A/N: Chapter 10! We're in the double digits, folks. Thanks again for joining me on my writing journey. I will likely be skipping next week's update due to a fun life event coming up. The next chapter should be released by March 20th.

The sun has been awake for hours by the time my eyes snap me from sleep, and I'm jumping out of bed before I can rub the tiredness out of my eyes. She might still be here.

The door to my bedroom is still wide open; a careless act that was made last night when her presence within the manor was all that I could think about while falling asleep. What if she needed something and wasn't sure which room was mine? Or what if she started sneaking around and the noise was the only thing that could alert me?

I stop myself before I can get to the top of the staircase. If she is still here, sleeping on the couch or making breakfast with Tomsy, then I should at least change out of my pyjamas. Minutes later, and changed into fresh clothes with teeth and hair brushed, I venture down.

The library is empty. Of course, it is. Why would she bother sticking around when it has to be nearing the afternoon? Left in her place is the bright green blanket, folded perfectly where she slept. There are two things on top of it: a piece of parchment and a potion bottle. The potion is the new and improved Draught of Peace, indicated by its light silver shimmer. It is darker than usual, indicating that Granger's changes had some effect. Why did she leave it for me?

The parchment is folded carefully, and I half expect instructions for the potion to be scribbled down. Perhaps a guide on being her guinea pig to test out its effects. Instead, in her all-too-familiar handwriting, are the words Good morning. Nothing else but a greeting for the day. I recheck the paper, front and back, confused by its shortness. Good morning is all there is to it.

My hands check the warmth of the couch, wondering if it could hold clues as to how long it has been empty. Tomsy is called in once I realize no clues are imprinted into the fabric.

"Master Draco!"

"Tomsy. Did you see Granger leave?"

"Yes, Master Draco. Miss Hermione took Floo powder from Tomsy right after sunrise. She is saying that she is having to get to work."

Sunrise. Only hours after she would have fallen asleep. Perhaps the weight of the manor's past kept her from dreaming any longer. Would she have felt more comfortable if I stayed in the library with her?

"Thanks, Tomsy."

He looks at me with a blank expression plastered on his face, unsure of what to say next.

"Tomsy will be getting your coffees, Master Draco."

He's back with them in a flash, and they're juggled in my hands along with the blanket, potion, and parchment on the journey back to my room. I sit them all down on my nightstand, letting my fingers trace over her words on the parchment one last time. The blanket, thrown onto the bed, is inviting. What's the harm in crawling back in bed for a little while, anyway?

The potion keeps calling for my attention even as I wrap myself into bed, pulling the blanket around my shoulders and burying my head into its softness. It smells different. Less like the teakwood and ember smells of the manor. It's oranges, ink pots, and hairspray now. I mindlessly pull it tighter around me.

Why would she leave the potion behind? Was it a gift? Or was I meant to be a test subject all along? Or, even worse, could it have been spiked with something else? No. No, I watched her brew it. I helped brew it. It's safe. It's just some hellebore, moonstone, and other common ingredients that you could find in any potion cabinet. Unless her modifications could lead to a deadly combination… No. No. It's safe. Granger and I made it. It's safe. But I don't need to take it. Why bother? I'm not meant to feel at peace. We would need a lot more moonstone if a bottle could change that feeling.

I'll return the potion to her the next time she returns to the manor. Maybe it was a mistake. Yeah, she probably just forgot it. She'll be back for it after work, or even tomorrow when she realises that it's missing from her belongings. She was probably tired and wasn't thinking straight. That's all there is to it.

As I cling to the blanket, the affirmations repeat in my head, permitting my eyes to close.

"Rosewood, you're late."

A snatcher holds up a heavy body whose clothes are so damp that they cling to his skin. His hands are empty, but his fingers are trembling and missing the protection of his wand, which has been carelessly tossed aside by the man holding him up.

Clem Rosewood worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry. He was privy to the happenings in surrounding countries and regularly collaborated with other governments to prevent another war. Voldemort had asked him for news that might be beneficial to us, and he would often come with warnings of upcoming sanctions or regulations that might make things more difficult for Death Eaters.

Voldemort had sent for him to join us at the Manor. He had heard whispers of apparition restrictions going in and out of Bulgaria and needed to know when it would begin. He had connections there that promised to house escaped Azkaban prisoners until the Ministry eased up on their searches. The time for his arrival had come and passed, and snatchers were sent out to bring him here.

"My apologies, My Lord. I was just... I was just confirming my intelligence."

"So you have brought news, I presume?"

"Y-yes. Yes, M'Lord. The vote in favor of increasing restrictions to Bulgaria. Well, they've been delayed."

"Delayed," Voldemort repeats.

"Yes. Yes. The Bulgarian Ministry has some hesitancy. They will reconvene next month."

"And you're certain of it?"

Voldemort nods his head, seemingly confident with Rosewood's information. The look of terror stalls on Rosewood's face as he believes that he will be going home that night. Supposedly, he had a family. A young son. His face would be printed in the Daily Prophet later that week, barely large enough to catch a reader's attention.

"Yes. This is why I did not present myself earlier, My Lord. The information had changed quickly. I could not live with myself if I gave you incorrect news."

"Thank you for your honesty."

Rosewood opens his mouth to agree, or perhaps to claim more allegiance to the Dark Lord. However, Voldemort floats to him instantly, pulling out a vial with his sickly fingers. He uses them to hold Rosewood's lips open despite muffled protests.

The potion goes down so quickly that none of us can make it out. I almost couldn't tell if it was a potion that slid down his throat or if Voldemort had just approached him as a way of reminding him that he could hurt him if he wanted to.

"What did you…" Rosewood begins as panic spreads through his body.

A thunderous roar of laughter breaks out from the Death Eaters in the room. Everybody keeps their eyes on Rosewood, so I do, too, and let a chuckle leave my chest. It comes out strained, and I hope that nobody notices.

Rosewood is on his knees. Slowly, his body starts to fold inward, as if he were apparating away. It's only when his body is crumpled to the floor that I realise the strength of the potion. It has eaten away at his bones and other organs. He is nothing but flesh and blood now, laying like a deflated balloon.

His eyes stay open, left to die with the fear plastered on his face. Blood starts to pool at the edges, slowly dripping down like tears as they puddle on the hard floor beneath him.

"That's marvelous, My Lord. Where did you come across such a spectacular potion?" Father asks, hardly a glint of fear in his throat.

"Severus Snape, of course. And how lucky we are to have Hogwarts' very own potions master at hand, are we not?" Voldemort directs his gaze to me now. I notice his gaze digging in my direction, even as I look to the floor. My cloak shifts beneath me. It's so swift that nobody could have noticed my father's subtle nudge, begging me to respond quickly.

"Of course, My Lord. And even luckier to have you to guide us."

Father stands tall again, claiming agreement. Everything is back to what it was before, with the room ignoring the bleeding body in front of us. One of the house-elves will be called to lift his ruined corpse away. He will likely be tossed aside, left for Voldemort's snake to feast on. Hopefully, it's done outside of the manor this time. The smell of her last dinner still lingers in the air of the dining room.

Voldemort had been right in calling Rosewood on his lie. Bulgaria had been suspected as a location for escaped wizards from various prisons, including Azkaban. The apparition restrictions included a spell that would alert the Ministry of any attempts. Voldemort's next mole had put a stop to it before it could be put into place. He survived for another year before trying to escape and went out similarly to Rosewood. I wasn't there for it.

The memory of it all- of Voldemort's psychopathy, Snape's allegiance, Father's refusal to back down- plays again in my dream. The green blanket is soaked in sweat when I wake up again. It feels as if the nightmare had been repeating itself for ages, but the sun hasn't even begun to set outside.

I cling the blanket closer to my skin despite the sweaty warmth and remember the potion sitting next to me. Hermione Granger was not Snape, nor was she as innovative with his potions. She had not intended to poison me with something that would destroy my insides in seconds. But how could I believe any of it if somebody like Snape could lie so well? Granger could be plotting to send me back to Azkaban. She could be working for the Order, still desperate to imprison anybody who was on the wrong side.

The bottle keeps taunting me as I lay in bed. I want to throw it against the wall and watch the liquid pour out of it. Or drain it down the sink and let the pipes survive whatever poison she has left inside the vial. But something stops me as I raise my hand to toss it, and later when I open it over the drain. She worked hard on it. I worked hard on it. Creating it was the closest to practicing magic that I'd be able to do for ages, and I'd never have the chance again if I betrayed Granger's recipe like that.

I give the potion to Tomsy instead of wasting it and instruct him to leave it somewhere that I won't find it. He's to keep it safe until I know what to do with it.

"Have I missed any owls? Maybe one from Granger, I suspect," I inquire after he pops the potion away.

"There are no letters from Miss Hermione. There is one from Miss Collins, Master Draco!"

The words of Collins' letter pass by me. It should be of interest. It could be something from Mother, or news of the case, or just rubbish about checking in on me. But it's not something from Granger, and that's not what I had anticipated. She could never keep her bloody mouth shut, so why was she avoiding me now? Could her little sleepover have scared her away? Did she go snooping through the night, and I missed it? She could have stumbled on any number of things. Most of the Death Eater memorabilia or proof of crimes had been taken from the Ministry, but there were hardly any limits to what secrets the house could reveal if one knew where to look. She must have found something. She was avoiding me.

But what if she wasn't? What if she was in trouble, hurt, or caught up in something that I couldn't know about?

Tomsy fetches a copy of the Daily Prophet at my request. I had stopped reading it when the news pieces were no longer interesting. I could only read about Quiddich scores or current events until it ached to know that I couldn't be a part of it all.

The latest edition has no mention of any malice. There was no news of any Wizengamot uprisings, foreign resistances, or emerging Death Eaters. And if Golden Girl Granger had been involved in anything upsetting, she'd surely make the front page.

No, her avoiding me made more sense. That was it. And even if something terrible had happened, if she had been in some Muggle car crash that hadn't made the wizarding news, why would it matter? I shouldn't care. I don't care. But the idea of it all can't seem to leave my thoughts.

Nothing is waiting for me the following day, either. Or the day after that. No owls, no Floo network visits. No alarming news in the Daily Prophet.

Maybe this was her plan after all. To weasel her way into my life. To pretend to be something of a friend and to make me act vulnerable around her, only for her to pull back at the last minute and leave me feeling tricked. Weasley must have come up with it, including the whole story about their breakup. They were probably snogging right now in between laughing about her little prank.

I've been weak. Pathetic, even. Maybe Valencia and Granger were wrong. I wasn't tragically raised on the wrong side of things. This was just an excuse that I'm telling myself now because I'm too afraid to admit that I failed. I've failed in the war, in my ability to keep my family safe and to live up to everybody's expectations of me.

The feelings persist. Hours go by in a whirlwind of self-pity. And then the pity evolves to anger at myself for feeling so down over a platonic rejection when there are people out there with dead parents or siblings or friends because of my role in it all. Finally, when the thoughts become too much, sad attempts at occluding turn into burning hot showers and shots of sleeping draughts until it starts again.

The days start to blur. Somewhere amongst them, there are dozens of pieces of parchment filled with scribbles, written in the space before the draughts take me to bed.

Granger, sorry for letting us fall asleep. Did you get home safe?

D.M.

Why did you leave that potion behind for me?

Malfoy

Are you trying to poison me?

D.L.M.

Too busy shagging the Weasel to drop a note?

D.

My room smells like you now. Because of that blanket. My mother's blanket. I've been sleeping better because of it.

Draco

Is everything okay?

I forget that I've written them by the time I wake up the next morning. They're mortifying to when I find them, making me feel like a schoolgirl writing in her diary. The muggle lighter meets the corners of each one until they're nothing but a pile of ash.

Hermione Granger is back at Malfoy Manor five days later. She finds me sitting on the floor of my shower, water pounding over me and my boxer shorts, half asleep from one too many Sleeping Draughts the night before. I've been there for at least an hour, she says, based on how long she's been waiting downstairs at Tomsy's request.

I want to yell at her when she first comes in, gingerly illuminating the room with her wand in a quick swish. To ask why she's returned or to see if she's here to check up on the results of her potion. But the surprise plastered on her face is enough to tell me that she didn't expect to find me in any off type of state.

She doesn't ask questions at first. Instead, she turns off the water and fetches a towel. She goes to wrap it around my cold body and changes her mind at the last second, handing it to me instead while she rummages around for proper clothes for me to wear. She should be laughing at the sight of me instead of rushing around to make me more presentable.

Once dried and dressed, Granger escorts me back into my room. She leans against the window, looking at me with questioning eyes. I say nothing, even as she slowly pulls a vial out of her bag. It's labelled as a Pepper-Up Potion. She thinks that I need it and indicates as much when she tosses it over to me.

There's hesitation as I pull it to my lips, wondering if it's been poisoned in the same way that the other could have been. But the smell of it is so familiar from days at Hogwarts that I can't deny its purity. I take it with a swig, letting the steam flow from my ears along with my sluggishness.

"I'm sorry that I haven't been 'round lately. Work was…" she starts, but suddenly I realise how little any of it matters. Work, Ron, the Ministry. All of it.

"Obliviate me," I tell her in a moment of realisation.

There is a calmness in the space between my words and whatever she'll say next. An expectation of what would happen if she did it for me. I imagine that it'll be like getting tucked into bed and living inside of your dreams.

"No."

"Please. Obliviate me."

"No."

"Don't make me beg."

"No."

"Then why are you here? Why would you come over? If you care about me at all, then you'll do this. Nobody has to know that it was you. Just do it, please."

"No." Her words are softer this time. It's almost a whisper as if she's telling herself instead of me.

And then it happens. And it's just like falling asleep and knowing that your dreams will be there to comfort you. Because her lips are like pillows against mine, pulling me in, making me realise that I'm not being obliviated. She's kissing me.

Her lips are hungry, hurried. They snap me out of any remaining sleepiness. Her hands hold my head against hers so firmly that she must be terrified to feel me slip away. Or maybe they're there to keep her from being the one to pull back.

I could hurry in return. I could get a taste of her tongue and pull her so close to me that she'll beg me to take her, to fuck her before I change my mind. I've likely had similar encounters before. But at this moment, they aren't coming to the surface. They're being buried, stronger than in occlumency, because the softness I'm feeling is something that I never knew existed.

My fists find her hair and fill the palms of my hands with them, brushing the back of her head with a tender touch. I could just as quickly pull my hands back with her hair in them, dragging her until her neck was under my teeth. I could leave little indentations to say that I was here. She would squeak in surprise, I'm sure of it. But I don't. Instead, I press my lips closer to hers, parting them slowly, taking it all in. The texture of her bottom lip, the slight quiver in her top lip as I graze it with my tongue.

She finally relents and gives up her fast pace. A warmth erupts from my chest, pulling heat in every direction of my body, as she delicately touches her tongue to mine as if asking if it's okay. It's okay, I signal back by deepening my kiss, careful not to devour her whole.

I trace my hands down her back slowly, cautiously, trying to make sense of whether it's real. Granger responds to the touch, closing the space between us and melting further into my arms. I wonder if she feels the desperate bulge in my pants, caught off guard from the newness of her touch. I want to push myself against her, to share how much she's affecting me. "Look at what you're doing to me," I would say, pulling her hand down to feel for herself. The idea of it only makes me harder, and I have to draw my attention back to our lips to stop myself from the surge of pleasure.

Finally, I tip my head back, reluctantly breaking away my lips from hers. Her eyes flutter open in a rush, and she blinks three times before gazing back at me.

"Am I dreaming?" I ask in a whisper, quiet enough not to wake me if I am. I pull my hands back up to her face, running the tip of my thumb against her jaw. It can't be a dream. If it were, the nightmares would have already crept in. My mind would never let me get this far into something so sweet.

"Am I?" She asks, plunging back into me, settling our shared reality.

This kiss is the same as the first; our lips dance in unison, seamlessly following each other's movements. My hands hold her lower back as I fight myself not to pull them lower, to caress the curves that I can almost feel. It's not the time for that. She might think that it's impolite, even.

Her hands stay to the sides of my face as her fingers dip and curl around the back of my head, sliding through my growing hair. She tugs at it while pushing in closer to me, and it drives me crazy. If I don't stop myself now, I'll never be able to. I linger on her lips for a moment longer before finally pulling my body off hers.

"Obliviate me," I ask again. "Obliviate me. Take away everything and leave that. Just that. Just these last few minutes. Please," I beg.

"No," she says, and my body emits a sigh of frustration. I don't have feelings for Hermione Granger. I couldn't. I shouldn't. But what was that? What is this feeling flying through my chest, even now that her body keeps inching further away?

"Why not?" I cry out again.

"Because what if I want to do that again?"

She holds our eyes together, daring me to try to look away. To give her the seconds that she needs to creep back toward me and catch me by surprise again. But I don't. Her gaze is too addictive to try. I hold her eyes, knowing the pain that waits for me when the moment ends.

"Am I interrupting something?" A voice finally snaps me out of my daze. Granger's surprise is equally as apparent as she hurries back even further, as if afraid to admit how close she was to Draco Malfoy only minutes before.

It's Valencia. What in Merlin's name is she doing here?

"Hermione Granger, is it?" She asks.

"Y-yes."

"A pleasure." Valencia holds out her hand, which Granger accepts gratuitously with her own. The hand that was just tumbling through my hair. I pull mine to the back of my head, smoothing out the tangles that she's left behind, like proof that she was here.

"Likewise."

"As much as I'd love to pick your brain, I'll have to ask you to leave. I've got important matters to discuss with Draco."

"Why are you here?" I ask, finally breaking out of my haze.

"Didn't you get my owl earlier this week? I told you I'd be coming today."

Right. The one that I didn't read. The letter that I didn't open because it didn't have her name on it.

"Right."

"Okay, now off you go, Granger," Valencia shoos.

"But what if I could help?" Granger asks, her body placed so firmly in place that it signals her refusal to leave.

"What?"

"What if I could help? With the case?"

"Very well."

Valencia turns to leave the room, nonverbally demanding we follow her to the study that's become hers. My eyes are glued to Granger for the entire walk down. Slowly, the faint blush that had spread across her cheeks fizzles away and is replaced with a confident, still expression that I had only seen in Hogwarts study halls. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to help us after all.