Simply Neurotic

Chapter Ten

Sweet, sweet murder

Harry knew he should have expected it, but after returning from the lake where he had been with Hermione, he couldn't help but hope for a quiet end to his torturously long day. Some sleep, perhaps, before he had to report his meeting with his best friend to anyone.

But of course, he should have known better.

"And I suppose you told Miss Granger about her status with the Order?" McGonagall asked sternly, disapproval written clearly on her face.

"Yes, of course I did. She's fully aware," Harry replied heavily. He rubbed his face with an open hand and sighed.

Minerva McGonagall narrowed her eyes and brought her hands in front of her, clasping them tightly in her lap. "And, Mr. Potter? How did she take this news?"

Harry pursed his lips. "As well as can be expected I suppose. She understands, but she's incredibly upset about it."

Saying that she was upset was quite the understatement. Furious was perhaps the better word. He knew the desperation that she must feel in the face of her current situation. It really wasn't fair to her, and he could feel the weight of the guilt pulling him down.

McGonagall's eyes were hawkish and shrewd. Years of experience – years of dealing with Potter and his two loyal friends, told her how hard it must have been for him to deliver that particular bit of news.

But it had to be done. And better by him, than by her. It was no great secret that she and Hermione had butted heads many times in the past.

No. Having her inform Hermione Granger of her suspension from the Order would not have gone on well.

"And what did she say?" McGonagall pressed.

Harry stood from his seat, seeming too anxious and fidgety to sit still. Pacing along the edge of the table, he recalled their rather long conversation.

"She said she was fine on her own. Said she had it under control and would do her best to gain access to any pertinent information that Malfoy might have."

McGonagall made a noise of disapproval deep in her throat. "And she is aware, Mr. Potter, that she only has little more than one week to accomplish this, does she not?" Her voice was strained and biting. "Or has she found a way around that particular problem in the clause of their Vow? Vowing allegiance to the very person she has sworn to spy on does not sound especially promising."

Judging from his silence, she took that to mean no.

"Did you find anything on him? Malfoy, I mean." Harry asked suddenly.

McGonagall shook her head tersely. "No, it's just as you though it would be. Malfoy hadn't left his manor all evening – plenty of people coming, to be sure, but he never left the grounds. Lupin was on detail all evening, of course. He's still not entirely convinced of your . . . theory, shall we say. He still thinks there is something rather peculiar going on."

McGonagall watched as the young man before her slumped into his chair once more, a grim determination had set in.

She shook her head and frowned. "Get some sleep, Mr. Potter. You're going to need your strength. Dark times are upon us."

"Yes, of course," he responded blandly.

McGonagall straightened herself, her tone turning back to business. "Very well then. I'm glad that you're back in one piece." She stood and made her way towards the door, pausing as she reached for the knob. "And might I suggest, that you check in with your friend, Mr. Weasley. He seems to have figured out something rather unsettling." She looked at Harry meaningfully. "He knows, Mr. Potter. He has figured out that it was you."

Harry looked at her, processing her cryptic words, before the meaning dawned on him. "How?" he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

McGonagall frowned. "How does anyone here find out things that are meant to be kept secret?"

And with that she unlatched the lock and opened the door, disarming the charms on it with a flick of her wrist. She turned to him one last time, his face betraying the multitude of thoughts running through his head.

"And I hope for your sake, that Miss Granger is able to gain Mr. Malfoy's trust rather quickly."

Harry nodded numbly. "She has it," he answered simply.

And she did. She had it – until she lost it.

It wasn't revenge. No.

It wasn't that.

And it wasn't premeditated.

Certainly not.

But as she threw the bust of Lucius Malfoy through the glass bookcase, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at the destruction that lay before her.

Her breath was labored as she stalked around the large room, searching for something else to destroy, something else to help soothe the pain.

But there was nothing.

She had literally broken everything in her immediate proximity, including the fine china dinnerware and crystal glasses they had apparently enjoyed their feast upon earlier that evening. No doubt laughing merrily and decrying her attempts to restore the world to its former glory, gorging themselves on enough food to feed one of the many orphanages throughout the country.

She had destroyed it all in her haze of unimpeded rage.

She clutched at her chest, her heart hammering wildly under her hand.

The feeling was still there though. The utter desolation and helplessness that had buried deep under her skin – close to her heart. It still clawed at her despite her attempts to assuage it with the destruction of the very thing she thought fueled it.

The tears started then in her desperation, and a strangled sob rent from her throat.

Casting about blindly, she found herself in front of a large framed painting of Draco.

Staring at it for a long moment, she drew back her clenched fist and aiming for his ghost of a smile, she shattered the glass. When one solid hit didn't inflict the amount of damage she sought, she hit it twice . . . thrice, until it lay in a twisted mass of paper and frame at her feet.

She heaved a shuddering breath and grabbed a hold of the small chair next to her – throwing it across the room, not even bothering to watch as it collided with an already abused bookcase.

Finding her way into the center of the room, the tears blinding her vision, she collapsed bonelessly onto the floor, bracing herself on her hands and knees.

She clutched the strewn papers on the floor in her hands, and sobbed openly into the silence of the room, listening as it echoed back to her, toneless and empty.

She was only allowed a few moments of pity though, because before long, the reality of what she had done descended upon her.

And the guilt was grabbing a hold, replacing her anger and only making the pain in her chest intensify.

It was as though a fog had been lifted, and she was finally able to see what she had done. Finally able to feel the pain in her hands, the burn of her throat, and the roar in her ears receding.

Her knees felt weak under her as she stood up, and she braced her hands on her thighs for support, glass crunching under her feet.

It was like some sort of beast had been unleashed from deep inside her, and she was ill prepared to contain it. And so now that the anger had subsided – she was both shocked and humbled by her outburst.

Another sob escaped her as she shook her head slowly, her mouth frozen in horror. "No," she moaned, covering her eyes with a trembling hand.

How foolish – how suicidal was she? And what of her mission? How could she possibly salvage this situation?

A soft noise sounded behind her. Hermione spun around, wiping the tears from her eyes and froze.

"Oh no, don't let me interrupt," Draco said calmly, raising his hands up in front of him. "As a matter of fact, I think you may have overlooked the unbroken windows in your fit of rage," he nodded his head over her left shoulder.

Hermione could do nothing but stare at him, her mouth trying to work, but failing her. The words just wouldn't come. Her mind reeled upon finding him there, seated casually behind his desk, his feet propped up on the surface of it. Blinking rapidly, she finally found her senses and her mind went into over-drive.

Turning her back on him suddenly, she began wiping at her eyes hastily, searching for the correct path to take. How could she possibly explain to him? How could she justify what she had done? She almost wished for his anger, would have preferred it to the silence – the void that she found herself in. It would have made it easier.

She was trembling, her hands were unsteady as she wiped at her eyes repeatedly, but a dry sob escaped her lips and drew with it more tears.

Her right arm dropped to her side and hung there limply, while she buried her face in the crook of her left one.

She took deep, steadying breaths to calm herself, but every time she tried to rid herself of the need to cry, a wave of images would ride over her, both new and old. The things of her nightmares of past, and to come. The people she had lost, the ones that would never see the world rid of Voldemort. The ones she had failed.

It was uncharacteristic of her to not think something through. Arriving at the manor to find no sign of Draco had infuriated her, but she might have been able to swallow that, if it hadn't been for the state of his study when she walked in. Untouched by the realities of the last few hours, she sneered at the frivolousness and decadence of his work space. The bookcases, with the glass entombed ancient texts on pedestals, and the expensive art that adorned the walls.

Draco Malfoy was a fool. Untouched and unconcerned with the war at hand, he had the means to remain neutral in the whole ordeal, locked away safe and sound in his grand manor. But it was the food. The wasted, hardly touched, perfectly edible food that was left to be thrown out that had done her in – especially when she had seen the state of his house elves first hand. Could he not afford to allow them to share in his wealth? Did he think it necessary to allow them to wear rags and eat bread trimmings and vegetable shavings?

Her mind had screamed and revolted at the injustice of it. He knew nothing of the horrors of the war she waged. Nothing of the sacrifice so many had made. Five good, loving people had died that day – needlessly and cruelly. But what would he know of that?

Her breathing finally began to calm itself, and the tears had finally dried.

She listened.

And the only thing that met her was silence.

Her body tensed, and she tentatively allowed her arm to fall away from her face. Blinking rapidly, she still didn't dare turn around, not yet.

She closed her eyes, before she became aware of a wall of heat that beat down on her back, and a cool breath whispering across her neck.

That basic instinct to lash out at the invasion of her space was nearly overwhelming, but she stilled herself and slowly, cautiously, turned around, raising her hands as a gesture of good-will.

She found her right wrist quickly snatched up with his ungodly reflexes, and she look a reflexive step back, not expecting him to be quite so close.

She didn't have the fight in her. She didn't have the will. So she stared, defeated and ashamed, at his chest. Swallowing thickly, she waited in the tense silence for him to say something – anything.

But Malfoy didn't trust himself to say anything at the moment – he hardly trusted himself to be so near her, let alone say anything remotely non-threatening. So, while his mind tried to piece together the logic or reason behind her chaos, his eyes roamed over her, taking in the unusual marks on her exposed skin, and the mass of hair on top of her head, falling at an angle so that he couldn't see her properly.

Malfoy knew there was something wrong the moment he saw her desecrating his small personal library. Because if there was one thing he knew for certain about Hermione Granger, it was her incredible reverence of books.

She flinched, unabashedly, as he brought his free hand up and reached forward, grasping her chin in his warm grip, tilting her head back to look at him.

His eyes slid over the marks on her face, down to the exposed skin on her chest and arms. The cuts she had gained from her battle through the forest were light for the most part, but they didn't escape Malfoy's notice. She hadn't left the manor in that condition, he was certain. And there on her left cheek was a series of long gouges, still red and swollen, as though she had been clawed by something.

Potter had sent word of Granger's condition. Said she was hurt, but would return to the manor before the evening was over. The idiot had definitely understated the obvious – unless of course, this, these bruises and gouges were normal for her.

Well, he'd put a stop to that. If the pain he'd felt earlier through their connection was anything close to what she'd experienced – he didn't know how it was possible for her to reasonably expect to continue the fight. It would kill her.

And take him with her, his subconscious reminded him.

Draco watched as her mind churned away, thoughts and memories flashing before her eyes. His lip twitched slightly, at the notion of invading her thoughts.

Hermione felt exposed. She swallowed back the tears that were threatening to spring forward once more, and stared dejectedly into his face, allowing him to see the pain there. She had been hurt – damaged and thrown aside, and it was all there for him to see – for him to use against her.

Malfoy's gaze was penetrating, but different. His grey eyes searched her face for a moment, before drawing slowly to her hand which was captured in his. His lips drew into a thin line, and he seemed to hesitate for a moment, unsure. Hermione waited with baited breath for his verdict.

Draco turned suddenly, still gripping her wrist, and marched resolutely towards the door to his study.

She jerked and stumbled after him, wincing at the pace that he set as her legs protested under her. She pursed her lips though. She'd be damned if she complained at this point.

But she wasn't sure if it were a good sign or not that he had yet to say anything – if it should be reassuring to her that he was leading her away from the destruction she wrought.

Hermione focused her gaze on the hand that gripped hers, and noticed that they were both covered in blood – her blood. Presumably from where she had smashed his portrait, and she wondered briefly if he had been there long enough to witness that particular act of brilliance.

Another thought struck her, one that took her by surprise. Draco Malfoy, pureblood wizard and bigoted fanatic, was soiling himself with her blood – her dirty blood. But she didn't have the opportunity to examine that any further as pain shot through her leg, after having smashed into the corner of an overturned table.

Malfoy tensed, the scar from the Vow on his arm tingling in discomfort as she struggled to cover up her pain, sucking the air threw her teeth quietly – a low hiss escaping her. He slowed his pace, not exactly eager to be dealt a reminder of his obligation to protect her, even from her own clumsy actions.

Flinging the door open in front of them, it met the wall behind it with a resounding crack.

Hermione stumbled out after him, her breaths coming in quick uneven gasps, as he quickened his pace down the long, dark hall.

Malfoy glared at the portraits that hung from the surrounding walls. The portraits of his ancestors. They seemed both angry, and delighted at the commotion, sneering nastily at Hermione as she followed loudly after him. They were apparently pleased to see her so distressed, bloodied as she was, and presumably thought it was Draco that had done it.

No. But he burned with the desire to, there was no denying that. And his mind began formulating a plan, wondering where he could keep her – where he should detain her to keep her from harming herself any further. His arm pulsed and burned at the mere thought of it, a reminder of what she had cost him tonight.

The entrance hall came into view and Hermione wondered for the first time, where he intended on taking her.

Her heart jumped into her throat for a few tense moments as she realized the door to the dungeon she had once been locked in by his aunt was on the other side of the hall they were currently traversing.

Her eyes widened at the notion. Was he that angry – was he that furious with her that he'd lock her in the dungeon?

She watched his slightly hunched form and tense shoulders and realized that, yes, he certainly was angry enough. His silence was proof enough of that.

The idea that she should fight him – that she shouldn't go down without a struggle suddenly struck her, but before she could even properly formulate those thoughts, he turned abruptly and began to ascend the grand staircase to their right, leading them to the second floor.

Immediately her legs began to scream in pain at being forced to climb the steep marble steps. Her pace immediately slowed, even as Malfoy continued on at his furious rate. Her shoulder strained against his pull, and she was forced crashing down onto the steps as her feet couldn't keep up with him.

Malfoy was jerked back and he rounded on her, snarl in place, and eyes narrowed. He paused as he saw her there beneath him, and his lips pulled into a deep frown.

There was a long silence as she stared at his shoes, expecting some sort of cutting remark. Hermione clutched at her chest, trying to catch her breath. Perhaps too soon, she rose, resting her free hand on her thigh, her body shook under her weight.

Malfoy slowly descended the last step down to her and he paused briefly, glaring at her hunched shoulders, before he leaned over her. Swinging her into his arms like some sort of child, he took the steps two at a time to the top landing.

Hermione gasped, then groaned at his sudden actions, clutching the front of his shirt in her fists. One quick look up at his face silenced any harsh words that she might have said – twisted as it were into a dark scowl, promising severe consequences if she dared even breathe a word of dissent.

She glared, gaze transfixed upon his face as he walked with her crushed to his chest. The enchanted torches in the hall set an eerie glow across his features, creating odd, shifting shadows that melted and slipped into one another.

She glanced around the dimly lit area and realized belatedly, as he turned another corner, that he was headed for her chambers.

She narrowed her eyes, as she tried to figure out his intent. But like most every other time, she was left in the dark, trying to grasp at straws, only to realize that she was wrong yet again.

Her heart leapt into her throat as he walked right past her room, and seemed to be headed for his own. Her head whipped around and stared at him, open mouthed, the question poised on her lips, but refusing to be voiced. His expression left no room for questioning or arguments.

Even so, she began to squirm and twist around in his grip, trying desperately to get out of his arms, even if the alternative was the cold marble floor.

Alarm shot through her and a desperate, frustrated sort of sound made its way past her lips.

And for Malfoy's part, he only gripped her tighter, crushing her to his chest powerfully.

She nearly convulsed when the gargoyles stationed next to his room blinked deviously at her, opening the doors for them.

"Calm yourself, Granger," Malfoy finally bit out, low and dangerous. His voice travelled through his chest and vibrated through her body.

But he might as well have said nothing at all for all the good it did her. In fact, she fought even harder against him, and he, true to form, only squeezed her tighter.

But a few paces in, she simply tensed and went rigid in his grip.

She stopped struggling as the doors shut behind them and she kept her eyes locked on the dark wooden frame – her only chance of escape. His shirt was clenched in both her fists, and she looked around his room suspiciously, remembering perfectly the last time she had been in there.

Hermione licked her lips anxiously, her previously lethargic body and mind pumped with adrenaline and alert to every move and sound.

The fireplace sprang to life suddenly, and she glared at its greenish flames.

Malfoy didn't dare loosen his grip just yet. He couldn't count on her not trying to bolt the moment he gave her an inch of leeway. And as docile and somewhat agreeable as she had been, coming with him all this way without complaint, he knew, just from the frantic beating of her heart, that had she known where he had intended on taking her, she certainly wouldn't have come easily – or quietly.

Hermione pursed her lips as the door they were headed for swung in on its hinges, presumably on Malfoy's command. She narrowed her eyes and relaxed by some degree as she realized that they were entering a dimly lit bathroom.

Her eyes danced along the edges of the enormous claw-foot tub in the center of the room, and onto the high vaulted ceiling that was bewitched to look like the night sky. Candles covered open surfaces throughout the enormous room, affording them a small amount of light. Hermione glanced up suspiciously at Malfoy, but couldn't make out the expression on his face.

Draco stopped, counting the seconds before she realized they weren't moving anymore. He scowled as he realized that only a minute ago, she had been trying desperately to get away from him, whereas at the moment, she was nearly curling up into him as she looked around his bathroom.

She jerked in his grip, and glaring mildly up at him she finally seemed to come to her senses.

He tipped her, slowly, until she was seated on an empty stretch of the counter top, and walked away without a word.

She watched his retreating form and considered whether he was testing her – waiting to see what action she would take.

But at the moment, no action suited her. So she glanced around nervously at his bathroom with its bewitched never-ceasing candlelight, and enthralling ceiling, and she felt comfortable for some reason. It took her a moment to figure out that it was because it reminded her of Hogwarts – the old Hogwarts, under Dumbledore's influence.

Malfoy entered the room as suddenly as he had exited, and she watched apprehensively as he stalked towards her, his stare bearing down upon her.

He quickly gripped her right wrist again, and she finally realized what he had been so intent upon earlier, as the shards of glass caught the soft candle light, and glinted dangerously back at her.

Malfoy brought his free hand up, and a puff of grey smoke materialized in his palm. It quickly took the shape of a small metal object, which Hermione realized were a pair of tweezers.

Without saying a word, Malfoy leaned forward slightly, careful not to touch her knees that were bent in front of her, and diligently set about pulling the glass from her fist. The very glass that had previously covered his portrait.

She had a hard time concealing her suspicious gaze as he worked on her hand, and she couldn't help the voice in the back of her head that said that this was very wrong.

She pursed her lips, and felt as her shoulders sagged once more under her exhaustion. The only sound that echoed through the room was their quiet breathing and the clink of the tiny shards of glass as he deposited them in the sink off to her left.

She glanced around the room once more, taking in the decadence of it, before her gaze was once more drawn intrinsically to Malfoy. She studied him critically, his features and expression open for her to explore without his equally assessing gaze looking back.

He was different than she remembered – certainly more masculine, more regal than she ever recalled him being. And certainly more than she would ever willingly admit aloud. But there was something else to him that she couldn't quite put her finger on, something that ran along the edges, and escaped her grasp.

She narrowed her eyes and licked her lips.

That seemed to gain his attention as his eyes snapped up to catch the movement, his silver gaze latched onto her lips, before sliding up to meet her eyes. A coolness spread throughout her hand, and the pain began to recede. But it didn't stop at her hand, nor her wrist, but spread steadily through her arm – up her shoulder and across her chest. Slow, yet powerful enough to mend her wounds, the sensation ended simultaneously at the tips of her toes and her head, leaving her lips in the form of a cloud of cool, condensed breath.

She could feel her lips quirking despite herself. "Wandless and non-verbal magic?" she said, trying to keep her voice neutral, but failing miserably. Resentment and respect leaked through.

It was the first thing she had said to him all evening, and his eyes seemed to gain a certain light to them. His lips pulled up into a shadow of a smirk, and she knew that she had just revealed to him another of her weaknesses – another of her deficiencies.

Because non-verbal magic was something she had grasped relatively early, but as she had displayed that day in the corridor outside his room, she was poorly adept at wandless magic of any type. Many of the most basic spells were beyond her ability.

Malfoy was watching her again, his eyes roaming all over her face, seemingly searching for something. And she decided that she much preferred his scowl to his knowing, callous smirk.

He straightened, and stood to his full height once more, yet refused to relinquish his grip on her.

She studied him as critically as he was her in those moments, and wondered if she would ever get used to the predatory way that he watched her – the wary, hungry look that lingered over her. Waiting.

But waiting for what, she didn't know.

"Where have you been?" His voice ripped through the silence of the room and Hermione found herself recoiling from him slightly. "I told you to be back by midnight and here you are, returning well after three in the morning."

Her mind danced along the edges of those words for a few, lingering moments. She searched his face for any sign of deception, but realized that even if he were lying about not knowing exactly what had occurred earlier that night, she had no way of knowing for sure.

He was a Slytherin, and more to the point – a Malfoy. Lying and deceit were ingrained in him. There was no doubt about that, and no point in trying to decipher his motives.

She licked her lips again, and once more, his eyes followed the movement.

Hermione frowned at the assessing gaze he was leveling her with and decided for once, that pure honesty was her best bet. She hesitated before finally saying simply, "Death Eater attack."

His eyes snapped up to meet hers, and in that moment she could feel him judging her words, weighing the truth in them.

"Potter failed to mention that in his letter earlier."

"Harry?" she asked, confused. "Why did Harry send you a letter?"

Draco flashed her an annoyed look.

He seemed to swallow several times before asking, "When?"

"The attack? Earlier this evening."

This was followed by another pregnant pause.

He was assessing her once more. "And where were you?"

Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth hung open slightly. "Where do you think? I just told you," she napped nastily.

He seemed on the verge of saying something, but then decided to keep it to himself.

Shaking his head slowly he leaned into her. "No more of this game, Granger. No more. You won't be doing these missions after tonight, prized as I know you find them." His voice slid over her like cold water and she felt herself become instantly more alert. He was expecting a fight – some resistance, and he knew he had her in a bind. Pinned beneath him once again.

She could feel her nose flare and her eyes darted down to his chest. What he didn't know was that she was banished from the Order at the moment – no longer welcome to their information and certainly not allowed to join in on missions.

"What do you care?" she snapped ruefully. "It's not like it's any danger to you."

His eyes flashed at her and she could see him trying to reign in his temper. "You forget so easily, Granger, how uncompromisingly bound I am to you."

Hermione glared at Malfoy fiercely and tried to shove him out of her personal space. "That's a load of rubbish," she hissed.

He didn't budge an inch, instead he leaned into her further, bracing his arms on either side of her on the counter, resting himself precariously in between her legs.

She lashed out in fear. "What good is that bond? It offers me little to no protection at all."

He scoffed at her words. "Is that so?"

She could see the challenge in his eyes, in his body, so ready to spring.

And as much as she wanted to give him that fight – as much as she relished the idea of beating him at his own game, she didn't have the strength for it. She could already feel the exhaustion gnawing away at her despite her attempts to appear strong and resilient.

This was an argument for another day.

She sunk back away from him slowly, defeated. She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. Her next words were hard to force out and came as nearly a whisper, "I certainly could have used your help tonight."

A confession of sorts.

And Draco held his breath for a moment, afraid that he might miss whatever it was she was about to say. He could see that it was taking a great deal of effort to voice the words, so he remained quiet. Demanding the truth might get him a lie, but if he remained silent, she may actually give him the truth willingly. He looked her over once more, the marks on her face and exposed skin more prominent with the flush that her skin had taken on. His eyes slipped over them, willing him to take no notice.

But he did. And they infuriated him.

Hermione could hear her own pulse beat wildly against her chest. She swallowed her pride as she continued. "You ask me where I was?" she paused, a lump had formed in her throat but she pushed it back, swallowing several times. "I needed you and you weren't there."

She opened her eyes once more to find him staring at her intently, heatedly, his shoulders rising and falling with his deep, labor-some breaths.

"Where were you, tonight? Why weren't you there when your dear Auntie Bella was chasing me through a bloody forest, Draco?"

He had closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened, dilated and murderous, she shirked back from him, even though she knew his current mood wasn't directed at her.

His eyes searched her face and her glossy, determined eyes. She shook her head stubbornly. Searching for her next words, wondering absentmindedly if saying his name had any effect on him. Draco.

He had saved her once, although it was something they'd never once mentioned since. She was too stubborn to admit that he had actually risked himself to save her life – and part of her wondered if he regretted it. If he had known back then, that he'd be battling her on a daily basis – that he'd be practically forced into marrying her to reinstate his family's prestige and honor – would he have allowed his uncle to kill her? Would he have stayed his hand, as Rodolphus raised his, in a violent display of hatred, and watched as she faded and crumpled?

She stared resolutely at his chest, as the thoughts tore through her. The what ifs and could have beens that constantly bombarded her.

He had killed his own uncle to save her, and had never even spared her a glance afterwards. No snide comment, no sneer or condescending look.

Nothing at all.

Just a forceful, Avada Kadavera, and he was gone.

Looking at him now, she knew the same thoughts were running through his head. The fact that his aunt wanted both of them dead for killing her husband was widely known, and she wondered if this was why some of the wizarding community had accepted the Malfoys back with open arms. Pity. That could be it. Because no one wanted to be on the personal hit list of Bellatrix Lestrange.

He grabbed her suddenly, almost roughly with both hands. "You must vow to me that you are done with your blasted missions, Granger." He gave her a good shake for measure. "Promise me."

She gasped in his grasp and struggled for a moment, which only seemed to infuriate him further. "What's it matter, Malfoy? Fat load of good the bond did, if you weren't compelled to help me tonight."

He shoved her away suddenly as though she were on fire. She locked gazes with him, only to find herself shrinking from his expression. His eyes bore into her as he unfastened his cloak, a meaningful look in his eyes.

Alarm bells went off in her head and the panic began to churn in her stomach, making her throat tighten up. "What – " she gasped. "What do you think you're doing?"

Draco watched her as his hands began to unbutton his shirt, and her eyes darted around the room, quickly realizing that her only exit lay on the opposite side of the room in the form of the door leading to his bedroom.

She shoved against him, trying to dislodge him from between her legs. He batted her away easily enough, as though she were a child, and she began to rain furious hits upon his chest and shoulders, fear creeping through her.

He wouldn't, would he? Was the only thought that leaked through coherently in her mind.

She jerked back when he threw open his shirt and freed his right arm.

"Look," he said furiously, shoving his arm out in front of him. "Just look at what your precious bond has done to me, you fool."

Her mind was slow to react, first looking to his face, to decipher the expression there, only to find anger and irritation – even a bit of resignation.

She realized then, that he had been avoiding at all costs revealing to her his pain.

Her eyes travelled down his neck, almost afraid of what she would find, but she needn't look far. She tried to stifle the gasp that sprang up in her throat but it was no use.

Her hand covered her mouth as her eyes raced up and down the length of his arm.

A grotesque red and purple burn had torn its way up his arm, starting at his wrist where the original scar from the Vow started, and winding up along his pale skin, wrapping around his shoulder – far higher than it should have been. The Vow had left them both scarred, but it stopped at the elbow, and she could trace that much with her eyes, but this wound that he had, snaked its way up the entire length of his arm, and would have presumably kept going if it weren't for the fact that she had been safe in the end.

It twisted and turned, weaving an angry pattern over his pale skin and her hand unconsciously reached out towards him, wanting to touch the mark with her hand, to soothe the angry, bleeding blisters – but he jerked back and shoved his arm angrily into his sleeve once more.

Her eyes had darted to his left arm, instinctively seeking out the Dark Mark she knew must be there, but he was quick to cover both arms from her prying stare.

He leaned into her once more, and she couldn't even muster a weak glare at his hostile movement.

"So now, I demand you promise you are done with your missions. Swear to me on your word that you're done with it," he whispered, his voice unable to go above that.

She swallowed thickly, and nodded her head. "Yes, I promise."

He seemed suspicious of her quick acquiescence, as he stared at her for long moments, his breath beating against the side of her face as she tried to avoid his eyes.

She stared instead at his hands planted next to her, his chest, visible under his shirt, his waist peeking out at her, and finally found purchase on his shoulders which were hunched over her.

"Why didn't you come find me, if you knew I was in trouble then?" she blurted out, before she was able to stop herself.

He seemed to breathe deeply before answering. "Wherever you were, it was an enchanted place, and I wasn't able to get to you in time."

She nodded her head absently. It was as Harry had thought. Malfoy had tried.

He stood there, leaning over her for quite some time, and she let him, simply because she felt like she owed him.

He was probably out of his mind with worry about where she was (regardless of the fact it was more out of concern for his own arse than hers) and what does she do when she gets back to the manor? She doesn't start working on gaining his trust – getting close to him like she should have been – like she promised Harry. Instead she had tried her damndest to destroy everything he held near and dear to him.

And his response? Was to clean her up – mend the wounds she got while wreaking havoc on his life.

She felt a sudden wave of gratitude towards him.

Short lived of course, but it had been there briefly all the same.

Malfoy straightened himself, and her gaze finally wandered from his exposed shoulders to his face, and found he was watching her with a peculiar expression.

She stood up in front of him, noticing that he still wasn't giving her any more space than he thought necessary.

With a small wave of his hand, the tub behind him began to fill with water, and a light, sweet smell wafted through the air.

"Bathe, and then you'll sleep in here for the night." It was a command, not a request, and certainly not something that was up for discussion.

The argument rose in her throat, but was silenced by the look on his face.

She owed him.

Instead she said, "And where are you going to sleep?"

He leveled her with a nasty smile – one that she didn't like in the least, before he walked away from her, heading for the door.

He stopped dead in his tracks after he got a few paces from her. Turning, he looked her over once. "Whose clothes are you wearing?" His voice echoed through the cavernous space.

She hesitated in answering for a moment as she looked down at her garments. They were loaned to her, since her cloak and blouse had been torn to shreds by Fenrir. They hung off her body rather oddly, and she didn't have a likely excuse as to why she was wearing them, but either way, she knew Malfoy wasn't going to like her answer.

Looking back up at him, she found that he had already advanced on her a few steps, a rather curious expression plastered on his face.

She couldn't look him in the face as she answered, and a flush rose up over her cheeks. She shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "They're Harry's. Mine were a bit torn up."

She knew immediately she said the wrong thing. The expression he wore, melted into his usual cold mask of indifference, and his lips pulled together thinly.

"Take them off," he demanded, quietly.

She jerked as though she'd been slapped, and her hand flew to the neck of her shirt, as though she thought he might take it forcibly from her.

"What –? No," she said quickly.

Malfoy closed his eyes before advancing on her slowing.

"Listen, I have to take them off to get in the bath anyways, don't I?" she said hastily. "Just wait until you've left the room."

"No," he said adamantly. "Take them off now, Granger. I won't have you sleeping in my bed with Harry fucking Potter's clothes on."

She shook her head at him more forcefully. "What would you have me wear then?" she asked shrilly. There was only so much she was willing to give up at this point to make amends for what she did to his study.

"I don't bloody care what you wear, but it won't be that," he ground out.

He would have her pressed against the counter at any moment, and that was a position she wished to avoid at all costs.

"Fine," she matched his tone. "Just turn around then, won't you?"

He did as she asked before summoning a towel and tossing it over his shoulder to her, his hand out and waiting for her to deposit Harry's clothes.

She huffed angrily, wondering what it would take and how long she was going to have to bend to his will before she would be forgiven, but she realized belatedly that he would never make that moment clear, because in his eyes, she owed him for a lot more than simply that.

She looked around the room briefly, making sure there were no mirrors for him to spy her in, and promptly began undressing, keeping her eyes on Malfoy's back the entire time, an embarrassed flush covering her cheeks and chest. She couldn't help but dwell on the facts of the matter.

She was naked in the same room as Draco Malfoy.

Certainly not under what anyone would call normal circumstances, but the fact of the matter remained.

She secured the large green towel under her arms and hastily threw Harry's clothes in Malfoy's waiting hand. He fisted the offending material, and without word or glance, exited the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.