Blaise practically parades out of my fireplace the following morning and I can't hold back blurting out, "Did she fuck you last night, or what?"

I know there was next to no chance, but he looks like the cat that got the cream and I have a hard time imagining anything else that would put that look on his face.

He actually spins in a circle, arms out from his sides. "No."

Brushing off my assumption as if it's completely inconsequential, he continues with a certain level of pride, "I've just gotten better at it. No confusion this time. She totally believed I was Potter."

I make myself comfortable. This might take a while. "Go on, then. It was a good night, obviously."

"It's strange, in a way. She couldn't give a shit that I'm Potter. I'm just someone she likes, someone she wants to spend time with."

I consider this angle for a moment. I rely very heavily on girls recognising - choosing - that I'm a Malfoy. When was the last time I was with a girl who didn't know my name, my family heritage? But it isn't the same, at all. Ginny isn't dating 'Blaise,' she just doesn't care that 'Potter' is famous.

Also, when was the last time I put in effort dating a girl without considering how long it was going to take to fuck her? Blaise is playing a different Quidditch pitch.

Well, more power to him.

"Just as happy to see you, then?" I prompt.

"Same start," he confirms. "But this time I knew how far she'd naturally take the greeting. Played it perfectly, went right into dinner, then to the couch."

Now we're getting to it. "Did you get any further?"

"Nah, not really," he dismisses. "But more of the good stuff."

His lack of detail is still very un-Zabini-like but I find myself reluctant to press him and burst his happy little bubble.

"Okay," I sigh out, a little exasperated at his blatant joy. "What next?"

"She's really cool," he enthuses. "She thinks we're all still at war, of course, but it's like her primary goal is to distract Potter from it. He's too wrapped up in it, he needs to relax, he should have a night of fun. It's bloody brilliant."

"So she's cool because she wants to fuck around on the couch?" Maybe? I think.

But Blaise shakes his head in frustration. "No, she's just cool. She's laid-back, and funny, and -"

Bloody hell, he really is falling in love with her.

"I'm going to ask for a longer fic," he says abruptly. "I need more time."

I stare at him, open-mouthed. "What do you think will change? What's going to be different?"

Blaise stops, momentarily pensieve. "I… I don't know. I just want more time. I want to do something other than dinner. Maybe I'll take her out to play some Quidditch."

I snort at this. "I know you played Chaser but she'll still kick your arse." He starts to protest and I can't stop my mouth. "She'll definitely know you aren't Potter. Do you have some great Seeker skills I don't know about?"

"Oh, we couldn't play together like that," he waves this away. "We'd only be playing together if we switched off Chaser and Keeper, or something."

He's actually thought this though, I think, but then he throws me something unexpected. "Could you be Ron, maybe, and she and I can both be Chasers and try to score off you? I can let her beat me."

"You won't have to let her beat you, you prat. You saw her play at school." This is completely ridiculous, but I can feel my eyes bugging out for something else, too. "And why the hell would I ever want to be Ron?" This is like my conversation with Dolohov from a different angle.

"Oh, come on, Drake, for me." I bristle slightly at this open begging, but his excitement is a little infectious. "Don't you want to play some Quidditch?"

"I'm a rubbish Keeper," I deflect automatically, trying my best to sound annoyed.

"Well, so was Ron. It works," he insists and I find myself softening slightly.

But I'd be a shite best friend if I didn't probe this, even a little. "Blaise, you're angling to spend more time with her, but she still doesn't know it's you. She won't know it's you. Ever."

The smile on his face falters, briefly, before he powers it back up. "I know, I just - it's just fun, that's all."

Sighing, I give in. Slightly. "I'll… think about it."

He leaps onto me, a childish tackle of enthusiasm, and I shove him off. "But you could do this in your usual twelve-hour Polyjuice. What else is different?"

"I don't know yet," he exalts, slightly out-of-breath. "But two nights with her is better than one, yeah?"

I suppose. Even if you aren't getting anything out of it.

He's still a ball of manic energy and I can't consider this any longer without knowing. I have to ask. "How far have you got with her, anyway?"

Blaise hesitates and I pounce. "Are you protecting her honour, Zabini?" My delight is impossible to miss and he rubs his hand over his hair in an automatic awkward deflection.

"No," he insists. "She's just - she's just - different."

Ho-kay. This is evidently going to require an alternative approach to our usual post-date discussions. I have to ask without insulting Ginny Weasley's… honour. But if Blaise Zabini is this infatuated, I have to know what it is.

It's going to take a more mature approach than I've shown, clearly. I make a show of sighing in defeat and sitting down in one of my chairs, crossing an ankle over one knee. I can't sound disbelieving. I have to sound genuinely intrigued - and part of me is.

"Blaise, what makes her special? Aside from the fact that she's the sexiest witch most of us have ever seen. Tell me more than that."

He seems properly engaged and I feel a flash of pride. I've still got it.

"She's…"

"Don't say 'cool,' or 'funny,' or 'laid-back.'"

This comes out before I can reflect how much this mimics Snape interrupting me before I get to answer one of his questions. Blaise doesn't seem to notice either way.

"She's - smart. She is funny, but it's a confidence thing. She's completely comfortable in herself, no self-consciousness at all. She's completely open about everything. She knows Potter loves her and she's not trying to impress him, or to convince him to be with her because he's the 'famous boy-who-lived' or whatever mess of bollocks."

I nod, almost absently.

"She's a flirt of course, but it's just her personality. She likes to wink and tease, but it's not from any sort of desperation or insecurity. It's confidence. She likes the knowledge that he wants her. She knows she's pretty, but she only wants him."

At this, Blaise's smile does falter.

But I can't address this yet. His words have given me a new thought. "As Potter, can you tell any of his own thoughts and motivations? Or are you just given his body?"

Blaise is thrown a little by this change of subject matter. "I… I don't know anything he wants. I'm just him, like a shell of him."

Interesting. I have things to consider here too, but I stick to Blaise for the time being.

"So what you assume she's thinking and wanting, they're all just assumptions by her actions? You don't know for sure?"

He gives me an odd look. "No, I don't know for sure. What are you saying?"

"I don't know really," I say, shaking my head. "Total bollocks, probably. But you're guessing about why she acts the way she does."

He looks offended and I try to clarify, a little. "I'm not saying she doesn't love Potter for Potter, or that she's not just a general flirt and doesn't only want him, or that - fuck, that she's not trying to impress him. I don't know. Ignore me."

But somehow Blaise being right matters to me. I'm not sure why, but the idea that Ginny's personality is just her - and has nothing to do with impressing and therefore keeping Harry Potter - is important. Significant somehow.

Don't all girls want the status symbol? Isn't that the highest mark of success for anyone - the achievement of social status and acknowledgement? For men it's achieving the position of power. For women it's successfully attracting the man who has it and staying attractive enough to keep him.

Isn't it?

Ginny Weasley was always the hottest witch I ever knew. She probably still is.

Harry Potter is the most famous wizard, even if his side lost the second great wizarding war. In the scenario the two of them live in, he could still be the hero of it.

If Ginny is neither drawn to his stature nor reliant on her own physical perfection to attract anyone she wants, where does that leave anyone? In complete relationship anarchy?

Should we all just flip a sickle, then?

I've thoroughly baffled Blaise, who is looking at me as if I've lost my mind. Fair enough. I don't know what the hell I'm trying to say anymore.

I revert back to basics.

"So have you felt her up, then?"

He grins at me, eyes bright. "She's perfect."

I battle valiantly against rolling my eyes and just - just - manage. "Does she think you're perfect, you tosser?"

I should have specified 'Does she think Potter is perfect?' but that feels like digging a knife and I told back.

"I don't know exactly what Potter's done for her, but she seems very happy with what I'm able to do," and I feel a fleeting stab of relief that Blaise has his head on straight.

Sort of. Sometimes.

I do agree to meet Blaise and Ginny in a fic, but not as Weasley. Not at first. I'm fascinated to see Ginny being Ginny, even though I probably won't get it as myself.

But the following weekend, Blaise arranges for several doses of extended Polyjuice and I agree to run into them Friday night at the Leaky Cauldron, one of Dolohov's prior fic locations - as Draco Malfoy.

This should be interesting.

As Harry Potter, Blaise should be righteously angry that I'm here. Ginny definitely will be. As for myself, I'm just curious.

I tell him I'm going to spend the first portion of their meal at the bar. No sense making it look like they had some absurdly pre-arranged dinner with a Death Eater and trying to explain it.

I watch them for longer than I'd planned. It's outright surreal to see Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley at a casual dinner, knowing full well that Potter is actually Blaise.

But I think his assessment was right. Ginny shows none of the situational awareness that girls like Eloise and Daphne show - hell, even Pansy showed it back at school - that they are the ones in public on the arm of someone important.

Ginny just doesn't care. She's simply out with someone she likes. I'm struck by it, truly. Even if the fic were supposed to show public adoration towards Potter, I don't think she'd change a thing.

Blaise as Potter is equally enlightening. He's completely enamoured by her. It's as if she's the only person on the planet. I've never seen him act this way, and we've been on double-dates with countless women.

I sit, watching and thinking, for a while. Maybe too long. I finally remember I'm here for a purpose, even if it's just out of curiosity, and I finally approach their table.

I'm approaching Blaise/Potter, figuring I'd never have any reason to approach Ginny. I can only hope Blaise is quick on the mark, and he is. I can see him readying to react but as I step up to the table, Ginny gets there first.

Leaping to her feet at once, she screams at me, "You foul, despicable piece of shit!" in public, in front of fifteen people, and immediately moves to curse me.

I put on a good show of starting to defend myself and let Blaise get in a decent shot with a bat-bogey hex - nice pull, that one, that was always one of Ginny's specialties - and I slink off with my tail between my legs.

On the surface, I was basic curse-fodder for him to look impressive defending his girl, but I feel like I learned far more about them than that.

The next day, Saturday, is Blaise's Quidditch date and I hadn't promised him anything. If I didn't show up, he said they'd just switch off positions to play for fun. If I did, I could be the Keeper and they'd compete to see which of them could get more goals off me.

Joy. Weasley will win, easily. I'm a shite Keeper and Blaise is a decent Chaser. Well, that's not fair; he was the best the Slytherin team had. But Ginny Weasley is going to mop the floor with him.

I'm trying to prepare myself. I've got ten more minutes before I'm due on the field and I've hidden from Blaise in the locker room where he would presumably have come to get his kit on. This feels… distracting.

I understand what he said about the Polyjuice, now.

Turning into Ron Weasley was as mentally reprehensible as I'd predicted, but the physical change was still odd. Weasley is slightly taller than I am - not a huge change, but feeling my muscle mass shift location was strange. I'm glad I'm not in front of a mirror because I think the visual changes would be much more stark.

We're both pale, but I'm a dignified pale blonde to his freckly ginger-ness. My face is slender, angular, and his was always… chubby. He never stopped shoving food into his mouth. It was revolting to watch.

I reach a hand down and adjust things at my crotch out of habit, a natural sports requirement, and I feel a keen satisfaction that they're easier to move about as Ron.

Ha. Stupid incompetent prat.

And I was right, I would never face anyone else

(Granger)

like this, could never -

But I shove that out of my mind, stuff it down. Far down. It's time for Quidditch, for Blaise and his new girl. New 'girl,' I scoff again. It's time to play.

And we play for well over an hour. I'd taken the extended Polyjuice just in case, but it's not much longer before I make my excuses to go. The most striking part to me was Ginny's reaction to me.

Blaise played things reserved as Harry seeing his best friend, the same person he sees all the time, but Ginny gives me a wide grin and a happy greeting as her brother, her closest sibling, the silly wanker she spent most of her time with growing up. I still do my best to stay out of conversation range, sticking to Quidditch as much as possible.

The dissonance to her reaction to me - as Malfoy - in the pub last night is stark, and I have a harder time keeping up than I'd have expected. I still feel like Draco Malfoy, after all, and I understand viscerally now what Blaise said after his first night with Ginny.

The whole idea of adjusting to being someone else takes effort. It's mentally draining to maintain. I'm not me. I'm him.

But near the end of it, I'm simply getting tired of getting my brains beat in. I make my excuses and I request to be brought out once I'm back in the privacy of the locker room. Leave Blaise and Ginny to it for as long as they like.

Dolohov meets me, and I can tell by the movement of his obnoxiously thick eyebrows he's about to suggest something I won't like.

"You're still Weasley, yeah? Want to go see Granger?"

I give him an icy look and he backs off.

"I'm tired, Dolohov. I've had a long few days. This was a favour to Zabini. Nothing more." I stand up from the chair and stretch, wondering how long the Polyjuice lasts if it isn't a full twelve hours.

My clipped cadence is also nothing like Weasley's floppy speech and Dolohov looks like he wants to laugh. I'd love to find this funny, but it isn't and I don't.

"I can't stay like this," I say, gesturing in disgust at my body. "Where's Snape? Surely he has a potion to end the Polyjuice effect before twelve hours are up."

Dolohov nods in clear disappointment and points to the end of a hall where I think I see an open door and I brush past him at once. Snape is sitting at a large desk, writing furiously, and makes me wait several long minutes before even glancing up. It's almost worth it when he does, because he immediately abandons any upper hand he was trying to gain with his open confusion at seeing Ron Weasley here.

"I need the counter-potion. I'm sure you have one."

"Obviously," he snips at me. "Didn't like it, then?"

"Why would I?" Rolling my eyes, I move to follow him as he sweeps out of the room and he motions at me to stay put.

Well, fine. I don't want to walk around like this, anyway. I pace around while I wait, trying to ignore how strange it still feels to look down and see - not myself. Blaise was right, though; it's like I'm wearing Weasley's skin and nothing more. There's no mental process here, no residual traces of speech habits or physical tics. Even muscle memory for fidgeting would make sense, but I don't feel anything like that.

Snape reappears almost silently and hands me a small vial. I down it and shiver my way through changing back into me. Sighing in relief, I return the empty vial and take a chair in front of the desk he was working at.

Snape looks annoyed. "I'm busy."

"Yes, I can see," I say agreeably enough, and he gives me a pointed look.

"Get on with it, then."

"What time options do you have for the extended Polyjuice? I know the goal is to make it extended but not everyone wants twelve hours worth."

Snape sticks his quill back in the ink pot a little hard and flecks of ink leap out onto the desk. "We have several options. Two hours, four, six. So on. The longer it lasts, the more expensive it gets."

"Which one did I take this morning?"

Snape confirms I got the twelve-hour and I'm annoyed that Dolohov gave me that one without asking. I didn't know I'd have had choices. Arsehole was probably hoping he would be able to get me in with Granger the whole time.

"When is Dolohov rolling it out?"

"His goal is next week, I believe, but I'm sure as our newest… investor, you could get a vote. Do you want it sooner? Later?" He's asking in irritation, I know. I can tell. He's sarcastically inviting me to extend this little chat and I'm tempted to do it, just to get under his skin.

"Just curious. I've been reviewing the books, just trying to get an eye on the timeline for new revenue sources." I almost stand to leave and something else occurs to me.

Snape is clearly disappointed that I've changed my mind.

"Has there been any ill effect from the constant Obliviation of the companions? Both Potter and Granger seemed slightly different to me."

I can tell this piques his interest - finally - so I elaborate.

"Potter's reaction times seemed faster. And Granger was…" How do I explain how Granger was? I look over my shoulder and cast a silencing charm.

"Granger was afraid of me, at first. She never used to be and she should have the same set of memories going into the fic that she's always had."

Snape leans back in his chair, handling his quill between his two index fingers thoughtfully.

"We haven't noticed any differences. We haven't heard any other reports like this one, either. It's probably nothing, but we'll keep an eye on it."

Nodding tightly, I stand up at last. Snape's relieved until I ask if he can put me into another fic with Granger again on my way out. I want to see if she's scared of me again. "Ask Dolohov."

"I'm asking you. Come on, Severus," I say firmly. "You know more about this than Dolohov does and I want to keep it that way. I can use occlumency all I want but I can't hide the fact that I'm going into the fic."

He groans in reluctance but stands. "Fine. Where to? Library? I figured you'd like that one."

Yes, evidently everyone did. I try to brush off my annoyance.

It's juvenile but just to be contrary about it, I say, "Flourish and Blotts," which is almost the same thing but not really.

Snape gives me a droll look. I hold his stare.

I land in the bookshop and glance around for Granger. I spot her before she spots me and I subtly move between her and the door.

If she noticed me and tried to exit the shop without being seen by me, I don't actually know what would happen. Would the door not open? The physical confines of the fic are limited to a specific, pre-designed area. We can't go strolling down Diagon Alley.

Although, come to think of it - a larger fic encompassing multiple locations is another possible revenue stream. It would almost certainly require a longer fic time as well, adding to the price there, too.

At any rate, if Granger did try that and found the door locked against her, it wouldn't help her fear. I study her again for a moment, since she still hasn't noticed me. Nothing seems odd.

She's just in a bookshop and seems to think that's perfectly natural.

She's amassing quite the collection, really, seeing as we haven't been here very long. She's grabbing books quickly without looking too deeply into them and I wonder if she's planning to sit down somewhere to review her selections in more detail before making a purchase.

This lack of confusion on her part is reassuring. I don't know why she thinks she's here, but she seems confident enough. She must have landed in here with some sort of purpose to have gone for a specific rack the way she did and start compiling a stack of books like this.

I'd like to let her stumble across me browsing, ignoring her like I did in the library - very non threatening - but I'm still afraid she'll try to sneak out to avoid me if she thinks I haven't seen her.

Leaning nonchalantly against a shelf at the end of her row, keeping my distance, I clear my throat instead. "Looking for more Horcrux books?"

She jumps here, too, but she's been so preoccupied I think anybody would have made her jump. The rest of her reaction is eerily similar, though, as she whirls to face me.

Backing up a step until she bumps into the shelf behind her, Granger clutches her stack tightly to her chest and one book squeezes off the top, tumbling to the floor. It splats open with pages down, undoubtedly bending some, and I see the distress plain on her face.

In fact, several warring emotions flicker across her brow and I want to pick the book up - but that would involve closing the gap between the two of us, and I don't think that's the best play.

She licks her lips and bites the bottom one, glancing down at the book by her feet again, before looking back at me. "Why would you think I'm here for Horcrux books?"

Raising my eyebrows, I casually say, "I thought Potter was looking for them. Isn't he?"

Giving away classified war strategies was obviously not part of her plans and she's visibly conflicted with how to answer.

I turn to look at the shelf as if I, too, am looking for books on Horcruxes, before saying, "You're unlikely to find anything here, you know. You'd be better off down Knockturn Alley."

She still hasn't moved but her tone of voice is approaching normalcy as she snaps at me, "Which is why, even if I was looking for Horcrux books, I wouldn't be doing it here."

Fair enough. "Can I help you look for whatever else it is, then?" I smile easily at her and she seems a bit thrown.

"No," she says warily. "I can do it myself."

Yes, well spotted. Of course she can. That wasn't the point.

I shrug, as if this is a matter of complete indifference to me, and meander my way over to a different shelf. Selecting a fiction book from a werewolf series I'm behind on, I find a comfortable chair closest to Granger's section and prop up to read a bit.

She scoops up the book on the floor in a flash, trying to coerce the pages back into their original positions. My chair shares a table with another chair and I see her eye the table a little wistfully. The stack in her arms must be quite heavy. But she resists the urge to claim the table and moves around to search another shelf instead.

She's got her back to me now and that confirms it. She had the same pang of fear at first, but she's moving past it faster this time. She's still frequently checking my whereabouts in her peripheral vision; she's not comfortable with me here, but she's not openly afraid of me either.

And if anything, her obvious discomfort could just be her clear suspicion of my motivations. I'm not goading or heckling her. I even offered to help.

Granger finally can't hold all of the books in one arm to pick another book off the shelf with a free hand and caves. Eyeing me cautiously, she thumps the stack down on the table near my legs.

I'm determined to maintain the fiction that I'm ignoring her, so I don't look up from my book as she retreats to another shelf, the one closest to my right.

I might not be looking but I'm not deaf, and I can hear her muttering absently under her breath, "...Chimaeras…"

A sharp chill runs down my spine.

I look at her chosen stack at once. All magical creatures, with a focus on Dark ones.

It's not possible, is it? She can't possibly remember our last fic. They're all Obliviated. It has to be a coincidence.

It might be stupid to interrupt her concentration to go deeper into this, but on a hunch, I can't stop myself from asking, "What about Lethifolds?"

And she didn't remember the Horcrux conversation we'd had… did she? But thinking back to a few minutes ago, she might have. It wasn't clear one way or another. I just assumed she didn't.

But of our previous discussion of deadly Dark creatures, Lethifolds featured the least prominently.

I did break her concentration, and she leans out from behind the corner of the rack she's searching with an annoyed look. "What about them?"

Hmm. "Well, they're often mistaken for Dementors," I add lamely, not sure how to contribute to this experiment.

She wrangles her hair away from her face in a wild, jumbled knot that she stabs in place with a clip, and says in an impatient huff, "Even if they are, a Patronus still chases off a Lethifold."

"Not if they attack while the person is sleeping, Granger," I insist hesitantly, trying to gauge her reaction. "Can't cast a Patronus asleep."

Something flashes across her expression and her eyes dart about, land on mine, then dart away again. She turns around and disappears back into the shelving without another word.

I blink a few times. What the fuck is going on? I decide to see if she'll tell me.

"Why are you looking up Chimaeras, then?" I call to her, in a tone of polite interest.

She still sounds irritated but she responds. "I'm looking for the best ways to control or defeat one. Spells, tactics. Anything."

"Are you… planning to fight a Chimaera, Granger? I wouldn't recommend it."

"They want to use one, if they can find one. If MacNair can…" her voice fades as she walks further down the row.

Fascinating. She's remembering a certain part of our last conversation, but not all of it. She's not even recalling that it was me who told her we were going to do that - in fact, she's saying 'they' like I'm not even part of 'them.'

"Anything else?"

But I don't think she can hear me anymore and I stand up to follow her. She reappears from the row next to me, almost bumping into my chest. She jumps back and ducks under my arm, heading for the table with another book in her hands.

I try to take it from her to see what she's got, and she flinches away, snatching it back from me. "I don't need your help, Malfoy," she hisses indignantly.

"Why not, Granger?" I tease, trying to sound less unsure than I feel, "I think I could be a lot of help in this area. Don't you?"

That strange flicker crosses her brow again.

"No," she snaps after a moment. "Bugger off."

But I don't, of course. Granger sits at the table, determined not to let me interrupt her process. She begins reading the summaries on the book jackets or the rear cover, comparing them against one another avidly.

I watch her closely, trying to decide if I should put a stop to this. If I was able to implant a sort of… echo about the Chimaeras in the first place, I could possibly do the same thing in reverse, telling her we aren't going to use Dark creatures like that after all.

But maybe this gives her mind something to do, something to focus on. It's not doing any harm, is it? That might have been the start to all of this in the first place, Granger's gigantic brain chafing at its inactivity - even if she doesn't consciously realise that she relives the same day or two in their dormitories over and over every time she gets Obliviated.

I sit down in the other chair and she shoots me a furious look, the familiar kind that I'm used to, that I'm invading her space and she can't stand me and won't I just go away?

I know what else I want to ask. But before I get to it, I pick up the book on the top of the stack she hasn't got to yet and turn it over to read the back.

"So what about Manticores, Granger? Are you looking for information about those, as well?"

She pauses for a split second, then grabs this book from me, too. "Why? Does this one also have Manticores in it?"

"Looks like it," I say nonchalantly and lean back, crossing my ankle over my knee. "Are we also going to start using Manticores in battle?"

She shakes her head to one side, almost a twitch, really, and says, "If they - if they can - if you -" She looks up at me, eyes wide and frightened again, and whispers, "If MacNair can find you one."

I'm starting to grow concerned that I might break her gigantic brain with this line of questioning and I leave her to it. I pick up the werewolf fiction again and give her a few minutes of peace as she scrutinises her selections so I can think.

I don't like this. The danger of this echo in her head is outweighing the possible benefits of giving her something to occupy herself. I make a snap decision.

"Granger." Nothing. There are equal chances that she's deliberately ignoring me or completely focused on her reading. "Granger."

She finally looks up, and she's back to looking annoyed. No trace of the flickering fear.

"What the hell is your problem, Malfoy? Why can't you leave me alone to read in peace?"

This is all much more normal and I could probably leave it alone now, but I quietly follow through anyway. "We aren't going to use Chimaeras or Manticores. I promise."

A rapid sequence of relief and wariness sweeps over her. "Why wouldn't you? And why would you tell me?"

The first question is safer to answer. "MacNair can't find one. So you can stop worrying, stop this manic research."

"I'm not worrying!" she snaps hotly. "I'm planning. Preparing. What about - what about…" she breaks off and looks to the side, quizzically. Contemplating.

"Nundus?" I supply shrewdly.

"Yes!" she exclaims. "Nundus. What about a Nundu?"

"MacNair can't find one of those either. And we wouldn't use one. You were right; the risk to our own side would be too high."

I'm trying to be reassuring but this stops her again and I curse internally. I wanted to avoid making her mind double back on itself.

Before she can struggle with this, I leap to something else to distract her. "And yes, Granger, you're the planner. You're probably the only one who prepares for anything around here."

Rampant suspicion floods her eyes again and I realise I've probably never said a single nice thing to her ever in her life. What I've said isn't even a true compliment; more by default, an 'I guess you're good at something because everyone else is so terrible at it,' but it's still unfamiliar to her.

This is a dissonance I'm going to allow. Let her parse out whether I'm actually a complete arsehole. It should take some time, occupy all her attention. But while she thinks it over…

I've wondered about this but I haven't really thought about how to approach it. I feel a little rushed but I have to ask.

"You haven't started screaming about how much you hate me yet, about what a piece of shit I am. Isn't there anything you want to tell me, Granger?"

I hold back clarifying 'you always used to -' but only just. That won't help.

Her brain moves so fast, even under confused duress, it's hard to track what she's thinking or feeling. Brow furrowed, her eyes flick around. Her lips tighten, open, and close again. She looks away, then at me, then away.

Finally, her eyes fix on the scar on her arm.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out. She starts to take another and stops. Finally, staring at her arm, she says in a whisper, "You… didn't hurt me."

I half expect a question to follow

('did you?')

but it doesn't. What she said is not a question. It's a statement. She doesn't look up from her scar and I answer anyway.

"No, Granger. I didn't hurt you." I'm talking about that day in my drawing room and a hundred days since, but I don't know what day she's talking about.

Maybe I'm insane, but I think she wants to believe me. I feel a mental impulse to double down on it and then what? I swallow and make myself focus.

The whole point of these exercises used to be to make her scream at me and hit me. Then, starting exactly, precisely, two fics ago, the whole point was to lessen her unexpected fear of me.

I don't know what to do with this one now except ask to be brought out, but she interrupts my thought process with another tentative offering.

"You say my name… a lot. Why?"

Bloody hell, this again? I haven't even thought about it since last time. And I still don't have an answer for her. Why do I?

But I don't want to give her the same 'Mudblood' line as before. She's looking at me in a different way - cautious and wary, like a fox in the grass, but it's not hostile.

I find that I don't want to wreck it. But I also don't know what to tell her. Why do I use her name all the time? I don't even know. I hadn't noticed I was doing it.

My self-preservation instincts take over at last.

"Better get back to that Horcrux research -"

I almost call her 'Granger' again at the end of that and barely stop myself in time. "The Dark Lord's making more of them, you know."

I have no idea if this is true but her look of abject horror is worth it. I look up and say, "Bring me out."