A/N: Please enjoy the next installment! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and followed. You are appreciated! Yes, even the non-Dramione lovers who have stumbled onto this story and who are reading it despite hating the pairing. All are welcome here. Just to be clear, though... The DM/HG relationship is very much set in stone for this. Wouldn't want anyone to think that may change. Recommend me your favorite Romione stories, if you want. I like reading HG with almost any pairing, to be honest. Oh. And there's one more chapter left before we break into the second act. I'm very excited for that.

Pain has a funny way of amplifying anger.

Perhaps it is petulant of me to behave in this respect, and I'll come to regret it more than I realise, but I've refused to drink any more potions this morning, no matter how ferociously Draco has insisted. No matter how deliciously he has begged. It is his own fault, really, for pulling the wool over my eyes. If he'd just been honest from the beginning, if he'd let me help instead of condemning us to this mess, we wouldn't still be in this dilapidated cottage in this God-forsaken town, stealing medicine from clinics and hardworking people who deserve to be free from the danger we impose.

He is selfish.

He is so bloody selfish, always looking out for his own advantage, while I am the fool who drank his venom — hook, line, and sinker.

How hilarious is it that I believed we shared a bond?

That I believed that the Malfoy heir might actually care about more than himself?

It is not until I'm almost unconscious from the pain that I finally yield to his ministrations. That he's finally able to pry my lips open and shove the vial between them without me trying to bite his fingers off.

Petulant.

As I said.

The moments that follow are another betrayal, though they're self-inflicted. First, my stubbornness is rewarded tenfold with a headache that refuses to ebb even as euphoria courses through my veins. Second, for the life of me, I find it impossible to control the incessant giggling as Draco crouches in my vision.

As if in a trance, I reach for his hand, my heart singing as our fingers connect.

Oh, how traitorous it is to lose all restraint like this, to want nothing more than to bury my nose against his pulsing throat and inhale his musky scent until I am consumed.

"You," I breathe, pointing a trembling finger at his face. It bops against his nose. "Don't think I've forgotten what you've done."

Draco sighs and sits as still as a statue as I abandon the straight ridge of his nose for the sculpted arches of his cheekbones. His eyes are like daggers as they cut towards mine.

"I am not your enemy, Granger. Everything I did was for your protection."

"Protection?" The confession rouses a fresh round of laughter that rings in my ears. Makes my head pound harder. "How is hiding our lone chance of escape protecting me?"

No longer am I flat on my back but sitting wedged against the pillows as Draco towers at my side. Against my better judgement, I reach for his robes, tugging at the fabric until he clambers onto the bed, his muscular, warm thigh slotted against mine.

"Cognitive rest," he repeats, staring down his nose at me. His breath washes against my face—minty, and entirely too close. "The healer said you are on cognitive rest. That means you don't get to solve the world's problems or try to lecture me about an advanced skill set that I do not possess. It wouldn't have worked, Granger. Not fast enough to matter and not well enough to guarantee a safe landing." Our fingers link under the blanket, a bitter smile warping his features. "I am not you."

"No." I search his eyes until I am lost in their storm. "I suppose you are not."

As the morning progresses, I find it impossible to remain furious with him when he looks so bleeding pathetic. Everything about him is dejected, from the slump of his shoulders to the crease in his forehead. The softened, dull cadence of his voice. That sombre, puppy-dog frown. All of it is manufactured to tug at my heartstrings.

And it works.

It bloody works.

It's his face, I think.

His stupid, handsome face.

That damn expression that is equal parts remorseful and determined, stubborn as any Gryffindor as he hovers at my bedside with a breakfast plate in hand, feeding me spoonfuls of porridge and small bites of toast and berries. It should be illegal to look so… To look so….

God.

I want to smack him. Wring his neck. Make him bleed. Press my fingers to the soft bow on his upper lip and see if he gasps. Clutch his hand in mine and drag his palm to my lap, to my shirt, up my belly and chest until all I see are stars and he is spinning, spinning, spinning….

See if his breath hitches in his throat.

If his eyes darken.

I know they will.

Of course, they will.

Damn him.

Damn him.

If he'd only trusted me to do the one thing I'm better at than most other people—bloody problem solving—we could have been in London right now with Harry and Ron. With the Order.

And I wouldn't be here with him, dreaming about the unthinkable with him….

"You must have been a terror as a child," I say around a mouthful of toast and jam, not caring if the chomping is uncouth. "I don't know how your mother could accomplish anything with you moping about like this. It's pathetic." I swallow the bite and narrow my eyes. "You're pathetic."

It's the first crack in Draco's facade all morning. There's a pregnant pause as he arches an eyebrow at me, lips twitching in one corner as if I've just told a hilarious joke rather than an insult.

"Not one to mince your words, are you?" he snarks, shoving a heaping spoonful of oats between my lips. Stunned from the rough handling, my tongue slogs through porridge as I unhinge my jaw to argue, but before I can utter a single word in defence, Draco wedges a strawberry between my teeth.

My eyes pop open as wide as saucers.

"The sun is only just rising, Granger. Do try to be civil."

If it were possible for steam to pour out of my ears, I'd rival a freight train right about now. The indignation is that palpable.

"Oh, shod off, Mawfoy."

"Mawfoy?" His laugh both pleases and infuriates me. "Your insults are significantly less punchy when your tongue is weighed down with fruit."

My chest puffs up with renewed anger.

"Bwoody fewett."

Now he's doubled over, wheezing, the plate forgotten on the bed as he wipes the tears from his eyes.

"Merlin. Does there exist a more obstinate witch? It's like managing a little drunk person. Keep talking, yeah? I'm in dire need of this distraction."

I swallow the last of the juicy berry and oats and flip him the universal sign for displeasure, waving it between us like a flag as he hides his smirk behind his fist.

"Stuff off."

Of course, he doesn't listen. We fall into a tentative truce as I grapple for his hand, schooling him over and over in a pea-knuckle war until I realise that he's only letting me win.

"Make it fair!"

I squeal when Draco immediately traps my thumb. After his fourth victory, I jab my elbow into his ribs and elicit a grunt, though I think it's more from surprise rather than my strength (or lack thereof). It's not until the sun is high in the sky that I realise we've been chatting for hours about everything and nothing.

School.

Crookshanks.

Life before the war.

My hand is in his lap, and his head rests on my crown as I lean against his shoulder.

The conversation takes a darker, stilted turn when I mention his parents' whereabouts. Again, Draco is reluctant to share anything relating to where they are or what they're doing, though I suppose I understand his hesitation. When the discussion shifts to my family, the bedroom is so silent for so long that I think I could hear a pin drop.

"You really don't know where they are?" he asks, palm flexing against mine. There's the barest hint of anger in his voice. "For fuck's sake, Granger. That's a shit deal."

Instead of crying, I nod in agreement. I suppose five days of intermittent sobbing was my body's limit.

"They're in Oceania, perhaps. Australia or New Zealand. I wasn't supposed to know in case I was captured." I clarify at the sight of Draco's affronted expression. "That was my stipulation, not anyone else's. Their departure was organised by Shacklebolt and carried out almost a year ago. It won't be reversed until… Well, maybe never. The memory charm wasn't supposed to last this long. They become permanent without early intervention."

Draco swears under his breath and smooths his thumb up and down my hand, the calloused pad catching on my dry skin. I can feel his gaze burning into my cheek, the apologetic sentiment forming on his tongue as his throat works with his swallow.

"Don't you dare pity me, Malfoy. They're alive. That's more than many others can say."

It takes a while to navigate the topics out of choppy water, though it seems Draco is just as eager to slip into our old bantering patterns.

"You desperately need to bathe," I say, wrinkling my nose as he repositions and I get a whiff of his underarm. "Good God. How long has it been?"

Draco's cheeks and ears are bright red as he rubs his jaw. The cleansing charms he's been casting on us are better than nothing, though they are a poor substitution for soap and water.

"Dunno. When was the last time you bathed? Summer? I thought your tent had a proper shower?"

I stifle a self-deprecating laugh and point to my trousers. Before the war, I would never be so dismissive of my femininity. In fact, I'd be quite mortified to reveal this about myself. But now?

"Have you seen me?" I ask. "My body hair is long enough to braid."

To prove my point, I wiggle my ankle until my trousers fall midway down my calf, flashing a pale expanse that is covered in thin wisps of dark hair. Harry and Ron never cared about such trivial matters while on the hunt. Besides, the tent was usually chilly despite the wards, so we spent our days bundled up in layers and blankets while plotting between Horcrux locations.

Draco's face flushes even darker at my boldness, though he bites back a laugh before shrugging.

"So? What does shaving have to do with using soap?"

"Well…." I swivel my ankle once more before letting my foot drop. That minor exertion has me panting. "Hygiene wasn't exactly a priority in the woods. It was an old tent we had. Spacious but old. The wards on the shower were constantly breaking. When the water worked, it was freezing."

Draco snorts with laughter.

"Ah. Well, I suppose that explains the stench on the three of you. You get a pass on this one."

I smack his chest and let my palm linger with the thud, feeling the broad expanse of his pectoral muscles.

"Shut up. You're the one who smells like a dog."

"A dog?"

He's laughing again, indignant and disbelieving, as I wrench my hand away.

"Well, not a dog, exactly. But like a quidditch changing room. All musky and male."

Now his gaze is heavy.

"And how would you know what that smells like? Was the Golden Girl sneaking down after games to glimpse dear old Saint Potter naked?"

I roll my eyes and let my head loll onto the pillow.

"Never."

The teasing doesn't stop until I threaten to use wandless magic.

"Can we go outside for a bit?" I ask, itching to feel the wind on my face. "While the sun is still out? Please? The Wireless said to expect rain. "

Draco glances at his timepiece and stretches. With a flick of his wand, we're doused with double cleansing charms before I can complain about his armpit's proximity to my nose.

"We shouldn't. The wards don't extend to the beach."

I chew my lip and debate the consequences if we are caught by passersby. From all my staring out the window, I have yet to identify another sign of a living person or even hear the sound of traffic. Wherever we are in Crail, it is far enough from the main roads that venturing out onto the beach for a little while shouldn't draw attention.

"Merlin. After lunch," says Draco, relenting at last as I emphasise the healing properties of fresh air and sunlight. "We'll go outside after lunch. But if it's too much for you to handle, Witch, I'm dragging you right back to bed."

I grumble under my breath until he's packed a small bag—blankets to lie on, water glasses, his journal, and countless other items he's shrunk to fit.

"What is all this? I didn't realise a simple outing on the beach required so much planning."

Draco flicks his wand. At once, I'm flung into the air with a levitation spell, bobbing above the bed as he fixes me with a withering glance.

"No offence, Granger. But I never know what to expect when it comes to you."

That's a fair assessment, I think, as he floats me outside for the first time in days. The sky is overcast now, misty with impending rain. The horizon beyond the sea is a shroud of grey, a portal to another world.

Sand squelches beneath Draco's boots as he walks us through the brush.

"Closer to the water, please," I say, tapping his shoulder when he pauses high on the dunes. "I want to feel it lapping at my feet."

Draco does as I ask, though he can't help but shoot off a snarky comment.

"It's too cold for that. I wish you would have worn shoes."

I flash him a broad smile and flex my naked toes. "You're a deft hand with charms. I'm sure you'll keep us warm."

Indeed, even with powerful spells, the chill cuts straight to my bones as Draco dips my feet into the waves. I tolerate it for all of a minute before declaring I've had enough.

He pitches his satchel farther up the shore and transfigures a beach chair out of sand and driftwood, flinging the blanket over it before lowering me to the ground. The heating spells work infinitely better on inanimate objects. My backside is toasty as he covers my lap with a second quilt that is cosy enough to be sinful.

Draco doesn't bother transfiguring himself a seat and plops straight into the sand, scooping the damp earth in his hands as he builds the foundation for a castle. The wind whips my wayward curls against my cheeks and forehead, stinging my eyes as I watch him construct a tower.

"Do you mind?" I ask, wincing as my tear ducts burn. "It's snapping everywhere."

Draco conjures a ribbon and motions for me to turn my head. His fingers are gritty and icy as they brush against my neck, though I shiver for reasons unrelated to the elements. He gathers my tangled mane and compresses it between his palms until it is a manageable diameter for the ribbon, chuckling as he plucks something dry and flaky from its depths.

"How is there still seaweed in your hair?"

My cheeks burn as he wraps his arm around my shoulder, the offending plant dangling from his fingertips.

"Well." It's challenging to muster any sort of dignified response when his chest is pressed against my spine, though I manage after sputtering a few times. "If your cleansing charms were worth any salt, there wouldn't be a bloody biome growing on my head."

Draco flicks the seaweed towards the pile he's gathered and resumes tying the ribbon.

"And here I thought I was a deft hand at them," he says, securing the ribbon with a charm. "Your hair is too thick to penetrate, apparently. What a surprise. But that ought to hold."

I mumble a grumpy, almost inaudible 'thank you' and fidget with the blanket, trying to slow my rapid heartbeat through sheer willpower. A part of me wonders if it's possible to loosen the ribbon without Draco realising, just to make him do the whole thing over again out of spite, though I clamp down on that thought before it can manifest into reality.

"Are you building Hogwarts?" I ask, gesturing at his castle as he hunches over his domain, drawing lines to represent flagstone and windows. Draco scoffs and taps the tower with his wand. In an instant, the details transform. The walls stabilise as the windows carve themselves into open fixtures, sand flinging outward through the holes. The shards of sea glass he's stuck onto the spires morph and stretch into a brilliant emerald green roof.

"Recognise it now?" he asks, lifting the other towers from the sand with gentle wand motions. Magic never fails to impress. Broken cockles line the flagstones in shades of mottled grey and white as the seaweed pile sprouts into a miniature, ethereal forest billowing along the outskirts of a slow-moving moat.

"You didn't mention a water feature."

Draco's slight smile makes my stomach flutter.

"I'm embellishing a bit."

When the castle grounds are complete, he turns his wand towards the remaining driftwood pile and fashions one of the smallest pieces into a replica of a little boy, a sword strapped to his back.

"I wondered where you were," I say, grinning as he drops his creation into the castle's garden. The boy wields a shield as a driftwood dragon flies past our heads next, swooping low through the seaweed trees. "It's spectacular."

"It's alright," says Draco, his attention drawn to the scattered seashells at his hips. He charms them into flowers, fragile blooms nestled on sea glass stems. A few of the petals snap in the wind before he strengthens them with more spells. When he's confident they're stable, he floats a rose into his palm, extending his hand towards my chest.

His gaze is inscrutable as my eyes jerk back and forth between the offering and his face.

"Take it," he says, the petals shimmering as I waver with indecision. "It's yours."

"But why?"

Draco huffs and brushes his thumb over the petals. They shimmer once more before the dappled grey blooms into a gorgeous sunshine yellow.

"It's a symbol. Just… Take it, Granger. Please."

He rolls the stem in his fingers. With one last glance at his face, I clutch the rose and gasp when a thorn nicks my skin.

"Too realistic?" he asks, conjuring a tissue. He charms it to form a bandage before I can wonder at his fussing.

"Mm. Something like that."

How disarming is it that Draco Malfoy is the first boy to give me a flower? And a yellow one, at that. A token of friendship. He is quiet as I examine his handiwork, glancing at me in an almost shy manner as the petals blow with the wind.

"I'm sure Krum gave you a real bouquet before the Yule Ball. Red roses or some romantic shit like that."

I swallow a lump in my throat and lay the rose on my lap. It is so bizarre to think of dances and romance in the midst of destruction and war.

"No, actually. You're the first."

I don't know if it is pride in his expression or smugness that I was as unlikeable as he used to tease, but the look is gone before I blink next. We chat about neutral topics as the storm brews in the distance, magical theories mostly, or entertaining escapades from his childhood, of which there were many. The slight drizzle dampens our robes despite the drying charms as the clouds swell with moisture. The waves grow choppier as thunder rumbles.

The deluge is visible over the sea now, a sheet of dark grey gusting in our direction as Draco packs the blankets and banishes the sand from our bodies.

"Time to go," he says, lifting me with his wand. "Unless you fancy another freezing cold shower?"

"No, thank you. I'd rather not soak my wounds until the tissue has healed."

Back inside the cottage, Draco hangs our robes to dry and situates me in bed before leaning his palm against the wall, studying the mountain of blankets he's draped on my lap.

"Will you manage for a bit while I bathe? Someone told me that I smell like a dog."

I shrug and snuggle into the warmth, eyelids drowsy after my second dosage of analgesic potion. We've avoided mentioning it for as long as possible, but the elephant in the room can no longer be ignored.

"When is sunset?"

Draco checks his timepiece and glances at the window, eyebrows furrowing as torrential rainfall splatters the glass.

"In two hours."

I follow his gaze and fidget beneath the blankets, wringing the fabric in my hands. There's an anxious tickle in the back of my skull, a niggling feeling that something more monstrous than the storm is approaching.

"That's all?"

My voice is almost a squeak, a desperate sound that snaps his attention towards the bed.

"That's all." Draco clears his throat and makes for the bathroom, calling over his shoulder. "Just… Stay put. Get some rest, if you can. This won't take long."

As if I'd planned on doing anything else.

The bathroom door remains wide open as the ancient pipes groan with the flow of water, though Draco is hidden from view beyond the wall. The cottage is quiet save for the rain pinging outside and the gentle plop as Draco steps inside the tub. The splashing shoots a sharp thrill straight to my belly. Against my will, my cheeks simmer as I imagine what he must look like right now. Long, corded legs draped over the porcelain ledge. Broad hands scrubbing soap across his chest and abdomen, on the ribbed, sinuous valleys I've felt through his shirt. His ropy, muscular arms flexed behind his head as he smooths down his hair.

His thighs….

The solid expanse between his thighs….

Oh, God.

I burrow deeper into the blankets and squeeze my eyes shut, my tongue thick in my mouth. Saliva drools down my lips as I realise I've forgotten how to swallow.

No.

No, no, no, no.

This is not happening.

I am not fantasising about my bloody flatmate bathing himself as if I've never been around a man before in my life. It's the drugs. The muggle medicine mixed with the potion that's making me lose my goddamn mind.

Magic thrums through my veins as I clench my fist, trying to stave off intrusive thought after intrusive thought, burying them in the far corners of my brain where the darkness still lingers. A raging headache stings behind my eyelids as I grind my jaw. Minutes pass before my thumping heart beats in its usual rhythm, my breath coming in slow bursts.

"Alright, Granger?" Draco calls from the tub, though I pretend to be asleep. Another minute passes before he calls a second time. There's a slight slosh of water as he repositions, a gentle slap of skin against skin, his deep sigh reverberating down my spine.

I crack open my bleary eyes and stare out the window, focusing on anything except what's transpiring in the bathtub. Unable to see through the thick sheet of rain. The longer I stare, the more the rain warps. Swirls in shapes that are all too familiar.

A blackened figure encroaches through the wards. Broad shoulders framing a sturdy torso, unruly raven hair sweeping across a forehead marred with a single jagged lightning scar. My heart leaps to my throat, a breathless squeal sputtering from my mouth.

"Harry," I breathe, stretching out my hand for him as he approaches the cottage two steps at a time.

Rigidness lines his gait as if his body is stiff from misuse, the movements jerky as he slogs through the sand. A dark mist shrouds his cloak, the edges quivering into a blurry outline that feathers in the fog. The closer he stalks, the harder my heart thumps against my breast as I realise there's something terribly wrong with this picture.

Lightning flashes, illuminating his inhuman grin—yellow, pointed teeth stained with blood as he presses his face against the glass, his razor-sharp claws scraping with an audible hiss.

A furious rage engulfs me as I crack every knuckle in my right hand, fingers clenching into a fist.

One thing is certain.

That is not Harry Potter standing at my window.

"How dare you," I say between gritted teeth, channelling all my fury into a single point. All the emotion from the past few days crests into a palpable wave of energy, a turbulent flow that pulses from my fingertips. Magic crackles in the atmosphere as the cottage rumbles and whines, the wardrobe rattling on its wooden legs before it jerks into the air with a whirring roar, weightless with my spell. There's a distant splashing of water, the slap of wet feet pounding on the floor as I twist my wrist and cry, "How dare you?! You will die a thousand deaths before I am through with you!"

I hurl my fist at the precise moment that Draco slides across the planks, battle-ready and naked as the day he was born, a blasting spell erupting from his wand. The familiar warmth of his protego charm simultaneously encases my body as a scream rips from my vocal cords. Thousands of wooden shards deflect harmlessly off the shield as dust billows in the air.

Through the haze, dozens of defensive spells glow about the room as Draco scours for signs of an intruder who doesn't exist. Doors slam open throughout the cottage, his determined stomps bounding through the corridor as he searches every square inch of space. When the outside perimeter is cleared, Draco checks the wards twice more before turning his steely gaze towards mine. Our chests heave as we lock eyes.

It's clear what I've interrupted.

It takes everything in me not to glance south at his hips again, at the straining length jutting from a wiry thatch of dark blond curls. The stiffness has softened somewhat from the adrenaline and exertion, though he is still thick and flushed and slick with want.

"What the fuck?" he says, stretching out his arm. His robe flies across the room and slips over his wrist. When he's covered, he storms to the bed, water dripping from his hair and drenching his clothes as he fires a diagnostic spell at my chest. "What the fuck, Granger? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Draco studies the glowing red lines as I turn my gaze towards the ceiling, unable to look at him for a second longer. Unable to think.

"I'm sorry."

The apology is a whisper, almost inaudible as Draco strains closer to hear.

"What was that, Witch?"

"I said I'm sorry," I repeat louder, vision blackening as my head pounds. "I didn't mean to… Didn't mean to cause a fright."

The bed creaks as Draco sits on the edge. Warm fingers smooth the sweat-dampened curls from my forehead. His voice is gentler now.

"What did you see this time?"

"It was Harry." My laugh is hollow. "The curse tried to mimic Harry. But it couldn't do it. Not with any semblance of realism. If it's trying to scare me, it's failing. All it's doing is enraging me."

Draco's silence speaks volumes, though he sighs after a moment and pulls his hand away.

"It isn't trying to do anything other than weaken you, Granger. Whatever that looks like. Through fear, anger… Overexertion. Fuck. I wasn't even gone for ten minutes. I was fifteen feet away."

I bite my lip and realise I've already drawn blood. Draco heals the crescent-moon gashes in my palm and my split lip, muttering all the while about his ruined bath.

"Up you go," he says, scooping me in his arms as if my weight is nothing, ignoring my squeals and protests. "I haven't finished soaping up my hair, and I'll be damned if I leave you alone for a fucking encore."

Panic clenches my belly and twists it into knots.

"Don't you dare, Malfoy. Don't you dare take me in there! I will not be your audience for that!"

Draco's chuckle forces a blush all the way from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes as he props me on the floor against the tile wall. He conjures a smoke screen between us, then makes me shriek as he kicks his robe to my lap.

"Watch that for me, will you?"

I stare slack-jawed at the misty screen as bathwater splashes, spilling on the floor.

"You are insufferable," I seethe. "The least you could do is stun me."

"And miss out on the pleasure of your company? Never."

A few minutes later, the smoke ripples as Draco's dripping hand emerges, a fluffy towel zooming to his fingers. The robe follows next, ripping from my lap as I struggle to control my breathing. When the vapor clears, he is fully clothed and dry, wearing a lopsided smirk that I want more than anything to slap off his face.

"I will not forgive you for this."

Draco shrugs and levitates me back to bed, a lazy spring in his gait.

"I'm not apologising."