The next evening I find myself in my study once again, (after a much needed and deserved bath, of course); glass of whisky in one hand, my replacement wand in the other.

I remember my first sip of Firewhisky at the age of eleven. At that age, a mere whelp of a boy, the ingenuity of alcohol eluded me to such an extent that I could not fathom for the life of me why my father retired to his study each evening to give himself to this drink. So, at the naive age of eleven, I snuck into his study one dreary afternoon, set on tasting that golden libation. One drop reached my tongue before an unseen hand from behind snatched the bottle away from my innocent lips.

Of course, my father has been entirely aware that I had entered his study. The severity of his punishment ensued that I did not so much as even look at a bottle of Firewhisky until shortly after he died.

These days I am unashamed of how I lose myself in the amber depth of my favourite drink on an almost daily basis. It often helps me to think more clearly (after the first couple of glasses of course, much more than that and I am entirely unable to think at all…). Despite this, I am currently on my third glass and none the wiser in coming up with any reasonable strategy to help Hermione Granger.

The alcohol hasn't yet drowned out Severus' words that are on repeat in my head like a damn cockatiel; "You'll need to keep Granger alive. A difficult feat, I grant you, giving that she is here in a place that is currently occupied by the Dark Lord and his followers."

A difficult to feat? More like damn near impossible!

The first thing is to keep her away from prying eyes, which I have already fulfilled by locking her up in a disused bedroom in my quarters. Thankfully, only those of Malfoy blood may come freely into my quarters, and, of course, those I choose to invite. And I certainly don't plan on inviting any of my colleague's to access my personal belongings any time soon. Not that Miss Granger is my belonging.

Or is she now?

How can I stop others from hurting her if that is what the Dark Lord orders them – or me – to do? I cannot.

The inevitable is really out of my control. Eventually she will be of no more use to us…

There is a horrible gnawing in my gut at the thought of that.

My God, is that… pity I feel?

I cannot be pitying a Mudblood, surely? Not just any Mudblood either, but the one who bested Draco at everything during their time at Hogwarts. All that Draco has told me about Miss Granger over the years is absolutely meaningless to me now.

Not now that I've seen such pure innocence and vulnerability in those eyes of hers…

He never mentioned her eyes before.

The image of her sprawled across the floor, pleading into my soul with those dark brown orbs of hers… I would be lying if I said that they haven't affected me. And I would be lying to you further if I told you that I hadn't thought about her whilst I was taking my bath this evening.

It came as a surprise to myself, as well. Quite naturally one was imaging the touch of a woman, a woman who started as a generic figure of my imagination and before the tub was even half way full this generic woman had amalgamated into a young woman with a head of bushy hair and chocolate brown eyes. I confess I was lost in my reverie for a good while before it came crashing to an unsatisfactory end after realising that Hermione Granger had popped into my subconscious.

I'm sure you can imagine my surprise, for I leapt straight out of the bath and doused myself in a cold shower to, ah, shall we say, cool me off.

A prisoner is not worth thinking about at all, let alone in that… unsavoury manner.

Hermione Granger, my prisoner.

Prisoner? I half grimace and half laugh at the expression. In normal circumstances (well, perhaps, un-normal circumstances) to have a prisoner locked up in a bedroom would put you on par with a ruthless madman. In my case, I feel like my position is rather less than that.

I have not been to see her since last night. Except in my mind…

I wonder what she's doing at this very moment?

She's most likely still blubbering away.

Should I go and check upon her? Make sure that she's still breathing? Would she consider trying to end her own life in order to escape from here? Desperate times do call for desperate measures, I suppose. And who knows how desperate Hermione Granger is at this moment?

I doubt it though. Somehow, I think she's far to Gryffindor to try such a thing.

Did I remember to feed her this morning? Ah, yes, I ordered the house elves to provide her with three meals a day. It's preposterous that she should get more to eat than even I've had today. But I suppose I can't blame the fact that I choose to substitute food for alcohol on poor Miss Granger.

My thoughts of the Granger girl are interrupted by a whoosh and a roar of green flames at the fire place. I lazily turn my head in the direction and see Severus step into the room.

Like before, I cast a silencing charm on the room.

"I have news." Nice to see you too, dear friend. "The Order informs me that Potter and Weasley went to Ronald's brother and sister-in-law's house on the outskirts of Tinworth after escaping from here yesterday. They report that they are both lacking the will to continue their mission to defeat the Dark Lord now that their friend has been captured..."

"Of course they have…" I say sarcastically.

"For all they know she is dead, Lucius. I believe if we can get a message to them from Miss Granger that tells them that she is safe, it may just provide them with enough encouragement to continue. If they don't get off their arses soon they are about as much use to us in winning this war as a chocolate teapot."

Pathetic they are. They lose the strongest link in their chain and the entire thing breaks. How the future of the Wizarding World is pinned on those two idiots is beyond me?

I sigh. "That's all very well, Severus, but will they not automatically assume that we Death Eaters have forced her hand to write such a letter?"

Severus's lips are a thin line of pure concentration. He steps forward and takes a seat in the chair opposite my own. "Naturally I've considered how receiving a letter from their dear friend in the midst of their enemy may appear to those two dunderheads." Severus can always be relied upon to thoroughly consider all options. I'm sure that must be why the Dark Lord values his input so greatly. "That said, I believe the best way to make sure they are convinced she is actually safe is to accompany it with a recent memory."

I nod my head in agreement. "Very well, Severus."

At that Severus takes a seat in one of my finest Dragon Leather chesterfield armchairs, summoning himself a glass of my whisky. "You look exhausted, my friend," he comments with a smirk.

"This business with Granger will probably finish me off, you do understand." I drawl sarcastically and Severus smirks again.

"Her and the drinking. How is the girl, anyway?"

"Thrilled about being here, of course! I have completely downplayed to her just how much danger she is in. I told her I will protect her and asked for her trust, but I know damn well that I can't truly protect her."

My words hang in the air between us and neither of us speaks for a good few minutes before I pipe up again. "The thing you have not considered, Severus, is that our Lord has a special connection with Potter. Will he not utilise that to get through to Potter and try and lure Potter and Weasley to come and capture her?"

The fire cracks in the silence that follows my question.

I can practically see the cogs turning inside Severus's head. "I'd say that's more than a reasonable possibility, but I know that the Order would never let Potter or Weasley put themselves in the hands of the Dark Lord so easily, not after how close they came to just that only yesterday."

"When have they ever done what they are told, though?"

Severus lets out a short laugh. "Yes, that's true. Perhaps he will spare her to an extent if I convince him that Potter and Weasley most definitely won't be coming to save her."

I consider this. "I suppose it is worth a try."

"Speaking of such things, have you thought about what you're going to do with Miss Granger?"

"I've thought of nothing else," I mutter. Well, that's not entirely true, but I can hardly admit to him that I thought about her whilst in the bath earlier, can I? Instead I say, "I am still no closer to coming up with any solid idea. Not unless I take her away from the Manor altogether, which will surely raise more questions than it answers." Oh yes, that would very much be a case of 'out of the frying pan and into the fire'.

Severus's eyes open wide suddenly and he sits forward in his chair. "You might have something there, Lucius."

"Excuse me?"

"Taking her away from here is exactly what you must do."

"You are not serious?" I say, incredulously.

"I am. Keeping her here will eventually jeopardise her safety."

Of course he's right. He's always bloody right. "Exactly how are we supposed to explain that to the Dark Lord?"

He ponders for a moment. "Perhaps I could fabricate a story that Order is currently planning a rescue mission? Potter and Weasley have obviously told them of their friend's whereabouts." Severus balances his wand between his thumb and forefinger, concentrating hard. "If they come he risks losing his most important prisoner."

"But it won't be Potter and Weasley coming to save her, though?"

"No, we will need to assure him of that. We'll convince him that the best way to get to Potter is to do nothing to Granger. Just keep her locked up somewhere where no one on the other side will be able to find her will be enough to ground Potter and Weasley. I will notify the Dark Lord on the morrow that we wish to meet with him. Do you think you will be up to that, my friend?"

"Of course," I reply. But the fact of the matter is that I cannot think of anything worse. Voldemort has always repulsed me, to say the least. When my father first introduced me to him (I believe I was fifteen at the time) I came extremely close to passing out when he removed his hood and revealed his face to me. My father was forced to explain that my reaction was due to the fact that my mother's death, mere months before, had marred my psyche somewhat and weakened my disposition. But how could a teenage boy not be terrified by his snake-like slits for eyes, skin so pale and fragile that the veins beneath were visible and you could see them pulse with each heartbeat, and the faint smell of decay that wafted into the air as he removed his outer robe.

But to put my entire revulsion of Voldemort down to his physical appearance wouldn't be giving you the full picture. His ideals are no less savoury. He once told me of what he would allow to happen to the all the Muggles when he rules the world, so to speak. So awful and grotesque was this particular objective that I had to excuse myself from the dinner table in order to vomit up my beef wellington and red wine in the nearest restroom.

That was certainly not what I signed up for.

Severus turns away from me, taking careful strides back towards the Floo. Taking a handful of Floo powder, he turns to me again. "There is one thing you haven't considered, Lucius."

"What's that?"

"Can you protect the girl from yourself?"

With those words he throws the powder into the Floo and vanishes into the bright green flames.

As the flames die down, I realise that my heart is beating harder than it was before.

Protect her from myself?

What the hell does he mean by that?

Miss Granger's appearance is drastically different from when I left her last night. She appears to have bathed and washed her hair, for although her locks remain curly, they are in better form than the bird's nest I remember from yesterday.

The gashes on her face have healed almost completely; fine pinkish lines in their place. Ah yes, I left her a pot of healing balm also. Thank goodness. She is much less a sight for sore eyes now.

Although the balm has worked wonders to conceal the cuts and bruises of her face, it appears that it did not work so well on Bellatrix's handiwork on Miss Granger's forearm. Now that I think about it, I do seem to recall Bellatrix wittering on about placing a curse upon that knife.

Oh Bella, cursing your knife so that the wounds it leaves behind do not heal with magic… You are a nastier piece of work than I recall.

Miss Granger has likely worked that one out for herself already as she has carefully wrapped a piece of bedsheet around her arm as a makeshift bandage. My eyebrows rise slightly; I am impressed by her resourcefulness.

She's not wearing those filthy, Muggle clothes any longer. She now prances around in what is essentially an oversized pillow case. It's not quite the attire of a house elf but it's not far from it. It is a simple white dress – gown, if you prefer – with no shape or style. It is completely unbecoming on her and I must stifle a laugh. She looks rather comical. It's modest, virginal almost.

Well, not quite virginal, because the neckline is… shall we say, plunging. If she leans forward an inch or two too far, I can almost see the swell of her breasts.

It is not what I intended but alas, my manly instincts get the better of me and my greedy eyes soak up the sight for a moment or two before I realise exactly what I am doing. I can't help but wonder if this is what my mind would have concocted during my bath, had I allowed myself to continue to relish in that fantasy?

Well, well, well, Hermione Granger, this is rather unexpected…

"Mr Malfoy?" Her timid voice snaps me out of my somewhat sensuous thoughts, she tugs upwards on the neckline and there's a pretty pink blush on her cheeks that wasn't there a moment ago. It would appear that I have been caught red handed.

And I do not care one bit.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" I can't help the smirk that goes alongside my words.

"I have been thinking about somethings after you came yesterday…" she begins, a little cautiously, given that I was just staring at her barely concealed breasts. "You said that I have to cooperate with you if I want to stay alive, but there are some things I need you to cooperate with as well. Firstly, if I am to remain here as your prisoner, I would prefer not to sit here uselessly all day. I would very much like to have some books to read. I don't care which ones, just anything or I'm afraid I'll find myself going stir crazy."

"I'm sure that can be arranged." I reply.

"Thank you." The girl looks uneasy as she goes on. "I need to know something else. Yesterday you told me that you wouldn't hurt me, that you will help me. I need to know that this isn't just some trick."

"We are going to be spending much time together from now on, Miss Granger. If you are unable to take my word for it now then I only hope that my actions speak louder than words."

I let her think on this for a moment. She drops her eyes to the floor but her brows remain creased, as though she is considering every possible meaning of my words. I suppose it is logical for Hermione Granger to not believe a word that comes out of my mouth. Our past encounters haven't exactly been… amenable.

"The thing I am struggling to believe, Mr Malfoy," she says, "Is that can a man who has given up on is values really be trusted?"

What?

Given up on my values?

How dare she even go there?

The little bitch.

I am not quite adult enough at this moment to conceal my rage at that comment. In a second I push her against the wall, bringing my face close to hers. So close that I can feel her warm breath across my cheeks.

"Oh, I wouldn't quite say that I've given up on all of my values…" I drawl in the most murderous manner I can muster. She has all but stopped breathing; her eyes are wide with fear.

Those eyes again, those damn eyes.

I can feel her small body pressed against my own. I'm not sure why but I push my body further into her, letting her feel me fully against her.

She's shaking now, and her eyes prickle with unshed tears. Does she think me capable of raping her? I am very much against such a deplorable act, but the threat of it is one that I was always found worked greatly in my favour.

I glare down at her with a hatred I almost forgot I was capable of. "You would do well not to try my patience, Miss Granger. I may detest killing, but I am not above teaching you a lesson in where you stand against me. Do not ever speak to me like that again. Do you understand?"

She nods.

I let go of her.

She stumbles, wipes her eyes quickly; a little fire sparks in those muddy eyes. I confess I am surprised she's not erupted into a fit of tears. Instead she squares her shoulders and looks at me with a braveness I've not seen in a Mudblood before. Dare I say she almost looks strong? But I'm sure it's only her Gryffindor front making her appear stronger and braver than she actually is.

It's almost as though she's waiting for an apology from me.

I step back into the room, distancing myself from the young girl in the oversized dress.

"Now, Miss Granger. There is something that I need you to do for me."

I clutch the girl's handwritten message in my hand. It proved somewhat difficult to get her to write it after our… altercation beforehand. In the end, however, she gave up the pretence that she actually had a choice in the matter and wrote it.

I catch a glimpse of her neat script; Dear Harry and Ron, it reads. I am sorry from the bottom of my heart… Blah, blah…

Ugh, how utterly pathetic and endearing her words are! I fold the parchment in half and seal it in the envelope with the vial of a memory that shows them she's quite safe. Not her most recent memory that involves me pushing her to the wall and threatening her, of course. No, I think we'll keep that between us for now.

Malfoy's have, despite our superior upbringing, always had severe tempers. I saw it in my father, I see it in Draco. And, of course, I have it in me. Whilst I have prided myself on controlling it more efficiently than my father, of course, there are times when it still creeps up on me unaware. You don't have to look past my, ahem… altercation with Arthur Weasley in Flourish and Blotts to realise that it doesn't take much to bring out the worst in me.

Recently though, I've found it has lessened somewhat. I can't decide whether or not this is because of my time in Azkaban or that I am much less willing to draw attention to myself at this point. Most would say I am cowardly in manner at this point, and to be honest, I would agree with them. What's the point in acting superior these days when, quite frankly, I have been shat upon by the Death Eater cause I once idealised.

Miss Granger, however, is another matter entirely. She, with her Gryffindorish attitude, lack of respect, and knowledge that she has no right to know, bought out the very worst in me this evening. I have not been enraged like that for a good while. Did I overreact? Indeed. I'm not sure I quite meant to take it out on her in the way I did. I was unprepared though. Unprepared for the feelings she evoked in me when she accused me of cowardice.

Oh, bollocks. I've really fucked up on any pretence of being a 'changed man' that she may have started to believe.

Do I really care what she thinks of me though? I'd given up caring about what my Master or colleagues think of me a long time ago. Well, one is hardly looked at in great expectations after pissing oneself in front of them.

I select my most efficient owl, Horace, to ensure this letter arrives safely in the hands of Potter and Weasley. He takes the letter I offer to him in his beak and takes off, disappearing from view into the dead darkness of the night.

She is so far beneath me that I shouldn't even have given a single damn what she said! It should have gone in one ear and out the other. Instead I pushed her against the wall and threatened her with… I don't even know what.

"We are going to be spending much time together from now on, Miss Granger. If you are unable to take my word for it now then I only hope that my actions speak louder than words."

That's what I told her only seconds before I had her against the wall. Bloody hell, I am a walking, talking hypocrite!

I return to my bedroom, remove my outer clothes and collapse on the bed, half out of exhaustion, and half out of regret. Sleep will come torturously slow tonight.