"I don't even understand what these are." Hermione flung her quill down in frustration and glared at Draco. He'd poured himself into a chair and watched her as she copied the day's purloined memorandum. He was an easy target, and a safe one. "It's just a list of names. It doesn't mean anything."

He accioed the parchment to himself wandlessly and skimmed it. "Names and amounts," he said. "Bribes would be my guess."

"Your guess?" she said. He sounded awfully certain for it to be a guess.

He held the paper out to her, making her half rise from her seat and lean over to snatch it back. She'd never mastered wandless work. "It's how the world works," he said as she flung herself back and looked at the names, each tagged with a number, this time preparing herself to be furious.

Not knowing who these people were kept her anger shapeless. Draco helped by moving to lean over her. He set one finger at the first name. "Owns CleanSweep Brooms," he said. He moved his finger down the list. "Major stakeholder in The Daily Prophet. People are talking about her being named Supreme Mugwump. Landlord, owns half of Hogsmeade. Publisher, gets all the royalties for the Gilderoy Lockhart books now that he's cuckoo. Rumors are this one is the investor behind Celestina Warbeck. This one - ."

"Stop," Hermione said. She could tell her voice was very small. "Please."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wish it were easier."

"It's everything," she said. "He has everything." Somehow Voldemort had seemed easier. He'd been a terror and a nightmare. He'd been something you could kill. How did you kill this?

"Not you," Draco said. "He doesn't have you."

"Are you so sure?" she asked. She closed her eyes and let her shoulder stoop over the copied letters damning so many of the elite. She'd never really thought about wizarding economics but of course someone made the brooms she hated to fly and someone published the books she loved to read, and somewhere, someone made money from those things.

The Malfoys probably made a lot of money from those things. Draco certainly recognized the names and she'd guess that was from hearing them around the table or meeting them at parties. She's doubted he'd sat down to memorize them all. A share of stock here, part ownership of a company there, and before you knew it you had white peacocks shitting on your lawn and Death Eaters over for tea. No wonder Narcissa had to lay down with a headache whenever Yaxley came over. He was a walking, talking reminder of her own complicity.

And Yaxley was subverting as many of them as possible. This one would make a profit from his regime. That one would be happy to hire people convinced of crimes under Yaxley's ever-tightening rule books. And, well, newspapers always sold when there were scandals. He'd line their pockets and they'd look the other way when it was inconvenient for him to be caught.

"Am I sure that he doesn't have you?" Draco asked. He set a hand on her shoulder so tentatively it seemed he expected her to slap him away. When she didn't, he added, "I'm sure of that."

"If he didn't have me, why did I do that?" she asked. Since they'd gotten back to her room they had, by mutual, silent consent, not talked about the way she'd cursed Archibald with his oily forehead and too-big feet.

"Because you aren't a fool," Draco said.

"If I hadn't?" she asked.

"Done it?" Draco laughed a little and crossed away from her. Distance could make hard truths easier sometimes. She'd done that with Ron. Whenever she'd really wanted to tell him something hard she'd moved physically away. It was funny to see Draco do the same thing. "Maybe he'd have written you off, maybe he'd have asked me to encourage you."

"Encourage?"

"Crucio," he said. "It's very encouraging."

She must have made a choked whimpering sound. Certainly someone had made one and she didn't think it had been Draco. He turned away from her and looked out the window. Lush green lawns rolled away from the house and he whispered his words to them as if they could absorb the horror. "I've done it many times," he said. "It turns out I have a knack. Imperius too. I'm good at that one. The Dark Lord… the other one… he liked the way I looked sick when I did them. He liked seeing people ruin themselves. Yaxley is more… it's policy for him, not entertainment. I can't decide if that's worse."

"You'd have tortured me," she said. It wasn't a question and she didn't want to hear the answer. He said it anyway.

"Yes."

She made that horrible sound again then asked, "What else. Tell me everything."

"That I've done?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Crucio, mostly. I don't think I've ever killed anyone, but I could be wrong. I fought your lot a few times. Might have. I don't know. "

"I've never cast crucio," Hermione said. She'd killed people, she knew that. She'd cut and maimed and burned and fought and she knew people couldn't have lived after some of the curses she'd cast but she'd always been fighting to win, not to hurt.

And, of course, the boy.

"I've never raped anyone," Draco said with far too much self-control. There were sentences one shouldn't have to say, she thought, and that was one. "The Dark Lord didn't… I don't think he understood people in a way where he could fathom that. And Yaxley isn't - ."

"That's good," she said. Some things she didn't want to hear.

"I'm surviving," he said. "So are you. We do what we have to."

She didn't think that was right. She wanted to say that they fought back, that he had fought back, that he didn't have to do everything Yaxley said. It didn't seem quite right to say anything quite that self-righteous when she was the one with the most recent blood stains. "If you have to do it," she said, "bring me soup after."

"Crucio?" he asked then, at her nod, said, "I'll do that."

There didn't seem to be much to say after that. She finished copying out the list she'd stolen, said she thought these were probably people Yaxley was bribing, then hesitated. Was there anything personal to say? Anything they'd understand? She settled on, I'm holding on. Hug everyone for me and tell P I can't wait to see his next tattoo. Don't know how long it'll be, but this isn't forever. Miss you.

She wanted to tell Ron she loved him. She wanted to tell him what she'd done and let him tell her it was okay, that he understood. She didn't.

A protean charm, an incendio, and then she stared at the tiny pile of ash, too exhausted to go on. She should sweep it up. She should vanish it.

"Let me." Draco said, then whispered a charm and flicked his wand in a quick zig and a zag. She watched, first with indifference and then with wonder, as the ashes spun themselves up into a circle and transfigured into a tiny, glass bird. Sooty feathers seemed to almost ruffle and the tiny head was frozen in a little tilt to the side as if asking whether she had any crumbs that could be passed over. It was beautiful.

"How?" she asked as she reached one finger out to touch the little figurine.

He made a self-conscious shrug. "I had to use my time to work on something and that's better than crucio."

"Draco," she said impatiently. This was beautiful work. It wasn't just a transfiguration. The bird was art. It looked so alive she kept expecting it to take off and fly away, or hop toward her. It looked real. The detailing was so exquisite she could see every hair of the feathers. Only magic could have made this.

When he smiled for real one half of his mouth went higher than the other. "I always liked doing stuff," he said. "Before it all happened. I liked making new things."

"Potter Stinks," she said. He'd made those annoying badges that flashed. At the time, she'd just wanted to throttle him for the petty cruelty of it, but, looking back, she had to admit it had been clever work, as clever as anything Fred and George had done.

Her brain stammered a bit over Fred's name. Some deaths were harder to accept than others.

"Potter Stinks," Draco agreed. "Pansy and Greg loved those. Theo told me I was an arse."

She picked up the bird and turned it back and forth in her hands. The detail on the wings was remarkable, and the eyes glittered with a hint of green. "I like this better," she said.

"Then it's yours," he said. Before she could thank him, he waved his hand and made a Draco Malfoy sneer at her. She recognized it. It didn't reach his eyes. They still looked vulnerable and scared and bleak. Had his mask always been that imperfect or was she learning to see him? "I have lots of glass birds, trust me."

"All like this?"

The sneer faded and a bit of a rueful smile took its place. "Not quite," he said. "The first few were pretty dreadful."

She could believe it. No one made something like this their first try. She wasn't even sure how you'd go about turning ash to glass. She set it back down on the desk, careful not to break off its tiny feet. "Well, thank you," she said. "I'll treasure it."

"We could get out," he offered. For a brief, wild moment she thought he meant out altogether. They could leave. They could join the rest of the resistance. The utter selfishness of that option grabbed at her heart and tugged. Then he went on. "I mean, you aren't – we aren't – prisoners here. We could go get ice cream in Diagon Alley."

"A date?" she asked, half-teasing.

"There are bookstores," he said.

"And Saint Mungo's," she said.

He looked down. "Yes," he said. "Though I doubt he'll be happy to see us."

"We'll bring chocolate," Hermione said. If Harry's endless visits to the Infirmary at Hogwarts had taught her anything, it was that teenage boys liked chocolate frogs far more than you'd think. They might struggle to look sophisticated in front of girls turned suddenly mysterious, but give them a Quidditch magazine and a frog and they reverted to children.

Though Harry, of course, had never really been a child.

"That might do it," Draco said. He pulled a deck of cards out of a pocket and waved them in the air. "In the meantime, can I interest you in a few hands of Exploding Snap?"

She thought he was kidding. He wasn't. She was going to say no, she'd never really liked that silly game, but he had that crooked smile on, and she gave in with a roll of her eyes. An hour later they were both sprawled on the rug of her room, laughing as he won hand after hand. "You are terrible at this," he said as he hooted in yet another triumph.

"I hate games," she said. She threw her cards at him and he laughed even more loudly. "I always lose."

"Chess?" he asked. "I'd think you'd be excellent at Wizard's Chess."

That made her smile fade. "No," she said. "Ron beats me every time. He always has."

Draco's own smile faltered for a moment, and when it bloomed again it was even and showcased his perfect teeth. "Well, I suppose he has to be good at something. You like him so I suppose there's more going on than meets the eye. Try again? I'll go easy on you."

"Sure," she said, and let him deal her another hand.

. . . . . . . . .

A/N – Thank you to Salazars for beta reading and to everyone reading for your endless support. It means the world.