
He paused, still avoiding her eyes. "We need to wreak a bit of havoc first. Can't let it look like you came without a struggle."
Mother clearly wanted him to come with them, and though in any other situation she might have insisted on it, now she relented and took the elf's tiny arm. In a flash, all three of them were gone, and Draco and Lupin got to work.
Re-entering the chambers, Draco started out by shattering all the countless mirrors—on the walls, on the wardrobes, on the dressing tables. The shards flew in all directions, some scratching the exposed skin of his hands, but he couldn't care less.
He proceeded to throw blasting curses left and right, attacking the furniture until it was reduced to mere splinters.
He blew holes and dents into the walls, until those supporting the arch collapsed under the strain.
Around him, the curtains, the bed linens, the drapes, everything was burning.
"Draco! Draco!" called a voice.
When Draco approached the doorframe and saw Lupin just outside, it became clear he'd been calling for a while.
"I think that's enough," Lupin said. "Tell Kingsley we're coming back."
Draco took out the new Galleon but found it cold and empty. There were no prior messages.
The realisation sank low in his stomach. It wasn't Shacklebolt that had sent those two messages. It was...
A blaze of bright silver light came bursting through the window. As it came into focus, landing several feet away from them, Draco saw it was an animal—a silver-white doe. He gave Lupin a quizzical glance but found the man just as befuddled.
"Lily?" Lupin whispered.
Though confusing, it was not nearly as shocking as what happened next. The doe spoke, and it did so in a human voice. A voice that unmistakably belonged to Severus Snape.
"He's coming. Pettigrew called him. Get out of there, now!"
The voice echoed, its urgency lingering in the air. For a moment, they just stood there, transfixed by the silvery light fading before their eyes.
Then, with a single exchange of glances, they dashed across the room. Bursting through the doors, they ran, not sparing a moment to close them.
The Manor had never seemed so vast before, the corridors so long, the staircase so never-ending.
At last, they neared the ground floor and hurtled down the final flight of stairs. Beating Lupin to the door of the Grand Hall, Draco flung it open. But as they started towards the fireplace, the hearth—empty just a second ago—erupted into emerald green flames, outlining the silhouette of a tall, snake-like creature.
Draco's insides went cold.
"Confringo!" roared Lupin.
Voldemort stepped out of the fire, waving off the spell like a pesky fly. Following a single seamless motion of his bony grey hand, two hexes went flying towards them.
Draco parried—as did Lupin—and put all his energy into the counterattack.
The searing beam of violet light charged at Voldemort's chest. It made him take an almost imperceptible step back, even as he blocked it.
The impact seemed to surprise all three of them. Voldemort's cat-like slits narrowed further, and his red eyes zeroed in on Draco's glamoured wand.
Oh shit.
Both Draco and Lupin shot new hexes, one after another. But this time, having reassessed his opponents, Voldemort was ready. He deflected them all and began advancing, his eyes never leaving Draco's wand.
A storm of spells rained down on them, ferocious and unrelenting. Each one struck with pinpoint precision, forcing them onto the defensive.
"It belongs to me, you foolish boy," Voldemort hissed.
Draco chanced a glance at Lupin. Their gazes met, and Draco could tell the words had gone over his head. Not that it mattered at the present moment.
Together, they launched another assault. Yet, as each spell burst forth, Voldemort countered them with unnerving ease.
As they began retreating, Voldemort's lips curled into a chilling semblance of a smile. Draco could almost feel his exhilaration radiating in the heat of the oncoming curses.
At that moment, the impossibility of their escape, the sheer hopelessness of their situation, became as clear as day to Draco.
They were done for.
Voldemort crept closer.
"You don't deserve such power."
The words seemed to come from behind Draco, as if someone were whispering directly into his ear. Draco did not answer, barely managing to evade the curses. It took every ounce of self-control to stop his hands from trembling. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, and his ragged breathing made him feel even hotter under the mask.
Somewhere in the background, the green flames flared high once again...
...and Draco thanked Merlin, Morgana, and all four Founders, for it was Snape himself who was now entering the Grand Hall.
With his wand already drawn and ready, he immediately joined the fight.
Voldemort turned sharply, a piercing, inhuman shriek of fury escaping his bloodless lips.
"You filthy traitor!" he spat.
Still, he didn't miss a beat, now battling all three of them at once. He glided and spun, blocking every single attack and casting Killing Curses in such rapid succession that it shouldn't have been possible.
He was magnificent in his wrath. Draco found himself both awestruck and terrified. He'd never seen anyone half as masterful or as graceful.
Right then, Voldemort redirected Snape's curse with a flick of his wrist. It slipped through Draco's defences, slicing his right arm just above the elbow. Pain flared through him, and he staggered back, biting down hard to suppress a cry.
The next curse nearly hit him in the chest, but Lupin covered for him at the last moment.
Bleeding and unable to do anything about it, Draco shifted his wand from his right hand to his left and resumed fighting.
But his spellcasting grew awkward and less efficient, all while Voldemort seemed to target him more and more.
"Tell me, Severus-s-s," he said, "now that you're all about to die... Was it worth it?"
"It is worth it," Snape replied.
Flashing Draco a single look—the corners of his thin lips lifting ever so slightly—he pointed his wand at the floor and whispered an incantation. Before Draco could wonder what it was, he saw cracks splintering the floorboards before him. They ran further, encircling both Voldemort and Snape. Not a second later, the wooden flooring gave way with a thunderous crash. The two wizards plunged into the dungeons below, disappearing from sight amid a billowing cloud of dust.
Draco was still paralysed by the sight of the massive hole in the centre of the room when Lupin grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, manoeuvring them around the pit's edge. Almost momentarily, the sounds of battle resumed beneath their feet. As Lupin moved faster, not stopping to look down even once, Draco realised what he was doing.
"No, we have to help him," he protested, halting.
"We can't," Lupin snarled.
With a surprising show of force—that suddenly reminded Draco of the professor's dual nature—Lupin yanked him again, causing Draco to stumble forward towards the fireplace.
His heart pounded wildly. They couldn't leave Snape behind!
Cursing, Draco fought to escape the iron grip. As Lupin threw the Floo powder into the fireplace, Draco finally succeeded, wrenching himself loose.
But as he turned, a loud cry of pain echoed from downstairs, followed by a flash of green so bright it shone through the dust, illuminating the ceiling of the Grand Hall.
It knocked the wind out of Draco. His exhale was a shuddering "no".
Then Lupin's arms were around his torso, dragging him back.
Draco thrashed against him, shouting, wailing, pleading, "No, no, no, no!"
But this time, Lupin's grip was unyielding.
The last thing Draco saw before the two of them were swallowed by the flames were the cold, blood-red eyes of the vicious monster emerging from the dungeons.