She thought she heard the scratch of a quill and a scroll snapping. Malfoy was on the couch, nothing but an ancient-looking book in his lap, staring at her.

"Good rest?" he asked, closing it with a flourish.

"Mmmm. I didn't even dream." A blissful truth. "Oh!" She sat up swiftly. "Did they send books?"

He was impassive. "Yes. But none for you."

She frowned and pushed her hair away from her face. "Whyever not?'

"You know why not." He reached for a food bundle in the basket. Dinner. Her stomach didn't protest the way it had at breakfast - instead, it gurgled expectantly.

She stood, stretching. He was already unwrapping the meal.

"If this is about getting me to eat, you needn't worry. I'm hungry. But -"

"What now?"

She made a face at him, noticing his open wine bottle. "Do you mind if I take a bath first? I'd like to change. Or - don't wait. Go ahead and eat without me."

Malfoy looked like he was about to argue with her but then thought better of it. "I can wait. On one condition." She inclined her head, listening. "You owe me a game of wizard's chess after we eat."

"Desperate for my company?" She turned to walk into the bathing chamber. She saw he'd placed her knapsack beside the door - so she could get her own clothes. She picked it up as she went in.

"Of course not," he said loudly to her back. "I'm just fucking bored."

She clicked the door closed. Sure.

By the time Hermione was clean and changed a half hour later, Malfoy had finished off most of the bottle of wine. The food was all laid out - antsy to eat as always - but he'd cast a warming charm so it wouldn't stop steaming before she was ready. It looked like they were having roast chicken and vegetables and crusty bread.

He was pouring himself another glass so he didn't see her immediately. Didn't notice her attire - a set she wore to lounge around her apartment all the time. A plain gray jersey nightgown and matching robe, belted loosely at the waist. She'd contemplated not wearing it, but it seemed - practical. And there were no concerns that it would look like she was trying to be attractive - it fell to her knees and was pilled from years of wear.

When she walked over and stood awkwardly between the table and the bed she must have startled him. He dribbled some wine onto the table and looked at her, eyebrows practically in his hairline.

"Sit down and dig in," he said roughly. She'd taken too long. They were both hungry.

She started to kneel across from him on the floor. He grabbed his wand and conjured a low ottoman beneath her before she could hit the ground. "Thank you."

"I just want to eat."

She picked up the serving bowl. With her fork, she pushed all of the meat onto Malfoy's plate. He clenched his jaw and reached for the vegetables to reciprocate. "Won't you have some chicken?"

She thought of the slaughter she'd seen in her head. "I - I'm off meat for awhile, I think. Maybe forever."

"Why?" He sounded genuinely curious.

She looked down at her plate, which he'd piled with roasted potatoes and onions. She couldn't bear to see his face as she explained. "My head - it's been full of terrible visions. Since the attack. I've seen a lot of bad things - violence and torture. Without sharing details . . . some of those were of animals."

It was silent for a long time.

Then he grabbed the bread, cut and buttered a chunk, and placed it in her field of vision.

"I didn't know you were dealing with that. I'll send word to the elves - no more meat."

"Please don't. You can still have it - I don't want you to change your diet because of me."

"It's fine." He poured her some wine. "If something upsets you, and we can fix it, we will."

She looked at him, surprised. Of all the reactions, she'd never have expected this one. She thought he'd ridicule her, force her, ask for details. But - none of that.

Malfoy pushed his shoulders back, sitting up straighter on the couch. From his position he was looking down, thanks to his height and the couch cushions. She pulled her robe together so he couldn't see her cleavage. He lifted his wine and she did the same.

"To you feeling better." He clinked his glass against hers.

She forced an unenthusiastic smile. "To wanting to get better," and clinked her glass with his.

They both drank and tucked into their food. He reported that Nott had come during her nap and brought the first wave of reading material - Harry and he had conferred and agreed that each room should take half of it. "We're all motivated to share information. So, we should hear if they find something useful. Potter already excused them for the evening and cast a bunch of silencing charms. Not sure what he's more excited about - fucking or reading."

She didn't protest, remembering earlier. Four times a day. She took Malfoy's word for it - if Harry and Ginny wanted to hole up with each other and a stack of reading material, she wouldn't interrupt. "Hopefully they'll put all that, um, energy to use and find the way out."

He stuffed himself diligently but didn't take his eyes off of her plate and fork and mouth. She ate - small, neat bites - until she was full. He was polishing off the last of the bread when she leaned back, wine glass in her hand. "Is it time for our game?"

"You seem to be improved. Will you need another . . . round tonight?" His tone implied that he was hoping the answer was no.

She sipped, a quirk at the corner of her mouth. "Over it, are you?"

"No - just -" Defensive.

"Malfoy." She was whispering, trying to lighten the mood. "Are you done playing healer?"

He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes narrowed and suspicious. "I need you well enough to research. Those books that Pans and Weasley sent won't read themselves. And assisting with some spells wouldn't hurt either. Are you capable of that?"

Any trace of humor vanished. She shook her head, slowly. Sadly. "I'm sorry, but I think the last hour of good spirits is just me riding the wave from earlier. I have a strong sense that if we don't . . . carry on tonight, I'll regress by morning. Which-" this was mortifying - "if you'd prefer to wait until then and see how I'm doing, I'd completely understand."

He rolled his eyes and drained his wine. He reached over and took her empty glass and set it beside his on the table. "Get up, Granger."

"Oh. I didn't mean for us to - now?"

"I want to play chess tonight but before I do that I think I need to get you off at least two - three - four times."

She stood slowly. "How much have you had to drink?"

He was acting bullish. "Enough to know what's best." He stepped forward and around the table in one long stride. His black-clad chest filled her view. Crowding her. "Lie down."

She flushed with the dream of argument - an instinct, where he was concerned - but she wasn't well enough yet and she knew it. She did as he said, scooting herself towards the back of the pallet. Her nightgown rode up her thighs. Malfoy cleared his throat and climbed into the alcove, stretching out beside her.

"It seemed to . . . be a good round, last time," he offered.

She was on her back, hands clasped on her stomach, waiting.

"Yes," she said softly. "You certainly know what you're doing."

He propped his head up on his hand, his fingers feathering his hair. "I'll do whatever you want. Earlier, I - you haven't seemed well enough to tell me."

She avoided looking at him. "Let's not mess with success."

"Granger," he chastised. "What do you like? Let's not make this harder than it needs to be." Than it already is.

There was a long pause before she sighed and turned to face him. The front of her robe gaped, and he glanced down at it before pointedly bringing his eyes back to her face. "I don't know. And it wouldn't matter anyway. I don't think I like anything anymore. Let's just - crack on."

His mouth was a thin line. "Right. Well, it seemed to help when I kind of -" he tentatively placed his left hand on her hip. Rubbed a slow circle over the robe.

Hermione gestured down at her attire. "You can take all this off, if you want."

Malfoy's hand paused for a half second in its gentle caress. "Like, off-off? Naked off?"

"If it's easier."

"Is that what you want? Would it make this more comfortable?"

She shrugged, harkening back to her imagination about him and his friends. "I don't care. Just don't - you know - mock me. If we ever get out of here.

"Mock you?"

She looked at him like he was very slow. "My body."

"Mock it?" His eyes flashed.

"You know what I mean. Don't go around telling your arsehole mates who knew me from school what I look like. I have a career - a professional reputation. I don't need rumors spreading about the dimples on my ass or my weight or the wonkiness of my tit- my breasts."

He stared at her. Perhaps he was slow. Or drunker than she thought.

"I wouldn't," he said condescendingly.

She squinted up at him. "No I suppose you wouldn't want any of your ilk to know you'd sullied your hands by putting them all over me."

"My ilk." His parroting was becoming silly.

"Just - let's get this over with."

He had kept up a light massage of her hip this entire time but now he gripped it hard. "No, let's get something clear, Granger." His eyes practically sparked with anger. "I've done a lot of terrible things. And you may not believe this. But I have never touched - I would never touch - a woman who doesn't want me." He spoke through gritted teeth. "Until this week."

She didn't know what to make of his tone, his vitriol. He was insulted. She'd insulted Malfoy. Whatever moral code he lived by, he felt this was violating it somehow.

His fingers were digging painfully into her side as he continued. "If you think I'm going to go around telling people about this, or about you - I don't know what to say."

"Perfect - that's my point. Don't say a word. Just keep your opinions about my appearance to yourself."

She'd made him very mad. "I wouldn't tell anyone anything about this part of my life."

"What part?" She'd caught him. He couldn't say my sex life because - well, they weren't having sex, were they? This wasn't sexual. It was medicinal. Healing. A means to an end, which was surviving, escaping, and never seeing each other again.

He didn't fall into the trap. "My private life. Look, do you want to come, or not? Because I think I've been accused of quite enough for one evening."

"Not quite enough. I think you've bruised me," she said.

He summoned his wand. "Show me," he scoffed. "If I did, I'll heal it."

She pulled her nightgown up, revealing that she hadn't worn underwear - what was the point? - and the blossoming bruise on her hip.

Malfoy frowned. "I shouldn't have done that." He was about to tap it for some kind of spell when she shoved it away.

"Don't." She tugged at the hem of the robe which was bunched up at her waist. "Do you want me to take this off or not?"

"Leave it on," he said, matching her snippy tone. "And lay back." She did, nose in the air, and closed her eyes.

This was not the careful, distanced embrace he'd held her in earlier. He gripped her thigh and pulled her legs apart. Just before he was about to reach between them and test her readiness he paused. "Do you want me to do this?"

"Yes." She spat the word.

"Are you going to tell people - after? What I did to you?"

Hermione opened her eyes and searched his face, his furrowed brow, the lines of his frown. "Why would I?"

"You think you're worried about me speaking about - about you, or all this. How do you think I feel?"

She was genuinely confused. "You think I would tell people - what exactly?"

"That I fumbled over you, taking forever to make you come. Played a guessing game about what you like, what works. How I pressed myself into you like - like an animal."

What was he talking about? He hadn't pressed himself into her at all. In fact, she'd noticed he was consciously keeping distance between their bodies as much as possible. And - fumbling? Was this a joke? His fingers flexed on her leg, but he didn't squeeze like before. He looked serious, so she answered him seriously.

"I wouldn't say anything about this - and certainly none of that."

He waited - for what?

Finally she exhaled and laid a hand on his arm. Just to get his attention. "Can we please call a truce? When we get out of this cave, neither of us will ever speak about what we've done or seen in this alcove, on this bed."

He thought about that for a moment. She could see him examining the precision of her words in his mind. He could not find fault with her parameters. "How will you explain your recovery?" he asked.

"I won't. If and when I can't avoid a question, I'll just say we got trapped in here. And worked together to get out. It's - it's the truth."

"Done. Same."

"Then, please, let's finish this."

His tone shifted slightly - less antagonizing. "We can't finish what we haven't started. I'll ask again - what do you like?"

She felt decidedly irritated. What did he expect her to say? "I already told you - I do not care."

"You also said we're working together."

She remained silent.

Malfoy must have felt bad about the bruise. "Fine. I'll just do what worked so far."

He began to run his hand over her hip, up her stomach, and down again. She turned wordlessly, so that she was facing away from him. He stroked her until she exhaled softly and shifted her thighs apart. She knew she'd be wet - and when he finally felt it too, she sighed and relaxed. She was wet - very - and he slipped his fingers through it with firm strokes.

She spread her legs wider, shifting her body - and felt his chest press lightly against her back. One touch of her clit, just a brush, and she came, covering her mouth with her hand until it was over.

"That was fast," he said. He slid a finger inside her, chasing the little throbs. "On edge, Granger?"

Her voice was muffled by her hand. "Teetering. Due to you." She did not mean it as a compliment. This is embarrassing. Hermione Granger, coming as fast as a thirteen-year-old boy. She'd never been like this in her life. Usually it took her forev-

"Shall we pull you back a bit?" He added a second finger and rubbed a place he wanted, deep inside. She gasped when he found it. Her legs closed on his hand involuntarily, her body trying to hold him closer.

He kept up the rhythm he'd set. He was trapped between her thighs in this position, but he made masterful use of the pads of his fingers. He circled her clit occasionally with his thumb.

The sensations he was arousing inside - they were taking over. Pushing her out of her mind, into a place where nothing mattered but the physical. The here and now. She was keenly aware of the slickness of her cunt, the sweat on her neck. The throbbing ache in her breasts and how Malfoy's long fingers filled her. She couldn't help it - she pressed one of her hands onto her lower belly. How would the rest of him feel? She banished the thought as quickly as it entered. "Malfoy?"

"Yes?"

"Can I - move a little more?"

"You should do whatever feels good."

She lifted her leg and flung it backwards, over his thigh. She wanted more. Less control. Hermione's hips urged his hands to explore again. To tease her. His long body was against her back - so tall his feet extended past hers and the crown of her head lay against his shoulder.

She was a flame, flickering and moving at random. Uncontrolled. Free.

Malfoy didn't miss a beat, taking advantage of the additional space in this position. Withdrawing his fingers he played with her instead, tracing the lines of her folds and tickling gently at the slick places open to him.

Hermione moved her hands from her stomach to her chest, frustrated by the fabric. You should have taken off this robe. It's too hot. She pulled at it until it opened. She didn't like how the nightshirt rubbed against her nipples, almost itchy, and grasped at her breasts to prevent it.

She wondered for a moment what he must think of her, how desperate she must look. He promised not to tell. That's the most important thing.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Is it working?" He kept his touch light. She stretched her leg back, higher on his thigh. Giving him more access. He ran a single finger from her entrance to her clit, teasing lightly.

"You know it is," Hermione said simply, and came again. Hard. The tremors radiated up and out from where he rested his hand. How does this man have such power?

"Do that one more time," she whispered, her mind as clear as it had been in days.

Malfoy obediently resumed. Exploratory, unhurried touching. Occasionally he pressed the tip of his finger just inside her body and she always exhaled at that. "You like a lighter touch, Granger?"

At the sound of his voice she fully squeezed her breasts, her eyes shut tight. She couldn't look at him. "I guess I do."

"I think you like to be teased." He brushed at her thighs, making her shiver.

"I think you like to be played." She felt his thumb ghost over clit.

"I think you like to ask for it." And pulled his hand away. He hovered it over her, waiting. Her hips lifted and she made a frustrated sound. Where did he go? said her body.

"Do you agree?" He pet the soft mound above where she parted. He'd never make her come, doing that. She bucked again, seeking relief.

"I think I want you to stop being a tosser." Her voice was breathy with desperation.

"Ask nicely."

She burned with need. She had the insane instinct to press herself against skin, to tear her clothes off, to have her hair pulled and her back bent. To be filled.

"Ask nicely, Granger," he ground out.

"Please. No more soft. I - I'm ready for . . . how you touched me. Before."

"Like this?" And he slid those two fingers down her front, over her clit, pressing through her folds and inside her, burying them deeply.

Yes. She cried out.

When he'd caressed her through it, stretching her pleasure out as long as he could, they rolled apart - Hermione onto her stomach and Malfoy onto his back. She could see his profile.

They lay there for several minutes. He was still and silent, unaffected, but Hermione was gasping.

The clarity in her mind that the orgasms gave was a blessing and a curse. She felt better - much. But with that came the ability to examine what was happening. The insanity of this situation. She wished he was anyone else - that she could ask him her questions. Namely, what was that? His fingers hadn't been the only thing touching her today. She felt his voice. His words. His chest. His strong leg under hers. Had Malfoy been . . . stop it, Hermione.

She could not let her mind venture there, could not let herself examine this beyond what she needed in the moment. He was Draco Malfoy and she was Pathetic - depressed and lethargic, barely able to walk or eat. She couldn't even use magic.

He'd referenced something earlier - the horrible things he'd done in his life. His choices at Hogwarts? Supporting his father and Voldemort in the war? She'd seen the Dark Mark on his arm. When had he gotten it? She must not forget, now that the cogs of her brain were turning, who he was. Harry and Ginny and Ron - they were all worried about her for good reason. While she agreed with Malfoy that it was not in his interest to hurt her, she couldn't forget that he was dangerous.

Even if he didn't hurt her - there could be consequences to being here, together. She must be careful not to reveal anything substantive about herself or her friends or her work at the Ministry. Just in case. And, to stay on his good side. She had no doubt that making a worse enemy of him could negatively impact her life, her career, or her future.

She had to regain some power with any strength she had. She couldn't just lie here all day, accepting his charity in the form of orgasms and meals from his elves. But how to do it?

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That was the saying.

She had to ingratiate herself with Malfoy to prevent fallout. Not physically ingratiate, of course - that was a hard line. They must never touch more than necessary. Keep your conscience clear. But when she felt well enough she resolved to do her part. She could research how to get out. Engage him in conversation. Play -

"Chess?" she spoke suddenly. "I owe you."

"It's late."

"I've slept a lot today. And - I feel well."

She didn't have to ask twice. He was already up and clearing the table. He fetched the board from the top of the dresser and set the pieces, precisely in the center of each square, while she adjusted her robe and joined him.

Her side was white and his was black. "You first," he said.

Hermione was terrible. Her mind was working, but she'd never been that good, or enjoyed, chess. Usually in school she'd had something more interesting to read while Harry and Ron played in the common room. Malfoy didn't comment on her abysmal moves.

He'd given her the couch this time and took the floor, which gave her a view of the top of his head. His hair was thick and slightly mussed in the back, where he sometimes twisted a few strands while he contemplated the game. She wondered how he kept it so shiny.

Instead she asked him a few more topical questions: how often did he play? Had Nott brought this set or was it from The Bunker? Which was his favorite piece? He grunted begrudging answers. He had fallen into A Mood.

When he'd trounced her, she extended a hand."Good game."

"Not particularly." But his fingers closed over hers and they shook.

"We can play again tomorrow. I'll try to put up more of a challenge."

"Right."

They looked at each other. It was uncomfortable. She didn't know what was wrong, but he seemed troubled.

Hermione leaned toward the board to clean up but he interrupted. "Don't. I'll do it. Go ahead and take the loo first. I'm going to wash before bed."

"Alright."

While she was in there, brushing her teeth and tugging her hair into a less hazardous version of itself, she pondered the day and their promises - to keep these treatments a secret. She supposed assurance was the least she could give him, though his concerns had been misguided. She certainly didn't want anyone to know of her humiliation. And had no plans to concede to anyone, ever how good he was at getting her off.

Her thoughts were interrupted by something falling - glass breaking.

"It's fine," he shouted, before she could even get to the door. "Don't come out. I just dropped a bottle. Take your time."

She gave him another five minutes.

When she was finished he passed her without a word - not even a goodnight - and shut the door firmly. She stopped, looking around. The whole room looked like it had been scrubbed. He must have done a flurry of magical tidying. The couch cushions were fluffier, the stone was all dustless, and the rough wood of the table nearly gleamed. And - he had unpacked the books that Ron and Pansy had sent, in a tall and precisely-aligned stack beside the couch. She saw some of the titles on their spines, embossed in gold or black or silver. She'd take a closer look in the morning. He'd even sent out the basket with their dirty dishes and laundry. She could see it past the magical barrier, waiting for Nott to pick up. Malfoy, Rage Cleaner. She wouldn't have guessed.

Back in her bed - which he'd made - she thought about his life on the outside. She started a mental list of what she knew about him. Only child, like her. Father in Azkaban, serving a life sentence. Mother in Malfoy Manor. Also serving a life sentence, of a sort. Narcissa Malfoy certainly couldn't show her face the way she used to. Spouses and children of Death Eaters - they were confined since the war to the shadows of society. All he'd said about her was that she didn't eat much. Ron and Pansy also reported that she had been unconcerned that he was down here. That was strange. If Hermione's mother knew about this, she'd be frantic with worry. Thankfully, she'd recently seen her parents and they didn't have plans again until the Christmas holiday.

She was sure he still had some friends - Slytherins from school. She knew Pansy, of course, and Nott. She wondered if he kept up with Blaise, who had reportedly taken over the Zabini family's business. Had Malfoy made any others in the years since?

What did he do for work?

She came back to his seemingly earnest concern that she would tell people about this. Perhaps he had just as much to lose as she did. What, though, was a mystery for tomorrow.