The plot and all characters unlisted in J.K. Rowling's books belong to me; everything else belongs to her, as I'm sure you already know. I did my best to keep Malfoy in character. Any criticism? Please feel free, so long as you're specific.
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Draco Malfoy gave a languid stretch, his pale arms reaching towards the sky-ceiling of the Great Hall. It was a Saturday in the late fall of his sixth year, shortly before Halloween, and a non-Hogsmeade weekend; they had become increasingly sparse due to the Death Eater attacks.
He smirked at that thought. He suspected that a teacher or two was going to take him aside and attempt to con some information out of him--because surely the baby Malfoy would have a few tidbits to glean and pass along to His Weirdness, Albus Dumbledore? Heh. They would be sorely disappointed.
After nodding once to his classmates, he rose from his chair. He wanted to get in a bath (the Prefect bathrooms were so much more satisfactory than the old ones, if girlish in some aspects) before the night was over.
He strode towards the exit, expensive boots clicking their heels on the tile floor.
"Mister Malfoy?" Professor Snape inquired in a dubious tone, looking up from the teacher's table and most likely wondering where his star pupil was headed.
"I don't feel so well, Professor," he said in a plaintive voice, "May I go back to the Slytherin quarters?"
He saw the Professor hesitate before nodding in acquiesce.
Draco Malfoy smiled and neatly, quietly, calmly exited the Great Hall and began the trek towards the Prefect bathrooms.
It was almost expected that he, along with a select few other sixth years, would become a prefect; one, he was a Malfoy. The name did still hold some prestige, even in this muggle-infested world.
He passed a few portraits of no interest that gazed at him with knowing eyes. He didn't bother looking back; they were all boring old ghosts locked in paint and velvet.
"Mobiliarus," he said lazily, watching the portrait swing open to allow him entrance to the bathroom. He stepped in and moved aside quickly as to avoid being smacked by the portrait, which apparently didn't like him much.
Almost instantly after, he could tell that something was wrong. Firstly, the towels had been stacked up to obscure someone -- something? in the pool. Most likely a female, judging by the airy, flowery scent in the air. But .. why wouldn't the portrait have been sealed, if there was already an occupant?
"Hello?" He asked cautiously, hand going to his robes to retrieve his wand, just in case someone snuck up on him.
No response. He carefully toppled the barrier of towels ... and had to stifle a shout at what he saw.
There, in the pool of water, was the youngest Weasley's limp body, at the very shallow end of the bath. The entire pool was tainted very faintly by the copious amounts of blood streaming from her mutilated wrists, like melted rose petals coloring the water. He could just barely see the rise and fall of her ribcage beneath thin white skin. Alive.
After a moment, he composed himself and reached down to grab her by her shoulders and pull her out of the water. Going to an authority was out of the question; there was no telling what those idiots might say about him finding her like this. She wasn't naked, at least, but wore a pair of lacy black panties and a matching camisole. He was perturbed at himself for noticing, but the youngest Weasley wasn't quite so young anymore; she'd acquired a figure. He noticed an odd circular scar -- a brand, almost -- on the inside of one of her thighs.
He shook himself free of all bizarre notations of the girl's body, yanking her wet, nearly weightless (she couldn't have been more than a couple inches over five feet tall) form out of the water and onto the towels. She was still bleeding, but not so much; he guessed maybe the water had helped, but she was white-pale, the color of frost.
Her hair was the same color as the blood, the same slightly glimmering dark sanguine hue. Not like fire; like life.
"What the hell are you doing, Weasel?" he muttered. She made no movement, nor did she indicate that she had heard him; however, her eyelashes fluttered slightly. Good sign, he thought, she's not completely comatose. Meanwhile ..
The bleeding had stopped, most likely from the pressure of the air, but he still conjured spellotape with a mutter and wave of his wand, while binding a towel to each of her wrists. Bizarre, but effective, he decided, even though healing isn't my forte, although I've heard through the grapevine that she's not bad at it.
Now that she wasn't not bleeding anymore -- the towels were the same pristine white --he sat back and allowed himself to wonder what made her do it. She was obviously trying to kill herself; and would have succeeded had he not come along .. That made him wonder, too, actually. He really had no need to do anything; he could have simply left and allowed her to die. It wouldn't have been a problem for him.
Maybe it was because she looked like a broken doll, all red hair and pale skin and bruised, towel-bound wrists and impossibly full lips. Porcelain indeed; he could spot faded freckles on her skin, although not half as severe as her brothers'. They mainly dusted the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones.
He wondered, idly, what he should do. Leave her here? No, that would never do. He decided, after much pause, that he should bring her up to his room. He had after much pestering and sulking, finally been allowed to have his own private quarters -- there was a fee, but his father of course could pay that. It was simply a matter of making the old man believe he was worthy, and that wasn't difficult.
Everyone should still be at the Great Hall, he figured, so he scooped her up in his arms, marvelling at the weightlessness of her. She must never eat, he thought, nudging the portrait open and beginning to stride down towards the Slytherin Commons. Luckily, they weren't too far from the bathrooms, and nobody bothered him.
"Chocolate frog," he informed the portrait that led to the Slytherin commons and ultimately his private quarters, ignoring the expression that its subject gave him. He stepped inside and carried Ginny Weasley's limp frame up the stairs, nudging the second dent in the wall near the bottom. It wriggled and abruptly grew to become a large, circular white door. She shifted briefly in his arms while he opened the door -- nearly knocking her head against the wall beside it -- and he prayed she wouldn't wake up.
Hell, what had brought the idea into his head to BRING her here anyway? He kept asking himself that, and yet soon he had dropped her unceremoniously on his four-poster bed.
Blood loss would be a problem. Red blood cells multiplied quickly, thank God, but no doubt she'd sleep for a while before then. And how was he going to get her to eat, etcetera? Maybe she'd wake up before then. She hadn't lost enough blood yet to need a blood transfusion ..
He leaned against the green walls of his bedroom, sighing with frustration at the sudden, unpleasant turn his life had taken. A brief frown marred his features as he made a study of hers, noting that the bone basket of her rib and the jutting blades of her hips were prominent, maybe a bit too prominent. She was probably starving herself to avoid becoming a fat old housewife like her mother.
No, that wouldn't be it. She had her father's frame and mother's height; leggy and frail, short and a little bit chesty. On her it looked like a slightly top-heavy gazelle, like ghosts settled into her arms and legs. He tried to remember the last time he'd spoken to her. Second year? Shit, that was a long time ago. He was about a foot taller, although he seriously doubted that she'd grown at all, in terms of height.
His eyes widened briefly as her eyelids fluttered and then opened. She had honey-colored eyes, like firelit gold. They did not at first register her surroundings; she seemed more confused at the pain in her wrists and the weakness she felt.
And then she was coughing a little, and then she saw him. And understood.
"Oh, fuck me," she sighed, relaxing onto the bed again.
"Haven't done that yet, Weasley," he quipped, "But if you're offering .. "
"Har de *fucking* har, ferret boy," she muttered wearily.
Now that he was sure that she wasn't going to die, he could be as snide as he pleased. And that little comment incited a gentle flush in his pale cheeks. Were people still calling him that? It had been two years ago, for heaven's sake ..
She wasn't looking at him. Instead she was thinking about that awful throbbing ache in her wrists that felt like halves of her heart were contained in each skinny little bone. If she'd known it hurt so much to die, she wouldn't have tried it. And fucking Malfoy came along with his coiffure and black suit. Why the hell had he saved her?
"I didn't touch you, if that's what you're thinking," he said aloud, purposely looking at the ceiling to give the deliberate air of nonchalance, "Your hymen should still be intact."
She laughed a little at that, perturbing him.
"What?"
"If it were suddenly intact again, I would be very confused indeed." She was snickering at him. Her. Bloody Weasley with her medium curls and towels on her wrists. After he'd just saved her life. She wasn't a virgin. Well, screw her; she could bang half the school for all he cared.
"Mummy and daddy would be awfully upset to hear that, wouldn't they?" He smirked at her, rising from his comfortable lean against the wall and moving to stand near his bed where she was sprawled. She didn't seem uncomfortable with her state of undress; but then, she was showing less than the average bikini.
"Probably," she said amiably, "Although I think they'd be more ticked to hear that I'm half-naked in Draco Malfoy's bed, but it's all relative. Why did you help me?"
"I would prefer not bathing in the place where somebody had died. I'll ask the questions, thank you," he said coolly, suddenly remembering to be menacing.
"Shoot," she chirped to mask the incredible weakness that she felt all over her limbs and body, and that excruciating ache in her wrists.
"Why'd you do it? And how did you get the password to the Prefect's bathrooms?"
"It's a very long, complicated story that I really do not feel compelled to tell to my big brother's mortal enemy. As for the password .. Hermione?"
"Of course. Granger is a Prefect," he said disgustedly. Girl just had to be top in everything -- during sex, too, most likely -- or her bushy head would probably explode.
"No shit, sherlock. Anyway, to answer any remaining questions, I slit my wrists with my nails," she displayed her manicured, black-painted nails for him, smiling with barbaric amusement at his widening eyes, "And gulped a couple sleeping pills to knock myself out. Now, why did you bring me *here* in lieu of yelling for Pomfrey and showering elsewhere?"
"I'm not sure," he said after a moment's hesitation, "I thought it was because they'd believe I did it."
She chose not to answer that, instead saying, "I need clothing. Muggle clothing."
"Why?" He demanded almost immediately, "You and those two other girls are always dressing up in weird slutty clothes, and I can't understand why."
"Firstly, you better watch what you say about Cherie -- she's in your House. Secondly, they're not slutty. Wizard's robes are too confining," she spoke as if reciting something committed to memory.
"And Muggle clothes are trashy," he sniped, shaking his head. Why had he even bothered with this girl? She was foul-mouthed, apparently promiscuous, and seriously mentally disturbed -- she'd just tried to kill herself in a bathtub and here he was, having a verbal sparring match with her! The ridiculousness of the situation hit them simultaneously, and they simply gazed at each other for a few moments in silence.
Finally, she spoke.
"Go to the fifth year girls' quarters .. the third bed from the right is Cherie's," she didn't bother elaborating on how she had gotten into the Slytherin girl's quarters, "Take out her green and black striped shirt. There should be a pair of size four Earl jeans -- talls -- that I left there. I'll go barefoot; those jeans are long enough to cover my feet."
He was rather taken aback by the sudden cool commanding note that had come into her voice, but saw that it was sensible (and inwardly he was kind of amused at her specifications of the clothing brands), so he slipped out of the door to retrieve the clothing.
Once he was gone, she let out a soft groan of exasperation and pain. Fucking Malfoy. Fucking wrists. Well, fuck it. She'd just bandage her wrists.
She had the sudden desire to scream, but decided that wouldn't be a good idea, especially since Malfoy would wonder what the hell was wrong with her. Okay, he already wondered what the hell was wrong with her but she didn't want to give him any more incentive.
He'd returned already, with some other things and the clothing -- bandages for her wrists, it looked like.
"Are you dry yet?" He ignored the fact that she too weak to sit up, much less dress herself. She'd have to tough it out; he had dealt with her weirdness for long enough.
She nodded and reached for the bandages, but he shook his head.
"You can't do this by yourself. Hold out your arms," he ordered, and she obeyed, struggling to a sitting position after a few moments of fidgeting.
He sat down next to her and pulled the towels and spellotape off roughly; she cringed but said nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Truth be told, he wouldn't get any satisfaction from it, but she didn't know that. After a moment, he rubbed an ointment as gently as his nature would allow over the sore and still open wounds to close them (they would scar no matter what, even Madam Pomfrey would have troubles with these gashes), and began to attach the bandages.
She was watching him with a slightly bemused air, but he was intent on his work and thus didn't notice until he'd finished the job.
"What?" He inquired, voice coming out a little more soft than he'd intended.
"Nothing. Can I get dressed now?"
"Go ahead," he said dryly, brought back to reality by the agitation in her voice. Weasley wants to hate me that much, fine, he thought, That's the last time I do a favor for one of her kind.
She didn't have any trouble sliding into the jeans, despite the fact that they were pretty damn snug until her knees (where they flared out sharply). But the shirt gave her a little trouble; she had it over her head, but was having problems bending her arms to peel it over her camisole. He watched a moment, and then sighed and leaned forward, reaching underneath the hem of the long-sleeved shirt and pulling it down to her waist. Inadvertently, his hand brushed her breasts and she gave him a look. He knew what she was thinking: 'Well, Mister Malfoy saved my life, so I guess he thinks it's okay to cop a feel. Well, whatever.' As if he'd ever touch this girl--there were dozens of more suitable women on the Hogwarts grounds.
She didn't respond, tossing her auburn hair so it nearly hit him in the face and drawing to a stand. He could see the straps of her camisole due to the wide neck of the shirt.
"Will your housemates be back yet?"
"You have a couple minutes. Just get away from my door; I don't want anyone to see you." He kept his tone brusque, but he was inwardly very unsettled by this strange girl and her cut up skin.
"Hurrah, something we agree on." She went to the door and opened it, pausing momentarily before stepping through.
"Oh, and Malfoy?"
"What?"
"Thanks," she said, softly shutting the door behind her.
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Draco Malfoy gave a languid stretch, his pale arms reaching towards the sky-ceiling of the Great Hall. It was a Saturday in the late fall of his sixth year, shortly before Halloween, and a non-Hogsmeade weekend; they had become increasingly sparse due to the Death Eater attacks.
He smirked at that thought. He suspected that a teacher or two was going to take him aside and attempt to con some information out of him--because surely the baby Malfoy would have a few tidbits to glean and pass along to His Weirdness, Albus Dumbledore? Heh. They would be sorely disappointed.
After nodding once to his classmates, he rose from his chair. He wanted to get in a bath (the Prefect bathrooms were so much more satisfactory than the old ones, if girlish in some aspects) before the night was over.
He strode towards the exit, expensive boots clicking their heels on the tile floor.
"Mister Malfoy?" Professor Snape inquired in a dubious tone, looking up from the teacher's table and most likely wondering where his star pupil was headed.
"I don't feel so well, Professor," he said in a plaintive voice, "May I go back to the Slytherin quarters?"
He saw the Professor hesitate before nodding in acquiesce.
Draco Malfoy smiled and neatly, quietly, calmly exited the Great Hall and began the trek towards the Prefect bathrooms.
It was almost expected that he, along with a select few other sixth years, would become a prefect; one, he was a Malfoy. The name did still hold some prestige, even in this muggle-infested world.
He passed a few portraits of no interest that gazed at him with knowing eyes. He didn't bother looking back; they were all boring old ghosts locked in paint and velvet.
"Mobiliarus," he said lazily, watching the portrait swing open to allow him entrance to the bathroom. He stepped in and moved aside quickly as to avoid being smacked by the portrait, which apparently didn't like him much.
Almost instantly after, he could tell that something was wrong. Firstly, the towels had been stacked up to obscure someone -- something? in the pool. Most likely a female, judging by the airy, flowery scent in the air. But .. why wouldn't the portrait have been sealed, if there was already an occupant?
"Hello?" He asked cautiously, hand going to his robes to retrieve his wand, just in case someone snuck up on him.
No response. He carefully toppled the barrier of towels ... and had to stifle a shout at what he saw.
There, in the pool of water, was the youngest Weasley's limp body, at the very shallow end of the bath. The entire pool was tainted very faintly by the copious amounts of blood streaming from her mutilated wrists, like melted rose petals coloring the water. He could just barely see the rise and fall of her ribcage beneath thin white skin. Alive.
After a moment, he composed himself and reached down to grab her by her shoulders and pull her out of the water. Going to an authority was out of the question; there was no telling what those idiots might say about him finding her like this. She wasn't naked, at least, but wore a pair of lacy black panties and a matching camisole. He was perturbed at himself for noticing, but the youngest Weasley wasn't quite so young anymore; she'd acquired a figure. He noticed an odd circular scar -- a brand, almost -- on the inside of one of her thighs.
He shook himself free of all bizarre notations of the girl's body, yanking her wet, nearly weightless (she couldn't have been more than a couple inches over five feet tall) form out of the water and onto the towels. She was still bleeding, but not so much; he guessed maybe the water had helped, but she was white-pale, the color of frost.
Her hair was the same color as the blood, the same slightly glimmering dark sanguine hue. Not like fire; like life.
"What the hell are you doing, Weasel?" he muttered. She made no movement, nor did she indicate that she had heard him; however, her eyelashes fluttered slightly. Good sign, he thought, she's not completely comatose. Meanwhile ..
The bleeding had stopped, most likely from the pressure of the air, but he still conjured spellotape with a mutter and wave of his wand, while binding a towel to each of her wrists. Bizarre, but effective, he decided, even though healing isn't my forte, although I've heard through the grapevine that she's not bad at it.
Now that she wasn't not bleeding anymore -- the towels were the same pristine white --he sat back and allowed himself to wonder what made her do it. She was obviously trying to kill herself; and would have succeeded had he not come along .. That made him wonder, too, actually. He really had no need to do anything; he could have simply left and allowed her to die. It wouldn't have been a problem for him.
Maybe it was because she looked like a broken doll, all red hair and pale skin and bruised, towel-bound wrists and impossibly full lips. Porcelain indeed; he could spot faded freckles on her skin, although not half as severe as her brothers'. They mainly dusted the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones.
He wondered, idly, what he should do. Leave her here? No, that would never do. He decided, after much pause, that he should bring her up to his room. He had after much pestering and sulking, finally been allowed to have his own private quarters -- there was a fee, but his father of course could pay that. It was simply a matter of making the old man believe he was worthy, and that wasn't difficult.
Everyone should still be at the Great Hall, he figured, so he scooped her up in his arms, marvelling at the weightlessness of her. She must never eat, he thought, nudging the portrait open and beginning to stride down towards the Slytherin Commons. Luckily, they weren't too far from the bathrooms, and nobody bothered him.
"Chocolate frog," he informed the portrait that led to the Slytherin commons and ultimately his private quarters, ignoring the expression that its subject gave him. He stepped inside and carried Ginny Weasley's limp frame up the stairs, nudging the second dent in the wall near the bottom. It wriggled and abruptly grew to become a large, circular white door. She shifted briefly in his arms while he opened the door -- nearly knocking her head against the wall beside it -- and he prayed she wouldn't wake up.
Hell, what had brought the idea into his head to BRING her here anyway? He kept asking himself that, and yet soon he had dropped her unceremoniously on his four-poster bed.
Blood loss would be a problem. Red blood cells multiplied quickly, thank God, but no doubt she'd sleep for a while before then. And how was he going to get her to eat, etcetera? Maybe she'd wake up before then. She hadn't lost enough blood yet to need a blood transfusion ..
He leaned against the green walls of his bedroom, sighing with frustration at the sudden, unpleasant turn his life had taken. A brief frown marred his features as he made a study of hers, noting that the bone basket of her rib and the jutting blades of her hips were prominent, maybe a bit too prominent. She was probably starving herself to avoid becoming a fat old housewife like her mother.
No, that wouldn't be it. She had her father's frame and mother's height; leggy and frail, short and a little bit chesty. On her it looked like a slightly top-heavy gazelle, like ghosts settled into her arms and legs. He tried to remember the last time he'd spoken to her. Second year? Shit, that was a long time ago. He was about a foot taller, although he seriously doubted that she'd grown at all, in terms of height.
His eyes widened briefly as her eyelids fluttered and then opened. She had honey-colored eyes, like firelit gold. They did not at first register her surroundings; she seemed more confused at the pain in her wrists and the weakness she felt.
And then she was coughing a little, and then she saw him. And understood.
"Oh, fuck me," she sighed, relaxing onto the bed again.
"Haven't done that yet, Weasley," he quipped, "But if you're offering .. "
"Har de *fucking* har, ferret boy," she muttered wearily.
Now that he was sure that she wasn't going to die, he could be as snide as he pleased. And that little comment incited a gentle flush in his pale cheeks. Were people still calling him that? It had been two years ago, for heaven's sake ..
She wasn't looking at him. Instead she was thinking about that awful throbbing ache in her wrists that felt like halves of her heart were contained in each skinny little bone. If she'd known it hurt so much to die, she wouldn't have tried it. And fucking Malfoy came along with his coiffure and black suit. Why the hell had he saved her?
"I didn't touch you, if that's what you're thinking," he said aloud, purposely looking at the ceiling to give the deliberate air of nonchalance, "Your hymen should still be intact."
She laughed a little at that, perturbing him.
"What?"
"If it were suddenly intact again, I would be very confused indeed." She was snickering at him. Her. Bloody Weasley with her medium curls and towels on her wrists. After he'd just saved her life. She wasn't a virgin. Well, screw her; she could bang half the school for all he cared.
"Mummy and daddy would be awfully upset to hear that, wouldn't they?" He smirked at her, rising from his comfortable lean against the wall and moving to stand near his bed where she was sprawled. She didn't seem uncomfortable with her state of undress; but then, she was showing less than the average bikini.
"Probably," she said amiably, "Although I think they'd be more ticked to hear that I'm half-naked in Draco Malfoy's bed, but it's all relative. Why did you help me?"
"I would prefer not bathing in the place where somebody had died. I'll ask the questions, thank you," he said coolly, suddenly remembering to be menacing.
"Shoot," she chirped to mask the incredible weakness that she felt all over her limbs and body, and that excruciating ache in her wrists.
"Why'd you do it? And how did you get the password to the Prefect's bathrooms?"
"It's a very long, complicated story that I really do not feel compelled to tell to my big brother's mortal enemy. As for the password .. Hermione?"
"Of course. Granger is a Prefect," he said disgustedly. Girl just had to be top in everything -- during sex, too, most likely -- or her bushy head would probably explode.
"No shit, sherlock. Anyway, to answer any remaining questions, I slit my wrists with my nails," she displayed her manicured, black-painted nails for him, smiling with barbaric amusement at his widening eyes, "And gulped a couple sleeping pills to knock myself out. Now, why did you bring me *here* in lieu of yelling for Pomfrey and showering elsewhere?"
"I'm not sure," he said after a moment's hesitation, "I thought it was because they'd believe I did it."
She chose not to answer that, instead saying, "I need clothing. Muggle clothing."
"Why?" He demanded almost immediately, "You and those two other girls are always dressing up in weird slutty clothes, and I can't understand why."
"Firstly, you better watch what you say about Cherie -- she's in your House. Secondly, they're not slutty. Wizard's robes are too confining," she spoke as if reciting something committed to memory.
"And Muggle clothes are trashy," he sniped, shaking his head. Why had he even bothered with this girl? She was foul-mouthed, apparently promiscuous, and seriously mentally disturbed -- she'd just tried to kill herself in a bathtub and here he was, having a verbal sparring match with her! The ridiculousness of the situation hit them simultaneously, and they simply gazed at each other for a few moments in silence.
Finally, she spoke.
"Go to the fifth year girls' quarters .. the third bed from the right is Cherie's," she didn't bother elaborating on how she had gotten into the Slytherin girl's quarters, "Take out her green and black striped shirt. There should be a pair of size four Earl jeans -- talls -- that I left there. I'll go barefoot; those jeans are long enough to cover my feet."
He was rather taken aback by the sudden cool commanding note that had come into her voice, but saw that it was sensible (and inwardly he was kind of amused at her specifications of the clothing brands), so he slipped out of the door to retrieve the clothing.
Once he was gone, she let out a soft groan of exasperation and pain. Fucking Malfoy. Fucking wrists. Well, fuck it. She'd just bandage her wrists.
She had the sudden desire to scream, but decided that wouldn't be a good idea, especially since Malfoy would wonder what the hell was wrong with her. Okay, he already wondered what the hell was wrong with her but she didn't want to give him any more incentive.
He'd returned already, with some other things and the clothing -- bandages for her wrists, it looked like.
"Are you dry yet?" He ignored the fact that she too weak to sit up, much less dress herself. She'd have to tough it out; he had dealt with her weirdness for long enough.
She nodded and reached for the bandages, but he shook his head.
"You can't do this by yourself. Hold out your arms," he ordered, and she obeyed, struggling to a sitting position after a few moments of fidgeting.
He sat down next to her and pulled the towels and spellotape off roughly; she cringed but said nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Truth be told, he wouldn't get any satisfaction from it, but she didn't know that. After a moment, he rubbed an ointment as gently as his nature would allow over the sore and still open wounds to close them (they would scar no matter what, even Madam Pomfrey would have troubles with these gashes), and began to attach the bandages.
She was watching him with a slightly bemused air, but he was intent on his work and thus didn't notice until he'd finished the job.
"What?" He inquired, voice coming out a little more soft than he'd intended.
"Nothing. Can I get dressed now?"
"Go ahead," he said dryly, brought back to reality by the agitation in her voice. Weasley wants to hate me that much, fine, he thought, That's the last time I do a favor for one of her kind.
She didn't have any trouble sliding into the jeans, despite the fact that they were pretty damn snug until her knees (where they flared out sharply). But the shirt gave her a little trouble; she had it over her head, but was having problems bending her arms to peel it over her camisole. He watched a moment, and then sighed and leaned forward, reaching underneath the hem of the long-sleeved shirt and pulling it down to her waist. Inadvertently, his hand brushed her breasts and she gave him a look. He knew what she was thinking: 'Well, Mister Malfoy saved my life, so I guess he thinks it's okay to cop a feel. Well, whatever.' As if he'd ever touch this girl--there were dozens of more suitable women on the Hogwarts grounds.
She didn't respond, tossing her auburn hair so it nearly hit him in the face and drawing to a stand. He could see the straps of her camisole due to the wide neck of the shirt.
"Will your housemates be back yet?"
"You have a couple minutes. Just get away from my door; I don't want anyone to see you." He kept his tone brusque, but he was inwardly very unsettled by this strange girl and her cut up skin.
"Hurrah, something we agree on." She went to the door and opened it, pausing momentarily before stepping through.
"Oh, and Malfoy?"
"What?"
"Thanks," she said, softly shutting the door behind her.