By that point, I had memorized defining features of my masked guards. There was the rotund man of medium height, the short, stocky man with stooped posture, the tall and broad-shouldered one who often smelled like peppermint, and the tall, thin figure with a scar on the back of his neck.

It was a distinctive mark, thick and straight, white and pink like it was new and still slightly raw. I imagined he received it as some gratuitous punishment, the sort Voldemort bestowed at random on his followers in moments of rage. Or perhaps, there was an accident during his last haircut.

As I woke, my heart and breath both raced in unease. Something about that scar on Malfoy set off warning bells I couldn't quite wrap my head around. As my mind cleared, I gradually came to the reasonable conclusion that my subconscious had ascribed the guard's scar to Malfoy. It was the exact sort of nonsensical mash-up that characterized dream states. However, my mundane dreams had otherwise been unusually logical and realistic, as if I were simply reliving past events. That in itself was strange.

I was unable to return to sleep after that. Instead, I examined everything I knew about dream magic. There were several restricted section texts I had thumbed through when Harry's Voldemort-laced nightmares first began. I knew, conceptually, that there were ways to plant or manipulate dreams. The way Malfoy kept turning up in my slumbered memories - was he somehow intercepting or manipulating my subconscious? If so, why? Was he attempting to glean information under Voldemort's orders?

It seemed excessive - the tortuous interrogations, Snape's Legillimency sessions, and now this. Did I have some precious piece of information that continued to elude them?

Or had Dream-Malfoy meant for me to see his scar, because he was in fact one of the Death Eaters outside the grated door? Could it be that he was in fact trying to help me?

For the first time since my capture, I felt hope. I recalled that haunted look on his face when his aunt had dragged him into the dungeons and asked him to identify us. He had not wanted harm to befall us. Of that, I was certain.

When the guard with the scar next turned up outside my door, I couldn't help but watch him fastidiously. The more I stared, the more Malfoy-like he became. I analyzed the shape of his neck, the width of his shoulders, the way he shifted weight from one foot to another.

I became convinced it was him.

And yet, if it was him, and if he did not want to hurt me, then why had he not done anything to protect me? He stood idly by as numerous Death Eater's came in and abused me within an inch of my life, as I lay crying in my own filth, as I begged pathetically for mercy. Furthermore, he had been so cold the last time I had seen him face-to-face, when he had blasted me unconscious.

I didn't know what to think.

That night, I dreamed of Hogwarts again. This time, I directed the dream to my memory of Ginny turning him into a ferret and the entire Gryffindor table guffawing over it at breakfast. I glanced over at Malfoy, who was sitting between Goyle and Pansy, his face bright red with embarrassment and anger.

Next, I relived the time the Slytherins were being tactless gits, showing off their fancy new racing brooms courtesy of Lucius Malfoy. I had delighted in the flash of insecurity in Malfoy's eyes when I reminded him that no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. It felt good to know that I could hurt him, that he wasn't half as tough as he pretended to be.

I then recalled the uproarious cheering in the stands as Harry beat Malfoy to the snitch. I had glanced over to the Slytherin section then, and saw Lucius get up and storm away in disappointment.

Finally, I took the dream to when I punched him in the mouth in front of his friends. My hand stung with the scrape of his teeth, but it had been so worth it to see him stunned, then scared. It was the day I showed him, and myself, that I wouldn't let anyone push me and those I loved around. I felt powerful and brave and self-righteous in my youthful arrogance. It was so satisfying, even in the dream, that I restarted the memory and lived it again. And again.

The third time, instead of running off in a whimper as he had in real life, he caught my hand and twisted it painfully.

"Enough," he snarled.

I watched in horror as his face lengthened and his jaw squared and his baby fat melted away to reveal regal cheekbones. He wasn't the fifteen-year-old Malfoy any longer and we were no longer flanked by our friends, standing on the Hogwarts grounds in a juvenile standoff.

Instead, we were back in the dungeon and he was crouched over me as I was sobbing from my most recent session with his aunt.

"Took you long enough to figure it out," he said snidely. "Smartest witch of our generation my arse."

When I woke, I was alone in the cell. I scrambled up to the highest crouch my restraints would allow and peered outside the bars. It was the broad-shouldered guard. He bent his head towards me at the sound of my chains scraping against the dungeon floor.

I glared at him and flipped him off. Then I sat back against the wall and ignored him.

I had a lot to think about.


Author's note: As always, I am always hungry for feedback! Thank you to everyone who has supported the story! It means more to me than you know.

xoxo,

bourbonrain