He had been rudely awoken that morning by the trapdoor being flung open and a troupe of people charging down into his cellar without warning. For a second he had thought... Draco swallowed hard. For a second he had thought that something had happened and the Order had finished playing nice. That he was going to be tortured. Or killed. But he hadn’t been. Instead Potter had looked over at Draco, curled on the dirt under his coat and shivering, and said a brusque good morning. Draco had struggled to wakefulness, and his feet.