The Path of Thorns

The Path of Thorns

***

-Prologue-

Before the Awakening

It is possible to believe that all the past is but the beginning of a beginning, and that all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn. It is possible to believe that all the human mind has ever accomplished is but the dream before the awakening.

-H.G. Wells

***

It was still dark when they began the onslaught.

All in the mansion of Grimmauld Place were still held captive under the spell of slumber when a red sun rose, spilling bloody rays all over the lawn. How the Death Eaters might have found out, how they might have broken past the barriers, the Order didn't know. But nor did it matter, thought Harry as the vase next to him exploded into jagged smithereens. They were found.

Harry spun around, heart pounding. Just down the hall, a tall man clad in black and a marble pale mask sprang from the shadows, wand raised. Harry ducked just in time as the framed picture behind him shattered. He whipped out his wand even as the Death Eater called out another curse, and blocked it. The curse glanced off the invisible screen he'd conjured and tore a hole in the wall instead. There was a great crumbling noise and a cloud of dust. Harry, coughing, fought his way blindly through the powdery haze. His eyes darted all around, but the man was nowhere in sight. Gripping his wand tighter, he took a step forward and stumbled.

He had just tripped over the prone body of the Death Eater.

One down, Harry thought grimly. Then, scrambling quickly to his feet, he hastened downstairs to help the others.

***

She had never seen so many of them. They had come in a great black swarm, like dozens of angry wasps. Part of her wondered how the Order was going to get out of this one. It was like a madhouse, she thought as she looked around. There were members of the Order everywhere. Tonks was battling Bellatrix, while Remus took on two other Death Eaters. On the far side, four Death Eaters were rapidly closing in on Moody, and Kingsley was sneaking up from behind to help. Vaguely, she wondered where Harry, Ron, and Luna were.

If only Dumbledore was here, Hermione thought wistfully as she struggled to get past a young Death Eater--the girl couldn't have been older than nineteen or twenty. Just around her age.

It was a moment too long of contemplation. The next second, Hermione gasped as she felt a curse whiz past her. The girl had barely missed her, and it burned.

"Hermione!" she heard a familiar voice call out. The next moment, the same voice yelled, "Stupefy!" and the young Death Eater crumpled to the floor.

"Harry." Hermione started toward him, but he had already wheeled around to face the next adversary. Behind her, she heard a crash. Startled, she whirled around, almost tripping herself in her haste, just in time to see a tall, lanky figure with a head full of flaming red hair tumble down the stairs. She stifled a scream as the young man hit the floor with a sickening thud.

"Ron!" she shrieked, dashing forward. Sprawling to her knees, Hermione winced at the trickle of blood oozing slowly down the side of his head. In her alarm, she didn't notice the Death Eater looming over her at the foot of the stairs.

"Hello, Granger."

Her body stiffened, her eyes snapped upwards. She knew that voice. "You," she breathed.

With the dark cowl shrouding his head and a mask over his face, it was nearly impossible to see him, but she knew. She knew nearly everything about him yet nothing about him. She knew his eyes, his scent, his touch, and sometimes, she used to think, even his thoughts. It amazed her now how much he had changed over a mere two summers.

Hermione rose, stepping over Ron protectively. "You," she repeated, her voice like a blunt knife.

He wasted no time with words. In a flash, his wand was raised and so was hers. So they began.

***

-summer after graduation, two years earlier-

The boy threw back his head and stared. The blank face of a perfect round moon gazed back intently at him, almost ominously, against a black sea of death. The stars were absent tonight, he noted.

A circle of cloaked figures pressed toward the centre, chanting. They surrounded him, their gazes prickling his skin. As goose bumps began crawling over his arms, the boy tugged his cloak tighter about him and shivered. He wondered how long the ceremony was going to take. They had already gone through the vows, done the binding spells. Now they were chanting, though why, the boy knew not. All he knew was that he wanted to be as far away as possible from the flame-eyed snake towering above him just a mere three feet away.

Voldemort's eyes seemed to burn through his own; the lipless mouth leered at him in the darkness. "Kneel," he hissed at the boy, who obeyed promptly. Drawing out his wand, Voldemort placed the tip to his subject's pale skin and hissed in Parseltongue, just one word.

Heart pounding painfully in his chest, the boy waited. It couldn't have been more than a moment of wait, but it seemed to be an eternity. He felt his breath escape through his teeth in a low hiss, heard the ripple of pleasure that passed through the circle of Death Eaters. Their eyes bore into him like stakes. And then--

Blindness.

In the years to come, Draco Malfoy would never forget the excruciating pain he experienced that night.

***

Harry and Hermione looked around. Grimmauld Place was a shambles--bodies lay everywhere, eyes open like cold, dry wells. The Death Eaters had abandoned the battle when other Aurors had arrived to help, but the damage had been done.

"How is he?" Harry asked, seeing two Healers levitating Ron's prone body into the air.

"Head trauma," said the first wizard, examining Ron. "We'll let you know." They moved him over the splinters of wood and piles of dust and left Harry and Hermione rooted to the spot.

"That's it?" she exclaimed as soon as she regained her voice. "They'll let us know."

Harry, who was rubbing his temples, looked very tired. "Hermione," he began.

But she was in no mood to listen. Breathing unsteadily, she tottered over to a blackened wall--if it could still be considered a wall--and slumped against it. Her limbs felt boneless; her stomach lurched and turned. Her head still swam slightly from when she had tumbled against the edge of a table, and she had a gash on her cheek. Closing her eyes, she sighed.

Harry gave her a moment to compose herself before coming over. "Are you alright?"

Clearing her throat, Hermione tried to smile, then winced as a small pain sliced through her cheek. "I've been better. I'm more worried about you, actually."

Harry looked himself up and down. "Well, all my body parts are still here," he joked and tried to grin. What resulted was a lopsided smile that reminded Hermione of when he had had that really bad toothache back in sixth year. She felt her anxiety ebb despite herself, but the relief was fleeting.

"What about Ron?"

"He'll be fine."

"You don't know that." She shifted and brushed a few stray strands of hair from her face. It was a mistake.

"What's that you have?"

"What?"

"That." Harry gestured at her half-closed hand, in which she clutched a silver ring.

Hermione withdrew her hand hastily, mumbling, "Nothing... nothing. I just--I found it."

Harry didn't say anything; he never did. It was one of the things she loved about him, a kind of tact that Ron never had, and never would have.

Their quiet moment was interrupted when a gruff voice called, "Potter! I want a word with you."

Harry glanced at her questioningly. When she nodded, he turned and left her alone, leaning tiredly against a half blown away wall and clutching that ring in her hand. As soon as he was gone, however, Hermione uncurled her fingers. There was a round imprint in the centre of her palm, where she'd gripped the silver band too tightly, and her fingernails had dug ridges into her skin. They made a lopsided arch surrounding the silver band. Two sets of initials on the ring stared up at her blankly, dragging back memories that she'd fought so hard, so long to forget.

Clenching her fist, Hermione bent her head and began to cry.

* * *

-Chapter One-

Into the Unknown

Such from one look in this looking-glass ere you go hence,
Such a result so soon--and from such a beginning!

-A Hand-Mirror, Walt Whitman

***

The dungeons were sweltering. As Professor Snape droned on and on about memory potions, Hermione tried to take notes with slippery hands.

The door banged open, drawing every pair of eyes in the room to swivel around toward the noise. Draco Malfoy had just swaggered in - ten minutes late.

"Ah, Draco," said Snape, with his customary indifference. "Have a seat." He then turned back to the board. "Now, the memory potion, which makes the drinker recall certain memories, was invented during the Renaissance period..."

Hermione rolled her eyes. She glanced at Harry and Ron, who were sitting beside her; it didn't take much thought to know they were probably furious with Snape. He'd given them both detention on the first day of their sixth year for being a few minutes late. And it hadn't even been their fault - Peeves had chased them up and down the corridors, pelting chewed-up wads of gum at them. Sighing, she diligently returned to the long task of taking notes.

Ten minutes later found the students splitting off into pairs to actually make the potions. Hermione stuffed her notes into her bag and scurried off to join either Harry or Ron, but a silky voice stopped her. "Oh no," breathed Snape, sneering at them, "time to separate the dream team, I'm afraid. Potter, you're with Longbottom. Mind that he doesn't cause another explosion, or it will be detention for the both of you and fifty points from Gryffindor. Weasley, with Bulstrode. And as for you," -his beady black eyes settled on Hermione-- "over there with Malfoy. And don't argue with me, Draco," he added, as Malfoy protested. His lip curled as he watched his miserable students trudge away.

Hermione did not look at Malfoy as she slammed her bag onto the table next to him. "Let's get this over with," she muttered.

"Why, what's the rush, Mudblood?" sneered Malfoy.

Hermione glowered at him. "If you haven't got anything intelligent to say, Malfoy, I suggest you shut up," she snapped. She turned her back to him and started adding the ingredients feverishly. "Hand me those Jobberknoll feathers," she said after she was done.

Malfoy didn't move. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Hermione snatched up the feathers herself and dropped a few into the cauldron. But in her exasperation, she'd forgotten to count them. "How many did I put in there?" she asked.

He shrugged. "You were the one that did it," he said.

Scowling, Hermione stirred the potion thoroughly before filling up a flask. It had taken on a sickly grey colour, similar to what Snape had described, thought not exactly. It should be fine, she thought. Nose wrinkled, she handed it to Malfoy. When he simply stared down at it, she sighed and thrust the flask into his hands. "Well, drink up."

"What makes you think I'm going to drink it?" he said.

Hermione felt vicious. "I did all the work, Malfoy, now drink."

Malfoy grinned at her. "Make me." He shoved the flask back towards her. Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but at that moment, a loud yell echoed across the dungeon, making her jump and spill potion all down her front. She ignored Malfoy's derisive laugh.

"Harry!" cried Ron. "Are you all right?"

Her eyes snapped up and roved across the room. Harry was leaning hard against the wall and clutching his scar. He was panting heavily. Hermione rushed forward and knelt beside him. "Harry, what happened?!" she exclaimed, voice shaking.

Neville was wailing. "I'm sorry, Harry, I think I added the wrong number of feathers!"

But Harry scrambled to his feet, running his fingers through his hair and smoothing down his robes. "I'm fine," he muttered.

Malfoy came up from behind them. He and half the Slytherins were sniggering loudly. "You know, Potter," Malfoy drawled, "this whole nightmare business is getting old, so why don't you just--"

"Why don't you just lay off, Malfoy," Ron said through clenched teeth.

But Malfoy took one look at Ron and simply laughed. "Weasley," he said. "Love the hair. It just screams street urchin."

Hermione grabbed Ron's right hand, which he'd just clenched and drawn back. "Let it go," she muttered.

But she had left Ron's other hand free - furious, he seized the flask that Hermione still clutched and thrust it forward, splattering the misty grey liquid all over Malfoy's snickering face.

"Ron, no!"

There was a split second during which Malfoy simply blinked in shock. And then he was coughing, spluttering and wiping the grey muck from his face. Apparently he had swallowed a mouthful by accident. The sight of their rival being humiliated should have been comic, and the Gryffindors almost started laughing.

That was before Malfoy suddenly gave a strangled cry and keeled over.

***

Hermione looked up at the formidable sight before her, pushing the memories away. Azkaban still retained the vestiges of the Dementors, though years had passed since they'd abandoned it. The site still trembled from memories of pain; spectral cries carried by a merciless wind called by night. As Hermione stole through the entrance and past the many dark, dank cells, she almost imagined that she could hear them.

She had never been to the prison before the Second War, but she had heard about it, and that simple fact was enough to strike fear inside her heart. They told her it was a hell unto itself - the very air about it seemed dead; the walls crawled with grimy dust. It was so cold that one's breath froze the moment it confronted the atmosphere, even without the Dementors around. It didn't surprise her that prisoners were said to go mad within weeks.

But not Sirius, she thought, and glanced at Harry, who was beside her. There was a bulge in his pocket, where he carried the mirror, the one Sirius had given him in his fifth year - it was always there whenever he had to pay Azkaban a visit.

Harry noticed her gaze; he reached out and squeezed her hand. "Your fingers," he said. "They're cold." On her other side, Ron cast a worried glance in her direction.

Hermione shrugged. "I'll be fine." She looked up as the guard leading them stopped. They had reached a grey hallway, in which rooms spotted the walls on both sides: this was where the Aurors did all the interrogations.

"I'll see you, then," she mumbled to Harry and Ron. They had all been assigned different numbers.

Ron's look of concern deepened. "Are you sure you'll be okay?"

Hermione nodded and managed a strained smile. She watched them as they reluctantly left, conversing in low voices.

"You've heard the rumours, Harry," Ron sadi, leaning toward him, "what they're saying about the possible raid."

Harry glanced around before answering. "Remus says they were probably only rumours. I mean, there've been no indications--" He stopped short as a guard passed by them, whistling.

When they were alone again, Ron said, "What if they weren't?"

It took a moment for Harry to answer. When he finally did, he sounded very tired. "Then we'll have to deal with it."

When their voices had completely faded away, Hermione glanced down at her clipboard and noted the name under the number at the top of the page. Then she looked to the guard, who opened the cell with an ominous clank.

She did not look back as the door clanged shut behind her.

It was like walking into a coffin. The walls were grey and bare and lonely, the floor hard and cold. Hermione looked up at the heavily slanted ceiling and cringed. She wanted to leave.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to focus and turned her gaze to the only object in the room - a plain wooden table at which her subject sat. Slowly, she started towards him. As she sat down at the table, he turned a curious eye on her. "Granger," he said. "Hello." His tone was flat, emotionless.

Hermione paused. She looked him over and found herself staring. She barely recognized him, so striking was the change. He was still beautiful, that she could not deny. But the once sleek blonde hair was matted and dirty; his skin, which had been a perfect alabaster tone in his seventh year, had faded so that he now possessed an almost ghostly look. His robes were filthy and wrinkled. And he was thin, so thin that she could see clearly the hollows in his cheeks. To think that this was the Draco Malfoy she'd last encountered two years ago.

As Hermione collected her wits, she realised a lump had formed inside her throat. She swallowed hard. "Malfoy," she muttered finally as a greeting. She set her papers down on the table and took out her quill. Scribbling the date over the top, she opened her mouth to speak--

But before she could get two words out, he spoke, "So. How are you?"

Hermione looked up but didn't answer immediately. "You're not here to ask the questions, Malfoy," she said after a moment, "I am."

He smirked. "Call me Draco. We're not strangers."

She tensed. "Yes, we are."

He smiled in that same coldly amused way she had grown to hate so much. "You look tired," he said. "Bad week?"

Hermione felt her body stiffen. "That's enough, Malfoy," she hissed vehemently, hoping her tone would get the message across. She was in no mood for his sarcasm.

Draco was not fazed; on the contrary, he looked encouraged. "Why do you call me that?"

"Why shouldn't I call you that?"

To her surprise, he laughed, and his laugh was not the least like it was when they were still in school. There was something hard and brittle behind that seemingly careless façade. "Come on, Hermione," he said. "We dated for nearly two years."

Hermione fixed a steady tare on him. "That was then, this is now. We're not dating anymore."

"What are we doing, then?"

She blinked. "This is hardly a time for idle conversation, Malfoy. You're here to tell me what the Ministry wants to know. Nothing more, nothing less." She snatched up her quill and jabbed the tip at the top of the page. "How long have you been here?"

Malfoy didn't look at her when he spoke. "Almost ten months."

"And please state for the record why you're being held here?"

But instead of answering, he only sat back languidly and smirked at her. "So tell me about your love life these days, Hermione. Did dear Potter ever manage to get you to f--"

"Malfoy--" Hermione sucked in her breath through clenched teeth, desperate to keep calm. "Shut up and answer the question."

Draco's voice was nonchalant. "You already know the answer."

Hermione closed her eyes, praying for control. "Please," she said bluntly.

He seemed to be considering his next words carefully. But to her surprise, after a moment he simply stated, "Well, the Ministry thinks I'm a spy for the late Dark Lord."

Grateful to get started, she noted it down on her paper. "What else?"

Draco paused, picking at a loose thread on the left sleeve of his robes. "What else?" he repeated, eyebrows raised. "Let's see. Oh, apparently they also think I tortured and killed a witch, a wizard, and three muggles."

Hermione blinked at him. "Isn't that true?"

"What do you think?"

"You're being difficult again, Malfoy. Did you commit these crimes?"

Draco chuckled so low it was almost a growl. "Would you believe me if I say 'no?'"

"It doesn't matter. I want the truth."

"The truth," he scoffed. "The truth. Which version of it?"

"There aren't," she replied slowly, "any versions of the truth."

His tone was placating, his smile sugary. "Of course not." He gazed down idly at the table. "Very well, then. Yes, I did commit those crimes. Are you satisfied?"

She said nothing, only gazed at him gravely. She had once dated this murderer, she thought, and shivered.

He noticed. "Cold?"

"No."

He always noticed everything about her, knew everything - her thoughts and feelings, her subtle mood swings, if she'd cut her hair... She'd once thought he noticed because he cared. She thought back on the memories she'd been musing over as she'd arrived at Azkaban. If she had to pin it on one incident - what had gotten them started in the first place - it would be that.

***

Hermione had to admit, as much as she hated Malfoy, she still felt anxious about him - after all, she'd concocted the potion.

Malfoy had crashed against the corner of one of the desks and was now sprawled across the dungeon floor, looking terribly shaken.

"Draco!" screamed Pansy, who was clutching her face so hard her fingernails seemed to be literally attached to her cheeks.

"Out of my way, out of my way!" Snape's voice came fanning over the horde of shocked students. (Vaguely, Hermione wondered what he had been doing all this time.) He took one look at the prostrate Draco and said calmly, "Miss Parkinson, kindly escort Mr. Malfoy to the hospital wing. Can you stand, Draco?" He bent down to pull Malfoy up.

To Hermione's surprise, instead of accepting help, Draco jerked away as if he'd been electrocuted. He scrambled to his feet. Tears streaming down her face, Pansy reached out to touch his arm. Again, he flinched away. "Don't touch me," he spat.

"Miss Parkinson, escort Draco to the hospital wing," Snape commanded. He looked worried.

"I can go myself!" Malfoy muttered. He tread from the dungeons without looking back.

Snape waited until he had gone before rounding on Harry. "Potter!" he spat. "Explain yourself!"

Harry sputtered indignantly. "I didn't do anything!" His former dizziness seemed to have disappeared.

Snape's teeth were bared. "Ten points from Gryffindor for your impertinence," he snarled, before whirling around to face Hermione. "Show me your potion. The rest of you get back to work."

Hermione waited nervously as Snape examined the potion. It took only seconds, but it seemed like ages. Finally, he said, and when he did his voice was accusing, "You have added an odd number of Jobberknoll feathers, Miss Granger," he hissed. "Did I not tell you, more than once, to keep the number even to avoid triggering the more - unpleasant memories?"

Hermione felt her cheeks flush. "Professor," she protested, "I didn't--"

"Be quiet, Miss Granger," he snapped. "This potion is worthless." He waved his wand over the cauldron, and the contents promptly vanished. "That will be a zero for the day's work and thirty points from Gryffindor." To the rest of the class, he said as the bell rang, "I want an essay on this by Friday. One roll of parchment. You are dismissed."

***

It wasn't the most important thing that'd happened, but it was the seed of it all.

Hermione jumped as Malfoy snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Malfoy, what are you doing?" she hissed.

"You spaced off."

"Oh." Embarrassed, she looked down at her papers before continuing. "Your father," she began, "is one of our most wanted Death Eaters. The Ministry thinks you know something of his current location."

Draco arched a pale eyebrow. "I know nothing about where my father is," he said, "or what he is doing. You're wasting your time."

"Well then, tell me who would know?"

He said nothing, but a strange smile curled his lips.

Hermione flipped through her notes. "I have it on record here that your mother is in hiding. Wouldn't she know something?"

His smile faded. But when he spoke, his voice was frank. "My mother is probably dead."

"Probably?"

Again, he didn't answer.

"And why would that be?" Hermione tapped the feathery end of her quill on the table as she waited for his reply.

"That," he said impassively, "is none of your business."

She knew him well enough to realise that she must have struck a nerve. Briefly, Hermione considered pursuing the subject, if only out of spite. But she was better than that. "Very well. When was the last time you corresponded with the Death Eaters?"

His gaze didn't quite meet hers when he spoke. "Not since I was put in here."

Her quill hovered suspiciously over the page. "You're sure?"

But when she looked up at him, he was suddenly grinning again. "Oh, Hermione," he purred. "Aren't you enjoying this conversation?"

"Answer the question, Malfoy. Or would you rather have it forced out of you?"

"Perhaps."

"I know you, Malfoy," she said. "You don't want that."

He looked up at her. And when he did, she could see it in his eyes - the arrogance, the cold aristocratic amusement that had infiltrated his youth over the past four years, just like his father. "That's funny," he remarked, and looked away.

Hermione felt a scowl creeping over her face. "What?"

"I thought," Draco drawled, leaning forward, "that just a moment ago, you said we were strangers."

"Malfoy--"

"Why don't you call me Draco, Hermione?" he said, and his eyes were cold as dead fish. "If you plan on sitting there and asking me your silly questions, you might as well drop the formalities."

Hermione glared at him. "Just answer my questions and be done with it. How hard can that be, Malfoy?"

"Not," he breathed, "until you stop calling me that." He leaned in closer, eyes never leaving hers. "Come on, Hermione."

She fumbled with her quill, eyes cast downward. When she looked up again, he was still staring at her in that cold, stony manner. "Draco--" she began.

His eyes were fixed upon her, unusually bright, as they always were whenever he was feeling some intense emotion. "Now was that so hard?"

***

Harry strode down the hallway. He stood outside the door and gazed inside, where Hermione was still interrogating Malfoy--or she was supposed to be. But, squinting, it seemed to Harry that Malfoy was doing more of the talking, and Hermione--

She bolted up, so suddenly she almost knocked her chair down. Her back was stiff like a wooden post, withstanding the tantrum of a frosty wind. Frowning, Harry watched her mumble something to Malfoy before she scurried to the door with her eyes downcast.

"What did he say to you?" Harry demanded the minute the guard had locked the door behind them.

Hermione made a startled movement but recovered quickly. "Where's Ron?" she inquired.

"He'll be coming in a minute," said Harry. "What did Malfoy say to you?"

But she only looked away and hurried down the hall with her head bowed. "Nothing."

Harry stared after her shrinking figure and sighed. Hermione always told him everything that worried her - everything that didn't concern Malfoy, that is. When it came to him, she was like a locked box. He smiled bitterly. He missed their schooldays, when life was, though not simple, less not complicated than where they were now. He remembered how close they'd been back then.

Back then...

Harry reached into his pocket and fingered the smooth surface of the mirror he carried with him. Back then, he thought... Back then he still had someone to look up to.

***

Draco watched from the window as Hermione and Harry strode from sight. He thought he would have felt something; he should have. But it faintly surprised him that all he felt was a mild sense of curiosity, of what might have been if the circumstances had been different. But that was four years ago.

The door creaked open and the guard stepped in. "Alright, you know the drill," he grunted.

Draco let the man bind him and lead him back to his cell. He heard the metal bars clang shut, a sound that reminded him of someone expelling icy breath. "What time is it?" he asked, just for the sake of saying something.

The guard turned around, looking amused. As he began to laugh, Draco thought there was something odd about the way the man was looking at him. "Oh, don't you worry," the guard sniggered. "You'll be out of here in no time."

Draco frowned. "My trial is in over four months," he said. "Your definition of time is very warped."

"Your trial?" the guard chortled. "What makes you think you're getting a trial?"

Draco scowled. "What are you talking about? They told me I would."

"And you believe that?" The guard grinned at him.

"I don't believe in anything," Draco declared shortly, and turned away. Bastard, he thought.

The guard must have guessed his thoughts, for he began to laugh some more. He leaned in close so that his nose was barely an inch from Draco's face, and Draco was glad he didn't have a wand - he felt a wild urge to slice off the bastard's nose. "Just wait," the guard whispered. "You'll see what I mean soon enough." Then with another crude chuckle, he moseyed away.

Draco scowled at the man's retreating back until his form had dissipated into the darkness. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He stood in the corner, leaning against the filthy walls, and stared around. The cell was tiny; it had barely enough room to fit a small moth-eaten mat and provide some walking space. It was windowless, and though it was daylight, Draco somehow felt it was always very dark.

Well, it didn't matter, he thought. Never did. He'd spent his whole life in darkness. Sighing, Draco flopped on the dusty mattress and waited silently for the day to pass.

***

"It will be three days before the moon waxes full."

The room had a despairing feel. It was strangely empty, devoid of life, though two people resided inside--a man and a woman. Beside them, a low, unhealthy fire flickered, casting writhing shadows around the room.

The man lounging in the armchair had his eyes fixed upon the solitary figure pressed up against the windowsill. The open window allowed cold breaths of air to sweep inside, making the silk curtains fly up like limp wings. He watched as she lifted her pale arms, humming, and swayed, like some sort of dark angel.

Watching her, he smiled. "Come to the fire, love."

The woman did not respond at once. She lingered by the window for a few moments longer in her own fantasy world. Then, abruptly dropping her arms to her sides, she sashayed toward him.

"Soon, my husband," she purred. "Soon."

"Yes." He looked up as her pallid face loomed over him.

As if struck by a sudden amusement, the woman laughed--a laugh cold enough to chill a child's blood. "Stand up," she commanded. As the shadowed figure rose carefully off his seat, she prowled over to him. "Look at me."

He did. In the flickering light, her face was spectral, like a memory that had been stashed away for too many years - the dark, lidded eyes, gaunt cheeks, bony joints framed by a mist of scraggly dark hair. What once had been lurid flesh had long been carved away by her time in Azkaban. She was no longer beautiful, he had to admit. But still, she was captivating.

The woman reached out a bony hand. She raised a single finger, raked the nail down his left cheek. At first she was gentle, tracing his face lightly. And then the trace became a scratch, and then a cut. As she lifted the pressure and slipped her bloodied finger into her mouth, he tensed with pleasure.

She tilted her head back, studying him. "Your face is a poem," she drawled, her voice a slow, drunk whisper. "I can read it." She leaned towards him, so close that he could feel her warm breath on his neck. Twisting his fingers in her hair, he lightly brushed his lips against hers.

"What does it say?"

***

How long he lay there he didn't know. He didn't even remember falling asleep. All he knew was that it was a great explosion that had awoken him--

Draco bolted up into a sitting position as a terrified scream tore through the air, cut off halfway by a second explosion. Barely seconds after that, he heard a man's voice begging for his life. Was it Avery?

"Avada Kedavra!" a harsh voice cried, followed by the sound of a body dropping. Draco didn't have to be there, didn't have to see the Dark Mark hovering in the sky to know - this was it.

He was surprisingly calm. All his life, he had known death to be a frightening concept; it had always been something he had been taught to run from. And now it was coming, and he felt... nothing. At least now he knew what to expect.

The sounds of yells and curses being conjured suddenly filled the cells around him, and he knew he was next. Draco leaned back against the wall and waited calmly. He didn't even look up when the bars to his cells suddenly cracked and bent away to form a crude archway. A Death Eater swept in, his wand drawn out and ready. Draco looked up to see the tip of that wand, pointing straight in between his eyes. He didn't even tense up like he had expected, he just felt tired.

The Death Eater opened his mouth and spoke. But it wasn't a curse.

"Good evening, Draco. I've come to say my final farewells."

And then Draco did tense, all over his body. He felt his limbs go rigid, his jaw freeze, his insides plummet and twist. There was a strange silence in his mind, a blankness he couldn't explain. And it seemed suddenly that he was rising out of his body and watching from high above when he heard his own disbelieving voice gasp: "Father?"

Lucius raised his wand. Draco stared. He could do nothing, didn't have time to even think, much less do--

"Stupefy!"

Both father and son were startled as a burst of red light flooded the room, aiming straight for Lucius. He dove out of the way and the spell crashed into the wall, showering a curtain of dust down on them. And by the time the thick cloud had cleared, Lucius had gone.

"Let's go," said a voice Draco didn't recognize. He didn't move.

The voice was impatient, "Malfoy, are you deaf? Move!" Someone grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the cell, and even in his shock, Draco realised he had heard this voice before - many times, in fact.

Potter? he thought numbly, Harry Potter?

Harry dragged him down the hall. Halfway to the nearest exit, Draco stopped and wrenched his arm away. "What are you doing?" Harry yelled. "Let's go." He didn't notice the dark, hooded figures that were starting toward them.

Draco did. He saw them from the corner of his eye. And as he stared back at his pale, sweating archenemy, he was suddenly gripped by a morbid idea.

He didn't stop to think about it, only acted. It was the only way he would get out of this. "Look behind you, Potter," he said, and his voice was quiet and even. Harry, who had been continuing his attempts to drag him down the corridor, loosened his grip of Draco arm fractionally. It was enough for Draco, who took his opportunity. Wrenching himself from Harry's grasp, he flung himself down and out of the way just in time to hear an explosion of spells hurtle past him and slam Harry into the wall.

***

When Ron and Hermione arrived on the scene, they were horrified at what greeted their eyes. Half of Azkaban had been blown away. The half that contained the Death Eaters, Hermione noted. There was smoke billowing into the air from all directions; the crumbled walls seemed to tremble amongst the scattered ashes. High above, the Dark Mark leered down at them.

As they gaped at the prison, a flustered looking guard came trudging up to them.

"How bad?" Ron demanded.

"How bad does it look?" the wizard snapped, then looked apologetic. "Well," he amended, somewhat embarrassedly, "so far the death count is thirteen. We're missing at least eleven prisoners, five or six of them Death Eaters." The man threw up his arms and sighed. "And the worst part is, we don't have any idea how they managed to catch us off-guard."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. "Come on," he said.

They passed several Aurors, who were all doing their best to restrain the prisoners who had gotten loose. Up ahead, a few guards were inspecting the rubble for hidden bodies. Without stopping to talk, Ron and Hermione continued on. They reached the area where the main attack had been concentrated. Stepping carefully over the fallen rubble, they headed toward the cells. Hermione heard Ron muttering as they went. She opened her mouth to reprove him, but at that moment, a gigantic pile of stone crashed down from the scorched wall to their right. Instinctively, Ron made a grab for her.

"You okay?" he asked, face slightly paler than usual. His fingers felt cold against her skin.

Hermione nodded, though still shaken. She let him lead the way into the hall. They couldn't see much in the darkness and the clouds of settling dust so, fumbling inside her robe pocket, Hermione tugged out her wand. "Lumos," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, and held it out in front of her. Beside her, Ron did the same.

Every cell they passed was either empty or held a body. But they weren't looking for the dead; they wanted survivors. It wasn't long before they passed the cell she had been most apprehensive about looking at: 102. Taking a deep breath, Hermione turned and peered beyond the charred and bent bars. Empty.

"He's not there." She hadn't meant to say it aloud, but the words somehow escaped past her lips.

"Who?" Ron inquired, swivelling around to stare at her.

She hesitated. "It's empty. That means--"

"--an escaped prisoner," he finished for her. Ron glanced at the number etched into the wall. "Do you know who?"

Hermione hesitated.

Ron cursed. "Well, let's keep looking. Whoever he is, maybe he didn't get far."

But a thought had suddenly struck Hermione. "Ron--" She dug her fingers into his sleeve, her chest suddenly very tight. "Where's Harry?"

He wheeled around. "What?"

"Harry," she repeated. "Where was he when this happened?"

Ron frowned. "I don't know. Wasn't he--" Then as realization flooded his eyes, he paled.

Hermione didn't wait for him to speak. She brushed past him and ran as fast as she could through the darkness of the corridor, leaving Ron to follow in a trail of dust. "Harry!" Hermione screamed as she ran to look for him. Behind her, she could hear Ron's pounding footsteps. She rounded a corner, and another... the run seemed so long. Up ahead, she thought she could see something. It must be a lump of clothes. Or maybe a body. Panting, Hermione sped up. She skidded to a halt in front of the thing she'd seen--

"What? What is it?" Ron's voice came up from behind as he halted next to her.

Hermione didn't answer. She bent down and grabbed Harry's cloak. There was a clatter as his wand fell from within the folds. Whirling around to face Ron, she gasped, "Harry's been captured."

***

The first thing he noticed when he awoke was the incessant throbbing in his skull - it was as if someone was pounding him with a rock. Groaning, he tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy and stubborn, and try as he might, he couldn't. Vaguely, he felt a hard stone surface chafing against his back. His eyes snapped open.

At first, all Harry could see was a vast sea of blackness. He blinked several times to clear his head. Colour surged into his range of vision, but the lines of objects were blurred. Someone must have taken his glasses, he realised. Slowly, he turned his head and looked around. He was in a dark cell, it seemed. The walls were weathered and windowless, the metal bars rusty. It was inhumanly cold.

A sudden clanking noise made Harry jump. He heard the dull thud of boots against stone. Someone was coming. And out of the shadows, a dark, cloaked figure emerged. He heard the figure mutter something under his breath, and the bars separating them melted away, allowing the figure to enter. Harry couldn't see his face, for he had a cowl over his head, but the moment he heard his voice...

"Hello, Potter."

Harry felt his whole body tense. His muscles strained as he clenched his fists and tried to break away from his bonds. His spine went stiff so abruptly that it hurt. It suddenly became very hard to swallow. Vaguely, as Draco stepped toward him, he was aware of the bars melting back into place. He bolted up into a sitting position. "What do you want?" he snarled.

Malfoy didn't answer right off. Pushing back his hood, he promenaded over to face him, and conjured up a chair. Sitting, he smirked. "I have something for you, Potter," he said casually, and drew out something from his pocket. Thinking it might be a wand, Harry stiffened instinctively, but it was only his glasses. "The Lestranges want to see you," said Malfoy, shoving the glasses up the bridge of Harry's nose. "They're coming tomorrow night. I must say, I've never seen Bellatrix so ecstatic."

Harry blinked at him.

"Oh, she thinks she'll be killing you for the Dark Lord, she does." Malfoy gazed at him steadily, his eyes shadowed.

"What?" Harry was incredulous. "Well, you can tell them they're in denial and killing me won't do any good. Their dear master's dead. He's not coming back."

Malfoy's voice was a low, sibilant hiss when he spoke. "You'll find that some of us disagree."

"Does that include you?"

But the blonde only offered a saccharine smile. "You'll see." He drew out his wand. There was a long, elongated pause as he studied Harry intently. When he finally spoke again, his words were not what Harry had expected to hear. "Don't do anything stupid, Potter," he warned, twirling his wand. Then he pointed it. "Libero."

Harry stared in astonishment as the shackles on his wrists uncurled and fell away with a clunk. Eyeing his archenemy carefully, he rubbed his bruised skin.

Malfoy waved his wand at the cell bars, which melted away as they had done previously, before tucking it away. "You're lucky the Lestranges had business tonight. If they didn't you'd be dead by now. Let's go." He stepped toward the exit.

But Harry didn't move. Only stared after him. "What are you doing?" he demanded suspiciously.

The young Death Eater turned around, looking impatient. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're helping me. Why?"

"Just stand up and follow me, Potter," Malfoy snapped and started off into the darkness. Before he disappeared entirely, he turned and tilted his head at Harry. "Well, are you coming or not?"

Harry hesitated, then slowly stood. "Why should I trust you?" He felt vulnerable in this strange place where he had neither weapon nor friend. Hell, he didn't even know where he was.

Harry didn't expect it, but Malfoy actually answered him this time. "Because," he said slowly. "I'm your only chance."

They started off down the cold, dark corridor, footsteps echoing in unison. Harry kept looking back at Malfoy. What if he suddenly decided to attack him?

"You still haven't explained what this is all about," Harry reminded him loudly.

His reply was a sharp poke in his spine and a sharp hiss, "Be quiet. Someone will hear."

At this, Harry stopped in his tracks. "Are you telling me no one knows about this--" He winced as he felt another jab in his back. "Will you stop that--"

"I'll stop when you stop trying to get us caught." In the dim light, Malfoy's eyes looked slightly feverish. "If you must know, the other Death Eaters are probably off in the pubs getting drunk right now, which give us some time, and an excuse. But they'll be sober again in the morning, because that's when the Lestranges are coming back. Now, do you want to escape or would you rather stay and enjoy the nice session of torture they've got planned for you?"

There it was: escape. Harry blinked at him uncomprehendingly. But why was Draco Malfoy helping him, Harry, his most hated rival?

They were at the top of the staircase now. A twist and a turn here and there, and suddenly Harry found himself in a small, dark room with plain grey walls and a cracked, wooden table hunched in the corner. In the distance, he could hear raucous voices yelling, laughing. The other Death Eaters, he assumed.

Malfoy held up what looked like a small hand-sized mirror and tapped it with his wand. "Portus," he muttered and Harry narrowed his eyes. As realisation suddenly struck him, he stuffed his fist into his pockets and fumbled around. Sirius's mirror - it was gone. Malfoy had taken it, and he hadn't even noticed.

"Give it back," he said, staring wildly at Malfoy. "Give it back now."

Malfoy's eyebrow twitched, probably in annoyance, but he tossed the mirror to Harry without a word. Harry was surprised when he didn't feel the familiar hook around his naval immediately. Vaguely, he heard Malfoy speaking. "I suppose I'm right to assume that's no ordinary mirror. The way it functions should be the same," he explained. "I just made it into a Portkey as well." He made ready to head for the exit. "Well, there you are, Potter, your ticket to freedom. I'll say my goodbyes now."

At this Harry snapped back to reality. He didn't move. "How do I know it won't take me directly to the Lestranges?"

Malfoy hesitated, then gave him a smug look. "Well, I guess you'll just have to take that risk, won't you?"

He was right. Harry had no choice. If he stayed, he would be killed unquestionably. If he took the portkey... well, what did he have to lose?

"My wand," he blurted out.

"What?"

"Give me my wand." Harry's eyes raked Malfoy up and down. He set the portkey on the table and took a step toward him. "I know you have it. I'll need it."

"No. You won't." Malfoy backed away. "And besides, I don't have it--"

"Malfoy--" Harry lunged at him. But he had hardly touched him when a sudden flurry of footsteps made him jump back. He heard Malfoy curse.

"Potter, you great prat, take the portkey and go!"

But in his haste, Harry had knocked the rickety table over. It hit the floor with a deafening crash, the portkey clattering along with it. The footsteps sped up, grew louder. As Harry bent down hastily to grab the portkey, the door flew open. A strong, broad-shouldered figure appeared, filling the doorway. He had his wand out.

For a split second, the figure simply stood and stared around, clearly stunned. Then he raised his wand and pointed it straight at them. "Evincio!"

He didn't think, didn't have time to; all his senses were directed on dodging the spell.

Several things happened at once - as he dove for the chain, the spell whizzed past his head and lodged itself into the wall behind him; Malfoy whipped out his wand, but Harry had already seized him by the wrist; they crashed to the floor together, Harry's fingers groping for the key that would whirl them away into the unknown.