Draco slid down the stone wall, landing softly on the cold floor. Every muscle in his body strained, begging him to run. Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe.

Bodies crashed around him, curses ricocheting off the crumbling stone. Someone nearby screamed, echoing in the narrow hall. Death Eaters poured out of the Room of Requirement, streaming through the narrow portal of the old vanishing cabinet.

Head in his hands, he stayed perfectly still. Breathe.

Bellatrix's high laugh cut through the din as she swiped her wand down, sending a jet of green light pummelling into a student. The girl crumpled, falling where she stood. Black hoods drove through the chaos, cutting through students and teachers like a hot knife, their curses slicing through the air. And it was him, Draco, who had opened the gate —

He scraped his nails against the palm of his hand, dragging himself back to reality. The ceilings above him were still. No crumbling stone, no masked Death Eaters. The Dark Mark on his arm lay dormant, nothing more than a twisting shadow against his pale skin. The hallway was empty; he was alone in the silence.

It was happening more often. Draco thought back to the healer's patronizing smile as she'd reassured him it would fade. It will take time, she'd said, giving him that complacent look that everyone in St. Mungo's wore when they spoke to him. Expect some dreams, some images you can't control. You may even feel like they're happening while you're awake—it's just your mind processing a difficult event.

'Event' was a piss-poor way to describe half the people you know dying. He'd thought that Hogwarts would be better somehow, further from the worst of it. Malfoy Manor felt like a graveyard, his father a ghost drifting through the dark recesses. Narcissa had tried to get them all to go abroad for a while, until the trials finished and the scathing looks blew over. But Lucius seemed stuck, bound halfway between Voldemort's world and the afterlife. And he, Draco, was stranded in between.

He hadn't counted on the weight of Hogwarts. Even with most of his year graduated and gone, the castle remembered. Draco could barely sit through a meal without seeing the lines of bodies stretched out under white sheets, filling the Great Hall.

He tensed, clenching his fist against the image. Exhaling slowly, he focused on the grooves of the floor, the rough surface of the stone beneath his fingers. He traced the clear, heavy line between the tiles, blocking out everything that wasn't the ground beneath him. Bringing himself back.

Fighting the urge to slide down to the floor, he pulled himself slowly to his feet. At least inside the Room he'd have some peace. Besides, if anyone found him lying here in the hall, they'd have him committed.

He began the monotonous pacing back and forth, picturing the Room with its dim walls and frayed tapestries. It was dull, predictable. Boring as shit, he smiled dryly.

Folding his arms over his chest, he felt the wrinkle of something inside his breast pocket. He furrowed his brow, sliding his palm inside his robes and drawing out the crumpled photograph.

Hmph. He couldn't place why he'd held onto it for the better part of a week. That, or it was time to send these robes to the laundry. He stuffed the picture back into his pocket and turned to face the heavy wooden door that materialized from the stone wall.

He stalked forward, wrapping his long fingers around the iron handle. It didn't move. Draco tugged on the door again, bracing himself against the frame. The door stayed firmly shut.

Running his fingers through his hair, he whipped out his wand and tapped it sharply against the wood.

"Alohomora!"

The Room, of course, had a tendency to do whatever suited it in the moment. If it wasn't inclined to unlock the door, there was very little anyone could do to encourage it. Above all, the Room would not be forced.

Setting all his weight against the door, Draco pulled. His low gasp sounded in the empty hall. Stumbling back, he gave up. A sharp kick to the door earned him a stinging pain, followed by a string of curses.

"Fuck!"

The ridiculous Muggle curse slipped out before he could think. It was stupid, asinine, but Merlin was it satisfying.

"Fuck", he muttered again, stepping back and rubbing his hands on his robes.

Something inside him snapped. The tension that had been building for the last two months, the heavy air of Hogwarts that crushed his lungs whenever he drew breath. The knife blade he walked in his parents house, where any sudden noise made his father fire off an unforgivable curse. The way everyone in this place looked at him, like he was some kind of caged beast that should be chained up out of sight. The condescension of it all.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

He didn't care that it sounded against the walls like a cannon, echoing over and over in the curved ceiling. He didn't care that the pain shot up through his leg, reverberating in his bones. It felt free, for once. It felt good.

He let everything loose against the door, pounding it with his fists, numb to the red scrapes blooming on the heel of his hand. Again and again, letting it pour out. He didn't even want magic—he wanted to feel.


The booming rhythm echoed against an invisible ceiling, breaking the buzzing silence of the forest. It rolled against the tent's canvas walls, shattering the quiet night. Shaking off the old blanket, Hermione sat up like a bolt. Someone was trying to get in.

Boom. It filled the Room, and Hermione felt at once that the forest wasn't infinite—just a handful of trees, lingering slightly beyond where the eye could see. All at once, the Room of Requirement felt miniscule.

Boom. Straightening in her bunk, Hermione swung her feet over the edge of the bed and drew her wand. The pounding on the door continued, violent and aggressive, reverberating like a drum in the Room.

For some reason, it put her at ease. The force at the door—whatever it was—was tangible. An enemy she could fight. No more waiting, no more creeping dread. That sense that something was behind her every minute, breathing down her neck, and no matter how fast she ran she could never outrun it—

No. This was something she could face. A strange thrill ran through her at the prospect of pointing her wand at the enemy. Her mind raced through spells, something fast but effective, something that will stun them quickly. I won't have time for any complicated wand movements. Her wand arm buzzed, her grip tightening. She was almost…excited.

Shoving the thought down—this isn't you, she reminded herself, shivering against the strange anticipation—she strode toward the door as the booming sound grew louder.

And then…it stopped.

Silence filled the forest once again, clear and serene. The warmth that had filled Hermione's stomach drained away, leaving her strangely empty.

Moving softly forward, she found the door's arched silhouette against the dark trees. It remained quiet as she approached. Refusing to yield the promised fight.

Then…

A sound she almost couldn't place. She stepped closer, only a few feet from the door. The soft noise continued. Wait...is someone…crying?

The lock remained firmly set against the door's iron frame. There was no way anyone could enter. Reassured, Hermione crossed the last few feet and knelt, pressing her ear against the wood.

A choked sound, muffled as if by a sleeve, met her through the door.

"Open," a low voice begged. "Fuck, why won't you open?"

He sounded exhausted. Hermione had never heard that tone in his voice before, not even in those last few days before the battle of Hogwarts. After seven years she would have recognized Malfoy's voice anywhere, but this…it almost sounded like a trick.

The choked sob came again, followed by the low thud of someone leaning against the door.

"I just…just get me out. I don't care. It doesn't have to be the room, it doesn't have to have anything…please. Just get me anywhere. Please."

When she thought back on that moment, Hermione could never quite understand what compelled her. All she remembered was the quiet of the forest and that voice, low and familiar. And her hand moving on its own, drifting over the old wooden door and lifting the lock.