Of Doves and Dragons

Chapter Eight: In the Face of Death

"Oh, idle is the Devil's hands when you're waiting for change."

-Bishop Briggs, Hi-Lo (Hollow)

Three days. It had been three long days since The Dark Lord, and the Death Eaters, had vacated the manor. They left in the cursory way they always did when a meeting was declared over. Once Voldemort had finished studying the luminescent weeping girl on the floor, he clapped his hand in a dismissal. The followers filed out the old ballroom with ease as they walked around the unique crumpled girl. Voldemort stared down at her one final time before sending Draco a threateningly reflective glance. Draco wondered if the Dark Lord was rethinking his earlier statement, much like he himself was; perhaps it was him that wasn't worthy of her.

Once he had disapparated, with Wormtail close behind him, Draco rushed to Ember's still side. Her cries had turned into soft whimpers and the glow around her didn't dissipate until he touched her neck to check for her pulse. It was racing although she was deadly still. Despite the sweat collected on her forehead, her skin was cold. She opened her eyes at his touch, only to look seemingly through him, before they rolled into the back of her head; leaving her unconscious. Terrified, Draco checked her pulse again, relieved to feel her heart slowly return to a steady beat.

He looked up at his parents. His mother hovered behind him, a small hand clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide. His father remained in the doorway, eyes glazed over, the gears in his head working overtime. Draco knew that look. It meant that his father was plotting his next move.

"Father?" Draco called unsurely, keeping his hand against her neck so that he could assuredly feel her heartbeat.

Lucius gaze refocused on his son crouched down next to the girl who was problematic only hours before. Now she was invaluable, even as she lay unconscious. "Get her upstairs," He told his family before disapparating himself.

~

It had been three days since she was conscious. Draco had carried her up to her bedroom and rarely left her side. His mother had helped evaluate her physical state, but sept for a few bruises she appeared physically fine. She suggested that maybe her mind was taking some extra time to recuperate.

It didn't satisfy Draco. He didn't like that she remained silent like the grave and looked as if she had one foot six feet under. Her face was the palest he had ever seen her and she had a low-grade fever despite how her skin was cold to the touch. Unlike weeks before, his mother didn't have to force him to watch over her; he happily lingered in her room.

There wasn't an explanation as to how she managed to create a shield from the Dark Lord. It placed an answer on the question that while maybe she didn't possess the standard magic abilities she certainly wasn't a squib. While it was extraordinary and seemed to impress Voldemort enough not to kill her, it was apparently trivial enough to be low on the list of anyone's priorities.

Not on Draco's though. He was a bundle of anxiety the longer she remained unconscious. He tried to keep himself busy so as to not sit beside her and reach for her pulse for the thousandth time but he always found himself at her side, her hand in his, caressing the inside of her wrist as it thrummed softly.

~

Ember stirred early in the afternoon the fourth day after the Dark Lord arrived unannounced at the manor. The sun was blocked out by a cloudy day and she groaned as she woke feeling out of sorts.

She was cold. Her body didn't feel numb or sore, but she was shivering deep in her bones. It felt heavy as if she was made out of lead and her movements were stiff as she stretched her arms high above her head. She blinked roughly, hoping it would soothe her throbbing head, and licked her chapped lips. Her throat was dry and when she looked to her nightstand she scowled at the empty glass.