FIC: Haste Thee Away (Harry/Draco)

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Title: Haste Thee Away
Author: evilgiraff 
Prompt: Prompt 8
Adapted from: Little Red Riding Hood
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word Count: 16k
Rating: PG-13
Contains (Highlight to view): *Scenes of torture (use of unforgivable curse) and some bloodshed.*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Notes: I wanted this prompt the second I saw it, so I hope eidheann_writes likes what I've done with it! I love fairy tales, the darker the better, and I hope I've done justice to Little Red Riding Hood with this story. Any accuracies in wolf behaviour can be attributed to Jack London and David Attenborough – and I've borrowed a mannerism from one of my favourite London characters. The title is taken from a Walter de la Mare poem: The Grey Wolf. Many thanks as always to my darling beta, O, who makes everything better. I couldn't have done this without you.

Summary: Deathly Hallows AU. It's dangerous to walk in the woods at full moon. This is a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood; a grim fairy tale of fear and courage.



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The entire afternoon is a whirl of unlikely events one after the other. Potter and his friends are dragged into the Manor, while Draco tries desperately to look like he doesn't realise the green-eyed swollen-faced captive is Potter the instant he sees him, and things are only getting worse as aunt Bella starts shrieking and casting Crucio in all directions. When an old family house-elf suddenly appears and attempts to stage a dramatic rescue, it almost seems par for the course.

From then, it seems like everything happens in slow motion. Potter rushes forwards, grappling with Draco for his wand, while Draco scrabbles to maintain his grip on the sweat-slippery wood. Sounds come to Draco slowly, muffled as if he was underwater, cries and threats, curses and counter-curses, and a barely-there whisper of thanks as Potter shoulders past him.

Someone casts a trip-jinx at Potter, who sprawls across the polished floor, the wands in his hand skittering in all directions. His voice rings out, screaming at the elf to go, Dobby, just go! as Draco's fellow Death Eaters close in. The crack of Apparition echoes through the room, a flung knife creating a high-pitched whine as it pierces the elf's magic at the last possible moment.

The sudden quiet is oppressive, the only sound that of Potter's laboured breathing as he vainly struggles to get to his feet. Draco presses himself against the wall, the cool stone welcome against the hot dampness spreading across the back of his shirt. He's seen confrontation and persecution in this room before, but the weight of expectation hanging thick in the air is new. The storm will break over Potter, he's sure, and Draco swallows, though it does nothing to ease the gritty dryness in his mouth.

Aunt Bella's boots click as she prowls towards Potter, her skirt swirling around her legs. She steps carefully around him, circling him once and smiling as he grows very still. As she comes round in front of him once more, she spins on one foot and drops swiftly to the floor, settling cross legged with her chin resting on her hands.

“Hello, Harry,” she says, smiling in a manner disturbingly reminiscent of Draco's own mother. She reaches out with her wand, scraping the tip over Potter's face, poking at a cheekbone, just short of his eye. “Fancy seeing you here.” Her pleasant expression doesn't alter as she casts the Cruciatus curse, though her eyes sparkle with fascinated interest as Potter writhes in agony.

Several minutes pass. Draco can't quite see Potter's face, pressed as it is to the gleaming parquet floor, but the occasional glimpses of eyes screwed tight are enough to make him look longingly at the door. Forced to remain still to avoid drawing attention to himself, Draco instead maintains a nauseated silence as Bellatrix waves her wand in an intricate dance, smiling delightedly as each completed movement draws a different sound from Potter.

Potter can scream in several ways, Draco discovers. There's a high-pitched wail as Aunt Bella moves her wand this way, and a gasping groaning when she moves it that way. There's no rhythm to the different nuances of the torture, no predictability to give Potter – or Draco – any sort of pattern to cling to. The screams give way to sobs, and Potter's limbs begin to spasm erratically. Blood smears under his battered hands and trickles in thin streams from his nostrils. His voice grows rough, then disappears entirely, though his lips still stretch wide over bloodstained teeth.

Eventually, Bellatrix grows bored, braces her hands behind her and leans back, head lolling as she stares at the ceiling. Draco sags slightly, the air in each too-shallow breath feeling uncomfortably thin as he watches the still-twitching Potter. Aunt Bella laughs breathlessly before stretching forward, hauling Potter to his feet and pulling him to her in a parody of a hug. “You're fun, Harry!” she exclaims, patting his head. “All we have to do is keep you nice and safe, until the Dark Lord wants you.” She looks around the room, each Death Eater's eyes flickering away as her gaze passes over them.

“Draco!” she snaps, beckoning him with a long, bony finger. “Take him to the ice house, and lock him in. He'll not be able to... fraternise with our other guests in there. Avery, Rookwood, Selwyn, go with him.”

Draco peels himself away from the wall, his skin crawling as all eyes in the room turn to him. Bellatrix shoves Potter towards him, and Draco has no choice but to catch the staggering man before he falls. Up close, Potter's face is grey and waxy, and he trembles faintly as Draco holds him up.

They leave the house through a side door near the kitchens, the chilly air of the early evening intensifying Potter's shivering. There are no lights on the path through the copse that shelters the ice house, and the trees cast deep shadows in the moonlight. The five of them pick their way slowly over the uneven ground, stumbling over roots and snagging their clothes on branches and thorns that seem to reach for them. Eventually Selwyn swears under his breath, and casts Lumos, lighting up the path and the dim form of the gate to the ice house half-buried in vegetation some distance ahead. No sooner does he do so than a howl rises from deeper in the woods, echoing amongst the trees and sending chills down Draco's spine.

“Oh, fuck,” says Rookwood, his eyes wide with sudden realisation.

Avery nods grimly. “Fenrir. It's full moon.” He grabs Potter's other arm and starts hauling him forward, Draco staggering alongside as he tries to keep Potter from falling.

They manage to cover about half the remaining distance before the branches ahead of them move, and a large wolf, grey in the moonlight, steps into their path.

The wolf is long and lean, the coarse fur along his spine rising as a low growl rumbles through the air. Potter stirs under Draco's arm, his eyes – still glassy with the after-effects of pain – widening with horror.

“What do we do?” Draco whispers.

“We have to go forward,” Selwyn says, his expression tight and grim. “There is no choice, he'll bring us down if we turn our backs on him.”

Rookwood and Avery move to either side of Draco, leaving him in the centre of the narrow path and supporting the sagging Potter's weight on his own.

“On three, start walking,” Avery says. He takes a deep breath. “One. Two. Three.”

The growl stops as soon as they move, the wolf's tongue running out and over his teeth in a canine approximation of a laugh. He doesn't stir as they nervously move past him, though he drops down into a half-crouch as Rookwood's cloak billows out a few inches from his nose. The status quo holds for several steps, the wolf low-down and ready, and the men steadily drawing away. It breaks all at once, as Avery treads on a dry twig, and the crack as it snaps in two rings out like a gun shot.

The wolf leaps forward, covering the short distance in two smooth bounds, teeth closing around the nearest ankle and tearing through cloth and tendons alike. Selwyn goes down with a shriek, the sound of ripping flesh turning Draco's stomach. A spray of warm droplets lands on the back of his neck, trickling slowly under his collar. Avery whirls around, casting spells wildly, sharp bursts of colour lighting up the trees and shifting the shadows under their feet.

Rookwood casts a few curses of his own, but when Avery falls he turns away and runs into the trees as fast as he can. The gate to the ice house is so close now, Draco leaves Potter swaying in the entrance, while he tries to turn the key in the old and rusting lock. Sobs born of frustration and fear push their way into the open air as Draco wrestles with the ancient metal. When the lock finally gives way, he pushes at the gate gratefully, but as he turns back to grab at Potter, he's greeted with a nightmare. Potter is exactly where he left him, but Fenrir is watching them intently, his tongue running out in another parody of a laugh. The bodies of Selwyn and Avery lie forgotten on the path behind the giant wolf, though the grey fur is speckled with their blood. It takes all of Draco's courage to hold the gate open with one hand and reach out to Potter with the other.

“Potter, come on,” Draco sobs, pulling as hard as he dares until the still-dazed Potter finally seems to understand. He takes three staggering strides towards Draco and then falls full-length, his arms wrapping around Draco's ribs. As Potter's head narrowly misses Draco's nose, all he can see is that lolling tongue once more, as the wolf gathers himself to spring. Draco heaves at Potter, drags him forward, but there's no time. Potter's hoarse scream is loud in Draco's ear as Fenrir sinks his teeth into Potter's calf and pulls.

Draco's eyes widen as Potter slips backwards, and he tightens his own grip, heaving at the other boy, though this causes him to cry out in pain. The wolf slides forward, his teeth slipping on the loose fabric of Potter's trousers and his paws scrabbling for purchase amongst loose soil and fallen leaves. Draco pulls with one last great effort, unable to stop himself from shouting defiance even as he shakes with a mixture of fear and adrenaline.

“No! You can't have him! He's mine!”

The wolf snarls, releasing Potter's leg for an instant, ready to spring forward, but the instant is too long, just enough time for the momentum of Draco's pulling to carry Potter through the entrance and for Draco to slam the gate closed behind them. The grating clank as the gate latches is greeted with a sob of relief from Draco and a whimper from Potter. The wolf crashes into the gate a second later, dislodging flakes of rust that float through the air and settle gently over Potter's legs, mixing with the blood steadily pooling on the worn brick floor.

Draco climbs shakily to his feet, staring down the wolf. “You can't have him,” he repeats. “He's mine.”

A strip of black fabric – once part of Potter's clothing – hits the ground with a wed thud as the wolf's jaws open in something between a growl and a snarl. The wolf's long tongue runs out once more, and then he's gone, loping into the trees where Rookwood had vanished.

Shaking, Draco locks the gate, then turns to Potter, who has pulled himself into a sitting position, back against the curved wall. Tears glisten unacknowledged on Potter's face as he stares at Draco.

“What was that?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

Draco sinks down facing him, legs crossed and elbows on his knees. He leans forward over his clasped hands and stares at the dirty brick floor, unable to meet Potter's eyes.

“That was Fenrir Greyback.”

Potter starts, his head narrowly missing hitting the wall. The faint trembling that set in halfway through Bellatrix's torture deepens into visible shaking. His teeth chatter as he tries to respond.

“But he's a werewolf. And he bit me,” Potter says, unable to take his eyes from the torn mess that his leg has become. “Which means... which means I'm... I'm a...” The words dissolve into tears and Potter hides his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

“I'm sorry, Potter,” Draco says. “I tried, but–” He trails off, unable to imagine how to say anything remotely comforting. “I'm sorry,” he repeats hopelessly, staring dully at his broken rival. He's never seen Potter look so thoroughly defeated, and it's frightening.

The night passes slowly, punctuated by quiet sobs, whispered apologies, and distant howling.


:::::


When dawn breaks, Draco wakes to find Potter is no longer sitting, but standing some way from him, looking intently at the inner gate that leads deeper into the ice house. He gives it an experimental push, then scowls when it doesn't budge.

“You need the key, Potter,” Draco says, pulling himself upright with a grimace as his joints protest.

“So open it, then,” Potter retorts, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. “What happens now?” he asks.

Draco grimaces, glances towards the locked outer gate and the steadily brightening sky beyond. “I suppose daylight means it's safe,” he says. “I should probably go.”

Potter nods tightly, his fingers clenching. He doesn't move as Draco walks away, though he flinches when the old gate clangs shut and the key screams in the lock. Blinded by the early morning sun, Draco can only make out a vague impression of Potter still leaning on the wall, hidden in the gloom. He grips the bars, sharp rust flakes biting into his hands.

“I'll come back,” Draco says. “As soon as I know what's going on, I'll come and tell you.”

There's no response.

The walk through the trees back to the Manor grates on his nerves. Every calling bird, every snap of a twig underfoot sends his heart racing. His progress is slow despite his desire to hurry, every step taking him further from the oasis of safety he'd shared with Potter.

The Manor is beautiful in the soft light, framed by stately trees bearing the soft new leaves of spring that bob cheerfully in the gentle breeze. Out of place and incongruous on the worn stone steps outside the front door, sits Fenrir Greyback, who looks up and grins as Draco passes by. His beard is matted and sticky with blood, and dirt cakes his fingernails. He gives an air of macabre slovenliness tempered with an easy, dangerous athleticism as he lounges in the sun, tattered cloak spread under him. He doesn't say anything, but he licks at his teeth and laughs under his breath. He watches Draco with only mild interest, but all the same Draco feels sweat pricking the back of his neck as he walks round the house and lets himself inside.

Inside, the friendly impression the house gives dissolves. Draco walks as quietly as possible, hoping that he won't run into anyone each time he turns a corner. He opens the door of the morning room slowly, peering around the door and sighing in relief when he sees his mother. Narcissa is sitting on a chaise longue, looking out over the gardens with her back to the door. She turns her head as the door closes with a gentle click and puts a finger to her lips.

Draco tiptoes across the room, and settles on the floor at his mother's feet, leaning back against an armchair and digging his fingers into the deep-pile rug. Also on the chaise longue is his aunt Bellatrix, stretched out with her head pillowed on Narcissa's lap and fast asleep. She looks softer somehow without her habitual tense posture or sharp gaze. Narcissa slowly strokes her hair, elegant fingers combing through some of the tangles.

“We used to do this as children,” she murmurs. “Andi never really joined in, but Bella and I played together all the time. One of my first memories is of Bella brushing my hair.” She smiles fondly at her elder sister, before looking at her son. “It's early, Draco. What brings you here at this hour?”

Draco swallows, his throat tight. “It's Potter. He... when we were taking him to the ice house, he...”

“He what, darling? What happened?”

“It was full moon last night,” Draco begins again. “Fenrir Greyback attacked us, and Potter, he, he got bitten. I think he killed Avery and Selwyn, I'm not sure, but Rookwood might have got away. Potter and I were in the ice house all night.”

As Draco talks, Narcissa's lips press together, her eyes taking on the disapproving coldness that makes Draco feel like a young boy again, caught doing something he shouldn't. She doesn't say a word, though she suppresses a sigh before ceasing her caresses and gently shaking Bellatrix by the shoulder. It's almost feline, the way Bellatrix wakes. She doesn't startle, simply opens her eyes as if she had never been sleeping at all.

“Morning, Cissy,” she says, swinging her feet to the ground and sitting up. She narrows her eyes at the expression on Narcissa's face. “What's wrong?”

“Bad news, Bella,” Narcissa replies. Without her sister to occupy her hands, she twists her fingers together in her lap, and glances at Draco. Her voice is quiet but sure. “Greyback bit Potter last night. He's turned him.”

Bellatrix turns her attention to Draco, her eyes flashing with sudden anger. “What happened? Tell me everything,” she demands, each word clipped short and rattling past her teeth as if she'd bite them if she could.

With his back to the armchair, there's nowhere for Draco to run to. Instead, he haltingly reports the events of the previous evening to a steadily more furious Bellatrix, who, on learning that Fenrir Greyback is just outside the house, storms out of the room.

Draco sags in relief as the door slams behind her. He looks up at his mother, whose expression is still tense. “What do we do now?”

“There's nothing more to be done. Bella will tell the Dark Lord, and then we'll know what happens next.”

“But what about Potter? He's injured, and it's cold and dark and there's no food or anything down there.”

A small, indulgent smile flashes across Narcissa's face. “You can take him food, if you want. You can be his keeper. Don't worry about anything else. He's a prisoner, not a guest. Now, go on upstairs and get some sleep, you look exhausted.”

The corridors echo with hurried footsteps as Draco makes his way upstairs. His aunt's voice drifts through an open window, her enraged screeching punctuated by a deeper rumble. As Draco arrives at his bedroom, Greyback's excuses are cut short, replaced by a hoarse screaming. The noise is muffled almost to the point of being inaudible as Draco slams the door behind him and secures the lock. The sun is very definitely up now, illuminating the familiar room with a warm, comforting light that reminds him of his childhood. Draco strips away his robes in a daze, washes perfunctorily and sinks into soft pillows and welcome sleep.

It's several hours later when he awakes, disoriented and his eyes gummy with sleep. The room is gloomy, the sky overcast and threatening rain. The journey downstairs is quiet once more, and Draco reaches the kitchens without seeing or hearing anyone. Once inside, an obsequious – though silent – house-elf prepares a basket of food for him while Draco leans against the worktop and picks at a loose thread on a discarded tea towel.

When he steps outside, basket hooked over his arm, Draco is momentarily stunned by the assault to his senses. The wind is blowing hard, whistling around the house and tugging at his clothes. Once on the path to the ice house, the intensity dies down a little, though the trees are swaying as their upper branches are forced this way and that. Draco hurries over fallen twigs and old leaves, one hand holding on to the basket cover, attempting to stop the contents blowing away. The ice house gate is a welcome sight ahead of him, the slight overhang shielding him from the worst of the wind as he turns the key.

Walking down the corridor, Draco frowns – there's a faint glow behind the second gate, but he knows Potter has no wand to cast Lumos with. As he approaches the gate, it becomes apparent that the light is not the only change. Instead of the bare bricks of the night before, the main chamber of the ice house now contains a rather battered-looking camp bed with a chamber pot underneath it, and several large, glowing, globes that Draco recognises as his mother's staple lighting solution for parties. The canvas of the camp bed sags underneath Potter, who is huddled under a thin-looking blanket. There's no sign that Potter is awake as Draco opens the gate, but when he closes it the clicking of the lock is answered by a metallic complaining as the camp bed protests against Potter's movements.

“Who brought these things?” Draco demands. “Those lights belong to my mother.”

Potter looks up at him dully. “Your mother brought them. And your aunt as well.”

Aunt Bella had been here? Draco's stomach turns. “What happened?”

“Your aunt is really rather good at the Cruciatus curse, you know,” Potter says, in a pleasantly conversational tone, despite the harshness at the edge of his voice.

Draco swallows, looking at the floor. “She's had a lot of practice.”

“Yes. Lucky for me your mum turned up, really. She brought all these things—” Potter gestures vaguely around the room, glances up, then quickly away once more. “—and Bellatrix put me in a body-bind while the house-elves set it all up.” He barks a short, humourless, laugh. “A chamber pot with a vanishing charm is a genius idea. If I'd had one of those a few years ago I never would have made it out of the cupboard.”

Baffled, Draco stares at him. Potter's mouth twists into a sour smile, but he doesn't elaborate. Shaking his head briefly, Draco holds out the basket. “I brought you supper.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why feed me? Doesn't Voldemort want me dead? Surely starvation is as effective as anything else?”

Draco gapes at him. “I don't think he knows you're here, yet. But you can't just lie down and die, Potter.”

“I think you'll find I can. I'm a werewolf, Malfoy, there's no way I'm any use to anyone now, and in any case I can't defeat Voldemort if I'm locked up here.”

“Oh for—” Draco starts, exasperated. “Stop whining, Potter. So you're a werewolf, so what? Wasn't your pet teacher in third year a werewolf? Aren't you the sodding Boy Who Lived? You should be trying to figure out a way out of here, not just giving up.”

“Yeah, like you know all about courage, Malfoy,” Potter sneers.

Draco feels the blood drain from his face. He swallows hard, and sets down the basket on the floor, peeling his fingers from the handle with some difficulty. As soon as he straightens up once more his hands immediately re-curl into fists.

“As I said, there's supper for you there,” he says, indicating the basket. “Eat it or don't eat it, it makes no odds to me.”

The silence is loud as Draco unlocks and relocks the pair of gates, though he can feel Potter watching him as he leaves.


:::::


The following evening Draco retraces his footsteps with some trepidation. This time, as he unlocks the gates Potter gets to his feet, which immediately sets Draco's heart pounding. The years of social training – not to mention living with the Dark Lord as an occasional houseguest – pay off as he locks the gate behind him and turns to Potter with an inscrutable expression.

“Good evening, Potter. I've brought you supper.”

Potter flushes a deep red. “Thank you,” he says, voice shaking a little. “I'm sorry, about yesterday. You're right, I shouldn't give up, so I won't.” He takes a deep breath. “I don't see how it can end well, but you never know, right?”

Draco smiles faintly. “Alright. I'll bring you something every day, then, if you're not going on hunger strike.” He nods at Potter and turns away.

“Malfoy?” Potter's voice, still a little shaky, sounds decidedly more nervous.

“Hmm?” Draco doesn't look up as he fits the key into the lock.

“Would you stay?” Potter blushes again as Draco turns to him and raises an incredulous eyebrow.

“Whatever for?”

“It was good, the food, yesterday, and enough to feed a small army. If it's that much again we can share it, if you'd like?” Potter stares at the floor, shoulders hunched, and it's this uncharacteristic look of defeat that decides Draco's actions for him. Draco turns back, pockets the keys and picks up the basket once more.

“Okay.”

They sit side by side on the narrow camp bed, the frame digging into their thighs, and slowly work their way through the generously-packed basket, though Draco spends more time pulling his bread apart than he does actually eating it. There's little in the way of conversation, and the sound of the wind whistling through the bars of the outer gate doesn't do much more than highlight the silence between them.

When the last container is empty, they pack up both baskets, and Draco takes his leave. Potter follows him to the gate, and watches Draco as he walks away. As the key turns in the outer gate, Draco glances back at Potter, silhouetted against the glow-globes inside.

“Goodnight, Malfoy. Thank you.” Potter's voice sounds as if it comes from much further away than the short corridor separating the two gates.

“Goodnight, Potter.”

The days pass in this fashion for a week or so, the company – if not the conversation – seeming to help Potter cope with his imprisonment. On the ninth day after Potter's capture, this illusion is shattered. Draco enters the ice house as usual, locking the inner gate behind him and setting the basket down on the floor. Potter, standing by the wall, becomes a sudden blur of movement, rushing forward with his fists flying. Draco sidesteps the first two blows, but the third lands heavily on his ribs, the air rushing out of his lungs painfully.

“What the hell, Potter?” Draco wheezes, backing away as Potter tries to press his advantage.

There's no answer. Draco parries and ducks as many blows as he can, but when Potter's fist misses his nose by a bare inch – Draco can almost make out the fine hairs on the back of Potter's hand as it passes in front of his eyes – he can't hold himself back. Living amongst violent and unscrupulous criminals has given Draco an education in how to fight, but fighting without a wand is still unfamiliar, and so he mirrors Potter's wild flailing. Draco's slight height advantage gives him a longer reach, and he makes the first significant blow, bruising Potter's cheekbone and making his teeth clack together.

As Potter staggers backwards Draco pushes forward, knocking them both to the ground. They wrestle with each other, Draco trying to pin Potter down, and Potter trying anything and everything to get free. Draco manages to avoid having his nose broken by the back of Potter's head as he thrashes around, but in doing so cracks the back of his own head against the frame of the camp bed. Taking advantage of his opponent's distraction, Potter flips them both over, tries to hold Draco down with one forearm pressed to his chest while his other hand fumbles through Draco's robes.

“Potter, what—” Draco wheezes.

“Give me the keys!” Potter gasps. “I've got to get out of here, I've got to get away, I can't–”

Draco wraps his arms around Potter, trying to restrain him. “What will you do if you get them?” he hisses. “Where will you go? You think you can get out of the Manor grounds on your own?”

“I'll take my chances,” Potter growls.

“Alright then,” Draco replies, breathlessly, “imagine you get past the patrols, and the wards, and manage to get back to your people without a wand, what will you do then? You are a werewolf, Potter, and you're not safe for anyone else to be near you. Who's going to make you Wolfsbane Potion? Snape is a Death Eater and it's only a fortnight until full moon.”

Potter fights against Draco's hold a little while longer, then collapses against his chest with an anguished whimper. “What am I going to do?”

Draco relaxes, resting his head on the cold bricks. “I don't know,” he says, closing his eyes as if by doing so he could pretend that Potter had never been captured. “What do you people normally do?”

“Ask Hermione what to do,” Potter replies, his voice flat. He levers himself up a little, then pauses. He looks thoughtfully down at Draco, who tenses, feeling suddenly vulnerable again. “You could ask Hermione.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Draco scoffs, trying to sit up, pushing at Potter's shoulders to no avail.

“No, you could. You could send her an owl. If they had word of what's happened, then they might be able to come up with a plan.”

“No, Potter.”

“Why not? You're hardly safe as it is, not with Voldemort. You could get away too, you know. You'd be safe with us, safer anyway.”

A sudden vision springs into Draco's mind, an old man saying the same thing, giving him the same offer of sanctuary before falling away in a flash of green light. A faint trembling spreads from his hands until he feels sick and shaky.

“Please, Malfoy. Help me.” Potter's voice is quiet, the quiver of excitement replaced with a calm sincerity that seems impossible to refuse.

In his mind's eye, Draco sees a younger Potter, a boy covered in bruises and full of determination. He's seen Potter's refusal to give in so often, seen him beat the odds again and again. He looks at Potter now, and sees that same focus, so how can he believe that Potter will inevitably fall to Voldemort? Despite the cold and the grime and the fear, there is still a clear surety in Potter's eyes, a certainty that Draco both can and will help him. So many times, Draco has been wrong, and Potter has been right.

Swallowing the nausea and clenching his fingers into fists, trying to restrain the impulse to hang on to Potter like the lifesaver he is, Draco chooses. He's never felt so afraid.

“Alright,” Draco whispers. “I'll send an owl. What shall I say?”

“Tell Hermione that I'm like Moony. She'll understand what I mean, and it'll mean she knows I trust you as well.”

The nausea roiling in Draco's gut spikes, and he grimaces, then nods.

“Thanks, Malfoy.” Draco has never seen Potter look quite this earnest before, and certainly never seen that sort of expression aimed at him. He pulls himself to his feet, and smiles weakly.

That night, Draco's message to Hermione Granger is carried away on silent wings, sent as soon as Draco gets back to the house, before he loses his nerve.


:::::


The following night, Draco's owl returns without either the original message or a reply. When he's not with Potter, Draco spends his time locked in his bedroom, trying vainly to suppress the fear of being found out. Two days later, an owl is waiting for him in the trees outside the ice house when he brings Potter his meal.

As soon as he retrieves the message from the bird, it takes off, quickly lost to sight in the gloom.

When Draco stumbles through the gates, Potter's cheerful expression is swiftly replaced by anxiety.

“Malfoy? What's happened?”

Draco doesn't answer, just shoves the unopened letter at Potter with trembling hands. Potter takes it, his forehead creasing into a frown before he sits heavily down on the camp bed. Draco sits beside him, the nervous shaking in his right leg sending tremors through the rickety frame until the paper in Potter's hand vibrates slightly.

“There's no seal,” Potter remarks, turning the letter over and examining the plain blob of wax that holds it closed. He glances at Draco, then shrugs, quickly breaking the wax and unfolding the letter. He reads it quickly, his frown slowly dissolving as he works his way through the dense script. When he reaches the end, he closes his eyes, sagging back against the wall as his whole body seems to lose the tension that's been present during his incarceration.

“What did it say?” Draco asks, when the silence has grown too long and his curiosity too great to ignore.

Potter cracks open one eye. “Hermione's on the case, that's what it says. We need to find a way to get her in here at some point, but she'll send another owl when they have an idea what to do.”

“Oh. Okay.” The tension drains out of Draco, leaving a tentative but genuine smile in its wake.

Potter laughs. “Yeah, okay.” He scratches his thigh absent-mindedly, then looks at Draco once more. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

They work their way through the basket of food, and by the time they've finished they are once more back to normal, chatting quietly about inconsequential nonsense.

It's only when Draco stands up, ready to leave, that the awkward tension returns. Potter scrambles to his feet and follows Draco to the gate, watching him fit the key into the lock.

“Malfoy, wait.” Potter is almost squirming with discomfort. “There's something I have to give you.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, but before he can speak, Potter's eyes take on the steely determination so familiar from their Quidditch days. The distance between them is covered in a few short strides, and then Potter is wrapping his arms around Draco, and all Draco can do is stand there, astonished. After what feels like an age, he regains control of his limbs and he raises his own arms, unsure whether he's going to push away or pull closer until he's sliding his hands across Potter's back and they're standing there, cuddling.

Potter is many things at the same time, Draco discovers. His hideously ugly hand-knitted jumper is soft, but it does nothing to disguise the sharpness of his shoulder blades or the musculature of his back. He's also warm, the heat from his hands so pleasant as it soaks through Draco's own – much more stylish – jumper that Draco suddenly understands why cats purr when people stroke them. It's nothing like the gentle embraces of his mother, much less the hearty handshakes his father favours, and Draco has very little other experience to use as reference for hugging.

He's so completely lost in how nice it is to be held so firmly by and against another body, how safe it feels, that Draco stops paying attention; too busy marvelling at how he can feel the deep rumble of Potter's voice vibrating through his own ribs to listen to the words. He comes back to himself with a start when he realises Potter is chuckling. He tries to pull away, but Potter immediately tightens his grip, keeping him in place.

“Are you listening now?” asks Potter.

Draco's affirmative reply whispers over the bare skin of Potter's neck, raising goosebumps and sending a faint shiver down Potter's spine.

“Well, Hermione said in that letter – which we should burn, by the way – that I should give you a hug from her, for helping us.”

Draco's heart sinks. He hadn't even considered any other possibility than that Potter inexplicably wanted to hug him.

Potter is still talking. “This isn't a hug from her, though. Her hugs are hard and fast, and I thought that really, that probably wasn't what you need right now. So this one is from me. Thank you, Malfoy.”

The use of his surname while they're in such close contact is jarring, even while Draco's mind goes into a tailspin at the revelation of this being a real hug. He pulls away, mouth twisting into a sour smile.

“You're welcome, Potter. But there's really no need to bestow me with some sort of hug charity.” He can hear how icily bitter his tone is, and inwardly cringes.

Potter isn't having any of it, though, taking the wind out of Draco's sails easily. “Don't be ridiculous. I meant it. Thank you.” He smiles lopsidedly.

“Well,” Draco starts. “As I said, you're welcome.” He turns on his heel, locking the gate behind him. He looks up after locking the outer gate. “Goodnight, Potter.”

“Goodnight, Malfoy.”


:::::


From then on, things are less awkward between them. Potter is less desperate, less prone to sullen silences and angry outbursts. For his part, Draco is more relaxed, more willing to engage in conversation, and decidedly more hopeful about the future. Potter's faith in his friends' ability and desire to rescue him is so absolute it's difficult to do anything other than feel likewise.

As the moon waxes larger night by night, however, Potter's optimism wears thin, his smiles becoming forced as it becomes more and more obvious that Granger is not infallible. Even if she can find a solution to the problem, Potter is going to have to live through at least one full moon as a werewolf without potions to dull the effects or his friends to support him.

The night before full moon, Potter is quiet. Draco tries several different tacks, talking about the food, the weather, and the tediously predictable storyline of the novel his mother has lent to him. Nothing seems to register, though, and in the end they sit in silence together, Potter staring into space and Draco picking at his fingernails disconsolately.

Eventually, Draco stands to take his leave, the keys jangling in his hand. Potter jerks round, startled, with wild eyes. Draco raises a hand in a half-wave. “Goodnight, Potter.”

Potter sags back against the wall, then leans forward, frowning, as the chill of the brick leaches through his clothes. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

By the time Draco has gone through the inner gate, however, Potter has walked over to it, gripping the bars tightly with both hands. “Malfoy, wait.” Draco, pushing the key into the lock of the outer gate, half turns, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

Potter grimaces. “Will you stay, tomorrow?” His fingers tighten reflexively, knuckles turning white. “Please? I don't want to do this on my own.”

Draco gapes at him for a moment, before regaining his composure. It's unlikely that Potter will be anywhere near as aggressive as Greyback, but his mind still spins with the novel – and pleasing – idea that Potter will feel more at ease with Draco present. “Of course,” he says. “Of course I'll stay.”

The following day dawns grey and cold, with the sort of heavy dampness in the air – that threatens but doesn't quite deliver rain – that is so characteristic of a British winter. Draco spends the day huddled indoors with his disappointing book and endless cups of tea, brought to him by silent house-elves. By the time he finishes the final chapter, it's almost dark, and the moon is clearly visible in the small patch of sky not obscured by cloud.

With a whole night to pass in the company of a werewolf, Draco fishes his thickest cloak – a bright, cheery red garment that seems to warm him just looking at it – from his wardrobe and instructs the house-elves to prepare a larger, more warming supper than usual. Armed with his basket of hot stew and fresh bread, Draco picks his way through the trees, the hood of the cloak keeping the worst of the chill wind away from his ears, the tips of which turn pink regardless.

As he turns the last corner and the ice house comes into view, Draco hurries his steps, walking quickly to get out of the wind as soon as possible. Just as he reaches the outer gate, however, a voice speaks right behind him and he jumps with fright.

“Hello, Draco.” Fenrir Greyback's voice is low and drawling, just barely hiding the undercurrent of mirth that so often bubbles up into madness. He sniffs the air, looking down at the basket. “You having a picnic, boy?”

“I'm bringing food to the prisoner,” says Draco, trying not to sound high-pitched and afraid.

“I wouldn't stay in there long if I was you. You know it's full moon tonight? You'll be the food, if you ain't careful.” Greyback laughs, then grabs at Draco's arm. “Not that there's much meat on you, mind.” His fingers dig in painfully, and it's all Draco can do not to cry out.

Potter, however, has no such compunction. Though he's barely visible through the gloom, he's just beyond the inner gate, and he can see them clearly, despite the gathering dark. “Leave him alone, Greyback! Let him go!”

Greyback laughs delightedly. “'Let him go', he says! Let him go? What for? Only to give him a head start, perhaps, a sporting chance, style of thing. Why don't I take the key off him and let you out, Potter, and then both of us can play with him.” He leans in, sniffing at Draco's throat and grinning his mad grin. “I wonder how long he'd last.” Draco rears back as far as he can, the acrid smell of Greyback's skin turning his stomach.

Potter is still shouting. “Leave him alone! You can't have him!” He's clinging tightly to the inner gate and almost shaking with anger.

“And whyever not?” asks Greyback, cheerfully. “I can have whoever I like, whatever that bitch has to say.” He sneers at Draco. “Maybe if I had a little fun with her family it'd bring her down a peg or two.” Turning to look at Potter, Greyback gives Draco a little shake. “Give me one good reason why you think I can't have him,” he growls.

“He's not yours to do what you want with, Greyback.” Potter's voice is icy and furious. “He's mine, and you can't have him. Let him go.”

Greyback raises an eyebrow, his mouth twisting. “Yours, eh?” He leans closer to Draco, takes another deep breath before straightening up, a curious look on his face and all the mirth gone. “Well, maybe he is. He's yours or you're his, one or the other.” He looks Draco up and down, muttering to himself. “Never heard of a human being pack before. Trust that one to be different.” He directs a sour look in Potter's direction, before disappearing back into the woods as silently as he'd arrived.

Draco remains motionless for a moment, staring after Greyback, then fumbles his way through the gate, locking it behind him with relief. He gives it a shake, checking that it is as solid and secure as it looks, before heading towards the inner gate, and Potter, who is anxiously shifting from foot to foot.

“Are you alright?” Potter's face is creased with worry. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Draco waves him away with a tired hand. “Of course I'm alright. He's hardly the worst of them.” He looks at Potter with a small smile. “You realise I have had several Death Eaters living in my house for months? Nothing he can do is anywhere near as frightening or as painful as having both my aunt and the Dark Lord in the same place at the same time.”

Potter nods, then gestures at the basket of food. “I don't think I can eat.”

“Alright. It's got a stasis charm on it, it'll keep till morning.” Draco looks around awkwardly. “I suppose I'd better stay on the other side of the gate.”

Potter agrees, then insists Draco takes a glow-globe and the blanket with him too. “Mind you, not that you'll want the blanket with that huge cloak on.” Potter grins briefly. “It's not very Slytherin of you. I approve.”

“It's warm, Potter, and if you think everyone should only ever wear their House colours anyway, you're stupid. For a start, scarlet suits me—” he snaps one edge of the cloak so it billows out around him “—and you'd look quite good in green.”

Potter blinks at him, but says nothing. The silence draws out until a faint pinkness blooms on Draco's cheeks, and he turns away, gathering items to keep safe until morning.

“I hope you're not one of these wildly destructive beasts,” Draco says. “I don't think we can move the bed into the corridor.”

“Can't you just shrink it?”

“What with?” Draco waves his empty hands. “I don't carry my wand to visit the prisoners. It's much safer that way, for everyone.”

“I wouldn't hurt you, Malfoy.” Potter looks at the floor.

“You can't guarantee that,” Draco replies.

“I can. I won't hurt you, Malfoy, I swear.” Potter's earnestness is sincere to the point of being disturbing.

The memory of waking up in a hospital bed, wrapped in bandages and surrounded by bottles of blood-replenishing potions strikes Draco, and he snorts with wry laughter. Clearly, Potter has forgotten how recently causing harm to Draco was a primary objective. This is not the time to dredge up the past, however, and so he merely raises an eyebrow.

“All the same, I don't carry my wand to visit the prisoners.”

Potter nods unhappily, then doubles over, gasping with pain. “I think it's happening,” he wheezes. “Quick, lock the gate.”

Draco does as he's asked, glancing up at the outer gate. It's full dark outside now, and there's nothing visible beyond the thick bars at the end of the corridor. Back in the light, Potter is crouched on the floor a few feet from the gate, his chest rising and falling rapidly and his eyes clenched shut. Looking at his face, Draco is suddenly struck with a thought.

“Potter,” he hisses. “Potter, give me your glasses.”

Potter pulls his glasses off without opening his eyes, pushes them across the floor before bringing his arm back to wrap around his middle. Draco reaches through the gate, stretching as far as he can to tap the glasses close enough to catch hold of properly. As Draco brings his arm back through the gate, Potter cries out and falls to his knees, panting.

“Malfoy!” Potter's voice is small and strained. “Malfoy, I'm scared.”

“You'll be alright.” Draco knows the words are empty, but he can't think what else to say.

Sweat beads on Potter's forehead as his fingers lengthen and the bones of his face shift under the skin. The air fills with his cries and the sickening grinding sound of bone against bone. To Draco, it seems to go on forever, as he watches limbs change shape and coarse hair push through naked skin, and he hates to think of how long this process feels to Potter. Eventually, quiet is restored, broken only by a harsh panting.

If it were not that he watched it happen, Draco would have a hard time believing that the huge shape before him is Potter. Still caught up in the remnants of Potter's clothes, the wolf lying in the middle of the floor bears very little resemblance to the Potter that Draco knows, only the darkness of his fur coupled with the bright green of his eyes giving the lie to who he is. Draco watches him carefully, not daring to move a muscle. After a minute or so, the frantic panting calms, and the wolf attempts to stand, only to be frustrated by the restrictive clothing. Draco backs away as the wolf snaps and snarls, tearing the cloth with teeth and claws until at last he frees himself completely.

The wolf shakes himself, then pads across the room, sniffing at everything and occasionally growling. His movements are powerful and deliberate, every step holding the promise of a leap. Draco watches him open-mouthed as the wolf passes by, stunned by the sheer size of him. He whistles under his breath, but the superb hearing of the wolf is more than a match for it, and the wolf spins on the spot and launches himself at the gate without hesitation.

Draco staggers back as the wolf hits the bars with a guttural snarl, then trips over his feet and falls backwards until he's sitting on the cold floor at eye level with the wolf, who is still snarling.

“Merlin's balls,” he says, scrambling backwards just in case those massive jaws can somehow fit between the bars. “You've got fucking enormous teeth, Potter, you know that?”

Those teeth are exposed a little more fully as lips pull further back as the snarling grows louder, then eases off a little as the wolf settles down on his haunches, stretching forward until he's lying down, maintaining eye contact with Draco the whole time. Draco can't help but stare at him – partly because it makes no sense to take your eyes away from such a superior predator, but also because the wolf is simply fascinating.

His fur is a deep black, the rich, shiny colour of warm tar, and it looks dense and warm, with a thicker, coarser quality to it across his back. His teeth are not only large but also seem to gleam white in the soft light of Draco's glow-globe, a stark contrast to the dark fur. His body is muscular in a lean sort of way – rather like Potter normally looks – not suggestive of any great supernatural strength, but hinting more at an ability to run long distances at considerable speed. Draco briefly remembers Greyback's words, and knows that if it came to it, he'd not be able to outrun either werewolf for more than a step or two, though he is no slouch at running. What holds Draco's attention most, however, is his eyes. They are the only thing about the wolf that still seem to be wholly Potter, and the clarity of their colour is a shock in the otherwise monochrome room.

It's unsettling, sitting on the floor being stared down by a huge, snarling wolf, and so Draco does what he so often does when he's nervous, and starts talking. He talks about the weather (gloomy), the colour of the bricks forming the gently curving walls of the ice house (reddish-brown, grading to a more beige-brown – Draco's never gone in for the paint-company method of describing colours as if they're emotions), and goes through the entire plot of his dreadful book in excruciating detail. When he grows bored of lambasting the self-centred and wooden heroine, he starts telling his own stories. He describes his childhood, of adventures on training brooms and of teasing Great-Aunt Wally's crochety house-elf by rearranging cupboards whenever the old elf's back was turned. He tells fairy tales that his mother used to read to him, reciting the well-loved stories with relish. He lingers over his favourites, The Little Tree Who Dreamed and Babbitty Rabbitty getting more of a dramatic retelling than the others.

He's halfway through a spirited homage to the Sorting Hat's song, adjusting the lyrics as appropriate to ensure that Slytherin appear by far the better House than the other three put together, when he's interrupted by Potter-as-wolf surging to his feet and pricking his ears, looking intently up the corridor. Draco stutters into silence, then glances up in the same direction. There's nothing visible there, but as he stares vainly into the darkness a howl is suddenly faintly audible – Greyback must surely be a long way from the Manor, but the sound makes Draco hunch down anyway, as if he could hide from the noise.

The contrast in volume when Potter-as-wolf replies is considerable. He points his muzzle to the ceiling, and his howl echoes around the curved walls, setting each brick ringing. Potter takes a deep breath and howls again and again and again, the mournful sound singing through the air until Draco pulls the hood of his cloak around his ears, as if doing so meant he could hide from Potter's sorrow. When the final notes die away, neither Potter nor Draco make another sound until morning.


:::::


Draco wakes to weak morning sunlight, a stiff back, and a soft whining. This last comes from Potter-as-wolf, who is pacing small circles in the centre of the room with his tail tucked low. As Draco sits upright and turns to look into the room, Potter whips round, immediately meeting Draco's eyes, then whimpering plaintively. The message is clear even without the distressed noises.

“You'll be alright,” Draco says, his voice thick. He coughs, swallows, then repeats himself. “You'll be alright, Potter, I promise.”

The transformation this time is, if anything, slightly more grotesque than it had been the previous night. There are no clothes to hide the unnatural shifting of bones and dissolution of hair, and Draco would look away if he didn't think that doing so would be unfair. If Potter has to live through it, witnessing it is the least he can do.

When the transformation is almost over, Draco unlocks the gate, and by the time he's through, Potter lies naked and shivering face-down on the floor. In a few hurried steps Draco is by his side, wrapping him in the blanket and coaxing him to his feet.

Once upright, Potter stands there, swaying slightly, until Draco puts an arm around him and together they slowly cover the short distance over to the camp bed. With Potter sitting down with the blanket over his legs and Draco's scarlet cloak wrapped around the rest of him, it's more obvious how much of a toll the transformation has taken on him. His skin is a waxy yellowish grey, his lips chapped, and dark shadows under his eyes make him look years older.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Potter says, hoarsely, glancing up at Draco.

“Are you okay?” Draco asks. “Up to some food?”

Potter's stomach grumbles, and he smiles wanly. “Yes please.”

Draco fetches the basket from the previous night, and the two of them sit side by side and eat. Potter is clearly famished, and his portion is quickly gone. He watches Draco with a hungry look in his eye until Draco hands over his last chunk of bread.

“Don't expect special treatment every time, Potter,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Potter grimaces. “I don't want to do that again,” he says, his voice small and frightened. “I really don't want to do that again, and it going to happen every month until I die, and it hurts, Malfoy. It hurts like fuck, and the wolf is—” he pauses, thinking. “The wolf is so angry and frightened and hungry, it hurts my head just thinking about it.”

Draco nods, knowing there's no comfort to be provided. He casts about for something, anything positive to say that might draw Potter out of the terror of contemplating that pain. “You didn't look as terrifying as I thought you would,” he remarks. “I mean, scary, yeah, but no more so than any other huge pissed-off dog.”

“It's probably because the wolf likes you.” Potter is matter-of-fact, but Draco stares at him.

“What the hell was all the growling about then?” he asks, incredulous.

“It's what werewolves do?” Potter shrugs. “It quietened down when you were talking, at any rate.”

Unable to think of a response, Draco just shakes his head. “I should get back. I'll see you this evening.”

“Okay,” Potter replies, fiddling with a small hole in the blanket, fraying the edges absent-mindedly. He looks over at Draco, then away again, gritting his teeth.

“What?”

Potter sighs. “Is there any chance I could borrow some clothes? I didn't realise mine would end up quite so torn up.” He stares at the ruined remains of his clothes, still scattered over the floor.

“Of course. See you later.”

“Okay,” Potter replies. “I'll get some real sleep, then.” He swings his legs up on to the bed and settles down, closing his eyes while Draco packs away the basket. As Draco leaves, Potter cracks open one eye. “Malfoy. Thanks. And you were right.”

“Of course I was. About what?”

Potter smiles slightly, waving the edge of the cloak, then closes the eye again. “About you looking good in red.”


:::::


Their days fall easily back into their established pattern, though with a few subtle differences. The fact that Potter is wearing a dark green jumper with silver detailing – which Draco had delighted in lending to him and which led Potter to make several rather colourful comments about Slytherins – is only the first. There are a few more smiles, a few more jokes, and a bit less distance between them when they sit down to eat.

About three weeks later, when Potter is beginning to get jumpy about the phases of the moon, Draco finds another owl waiting for him outside the ice house, this time carrying a small packet. He hurries inside and hands it to Potter without a word.

Potter looks at Draco with an unreadable expression, then shrugs and cracks the seal. A delicately thin bracelet slides out of the paper and falls, Potter and Draco both lunging to catch it before it hits the floor. They clash heads painfully, neither making the catch and both yelping with pain and surprise. Draco glares at Potter while Potter scowls, until Draco realises Potter's lips are pressed together so tightly it can only be for one reason. He grins widely and suddenly they're both laughing, the tension in the room lost. Still chuckling, Potter sits down on the camp bed while Draco retrieves the bracelet.

It doesn't take long for Potter to scan through Granger's letter, despite the close handwriting. When he reaches the end, he sighs, leans back and scrubs a hand through his hair.

“Well?” Draco asks, impatient.

“It sounds like they might have found something,” Potter says. “She says they still have research to do, and there's a bit of a snag, but hopefully we'll find a way around it. The bracelet is a portkey – she wants you to create another portkey that will bring her and Ron exactly here, and thread it through the bracelet, which will take it to them. Then they'll use your portkey to come here on the night before full moon to talk. She didn't want the owl hanging around for too long so this way you've got plenty of time to make the portkey.”

“Why can't you just use the portkey to escape?”

Potter sighs. “Believe me, I'd love to, but Hermione says I'm too dangerous.”

“What! Give me that,” Draco says, snatching the letter. He scans down until he reaches the right bit.

I know you'll want to just portkey out of there, Harry, but you must sit tight for now. We don't have anywhere to keep you and everyone else safe while you're in wolf form, so please don't be tempted. Whether the spell works or not you can come out with us afterwards – we'll have another month to deal with it then anyway.

“Hmm. I suppose she has a point. But at least the main thing is there might be a way to deal with this whole werewolf thing.” Draco smiles. “That's good.”

“Yeah, it is.” Potter's smile is dazzling, and he gets up and dances around the room, waving his arms.

“Merciful heavens spare us,” Draco comments. “Is that supposed to be dancing?”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Potter says, stalking over and hauling Draco to his feet. “This is the first good news in ages, I'm allowed to be happy.”

“Happiness has nothing to do with it. Dancing should be elegant, or graceful at the very least.”

“Go on then,” Potter challenges. “You do it.”

A few minutes of bickering later, Potter is being shown the first few simple steps of a formal dance.

“See, Potter? Elegance,” Draco observes, as they move slowly across the room.

“Yeah, well, elegant it may be, but it's not as fun,” Potter grumbles.

Draco raises an eyebrow, then pulls Potter to him in a fast spin that leaves Potter in his arms, breathless. “The faster you go, the more fun it is,” Draco says.

“Alright, bring it on.”

They dance faster and faster, losing all elegance in a frantic bid not to trip over or tread on each other's toes. Potter pulls Draco into a spin, completely misjudging the amount of strength he needs to put into the pull, so that Draco whirls round without any sort of control and smacks into Potter's chest with a loud exhale.

Draco can't help himself. He clings to Potter for balance and laughs. He laughs until his belly hurts, tears are rolling down his cheeks and he's struggling to breathe. It's several long minutes before he regains any sort of composure, and even then his breathing hitches with barely-restrained giggles.

“You okay?” Potter asks, smiling.

Draco nods. “Fine. I think perhaps ridiculousness does have its place, every now and again. I still think elegance is more—”

He's cut off by Potter leaning in close, glancing from his lips to his eyes and back again, before closing the distance and their lips meet in a soft kiss, full of laughter and hesitation.

Draco pulls back slightly, eyebrows lifting. “That's not from Granger, right?”

A sudden flush reddens Potter's cheeks. “No.”

“Good,” Draco states, before doing a little leaning of his own, claiming his own kiss back from Potter, who can barely manage the kissing through his wide smile. Potter's eyes shine so deeply green when they pull apart that Draco can barely bring himself to look away.


:::::


The new portkey is made without too much trouble, and dispatched back to Granger. The days until full moon pass both slowly and quickly – the daylight hours seeming interminable, and the evenings in Potter's company all too short. Draco moves in a haze of fear, jumping at shadows, terrified that at any moment their plans may be – or have already been – discovered. The thought of the possible rescue and the associated risk has both of them jittery, and so conversation palls in favour of the slow exploration of each other.

Draco discovers that Potter has a spray of freckles curving behind his left ear, a small scar on his right wrist, and one grey hair.

Potter finds a Dark Mark. When he first sees it, Draco snatches his arm away, pulling his shirtsleeve down hurriedly.

“Let me see. Please.” Potter's expression is deadly serious, no levity but also no anger, no judgement.

Draco looks away, but holds out his arm. Potter shuffles closer, until he has his left arm around Draco, and his right hand slowly folds back the sleeve. Draco hides his face in Potter's shoulder. When his arm is naked to the elbow, Potter presses a kiss to Draco's hair and rubs his thumb over Draco's wrist.

“Can I touch it?” Potter's voice is so quiet Draco feels it more than he hears it, rumbling through his chest. He nods in reply, keeping his face pressed tight to the soft wool of his own jumper, stretched over Potter's broader shoulders.

Potter moves slowly, drawing a fingertip over the Mark, tracing the snake from head to tail. “It feels like snakeskin,” he whispers.

“I know.” Draco shudders, and goosebumps rise up his arm, his neck, until his scalp feels like it's crawling with ants.

“It's not who you are.” Potter pulls the sleeve back down, then rests his head on Draco's. They don't move for a long time.


:::::


On the night before full moon, they eat earlier than usual, then sit side by side on the camp bed, waiting. Finally, there's a faint shimmer in the air and they both sit up, wary and expectant. When Granger and Weasley materialise, Potter leaps to his feet, but he's not as fast as Granger, who pulls him into a tight hug, hard and fast.

“Oh, Harry! We thought we'd lost you,” she exclaims, holding him at arm's length before pulling him in again for another hug. Potter just shrugs and hugs her back.

When she finally lets go of Potter, Granger's sharp eyes seek out Draco. He can almost feel her gaze pinning him where he stands, but this feeling is swiftly overwhelmed by shock as she rushes across the room and gathers him into her arms. The experience is exactly as Potter had described it, fast and hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Too stunned to move, Draco can hardly do more than raise his eyebrows at her.

She laughs at him. “Don't be ridiculous, Malfoy. We'd not even know what the issue was without your help, never mind be here to try and fix things.”

“Speaking of which, 'Mione,” Weasley interjects.

“Yes, right, we need to talk,” Granger says. She waves her wand, conjuring a large sofa which Weasley immediately sits on, and Potter gapes at.

“You alright, Harry?” Weasley asks, frowning.

“Yeah, fine,” Potter replies, distractedly. “It's just... magic, wow. I've not seen any for ages.”

Granger's eyebrows pull together. “What, none? At all?” She stares in disbelief, then looks at Draco. “Malfoy's gone Muggle?”

“No, Granger,” Draco replies, sitting delicately on the camp bed and crossing one knee over the other.

Potter sits beside him and shrugs, smiling disarmingly. “No wands when visiting prisoners,” he says.

Weasley looks like he's going to say something, then shakes his head instead. “Alright. If you say so. 'Mione, you want to explain the plan?”

“Yes, of course.” She sits cross legged on the sofa and leans forward. “We spoke to Remus and did some digging. He found an old book – not really a book of spells, it's more a history book with the occasional spell in it. Anyway, it has some description of the origin of werewolves. Did you know that in the beginning they were just skinchangers, like selkies?”

“What's a selkie?”

“Oh come on, Potter, even Muggles know about selkies,” Draco replies, his voice dripping with derision. All he gets is a glare in response. “They're seals when they're in the sea, but they take their sealskins off on dry land and wear a human form instead. It's not like being an animagus, though, because they have to keep the sealskin safe. Muggles tell all sorts of fairy stories about men falling in love with female selkies and stealing their skins so they have to stay human all the time. Generally, it ends miserably for all concerned.”

“Yes,” says Granger. “That's about it, but all we're really concerned with is the skinchanging part – they can put the sealskin on and take it off whenever they like. And that's what werewolves used to be like, it seems. There's a lot of complicated history, but to cut a long story short, one of the wolf skinchangers was cursed so he could only change at full moon. He was very angry about it and went around biting the people who had cursed him – and then at the next full moon they realised they'd cursed him so that anyone he'd bitten would have the same curse, whether they were a skinchanger themselves or not.”

Draco nods. “That makes sense – for werewolves to be so angry all the time is really strange, real wolves don't behave like that.”

“Exactly. But the book also has a spell to reverse the curse.”

Potter beams. “That's fantastic. How difficult is it?”

Granger and Weasley look at each other.

“That's just the problem, mate,” Weasley says, grimacing. “The actual spell is not a big deal, but the ritual parts of it are going to be an issue.”

Potter clenches his jaw. “We've done difficult things before.”

“The thing is, Harry,” Granger says, twisting her fingers together, “you have to be in wolf form for someone to perform the ritual on you.”

“Well, that's okay, right? You can do it through the gate, Malfoy was there last time and he's okay. Right, Malfoy?” Potter turns to him, his eyes starting to look a little desperate.

“Yes,” says Draco. “But I suspect there's more to it.” He looks back at Granger, who nods emphatically.

Weasley sighs. “The main bit of the ritual is basically someone using a bloody sharp knife to cut the wolfskin away from you. Without interference.”

Potter stares. “What?”

“Oh Merlin,” Draco mutters, under his breath, drawing a glare from Potter.

“What, Malfoy? You think I can't deal with the pain? I've lived through the Cruciatus curse enough times, haven't I?”

Draco rubs his eyes wearily. “No, Potter, the pain is not really the issue here. 'Without interference' is a standard magical statement. It means you can't have any sort of anaesthetic for the pain, yes, but mainly it means that we can't use any method to restrain you, nothing physical, nothing magical, nothing at all.”

“Malfoy's right,” Granger says, gently. “We can do the spellwork—”

“And the butchery,” Weasley interjects.

Granger glares at him. “It's not butchery, Ron, don't be disgusting. It's more like surgery. But anyway the big problem is that we have to do all this to an unrestrained werewolf. In wolf form.”

Silence reigns for a long time.

“So how do we make me not kill you all?” Potter says, eventually.

Weasley shrugs. “Ask you nicely? The book says that the wolf might be calmed long enough if you can convince it that it's the right thing to do.”

“But the problem with that is,” Granger says, “is that it's assuming the cursed person is a skinchanger in the first place, so it says that if you want to try that, then it's best that another skinchanger – a member of the same pack – talks to the wolf. But you're not a skinchanger, and you have no pack.”

Draco picks at his fingernails, unwilling to look up. “He might have a pack,” he says, quietly.

Both Potter and Granger are uncharacteristically silent, both staring at him. “Greyback spoke to me, last full moon.”

“He was threatening you,” Potter interjects. “He's not my pack, and he wouldn't help even if he was.”

“Do you have any idea why he left, Potter?” Draco asks, angrily. “It wasn't because he'd decided that hunting me through the woods wouldn't be a fun game after all.” He swallows hard, glaring at the floor.

“So what was his reason, Malfoy?” Granger asks.

“He wasn't really talking to me by then, you realise, he was talking to himself. But it sounded like he left me alone because Potter claimed that I was his, and Greyback said something about never hearing about a human being pack before.” Draco shrugs. “I was scared, I might have missed bits.”

Granger looks at him thoughtfully, her eyes dancing from Draco to Potter and back again.

“We might as well try it, it's the best we've got,” she says. “We can stay behind the bars to start with, and see how it goes, perhaps?”

“Yes,” says Weasley.

Draco shrugs again. “Okay.”

Everyone's eyes turn to Potter, who is staring at the floor. “Harry?” asks Granger. “Does that sound alright to you?”

Potter looks up at Draco, his eyelashes clumping together with silent tears. “I don't want to hurt you,” he whispers. Then, gathering himself and briefly looking over at Granger and Weasley: “I don't want to hurt any of you.”

Granger half-opens her mouth, but stops when Draco lifts his hand to Potter's shoulder.

“You'll be alright,” Draco says, gently, ducking his head until Potter meets his eyes. “You won't hurt anyone. It'll be alright, I promise.”

Potter looks at him for a long moment. “Alright then,” he says, eventually. “Okay.”

Weasley coughs and gets to his feet, bringing Draco sharply out of his own world. “What is this place, anyway?”

“It's an ice house,” replies Potter, his voice still slightly hoarse.

“What? It's made of brick, it's not an igloo,” Weasley says, poking at the gently curving walls.

Draco rolls his eyes. “No, you imbecile, it's an ice house. A building to keep ice in. The Manor is quite old, you know.”

“Why not just use charms? Building a whole... ice house... seems rather extravagant.”

“That was probably the point. Lots of country houses, manors and similar, had – still have – them, and building a brick-lined underground space was much easier than maintaining the first developments of cooling charms.” Draco shrugs. “Not that it's just a magic thing, though, there are plenty in the grounds of Muggle houses too.”

“Oh,” says Weasley. “Cool.”

“Yes, that was the idea.”

Weasley snorts, a wry smile lighting his eyes. “I suppose I walked into that,” he mutters.

Draco grins back at him.


:::::


The following evening, they meet up once more. It's the first time Draco has brought his wand with him to the ice house, and its weight at his hip feels peculiar, out of place. Granger and Weasley move with quiet efficiency, shrinking everything in the room except the glow-globes, which Granger sticks to the ceiling to keep out of the way.

They fill in the time before the full moon rises fully with awkward small talk, Draco painfully aware of how little he belongs with these three friends. He's almost glad when Potter winces in pain and then sends a panicked look his way.

“It's now,” Potter says, trying manfully to keep the fear out of his voice.

“Alright,” says Draco. He ushers Granger and Weasley out of the gate, then turns back to Potter. “I suppose I better take your glasses again,” he says. “And the clothes too.”

Potter nods. “I don't want to ruin your things.”

Draco folds each piece of clothing into a neat square, and rests Potter's glasses on the top, passing the small pile through the gate for safekeeping. “You'll be alright,” he says. “It'll be okay.”

Potter nods again, then grabs Draco's hand, squeezing it hard and driving his forehead into Draco's shoulder as another spasm wracks his body.

“Malfoy, get out of there,” Weasley hisses.

Draco takes his advice, disentangling himself from Potter as soon as he can, and locking the gate behind them.

Knowing what the transformation is like doesn't make it any less shocking to watch a second time, Draco discovers. Having company doesn't help either – he flinches every time Granger gasps, and Weasley's face is bone-white in the gloom.

Granger tries to distract herself by fishing all the equipment they need out of her bag, but it doesn't take long to find her wand and – Draco raises an eyebrow – what appears to be a magic sword.

“Are you kidding me?” he whispers. “Is this a game of Cluedo? Ronald Weasley, in the ice house, with the fairytale sword?”

Granger gives him a withering look. “It's the Sword of Gryffindor.”

“Of course it is,” Draco mutters.

This time, when the transformation is complete, there's no immediate whirl into rage, but then this time Potter-as-wolf is not trapped in the remains of his shirt. The wolf simply settles down on the floor, and stares at the three of them.

“Okay,” whispers Draco. “Here goes nothing.” He raises his voice to a normal conversational level. “Potter? Are you okay?”

The soft growling grows a little louder for a moment, then deepens into a lower note, rumbling through the air.

Draco looks at Granger, who shrugs. “Just keep talking, I guess,” she says.

Potter-as-wolf doesn't stir as Draco slowly opens the gate, though his eyes watch Draco's every movement. Draco talks constantly, describing what he's doing and what he's going to do. It takes him five minutes to reach the wolf, and another two before he plucks up the courage to sit beside him. The wolf's fur is even more thick and deeply coloured than he'd thought, and Draco's hand twitches as he stops himself from reaching out to stroke it.

The wolf, of course, notices the movement, and turns his head sharply to investigate. Draco's heart thuds madly as he freezes, aware only of the faint sound of Granger gasping and the hot breath of the wolf on his fingers. Potter-as-wolf sniffs at Draco's fingers, licks them, then settles his head next to Draco's feet and closes his eyes.

A shaky, breathless laugh escapes Draco, as he looks up at Granger and Weasley, who are staring wide-eyed. “I think it might work,” he says.

Granger nods emphatically. They wait for ten minutes or so, all of them wanting to be sure it isn't a fluke, to take things as slowly as possible in case they disturb the wolf. Draco spends the time describing the spell to Potter-as-wolf, hoping that it will help.

When Weasley, sword in hand, slowly edges through the gate, the wolf looks up, but doesn't otherwise move. Granger closes the gate behind her, then stands between it and the wolf, staring down at him. “You still look like Harry,” she whispers, when the wolf looks back at her. “You still have your eyes.”

There's no reaction other than a slow blink, and Draco's steady, reassuring monotone resumes. He slowly persuades Potter-as-wolf to lie on his side, and then shuffles so that he's still in the wolf's eyeline.

“Okay, Granger,” he whispers. “No time like the present.”

Granger nods, then slowly draws her wand. She begins to chant the incantation, her wand moving slowly in a simple weaving pattern. Draco continues to murmur gently, trying to reassure the wolf, who is visibly tense.

The soft growling grows louder as Weasley draws close to Potter-as-wolf, but when the tip of the sword presses against the skin of his throat, the wolf snaps at it, his ears flat back and all his teeth exposed. He doesn't quite get to his feet, but he's halfway there, the previous tense submission all gone. Granger doesn't pause in her chanting, though, and this combined with Draco's reassurance seem to help settle Potter-as-wolf until he's once more lying on the floor.

“It's only your friend, Potter,” Draco whispers. “It's your friend Ron, and he's trying to help you. Just lie still, and you'll be okay. Just lie still for me.”

Weasley cautiously edges forward again, but this time the wolf stays motionless. At Granger's nod, Weasley presses the tip of the sword gently but firmly into the skin at the base of the wolf's throat until bright red blood wells up. Weasley's hands shake for a brief moment, but his jaw sets in determination as he extends the incision, his focus narrowing to his hands and the sword.

The tableau remains for long minutes, the only movements being Granger's wand, Draco's lips, and Weasley's hands drawing the sword down through skin and fur, blood trickling over the blade and pooling on the floor. The wolf quivers – whether from pain or fear or both, Draco's not sure.

Sweat beads on Weasley's forehead as he fights to keep his movement steady, slowly pulling the sword away once the wolf's belly is split open. He edges away from Potter-as-wolf, his eyes wide as he stares at the dark, spreading pool that sticks fur together in thick mats.

Granger raises her voice for the final phrase of the spell, and then it's over. There's no light, no movement, and the three of them look at each other, uncertain. The quiet is broken as Potter-as-wolf gives one long, shuddering exhale and relaxes, his head resting at an uncomfortable angle. The silence is absolute.

Granger stares, horrified, then raises her hands to her mouth, shaking her head. “Oh no, oh Harry. Harry, please, please...”

“Don't you damn well dare, Potter.” Draco barely recognises his own voice, it's so heavy with a sudden furious anger. He scrambles to his knees and shakes the wolf, droplets of blood spattering across the room.

He's pulled backwards roughly, and loses his grip on the sticky fur. “Leave it, Malfoy.” Weasley sounds dangerously close to tears. “Just... leave it.” The hands on Draco's arms tremble, then close into tighter fists as Weasley tries to keep hold of himself.

Draco struggles, trying to wrench himself free, though Weasley is by far the stronger of the two of them. Granger tries to separate them, but Weasley is deaf to her entreaties and refuses to let go.

“Hey.” The voice drifting over Granger's shoulder is tired but excited, and oh so familiar.

Granger spins round, and there is Potter, naked, bloodstained, and shrugging a filthy wolfskin off his shoulders. He looks up at them and smiles. “I think it worked.”

It's the most revolting hug any of them have ever experienced, but none of them care. They cling to each other, tears and blood and sweat mixing together and smearing on clothes and skin. The next few minutes pass swiftly, Granger thrusting new clothes at Potter and Weasley cleaning the worst of the mess from the room.

“There's one last thing,” Granger says, looking apologetically at Draco. “Are you coming with us?”

Draco shakes his head. “I can't,” he says, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “My mother...”

Granger nods, unsurprised. “Alright. Then we'll have to take your memory of all of this.” She gestures round the room. “If they find out that you helped us, if they think you know anything, it won't end well.”

“That makes sense.” Draco stands up straight, jutting his chin and folding his arms to hide the shaking. “Do your worst.”

Granger raises her wand, but Potter's hand falls on her arm before she can begin the incantation. “This isn't Obliviate, right?” he asks. “This is removing a memory, not destroying one?”

“Yes.”

“Then there's one last thing I need to do.” The smile on Potter's face is small and sad. He wraps the red cloak around Draco's shoulders and folds him into a tight embrace. “Thank you,” he whispers, his breath tickling Draco's neck. Pulling back a little, Potter looks Draco in the eyes, then kisses him, so gently it's almost as if he hadn't done it at all.

A slight movement from over Potter's shoulder catches Draco's eye; Weasley nods to himself, dawning understanding softening his expression. Potter steps away, then takes Granger's wand from her. “Expelliarmus!” Draco's wand flies into Potter's hand. “Just in case,” Potter says. “No-one can blame you if you were disarmed.”

“Good luck.” Draco's voice is thin and reedy.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” says Granger. “Ready?” At Draco's tight nod, she waves her wand, pulling strand after strand of wispy memory from him, bottling it carefully.

Each memory leaves a raw spot in his mind, tender and bruised like a missing tooth. He gasps as more and more are pulled away, until he's forced to his knees, dry heaving. When he comes to himself, the Golden Trio are staring at him, wands drawn. The knowledge that they are leaving, escaping, is the only thing he can concentrate on.

“He'll find you!” Draco shouts. “The Dark Lord will find you! You can't escape!”

It's not really a smile that Potter gives him, more a deep resignation coupled with weariness. “I'm counting on it,” he says. “Goodbye, Malfoy.”

Granger moves her wand over the Portkey, and then they're gone.


:::::


Draco spends the night in the ice house, curled up on the camp bed and unable to get rid of the sense of déjà vu while he waits for sunrise and safety so he can go back to the house. Every so often he hears Greyback howling, and drowns it out by humming the tune to the Sorting Hat's song under his breath.

He wakes feeling uncomfortable, disoriented, and incongruously sticky. Glancing down he realises with horror that he's smeared with blood, his clothes stained and filthy. When he moves his hands, the creases show up cleanly against the grime. Horrified, he runs back to the house, taking the stone steps in pairs and battering through the door of his mother's morning room with no regard for decorum.

The room is empty, however, and Draco paces the room impatiently until his mother arrives some half an hour later.

“Draco!” she exclaims, hurrying towards her son. “What's happened to you?”

“I don't know,” he says, scrubbing his hands into his hair. “I can't remember, but I know that Potter's gone.” He groans in frustration. “Just... they were there, the three of them, and Potter had my wand, and then they were gone.”

The door slams, Draco and his mother wheel round to see Bellatrix advancing on them. “Did I hear you say Potter's gone, Draco?” she asks, her voice low and menacing.

Draco swallows, his heart pounding. “Yes, aunt Bella. Granger and Weasley were in the ice house, and they took him.”

Bellatrix smiles at him, pats him on the head, then pushes him violently so he stumbles, sprawls into a chair. As she looms over him he scrambles to get away, but trapped as he is, gripping the arms of the chair is the best he can manage. “That's not very helpful, Draco, dear,” she says, her voice lilting. “Let's see if I can see anything more useful.”

As Bellatrix raises her wand Draco hears his mother remonstrating with her, but it's as if the sound comes from a long way away. There's a brief sensation of falling, and then Bellatrix is in his mind, pushing him back to focus on Potter. He sees himself endlessly carrying baskets and turning keys, occasionally exchanging banal conversation with Potter. He sees his own wand summoned from his hand, and his three school rivals disappearing from sight. The invasion is absolute, the foreign presence unspeakably abhorrent, and there's nowhere to hide.

As suddenly as she'd arrived, his aunt leaves his mind, and Draco is left reeling and gasping for breath. The sore spots in his mind ache, and he clutches at his head, barely aware of the clipped exchange around him.

“He's had his memories tampered with. He must have known something about this.”

“No, please, that can't be right. The Dark Lord will kill him if that's so. Please, Bella, we have to keep him safe.”

“The Dark Lord will do as he will, Cissy. And if he helped Potter run from us, he deserves the Dark Lord's justice.”

“Please, Bella. Please, help him. For me.”

The following day, a crowd of Death Eaters gathers in the drawing room. They don't speak to her, but curious eyes flick across the long table, taking in the strange spectacle of Bellatrix Lestrange looking worried. She sits ramrod straight, her eyes fixed on the door through which the Dark Lord will enter the room, and her face is calm. There's no laughing, no shouting, and no casual abuse of whoever has most recently crossed her path. It's infinitely more pleasant, and intriguing. Fenrir Greyback slouches against the wall next to the door, his eyes dancing with humour.

The low murmur of conversation comes to an abrupt halt as the Dark Lord takes his seat. Draco keeps as still as he can while Bellatrix describes Potter's escape, prostrating herself in apology for her failure in allowing such a thing to happen. The Dark Lord's anger at his most loyal follower is furious and terrible, tearing through the room until they all cower before him. Draco holds tight to Narcissa's hand under the table as they watch Bellatrix scream and tremble, watch her as she's thrown around the room like a rag doll.

When he ends the torture, the Dark Lord's voice is quiet. “Do you want me to stop, Bellatrix?” The bubbling, choked reply is not really formed of words, but it is taken as an affirmative. “Why do you want to live?”

The answer chills Draco to the bone. “For you, my lord.”

Narcissa doesn't leave her sister's side for days afterward, feeding her bite-sized pieces of fruit and pastries with her fingers. Knowing how easily it could have been him enduring that wrath – and the only reason such monstrous failure was not punished by death was because it was Bellatrix who had committed it – Draco is wracked by guilt.

Spring has arrived without warning or fanfare, and one day Draco looks around and sees his mother's flowers all around. He brings one perfect daffodil to his aunt, and she kisses his hair while smiling at his mother.


:::::


When the Dark Lord calls all his followers to Hogwarts, it's terrifying and exciting all at once. The primary feeling for Draco, though, is relief. This must finally be the end one way or the other. He wonders if Potter knows just what he's up against, then cringes as thoughts of Potter highlight the empty spaces in his mind.

Having spent so long in the quiet rooms and corridors of the Manor, disturbed only by infrequent gatherings, Hogwarts is an overload of sensory input. Draco runs through the too-wide corridors, jostled by panicked children and hiding from stern-faced teachers. Advancing on the Room of Requirement, Greg sends him a concerned glance, knowing as usual when something is not quite right with his oldest friend. Vince is oblivious, focussed on catching Potter, while Draco and Greg grip each other's shoulders in a brief but heartening gesture of mutual support.

When they find Potter, the missing-tooth feeling in Draco's head doubles, then triples. He barely knows what he's saying, but Draco shouts all the same, lets his voice carry him down the paths of habit until he's derailed by one quiet observation.

“You knew it was me.” Potter ignores the the glares of his friends and stares at Draco, so intently that it hurts to look at him.

Someone fires a curse and the world goes sideways, the bruises in Draco's mind fading as they run past crowded shelves and piles of ancient furniture. Vince's curse grows out of hand faster than imagining, chasing Draco as he pulls Greg with him. The flames lick over Vince when he falls, too fast for rescue, but his screams echo through the empty spaces and rattle through his skull.

Greg heaves them up a towering stack of rotting furniture, hauling Draco bodily over the too-high handholds and scrambling to the top. He's never considered death except at the hands of the Dark Lord, and the thing that strikes Draco most at this moment is not the imminent pain, or the loss of his friends, but the colour that surrounds him. It's a beautiful mixture of red and orange and black, which is hard to reconcile with the certain knowledge that death is green. He's so struck by this that he hardly notices Greg's shouts until his friend is borne away on an overloaded broomstick.

“Draco, please!” Potter's voice cuts through the haze, and Draco looks up to see an outstretched hand and a desperate face. All he can think as he takes hold of that hand and looks into those eyes is that perhaps death is green, after all.

Smoke stings his eyes until he can't help but cry, leaving a broad damp patch on Potter's back. They crash through the door and hit the floor hard, landing in a tangle of limbs on the blessedly cold floor. As Draco struggles up and away from Potter, he catches sight of a spray of freckles behind one ear and the pain in his head sends him back to his knees. Potter tells him to run, to be safe, so Draco does. He and Greg wander fearfully until they find a dark and quiet corner, and there they collapse, exhausted. He's not sure if he sleeps, but it feels like awakening from a dream when two soft voices bring him back to himself.

Loony Lovegood smiles at him when he looks up at her. “Come on, Draco. Come with me.”

She leads them through broken corridors and down too-still staircases. Somewhere along the way Greg leaves them, preferring to be outdoors despite the smoke still hanging in the air and crackling with magic. When they reach the Great Hall, Lovegood lets Draco go and he stumbles into his mother's arms. Her face is tearstained and she clasps him so close he can barely breathe.

They settle on the floor, leaning against the wall, Draco secure between his mother on one side and his heartsick father on the other. The steady presence of Narcissa anchors him, gives him a safe platform from which to look out on the world, and so Draco looks. He looks around at the people crowding the room, and begins to realise that perhaps it's all over. The hall is full of weary faces, grimness and tears, but there's no fear there, only pain and a budding hope.

A ripple of smiles washes through the room, coalescing on one form slowly moving through the crowd. Draco can hardly take his eyes from Potter, who sinks to the floor with a tiredness that seems to come from deep within him. He watches Potter, as if this were any normal schoolday, safe on the other side of the room but still aware of every tiny movement. Potter's eyes flick up to meet his once, and Draco looks away from the colour of death before the soft and sore places start to ache again. The shame of allowing the escape battles with the relief that the Dark Lord is finally gone, leaving him small and confused. He huddles closer to his mother.

After a while – it can't be more than half a day, they're still in the Great Hall, and people covered in grime surround him – he looks up to find Granger standing in front of him. She nods politely at his father, thanks his mother, and reaches out to Draco.

“It's probably alright for you to have this back now,” she says, pressing something small and cold into his hand. “They're yours, so keep them safe.” She folds his fingers around it, then looks up into his face, as if she's searching for something.

“Thanks,” Draco mumbles, tightening his grip and trying to ignore the pounding in his head that sets in at the sight of her.

Granger sits back on her heels, pressing her lips together before sighing slightly and getting to her feet. “Put them back where they belong as soon as you can,” she says. “I'm sorry.” The three Malfoys watch her retreat back across the room until the crowd hides her from view.

“What did she give you?” He can't remember the last time he heard his father's voice, and it sounds creaky from disuse.

Draco opens his hand. A glass vial, filled with a gently curling grey smoke and labelled with his name in Granger's neat handwriting, sits in his palm.

“I can't remember,” Draco answers.


:::::


He keeps the vial safe for a month or two, until his days settle into a regular pattern and his dreams no longer wake him more than once a night. It's a warm summer evening when he slides the Pensieve out of the cabinet in his father's study and carries it outside. He settles under the spreading branches of a large tree on the outskirts of the small wood, the looming presence of the Manor diminished by distance.

The memories pour into the shallow bowl slowly, spreading and thinning until the Pensieve seems close to overflowing. Draco takes a deep breath, and leans forward.


:::::


The door in front of him is both forbidding and shiny with new paint. Draco climbs the shallow steps and grasps the knocker, listens for the scuffling sound of hurried feet on a tiled floor. When it opens, Potter stands in front of him, scruffy and barefooted, and with a strange look on his face. His hair has been cut, and the newly exposed spray of freckles is easily visible. Draco looks at it, and there's no pain.

“Malfoy,” Potter says. There's no inflection in his voice, but his eyes shine even as his fingers betray his tension, tightening on the doorframe.

Draco smiles a small, lopsided smile. “Harry?”

The tension shatters, and Potter grins. He opens the door wide and pulls Draco into his arms. “Draco,” he says. “It's good to see you.”


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