Draco mumbled blearily, rubbed at his eyes as he swam up out of unconsciousness and blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. For a second he wondered what the hell was going on and where he was, and then he remembered. The Russian base mission. The gas exposure, Kiam's betrayal, the gunshot wounds, the struggle to breathe, to keep going – he pulled in a deep breath now just to see if he could, and his lungs inflated, gloriously, almost painlessly. He sighed with contented relief, and then remembered Hermione and tried to jerk upright and pain roared through him. He stared around wildly and couldn't see her anywhere – he was alone in the makeshift infirmary. No – there was a shape in the bed on the other side of the room. Lupin, he realised; unconscious, but from the rise and fall of the blankets covering the man, alive.