Hermione opened her eyes. Something was fluttering insistently against her face in the darkness. She sat up, brushing it away: then realized it was one of Pigwidgeons wings. He was hovering above her, holding a letter in one small claw.
She sat up and reached out a hand for it, 'Thanks, Pig.' It was an ordinary piece of rolled parchment, tied with a bit of string. She held it for a moment before opening, letting the strangeness of her dream fade. It had seemed so real: the beach, the sand and the blood. Her intellectual curiosity had been piqued by the odd symbols around the rim of Harrys red pail. Were they the same symbols that chased the edges of his runic band in reality? She would have to check her notebooks. If they were, she would be impressed at the recollective powers of her own subconscious.
Pig had settled on her right shoulder. She suspected he missed Ron, and let him remain there as she opened the letter. It was extremely short.
Hermione, I must speak with you. I am waiting for you downstairs at the front door. I sent up the little owl so you wouldn?t be frightened. I can?t let anyone else see me. Please come downstairs. Its about Draco.
She stared at the signature for several long moments in disbelief. Perhaps this was some kind of joke? How could she possibly think…? Hermione jumped back with an exclamation as the letter in her hand disintegrated into ashes. Damn paranoid Slytherins, she thought furiously, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
She had gone to sleep in her own pajama bottoms and one of Harrys old souvenir T-shirts from the 1996 Chudley Cannons/Holyhead Harpies game. She drew a flowered robe of Ginnys out of the closet, shrugged it on, and headed downstairs. Righteous indignation gave her feet wings, and within a moment she was standing in the entryway, pulling the bolts on the front door back and drawing it wide.
The slender figure on the front steps jumped and turned around. She was wrapped in a thick green cloak with a gold-bordered hood: only a bit of her pointed chin was visible. Her breath puffed out in white clouds of frozen air.
'So,' Hermione said frostily. 'You wanted to talk to me about something?
Talk.'
The hood trembled for a moment; then it was pushed decisively back and a cascade of red-gold curls tumbled out. Dark green eyes stared into Hermiones with a mute, resentful appeal.
'Let me come in,' Blaise said. 'We can talk inside.'
Later Draco would remember their mad dash from the gates of the Manor to the edge of Malfoy Park as a nightmare of crazily tilting shadows. Ice had hardened over the road, making it smooth as glass and treacherous to run on: he had never been so glad for his heavy-soled dragonhide boots.
Ginny seemed to be having more trouble: twice he caught her as she slipped; twice she righted herself quickly and kept running. Harry, of course, being Harry, was having no trouble: he was built to run, light and lean and wiry. He ran like the snow fell, like he flew: as if it was his one purpose.
At the foot of a small hill the road forked; they went left, towards what should have been the lights of the Park. The town was dark: the inhabitants had battened down like a ship in a storm. Everything would be locked tight. They ran towards the Cold Christmas Inn and past it, the sound of baying growing closer and closer behind them.
Draco knew the hellhounds of Malfoy Manor well enough, from his childhood. Twice the size of ordinary dogs, with long slavering jaws and pupilless eyes the size of oranges, they had given him nightmares for years. It had amused his father to purchase rare monsters and turn the hellhounds loose to hunt them across the grounds; Draco had seen the hounds pull down a full-sized gryphon and rip it apart with their teeth and claws.
Hellhounds were also fast. Very fast. Draco knew the three of them had a head start of almost the full length of the gardens; he also knew it would not be enough. By the time they reached the clearing where the broomstick were, the sound of yelps an barking behind them was so loud it sounded like the crackle of a bonfire.
Harry spilled into the clearing first, then Ginny, and Draco last. The clearing was just as Draco remembered it: the Inn up on the hill in the distance, the broomsticks stuck fast in the tree overhead, the steep incline that fell away to the iced-over river.
Harry stopped under the tree and spun around, his red cloak flying out.
'Ginny — get your wand out — quickly — '
Ginny fumbled for her wand, but terror had made her fingers clumsy: she dropped it. Stricken, she bent to retrieve it, picked it up and pointed a shaking hand at the Cloudbursts, lodged in the tree trunk as if they hand been locked there. 'Acci-' she began and gasped, a strangled wail escaping her throat. Draco spun to look behind him: coming through the darkness between the trees were at least seven vast and slinking forms, ornamented with fierce jewelry eyes.
Beside Draco, Harry swore, once and fiercely. A moment later Draco felt something grasp his arm: it was Harry, his grip as hard as iron. /I?m sorry/ he said in Dracos head, and then he seized hold of Dracos other arm and pushed him, hard, into Ginny. Caught completely off guard, Draco staggered; Ginny clutched at him, and the two of them tumbled precipitately down the steep incline that led down to the river, rolling over and over in the snow.
From a distance it might have looked like a gentle roll down a snowy hill, but it wasn?t: there was a great deal of ice, and jutting broken branches that tore at them. Draco heard fabric rip, and a stinging pain shot up his arm. They fetched up against a rock with enough force to knock them apart. Draco heard Ginny cry out, then rolled and came up, coughing and spitting snow. When the coughing subsided enough for him to breathe, he rubbed his sleeve across his wet face and it came away silver: not with snow, either. Blood. He was coughing blood.
But there was no time to think about that. He struggled into a kneeling position, pushing his soaking hair out of his eyes. Beside him Ginny had already fought free of the snowbank and seemed to be trying to struggle to her feet. He looked up but could not see anything but the incline above them, marked with a ragged path where they had tumbled down it.
He seized her by the shoulders and shook her hard. Later she would show him the place on her upper arms where his fingertips had pressed dark, coin-sized bruises into her skin. 'Don?t move,' he hissed at her. They were kneeling inches apart; he could see himself in her dilated pupils. 'Do you understand me? — Stay down here and don?t move.'
She nodded at him with wide, frightened eyes. 'Is Harry — '
He didn?t answer her, just released her and stood up. Then he ran.
It was not easy getting up the side of the hill: the snow was so thickly frosted over with ice that when he stumbled and his hands went through it, the ice broke and slashed at him like glass. Also, he was weak — his breath came short and the blood pounded in his ears, deafening him. He could not even hear the hellhounds, which panicked him more than any noise would have. Damn Harry for knocking him down the hill; stupid grandstanding heroics. He held on to the fact that if something had happened to Harry, he would know. Perhaps Harry had managed to get one of the broomsticks down, somehow; perhaps he?d run into the Inn, perhaps someone had opened their door to him, hearing the furious barking…
Finally Draco reached the top of the hill and was in the clearing; he ran forward a few steps — then stopped. And stared.
Harry stood where he had, in the same spot in the center of the clearing.
In his red cloak, he was as clearly marked against the white snow as a splash of blood or paint. He was very still, standing with his hands at his sides. Snow from the disturbed tree branches overhead had sifted down on him, starring his black hair with white flakes, covering his shoulders.
He could have been standing where he was for hours; for all the expression on his face, he could have been admiring the view.
Around him in a semicircle, leaning on their haunches, sat the hellhounds, their razored paws dug deep into the snow. Their eyes were fixed on Harry: an unblinking row of fourteen red-gold orbs, licks of flame in the darkness. Their mouths were open, dripping black saliva and the sound of low growling came from their throats. They stared at Harry, and Harry stared back. His expression was set. He did not look frightened.
The choking taste of blood filled Dracos mouth again and he wondered for a moment if he were going to be sick. /Harry…?/
