He was sitting on the couch he seemed to have claimed as his when she emerged from her nap. The sun had gone down and the only light was the lamp at his side and she stood and admired the way it made his pale hair glow until he said without turning, "I know you're there, Granger. I can hear you breathing."

She flushed and pushed some of her hair back. She'd lost the hair tie she'd had earlier somewhere between Harry's townhouse and this flat, and sleeping had squashed her hair into even more of a lopsided mess than it had been that afternoon. Vanity made her want to look appealing. Bitter honesty told her she'd never be the kind of beauty men watched go by. She decided to cover her embarrassment at being caught staring at the back of Malfoy's head like a lovestruck teenager by bustling about the kitchen. She could try to put a meal together, perhaps.

That plan was derailed by the boxes of takeaway sitting on the counter. "It might be cold by now," Malfoy said, "but I got curry."

She nodded, though he still hadn't looked up, and spooned some of it into a bowl. It wasn't exactly hot, but it hadn't cooled enough to be worth the bother of heating, so she stood at the counter and chewed and swallowed, washing it down with water from the tap. "Thank you," she said between bites. "That was very thoughtful."

"I assumed you couldn't cook," he said.

"I keep myself from starving," she said, stung but unable to properly defend herself since his snide comment was near enough to truth as to make no difference. Ron had complained about her cooking when they'd been on the run, and, if he'd learned to keep his mouth shut when they'd all been at Harry's, she'd still overheard him complimenting Fleur on hers last time they'd been at Shell Cottage. If Hermione could cook like this, he'd said, we'd still be together. He hadn't known she'd been within earshot, and, really, she knew that wasn't the reason they'd ended things. They'd just turned out not to suit. It happened. That hadn't made the way he phrased his flattery of Fleur hurt any less.

"I like to maintain a standard somewhat higher than 'will keep me alive' in most things," Draco said.

Hermione's fingers spasmed around her fork and she turned and began rinsing her dish in the sink. When she turned around Draco had padded into the kitchen, silent as little Lynx, and he took the bowl from her and set it on the drying rack. "I'm sorry," he said. "That was tactless of me."

He was too close. He hadn't touched her but every one of the cursed Veela senses seemed to spark to high alert at his proximity. Her mouth went dry, and her pulse raced, and she could feel her breathing try to sync with his. She wanted to take a step back but the counter was in her way and he smiled at her with a gleam that suggested he knew exactly how uncomfortable she was and rather enjoyed it. She hated this so much. Why had this happened to her, and why with Malfoy of all people?

He stepped away and said, "I was looking through your book on counter-curses. I hope you don't mind."

"No," she said, both pleased and sorry to have more space between them. "Of course not."

"You look tense," he said. "Is something wrong? Was the curry too rich? I didn't think you might need food better suited for an invalid. If so, I'm sor -."

"It was fine," she said in a rush. She cast about for an excuse that would explain any tension he thought he saw because anything was better than the truth that all she could think about when he was this close was his touch. "I might be just a little sore after carrying my books over here. That's all. I've been in bed so much lately I'm a bit weak."

Malfoy nodded and she felt relieved he believed her until he said, "I can help with that. Pansy always said I gave an excellent shoulder rub."

She stared at him, cornered. He smirked down at her and she realized that while the bastard might not know exactly what that would do to her, he'd managed to figure out it did something. "That's all right," she said. "I don't want to make you go to any trouble. You've already done so much and - ."

"It's no trouble, Granger," he said. "Consider it a little atonement for not thinking to tell you about the lift."

He returned to the couch and pointed to the floor in front of him. When she hesitated, he sighed dramatically. "I said it's no trouble, Granger. Or is there some reason you don't want me to rub your shoulders? Don't want the Death Eater getting his hands on you?"

There was nothing she could say to that so she sat at his feet, almost cringing, as he made a show of flexing his fingers. When he set them against her shirt she could hear herself audibly sucking in her breath and her hands curled into claws. He was careful. He didn't let himself touch any bare skin, and Pansy had been right. He was good at this. Even without the melting urge to lay her cheek against his knee and just belong to him in some unthinkable, primal way, she could tell he was methodically and gently working out any soreness in her muscles. It should have been nice. It would have been if she weren't so utterly aware of him. She could hear every breath. She could almost feel the blood pounding in his veins. He was everything and everyone and he lulled her into a veritable trance as she sat there and felt his fingers and his heart and his very soul align with hers.

The loud screeching of the kitten shattered the moment. She'd been sleeping on Hermione's bed and now that nap time was over she wanted food. Malfoy laughed and stood up. "I'll get it," he said.

Hermione nodded, a little shakily, and pulled herself to what she'd decided was her chair. "Thank you for that," she said. It hadn't been as intense as the shock she'd felt when he brushed against her bare skin, but the lengthy contact had done a number on her anyway. It was hard to think about anything but him.

"Not so bad having the Death Eater around?" he asked as he poured food out and set a small bowl down the floor.

"You aren't," she said automatically though she knew, of course, that he was, or had been. Harry had testified at his trial.

"Wrong, but polite," he said. "It might be easier to just say all the things you want to about my war time activities and get them out into the open."

She sat in the chair. Perhaps, she thought, she should describe it as she draped across the chair. She couldn't remember feeling so relaxed in all her life. Malfoy, on the other hand, looked tenser than he had since she'd arrived at his giant, horrible manor and begged him to save her. "I'm hardly going to tell you you're some horrible monster," she said. She'd planned to go on and point out he'd been a child, same as she had, that his being drafted into that war had been unforgivable on the part of the adults. She'd planned to tell him they'd just been in utter harmony with one another and how could he think she'd be able to be anything but sympathetic to the ways he'd suffered.

She didn't get a chance to say any of those things because as she tried to form them into coherent sentences in the mind he'd made languid and hazy he said, "Since you need me to stay alive, I suppose you wouldn't."

She straightened up, horribly sober almost at once. "That wasn't what I - "

"How much would you do, Granger? What lies would you tell me to save your skin?"

"I've never lied to you," she said, stung. "Not once."

"But you haven't been exactly forthcoming either, have you?"

Before she could answer that he smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "No matter. I'm sure we'll find an equilibrium as the days go on."

"Thank you for the shoulder rub," she said, not sure how to respond. He was right; she hadn't been. And she didn't want to talk about it. If he'd asked when he had his thumbs kneading away at her muscles she'd probably have answered any question, but now she was herself again and knew not to trust him. "It was very kind of you."

"Anytime you want one, just ask," he said. "It was, as I said, no big deal. At least not for me." He picked up the book he'd been reading when she first came into the room and she saw it was indeed a book on counter curses. She wondered whether he was searching for a way to undo what had happened to her, and thus to him. The answer wasn't in there. It wasn't in any book she had. She'd already searched them all. "I think I'll finish this in the privacy of my room if you don't mind."

"Of course not," she said.

He shut the door with what she decided to call excessive emphasis because surely Draco Malfoy hadn't just slammed the door to his bedroom in a fit of pique.

She sat without moving for a long time. Eventually Lynx jumped into her lap and demanded to be pet, and she did. As she moved her hand along the orange fluff part of her observed how soft the fur was and how soothing the loud thrum of the purr. Another part wanted to go pound on Malfoy's door and demand why he thought she should open her heart to him. Why should she spill out the details of what she felt about this nightmare, how it had started, how she'd suffered? Did he want her to explicate all the ways she found this humiliating? He owned her life. All he had to do was touch her to turn her into a mindless, adoring animal. Wasn't that enough?

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N - Thank you, again, for your response to this. I am blown away and humbled.