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Pain seared through his leg, the errant slicing hex from a masked assailant cutting through fabric and skin as easily as a thestral tore through a rat. Draco stumbled to the ground, catching himself with his hands on the cold grey tiles. He scrambled behind a crumbling wall, the displaced stones forming a makeshift barrier between him and the raging battle.
A tattered tapestry hung over a small alcove, he dragged himself behind it, his leg scuffing along the floor and leaving a trail of deep red blood. Sinking back into the shadows he took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm his racing heart.
Wandless, what hope did he have? He'd dropped it in that desperate flight to escape the menacing inferno of raging Fiendfyre. Saved by the wizarding world's hero, but for what aim? The terrible aroma of that smoke clung to his robes, assailing his nostrils. The horrendous, desperate screams of Crabbe as he'd succumbed to the flames echoed through his skull.
Footsteps hurried along the corridor, he pulled his legs into his chest. Gritting his teeth to avoid letting out a cry of pain at the brush of fabric against his torn skin. Holding his breath, he waited for the person to pass. Maybe if he stayed here quietly, he could survive until it was over. But then what? He'd either be tortured as the coward he knew he was or imprisoned for the darkness he'd chosen to follow. He wasn't sure which fate would be worse.
The footsteps stopped. A shadow fell over his hiding place. The tapestry parted.
“Oh, I wasn't expecting you,” Loony Lovegood said, frowning. Her dirty blonde hair was lit up by the moonlight and formed a halo around her head. Her wand pointed at his chest.
“Just do it,” Draco drawled, he raised his hands to cover his eyes as his heart galloped along like a hippogriff about to take flight. One flash of green and it would all be over. He hoped she'd make it quick.
“Do what?” the crazy witch responded. Draco stared through his parted fingers; she'd lowered her wand.
“Kill me.”
“I'm not going to kill you, Draco.” She laughed, a light tinkle of a laugh that was incongruent with the surroundings.
“You should.” He closed his eyes as he sunk back against the cold stones. He listened for the sound of retreating steps, but none came.
He gasped as something brushed his leg. Risking opening his eyes, she had knelt down beside him. A small jar of blue potion in one hand.
“What are… what are you doing?”
“This is Murtlap Essence. I'm healing you.” She said it so calmly, so matter of fact, that for a moment Draco imagined he'd been transported to some alternate reality where they were on the same side.
“But why?” he finally asked as she finished smearing the viscous balm across his skin. It shimmered with a greenish tinge.
“It's the right thing to do.” She rose to her feet, screwing the lid back onto the jar. “Your leg should be fine by the morning.”
“Wait!” Draco shouted as she stepped around the tapestry.
She poked her head back round the fabric. “Of course I'll wait,” she responded with a wide smile, but then the curtain dropped and her delicate steps skipped away.
“Up,” the guard commanded, pulling Draco roughly to his feet from the ratty mattress in the dank Azkaban cell. The thin blanket fell from around his shoulders, he shivered at the gust of cold sea air. “You've got a visitor.”
“What?” Draco failed to suppress his exclamation of surprise. No one ever visited him. It'd been three months since the conclusion of his sham of a trial. With his father incarcerated on the floor below and his mother under house arrest, there was no one left who'd be interested in him.
“Don't speak unless asked a question.” Fire seared across his cheek as the guard struck him with his wand. The metallic tang of blood dripped onto his lips. The guard’s hand closed tightly around Draco's upper arm as he dragged him from his cell.
He was shoved into a small bare room, two wooden chairs and a desk all bolted to the floor. “Sit,” the guard commanded.
Draco sat. The guard flicked his wand and bound Draco's wrists to the arms of the chair. Then he left him alone. A shank of light lit up a dusty crack in the table in front of him, an ant made its way along it.
“Are you sure, Miss?” the guard's voice drifted down the corridor. “He's dangerous.”
The answering laugh was bright, a hint of distant, happier times. “I’m perfectly sure, he's no danger to me. You can leave us.”
Loony Lovegood skipped into the cell. Bright purple radishes hanging from her ears. Her hair scooped into a messy bun and secured with a quill. Her dress a multitude of feathers dyed blues and purples and giving the impression of the night sky.
“Good morning, Draco," she greeted, twirling as if taking in the surroundings.
“Good morning,” he replied without thinking, a memory of the manners instilled in childhood.
Her face lit up with a beautiful smile. “It's good to see you.”
“It's good to see me?” He didn't even try to hide the incredulity in his voice. “Why are you here?”
“You asked me to wait,” she responded simply. He hadn't… that wasn't what he'd meant. “But…” She stepped closer, her brow creasing as her gaze flicked across his face, landing on his cheek. “What happened?”
“I'm a prisoner.”
“They shouldn't do this,” she murmured. She dipped her hand into her pocket and then traced her finger across his cheek, leaving a tingle of warmth in its wake. A faint whiff of peppermint, a hint of murtlap.
“I deserve it, it's fine.”
“It's not fine." She crouched beside him, briefly gripping his hand under hers. "We are getting you out, Draco. You shouldn't be here.”
“We?”
“Hermione and I. That's why I came to see you. Your retrial is next week.”
Retrial? A future not here. A hope he'd not dared to dream.
“I don't…”
“Shhh.” She placed her finger on his lips, soft skin pressing into them. “You do deserve it. I came with hope.”
Then she left in a flurry of feather before he could say another word.
“Your sentence is commuted to two years house arrest at a location of the ministry’s choosing.” The gavel thudded against the desk in the small cramped courtroom, a far cry from the giant chamber that had been the site of his original sentence.
The few observers filed out. Draco was left alone, still chained to the chair.
Not quite alone.
“Hello Draco,” Luna said, appearing at his side. Her dress jangled as the thousands of metallic stars it was constructed of clashed together.
“Miss Lovegood,” Draco said, inclining his head politely.
“Luna,” she corrected. “I'm the choice.”
“The choice?”
“You are going to live with me. I do hope that's okay?”
“It's fine.” Truly anywhere would be fine, anywhere was better than Azkaban. A kind mad witch was far superior to an evil mad witch, he suppressed a shudder as black curls flashed through the edges of his vision.
“Let's get going then.” She tapped on his chains with her wand and they vanished. “Oh, your hands!”
His hands were covered in a criss-cross of scrapes and bruises from catching himself in the stone walls and floor of Azkaban. Without the sting of the sea air through his barred window, they barely stung.
Luna scooped his right hand into her left. Then she summoned a vial from her pocket and emptied it over his palm. He watched the soothing dance of her fingers against his puckered skin.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him to his feet but not releasing his hand. He stared at their now laced fingers, a connection to kindness that had long been missing as he followed her from the room.
Her house was like her in many ways, an assortment of contradictions. Artifacts that had darker roots mingled with brightly coloured pictures of magical creatures. Steel hidden behind sunshine, she flitted between fussing over him and deriding the abuses of the ministry.
After they'd arrived and she'd provided him with a bowl of lightly spiced pumpkin soup and a cup of tea which he'd gratefully devoured, she'd led him to an airy bedroom and said she'd leave him to settle in.
The attached bathroom had a large mirror. Draco stared at his reflection, the wispy hair on his chin a sign of too many months without appropriate facilities to tend to personal hygiene.
The wand sat awkwardly in his hand. Technically not his wand, one that his unusual host had provided. His own had been lost for good, she'd told him with what he'd briefly imagined was a flicker of sadness across her face. But the magic flowing through his arm again even with this borrowed wand felt good, light, freeing.
He directed the shaking tip at his face, murmuring the slicing charm he'd always used for shaving. He let out a loud gasp as he slipped and cut through the skin of his jaw. Beads of bright red blood dripped onto the white porcelain of the sink.
Luna rapped loudly on the door. "Are you alright?” she shouted.
“I'm fine, it's fine. Just a little cut. Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you.”
She hurried in. The jar was back in her hand. The thick blue liquid coating her fingers.
“Miss Lovegood, you don't have to,” Draco protested.
“Draco, it's Luna, and I want to.” She fixed him with a challenging stare.
“Okay, thank you, Luna,” Draco replied, biting down on his bottom lip to stop it trembling.
She reached out her hand and cradled his jaw. The tender stroke of skin on skin. She was almost ethereal in the candlelight, beauty dancing before him as she stroked the potion onto his shredded chin. He leant into her touch, wanting to be closer. Then realisation of who she was, who he was, dawned and he fled from her presence.
She was sat by the kitchen table, her elbows resting on the light wood as she stared out of a round window and into the forest. The sunlight picked out the myriad of golds in her hair.
Draco watched her for several minutes, partially obscured by the door. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the room.
“Why?” he demanded. He had to know.
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing this? We are strangers!”
“My mother always told me that a stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet.”
“Enemies then,” Draco spat. “I'm a Death Eater. You should hate me.”
“There's no should Draco. I don't hate you. In fact…”
“That still doesn't explain why. Why this?” He gestured at the quaint kitchen. The surfaces were littered with trinkets and pictures. It was homely and welcoming in a way the Manor had never been.
“I thought you knew. I'm a seer, I know your future… our future.”
“Our?”
“You, me, we work.” She'd risen from her seat to stand beside him.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I just did.” Luna laughed, her bright tinkle lighting up the room. “It can't be rushed, telling you earlier would have been pointless.”
“And now?”
“I think you are ready.” She was close, too close. Large pale eyes staring into his. “Do you want to see?”
“See?”
“I can show you. It's just a glimpse. But it should be enough.”
He nodded once, the merest tilt of his head.
She pressed her forehead to his, muttering legilimens.
Visions of blonde-haired children danced through his mind. Searing kisses. Sunshine through dappled trees. The thundering hooves of thestrals. Hands laced together before a fountain of flowers.
The contact broken, Luna took one step back. Her gaze still pinned on him.
“It's still your choice,” she said quietly, she dropped his gaze. “That future can be yours, can be ours. But it doesn't have to be.”
That future was almost unbelievable. Did he want it? Now he'd tasted it, could he want anything, anyone else?
“And what happens now?” he finally asked, allowing the vision he'd been holding to fade.
“If you want to choose it, choose me I mean. You need to take the next step.”
“Which is?”
“I think you know.”
He reached out a hand, she took it. Her face tilted up towards him. He leant in and captured her lips in a tender kiss. A kiss that spoke the promise of many more to come.
