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Bad Faith	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 6104 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 9
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- 11
IX

Panacea Draconis

The world often continues to allow evil

because it isn't angry enough.

—Bede Jarrett

: : : : :

Draco normally liked the cold. He always liked rain and snow and thunderstorms. He would spend the entire day sitting on the soft, dry hay on the floor of the Manor's stables, curled against the warming side of his favourite horse, listening to the downpour, the growling in the clouds overhead.

Right now, shivering against the raging wind blowing in off the ocean, Draco hated the cold. It was the wrong kind of cold. Nothing here was warm or soft or comforting; the cold here was the kind that seeped through his skin right down to the bone, despite the expensive fur cloak he was wearing, penetrating the Warming Charm his mother had cast on it. A blood-freezing, mind-numbing, deathly sort of cold.

He was in a cold, dank, inhumane abyss and he was absolutely furious.

'What do you mean, we can't see him?' Draco demanded loudly.

'Draco,' his mother whispered, warningly.

She was slightly behind him, on his left, and Draco, halfway through his sixteenth year, matched her in height. She had her hand on his shoulder; to anyone else, it would have looked as if she were comforting him. Draco knew better; her hand was on the shoulder of his wand arm, her nails digging through the thick wool into the joint, preventing any sudden movements.

He ignored her warning. 'What do you mean,' he said again, addressing the withered old wizard before him, 'I can't see him?'

The guard seemed immune to the venom in Draco's words. He'd heard worse, probably. 'What that means, young Mr Malfoy, is that, unfortunately, you may not visit at the present time.'

'He's my father,' Draco said, hoping these words would get through to the man. 'It's Christmas, and he's my father. I want to see him.'

The man pressed his lips together, forming two thin, colourless lines in his face. He looked as if he might be scrunching his nose against the biting wind.

'I'm sorry, young Mr Malfoy, but that is not possible at this time.'

Maybe this man was thick, and Draco needed to speak more slowly, and repeat words more often. Perhaps that would work, and then the man would understand that this was his father—a convict, perhaps, a Death Eater, even a murderer, but none of this was relevant to Draco's point, which was, quite simply, that this man was also his father.

Draco tried again. 'It's Christmas,' he insisted.

'I'm sorry,' the man offered once more. 'Lucius Malfoy is a Class A detainee, and is not permitted visitors at this time. Even,' he added, with some force, before Draco could interrupt, 'direct family members. For the safety of all, I'm afraid.'

This man did not seem as sincerely sorry as he was claiming to be. His mouth had a peculiar twist, almost a smirk but not quite, and he was peering down at Draco and his mother over his crooked nose as if they were the lowest scum on this Godforsaken rock they called an island.

Draco was not scum, nor did he like being looked at as though he were. It infuriated him to be looked at like this. Potter had looked at him like that every day for the past six years of his life. And speaking of which, Potter was the reason his father was here. Why couldn't Potter just have died, died like a normal boy would have died, so that Draco's father was at home with him, where they could pretend everything was all right with the world, not locked away on a cold, lonely island in a cell, a situation which screamed, explicitly, that everything was not all right with the world, and that Draco was stuck at the centre of it.

Draco had already decided that he was going to kill him. Draco was going to go back to Hogwarts in a week, and kill Harry Potter, just like he was going to kill Dumbledore. Then, maybe, the Dark Lord would forgive his father. And then, Draco would be arrested and maybe then, after his trial and sentencing and being shipped onto this dank, cold, sea-torn rock—maybe, then, Draco could finally see his father.

Because he hadn't seen his father since last Christmas, before the Incident. During the summer, his father had been on trial, and Draco had sometimes seen him in court, though only from a distance—there had been no bail and Lucius had been permitted no time with his family during his trial; none of the Death Eaters had. And then the Wizengamot had sentenced them to Azkaban, and Draco had caught one small glimpse of his father being led away with the others, and that had been that.

Surely, this man could understand Draco's frustration. Draco had never gone without seeing his father for so long. A dedicated businessman, Lucius had spent a lot of time working, sure enough, but he had always made time for Draco and Narcissa. Whether it be duelling lessons or dinners together or reading in the library or even awkward, unnecessary talks warning of the repercussions of siring illegitimate children, his father had always been there.

Draco dropped his eyes from the man's face, defeated. He stared at the grey stone floor, and said something he had never said to anyone before.

'Please.' He said it very quietly, but then was afraid the man hadn't heard him, so he tried again, louder. 'Please. He's my father, sir. It's Christmas. I won't be long—I just want—I need to see him.'

Inwardly, Draco was wincing—he felt small, as if he were eleven all over again, pleading for a new broom—only this time, the pleading was so, so, so much more real, and he would have given up his right to any and all things bequeathed to him for just five minutes with his father.

The man tilted his gaze down at Draco from his seat behind the high desk, putting his crooked nose at a more severe angle. Draco looked up at him, hoping that maybe, just maybe, that half-hidden smirk was gone and that maybe, this man wasn't glaring at him as if he were the spawn of the Devil.

The man wasn't. Draco was not the spawn of the Devil or even deserving of a smirk. The man was looking at Draco like he was scum, hardly worth scraping off his boot.

'No visitors,' the man said in a voice that was entirely too pleased with itself, 'until further notice.' Now, he did smirk, almost proudly, and indicated the exit Portkey. 'Have a Happy Christmas, Mr Malfoy.'

Draco took the Portkey in a hard grip, wondering whether he could crush the brass pot, if he poured enough of his anger and frustration into it. He was so intent on murdering the scuttle that he didn't notice his destination at first—he'd assumed they were returning to the Manor, and only upon looking up at his mother's discreet cough did he realise that was not in fact the case.

'What are we doing here?' he demanded.

Narcissa pursed her lips, hesitating, but before she could decide to answer, the dark gates of the mansion swung open, silently admitting them. A small, scraggly-looking house-elf was limping down the drive.

'Young Master Malfoy,' it wheezed, bowing down low until its nose dug into the dirt. 'Mrs Malfoy. Master wishes Yully to take you inside.'

They followed the skinny elf up to the house, which was roughly a fifth of Malfoy Manor's size but about five times as foreboding. Dark, twisted shapes inhabited the shadows of the garden, crawling up the sides of the front veranda, which featured thickly curtained windows that blocked any light that may have been on inside. Three storeys and an attic tall, it towered over them as they climbed the stairs to the front door, which Yully opened with a feeble wave of his hand.

The inside was just as depressing as the outside. Everything was darkly coloured—deep maroons, dark-stained hardwoods and black finishes adorned the entry hall, and even the chandelier was painted black to match the portrait frames and candle holders stuck to the walls. Ugly, lank faces sneered at them from the portraits as they passed by on the way to the lounge, too fair and beautiful to be truly welcome in this house.

The lounge wasn't much different from the hall. A heavily ornamented, deep red rug covered the majority of the floor. The sofa, settee and chairs were lined in thick black velvet, and many were already occupied. In the centre, sat in a thickly-cushioned Queen Anne, was an ancient-looking man, with grey, translucent skin that hung off his bones. He was wrapped in a rich, dark cloak and folded his spider-like fingers together as Draco came to a halt before him.

'Well?' he rasped. 'Did they allow you to see Lucius?'

Draco, raised not to speak when adults were speaking, waited for his mother to answer. It took him several moments to realise that the man's eyes and question were directed at him. 'No,' Draco said.

The old man closed his eyes and Draco looked over at his mother, whose gaze alone told him to keep his mouth shut unless absolutely necessary. When the old man opened his eyes again, Draco was staring at him impassively.

'They are, unfortunately, not as foolish as I would have liked to believe. But it is of no matter,' the old man continued. 'Come and stand before me, young Malfoy.'

Draco did not hesitate to do as he was told. This close, he could see the man's heavily scarred skin peeking out from underneath the dark robes as he withdrew his wand, the Dark Mark a rippled, an ebony blemish against his white skin. His thin white hair clung to his skull as he stood, bringing his forehead level with Draco's nose.

He looked beyond Draco's shoulder, over towards his mother. 'Leave us, witch,' he ordered. Rapid, fading footsteps confirmed that Narcissa was leaving the room. 'Your task,' the old man rasped quietly to Draco. 'Is it complete?'

Draco felt himself tense. 'Nearly.'

'Good, good,' the old man said, then turned to face the others in the room. Most of them, Draco recognised: all of his fellow Slytherin sixth-year boys—Vincent, Greg, Blaise and Theodore—as well as several of the girls—Daphne, Millicent, and a fourth-year girl Draco was pretty sure was Daphne's little sister, Asteria. There were also some seventh-years, and not all of them Slytherins, though Draco recognised very few of them, except as non-Gryffindors. There were two men standing at the back of the room who, Draco was sure, weren't students at all, and with a sinking feeling he suddenly realised why he was there.

'The Dark Lord,' the old man began, 'sees promise in all of you, and we have brought you here tonight to test your... dedication to his cause.'

At the word 'we', several hooded figures emerged from the shadows. Dark green, ghoulish masks concealed their identities, but Draco was sure he would know most of them by their first names. There were four of them, one at each corner of the room. One was holding his wand under the chin of a robust witch with black hair and pale skin whom Draco did not recognise. The eyes of his fellow students and the two strange men in the back darted from one cloaked figure to the next as the old man began speaking again.

'Serving the Dark Lord is an honour,' he continued, 'as well as a privilege. He only accepts those of the utmost loyalty, determination, and ability. He rewards those that serve him well, but will punish those that are deemed unworthy.'

The old man dragged this last word out, casting a long, accusing dark look across the room. Several people stirred.

'Bring her here,' the old man ordered.

The witch was shoved roughly forward. She stumbled, but regained her balance; when she did not fall, the Death Eater that had held her kicked her from behind. She hit the floor between Draco and the old man silently, jaw set, eyes dark and determined. 'Is this your idea of intimidation, Leofric?' she hissed at the old man, casting Draco a disdainful look. 'Using children?'

'You'd be surprised, my dear Hestia, to learn what children can be capable of,' the old man, Leofric, answered with a note of satisfaction. 'And learn you shall. Theodore?' A nasty smile wormed its way through the wrinkles of Leofric's face as he called the boy forward. 'Good lad,' he said. 'Why don't you demonstrate for the room and our guest just how potent the magic of a mere boy can be.'

Theodore did not smirk, or even blink. He removed his wand without hesitation and pointed it at the ragged form of the woman on the floor. What his motions lacked in feeling, however, his voice made up for; with more pleasure than Draco had ever heard on the tongue of another human being, Theodore hissed, 'Crucio.'

To her credit, the woman did not scream, but her body gave a sudden, violent jerk and twisted in on itself under such an onslaught of unseen agony. Theodore did not relent; if anything, her obvious pain encouraged him. He bared his teeth and drove the magic harder, deeper, and the woman bit down on her lip and swallowed a strangled noise.

'Enough,' Leofric snapped, and Theodore raised his wand.

The woman's convulsions died immediately, but much of her resilience had already been stripped away. She was shaking at his feet, body twitching beneath her robes, and Draco tried very hard not to look at her. This was a mistake, because now Draco found himself meeting Theodore's gaze, the thrill and exhilaration at his accomplishment written all over his face—and worse, his eagerness to continue.

'You must all learn to do this—as well,' Leofric added with a severe look at the young Nott, 'as when to contain it. Miss Jones has a large obligation to fulfil, and we cannot afford to have her permanently damaged before her time has come. Go,' he said to Theodore, who backed away. Then, to Draco's horror, the man turned to him. 'Mr Malfoy. Your family has always been particularly talented in this department. The Dark Lord is eager to see whether you have inherited the gift.'

Two of the masked Death Eaters stepped forward; one grabbed the witch by the shoulder and hauled her to her feet, while the other tore off and discarded her cloak and her heavy outer robes. Gripping her by the elbows and holding her arms behind her back, they held her steady before him, and Draco did not need to ask what they expected of him. He'd been trained to do this, he realised, without having even been aware of it. They had removed her heavy robes so he could easily distinguish her figure, could tell where all the important soft points were, the same points his father abused—and had taught him to instinctively abuse—when duelling. Only now...

'When you're ready, Mr Malfoy,' Leofric said, and stood aside.

Of course, it wasn't as simple as jabbing his wand at her, throwing a few Stinging Hexes. Those would hurt, surely, but they wouldn't be anything close to the Cruciatus. This had to be torture, and Draco had no idea how he was supposed to torture another human being. The desire to cause pain for pain's sake alone, he just didn't understand it. The screams alone—they could belong to his mother, for all he knew, and—

And then Draco realised that they probably would belong to his mother, if he didn't do this right.

He quickly analysed the body before him—still, he purposely did not look at her face, because he could not look the woman in the eye and consciously condemn her to this. He kept his eyes below her neckline and zoned in on the areas he should focus on—underarms, backs of the knees, lower abdomen, insides of the thighs, ribcage... He drew his wand over each in turn, in a sort of invisible trace, as he concentrated. Then, just as the Death Eater holding her began to shift impatiently, he struck.

The woman's scream, so close, cut right through every inch of him, and Draco wanted nothing more than to flee from the room. With every pulse of magic that emanated from his wand, she cried out again and again, until Draco was sure the world around him would shatter from the noise. Her body became rigid, jerking erratically in the Death Eater's grip as he laughed, taunting her and her pain. Draco felt a tremor of revulsion pass through him, and it was only the need to keep his own mother from ever being subjected to this that kept his wand steady.

'Not bad, Mr Malfoy,' Leofric said in frank appraisal, and Draco raised his wand quickly as the Death Eater dropped the woman on the floor. 'Not bad at all. The Dark Lord will be pleased. You two are excused, for now,' he said, dismissing Draco and Theodore. 'You obviously need no further instruction for this. Mr Zabini, Miss Greengrass—'

Draco did not pay much attention beyond that; with permission to leave, he fled at once, throwing himself up two flights of stairs and into the first bathroom he came across. He barely made it to the toilet before his stomach won the race against his lungs out of his mouth, and he doubled over the edge and was sloppily sick into it.

Draco leaned his forehead against the cool tile of the wall beside the toilet and let his breath steady itself, trying to swallow the acid still clinging to his throat. Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he stumbled to his feet and quickly washed his face with shaking hands, knowing that if he disappeared for too long, his absence would be noticed—he had to get back downstairs before they finished testing the others. He could hear the muffled screams from below, and scrubbed at his face faster, a sudden urgent desire to locate his mother and stick to her settling deep in his stomach.

He dried his face quickly with a towel and exited the bathroom. A dark figure was leaning against the wall opposite him, arms folded and head tipped downwards, hiding most of the face in shadow. Draco froze, one hand still on the doorknob.

There was a pause in the screaming from downstairs, and it was then that Theodore finally decided to speak. 'Weak stomach, Malfoy?' he asked, smirking. 'Or did you catch cold on the way back?'

Draco did not give him the satisfaction of so much as a glance. Closing the door quietly behind him, he said, 'Azkaban is hell this time of year.'

'Good to know.' Theodore looked him over once, straightening up and bringing his eyes into the dim light of the hall. 'Wouldn't want to give them the impression that you didn't have what it takes.'

Draco paused, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. 'Funny,' he said finally, somehow, unbelievably, keeping his voice steady. He looked Theodore straight in the eye. 'I didn't hear her screaming for you.'

: : : : :

Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

- Henry Kissinger

: : :

The air was hot and stuffy, a situation only worsened by the blazing fire in the hearth, the only source of light in the room. Nagini hissed quietly, curling into a tight coil before the flames. The sheets from the bed lay in a crumpled heap beneath her as she watched her master with cold, impassive eyes. The light from the fire played across her green and ebony scales in a fuzzy, broken trail of orange. He was like her, in that way—internally frigid, he was drawn to the warmth, unable to produce enough of it on his own.

Voldemort remained on his back, arms folded under his head, staring listlessly at the ceiling. Shifting through the expanse of information he had coaxed out of Marius the other night, he wondered why he had overlooked this infuriatingly simplistic solution to his problem before.

Bellatrix rolled onto her side to face him, her body still bare and exposed. Her skin was pale against her dark hair, which reflected the light from the fire like Nagini's scales. It was perhaps the only appealing thing about her. She watched him quietly for a while. After a considerable pause, she carefully prompted, 'My Lord?'

Voldemort didn't waste the energy required to look at her. With his eyes still fixed on the ceiling, his reply was curt.

'Get out.'

Without so much as a moment's hesitation, Bellatrix quietly got to her feet and gathered her robes from the floor. Voldemort waited until she had finished dressing and closed the door behind her before turning his attention to the squat man he knew was hiding in a darkened corner of the room.

'Wormtail.'

'Y-yes, my Lord?' Voldemort heard a small scuffle—the sound of Wormtail getting hastily to his feet—accompany the stutter. The man scuttled forward, retrieving a fresh set of robes from the wardrobe and bringing them to the bedside, offering them to his master.

Voldemort took the clothes with an air of languor, dressing methodically. Wormtail stood to attention at the bedside, looking positively terrified for no particular reason while he waited for further instruction.

'We have to work quickly,' Voldemort decided, his visual attention absorbed by the dance of flames in the fireplace. He finished the latch of his cloak with an impatient wave of his wand. 'Marius' disappearance will not go overlooked. We must make haste or the information will be worthless.'

Wormtail shuddered, well learned from experience in what happened to anything worthless in the court of his master. 'Y-yes, of c-course, my Lord.'

'I will require Abacus Croaker,' Voldemort continued. 'See that he is brought to me. His... expertise—' he hissed the word, and Nagini stirred, '—will be required.'

'M-my Lord?' Wormtail asked, clearly confused.

Voldemort felt the last fraction of his patience leak away, and he glared at the man trembling before him.

'Get out.'

Wormtail did not need to be told twice.

: : :

Predictably, Draco did not react very well to what he kept calling their 'dishonourable intentions' regarding his role in 'their war'. Over the next day and a half he became increasingly more unbearable, muttering under his breath that he was supposed to be the Slytherin and something about deceitful Gryffindors, to such a degree that even Hermione lost her patience and had to frequently switch shifts with Harry and other Order members in order to keep from wringing his scrawny little neck.

Harry had wanted to take the Horcrux at once—but then Hermione had pointed out that they really had nowhere safe to hide it. Gringotts had been broken into before, Snape still had access to the old Headquarters, and none of them were willing to put the students at Hogwarts in any more danger than they could help. Grudgingly, Harry had left the locket at the Manor, hidden away where presumably only Nivens and Draco knew how to retrieve it. It had been safe there for the past four years, he'd agreed, and would continue to be safe there for now. At least, he'd said, until he found a way to destroy it.

She had had a long bath the previous night and came to the Manor on the third morning with something of a resigned air, wishing Harry or Ron could be there to take the brunt of Draco's filthy looks and muttered insults. Sure enough, she'd barely passed over the threshold before one of the dragon-head busts in the entryway began hissing at her menacingly.

'Good morning to you, too,' she said curtly. The bust snapped at her as she passed by, and a small search located Elphias Doge stationed outside Draco's bedroom, sitting on an oversized, comfortable-looking armchair that he had conjured.

'Oh, good morning,' he said, adjusting his reading glasses and folding up the Daily Prophet in his hands. 'Time already?'

'You can go early,' Hermione assured him. 'We have some business. Thank you, Elphias.'

'No trouble, no trouble,' Elphias assured her, standing and dismissing the chair with a quick flick of his wand. 'He's in there, hasn't come out since tea-time yesterday.'

Hermione was not alarmed by this information; Draco locking himself in his room did not seem to be an unusual habit. Hermione was beginning to think he'd spent far too much time in that small space over the past few years.

She knocked on the door. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer. Deciding right then that she had no patience for Draco's nonsense today, she unlocked the door with a whispered Alohomora and quietly edged her way inside.

Draco was not in his bedroom; the bathroom door at the back stood ajar, the bed was perfectly made and looked as if it hadn't been slept in at all. Hermione picked her way through the maze of books scattered on the floor to the far side of the room, which had two large double-doors that led onto a small balcony overlooking the paddocks behind the Manor.

He was sitting on one of the patio chairs on the balcony, feet propped up on an ottoman, with his eyes closed and a look of great concentration on his face. Blaise's sword, which he'd taken back with them after leaving the Palazzo, was held straight in his hands; before she could say anything, or decide to disarm him, she saw his lips move: a silver mist floated out of the end of the blade, formed the feeble shape of a thin, four-legged animal, and promptly dissipated. Draco's eyes opened and he watched the mist disappear. His jaw tightened and he sat back, turning his gaze to the grounds beyond.

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of it. Stepping forward into the small open space between the doors, she said, 'Has it always been that unclear?'

Surprisingly, Draco did not startle or wheel around; she saw him stiffen and clench his teeth, but his eyes stayed fixed on the paddocks. 'I don't know what you Muggle types are used to, but for those of us raised among wizards, it's generally considered polite to knock.'

'I don't recall Harry giving you permission to hold a wand.'

'And I don't recall promising further services to you people, much less offering my mother as a tool you can manipulate at your leisure,' he spat back, looking up at her with what seemed to be as much disdain as he could muster.

Hermione sighed. 'I don't understand why you continue to be so difficult about this.'

'I'm sorry, Granger, what part of that contract said I had to be good company?'

'We finished analysing the documents we recovered from Yaxley's vault—'

'How astonishingly prudent of you.'

'—and found some very dodgy information—'

'Shall I go inform someone who cares?' Draco inquired mildly.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 'Are you familiar with the IWWS?' she asked.

'I—the what?'

'The International Wizards for Wildlife Society,' Hermione explained.

'Never heard of them,' Draco said, shrugging.

'Well, that's interesting,' Hermione said, raising her eyebrows further, 'considering you own about half the group's shares.'

: : :

'The who-what-now?' Ron asked.

When Hermione had sent Harry and Ron an owl at work saying she had an urgent matter that required their attention, they had both made excuses and fled the office as soon as they could. Ron had insisted that it was probably Draco's doing, but Harry was pretty sure Hermione could handle Malfoy well enough on her own that she wouldn't require their immediate help unless it was something extremely serious. He had expected to be met with jinxes and hexes from Dark wizards, or at least an estate engulfed in Fiendfyre—he had not expected to enter the Manor to find Draco sitting in a study with his arms folded and looking stubbornly out the window, Hermione on one of the sofas with enough parchment on the table in front of her to suffocate in.

Hermione gave Ron a look of such fierce disapproval that Harry himself winced. She'd only repeated herself about four times so far, but ever since she'd been forced to start spending so much time around Draco, her patience had been deteriorating rapidly.

'They're a privately funded, invitation-only society concerned with "the affairs and preservation of endangered magical species",' she repeated.

'And this is weird... why?' Ron asked.

Hermione gave him another one of those looks. 'Did you even listen to what I just said?'

'Something about endangered magical animals—'

'Oh, honestly, you're supposed to be a detective!' Hermione snapped, rolling her eyes. 'Think about what I said carefully! Privately funded is nothing unusual, but "invitation-only"? In a wildlife group?'

'Well, so what?' Harry asked. 'We can't get a warrant just because someone's decided they want to fund a private club, any kind of club, unless we have some solid reason to believe they're up to something.'

'You didn't let me finish,' Hermione said. 'We recovered these documents from Yaxley's vault, which is a solid enough reason anyway, if you ask me. But when I investigated the society's origins, I found some very interesting details.'

She dumped a large number of scrolls on the desk and began sifting through them. Ron looked at Harry and rolled his eyes; it was so very like Hermione, to look into even the tiniest detail so thoroughly.

'What is weird about it,' Hermione went on, glaring momentarily at Ron, 'isn't just the society's description or the vault we found the papers in, but the founders themselves, and the current shareholders.'

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Hermione turned her eyes back to the mass of parchment.

'Here,' she said, thrusting a document at Harry. 'A list of all the founding members and contributors. Any of those names look familiar?'

Harry glanced down at the list, and he immediately realised why this information in particular had raised the red flag.

'Avery,' Harry said. 'Son of a bitch.'

Ron leaned over Harry's shoulder, peering at the parchment he held. 'Hang on,' he said, 'this was founded in 1947, Hermione.'

'So?'

'So, Avery's Snape's age,' Ron said. 'They weren't even born then.'

Hermione looked briefly pleased that they seemed to be taking her evidence seriously now. 'Roger Avery wasn't,' she agreed. 'But his father was.'

Harry looked up. 'Avery senior?'

'Mmm,' she said, sitting back. 'Leofric Avery was born in 1928. He attended Hogwarts the same years as—'

'—Tom Riddle,' Harry finished for her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Draco looking elsewhere but obviously listening intently. 'They were both in Slytherin. Yeah, I know.'

'What's this got to do with Yaxley, though?' Ron asked. 'I thought Yaxley didn't go to Hogwarts.'

'No, he didn't; he went to Durmstrang,' Hermione agreed. 'But Tom Riddle had lots of contacts there as well—you know he favoured the Dark Arts... Yaxley was only a few years behind Riddle and Avery.'

'And it wasn't just Avery,' she went on smartly. 'Nott, Rosier, even Malfoy's grandfather—they were all major contributors to the society's founding.'

'I still don't understand what we're supposed to get out of this,' Ron interrupted, sounding exasperated. 'So they went to school together; they're Death Eater chums, why is this news?'

'Oh, honestly, Ronald, look at the facts! Don't you think it's even a little bit odd that exactly six months after Hepzibah Smith's death a few Death Eaters founded an incredibly unlikely organisation that's invitation-only and privately funded?'

'That sounds like a coincidence, is what it sounds like,' Ron said, frowning. 'Why the hell would this have anything to do with her death?'

Hermione looked as though she might strangle him.

'After Hepzibah's death, Tom Riddle went back and stole Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup, and neither had been seen since—until we found the locket. We know where that is now, but no one's seen the cup since Hepzibah's last Christmas party back in 1944!'

'How would founding a wildlife club have anything to do with the cup?' Harry cut in, earning a grateful look from Ron. 'That doesn't make any sense.'

'Precisely!'

Harry and Ron both stared at her; Harry had his eyebrows raised, and he could see Draco shaking his head and trying very hard not to laugh.

Hermione shot a filthy look at Draco before rounding on Harry and Ron once again. 'Don't you get it?' she demanded indignantly. 'Since when do Death Eaters care about the preservation of magical animals? Indeed, why would Yaxley spend millions of Galleons securing a privately-operated and maintained ecological preserve in the middle of nowhere?'

'That's sort of what we're trying to ask you,' Ron said, deadpan. 'I mean really, Hermione, you've gone a bit out of the loop again—'

'In 1947, Yaxley and Avery leased a section of Muggle National Park in northern Ethiopia,' she continued, ignoring Ron. 'They turned it into a wizarding wildlife reserve for some of Africa's most endangered magical creatures, ostensibly to protect them from Muggle poachers.'

'Okay, so maybe this Yaxley bloke is an animal lover?' Ron suggested. Draco snorted.

'Yaxley owns nothing else even remotely similar,' Hermione said with authority. 'He holds the deeds to half the casinos and racetracks in Britain, and even owns a few hotels that the Ministry is inclined to believe are Polyjuice brothels. Don't you think it a bit odd that he spent a fortune on a wildlife preservation?'

'Uh,' said Ron. 'I guess?'

'Hermione,' Harry interrupted before she could leap at him. 'I can see why it sounds dodgy, but I still don't understand what this all has to do with Hepzibah Smith—'

'Think about it, Harry,' Hermione said. 'What's the first thing Voldemort would have done after getting the cup and turning it into a Horcrux?'

Harry stared at her. Could it really be that simple?

'Look for a place to hide it,' Harry said.

: : :

'You still haven't explained,' Draco complained loudly, 'why I need to go on this suicidal excursion.'

'Hush,' Hermione said briskly, ignoring him. 'Oh, I dunno, Harry... Africa's dangerous territory, even for Muggles...'

'So's England at the moment,' Harry pointed out.

'Yes, well, but you don't quite—do you even watch the Muggle news any more?' she asked. 'You really have no idea what it's like—'

'Hermione, we're wizards,' Ron said, rolling his eyes. 'Have a little faith.'

'It's not that simple,' Hermione insisted. 'Africa's been having huge civil wars, Muggles exterminate themselves down there, there are massacres and battles for no reason whatsoever, most strangers are shot on sight, especially if they're—'

'You think Voldemort won't end up doing the same thing?' Harry demanded. 'Only he'll do it on a worldwide basis; there'll be no containing it. If there's a chance the cup is in Africa, then I'm going to Africa.'

Hermione pursed her lips. 'This is a bad idea, Harry,' she tried feebly. 'I do think this warrants investigation, but I also think it should be done properly. With a certified search team and Auror squad—'

Draco cleared his throat. 'I really hate to admit it,' he began, 'but I agree with the Muggle-born.'

'Well, good thing it's not up to you, isn't it?' Ron said to him nastily. 'I'm with Harry; we've got to go now.'

'Nobody is making any of you come,' Harry pointed out.

'Then why the hell are you telling me I have to go?' Draco demanded.

'We're not,' Hermione interrupted before Ron could say anything. 'But we go where Harry goes, and if you really want the best protection we can offer, so do you.'

'So your idea of the best protection you can offer is dragging me into a war-torn country and wandering through a jungle infested with deadly magical animals.' Draco looked at them in disbelief. 'Am I the onlyone who sees how little sense that makes?'

'How are we going to get to Ethiopia, though?' Ron asked, ignoring Draco. 'Fly?'

'Too risky,' Hermione said. 'There's millions of Muggle and wizarding residences alike between here and there; the chance of being spotted would be enormous... we could try for a Portkey...'

'International Portkeys are closely monitored,' Harry answered. 'Especially now, with Marius missing and everything. So not unless you want the Minister all over what we're doing. Same goes for Floo.'

'There's got to be a way,' Ron said. 'Could we Apparate that far?'

'Too dangerous without a specific destination,' Hermione pointed out, 'and we'd need to get paperwork on that, too...'

Ron frowned and looked over at Harry, who shrugged.

Draco looked delighted. 'Well,' he said, smirking. 'Guess we can't go to Africa after all. Tea?'

'Wait,' Harry said, looking up, and Draco's expression became crestfallen. 'Why don't we just fly?'

Hermione gave Harry a look. 'We already went over that, Harry. It's too risky when you consider the number of people you'd pass over such a long distance—'

'No, I mean, I know that. I meant—' Harry paused, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. 'Fly. You know. The Muggle way.'

This suggestion was met with a pair of blank looks from Ron and Draco and a blink from Hermione.

'Oh,' she said. 'Well. That's an idea.'

'Hang on,' said Draco. 'What do you mean, fly the Muggle way?'

'Er, you know,' Harry said. 'Aeroplanes?'

Ron raised his eyebrows. 'You mean those ruddy things Dad's always going on about?'

Draco just continued to stare at him. 'Granger,' he demanded finally, looking away from Harry. 'Translation?'

'Aeroplanes,' Hermione repeated, looking thoughtfully upwards. 'That is a good idea, Harry. They'd have no way to track us, Dark wizards know next to nothing about Muggle systems, and thanks to the Ministry's connections with the Muggle government, I could get us passports approved almost instantly through my department with next to no questions asked—'

'You've got to be joking,' Ron said, cutting her off and looking positively horrified.

'Oh, Ronald, it's perfectly safe.'

'Perfectly safe? I've seen Dad's books! They crash all the time!'

'Honestly, you'd be more likely to die falling out of bed—'

'Beg pardon,' Draco interrupted loudly, standing and looking annoyed. 'Since when can Muggles fly?'

'Er,' said Harry, suddenly feeling alarmed at the prospect of explaining Muggle technology to a wizard-raised pure-blood. He looked at Hermione. 'You want to handle this?'

Hermione made a face at him. Draco continued to glare and put his hands on his hips. Harry had to resist a strong urge to tease him about it.

'Um,' Hermione began eloquently, chewing on her lip. 'It's all a bit technical, but basically...'

She explained the basic idea of aeroplanes, and Harry almost had to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from laughing at the look on Draco's face by the time she'd finished.

'So let me get this straight,' Draco said. 'Muggles don't fly on brooms, but inside gigantic metal things with wings that you claim weigh hundreds of tonnes, but somehow have the ability to cruise thousands of feet in the air—for hours on end?'

'Basically,' Hermione said again.

'With full accommodations?'

'They even have loos.'

Draco closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. Harry sort of felt sorry for him. He almost made himself stop grinning.

'You're either having me on,' Draco said finally, looking up, 'or you're completely barking.'

Ron looked torn between defending Hermione and agreeing with Draco. He made a half-hearted noise and kept his mouth shut. Harry was impressed.

'It's actually quite fascinating,' Hermione said conversationally. 'The simple principles of aerodynamics allow Muggle engineers to—'

'Granger, I do not care how many libraries you've memorised,' Draco interrupted shortly, 'there is no logic that will support the existence of hundred-tonne, non-magical objects that possess the ability to fly.'

: : :

'Simply marvellous,' Arthur said, examining the device with rapt curiosity. 'Oh, look, there it goes again!'

The electronic-ticket booth printed out the last of their boarding passes and Hermione tucked it into her shoulder-bag; Harry had let her handle the computers, as he'd never been allowed to touch Dudley's and was about as adept with them as Ron, who kept giving the booth suspicious looks, as though it were up to something sinister.

Draco had his nose in the air, scoffing at the technology, using solitary adjectives like 'crude' and 'substandard' every now and again. Even in a pair of worn jeans with a t-shirt and a suit jacket, he managed to make himself appear far superior to the Muggles milling around him in similar attire. It was the air he carried with him everywhere like a protective bubble, so that even stripped of his wand and his dignity, he turned heads and drew lingering gazes as if he were some sort of higher power, a mystical being among mortals. It wouldn't have been too bad except that he knew it and flaunted it to a truly disgusting degree.

Arthur patted the booth affectionately with one hand as they moved on, still murmuring 'Marvellous, just marvellous!' under his breath. In a counterpoint to Draco's sneering, he'd been similarly uttering things like 'Splendid!', 'Ingenious!', 'Fascinating!' since they'd entered the airport twenty minutes ago; Harry kept catching Draco half-way to a crooked grin before he recovered himself every time Arthur discovered something new and wonderful to goggle at, while Ron just rolled his eyes and looked embarrassed.

'Dad,' he hissed, as Arthur stopped to inspect a beverage dispenser. 'Dad, come on—'

Arthur was digging in his pockets and Harry could hear change jingling. 'Just a moment, Ron, I brought some Muggle money—'

'Dad—'

'Here,' Harry said, taking pity and sorting the coins for Arthur. 'Push them in there.'

Arthur pushed the coins into the slot Harry had indicated, pressed one of the many colourful selections and clapped his hands with glee as the bottle was deposited in the bin below. Ron rubbed his face with his palm and Draco turned away so they couldn't see him laughing.

'What are you lot doing,' Hermione demanded, several metres ahead and looking annoyed. 'We have to get moving, they won't hold the plane for us four, you know!'

This was obviously the wrong information to disclose; all of a sudden, Draco exclaimed, 'Weasley, look! A lolly vendor!', seized Arthur by the elbow and introduced him to a gumball machine.

'This is going to be a long trip,' Ron muttered under his breath.

Harry silently agreed and tried to pry Arthur away from the machine, even as a blue ball rolled down the cylindrical tube at the bottom and Arthur claimed that he'd requested the orange, and wanted his money back. The subsequent trip across the large building to security was uneventful, if you didn't count the seventeen times they had to pause while Arthur let out a cry of joy and assaulted a random Muggle or object with his over-zealousness.

That, and the pair of American girls asking Draco for his phone number.

'Sorry,' Draco said, blinking and trying to discretely turn his head in a way that allowed him to breathe air that didn't mingle with theirs. 'My what?'

'Your number?' said the tall one; she had ebony skin and was wearing far too many cosmetics to be considered appealing. Her friend threw Harry a flirtatious little grin, and he coughed uneasily. Ron was grinning ear to ear, barely able to contain his amusement.

Draco looked torn between indignance and utter confusion. 'Er...' he began, unusually ineloquent. 'That's priviledged information?'

'Good save,' Harry muttered to Ron, who choked.

Pouting, the girl moved a bit closer, playing with a lock of her hair. 'Don't be like that,' she murmured, still advancing, friend in tow.

Draco recoiled, moving backwards past Harry, keeping a safe distance between himself and the girls. 'Potter—' There was a slight edge of panic to his voice.

'Oh, honestly,' Hermione exclaimed, appearing out of thin air and elbowing past Ron, planting herself between Draco and the girls, hands on her hips. 'Can't you see he obviously wants nothing to do with you?'

'Excuse you,' the tall girl demanded. 'Who're you, his girl—'

'What's it to you if I am?' Hermione snapped. 'Piss off.'

Harry was finding it hard to tell who looked more surprised, the girl or Draco. The tall girl muttered, 'Whatever, come on' and stalked away, her friend throwing a vicious look over her shoulder and saying something about 'rude English'.

'I really don't know what his problem was,' Ron said in Harry's ear as Hermione herded them onwards. 'The short one wasn't too bad.'

'Oh, really?' said a perspicacious voice beside them, and Ron jumped. Hermione was slightly pink. 'Why don't you go back and get her number, then?'

She slipped past them and matched Draco's pace, and Harry could hear him demand, 'What the devil was that all about?'

Beside him, Ron sulked. 'How does she always do that?'

: : :

'I still reckon we should have brought our brooms,' Draco muttered darkly under his breath. Harry rolled his eyes.

The queue for the metal detectors was moving slowly, and Harry had resigned himself to making sure Draco didn't attempt to dart out of reach as he'd done three times already, each time forcing them to move to the back of the queue. Arthur, Ron, and Hermione had already gone through—Arthur having gained admittance with a quick Confundus Charm in leiu of passport and boarding pass—and were waiting on the other side, slouched against a bench and looking irritated and bored; except, of course, for Mr Weasley, who had taken to personally shaking hands with every Muggle that passed through security and interviewing the guards.

'Why can't we go around it?' Draco demanded.

'I already told you,' Harry hissed impatiently. 'They have to scan us.'

'Scan us? For what?'

'Anything dangerous.'

'Oh well, you're buggered then, aren't you. You're practically a walking calamity.'

'We'll see.' Harry gave him a solid shove on the shoulders, forcing him forward towards the empty frame that served as a metal detector.

Draco was too busy eyeing it as if it had teeth to complain about the excessive manhandling. 'I don't wanna,' he moaned. 'How do you know it's safe?'

'Trust me.'

'Trust you!' Draco whirled around, and a lady behind Harry walked into him as he came to an abrupt halt. 'In a matter of safety, no less! This coming from the tart who took pleasure strolls through the Forbidden Forest at midnight!'

He was shouting, and he seemed to notice this as both the line behind them and the one on the other side of the hall stopped to stare curiously at him. Some of the people looked alarmed. One of the guards began tapping his truncheon threateningly in the palm of his hand.

Harry cleared his throat. 'Malfoy,' he said, patiently, 'you're making a scene.'

'Oh, am I?' Draco drawled, issuing a small bow. 'Well, how's it feel, poster boy? Don't enjoy not being the centre of attention for once? Maybe we could—'

The rest of his sentence was cut off as Harry elbowed him through the frame, and a very high-pitched buzzer sounded. Draco jumped out from under the frame and probably would have dashed away if the guard on the other side hadn't suddenly blocked his way.

'Raise your arms and spread your legs, sir,' the Muggle demanded. He was brandishing a small metal-sensor shaped like a paddle in one hand and motioning to Draco with the other.

Draco stared at him as if he was mad. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Raise 'em and spread 'em,' the guard repeated firmly.

Harry would never forget the look of complete loathing Draco shot over his shoulder as the guard waved the sensor over his body, Draco wincing every time the Muggle nearly touched him. Passing just under his chin, the sensor emitted a loud beep and Draco flinched away from it.

'What's it doing?' he demanded.

'Sir, are you wearing any metal or jewellery—'

'Why?'

'Sir, I need you to unbutton your shirt collar—'

'POTTER!'

Stepping through the scanner, Harry closed his eyes and prayed for patience.

Draco's mood did not improve on the long trek to their designated gate. He kept shuddering and shying away when busy Muggles rushed by and got too close, intermittently shooting vicious looks at Harry as if it were his fault alone that Draco had ended up in this predicament. It being the middle of summer, the airport was extremely crowded and they were unable to find any area private enough for them to talk freely. They took empty seats at the far end of the seating area for their gate, Arthur standing at the large window and staring fixedly at the runway, watching the planes take off.

'Merlin bless them,' he said, watching a rather large plane take to the sky. 'I wish I could go with you.'

Arthur had only accompanied them to the airport as an Order guard; as much as Harry wanted to take him along, they needed Arthur and Kingsley both at the Ministry to keep the Order informed.

'You can have my ticket,' Draco volunteered, and Hermione gave him a look. 'What?'

'No, no, you four need to go, I know,' Arthur said, not paying any attention. 'It's just... someday, perhaps. Someday.'

His expression was so full of longing it was painful to look at. The Muggle at the gate began calling rows, and Hermione sat up, shouldering her bag—their only luggage for the trip. Harry had been a little wary when she'd taken his Invisibility Cloak, insisting that she could 'carry everything they needed'.

'That's us,' Hermione announced, retrieving their boarding passes from within her bag. Draco leaned over to peek inside and she stood up quickly, snapping it shut. She held up a ticket. 'We've got an aisle between us, but we're all in the same row. Who wants the window?'

'I will take the window, thank you,' Draco said, standing and snatching the paper from her grasp. Hermione shrugged and passed out the others, ushering them towards the line by the gate. 'Hah,' Draco exclaimed in victory as Harry came up beside him. 'Now if the bloody thing malfunctions, I've got myself a way out, and you can all burn.'

'The windows don't open,' Harry informed him. 'And anyway, we'll be about thirty thousand feet above the ground, so it wouldn't do you much good if they did.'

Draco paled. 'Then what the hell do they have windows for?'

'To give you false hope?' Harry suggested, stepping ahead of him and handing the Muggle his ticket. She glanced at it briefly, scanned it, returned the stub and waved him inside. 'Or maybe so you can watch the ground rushing up to meet you.'

'I hate you, Potter,' came the low hiss from behind as Draco followed his lead down the boarding chute. 'I really, really, really hate you.'

'Quit it, Malfoy, you're making me blush.'

'See,' Draco went on, as they waited in the queue of Muggles slowly taking their seats, 'I used to think you did this just because you liked the attention. I should have known better. You enjoy that constant feeling of Impending Doom. You're like a drug addict, only more suicidal.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'You might not want to talk about self-destruction here. The Muggles might arrest you.'

'And I'd get an excuse to sit this out? Why is this bad?'

'Tickets, please!' said the flight attendant, killing the conversation and taking their stubs. 'Aisle to the right, just behind the wing. Tickets, please!'

'You do realise this is a claustrophobic nightmare?' Draco demanded when they reached their seats, overlooking them with great distaste.

The chairs were narrow and hard, complete with non-existent legroom and plastic armrests that looked decidedly uncomfortable. Harry sighed. 'It's only for a few hours, you'll live without your fancy furniture.'

'I happen to love my Italian furniture,' Draco said grimly, sitting down slowly, as if he expected the seatbelt to leap up and tie him down. 'I feel like I'm serving detention with McGonagall.'

The hard, straight-backed chairs McGonagall frequently used in classes and detentions were a painful memory for Harry. 'At least these have cushions.'

'Cushions aren't meant to be stiff, Potter.' Draco ran a critical eye over every surface within arm's reach and began poking random areas, wincing the entire time as if the plane might decide to bite back. After discovering the wonder that was the switch for the light above his seat, he moved on to the seat back in front of him.

'Malfoy, what are you doing?'

Draco stopped fiddling with the tray-table and gave Harry a look. 'I'm making sure it's attached, what's it look like I'm doing.'

'Stop touching everything.'

'Stop telling me what not to do.'

Harry rolled his eyes and gave up, at least for the time being. Draco was impossible to argue with; he was as logically challenged as Luna and as stubborn as Hermione.

'This is insane,' Draco complained, abandoning his search for loose bits of plane to fiddle with. 'Insane. Completely and utterly barking mad. I cannot believe I agreed to this. We're all going to die.'

'Well, look on the bright side,' Harry said, deadpan; 'if the plane crashes, at least you can say you were right.'

Draco hit him over the head with the laminated safety card. One of the passing flight attendants confiscated it.

'I hate you, Potter,' Draco said again when he could not find anything else suitable to bludgeon Harry with. 'I think I may actually hate you more than cats after all.'

Memories of Ron bad-mouthing Crookshanks came to mind, and Harry smiled. 'Nobody is going to die, Draco.'

'Malfoy, Potter,' Draco snapped. 'And just because you have the unfair advantage of being lucky in the survival department doesn't mean we all have. Some of us are mortal, your Highness.'

'Don't call me that,' Harry said automatically, smiling reassuringly at the flight attendant, who was watching Draco's inspection of his seat with some apprehension. 'Will you cut it out? They're going to chuck us off.'

'Don't get my hopes up,' Draco muttered bitterly. He was peering about the cabin looking rather panicked . 'Oh, Gods, we're stuck on this thing for how long?'

'About nine hours,' Harry said cheerfully.

Draco let out a low moan. 'Merlin help me.'

Harry nearly said something to Draco about how using so much wizarding jargon when surrounded by Muggles and trying to stay undercover was a bit counterproductive, but he was interrupted by a deep, internal rumble that signalled the plane's engines starting up.

Draco, naturally, panicked.

'What's it doing?' he demanded, looking for the source of the noise. 'We're going to die! We haven't even left the ground and we're going to die already!'

'Quiet,' Harry hissed. 'Nobody is dying. It's just the engines—'

'Oh, just the engines! The engines of Death, you mean—'

Not altogether surprisingly, by the time the plane had taxied to the end of the runway and the engines surged for liftoff, Draco was so beside himself that he failed to say anything at all and settled for bracing himself in his seat, head bowed and eyes squeezed shut. Harry might have felt sorry for him if he hadn't looked so utterly ridiculous. Aside from the odd sensation of the engines roaring beneath them, the fast ascension into the sky was familiar; Harry thought perhaps Draco had noticed it too, because as the plane levelled off and the engines settled to a low, constant rumble, he seemed to relax on his own, his breathing calming and the muscles in his jaw and arms loosening.

He also managed to open his eyes and shoot a sideways glare at Harry, steel eyes dark and unhappy. 'This is some sick, twisted way of repaying all the misery I caused you in school, isn't it?'

'Don't know what you mean,' Harry said, and smirked.

The kid sitting behind Harry gave his seat an enormous shove, followed by a shriek of laughter, and then began kicking it in earnest. Harry ground his teeth and Draco started laughing. Harry glared at him.

Draco managed to stop snickering long enough to suggest, 'Karma?' At the answering look on Harry's face, he started laughing again.

: : :

Six hours into the flight, Draco got sick.

Coke and bourbon had settled them both after the takeoff (that damn kid was still kicking his seat at regular intervals), and Draco had finally quieted and nodded off, much to Harry's relief. The bickering from the previous days had probably worn Draco out, Harry mused, and he was thinking that he might actually get a little rest himself on this journey until the Captain's voice sounded over the loudspeaker—waking Draco with a start—informing them that they would be experiencing 'mild turbulence' for the remainder of their journey.

Draco narrowed his eyes. 'What does he mean?' he demanded.

'It means the plane might shake a bit,' Harry said simply.

Draco went pale. 'Shake a bit?' he squeaked.

As if to answer his question itself, the plane gave a prolonged shudder, and Draco steeled himself in his seat.

'Is it supposed to do that?' he demanded, eyes darting from side to side and giving the inside of the plane a suspicious look.

Harry shrugged. 'When there's bad wind shear, I suppose.'

'Wind shear!' Draco yelped, looking even more alarmed. 'Potter, even wizards don't fly in unpredictable wind shear—'

'They do in Quidditch,' Harry said. 'Oh, wait, you always weaseled your way out of those matches.'

Draco gave him a dangerous look and made to retort, but the plane shook again, more violently this time, and he went rigid once more.

'Right,' Draco said once the plane had quieted. 'This has got to be the most suicidal thing I've ever done.'

Harry thought that perhaps he looked a bit green. Maybe it was just the low light. 'You'll get over it,' he said, yawning.

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed. Very suddenly, he decided aloud, 'I need the loo.'

Okay, maybe it wasn't the light. Harry let him go.

It wasn't until approximately twenty minutes later that Harry started to wonder; perhaps the loo had been an excuse to get away and find a way to Disapparate unnoticed? But surely after the Dementor attack at the ball, Draco wouldn't be stupid enough to go anywhere on his own...

Harry found him in the locked cabin at the back. It was extremely tiny—there was barely room for one person to stand comfortably—with a compact sink and napkin dispenser on one side and the toilet at the back. Draco was sitting on the toilet lid, elbows on his knees and forehead in his hands. Before Harry could backpedal and disappear without being noticed, an older Muggle woman sidled up behind him and made an impatient noise. Mentally cursing himself, Harry stepped fully inside and closed the door with a snap.

Draco looked up and glared at him. His forehead came even with Harry's waist, and Harry was able to fully appreciate how small the bathroom was.

'I suppose asking for a little privacy isn't within my rights, either,' Draco said in a sort of resigned voice.

Harry could feel the warmth of his breath push under the hem of his shirt. Draco looked as if he might have been crying, or perhaps he was just sick to his stomach and on the verge of it. Harry knew better than to think less of him for it; stress and frustration brought people to tears more often than grief, Harry knew that much from experience. He wished he'd decided to stay in his seat.

'Sorry,' he said quickly, trying to pretend he hadn't noticed. 'I just—'

'Thought I'd gotten lost on this boat?' Draco suggested, deadpan. 'Or that I'd finally given you the slip?'

'No,' Harry lied. 'You looked sick—'

'I am sick, Potter,' Draco snapped nastily, voice brittle. 'What's it to you?'

Harry wasn't sure what to say to this; he remembered a week ago, when Remus had asked Harry to let Draco stay at the Manor for the weekend to recover—and how ragged Draco had looked until the unicorn incident. Now, giving him another proper look, Harry could see the familiar hollow of his cheeks, the defined circles under his eyes, how transparent his skin looked under the horrible yellow light in the bathroom.

Harry remembered what Lupin had said: The last thing anyone has been concerned about since Draco turned himself in is his well-being.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, Harry thought. They were doing their best to keep him alive...

We don't need you, but we can use you.

...but for the wrong reasons.

Harry frowned. He felt guilty about enough things; he certainly didn't need to feel guilty about Draco Malfoy, of all people.

The plane shook again and Draco half-lurched, half-lunged for the basin edge with one hand while the other continued to grip his forehead. The yellow light above them flickered; it made him look physically ill, more pallid than usual and with a horrible greenish tint.

Harry raised his wand above his head. 'Nox.' A no-smoking sign on the wall still glowed over them, but at least the light was white and less abrasive than before.

Draco looked up at the sound, his eyes highly reflective in the semi-darkness. 'I think you miss that cupboard more than you let on, Potter.'

His breath hit Harry's midsection again. Harry let the insult go, letting his back slide down the length of the door until he was sitting on the floor, legs bent and feet propped against the wall on either side of the toilet Draco was sitting on.

Draco gave him a steely, suspicious look. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

'I know,' Harry said, shrugging. He could smell Draco's breath this close; he smelt strongly of bourbon. 'That bloody kid kept kicking the back of my seat. It was either come and look for you, or kill it.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. He looked like he might have laughed, had he not currently been feeling so thoroughly nauseous. 'Don't like kids?'

'No,' Harry said. 'Not particularly. Why? Do you?'

'Not particularly,' Draco agreed, giving him a funny look. 'Though I sort of figured you to be the parental type.'

'I guess you sort of figured wrong.'

'Contrary to popular belief, I have been known to be incorrect on rare occasions,' Draco informed him, smirking. 'No kids, then?'

'No,' Harry said, then returned the smirk. 'Well,' he added, 'not on purpose, anyway.' Draco gave a derisive snort. Harry smiled a little, then tried to hide it. 'You?'

Draco's eyes were studying the door behind the top of Harry's head. 'Doesn't really matter whether I do or not,' he said, shrugging.

'You are an adult now, if you haven't noticed. You can make your own decisions.'

'Can I?' Draco asked scathingly. 'News to me.'

Harry frowned. He really didn't know what to say to that.

Draco saved him from having to respond by changing the subject. 'Is that mark permanent?'

Harry looked at his unlucky forearm, balanced casually on his bent knee. It had been healed, for the most part; Gawain would have him back on active duty soon. All that remained of the curse's damage was a twisted, salmon-coloured scar that began on the inside of his elbow and tapered off across the inside of his wrist towards his palm, cutting straight across the scar Wormtail had left him, much older and a lighter, hardly-visible pink. He turned his arm upwards so it was fully visible in the dim light, and could see that the combined scar tissue created a narrow, elongated 'X'.

'Dunno,' he answered truthfully. 'Doesn't really matter. They all fade with time, anyway.'

'No,' Draco said, his eyes sliding to Harry's forehead. 'Not all of them.'

Harry was so busy watching Draco's eyes that he nearly jumped at the unexpected touch; while his eyes had flickered to the scar on Harry's forehead, Draco had reached out with his left hand and gingerly touched the beginning of the other scar with two fingers. Harry looked down and watched as Draco slid his fingers from his elbow, following the jagged line, his touch light and warm and lingering over the pulse-point on the underside of Harry's wrist. It suddenly felt as though what little air there was in the room had been sucked out, and Harry's neck and collar began to swelter. The touch tingled and tickled like crazy, but Harry inhaled a sharp breath and held his arm steady.

Draco continued to drag his index finger along Harry's lifeline, and Harry looked up as the touch crossed his palm to find Draco already watching him.

'Does it hurt?' Draco asked, his fingers remaining resting on Harry's palm. The pads of his fingertips were brushing against the insides of Harry's fingers.

Harry blinked, then shook his head. 'No,' he said, flexing his fingers. He regretted it a moment later, because Draco quickly pulled his hand away and Harry had a sudden, tangible memory of angry, shoving hands and a body that flinched away from his own. 'Only the one.'

Harry was hoping that would get Draco to look at him—the merest reference to his infantile miracle and eyes tended to wander to his scar unconsciously—but Draco was watching his hands, which were clasped together in his lap. Harry frowned, because Draco was damn hard to read even when he looked you directly in the eye, and it was impossible to find even a hint of what he was thinking when you were in the dark and he refused to look up at all.

Harry decided to be frank. 'What are you thinking about?'

At that, Draco did look up. He looked surprised and slightly troubled—and someone hammered harshly on the door at Harry's back. Both he and Draco tried to stand up at the same time, and Harry ended up butting his head into Draco's stomach. Draco made a choking noise and lurched unsteadily into the sink again.

'Ow,' Draco said thickly after a moment's recovery, cradling his stomach.

'Ow,' Harry agreed, rubbing his forehead. The someone outside hammered on the door again. 'Bugger,' he added, then, forgetting where they were, called out, 'Hold your bloody Hippogriffs!'

There was a pause in the hammering, during which Harry struggled to his feet again, carefully avoiding any more collisions with Draco, who was still wincing and holding onto his abdomen.

'Your head,' Draco said with painful concentration, 'is like a cauldron full of bricks.'

'Yeah, well, it's not like you're exactly soft either,' Harry mumbled, rubbing his forehead. He went to open the door, then paused. 'Er,' he said. 'This is probably going to look a bit odd.'

'God forbid,' Draco said, deadpan. 'What will we do, our reputation soiled under the mighty eyes of Muggles. I shall never be able to show my face in the wizarding world again. Oh wait,' he added, stepping up to Harry and taking the lock in his own hand, 'I already can't. Silly me.'

He opened the door and stepped out, and Harry suddenly wished he'd just told the person outside to bugger off.

: : :

Draco shoved past Harry and found himself face-to-face with Ron Weasley.

'Despite what you two may think,' he drawled, 'I'm more than capable of using the loo on my own.'

Ron made an extremely rude gesture that Draco was sure he would have thought twice about if Draco had been allowed a wand. 'I need to talk with you,' he said to Harry over Draco's shoulder. 'Alone, if that's all right.'

'Yeah,' Harry said as Draco stepped out from between them. 'You can find your way back to the seats, can't you?'

Draco rolled his eyes by way of a response and left them there, making his way down the tiny pathway on the left side of the plane. He knew Harry would, given the chance, likely want to pick up the conversation where they'd left off—something Draco no longer had the courage to do. Halfway down the aisle, he spied the mass of bushy hair in the centre row that marked their line of seats.

'Fancy meeting you here,' he drawled, slipping into the seat beside Hermione. 'Are you well? How are the kids holding up? That is a fabulous tan, by the way—'

'Draco,' Hermione interrupted, lowering her book and giving him a stern, sideways look. 'What do you want?'

'Why, love, just the pleasure of your company.'

'Since when have you considered my company pleasurable?'

'Why do you insist on being so hostile when people compliment you?'

'You still haven't answered my question,' she said tiredly.

'Actually,' he pointed out, 'I already answered that. Whether or not you believe me isn't my problem.'

'Merlin, you're insufferable,' she muttered, picking up her book and burying herself in it again.

'These Muggle types,' he went on, undeterred, 'bloody slow creatures, aren't they? You'd think they'd spot us right away, sitting in their midst, swearing away on Merlin and his ancestors...'

'Is it a hobby of yours,' she said from behind her book, 'irritating people? Do you actually have to work at it, or does it just come to you?'

'It just comes,' he assured her, pleased. 'It is a gift from the gods, to rile the masses with the merest effort of my tongue—'

'Well then, while your tongue is here and being a bother,' she interrupted again, putting her book back down on her lap, 'I want to ask you something.'

'Ask me no questions and I shall tell you no—'

'Are you gay?'

Draco, taken completely off guard, nearly blanched. 'What?'

'Are you gay?' Hermione repeated, as if she were asking him if he were Catholic or something. She saw the incredulous look on his face and added, 'Well, it's just, Blaise sort of implied, and I didn't want to just take his word for it and assume—'

'Sorry,' he said, the icy edge returning to his voice. 'Since when the hell is that any of your business?'

'Like I said, I didn't want to assume,' she said with a shrug, completely unabashed. 'I said I wanted to ask you something. I never said you had to answer.'

Draco didn't quite know what to say to this. He'd been on a roll with the bollocks and she'd effectively thrown him off it, and he was finding it rather impossible to pick it up again considering the topic at hand. He felt a burning hatred towards Blaise begin to boil inside him; if he'd implied that, what else had he told her?

She watched him for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. 'You're not ashamed of it, are you?'

'Did I say I was?' he replied coldly, holding her gaze.

If she noticed the heat he felt rise in his cheeks, she did not comment, but raised both eyebrows this time. 'That you were ashamed, or that you're—' but before she could finish, a curt voice over Draco's head rescued him by demanding, 'What are you doing in my seat?'

'Ron, it's not your seat, Draco was just—' Hermione began.

'Leaving,' Draco finished for her, standing and giving Ron a cold, level glare. As he pushed past he caught Hermione casting him a disapproving look past Ron's elbow. Draco ignored it and slipped back into his seat by the window. Harry rejoined him with an enquiring glance that Draco forcibly ignored.

'I, er, think we're nearly there,' Harry said conversationally.

Draco rolled his eyes, turning to rest his forehead against the window, looking for something to occupy him; an expanse of white, endless clouds stretched in every direction below the plane, a gigantic luxury mattress, like the sort he was used to at home. He heard and felt Harry shift in the seat beside him, but he did not persist in trying to capture Draco's attention.

Just as well, Draco thought bitterly. They'd just be fooling themselves anyway.

: : :

'Voilà!'

The landing hadn't been nearly as nerve-wracking as the take-off, mostly because Draco had been eager to disembark 'that Muggle hell boat' more than anything else. The airport they'd flown to, nestled just outside of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia's capital, was much more impressive than any of them had been expecting of an African city—it had automatic doors, escalators and elevators, French cafés, designer shops, even air-conditioning. And while Hermione, escorted by Ron (who absolutely refused to let her wander off on her own), fluttered off to secure their transportation, Harry was left to watch Draco, who was currently occupying himself by investigating a Muggle hat shop in the lobby.

Harry tried to swallow a laugh and choked on it, some of it escaping through a snort.

Draco raised an eyebrow, which disappeared under the brim of the old army cap he was wearing. 'What?' he demanded, turning back around to appraise himself in the mirror. He tilted his head to the side, met Harry's eyes in the mirror and cocked a smirk. 'This is an awesome hat.'

Well, Harry at least would agree it looked less silly on him than a witch's cap. 'Put it down, Malfoy, or the Muggles will assume you're buying.'

Draco turned to look at him over his shoulder, leering at him from under his black brim, grey eyes alight in the shadow. 'Potter, I am always buying.'

Before Harry could point out that he wouldn't be buying anything without Muggle money, Hermione came running back towards them from the crowd, Ron in tow. 'Okay! I managed to find us a cab. But the furthest north they'll go is Bahir Dar, and from there we have to walk or find another—Malfoy, what are you doing?'

'I want this hat,' he said, turning to face them and pulling the brim low over his eyes, making his hair splay everywhere. 'In fact, we should all have hats! Heatstroke kills, you know.'

Ron rolled his eyes but Hermione blinked and seemed to consider Draco's words carefully.

'You know,' she said, 'Draco makes a fair point. We're about to get a lot more sun than we're used to.'

'Malfoy, Granger,' Draco corrected reflexively. 'And I alwaysmake fair points, whether your intellect deigns to acknowledge them as such or not.'

'I'm not wearing a bloody hat,' Ron said, looking slightly alarmed at the way Draco picked up a bowler off the rack and began grinning at him. 'I'd rather take the heatstroke.'

'Suit yourself,' Hermione said, picking up a plain slouch hat without bothering to look at it. 'Let's get these quickly, the cab won't wait long.'

Draco insisted on buying Harry a cowboy hat, which he flatly refused to wear; he sat in the backseat of the dusty jeep, the hat in his lap, beside Ron, who had his arms folded and was glaring at the back of Draco's head. The driver of their cab was a tall, lanky bloke in a khaki jumpsuit, his skin the approximate colour of molasses. He wore a tweed hat and had bright, white teeth that were blinding against his dark complexion, and seemed especially taken with Hermione. Then again, Hermione was the only young white woman Harry had seen since they left the airport, so she was probably something of a treat.

'He said his name is Zalelew,' she translated, looking pleased. 'He says he can introduce us to a man at Bahir Dar who sells cheap camels, if we like.'

'When did you learn to speak African?' Ron demanded.

Next to Draco, Hermione sighed, her bush of hair restrained in a tight ponytail. 'It's Amharic, not African. And I only had time to learn a few phrases before we left.'

'A few phrases?' Draco asked, looking incredulous, while Hermione shrugged. 'Your savoir-faire is only outdone by your penchant for understatement, I do hope you know.'

Hermione, mysteriously, blushed and said nothing. Harry wasn't entirely sure whether it was a compliment or not, but that was probably because he had no idea what in the hell her savoir-faire was. He might even have felt inclined to join Draco in his stupefaction, were he not already so used to Hermione's proficiency with, well, everything. The fact that she'd just held a seven-minute conversation with an Ethiopian taxi driver did not faze him at all.

'I don't know what he's up to,' Ron muttered dangerously, so only Harry could hear, 'but if he does anything to her, I'll kill him myself.'

Harry did not bother to point out that, technically, he was supposed to report fellow Aurors for such threats. Because really, if Draco did anything to intentionally harm any of his friends, he would likely do the same. But Ron had been obsessing over this idea since he'd confided in Harry on the plane, and although Harry thought it was a bit far-fetched, he couldn't really come up with a solid argument against it.

'I really think you're reading too far into this,' Harry told him, keeping his voice low. Not that it mattered, for Draco and Hermione were already absorbed in an argument about whether Amharic or Arabic was the more prominent language of the continent and were not paying the backseat any attention whatsoever. 'I mean, he's all right when it's just us two, too. Most of the time, anyway. It might just be you.'

'Of course he's kissing your arse,' Ron hissed. 'He sort of has to. I still don't see why they have to be so fucking friendly.'

Well, thought Harry, to be fair, it was mostly Hermione being friendly. Draco just sometimes gave up on being a callous bastard and went along with it. He decided not to voice that opinion, though, opting for another strategy. 'She's a Muggleborn,' he pointed out. 'For him, that'd be like, worse than fancying you, you realise.'

'Yeah? Says who?' Ron sank lower in his seat, eyes burning at the back of the white-blonde head. Draco, oblivious, was laughing at something the driver had told them in the native tongue, which he could now apparently understand. 'First the ball, now this—I really hope we find whatever the hell it is we're here for, because the sooner we can get rid of him, the better. The way she talks about him is starting to make me wonder—'

'Ron,' Harry interrupted tiredly, 'I really don't think—'

The driver laughed out loud at something Draco had just finished saying, drowning out the rest of Harry's words. Hermione was smiling when she turned back to them, cheeks flushed from laughing and flyaway tendrils of hair stuck to her face. 'Draco is incredible at this,' she said, shaking her head in disbelief. 'I've neverseen someone adapt to a language this quickly. He's picked it up faster than I did!'

'Yes, well,' Draco said, feigning modesty, badly. He didn't even bother to correct her use of his given name. 'Fluency in Latin makes learning any common tongue rather easy, and this dialect is close enough to Arabic that it's practically the same anyway.'

Hermione turned back around and started talking to the driver again, who was spending more time watching her than the road. Draco, smug smirk in place, draped his arm around the back of her chair and proceeded to ignore them.

If it had been any hotter, there probably would have been steam coming from Ron's ears. It must have been hard enough, Harry thought, being best mates with the Chosen One for the past decade. But this was not the first time Ron had lost the battle for Hermione's attention to a silver-tongued millionaire.

'She got sick of Krum after a while, too,' Harry pointed out.

Ron scowled and said nothing.

By car, Bahir Dar was several hours north and slightly west of Addis Ababa. The road ran straight through the loop of the Blue Nile but, aside from the crossing just south of a city Hermione informed them was called Dejen, Harry did not catch so much as a glimpse of it alongside the road they were travelling on. Instead, out the window of the jeep Harry spied an abundance of flat, dusty landscape with the darker shadow of deep jungles at the bases of rocky mountains and plateaus in the far distance. The sky was large and clear, a bright, periwinkle blue that clashed with the rusty aspect of everything on the ground. The dull scenery made the trip pass slowly, and by the time the cab turned off the main road and rolled into a run-down, scattered assortment of buildings, it felt like they'd been driving for days. The sun was burning low and red on the horizon as they made their way deeper into the rows and rows of tattered stores and homes.

'Rather small, isn't it?' Harry said, eyeing the buildings with some distaste.

'A bit,' Ron agreed, looking just as apprehensive. 'Isn't this supposed to be one of the larger cities?'

'Must be luxury for you, Weasley,' Draco remarked casually, watching the battered homes pass with an upturn of his nose.

Any retort Ron would have made was cut off by the driver exclaiming something in Amharic, pulling the jeep over and hopping out, gesturing enthusiastically for Hermione to follow. Outside, Harry was overwhelmed by the musty smells of cluttered poverty—small fires were burning inside tin cylinders, piles of random belongings and filthy clothes lay about the street, and all the while, skinny, tattered-looking African Muggles cast suspicious, even wary looks their way. It suddenly occurred to Harry that, considering their surroundings, they must look like a party of fantastically wealthy Europeans—Draco in particular, who as always managed to emit an aura that suggested he owned the very air he breathed.

Hermione paid the cab driver, who had directed them to a small collection of huts just off the main street. 'We still need to get to Gonder,' she said, as the cab backed out of the drive and spun away, leaving them quite literally in the dust. 'There's too much of a mixture between Muggles and wizards here to be sure no one gets suspicious—I mean, we have to assume he's watching it, even if he's hired Squibs to do it for him, so it's probably best if we stayed off the road.' She looked around and sighed. 'It's a bit far to walk, though...'

'I thought you were getting camels?' Ron asked, dusting off his jeans.

'I am not riding one of those filthy beasts,' Draco said severely, eyeing the camels tethered outside one of the multi-coloured tents.

'You can walk, then,' Harry said, shrugging. 'He said they were cheap here, didn't he?'

'Only one way to find out,' Hermione said heavily.

Squaring her shoulders, she led them up to the tent with the camels outside. Many of the neighbors came outside their flaps, goods in hand, and started barraging them all with offers. Hermione ignored them; she stepped up to the squat, bearded man caressing one of the camels and said something in Amharic. The man looked her up and down, folded his arms, and answered; Hermione cleared her throat, looking briefly back at Harry and Ron before trying again, but the man just shook his head and folded his arms.

'Your money,' he said in broken English, 'no good here. Dabo. Chew. Woyne. English money, no good!'

'Tell him you'll double it,' Draco told her. She gave him a look, which he held fast and returned. 'Just doit, Granger.'

She turned back to the bearded man and tried once more. He began shaking his head again, muttering in agitation.

'No good!' he insisted. 'Woyne. Qalab!' he said again, folding his arms. Then, a nasty grin appeared on his face, and he reached out to touch Hermione's chin with his hand. 'Da, täbada, also.'

Hermione flinched away and Draco, quickly stepping in front of her, assaulted the man so quickly and fluently in his own language that the he backpedaled into his tent, shouting angrily and waving his arms. Hermione, startled, seized Draco by the elbow and pulled him away even as he started forward again, snarling something vicious into the dark opening the man had disappeared into.

'No good!' came the shouts from within. 'Your money no good!'

'What the hell is going on?' Ron demanded as Hermione dragged Draco back to them.

'Fucking savages,' Draco snarled venomously. 'No good, my arse. Since when the hell is money no good?'

'Since they can't eat your money,' Hermione said, releasing him to rub her shoulders and looking upset. 'All they want is food. Food or wine.'

Draco made a short, derisive sound. 'Or sex, apparently.'

'Yes, well,' Hermione said, blushing. 'No, Ron,' she continued firmly as Ron's ears turned red, 'it's fine. Draco already insulted enough of his ancestors for the both of you, and if you please, this is going to take long enough on foot as it is.'

Once again, Draco didn't bother to correct her use of his name. She withdrew a heavily folded piece of parchment from within her bag and unfolded a portion of it, pointing to a small dot beneath a large blue lake. 'This is where we are,' she said, and traced a path along the western edge of the lake until it met the larger, more solid dot just north of it. 'And that's Gonder. Bill's supposed to be meeting us there in two days, but if we're walking we might want to send an owl ahead, it'll take us at least a week by foot.'

'Granger,' Draco said, looking around briefly, 'do you really think they use owls here?'

'Oh, whatever then,' she said, bristling. 'Let's just find a place to stay, we'll need a full night's rest if we plan to do this.'

She stuffed the parchment back in her bag and led them down the street, which was littered with everything from rubbish to human beings, some sitting with their backs against the graffitied stone walls of stores, others perched on kerbs or lying listlessly along pavements and inside the alcoves of buildings. The smell was terrible and overwhelming, a combination of mould, urine and bad hygiene. Not that the only people they saw were homeless or impoverished; there were plenty of others walking past, loud and vulgar and giving the four wizards in their midst as much attention as the sick and starved at their feet. Dirty, beaten-down cars and motorbikes sped around corners and down the small street at alarming speeds, and Harry could hear people shouting in the distance along with something that sounded suspiciously like gunfire.

A withered woman, who was probably no older than Hermione but looked double it, was sitting on a pile of garbage at the edge of the corner where they stopped while waiting for a pair of jeeps racing down the road to pass. Wrapped in her arms was an extremely bloated toddler trying to breastfeed, but judging by the malnourished look of the woman, it was likely a futile attempt. She looked up at them as they stopped, at Hermione in particular, and smiled weakly. Harry could see that most of her teeth were missing.

'This is disgusting,' Draco hissed, wrinkling his nose.

Harry's anger flared. Muggles or not, he'd really had enough of Draco abusing people who weren't fortunate enough to have been born with an inheritance to last them a lifetime. He turned to the blonde, furious, only to find that Draco wasn't looking down at the woman with contempt or disdain. It was something else, masked by the way he was scrunching his nose up at the smell. He looked... well, disgusted.

'It is,' Hermione agreed heavily, shaking her head. 'I wish there was something we could do...'

'Hermione,' Ron warned. 'You know the laws—'

'Yes, yes,' she snapped, stepping off the kerb as the cars rushed past, leaving the road full of dust. 'I just wish.'

Draco narrowed his eyes and followed her. Giving Harry a look, Ron stepped off after them. Halfway across, when the dust began to settle, Harry noticed that while Hermione and Ron had made it to the other side of the street, Draco had stopped midway. He was squatting down so that he was eye-level with a young girl—she couldn't have been more than five or six—standing in the middle of the road. She had a glazed, faraway look in her eyes, and didn't respond when Draco passed his hand once, then twice in front of her eyes. Draco looked up at Harry when he stopped beside him.

'We should get out of the road,' Harry advised. 'I don't think these are the sort of people that'll stop for pedestrians.'

Draco looked back at the girl. She was wearing what looked like a ragged brown pillowcase, and even against such dark skin, the smudged dirt and grime was visible. Her hair was matted and uneven, and Harry realised she looked rather like a starved house-elf. Draco passed his hand in front of her eyes again; she didn't so much as blink.

'This is really, truly,' Draco said, standing, 'absolutely disgusting.'

'Most wizards don't treat house-elves any better,' Harry pointed out.

Draco looked sharply up at him, grey eyes cold. 'House-elves,' he snapped, 'are not fucking human beings.'

Harry thought that statement was pretty rich coming from a Malfoy, considering how many pure-bloods tended to regard Muggle-borns with less respect than they did their servants. 'You think Voldemort would treat Muggle-borns, or even Muggles any better?'

'The Dark Lord would kill them,' Draco said plainly, looking down at the girl. 'And that, however barbaric, shows more mercy than this.'

He took the girl roughly by the hand and yanked her aside; she went limply, but she went, stumbling sideways as he hauled her out of the street and onto the pavement. Harry quickly followed, driven urgently by the warning sounds of approaching engines coming from a nearby street. When they were safely by Ron and Hermione, Draco dropped the girl's hand and it flopped to her side. She stared on, unaware, or simply unwilling to care. Hermione looked like she very much wanted to cry. Draco just looked furious.

'Disgusting,' he muttered again, dusting his hand off on his trousers as they walked, leaving the girl standing at the side of the street. He was glaring at Harry. 'Remind me, once again, why you want to save these people?'

Harry honestly didn't know what to tell him.

: : :

'Thank you,' Hermione said—or at least, hoped she'd said. The man behind the counter grinned toothily at her, so she assumed he'd got the message. Draco really was much better at this than she was, but he hadn't talked to anyone since they'd left that little girl standing alone by the street.

She took the thin, stiff towels and trotted back up the two staircases to the third floor, where they'd managed to secure a single room. It was tiny and cramped and smelled strongly of sawdust, but that was better than the urine-and-garbage smell from outside. There was one filthy window on the far wall that looked down on to the street, a tiny adjacent bathroom with a sink and a toilet, two single beds with bare minimum linens. Not a five-star hotel, for sure, but it would do.

'There's a pair of shower stalls in the shared bathroom down the hall,' she said, dropping the small pile of towels on one of the beds. 'Best have one now, before we start out. Could be a while before you get another chance.'

She looked at the three of them: Ron sitting on the other bed, Harry beside him, both looking solemnly at the floor—and Draco, with his back against the wall, arms folded and glaring out the window.

'Well, don't all get up at once,' she said sardonically.

Harry sighed heavily and stood, grabbing a towel on his way.

Hermione handed him the bag and said, 'Ron should go with you—we shouldn't really go anywhere alone while we're here.'

'Someone has to stay here with you,' Harry pointed out.

'I believe Draco and I have already shown that we are more than able to take care of ourselves,' she said, giving him a meaningful look. 'It's only for a few minutes, go on.'

Ron opened his mouth to protest the arrangement, but Harry cut him off before he could. 'Leave it, she's right, let's just get it over with.'

Draco hadn't so much as looked their way since taking his place by the wall, so Hermione set about arranging the linens with various waves of her wand and checking the map she'd brought along to make sure she had a planned route for tomorrow. To the north, there was a few miles of open savannah that would run into a thick band of jungle, then back to savannah and then jungle again—finally, a deep canyon of a river running out of the lake to the east, then a quick, level trek the rest of the way to Gonder. On foot, the trip would take them five days if they kept good time, six at most. She prepared a letter to have owled—or whatever they used down here—to Bill in the morning, alerting him to their delay.

She was so absorbed in her work that she didn't notice that Draco had finally looked at her until he spoke. 'Why do you insist on calling me that?'

'What, by your name?' she asked casually, raising her eyebrows. 'That is what it's for, isn't it?'

'Don't play the idiot, Granger, it doesn't suit you,' he snapped, pushing away from the wall and standing with his back to the window. The setting sun cast an orange and red halo around him, accentuating the sharp lines of his shoulder and turning his hair a deep gold. 'I don't know what you're playing at, referring to me like I'm—'

'A person?' she offered, nonplussed. 'A friend?'

'—one of your bloody charity cases,' he finished firmly, still glaring, though the use of the word 'friend' seemed to have thrown him a bit. 'Don't think I don't see right through your little benevolent bullshit.'

She sighed, and tried to find the right words to express her thoughts. 'It's not that—I don't think of you like that. And I wouldn't say that if it wasn't the truth, I have no reason to lie about it. It's just—well, it'sstupid,' she said honestly. Draco merely raised an eyebrow. 'And you know it is, too, all these uptight mannerisms and the formality, it's like you're trying to distance yourself—'

'Just caught on to that, have you?'

'—and like I said, it's stupid,' she finished. 'And I know you think that Harry is just using you, and nothing else, but if that was the truth, he would have taken what you'd given him and then had you thrown in Azkaban. And he could, too, very easily—all he would have to do is say the word, because cleared of those charges or not there are still a million things he could try to pin on you, and you know as well as I do, if it was his word against yours, you would lose.'

'So why doesn't he then!' Draco snapped. 'Why the hell is he dragging me around, like I'm still any good to him—'

'Because he made a deal, a promise, to protect you,' she said. 'You and your mother. And he is doing the best he can. Throwing you in Azkaban would be as bad as handing you over to Vol—You-Know-Who, and he knows it. He can only help your mother as much as she'll allow it, and just so you know, he's had Blaise and Remus stationed at the Palazzo since the night we left, keeping a twenty-four hour watch on her.'

Draco stared stupidly at her for a moment. Then he swallowed and said, 'But—'

'And as far as bringing you along is concerned—' she continued briskly, '—the best way he can protect youis by being with you as much as possible. Why do you think he keeps us all close? Ron, me, Luna, Fred, George, Ginny, Remus, everyone,' she repeated, 'every single person that he cares about, he keeps close, because he's terrified of what could happen one day if they need him, and he's not there. He's lost too many people already and he's sworn not to lose any more, which is stupid of him to do—yes, I know that—but when he makes a promise, he keeps it or dies trying.'

It took her a moment to realise Draco was leaning back against the window for support; she hadn't been shouting, but that probably hadbeen a lot of information to swallow at once, and as guarded as his expression was, she could see him struggling with which part to react to first. She waited, quietly, turning away and allowing him several minutes to think it over.

When he finally spoke, however, the first words out of his mouth sent her off again.

'Look, Granger—'

'Hermione,' she snapped, spinning back around to glare at him. 'My name is Hermione. That, or it's Miss Granger, because if you are going to insist on being stupid, you're at least going to do it politely!'

'Hermione,' he amended quickly, looking alarmed. 'Hermione, all right? Kill the flame under your cauldron. I just—'

And then Harry and Ron came back, swinging open the door and immediately dissolving the words on his tongue.

'Er.' Harry, dressed in jeans, bare-chested and with water still dripping from his hair, looked back and forth between them at the sudden silence. He was holding onto both ends of the towel thrown around his neck, and Hermione momentarily considered strangling him with it for having the worst timing in the world. 'Are we interrupting something?'

'I was just starting to complain you were using up all the hot water,' Draco said smoothly, surveying him with a wrinkled nose. 'And now, apparently, rinsing the floor with it.'

Ron, equally shirtless but not nearly as wet, threw his sodden towel at Draco, who dodged it with a sneer. 'Shut up, you arse. All the water's cold anyway.'

Hermione huffed and picked up the remaining towels and then took Draco by the wrist. He stared at her, too bewildered to react instinctively and pull away. 'Don't argue,' she warned. 'I don't care if it's cold, you're having one, too.'

'You can't go with him!' Ron exclaimed, outraged. 'It's only a single bathroom!'

'The stalls are separate,' Hermione said, completely unconcerned. 'And we can't go anywherealone, and you certainly aren't coming with me, Ronald Weasley.'

She gave Draco a tug and found him coming easily, smirking nastily at Ron as he went.

'Sorry, Weasley,' he drawled. 'Malfoy charm, women can't resist. Nothing to be done about it, I'm afraid.' He closed the door behind them, leaving Ron open-mouthed in speechless outrage and Harry shaking his head in dismay.

Hermione dropped Draco's wrist, putting her hands on her hips. 'Except boast about it, apparently.'

Draco looked at her, and suddenly burst out laughing.

'Oh, come on,' he said, following her as she rolled her eyes and stalked away. 'The look on his face was priceless.'

: : :

Despite our artistic pretensions, sophistication and accomplishments,

We still owe our existence to a six-inch layer of topsoil

And the fact that it rains

- attributed to an ancient Chinese text

: : :

During the first half day of their trip, by the time the sun had hit its summit in the sky and begun trailing down sometime in the early afternoon, Draco had discovered two things. First, that Africa really wasas hot, flat and boring as it had looked from the car and, second, that Ron Weasley was most definitely the extremely jealous type. Draco had also found that these two discoveries balanced each other out quite nicely, for while he was sweating and baking under his new hat in a way that was certainly less than dignified, at least he was making a Weasley completely miserable by courting his girlfriend at the same time.

It had all been good fun, until they'd run into a small but abrupt decline right before the first expanse of jungle they had to navigate. Almost like a tiny canyon, it ran horizontally across their path with no end in sight, and they needed to proceed directly forward. Hermione had at once turned to the map for guidance, but Ron, obviously desperate to prove his worth, was suddenly of the opinion that they should make their way down using the many long vines protruding from the dusty ground and hanging over the side.

Draco tried to be the voice of reason here—after all, they didn't know where these roots were lodged, if they were lodged at all, and much less whether they could support his fat head on the way down. Ron immediately turned to Harry, who, even after Draco had presented a flawless argument out of fear for his own neck, decided they would give it a go anyway.

Draco was sitting on his arse in a large, dry pile of dust, leaves and pieces of timber, which were sticking painfully into delicate places. Ron was lying in a crumpled heap beside him, looking quite dazed.

'Oh, lovely idea, Weasley. Really—truly brilliant powers of deduction you have, so glad we have you to make these sorts of decisions.'

'Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.'

Draco ground his teeth and stood up, dusting off his jeans as he did so. So far, he had not been all that impressed with Africa; all he had seen was scraggly, parched vegetation and a large amount of dust. But now before them stood an imposing, tangled wall of greens and browns that was full of the exotic chirps of unfamiliar songbirds and the rustling of leaves in the warm breeze. He glanced sideways at the trio, all of whom looked unconcerned except for Weasley.

'Um,' Ron said. 'So, we're not going in there, are we?'

But Hermione had already swung her bag onto her back, rolled up her sleeves and plunged into the tangle, using her wand as a sort of magical machete. Ron looked at Harry, who shrugged and followed after her, disappearing into the thicket. Draco and Ron looked at the shadowy tunnel they had created, then at each other; Draco may have been a coward, but the only thing that could overcome his paranoia was his pride. Throwing Ron a well-practised smirk, he plunged inside.

The jungle had an entirely different atmosphere to the flat, barren landscape they had landed in. It was cooler in the shadow of the canopy but about three times as humid; he'd barely gone three steps before the sweat began to gather between his shoulder blades, making his shirt feel extremely sticky. Twigs and low-hanging branches clawed at his face, tangling in his hair as he pushed through. Hermione had cut a path, but she was considerably shorter than the rest of them, and Draco had to duck to avoid the worst of the brambles. It was slow going and extremely claustrophobic, like pushing one's way through a wardrobe full of heavy jackets.

Inside, the noise was deafening. He could not hear Ron enter and follow behind him, nor could he see or hear the others ahead of him—the freshly-cut path was his only guide as the jungle sang high and low overhead, tiny beams of sunlight trickling through the thick canopy and playing tricks on his eyes as he pushed on. He seemed to trudge for hours—the undergrowth was thankfully minimal, probably because the treetops overhead hogged most of the sunlight, but it was still a laborious hike. His cheeks stung with scratches from the virulent foliage and his shirt and hair were plastered to his skin with sweat; he would have been thoroughly miserable if not for the happy assumption that Weasley, taller and stuck trailing behind him, was fairing even worse due to Draco's complete disregard as he allowed branches he pushed aside to whiplash behind him.

Draco stepped carefully over a root, looked up, and stopped. There was a fork in the path—the one to the left was clearer, as if it had been cut more recently, but just as Draco decided to go that way, something large hit him from behind.

'Bloody fucking—Christ, Weasley, your eyesight is worse than Potter's.'

'What the hell were you stopped in the middle of the path for?' Ron was rubbing dirt off his temple, or at least attempting to—really, all he was doing was spreading it around. 'Which way did they go?'

Draco raised an eyebrow, and pointed at the much-unworn path to the right. 'That way.'

'Right,' Ron said, shoving past him. 'I'm going first this time.'

For a moment, Draco watched him go with mingled feelings of exasperation and smugness. He could continue down the left path, leaving Weasley to wander where he would, and claim innocence when the others noticed Weasley had not followed behind. It would be so easy, really.

Aside from the fact that Potter will likely not believe a word of it and kill you on the spot.

Sighing, Draco called out, 'Weasley, you complete tit, you're going the wrong way.'

The gaping hole Weasley had left in his wake did not reply. Draco raised his eyes to the hidden sky and muttered a curse. He was thinner and more agile than Ron and could fit through the tangle of vines easily, and quickly followed the path right, calling out 'Weasley!' and various insults at regular intervals, each time pausing for breath and in wait of a reply. He'd gone about ten metres when the path began to deteriorate, presently leaving him standing in the middle of an unmarked jungle, with no definite path to follow any further. Ron was nowhere in sight and still not answering.

'You better be dead when I find you,' Draco muttered savagely to his shadowy surroundings, 'or I am going to kill you.'

Perhaps if he had stopped whispering empty threats under his breath, he would have heard it sooner.

As it was, it took Draco another ten minutes of directionless wandering to notice that the once-noisy canopy had fallen deathly quiet. It was unnaturally still—not even a small breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees—making the atmosphere feel tense. It was as if the jungle around him had taken a huge breath and then held it, and it made him shiver.

'Weasley,' he hissed, eyes searching the deep, green shadows. Perhaps Ron had turned his own joke on him; left him alone to wander, maybe even going as far as to cast eerie spells around him despite Hermione's warnings that they were to use as little magic as possible in order to avoid being noticed or followed.

Buggering prat, Draco thought viciously. Does he really think I'm that stupid?

Nobody played tricks on a Slytherin and got away with it; when Draco found that git, he was going to get what for—

A twig snapped somewhere behind him. Draco froze mid-step, holding his breath and staying completely still save for his eyes, which darted quickly from side to side in search of the source of the noise. Nothing in the jungle moved. There was a low rumble, like a deep, disembodied purr—and then someone grabbed Draco roughly by the back of his neck and yelled in his ear, 'Run!'

There was a wild moment of scrambling and stumbling, an indignant noise of protest and a sound of alarm, before the noise of the two of them was completely drowned out by a roar that sounded as if it came from the bowels of Hell itself.

Instinctively, Draco leapt to the side—Ron went the other way and the beast landed between them in a snarling heap. Draco had a frozen instant to take the animal in; it looked chestnut in the shadows, but the few rays of light that penetrated the canopy above showed it to be a tawny animal, enormous but lithe, its long body crouched in preparation for another leap. Round ears lay flat against its head, and the muscles of its shoulders coiled and rippled around a darker, shaggier mane that was thicker than the rest of its coat. It looked briefly in the direction that Ron had turned and sprinted, then at Draco, yellow eyes glowing in the darkness, and seemed to make up its mind; and with a sudden horror, Draco realised that, between him and Weasley, he was the smaller one.

Go figure.

Draco took another instant to reflect on how much he hated cats, braced himself for it, and then Ron shouted, 'Stupefy!'

Mid-leap, the lion stumbled, and Draco could have choked on his relief. The cat hit the ground with its stomach and chin, legs splayed ungracefully and looking confused, but almost immediately began to stir. Draco felt the feeling of dread return—it was far too large an animal, non-magical or not, for a single Stunning Spell to take proper effect. It scrambled quickly to its feet and Draco stumbled backwards, his back smacking into the trunk of a tree, then Ron tried again—this time the animal roared in annoyance as it stumbled yet again, tripping over itself.

Ron had taken advantage of the delayed pounce to circle his way around and grab Draco by the elbow, dragging him sideways just as the lion leapt again, leaving sizeable gashes in the bark of the tree. Draco didn't bother to look behind him after that—he followed Ron's lead, and ran. He had no idea how they were avoiding it—the cat was obviously faster and stronger than they were, and was too close on their tails to give them time to stop and scramble up a tree, and for all Draco knew the damn thing could climb them anyway. Their only advantage was that the jungle was thick with trees for them to dodge around, which seemed to disorientate the predator; and since there were two of them, the lion seemed to keep changing its mind about who to chase.

The both rounded the same tree from different sides and nearly ran into one another. Ron leapt to the side with a yell just in time to avoid the jaws bearing down on him and flung his wand hard at the animal, striking it between the eyes with an explosion of sparks; the lion yowled and vanished from sight. Ahead of them lay a large, fallen tree that Draco heaved himself over and dropped down low on the other side of. After a moment, Ron tumbled over beside him.

'Shit,' Ron squeaked. 'Shit, shit, shit!'

Draco could have strangled him. 'Why the hell did you throw your wand at it? You do know it's no use if we don't have it, don't you? You can't possibly be that much of an idiot!'

'Don't call me an idiot!'

'You're supposed to be a trained combatant!' Draco went on desperately. 'Please, please tell me that you have a plan. That perhaps the wand is some sort of magical grenade. That you at least possessed the brains to bring a spare.'

'Of course I've got a spare!' Ron snapped, looking indignant. He dug around in his pockets briefly, then gave Draco a look. 'Well, where's your wand?'

'Potter has it,' Draco snapped. 'Remember?'

'Oh.' A pause. 'Shit.'

Draco sighed and ran his hand through his hair, pushing the loose strands out of his face—and then made a low, aggrieved noise. 'You complete arse,' he snapped at Ron, looking murderous. 'You made me lose my hat!'

: : :

'Well, this is bloody wonderful.'

Draco and Ron had been missing for ten minutes before Hermione started to worry. They had been missing for ten more before Harry had started pacing and wringing his hands through his hair. They'd doubled back twice and Hermione had scanned the jungle with a number of spells, but there were so many living things inside the forest that it was impossible to tell what was human and what wasn't.

'Oh, they'll be all right,' Hermione said, sounding as if she didn't believe a single word. 'Ron's gotten better under pressure since Hogwarts and Malfoy's... well, they'll be all right.'

There was the muted sound of something large and angry roaring, a far off thrashing—Hermione jumped and turned towards the source of the noise, but it was gone as suddenly as it had begun.

'Probably just a bird,' Hermione said quickly. 'Or a—an antelope, or something.'

'An antelope that roars,' Harry said. 'Right.'

'Well—it's probably just a bobcat. Or a baboon. I mean, if it was them, Ron's got a wand, and he'd call for help. He knows what he's doing.'

Harry looked up at the green canopy as they hurried along. 'We hope.'

'We hope,' she agreed, frowning.

: : :

'Right,' Ron said. 'I made you lose your hat. Not the giant cat that tried to eat you, but the guy who saved your ungrateful arse.'

'Eugh,' Draco hissed, ignoring the remark; he was far too distressed by such close proximity to a Weasley to concentrate on arguing. He squirmed in an attempt to relocate himself further away, and in doing so accidentally bumped into Ron's shoulder. Ron shoved him off, and Draco landed on a stick, snapping it.

They both froze, neither daring to move no matter how uncomfortable they were, for several long moments, listening intently.

Somewhere above them, a bird whistled.

Draco exhaled and Ron quietly re-arranged himself in a more comfortable position.

'Idiot.'

'Pillock.'

'Weasel.'

'Ferret.'

'Shh!'

They both froze again. The bird above was still whistling; then, just before Draco started breathing again, it stopped.

A low, rumbling growl sounded somewhere in the trees behind them, so quiet that it was almost like a whispered purr, barely audible under the noise of the wind.

'This is all your fault,' Ron muttered.

: : :

'Bugger.'

'What?'

'Oh, nothing,' Hermione said dismissively, picking her way through a painfully prickly bush.

Harry, who opted to hop over the bush, raised his eyebrows.

She sighed, and said, 'I just hope they don't get themselves killed.'

'Honestly,' Harry said, sighing as well, 'I'm more worried that they'll kill each other.'

'Yes, that too,' she admitted. 'Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger! I hate this place!'

Cursing, she ripped the hem of her blouse free from the bush and sought vengeance by setting the offending shrub on fire.

The charred remains of the bush smoked mournfully. Hermione sighed.

Ron, you better be okay. Then, after a moment, she added, You both better be okay.

: : :

'Shit, shit, shit. What do we do?'

'Since you so bravely and cleverly cast your wand at the beast, leaving us both unarmed and defenceless?' Draco drawled dramatically, though very, very quietly. 'No bloody idea. You're the Ministry official with combat training here. What do you think we should do?'

'The phrase "like a bat out of Hell" comes to mind,' Ron muttered. 'They didn't give us combat training for this sort of situation. We're trained to catch Dark wizards. Fight things with magic. Not defend against gigantic tigers out for blood.'

'It's a lion, you pillock. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised how utterly useless you are,' he added. Ron growled, but Draco ignored it as he continued, 'And as tempting as running like the Hounds of Hell are on our tail is, this particular Hound is actually a Cat, and as this particular Cat is accustomed to eating things much faster than our sorry little pink arses, that would probably end in one of us being eaten.'

'So long as it's you, I really don't give a damn.'

'How very sweet of you. You seem to be forgetting, however, that I possess the ability to adopt four legs at will, which, unfortunately for you, makes that outcome highly unlikely.'

'I can't fucking believe this,' Ron grumbled, sinking further to the ground. 'I'm lost in a jungle in the middle of Africa, being stalked by a gigantic tiger with you, of all people.' He sighed dramatically. 'Now I know what mice feel like.'

'For the umpteenth time, it's a lion, you uneducated savage. And—' Draco sat up very suddenly. 'That's it.'

'And—what?' said Ron, confused. Then, more urgently, 'Get down!'

Draco lay back down, but the same expression of revelation was plastered on his face.

Ron wondered if Draco had gone insane. Deciding not to get his hopes up, he asked, 'Er, Malfoy?' in an attempt to prompt some sort of explanation.

'Mice.'

Ron raised his eyebrows.

'Mice?'

'Well, a mouse.'

'A mouse?' Ron asked, still not following.

'Cat and mouse,' Draco explained.

Ron stared at him.

'Malfoy, are you feeling alright?'

Draco turned his head sideways to look at Ron, who was eyeing the blonde rather warily.

'Weasley, I think I have an idea.'

: : :

'Should we be getting worried yet?'

Harry paused in pushing his way through a tangle of vines to look back at her. 'I thought we were already worried?'

She slashed at the vines with her wand; they broke cleanly apart and flopped to the sides. 'Are we?'

'Well, that depends,' Harry said, wriggling through them. 'Do you mean the "I hope they don't fall into a hole and sprain their ankle" worried, or the "I hope they haven't beaten each other to bloody pulps" worried, or the "I hope they haven't been eaten or murdered by anything yet" worried?'

The last of the vines fell away, and they found themselves facing an open, golden plain with high grass and scattered trees. About five miles straight across, the looming green of the second patch of jungle sat and waited for them.

She looked over at Harry. 'All of the above?'

'Then yes,' he said, stepping out of the jungle and looking back at it, a troubled expression on his face, 'we were already worried.'

: : :

'So when you said, "mouse",' Ron said sardonically, 'you in fact meant, "horse".'

Draco rolled his eyes. 'It's a figure of speech. What is it with you people and technicalities?'

'You're completely insane, you know that?'

'I prefer the term "creative".'

'It's not going to work.'

'It'll work.'

'And if it doesn't?'

'I'll probably be torn limb from limb, promptly devoured, digested, and serve as savannah fertiliser. And as I have been woefully unable to produce an heir, more than likely all of the riches to my name will be seized by the Ministry and everyone will receive very big Christmas bonuses.'

A pause. Then, 'Don't get my hopes up.'

Draco sighed and peered over the fallen log they'd taken refuge behind. He was presented with a wall of green leaves, brown bark and a mass of undergrowth. Somewhere in the leafy abyss, there was a very hungry predator. Considering its size, he was most unnerved that he couldn't see it.

'This isn't going to work,' Ron said again, obviously trying to be helpful. 'This is a very, very bad idea.'

'Do you have a better plan?'

'No,' Ron admitted. 'But you're still bloody mad.'

Taking a very slow, deep breath, Draco ignored the Weasley and cleared his mind as best he could.

This took considerably more effort than usual, considering there was a ruddy huge cat out for blood with his scent somewhere in the jungle behind him. It was embarrassing enough that he was stuck in this situation with Weasley of all people—Merlin forbid it had been a gigantic spider after them—but it just had to be a cat. Well, damned if he was going to let a stupid feline of all things be the end of him.

Bugger. Draco took another breath. Right. Forget the cat. Think horse.

Horse.

'Whenever you're ready, Dr Dolittle,' Ron muttered.

Fully aware of how infantile the action was, Draco rolled his eyes and slapped him on the head. 'Shut up. I need to concentrate.'

'Then hurry up about it,' Ron grumbled, rubbing his forehead.

Horse.

The trick to being an Animagus was that practice really did make perfect. The more times you shifted into your animal form, the easier and faster the transformation became. McGonagall's advice had helped Draco's progress considerably, but it still took a very solid chunk of concentration. Even focusing on it completely, it could take him a good three to five seconds to transform, whereas a more experienced Animagus could make the change instantaneously.

Hopefully, that wouldn't give the lion ample time to pounce.

Horse! Stop thinking about the stupid cat!

It was a very delicate, complicated process, transfiguring your own body. Draco had to think very hard about what he wanted to become, and how his body would be altered... the lengthening of his limbs and neck, the conversion from bipedal to quadrupedal, the bloating of innards, the strengthening and enlargement of muscles... the worst was easily the shifting of his internal organs; the feeling, if he thought about it, made him decidedly nauseous. There was simply no weirder sensation than that of your oesophagus growing about three feet longer or your heart and lungs swelling to six times their normal size in the span of a few seconds.

'Euergh,' Ron said as he watched. His face was twisted in disgust and he was physically recoiling as far as possible without getting out from behind the log. 'Oh, yuck. Doesn't that hurt?'

The horse, now fully formed, looked at him. Then it turned and walked away.

Ron blinked.

'Er... Malfoy?' he hissed after it. 'You in there?'

It stopped, looking back at him, and then turning away again. Its tail twitched, once, then twice, and then it lowered its head to the ground and looked for something to eat.

: : :

The horse twitched its tail, slapping its hindquarters. Bloody flies. Bloody, buggering, bloody flies. Didn't they have anything better to do than bite him?

And in the arse, of all places?

Hmm. This place was odd. There was grass, but it was... different grass. And there were trees, but they were very odd trees. There were birds, too, but not any sort of birds that he had heard before.

And flies. There were far, far too many flies. And they were the size of apples.

Okay, maybe that was a tiny exaggeration.

Mm, apples.

He lowered his head and sniffed the ground. Nope, no apples. Something sweeter, though... what was that? Ooh, rotten yellow fruit of an unidentified sort. He nibbled it cautiously; no loud noises sounded, no large predators appeared, and it tasted rather good.

Not as good as apples, mind, but the horse was hardly picky.

Crack.

The stallion's head snapped up. He sniffed, flaring his nostrils as wide as they would go. His eyes gave him a three hundred degree view around, and turning his head ever-so-slightly covered the other sixty degrees behind him: nothing evil on the radar. He flicked his ears a few times; no more snaps occurred, and there were even a few birds tittering away in the canopy.

Ah, well. He began to lower his head back to the tasty yellow fruit.

Then the wind reversed direction, putting the horse downwind.

The animal's languid manner vanished. Half-rearing and whinnying nervously, the horse's mind reeled, and he pawed the ground while twisting in a tight circle until he'd located the source of Danger.

Source registered, the horse's first instinct was to bolt.

No, said a quiet, semi-subconscious voice. Not yet.

Why not yet? the horse demanded. Now seemed like a very good idea to the horse. In fact, the idea was splendid and brilliant and why am I not running yet?

Wait, said the annoying voice that was clearly misinformed about the situation.

Predator! Danger! Death in corporeal form, right there in the bush! the instinctive prey-animal inside was screaming.

Not yet.

Right now!

Not yet!

It's moving! It's coming!

Steady...

Run!

Just a few more seconds...

Bolt!

Now!

: : :

Hermione looked up. 'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?'

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She was sure she had just heard something... like a loud crash, or the start of an engine, or—

And then somewhere in the not-so-distant jungle, something screamed.

: : :

Ron knew a bad idea when he heard one. Hell, he'd been Harry's best mate for what, ten years? Ten years of close calls with Dark Lords and Evil of All Kinds and you learn to spot very bad ideas when you see them.

He'd told Draco this wouldn't work. But no, the snobby little tit thought he was clever. Genius, brave and cunning, too, no doubt.

Oh, bugger, who cared if Malfoy went and got himself killed? Not Ronald Weasley, that was for sure. Didn't care one bit. Sure, he was an active, on-duty Ministry official with the law in his hands, and Draco was, technically, a civilian, albeit a dodgy one—but he was still a civilian and Ron was still an Auror and if it had been any other civilian proposing such madness, Ron would never have agreed to this. But honestly, who in the world would be bothered if Draco Malfoy went and got himself eaten? Ron would probably face an inquiry at work, but no one really cared enough about Malfoy to put any heart into it, so he'd get off. Hermione would probably purse her lips and reprimand him until his ears bled, then proceed not to speak to him for weeks, but she'd get over it. His mum would probably disown him.

At least Harry would be happy, surely. Fred and George would throw him a party.

The moment the horse—Malfoy—had sensed the tiger—lion, whatever—Ron had gotten to his feet as instructed, staying crouched low behind the log and ready to bolt.

'Don't move right away. Wait until it's chased me clear of here. If it sees easier prey—that would be you, by the way—it'll change targets.'

Ron would have thought this plan was awfully selfless on Draco's part if the prat hadn't added:

'Not that I'd mind having a clean get-away, but if I come back without you, Potter's bound to assume I've killed you and hidden the body.'

Slimy, Slytherin bastard.

The horse seemed to be furiously debating with itself; at first, it backed away, and then it turned around, trotted a pace, then circled back. Then it continued to turn in tight circles until Ron was sure it'd fall over from dizziness.

Then, without any warning whatsoever, a lion the size of a Cadillac exploded out of the trees with a roar that went straight through his bones. It landed on the back of the horse, which toppled over, screaming.

Ron stood there, frozen and watching.

Don't move right away.

The horse groaned and rolled, trying to right itself; the lion had fallen off when the horse collapsed, but was recovering quickly.

Wait until it's chased me clear of here.

The lion lunged for the horse's neck, jaws open and claws outstretched.

If it sees easier prey—

Streaks of bright red appeared on the white body, and the horse screamed again.

—it'll change targets.

Sodding it all, Ron turned away and leapt over the log. His foot caught in a broken branch and he stumbled, but he kept moving, scrambling—just a few more metres, just a few more feet—his wand had to be here, somewhere—right in this ditch, right under this tree—it had to be—it was right around... here!

Ron wheeled around, aimed and shouted, 'Stupefy!'

: : :

Draco had felt pain like this before.

Pain in general was a fairly unusual sensation for him. He'd lived a comfortable life, after all. Minor cuts and bruises that come with childhood aside, there had only been two instances prior to now when Draco had experienced real pain.

First, he was thirteen and had been slashed by a bloodthirsty Hippogriff. Granted, that had been his own fault, but it had bloody hurt nonetheless.

Excluding the accompanying slap that year and, in the years to follow, several fist-to-stomach encounters with Potter and his Disciples, the next instance had been when he was sixteen, when Potter had nearly sliced him in half in a bathroom. Whether this instance counted or not was debatable, though, as shock and loss of blood had rendered Draco unconscious for most of the resulting pain.

If he had remembered any of it, it had felt like this—the searing, stinging, loosening sensation of being sliced open, and the strange feeling of cool air connecting with warm tissue, and the terrifying feeling of hot blood draining out of one's body. Only this time, there were several slashes, and instead of being hurled from a wand, they had a half-ton cat attached to them. A half-ton cat with fangs and curved claws that hung on with intent to kill.

His horse-form screamed. Then it did the only logical thing it could think of: it kicked. It kicked hard.

Draco was lucky—the lion had gone for his neck, but the horse had recovered and stood up too quickly, forcing the cat to settle for attacking his flank instead. Wounds here were far less life-threatening, and it put the predator in a very compromising situation.

The kick sent the lion tumbling off him, lengthening the gashes in his hindquarters as it went, refusing to go easily. The extra six-hundred pounds removed, his horse-form did the next logical thing it could think of: it bolted.

Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run, his horse-mind chanted at him. Don't look back. Just run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run...

According to the horse, everything would be all right if he just kept running. Draco did not feel the need to argue. He let the horse's instinct take over, and he ran.

: : :

'Harry! Here! I can hear it—'

'So can I,' Harry agreed, coming to her side. The jungle loomed over their heads, and inside, they could hear a commotion. A commotion that sounded like...

Hooves.

Oh, thank God, she could hear hooves.

A large blur of white erupted out of the foliage half a second later. The horse galloped the few metres to them from the trees, hooves thundering hard on the dry grass. Just when Hermione thought they would be trampled, it picked up its front legs and, with a powerful leap, soared clear over their heads. Ducking beside her with his hands over his head, Harry spun around. Hermione followed suit.

The horse had skidded to a halt just behind them, as if suddenly realising they were there, and turned back to face them. Hermione's mouth fell open; the horse was covered in large, red gashes and was bleeding profusely.

'Oh, my God,' Hermione gasped.

'Malfoy, what—' Harry started to ask, eyes wide.

A loud yowl from behind interrupted him and caused them both to spin back around. Crouched before them, mouth open wide in a snarl, was the biggest cat Hermione had ever seen. And before she even had a split second to think or react, it attacked.

She remembered hearing hooves again; Harry shouting, moving sideways towards her, hitting the ground; a high-pitched whinny, a blood-curdling snarl—something heavy fell on top of her, and then everything went black.

: : :

Two hours later, Harry said, 'I didn't know horses could do that.'

'Neither did I,' Draco admitted. He winced as Harry poked the newly-sealed gash on his upper arm with his wand. 'Mind you, I wasn't really in control at that point. The horse in me sort of panicked. Instincts, you know. Ow! You're doing that on purpose, you pillock!'

'I am not,' Harry lied, jabbing him again.

The gash was nearly gone now; only a faint pink line remained. It had taken the better part of an hour to patch Draco up, and they'd had to brew a Blood-Replenishing Potion to keep him from passing out again. Draco was still looking paler than usual, and he wobbled a bit woozily any time he tried to stand up.

His mouth seemed to be working fine, though.

'Oh, my poor skin,' he moaned. 'Whatever have I done to deserve such horrible scarring?'

'They won't scar,' Harry told him for about the sixth time since Draco had regained consciousness. 'They're just superficial wounds. Quit complaining.'

'Complaining makes it hurt less. Ow! Stop that!'

'If you're going to complain you should at least have a reason to.'

Draco scowled and threw a bloody rag at him. Seeker reflexes always at the ready, Harry caught it easily and tossed it aside.

'Nice try,' he said, smirking. 'Now quit being such a sissy.'

'Sissy? You'd all be cat food without me! Ow!' Draco recoiled from the prodding wand like the wounded animal he was. 'I said to stop that!'

'Bloody hell, you're loud,' Ron said, coming out of Hermione's tent. 'I told you to save the potion for after he conked out again. At least he's quiet when he's unconscious.'

Draco growled and opened his mouth to retort, and Harry quickly poked his arm again.

'Bloody-fucking-ouch! Will you cut it out? Sadistic pillock—'

'How is she?' Harry asked Ron, ignoring Draco's complaining.

'She's fine. Awake now, too,' Ron added, jabbing his thumb in Draco's direction by way of explanation. 'Bad headache, though.'

'I'd imagine,' Harry said, rubbing his head.

The lone lion, when presented with the three of them, had changed course from the largest prey to the smallest—which happened to be Hermione. As Harry and Hermione had both been caught off guard by the situation and Ron was still running to catch up from behind, the only person that had been in a position to do anything about it had been Draco. Harry had managed to roll out of the chaos long enough to get to his feet and, when Ron arrived, the power of two Stunning Spells had been enough to bring the predator down.

Unfortunately, being knocked aside by a horse and then very nearly trampled by said horse combating a vicious cat of about the same size had resulted in Hermione acquiring a large collection of cuts and bruises and a rather painful headache. Draco's horse-form had sustained double the wounds he'd had upon first entering the clearing, which had bled him well enough that more of the horse was a dark, dirty red than white; and as a result, Draco had proceeded to nearly collapse on top of Hermione before Ron had the wits to pull her out of the way.

Harry was still coming to grips with the fact that Draco—the same pointy, cowardly little twit that had run screaming from the Forbidden Forest in his first year at Hogwarts—had put himself between any of them, Hermione above all, and something that could very well have killed him. Draco could blame the horse's 'instincts' all he wanted, but Harry knew enough about animals to realise that any horse in its right mind would not put itself in potential danger if it was possible to avoid it. Left completely to instinct in that situation, a real horse would have just kept running.

'What do we have to eat?' Draco asked, rubbing his healed arm gingerly.

Ron poked the stick hanging over the fire. 'Fish.'

Draco made a face. 'Yeuch.'

'I thought you liked fish?' Harry asked.

'I do,' Draco said, looking a bit surprised that Harry had remembered that conversation. 'The horse, however, doesn't fancy anything that isn't vegan. And unfortunately, my appetite still seems to siding with it.'

'Apple?' Ron suggested, digging through the bag and holding up the fruit.

'Ooh, apple,' Draco agreed, opening his hands.

Ron threw it to him, deliberately hard. It hit Draco in the chest with a soft punff.

'Ow. Okay,' Draco said loudly, retrieving the fruit from his lap, 'the next time we're attacked by a rabid, wild animal, I'm taking my four legs and leaving your sorry arses.'

'You know,' Ron said thoughtfully after Draco had shut up long enough to take a bite of his apple, 'if Malfoy'd had his wand, we would have avoided that entire mess.'

'Mmrf,' Draco agreed, swallowing. 'Yes, Weasley, that is an excellent point.' He turned to look at Harry, apple forgotten. 'So, how many more times do I need to prove that I'm not trying to kill you lot before we remedy that? I'm beginning to feel like a helpless little Muggle.'

'Good,' Harry said, dusting his hands off. 'Maybe you'll start appreciating them more.'

'Or begin realising that they're all inevitably doomed,' Draco retorted. 'Even Muggles don't run about this place unarmed. It's not exactly harmless Little Whinging, which is hardly harmless itself considering two Dementors jumped you from an alleyway. Here we have lions and Dark wizards and crazy native Muggles with sticks. And they have those noisy wannabe-wands of theirs—'

'Guns,' Harry supplied.

'—whatever. My point is, they're not defenceless. Not as much as a wandless wizard, anyway,' he added pensively.

Harry looked at Ron, who made a combined nod-shrug gesture. Harry sighed and dug into their supply bag, pulling out the long, milky-coloured wand a few moments later.

'One mistake, Malfoy—'

'I won't.'

'One threat, one tiny little hex—'

'I said I won't.'

'One thoughtless advance, and I swear—'

'For fucks sakes, Potter, I won't.'

Harry frowned and, slightly reluctantly, handed Draco his wand.

'Thank you kindly.' Draco took the wand and immediately stowed it in his boot. He gingerly stood up and took another large bite of his apple. 'Nowrif yercuse meh, fyam gonshweep.'

: : :

Hermione had said something about proper wizarding tents giving off too powerful a magical aura for them to use them, in case for whatever reason someone ran a trace for odd splurges of unregulated magic anywhere along their route. Who in their right mind would want to trek along this barren, God-forsaken continent was beyond Draco, and he sorely missed the luxury of the tent his parents had always allowed him to use whenever he went away to Quidditch games or summer-term programs.

Their tents—if you could call them that—were two tiny, canvas triangles with paper-thin walls that wobbled unsteadily even in the absence of a breeze. When Hermione had first mentioned she'd only brought two and that they'd have to double up, he'd immediately tried to secure a spot with her, mostly in fear of a midnight assassination attempt from Weasley otherwise. Ron, of course, had turned a violent shade of purple and begun shouting in outrage until Harry said he'd be sharing with Draco for 'safety purposes' and that Hermione would just have to deal with sharing with Ron. Draco had a feeling Harry had more than his well-being in mind from the way he looked at Ron, who had calmed down considerably.

Draco decided not to protest. He'd spent six years living in the same castle as Harry Potter. He'd shared a Quidditch locker room with him for four of those and had spent the last two weeks in his direct company. He could handle a couple more nights.

Inside, it was hotter than it was out. Draco desperately wanted to rid himself of his shirt; he spent about twenty minutes lying on his back, debating it in his head, and was about to give in when a large shadow moved outside the door. The tent flap rustled unnecessarily loudly as one Harry Potter attempted and failed to enter quietly, no doubt trying to avoid waking him. Draco wasn't asleep anyway, so it hardly mattered; but Harry really was hopeless when it came to stealth.

'That's my foot you're stood on,' Draco said tiredly.

Harry moved to the side. 'Oh,' he said, and Draco could see his dark outline against the orange hue from the fire outside glowing through the tent canvas. 'You're awake.'

'Obviously.'

'And as annoying as ever,' Harry noted dully. 'I suppose that means you'll survive.'

'You sound disappointed,' Draco drawled in return.

'Actually,' Harry said through a yawn, collapsing on his sleeping mat beside Draco, 'I'm rather glad.' Draco raised an eyebrow. Harry shrugged. 'You saved her life, you know.'

'Like I told you, instincts,' he said, neutrally. 'I wasn't really in control of what I was doing.'

Harry raised an eyebrow in return. 'Whatever you say, Malfoy.'

'I'm not a hero,' Draco said firmly. 'I'm not you, Potter.'

Harry raised his eyebrows. 'Why'd you do it then?'

Draco snorted and rolled over, removing Harry from his vision. 'I hate cats.' He could feel Potter raise his eyebrows higher behind him; Draco sighed deeply and closed his eyes. 'I'm not a hero, Potter,' he repeated.

'What would you call it?'

'I just do what I can,' Draco told him, and shrugged.

'So do I,' Harry pointed out, shifting around out of sight—a small, light rustle of fabric hitting the ground sounded behind him; Harry had taken off his shirt.

Draco closed his eyes and pushed his forehead into the thin pillow. He hoped that if he kept still and forced his breathing to remain shallow, Harry would just assume he had fallen asleep.

It must have worked, because he heard Harry sigh a moment later, his back flopping down heavily onto the sleeping mat, muttering, 'And you know, most of the time, that's enough.'

: : :

The next morning, Ron and Hermione went scouting for the quickest path through to the open savannah, leaving Harry and Draco to clean up camp. It didn't take very long; a few waves of his wand had dismantled the tents and smothered the remains of the fire, and Harry managed to shove all their belongings into the small pack Hermione had brought along. It seemed to have an infinite amount of space to spare, despite the fact that it was carrying all of their extra food and water, not to mention clothes and tents for four people.

The two of them had been gone for more than forty minutes when Draco began to suspect that more than finding a suitable route had been on Weasley's agenda. It was hot and dry and dusty, even in the shade of the sparse trees, and he hadn't seen Harry since he'd gone to relieve himself some ten minutes ago. Abandoning the beetle he'd been tormenting out of boredom, Draco made his way out of the trees.

Even so early, the sun was high in the clear sky, shining down with unforgiving force and baking everything within sight, including a shirtless Harry he found lounging on a discarded cloak on the edge of camp. Draco hesitated, and almost returned to the shade before his nerve won out and he continued forward. It was still for a moment and then a sudden breath of air rustled the pages of the book Harry was reading; he dog-eared the page as Draco approached, turning his face into the oncoming wind. His hair was, naturally, all over the place, and Draco could have watched it play in the breeze for hours.

Only he couldn't, because Harry suddenly looked over at him and raised his eyebrows. 'Aren't you hot?'

'No,' Draco lied, leaning back against the tree. He rolled up his sleeves and folded his arms, scuffing the ground with his boot. 'I'm bored.'

Harry didn't look convinced, but didn't call his bluff. 'One close call with death not enough for the week?'

'At least the jungle kept us on our toes.'

'There's more to come,' Harry informed him, lying back on the ground and stretching, the sunlight dancing across his skin. Draco's stomach suffered a sudden, violent ache that he suspected had nothing to do with hunger. 'Since you've got your wand back and all, why don't you make yourself useful and summon me a drink?'

Draco graced him with a squinty glare. 'I hope you burn.'

'I won't,' Harry assured him, eyes closed and grinning. 'I never do. Youprobably will, though.'

'At least I'm not starting to look like a native.'

'Am I?' Draco was exaggerating, of course, but Harry's skin was much darker than the day before. 'Well, at least I'll blend in. You stick out like a sore thumb.'

'Hey, I've got a tan,' Draco said defensively. He pulled up one of the legs of his jeans, exposing the paler flesh of his calf, and held his arm down beside it for comparison. 'See?'

Harry propped himself back up on his elbows and opened his eyes to peer at him, 'Sweet Merlin, you're pale,' he said, shaking his head.

'And at least I don't freckle,' Draco told him, straightening and dropping the leg of his jeans. 'I swear, Weasley's going to get skin cancer down here.'

'Oh, don't be horrible,' Harry chastised.

'As if you'd have me any other way.' Draco smirked smugly for a moment before letting his shoulders droop dramatically. 'I feel like I'm trying to live in an oven. I hate the heat. I like wind and snow and thunderstorms. I like rain, Potter. Malfoys were not designed for perspiration. I was bred for a much cooler habitat. With fewer gigantic predators. This place is going to kill me.'

Harry had already closed his eyes and lain back down. 'Don't worry,' he said, seriously. 'I'll protect you.'

'You know,' Draco said thoughtfully, pulling out his wand, 'I think I will fetch you a drink,'

Harry opened his eyes just in time for the jet of water to hit him square in the face.

'Guhspl!' Harry exclaimed, or at least, that's what it sounded like to Draco. Harry quickly rolled to his feet, shielding his face with his hands as Draco laughed, training his wand and sending another unforgivably cold jet of water at him. Well, it was funny—or it was until Harry had gotten close enough to lunge at him, and Draco dropped his wand. His back hit the dirt with a solid thud and he thought he might have been choking, but it turned out that Harry was just a lot heavier than he looked.

'Oi! Foul play! Christ, you're soaking—'

'Yeah?' said Harry, gasping, peering down at him and dripping everywhere. 'Whose fault is that, I wonder?'

It was Draco's turn to splutter, twisting and turning his face away, but Harry's hair was sopping like the rest of him and showering water all over Draco's face. Harry's wet flesh gleamed in the bright sunlight, which danced down the curves of his shoulders and upper arms and teased the edge of his face, so from Draco's current point of view it cast an ethereal sort of halo around him. He was soaking and disgruntled but grinning, white teeth flashing through the mess of dark bangs sticking to his face.

Draco stopped staring and suddenly started fighting back, managing to hook one leg around Harry's knee and forcibly roll them over, only to find himself thrown off and pinned down again a moment later. A cloud of dust enveloped them, sticking to every surface that was in the least moist, and Harry's hair now appeared to be a very dusty mop.

'Give it up,' Harry taunted him, struggling with his grin. 'You're such a pansy, Malfoy.'

Draco stopped wriggling long enough to give him a dark look and murmur 'Au contraire', and then proceeded to shove his knee somewhere delicate. Harry howled and rolled off.

'Fuck,' Harry hissed. He was on his back beside Draco, rocking slightly and half-curling in on himself. 'You dirty git, bloody hell—'

'You deserved it,' Draco said fairly, rolling on to his side and admiring his work.

Harry opened one eye to glare at him. 'There's dirt in your hair,' he rasped, still wincing.

'A worthy sacrifice,' Draco declared somewhat woefully.

'And you accuse me of foul play.'

'Well, I'm hardly the noble Gryffindor here, am I?' Draco pointed out, rolling to his feet and, after a moment's consideration, offering Harry a hand up. 'Slytherins have their own ways. Doesn't matter how you win, so long as you do.'

Harry glared up at him, took the proffered hand, then promptly yanked him back onto the ground. Before Draco could struggle back to his feet, Harry was over him and had him by the biceps, holding him down. 'You were saying?'

Draco stopped cursing and looked up at him; Harry wasn't dripping any more. He was completely filthy, but there was something alive in those eyes that Draco hadn't seen since the last time he matched Harry on the Quidditch pitch. The ache from before spread from Draco's stomach up to his chest and down to his knees, cramping every muscle and vein on the way, almost painfully. Harry was a warm, heavy weight resting on his abdomen and the wind was getting dust in their eyes and Draco wondered a bit wildly how Harry would react if Draco just reached up and—and then Ron came stumbling into the camp in a panic.

He was carrying the limp body of Hermione.

: : :

The Examination and Evaluation of Questionable Artefacts lay forgotten on the dusty cloak outside of camp. Harry had found the book in the Malfoy library, along with many others he'd had Hermione bring along to help them continue searching for any viable hints at the best way to destroy a Horcrux. Draco had heard him muttering late at night, know it works, but it's too dangerous; where the hell am I supposed to find one of those; and yeah, right, I can see the Ministry approving that request. Draco had never asked what any of these possible methods were, not because he wasn't curious, but because whenever someone mentioned Horcruxes around Harry, he was suddenly a lot less pleasant to be around. Not that he was ever pleasant to be around, but Draco didn't want to spend any more time thinking about that, because he was worried where his brain was going with it.

Hermione rolled over with a small groan, the sheet covering her twisting around her as she turned; her body appeared horribly frail and warped under the thin fabric. Her face and neck were covered in sweat despite the cool evening breeze; the straps of the tank top she wore were soaked and limp, dropping over her shoulders. She groaned again, louder this time, wincing and drawing her eyebrows together to form harsh lines across her forehead.

Ron was fast asleep in the next tent. He'd come back babbling complete nonsense in his panic, thinking he'd let her die, until Harry had the sense to take him by the shoulders and shout at him that she was still breathing, so will you please calm the fuck down. Ron hadn't been exactly helpful after that, but at least he'd remembered to breathe himself and filled them in the best he could.

He and Hermione had headed north, looking for a suitable way around the savannah that didn't involve walking too far without any shade. They had headed north-east, close to the lake, through a small tangle of sparse trees. Hermione had wanted to make sure it was solid, uninhabited ground, not a hidden marsh or, worse yet, the breeding grounds of something nasty, before dragging all four of them and their belongings through it. She'd sent Ron around the west side and gone east herself, and by the time Ron found her again, she was wandering aimlessly and, as far as he could tell, asleep.

'She just kept muttering, and trying to go back in,' he stammered, wringing his hands. 'She wouldn't even look at me, it was like I wasn't even there—and then she just sort of fell over, and I couldn't get her to wake up again.'

Draco suspected that Harry had snuck something into the tea he'd forced Ron to drink, because not ten minutes later Ron passed out where he was sitting, at her beside. Harry had dragged him back to the other tent at that point, and was organising something to eat, leaving Draco to watch over her.

And Draco was watching very, very carefully. There was something familiar about her behaviour, but he couldn't place it. The way she moved, the noises she made, the contortions of her face…

Hermione shook her head vigorously in her sleep, mumbling, her lips trying and failing to form coherent words. She rolled onto her back again, arching her spine as if in some horrible pain, before collapsing and rolling back on to her side, facing him again. Her hair, usually bushy and overbearing, lay limp and lifeless around her head, spilling off the bedside. Even now, her eyes were closed; she was still conscious, but unaware of her surroundings. She couldn't be dreaming, because she wasn't asleep.

There was only one other explanation: she was hallucinating.

Draco knew that hallucinations were different from dreams in several ways. For one, dreams were fabricated by the mind, using information from a person's experiences, whereas an external influence was always the source of a hallucination. Wizards frequently used various drugs and potions to achieve a hallucinative state, but hallucinogens, in both recreational and medical situations, always carried dangerous possibilities; like any controlled substance, they could have damaging effects, or even prove fatal.

When a hallucination became too intense, however… the mind was powerless to end it, unable to relinquish control, usually rendering the person in question indefinitely, sometimes irreversibly, consciously comatose.

Hermione gasped loudly, stretching out an arm in front of her, nearly touching him. Draco reached out and touched her hand, which curled its fingers weakly around his own. Her skin was warm and clammy, her grip extremely light. Standing up, he moved to the chair beside her bed slowly, careful not to dislodge her hand.

She seemed somewhat comforted by the touch, and rolled onto her back again. Her head was still turning from side to side, slowly but restlessly, brow still drawn harshly together. He could hear her mumbling again, but now he could almost make out actual words; her hand was still curled around his as he leaned closer, trying to make sense of it.

'Closer… almost… no…' she whispered, her head turning again. 'No, no… go back… towards the white… I have to… I can't…'

She shuddered violently, and the grip on his hand tightened.

'The flowers,' she murmured. Her voice was hoarse and dry. 'So pretty…'

Flowers?

It was one of those times when he knew that a word held strong significance—he knew it—he just couldn't place his finger on why.

His mind buzzed blankly for a few moments. Hermione's hand went limp again, releasing his fingers, and she rolled over, putting her back to him. Draco didn't notice. He was thinking furiously, repeating her words in his head.

Closer… to what? Go back… why? Towards the white… the white what?

Flowers.

White flowers?

He sat there numbly, staring.

'Holy shit,' he said, before standing and bolting out of the tent. 'Potter!'

: : :

'Veh-vih-data—what?'

Ron was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, blinking blearily in the light of the fire. Harry was sitting beside him, staring at the flames while Draco paced around it.

'Viduata levamentum,' Draco repeated firmly. 'Vih-dwata, Weasley. It's more commonly known as "Widow's Comfort".'

'Uh-huh,' said Ron, yawning and rolling his eyes. 'But you just said it's extinct.'

'I said it's supposed to be extinct.'

'I don't remember that from Herbology,' Ron said, still unconvinced.

'You wouldn't, because we didn't learn about it in Herbology, we learned about it in Potions. Antidotes and antiserums, fifth year, for O.W.L. preps—Widow's Comfort was one of only three species of magical plants driven to extinction by excessive harvesting for potion making. It was one of the three essay topics—for fucks sakes, Weasley, how did you even pass the exam?'

Harry was looking thoughtful, with his elbows propped up on his knees and his chin resting on his hands. 'Are you sure?' he asked.

'Positive,' Draco said. 'Widow's Comfort was rare to begin with, and used extensively in mind-altering potions. It grew only in hot, arid environments, and by the mid 1900s it had been twenty years since anyone had reported a wild crop. Since it was labelled a Class A Non-Tradable Substance, it was illegal to grow it privately, and without the potions on the market it was assumed to be extinct.'

'There's got to be hundreds of toxic plants, though,' Ron said reasonably. 'How do you know that it's this plant?'

'Because no other plant on record has the ability to induce hallucinations without being consumed,' Draco explained. 'That's why it was so highly coveted. Look, you've scanned her for Dark Magic, we've tested her for alien substances, and she came up clean, so she couldn't have been cursed or ingested anything strange. Anyway, I wouldn't think her the type to walk around an unfamiliar place popping daisies in her mouth to see what they taste like. Widow's Comfort doesn't need to be eaten, or even touched… all you have to do is get a tiny, accidental whiff and you've bought a one-way ticket to Wonderland.'

Ron was still eyeing Draco with suspicion. 'And how is it that you just happen to remember all of this?'

Sounding very exasperated, Draco said, 'I studied, Weasley.'

Harry decided not to point out to Draco how very Hermione-like this ability to retain detailed information was. Instead, he asked, 'Okay, so supposing it is this Widow's flower, how are we supposed to cure it?'

Draco shrugged. 'Simple antidote should do it,' he said.

'Should do it?'

'Well, yes, if it is indeed the Viduata.'

'And if it's not?'

'Well, it's like any antidote,' Draco continued. 'The cure requires part of the poison. Problem is, if you guess the wrong poison and administer an antidote for it, especially to an already ill patient, you could… well, there's always that risk.'

'So what you're saying,' Ron rephrased, 'is that if you're wrong, we could kill her.'

'Well, administering the wrong antidote will only produce the same results as doing nothing,' Draco said defensively. 'So if you're going to take that perspective, you could say if I'm not wrong, it won't kill her.'

Ron looked at Harry, worry and suspicion waging a fierce battle in his eyes. Harry understood how he was feeling, that Draco wasn't to be fully trusted. Even after the episode with the lion, even after Draco had risked his own hide for Hermione once already, the idea of Draco brewing something to be fed to her was a bit hard to swallow. Granted, Harry knew he wouldn't kill her on purpose, but the Draco he remembered from school certainly wouldn't volunteer to help her, either.

'Why?' Ron said, voicing his thoughts. 'Why would you want to help her?'

Draco gave him a very ugly look. 'She's helped me,' he said, simply. 'But by all means, let her rot, I couldn't care less.'

Ron bared his teeth but Harry intervened before he could go for Draco's throat. 'This antidote,' he said quickly. 'You know how to brew it?'

'I did get an "E" in Potions, six years running,' Draco boasted smugly.

Harry looked at Ron, who had finally abandoned glaring at Draco and had stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. Harry caught his eye and he shrugged, obviously too torn to make a decision either way. Trust Malfoy to save Hermione, or trust him to let her die?

I just do what I can.

Harry had the vivid, tangible image of a rearing white horse, nostrils flared and forelegs raised, bloody and terrified and standing its ground just the same.

'What do you need?' Harry asked. Draco raised his eyebrows, and made a list.

: : :

The most dangerous part of making the antidote was, naturally, gathering a sample of the poison itself. Draco was able to protect himself well enough with a Bubble-Head Charm, and Ron's directions for retracing Hermione's steps were simple enough to follow, but it still did not make the short, thin bed of bright white flowers spread across the undergrowth any easier to approach.

He would have to brew the potion here, of course; carrying the unprocessed plant back to camp would just put Ron and Harry in the same danger, and anyway, he had everything he needed with him: a small cauldron, his wand, a travel-sized collection of potions ingredients, and the Viduata levamentum itself. Ron still did not seem to trust Draco at all, and probably would have accompanied him to make sure he was brewing antidote and not poison, had he been able to force himself leave Hermione's side.

It took a little under an hour to brew the potion and allow it to ripen. Once the Viduata had been added to the antidote, the fumes could be inhaled safely, and Draco levitated the cauldron back to camp with him.

Harry was sitting by the fire, prodding the unfortunate logs with a spare stick when Draco returned. He stood up quickly, nearly tripping over the woodpile as he hurried over. 'Well?' he demanded.

Draco directed the floating cauldron towards him. 'It's ready.'

'So, we just…' Harry took the cauldron in one hand and rubbed the back of his neck with the other, '…have her drink it, then?'

'If you want it to take effect sometime tomorrow morning, when the poison will already have killed her, sure,' Draco said, deadpan. 'No, you idiot, you'll need to administer it directly into the bloodstream.'

Harry went slightly pale. 'Er. How—'

'Well, generally people prefer to use a syringe, but you could try the vampire approach if you like—'

'We don't have a syringe!'

Draco raised his eyebrows. 'Oh, don't we? Check her bag.'

Harry frowned. 'How would you know—'

'Because she's not an idiot,' Draco admitted grudgingly. 'Though I can't say the same for the company she keeps. The longer you stand there and gawk at me, Potter, the worse her chances become.'

Harry looked confused and gave a little start, jogged from whatever he had been considering by the more immediate problem of one of his best friends dying. He moved towards the tent and hesitated outside of it, looking over his shoulder. 'Right,' he said, awkwardly. 'Um. Look—'

'Tick-tock, Potter,' Draco reminded him.

Harry stopped, closed his mouth, and nodded. He turned away and went inside. Draco decided to take over Harry's poking-stick, retrieving it from the ground and assaulting the fire with it. The sparks were fun to watch in the darkening sky, and he was able to open up a sizeable gap in the logs to expose the hot coals and watch the sparks dance against the darkening sky.

Harry didn't return for the better part of twenty minutes; Ron still had not left the tent. He looked torn between relief and shock. 'She's stirring,' he said.

'You sound surprised,' said Draco, eyes still on the fire.

'I'm not.' Harry had come down to sit beside him, elbows propped up on knees in front of him. 'Ron was,' he said after a moment.

'Mm,' Draco said, shoving at the logs viciously.

'I think…' Harry said finally, 'it's just, you know, really hard for him to forget how you were at school.'

'He started it,' Draco reminded him sourly.

'Well, technically, I'd say your fathers started it,' Harry said fairly. 'It's not that he doesn't want to trust you. It's just like he can'tcomprehend you doing anything decent. At all.'

'If you are trying to win me over for Weasley—'

'I'm not,' Harry interrupted. 'It's not like I find it easy to trust you, either.'

Draco narrowed his eyes, caught off guard by the fact that the comment had actually stung when it really shouldn't have. Before he could reply, though, the flap of the tent opened and Ron stepped out. He shot an accusatory look at Draco before turning his gaze to the ground, and joined them by the fire.

'How's she doing?' Harry asked.

'All right, I think,' Ron said, wavering on his feet. 'She's, um, taking a bath.'

It took a few moments of silence before Draco realised that Ron was looking down at him, and Harry at Ron, both with expectant expressions on their faces. 'What?' he demanded.

Ron narrowed his eyes, and Harry made an impatient noise in his throat. Draco realised what was going on just as Ron opened his mouth and began, 'Look, Malfoy, I'm—'

'Don't—' Draco warned.

'—what?'

'Don't,' Draco repeated, standing and snarling. 'Don't you fucking dare tell me you're sorry. Because I'm not.'

'What the hell is your problem?' Ron demanded. 'Why can't you just—'

'Because, Weasley, if it had been you or any one of your fucking family, I would have let them rot!'

Ron made a sudden movement and shoved him, hard, and Draco stumbled backwards over the log he and Harry had been sharing. Harry stood up just as Draco caught himself from falling, stepping between them, but Draco shoved him aside. 'I can take care of myself, Potter!'

'We'll see about that,' Ron snarled.

Draco saw it at the same instant Harry did; his expression twisted with fury, Ron went for his wand, as did Harry a moment later. Draco gritted his teeth and concentrated, and then launched himself forward with all four legs, slamming his chest into Ron's.

Caught off guard, Ron fell backwards onto his arse, thoroughly dazed, his wand lost to the dusty ground. Harry stumbled out of the way just in time to avoid the shove, wand trained on Draco as he reverted to his human form. Draco ignored Harry and turned his wand on Ron, who was still coughing up dust.

'If you want to play who's the bigger wizard here, Weasley,' Draco said, voice deathly low, 'you are going to lose.'

'Lower your wand, Malfoy,' Harry said, stepping in front of Ron.

Draco's eyes snapped up to him. 'He drew first,' he growled. 'Piss off, Potter.'

'I don't care,' Harry said, wand still held steady. 'You're both being idiots, and now he's unarmed. Lower your wand.'

Ron was glaring up at him from the ground, his hair and thickly freckled face approximately the same colour as the red soil, so his blue eyes stood out clear in the fading light. Draco had taken the pushing, the pulling, the outright bullying for weeks, but now that he had his wand—

'Draco.' The use of his given name got through to him, forcing his attention back to Harry, who looked less angry than Draco would have expected, though his wand was still pointed directly at Draco's chest. 'Don't do this. Just let it go already—'

'Harry, just Stun the—' Ron interrupted.

'—both of you,' Harry said firmly. 'Just fucking let it go.'

His eyes never left Draco, green and deep as the jungle around them and just as intense.

Draco lowered his wand, and Harry hesitated a moment before, slowly, doing the same, then turning to offer Ron a hand up. Ron picked up his wand and opened his mouth, anger written all over his face, but Harry cut him off before he could get going.

'Just drop it, already,' he said tiredly, sitting back down by the fire. 'As if we don't have enough to worry about, without you two trying to kill each other.'

Ron closed his mouth and looked at Draco, eyes blazing. Draco didn't give him the satisfaction of holding his gaze. 'I'm going for a walk,' he decided aloud.

'Yeah, all right,' Harry said, surprising Draco—he'd been expecting a protest. 'Just don't go too far.'

: : :

Hermione did not know how long she had lain there after Ron had left, staring at the canvas roof of the tent. She had heard raised voices outside, but had been too sore to do anything about it; she trusted Ron and Harry to handle themselves more these days—and sure enough, within minutes the camp had fallen quiet again, and Hermione let herself sink further into the cool water. The tub wasn't anything fancy, but it was certainly impressive when you took into account that Draco had Transfigured it from a porcelain mug.

The shadowed canvas ceiling fluttered gently above her as she soaked and stewed, too tired to do anything except lie still and breathe and let the coolness of the water support her. But the magic could not be maintained for long and slowly, she sat up, using the edge of the tub to hoist herself into a standing position. Her body was still very sore and tender; not from the poison, but from lying in bed for hours while under its effects. The water, which had been cool, was now lukewarm and clung uncomfortably to her skin.

A light breeze fluttered under the wall of the tent, chilling her. Feet still in the tub, she reached for the sheet on the small chair to towel herself off with. Just as her fingers closed around the fabric, someone entered through the flap.

'Sorry,' he muttered swiftly, courteously turning away from her nakedness as she hastily covered herself up with the sheet, stepping out of the bath. 'Weasley said—'

'It's all right,' she said quickly. 'Ron told me you'd be in to check for side effects. I just lost track of time.'

Hermione sat on the edge of the chair, wrapped from collarbone to toe in several layers of sheet. Her hair was still sopping wet and clung to the skin between her shoulder blades, soaking the back of her makeshift towel. Draco slowly turned back to look at her, as if half-expecting her to still be standing nude in the tub. He looked, if anything, embarrassed—it was a strange look on him, and it made her smile slightly.

'Sorry,' he said again, slightly pink.

'I'm sure you've seen it all before,' she said. Her sarcasm seemed to relax him a little. 'And I'm feeling much better, thanks to you.'

Jamming his hands into his pockets, Draco looked her over briefly. 'You're not as pale, either,' he said after a moment. 'How's your head?'

'Clear,' she said automatically. He raised an eyebrow, and she suddenly realised her answer didn't make a lot of sense. 'Erm... when I was asleep, everything was foggy,' she elaborated. 'I mean, I can remember it all, but it felt like I was wandering in a sauna. The air was so thick, it was like—'

'A fog,' Draco finished for her, nodding. 'Fumes that resemble the fragrance of the flower, so you can smell it but you can't see anything, so you keep searching and searching… and don't want to wake up until you've found it.'

'Yes,' she confirmed. 'But how did you know—'

'I did my O.W.L. project on hallucinogens,' he said, tilting his head. 'Widow's Comfort was responsible for more black market trade and overdose-induced fatalities than any other substance in wizarding history. Ten feet of parchment on a subject makes it pretty hard to forget. You're not the only person that did their homework, you know.'

'Oh,' she said, looking at her knees.

'Anyway,' he went on, 'probably best that you check in at a hospital as soon as possible. Just because you're feeling better doesn't mean the worst is over, even with the antidote. Since you only inhaled it, though, what I gave you should be enough…' He paused, shifting his weight to the other leg. 'Weasley says he's going to take you back to St. Mungo's in the morning if you're feeling up to it.'

'What about you and Harry?'

'Still going to Gonder.'

'Will you two be all right on your own?' she asked.

She could hear his clothing ruffle, as if he'd shrugged. 'I don't see why not. Weasley's brother is still meeting us there, so we won't be alone for long. Anyway,' he continued quickly, changing the subject, 'when you're at St. Mungo's, make sure that after you're treated you have the medical records destroyed. We don't want anyone being able to find out where you were.'

She nodded slowly, and then heard him turn and lift the flap to leave.

'Wait,' she said, still staring at her knees.

Draco paused, holding the flap open, looking back at her.

'Ron said—nobody knew what to do—I mean, if you hadn't—' she stopped herself mid-ramble and looked up at him. She knew what she was trying to say, but putting it into words was a lot more difficult than she'd imagined. She settled for the simplified version. 'Thank you,' she said softly. 'This is the third time you've saved my life, you know.'

Draco was watching her with impassive grey eyes; they were flickering, like two tiny bright mirrors in the darkness. After a moment, he grinned that snarky, no-good smirk he got when, Hermione had come to learn, he was trying to cover up something else.

'Third time's the charm,' he said casually. 'Goodnight.'

He left. Hermione watched his shadow pass across her tent and disappear beyond the firelight. The flap fluttered restlessly against the gentle breeze in his wake.

She sighed heavily. 'Goodnight, Draco.'

: : :

Ron had promised, under pain of death and no more unannounced nocturnal visits to her home ever again, to go home and get some rest once Hermione had been admitted to St Mungo's. He'd left while the Healer on duty ushered her into a private room and began casting detection spells all over her, firing away with questions and taking notes on her clipboard.

'It was administered directly into the bloodstream?' the Healer said, surprised and pausing in her spell casting. 'Really? Well, in that case, we're going to need a sample of that, too. Now, how this works is—'

'I'm a Muggle-born,' Hermione said, smiling tiredly. 'And it's all right, I don't mind.'

The Healer looked immensely relieved that she would not have to explain the concept of a syringe and took a small amount of her blood, promising to have the results by morning. She took Hermione to a small, private room with a bed and made sure she was comfortable before leaving her for the night.

Hermione nodded off and didn't wake until mid-afternoon, when another Healer came sweeping into the room, dressed in the standard lime green robes with a clipboard in one hand and a wand in the other. She had short, curly hair the colour of copper and a pleasant, heart-shaped face.

'Miss Granger?' she asked, adjusting her glasses with a glance at the clipboard. Hermione nodded and the Healer smiled. 'Good morning, my name is Lindsay Peadle. How are you feeling today?'

'Fine,' Hermione said truthfully. 'Excellent, actually. What is—'

'It's all good news, I assure you,' Lindsay said promptly, smiling again. 'Results came back clean, there's not a trace of any toxin left in your system; whoever brewed your antidote did a very good job from what we can tell, and the tests indicate that you don't even need to worry about any harm to the baby.'

'Oh, good,' Hermione said in relief.

And then, for approximately the next three seconds—or days—her brain, heart, and lungs all froze at once.

In a small, wary voice, she repeated, 'Baby?'

'Yes,' Lindsay said pleasantly, then at the dumbstruck look on her patient's face, blinked. 'Oh—you didn't know? Well, in that case, congratulations.'

Hermione's vision swam slightly; the lights in the room slurred and her head suddenly felt very light. She fell backwards onto the mattress, unconscious, without another word.

The nurse blinked again, frowning slightly. 'Or not.'

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