Author's note:

This chapter is possibly my favourite, and continues right on from the previous chapter. It's also part of the first chapter I ever wrote, over a year ago now. Weirdly, I changed very little from the original version! It's like the character of Amalia sprang fully-formed into my head a year ago, and she's stayed the exact same person I envisioned for Tom all the way up to now. For those of my readers who are also writers, you probably understand how odd that is!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it :)

Chapter 22: Rescue

Amalia stepped out onto the street in front of the orphanage and breathed a welcome breath of fresh, cold London air. She hadn't liked it in there. It reminded her unpleasantly of somewhere she'd been before - an institution, stinking of harsh, cheap chemicals that didn't quite mask the smell of the poor souls held captive inside.

She strode briskly down the road in the dark, drawing the hood of her coat up to hide her face.

A thoughtful frown creased her forehead. Seeing Tom like that was quite a shock… and not in a good way. She hadn't derived any enjoyment from seeing him brought so low, even if he was an evil ass. Indeed, if their roles were reversed she doubted he would hesitate to laugh. Genuinely laugh. It was fortunate for him, therefore, that her sense of humour was somewhat more refined, and... despite everything... she couldn't hate him. She couldn't even bring herself to dislike him.

First things first, she said to herself. A short trip to Diagon Alley...

Tom was awoken from his fitful sleep by a loud sound coming from downstairs, followed by a shrill scream from what sounded like Miranda, Mrs Cole's mousy replacement.

He blinked, instantly wide awake, and then groaned softly as his legs cramped. He was still tied to the bed. No one had come into the room since Amalia had left. By the looks of the lamplight outside, it was still late night, which meant it had only been a few hours since her impromptu visit.

There was a couple of muffled thuds from below, then silence. He could hear whispered voices from the other children, but they knew better than to draw attention to themselves after curfew. Most of the kids on his level were young, and petrified of Harold to risk leaving their rooms in case he was in a drunken rage. It had happened before.

He swallowed, stifling a cough from his parched throat, and strained to hear anything more. His eyes widened as he heard light footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs, and then the creak of the brass handle as it turned and the door was pushed open.

"What the fu-" he started weakly, staring as the intruder slipped in quickly.

"Hush." Shushed Amalia crossly, cutting him off. She peered down the darkened stairwell and then closed the door with a snap.

"We should have a bit of time..." she muttered to herself.

Then, she turned to him with a businesslike expression.

He stared back coldly.

She was wearing a dark coat which looked expensive, but she paid it no heed as she quickly knelt on the dirty floor at his bedside, unslinging a small leather satchel from her shoulder and placing it beside her.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed at her, glaring suspiciously as she rummaged in the bag.

She ignored his question. A small frown between her eyebrows eased as she found what she was looking for, and drew out a glittering silver knife from the satchel in triumph.

Unable to help himself, he paled at the sight, his eyebrows knitting in an accusatory glare. Did she need his blood for some dark ritual, or perhaps she-

Amalia noticed his expression and rolled her eyes, exasperated. "I'm here to rescue you, you idiot." She informed him matter-of-factly, and then promptly clambered onto his bed to get closer to his bonds with the knife. This unfortunately meant that she had to basically lean on top of him.

Tom's eyes widened as she moved right into his personal space to get at the rope. It was an awkward position; she concentrated hard to cut the tightly knotted rope without also sawing off a thumb.

Tom froze as he felt her bodyheat, she was so close. Suddenly he was reminded of how cold he was sitting up in just a shirt against the bedpost, his clothes threadbare, and he very nearly leaned in to be closer.

She's not to be trusted! He reminded himself angrily, and twisted his head to try and get a look at what she was doing.

"Keep still." She ordered gruffly, and he froze as her breath tickled over his collarbone. She was panting slightly from her efforts to saw through the ropes, and heat rushed over him in a confusing wave as her pleasant scent assaulted him. She smelt expensive, and exotic, and clean, and he couldn't help inhaling deeply, her short hair tickling his face. He turned his head away quickly.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, and he was relieved to hear his voice was cold and controlled, despite his racing heart. This was all too weird.

She stopped instantly and drew back, glaring at him. "Nothing." She replied frostily, "I don't want anything from you." It was as if she was offended by his question.

"Then why-"

"Do you want me to go?" she interrupted him, arching an eyebrow challengingly, "Because I can just leave, if that's what you really want." Her eyes drifted meaningfully to the door, and then back to Tom, pinning him with her sharp gaze. "Well, do you want to stay here, or not?"

He stared at her, uncomprehending. She made a motion to get up, and he seemed to snap out of it. He swallowed. "Wait." He said uncertainly.

She scowled at him, and then nodded. "Then stop asking stupid questions." She snapped, and resumed hacking at the ropes. But despite her harsh tone, Tom felt how gently her slim fingers worked around his bruised and aching wrist, how this time she leant in close to him, her body warming his side. How could she be so comfortable around him…? What happened to the no-touching rule? It seemed she was in full mission-mode; nothing was going to get in her way. Whatever her goal actually was. He was still highly suspicious of all of it.

At last, the ropes gave way and his arm was freed.

Amalia withdrew and put the knife back into her bag, muttering something to herself about a knife vendor ripping her off with blunt tools.

Tom couldn't stop a painful moan from escaping him as he cradled his hand. Sharp pains shot through his arms as the muscles cramped and twinged, the blood-flow returning sluggishly to his frozen limbs. He tried to use his other hand to work some feeling into it, but his movements were clumsy and slow.

Her face guarded, Amalia grabbed his hand bossily and helped chafe some feeling into them, her movements sure and brisk. He said nothing, but shoved her hand away as soon as he felt able to move it again.

She accepted his rejection with equanimity, as if she'd expected nothing else, and merely watched as he swung his feet off the side of the bed, and struggled to his feet, using the bedpost and the edge of his desk to drag himself upright.

Amalia surveyed him and pursed her lips. He could barely stand with his injured ribs, and his legs looked shaky, too. Plus, he didn't have any shoes on. Even worse, she could hear some sounds coming from below. Someone was investigating the disturbance. Frankly, she was surprised it had taken them this long.

Tom also heard it, and tensed. He looked uncertain again, an unusual expression on someone who always seemed so unflappable at Hogwarts.

"We've wasted enough time." She told him quietly. His uncertain eyes met hers. "I have a plan." She assured him confidently. "So get your shoes and whatever else you want to take with you, and let's get out of here."

It was a measure of how off-balance he felt, because he immediately accepted her words, and looked around for his shoes. He spotted them at the end of his bed and stumbled towards it, wincing, then, as he made to reach down for them, he froze and gritted his teeth, turning pale. The movement evidently put too much pressure on his ribs.

Amalia frowned and before he could say anything, she was at his side and had hoisted up his crumpled shirt, peering at his ribs underneath. She ran light fingertips over the mottled red and purpling marks from his beating, exploring the curves of his ribs carefully.

"How dare-!"

"Shut up."

He winced as she prodded him, warning him against further argument, and resumed her exploration of his injuries. He remained still, mostly out of shock from her forwardness, and then drew in a sharp breath at her touch, from pain. Mostly.

At last, she carefully pulled his shirt back down, and gave him his space again. He exhaled a breath he hadn't even been aware he was holding in relief at the return to distance. Amalia seemed angry about something, from her clenched jaw. It confused him. He felt dazed, swaying slightly on the spot, and just stared at her somewhat hazily.

Amalia took in the glazed-over look in his eyes - for all his tough talk, he really did seem about ready to fall over - and pinched the bridge of her nose, struggling to get her own emotions under control.

"Merlin's beard." she muttered at last, "It looks like someone jumped on you in steel-toed boots..."

He said nothing, just blinked at her expressionlessly.

"Well," she continued, pulling herself together, "I don't think anything's broken, at least," she said seriously, "But there's some swelling... You may have cracked a couple of ribs." She gripped his upper arm with surprising strength and helped him sit stiffly on his bed.

"Keep still." She ordered.

Then, to Tom's utter disbelief, she knelt on the dirty floor again and started pulling socks and shoes onto his feet, with no regard for her own clean hands. Once again her fingers were gentle, and her expression serene, as if she did this sort of thing every day.

Amalia Gray, kneeling before him? He had to admit it had figured in a couple of his... darker daydreams. But he'd never have foreseen something like this. He just couldn't understand it.

"Why?" he demanded again, "Why are you doing this?" the Amalia Gray he knew and detested never did anything without a good reason. How did helping him benefit her?

"I told you not to ask stupid questions." She replied, glancing up at him briefly from under her long lashes. Her scowl was spoiled by the fact that she was looking up at him from between his knees.

"It's not a stupid question." He argued harshly, speaking over the dark wave of desire which unexpectedly ripped through him as she looked up at him from that position. He decided not to think about it too much. Perhaps he'd been hit in the head earlier.

She finished lacing his shoes and rose fluidly. "Alright, then, maybe it's not a stupid question." She conceded unexpectedly, "But this is not the time to get into it."

He frowned. "What-"

"Shh!" she hushed him, and they both froze, listening. They could then distinctly hear a man's voice, cursing harshly.

Amalia's calm voice contrasted with her wide eyes. "Time's up."

She abandoned all attempts to remain quiet and opened Tom's narrow wardrobe, glancing inside. It was almost empty, and only a couple of items of clothing seemed to be left there. He didn't have a trunk, and seemed to have left most of his books and magical items at Hogwarts. She was grateful for that. She stripped the wardrobe of his remaining clothes, grabbed the book on Goblin Wars and threw it into her bag unceremoniously. It was enchanted with extra space and accommodated Tom's meagre belongings easily. At the last moment she wrinkled her nose and took out a ragged-looking woollen pullover. She dropping it carelessly onto the ground.

She wouldn't let even her worst enemy be seen in that ugly thing, let alone Tom...

Thankfully, she'd come prepared due to her earlier reconnaissance mission, and also fished out a dark green coat in Tom's size. She tossed it to him and slung the satchel over her shoulder, then walked to the door and pulled it open.

Tom caught it and blinked. The material was soft and warm, thick enough for winter and it seemed to be tailored to his specific measurements. He glanced over it surreptitiously, but she had removed any price tags. He decided now was not the time to ask, so he just put on the coat and followed her, feeling instantly warmer. Uneasiness ate at him, but it was mingled with something like excitement. He wouldn't celebrate yet, but the prospect of leaving this place, no matter the method… was what he wanted almost more than anything else right now. He just hoped her plan was a good one.

Amalia stepped out onto the dark hallway, and Tom followed, limping slowly. At the top of the stairs, she abruptly stopped.

Harold stood at the bottom of the stairs, gaping up at them in the dim light of the flickering gas lamps. "You!" he snarled, no doubt realizing she was the same girl who Miranda was worried about, earlier. His eyes travelled between Tom and Amalia, who simply gazed impassively back at him.

"Where th' hell do y'think you're goin', Tom?" the man roared. "Get back in your room!"

Amalia sneered as she heard the slur in his voice, but her tone was earnestly polite. She descended the steps calmly towards him. "I apologize for disturbing your evening, sir. But don't worry. I'm certain we shan't meet again."

"Back off, wench," snarled the man, his face red with anger. "I don' know who the hell you are, but don' think you can just waltz in here an' - an' -" His piggish eyes widened as she didn't stop, and he drew back a meaty arm in preparation for a vicious backhand as she reached the lower steps.

Amalia watched him carefully, noticing his unfocussed eyes. He must have really over-indulged in that whiskey. It was easy to anticipate his wild swing.

"You little-!"

She dodged it and waited until he staggered, off-balance.

Then, she hurled herself down the last two steps, using gravity to crash her shoulder squarely into the man's chest. He clearly hadn't expected a physical attack from such a slim, well-dressed young lady, and didn't stand a chance of reacting in time.

Tom's eyes widened, his mouth opening slightly, as he watched his rescuer tackling the bigger man. With a muffled "oomf" Harold stumbled back, slamming into the peeling wallpaper behind him.

Amalia's shoulder hurt- the man was built like a brick wall- but she shrugged off the pain and let a feral grin break out across her face. Then she kicked him in the fork between his legs, using all her strength.

His mouth clenched in a silent howl of pain, he dropped to his knees as if he was a marionette whose strings had been cut, and then keeled over onto his side, curling up instinctively. His mouth gaped like a fish. Amalia laughed and gave him another kick in the ribs for good measure. That's for mistreating Tom, she thought vindictively. Only I am allowed to do that.

He didn't have breath to give any response, his face changing from drunken red to sickly ashen.

She turned and looked up the stairwell. Tom was still lingering at the top.

"Come on, Riddle," she cried, exasperated, "What on earth are you waiting for?"

He closed his mouth and schooled his face as he walked down the stairs slowly, his expressionless mask back in place.

"Well," he said mildly, looking down at Harold, who was softly groaning, "That was unexpected."

"Was it?" Amalia asked, and chuckled. The violence seemed to have put her in a splendid mood. She surprised Tom again when she bent over the man and then wrenched him up with an effort, gripping him by twisting a fistful of his hair.

Harold seemed to be recovering, and growled, swiping at Amalia while still doubled over in pain. She caught his hand and swiftly bent his little finger back, causing him to howl in pain again, cringing away. "Well?" Amalia asked, looking expectantly at Riddle. She kept Harold's contorted face exposed, as if offering it to Riddle.

Riddle blinked at her, uncomprehending. Once again, he saw that expression flit across her face - disappointment.

"He's responsible for your... condition, isn't he?" she said, confused, "Well, this is your opportunity. Don't you want to… take a swing at him?"

Riddle turned his face to the muggle man and curled his lip in disgust. "Not particularly." He wasn't willing to touch him, but fervently wished he had his wand. He had fantasized for years about the day he would curse the man until he was nothing but a pile of ash. He wondered how Amalia could stand it. She had her hands carelessly wrapped in his greasy hair. The girl has no standards, he thought snidely.

"Suit yourself." Shrugged Amalia, but she was frowning. Without warning, she changed her grip on Harold's greasy head and then slammed it into the wall behind him. Riddle watched in glee as his head connected with the bricks with a sickening crack, and his eyes went unfocused - he was knocked out. She seemed way too cavalier about all this violence for it to be her first time. Just what kind of life had she led before Hogwarts?!

Next, Amalia rummaged in her satchel again, this time withdrawing a small purple pouch with a drawstring. She carefully took two pinches out and then blew a glittering powder into the man's slack face. Instantly it changed into a thick, purple smoke, which swirled around his head like a miniature cyclone, before vanishing without a trace.

"Is that Retinentia Dust?" enquired Tom with interest.

"An extra strong version." Confirmed Amalia proudly, before heading for the front entrance. "I got it from a guy for fifteen galleons - it was quite a bargain on such short notice. What do you think?"

Retinentia Dust was a substance that would wipe your memory for a number of hours before and after its use. It was also undetectable, extremely expensive… and illegal. "Good choice." He said, grudgingly impressed. He ignored the fact that he'd never seen, let alone touched fifteen galleons. He could have bought all his school supplies for all seven years at Hogwarts for ten.

"You should know by now, Riddle," Amalia said haughtily, "I'm good at making things happen." She stepped over the prostrate body of Miranda, Mrs Cole's replacement. It seemed as though she'd been hit over the head with a wine bottle. He assumed she'd also had a cloud of purple smoke around her head recently.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Your plan seems to have only consisted of some memory-altering powder… and your own brawn." He felt slightly indignant as he sneered, "It's amazing this worked at all."

"Yes, it has worked rather well, hasn't it?" Amalia said cheerfully, missing Tom's sneer entirely. "It will seem as if this man and woman got into a violent, drunken brawl. In the chaos, one of their poor orphans wandered off, clearly disturbed by the conflict." She sniggered, enjoying the scowl on Tom's face. With more seriousness, she assured him, "This way, I don't think it's likely they'll inform Dumbledore."

Riddle grunted, still mistrustful of her intentions. What if she intended telling Dumbledore about it herself, and had merely tricked him into leaving, so that he was expelled?!

But then she pushed open the front door and walked through out into the swirling snow of the cold, dark night. And as Riddle followed her out of the hated orphanage, he felt a strange lightness swooping through him. He realized something - she wasn't going to tell Dumbledore, and he hadn't actually believed she would. Did that mean… he… trusted her? Surely not. She was the reason he was in his mess, to begin with. He was too confused to puzzle it all out, so he pushed it out of his mind and tried to focus on the present. Amalia was striding down the road as usual, her long legs moving her swiftly across the road.

He rolled his eyes. She only has two speeds, he remembered, fast and faster. He was also fond of walking quickly, but in his current state it wasn't going to happen.

He tried to speed up a little, but his ribs were still aching and he couldn't move without feeling like he had a knife sticking in his side. She suddenly noticed he wasn't keeping up, and stopped, an unfamiliar, guilty look on her face. Tom stiffened and stared at her.

"I'm sorry," she said contritely.

Since when did Amalia Gray apologize...? She sounded sincere, too.

"Do you need some help walking?" she asked politely. And suddenly, she was asking before touching him... Wonders never ceased.

He opened his mouth to reject her with a sneer, but then his ribs throbbed abominably, and he closed his mouth with a grimace. Instead of rejecting her offer, he merely nodded stiffly.

She moved instantly to his side and pulled his arm around her shoulders, taking some of his weight and holding him carefully around his narrow waist, so that his chest remained as still as possible as they walked.

Tom had a bizarre urge to laugh after a while. They must look like a couple. He wondered what the other Slytherins would say about it. The "king" and "queen" of Slytherin, together at last, he thought drily. But he was still waiting for her to drop this veneer of friendliness and curse him as soon as his back was turned. She could do it; she was the one with a wand. And as the only registered wizard in the area, guess who would be blamed...?

Amalia, true to character, seemed to have taken it all in her stride. She walked in silence with a serene expression. She seemed oddly happy all of a sudden.

"Are we going to Diagon Alley?" asked Tom suspiciously, after a short while.

"No, I'm taking you to a secret location so I can harvest your organs and use them for dark potions and rituals." She said solemnly. She snuck a peek at his expression, which was still suspicious and frosty. "You know," she said drily, "I think I'll harvest the muscles of your face first. They must be in superb condition, since you never use them for smiling."

He still had no response.

"Perhaps there is something physical that prevents it." She mused with fake seriousness, She patted the arm that was draped around her shoulders. "Do not fear, I shall dissect you thoroughly to get to the bottom of the mystery."

Still he said nothing, but he turned his face to the side and Amalia could see the corners of his lips twitch reluctantly. Pleased with her progress, she continued in a more serious tone. "We're entering Diagon Alley through a hidden entrance - not the one on Charing Cross Street. It's not far - surprising how few people know about it, actually, but that's good for us. I have rooms rented at The Leaky Cauldron." she explained, then hesitated, "Although I used an alias, and it's very public… I don't think we should stay longer than a few days."

"Ah yes, the mysterious paranoia returns." He said smoothly.

Huh, Riddle finds his tongue and it's an insult first, grumbled Amalia, but she kept it to herself. "I won't wait around to be attacked," she said firmly, "You can do whatever you want when we get there, but if you intend to make use of my hospitality you'll just have to deal with it."

Instantly Tom's expression darkened. "I didn't ask you to help me." He snarled, shrinking away from her arm, "I don't need your charity!"

Amalia didn't let him pull away, and again with her surprising strength kept his arm around her shoulder and their sides touching. "Don't be so tetchy." She chided mildly, "I know you didn't ask me. If you think about it, I basically kidnapped you, didn't I?" amusement danced in her eyes, but he couldn't return her warmth. "I'm not about to set you adrift, Tom." She said impatiently. "Besides..." she hesitated, looking down, "It's kinda my fault you don't have a wand, so..."

"You think?" he said acidly.

She sighed. "If it makes you feel any better, hexing Davies was one of the highlights of my week. He really was an insufferable idiot. I didn't intend for you to take the fall for it."

He didn't reply, but neither did he try to pull away again, feeling very slightly mollified.

Amalia peeked at his impassive expression, hating the suddenly awkward silence. Merlin, you're insecure, she exclaimed to herself.

The lightness Tom had been feeling upon leaving the orphanage seemed to fade quickly, leaving a numbness in its wake. Why was he walking down a London street in the middle of the night with his arm wrapped around his worst enemy? No plan, no wand, no money... His throat burned from thirst and he was nauseous with hunger and pain. Every step was an effort, even with Amalia's help, and he started to shiver as small snowflakes began drifting out of the inky night sky. He doubted his sudden chill had much to do with the snow, though - the coat Amalia gave him was warm enough - but it was probably a result of his injuries and dehydration...

"Just two more blocks." She murmured to him, "It's not far now." He blinked dark spots out of his vision. He realized they had been walking while he was semi-conscious for some time already, and Amalia was looking at him with a concerned expression.

He blinked heavily a few more times and tried to pull his thoughts together.

"I could actually use your help over the holidays." Amalia suddenly said as they continued, Tom basically staggering as if drunk.

A wave of self-righteous anger crashed through him as he processed what she'd just said. So here it was. The reason. Why she'd come for him... What was she going to ask him to do? She might threaten him with telling Dumbledore if he didn't comply, and-

"I know you said you weren't interested," Amalia continued, looking a little embarrassed, "But I'd like to try and research more about the Moving Stones." She smiled at him. "It'll be a great help if you joined me."

He blinked at her. "That's... it?" he said, in disbelief.

She bit her lip, frowning slightly. "Well, like I said, you can do whatever, I'll lend you some cash to get through the next two weeks if you want." she looked away from him. "But your company would be-"

Was she blushing...?

"-Well, um... your help would be appreciated. That's all."

Was she really embarrassed, or was this just another attempt at manipulation? But what she was asking was nothing serious. He swallowed, feeling paranoid and worn out. But his anger was spent at last, so he just nodded noncommittally. The bright smile that lit up her face at his mute response didn't seem faked...

After that, there was a significant gap in his memory, during which time he assumed Amalia had guided him successfully into Diagon Alley and into The Leaky Cauldron, and then somehow hoisted him to an upstairs room.

"Riddle?" her voice sounded far away, his vision blurry. "Tom? Hey, stay with me."

As if from far away he heard a door closing and then felt someone tugging off his coat. The movement sent a stabbing pain through his side and he groaned. He let himself be led a little further, and then felt gentle hands pushing him onto a bed that was incredibly soft. But he was so cold he could barely feel it.

He dimly felt her pulling off his shoes and then cursing under her breath, trying to rub some warmth into his feet.

"Ugh, stupid Trace..." she didn't want to risk using magic unless it was absolutely necessary. They should be safe to use magic in Diagon Alley - the Trace wasn't person-specific - but she wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to have some kind of tracking spell on her of his own design. He'd seemed suspicious about her plans to stay at Callidora's house. She'd delay using magic as long as possible, especially now that she had an escaped orphan on her hands.

Tom blinked. The room faded out and in again. He let his eyes drift closed.

"Oi, Riddle! Stay awake, okay? I'll let you sleep in a moment."

He watched her walk over to a large and ornate chest with the Gray crest emblazoned proudly on the front of it and bent over, rummaging inside. "Are you still awake?" she snapped bossily, as she rummaged. "Talk to me."

He forced his eyes open and mumbled something which sounded suspiciously like "Nice ass."

She stalked over to him with a scowl and tried to drag his head up. As he took longer than she wanted she gave him a not-so-gentle slap on the uninjured side of his face to wake him up. 'Nice ass', indeed!

"Hey!" he scowled, rubbing his face.

"Here, drink this." She held out a glass of water for him. It was tainted a suspicious pink colour.

He peered at her with narrow eyes.

"I just added a healing potion to it," she sighed, "Really. I did not just carry you across London so that I could poison you."

That made sense. "Fair enough." He took a sip, and then a larger gulp as his thirst returned. A pleasant numbing feeling flowed over his ribs and bloody wrist. He even felt good enough to have a go at her. "It's not one of your potions, is it?" he said in horror. "You could be accidentally poisoning me…"

She scowled at his smirk, though internally she was cheering at his improved mood. "I'm perfectly capable of brewing a simple healing potion." She said snippily. Then she frowned, worried. "Though, I have nothing to warm you up with… do you feel like eating something?"

Tom put down the empty glass and lay back with a groan. He shook his head, his eyes fluttering shut again. "Just sleep."

She watched him, fascinated, as slowly his face relaxed as he sank into a deep sleep almost immediately. He looked much nicer when he slept. She hesitated, then reached out and stroked his hair. It was really soft. Curious now, she shuffled closer, listening to his breathing. It was already regular and steady. But she was worried about the pallor in his face and the dark circles under his eyes.

Of course, he usually looks about as pale as an albino, deep-dwelling newt, she thought rudely. But this was heading into shades of blue, which didn't seem healthy at all.

She got up and cursed the fact that the room didn't have a fireplace, or a heating system at all. Of course, why would you need anything practical when you had magic…?

She piled extra blankets over him, and then belatedly remembered his wrist and his hands needed tending. If she left the open wounds from the rope and his skinned knuckles, he might get an infection on top of everything else.

Gingerly she searched under the blankets for his arms, careful not to wake him, but she needn't have worried. He was out cold, and she doubted even a bludger to the face could wake him. In fact, she was a little worried when he didn't even stir when she disinfected his wounds with murtlap essence, which she knew from experience stung like a bitch.

After she'd neatly bandaged his wrist and the worst of his skinned knuckles, she hesitated, then rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. If she was going to save the guy, she had to at least do the job properly, right?

She took off her coat and shoes, took the clip out of her hair, and bravely pulled back the covers, slipping in beside him. Her body-heat instantly filled the space, which was good, because he felt like a block of ice. He didn't move, but she was reassured by his steady breathing. At least he wasn't dying from the cold. She slung an arm over his chest and pulled herself close to him. Then she waited, as slowly, he seemed to thaw out little by little.

She was almost asleep herself when, several hours later, he shifted in his sleep. She blinked at him in the dark as his face tensed in pain as he rolled over, but miraculously he still didn't awaken. She froze as he mumbled something unintelligible and then snuggled closer, pressing up against her body. His breath was soft in her hair as he slung an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. She went bright red, but also grinned wickedly.

She knew he'd be way more embarrassed about this in the morning than she was.