The Harry Potter universe and its characters are the sole property of J. K. Rowling. By using them below, I am in no way claiming ownership.

Hermione had let herself be ushered up the stairs and into a guest suite. Susan underwent a similar ushering at the bottom end of the corridor to her, and seemed unphased by the turn of events. Hermione's room was comfortable but sparse. A fire had been lit in the hearth and was roaring away happily, while the stone floor had been covered as much as possible by a variety of old, Persian rugs. The bed was four-poster, topped with a mound of plump white pillows, tempting Hermione greatly. She longed to crawl under the covers and fall asleep, longed for the bliss that might come from being able to close her eyes and wish away the surroundings. Her mind flitted back to Draco's kiss, her fingers moving up to brush her lips where Draco's tongue had been. She felt so guilty for breaking down in front of him, as if he might have gotten some satisfaction from her weakness.

She shook her head and walked over to the en-suite. The room was dominated by a large, porcelain bath-tub with clawed feet. A variety of bath oils were on an adjacent shelf, expensive-looking and untouched. Hermione ran her hand along the edge of the bath then perused the oils. Lavender would help her sleep. Tea Tree would cleanse her mind. Determined, she switched on the taps and began to fill the bath with hot water. She locked the bathroom door and gratefully began to peel off her muddied clothes, then slipped into the tub. The water was soothing, burning away her guilt.

Lying in the bubbles, she tried to confront the two halves of Draco - the boy she had loved, and the boy she had loathed. It had been so easy back then to see everything in black-and-white, an illusion she had continued well into her twenties. She had often been worried that if she saw Draco as an equal victim, it would detract from the suffering that her peers had gone through. It was plausible that he had been manipulated, like he had said, that he had been ostracised, bullied and threatened. Yet would the bad guy ever admit his faults, or just lie to get in her pants? She blushed. I don't even know that the kiss meant anything. She knew from their childhood how bad Draco dealt with crying girls. Perhaps he was just trying to shut me up.

The interview had been delayed until the next day with the storm, and she was grateful for that at least, being both physically and emotionally drained from the day.

Yet...

If she couldn't trust Draco, how could she trust his words tomorrow? What if the interview garnered her nothing, no interesting facts to write about? She doubted that the reading public were that interested in Draco's literary habits. The suggestion that a former death-eater enjoyed erotic chick-lit in his spare time would hardly cause a scandal. It wouldn't be enough to make her stand out to head office, to win her the promotion to head editor.

She climbed from the bath and wrapped a towel around her body. That was one thing she hadn't considered - what she was going to put on after her bath.

Thankfully, a change of clothes must have been a common need for Malfoy guests. The wardrobe in her room was full to the brim with outfits, some in Hermione's size. The colour palette ranged from grey to emerald green, certainly embracing the darker clothing spectrum, and some of the styles seemed slightly dated, but Hermione was still grateful. She extracted a simple black dress, the sleeves a shimmering silver lace, exposing the skin underneath. Everything else was a little too heavy to sleep in... or explore in.

Hermione had made up her mind to search through the Manor while the others slept. She was certain she'd be able to find something worthwhile to write about.

She slipped out of the room with her wand, her hair tied back from her face in a damp French braid. The dress was clingy, but she enjoyed the way the velvet skirt danced around her thighs. Focus, she told herself. She retraced her steps back along the corridor, tip-toeing down the stairs to the ground floor. She disregarded the study, having already examined its contents. The rest of the rooms on the floor were equally unsatisfactory. There were a few reception rooms which looked like they hadn't been touched in years, a thick layer of dust covering the velveteen sofas and obsidian tables. The kitchen was easy enough to distinguish from the noise of the elves, but she decided to avoid that as well - from many previous interviews, she knew house-elves were unlikely to speak badly of their previous families, and she certainly didn't want them telling Draco that she was prowling around the Manor.

She paused upon finding the door to the basement. A cool breeze blew up the stone stairs, making the skirt of her dress sway. She glanced nervously back at the corridor, then committed herself to the trespass.

The first few rooms she discovered were clearly part of the old dungeons, most still possessing the original iron grilles. Then came the wine cellar, which was extensive but largely empty. There was only one more room on the corridor, the source of the chill which was making Hermione shiver. She tried the handle, but it was locked. Hermione frowned. She was certain there was something interesting behind this door, something newsworthy. Something that would change her life.

Draco had been unable to sleep or write, his mind constantly replaying the encounter with Hermione in the study. He knew that they would have to discuss his role in the uprising of Voldemort. He knew she would be difficult to convince. Still, he wished he'd said more, or done something to prove the truth of his words.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the desk in his study. He needed a cup of tea laced with a sleeping-aid - that way he might get some peace.

He paused on his path to the kitchens, perplexed at finding the basement door open. A breeze moved up the steps and he shivered, his hand moving to push the door closed. The former dungeons had given him the creeps, especially when he was a child, and his father had often locked him down there as a punishment.

Wait...

Noises were coming from down there. He could just make out a female voice, and the tinny clash of metal-on-metal. His hand gripped the door handle.

He didn't want to go down there. But what if it was Hermione? She had no idea what she was getting herself into, if she'd strayed into the dungeons.

His dithering ended as she screamed. His blood turned to ice.