An hour later, Hermione was reclining in the bath and trying to take a full breath. The scents surrounding her promoted relaxation and the bubbles felt nice against her skin, but her mind was a whirling cacophony. Her chest had been tight for what felt like hours while she had been trapped in her room while polyjuiced and then through her dinner with Malfoy and then the constriction had furthered the more he had told her about the happenings of the day.

Harry was still trapped inside of Voldemort.

Lucius Malfoy was a soulless man who lived here in the same house… where Hermione could not perform magic to protect herself.

She tried another a deep breath.

Her life had been in an upheaval for so long that all this new information should have been managed by what was already a fairly solid coping mechanism of meditation, breathing exercises, and an extraordinarily tight control over her emotions. Instead, she had nearly collapsed beneath the added pressure of the new knowledge while Malfoy had looked on with that cold and indifferent mask on his face.

Then she had spent an indeterminate amount of time trying to breathe in the bath to try to process the information.

Harry, who she had made as much peace with having died when Voldemort seized control of his body as she could, was not dead. Voldemort was keeping the sweet young man who had been like a brother to Hermione trapped within his mind.

Tears pricked her eyes when she started realizing that Voldemort might have made Harry watch while he did unspeakable acts in the name of… what? Sadism? Corruption? Power? What was Voldemort's aim in keeping him alive? To gloat? No, it couldn't possibly be something so stupid. Surely such a brilliant mind- for Tom Riddle was brilliant, despite his Darkness- would have more reason to keep a prisoner inside his mind than simple vanity.

Hermione finally took a deep breath and tried to focus. His motivations needed to be understood, surely, but at the moment, she needed to try to understand if the living mind of the host body gave her any indication of what exactly Voldemort was and how she could expel him from Harry's body.

(Fleur and Bill's presents)

A whisper of a memory flitted behind her thoughts and Hermione frowned. What was that? She tried to find the thought, hunting through the layers of memory and couldn't find it. Something… maybe about Fleur? Why would she have come to mind when Hermione was thinking about Voldemort was it's own mystery and she was more confused. There must have been some connection.

Was it important?

Hermione wasn't sure.

It certainly felt like there was something there.

Shaking her head and picking up her sponge, Hermione decided she would have more time to think about it later. Pressing herself to remember something like that probably wouldn't bring it back. She had so many things to dissect about the conversation with Malfoy, anyway.

(Back to Malfoy are we?)

With a grimace, Hermione began scrubbing her skin.

Lucius had suffered a stroke.

(He was still alive)

Draco had kept the truth of his father from her.

Why had he kept it from her? Protection? Did he believe he was protecting her? Lucius? Himself? What even was Draco Malfoy's plan in this whole debacle anyway? Did he just plan to go from being a Death Eater to being a normal wizard? Would they try him for his activities in these last five years? Or longer, even. He'd been a Death Eater for two years before she had fled Britain.

(Harry)

What had he been doing for this long? How did he even get to his position? Was there some way Hermione could get a better understanding of how this Voldemort power structure worked?

It seemed like there were people all throughout the government who were loyalists to Voldemort, and those who weren't were made to do the bidding on the majority. But…. Were they doing his bidding by choice? How would she even know? How could so many people be turned to this madman's beliefs? There had to be some kind of magic at work here. At least some of these people must have been Imperioed. But who? And by whom?

(How is Harry alive?)

Draco seemed to believe that Voldemort might have a lower magical ability. And Hermione doubted that anyone could hold more than ten people under the Imperius curse at once. Some of the decisions she had seen handed down by the ministry, even with the approval of the Wizengamot, had been so abhorrent… she just could not accept that a majority of the politicians were in favor of these kinds of things. There had to be people Imperioed. There just had to be.

Draco wasn't though.

He had been working for Voldemort for a long time, knowing that Voldemort was evil.

How could Hermione explain that?

(Fleur)

He didn't seem to be evil. Maybe…. He could be rude, that was for sure. And cruel. That she knew from her childhood. But it had always been Harry who believed Draco Malfoy to be evil, not Hermione. Maybe it was just one small piece of herself she knew wasn't eroded away after all this time. She still believed the best in people. Or as in Malfoy's case…. She refused to believe the worst in people.

She was just not sure… was this bright rediscovery of her unbreakable nugget of herself like a ray of sunshine through the fog bank or a curse flying through darkness? She might never be able to tell.

(Harry would know)

Maybe it was enough to be grateful for the old part of herself showing itself through the darkness. Maybe the old Hermione wasn't as dead as she had thought.

She sighed, deciding that was enough melodrama now.

He'd seemed so strange this evening. Who would have ever thought? Draco Malfoy, confusing. But there it was. A study in contradictions, that was Draco. Complimentary one second and closed off the next. An open book which slammed shut as soon as she glanced at it. So unlike every interaction she'd had so far with him. She was used to him being merely polite but with an unexpected sense of humor about him when the mood struck.

There had been no humor about him today.

At some point, she would need to get more information about this world from him. She just needed to figure out how best to speak to him. That's why she needed to figure him out. And why was that mental declaration a relief?

She shook her head in irritation. Why was there was such a large part of her dedicated to analyzing his every move after every interaction they have?

Tonight, in making their… plans for the 'Elaine' character she would use for emergencies, he had been… useful. He had a tactical mind. He had thought of some scenarios she had not considered.

Maybe she was just too used to being on her own.

At any rate, 'Elaine', they decided, would be the live-in caretaker of Lucius. That would explain why she was new, since Lucius only had the stroke that evening. The Healer had even mentioned potentially hiring someone to take care of Lucius, as the elves- who had been his oldest and most faithful servants- had not been able to understand what was wrong with Lucius. The healer also believed that Lucius could have another stroke in the future, so having a caretaker was a good idea.

"Don't actually go in the West Wing, Granger. My father can be prone to acts of violence and random bursts of magic." Draco had warned her when they began discussing this potential cover story. Hermione readily agreed, unwilling to ever see Lucius again. Even at a distance he had scared her badly.

And here again, Draco had seemed… almost sympathetic, even a little concerned.

(Draco again?)

But she still didn't quite know what to make of it.

(Maybe he's just as confused as you are)

Well that was a thought. Maybe he was just as uncertain of how to speak to her. Which was it's own relief. That maybe she was not so alone in this confusion. Awkwardness, she had expected. Not confusion. She had assumed he would just… well, actually she had not spared Malfoy a thought when setting up her return to the magical world. It had been dropped in her lap on the night she had met with Ron. She would never have expected him to have turned to the Light. Not after how things had been in Hogwarts. She had expected him to be exactly what he was in the eyes of the Dark. A high ranking Death Eater who was eager to root out non-believers. Like he had been with Umbridge and her ridiculous tattle telling club.

What she had expected was to be placed in a safe house on her own. Or at least with a female handler. The Order had always been so proper before she had run. And now, they put her with not only a male, but a spy, and Malfoy to boot. How strange this all was.

Hermione dunked her hair into the water to rinse out the conditioner while she listened to her brain rattle on with connections and expectations and plans. It was rare that she just let her mind roam where it would. But tonight she had far too much to think about to try and keep it all contained.

But the steady flow of ramblings in her mind stopped suddenly with an image of Molly Weasley ordering get the three of them to stop what they were doing and help her sort presents.

Where the hell…?

Ghouls.

Molly bursting through the door.

And shining through the dim memory, her own voice.

"If I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn't damage your soul at all…"

What in the world had they been talking about? Why was it coming to mind now?

Draco checked in on his father, reassuring himself that the drug induced slumber was at least a comfortable one. He clicked the door shut with a quick glance down the hall toward Granger's room which he didn't think about. His mind was elsewhere. He padded down the hall to perform his nightly bathing routine before he could finally finally have the night off.

Coming to the chateau had always been a relief. It was a private residence where he could actually feel completely safe with his thoughts and plans. This was meant to be a long weekend for him, but he had already been called back to deal with those idiots in the barracks and they'd gotten themselves killed in the end. He hadn't had any time to relax yet. In his room here was the only place where he allowed himself the luxury of indulging in his more… clandestine interests.

Tonight he had much to think about, though. He opened the door to the most private area of his life and smiled. He ignored the numerous distractions he had acquired over the years and instead turned on the taps for the tub. He gathered his clothing and shaving accessories while the tub filled.

His thoughts wandered to what he had discovered during the day. Perhaps, now that they knew Potter lived, Herm- Granger would be more invested. What he had seen out of her so far had been… not what he had expected. He thought she would have thrown herself into the research and have an answer within days, by the way the Order talked about her.

But she hadn't. It had been a few days and Floppy had given him the impression she was more interested in reading old copies of the Prophet than in researching Potter's condition. And she had even told him she was reading fairy tales, too. What was she even doing?

She seemed lost.

Maybe she had given into the logical assumption that she should run. Cowardice didn't seem to be in her. A growing suspicion that something was wrong with her mind pulled at his thoughts again. Something seemed to be weighing on her so heavily she seemed almost unable to function. The suspicion was all but a certainty now as he relaxed tight muscles in the water.

Her body language screamed tension any time the realities of the world came into conversation.

Just needs to figure this shite out is all. I don't care about her mind. Just so long as it works for the problem at hand. He reminded himself.

Voldemort had possibly made a mistake in letting Potter stay alive. That was the real issue that he was not focusing on. Voldemort had left the soul of his enemy still living inside of him. Would it weaken him? He would try to ask Granger about it after she had some time to think about it. If he was vague enough in the question, maybe she would figure out how they could get around the bloody secrecy spells. He certainly hadn't had much luck. Though… some of the information seemed to be less closely guarded. Maybe he could… if he tried telling her about certain things, maybe they could find a pattern to the most heavily guarded subjects. That might reveal what Voldemort wanted most desperately to remain a secret. Maybe he would have to talk to her more than he really wanted to. Tomorrow. I'll talk to her tomorrow.

Finally, with that decision in mind, he rinsed himself and dressed in loose navy colored sleep pants and a white tee shirt.

He felt cleaner, physically, but his conscience was beginning to croak it's nightly blabbering.

What kind of a person was he? Couldn't he have gotten those two out instead of killing them? How many would he have to kill before this was all over? What else could he be doing? And using Granger like this was probably not right as well. What would his mother have said? Shouldn't he be doing more to help the Order's cause? What else could he do to bring this to an end? How much more humiliation would he have to endure?

He had been heading toward his bed, but found his feet going toward the door, a half realized decision to check the house before retiring unquestioned while his thoughts continued swarming.

Fuzzy plans and snippets of probable conversations started buzzing in his head as he stalked down the hall. He paused and checked on his father once more before continuing down the stairs, again glancing at Granger's door without realizing he had done so.

He listened to the buzzing thoughts as he walked, checking doors and windows as though he were a common muggle and not an accomplished and high ranking Death Eater.

A powerful wizard was probably better to think of himself as. Maybe he ought to start dropping the Death Eater shtick in his head in the foreseeable future. It was advantageous, but he could feel Voldemort's power beginning to wane. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Better to get ahead of the fallout.

Something about checking the locks made him feel more secure than doing it all by magic could have done.

Before he went back, he walked to the kitchen for a glass of water, again unsure of why he was doing things without the aid of magic. He could have easily just transfigured a glass upstairs.

I'm just feeling weird with another presence in the house. That's all.

The sound of a footstep had him pressed against the wall, still as a shadow and barely breathing.

Another step, coming from the stairway. He was near a deeper shadow, and he sidestepped into it smoothly, making only the barest rustle of fabric as he moved.

And then there she was, dressed in a short nightdress, bare shouldered and braiding her hair as she walked quietly down the hallway. She wasn't looking around or interested in anything but the braid in her hands. She was trying to get a small knot out or something. Draco watched her pass, unaware of his presence.

By the end of the hallway, she threw the braid over her shoulder and pushed open the door to the kitchen, apparently to get her own glass of water.

Draco fled.

He went as swiftly and silently back to his own safe room as he could, unable to shake the memory of her pale and freckled shoulders from his mind. Her long neck exposed as she had her head turned away from him. The little curls at the base of her mass of hair. The soft, unguarded expression gracing her delicate features.

Draco closed the door and took a deep breath.

She had startled him.

His adrenaline kicked in.

Every detail was from his adrenaline spike.

It happened in battle too.

That was all.

No big deal.

Totally normal.

But then… why had he fled?

Morning dew clung to withering grasses and leaves in the pre-dawn hour. Silence and stillness of the wood was disturbed by a loud crack of apparition. Where once three teenagers camped stood just one. No longer a teenager and bleeding into the small frozen creek bed, Harry Potter looked around himself wildly. He needed to send his letter. He needed to get word. He needed-

His weakened body collapsed, blood dotting the leaves and frozen creek below him. A flutter of wings made him look up.

A small brown owl sat next to him, head cocked to the side. It seemed to be asking him what kind of a fool he was. He reached out a hand to the bird and it allowed him to scratch it below the chin, just like Hedwig so long ago. Harry took a chance.

He said, "I need you to find Ron Weasley. Any one of the Weasley's, it doesn't matter which one. Please. I can't-" a shudder passed over him as the sleeping bit of soul within him stirred. "I don't have much time. Please. Find them." He held out a scrap of paper.

A tense moment passed in which the owl stared unblinkingly at Harry's face and then the owl hesitantly took the letter in its beak.

Harry sighed gratefully and watched the bird take flight. Then he gripped the wand which wanted nothing to do with him and pictured the place he had been at before.

The crack of his apparition startled a doe awake from where she had been sleeping, curled around her fawn for warmth. When she heard the 'safe' huff of her buck from where he lay a little further away, she was calmed.

She was protected.