Safety in the Storm

Author's Note: There are many things I would like to attribute the lateness of this chapter to...

1. The Catcher in the Rye for intriguing me enough to make me dedicate an entire week of free time to it.

2. My sister, Shayla, and her insomnia for those late nights working on her webpage

3. My co-worker's husband who thought it would be sweet to take her on a second honeymoon, therefore leaving me to work 55+ hour weeks (damn romance).

Too much information? Yeah, I thought so too.

Oh, well. Happy reading!

Safety in the Storm Chapter Eight

But the Hours, They Creep

This ruined puzzle,

It's faced with the pieces all face down.

So the placing goes slowly,

The picture's of anything,

Other than it's meant to be.

But the hours, they creep;

The patterns repeat.

--Dashboard Confessional

The steam from the shower had made its way into the bedroom, taking a bit of the chill away and Hermione found herself dressing unrushed for the first time in a while. With the towel twisted tightly about her head absorbing the water from her dripping hair, she reflected on all the things she took for granted in day-to-day life when she used her wand. One thing was for sure, her hair was certainly missing the conveniences of a wand as well. As she bent down to pick up her jeans, the towel loosened its hold a bit and she was so intent on fixing it that she almost didn't hear the soft rapping against the door.

Almost.

"I'm getting dressed, hold on!" she called but apparently Draco did not understand what she said (or simply chose to ignore it), because he opened the door, catching her in her knickers, teetering slightly under the off-balance weight on her head. Letting out a scream, she dove behind the bed, wishing the floor would swallow her up.

He chuckled deeply and she risked a peek over the edge of the bed at him. Narrowing her eyes at his smirk, her searching hands found the large t-shirt that Jonathan had loaned her to sleep in and she quickly slipped it on.

"Sorry," was his meek response. Well, at least he did seem a tad uncomfortable.

"Sorry?" Standing up and struggling into her jeans, she marched over to him and poked him squarely in the chest. "With your breeding I would expect you to know that it's not polite to enter a girl's bedroom uninvited."

He grinned even wider and leaned in close to her, an eyebrow arched. "Well, to be perfectly honest, that's never been a problem for me."

The full weight of his response hit her and she swatted him on the arm in return. "Ugh! Out! Get out!" She pointed and stomped her foot to emphasize her point.

"But you're dressed now."

She looked down. So she was. Well, that was beside the point. "Well, get out anyway!" she said stubbornly.

Shaking his head and snickering, he left.

By the time she was completely dressed, cloak and all, her heart had slowed its erratic rhythm and she didn't feel quite so flustered. It was funny, but Draco Malfoy seemed to be the only person who could turn her into a self-conscious teenager in a matter of seconds. How did he do it? Sure, he was good looking, but she was friends with many handsome men and they never made her legs turn to jelly like he did. In fact, now that she thought about it, his mood swings were annoying as hell and his arrogant smirks were more infuriating than they had been when they were at school.

Twisting her long, still dripping hair into a large bun on the top of her head, she darted down the stairs towards the kitchen where she knew the two men were.

Yes, Draco was aggravating beyond anything she had ever experienced, but then there would be those moments... those moments where he would look at her and smile and she would instantly know everything would be alright.

Entering the kitchen, she spotted Draco sitting at the counter pouring over some parchments in front of him. Just the sight of him made her grin. He was chewing on the end of a very scraggly quill and when he caught sight of her, he half-smirked (although it resembled more of a boyish grin than anything) and the quill trailed off to the side of his mouth.

Yep, it was moments like that where he was so unbelievably adorable in his own grumpy way that she wanted to kiss him senseless.

* * * * *

Jonathan looked from Draco to Hermione and back again, trying hard not to give in to the chuckle that was building in his throat at the shy smiles the two were exchanging. Ah, the wonders of new love, he thought a tad sarcastically and then remanded himself. Lack of sleep tended to make him bitter and he determinedly made up his mind not to take it out on them. But he still wasn't in the mood to face their whole "Oh-you're-just-the-best-thing-since-Quidditch-except-I-don't-want-to-tell-you" routine.

You could practically swim in the drool.

"Hi," Hermione said simply, her eyes downcast and a faint coloring tinting her cheeks.

Frowning, Draco seemed perplexed. "Hey," he replied, brows furrowed. Hermione obviously didn't know what to make of the sudden mood swing but Jonathan knew exactly what had happened.

He winked at the scowling man and grinned; Draco never lost his tongue like that.

"What?" she demanded, looking up towards the heavens as if asking what she did to deserve being stuck there. "What did I do now?" As she was advancing on Draco, Jonathan glimpsed her wild eyes and discreetly hopped down from his perch on the counter and crossed to where the coffee was.

He stood there, blocking the pot from her view, examining his nails, and wondering if there was any way he could sneak the entire pot out of the room without her noticing.

But she quickly countered on him. "What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously, her frustration with Draco temporarily forgotten. "Are you hiding something?" He didn't answer as her eyes swept the room trying to ascertain what was missing. It didn't take her long. "Why are you hiding the coffee?"

Stuttering, he adjusted his stance as she attempted to peek around him. "No, of course not," he stammered. "I don't even know what coffee is. Is it a muggle thing? Draco, have you ever heard of coffee before?" Shooting a pleading look towards his friend, he saw him obstinately look away. He obviously wanted to stay out of the line of fire.

Selfish prat.

No way was he going to give that deranged woman more caffeine. No, the only thing that would help her now wasn't more stimulation, but sedatives--a lot of sedatives.

But the lines of vexation on her face, the flashing of her eyes, and the coiled tightness of her body made it apparent that confronting her, getting in her way, wouldn't be a healthy thing.

Sighing, he grabbed the pot and handed it over. "Fine, take the damn stuff. You do know you have a problem, right?"

She didn't answer, instead opting to shoot him a withering glare before sitting next to Draco.

Quickly, he turned his attention to his watch and the smirking man in front of him. "Come on Draco, I need to beat the shit out of you now," Jonathan said lightly, although it was going to be one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. The smirk was immediately replaced by a resigned frown and a glance at Hermione showed a mirrored expression.

Grimacing, he realized just how much was on the line for all of them.

It was going to be a trying day.

* * * * *

Sirius had left a few hours before dawn, leaving Harry with nothing to do but restlessly pace the small house. Hermione was a quiet person by nature, what with most of her free time dedicated to reading in the worn chair by the fire, but now the house seemed too quiet... eerily still. It was a deafening silence that made it difficult to focus his thoughts, instead leaving him feeling jumbled and paranoid.

But then again, he knew it was most likely due to the grief and anguish that was threatening to consume him for his utter inability to decide what to do. Should he believe what she said and patiently wait for her to come home on her own? Or should he follow his gut feeling and hold a wand to Zabini's head until he revealed all that he knew?

His head ached and he found himself squinting into the veiled darkness, realizing for the first time that he was sitting on her bed. The room still smelled of lavender and disinfectants and his eyesight swarmed as fresh tears were blinked away.

"Harry!" Ron's voice bellowed from the front of the house and Harry swiped at his cheeks hastily. "Harry Potter, where are you?" It was funny but when Ron got mad, he tended to sound just like his mother. Just don't tell him that. He doesn't like it.

They met in the hall, neither knowing quite what to say. That is, until Ron held up the Prophet. "Why didn't you tell me, Harry? I had to find out in the paper?"

He sighed and hung his head. "Ron, I thought she would be back before you needed to know... and then, well, you have a family now. You need to think of your kids. I don't want you following me and getting yourself killed."

The weight of his sentence seemed to hit his best friend all at once. "She's really in danger, isn't she... I mean, I suspected but..."

"I'm not really sure. She said she was fine but I don't know if I should believe her. I don't even know where to find her."

"Bloody hell, Harry! I could've had this resolved days ago! Is she wearing the necklace we gave her?"

"What? Oh, I'm pretty sure. Why?" He trailed after Ron as he stormed into the kitchen.

"I placed a bloody locator charm on it, that's why. Look, I have a meeting with the Minister today. I have to be there. Afterwards, meet me in front of Gringots with your broom and I'll activate the charm. Promise me, Harry. Promise me you won't go off doing anything without me. She's my friend too."

Of course he promised.

* * * * *

The house seemed colder than usual and, as he limped through the foyer threshold, Draco found his body wracked with unwanted chills. He was not afraid of Damien Bradford. Never had been. Damien was cruel, intelligent, powerful, patient, callous, and everything that an evil overlord should be, but in Draco's eyes, he was missing something. He never could put his finger on exactly what it was that made it impossible to fear the man, but all the same, it didn't really matter.

Even though he had never feared Damien, Draco had a nagging sense of foreboding while standing prone in the damp hallway. He had the feeling that this time, things wouldn't turn out so well. Gathering his wits, he made his way to the conference room in the back where Draco knew a meeting was taking place. Only hesitating a second, he pushed open the door and patiently waited to be noticed.

It didn't take long.

"Oh, look. Malfoy, child prodigy, is back." All eyes focused on him at Damien's words. "And without my *fucking* charm!" A moment later, Draco found himself slammed against the wall by an unexpected spell from Damien. "Tell me you have the information I need. Tell me there's a reason you're alive right now."

Thanks to Jonathan, Draco already had what he suspected were a few broken ribs and the invisible force pinning him to the wall was making it extremely difficult and painful to breath. "No," he replied through gritted teeth. Unwillingly, his eyes flicked over to Jonathan who was seated at the head of the table with a neutral, uninterested look on his face. But the other men around the room looked utterly shocked at his insolent answer.

Damien regarded him for a moment, a terrifyingly calm expression on his face and then the intangible binds vanished, sending Draco sprawled on the floor. "We will talk later," he finally said, his voice so low, Draco almost didn't hear him. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, have a seat."

Silently, Draco pulled himself up off the floor, all his concentration on not crying out at the pain, and moved to Hannad who was in his usual chair towards the head of the table. When the man did not move, Damien slammed a fist down onto the table, rattling the cups and sloshing a bit of tea into the saucers.

"We are entering a time where it is imperative that this impertinent attitude that some of you seem to have is eliminated... or *you* will be eliminated. Do I make myself clear?" His rage was calculated and comprehensive, leaving no one in the room feeling safe enough to move or speak.

After a moment's hesitation, Hannad stood and the entire table shifted over a seat, leaving Draco's vacant. Once all the attention was back on Damien, he straightened himself and slowly looked around the room.

"Over the past two months I have slowly made secret advances in the wizarding world. Those that I wished to be made public, such as the murder of the Minister's wife, have indeed made it to the public's awareness, yet are seen as separated, isolated events. It is time to change that." He paused, as if waiting for a comment or question but, of course, everyone remained silent, waiting. They would wait all day if they had to. "We have not made them fear us yet," he continued, his voice growing louder. "But there are still shadows they will not enter thanks to my predecessor, Voldemort, which we can use to our advantage. And the most prominent of these is the fear that the horrors of the past will be repeated."

The table was utterly void of noise; Draco thought that the entire room had sucked in a collective, excited breath.

"Tonight will be the starting point of our cause. It will be the culmination of many years of work and Jonathan will brief you all individually on your part in the..." He trailed off, searching for the exact word he wanted to use and Draco noticed an unusual glint in the man's eye. "The ritual."

The word startled Draco and he had to fight to keep his countenance from betraying the turmoil in his mind. He had expected kidnapping or mayhem or even murder. But definitely not ritual. That word held so many possibilities, it would be almost impossible to predict what to expect. It meant that Damien was planning on summoning power or magic or invoking *something* to aid him in 'purifying' the world. Any way he looked at it, it didn't bode will. Dealing with Damien was one thing, but dispelling ancient magic was something completely different.

A quick glance at Jonathan proved that his assumption was true. There was a grimly determined set to his jaw, a look reserved for only the direst of times. As Damien dismissed his faithful disciples, Draco wondered if he could sneak a quick word in with Jonathan to get an idea of what was to happen later than night but just as he was about to stand, a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Follow me." Once more, the entire congregation focused on him, no doubt contemplating whether they would ever see him again. But Draco knew better. If Damien had wanted to dispense of him, he would have done so the moment he interrupted the meeting. No, he was not going to be killed... that day, at least. For the moment, Damien still viewed him as useful and now, all Draco had to do was figure out what was keeping him alive.

He was led up the stairs and Draco didn't realize where they were headed until he passed the forest landscape framed in dark mahogany. Entering the bedroom where Hermione had been held captive, he focused on keeping his face as impassive as possible.

Fingering the thick bed curtain, Damien cleared his throat quietly, lost in thought. "Were you surprised?" he finally asked, looking him straight in the eye.

A wave of panic threatened to swell over him but before it could come to a crest, he shoved all the emotion back down, deep inside.

"Surprised?" His voice was impatient and suspicious and he didn't try to hide it; they were common emotions for him to display.

"You went to Hogwarts with her, did you not?" Ah, so that was his game.

Draco called his bluff. "She was a Gryfindor."

Damien smiled, flashing a row of pearly white teeth. "I always found the separate house system here fascinating. In the states, we don't have them, you see. It must have been difficult being surrounded by those with like minds all the time."

Morbidly curious as to where he was going with this, Draco shrugged. "I managed," he replied vaguely.

Nodding, Damien straightened the blankets on the bed. "And I hear that the inter-house rivalries are practically a tradition."

"Is there a point to this?"

"Let me cut to the chase then." Damien sat and regarded him coldly. "I don't trust you. I never have. Your father was a fool who had his priorities mixed up and I am afraid to see some of the same tendencies in you."

Growling, Draco took a few steps forward, enough to seem imposing but not enough to actually pose a threat. "I don't give a bloody fuck what you think," he barked. "I am not a part of this organization because of your charming personality. I am here because of your ideals, your cause."

Damien jumped up. "And *that* is why you are still alive. Many of the men here are lost little boys who are only in this cause because Voldemort or another old-school reformer told them to. They can't think for themselves; the only regurgitate what has been ingrained in their minds. If I suddenly disappeared tomorrow and no one took my place, do you think they would still hold the same ideals? No, they would go running and sniffling to Duff and Dumbledore as their forefathers before them. You, on the other hand, are here because of your beliefs, and while I may not like you, you cocky son-of-a-bitch, I need more men like you around."

"Besides," he added. "Jonathan has complete confidence in you and anyone he trusts, I'll give a bit of leeway to."

Draco nodded, feeling more reassured about his position. "What's going to happen tonight?"

"Not so fast. We still have another matter to discuss. How the hell did my little charms researcher get past you unarmed?"

* * * * *

Only an hour after Jonathan and Draco left her alone, Hermione found herself becoming restless. It felt like instead of being on the so-called run, she had spent a lifetime sitting and waiting. The cauldron beneath her simmered quietly as she occasionally stirred the yellowish potion clockwise with a ladle. Normally, she would've used her wand to magic the mixing but she was still left without hers.

She, above all else, loved a place with history and under normal circumstances the manor probably would've enthralled her to no end, but her life had taken such a drastic turn, she hardly felt safe in her own skin, much less in an unfamiliar mansion. Besides, her mind kept replaying the morning's events and much to her dismay, focused mostly on Draco. She had left the room at the insistence of the two men, which she was secretly thankful for. She really didn't want to witness Draco in pain.

Taking a stroll outside in the back gardens, the wild flora that twisted around every bend had intrigued her and she quickly lost track of time. Not wanting them to leave without saying goodbye, she hurried back and was about to open the door when a harsh cry from inside startled her.

The ground seemed to instantly turn to a solid block of ice, freezing her feet in place and sending a violent shudder up her legs.

"Draco," she heard Jonathan murmur compassionately. "Please let me heal you a bit. I went too far--"

"No!" Draco's voice was hoarse and weak but still commanded authority and respect. But then he was wracked with a strong couching fit and Hermione squeezed her eyes closed, wishing she had the strength to run away.

She tried to tell herself that she was in another place--in her gardens back home!--but the awful choking and gasping sounds kept bringing her back to exactly what reality had become.

She wasn't sure what shocked her more, the fact that she as in hiding with Draco Malfoy or that she trusted him implicitly. But it didn't matter. None of it did. They were walking a fine like now and one little slip-up could be fatal. And Draco was risking life and limb on the other side of the decrepid door, for the safety of not only her, but also the entire wizarding world.

Shaking her head sharply, she ordered her mind to be quiet and turned her attention back down to the bubbling pot. But her relief was short-lived because her consciousness soon began replaying Draco's hoarse gasps over and over again in a nagging sort of background noise.

One's mind, after all, rarely obeys its own commands.

At long last, the liquid faded from amber to a washed out, waxy yellow and Hermione quickly removed it from the flame.

Unable to hold still, Hermione had found Jonathan's, untouched if not sparse, potion ingredient supply in a pantry off the kitchen and, after taking a quick inventory, made the first potion that came to mind: an instant paint refurbisher. Because gods knew the place needed it. She had learned about the potion, ironically enough, in detention with Harry during their fifth year. Snape had thought it amusing to have them spruce up the dingy paintings around the castle. Hermione had never realized just how many there were, but after that night, she could give an accurate count, give or take a few that were hidden away in the professors' personal rooms.

Pouring the concoction into a spray bottle Natty, the house elf had procured for her, she tiptoed into the hall, realizing just how alone she was. Her footsteps echoed loudly through the empty corridors and she decidedly left her shoes on the floor as she ascended the stairs. First, she would spray the walls in their bedrooms and then she would see about the other rooms. The house wouldn't be so bad if it had a bit of sprucing up.

As she turned down the hall, she stopped and, holding her breath, she listened. Very distinctly, she could hear soft footsteps coming from above her and immediately her heart began hammering painfully in her chest.

She was not alone.

And then she had an even more terrifying thought.

She was *unarmed* and alone.

The footsteps stopped and the sudden silence seemed deafening. Hermione wasn't sure how long she stood there, barely breathing, struggling to hear anything to prove she was not losing her mind, but after a while, the tension eased out of her body and she shrugged to herself. Her imagination was running away with her again.

Continuing on to Jonathan's bedroom, she quickly got to work, spritzing the walls and grinning as they magically brightened to it's original vibrancy. In no time, she was finished and making her way back to the stair case, subconsciously pausing and glancing up to the landing above her.

It was hard to see up the stairs, mainly due to the fact that the heavy draperies still entombed the rooms upstairs in perpetual darkness. Draco had told her that he had explored the entire upstairs and she had accompanied him through most of it herself. She knew there was nothing up there, nothing to be afraid of, only elaborately carved ornamental furniture and the occasional knickknack, yet she still hesitated on the bottom step.

Not really knowing what she was doing it, she found herself climbing the staircase, holding on to the railing with sweaty palms. Once at the top, she squinted to the left and right, letting her eyesight adjust to the cimmerian hallways.

Nothing.

Carefully, she stepped lightly to the left where the hallway ended in a floor-to-ceiling window. It took her a moment, but once she got the drapery propped up out of the way, her confidence began to grow. It was funny what a little light could do.

Still moving cautiously though, she opened the first door and opened the curtains. But the time she'd finished with all the rooms in the left hall, her worries had all but dissipated. The right hallway though, was another story. Instead of a floor length window, a large mirror covered the entire wall giving everything it reflected a sinister look.

Wishing she had her wand, if only for a simply lumos spell, she opened the first door and found a sitting room with a large terrace. Instantly, she shivered. The room seemed colder than the rest of the house. The curtains were already open so she turned to move on but a brief movement out of the corner of her eye halted her. Hermione waited, seeing noting that could have moved. But then she saw it again.

The tapestry.

It moved.

The image itself was a disturbing one. It looked to be a 17^th century religious work depicting a horrendous battle between a group of badly beaten men and an army of haunting skeletons. Why an old Wizarding house would have a muggle tapestry was beyond her but it didn't matter.

All that mattered now was that it was moving.

Hefting a large candelabrum off the desk and holding it out in a defensive manner, she inched sideways, maintaining the same distance but gaining a sidelong view. It was flush to the wall. Nothing could be hiding behind it. Slowly gaining confidence, Hermione made her way to the edge and, after a brief internal pep talk, she violently yanked the heavy material away from the wall and brandished her makeshift weapon threateningly.

But the heavy, silver candelabrum was no use from what she found.

A door.

A door that was slightly open, letting the occasional brief breeze in, making the tapestry and her heart flutter. Nervously, she edged the door open and cringed as it creaked loudly in defiance. Idly, she wondered how long it had been since someone had stepped through the threshold and up the spiraling stairs beyond it.

She began to climb.

The air was surprisingly clean and fresh; the coldness was a shockingly harsh blast of reality. But the rock walls and steps around her were covered in moss and mildew making it difficult to climb the steep stairs without a handhold.

She had ascended what felt like an entire floor when she came across a green paned glass door, so scratched and cracked she could hardly see through it to the room beyond. But once she did find a clear view, her breath caught in her throat. Before her was a dirty, broken, timeworn but wildly thriving green house. Surprisingly, the plants that hung from the shattered ceiling panes and covered the walls and tables with a wild abandon forming an intense jungle, had not died when left without a caretaker. No, instead they flourished.

Getting the door open proved to be quite a challenge and left her with a few cuts and slashes from the broken shards of glass but once she was inside the terrarium, surrounded by such a wide variety of flora to make any botanist jealous, she forgot all about her injuries.

* * * * *

They were not safe to talk freely. Draco knew this the moment he stepped into the room.

"Have a seat, Malfoy." Jonathan stood and walked around the table once Draco had sat down. Once he was leaning against the desk in front of him, Jonathan pulled out his wand. "Take off your shirt."

Taken by surprise, Draco grinned. "You know, I'm not sure but I believe that's considered sexual harassment and 'I don't have to take it.'"

Jonathan did not smile, just stared at him blandly. "At this point, healing is optional for you."

So Draco stripped without reservation and was insanely grateful when the searing pain that had been tormenting his body faded into a warm tingle. Jonathan even went so far as to slip him a small vial containing a headache-relieving potion before he sat, ready to get down to business.

"First, there is the matter with your missing wand. You will flue down to Diagon Alley as soon as we're done here and get a replacement."

Draco nodded, absently noting that it would be handy to have two wands on his person.

"Your task today is to help prepare for the night's ceremony so you need to hurry back as soon as you're done. It will be simple things such as moving the supplies down to the lake, creating the alter and platform, etc., but it will be time-consuming." Jonathan leaned forward slightly. "It's going to be a long day," he intoned deeply, his weariness betrayed by his eyes. "Damien will give you further details when you get back. It is an exciting time, right now. Our goals are no longer lingering on the horizon. Tonight they will be made tangible."

Flinching imperceptibly, Draco nodded once again. These meetings tended to be mostly one-sided anyway. He was dismissed and as he slowly made his way to the fireplace, he rubbed a hand across his stubbled chin, forcing back the sense of dread gnawing at him. Giving into fear and panic would only rob him of the ability to think, and that was the last thing he could afford to lose at this point.

It was just all moving so fast; he had had no time to prepare. He wasn't cut out for this hero crap anyway. Draco wished he could call up Potter, tell him what was happening, and step back while the Boy Wonder saved the day. Things would be so simple. But then a little nagging voice questioned from the back of his mind, why *couldn't* he? Why couldn't he let Potter take the reins?

Would Potter even believe him if he tried? Probably not. But he *would* believe Hermione. The question was, would she willingly involve her best friend in yet another life and death situation? And what would happen if Potter was hurt or died? She would blame him. Was he willing to risk any chance with Hermione, whether it be friendship or more, because of his cowardness?

It was definitely something to think about.

* * * * *

After a thorough exploration of the green house, Hermione found she was more impressed by the plants' sheer domination of the room than the plants themselves. So she left, slipping the few cuttings she had made into her cloak pocket and carefully tiptoeing around the glass shards that littered the floor. Leaving the enormous candlestick where it was resting on the floor in the doorway, she climbed higher until the steps opened up to the roof. The railing had long since rotted away, along with the rusted table and chairs but Hermione could picture the way it once had looked: magical white lights twinkling around a group of close friends as they sipped wine and laughed and talked and looked at the stars.

She ended her daydreaming and sighed, looking out at the crisp snow down below that lay on the ground like a glittering blanket of sugar. Winter had set in fast, without her noticing and the air frosted her breath before it even left her mouth. Realizing just how numb her sock-clad feet were, she took one last glance around before quickly descending the steep staircase. Once back at the bottom, she retrieved the paint renewal potion and stepped back into the dim hallway to head back downstairs, her adventureness and curiosity sated for the time being. But as she turned towards the mirror at the end of the hall, a scream rose in her throat and the potion bottle fell to the floor in panic.

There was a man standing behind her, so close she could see the greasiness of his blonde hair.

As if in slow motion, the man raised his head, making eye contact and reached forward to grab her shoulders, turning her to him. His hands were icy but Hermione barely felt them.

"You aren't supposed to be up here," he said softly, but the man's impeccably groomed mustache twitched sinisterly as he grinned, ruining the gentleness in his voice.

Before she had a chance to respond, his mouth was pressed frantically against hers. Suffocating panic threatened to overwhelm her as she struggled for release, making feeble motions against the arms that held her captive. Fear lodged itself in her heart as she suddenly realized how strong he was, and just how alone she was.

And just as abruptly as the kiss had started, he pulled away, his breath reeking of alcohol and something acrid. It reminded her of the pickled beets her grandmother used to can and she gagged violently as soon as his lips parted from her, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

Blindly, she pushed past the man and stumbled down the stairs, not stopping until she found herself outside, ankle deep in snow. Slowly falling to her knees, she tried to urge herself to keep going, to keep running far away from the house, but her body was so weak and shaking from fear that it remained where it was as she retched over and over again, until she could hardly breath and her body collapsed beneath her. She stayed there, lying in the snow for no reason in particular, feeling the freezing wetness seep through her cloak and into her body and she took a distinctly harsh pleasure in it.

* * * * *

They left Diagon Alley by broom just as the sun was beginning to set. Harry glanced back over his shoulder to see Ron wincing, trying to seat himself comfortably on the thin handle. It had been years since Ron had touched, much less rode on a broom, and it showed. But Harry didn't blame him. Ron had grown immensely after their sixth year and to see his large stature slouched over a seemingly tiny broom made him grin.

"Harry!" Ron yelled over the rushing wind... although, technically, Harry thought, it wasn't so much the wind that was rushing, it was them. "Turn north! The compass is showing north!"

So north they turned, the wind pushing at their backs, ushering them along.

* * * * *

Hermione felt numb, completely, totally, mindlessly numb.

Even the snow had lost it's comforting bite and she felt detached, as though she could almost step back from her body and observe herself from afar. The logical part of her brain insistently yelled warnings but she refused to listen. It seemed so much easier when she ignored it. She was floating now, and she didn't want to come back down.

And then the world of sensation came crashing back to her as something continually poked her arm.

"Is the miss alright?" a tiny voice asked, and then the curious face of Natty, one of Damien's house elves on loan to Jonathan, came into view. A thousand needles began to pierce her flesh as the intense pain of the snow came back to her and she struggled for breath through her chattering teeth. When Hermione didn't answer, Natty, a bit more cautiously, continued. "I make a fire in the library. I make more coffee for the miss. Come, come."

And so, quite painfully, Hermione dragged herself to the kitchen door and only when she crossed the threshold, her knees barely able to hold her up, did she remember why she was outside in the first place.

"Natty, there was a man." The panic surged back into her, causing her to stagger. "Did you see a man?"

"No man...." She blinked up at Hermione warily. Well, that was just great. She was scaring the house elf. "Master Jonathan and the other mister is gone."

Impatiently, Hermione crossed to the fire and collapsed before it, trying desperately to warm her trembling body. The heat burned, even from the distance she was at, but she dared not pull away.

"This is a different man... upstairs... the third floor."

"No, Natty is told not to clean the third floor--only cook and clean bedrooms and clothes. Master Jonathan is very clear: no more cleaning."

"That's right," Jonathan's rich voice chimed in from the doorway to the hall. When Hermione looked to him, his lips were drawn into a tight line. He looked worried. "No need for little Natty here to run her tail off cleaning rooms that will never be used." He seemed to really look at her and she could see a flash of concern cross his face. "What happened?" Sitting down next to her on the rug, he pulled her into his lap. "You're an ice cube," he admonished, striping her of her soaked cloak and when Jonathan looked down at her, she could see her blue-tinted lips reflected in his eyes.

"There was a man," she began, but no more seemed to be coming. Flustered, Hermione smiled faintly through the mist of tears clouding her eyes and snuggled closer to his chest, seeking his warmth.

"A man? Here? Was he--no, it couldn't be. What did he want? What did he do?"

Not quite believing it happened herself, she was a bit hesitant in telling somebody else. "He kissed me," she said, her voice a ghost of a whisper.

"What? I didn't hear you, sweetheart."

"He kissed me," she said again in a more confident voice than she actually felt. A sad smile fleetingly touched her lips as he remained silent. She didn't blame him for not believing her. Finally, she couldn't take the silence any longer and she looked up at his face. The muscles in his arm were tense under her hand and his forehead creased with frowning.

"He kissed you," he repeated slowly, who knows how many different scenarios playing out in his mind. No doubt many of them revolved around her impending insanity.

"Yes." Her voice was near a whisper again and she struggled to look him in the eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he shrugged out of his cloak, wrapped it around her, and shifted them into a more comfortable position in front of the hearth. "Why don't you start at the beginning?"

* * * * *

Hours had passed, and Harry, not for the first time, wondered exactly what Hermione had gotten herself into. Ron was mostly silent now, having spent the first few hours grumbling to himself about Harry's tendency to shut people out at the most inopportune moments.

Harry, on the other hand, found himself distracted by memories that swirled around him on the whirling air. He remembered Hermione's first steady boyfriend, her first kiss (surprisingly not the same bloke), her first bad grade, and even her first break up. And after each episode, he was there in the common room to help her through.

He smiled as he recalled the night she and Seamus broke up. She had come into the common room with a flurry of parchments and books and collapsed down next to where Harry was attempting to study. Attempting being the operative word.

"We broke up," she said dully, her blazing eyes betraying her true emotional state.

"Oh?" he asked quietly. "What happened? Did you fight? You two never fight."

"I'm not quite sure what it was about," she groaned, obviously frustrated. "He was complaining about Snape's last test and how Snape doesn't grade fairly and I told him that maybe if he studied, he could pull up his grade--we both now he didn't study for that test--I wish he would take his studies more seriously. Anyway, from there it just went straight to 'you smart, me stupid? What you say! Dah! I hit you with club and drag you to cave. Bad concubine! Bad!"

Having vented, she sighed deeply and sunk back into the couch dejectedly.

"He didn't *really* call you a concubine, did he?"

"Harry! You're not helping, you know." But she wasn't really mad because she curled up and laid her head in his lap. And stroking her hair, watching her as she watched the flickering fire, he had the urge to kiss her. But just then, Seamus, Dean and Ron came in and Hermione went up to her dorm.

There had been many moments like that throughout their friendship and Harry wondered why he'd never actually acted on one of those urges. Perhaps it was because he didn't want to risk the relationship they had now, but Harry knew he was just making excuses. Ron and Hermione had dated on and off again for an entire year and they were closer than ever.

Sighing, he pushed the thoughts far from his mind and concentrated on the moon rising on the distant horizon.

* * * * *