Undesirable #1

Dishonorably Discharged Deatheater: Draco Malfoy. Wanted Dead or Alive.

Draco Malfoy walked briskly through St. Mungo's and prayed no one noticed the thin line of sweat creeping down his forehead. The stolen Healer's robes swished against the tile just a half inch lower than they should have been. Stupid mudbloods, couldn't even steal a proper disguise, the idiots - well, not that Crabbe or Goyle would have done any better - But who needed an excuse to rant about mudbloods? They were inferior. (Even if Granger was the brightest witch in their year.) They were cowards. (Even if that Dennis kid had stood up to his aunt, even knowing what the cost would be.) They'd diluted the purity of wizarding blood, they'd polluted the halls of Hogwarts, they'd -

They'd gone and given him a conscience. After two years of struggling with the unwieldy thing, he'd grudgingly accepted it.

It had been such an honor to be chosen to serve the Dark Lord at first, of course. Finally, a chance to get even with Potter and his infuriating lackeys. If tormenting him for five years had been hilarious, how much fun would it be to take things to the next level?

Fun, he had quickly learned, hadn't come into it. Nausea had. Guilt had. Fun, not so much.

Because no, it wasn't funny to watch the mudbloods being tortured for sport. It wasn't satisfying to see Potter and Co. be dragged in before his twisted family and the Dark Lord. And he had felt nothing but sick when asked to carry out the torture himself when they had spared his life just an hour before.

The night Dumbledore had died, the lines had been drawn. He had tried to convince himself for a full year that he had picked the right one. He had certainly picked the winning one, and winning was the most important thing. That was what his father had taught him. You had to win, no matter the cost.

The line had been drawn. Standing there that day, Draco had accepted that. He had also decided it was time to hop over it.

Funnily enough, helping the boy who lived and his friends escape the Dark Lord got you put on all kinds of "Most Wanted" lists.

Somehow, he still wasn't entirely sure how, he had ended up here, smuggling in supplies bought with an ever dwindling supply of money for the few dozen injured they had managed to rescue. This wasn't the first time people had come to St. Mungo's needing discretion even more than they needed healing, so there was a whole hidden wing available for use.

Unfortunately, it was expensive to rent, meaning they had to rely on their own dubious medical skills. To make matters worse, there had been hints that it was time for another bribe.

He pushed his cart of supplies into the broom cupboard and rapped impatiently on the back wall. It swung open to reveal the off white walls of the hidden wing. 

Wood sat slumped against the wall by entrance, obviously asleep. A wireless radio and notes from the latest Potterwatch - ridiculous name, that - lay beside him.

Malfoy had begun to wonder if the man ever slept. He had been going like a machine ever since he got here.

The wheels of the cart squeaked. Wood jumped to his feet, wand out and at the ready.

He relaxed only slightly when he saw who it was. "Oh. It's you."

"Obviously," he drawled. He pushed the cart towards Wood. "Here."

Wood rifled through it quickly. "Where's the rest of it?"

"There is no rest of it."

"That's not good enough!"

"It's going to have to be!"

They glared at each other for a long moment.

Wood didn't quite look away first, but he did rub his hand across his eyes in a motion that almost looked like defeat. "Flitwick died," he said, almost in way of explanation.

Oh.

"What are we going to do with the body?" He winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth."

Wood gaped at him. "I honestly have no idea."

"I'm not just sticking him in the cart."

"No, no, of course not. I just . . . need to think."

If by think he meant sleep, than yes, yes he did. He was capable of that, wasn't he? The world wouldn't fall apart without him for a few hours. 

Wood changed the subject. "Angelina's doing better."

Malfoy remembered her. She'd been on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. "Good."

Wood glanced sideways at him. "She's a pureblood, you know."

" . . . Good for her." Since when did Gryffindors care about that sort of thing?

"We're still not sure just how much damage that memory charm did. It's possible she won't ever remember everything. The biggest problem right now is the connect, you know? Getting her to care about things she can only vaguely remember."

He frowned. He'd spoken to her for a few moments yesterday. She'd really seemed on the way to a full recovery.

Apparently that hadn't been the reaction Wood was hoping for. He looked frustrated and even more worried than usual. He'd been her captain, after all. He was still looking after his players, in his way.

"Look, are you going to make me spell it out?"

"Since I have no idea what you're talking about, yes."

He remembered that fiery, manic glow from their Quidditch days. The war had almost entirely extinguished it, but it was still there, still fighting. There was a reason Wood was still upright, still willing to take on any Deatheaters to come his way. He would go down fighting, but he had finally seemed to realize that not everyone had to do the same. "I don't know what game you're playing, Malfoy. I'm not even going to try and guess why. But whenever you try whatever it is you're planning . . . If by some miracle your Deatheater buddies manage to get past me . . . "

And the Knut dropped. Wood planned to die fighting to protect his remaining friends. He expected to do it. And he was desperately trying to make sure that sacrifice wouldn't be for nothing.

What better arguments to win him over? She's a pureblood. She'll stop fighting. (Yeah, right.) Why not leave her alone? Why not let her live? There were so few purebloods left, after all.

"There's only one problem with that," he snarled. "Believe it or not, I'm actually on your side."

He snatched the cart away from Wood and started on the far side of the corridor. He didn't want to talk to Wood at the moment.

He opened the last door and stalked in. A red-haired figure lay umoving on the bed. Understandable. His heart had stopped twice after he'd arrived here, but his eyes were open at last.

It seemed Charlie Weasley had finally woken up.