Once he is gone, I check my wound, which is still bleeding. I try to put pressure on it, but I decide I might as well just wait for it to slow itself.

The food Draco brought is nearly inedible, but I force myself to eat it anyway, knowing I won't last long if I don't. When I finish it, I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. I try to think about Harry and Ron, and convince myself that the Order is coming for me. But it's becoming increasingly difficult to hold onto my hope; realistically, I know that there is no way they can find me. I do my best not to cry, but several tears slip out anyway. Then, without warning, Draco creeps into my thoughts. I can't help but think that it was he who broke my chains that night. I try to brush away the thought, for at this point it is easier for me to hate him than to hope that he is on my side. I curse myself for thinking this way; Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater – no different from the others. His loyalties clearly lie opposite of mine. I see the disgust in his face when he looks at me; it is no different from how he would look at me in the days we were at school together. Nothing has changed. He does not care, and the last thing he must want to hear is my voice crying out to him for help. I keep telling myself these things, hoping I will let go of these stupid false hopes. The only reason I called out to him in the first place was just that: false hope. I hoped that maybe he would remember that, once, not long ago, we were simply school mates, and despite the fact that we hated each other, we did - in a sense - grow up together. I thought maybe I could coax some kind of mercy…and there had been something odd in the way he could not meet my eye.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door opening once again. In the angled light I can just see a pair of slick black shoes descending the stairs. Eventually I see the face; it's Draco again. I quickly look away, promising myself that I will not say a word, that I won't even look at him, until he has gone.

He approaches me slowly, bends down, and picks up the empty tray. I expect him to leave immediately, but he doesn't. He doesn't move. I still do not look at him, but I focus instead on scratching the dried blood from my hands.

"Hermione…"

In that instance, I forget my promise and look up at him, shocked. He has never, in all the years we have known each other, addressed me in any other fashion save for "Granger", or "Mudblood". And his voice…it had always been so harsh. Now, it was gentle, and it sounded so concerned. It takes all my emotional strength to hold back the urge to trust him. I force myself to remember everything cruel he has ever done. I have not yet answered him, so I wait for him to continue, still staring at him in utter confusion.

"...Are you alright?"

The question almost makes me laugh. It is completely idiotic of him to ask. He saw what they did, he was there. And he did nothing. I want to scream at him.

His slate-grey eyes go to my bloodied hands, then to the cut on my chest. Feeling exposed, I pull my shirt closed over the wound.

"I'm fine." I snap. The sound of my voice shocks me – it's rough and hoarse.

He takes a breath as if he is about to say something else. I look sharply up at him, daring him to continue. But he takes a step back and looks away. The bizarre softness in his expression is gone, turned back into the dark, sullen face that I recognize from our Hogwarts years.

I grit my teeth together, swallowing back my anger. I wish he would leave. After several more seconds, he does. And I tilt my head back against the wall as I listen to his receding steps.

I wake up later, not remembering having fallen asleep. But I wake to a shock; I see someone leaning over me, and before I see their face I scream and lash out. In an instant it's as if I am possessed by terror. My fingernails tear across the person's face and I hear their voice.

"Ahh!...Damn you!"

I can't pick out the voice, and I cry out again, panicking. My visitor quickly clamps their hand over my mouth.

"Shut up! Shut up, it's me! It's Draco…"

I look closer through the darkness and I recongize his eyes. But I cannot shake my panic, and I try to push him away, scratching and kicking.

"Just stay still! Granger, stop!" his voice is strained and he tries to grab hold of my hands to stop me. I start to stand, but he suddenly reaches out and wraps his arms around me. At first I am so shocked by this unwarrented embrace that I freeze. Then, my brain jerks to life once more and convinces me that this is some new attack. I struggle against him, trying to tear away. But he pulls me close and pins my arms to my side with the one arm, placing his other hand on the back of my head.

"Shh..Keep still. Just stop. Stop…" He whispers, his voice still strained.

For a moment more I fight against his hold on me; but his arms are too strong. I am so confused and terrified, I burst into tears. A wave of terrible exhaustion comes over me and my knees buckle. Slowly, he kneels to the ground along with me, still holding me in his arms.

My sobs are muffled in his shoulder; I honestly don't know what to do. I still can't trust him, but what on earth is he doing? What does he mean by all of this? For the moment – but only for this one moment – I decide to forget the past. I try to relax, to stop crying, but I'm shaking uncontrollably. I lose myself in his shoulder, somehow appreciating the calm that's there in the silent darkness. As I try to calm my breathing, I notice his scent. He smells of polished oak, and whiskey, and spices…for a fleeting second it reminds me of my father. That musty-sweet scent that I would smell when I buried my face in his shirt when he would take me into his arms after a long day.

I feel something warm drip on my head. I blink; Draco couldn't be crying…

I remove my face from his shirt and I look up. He looks down at me and I see his face. Three long, ugly scratches run down his cheek, each of them slowly dripping with blood. I shift back from my knees, and - cautiously - he lowers his arms from around me. I raise my hand in front of my eyes and examine my nails: red with fresh blood.

In a childlike manner, I point to his cheek.

"Your face….I…I'm sorry…"

He raises his hand and runs it across the side of his face. When it passes over the scratches, he winces briefly, then wipes away the blood. I now notice that the blue-grey, button-up shirt he's wearing is smeared with blood – the blood from my chest. Still dazed, as if I am in a dream, I reach out and foolishly try to wipe it off. He stops me by taking my hand and gently placing it back in my lap.

"I came to give you this." He says, still in a hushed voice. Every few seconds he steals a quick glance at the door, clearly afraid someone will be coming down after him. He holds out a small vial of clear liquid.

"It's for…" he gestures to the cut on my chest. "It will help."

I haven't yet taken the vial. I look at him, my face a mixture of bewilderment and wonder. I can't figure it out; why is he helping me? He has absolutely nothing to gain, and absolutely everything to lose. It makes no sense. And still I am not sure I can trust him. After a few seconds (during which I make no motion to take the vial) he simply places it in my hands, which lay palm-up in my lap.

"Just use it. It will help." He says. Again, he glances up at the door, then back to me. He closes my fingers tight around the vial and looks directly into my eyes. At that moment, we both hear the door open. I gasp, and I've started shivering again. Draco reacts immediately. He jumps up to his feet and whips his wand from his sleeve, pointing it down at me. His entire face has changed once more into the sullen expression of proud anger. Right before Lucius reaches the foot of the stairs, Draco looks again into my eyes, and what I see in his seems to plead with me for something…but for what?

"Ah, Draco. What, might I ask, are you doing here? And your face, boy…what happened to your face?" Lucius' cold voice gives me the horrid feeling as if ice water has been poured down my back.

Draco looks to his father.
"I heard noises. I thought she might be up to something. When I came down the stairs, she managed to give me this…" he gestures angrily to his face. Then he looks back at me, his lip curling. "Filthy little Mudblood!" he spits out venomously. The words sting just as much as they always have, coming from him.

"I was just about to teach her a lesson on manners…" He continues, still pointing his wand at me.

"I see…well, seeing as I was just about to begin our interrogation for the day, perhaps you can start us off?" Lucius speaks in chilling tones.

Draco suddenly goes very stiff, and he looks at his father.

"What?" he lowers his wand.

"Oh, don't look so surprised, Draco. Come now, help the Mudblood find her voice."

Lucius nods at Draco's wand and leans against his cane, raising one eyebrow, waiting.