The Best Mistake

Chapter Twenty-Three | Taken

Draco sent a stunner flying at Nott, Sr. just a second too late. It whizzed right through where they'd been standing, hurtling into the wall. The pain of watching him portkey away with Theo and Granger in his arms made Draco fall to his knees.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No!

His ears were ringing; he felt like he couldn't breathe. Draco couldn't believe what had just happened. She couldn't be gone. They couldn't—his heart was going to explode. It was pounding in his chest like it wanted to rip its way out of his flesh and bones to be set free.

In his panic, his vision blackened, wavering in and out until he collapsed.

~*~ • ~*~ & ~*~ • ~*~

"Malfoy," a voice called from somewhere far away. "Malfoy, can you hear me?"

Cool water splashed on his face, and Draco spluttered awake, gasping for breath and looking around wildly. Potter knelt before him, flanked by Finnigan and Johnson.

"Granger?" Draco asked, choking on her name, terrified as his memories of what happened flashed before him.

Potter opened his mouth. His lips trembled, and he was unable to voice whatever it was he was going to say. Instead, he snapped his mouth shut and gulped his devastation down.

"Gone," said Finnigan. "She's gone."

Draco blinked rapidly, desperately trying to make sense of those words. It couldn't be true.

"Malfoy?" Johnson asked. "You alright?"

"No," he breathed, sort of. His breath was coming and going far too fast, chest heaving with it. "I'm—" His vision was clouding again, the blackness growing from the corners until Potter was at the center of the tunnel. Potter's eyes were misty behind his fugly circle glasses, and he was shaking his head, looking lost. Draco couldn't breathe, but he wanted Potter to get his shit together so that they could find her. He needed to get her back.

He needed her.

"I'm—" His vision went fully black, and unconsciousness overtook him again.

~*~ • ~*~ & ~*~ • ~*~

The next time Draco woke, he was in his own bed, in his own room, and for a hopeful moment, he thought it had all just been a terrible nightmare, until he spotted his mother, Potter, and Potter's weasel wife sitting together on the chaise by the fire.

Potter's wife's freckled face was beet red and streaked with tears, and she was wearing the most atrocious jumper Draco had ever seen—fleshy, ratty pink wool that strained against her heavily pregnant belly where the "G" had become disfigured. Potter was clutching her hand while his mother rubbed her back. Narcissa didn't have a hair out of place, resplendent as always in her casual day robes. Only the slight downturn of her lips exposed her worry to anyone who knew her well.

"Mother," Draco said, calling their attention to him. At that moment, Draco didn't care that he was an adult and that Potter and his wife were in the room—he wanted his mother.

"Oh, darling," Narcissa said, rising from her seat and crossing the room to him. When she sat gracefully on his bed, she reached out and cupped his cheek. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean into her comfort, despite present company. "We'll get her back. Hermione is smart and strong, and Theo is an excellent healer. They'll be fine."

Draco took a deep breath, forcing his fear and doubt behind his anger. He sat up in the bed and ripped his duvet off.

"Careful, darling," his mother said, grabbing his arm to help him up. "You've only been asleep for a few hours, and the healers said you should avoid stress."