Her hands were fastened securely around his waist and she was nuzzling his neck in a way that he greatly enjoyed. He and Bridget had spent the last couple of hours conversing in the café before returning to his room and now? Now he had her pinned against the door.

He leaned in for a kiss, taking her lips captive. He hadn't kissed many girls—only Pansy Parkinson and some third year tramp who'd crawled up next to him on the couch one night, and he didn't like either of them so it had been less than thrilling. But this---kissing Bridget, who was not only older than him but far more attractive than either of the girls he'd previously snogged—was wonderful. Possibly the most exciting thing he'd ever tried.

She pulled away, eyes closed, and sighed. The freckles dusting the space beneath her eyes stood out to him particularly at this moment, so sweet and pretty for a girl who could make him feel, well, dirty. Like he wanted to try something. He DID want to try something. He went in for another kiss, and this time mastered the art of using his tongue, running it across the ridges of the top of her mouth.

"Unh," She moaned, very quietly, but it was the okay Draco needed. He gently slid his fingers under the bottom of her shirt, and was just breaching the restricted area of her soft cotton bra when she pulled away, looking shamefaced at the floor.

"I can't," She explained, turning red.

"You have someone else?" Draco asked. He stepped back from her uncomfortably, unsure of what to do with his hands, which now felt highly conspicuous after making the dark, hot trek up her belly.

"No," She answered, shaking her head. She shut her eyes tightly, like maybe she would find the words she wanted to say on the insides of her eyelids, like maybe it would come to her if she pressed them shut hard enough.

"I'm a bad kisser then? I moved too quickly? You just–you just don't like me?"

"No, it's not anything like that. You didn't do anything wrong, and I like you and you're certainly not a bad kisser—have you kissed a lot of girls before me?"

Draco shook his head with a smirk.

"Oh, well," She blinked several times. "It's only . . . it's only I realized how young you are. Not because of anything you did—you were every bit as mature as any twenty year old I've been with. But I looked into your eyes, Draco, and they're still . . . pure."

Draco laughed. "My eyes. My eyes looked pure?"

"Yes," She nodded. "And it was beautiful, and special, and I can't be the one to take that away from you."

"I want it taken away. By you, Bridget, I like you,"

She laughed. "You don't know what you want. You're only sixteen."

"Oh yeah?" He stepped towards her and placed a hand on her hip. "Well regardless of whether I'm wrong or right I want you."

Was he saying the words because he meant them or because he was curious about taking a girl to bed? How could he be sure that she wasn't right, that he didn't know what he wanted?

She kissed him on the cheek. "I'll be your first disappointment Draco. I'll be the first girl to tell you no. But worry not. If you kiss other girls like that, and seduce them the way you tried to seduce me things will work out for you, I promise."

Seduce her. Had he tried to do that? Yes, he had, and the very idea disgusted him. It was so much like Lucius, so much like his dear, dead old dad. The way he he'd smiled at her charmingly as he pinned her against the door, the way he'd tried to distract her with kisses wile inching his way towards her breasts. The way he'd taken hold of her, even after she'd said no, hoping to persuade her with his charming voice and the heat of his body. He was an ass. He was Lucius' son.

"I have to go," Bridget picked up her purse.

Draco sat down on his bed, staring blankly at the dull gray carpet.

"Are you going to survive, love?" She asked, her cheerful, ringing voice only hurting him more. How could she be kind after he'd tried to trick her like that, tried to take advantage of her?

"I'm fine."

"Then can I have one more kiss before I leave?"

Her words stung but he obediently stood and approached her. She watched him for a minute, perhaps trying to decide what he was thinking. Then her hands found their way to the small of his back, and she'd taken him into a soft embrace. He found her lips and gave her his farewell without speaking. She was wonderful, she was perfect, she was a muggle—shut up, Draco—and she was going to leave. He squeezed her close to him, sighing with regret. Deep down he was glad that she hadn't let him . . . well, shag her. But things were still confusing and he couldn't decide which part of him he wanted to listen to more—the mature side, that said Bridget was right. Or the sixteen year old boy who said to hell with purity, go ahead and take her.

"It figures!" A voice boomed from by the door. "Lucius' son would be trying to get a girl in the sack when we arrived. Like father like son."

Draco let go of Bridget and turned to face none other than Alastor Moody, accompanied by a pixie of a girl with bright blue hair, both having just apparated.

"Give him a break, Alastor," The blue haired witch scolded. "If you'll notice, the girl's a muggle. How do you suppose that would have sat with Lucius? You can't just assume Draco and Lucius clones."

"The son of a death eater is just as bad as the death eater himself and a Malfoy's always a Malfoy. I still don't know why the boy didn't get sent straight to Azkaban, killing his father and all—," "You've wanted to see Lucius dead for years," The witch protested. "You ought to be grateful someone's finally done it."

Alastor rolled his good eye, but didn't deny it.

"Who . . . ?" Bridget stared at the pair, completely flustered.

Alastor, who'd had his wand drawn since he'd entered the room, pointed it at Bridget and performed a quick memory charm. Bridget blinked, shook her head, then looked shyly up at Draco.

He blinked back tears, and in a choked voice said to her, "You've done a first rate job cleaning this place, Miss. You may go now."

Still dumbfounded, Bridget left the room.

"Bye," Draco whispered.

"Mew," Nimm crawled out from behind the bed, and Draco scooped her up, trying to gain some comfort from her black fur.

"Gorgeous cat," The blue haired witch said admiringly.

"I suppose you cursed it, eh boy?" Alastor said accusingly, magical eye spinning wildly in it's socket as if scanning the room for any dark magic. "Probably turned it into a killer."

"Mad-Eye!" The witch yelled threateningly. "You're out of line. Dumbledore said we can trust this boy, and as far as I'm concerned, Dumbledore's word is superior to yours, so get off it."

"Watch it, girl," Mad-Eye, spoke harshly. "You're talking to someone with more experience than yourself and if there's one thing I've learned it's that the apple never falls far from the tree—,"

"Hi, Draco," The witch ignored him and offered Draco her hand. "I'm Tonks. And I'm sure you already know Mad—er, Alastor. We've been assigned to take you to a, erm, more secure location. So . . . pack up, I guess."

Draco glanced around the room. Most of it was packed up already. He'd never quit hoping that someone was going to show up and take him away, he'd always been ready. Funny. Now that people actually had come for him, he really wished they'd just . . . pop off and leave him alone. And left Bridget alone. She'd never remember the time they'd had, she'd never remember his kisses, which she apparently thought were quite good (Were they really? How'd he managed that?). And he hadn't even got to say goodbye before they . . . well, wiped her clean of his presence.

His heart leapt as he spotted a scarf near the door, something Bridget had shed as they'd stepped inside. The memory charm had deleted everything that had happened between them. So she didn't remember taking it off, and didn't think to look for it before she'd left. He leapt towards it in a movement that Mad Eye evidently found highly suspicious—Draco felt the wand thrust into his chest violently.

"Don't try anything boy," Mad Eye growled. "I'll kill you in an instant if you even think to try anything—,"

"I was just getting that scarf," Draco protested, pointing at it, pale cheeks going slightly pink.

The magic eye spun, and Mad Eye nodded, seeing that there was indeed a scarf behind him. "Very well," He sighed. "But remember what I said—,"

"I'm not going to do anything," Draco insisted. "I want to leave. I'm not going to try and hinder the process."

"Forgive him, Draco," Tonks stepped forward, Draco's trunk hovering magically behind her. "In our line of work you don't meet a lot of people you can really trust. You have to be careful, and he's learned that the hard way."

And for a brief second Draco saw Alastor not as the tough, vigilant, auror, but as a weary old man who'd had to live his life with constant suspicion because of people like Bellatrix Lestrange, Barty Crouch's mad son, Peter Pettigrew, and Crabbe, and Goyle, and—he acknowledged this last person solemnly and reluctantly—his father, especially his father, who'd threatened the life of the old auror hundreds of times, no doubt. So in a sick way it made sense that Mad Eye despised Draco. Draco understood how Made Eye could feel such a hatred for him when he barely knew him. Why, if Draco was in his place, he'd probably behave the same way.

But it still wasn't right and it's still left Draco feeling like crap.

"How're we getting wherever we're going?" Draco asked. Mentally removing apparating from the list of possibilities, as he didn't know how, and floo travel since it was too risky (anyone could be watching) he wondered aloud, "Brooms?"

"You're a flight risk, boy," Mad Eye announced. "We have to worry about you escaping, and so we definitely won't be using brooms. No, we'll take a portkey and just pray we don't run into any trouble."

"It's not a matter of us being concerned about you escaping, Draco," Tonks threw Mad Eye another scathing glare. "It's a matter of all of our safety. The skies are being closely watched and there are some people," She gulped nervously, and Draco got the feeling she was discussing the dark lord. "There are some people who can see through invisibility charms, and they'd kill us in moments. We think a portkey is less risky."

Draco nodded, still feeling that guiltiness that came with doing nothing, but being suspected of everything. If someone truly believed that you were a bad egg, you started to feel like one.

And it wasn't as if Draco had been feeling all that positively about himself to begin with. He was a murderer after all, guilty of using the unforgivable curse Avada Kedavra on his own father. Why shouldn't Mad Eye think he was rotten? If he'd killed anyone but Lucius he'd be a convict, sent to Azkaban. As the rest of the world saw it, Draco was dangerous, maybe even crazy. And Draco was starting to think maybe they were right. His behavior and his thoughts over the past six days had been frighteningly unstable, mental, batty.

And he wasn't feeling anymore normal at the prospect of finally leaving the muggle world. In the course of ten minutes he'd been in the throes of passion with a muggle, apprehended by two aurors, made to watch that muggle forget him, and told to pack up so he could go to some . . . unknown "secure location". He was more screwed up than ever.

"Here," Moody pulled an old, chipped Butter-beer bottle from his cloak. "Put your hands on it, you two, that's it. And on the count of three . . . ,"

"Wait!" Draco lunged for the scarf, picking it up and stuffing it in the pocket of his roomy black coat, then setting the kitten on top of it. "Okay," He touched the bottle once more and then one, two, three . . . they were gone.