“I know you: Isobel MacDougal, my year, Ravenclaw.”

The woman’s red lips curled into a cruel, sadistic smile at this. “We were in Herbology together.”

“From plants to violence. You’ve changed.”

“Tell me what it does, Malfoy,” she snapped, lifting the bat up and stroking it delicately. Her dark ringlets fell over her eyes, but Draco didn’t miss the sparkle of anger. “I may let you walk away.”

But he was not a statue. He was not relieved of feeling. Underneath his skin, his muscle, and bone, his chest was aching. It was breaking in two, falling through the bed, the floor, the ground, right into the Earth’s core. Was he in Hell? He did not know. Was he still asleep? He didn’t have the answer to that either.

“You should have told me this a year ago!” Hermione cried, jumping from her seat. She began to pace nervously back and forth across the room. “Instead of playing the hero—really Malfoy!”

Draco threw the Object on the bed. “I am not without need, Granger.” He spoke very carefully, annunciating every word.

Hermione spun towards him, frowning. “What aren’t you telling me?”