Objects of Desire

Chapter 19 - Resolution

By Azrael Geffen

The sky opened with sudden ferocity and sheets of dark rain ripped and flapped like wind whipped banners over the Quidditch pitch.

Harry stood in the sodden street, unable to move, numbed by fear and frozen by the cold rain. His wet hair was plastered flat to his head and hung in wet ropey lengths to his shoulders. His clothes pasted themselves to his skin, and the absurd notion that he must get in out of the rain lest he catch cold ran through his head so quickly that he almost laughed. But he could not move. His feet felt stuck and despite being wet his body seemed oblivious to the sudden storm and the cold air. His eyes were owlishly large, as though he were high. The strange smile that had appeared on his face faded and he felt his features contort in shock.

He could still hear Draco's voice in his head, screaming out his name. He could hear the sound of panic ringing in the air, echoed in the howling wind and tormenting Harry. Taunting him with the fact that he had failed. He had come out too late. Draco was gone and it was all Harry's fault.

Lightening cracked the sky open and for a brief moment the pouring rain glittered with a preternatural light that seemed to come from heaven itself. Then the subsequent thunder rolled away and Harry was left alone in the flooding street.

Harry took a step forward, uncertain of exactly what he should do. Standing there, soaked to the skin in the rain, Harry Potter's famous resilience failed him. He didn't know what to do. He did not know what first move he should make. He could not fathom what had happened. One minute Draco had been there, the next he was gone. There had been a man there. Tall and willowy. Old. He had smiled at Harry, as if to mock him, and then he had taken Draco away.

In the street, threatened by the rushing water from the gutters, lay Draco's wand and nearby, falling between the cobblestones, Harry could see the pendant that Draco never removed and something else.

Harry crouched down, sitting on his haunches and scooped up these precious things in freezing hands. Tangled with the chain of the pendant were the remains of the tiny phial of Navitas. It had broken when it had hit the hard stones. The last of the luminous green liquid washed away through Harry's fingers. Harry made to sigh but was startled by the sound that came from his throat. A high pitched half sob that rent the air above the sound of rain. These were Draco's things, so personal to him that Harry could almost feel Draco's aura seeping from every part of them and permeating the flesh of Harry's palms. He lifted the locket to his mouth. It was cold; Harry could feel the grit from the street against the soft skin on his lip. He pulled it away and shivered. The locket had been scratched. Harry doubted that anyone had ever dropped it before. It had been a gift of love from Lucius Malfoy to his wife, and Narcissa Malfoy would never have let it fall. Neither would Draco. The broken chain was evidence enough that it had been torn from around his neck. Torn and allowed to fall, as though it was nothing.

The man who had come and taken Draco did not care about him. The man who had taken the love of Harry's life did not know him. He did not know that Draco needed the Navitas Serum to survive. He did not know how special that locket was. Had he cared and had he known, he would never have let these things fall. The man had simply taken him and he did not care what Draco needed.

And then, as suddenly as the rain had come, the realization hit Harry full force.

Some one had come and taken Draco. A man had stupefied him and taken him. Taken him away from Harry. And Harry suddenly felt hollowed out, as though there was nothing left inside him at all. It had all gone with Draco.

Hunching over the things in his hands Harry knew that he had to act. He had to pull himself together. From inside the building behind him he was suddenly aware of the dull throb of music, barely heard over the roar of the rain. Harry knew her couldn't stay here. He could not stay squatting in the street and staring at Draco's things. He rocked himself back and forth in the same way he had as a neglected child, trying desperately to comfort himself. In his hands he nursed Draco's possessions, knowing that doing this was not going to bring Draco back.

But despair had reached into his chest and grabbed his heart in icy fingers and now all he could see was the image of Draco's panicked face, as though it was some hideous and threatening vision.

Harry frowned at his own weakness. How could he be falling apart? He was Harry Potter! This was the one thing he was good at! He had always saved people. He had always charged off without hesitation to confront the bad guy. He did not know fear, he had been trained to confront and destroy his enemies, he had been trained to save the world!

So why couldn't he move now? Why wasn't he leaping into action and seeking out the man who had taken Draco away?

Because he loved Draco too much and all he could think was what if he found him could be too late? If Draco was dead Harry couldn't stand to see it. He couldn't stand to see Draco lying somewhere with his beautiful grey eyes staring sightlessly into space. Harry had seen so much death. He had seen loved ones die – but he knew he couldn't see this one.

And so he stayed where he was, squatting on his haunches and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, getting drenched to the skin in the rain. All around him was the wet smell of rain and beneath that the earthy scent of the forest that surrounded the village and castle. The smell of the foliage seemed close, a damp undercurrent of decay that invaded Harry's senses. It had been an evil night and Harry grasped Draco's things tighter, clutching them to his heart. He couldn't stand this. It was too hard.

But out there somewhere Draco was waiting for him.

A group of people came out of the club behind him and the sudden sound of laughter and merry chatter brought him to himself. Harry forced himself to stand, Draco's wand and locket still clasped tightly in his hand. Draco was waiting for him, Harry was sure of it. Draco would fight any attack, no matter how futile the fight. Draco was strong mentally if not physically. He would hold on as long as he could. And so Harry had to find him before his need for Navitas killed him – or the man who took him did.

Who had taken him? Why had a man came and stolen him away?

Harry took one step forward, and then another. Although the rain was cold he had begun to sweat. And then, as though something unspoken clicked within him, he began to run towards the forest and the castle that lay beyond.

There was no time to go back to the road that led back to the castle. Harry had wasted whatever time he'd had by shivering in shock. He made for the forest, knowing that if he crossed it he would reach the castle walls. He ran through the stinging rain and up the rugged hill and he felt as though he had never run so fast. He ran as though the devil was behind him, his arms tucked close to his sides, gasping for breath, his legs pumping hard, each stride jarring him to the bone.

Ahead lay Hogwarts and inside the only salvation he had ever known. Dumbledore would know what to do. Dumbledore would overcome the shock that had numbed Harry's brain; Dumbledore would know how to act. Harry kept these mantras' going, chanting them over and over through his mind and using the panic to propel him forward.

Lightening again slashed open the belly of the sky and Harry almost stopped as the castle was illuminated in the foreground. It seemed so close, and he felt as though he could reach out to touch it, but he knew he had a way to go.

Salvation. That was what the castle had always been to Harry. There were thousands of places to hide there, places where Harry had hidden for years. It was also a place of wise council, even if Harry rarely took much notice of it. It was a place where help was always available to those who asked for it.

He kept running, redoubling his efforts to reach his sanctuary. The ground was wet beneath his feet, spongy and slippery and seeking to trap him. Harry expected to fall at least once because something had to go wrong, but he didn't. He kept his footing as he plunged through the trees, plunging through the darkness of shadows and lush undergrowth. He began to think that perhaps there was a chance- maybe only a small chance, but a chance none the less – that he might just be able to get to Draco in time.

*******

For a man who had spent his entire life calculating his every move, Severus Snape had gone decidedly overboard on impulsive acts this year. Some people enjoyed change, they enjoyed life when it took turns to the unexpected and thrived on surprises. Snape was not one of these people. He enjoyed the outcome of a well orchestrated plan, the monotony of his life had made it predictable, and changes as vast as the ones his life had recently undergone caused him to thrill with terror. He felt out of control for the first time in a good many years, as though life was flying along and he was hanging on for dear life with a death like grip.

Not that all change was necessarily a bad thing. Lying on the floor of Harry Potter's house in London with his wife (well almost wife, they had to wait a month to get married after registering the papers) straddling him was certainly a change, but he would not call it a bad one. Hermione was sitting astride him, holding her hand out to the fire light to admire her new diamond ring. Severus had wanted to get her something like an Elysium stone or something equally as powerful. Diamonds had little magical merit and in the Wizarding world they were considered something of a pauper's stone and he was quite frank in his reasoning that he didn't want to appear cheap. Hermione insisted on the diamond however. She had grown up with Muggles and they apparently placed great worth in the stones and so she had chosen a setting that she loved and now she was sitting happily atop Severus' belly admiring the way it glittered in the fire light.

“You like your ring?” He asked needlessly.

“I love my ring,” Hermione replied pulling her gaze away from her finger, “it is so beautiful, just like my grandmother's.”

Severus did not know if that was such a good thing. He didn't like the idea that he had purchased something that resembled some old Muggle bauble.

“I used to take her rings off her dresser and try them on. I always wanted her wedding rings.” Hermione looked dreamy for a moment and then she suddenly giggled as though still a little giddy.

Then her expression demurred and she ran her hands down the length of his arms and clamped his wrists down to the floor.

“Now, Professor,” She said seductively, “you are my captive.”

He smirked. “You are going to have to let go of me to take your clothes off.”

“Now, now Professor, don't get ahead of yourself, and who said anything about me taking my clothes off?”

“Oh, I think you'll be naked before the night is through.”

Hermione released him and held her hand out to the fire light again. “Even though I can let go at any time,” she said breezily, “it doesn't mean you can escape.” She yawned dramatically and stretched, ensuring that her diamond glittered for her. “Besides, I think I'll be taking your clothes off, not mine.”

“You think so?”

“I do.” She giggled again and ran her fingers down the front of his shirt, fiddling with his buttons as she did so. “Now, this is a really dodgy shirt, you really don't need this shirt.”

“You prefer robes?”

“On you, definitely.”

He didn't take offence. He was a Wizard, and it was only natural that Magical garb would suit him infinitely better than shabby old Muggle clothes. And as she was currently popping the buttons off the shirt with her wand, taking offence seemed a little pointless.

Hermione lifted herself a little so that she could pull the shirt tails out of his pants and then she settled herself back down and pulled the shirt open to reveal the pale flesh beneath. She felt him breathe in, exposing ribs jutting out in stark relief from his body. He was not beautiful. She was not so blinded by love that she could not see him for what he was. He was thin and pale with a great hooked nose and greasy hair.

“How did you do it?” She asked.

“How did I do what?”

“At the party, for New Years…how did you make yourself look like that?”

“I didn't look like me?”

“No…yes. You looked like you – but you looked different.”

“It was Minerva. She spent most of her day doing various glamour's to hide my vast array of imperfections. Why? Would you prefer it if I hid them for you?”

“Would you?”

He considered this. “Yes,” he said carefully, “if that's what you want.”

She looked down at him, taking in his body, his sharp jaw, the heaviness of his brow and the beak like hook of his nose. “No,” she said, “I wouldn't have you change anything. You're perfect just the way you are.”

“Hardly perfect.”

“You're perfect for me,” she said.

And he was. She sighed softly at her choice. He was complex and dark, and yet over the past year he had learned more about him than she would ever have considered possible. She could finally see what she had always suspected but could scarce believe was there. She could see the good in him. He was no romantic hero, but he was all hers. Every complex part of him. She could lose herself in his darkness and bathe in his light. He was everything she could ever have hoped for and she was lucky because she didn't have to spend her lifetime searching for him. He had always been there, and he always would be.

He lay compliantly beneath her as she slid his sleeves down his arms and helped her when she couldn't unbutton the cuffs. Once she had the shirt off, she slid down his body and began unbuttoning his trousers. He raised himself up on his elbows and watched her, smiling a tiny smile at the look of concentration on her face as she slid the zip over the growing ridge of his erection.

“I don't know where you got these trousers,” she muttered shaking her head. “You have a nice suit, so it's not that you don't have any taste in clothes…”

“Sabine brought the suit,” he admitted.

“Professor Delancet?”

“She has better taste in Muggle clothes than I do.” He scowled at his own admission.

“So, who got you these awful things?”

“Oh, that was me. I got them some time in the late eighties for emergency trips into the Muggle world.”

“Well they have to go.”

“I thought you were getting rid of them,” he prompted.

She laughed and started to pull his trousers down.

“You need to take the boots off first,” he said.

Hermione wasn't listening, intent on her task, as she yanked and pulled his trousers slowly down towards his feet.

“Hermione, you need to take my boots off first…Hermione…boots first…Hermione…OW!”

She rolled her eyes and scoffed at him. “Oh, that didn't hurt!”

“It did!”

“It did not! How could that have hurt?”

“You tried to pull my foot off!”

She stuck her tongue out and started working on his boots and socks and he lay back down and covered his eyes with his arms, deciding that it might be better not to watch her progress.

She slipped off her own shoes and knelt down beside him. His legs were long and pale and covered with dark hairs which she loved the feel of beneath her palm as she skimmed her hand over his thighs.

She finally managed to pull the offending clothes off him and then ran her fingers up his legs. He bent one boney knee and she slipped her hand ticklishly over the inside of this thigh. His muscles tensed and he moaned, low and soft. He didn't look at her. He wasn't sure if he could without coming all over his belly.

Devilish fingers tickled his balls and he thunked his head back against the floor. “Hermione…” He made a frustrated sound in his throat, “Enough of this…let's get to it!”

Hermione chuckled with a sound that was nothing short of evil. “Now, I thought you were all about patience, Professor?”

“Where did you learn this?” He growled.

Hermione looked doe eyed. “Why, you taught me Professor,” she said innocently, “and I always thought you were a very good teacher – despite your disposition.”

He peered out from under the visor of his arms. “I am a Potions Master Miss Granger, and you learnt all of this on your own.”

Hermione chuckled again and silently thanked Lavender, Harry and Draco for having no discretion about where they discussed their sex life and who they discussed it in front of. “Well then, perhaps there are some lessons you would like to learn.”

He made the same frustrated sound he had made a moment earlier before saying; “I could have you under me in a matter of seconds, you do realize that don't you?”

She batted her eyes coquettishly in a way that disturbingly reminded him of Lavender Brown. “But don't you want to know what I'll take off next?”

They both looked down his body to his black underwear.

Hermione licked her lips like an evil little kitten. “Or how I'll remove it?” she purred.

Severus groaned and decided that he could possibly hold on for a few more minutes.

She inched her fingers under the band of his underwear and was amazed by the heat she found there. Her clever fingers sort out the source of that heat and it stirred, swelling just that little bit more, and for some absurd reason she felt the need to laugh. She tried to smother the sound but couldn't stop the resulting snigger.

Severus jack-knifed up to a sitting position and glared. “What are you doing? What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing!” She smiled and the snigger came out again. She clamped her mouth shut as she saw his look. “I'm sorry, it's just so hot down there…it's like you're going to combust.”

He scowled and peeled out of his underwear in an instant, moving so fast she almost missed what happened. Then he threw the offending garment over her shoulder and flinched when they landed dangerously close to the fire.

Hermione pressed her mouth into a Minerva-like line and shook her head. “Severus, you are not a very good student! Throwing your underpants at the fire, they could have caught and the house could have burned down!”

“That is highly unlikely, Hermione.”

Her smile returned and she tickled him under his chin. “Good. Now lie down so I can get on with the lesson.”

Severus collapsed with another frustrated groan.

Hermione studied him, taking in the sight of him lying naked on the floor. All hers to do with as she pleased. In the firelight his erection had a primal beauty, like some kind of ancient fertility symbol. She tentatively ran her fingers along the length of his cock and smiled at his sharp intake of breath. He smelled musky and clean and she lowered her head, seeking to take him into her mouth.

“No…” he stopped her, lifting her face with his long fingers, “I can't…” his breathing was ragged, “I need you now, I can't wait…”

Hermione looked at him, her eyes wide and belying the sexual innocence that was still left in her. She was amazed that he could want her so much and for the first time she was struck by the extent of her feminine powers. More so than her own magic, she was powerful in this way and she could hold her power over her lover. One day she would use this power with agonizing skill during their erotic play, but on this night she was still unsure as to how far she could push him – and her own need was becoming great.

She stripped off her own panties and lifted herself onto his supine body. She pulled her skirt up over her hips as his engorged cock insinuated itself along her crevice.

Snape's hands fastened on her waist and she rose at their urging. She leaned forward slightly, her hand splaying across his slick chest for balance. With trembling fingers she guided him so the blunt tip of his cock was poised at her entrance. Her thighs tensed and she paused for a long moment as anticipation gilded her senses, then slowly she sank herself onto him, until his distended thrusting shaft was fully enveloped inside her. A carnal moan flew uninhibited from her mouth in response to the thrill of being so licentiously filled.

Her hips rocked in a sensuous rhythm; her eyes rolled beneath downcast lids. He felt so good. It felt so good to have every part of her filled. “Is this why you want to marry me?” she asked in dulcet tones.

He grunted. She could feel his hips working, his buttocks clenching and unclenching. “No…” he grunted again at the effort of working in and out of her, “I want to marry you because I love you….fucking you is just cream on the side.”

She slid up the length of him and impaled herself on his thickness again and again. Snape tightened his grip on her waist and rammed her down as his hips rose with equal force and she cried out, exulted as she was showered by sparks of sizzling pleasure that seemed to rain over her skin.

He thrust up into her over and over, establishing a hard steady rhythm. She threw back her head and rode him wildly, the overwhelming sensation of sizzling sparks intensified and doubled and redoubled until she felt herself reach tinder point as she came, her flesh burning in waves of convulsive ecstasy.

And yet, he was still hard inside her and she couldn't quite believe she had come first. Out of breath she slumped forward and once again steadied herself with a hand on his chest. He murmured a question, letting his hand slide down to her hips to help her grind against him in unison with his own.

“No,” she panted, her body still shaking , “keep going…it's good…keep going…” The solid gratification of having him inside her was all consuming; her blood still ran hot through her veins and her desire renewed itself as she came alive and began to rock again.

He reached up and tore at the buttons down the front of her shirt until it hung open and he could slid fingers under the lacey cups of her pale pink bra. She leaned forward, wanting only to kiss him, but instead of a kiss he grabbed her and rolled and suddenly she found herself flat on the floor as he had threatened and he was mounted on top of her, still inside her, still thrusting hard into her body.

“Told you so,” he gloated and his lip curled into an evil smile.

She sighed sweetly, happy for him to be right and so pleased with the sensation of being taken that she didn't notice his hand slide down between them both until his fingertip found the hardened pearl of her clit. She drew a sharp breath and writhed as he kept up relentless pressure on the over sensitized bud.

“Don't,” she sobbed raggedly, “It's too much…it's too good.”

But he had her wide open and he was unrelenting. He stared at her as he worked in and out of her, his black eyes seemed not like eyes but dark pools with no end. “I want to see your face,” he whispered, “I want to see you come.”

And then he thrust so deep into her that she felt his presence in every cell of her body. As if his words released her she felt another climax take hold and rock through her with such force that she couldn't discern whether she felt pleasure or pain.

His mouth clamped down over hers in hot obsession as his own coursing climax arrived. Her fingers plunged into his hair, pulling painfully and holding him fast as their kisses deepened and became almost suffocating. When finally his thrusts subsided, he collapsed beside her, pulling her with him into his arms so that their contact was not broken for a moment.

It seemed an age that they lay there and it wasn't until they grew cold that they realized that the fire had died down. He stroked the soft swell of her stomach, brushing his fingers from hip bone to hip bone and idly wondered just how a child would fit into such a small space. She would grow and her belly would distend and the child would live in there. His child would live there. Their child. But for now her belly was little more than a small mound, soft to the touch and yet hard if he exerted any pressure.

With a purring sound she moved herself against him and wound her arms around his neck and tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder. Her lips moved against his skin.

He waited for her to speak, but she didn't.

“We have to go back tomorrow,” he murmured, tangling fingers through her thick hair.

“I know,” she said and kissed his cooling flesh. “I don't want to think about it.”

“It won't be for long, exams are next month.” He shifted, sitting up and drawing her up with him, “it's cold down here. We should go to bed before you get sick.”

Hermione breathed in, stretched and suddenly she coughed out a laugh, unsure if she should tell Harry that she had just christened his lounge room floor.

*******

Ron Weasley gnawed on his thumb nail and stared at his battered chess board. His few remaining pieces stared back at him helplessly, some called out suggestions, most just looked at him with dismay that he was losing yet another game to the dark haired girl sitting opposite. They were sitting cross legged on the floor and Ron hunched down to contemplate the fact that he just couldn't seem to beat her.

As far as chess went, Pansy Parkinson had his balls in a vice. He had always thought her so utterly vapid and yet she successfully kicked his arse almost every time they played. He had thought that perhaps once he left the hospital and was home, in his own surrounds, he would regain his edge with the game. But he had not. He was not even close. And he had no idea if it was because she was just too good or because he was losing it altogether.

She was very good at this game.

And this house was no longer his home. He should never have seen coming here as some kind of salvation. It wasn't. He should have demanded to go home. Home was in London now. Home was Grimmauld Place. The Burrow had ceased to be his home so long ago and it was less so now.

Especially now.

“Alright both of you, it's getting late. I have medicine for both of you and then it's off to bed.”

Ron cringed inwardly at the unnaturally happy tone in his mother's voice. She was smiling the same awful smile that she had been wearing since he'd arrived at The Burrow. He hated that sound and he hated that smile and he hated the unspoken “your own separate beds” that seemed to hover over the end of every night when she cheerfully said that same line no matter what they were doing. “Alright both of you, it's getting late. I have medicine for both of you and then it's off to bed. (Your own separate beds)”

Ron tried to offer some kind of reassuring smile and wished that his mother would just say what was on her mind. He watched her eyes sweep over him, past his face and down his long slender arms. His smile faltered. He should never have worn a T-shirt today. He should have pulled a jumper on when it grew cool instead of casting a warming charm over himself. But he hadn't, and Molly's eyes caught on the long purple scars running down the pale flesh of his inner arms and she pulled away, her face contorted.

Pansy looked at Ron dismayed and Ron rubbed his arms subconsciously. Molly had retreated to the safety of the kitchen and was staring at the clock on the shelf. Ron knew what she was looking at. The hand that told her that he was home, safe and sound. He pushed himself up off the floor and went to his mother, unsure of exactly what to say to her but hoping that whatever did come out his mouth might open her up a little. “It's alright mum,” he said, “I'm fine…”

Molly jumped a little and turned away from the clock. She bustled to the small bench space and began preparing the sedation brew that St Mungo's had sent home with her two charges.

Ron looked at the hated potion and grimaced. He wished she would speak. He wished she would say something other than the obligatory niceties that were required of a nursemaid. He wished she would yell or scream or something.

“I'm sorry,” he said from behind her, “mum, I'm really sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for darling,” Molly said briskly. She measured the brew into glasses. “We all know what happened. Angelina caused this, she planned it and she succeeded…” she closed her eyes and corrected herself, “almost succeeded.”

“Mum…” Ron stopped, not sure if he could stand going over the same ground yet again. He would apologize and she would dismiss him. Then he would be left with the same nagging feeling in his gut – that they couldn't stay here. Or at least, he couldn't stay here. Molly treated Pansy well enough, but then Pansy had no choice in her malady and Ron – well Ron had chosen his path – or at least that was the way Ron saw it.

He wouldn't have been surprised to find that he was not far from the truth in that assumption. Molly added a fairly heavy dose of guilt into the mix.

“Here you go,” Molly said, he forced cheer returning with her fake smile as she handed the glass of sedation draft over to Ron, “you drink this and I'll make you some hot chocolate to take to bed with you.”

Ron accepted the glass but didn't drink it. He tipped it into a potted plant that was looking a little worse for its diet over the last week. Molly was giving Pansy her own glass and Pansy was accepting and giving Ron a guilty look just before taking a sip big enough to satisfy Molly and then quickly disposing of the rest as soon as Molly turned away. It was a tactic they had agreed on in the rare moments when they could have a private conversation.

Molly collected Ron's glass and gave him a quizzical look. For a moment he was convinced that she knew and waited for her to say something about it. Nothing was uttered however and he felt a little loss for it. He had no intentions other than going to bed and going to sleep, but he just didn't want to be drugged to do it. He felt a measure of guilt about deceiving his mother, but they had discussed it whilst he was still in the hospital and she felt secure knowing he was drugged asleep in his bed at night. She lived in dread at the idea that she would wake one morning to find him dead and Ron had to admit that the melancholia that plagued him was still there – but it had abated considerably since Pansy had come to The Burrow with him.

“Do you want Hot Chocolate?” Molly asked and for a brief moment she sounded like his mother again and not the strangely sweet nurse that had replaced her.

Ron, who had eaten more in the last two weeks than he had in months, smiled gently and replied; “yeah, that'd be nice mum.”

Molly seemed to let out a held breath. She bustled back to the archway that led to the lounge. “Pansy, come and have

some hot chocolate dear, and then you can get off to bed.”

*********

The air in the bedroom was cold and Hermione watched Severus set a fire in the grate. She had thought it wise to put on some nightclothes and once again set to cursing Lavender for taking her practical pajamas out of her bag and replacing them with silk nightgowns. Severus would keep her warm however, of that she had little doubt.

“Severus?” she asked, not really thinking about what she was saying.

“Mmm?”

“Lucius Malfoy…” She stopped, instantly realizing what she was saying and knowing that perhaps it was not the wisest topic she ever brought up.

Severus stood up in front of the fire and beneath the harsh cotton of his nightshirt she saw his body stiffen. “What about Lucius?”

“Nothing…it was nothing.”

Which of course instantly alerted him the fact that it was indeed something. “What did you want to know?” he asked, and his voice was slightly more formal and as stiff as his body.

“What…” she began to chew her lip and he knew then that she was hiding something from him.

“What's wrong?” he asked, “what do you want to know about Lucius?”

“It's not so much about Mr. Malfoy,” she said, “it's more about you.”

If this surprised him he didn't let it show. “What did you want to know about me?” he asked quietly.

“What were you planning to do with him?”

He frowned. “Planning to do with him? What do you mean?”

“In his journal there is a potion and an incantation and a lot of different notes that you made, and if I follow what you've written, I can only think that Mr. Malfoy is not entirely…gone and that you have put some kind of spy in the museum...someone he can communicate with...and that this potion he wrote down is in fact some way to help release him from whatever state he is in.”

He remained silent while she said this all in one breath, and then when she finished he checked his temper and said in a voice barely above a whisper; “and how do you know all of this?”

“I…” she blushed and began to gnaw at her mouth again. “I read his journal.”

“Recently I assume?”

She hesitated. “Well…yes,” she said defiantly, “I read it recently.”

“Interesting that you have read it recently when try as I might I have been unable to find it.”

She swallowed and straightened herself, unable to look him in the eye but trying to appear confident anyway. “I took it,” she said as plainly as she could.

“I see.” He sat on the edge of the bed, but his expression had darkened, his voice had become silky and suddenly he was talking to a student again, and not the woman he was going to marry. “And what made you think you should do that?”

“I only wanted to read it,” she explained, but it sounded to her ears as though she was protesting something. “But then when I did read it we realized what you were going to do and we couldn't let you do that – so we kept it.”

“We?” A grim smile, a triumphant one, flashed across his mouth for a moment, “You and Potter.” It was not a question, because Severus knew instinctively just who had read the journal.

“Harry had nothing to do with taking it. I got it because he wanted to understand something about Draco and I thought it might help. And I remembered reading something about a potion on Valentine's Day, and I wanted to find out more about that.” She frowned at him, “But, all of that is beside the point! Severus, how can you even contemplate setting that man loose?”

Severus stared at her. “Why do you think you know what I was going to do? The last time I checked you had not managed to master Legilimancy, and even if you had I keep my mind closed so you would never have been able to tell.” He didn't wait for her to answer. “If you had bothered to ask…”

“You wouldn't have told me! You weren't even speaking to me at that…”

“If you had managed to ask,” he said a little more forcefully, “I would have told you what my plan was.”

“And what was your plan?”

“Arthur Weasley will be made Minister of Magic next month…”

“That's not a certainty,” Hermione interjected.

“He will be Minister,” Severus insisted. “One of his first orders of business will be to overhaul Azkaban. The Dementors' are to be dismissed. My plan was to speak with Arthur Weasley and to make some kind of arrangement for Lucius to go to Azkaban.”

“But Lucius Malfoy could escape from Azkaban, even with Dementors,” Hermione said, “you know that!”

“There are ways around that, things that can be done to prevent him from going anywhere.”

“How?” she demanded.

“There's a potion,” he said uncomfortably. “It's ancient, and it does not have a name.”

“What does it do?”

He looked horribly grim for a moment. “It stops people like Lucius Malfoy escaping from Azkaban.”

“How?”

He looked at her, wondering how it was that he had come to be with such a demanding woman. Was there no end to her questions? Could she not simply believe him?

“How?” she asked again. She glared at him, demanding to know everything and he knew he would have to tell her.

“It is not a potion that is spoken of in our world, the Gods only know why it was created in the first place and its use has long been considered unthinkable.”

“What does it do?” she asked. “What could be a worse than the Dementors?”

“What does a Pureblood – especially one like Lucius Malfoy – prize above all things?”

“Money?”

Severus smiled at her naivety. “No, my darling, not money. He likes money, but it is not what he prizes above all things.”

“Then what is it, what could Lucius Malfoy love more than money?”

“Many things, his son for one – but that's not the point either. His greatest asset and the thing he prizes above all others is his power.”

“He has no power now,” she protested, “even if you released him he has no power in our world. Everyone knows what he is now, he has no power here.”

“No, not political power, his powers. His magic.”

It took a few moments for the full implications of his words to sink in. And then her eyes widened. “There's a potion that can take away our powers?”

“As I said, it isn't something we speak about. Most Purebloods would prefer being given to the Dementors than to live their lives powerless…like Muggles.”

She couldn't help but flinch at the sneer in his voice when he said the word Muggles.

“But…would you do that to him? Maybe he would prefer death!”

“Knowing Lucius, he would, but I am hoping that he will see reason and think about someone other than himself.”

“Think about Draco?”

“Basically. Draco needs him alive and coherent, now more than ever. He's on a downward slide since that ridiculous friend of yours took the moral high ground and left him. Now, the only person he will listen to is his father…”

“Harry isn't ridiculous, he did what he thought was right.”

“What he thought was right? What does Potter know of right and wrong when it comes to his relationships?”

“About as much as you I'd say. Didn't you leave me because you thought you were doing the right thing?”

“The circumstances are completely different.”

“No, they aren't! You…”

“What ever the outcome of these speculations, the result is the same.”

“So you would do this, go to all this trouble for the sake of Draco Malfoy?”

Severus shuffled uncomfortably, unsure of just how much she needed to know about his relationship with Lucius Malfoy. But she ended any speculation by smiling gently.

“I read the journal, Severus, Mr. Malfoy was very diligent in recording everything he ever did…including you.”

“And so you know, but it still doesn't affect my decisions when it comes to his fate however.”

“How could it not? You loved him I think…and I think he loved you too.”

”It wasn't a love affair, Hermione.” He almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea. “It was a misguided attraction; there was no relationship to speak of.”

“But you were friends.”

“That is true.”

“It must have hurt you to hand him over after the war.”

“I know what he is, Hermione and I know what he is capable of.”

“But now you would seek to help him.”

“If he lets me.”

“Why wouldn't he?”

“He thinks that I would be endangering Draco. Apparently the Curator of the Museum wants Draco for some reason of his own. Lucius had Non place a charm on a pet that will keep Draco in the castle.”

”And what happens after school?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does Draco know?”

“No. Draco is too stubborn. He'd go after the Curator and Lucius obviously thinks that the man will best him. I'm sure that once Weasley is Minister however, he will end this disgusting exhibition and return Lucius to Draco's custody - and we will be free to work out what to do with Lucius then.”

“Have you made the potion yet? The one that will release him?”

“I've started it…but there are some ingredients that are either unclear or I just can't find. And there is more to the incantation than the page I have found. The journal is like a puzzle, he wrote anywhere he could find a page.”

“I noticed that,” she admitted, “but you ask it a question and it shows you where to look.”

And he had to admit that he hadn't even thought of that. Something so simple.

“I can help you,” she prompted, “I can help decipher the incantation and brew the potion.”

“I don't know if I can finish the potion…we need things that are not even available in the realm. Angel oil, feathers and blood. I don't even know where to start looking for them. Regina was supposed to help us get them. She's a Muggle but she can walk between worlds…but of course she turned out to be utterly insane.”

It all fell into place. Draco tortured Regina because she knew things that could help his father. She was the one who could get the last of the potions ingredients. By not sleeping with her he had given up his father. Hermione made a note to tell Harry, he had to know; he had to see it from that perspective.

“But you have oil,” she said quickly, “down in your store room, you have Angel oil.”

At this he looked thoroughly confused. The secret store room had existed for a long time; he had found it quite by accident when searching for a suitable place to put his own personal supplies. He had catalogued what he'd found there once, but that was some 16 years ago and he had well and truly forgotten half of what he'd written down.

“I can help you,” she said again.

“We'll wait,” he said, “until we get back to Hogwarts. I've got the potion brewing in my chambers. When we get back you can bring the journal to me and we will look at it then. In the meantime, I suggest we try and get some sleep. It's late and you need your rest.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“Yes.”

She bit her lip. “Do you still love me?”

“Of course.”

“And you'll let me help you?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we'll talk about it tomorrow.”

********

Arthur Weasley had not visited Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for a social reason in a good many years and whilst he had managed to convince himself that this was indeed a social trip, he knew himself well enough that he was there to ensure Albus Dumbledore's support when the Wizengamot voted the following month. Not that he had to ensure Dumbledore's support. It had been Dumbledore who had pushed him to challenge Fudge, but still, it didn't hurt to be sure. In recent times his visits to the castle had been unfortunate affairs. The war, protecting innocent children from Death Eaters who cared little for their ages, his son deciding that life wasn't worth living any more, and bribing the son of his childhood enemy into backing him in his endeavor to have supposed heroes of the war tried for crimes. He had a great fear that Dumbledore would think less of him after the last two.

He had not understood all that had happened with Ron. Now, months later, he still didn't understand it. Angelina was falling deeper into madness inside Azkaban and his youngest son would probably never be what he once one. Ron seemed to have aged a decade since February and somehow he had missed all of the signs. Arthur liked to think that it was because Ron had been at school and he hadn't been there to witness his sons slide. But that wasn't entirely true. Ron had been at home for two weeks over Christmas and everything had apparently been happening then – he had simply been too preoccupied to see it.

His sudden career orientation had cost him dear. Not that Ron ever blamed him. No one else had laid the blame at his door either. They all told him that he was doing the right thing, putting the needs of his world above those of himself or his family. It was a noble sacrifice. But in the face of his dying son he'd had to question that reasoning.

It was all a moot point now however. Ron was at home, safe and sound and with a girl who was fast becoming a part of the family.

But still, something niggled at him. Perhaps his journey to see Dumbledore was not only to ensure support, perhaps it was also to seek reassurance that he was indeed doing the right thing.

Arthur had his own agenda. At the end of the war, with Voldemort finally dead and gone, Fudge had unleashed his own personal army of Aurors to track down those Death Eaters who had escaped the final battle. And there were those whose hatred of their enemy was so great that they flocked to the banner despite their personal distaste for Fudge himself. Alastor Moody was one of those men. He had fought hard; he had fought for the good of their world. It was after the war that he went too far. In what many saw as Fudge's personal agenda to rid their world of many old family lines, no one was spared. Children were torn out of the relative safety of Hogwarts and used as pawns to force their parents confessions – the rate of these same children disappearing or turning up dead was alarming.

Arthur didn't understand it. Why would Fudge, who had always been so outspoken on the supremacy of the Pureblood lineage, seek to destroy them? Theories began to sprout, a popular one being that the Minister was trying to cover his tracks. That perhaps he had been a Death Eater himself during Voldemort's first attacks years before and once he had reached office had sought to distance himself from his past when he had received the Minister-ship. By destroying the old families he was effectively destroying all trace of his own past.

Arthur wasn't sure if he believed this. In his own mind he was sure that Cornelius Fudge wasn't that complex and that it was simply a greedy love of his office that drove him on to what he thought would be a popular move.

But in Arthur's mind, Fudge's motives meant nothing. Nothing could reconcile Arthur to the idea of killing children – no matter how bad the child had been. Ron had come home from school year after year complaining about Draco Malfoy and his thugs Crabbe and Goyle, but Arthur had seen the bodies of those children after they had been tortured and beaten and left somewhere to die and he could never rejoice in their deaths. They had been bullies to be sure, but they did deserve the chance to grow up. No one knew what they could become. The ones responsible must be brought to justice or the war would never ever be really over.

The trials were Arthur's own quest and one he thought might lose him the Minister's role. But it seemed his thinking had support within the Wizangamot. They had all seen the results of Fudge's trials. They had all seen dead children. They had all seen too much death.

And so he put his hat into the ring for the Minister's job and if he was made Minister, he vowed that there would be sweeping reforms.

All of this was on his mind as he sat in the comfortably appointed chambers of Albus Dumbledore. It had always been a lovely place. Less of an office and more like a lounge room. It was a peaceful place and Arthur had always liked it, and although his mind was racing, he felt physically relaxed.

“Is Molly coming?” Minerva asked. She was standing by a cabinet full of good quality crystal and had a number of goblets in her hands.

“No,” Arthur said absently, “Molly's at home spying on Ron.”

“Spying on Ron?” Minerva laughed, a little incredulous at the thought. “Why on earth would she do that?”

Arthur shook his head with a ‘you don't want to know' expression on his face. He did offer up an explanation however. “We have young Pansy staying with us and Molly is convinced that if she leaves them alone for a second they will end up in bed together.”

Albus and Minerva exchanged a look but said nothing.

“Of course, I pointed out that they are both of age and they can do whatever they please.” Arthur frowned, “I figure we can't exactly stop them from doing it, and I told her as much. Molly; of course, lost her temper and started on about them learning to have more respect for us and that they should be grateful that we let Pansy stay in the first place. And then she berated me by saying that, of course the pair of them have done nothing at all and were probably just enjoying each others company, and we are jumping the gun entirely.”

Once again Minerva and Dumbledore exchanged glances and finally Dumbledore chuckled. “I see. Well, Arthur, take that problem and multiply it by several hundred and you have what it's like being the Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

Arthur had to concede that point. “Of course, Molly won't say anything to Ron at all. She's convinced that if she says anything to him that is less than positive then he's going to go and jump off the roof.”

“And how does Ron feel about all of this?” Minerva asked.

Arthur fell silent, unable to admit out loud that he really didn't know. He hadn't been able to speak to Ron above a few token words of encouragement since Valentine's Day. He picked up an ornate paper weight and began to turn it over in his hands as once again he felt himself engulfed in his inadequacies. Perhaps the price of becoming Minister was too high.

“I learnt a long time ago,” Dumbledore said, letting him off the hook, “that you can watch them like a hawk, but they will always find a way around you. Leave them alone, and they might surprise you.”

“You have far more faith than Molly I'm afraid.”

Minerva poured out some good quality Faerie wine and exchanged the paper weight for a glass. She then sat herself down and sank blissfully into a soft chair. She rubbed her hip which had been paining her and then changed the topic entirely. “So, are you still planning to put Fudge's Aurors on trial?”

And so they had brought it up without his help. Arthur steeled his nerves. “Yes,” he said carefully. “I've spoken to Pansy and she has agreed to testify against the men who violated her. Draco Malfoy was a little harder to coax, but I think I managed to strike a deal with him.”

“Oh?” Minerva looked a little concerned, “You made a deal with Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes, he wanted his father back. I told him I would arrange to have Lucius returned if he testified.”

And at this Minerva looked horrified. “Oh Arthur! That's a terrible thing to do!”

Arthur felt his face redden and he placed his glass uncertainly on a side table. “You…you think I made a mistake? That I did the wrong thing?”

“Holding his father hostage until he does what you want? Yes I do! What was the alternative? Leave his father in that dreadful exhibition?”

Arthur sighed and sank into his chair. “Of course not. I've already spoken to that…bizarre Curator and I've told him that the moment I'm made Minister that the exhibition is finished. I plan to have Azkaban overhauled, the Dementors will be dismissed once and for all and conditions will be improved. The Death Eaters who have received the Kiss can be returned to the Prison and cared for there. That was the alternative.”

Minerva relaxed a little but she still look disgruntled.

“I would have given his father back regardless,” Arthur said, “What harm can he do now? I thought I would use what political clout I could muster to get him to agree. I need him to do this,” Arthur said, an air of desperation washing over him. “There are so few victims of the Inquisitors left alive, and he is one of the few that can still walk and talk.”

“But would he be considered a credible witness?” Dumbledore asked jovially, “Draco is not entirely meek and mild and there are a good many people out there who think he corrupted Harry somehow.”

“Corrupted Harry?” Arthur actually laughed at the idea, “I am fairly certain Harry was corrupted long before Draco Malfoy ever got his hands on him.”

“You think so? Didn't you hear about that silly contract?” Minerva asked.

“You can still be a virgin and be on a slide,” Arthur said, “I watched Harry and Ron smoking whatever they could get their hands on, and you let them do it.”

Dumbledore could hardly argue with the analysis. He had been lenient with Harry towards the end, possibly because he had begun to believe that his little warrior was not going to survive the war. Harry had proved him wrong and Dumbledore could not have been happier about it. He nodded, conceding the truth. “But besides all of that, people look at Draco and they don't see the boy…”

“They see the father not the son,” Arthur agreed, “but he is not his father, Dumbledore, and we can't treat him like he is!”

“And I have no inclination to do so, Arthur,” Dumbledore scoffed. “I am trying to help you to see that the boy may not be the best witness you could find.”

“I have photographs, Albus, I have pictures of what he looked like when they found him…I'll tear the shirt off his back and show them if I have to.”

“Well, he won't thank you for that. Are you sure that you aren't trying for a conviction at any cost, Arthur? It was tried before…you're standing up against the results now.”

“They killed children, Albus. Children. If I have to blackmail Draco Malfoy to get them convicted I will.”

“Draco Malfoy doesn't usually respond well to threats,” Minerva observed wryly. “What did he say when you put it to him?”

Arthur relaxed a little and allowed himself a smile. “Well…he wasn't what I expected at all.”

“He wasn't like his father?” Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling and a half smile touching his lips.

”Exactly. He's not as self assured as his father. Don't get me wrong, he is self assured, but not the way Lucius was. He's not vicious. That surprised me.”

“The same couldn't be said a year or so ago,” Minerva said, “so let's say that he's adaptable. But I would be waiting for the sting in the tail of any deal you made with Draco Malfoy.”

“You don't like him?” Arthur asked.

“I never said that!” Minerva protested, “He's my star pupil and with a very small amount of work will probably be the youngest Transfigurations Master in a century. He is in fact very personable and I know that I've developed a great deal of affection for him over the last year…but he is still Lucius Malfoy's son. Don't underestimate him.”

“What do you plan to do with the Dementors?” Dumbledore asked, deciding that it might be a good idea to change the subject and bolster the next Minister of Magic up again.

Arthur looked thoroughly relieved at this move. “I will put it to a committee, but I am hoping to send them back to their realm.”

“They won't return to the Dark lands willingly,” Dumbledore warned, “the feeding here is far too easy for them.”

“Fudge should have banished them after the war, but oh no, not Cornelius Fudge. The damn fool welcomes them back to Azkaban with open arms! And what's the first thing he does? He has them Kiss the very Death Eaters they had once been allied with! The fact that they had no problem with doing it should have given him some indication of the kind of creatures they are!

“He does know what kind of creatures they are,” Dumbledore said, “but Cornelius wanted our world to go back to the way it was and he tried to do it the only way he knew how. Of course what he didn't realize was that he was destroying the very people that were keeping him in office in the first place. And our world needs to change. Many of the old ways are dead and gone, and it is a new era. We need to learn from our mistakes not repeat them.

Arthur relaxed considerably. Dumbledore was starting to look rosy cheeked from the wine and he was certainly warming to his subject. Arthur felt sure that he could settle back now, and reasonably expect an evening of very wise council.

********

Archibald Semeuse paced the length of his private chamber in turns agitated and elated. His evening had taken an unexpected turn to be sure, and now that he had taken his prize he finally began to wonder if he had done the right thing. His hands, usually so calm and still, fluttered to his mouth and then to the front of his robes and then to his pocket and finally back to his mouth. He stopped his progress and seemed for a moment to hover in place, his body poised as he stared at the body on the bed.

The boy on the bed was unconscious. A product of Semeuse's stupefying charm which by his own admission was perhaps a touch overly strong. Semeuse could only stare. He had brought the boy here; he had held him the whole way as the Portkey bounced them uncomfortably over the countryside. He had lain the boy's silent body on the large bed with its pure white bedding. But now he could not go near. He could do nothing but stare in amazement.

It was a giant step from thinking about taking the boy to actually taking him. He had not been thinking and part of his brain rejoiced for that. Had he thought, had he actually taken a step back, it was possible that he would not have tried something so brazen. He'd taken the young Malfoy of a public street, in full view of the fool who had deemed fit to leave him. And Semeuse was no fool. He had become aware of just who that fool was some months before – and from the look on his face tonight the fool still loved the boy on the bed. The Little Dragon...his Little Dragon.

Oh yes, he was as beautiful as Semeuse remembered. More so now that he was lying there on Semeuse's own bed. His skin was as pale and creamy as the most delicate of rose petals. His lips were so perfectly pink and the eyelashes that splayed across his cheek seemed to Semeuse to be the color of rain.

But he had done it. He had taken the boy off the street.

He resumed his pacing. No one would catch him. When morning came they would all be gone. He had purchased a special box to transport Lucius safely, and though it would be a tight squeeze, Semeuse was certain he could get Draco into the box as well. They would both be safe, and they would arrive unharmed. He would have to sedate them both. If Lucius was conscious he could create a fuss and he did not want the box to be upset on the flying carpet.

Everything was ready to go, and by sheer luck he now had everything he could ever want. Everything. The Gods must have seen his plight and offered the Dragon up. Why else would Semeuse stumble upon his path? He had not been searching for the boy. Not tonight anyway.

Dear gods the boy was beautiful.

It was a strange moment arriving at the Museum holding the boy. He was not heavy, in fact the boy was remarkably light, something belied by the feel of the slender body under the ill-fitting clothes. Semeuse was gentle as he placed Draco on the bed. The boy was fragile and not to be damaged. Delicate like a flower, to be handled with nothing but reverence would bruise the petals. Semeuse had set the potion that he knew he would need beside the bed and then wondered just how long the boy would sleep. Because it was sleep now. The Stupification charm should have worn off and so the boy was sleeping.

He must have been tired, too many nights spent staring at the darkened ceiling. Either that or he was hiding in sleep.

“But there is no need to hide little one,” Semeuse whispered suddenly, “I love you.”

But Draco didn't wake. He lay on the bed and slept.

The potion was a simple one, made of Basilisk tears and a few other key ingredients, and it did not paralyze the one who took it so much as incapacitate them. They would not be able to move and yet their limbs would be supple and easily manipulated. Semeuse knew he would have to use it, because when the boy did come out of hiding he would not stay still for long. If he was anything like his father he would fight.

Once again he stopped his pacing and turned to stare at his prize.

Draco was badly dressed. It was as though the boy had stopped caring about his appearance entirely. He looked dirty, even his hair looked greasy and he smelled like sweat. He was wearing filthy jeans and a jumper that was almost falling apart, It wasn't his initial on the front and Semeuse was fairly certain just who “H” stood for. Semeuse could not fathom the younger generations obsession with Muggle clothing. Robes lent such elegance to one's demeanor. Robes were traditional and made a Wizard look as a Wizard was supposed to look. The fact that this boy, despite his breeding and bloodline, wore such Muggle filth astonished Semeuse. He would have to take it up with his Angel, Lucius should have kept his son under tighter rein.

But, he was here now and that was all that mattered. All that came before was nothing now, it was the future that mattered. Draco's future was with his father and Semeuse and he would be loved. He would be dressed in simple clothes, cotton, natural fibers would be best for his skin.

But Lucius would be upset. Of course he would. He had tried so hard to keep his son away and he had not succeeded. Now he would have to share the attention. Semeuse decided that he would have to make a special effort with his beloved Angel, so that the Angel didn't get jealous.

Lucius was still downstairs in his glass case. Semeuse wondered if he knew that Draco was here. Could he sense the closeness of his son? Semeuse normally had him in bed by now. Would he wake up in his case and panic, not understanding why he had been so neglected?

Once again Semeuse's agitated hand fluttered to him mouth. He had to fetch his Angel to him. It would be cold and lonely in that case and the cotton shift he wore was only light. Semeuse worried over his fingers with trembling lips for a moment. Lucius would fret, but perhaps confronting him with his son so suddenly would cause a scene. It would be better to reacquaint them tomorrow, after they had gone from England. For now Lucius would have to stay where he was.

And Semeuse would have to decide whether or not he should resist temptation.

Draco was far too beautiful to resist. If the Gods did not want the boy to be taken, Semeuse reasoned, if they did not want him to be so devastatingly loved, they would never have made him so beautiful. Lucius understood that, and if Draco was indeed his father's son, he would understand that too.

There was no need to fret, and of course the boy would understand being loved so completely.

Semeuse could not hold himself any longer. He went to the bed and ran a hand over the ill fitting jumper. It felt dirty and he was certain that it hadn't been washed in months. The loss of his love had devastated him and driven him to this fate. He loved deep and that could only endear him further to the Curator who loved deep himself. Of course the problem with loving deep is that certain heart breaks could almost destroy the fragility of the soul. And Draco was fragile.

“You don't know how much I will love you little one.” Semeuse smiled at the sleeping form and ran his fingers down Draco's long legs. “We will get rid of these dreadful clothes and I will give you the finest cottons. You need natural fibers little one. You need something that will let your beautiful skin breathe.”

He lifted Draco's foot and began unlacing the scuffed boot. Semeuse had spent a long time spying on this boy. There had been a time when he had dressed well, when he had walked with a swagger and an arrogant sneer. But Semeuse had never caught sight of that body unclothed. Even when he thought himself alone, the boy had an almost paranoid fear of his own nudity. Semeuse could not understand it. The boy was no doubt as beautiful as his father, so he had nothing to fear. Semeuse removed the boot and tugged the sock off – and then started on the other boot.

It was strange that he would not wake. Not that it was a problem, but Semeuse would so like to see those grey eyes. The potion he had would take care of any fight left in the boy, but he would be awake and able to speak. He would be able to tell Semeuse how grateful he was that Semeuse had saved him from a life of heartbreak and loneliness.

He pulled the other boot and sock off and then admired the pale feet. Then he massaged each foot in turn, rotating them on his ankles and then kissing each perfect toe. He ran his hands up Draco's legs again, over the worn jeans and his fingers lingered on the waist band. He unbuttoned the fastening and gently slid the jeans down Draco's long pale legs. He pulled the jumper over Draco's head, and then he sat back to admire the boy. The T-shirt and underwear were clean at least. He took in the slender planes of Draco's body, perfect in every way, with its contours angular and sharp.

He had a scar on his right knee.

Semeuse frowned. The little dragon was not supposed to have a scar on his right knee. He grabbed the body joint and lifted it. The scar seemed to be coming from the back of his leg and Semeuse felt as though his heart skipped a beat.

He bent the offending appendage back to inspect the underside of Draco's knee.

And then he froze, still holding the leg in the air.

Ruined. He was ruined.

Ruined!

It could not be. Not with this boy, not with this flesh. He could not be so damaged as this! Damaged beyond repair. Semeuse released the leg, as though touching it would perhaps contaminate him somehow. He stared for the longest time as slowly his anger mounted and then he tried to breathe.

Perhaps it was only the leg…he could perhaps stand it if it was only the leg. Like some kind of ancient parchment, a flaw could perhaps not distract from the beauty.

But the Angel should have told him.

Semeuse sucked in a fitful breath and wrenched the cotton shorts down Draco's legs. He felt himself tremble as he sat the boy up to take the T-shirt, refusing to look ahead of time, wanting Draco to be naked before he turned him over. Knowing in his heart that it was only the leg. It had to be only the leg.

And then he turned him over.

It seemed for a long time that Archibald Semeuse forgot what it was to breathe.

He was destroyed. Utterly destroyed. The Angel should have told him! Why had he not? Why had he made such a fuss of protecting this…this…this thing? This travesty? Was it shame? Had he thought that he could not admit to spawning this? Could he not have said that his child was inferior, not worth his name, that the boy should have been destroyed at birth? What had caused it? It had to be a defect in the bloodline. Something from his mother's blood, something dirty. The boy would have to be left behind. Drowned perhaps, like the sickly runt in a litter of Pureblood pups!

Semeuse grabbed a fistful of Draco's blonde hair and wrenched his face up out of the pillows. The boys face contorted and he stirred from his slumber and whimpered.

“You have polluted my bed,” Semeuse hissed, “you filthy, inferior little Mudblood.”

Draco mumbled, some unintelligible words that ended with a soft moan that sounded like, “Harry.”

Oh dear God yes, he had a lover. Semeuse had heard rumor that the Hero of their world was consumed with some kind of madness, but to be such a masochist as to allow himself to rut with this! The Boy-Who-Lived must be utterly insane!

An inferior gem was this...this thing.

“How could you?” Semeuse asked, wrenching Draco's head back further, twisting this head painfully on his neck. “How could you pollute my bed? How could you have lied to me? Your father! He meant for this to happen…he thinks this is some colossal joke…he knew I'd want you if I thought you were as perfect as he…and he made me believe because he wanted me to bring you here!”

Draco made a strange noise in his throat, registering the pain at being held up by his hair and for a moment his eyes shot open and the muscles under the ruined back flexed. Semeuse grabbed for the phial of potion beside the bed and thumbed it open. He pincered Draco's jaw in his boney fingers and forced Draco's mouth open. He poured the potion down Draco's throat and then held his mouth closed until he swallowed.

Draco coughed violently and suddenly vomited – and Semeuse waited for him to finish and then forced the remainder of the potion down.

The potion was an experimental one. He knew what it was supposed to do, but was unsure of the side effects. It was from a cache of stock that Semeuse had stored many years ago after Voldemort fell the first time. Aurors had raided various places that the Dark Lord had inhabited and the resulting artifacts had either found their way into the Ministries coffers or to the black market. Semeuse had picked up the potion in Knockturn Alley years before and had stored it safely away – and now he had a use for it.

Draco's limbs fell limp, but he was awake now, his eyes were open.

“I had wondered,” Semeuse hissed, “why Mr. Potter left you – and now I understand. How could you deem to force yourself on him? You are disgusting!”

Draco mumbled as though he was having trouble speaking.

“He was with someone else and how can you blame him? How can you expect him to want you when he can have any man he wants? Why would he choose something as inferior as you? What perversions did he have that allowed him to tolerate you?”

Semeuse dropped Draco's head and stepped back, suddenly feeling unclean and realizing that his bed was becoming ever filthier with the boy's presence. He unceremoniously dumped Draco onto the floor and desperately began pulling the bedclothes off the bed. He would have them burned; there was no need to take them with him when he took the Angel away from here. He rounded the bed and looked at the boy on the floor.

Draco blinked and swallowed thickly.

But oh, without the scars on show he was as beautiful as he should be. Lying there he looked like something glorious. He was beautiful, he truly was. But that beauty hid the terrible truth. Without thinking Semeuse kicked him in the hip – and then he kicked him again.

Draco whimpered and then cried out; his grey eyes seemed to flicker, his face contorted in confusion.

“I cannot hurt you as much as you have hurt me,” Semeuse said and then leaned down and slapped him.

“Harry,” Draco whispered thickly.

“He's not coming,” Semeuse snapped.

Draco mumbled something more but Semeuse could not decipher it, and then the boys eyes seemed to roll in his head.

Semeuse knelt beside him. Damaged as he was he still completed the set. But what could a lover have seen in him? How could anyone stand it? He placed hesitant fingers on the sharp hill of Draco's hipbone. His flesh was warm but at the Curator's touch gooseflesh crawled along the concavity of his abdomen.

The boy responded to touch very much as his father did, the muscles tightened, his nipples hardened and a shiver ran through him. Semeuse smiled in spite of the bitter disappointment in his heart. He gently traced his finger tips across the sensitive nipples and Draco's grey eyes flickered again.

“You are very beautiful,” Semeuse admitted, “you are so stunning.” He delved his fingers between Draco's thighs and Draco frowned.

“Can't you speak little one?”

Draco tried to reply but could not make the words come out. He whimpered again.

Semeuse smiled again. It was nice to hear a sound, however small. Lucius could speak, but the sound was in his head and not in the air of the room. Draco had cried out before, he had spoken he had whimpered and it was a wonderful noise. Semeuse wondered how he would sound if he cried out in ecstasy. And his face could move. The boy could frown, his mouth could move, he had an expressiveness to his features that Lucius lacked.

How would he look in ecstasy? Or pain? Or both?

Semeuse unbuttoned his own robes and let them fall away. He mounted Draco roughly, pushing his legs back and relishing the look of panic that swept across the boys face. He leaned forward, resting his weight against Draco's lean thighs.

“Do you want this as much as I do little Dragon? This is your chance to redeem yourself, your chance to make up for your faults.”

“Don't…”

“Don't worry little one, you will pleasure me and I can forgive you for betraying me.”

“I…don't…”

Semeuse stroked the pale flesh beneath him, taking in the long sinewy limbs, the sharpness of his collarbone and the way the skin covered muscle and bone to create an exquisite chest and ribs and belly. He did not move, but the words he spoke sounded more like sobs than anything else.

He did not think he was worthy and that melted Semeuse's heart.

Oh yes, he was so lovely.

Semeuse pushed hard into Draco's unready body and soared away with ecstasy as Draco found his voice and began to scream.

********

Ron lay in his bed and stared at the darkened ceiling of his childhood bedroom. The room hadn't changed since he had turned ten. He had thought that perhaps his parents would have done something to it after he'd moved out last summer, but no, the room had not changed. In the light it seemed that a giant orange had exploded and this manifold tattered posters of the Chudley Canons Quidditch Team ran and zoomed and waved about the room.

It was only now that he realized that he hadn't even considered taking any of these things to Grimmauld Place with him when he had moved. In fact, his room at Grimmauld Place was surprisingly adult. While Hermione had allowed her mother to give her the chintzy off-casts of her parents old drawing room to decorate her windows and walls, and Harry had kept a rudimentary sparseness to his own room, family photographs being his only concession to decoration, Ron had begged pieces from his three brothers and borrowed money to create a place just for himself. The result was modern and calm and had shocked his family and friends no end.

And yet now he was back here in his childhood bedroom staring at darkened Quidditch posters and wishing he was in his bed at Grimmauld Place. There was not one speck of orange in that room.

How had he ever managed to sleep here? How had he slept before the sedation draft or Angelina and her drug that he still occasionally craved like a missing limb or the perfect lover?

He blinked and stared at the ceiling.

Was his mother at this very minute prowling the hall outside the room? Was she keeping watch to ensure that he and Pansy stayed well enough apart? The very notion was ridiculous. They had shared a few small kisses, each lovely and wonderful and left him aching for more but Pansy wasn't ready to go further, and in reality neither was he. Sex had not proved wonderful for either of them and they were both content to sit and enjoy the others company and share the occasional kiss and that was all. There was no reason for his mum to prowl the hallway like a prison warden.

But he did like it so when Pansy was near. If he could, he would sleep beside her because he was sure he could sleep if she was there. They had talked about that too and she agreed. Pansy had found that sleep did not come so easily as it once had, especially without the sleeping draft. If they could just lie together and take comfort in each others presence…but he doubted Molly would understand the reasoning behind that idea.

And then a quiet tap on the door made him frown in the dark and reach for the gaslight. “Mum?”

The door opened a little and she stood there in her pink dressing gown looking slight and pale. “No, it's me.”

Ron slipped out of the bed and ushered Pansy into the room, checking the hall outside quickly and closing the door.

“I couldn't sleep,” she said apologetically, “I think it's the sleeping draft, I'm just so used to it.”

“Yeah,” Ron whispered, “me too. I can't sleep either, and I was just thinking about you.”

“It's not normal,” Pansy said a little desperately, “It can't be right having people addicted to a sedation brew to make them sleep.”

“It gives me nightmares,” Ron said and shuddered, “I hate the stuff.”

A creak outside the door made them both freeze for a moment and then relax.

“I'm really sorry about mum,” Ron said, “she's a little paranoid. She's convinced we are going to start humping and it's going to ruin our lives or something.”

“She's just worried,” Pansy said, “and she doesn't know what to do. My uncle was the same. He kept creeping around me and checking on me like I was just going to top myself if he didn't – I probably would have. In the end he couldn't stand it. He has little kids of his own and I scared them, so he had me admitted to the hospital.”

“Mum won't do that.”

“I know, but it doesn't make it any easier, for anyone.”

“I just keep thinking that she wants to say something – I wish she would, I wish she'd just yell at me. Anything is better than this.”

Pansy smiled and bowed her head. “I should go. I shouldn't be here, Ron. Your parents have been really good to me and I'm sneaking around behind their backs.”

“But we're not doing anything, Pansy!” Ron thumped his hand against his dresser in frustration, “We can't sleep, we just want the company, that's all.”

“I want to sleep with you,” Pansy said, “I want to make love to you.”

Ron's mouth fell open. “N…now?”

Pansy blushed. “I…I don't know…” She folded her arms defensively across herself. “I…I'd like to sleep…”

“We can sleep,” Ron said, “we can just sleep now…if you want…”

“But your mum…”

“I know, but I need to sleep. I can't sleep without you.” He took her hand and held it lightly in his, and then he led her to the bed and they both slid under the covers.

It felt good. Just lying there with her felt good and right. He had never lain with someone before. Angelina had never slept beside him and he'd had no other lovers. He spooned around Pansy and wrapped a heavy arm over her slender form. Their fingers entwined and he gave her hand a light squeeze.

And together they could sleep.

********

This is a dream, Draco thought, this is just a dream. I am really snug in my bed, where I belong. I'm only dreaming that I'm in a bathroom. I can put a stop to this just by waking up.

On the other hand, if this was a dream would he be able to feel the cold tiled floor beneath his back as vividly as he could feel it now? If it was really a dream would he be aware of the steam coming off the bathwater or the sharp pain between his thighs?

He shivered.

In the lightless void behind his eyelids something flickered and his eyes opened just a little.

Wake up!

Someone was humming. Someone had laid him out on the cold floor and was humming as they ran hot water into the bath.

For Gods sake wake up!

He wanted to move. He wanted to run away and he wanted to wake up and prove to himself that this was just some kind of troublesome dream…but he couldn't do either.

In seconds he was being hoisted up into some-ones arms and he could feel himself being dragged across the floor to the bath. With partially opened eyes he could cast a reassuring glance down the familiar contours of his own body and take some kind of comfort in them.

But there was something wrong. There was blood. There was blood running down his legs.

It's a vision, he thought, it's just a weird illusion. I'm not bleeding. I'm not hurting. This pain is just part of the dream. I am really in bed and Miss Kitty is with me and I am having a really fucking shit house dream!

Relax little Dragon, I have to get you all clean. Look at what a mess you have made of yourself, bleeding everywhere, silly boy. But don't worry, all you need is a nice hot bath and we can start again.”

Draco's heart began to thump hard in his chest and his eyes opened wide as the realization finally hit him and he heard another voice join his in joy as he began to scream again.

*******

Harry was certain that his heart was going to explode in his chest. The muscles in his legs sang an agonizing chorus with every pounding step, his lungs felt raw and full. He emerged from the sodden undergrowth of the forest and plunged across the slippery flagstones that heralded the end of wilderness and the start of the castle steps.

It was so rare for anyone to approach the castle from the front. It was something for official visitors or, since Hagrid's death, first years on their first day. Harry could never recall having ever used it, which suddenly struck him as strange considering he had spent more time at this castle over the last eight years than any other place. Unreasonably, Harry wondered if the doors were open.

He slipped on the flagstones and skidded ungraciously into the wall. He felt his knee pop and only the need to keep going stopped him from doubling over and howling in pain. He forced his knee to bend and continued on a painful path towards the castle doors.

They loomed up suddenly, great heavy things that towered a good forty feet up the front of the castle itself and made the hero of the Wizard world feel small and insignificant in comparison. Harry stared up at them for a brief second and wanted to cry. They were closed.

But Harry knew a lot about castles by now. There was a smaller door, less impressive perhaps, hidden within the woodwork of the main ones. In the darkness of the rain Harry began to run his hands over the great iron studs that reinforced the door and kept the world out – and which unfortunately were currently keeping Harry out. Just as he thought his fingers were well and truly numb with cold they would catch the hard edge of another stud and sting – and the rain was not helping him find the tell-tale panel that would release the smaller door and allow him access. He shivered in the rain, his t-shirt was plastered to his skin and the bare flesh of his arms resembled a freshly plucked chicken. He knew that if he could see himself his lips would be turning blue.

“Come on…” Harry fumbled across the wet wood and metal. “Where the fuck is the door?”

Once upon a time he might have a vision to help him, or a friendly ghost might pop up and point out the opening, but tonight not even Peeves wanted to make an appearance. He began bashing his fists uselessly against the doors, tearing skin from his fingers, knuckles and palms.

“Where the fuck is the Goddamn door?”

Why tonight? Why did he have to get locked out tonight? Why did he have to take the supposed shortcut that lead him to a set of locked doors?

Why did he have to agree to kiss Fred Weasley and start all this shit anyway?

His knee throbbed hot and had begun to swell inside the denim of his jeans. He stopped bashing at the door and allowed himself to let his hope flag for a moment as he rubbed his knee and wished to the gods that he had kept his footing when he'd needed to. Then he turned back to the door and ran cold hands over it again. Above the sound of the rain he heard a barely audible ‘click' – and the door swung open.

Oh thank you, thank you, thank you god…

Harry charged through the door, skidded across the floor and collided with the banister. He yelped and swore and began his ascent up the stairs, dragging his almost useless leg behind him.

********

Molly Weasley yawned and checked the clock and found it was later than she had expected. She had hoped that Arthur would have come home by now. He came home later and later these days and on occasion he did not come home at all. Molly found herself missing the man who had been content to sit in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office and earn a pittance. Arthur had been talking about leaving The Burrow altogether. The Ministry had offered him an apartment in London and he reasoned that now that their children had left home, the apartment was big enough for them. She had reasoned that they had Ron and Pansy to care for.

Arthur had told her that he expected Ron would leave and go to Grimmauld Place. It was a ridiculous notion. Ron was sick, he couldn't take care of himself. And what about Pansy? If Ron left he could hardly take her with him. An apartment in London would hardly give them enough room to swing a Garden Gnome, and like many Witches, Molly preferred to stay away from the cities. As much as she appreciated Muggles, she had no desire to live side by side with them.

And deep inside there was a strange sense of panic at the idea of leaving this house. She had borne all of her children here, and she felt close to them here, all of them.

Arthur had not contacted her to say how late he would be, but that was nothing unusual these days. He was busy now that he was working towards being the Minister of Magic and she should expect late nights – all the more reason to move to London he reasoned. Molly sat her knitting aside and decided to go to bed, as there was no point waiting up for him. She would check on Ron and Pansy and make sure they were alright and then perhaps she might be able to sleep herself. She had been tempted recently to try the sedating draft sent home by St Mungo's, but so far she had resisted temptation.

They had given Pansy Percy's old bedroom. There was nothing of Percy in there now, as he had taken everything to London with him when he had moved there – in the time before he had died. Nothing had been returned to them and she had not gone looking for his things. They had reconciled before his death, but she did not want to see his things here and be constantly reminded of the loss. Pansy had few possessions but what she did own was placed neatly about the room. She received a great many gifts from Draco Malfoy that arrived by owl each week. Trinket boxes, ribbons for her hair, dresses and robes and despite Arthur saying that it wasn't necessary, a hundred galleons a week appeared in their Gingotts vault. Arthur refused to touch it, pointing out that it wasn't their money and that he had told the young Malfoy that they didn't need money to keep Pansy. Interestingly enough, Molly she realized that the weekly allowance was more than Arthur used to earn in a month.

Molly opened the door just a little to check on the girl, expecting to see her asleep on her side as she had been in the past. But the bed was empty and Pansy was not in the room at all.

Molly swallowed into a dry throat and felt her heart begin to beat faster in her breast. For a moment she hoped the girl was in the toilet, but she knew better than to think that. She turned and hurried up the stairs to the top of the house and the door that would open to Ron's room.

It had been the one rigid stipulation of Pansy staying at The Burrow. When Ron had first asked they had discussed it and as a mark of respect they had said that they must have separate rooms. They would not be together. Ron had laughed as though the idea of them being together was absurd. They had trusted him.

And yet they shouldn't have trusted either of them because she swung the door open and there they were.

“Ronald Weasley!”

Ron awoke with a start and scrambled out of the bed. The gaslight was still lit and burning brightly. Pansy stirred, realized that they had been caught and gasped.

“Get out of that bed, Pansy, and get dressed.”

Pansy quickly climbed from the bed but did not need to dress, she was still wearing her pajamas and dressing gown.

“Mum,” Ron said quickly, “it's not what you think – we were just sleeping.”

“Sleeping?” Molly stared at them both. They were both dressed, but that meant little, because they could have dressed after. “I'm sure you were sleeping Ron, and I'm sure all of the excitement wore you both out.”

“Mrs. Weasley, it's true. We were just sleeping. We can't sleep – it's easier if we're together.”

“Be quiet Pansy,” Molly warned and Pansy fell silent and bowed her head. “Is this what you've been doing every night? Sneaking around behind our back? Disrespecting us?”

Ron looked at Pansy and was sure for a moment that she was crying. He stared at his mother and was suddenly angry. She had finally snapped out of being the strangely cheerful nursemaid role and had started on him in much the same way she usually would if he had done something wrong. But he had done nothing wrong. Neither of them had. “We haven't been disrespectful to anyone, Mum, you've got the wrong idea! Nothing happened, we couldn't sleep, that's all!”

“If you can't sleep I will get you something stronger from St Mungo's,” Molly cried.

“I didn't take the potion,” Ron said, I won't take it again.”

“Well, you don't have a choice Ronald. The healers prescribed it and you will take it.”

“No, I won't,” Ron said forcefully, “I won't take it. It makes me dream the most horrific dreams and I don't want them – they aren't worth it!”

“It makes you dream?” Molly asked, “how terrible for you Ronald. Do you know what I dream about? I dream that I get up to find you lying dead in your bed with your arms cut to ribbons, that's what I dream!”

“I'm not going to do that!”

“So you say, but I don't know it! You said you wouldn't have sex with Pansy but yet here we are.”

“We didn't have sex! And even if we did, what's the harm in it? I'm nineteen years old mum, and I'm not a child!”

“Then why do you act like one?” Molly asked, the flood gates finally opening, “you can't deal with the choices you made and so you cut yourself up! There's more Ron, would you like me to make a list? You put us through hell!”

“And you put me through hell!” Ron's hands balled into fists by his side and he calmed himself. “I know I fucked up, but I won't spend the rest of my life apologizing for it!”

“But you haven't apologized for anything! You hid in your room and you cut yourself up and we were forced to forgive you!”

“THEN DON'T FORGIVE ME! HATE ME! DESPISE ME! BUT STOP TREATING ME LIKE I'M A BABY!”

Molly took a step back and looked as though she would cry. She certainly felt as though she would. “I never hated you Ron, I never could hate you. I treat you like a child because you're my child and I'm terrified I'm going to lose you. I go to bed every night and I'm terrified of what I'll find in the morning.”

Ron sank to the edge of his bed and his face fell forward into his hands. When he finally lifted his eyes to his mother again she was wiping away silent tears. Pansy was standing motionless by the dresser, her dressing gown pulled tight around her body. “We can't stay here,” Ron said. “Mum, we can't stay here.”

Molly paled. “What? What do you mean you can't stay here?”

“It's driving both of us – you and I – mad. I don't want to spend every day pretending that everything is alright between us when it just isn't. I don't want to fight with you every day, but I don't want you to have to force yourself to smile at me either…and I don't want Pansy stuck here in the middle of it.”

Molly looked at Pansy and shook her head. “Don't be so silly Ron, I don't force myself to smile at you. Of course you don't have to leave. I'd prefer knowing that you were here and safe!”

“Mum, I'll be safe at Grimmauld Place!”

“London? You want to go to London?”

“You knew all along that I would live there. I moved there last summer!”

“Yes, before this mess. You can't expect to go back there now.”

Ron's eyes widened and he gaped a little like a fish. “Mum, I'm not going to stay here forever, I never was!”

“And Pansy? Do you think you can drag her off to London as well?” Molly rounded on him, towering over him as he sat on his bed. “Arthur and I accepted care of her. We signed an agreement, so you can't take her with you to London.”

“No one needs to know,” Ron said, calming himself outwardly at least. He was not going to leave Pansy behind. “We can just go, the house is all set up – you know it is, you helped get it that way. We'll be fine there, and you can come and check if you want.”

And all at once Molly seemed to calm. “When do you want to go?” she asked and she sounded defeated.

“We can go tonight if you want us to.”

“No…don't be silly. Wait until tomorrow. I'm sure your father will want to speak to you.”

“Alright.” Ron looked at her pleadingly, “it's for the best mum, you can see that, can't you?”

Molly turned away from him and went to the door. “Whatever you say Ron,” she told him, “you can do whatever you want.”

********

Harry could hear laughter. Dumbledore had company. Not that Dumbledore having company mattered much to Harry, because he would have stormed in on a meeting with Merlin himself at that moment. Harry threw himself into the office, dragging his leg with its popped knee behind him.

Three sets of eyes turned to stare at him, confused at the sudden intrusion. And then Professor McGonagall was up and hurrying over to Harry, casting a charm to dry and warm him as she went.

“No…” He almost pushed her away as she made to inspect the cause of his injured leg. “Draco…someone took him…”

Minerva urged Harry down to the floor, knowing full well that he was speaking to Dumbledore when it came to Draco, and knowing that Dumbledore would respond accordingly. She quickly decided her best action would be to try and work out what had happened to cause his to be dragging his leg behind him.

“Someone took Draco?” Arthur asked, “How could someone just take him?”

“I DON'T KNOW!” Harry suddenly shouted, “HOW DO YOU THINK HE FUCKING TOOK HIM?”

“Harry!” Minerva snapped, “There is no need to shout, we are trying to help you!”

“WELL WHAT GOOD IS ASKING STUPID FUCKING QUESTIONS?”

Minerva pursed her lips and said nothing. She had hoped that he'd calmed down from the obnoxious little shit he had become during the war, and indeed he had been so promising during the year. She had genuine affection for the boy, but here he was, yelling at everyone around him as though they were nothing. He is stressed, she thought with as much patience as she could muster. It had become her personal mantra over the past two years, particularly when she felt like hexing him first and asking questions later.

Dumbledore saw the glazed look come over Minerva's eyes and hastened over to insinuate himself between the two. “What happened Harry?” he said calmly, “how did it happen?”

“We…” Harry's breath hitched as Minerva gave his knee a satisfying prod. “I went to Hogsmeade with Fred…” He cast a hasty look at Arthur. “There is a club there…Fred wanted me to go…and I asked Draco to come and he said no and then he just turned up and I…oh God this is my fault…”

“What? What's your fault?”

“I was…” Harry looked desperate.

“Good Lord, don't tell me you were having sex with Fred Weasley in a night club!” Minerva interjected, her voice shrill.

“No! Of course not! What do you think I am?”

“Well you tell…”

“Keep going Harry.” Dumbledore pushed Minerva back.

“Fred kissed me and Draco saw and he got the wrong idea…”

“And why were you kissing Fred?” Minerva asked.

“It meant nothing. He wouldn't let me leave if I didn't…”

”And what? Did he do a Leg Locker curse on you?” Minerva demanded, “Was there some terrible reason why you couldn't leave unless he kissed you?”

“And Draco saw you,” Dumbledore prompted.

“He saw us… and ran off. I went after him,” and he thought it wise for the moment not to mention his delay in following lest McGonagall start at him again, “but when I got outside there was a man with him. He had hold of Draco and when I got there he…Apparated…with Draco.”

“So Draco went willingly?” Arthur asked.

“NO!” If Harry had been standing he would have stamped him foot like a child who wasn't getting its point across. “He took Draco, and he Apparated with him. He Stupefied Draco and took him!”

“It must've been a Portkey,” Arthur said to Dumbledore, “Apparating with someone else is hard enough, but someone who has been Stupefied…”

“Who did you tell about Draco agreeing to testify?” Dumbledore asked, “Anyone who would be loyal to the Aurors involved?”

“No, Kingsley knows about it, Remus, Tonks. They wouldn't have told anyone.” Arthur turned to Harry. “Did you recognize this person? Was he at all familiar?”

Harry shook his head miserably.

“Fudge could have arranged it,” Arthur said wildly. “One last effort to get back at me. He knows there are few enough victims left…” his mind whirred, “Oh Merlin, I have to contact Molly, and make sure that Pansy is safe.”

Dumbledore looked troubled, because he didn't think Fudge so vindictive as to resort to kidnapping. “No, I don't think that is it. Harry, you said that Draco wasn't going to go in to Hogsmeade with you?”

“No, he was studying. He said he didn't want to go and I told him I'd come back early.”

“So, he went on the spur of the moment,” Dumbledore said. “This kidnapping can't have been planned. It was opportunistic. Draco was snatched him because he was there.”

“So...some freak just took him for no reason?” Harry asked, panic rising once again inside him.

“No, I didn't say that. I don't know why this person has taken Draco, only that he has. What did the man look like Harry?”

“Tall,” Harry frowned, the man had kept his hood on. “He was old I think, with a moustache – a thin one…I didn't get a great look at him.”

“They must have known who he was,” Minerva said, jabbing at Harry's knee with her wand. “Draco Malfoy is recognizable enough. And they can't have any fear of Harry, taking him out from under his nose like that.”

Harry yanked his knee away from Minerva and scrambled to his feet. “ Great, fine, they aren't scared of me, but that is not helping me FIND DRACO! I NEED YOU TO STOP TALKING AND HELP ME FIND DRACO!”

“There is no point running off injured Harry,” Dumbledore said, placing a heavy hand on Harry's shoulder and forcing him to still. “We don't know who has taken Draco or where they have taken him to, and until we learn these things there is no point running around and blindly searching.”

”Snape,” Harry said firmly.

“Severus wouldn't have taken Draco,” Minerva scowled.

”I didn't fucking say that. He found Krum that time after he hurt Hermione. Hermione said he had a thing that helped him find people, it's like a compass.”

“It isn't a compass Harry, it is a potion made from Mercury that has a locator spell inside it. It is very hard to come by.”

“But he has it,” Harry said a little feverishly, “It would be in his room wouldn't it?”

“Possibly,” Dumbledore said, “or he could have it with him, or it could be at the Fenn. We can't just start tearing up Professor Snape's rooms looking for something that may or may not be there.”

“We should get Severus,” Minerva said, “Harry is right. Severus has…ways…of finding people. He will find Draco. I'm more concerned about what he will do to the man who has taken him.”

Harry was less concerned about what Snape would do to the bastard and more concerned that he wouldn't torture him first. “He's in London.” Harry gnawed on his thumb nail, “They aren't due back until tomorrow.”

“They are at Grimmauld Place,” Minerva said. “We can go and get him.”

“Good,” Dumbledore said, “Minerva, you go and get Severus. Harry, you go to the hospital wing and see Madam Pomfrey.”

“No way!” Harry cried incredulously. “She'll," he jerked his thumb at Minerva, "go and get Snape and then he'll take off. If he's going, I'm going!”

Minerva had the glazed look again as she kept the mantra going, flexing her knuckles unconsciously on her wand. Dumbledore rubbed her arm gently. “Use the portrait hole and bring him back,” he told her.

“I won't be long,” she said, but she did not attempt a reassuring smile at Harry who would not have noticed anyway.

“Don't bring Hermione back through the Portrait,” Dumbledore said tightly, “I will send a carriage for her.”

“Albus…” Minerva looked sideways at Arthur, “How long are you going to punish them?”

“I am not punishing anyone,” Dumbledore replied in that same tight voice. “Passing through that portal is a form of trans-dimensional travel…it isn't good for her…for their…the…”

“Oh.” Minerva looked sideways at Arthur again.

“Am I missing something?” Arthur asked.

“Well…no…” Minerva flushed heavily.

“HERMIONE IS PREGNANT, OK? SHE FUCKED SNAPE AND NOW THEY ARE HAVING A BABY, NOW CAN YOU PLEASE HURRY THE FUCK UP AND GET HIM SO THAT HE CAN COME BACK AND WE CAN FIND DRACO?”

“I'm going, Harry!” Minerva snapped and had to physically restrain her hand from violently slapping him across the face. She was no fool, she knew that the situation was serious and she didn't need Harry Potter yelling at her and shoving her towards Phineas Nigellus' portrait.

Once again Dumbledore was gently rubbing her arm. “Calm down,” he whispered, “he's upset.”

“I don't care,” Minerva hissed, “I told you once before, I don't care if he's going to die tomorrow, he can still treat me with respect.” She didn't wait for a reply though, as she swung the portrait open and stepped through the hole, slamming the painting behind her.

Harry stared defiantly after her, not regretting for a moment what he had said. There was no time to waste and if she wanted to be angry at him that was fine. As long as Draco was safe she could hate him for the rest of his life.

“Go to Madam Pomfrey,” Dumbledore said quietly.

“No,” Harry replied stubbornly, “I'm going with Snape.”

“Professor Snape, Harry.”

“Whatever. I'm going with him.”

“Then at least sit down,” Dumbledore's voice was becoming strained, “so that we can have Madam Pomfrey come to you.”

Harry slumped down into Minerva's vacated chair. It was his fault. It was all his fault. He had to go out. He kissed Fred. McGonagall was right, Fred had not put a bind on him, and he could have walked away at any time.

Dumbledore had gone to the fireplace and had obviously summoned Madam Pomfrey. When he returned, he sat down heavily in the chair opposite Harry and began to prompt him. “Let's start again, shall we? You went after him and there was a man there, tall, old perhaps. Did he say anything, can you remember?”

“No, he didn't say anything. He smiled at me and they just disappeared…Draco called my name, he was scared…” Harry sank lower into the chair. “It's my fault. I just had to go with Fred, I couldn't just stay here. I knew I should, and I wanted to talk to Draco, but no, not me. I had to have both. I should have gone after him straight away…why am I so fucked?”

“You're not fucked,” Dumbledore bit out a little more harshly than he intended, “just calm down.”

Dumbledore knew Harry well by now. He had spent so long building him up, knowing what fate had in store and knowing that if he was to survive the war he was going to need to be strong and powerful and able to see his way through anything. It was true that perhaps Dumbledore had built the boy's ego up a little too much, but at the end of the war that ego had crumbled and as strong as he was, Harry Potter was capable of some fairly spectacular depressions. It would be useless for him to crash now. But Harry had begun to rock back and forth and Dumbledore recognized the signs only too clearly. The boy would either explode into a fit of temper or break down completely.

“Where the fuck are they? You should never have sent McGonagall, she's a fucking cripple! I should have gone my fucking self!”

“Harry!”

“Where are they? That mad bastard could have done anything to Draco by now!”

“Calm down! Minerva will be back soon and Severus will be with her, but I can assure you that if you don't stop with this nonsense, neither of them are going to be inclined to help you.”

“WELL FUCK THEM! I'LL GO ALONE!”

Dumbledore looked away and ground his teeth. He too had his mantras for dealing with troublesome students and he had once vowed that nothing would shake his calm with them – but Harry was pushing the point. “If you do not calm down, right now, Harry, I shall put you in a full body bind and have you delivered to the hospital wing for the remainder of the night. Understood?”

Harry swallowed hard and was silent.

*******

Blood.

Oh Gods, blood. Get it off, quickly, get off every sticky incriminating drop of it. Wash it all off. All of it.

Lucius woke up startled and realized he was in the bathroom. He must be sleepwalking again. Narcissa teased him mercilessly about it. He was naked, he could see his clothes scattered around the floor and he was standing in front of the basin savagely scrubbing himself with a wet washcloth. One of those thick fluffy ones that Narcissa favored, the ones that felt oddly heavy when they were soaked.

He looked at his reflection and was briefly paralyzed by what he saw.

His face was smeared with blood and beneath the blood his body was battered and bruised. His arms were spattered with blood, and his bare chest seemed thick with it.

He knew instantly that this was not his blood. For all of being battered and bruised he did not feel the distinctive sting of being cut. He had not been slashed or stabbed, and indeed he was certain that he was the one who had been doing all of that. But, he considered to himself, it was such a terribly strange thing, because he could never recall having ever slashed or stabbed anyone in his life. There was no need to do such barbaric things, because above all else he was a Wizard, and he could just use his wand to destroy everyone around him.

Except of course that he was rather adept at using a staff and they had the habit of reducing flesh and bone to bloodied gore and meat. Perhaps that was the cause of all the blood...perhaps he'd been out using his staff on some poor unfortunate soul.

But no, he knew he had slashed and stabbed. He just knew it.

He stared at his own gruesome reflection, fascinated at how the blood that stained his lips seemed so stark against his pale skin. He wondered how it was possible that he still looked like an Angel even though he was sheathed in gore.

Because you are an Angel.

Lucius frowned.

Narcissa was going to be pissed off that he had made such a foul mess of the bathroom. If she saw it she would scream blue murder. Or bloody blue murder. But who had he killed so violently? The war was over wasn't it?

Lucius let his gaze follow the curve of his neck, down his gore covered shoulders and across the hardness of his chest. His body was looking good. Muscular and fit. He felt strong, supple and healthy.

But you're not healthy are you?

He frowned again.

Refusing to draw his eyes away from the bloody reflection, Lucius turned on the taps so that he could clean himself up. He needed to rid himself of all this blood. Clean himself, mop up the bathroom and crawl into bed with his wife.

Narcissa. She was probably asleep, because if he had been sleep walking and she was awake she would have done something to stop him from wandering around. Wandering around killing things in his sleep.

He finally drew his eyes from the mirror and plunged his hands into the water to clean them.

Except they were clean. Perfectly clean. He looked down the length of his naked body and found himself flawless. Nothing marked that creamy flesh. He was pale and perfect and clean.

He looked back to the mirror and his bloodied reflection stared back.

Perhaps it was, he wondered, like the picture of Dorian Gray. All of his sins had decided to gather in his bathroom mirror – and he in turn would stay forever young and innocent of appearance while the blood of those he'd killed or wronged would simply cover him in the mirror. It was marvelously convenient. He certainly wasn't squeamish about such things and if it meant that he could stay young and beautiful forevermore, then all the better.

It was actually rather wonderful.

Except that it wasn't wonderful. He wasn't wonderful. And he certainly wasn't forever young. Something was terribly wrong here.

He felt strange on his feet, as though he was not supposed to be upright. He hadn't been standing for a very long time. But why?

He hadn't been sleepwalking. He was not awake. He was still asleep and this was a dream. The bathroom was a dream. He wasn't at home and his beautiful Narcissa was dead.

Daddy

Draco?

Lucius looked at his reflection and found himself as he truly was. A frail shadow of what he had been. Clean, his hair shimmering, a thin stream of drool running down his chin which was red from the constant contact with saliva. His eyes looked as though they were sinking into his face. His face looked skull-like. He was not beautiful any more, and he could only wonder what the Curator saw in him.

Daddy

Draco? Where was he? Lucius could hear him, it was so clear, speaking right into his brain.

It's still the dream. Draco is at school where he belongs, he's safe. But why could he hear him? Draco sounded so close and he was calling out. There was panic in his voice…desperation.

He couldn't be here, he just couldn't. He was at Hogwarts, and the charmed kitten would keep him there.

Lucius frowned and his eyes opened. It was late. The museum was dark and empty, the lights in each of the cases had been extinguished. The Sais room was deserted.

And Lucius was still in his case.

Any other night he would have rejoiced. An evening being left alone was a rare commodity. He had spent his day staring at familiar faces who in turn stared back. People he knew. Adults who looked repulsed and yet came back again and again just to stare. He did not know why they bothered. Why did they come back day after day? And then there were the children. Little monsters who pressed their faces against the glass and smeared Merlin only knew what across it.

But sitting here enduring the morbid curiosity of his kind was preferable to lying prone beneath the Curator while the old man made his special brand of love to Lucius' ever failing body.

But not tonight. He was used to the routine of his days and nights. He spent time in his case but rarely these days – he was always – always – out by six. There was a clock at the centre of the museum. It was striking midnight.

So why was he still in his case? Either Semeuse had lost interest in him; something he seriously doubted would happen, because he could be dead and he had no doubt that Semeuse would bugger his corpse. The only rational answer was that he had something else to occupy his time now. Perhaps Semeuse was still in Hogsmeade, or perhaps he had shown enough galleons and Antwon had offered a tour of his private collection?

Daddy.

Perhaps Lucius was on the final descent and now hearing voices?

He closed his eyes again and tried to centre himself. Panic was making it hard to still his soul.

“Draco…” He breathed out a long sigh and reached, trying to find any trace of his son's aura and hoping that he had to travel all the way to Scotland to do that.

But no, Draco was not in Scotland. Draco was far closer than that. Much closer than that. Lucius felt his inner eye turn and focus as the edges of Draco's aura came into view.

Draco's aura was fluid, like water. Shimmering blue, occasionally stormy, but always blue. But the edges of this aura was not blue, it was the darkest grey, verging to black. And then suddenly all cleared and Lucius felt his ears begin to ache as his head was suddenly filled with the sound of screaming. Screaming that he had heard before and had hoped never to hear again.

And then he could see, as though a fog had cleared and he emerged into the clarity of the day. But this light was horrifying. This light was more hideous than anything he had ever dared to contemplate. His son was there. His baby was there, in that room. His baby was barely conscious and he looked wet, as though he had just been bathed. And worse, Lucius watched from what seemed so very far away as Archibald Semeuse, so foul and decrepit, raped his son.

His blood felt hot. He could feel it coursing through him, boiling in his veins. He retreated, not wanting to see any more. He flexed one fist and then the other. Curled his fingers and then his toes. He rotated ankles painfully in unused sockets. Somewhere in the darkness he could hear the sound of breaking glass as display cases shattered.

And Lucius Malfoy opened his eyes and growled.

********

Minerva stepped through the portrait hole and into what she decided had to be a guest bedroom. It was sparse, furnished for function rather than comfort. She had been told that Harry Ron and Hermione had all moved into the house over the past summer, and she figured they would have decorated their own rooms and this room was far too impersonal. Albus had told her that Harry and Ron had once shared this room. He'd wanted Harry to be in there specifically at the time, because the portrait hole was there. But Harry had evidently decided to move himself elsewhere in the house. Either that or he lived a Spartan existence.

Despite the room being empty she whispered as she called for light.

The hallway was as dark and as miserable as it had always been, even as she lit the wall sconces she could only wonder at how the Black's had lived in such a miserable place. She wondered just how Harry planned to live here.

On her visits to this house, Minerva had only ever been to the main hallway and the kitchen. She knew nothing of the upper floors and she had no idea where Hermione might be sleeping, and even less about where she would house a guest. Obviously not in the room she had just come from. The Blacks were a traditional Pureblood family, and from what she knew of traditional Pureblood families they kept all the family bedrooms together. If Harry, Ron and Hermione followed that pattern, Minerva reasoned that she should be able to find Hermione.

Minerva only hoped that she didn't scare the girl half to death when she woke her up in the middle of the night.

She continued down the hall and found each room empty, then finally she reached the stairs and decided that she would have to go up to the next level. She did so with a little reluctance. She had heard stories about this house and its dislike of anyone that didn't believe in the Black Family philosophy. Still, the Order had resided here comfortably enough and so she mounted the stairs and climbed them, ignoring the stiffness in her legs and hips.

Once on the next level she saw Hermione's room immediately. It was slightly ajar, but it was the ridiculous door plaque that gave it away. Winnie the Pooh – dreadful name – stuck halfway out of his hole, his mouth covered in honey and a colorful rendering of “Hermione” gaily danced across the sky.

Minerva hated Winnie the Pooh. She could not tolerate the saccharine sweetness of the dreadful characters and the bizarre fascination both Muggles and Witches seemed to have for the character served only to bemuse her. She shook her head at the sign and couldn't help but take a step back. Hermione Granger was almost twenty years old for goodness sake!

But there was no time to scoff at door plaques. Minerva knocked on the door and hissed Hermione's name in an urgent whisper.

From inside Minerva heard a rustling of bedclothes and a muffled groan of someone trying to wake up.

“Hermione?” Minerva cleared her throat and spoke a little more clearly, “Hermione, it's Minerva…”

“Minerva?”

That was not Hermione. Minerva's eyes widened and she shuffled from her spot beside the door.

“Minerva?” The voice was more insistent now.

“Severus…It's actually you I need.”

More rustling and Severus suddenly appeared wrapped in a pastel pink sheet. “What's wrong?”

“It's Draco, “Minerva said seriously, “Harry has just come back from Hogsmeade, and he says that someone has snatched Draco off the street.”

“Snatched?” Severus asked confused, “what do you mean by ‘snatched'?”

“Harry says it was a man, an older man…”

“And Potter didn't stop him?”

“Calm down! You're as bad as Harry!”

“Severus? What's going on?”

Severus turned back into the darkened room. “It's nothing, go back to sleep,” he snapped.

And of course Hermione was suddenly out of bed too and appeared at the door.

“Harry didn't have a chance to stop him,” Minerva said, looking at both of them, “he said that he got out just in time to see them go. If he had come out a moment later he probably wouldn't have known that Draco was missing until morning.”

She stopped as Severus' normally sallow flesh went chalky and he seemed to shake with a rage that he was fighting to keep in check. His lip curled back, baring uneven teeth and for the first time in a long time Minerva could honestly say that he looked fearsome. She swallowed hard.

“Severus, Albus wants you back at the castle, because we have to find out who…”

“I know who took him.” Severus turned away from them both and all but screamed “Lumos”, making the room suddenly and unbearably bright.

Minerva edged into the room in time to see Severus pulling a faded green under-shirt over his skinny frame. For some reason she wanted to ask him just how old that under-shirt was, but found she did not need to when he turned around and found it read Slytherin: 1975 Quidditch Cup Champions. But just as there was no time to scoff at door plaques, now was not the time to torment him about his choice of underwear. She swallowed any comment as he pulled on black corduroy trousers and a woolen jumper. When she did find words they were rudimentary and to the point. “How do you know who took him?”

“It doesn't matter how I know,” he snapped, shoving his wand up his sleeve. “I know who took him, and so I will go and bring him back. How long has he been gone?”

“I don't know. I don't know how long it took Harry to get back to the castle. Half an hour, an hour perhaps?”

Severus swore bluntly. His initial instinct was to go straight to the Museum, but if Archibald Semeuse had had Draco for an hour…God only knew what the man had done. If Draco had panicked, Severus was going to need a ready supply of Navitas to get him through it. But going back to Hogwarts was going to cost him precious time. Could he risk not getting the Navitas? Could he hope that Draco's body would hold out against whatever punishment Semeuse would visit upon him? If he had to rely on Draco's willpower alone, he knew Draco would get through it – but his body was a weak shell, and Draco had been through a great deal in the last year. Too much perhaps.

He was going to need Navitas.

“I have to go back to the school,” he said quickly, “I was going to organize for a carriage to take Hermione back in the morning…”

“Albus is sending a carriage for her now. He says for you to go back through the Portrait hole. He said Hermione couldn't, it would harm the baby.”

“Can you make sure she gets back?”

“Severus, I am perfectly capable of getting myself ba…”

He kissed Hermione quickly. “Go with Minerva.” He turned away and patted Minerva's arm absently and without a word he hurried out the door.

*********

“That went…” Pansy stopped and looked at Ron, “that went…well,” she said.

“I think I pissed her off,” Ron said, but he sounded relieved.

“Yep, I think you did.” She sat on the bed beside him and tucked a few stray hairs behind his ear. “Are you happy?”

“No…well, I'm not happy I pissed her off…but it needed to be said.” He hardened his jaw. “She needed to get things out of her system as much as I did.”

Pansy nodded and raised her eyebrows as she conceded that point. “So, we're leaving tomorrow?”

“Looks like it?”

“And we're going to London?”

“Yeah,” He gave her a hasty smile, “don't worry, it's not going to be like St Mungo's. The house is great, it's really big and…” really dark and depressing actually,  “it's Harry's house. He inherited it from his Godfather and it's right in London and we can go everywhere…”

“Ron,” Pansy hesitated, “we have no money. I mean, I've got nothing and, well…I don't think you have anything either. I'm pretty dismal at Household Charms and I can't cook in the Muggle way either. How are we supposed to live?”

Ron stared at her, and it was obvious that he hadn't thought that far ahead. He shrugged and felt a helpless smile spread across his face. “I could get a job,” he said, “and I'm not so bad at Charms. I'm sure if I had the book I could learn all the Household Charms in a flash.”

Pansy shrugged and smiled. “I could probably learn them, and I was actually pretty good at Charms. And besides, I could get a job too.”

“But you won't need too, I'll get a job and I'll look after you. You don't need to worry.”

Pansy frowned. “I'm not worried…why would I be worried? I can work, Ron. I don't need you to look after me.” But even as she said it she knew she was lying. She was damaged, inside and out and while she was learning to fall in love with Ron, strangers terrified her still.

“Look, Harry has a kitty at the house, it has about a thousand Galleons in it…”

“A thousand Galleons?” Pansy almost laughed at the very idea, “that's more than some people have in their Gringotts vault!”

“I know, but Harry is obsessed with never being caught short. He has a terror of starving to death…something about his aunt and uncle not feeding him.”

“You know, I've never actually had a conversation with him.”

“He can be pretty intense,” Ron said.

“Why doesn't he love Draco?”

”He does,” Ron said, “I have no idea why, but he does. The problem with Harry is that he is really moral and he sets his morals in his head and he can adjust them if he needs to accommodate things that he does, but he can't for anyone else. He can't understand some things that Draco did, but he still loves him.”

“Does it bother you?”

Ron sighed heavily. “It did. It really did. I kept saying that Harry should have told me, because he hid it from me for months and I kept telling myself that if he'd told me I would have accepted it. I can see now why he didn't tell me, and I know now that there was no way I would have accepted it then if he had told me.”

“But now?”

“Well, I guess there's something about going to hell that makes you see clearly.”

“I thought you guys were such arseholes,” Pansy laughed, “Gods how I hated you.”

“The feeling was mutual,” Ron grinned. ”I know, you used to call me Pug faced Parkinson.”

“I was a fucking twit.”

“I thought you were fucking Hermione Granger, and I couldn't understand why.”

“I thought you were fucking Malfoy.”

“Oh God I wanted to.” Pansy rolled her eyes dreamily, “I fantasized about it like you wouldn't believe.”

“And did you?

“No.” She grinned, “I didn't. He wasn't interested in me and he said he wouldn't have sex with his friends. He didn't believe in relationships back then.”

“So, he was a bit of a slut then?” Ron chuckled.

“I guess he was. He was pretty discreet though. He never bragged about anyone.”

“And what about you? Any conquests I should know about?”

Pansy froze and Ron realized his mistake. She pulled away from him and slid up the bed, pulling the covers with her.

“I'm sorry, Pansy, I'm so sorry.”

“Maybe we should get some more sleep,” she said quietly, burying her face into the pillow.

“I'm sorry…I didn't think…”

“It's alright, it's not your fault.”

“I shouldn't have said anything. I should have thought before I said anything…”

No, you weren't to know,” she said quietly, “let's just get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”

He slipped in behind her and wrapped his arm around her again. “I'm going to take care of you,” he whispered, “even if you don't want me to, I will.”

“I want you to,” she answered softly, “just promise me you'll never leave.”

*********

Snape burst through the portrait hole so fast he almost tore the canvas and elicited a sharp cry of protest from Phineas Nigellus who disliked all the activity during the night. Phineas had hoped that once the war had ended his portrait would no longer be used for the comings and goings of Albus Dumbledore and his motley crew.

Snape didn't offer any greeting other than a grunt as he strode through the Headmaster's office towards the door.

Dumbledore followed him, seemingly unperturbed by such behavior. Arthur Weasley was still reeling with shock over the revelations that Hermione Granger; a girl he looked upon almost as a daughter, was having a child with the Potions Master. He'd heard the whispered rumor of a relationship – mostly because Remus Lupin had told he and Molly of what he had seen at the New Year's party, but in truth Arthur had dismissed it, sighting the fact that Remus had been drinking rather excessively that night and was probably hallucinating.

Harry, on the other hand, had calmed down considerably. He got out of his chair and followed Dumbledore, ignoring the flaring pain in his knee.

”Do you need to be filled in on what has happened, Severus?” Dumbledore asked pleasantly.

“I know what happened.”

“Do you know who has taken Draco?”

“The Museum Curator.”

Harry found himself jogging to keep up as they made their way down the corridor towards the dungeons. Dumbledore seemed to be keeping easy pace and Harry couldn't help but curse his mean stature. He couldn't allow himself to limp however, he knew that any weakness would be an excuse for Snape to leave him behind – and he wasn't planning on being left behind.

“Why would a museum Curator want Draco?” Harry demanded. “He'd have to be insane to just snatch him off the street like that!”

Snape didn't think the question worthy of an answer, and he figured the evidence stood for itself. He began his descent to the dungeons with the same purposeful stride that had gotten him down the hall in a few short minutes, kicking a curious Mrs. Norris satisfyingly out of the way as he went.

“How would he have known Draco was going to be there?” Harry continued, jolting his throbbing knee on every stair. “Draco wasn't supposed to be there…maybe he was waiting for someone else and took Draco by mistake!”

“Waiting for who?” Snape asked, not breaking stride, “who would be special enough to cause the man to lurk in Hogsmeade waiting for him?” ”I…” Harry flushed pink.

“Oh, you think he was waiting for you?” Snape hissed silkily, “don't flatter yourself Potter! The man worships beauty above all else, and aside from a half decent set of eyes there is nothing about you that would attract him.”

Harry felt an unreasonable pang at Snape's blunt assessment of his physical attributes. “How…how do you know it was him?” Harry asked, panting a little at the effort it was taking to keep up, “How do you know he wanted Draco?”

“A House Elf told me,” Snape growled, as he muttered the password to his chambers violently and the door swung open with a bang. Still he did not break stride. He went straight to the cabinet at the back of his small sitting area and opened it. Inside sat a multitude of bottles and jars, all medicines, all labeled neatly with names and dates. Harry was taken aback as he suddenly realized that almost every medicinal potion for any ailment of any student was sitting there under Snape's guard. Harry had always assumed Madam Pomfrey made them all, but now he knew better.

“What are you getting?” Harry asked stupidly.

“What do you think I'm getting?” Snape replied, not bothering to look at Harry. He pulled a large square jar of luminous green liquid from the cupboard.

Harry flushed. He had been so preoccupied with getting help that he hadn't considered the greater consequence. He had seen Draco at the start of an attack before. But what happened now, if Draco panicked, what would happen? Could they already be too late? “Do you think he'll need that?” Harry asked quietly.

“How long has it been?”

“A while, more than an hour.”

“Then yes, I would say he will need it,” Snape replied caustically.

“Why…why has this Curator taken Draco? What is he going to do to him?”

“Probably the same thing he's been doing to Lucius for the last year.”

Harry paled.

”Severus,” Dumbledore warned, “don't.”

“It's alright,” Harry said, “I know what has been happening.”

Snape was looking through the cupboard for something more, but that didn't stop him from taunting Harry. “You knew then did you?” he asked, “If you knew why didn't you think to take more care of Draco? You were happy to screw him weren't you, but didn't that also extend to protecting him too?”

“I was…I wanted to…I was too late…”

“Then what good are you?” Snape found what he was looking for. To Harry it appeared to be a large syringe. Not the little plastic ones that populated Muggle hospitals and certain back alleys, but a heavy glass thing surrounded by silver filigree work. Snape attached a long and lethal looking needle and drew a measure of Navitas up into the glass tube. He then placed the whole thing into an ornate silver box.

“Why do we need the needle?” Harry asked.

“Emergencies.” Snape tapped the box twice and it shrunk down to a tiny size. He pocketed it quickly and wished he had time to change into his robes.

“Can you do what is necessary?” Dumbledore asked, “treating the effects of Madragora in an emergency is a lost art, and you know what will happen if the needle misses its mark.”

“What choice do I have?” Snape replied with some venom, “if he's so bad that he needs me to use it, then he's not going to make it to St Mungo's and even then…”

“There are so few healers who know how to administer it.” Dumbledore sighed and nodded, his skin looked slightly ashen.

“I know the principles of the application,” Snape said carefully, “and I may not have a choice.”

“Do you know where he might have taken Draco?” Dumbledore asked, looking at Harry's pale features and deciding it best to get down to business.

“I'm assuming the museum,” Snape replied preferring this subject to the last, “which poses problems in itself.”

“The museum is ancient,” Dumbledore agreed, “the building itself is like a maze, unless you know where you are going…”

“He may as well have taken Draco to the furthest reaches of the universe.” Snape lit a fire and plucked a handful of glittering silver powder from a small pot on the mantle. He threw the powder into the fire and called “Non!” sharply into the flames.

A mini tornado began to whirl in the grate and within seconds the little House Elf that Harry remembered from Malfoy Manor clambered out of the hearth.

The little Elf dusted himself off and glared balefully at the Potions Master.

“Yes, Master Severus?”

Snape scowled. “The Curator has Draco, where would he take him?”

Non's eyes widened. “Master Severus should have let Non stay at the Museum,” he cried, “Non could have warned Master!”

“You got caught you little rodent, and you're bloody lucky you aren't dead. Now, where did he take him?”

Non seemed to tremble for a moment but then looked stubborn. Harry guessed from the neat little suit he was wearing that the Elf had been freed, but unlike Dobby this little Elf had no reverence for his human companions. He glared at Snape. “What about the kitten?” he demanded. ”The charm obviously failed, or you aren't as skilled with a wand as you had hoped.” Snape's voice edged towards a dangerous hiss, “now where is Draco?”

“Curator Semeuse would have taken him to the Museum,” Non said, he glanced around at Harry and Dumbledore, “he would have him in his bedchamber.”

“And where is his bedchamber?”

“At the top of the Museum. The entrance is secret. Non knows how to get there, so Non will have to take Master Severus.”

“No, Non will not be coming. Non can draw a map. I'm not taking you with me.”

Non looked disgruntled but did not argue. “As Master wishes,” he agreed quietly.

“Good,” Snape slapped down a piece of parchment and a quill, “now draw.”

Non looked at the quill and parchment as though he had no idea what to do with them, then he set the quill aside, licked the tip of his finger and began to draw.

It was surprisingly effective. The line came out solid and black and he did a good job despite having Snape hovering over him like a vulture.

“You have to go through the Sais room,” Non explained, “that's where the Death Eaters are kept. Curator Semeuse usually keeps Master Lucius with him, but if he has Master Draco then he probably won't have Master Lucius – Master Lucius will be very angry. Curator Semeuse goes another way, but the House Elves take these doors…” He drew in the doors. “You go through the Sais room and up the stairs, there are different landings, when you see three doors in a row you take the middle door and that will take you to the top of the museum. You go down the corridor and at the end are two big white doors, these lead to Curator Semeuse's chambers. He will have Master Draco there, Non is certain of it.”

When he finished the map Harry snatched it from his boney hands.

Snape in turn snatched the map from Harry. “And just what do you think you're doing Potter?”

“Going with you of course!”

Snape smiled tightly. “Stay here and wait Potter, I'll bring him back to you.”

“No,” Harry said equally tight, “I'm coming with you.”

“I am not going to argue with you Potter.”

“Good,” Harry said reasonably, “that'll make it nice and quiet when we get to the museum.”

Snape sneered, but had to admit that Potter might be of some use, especially if there was a fight, and standing in his chambers and arguing about it would do nothing to help Draco. He nodded briskly, checked that he had everything he needed and grunted for Harry to follow.

“This will help you,” Dumbledore said pulling a chain from his pocket. “The pendant is a Portkey, so that when you get Draco it will bring you all back to my office.”

Harry took the chain and hung it around his neck, then he and Snape headed out the door without a word.

**********

Somewhere in the distance came the wail of sirens. Fire Engines. Draco had been aware of them for a while. A number of minutes perhaps, five minutes at least. He was sure they were Fire Engines. He'd heard them before when he'd been to the village near his house, and again when he had gone to London during one minor act of rebellion four years past. Once his father had found him he had explained that the huge red trucks went to extinguish fires that some fool Muggle had lit and could not put out. Draco had stared at them with a little wonder and then stepped back from the gutter to avoid being run over. He remembered the sound of the sirens distinctly.

They were coming closer, rapidly growing louder and louder, coming closer and closer until the sound swelled, as though the sirens were right outside the door – and then they passed, receding into the distance.

But just as the sound dwindled a little, new ones shrieked afresh, coming hard on their heels.

Must be serious, Draco thought vaguely, the castle must be on fire.

He knew he should move, but he was so comfortably asleep. Or was he hiding in sleep? The bed was soft beneath his back and even if the castle was on fire, he reasoned that there were plenty of Professors there to take care of it. And there were Fire Engines. Great big Muggle Fire Engines.

His back was burning.

He wondered who had called for Fire Engines. Why did they need them? Wasn't Hogwarts hidden from Muggles? How would they find it?

Something is very wrong here.

The thought startled Draco as though it was a whip cracking in front of his face. He sucked in a hard breath and suddenly wasn't comfortable any more. His lungs hurt. His back was burning and his heart was pounding in his chest. From deep in his belly a powerful and inexplicable surge of panic electrified him. He felt his fingers curl unbidden and grasp the bedclothes so tightly that his fingernails began to split and ooze blood from under them.

Something is…something is very very wrong…

The air around him seemed oppressively heavy, like a weight smothering him and not the merciful source of life that it should be. It was hot and thick, as though it was not actually air at all but a bitter and poisonous presence.

He tried desperately to breathe but he couldn't. He could not pull the air into his lungs. It was as though an invisible weight sat squarely on his chest, crushing him down. Killing him.

I can't breathe!

He tried to cry out, certain that if he did someone would hear him and come to help him. But panic had rendered him mute. He was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming and immobilizing fear.

But fear of what?  He demanded of himself. What am I afraid of?

The fire. It had to be the fire. That was why the air was so hot and thick. That was why he couldn't breathe and his body felt as though it was burning. He must be trapped in the fire.

But there is no fire. There are only sirens.

He struggled against the unreasonable terror that had locked his muscles and joints. He tried to move but found he couldn't. He tried to open his eyes and found his lids impossibly heavy. And then he remembered. He was not at school. The sirens outside were not coming from trucks winding their way up muddy mountain tracks, and the terror he felt was not unreasonable. Not at all.

And now that he remembered he could feel it. Pain. His entire body seemed to erupt into pain. He knew why his back was burning. He knew why his heart was pumping wildly and he knew why the blood that coursed through his veins stung every nerve and fiber it fed.

He knew why he couldn't breathe.

His eyes snapped open.

“Ah! You're awake little one.”

Draco wanted to scream. Every instinct told him to get off that bed and run. He would do anything; even hurl himself over that balcony and into the street below. He wanted to but he knew he could not. He couldn't move. Muscles and limbs would not respond, as though the all important part of his brain that controlled them had short circuited and left him powerless.

He forced himself to look up at his tormentor and take in his features. The Curator was an old man, not as old as Dumbledore perhaps, but old enough.

Draco desperately tried to move. He needed to get up, he needed to get out of there – or die trying.

“It's a potion.” Semeuse explained gently with a smile in his voice. “Don't fret little Dragon. If you relax you will grow used to the sensation.”

Draco didn't want to ‘grow used to the sensation.' The very idea of staying this way terrified him. His limbs, as though by the very act of paralysis, had become hypersensitive and ached.

He closed his eyes again, going against everything his father had ever told him to do. He could almost hear Lucius now, ‘never turn away from an enemy, always keep him in your sight.'  But Draco doubted that his father had kept his eyes open every time this mockery of a man had mounted him. There was no way he could have. And Draco needed to close his eyes, because if he looked at the Curator he would never be able to focus on his breathing, and he had to keep breathing.

But the air was so heavy. How could anyone breathe when the air was so heavy?

“Draco? Wake up my little Dragon. It is always so much more pleasurable when I can see your eyes.”

Oh God. No no no no no no no.  Draco opened his eyes again, his lids lifting to reveal the terror that he felt.

“Ah, my beautiful boy. Look at you. You are so very lovely.” Semeuse stroked the length of him, allowing long fingers to trail over Draco's belly and into the concave hollow of his hip. “You must forgive me my earlier temper my darling, the scars came as a shock. Your father has been a very naughty Angel, because he didn't tell me that you were so desperately flawed. But really, some of histories most wonderful artifacts are all the more beautiful for the damages wrought by time.” He smiled, concentrating his fingers on that milky white skin. “Perhaps in time the same can be said of you, little one.”

Draco drew a deep painful breath. He had to speak. If he could not move he at least had to speak. He had to survive this, he had to stay alive long enough for someone to come and save him. Harry would come. Harry had seen him go and Harry would come to get him…even if Harry wasn't his Harry any more.

And Harry didn't have anything to do with this. Draco just needed to survive long enough for Harry to get there…or maybe Uncle Severus. Uncle Severus would be better. Uncle Severus wouldn't hurt as much as the pain in his lungs.

He drew in another painful breath and opened his mouth, forcing his throat to work and his tongue to move. “N…Navitas…”

“Navitas?” Semeuse frowned a little and then smiled with elation that his prize had decided to speak. “What is that little one?”

Draco felt tears coming again and he forced them down. He had to breathe and crying wasn't going to help that. “Navitas…”

“I don't understand you darling heart, what do you mean?”

Draco blinked and forced his dry throat to work again. “Medicine,” he rasped, “Navitas…”

Semeuse smiled and gently stroked Draco's hip bone again. “You need medicine my Darling? Well, my Little Dragon, we will see how well you do now and I will look into this medicine later.” A tear escaped Draco's eye and slid down the side of his face into the tangle of his hair. He knew that ‘later' was probably going to be far too late.

Semeuse licked the salty trail away and lifted Draco's hips, bending his knees back and spreading him wide for the assault.

Draco closed his eyes tight. He didn't want to watch the Curator's face while he was being raped by him. He'd already endured it more than once, and he didn't want the last thing he saw to be that man's face.

“Open your eyes, Draco.”

Draco didn't respond and was rewarded with a slap across his cheek.

“Open them Draco, I want to see your eyes.”

Draco opened them, hating him, finally hoping that he would just die, that the Madragora left in his body would finally finish the job. Semeuse was staring down at him as though he was some precious treasure but it meant little to Draco. Behind the Curator. Unseen and unnoticed, storm clouds gathered across the ceiling inside the room.

Draco's eyes widened and his mouth opened in wonder. He couldn't say anything…he didn't get time to.

A murderous barrage of lightening crashed like a volley of explosions from a Death Eaters Staff. Seven and then eight bolts rattled the windows and doors, one right after the other without a pause between them. For the first time Semeuse looked panicked and he backed away from Draco, crawling off the bed as each boom came, drowning out the last and heralding the next.

Draco watched the Curator as he stood in the centre of the room staring wildly around the ceiling as the storm mounted. Any sound of panic that Draco could make would never have been heard over the crashing thunder that was so loud it made his bones vibrate.

Then a fresh volley of lightening came and the sharp bursts of purple white light produced a series of jerky strobe like images that would be burned into Draco's brain. The Curator dancing dementedly in the centre of the room. Jumping into the air laughing maniacally and screaming into the storm;

“Your fireworks won't work my Angel! This immense electrical display is all for nothing! They are nothing but clever tricks my beautifully clever Angel!”

The last of Draco's breath caught in his throat and his heart, which had pumped dangerously fast in his chest, suddenly skipped as a searing pain shot through him, threatening to tear him apart.

For a moment he thought it had.

Oh Gods, this is it…

The last thing he saw was a dark spinning shape that crashed through the doorway, tearing out boards and plasterwork from the wall as it made its fierce approach. The blackened shape slowed and seemed to unfurl and for the briefest of moments Draco felt himself smile.

Oh wow, he really does have wings!  And then everything faded to black.

**********

Hermione had packed her carry all and had neatly folded Severus' things into his battered old bag. It felt strange returning to Hogwarts. For the first time in her life she was not looking forward to it. This had seemed too much to her like the life she was supposed to be living and returning to school felt so much like a step backwards. Still, she had to finish school and there was only a month to go before the start of exams.

She waited for the carriage in the lounge room where Minerva was prodding the fire irritably and muttered to herself about someone being stressed and deserving a bloody good kick in the arse. They wouldn't be waiting long for the carriage and she knew it. The Thestrals were swift and they would be back at Hogwarts within the hour.

Back at Hogwarts to wait.

“Are you feeling well?” Minerva asked, rousing her from her thoughts.

“Yes, I'm fine,” Hermione replied and closed her eyes to rest them for a moment. “I'm just tired. I'm always tired at the moment though.”

“It's the pregnancy,” Minerva said and she sat on the couch beside Hermione, “you really should try to sleep while you can.”

“I want to get back tonight,” Hermione said and yawned.

“He won't thank you for wearing yourself out.” Minerva picked Hermione's hand up out of her lap and inspected the ring on her finger. “This is very pretty, did Severus buy it for you?”

Hermione smiled without opening her eyes, “yes, he didn't want you to see it.”

Minerva's eyes opened wide. “Why on earth wouldn't he want me to see it?”

“He says you'll think it's cheap.”

“Oh don't worry about me, I just don't like diamonds very much – Albus loves them, he says they're whimsical.”

Hermione laughed quietly and then thought it absurd that she was laughing while one of her friends was in some kind of terrible danger.

“Is it an engagement ring?”

The blush said it all but Hermione nodded and then she opened her eyes and looked seriously at Minerva. This woman had been something of an influence for her, she certainly respected her as a person and she was her head of house. In recent months a friendship of sorts had formed, and Hermione felt that she could perhaps talk to her about serious things. “Do you think I'm being foolish? Having a baby I mean?”

“I don't think bringing a new life into the world is foolish and when I was your age it was almost expected that we'd be married and procreating, so I can't tell you that you're too young.”

“But what about my future, what about my career?”

“There is no reason why you can't have both a family and a career Hermione. A lot of Witches do it every day.”

Hermione's experience of Witches with families was restricted to Molly Weasley, and while Hermione respected the woman no end, she did not want to end up like her.

“I had children and I still did as I chose,” Minerva continued, deciding that giving an example was probably the best thing she could do.

“You have children?”

“Well, I had children, two sons, they died.”

“Oh.” Hermione blushed and looked horrified, “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be, Hermione, they died before you were born.”

“How…” Hermione wondered if she should ask it, and what if it was some terrible answer that she didn't want to hear, like they died in child birth?

“Voldemort killed them, oh a long time ago now.”

“You seem so…calm about it.”

“I've had a long time to accept it,” Minerva said matter of factly, “and now I don't want to talk about them any more.”

They fell silent and Hermione's thoughts once again turned to Draco. She felt sick but somehow she knew that taking a potion was not going to make her feel any better. “Do you think Draco is alright?”

“I don't know,” Minerva sighed, “I hope so.”

“The Curator, from the museum, he wouldn't hurt him…do you think?”

“I don't know,” Minerva said again, “I hope he doesn't.”

“What if…what if he does to Draco…what if he treats Draco the same way that he treats Draco's father?”

“What is he doing to Draco's father?”

Hermione coughed, because Minerva had obviously been kept out of that particular loop. A sound outside alerted them to the presence of the carriage in the street. She pushed herself up out of the couch and picked up her bags. The idea of Lucius Malfoy and the conversation she'd had with Severus earlier came into her head. For all of Severus' intelligence, Hermione had managed to get the hang of using the journal faster than he had. She figured that it was an illogical thing, and like many Wizards, Lucius Malfoy was illogical. After deciphering Harry and Ron for eight years, Hermione was used to illogical things – whereas Severus had a habit of dismissing them.

And Hermione knew where the Angel oil was, and that was a vital ingredient in the potion that Severus was brewing.

She could find the rest of the ritual. There had to be a key to it. Finding an actual Angel could not be the answer, so there had to be a substitute, a trick in there somewhere. She could find it out if she sat down and consciously went through the journal – she knew what she was looking for now.

“Come on dear, we should go.”

Hermione smiled and followed Minerva to the door.

“So what has the Curator been doing to Lucius Malfoy?” Minerva asked.

“I'll tell you on the way home.”

**********

Thunder clapped around the bedchamber which quaked under the onslaught of the internal storm. From outside came the sound of rain, pounding in unison and rattling the windows relentlessly as the storms ached to merge.

Semeuse did his very best to ignore the thunderous demonstration of power. He did not know how the Angel had discovered the presence of his son, but he did know that this storm could not last. Lucius could concoct fireworks to his hearts content but there was nothing he could do that would stop Semeuse from actually getting what he wanted. The Angel was having a tantrum, but very soon he would be exhausted and the storm would die down. Semeuse had no doubt that Lucius would eventually get used to the fact that Draco was here and in time he would grow to enjoy the company.

Draco was fading out of consciousness yet again and Semeuse wondered if perhaps he had given him too much of the paralysis potion. He was unsure of the potions side effects; so perhaps this strange need to sleep was one of them. Then again, perhaps his faculties were not quite sound, an inferiority from his mother, like the deformity of his back. But he truly could not seem to keep his eyes open and he made a dreadful sound with every breath he took. Semeuse touched his hand to the boy's chest and felt the heart racing beneath the ribs. His flesh was terribly hot, as though he was being consumed by fever.

Perhaps the boy was sick. Semeuse took a step back. He could not stand illness, he could not stand to look after an invalid. Semeuse had no fear for health of his beloved Angel. Lucius would last forever, or at least as long as Semeuse himself. The boy on the other hand appeared to be of a sickly constitution. He screamed during lovemaking, screamed and cried loudly and inconsolably. Semeuse had found himself longing for the quiet sobs and perfect flesh of his Angel.

If he could return the boy to where he found him, Semeuse reasoned, he would. As it was he would be leaving in a few short hours and taking Lucius with him. As for this child, it would perhaps be best to perform the Avada Kedavra and put the whelp out of his misery.

Then again, he didn't look very good, perhaps the curse would not be required after all.

“I don't know why you love him so, Lucius,” Semeuse shouted into the storm, “he is weak, and he is not worthy of you!”

“I told you not to touch him.”

Semeuse froze. The voice, so wonderfully familiar now, was not inside his head. It did not speak to the most intimate parts of his brain as Lucius' voice so often did. This voice, Lucius' voice, was shouted out, thundering above thunder. The voice was born into the air.

The voice came from behind him.

Semeuse swallowed. “Clever Angel,” he said, not turning. He didn't want to see Lucius yet. “You learned to climb stairs. You must be exhausted.”

“You'll find I'm full of surprises.”

The storm died down and the resulting silence was unsettling. Semeuse could hear the sound of the rain outside, gentle now instead of the heavy sheets threatening to batter in the roof. He could hear the various creaks and groans of the museum, things that would never have made his notice in the past but now, in this strange silence, they seemed distinct. He could hear Lucius breathing behind him. The breathing was steady, not heavy with exhaustion as it should be. Lucius was obviously calm; both the in and out of his breathing was even, and Lucius hadn't even broken into a sweat.

How had he managed the stairs?

Semeuse looked at the youth lying sprawled on the bed. He looked like a broken doll. With a small note of disgust Semeuse noticed the blood soaking into the linen. Lucius bled, but not like the son.

And speaking of Lucius...

Semeuse turned to confront his Angel. To calm him. To dominate him. To forgive him the storm and demand his understanding.

Semeuse felt his mouth fall open.

“Angel?”

And he was.

In his deepest imaginings Semeuse pictured Lucius to be golden, surrounded by light and if he was to embody the Angel that Semeuse thought him to be, then those glorious wings would be as white as freshly fallen snow.

But finally, after so long imagining, Archibald Semeuse could see just what kind of Angel Lucius Malfoy was.

He had fallen from heaven this beautiful Angel. Still beautiful, but as dark and as terrible as the deepest pits of hell. Semeuse could see finally just why his Angel had been so feared. Semeuse stumbled, his body working instinctively in an effort to get away. He fell backwards, almost falling on to the bed and yet he recovered himself. His mind whirling, wanting to see and to understand just what he had here.

The wings, dear gods he had wings, twitched and held Lucius suspended close to the ceiling and they gleamed as black as those of a raven. His eyes were no longer grey, instead they seemed huge black pools and his lip was curled back in a feral, wolfish snarl.

“I told you to leave him alone. I told you not my son! ”

Semeuse's mouth opened and closed dryly. He had lived a long time and had seen a great many things. He had learned as a young child never to underestimate the limits of the magical world – but this was…an Angel.  An actual Angel.

“What's wrong Archibald?  Cat got your tongue?”

“My…my…my Angel…Lucius…”

“I know who I am Archibald.”

“How? How is this possible?”

Lucius smiled. He actually smiled and Semeuse marveled at the sight of him. “I must say, Curator, I didn't think you would be so lost for words. You usually have so very much to say. I've been waiting a very long time for this, I really do think I'm going to enjoy this.”

Semeuse recovered himself and forced a calm smile. He spread his hands out openly. “You can't hurt me my Angel. Don't be silly my darling, you have no wand!”

Lucius chuckled low and deep. “Oh Archibald, how precious of you. Who said I was going to use magic?”

Semeuse's eyes widened and a moment too late he turned to dive for his wand that he had left so carelessly on his dresser. But Lucius, his dark Angel borne on black wings, was faster. He swooped down, tearing the Curator's head back by his silver hair. Semeuse gasped in shock as a second hand, surprisingly strong, cupped him under the chin.

“Now, this might hurt a bit,” Lucius hissed, and twisted hard.

The resounding crack resonated through the room and Semeuse felt his breath catch – and then he fell.

********

Hermione had not coped with the carriage ride particularly well. She felt positively green as she stepped out and had to sit down on a stone bench in the stables. The night was cold and as wet as ever, she had hoped they had seen the last of the rain for a while. It chilled her to the bone, but right now the cold felt good on the back of her neck.

“You need to rest,” Minerva said, “I'll get you up to bed.”

“No, I'm fine. I just need to let my stomach settle.”

“I'll get you to Severus' room if you like, but I still think you should rest. You don't look well.” Minerva pursed her lips and folded her arms. “You should leave this potion or ritual or whatever you have been babbling about to Severus, because you can't be running about trying to do everything – especially this.”

Minerva had been skeptical about any help that they could offer to Lucius Malfoy. She had pointed out that Severus had a strangely soft spot for the man and that perhaps he wasn't thinking clearly himself. Hermione had insisted that he was going to discuss a deal with the Ministry. Minerva didn't like the idea of Hermione involving herself with it.

“I just need to go to Harry's room and get the journal and then to Severus' store room to get a few things and then I'll be happy to sit in his room all night and I'll disturb no one.”

“Why are you doing this?” Minerva asked, “you don't owe Lucius Malfoy anything.”

“I know…I…” So why was she doing this? She really did not owe Lucius Malfoy – the man had been nothing but evil, she knew no good of him. In fact he had often expressed an opinion that people like her shouldn't even exist. The world would be better off without him.

But she knew why she wanted to do this. It was not because she wanted the knowledge, it wasn't even that she wanted to help Severus. Her motives were simple and foolish, but strong enough to drive her on. She had to take her mind off what was happening with Draco, and working had always been that one thing that would focus all of her attention. Working on something complex, a puzzle, trying to find an answer.

She stood up and dusted herself off. She picked up her bag and started up the stairs to the main hall of the castle and from there she would go to the South West Tower to find the journal. Minerva shook her head, sighed and followed her.

********

It would have killed a lesser man. It would have killed a Muggle. But it took a lot to kill a Wizard, everyone knew that. Lucius knew that. He smiled down at the Curator who lay on the floor, his head at an odd angle. He could read Semeuse's thoughts as easily as he could talk into his head, it was a skill he had perfected over the past months of hell and he couldn't help but smile a little broader as the man began to think that perhaps Lucius didn't want to kill him. Hurt him perhaps, flex his muscles, but ultimately they would be together. But as paralysis spread over the Curator's body his brain began to spark, sending out signal after signal to his body that was suddenly powerless to respond.

Lucius chuckled and drifted across the room to pick up the Curator's wand from the dresser. He waved it in Semeuse's line of vision.

But you said you weren't going to use magic.

Lucius shrugged unconcerned; “I lied,” he said.

The Curator made a strangled sound in his throat.

“You don't know how I had hoped for this,” Lucius said viciously, “I sat every day and hoped that I would get to see you die.”

But I loved you.

Lucius hissed and raised the wand. “Crucio!”

The Curator's body began to jump and twitch and wrestle around on the floor, his head lolling around uselessly on his snapped neck and Lucius began to laugh.

“Does it hurt?” Lucius asked with elaborate concern, “does it feel good? Do you like it?”

Semeuse twitched as Lucius set a fresh wave of the Cruciatus curse upon him.

“Oh Archibald, I can only take pleasure in your misery…”

A soft moan interrupted him and Lucius swung around and felt his mirth subside.

“I think our time together has ended, Curator.”

Semeuse gurgled a protest even as the death curse hurtled towards him, and then in an instant he was gone.

Lucius hovered for a moment and looked upon the body of his tormentor, and then a pain shot through him and he fell soundlessly to the bed.

The Angel that had kept him alive for so many months was exhausted and curling inside him, aching to be free of the mortal body that trapped it. The wings that had burst from his back had torn muscle, bone and flesh to ribbons that streamed in bloody strips of gore down his body. But all that didn't matter now. He felt the surge of power leaving his body and he suddenly felt very heavy.

“Draco,” he said urgently, “Draco, wake up for daddy.”

But Draco did not wake. He was sprawled on the stripped bed, cold and unconscious and horribly naked. Lucius stretched out his hand almost unconsciously and a thick blanket flew from the linen cupboard to him for him to cover his son. At home Draco had developed an almost prudish embarrassment of his parents seeing him naked, and while various rumors and tales suggested that he had no trouble being naked in front of other people, Lucius couldn't help but wrap him quickly to save him something.

“Draco, please, you must try to wake up.”

Draco mumbled something through swollen lips. Semeuse had obviously beaten him and Lucius correctly assessed the reason as being the immense scarring from Draco's encounter with Alastor Moody.

“Open your eyes Draco!” Another pain shot through him and Lucius cringed into it. The wings began to fall away.

“You had wings…”

Lucius smiled and coughed out a sobbed laugh. “I know, I know sweetheart, but they are going away now, open your eyes, look.”

“Harry…” Draco mumbled.

Lucius looked around desperately. Potter would come. If he knew Draco was missing and if he could find him, Potter would come.

Or Severus perhaps. Severus would know who had taken him. Severus would know where to go.

“Someone will come sweetheart. An Auror…or Snape…”

“Harry…”

“Or Harry.”

“No…” Draco seemed to sink a little into the blanket, “he's not coming…”

“Don't, don't sweetheart. Stay awake, open your eyes.”

But Draco couldn't and Lucius knew it. He placed his hand flat against Draco's chest and felt the erratic heartbeat. His breaths were becoming short and labored. Lucius felt everything he was begin to crumble. He could not know to whom he should appropriate blame, to Moody for weakening Draco so much, to Semeuse for beating and raping him or himself for being such an evil shit that Draco had been tortured in the first place. It didn't matter now. His son was dying. The only thing he had ever done that was any good was dying and there was nothing he could do about it.

Someone had to be coming. Severus, or one of Aurors downstairs who might have heard the breaking glass and gone to see what the trouble was. Someone would come and they would help him. They would take Draco to the hospital and he would be fine.

“Draco, you have to listen to me. You must relax, I know it hurts but you must relax and breathe. It's very important, you must breathe for daddy.” He crawled beneath the blanket and held his son and once again a pain shot through him. He closed his eyes and made sure that he could breathe himself. He couldn't die, not yet anyway. “Keep breathing Draco, out and in, we'll do it together.” He kissed Draco roughly on his forehead, held him tight and said a silent prayer that someone came soon enough.

*******

The door to Severus' chambers were open when Hermione arrived and she stopped dead in the hall, clutching her bag with the journal and the phials of oil to her chest. Who was in there? Was she about to catch a couple of mischief making students who had decided to take leave of their senses and tempt fate? Minerva obviously thought so because she charged through the door to confront whoever was inside.

Instead of students they found grim faced Arthur Weasley and Dumbledore camped by the fireplace sobering themselves up with many cups of tea.

“What are you both doing in here?” Minerva demanded, “you scared me half to death!” She turned back and ushered Hermione into the room.

Hermione hesitated. She hadn't spoken to Dumbledore for a long time and she knew he was unhappy about her current situation. She wondered if he would feel better if she told him they were getting married. As for Arthur Weasley, she wasn't sure what he'd think. She doubted that he'd look on the match with a friendly eye. He would no doubt react the same way that Remus Lupin had. She felt her hand flutter uncertainly to her belly in a way that was fast becoming habit. Inside, almost unnoticed she felt a flutter, like the tiny wings of a butterfly.

“Professor Dumbledore, Mr Weasley…” she cringed at the sound her voice made, startled like a sixteen year old caught shagging in the rose bushes and not like the mature woman she was hoping to sound like. She clutched the little bag tighter and flattened her hand against her stomach.

“I take it they've gone,” Minerva said, forcing Hermione further into the room. She was hoping to be able to force Hermione to go to bed, but now it looked as though she would be trying to force Albus and Arthur to leave. “Did Severus cause much of a fuss about taking Harry?”

“No Minerva,” Dumbledore smiled gently at her, “I think he was fairly impatient to get moving and he was in no mood to argue. I have no doubt that he will lose Harry somewhere along the way. Harry refused help with his knee and Severus won't wait for him.”

Minerva smiled ruefully. She could imagine Severus not only losing Harry in London but ensuring he stayed lost. The museum was in such an unsavory part of London. If Severus had his way he'd no doubt have Harry sold off as some kind of rent boy and would be pocketing the cash as they spoke.

No, Minvera smiled to herself. That was taking the fantasy too far. She giggled inwardly and stopped herself, she could hardly start laughing now at some absurd thought, not when the situation was so very serious.

Albus caught the edges of the thought however and chuckled.

“Hermione, come and have some tea,” Minerva ordered and summoned a chair from across the room.

Hermione shuffled to the fireplace and smiled as cheerfully as possible. Arthur didn't look at her and she felt her stomach sink. He knew about Severus, she was sure of that, although whether or not he knew about the baby she did not know. Once again her protective hand found its way to her belly and she silently spoke to the child inside. Would people always be doing that? Avoiding her eye or giving her disapproving or disbelieving looks?

She hardened her determined chin and accepted the hot tea from Minerva.

“Was St Mungo's successful?” Dumbledore asked, “all is well?”

“Yes…yes Professor,” she looked at Arthur Weasley who still wasn't looking at her but had pricked up his ears, “the baby is fine.”

“And how far along are you?”

“A little over three months, Sir.”

“I see,” Dumbledore sipped his tea and watched her over the rim. She shuffled self consciously but Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he spotted the ring on her finger. “And congratulations appear to be in order.”

Hermione twisted the ring and flushed, but she couldn't help but smile.

“It's lovely isn't it?” Minerva said, seeming to forget that she disliked diamonds.

“It is indeed, diamonds are such pretty things. But I'm surprised he didn't give you a Dragon Stone, he seems to like those.”

“I chose the ring, Sir.”

“Ah, well that makes more sense. Severus could never see the beauty in something so simple as a diamond, and I'm glad he has found himself a woman who can. What say you Arthur?”

Arthur couldn't speak, just as he couldn't look Hermione in the face. He could only consider that the girl had taken total leave of her senses. And what about Snape? He was a teacher! He had obviously taken advantage of his position in the worst possible way. It was disgusting, unethical and any number of things in between.

But then again he could not imagine anyone ever taking advantage of Hermione Granger. He had learned during the war, this was one girl who was more than capable of looking after herself.

Everyone seemed to swelter in the awkward silence and Hermione finally broke it. “Will they bring Mr. Malfoy back with them?”

“Lucius?” Dumbledore asked surprised, “I don't know, I think it will depend on the circumstances. I don't think they would go and remove him from the exhibition.”

“Harry wouldn't do that,” Hermione said quickly, “and he wouldn't let Severus do it either.”

“But, if he is in any danger I believe they will bring him here.” Dumbledore looked into her brown eyes, “why do you ask?”

He already knew, Hermione felt as though he had already plucked it out of her brain. “Mr. Malfoy did something before he was Kissed. He discovered that his line went back to our celestial beginnings and he summoned an Angel to protect his soul, but it didn't quite work out the way he thought it would, and he's stuck. His mind is active I think, but his body is like any one else who has ever been Kissed.”

“He's conscious?” Arthur spluttered before Dumbledore could respond, “he's aware of what's happening?”

“Yes, apparently. Severus and Draco believe so anyway. They found it all in his journal and they sent a spy to the museum. Mr Malfoy sent word back to Severus for him to keep Draco away because the Curator wanted Draco. But Severus kept working alone. He's almost worked out the ritual and the potion…”

“What?” Arthur looked confused, “what do you mean he has worked out a ritual and potion? What is he planning to do?”

“They were trying to work out how to release him from his bind…”

Release him? What do you mean release him?” Arthur asked in disbelief.

“Severus was going to talk to you about…”

“I told Draco Malfoy that I would return his father to his care if he testified for me!” Arthur sat back in shock. “He made out that it was such a decision. He said all he wanted was his father back and I agreed to it!”

Minerva was giving him her ‘I told you so' look.

“He played me!” Arthur cried.

“Well, what did you expect?” Hermione all but snapped. “He is Draco Malfoy after all. What did you think he was going to do? Draco wouldn't just give you what you want. He'd always have to get something of equal value in return.”

“And he would have released him! He would have released that animal into our world!”

Dumbledore held up a calming hand. “Arthur, stop. Severus would never allow him to do that.”

“But he lied to me. I thought he had changed, I thought Harry had changed him!”

Hermione shook her head. “Mr Weasley, Harry would never change him, Harry wouldn't want to change him. But Professor Dumbledore is right, Severus wouldn't let him do that. He has an idea, he was going to speak with you about it. There is an ancient potion, Severus says it has no name, but that it can remove a Wizard's magical powers.”

All three of her companions fell into a deathly silence, their faces shocked. After a time Arthur suddenly began to laugh, almost hysterical at the very idea.

“Lucius would rather die than be subjected to that,” Dumbledore said, his voice sounded a little strained. “I can't believe that Severus would think this a solution.”

“He said it was the only way that anyone could be sure that Mr. Malfoy couldn't escape from prison and that he wouldn't be a danger any more.” She looked anxiously to Minerva who had gone chalky. “Severus thinks that Mr. Malfoy would consider it, for Draco's sake.”

“I can assure you,” Arthur said, finally coming out of his hysteria, “it would take more than loss of his powers to convince me to release Lucius Malfoy.”

*******

Harry couldn't quite believe just how fast Professor Severus Snape could run. Ahead of him the Professor seemed nothing more than a black speck in the wet London street and although Harry could hear every pounding foot-fall he could not keep pace, not with his knee as bad as it was. He wished he had allowed Madam Pomfrey to come and look at it before they had left, but it would have taken too much time, and he hadn't wanted to be left behind. Now however he began to wonder if he was just going to be holding Snape back.

Snape rounded a corner and Harry lost sight of him. If Snape got into the Museum first Harry decided he would not beg to catch up. It would be better for someone to get to Draco fast.

Unbeknown to Harry, he and Snape had something in common. They both hated London. Harry had plans to live in the city, but it was more through lack of any other option. Unlike Ron, who found the city exciting after years of living in the relative seclusion of the country, Harry thought the city dirty and noisy. It was an impression that was only heightened tonight. The rain had only served to make the black grit that got up your nose and into your skin on most days wet and the resulting smell was foul. They were running through a popular part of Kings Cross, dodging Muggle club goers who turned to give an obligatory “Oi!” if they were accidentally knocked or brushed as the two Wizards passed them.

Harry rounded the corner that Snape had passed moments earlier. He'd never been to the Museum, he did not know what to expect, but there it was, looming up ahead, seemingly unnoticed by the Muggles heading to the various clubs and brothels that populated the area.

And Snape had stopped at the door. Stopped because two Aurors were stationed at the door and would not let him pass.

“Look, I don't have time for this. The Curator has taken a boy. I am a Professor at Hogwarts and I have been sent here by Dumbledore to get him…”

“I know who you are Professor Snape, but don't you think we would have noticed if the Curator had kidnapped someone?”

“Clearly you haven't noticed much at all,” Snape replied irritably.

Harry ran up to the door, panting from the effort and clutching his knee. He didn't pause, he simply drew his wand, yelled “Stupefy” twice and the Aurors slumped to the ground. He then crashed his way through the door without a backward glance.

Snape couldn't help but look impressed, he also felt a small thrill of pleasure at the fact that Potter would no doubt have to answer for it the next day. The he followed the limping hero into the Museum.

“Where is the Sais room?” Harry asked desperately as he looked around the darkened entrance hall.

Snape looked in all directions, then saw the sign that indicated where the Death Eater Exhibition was being housed out of the corner of his eye, and jogged off towards it. Harry followed painfully in his wake.

“If you can't walk you should have stayed behind,” Snape panted.

“Oh right, if I hadn't come you'd still be at the door arguing with those Aurors.”

“I would have stupefied them eventually…” Snape burst through the entrance to the Sais room and found his feet grind to a halt. Behind him Harry did the same thing.

The room had been utterly destroyed. Cabinets of Dark Arts Artifacts seemed to have exploded of their own volition, showering the room with glass and dispensing objects all over the floor. Snape made his way through the room to the antechamber that held the Death Eaters and drew a harsh breath.

Each of the glass cases had ruptured, slicing into the occupants and inflicting wounds which had no doubt been fatal to each. Lucius was missing.

”What happened?” Harry breathed, “The Curator…did he kill them?”

Snape doubted it. From all that Non had told him of Curator Semeuse there was no way he would destroy something in his museum so viciously. He thought back to Christmas and the way the case had exploded in time to save Draco once before. “Lucius did it,” he said with certainty.

“But why?” Harry asked, “Why would he kill his friends like this?”

Snape looked at the bodies of the Death Eaters on the floor. People he knew, but he would never have called them friends. He doubted Lucius would have either but like many in the Wizarding world, Lucius would have thought they deserved better than those cases. “He put them out of their misery.”

Harry swallowed and opened the map that Non had drawn.

“Show me,” Snape ordered.

Harry could have argued, but standing in this room he decided it just wasn't worth it. He wanted out of there as soon as was possible. He handed Snape the map.

The stairs were through a door at the back of the dark room but Snape didn't bother telling Harry. He assumed Harry would just follow him and Severus was correct. They began their ascent up the stairs, Snape holding the map, confident that they would soon find the three doors together. Non had marked several landings that contained the doorway portals, but they soon found that the museum was not what it seemed. They reached landing after landing and at no point did they find three doors side by side. On the occasions that they bothered to stop and try a door, they would often find it opened to one room and once closed and opened again it would open on another. There was a method to it. Snape explained in an effort to understand it himself. Certain combinations of doors and certain combinations of opening and closing would take you wherever you wanted to go. Which was fine, if they could just find three doors in a row.

After seven flights of stairs Snape finally stopped on a landing and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. His excuse should Potter ask, was that he was being nice enough to wait for him. The truth was he was exhausted and beginning to wonder if he was getting too old for this. He pulled out the map and stared at it, hoping that the House Elves scrawl would suddenly reveal some kind of answer to him. It did not. And then Harry arrived, panting with exhaustion.

“How much further?” Harry asked, rubbing his knee and wishing he could just collapse somewhere.

Snape turned the map upside down to see if it made any more sense and silently cursed the illogical creature who had drawn it. He looked at the short landing and the next set of stairs. They seemed never ending and Snape himself felt like a tiny insignificant creature set adrift on a never ending path upward. Forced to climb stairs until he died – some kind of punishment for his sins perhaps.

But Potter was with him and while Snape had no doubt that Potter had sins to confess he could scarce believe they were so bad as to send him to this particular hell.

“Why is that no matter how far we go we never seem to get anywhere?” Harry asked, not entirely confident with Snape's silence in the face of his last question.

“The museum is built so that the exterior is small but its interior is infinite.”

“Like the Tardis?”

“The what?”

“The Tardis…Dr Who? Don't tell me you don't know who Dr. Who is, he was your time after all!”

Snape stared blankly at Harry.

“It's a television show…Professor Dumbledore loves it. He got all the video's over the summer and forced us to sit through them.”

Snape, who had never watched television in his life, just stared in disgust.

Harry fell silent for a moment, and then; “Alright, so the interior is infinite, but that doesn't explain why we can't find these doors. There has to be a shortcut, you can't tell me that the old man I saw climbs these stairs every day.”

“No doubt he has his ways. Unfortunately we do not know them, now if you could shut the fuck up for five minutes I might well be able to work out where we are.”

“Work out where we are?” Harry cried, “you have the map! You mean to tell me you have no idea where we are?”

Snape didn't answer, he was puzzling over the map and then suddenly he was looking at a part of the wall very close to the ground.

“I spent a lot of time deciphering the Marauders Map,” Harry said as tactfully as he could, “so, maybe I should look at it.”

Snape was looking at the map again and then at that same spot on the wall.

“Oi, Snape, I'm talking to you.”

“Shut up Potter.”

“Do you want me to look at the map?”

“Not particularly. I know where we are.”

Harry's eyebrows rose skeptically. “Ok, so where are we?”

“In the Museum of Magical Arts and Antiquities,” Snape replied silkily, “and we have to go down four flights.”

“But there were no doors down there,” Harry argued.

“Yes there were.”

“No, we both saw – there was two doors, never three.”

Snape walked away from him, jogging quickly back down the staircase they had just come up, and after a moment Harry sighed and followed him.

When they reached the correct landing Harry couldn't help but look smug. There were no doors here at all. “I don't see any doors,” he said in his best ‘I told you so' voice.

“I do,” Snape replied, but he did not sound particularly happy about it.

“Where?”

Snape pointed wordlessly and Harry followed the line of his finger to a point near the floor.

Harry's eyes widened. “Those?” he asked, thoroughly befuddled, “they can't be doors. I thought they were vents!”

Again Snape gave him a withering glare, successfully masking the fact that he too had thought the doors to be vents. It made perfect sense now. This was how the House Elves got from place to place when they weren't Apparating. He pointed his wand at the middle door and instructed it to enlarge.

Nothing happened.

Harry stared openly at him, blinked several times, but wisely decided not to comment.

Snape crouched in front of the door and opened it. Getting down onto his hands and knees he could see a long corridor on the other side and at the end two regular sized doors that must be the “big doors” that led to the Curator's chambers.

“Well?” Harry asked impatiently.

“I think this is it,” Snape replied. He sat back a bit and sized the door up visually. Then he peeled his thick woolen jumper up over his head.

“Wait…” Harry looked panicked, “how…how are we going to get through there?”

“Crawl,” Snape replied as though the answer was obvious. He discarded his jumper beside the tiny doorway.

Harry gaped at the Potions Master. Knowing full well that he could hardly comment on the faded black T-shirt, he was taken aback by just how thin the man was. But of course, at that moment, being thing was going to work in Snape's favor when it came to getting through that door. He watched as Snape lay on his side and began to wriggle through, arms first. Harry absently scratched his belly as he watched the skinny torso, waist, hips and legs disappear through the small opening. Snape was incredibly thin, but Harry, though slim, was a healthy eighteen year old who had left his undernourished days at Privet Drive far behind him. He may be short but he came complete with broad shoulders, muscle and a slightly soft little belly that Draco liked to tickle when they were intimate, but was not going to do him any favors in this instance.

He seriously doubted his ability to get through that door.

On the other side of the door he could hear Snape shuffling as he got back on his feet.

“If you're coming Potter I suggest you do it now, otherwise I am leaving you behind.”

Harry swallowed. He had no jumper to remove and doubted that taking his t-shirt off was going to make one bit of difference. He struggled painfully to the floor and tried to mimic, as best he could, Snape's action of sliding through the doorway.

It was a tight squeeze.

“Oh fuck, how did you get through here?”

“Shh!” Snape looked around, like the rest of the museum the corridor was eerily quiet. No sound came from the distant doorway and Snape could see that something was horribly wrong here. Like the Sais room, this corridor was in not so much disarray as it was a disaster zone. Paintings had been knocked from the walls, the ones that remained were drenched, as though rain had showered down upon them. The carpet was wet beneath his boots and the corridor was cold.

He turned back to Harry who was struggling through the doorway and appeared to be stuck around his middle. For a moment Snape was absurdly reminded of the door plaque on Hermione's bed room, Pooh Bear stuck coming out of his hole after eating too much honey. He wished that he had brought a shrinking potion with him, not that he would ever take it himself, they had a dreadful habit of leaving ones genitals at the shrunken size – but he'd have no problems giving one to Potter.

“Would you help me…please,” Harry asked looking frustrated with his lack of progress.

Snape considered leaving him there for the Aurors to locate once they woke up, but he did not know what was going to happen in that room…and Hermione would kill him if he left her best friend stuck half way through a wall. He reached down and grabbed Harry's wrists and pulled hard.

And Harry yelled in pain as he came through, tearing out the doorway and taking part of the wall with him.

“Would you be quiet!”

Harry glared at him, hating him and wondering just why Hermione was so infatuated with the skinny old bastard.

Snape looked down at Harry and smirked. His pants were riding low on his hips and there was a nasty gash over his hip bone – no doubt the cause of the yell.

“That old man does not use those doors,” Harry panted as he struggled to stand up.

“Well obviously Potter, but we don't know how he gets around, and we only have a map drawn by a House Elf.”

Harry dabbed his fingers at his throbbing hip and they came away bloody. He looked down to inspect the damage and felt a little sick. He wondered if Wizards could get Tetanus.

“Are you ready?” Snape asked.

Harry looked at the doors at the end of the corridor, they were open, though one seemed to be hanging off its hinges. He drew his wand and they both started off towards them.

********

Hermione chewed her lip and poked the fire with a viciousness akin to Minerva's earlier efforts at Grimmauld Place. She almost dislodged a log and held her breath as it slipped a little. Severus would not thank her for burning all of his possessions to ash. Severus was not going to thank her anyway, not after her choice words to Arthur Weasley.

Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut? Why could she not have simply come back and focused her attention on Draco like everyone else and kept her mouth firmly shut? Especially in front of Arthur Weasley. Why did she have to start on about Lucius Malfoy?

In front of Arthur Weasley; the soon to be new Minister of Magic, for goodness sakes! It was about as sane as suggesting they call their child Sirius James if it was a boy! She should have left it to Severus to negotiate. He was right, she was so eager to prove her own intelligence that she didn't think before she spoke. She was so busy learning the content of every book that she neglected to learn the basic necessary life skill of shutting up at the right moment?

Dumbledore had taken Arthur back to his office to continue the argument and, as Minerva hissed to Hermione, try and talk some sense into Arthur. Minerva had noticed Hermione getting over excited and had hurried to get the men out of there and had instructed Hermione to rest. Hermione was not going to rest though. She couldn't, not when she was this angry at herself. The argument had stretched from Lucius Malfoy to Hermione's life choices and so she did not want to go anywhere near the Headmaster's office. Severus would come and tell her when they returned, and she could confront the horror then.

She had locked the door once they left her in peace and gone to the wardrobe where she found that Severus had left all of the things he had brought for her in the same place she had hung them. She found the soft silk pajamas he had given her when she had stayed at The Fenn and wrapped herself in a long green dressing-gown. Then she had settled in front of the fire and had begun the process of berating herself over and over again.

At least she hadn't been fool enough to mention that she had the journal with her – and Minerva had mercifully said nothing about it.

Because Minerva knew how to keep her mouth shut!

She opened the journal yet again and studied the ritual. It was written over a number of pages, in no particular order. She went so far as to tear the pages out of the journal and place them on the side table so that she could create an order without losing them inside the book. She had placed the phials of oil on the table in their ancient stand. She had no idea where she would find feathers and blood.

There had to be a trick to it. She stared at the journal. “What is the trick to the ritual? What is the key?”

The pages of the book began to turn, filing wildly through the book until they reached their mark. She poured over the page and found a photograph of Draco there. She lifted it out, it was not one that had been spat at Harry and it was a page that had remained hidden from her until now. There were probably thousands more hidden pages, the journal was probably dripping with evil.

She cringed a little and picked out the photograph. She turned it over and found writing on the back.

“I am the seeker. I am the bringer of light. Lady of wisdom, hidden behind the veil, sees my struggle and knows my travail. I call upon the great lady, known as Sophia, Minerva, Artemis, Isis, Hecate, Bendidia. Guide me now as I search out the roots of my beginnings through histories remains.

With my lady as my lantern, I am the hermit seeker. Join the Angels hand in mine. Blood of the Angel. Blood of my kind. Blood of the lord. Serapis, Draconis, Osiris, Sirius, Apis. Bringer of blood. Bringer of life. Bringer of release.”

She frowned. This was the key? He had to have been desperate to do this. The ritual to create the bind was far easier than the ritual to release. How could he have risked it?

Because he was desperate. He had been terrified and anything that could offer hope was worth it.

They could not bring another Angel down. He had called down the Metatron who had given him the name of the first of his line. Azazel the Fallen One had then been summoned and imprisoned inside of him. He already had the Angel, and there was no other Angel that they could call to hold his hand for release – was there?

“Join the Angels hand in mine.”

But what Angel?

She closed her eyes. What if the Curator hurt Draco? What if he raped him? What if he killed him? What would it do to Harry for that to happen? He already blamed himself for so many deaths, how would he be able to stand this one?

She opened her eyes. It was not good to start thinking about other things. She focused her eyes on the photograph.

“Blood of the Angel…blood of my kind.  Serapis, Draconis, Osiris, Sirius, Apis. Bringer of blood, bringer of life, bringer of release.”

Ok. So Lucius Malfoy calls down Azazel and imprisoned the first of his line inside him. But there was supposed to be another Angel, also of his line, whose blood would release him.

“Blood of my kind.  Serapis, Draconis, Osiris, Sirius, Apis.”

“Blood of my kind…Draconis…”

“Draco is the Angel,” Hermione said to the fireplace. “That's the key. We've been running around looking for bloody Angels, and he's been here all along.”

********

Harry found that he instinctively slowed as he drew nearer the ruined doors of the Curator's chambers. He knew that he shouldn't. He knew that he should just be charging ahead, just as the Harry of old would have done, but as he stared at those doors he found he could not. Draco was in there. He knew it. He could feel Draco's presence, like an extra sense. Draco was in there and it could be bad.

It was just so quiet.

Had there been yelling or screaming or crying or something – but there was nothing at all.

Ahead of him Snape had also slowed down. He hesitated at the doors, but did not go through them. Harry drew to a stop beside him and they both stared at the entrance way.

”They're dead,” Snape said and Harry wondered if he knew that he'd said it aloud.

Harry shook his head. They couldn't afford to think that way and the expression on Snape's face told Harry well enough that though he was voicing his fears, it was not a certainty.

It was cold. From inside the room icy air seemed to emanate out to them, as though all of the windows had been left open and the night had crept inside. They could both remember a quiet cold like this and although Harry could not think where or how he remembered it, Snape knew full well. It had been cold like this all those years ago when he'd entered the ruin of a child's room in Godrics Hollow. But that room had not been quiet like this, in that room there had been the sound of a baby crying – a portent of the horror within.

Snape looked at Harry Potter and felt his stomach roll. Something was dead in that room.

Keeping their wands raised they both entered the room.

A storm had swept through it. Aside from the bed there was nothing in that room that had been left intact. Furniture had overturned, mirrors shattered, boxes, crates and traveling trunks we scattered and upended, their contents strewn carelessly over the wreckage of the room itself. And everywhere was littered with long black feathers, as though a murder of crows had come here and shed. As with the hallway, the room was wet. Water had soaked into everything, their feet made a strange squelching noise as they walked and each foot fall seemed to end in a strange suction into the carpet.

But the bed was dry. The bed was untouched and there was someone in that bed, huddled under blankets.

A body lay twisted on the floor. He was instantly recognizable to Snape who had seen him well enough before, but Archibald Semeuse looked nothing like the well groomed man who had greeted him so many months before. He was naked, his silver hair was soaked and yet it seemed to stand on end. He stared sightlessly at the ceiling, his mouth opened in what could have been a scream of terror or a maniacal laugh. Either way, he was most certainly dead and judging from the way he faced them with his body twisted a hundred and eighty degrees, his passing had not been a peaceful one.

Harry made a strange retching noise in his throat.

Oh great! The fucking boy who lived is going to throw up.

But Harry didn't. He knew he'd seen worse, but his eyes kept focusing on the man's neck and how the skin looked so much like a wringing towel. He looked away and finally forced his focus to the bed.

Oh Gods, please don't let him be dead.

Snape did not hesitate. He walked past Harry and leaned over the side of the bed, reaching forward to grasp the covers and pull them back.

And was suddenly thrown back himself as the blankets were hurled away and something came at him with a banshee like yell.

It took him less than a second to know who it was, but he also knew that Potter was there, wand drawn. He grappled desperately behind him, trying to save himself from the fall while fending off the attack coming at him from the front. A steadying hand found the centre of his back and he realized that Harry Potter had just saved him from falling on his arse and almost too late he saw Potter's wand fly past his face in the direction of the attacker.

“DON'T!” Snape roared, not knowing if Potter had seen who it was or if he was reacting solely on instinct and would seek to fend off the attacker with some kind of hex. Snape knew it was Lucius. Lucius following the most primal and basic of his instincts – protecting his young. Everything seemed to freeze. From the corner of his eye he could see Potter's wand pointing past his face, and in front of him, emaciated and frail, Lucius shivered, snarled and pointed a wand of his own, only an inch from Snape's eye.

“Lucius…” Snape forced his voice to steady, “Lucius, it's me…you're alright…”

Lucius was shaking, holding himself up somehow with a body that seemed insubstantial beneath the shapeless white shift he was wearing. He looked through haunted grey eyes at his old friend and his eyes widened and now seemed too large for his face.

“You're alright Lucius…we're here to help you.”

Lucius didn't stop shaking, but slowly the wand lowered and he coughed out a laugh and then coughed again, this time a sob. And then he fell forward and his arms found their way around Snape's neck as he collapsed into the first comforting embrace in what seemed like a lifetime.

The back of the shift was a bloody mess and yet he did not seem to care, he just wanted arms around him, if only for a moment. Snape stiffened a little as he realized that Lucius' back had been torn to ribbons and he wondered how it had happened. Lucius was giving no answers to that question however, his only concern was for his son.

“Draco…” Lucius whispered. Now that he was saved his strength waned and he seemed to be on the verge of falling into a stupor.

“I have serum here,” Snape said quickly, “he's going to be fine.” But even as he said it he found himself hoping against hope that he was right. Draco could well be dead under there. And if he wasn't, Snape had no idea if he could do this. He certainly hadn't moved and Lucius' screech would have been enough to wake him had he been asleep.

“Quickly,” Lucius murmured, “please…”

Snape craned his neck around to Harry behind him. “Take Lucius would you?”

Harry looked from the covered figure in the bed to Lucius in Snape's arms and decided he would much rather get to Draco. But he had some common sense. Snape was far better qualified to look after Draco than he was at that moment, and so he should just take Lucius was Snape had asked. But he hesitated, it was one thing to have gained some kind of begrudging respect for the man, it was another to actually touch him. He gathered his nerve and reached out to take the frail body from Snape.

It felt strange to be holding Lucius Malfoy. It was better to think of him as Draco's father somehow. The body did not tense at all with the changing of arms and Harry realized that Lucius had shifted consciousness somehow and now he was not quite awake. He was so still that for a moment Harry feared he had died when suddenly he blinked.

This is the Kiss, this is what it does to a body.

Harry felt his skin crawl, but he held the bloody body a little tighter.

Snape tugged at the blanket which had been wrapped tightly around Draco. Lucius had taken great care to secure him, to keep him warm and safe. Unwrapping him seemed wrong somehow, but it had to be done.

”Draco,” Snape said quietly, hoping for some kind of response from his godson. Then the blankets finally gave way and the damage was there for all to see.

Harry made a noise like a wounded animal. For a moment Snape thought the boy would drop Lucius and then go and macerate the Curator's body to a bloody pulp. Draco was almost unrecognizable such was the swelling on his face. His pale body seemed nothing more than stark white flesh and large black bruises. And there was blood. Blood on his back, blood running down his legs.

Blood because he had been torn open. It was Snape's turn to wretch. He felt for a pulse.

“Is he alive?” Harry asked, but his voice was so quiet that Snape almost missed it.

“I don't know,” Snape replied. He felt for the pulse again, searching for the right point, his shaking hands making the task all the more difficult. “Come on Draco,” he murmured almost to himself, “you're not the type to just up and die.”

And he was right. There was a pulse, erratic but stubborn and desperately trying to keep it's owner alive. Snape pulled the silver box from his pocket and tapped the top. It expanded until it was full size again and Snape swallowed as he opened it. Inside the syringe full of Navitas seemed to glow.

“What Professor Dumbledore was saying,” Harry said, “what did he mean? Where do you have to put that?”

Snape hissed for him to be quiet. He knew well enough Dumbledore's warning, it was currently ringing in his head. The application of Navitas in such emergencies was a lost art. After the fall of Grindelwald, Madragora had fallen into obscurity and its cures were all but forgotten. The Healer who had taken care of Draco when he had first been taken into St Mungo's had been an old man, someone who remembered Grindelwald's terror – and who had died not long ago. Snape had not lied when he said that he knew the basic principles of the application, but he had never trained as a healer. Part and parcel of becoming a Potions Master was to learn basic medical knowledge in relation to the potions you created, but he was certainly not qualified for this. He quickly speculated on whether or not Poppy Pomfrey could do a better job and whether or not Draco would survive the necessary journey by Portkey.

But judging from the blood that suddenly streaked out from between Draco's lips and down the side of cheek, Snape figured not. Draco's lungs were becoming too strained. The Madragora was eating away at them. He was not going to withstand being whisked through the atmosphere and bumped across the country.

And so it had to be done now. Snape almost chewed his lip in the same way Hermione would if she was confronted with such a prospect.

The needle had to enter the heart, but at an exact point so that it cured him, not killed him. There were ways to find that spot and he knew it, but he studied the pale flesh first, hoping for a mark, a scar, anything that would give him a tell tale clue of where that Healer had put a needle almost a year before. But there were no scars on Draco's chest, nothing but bruises marred that skin.

“Hurry Severus, he's dying.”

Snape jumped as the voice spoke straight into his brain. He looked at Lucius in amazement, although he knew he shouldn't be. Non had told him that Lucius could communicate that way – however he did it, it was still unnerving.

He placed his open hand on Draco's chest and felt for the beat of his heart. It came to him, spasmodic at best. He closed his eyes and tried to center himself. The heart would tell him where to go, he just had to listen and feel. He held his breath, waiting and hoping and suddenly there it was, a feeling of warmth near the bottom of his palm. He didn't bother to open his eyes, he simply grabbed the needle and plunged it in, straight through his own hand, that tiny pinpoint of warmth and into the beating muscle.

Please let it be the right place.

Draco coughed, splattering blood across Snape's face.

Harry started, swaying a little at the sight of the needle passing through Snape's hand and into Draco's chest, but wanting to reach for Draco.

“Don't,” Snape cried, “don't touch him…he's fine, just don't touch him.”

Harry tried to sit back and remained in horrified silence. He gripped Lucius tighter, digging his fingers into the skinny arms and yet Lucius offered no protest. He too seemed to be holding his breath and waiting.

Draco coughed again, bringing up more blood, and then he took a long merciful breath. His eyes snapped open and he looked Snape full in the face, and then he fell back in the bed unconscious. Unconscious but breathing.

Snape withdrew the needle and flexed his injured hand. Navitas was a marvelous creation, the trail of it wormed its way through the wound and he could feel the flesh already knitting itself together. With sudden briskness he began wrapping Draco again. ”Make sure you have Lucius secure.”

Harry was startled. Snape was already pulling Draco off the bed. “Is…is he alright? Shouldn't we make sure he's alright?”

“He'll be fine. He'll be better off if we aren't here. Now get Lucius ready, we're going.”

Harry fastened his grip on Lucius with one arm. From somewhere he could hear the sound of footsteps. The Aurors had woken at last and he knew that if they got there they wouldn't let them leave – not with the body on the floor like that and certainly not with Lucius. They needed to get Draco out of there. He held the chain of the Portkey out and Snape ducked his head under it so it was around both their necks. He had Draco securely in his arms and he gave one final look to the door as Harry activated the Portkey and they were away.

Thanks for all the wonderful reviews. I got so many e-mails with suggestions about what I could do to save Draco and I hope this didn't upset too many people – but his fate was sealed a while back.