Author's Note: I'M BACK. And apologetic. And hoping you all can forgive me for such a long time between posts! This chapter is... Well. It is what it is. But, I'm proud I pushed through and finished after what felt like four different iterations and drafts. To everyone who left lovely comments and kudos, THANK YOU. I'm always left speechless. It means so much to me. As always, come hang out with me on Tumblr. It's great fun.
Truly, this chapter wouldn't be here without alpha/beta assistance from the amazing Mightbewriting. I can't explain how much I've learned from her, and I am eternally indebted to her thoughtful feedback and meticulous eye 3 If you haven't read her newest fic Sight and Seeing, SERIOUSLY YOU MUST. It's incredible.
Any grammar/ spelling issues remaining in this chapter are my own.
NOW onto Chapter 6! Until next time loves,
EndlessMoonChild
Secrets of the Moon
Chapter 6
Draco paced his study. Six steps forward, marked by the resounding click of Italian leather shoes against ancient wooden floors, then the scrape of a heel, and six steps back. A painting in the far corner scolded him for his dizzying antics, but the words barely registered.
His head swiveled toward the grandfather clock, the beat of his steps never faltering, and he growled. He still needed to wait a full forty minutes more before his meeting with Potter. Before he could see Hermione.
The nearing full moon and its promise of freedom triggered his compulsory need to embody the duties expected of him as alpha. His desires were heightened. But, the pulsating tension in his core differed from the fevered, horny behavior of his teenage years. Whereas in his youth the yearning for another's touch may have caused a randy bout of self-exploration, or a romp in the Slytherin dungeons, now these urges originated deep inside, the place where animal and man melded into one and sought pleasures not only carnal but connubial.
He was a dragon, and Hermione possessed all the potential to be fire in his lungs; intelligence, beauty, power, a trustworthy leader for his future pack.
Ours, his wolf staked claim from a lonely cage in Draco's subconscious, aching to take full control.
Six more clicks against the hardwoods.
Until he had Hermione, his wolf's restless dissatisfaction would continue, threats from his father be damned. He rubbed his temples in time with his steps.
The only variable, really, was her willingness. He needed her, doomed as he was to concede to his baser instincts. But at this point in the lunar cycle, it'd be impossible to know if she wanted him beyond physical gratification. Though cautious, her scent sometimes carried tinges of her desire, cloyingly sweet and soaked in vanilla, and he relished that she no longer shivered in fear at his casual touch.
But none of that meant she actually wanted to be with him. His foot stumbled, the deflation of his ego momentarily interrupting the rhythm of his footsteps.
Today, she'd leave him to go off with Potter, and he'd be forced to trust the walking disaster magnet.
Inside, his beast recoiled at the imagined moments she'd share with the golden boy in Diagon Alley; the way her lips would part in wonder at the sight of creatures and curious shop fronts. Wide copper eyes shining as they absorbed every inch of her new surroundings. The sound of her gasps. The curve of her smooth neck as it craned to….
The click of his shoes halted. One point to his wolf's overpowering paranoia. Zero for self-control.
His fireplace erupted with green light as he tossed down the floo powder.
Stepping into Hermione's living room, it surprised him to find her waiting on the couch, a book from his library propped open on her lap.
Draco breathed in the vanilla and pine-scented air and a piece of his soul, the one he fought to suppress in the solitude of his room last night, gasped awake. She wore the robe he'd gifted her, and he felt an overwhelming sense of pride that clashed with his want to tear the fabric off her shoulders.
"You decided to wear clothes today," he teased through lips stretched into a coy grin.
Draco observed the spark of amusement at the edges of her eyes and heard the skip of her heart at his reminder of yesterday's encounter. Had her dreams been as fevered as his?
"Is there a reason why you're always so early?" she asked, ignoring his teasing.
My pathetic lack of patience.
Her fucking lovely scent, his wolf chimed.
"I was raised to be prompt," he answered with a casual shrug.
"Hm." Hermione placed the book on the coffee table before rubbing her palms against her knees.
"Feeling apprehensive again?"
"I'm excited." Her voice pitched high, and her face paled.
Draco breathed a faint laugh. "You have nothing to fear."
"I'll have to take your word for it." Her tone was light, but the meaning darkened as it entered his psyche and the words sank like lead into his stomach.
"And if you didn't? Have to take my word for it, I mean."
"You've given me no reason not to trust you, I suppose." She brushed her hair behind her ear, where it only stayed in place for a moment before springing back out against her cheek. Brows furrowed, she changed the subject.
"What does finding your wand feel like?" Hermione asked.
Seizing the opportunity, Draco sat on the couch, close enough that her shoulder nearly grazed his arm. When he removed his wand from his pocket, he felt the worn fabric shift under him, saw her knees turn slightly toward his. The breath in his lungs expanded.
He twirled the innocuous piece of wood between deft fingers, failing to hide a crooked smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes.
"You don't find your wand, your wand finds you. It remains one of the few happy memories from my childhood."
She inched closer.
"Here," he murmured, pressing it into her fingers before reciting, "ten inches, made of hawthorn wood with a unicorn hair core. Excellent for healing. I knew as soon as I felt it that it was mine."
Carefully, her fingers inspected every grain before gripping the handle. "I feel something like a...a spark when I hold it. But whatever it is, it doesn't feel familiar."
"Of course not. You've never embraced your magic. A wand will help you do that." He tugged his fingers through fine platinum strands. "Promise me you'll stay safe?" He suddenly demanded, his voice sharp even to his own ears. Too serious given her soft words and gentle curiosity. Too much. Too protective. But his wolf slammed against the cage, vibrating iron rattling the command from his mouth, "Don't stray from Potter's side."
"I've remained hidden since birth. I know how to handle myself." Hermione rolled her eyes, adding, "All on my own, in fact."
He froze, studying her face, and finding the invisible scars of a lone wolf. Could she see how overeager he'd become? Taste his arousal like he could hers? He'd caught her lingering eyes, but couldn't decipher their message, guarded as it was. Did she want to remain alone?
"This isn't the muggle world," Draco's tone darkened, pleasing the behest of his wolf, "wizards aren't so quick to pass things off as coincidental."
"No one will notice me."
Draco barked out a gruff laugh, resisting the urge to run through the growing list in his head of the people he wanted to maim simply for staring at her. Instead, "I certainly did."
Hermione tensed beside him, and when he smelled her honey-sweet adrenaline, he wondered if the electrifying crackle floating through the air tingled against her skin as it did his.
"You didn't notice me. You hunted me during the full moon. That's very different."
"An Alpha doesn't waste his time with anything that isn't the best." Repeated to Draco his entire life, his father's words instinctively fled his lips. The first woman to awaken his body and soul and he could think of no better way to describe his fascination than with his father's poison.
Though she tilted her head to scrutinize him, the weight of his words remained lost on her.
By the time Draco pulled them through the Floo, arriving at the Manor only moments before Potter, Draco's agitation swelled at the base of his spine.
"Take care of her," he warned, leveraging his substantial shoulder width to loom over Harry.
"She'll be fine, Malfoy."
Ignoring him, Draco pressed, "Keep her close. She doesn't have a frame of reference for anything in wizarding society. We are starting from scratch, and you know the trouble it can lead to."
Harry snorted. "I understand that better than anyone. I'll bring her back unharmed, not to worry. Ready, Hermione?"
And as Draco watched them disappear, he began his fatalistic pacing once more. Six steps forward, marked by the resounding click of Italian leather shoes against ancient wooden floors.
Until now, Hermione believed nothing could ever be as wondrous as the Ministry of Magic, nor as mystifying as the secrets lurking within Malfoy Manor.
Diagon Alley proved her wrong in the most splendid fashion; her eyes couldn't absorb the delights in the shop windows fast enough. Owls and broomsticks - flying broomsticks! - and leather tomes, and quills, and cauldrons and a candy shop with leaping chocolate frogs.
The walk took place in silence, though to Harry's benefit, he didn't hinder her from peeking a moment too long at each nook and cranny. She caught his faint grin when she gasped at the sight of an enormous bookstore- the tamest spectacle in Diagon Alley if she were being honest.
So her surprise did not feel unreasonable when Harry stopped outside a building that looked misplaced amongst the other stores. Olivander's shop paled in comparison to everything else she'd passed; it stood crooked, dust-covered windows tilted at odd angles, and as she eyed the peeling, faded paint, she decided this shop desperately needed attention.
"This?" Her brow furrowed and her face snapped toward Harry, who chuckled.
"The best wands in the world are made here," he assured her as he held the door open.
The shop bell announced their presence. Imposing shelves standing tall behind the counter, brimming with boxes of all sizes and sorts that alarmingly appeared to have no particular order. How could anyone find what they were looking for here? Hermione wrung her hands together in an attempt to focus on anything other than the horrid disorganization.
A cloud of dust arose from beyond the shelves, and a man emerged from the shadows.
"Good morning, Mr. Olivander," Harry called.
The man, severe-looking under the wrinkles etched deep beside his frown, stepped into the light. "Harry, my boy!" He limped toward the front counter. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'm here to help Ms. Granger buy a wand."
"Welcome, Ms. Granger. What kind was your last wand dear-"
From the back of the store, a flurrying of boxes crashed, over a dozen in total, thudding as they connected with the ground.
Mr. Olivander turned to face the chaotic stacks, assessing the mess strewn across the floor. He let out a yelp.
"What's wrong?" Harry asked.
From the corner of her vision, Hermione saw him gripping his wand, and fur prickled beneath her skin, itching with the ignition of her nerves.
"There is no need for that, Mr. Potter," said Olivander, his long wrinkled finger pointing toward the mess.
A box, no larger than a ruler, floated in the middle of the aisle above the other fallen wands. Then, slowly, it drifted of its own accord, stopping mere inches in front of Hermione's eyes. It hovered a moment before it too fell against the floor, landing intact by her feet.
"Merlin's beard," she heard Olivander murmur.
Harry stared, dumbfounded. "Does this happen often?" He whispered slowly, as though not wishing to disturb the possessed box.
"It's curious, Mr. Potter-"
"Oh not again," Harry muttered in a tone so low Hermione was certain an elderly ear wouldn't notice.
"It has only happened once before in my time, where the pull of the wand to a wizard was this powerful. That wand, Ms. Granger, is yours. It has presented itself to you. There will be no need to try any others today."
Numb, she looked at the box by her feet. There, packaged in unassuming black cardboard lay her ticket to magic, to control, to a life of possibilities. Trembling, she reached down and grabbed it no differently than she would a steel wolf trap.
"Go on then," Mr. Olivander urged. "Open it."
Inside she found a beautifully ornate piece of wood, light in colour, with carvings of vines and small leaves scaling the exterior. It reminded her of home, covered in plants that climbed the walls and windows, surrounded by the peaceful forest.
As for how it felt, well, the whispers of magic she'd experienced holding Draco's wand tarnished under the energy flowing through her. This wand, her wand, felt like an extension of herself; her own heartbeat outside her body, and the magic that had been in her since birth hummed in warm familiarity.
She gazed up at Mr. Olivander, his eyes sparkling like stars against a caustic sky. "10 ¾ inches, with a dragon heartstring core, made of vine wood procured from the Forbidden Forest. A wand that will seek purpose beyond the usual, and demand continuous growth from its user."
"Ms. Granger." His voice floated faraway, blue eyes growing cloudier, "that wand has been in my shop for nearly six decades. I never thought I'd live to see the day when it selected a wizard."
Hermione leaned forward, eager to hear more, but his eyes continued to trail off.
More silence, and then curiosity - a dangerous amount - gave pulse to her words, "Why not?"
Olivander analyzed Hermione's face, passing over her curls, pausing on the bridge of her nose and the subtle point of her chin. She fidgeted as he finally met her eyes. "I accidentally discovered a pack of shifters in my earliest travels. Using the tree above their den I was able to make one wand- that wand in your hands. From the moment I made it, it's proven unresponsive to other wizards who've held it. I suspect it has an affinity for its own kind."
Hermione struggled to maintain control of her features. For years her mysterious past ate away at her, an army of gnats gnawing on her skin until it bubbled raw. Yet, now so close to what felt like discovery, her words failed her, caught in the chaotic tangle of her curiosity.
"Give it a wave," he instructed before Hermione could speak.
"Um," she sputtered and looked to Harry, who only gave her an imperceptible nod. She swallowed. "Of course."
With the image of Draco in her head, she tried to imitate his smooth motions as she waved the wand. A quick flick of her wrist, followed by a swish.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, to no avail.
"It's interesting," Olivander narrowed his eyes, "that one so obviously brimming with magic, and holding such a powerful wand, can't cast."
"I'm, er, sure the wand just feels different than what she's used to. Doesn't it, Hermione," Harry prodded for her benefit.
Her curls bounced with the vehement nods of her head. "Yes, of course. I just need some, uh, practice with it, that's all."
"It's not practice you need," Olivander disagreed but elaborated no further.
Harry fiddled with his glasses, and cleared his throat. "How much will it cost?"
"To charge something as worthless as galleons would dishonor the shifter who so kindly offered me that vine. It's yours, Ms. Granger. It was never mine to sell."
The wand pulsed beneath her fingers giving her renewed energy that tickled her vocal cords, and before she could stop herself, she asked, "What do you think happened to the shifters?"
Olivander walked back behind his desk, head tilted in contemplation. "Hmm," he breathed. "I used to imagine they were hiding somewhere safe, but it's likely the truth is much more violent. Such magnificent creatures. Most wizards didn't even know they existed, and those who did have all but forgotten them. It's almost poetic, don't you think, that they left this earth as mysteriously as they entered it."
Hermione fought to keep the rising bubble in her throat from choking her. Clutching her wand, she remained silent, not wanting to alert the already suspicious Olivander of her secret.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Olivander." Harry smiled, a tight stretch forcing a crease on his cheek, and he placed a guiding hand on the top of Hermione's arm as they left.
The outside world seemed to have changed during their short time in the shop. In the dimly lit store, she'd forgotten the playfulness of magic, focused instead on Olivander's retelling of the wicked perils that came with power. Her ancestors likely brought to a violent end. Gone.
Yet, somehow: she existed. It begged the familiar question, who worked so hard to conceal her? And why? Her wand, now safe in her robes, suffered the same fate - a lone survivor hidden away.
"Would you like to get breakfast?" Harry's kind voice startled her from her troubled thoughts.
Hermione stumbled, nearly falling on the cobblestone. "Oh."
"Are you not hungry?" Harry glanced sideways in her direction, his pace slowed.
Her stomach churned, too unsettled to feel anything but achy. However, her heart warmed at the prospect of sitting down to breakfast with another person. It'd been years.
"Lead the way."
Hermione blew on the hot porridge steaming in her spoon. A set of eyes at the table beside them shifted in her direction and she unintentionally met their gaze.
She hunched lower in her chair. "Why does everyone keep staring."
"I'm sorry," Harry grumbled, "If it's any consolation, they're not looking at you."
A person standing at the coffee bar turned their head, peaking over Harry's shoulder. Hermione placed a hand against her forehead, covering her eyes through fanned out fingers while wishing she knew enough magic to disappear.
"I feel so self-conscious."
Harry shoveled in a bite of eggs. "I've gotten used to it, to be honest. I haven't been out with anyone who would take notice in years."
"What, are you famous or something?" She snorted into her coffee mug.
Harry's ears glowed red.
Oh.
"It's complicated."
Hermione groaned. "Oh for God's sake. Both you and Draco seem to think I'm incapable of understanding a story."
Placing his wand on the table, Harry glanced around through messy bangs. Hermione heard his soft mutter, Muffiato. Then louder, he asked, "How much have you learned about the wizarding world?"
"Hardly anything," Hermione still whispered, eyes shifting toward the surrounding patrons.
"It's overwhelming at first, but you'll get accustomed to it eventually," Harry said.
"Easy for a wizard to say," she argued.
"Actually, I grew up in a muggle household."
Captivated, she tried to lean closer, but the table against her ribs made it impossible. "What do you mean?"
Harry rubbed his temples. "Where do I even begin?" He muttered under his breath. "Wizards can be born of muggles. This happened to my mother, in fact. Regardless of background, at age eleven, all magical children receive an offer to learn at magical institutions. But, there are some wizarding families, particularly well-established ones, who consider their magic to be purer than muggle-borns."
"Is there a difference?" she asked.
"None at all. Lineage does not dictate magical ability. But not everyone feels that way. Thirty years ago a wizard named Voldemort rose to power with a mission to purge the wizarding world of what he considered tainted bloodlines. His followers called themselves Death Eaters, made up mostly of pure-blooded families."
Hermione shuddered. A study, filled with hundreds of years worth of trinkets and artifacts became clear in her head. An established household for an established bloodline.
"Just after my first birthday, my parents were murdered by Voldemort. He tried to kill me, but failed. I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle, both of whom were muggles."
It seemed obvious to her now, why she identified with Harry: orphans forced into the muggle world.
"I'm sorry." She found hints of a familiar sadness in his eyes. "What happened to Voldemort and the Death Eaters?"
Taking another deep breath, Harry launched into a retelling of the second rise of the madman, hungry with violent power and unwilling to die. He spoke of battles and the horrors of war. And of the Order of the Phoenix, a bright spot in an otherwise grim tale. And Hermione could see why everyone stared at the average looking man with bright green eyes: a hero unwilling to perceive himself that way.
When he finished, Hermione leaned back in her chair, churning over each consonant and vowel of Harry's struggle. Heated through with agony at the hurt he'd endured. Processing an entire war she'd been privileged to remain unaware of. And thinking of a blond man with piercing eyes whose touch felt entirely sinful.
She dared ask, "The Malfoy family, where do they fall in all of this?"
Harry fiddled with a napkin on the table, not meeting her stare. "What is your relationship with...Draco?"
"He's my client."
It felt like a lie. The moment Draco stormed into her office, sweeping her up into a world she'd long treated as forbidden, he'd charmed his way into becoming something less definable.
A worthy companion. A potential pack, a teacher, a family-
"I met him a few days ago in my law firm," Hermione added, a bitterness corroding the typically pleasant melody of her voice.
Harry sucked his teeth for a moment and released a wary huff of air. "Voldemort relied on werewolves, including lesser varieties, to help carry out his orders. But it was the pure-blooded werewolf packs that he really used to secure power, promising them more rights in exchange for support. The Wiltshire Pack, led by Lucius Malfoy, followed Voldemort."
"Was Draco a Death Eater?" The name itself turned to poison on her tongue.
Harry paused, reluctant. "Yes."
Air squeezed out of her lungs, capillaries narrowing until she gasped. Everything came rushing forward; the moment Draco first chased her through the woods, his elegance on full display. Stolen glances. Promises of magic.
She had trouble reconciling what she knew of Draco compared to the picture Harry painted of murder and prejudice. A branded skull upon perfect skin.
Not even Draco's moods proved him capable of the evils Harry described, despite his penchant toward fire to ice and back again. His guidance buoyed her against long harbored loneliness. With gentle fingers he coaxed out the pieces she'd caged and hidden, providing comfort along the way.
"Is this why you and Draco dislike one another?"
Surprisingly, Harry chuckled. "We were sworn enemies from the moment we met. It started with silly schoolboy feuding, house rivalries and all that. Then the war made us real enemies, for a time at least."
He leaned forward and propped up his chin on clasped hands. "You have to understand, Draco's lived his whole life under the rule of a pack. There is no disagreeing with an Alpha, especially when that Alpha is your father. The Malfoy's desire to keep control of the status quo. It's why they manipulate Lycanthropy strains instead of becoming werewolves through bite alone."
Sensing her opportunity to hear Harry's perspective on the Wiltshire Pack, Hermione baited, "Draco mentioned wolves of his pack are superior because of it."
Harry nodded. "There's secrecy surrounding the exact practice. Each family has their own strain and they tailor out undesirable werewolf traits - mainly illness before the moon and lack of control during transformation. The Malfoy family are not shy to admit that they've built themselves to be the best and strongest. They're power-hungry, particularly Lucius."
Hermione frowned, a finger pressed against her lips. "But then the war ends, and you just let them go free after what they did?"
"Not everyone went free. Admittedly, it was hard to charge Death Eaters because most claimed to be coerced, or there was little proof to pin specific crimes on anyone."
"Including Draco?"
"No, actually. After the war, I testified before the Wizengamot to keep Malfoy and his family from serving time in prison."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You testified to save Death Eaters?"
"Malfoy can be a prat, but he's not evil."
"That's comforting," she said, the sardonic edge to her voice biting.
"Toward the end of the war, Draco's parents offered up secrets that helped the Order bring down Voldemort. Malfoy turned into a spy of sorts. Without their help, the Order may not have succeeded."
Hermione brought her fingers to her temples, failing to rub the tension from behind her eyes. "Why would they change sides?"
But the waitress interrupted, placing the cheque down on the table and taking another moment to stare with obvious interest at Harry.
Reaching into his pocket, Harry threw down change, a currency she'd never seen. She blushed, shifting in her seat to reach into her pockets, but Harry held up his hand to stop her.
"Thank you." She bit her lip.
Harry continued as though he hadn't heard her question. "I didn't know what to expect when Malfoy brought you into my office. The Malfoy family is cunning and manipulative, and in my experience, self-serving. Don't take this the wrong way, but if you only just met Malfoy this week, why is he going through the trouble to help you? What's in this for him?"
A thought she'd packed away, stuffed into a locker with the rest of her baggage, sprang open. Her jaw slackened. What did Draco want from her?
Before she could respond, the cafe door swung open. Pine and musk and espresso.
Draco Malfoy, swathed in black robes, brought to the cozy room an air of animalistic danger. Grey eyes ablaze, he stalked toward their table, occupying the empty seat beside Harry.
"Draco!" Her cheeks flushed as she met his icy stare. "What are you doing here?"
"It's been over two hours." Then, not breaking eye contact, he murmured, "I thought you'd been hurt."
A tickle fluttered in her stomach, slight at first, then tightening under his heated focus.
"How did you find us?" Harry asked.
The low growl emitted from deep in Draco's chest. His lips twitched, and Hermione fought her pull toward his venereal glower.
"He has a unique ability to hunt me, it seems."
His smirk changed since she'd last seen him, somehow, the single curve of his lip and the press of his eyebrows toward platinum hair held a newfound sinister promise.
What does he want from me?
No reason existed to explain why he'd teach her magic. Nor any reason why he'd go through the effort of asking his childhood enemy for help. And then remained the business of Draco's past. Her mind boiled, overwhelmed and overworked, barely managing to contain an endless stream of thoughts.
Had he killed anyone? Did he still feel superior to muggle-borns? Did all packs believe in blood purity? What remained of the other Death Eaters-
The cascade of her thoughts, now a full-fledged river angry after the thaw, carried her mind over a cliff. Run! Something within screamed. Hide! Her gut bubbled.
No, her wolf cried. We've finally found a companion-
Realizing that both Draco and Harry stared at her with unfiltered concern, she hid her panic behind a sip of cold coffee.
"I take it you found your wand?" Draco asked.
Nodding, Hermione took another small sip from the almost empty coffee mug.
Breathe, her wolf cooed, trying to relax her thundering heart.
Hermione inhaled. Only for her nose to fill again with pine and warm cinnamon, carried along heady masculine ribbons through the air. Him.
Curse the moon, and it's blasted cycle.
Seemingly unaware of her inner turmoil, Draco and Harry pushed their chairs away from the table. She followed their lead, balancing on shaking legs.
Draco's hand steadied her. "I'll take you back to the Manor. I'm sure you're eager to practice."
"I-" Hermione fumbled, mouth opening and closing.
A flash of worry pulled tight across his forehead. His fingers fell from her arm.
Harry cleared his throat, a red flush on his cheeks that mirrored her own. "I've got to get home to Ginny. Stay in touch with regards to your training, and remember what we spoke about."
"Thank you." In spite of all Harry's help, Hermione found only a brief smile to send toward him, and even that felt false, marred by her budding dread and the rapid thrumming of her heart.
Finally alone with Draco, she could sense properly the dangerous energy in his rigid posture. He appeared as though he'd swallowed flames, preparing to light the street up in his anger.
"You can't run from me. Not again."
Instead of chilling her blood, the words turned to burning embers in her veins. Her wolf purred at the challenge, willed her to bolt, just to feel the thrill of having him chase her.
Looking away, she forced her desire into a locked box, shelved amongst the rest of her secrets.
"Who says I'm trying to run?"
"Don't lie to me, Granger," he growled. "I can smell it, and it drives me insane."
Steadying her breathing, she announced, "You're right. I'd like to go home."
"Not until we talk."
She scoffed at the way his demand wound around her bones, smothering in its toxic control. It clawed at her independent sensibilities, and she should have felt repulsed. But instead, her wolf ached for him to take charge.
Antagonized by self-loathing, Hermione's jaw snapped toward him. "Fine. Should we start with how you were a Death Eater? Or perhaps about your thoughts on blood-purity?"
Her words slapped him; his lips parted and brows knitted together as his heated eyes narrowed. And when his fingers wrapped around her arm again, escorting her toward the Floo like she posed a flight risk, she didn't know if she should feel frightened or guilty as the telltale green flash absorbed them.