OMG YOU GUYS.I can't believe this just happened. Six years later, here I am. I can't believe you guys stuck with me. Merlin knows I didn't deserve it. I really hope you like this installment, but I should throw a couple of caveats out there: I HAVE NO BETA. So don't hate. I edited this several times, but one can only look at the same words so many times before they all blend together. ALSO...it's been six years. I tried really hard to get back into the tone and voice of these crazy kids, but my style has changed a little and it's been so long since I had to listen to Hermione argue with Draco in my head... the struggle was real. Having said all that, please review. Not out of any need for validation on my part (although, who are we kidding, bonus points), but to let me know how badly I missed the mark.

Love you guys. For realz.

Chapter 19

26 September

It was going on four o'clock when they finally arrived at the island, and the sky was darkening rapidly. It had also begun to snow, fat, heavy flakes whipped into a frenzy by the relentless wind.

Draco's boots crunched on rocky sand as he jumped over the edge of the small fishing boat Hermione had managed to charter. He had to resist the urge to drop to his knees and kiss the earth, so grateful was he to be off the choppy water and back on solid ground. Instead he watched Hermione pay the Muggle, and then try to convince him that they weren't barmy, and no, thank you, but he won't need to return for them. It was kind of amusing; in the end, the fisherman looked more relieved to be heading home than arguing with a bunch of lunatics on an uninhabited island. In a snow storm.

As the boat pulled away, Hermione dashed up the shore to join Draco, Tonks, and Moody.

"We better get a move on, or else we really will freeze to death," Tonks said, stuffing her hands in her pockets. "How far do we have to go?"

Hermione dug the map she'd taken from the library out of her pack. "According to the map, the ruins are on the northern end of the island, just around that bend," she said, pointing. "Not more than half a mile, I'd say."

"Half a mile uphill," Draco pointed out. Indeed, their landing point was the only visible stretch of shore, and it was only about fifty meters from one end to the other. The rest of the coastline was rock. Where they were headed rose steadily, peaking somewhere in the hundred meters range, as far as Draco could tell. He supposed this was why the location had been dubbed Cliffside Ruins.

Moody grunted something that the wind stole, and began limping off in the direction Hermione had indicated. Draco hurried to follow, not wanting to become separated in what would probably be white-out conditions within the hour. He tried not to think how brilliant and alive Hermione looked with her ruddy cheeks and bright eyes, and focused on not falling and breaking a leg on the rocky terrain. Why anyone would want to build a secret mansion here was beyond him.

Draco was suddenly comfortably warm, and Hermione fell in step beside him. She was smirking and sliding her wand back up her sleeve and into its holster.

"Are you a wizard, boy, or aren't you?" she said in a frighteningly accurate impression of Moody.

Draco smiled tentatively, throwing her a sideways glance.

Things were still tense between them. He did not honestly know if he was ready to forget about the kiss that morning. It did not sting as badly as it had, but he still felt as if their strange relationship was about to be redefined again, and not knowing where he stood with Hermione left him feeling oddly unbalanced.

However, after what happened with Joe at the library, Draco was thinking of more than just their morning snog. He thought about the night they saved Potter and Weasley from Tullynally castle, and how readily she had jumped to his defense. He thought of the argument they'd had outside McGonagall's office when he had wanted to follow his mother to Romania, and how hurt and angry she'd been with him. He thought about the Wolfsbane brewing in the basement at Grimmauld Place, and how she'd crawled into bed with him that first night he knew he was cursed and held onto him like she thought he might fall off the edge of the world if she let go.

Hermione stumbled on a rock that was already obscured by the rapidly accumulating snow, but Draco reached out and caught her elbow before she could fall. Then they both ran promptly into Tonks, who had stopped dead in her tracks.

Draco's snarky remark died on his lips when he saw what had brought his cousin to a halt.

"Whoa," Hermione whispered.

Draco rather had to agree. "I thought you said it was a mansion?" he said. "This is a castle."

Although it was nearly too dark to see, Draco's newly enhanced eyes could still discern the building's massive silhouette, complete with towers, turrets and ramparts. It was at least five stories high with tall, narrow windows that loomed over them like eerie, blank eyes. A short flight of wide stairs jutted out from the facade, leading up to the main entrance.

Mad-Eye was already mounting the steps, waving his wand to check for any wards or traps that may have been laid by the last resident. He was apparently totally unaffected by the size of the building, and gestured impatiently for the others to join him when he reached the door.

"Let's go!"

Tonks was first to comply, withdrawing her wand from her pocket and casting a quick Lumos. Draco glanced at Hermione, who was already watching him. She shrugged, excitement lighting her face, then snatched up his hand and dragged him to the door. They halted behind Tonks again, who stood behind Moody who was about to open the door. The old Auror had his wand poised and ready like he was expecting a horde of Death Eaters to be waiting on the other side.

"Do you think there's a library?" Hermione whispered to him as the door creaked open.

Draco couldn't help the smile that twitched at his lips. "Focus, Hermione."

Hermione smiled back.

X

It was eight o'clock on the dot when Harry and Ron arrived at the empty length of seventh-floor corridor. He'd been a little surprised at how quickly Ginny had managed to arrange this DA reunion, but was pleased nonetheless. There really wasn't any time to waste.

"How many do you reckon there are?" Ron asked.

"I don't know. The letter didn't say."

Harry paced before the wall three times, concentrating hard on the training room the Room had given them when Dumbledore's Army was still active. Large, ornately carved wooden doors materialized out of the stone walls, giving them access.

"That is still so cool," Ron murmured.

Harry heaved the door open, far more concerned by what waited inside than what was without.

"Harry, Ron!" greeted Luna with a luminous smile. She had her hair done in a long plait, and was wearing earrings that looked like miniature fireworks constantly exploding, displaying a different color each time.

"Hey, Luna," Ron replied.

Harry didn't really hear the rest of the conversation, his mind reflexively turning to Ginny. He found her a few moments later, speaking to a group of students on the other side of the room. Her no-nonsense demeanor had their full attention, and Harry realized that while he might be there to help train these students, he was not their leader. Not anymore. He would be respected by most just because of who he was, but these kids were all here because Ginny asked, and it would be her to whom they turned for direction.

The students all nodded in tandem and dispersed, freeing Ginny up to realize Harry was watching. She smiled brightly and crossed the room to join them at the door.

"Hello," she greeted, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek.

Harry grinned. "Hi."

Without missing a beat, Ginny punched Ron on the arm.

"Ow!" Ron rubbed his arm vigorously. "Bloody hell. What was that for?"

"For being a complete and utter prat."

Ron looked to Harry for support, and Harry just shrugged. They had both been prats. Harry had just made the first move and apologized, and couldn't find it within himself to feel sorry for his friend.

"We're ready when you are," Ginny said, turning back to Harry.

"Let's get started."

There was a semicircle of plush sofas surrounding the fireplace, and, taking his hand, Ginny lead the way to the center. Ron followed, grumbling.

Ginny whistled loudly, winning the attention of everyone present.

"Gather 'round, everyone."

It took a couple of minutes for everyone to find a seat, the Room providing more chairs, floor cushions and sofas when necessary. Harry did a quick head count; there were over fifty students present. They were mostly Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, but he could see a spattering of Ravenclaws, too, more than likely thanks to Luna.

Harry cleared his throat when he realized that they were all staring at him, and remembered how much he hated public speaking.

"Thanks for coming, everyone. I don't know what Ginny's told you, but I need to start by saying that what I'm going to tell you tonight is highly confidential, and will almost certainly put you in danger. However, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important, and I believe you have the right to know. But, if you think there is even the slightest chance that you don't want to be a part of this, or that you will be incapable of keeping what happens in this room a secret, then this is your last chance to leave. Those who remain will be asked to sign a magically binding contract before we begin."

Even as he finished speaking, a table, quill, and ink pot appeared before him. Luna handed him a thick roll of parchment.

"Who wants to go first?"

It took half an hour for everyone who was going to sign the contract to do so, and nearly an hour for Harry to explain the situation to them and answer all the questions he could. The students took it surprisingly well, with only a few of them looking genuinely frightened. Most seemed determined to do their part, and Harry was struck by how often kids were counted out. It was a bitter thought; there were many people who were dead today that might not have been if Harry had been brought into the loop, Sirius most especially.

Harry was determined not to make the same mistake, not with the future of the Wizarding world hanging in the balance. In this frame of mind, Harry pulled Ron aside, throwing up a quick muffliato.

"What's up?" Ron asked.

Harry took a deep breath. "I want to tell Ginny and Luna about the Horcruxes."

Ron's face went blank with confusion. "Come again?"

"Just hear me out."

"You don't trust Hermione anymore, do you? Because of Malfoy?"

"This has nothing to do with Malfoy, or Hermione for that matter. We're running out of time, Ron," Harry replied. "We still have to destroy Ravenclaw's wand, and we don't have a clue where the Gryffindor artefact is, let alone how to destroy it, and we have less than two months to figure it out, or all of this," Harry gestured to the room, "will mean nothing. We need help."

Ron looked uncertain. "But Ginny…"

"Is an extremely bright, capable, trustworthy witch, who deserves the opportunity to help. Luna as well. She knows the library almost as well as Hermione, and we are horrible at research. Hermione will give us what she has, and help us when she can, but she has other obligations now, too."

"I don't know, mate," Ron said, raking a hand through his hair. "I don't really like the idea of involving my sister in all this. It's one thing to let her help with the training to defend Hogwarts, but telling her about the Horcruxes will put her directly in Voldemort's path."

"Ron, your whole family is already on Voldemort's shit list. Let her be where she'll do the most damage."

Harry left Ron to mull it over then, and by the time the Room of Requirement finally cleared of all but a few, Ron had come to a decision. Colin Creevy and a Hufflepuff witch were just preparing to depart, leaving only Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Luna behind, when Harry caught Ron's eye and was rewarded with a curt nod.

Harry didn't waste any time.

"Hey, Ginny, Luna, can you give us a minute before you go?"

"Sure," Ginny said.

Luna smiled serenely. "Of course, Harry. Is anything the matter?"

Harry sat down on a big squashy floor cushion, and waited for the others to join him. He wondered for a moment where he should start, and realized the beginning was probably the best place.

"A long time ago, there was a young witch named Merope Gaunt…"

It was nearing midnight by the time Harry was finished with his tale. He told them everything he knew about Voldemort and the Horcruxes, and both girls looked a little bewildered.

"Seven?" Ginny said. "There are seven Horcruxes out there?"

"Technically there are only two out there, at the moment," Ron clarified.

"Four have been destroyed," Harry added. "We have one in our possession right now, one we haven't found, and we are fairly certain that Voldemort's snake, Nagini, is one as well."

Luna, whose serenity was much diminished, looked thoughtfully at Harry. "Why have you told us this, Harry? You've kept it a secret for years. Why now? Why us?"

"Because we need your help. I can't kill Voldemort until all of the Horcruxes have been destroyed, and we are running out of time. It has taken years to find and destroy the ones we have. We have only six weeks before Voldemort attacks Hogwarts." Harry looked at Ron, then back at the two witches. "And we trust you."

Silence settled over the group for what felt like forever, and Harry watched Ginny and Luna with bated breath as the two girls seemingly held an entire conversation with their eyes and minute changes in facial expression.

Finally, Luna smiled and Ginny shrugged.

"What do you need us to do?"

Harry grinned.

X

Hermione rather liked the place. She had been expecting an experience similar to Grimmauld Place, all dark and eerie, full of mystery and decay. Cliffside had been Black property after all, and vacant for quite a long time. The cheerful tapestries, elegant frescoes, and bright, airy furnishings were a total surprise, even if they were covered with dust. Whoever the final resident had been, they had cared a great deal about the place and all it contained. There were still traces of preservation charms. On the whole, it reminded Hermione greatly of Chambord, in the Loire Valley, which she had toured with her parents the summer before her third year, although much, much larger.

They had really only explored the ground floor of the west wing, however. It was downright frigid and Draco had insisted he would not be doing anything further without dinner. Moody had grumbled, wanting to clear the entire building, just to be safe, but Tonks pointed out that theirs were the only footprints in the fine layer of dust and even he worked best on a full stomach.

Draco pointed out that the building was massive, and it would take them a week to clear the entire property.

In the west wing, there was a great, vaulted ballroom whose ceiling was so high the painted frescoes upon it were barely discernible in the paltry light of their wands. The entire room was ringed by a striking entresol; Hermione could almost see the finely dressed witches and wizards, hear the lively chatter and the thrum of stringed instruments tucked into one corner or the other. She had suddenly been transported into Elizabethan England, and found herself wondering if Draco could dance.

Her eyes settled on the sharp lines of Draco's back, the jut of his chin in profile. Beyond him Moody had started a fire and was in the process of setting up a private Floo to Grimmauld Place; the glow shimmered off Draco's pale hair and skin like spun gold. He was frustrated, his lips set in a firm line as he argued with Tonks. She wanted Indian. He wanted something they wouldn't be smelling for the next three days. Hermione thought he was beautiful, like an Italian sculpture, yet was suddenly overcome by the distance she felt growing between them. He could have been in Italy, for as close as they were at that moment.

It made her chest hurt thinking about it. The urge to touch him was overwhelming.

Moody stood, announcing that the Floo was done, so they'd better make up their minds.

"Fish and chips," Hermione decided.

"That's not much better," Draco said.

"I know a place that's not far from Grimmauld Place. It's quick and easy, and there'll be no washing up."

Without waiting for anyone to agree with or contradict her, Hermione retrieved her satchel from next to the fireplace, and took a small handful of Floo powder from the worn leather pouch Moody offered her, casting it into the flames. As she spun through the green whirl to Grimmauld Place, Hermione tried to tell the hollow in her gut that she wasn't running away from him again.

X

Hermione found them in a cozy sitting room down a hallway further west of the ballroom, the murmur of voices and a trail of lit sconces leading the way. Everything in this room was a different shade of green, from the carpet to the drapes, and the wall opposite the fireplace was decorated with a landscape depicting a countryside sunrise in spring. The fire in the grate was roaring merrily, and had already warmed the small room quite nicely.

Moody and Tonks had arranged themselves on opposite sides of a low table, and were debating how best to prepare the ballroom for the abuse the four of them would be inflicting upon it. Draco stood at one of two tall windows, staring out at the frenzy of snowflakes

Tonks and Moody hardly missed a beat when she sat their paper-wrapped parcels on the table, although Tonks did pause to savor the aroma.

"Thanks, Hermione," Tonks said, popping a couple of chips in her mouth. "Good idea."

Moody grunted before tucking in. Hermione took this as an expression of gratitude.

She dug two plastic water bottles out of her satchel. "You're welcome. I brought some things for a cold breakfast tomorrow, too. I wasn't sure what our plans were."

She also checked on the Wolfsbane potion, but they didn't need to know that.

There was a circular cards table in the corner of the room behind Draco, where Hermione set their food. Draco joined her wordlessly, taking the seat opposite her. They ate in silence for several minutes, Draco deliberately eating his chips one at a time, leaving the fish for last.

Hermione watched him eat more than she herself ate, that now-familiar ball of anxiety beginning to grow in her stomach again. She had expected him to complain about… well, anything. How plebeian eating fish and chips out of newspaper was, or the fact that they were practically squatting in a 400-year-old mansion, or how dusty it was, or cold, or whatever else he could find wrong with their situation.

So, either Draco really didn't want to talk to her, or maybe he had just grown up a little more than she gave him credit for. The more she thought about it, the more she thought it might be the latter. Maybe all that time spent on the run, alone and not knowing if he would have a roof over his head or a full stomach had taught him to be - who ever would have guessed - grateful.

Draco was still definitely a glass-half-empty sort of bloke, but upon reflection Hermione realized that he really only griped like she constantly expected him to when he was extremely stressed - or if Harry was involved. Harry just had that effect on him. But he was hardly ever like that with Hermione, or even Tonks for that matter.

Perhaps a roof, a full stomach, and a fire were all he needed anymore. She did wonder what he wanted, though. He so rarely shared his private thoughts, typically leaving Hermione to divine his moods and opinions, or to translate his body language and facial expressions. She had no clue what he really wanted – from life, from her. From the next five minutes.

Unexpectedly, Hermione recalled her birthday, when Draco had badgered her with that exact question. It had been a taunt, a smug way of proving to her that her friendships were more superficial than she had believed. But wondering what Draco wanted forced her to reconsider the question. What did she want?

Hermione was very good at reasoning herself out of things; for every pro should could find two cons. But, just for a moment, she toyed with the idea of letting herself throw all of those rationalizations, all of those excuses out the window, and give an honest answer.

What did she want?

Draco cleared his throat, and Hermione jumped, startled from her own thoughts.

"I think we need to contact Absalom," he said, his voice low.

She popped a chip in her mouth, giving herself time to collect her thoughts. Not only had Hermione been completely prepared to receive the silent treatment from him the rest of the night, but his mind had gone in a completely different direction than hers had.

"I agree," she replied. "I mean it was strange enough meeting Lenny last night, and learning that Sinead has the tattoo as well, but I think what happened today with Joe is altogether a different kettle of onions."

Done with his chips, Draco thoughtfully removed a chunk of fish and ate it. He had been strangely subdued since they arrived at Cliffside. He'd been peevish and irritable all day, and Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on what caused the shift.

"He called you a Keeper. Does that ring any bells in that massive brain of yours?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not off the top, no. And he called you 'brother'."

"I know," Draco replied quietly.

Hermione tapped the tip of her nose with her index finger, and Draco nodded.

"Could you? Recognize his scent, I mean."

"If I concentrate, I can pick things out," he answered reluctantly. "He made me uneasy, but there was nothing about him that suggested he was a werewolf. It's not like I'm used to using my nose to identify people, either."

"Fair enough. Maybe after the full moon, your sense of smell will be keener? Or maybe it just comes with practice?"

"Maybe."

"Joe said he could smell you on me. I wonder what you smell like. I wonder what I smell like, for that matter." Hermione laughed lightly. "Probably musty parchment and ink."

"Summer," he murmured.

"What?"

Draco's gaze found hers. "You smell like summer."

Hermione's heart pounded in her chest at the intensity of his gaze, however brief it was. "Draco—"

Without another word he stood and was halfway to the door before Hermione realized what was happening. She tried to call out to him, but the words snagged in her throat, as though caught on brambles.

"What's up with you guys, today?" Tonks asked.

Hermione shook her head, not even knowing where to begin answering, frustration bubbling up in her chest. Lately, it seemed like all she and Draco did was run away from each other. Not running away meant staying, which seemed self-explanatory but in reality was deeply terrifying. Staying meant being honest and vulnerable – two things neither of them excelled at. She and Draco – whatever they were – would never move past this moment if something didn't change. One of them would always be walking away from the other, just on the edge of something more.

She and Draco had agrees to give them a chance, but Hermione was at last forced to admit that what happened with Harry and Ron (particularly Ron, since she was being so honest) had fundamentally changed the way she approached her relationships. All of them. Even Tonks had had to hammer her way through Hermione's brand new exoskeleton. She told herself the armor was justified, regularly, but now she was beginning to wonder if it was just another excuse. An excuse now to not give Draco, or them, a chance.

Hermione forced herself to think about why, and came to the conclusion that it all boiled down to the fact that she didn't know what he wanted. Without knowing that, she couldn't predict his actions, or his motives. She couldn't predict when he would leave her. She wasn't exactly looking for a husband, but neither did she wish to be a mere convenience, either. Would he stick by her through the war, or would he cut and run when things got hairy? What about after the war? When the Order had no further use for him, and he was safe, would he still want anything to do with her? There were too many questions, and not enough data. She just couldn't know.

If you don't ask, you'll never know. Hermione heard her mother's voice in her head as clearly as if she were seated across from her. She had given Hermione that little truth when she was about four years old, and she had clung to it religiously for the whole of her life. Not knowing had always been worse than asking. The problem was, this time asking meant making herself vulnerable to the answer. It was a vicious cycle.

However, there was one thing she did know: Watching him walk away from her was painful, and walking away from him made her feel like a coward. Maybe that was all the information she really needed.

Hermione stood. "I brought some Floo powder from Grimmauld Place, so don't wait for us."

Then she went to find Draco.

X

The woods smelled different in Romania, Narcissa thought. Older. More secretive. She told herself continuously that it was because of who and what she was following that she was so uneasy. The residue of dark magic, whether from Death Eaters or vampires, was making her skin crawl, and she frequently felt as though she was being watched.

Of course it would be impossible to tell. This forest was immeasurably dense, the canopy impenetrable even to the smallest sliver of moonlight. And the icy wind that tore through the heavy underbrush would mask any sound of approach. Thankfully, the wind would afford her the same courtesy, should this be the night she happened to finally cross paths with Rabastan Lestrange.

According to the local newspaper, there was a series of caves about four kilometers outside of the nearest village. For years it had been a common rendezvous for area youth, but so many people had gone missing in the last couple of years, the last of which was found in the woods with her throat ripped out, so as to reaffirm the respect the people of Romania seemed to have for the supernatural. No one ventured to the caves any longer.

Narcissa was positive there were vampires. She could only hope that she wasn't too late again. Rabastan had been just one step ahead for several days now, and Narcissa had pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion to catch up. She wasn't sure how long she could keep pace.

Suddenly, the wind changed, blasting icy air in her face and carrying with it the distinct sound of voices. She froze, every fiber of her being straining to snatch each broken syllable.

Then there was a harrowing shriek.

Spurred into motion, Narcissa moved as quickly as she could through the sinister forest, dodging branches and boulders and felled logs as best she could toward the terrified sound. She ran until she came to the precipice of a sloped embankment, at the bottom of which was a fairly large clearing. The cave entrance was a gaping, menacing hole in the opposite hillside.

In the center of the moon-drenched clearing were three robed, hooded figures and a teenaged girl dressed in Muggle clothes who knelt before them with her hands bound behind her back. Her shoulders shook, whether from cold or fear, and the girl screamed again as four ghastly white faces loomed inside the mouth of the cave. The Death Eater on the right kicked her sharply in the back and she crumpled.

The faces appeared to float, detached from any discernible body, before drifting eerily into the clearing. The vampires wore wizards' robes, concealing their legs, and giving the impression that they were not in contact with solid ground. The wind stole the conversation, but when the central Death Eater, whom Narcissa assumed was Rabastan, gestured toward the girl and the vampires mouths twisted into what she also assumed was a smile, it all became quite obvious. The girl was an inducement, a gift for their allegiance.

There had to be a way to stop them. This might be her only opportunity; not only were they all in one place, but she had the high ground and the element of surprise, even if she was sorely outnumbered. It was also doubtful that Rabastan would hike out of the forest, his task complete. If he and the others were allowed to Disapparate, she might never find them again, leaving her mission a failure.

Perhaps a Blasting charm at the mouth of the cave? It would wound the vampires, who were still quite close, put the blast in the faces of the Death Eaters, and it would cut off any potential support from vampires still inside the cave. The girl would be put in harm's way, but she may escaped relatively unscathed.

The Death Eater who had kicked the girl jerked her up by the back of her shirt and gave her a solid shake. Slowly, she picked her head up and recoiled again at the sight before her, but the Death Eater held her firm.

It looked like it was now or never. Narcissa took a deep breath, aimed her wand at the cave and—

Suddenly there was a rough hand covering her mouth, and another circled around the wrist of her wand arm. It took everything she had not to scream, from both pain and fright. A second later, the hand squeezed a pressure point in her wrist, forcing her hand to spring open. Her wand dropped uselessly to the ground.

Before she could struggle, Narcissa was spun around and effortlessly thrown against the nearest tree. She cracked her head against the trunk, and the breath rushed out of her lungs. With the flick of his wrist, the man before her had secured her to the tree with thick, sturdy ropes.

An icy wave of despair welled up in her chest.

"Who are you and why are you here?" the man said in heavily accented English. It wasn't quite strident enough to be Russian, but had a similar discordant lilt to it. Narcissa thought he might be a local, but few she had met spoke any English at all.

Narcissa strained her eyes through the darkness for any clues about the man, but came up with little more than a stocky outline, a cloak, and a wide brimmed hat. No hood, robes, or masks to be seen.

"You're not a Death Eater," she replied, struggling to mask her confusion. She had thought Rabastan had had someone patrolling the perimeter that she had missed, but this man was definitely not one of Rabastan's team.

The man cocked his head to the side, as though he had been expecting something else entirely. Narcissa suddenly found herself more frustrated than frightened. Precious seconds had been lost already.

"If you're not a Death Eater, then why did you stop me from stopping them?" she snapped.

"Answer my questions," he replied, not in the least bit swayed by her vehemence.

"Let me go."

"Why?"

"Because, if you don't, that girl down there will die, and later, hundreds, maybe thousands, more will follow her."

As if to prove Narcissa's point, the girl screamed again, a high, keening wail.

Suddenly the tip of the man's wand warmed to a soft glow, illuminating fair skin crisscrossed with scars, a sharp nose, and one pale, piercing green eye. The brim of his leather hat was drawn low, concealing the other eye, which Narcissa thought may have been covered by a patch. He came close so he could examine her, the wand mere inches from her face.

"You would take on three Death Eaters and a coven of vampires for one girl?"

Narcissa just stared at him, her gaze steady, daring him to call her a liar.

"You are either very brave or very stupid," he said, picking up her wand. With a flick, her bonds disappeared. He offered Narcissa back her wand, which she quickly took, confused but grateful. Then he unhooked a crossbow from his belt. "I am called Mirku, and I seek vengeance for the death of a friend. For a time, I believed you were her killer. I do not believe that any longer."

"I am called Renee," Narcissa began. She still wasn't completely sure if she could trust this man, but she would be candid if he was willing to help. "I've come from England to stop Death Eaters from recruiting vampires for Lord Voldemort."

"Well then," he said, a predatory grin stretching his features wide, "we have wasted enough time."

Without warning, Mirku gripped her forearm and Disapparated. They reappeared in the middle of the clearing, and for a mere handful of heartbeats, no one seemed to have a clue what was happening. Those moments were all they needed. In tandem Narcissa and Mirku spun, setting themselves back to back. Narcissa blasted the nearest Death Eater with a jet of orange spellfire before he even had a chance to draw his wand. He flew backwards with the force of it, and hit a large boulder.

The sound of his neck breaking mirrored the twang of Mirku's crossbow releasing its bolt.

Rabastan and his lone cohort recovered their wits quickly enough after that, and Narcissa's temporary ally faded to the back of her mind as she struggled to keep up with her two opponents. The duel was heated, but the sharp wind kept the vale clear of smoke, and the waxing moon, still high in the sky, illuminated the combatants as well as the sun.

It seemed like forever before any of them landed a hit. The third Death Eater, stumbling backward on the uneven ground was unable to block Narcissa's curse. He was dead before he hit the ground. Rabastan took advantage of the moment and fired a jet of zinging purple spellfire at her. She tried to dodge it, but the curse caught her on the shoulder, nearly bringing her to her knees with excruciating pain. It felt like electrified razor blades were tearing through her skin; within moments her robes were soaked with blood.

At that same instant there was a mighty whoosh, as though all the air had been sucked out of the clearing. It was followed immediately by a chorus of unholy wails. Reflexively, Narcissa turned toward the frightful noise. She only got far enough around to notice the colossal fireball barreling toward her from the depths of the cave before she was tackled to the ground by Mirku.

Even with his body completely covering hers, she could still feel the intense heat of the magical flame. It bore down on them like a tangible thing, the air scorching her lungs as Narcissa tried to breathe through the pain in her shoulder.

And then it was gone, blazing past them to collide with the side of the embankment. The earth trembled with the force of the impact. Narcissa was vaguely aware of the oaths Mirku swore when chunks of sod and loose rocks began raining down on them, and of the protective weight of his body as he pressed closer to her, keeping her safe. Weak with blood loss, she slipped into unconsciousness.

X

Draco, completely by accident, found the one room Hermione was truly interested in: the library. It was an enormous, vaulted room in the east wing, with three levels, rolling ladders, large comfortable looking leather furniture, and a two fireplaces, each large enough to easily house one of the numerous sofas scattered throughout the room.

Draco gauged the room to be the architectural twin of the ballroom in the west wing, with the exception of the ceiling. The ballroom had a beautifully crafted fresco, while the entirety of the library's ceiling was made of glass. The skylight was covered in snow now, giving the room a bluish tint.

He had intended to put as much space as possible between himself and that claustrophobic sitting room, but there was something about the room that demanded occupancy. In no time he had roaring fires in both grates, and all of the scones lit on the ground floor. He was in the process of clearing the dust away when Hermione found him.

"Oh!" she gasped, looking around in amazement.

She spun around slowly, taking it all in. Her gaze landed on him last, and Draco found her smile contagious. It was incredible how, even after everything Hermione had been through, she still managed to keep a bit of childlike wonder, just for special occasions. He was finding it a difficult task to remember why he had been so upset all day.

"It would seem there's a library after all."

Hermione looked like the kid at Christmas who could never decide which present to open first. "This is unbelievable. How did you manage to find it in this huge castle? Have you explored at all?"

Draco shook his head. "I smelled the books as I was passing. And no, I haven't. Thought it could do with a fire and a dusting first."

"I wonder what's in there," she said, moving toward a glass casement built into the wall to the left of the easterly fireplace.

She had to walk past him to get there, and Draco followed her, hanging back just a little. After an entire day spent deliberately distancing himself from her, the estrangement had become a near-tangible weight in his chest. He felt like a complete idiot. Hermione was many things, but she wasn't a flake, and she certainly wasn't a liar. She was the most loyal, trustworthy person he knew. It was hardly he fault if he was too damaged to actually trust her. He wasn't sure what was okay anymore, and what would get him punched in the face.

The latch on the case released without a fuss, and Hermione eagerly stepped into the cabinet's embrace.

"These are all Muggle books." She took one off the shelf and opened the cover, her eyes going impossibly wide. "Draco, this is a first edition Milton."

She turned the book in her hand so he could see the cover. "Paradise Lost? Never heard of it."

A choked expression of disbelief issued from Hermione's throat. She returned the book to its shelf and began pulling down books at random, checking the inside of each before returning them. His curiosity piqued, Draco drifted closer until he was just behind her, eying various foreign titles over the halo of her hair. Voltaire, Moliere, Blake, Defoe, Cervantes, Swift, and Webster were stowed alongside Milton, although Draco recognized none of them. Even if it had been common practice for magical children to study Muggle literature, Lucius never would have allowed it.

"They're all first edition," she said. "This is insane…oh my God."

Her wand appeared in her hand, the tip glowing with an unspoken Lumos. On the bottommost shelf were four books, all markedly larger than the rest, two of which were identical and so enormous they were stowed horizontally on the shelf. Hermione examined the two smaller books first. When she returned them to the shelf, her face was white and her hands trembling. She actually looked frightened.

"Are you all right?"

"I just held first edition copies of The Canterbury Tales and Shakespeare's First Folio. So, no, I'm not."

"Shakespeare I've heard of. He wrote plays, right?" Indeed, it was impossible to live in England, Wizarding or otherwise, and not know who Shakespeare was. "But I've never heard of the other one."

"Chaucer? That book is over five hundred years old, Draco. There are only twelve left in the entire world."

"Thirteen."

"What?"

"There are thirteen."

Hermione covered her mouth with her hands, and turned her attention back to the two largest books. "I almost don't want to know what they are."

When it became clear Hermione was not planning on moving any time soon, Draco removed the topmost tome himself. It was inordinately heavy, and bound, not in leather as he had supposed, but vellum. It was in pristine condition; the vellum had not warped in the slightest with time and temperature fluctuations, and the spine and pages showed very minimal signs of use. He flipped it open, turning to the first page and was surprised to find the text in Latin. At the top of the page was "Genesis" printed in Gothic font, in red ink.

"In principio creavit Deus caelum et terram," he read aloud.

"In the beginning, God created heaven and earth," Hermione translated automatically. "Genesis 1:1. Draco, please put it back."

"Why?"

"Because, unless I'm mistaken, that is an authentic Gutenberg Bible. It was the first book ever printed in the West. It took five years to print less than two hundred copies, and I need to sit down."

She did so immediately, dropping to the ground where she stood, crisscrossing her legs beneath her. Not even after she had nearly died at Tullynally had she been this shaken. Draco hurried to return the Bible to the shelf, then sat beside Hermione. She looked up at him, warm brown eyes troubled.

"What will you do now?"

"What do you mean?"

Hermione stared at him like she couldn't believe how daft he was, and he was suddenly struck by the notion that he had missed an extremely vital piece of information.

"I mean that just a few months ago, a Chaucer just like that one sold at Christie's for over four million pounds. Individual pages of that Bible have sold for upwards of one hundred thousand pounds. I can't even imagine what a complete set in such wonderful condition would fetch. The contents of that cupboard would allow you to retire yourself seven times over, Draco. You could go anywhere, do anything. Be anything."

The enormity of this new information sank in slowly. Ancient texts were commonplace in the Wizarding World. And magic made the preservation, repair, and reproduction of books a trifling thing. He supposed it made sense that Muggles attached enormous price tags to rare, historical literary works. Their lifespans were relatively short by comparison, and protecting degradable artefacts from the elements of time was not available to everyone.

What it meant for him was money. Muggle money, yes, but money all the same. He'd been without the stuff for so long, and his situation so was bleak he had hardly entertained the idea of ever having much of it ever again. The lavish life of his childhood was a far distant memory to the last year and a half. He'd gone hungry, learned to shoplift, and slept rough more times than he cared to count. Even now, the only things he had claim to were his wand and a sack full of clothes Hermione had bought him because his own had been destroyed.

The thought of not having to be in anyone's debt, or reliant upon anyone but himself for the necessities of life filled him with a hope he'd thought had died. He could buy his own clothes, his own property. Hell, he could move to South America if he wanted. So what would he do?

But that wasn't really the question, was it? Not the one Hermione was asking at least. It hadn't occurred to him why she looked so worried and not happy or relieved, until he realized that she really wanted to know if she should prepare herself for his imminent departure.

He was very keenly aware of the fact that Hermione had not so much as twitched since she'd last spoken, so anxious was she for his reply.

"I never cared what people thought about me," he said. "As you know, I was a vain child, and so convinced of my own superiority, that it never occurred to me to give a damn what anyone so markedly beneath me thought of me. But now… I have been made low, Hermione. My name used to open doors; now it's sneered at. People all over the country, people I've never met despise me, and I deserve it. I helped murder one of the greatest wizards of all time. And now I'm a werewolf. Squibs have a better standing in Wizarding society. I will never be able to restore any measure of respect to the Malfoy name."

"I understand," Hermione said, fighting to keep her voice even. She looked down at her lap, picking imaginary lint off her jeans. "Where will you go?"

"You don't understand." Draco huffed his frustration. He was not good at this. He turned to face her and waited for her to meet his gaze. "When Lupin invited me to join the Order, I had an epiphany. I realized that I had wasted my entire life. The things I had been taught to value were essentially worthless. I realized that I had spent so much time and effort trying to make Lucius proud, that I had never once done anything I could be proud of myself.

"Then I realized that it was an opportunity, possibly the only one I would ever get, to do just one thing that I could look back on and know that I'd done the right thing. But I only ever learned to tear things down. I don't know how to build things, Hermione. Least of all relationships."

"So, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I'm sorry, and be patient with me because I'm a stupid prat who has literally no idea how to be a decent human being. I'm saying… I'm saying you promised me you wouldn't go anywhere, and now I'm promising the same thing."

Hermione squirmed for a moment, like she didn't quite know what to do with her body before she launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck. She crashed into him with enough force to bear them to the ground.

"I'm sorry, too," Hermione said, "for this morning. I don't even know what to say except that you didn't deserve that."

Propping herself up above him, she tossed her hair over her shoulder so they could see each other, leaving him utterly speechless. The bruising was totally gone, leaving only smooth honey-toned skin behind. The light of the nearby fire shot streaks of auburn through her hair, and brought out flecks of gold in her eyes. She smiled down on him, warm and inviting like the summer sun, and Draco thought he had never seen anything as magical in his entire life.

With hesitant fingertips, she caressed the side of his face. Draco was all sensation; his arms broke out in gooseflesh, yet he melted under her smoldering touch; his body thrummed with excitement and a burning need to move, yet she held him so completely captive he could hardly breathe.

"May I?" Hermione said softly.

Draco responded by grasping her hips and dragging her down to him. Their lips crashed together like the sea was crashing onto the cliffs below them, hungry and full of a passion he had little experience of before Hermione. She was as inevitable and overwhelming as the sea, and just as powerful.

Draco shifted and legs slotted together perfectly, like they did this all the time, while Hermione's fingers found their way into his hair, where they held on like she was afraid he would drift away if she let go. The only thing Draco could think was that she even tasted like summer, all sweetness and freedom, and that it seemed somehow fitting that they ended the day the same way they began it.