Thank you to Pidanka for raising an eyebrow at my weirder turns of description, and saving us all from the horrors of fish scale eyes!

Twelve

There's something different this time when Hermione claws her way out of sleep. Before she's even opened her eyes, she's thinking of laughing with her dad and sun-hot vinyl seats, ice-cold coke sliding down her throat, Malfoy's toes bumping against hers under the table, and his grin, the white-blonde hair falling over his eyes, and sweetness rich and dark on her tongue. Scent memories are bright in her mind. So vivid that they crowd out the other memories. The bad memories. Hermione frowns and struggles to make sense of it, still muzzy and half-fogged with sleep.

She wriggles out of her nest of blankets and opens her eyes to see Malfoy sitting there, on the side of the bed that should be his. What? He's leaning back against a stack of pillows with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his face turned toward her. He's in a pale grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black trousers, and his hair is shoved back off his face messily. A few strands stick up. He's halfway to a beard and it looks weird, dark blonde at his sharp jaw, the same shade as his eyebrows. His eyes are hollow and darkened beneath, sad, and his mouth is a thin, worried line as he watches her.

Hermione assumes she's dreaming, somehow. But she took Dreamless Sleep.

Hallucinating? Has the lack of food finally driven her mad?

"Draco?" she asks in a hoarse mumble as she untangles from the blankets and struggles upright, her hair a wild, frizzing tangle and her mouth dry, her eyes sore from crying too much. He can't actually be there. He can't. She smells McDonald's and chocolate, and newspaper and vinegar, and butter chicken, and –

"Hi Granger," he says, soft-rough and entirely real, and Hermione chokes on a sob. She's across the bed in a flash, legs still trapped in the blanket but upper body pinned to Malfoy, arms wrapping around his neck and clinging so tightly it hurts. His hands come up, one rubbing her back soothingly, and he's warm and lean and wrapping her up, and she finds herself crying. Tears soak through his shirt while he pets her hair and tries to finger comb through the tangles. He's so real. He's actually here. Her nose runs and her sinuses ache, her eyes sore and swollen as the sobbing hitches out of her, like a valve has been twisted and the pressure released.

"It's okay, Hermione. You're okay," he tells her eventually, and she pulls back enough to thump him.

Sudden and angry, her fist landing smack on the juncture of pectoral and shoulder as a white-hot anger erupts from deep in her gut. Smack, she does it again, and then scramble-struggles up out of the blankets so that she sits astride him. His hands are on her, steadying her, and he's talking to her in a low, worried voice as she sobs and hits him again, and then shoves the heels of both palms into his shoulders so that he rocks back.

"You bastard!" She hits him again. Malfoy doesn't try to defend himself, but he stops trying to calm her; his mouth snapping shut and grey eyes steady on her face, expression blank save for a somehow pained look around his eyes. That careful control just makes her angrier. She hits him again, both fists on his chest, and his legs are warm and firm under her, and he's breathing shallowly, his hands hovering uncertainly to either side of her. His tongue sweeps over his lips, turning his face slightly away from hers, flinching as she thuds her palms against his shoulders again.

"Hermione –"

"Don't fucking Hermione me, you bastard. You left! You left me! You shut me out, and you just fucking left me. After everything." She stops only to take a breath; it's coming in wild, panting gulps, and her heartbeat is a runaway steam train, her blood is on fire. For the first time in days, she feels more than just a suffocating grey cloud of numb misery, as though a dementor were looming over her shoulder. No, instead, Hermione feels a red, red anger. She feels as though she's going to pulse out of her skin, her whole body inflamed. And it feels so good. She feels alive.

She narrows her eyes on Malfoy, right in front of her. Under her. He looks so beautiful. So perfect, all sharp angles, with his bloodshot silver eyes, and that thin scar that cuts down his left cheek put there by her whiplash, and the uneven, patchy growth of his stubble, and the way his hair looks like it hasn't been shampooed in weeks. The flare of his nostrils, the delicate fan of his lashes, and the full swell of his mouth. Hermione loves the sight of him.

And he'd left her. Left her to fall apart like an arch with the keystone removed, crumbling down on herself, helpless and pathetic. Malfoy had become her linchpin, and Hermione hates the way she needs him, and hates the way he's rubbed that need in her face this past week. She hates him for what he's done – all of it, but right now, she's thinking about how she wouldn't have fallen apart if he hadn't cut himself out of her life like a cancerous tumour.

"You had no right. No fucking right. How dare you! How dare you leave me after what you've done to me!"

He swallows hard, throat bobbing as he processes that, and Hermione can see the pain flash across his face. The guilt that's caught in the small press of his lips and the sharp inhale through his nose, the crinkle between his brows and the way his moon-grey eyes slide down and away from her. She's glad. She wants him to hurt as she smears away her tears.

"You owe me. After what you did," Hermione says, meaning all of it, and she's mean and cruel, driving the knife home and twisting it, and his chest shudders with his breath, and he won't meet her eyes. But Malfoy doesn't defend himself. He won't fight back. Hermione shoves him again with tear-sticky hands, and her thighs flex as she works to stay seated on his lap. She's pathetically shaky and weak right now, from hunger and shock both. "You – you aren't allowed to go off and hate yourself," she chokes out, her voice so strangled that she doesn't even sound like herself.

"Hermione. Granger. I'm sor–" Malfoy begins, his hands still hovering uncertainly by her sides and his gaze unsure on hers – the set of his features eloquent with regret and guilt and bottled pain – and she slaps him across the mouth harder than she means to. But she's so angry. In a way, this is almost worse than when he'd – hurt her at the revel, or let her be hurt at the dinner, she thinks vaguely, trying not to remember it. Because then she'd known it was necessary, life or death, and he'd had no choice. But this time, he'd chosen to hurt her. To run away and hide.

"Don't you dare apologise!" she snaps, shrill and choked, smearing tears down her cheeks again with the backs of her wrists, his skin flaring red around his mouth as she peers at him through blurry, sore eyes. "You just ran away to wallow in guilt," she accuses in gasping snarls. "You went and hid and soaked in self-pity because you couldn't stand to look at me and think of what you'd done. You're just a coward." She stares him down, panting with emotion, and watches his face darken.

"I'm not a fucking coward, Hermione," he says, low and smooth. "I'm many things, but not that."

She knows she's found a button to press, so she presses it with wild impulsiveness, driven on by the desire to... what? she thinks in a distant corner of her mind. To infuriate him? Maybe. Malfoy's eyeing her carefully as her mind ticks over, as if he can read her thoughts. "Coward," she goads and pushes him again.

"Salazar's sake, stop that. You've had your payback," he says, half angry, mouth twisting and eyes narrowing. "Stop hitting me now, Hermione."

"Make me," she taunts and goes to slap him again, and this time he catches her wrist and then suddenly the world goes sideways, and she's on her back on the bed, and he's over her. Heavy and hot, and her mind is filled with the – the revel, and his body hot on hers, blood smearing both of them, her breasts aching from being mauled, bite marks searing, a pain between her legs...

"Hermione," he says urgently. "Hermione." And his weight is gone and she's on her side instead, and he's nose to nose with her, his hand sliding gently down her arm. "Shit, Hermione. Breathe." She realises she's not, so she does, a great, gasping whoop of air. "I'm sorry. You said to stop you, and – I – I'm sorry." She just stares at him silently, breathing. She can still smell takeaways, like she's having a stroke. His pupils are huge, and this close, he's cross-eyed. She yawns; adrenaline comedown.

"I'm sorry for everything," he's saying, his hand smoothing over her hair now, their noses just barely touching. She can feel his breath warm on her cheek. She thinks disconnectedly that she'd like to kiss him. "I'm sorry for everything. And you're right. I was hiding. I was wallowing in guilt. But I thought it was for the best. I thought you were better off without me."

"Well, I'm fucking not," she cries indignantly, pushing herself up on one elbow and glaring down at him.

"Well, I see that now," he says mildly, a wry smile flickering at his lips, and Hermione feels that urge to kiss him again. So she does. On the cheek, her lips to Malfoy's prickly stubble right by the corner of his mouth, and he's warm and, well, prickly, and he freezes like he has to consciously stop himself from moving his head those two centimetres and turning the kiss into a proper one, a soft almost-whimper escaping his lips. "Merlin, Granger," he breathes, rough and uneven.

"I love you," Hermione says seriously while she has the nerve, looking down at his face. His pupils are dilated, lips parted as if in anticipation. He bites his lower lip, and she can see the indecision on his face. "Tell me," she orders him, demanding. She feels oddly petulant. Insistent. Maybe it's the joy that's bubbling up in her chest, bright and full and pushing out the grey, numb misery. It's like he's painted her world in colour again, and while she's still a mess, she feels alive. As though a patronus is shimmering around her. She lays her hand along Malfoy's cheek, running her thumb along the jut of his cheekbone, her eyes locked on his. "Tell me."

He sighs, and some of the tension he's holding runs out of him. "I love you," he says like a confession. Like he's admitting a murder. Saying something he has no right to say, as if he'll be dragged off and thrown back into a cell for saying it. "I do. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I'm – I'm influencing you, or taking advantage, but I do."

Hermione pushes her hand through his hair now; it feels dry and greasy at once under her fingers. She suspects he hasn't had shampoo in his cell. Her fingers tighten on a fistful of the white-blond locks. "You aren't going to try to run off again, are you?"

Malfoy winces and detaches her fingers. "Ouch. Careful, Granger. And no. I'm not leaving again." He pauses. "I'm here with you until you decide you don't want me to be anymore." The statement is simple honesty, falling from his lips like a promise, a hint of pain running beneath his words as he looks up at her from his sprawl on his side. He means it and Hermione feels warm inside. Safe. He's brought her safety back to her. She sinks back down on her side and curls up into him, forehead pressed to his chest and hands seizing fistfuls of his shirt. She yawns again, feeling Malfoy's fingers card gently through her hair. "Hey, don't go to sleep yet," he says, all forced lightness. "I brought you lunch. McDonald's. And all the rest of what you like. Fish and chips. Muggle sweets. An Indian takeaway."

Oh God. He's gone and gotten her Muggle food again. It's so sweet and so thoughtful that Hermione wants to cry. Instead, she smiles against his chest, a wobble to her lips, feeling so warm. So happy. Blissful. "I thought I was having a stroke," she murmured.

"What?" Malfoy sounds bewildered; she realises belatedly he probably doesn't understand.

"I thought I was imagining that smell," she clarifies. It's still thick in the air, warm and delicious, and Hermione's stomach gurgles finally. Malfoy makes a hmm noise and detaches himself from her with that fluid, predatory grace he has and moves to the dresser, where Hermione sees sitting two large trays piled high with Muggle fast food and sweets. Oh God. It looks so good. He places the two trays in front of her as she shifts to sit tailor-fashion, and they make slight dips in the bed; they're so laden. For the first time in weeks, Hermione feels hungry. Ravenous.

Malfoy settles on the bed beside her, stretching out again all long, lean, pale angles, picking up a chip and popping it in his mouth. "Eat," he tells her. Hermione eyes it all. Most of it will have to go downstairs for everyone else; there's far too much for her. Or for her and Malfoy. She picks up a McDonald's fry, nibbling the tip, and his eyes are so intent on her. The fry is still warm and salty. Greasy. Delicious. She shoves the whole thing in her mouth and snatches up the container, cramming in several more fries. Her eyes nearly roll back in her head at the taste.

"Oh my God," she moans. They smell and taste so good. And they make her think of not just her dad now, but Malfoy when she was captured. Malfoy, being quietly, unobtrusively sweet and thoughtful. Considerate. Watching her in his bedroom with worried eyes, like every morsel of food that passes her lips is a bit of the burden lifted from his shoulders. He's looking at her that way right now, she realises. Leaning back on the pillows on 'his' side of the bed as though he's always been there, the food between them, his posture all cat-like laziness but his eyes molten silver and heated on her. She feels somehow both shivery and warm under his gaze, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.

Hermione pokes a toe out, prodding Malfoy's pale, bony feet, with his long, knobbly toes, feeling playful, and he smiles faintly at her as he unwraps a block of Cadbury dairy milk.

"What?" he asks tolerantly, as though he can sense her mood; a childish happiness still swirls in her chest. She's giddy with it. She knows eventually the giddiness will pass, and reality will seep back in – albeit tempered by Malfoy's presence – but right now, Hermione's enjoying her reprieve. She feels happy and hungry for the first time in weeks.

"Nothing," she says and pokes him again, smiling to herself as she starts picking at a piece of crispy battered fish, and he shoots her a bemused, pleased look that looks somehow vulnerable. The corner of his mouth hitched up, eyes warm as the ashes of a fire. There's still a cold edge to him – perhaps that's just Malfoy – and he's still exuding worried, awkward guilt, but Hermione can already sense he's more relaxed. Being free has unwound some of his tighter knots. She supposes that not having to watch his every move, not constantly worrying about being pegged as a spy and slowly tortured to death, and not constantly worrying about Hermione has helped. He only has his self-hatred and guilt to contend with now. And, she supposes shamefacedly, his worry about her, although a lesser worry than it was.

"How on earth did you get all this?" she asks him, still eating the piece of fish with greasy fingers, feeling more human by the second. "Did Harry take you? Did he even have Muggle money?"

Malfoy smirks a little. "Yeah, Potter and Weasley took me. And no, they didn't have Muggle money." He pauses and his mouth twitches into a grin for a second – a flash of white teeth, eyes crinkling at the corners. "They confunded a Muggle," he begins, and Hermione shoves the trays down the bed just enough that she can edge closer to him, listening raptly, just soaking up the sound of his voice and the amusement he's trying to suppress as he tells the story.

Hermione picks at her food until she says she's not hungry – and then Draco tries to convince her to eat more. Coaxing, not threatening. She's smiling and occasionally voicing the ghost of a laugh, but he can see the fragility radiating off her, both emotional and physical. She's on the edge and shaky with it, and he knows this sudden burst of energy she's showing can't last. It's likely adrenaline fuelled from the shock of seeing him, and once it passes, he expects she'll crash. But he'll be here when she does. He'll hold her while she cries, and wash her face, and remind her that things really are going to be okay. Because they got out, and no one is ever going to hurt her again.

Draco will flee around the world with her, running like a selfish coward, and the Order can go to hell before he lets her get taken or hurt again.

"They force-fed me," she says at one point while she stares at the half-eaten Big Mac she holds, a wobble in her voice, and Draco wants to hex them all. Damn the Order. They've both ruined themselves for the precious fucking Order. He knows deep down that they need the Order if they're going to win the war, but right now, he hates them more than a little.

"That won't happen again," he says, and he means it. "But I need you to try to eat as much as you can for a while, Granger. You're skin and bones." She is. Hermione's all knobby bones and angles, and Draco just wants to feed her until she's padded and soft again, her cheeks rounder and the hollows under her eyes filled in, the curves of her body lush and her thighs well-covered instead of the sticks they are under her bagging leggings. She's painful to look at. She looks as bad as she had toward the end of her time in Voldemort's dungeons – maybe even worse because Draco thinks she's even skinnier than then.

"I'll try," Hermione says, dark eyes uncertainly happy as she shoves a spoonful of Viennetta in her mouth and makes a hum of pleasure. The sound affects him more than it should, as does the smear of cream just above her top lip. He feels unspeakably guilty for the way he wants to kiss the cream off her lip and lick into her sweet mouth. She's hardly in any state to even think about that kind of thing. But Draco's body doesn't realise that; when she swipes away the cream with her index finger and sucks it clean, it becomes hard to think straight for a moment. It's been a long time, he automatically thinks wryly, and then feels sick because the last time he'd done anything sexual with another person was with her at the revel. It's been a long time since he wanked, Draco amends in his head, glad Hermione can't read his mind. It wouldn't be a safe place for her to be.

When she's finally eaten so much that she complains of her stomach hurting, Hermione sounds almost drowsy. Draco nestles her back into bed and clears away the trays of food before climbing under the covers himself and tucking her up against his chest. She feels too light, like a bird, all brittle, hollow bones, and it makes his chest hurt and guilt twist in his gut. He knows she wouldn't be this bad if he'd come to her as soon as he'd been allowed. She's like this because of Draco, and that thought cements his decision; that if leaving her has caused this, then he's going nowhere until she orders him away. Whether he deserves her or not, he can't deny her what she wants.

He dares to kiss the edge of her forehead, and Hermione sighs happily, her hand coming up, clutching at his shirt, two fingers sneaking in between the buttons to make tentative contact with the bare skin of his stomach. She smells like illness and sweat, her hair lank under Draco's hands as he tries to finger comb out all the tangles, and she clings to him, all elbows and knees. Her breath is warm on his chest through his shirt, and he keeps playing his fingers through her hair, listening to her breathing shift from shallow and quick to slow and deep, as sleep gradually snares her.

That night Hermione curls up in bed like always, but she's not alone, and it's strange how everything feels different because of that. The sheets feel silkier, the blankets warmer, the pillows softer. The small loft room itself feels somehow more welcoming; enclosing her cosily instead of closing in on her, feeling like a dim, safe haven instead of a gilded cage. Malfoy is in pyjamas the Order provided, and he smells faintly of clean soap as she nestles against him in the bed, making her vaguely aware of how long it's been since she last showered. Hermione knows she can't smell as good as him. But she's too weary to do it right now, and Malfoy doesn't seem to care.

Their evening was spent with Hermione drifting in and out of a dozing stupor, like a snake who's eaten an entire pig – like she'd seen in nature documentaries as a small child. She's stuffed full, and she's safe, and she's exhausted. The Dreamless Sleep doesn't give the same quality rest as natural sleep, Hermione thinks, and so despite spending so much time unconscious, she hasn't really slept properly in weeks. She suspects that now that Malfoy's here and she feels safe, her exhausted body is trying to catch up on much-needed rest.

It's a struggle to keep her eyes open, and for now, Hermione accepts that. Gives in to it as Malfoy tucks her under the covers with gentle, careful movements as he lies propped up on one elbow next to her. His strong, elegant hands arrange the covers around her with a thoughtful kind of care, like a parent tucking in a child, Mark visible with his sleeves rolled up, black and vivid. He treats her as if she is made out of something fragile and breakable, and he is nestling her in cotton wool. His hair falls forward over his tired grey eyes, his stubble glinting gold in the lamplight, the scar cutting down his cheek a thin purple seam, and Hermione feels bad she did such a poor job mending it. His expression is serious – grave and worried, and somehow flayed raw – and his lips are soft when he tentatively kisses her forehead.

She makes a hum of pleasure at the touch of his skin, and the corner of his mouth tips up slightly. It counts as a smile, she thinks sleepily and smiles back. "I love you," she murmurs, letting it all spill out. "I love you, Malfoy." There's no need to hold her feelings close any longer. No need to keep them hugged to her chest like a precious secret. Voldemort isn't going to make him hurt her, or her hurt him, or – or take her away from Malfoy for his own sick purposes. They're both safe and now they're together and safe, and – and – "I'm not letting you go again, you know," she mumbles blurrily. "I don't care. I meant what I said before." Her hand creeps out from under the blankets and snares his wrist.

He makes a wet huff of laughter. His eyes gleam wetly, pools of quicksilver, and then his pupils flare wide as their eyes meet, the black of them devouring his irises, leaving a thin ring of silvery grey. His gaze is steady and wanting. "I know, Granger," he says softly, pushing a lock of hair back off her forehead, the tip of his tongue sweeping over his lips. "I know. I'm not leaving you. I swear it." His voice is pained as he says the words, and Hermione knows he still thinks he shouldn't be with her. The idiot. He still thinks she'd be better off without him.

"I don't trust you," she says drowsily, blinking as her eyelids droop. They feel so heavy, as though a ten-ton weight is sitting atop them. "You lie," she accuses.

Malfoy winces. "I'm sorry, Granger. I know I haven't always been honest with you –" talk about an understatement "– but I'm being honest now. I won't leave you until you send me away." He sighs, expression conflicted; vulnerable and cold at once, the slash of his brows and the uncertain set of his mouth highlighted by the soft glow of the lamp. "I love you," he says quietly then, as though he's confessing a crime, reaching out and trailing his fingertips down the side of her face, and he looks so broken for a moment that Hermione could cry. "I love you, and I want you, and I hate myself for that, Granger, after what I've done. I don't deserve you."

"Well, we don't always get what we deserve, do we, Malfoy?" she asks rhetorically. "I didn't deserve any of what happened, and I still got it. And you get me." She yawns, eyes fluttering shut. "At least you're getting what you want," she mumbles as she wriggles closer to him, her forehead pressing against his side and her right hand settling over his abdomen – the thin cotton not much of a barrier.

He stiffens at her closeness and makes a choked sound at her words, and Hermione realises belatedly that what she said wasn't exactly kind. "It's not – Merlin, Granger, you know how to drive the knife in, don't you?" he says with a forced lightness that comes out shaky, and his arm settles carefully around her, his hand resting on her waist.

"Mm," she just says sleepily and loses herself to the rise and fall of his chest, the slow lubdub of his heart that she can feel reverberating through where her forehead is pressed against his ribs. The feel of his thumb stroking over the dip of her waist. The warmth radiating off him as though he's a heater. The world feels almost right for the first time in so long. Since before she was caught by the Snatchers. Hermione's still broken – she knows that. Still torn open and wounded, and unsure how she's supposed to put herself back together and become a person again, but for the first time in close to five months, Hermione feels both safety and a tentative, unfurling happiness.

She'll take it.

Malfoy's not glued to her all evening; they both need to use the loo after all and at one point, he slips out while he thinks she's dozing, to talk to Lupin. Hermione remembers waking from a sleep too light to dream to his side of the bed empty but still warm, and the sound of low, masculine voices outside the cracked open door.

"...wish you'd have gotten me sooner. She's even skinnier than she was in the Dark Lord's dungeon, for Salazar's sake." He sounds angry, the strain of it a taut wire running through his voice. He's angry on her behalf; protective. Hermione presses her fingertips over her lips, feeling herself smiling.

"You made your feelings very clear, Draco. You didn't want to be near her. And it's not as though I disagreed with you. In truth, none of us wanted to have to involve you." Lupin sighs. "But obviously, she really does do better with you, considering she actually ate." The door creaks and the shaft of light falling into the room widens as someone peers inside. Hermione closes her eyes and lies very still.

"It helped that I got her Muggle food, I think," Malfoy admits, a careful control in his tone. He sounds casual, but Hermione can sense the tension still threaded beneath. It makes her think of the evenings he came in and said he was fine, even though there was barely contained horror clouded behind his dull eyes, and a tell-tale fleck of blood on him somewhere – a collar, or cuff, or a smear on his forehead. Or sometimes he was just gloved in it. Dripping it, thick and viscous, the iron tang sharp in the air. She squeezes her eyes tight shut, and tries to focus on the here and now. "...makes her think of her childhood. It helps."

"What about breakfast tomorrow?"

"I think normal food will be fine," Malfoy says wryly, and she can see him silhouetted in the gap between door and frame, tall and lean, blocking out most of the light. "But we'll see. She can't live on Muggle takeaways, though. They're shockingly unhealthy."

"Noted. I won't let Dora feed Teddy those fries after all, then." Lupin's tone turns awkward. "Molly made up the next bedroom just in case, but I assume you'll be, er, sleeping in there with Hermione tonight?"

"Yes," Malfoy says shortly, and Hermione can picture him; chin lifting and grey eyes narrowing with a kind of supercilious arrogance, his mouth taking on just the hint of a sneer, hands sliding into his pockets if his trousers have them. She smiles to herself again, fondness warming her. "Or rather, not sleeping."

Lupin makes a shocked sound, and Malfoy scoffs softly, like he's trying to be quiet so as not to wake Hermione. "Get your mind out of the gutter. I'll be staying up watching over her in case of nightmares. I don't think she should take more Dreamless Sleep, and I don't think she wants to either."

"Right." There's an awkward pause. "Well. Good night, Draco."

"Lupin." And then Malfoy inclines his head, visible in the shadow, and his bare feet scuff light on the floor as he turns and comes back in, clicking the door almost silently shut behind him. Hermione closes her eyes as he carefully climbs into the bed, the mattress dipping beneath him, cold air rushing under the blankets as he lifts them, and she pretends to be asleep. He shifts close and then his hand settles light on her head, stroking through her hair.

"How much of that did you hear?" Malfoy asks, fingers trying to pick the knots and tangles out of her bird's nest of hair for a moment before giving up, and Hermione tilts her head, peeking at him through slitted eyes in the low lamplight. He looks nearly as tired as her as he slides down a little, getting comfortable and picking up a book from the bedside table. Hermione thinks it's the murder mystery Ginny left in here the other day.

"Not much."

"Hm. Go to sleep, Granger."

She doesn't need to be told twice.

Notes:

The mystery novel that Draco is reading –

The Missing Glove

A scintillating murder mystery in Delia Lewis's typical gripping style – intriguing, taut, and engaging.
Crack Auror Nilus Nilsson is investigating the brutal murder of the Rankin family, a rich, pureblood household residing in the Welsh countryside. The sole survivor – and most likely suspect – is the eldest daughter, Ellie, a beautiful, reserved young woman who was studying in France at the time.
Nilsson's gut instincts tell him that Ellie didn't do it, but all the circumstantial evidence points in her direction; a difficult family past, estrangement, and an inheritance in jeopardy. There are no traces of magic, no physical clues, and the elderly House Elf claims he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
So who really killed the Rankins?