She missed Harry and Ginny. Knowing they were nearby, even if she hadn't been able to see them - it had been more of a comfort than she'd realized. She also keenly felt the absence of her watch, which, until the attack, had been ever-present on her wrist for years. It was difficult, to not have even a cursory understanding of where they were. Work, Traveling, Bed, Lost, Danger - she had drawn immense comfort from it.

So she buried herself in the veritable library which now surrounded them, tall stacks that Malfoy re-arranged when he was exceptionally bored. She was searching for anything about unconscious magic. A hint that would help Malfoy sort out his feelings and free them.

Hermione had a huge book in her lap when Nott arrived mid-day with his delivery. So big she didn't bother to move, as it was heavy and she didn't want to lose her place. The prospect of their meeting after all these weeks no longer made her uncomfortable. It would be nice, perhaps, to see someone other than a certain surly blond.

That meant Theo could see her through the archway, and offered a greeting.

"Looking well, Hermione."

Theodore Nott looked - very well. Quite fit, actually. He was a head shorter than Malfoy, but had a similar build. Where Draco was pale and light, Theo was tan and dark. He still had the bright eyes she remembered from school but flashed a more charming smile. He carried himself with the cheerful disposition of someone who could get just about anyone to kiss him.

"Liar. And hello." She couldn't help but smile back.

"I got an owl from Potter. They're doing fine, happy to be home. Ginny sent her regards and said I was to lay eyes on you, make sure you were still alive - so, this is perfect."

"Yes. Finally, we meet."

"Surprised this one let me see you. He's usually so -"

Malfoy stepped between them to block her view.

"News?" His voice was clipped.

"Don't be jealous, Draco. No offense, Hermione, but my preferences lie elsewhere," Nott chirped. Interesting.

"Your relationship status is not information to which I care to be privy," Draco drawled. "Yes or no - is it done?"

Theo didn't answer, and she glanced up to see why. They appeared to be having some kind of silent conversation with head tilts and shakes. It annoyed her, suddenly and intensely - what was so secret she couldn't know about it?

"I'm sitting right here," she said sharply, and Malfoy twisted around. He looked - almost guilty.

"Time for your bath?" he asked pointedly.

"No, thank you."

Irritated, he turned back to Nott. "It needs to be done by tomorrow. I've been more than clear."

Another moment of silent communication between them before Malfoy turned on his heel, Nott dismissed, and began to walk the room.

"Gods speed, Hermione," Theo called. She could see him leaving, the old basket levitating at his side. "I expect to see her in one piece tomorrow, mate."

"Goodbye," she yelled back. "And thank you for bringing us such nice deliveries each day - without you we'd be starving and wearing rags."

Theo laughed loudly. "Thank you, for thanking me. It's lovely to be appreciated for once. Draco, am I right?"

Malfoy scowled.

When the footsteps faded she confronted him crossly. "What was that about?"

"None of your fucking concern." He was distracted, one of his hands twisting the back of his hair. She swallowed an argument and turned a page. Fine. If he was going to speak to her like that she'd leave him be.

Seeming to remember their fresh delivery, Malfoy pulled the basket toward him and sat down on the couch to rifle through it. Which he did with vigor, as if searching. He stopped, suddenly, and began to pull lunch out. But she saw him slide something against his leg.

"What are you looking for?"

"Sandwiches."

"No. You put it in your pocket."

"It's nothing to do with you," he said. He stood abruptly. "Eat without me. I need a bath."

"You had a bath this morn-"

He closed the door. She did not hear the water.

He was hiding something, clearly. She knew he'd had letters. But from whom? He seemed - occupied. Worried. And a few days ago he'd made it sound like he was running out of time. She was mulling it over when she glanced at the basket and saw a corner of an envelope. One he missed.

Eyes on the door, she leaned over and snatched it up, hiding it under a page of the book in her lap. Her heart pounded. Glancing down at it while keeping watch, she checked the front. It was addressed to Master Draco Malfoy, care of Mister Theodore Nott, in severe black script. What would he do if he found her with it? And what could she do with it if it was opened? She could hide it in the drawer he'd allotted her - but he might look in there when she was asleep. He regularly put things away for her that Nott delivered - extra clothes and socks. The risk of discovery was too high. She could tear the letter into pieces and flush it, she decided.

What if it's a letter he needs to see, news he needed to know? What if his mother was ill? No, she thought. If his mother was ill Nott or Pansy would say. It had to be something related to the unspecified work he claimed to do. It's probably just a boring report of how much money he has, she reasoned.

Though, if she opened it and it was something she felt compelled to share with him, it would be impossible to explain how she got it. Hermione supposed she could put it back in the basket. Let him find it. She flipped it quickly, her fear of discovery rising. It was sealed on the back, a red wax with a stamp she didn't recognize. Some kind of serpent. Of course it is. So she wouldn't be able to hide that it was opened - he'd notice a broken seal. She had to decide whether it was worth the risk - Draco could never know she'd seen it.

She felt torn. She was trapped down here with him, alone. If he was enraged, if he wanted to hurt her - no one would ever know if he acted on it. He could just tell Harry that she slipped, that she drowned in the bath. That she choked to death or died in her sleep. And who would ever be able to prove otherwise?

It was hard, though - to imagine that he would actually harm her. He certainly wanted to sometimes, she could see how much she irritated him. How hard he worked to quell his frustration. Could he really hurt her? She honestly didn't know. He seemed motivated to keep her alive -

Malfoy opened the door, eyes on the basket. She shoved the letter deeper under the pages of the book so he couldn't see. He sauntered over, sitting down with it between his legs, and picked through the contents with faux disinterest. "Looks like scones for breakfast tomorrow."

She forced herself to breathe evenly.

"Did you go through this?" He said it lightly, but his eyes seared into her. She had goosebumps on her arms. He was scaring her.

She told him so.

He blinked but did not look away. "Did you find something, Granger?"

Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. He knew. She knew he knew. "I - I thought maybe I had a letter."

He extended his hand toward her, slowly, the way one might try to pet Cerberus. His long fingers unfurled expectantly. Hand it over.

She didn't. She was examining his face - the lines and the suppressed rage.

"Give it to me."

The paper of the envelope was in her fingers, covered by the pages of the open book. She could try to close it, try to -

His eyes, dark and narrowed, could see it all.

"Please don't make me take it."

She handed it to him. He accepted it gently, flipping it casually between two fingers to check the seal.

"Thank you."

He stood, and was about to go back into the bathroom.

"You don't have to hide in there. I won't peek over your shoulder. Obviously it's - something you want to keep private. You can read on the bed or I'll move and you can sit here. I'll - I'll leave you alone."

She meant it as a peace offering, but he was not in the mood. He slammed the door, shaking the hinges, behind him. Fine.

If he was getting letters in, he must be sending them out. She got up, as quickly and quietly as she could, and crept to the dresser. She'd never looked in his drawer except to occasionally grab his green jumper, but she had to know. She slid it open a crack to peek inside. He had extra clothes from Nott - all black, all precisely folded and neatly stacked. A few shirts and joggers and briefs. But there - under his jumpers, she saw blank parchment, and the nib of a quill.

He was writing, sending correspondence back out in the basket for Nott to deliver. How had she not noticed? When did he do it? He must be getting up early or staying up later, only pretending to go to bed when she did. But he was so quiet - not that she paid much attention.

Hermione realized how much she'd been in her own head. Between the depression and sleeping and trying to heal - it hadn't occurred to her to watch him that closely.

Why the secrecy? she wondered, as she eased the drawer closed and retreated back to the couch. It didn't make sense. A woman? She'd considered that the first time she saw him with letters - but Malfoy seemed the type to crow about a desperate witch, sending him love missives. His father? But letters from Azkaban were limited and read by the prison - they couldn't contain anything so secretive he'd have to hide. Perhaps he was doing some kind of work that required discretion - but was that discretion necessary because she was Hermione Granger and he simply didn't trust her? Or because she worked for the Ministry?

She was mulling over it, the words on the page of her book swimming and blurring together, when he reappeared. He ignored her while he sat and ate a sandwich.

The pounding pulse in his neck betrayed him. He was seething but trying to hide it.

After Malfoy ate he exercised for over an hour. She tried not to watch out of the corner of her eye. But he was so distracting while he did push ups.

Then he walked, chewing his lip occasionally. She had the strong sense he wanted her to leave. At one point he re-tested the magical archway that entrapped them, extending a hand to see if they were still stuck. They were, and he swore under his breath.

But for the rest of the afternoon he avoided looking at her. She might as well have been gone. She finished her research for the day, used the loo, and laid down on the couch. He reminded her of a caged tiger, prowling and plotting a mutiny at feeding time.

Dinner came and went. He served it and ate while he read a book, as if she wasn't there. He was giving her the silent treatment. She took a few bites but wasn't hungry. The longer he went without speaking to her, the more her anxiety grew.

She cleared the plates, for a change, hoping that would prompt him to make some joke about her usual uselessness. But he didn't - just paced and paced and paced.

She took a bath before bed and lingered in front of the mirror, trying to decide what to do. She felt bad for trying to steal his letter. In hindsight, it was so foolish. Of course he was always going to know she had it. Malfoy wasn't the sort to miss a detail. She was relieved she hadn't opened it - he might have killed her already.

Her guilt dictated that she should be the bigger person - apologize, break the strain. After practicing what she was going to say and steadying herself, she went out.

He was sitting on the couch, reading, hair glowing in the light.

"I'm sorry."

He did not look up.

She stood, awkwardly, waiting for a response. He flipped a page.

"I shouldn't have taken it. I - I wasn't going to read it. The secrecy sparked my curiosity."

He touched his finger to his tongue and turned another page.

"Malfoy, please. I'm not sure how long I can last without you speaking to me."

He glanced up at that as if surveying her general wellness. Apparently satisfied that she wasn't at risk of imminent death, he turned back to his book. Arsehole.

Sighing, Hermione went and sat on the bed. "I'll play chess. Or cards?"

He did not answer. After what felt like years of silence, she lay down. She'd try again tomorrow.

The dreams were terrible. Nearly as bad as they'd been soon after the creature attack. She tossed and turned, twisting in the bedsheets, trying to run from the visions that haunted. The world's pains and evils, chasing each other through her mind.

She woke at some point to Malfoy staring at her from across the room. He looked . . . tired, but he blinked away any trace of emotion.

She opened her mouth to ask - Are we fine? - but he flipped on the couch to face away from her. She said nothing.

In the morning he was still silent, though she found her breakfast served. His was already finished. It must be late. It was impossible to tell in the permanent darkness. What did it matter? It didn't. She had no appetite, and felt keenly that he hadn't touched her the day before. The absence was an ache, deep in her stomach.

She bathed and dressed while he was exercising. Once she'd returned to the couch she found the Prophet from the day before in the open basket and pulled it out. The headlines were about a proposed Werewolf treaty - she knew Harry supported it, so it would probably happen. He was always working behind the scenes to further his goals. No further reports of attacks from the creature, which was what she was always looking for. Did that mean it was still somewhere in the cave?

But then on the last page - a short article. About Azkaban. She read it carefully, and then a second time. A Ministry auror, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, confirmed that at least one of the recently-discovered tunnels was large enough for a man to crawl through. Azkaban officials deny that any prisoners are missing, and say no indications of broad escape plans have been uncovered. But the auror close to the investigation expressed concern that efforts to discover who was behind the tunnels have been hampered by Azkaban guards themselves. Rumors abound of a potential bribery scheme.

Hermione set the paper down. Bribery. So guards were being paid to smuggle things in - or even smuggle someone out.

Thank Merlin that Harry was out of here. He'd know what to do. She trusted that he was reading the same thing, that he'd take it seriously, that he'd enlist his top people to help him. Not her, given her current predicament. But others. She tampened her anxiety with a slow breath. There's nothing you can do about it in this moment. Let it go.

Not natural, not for her. She struggled with the discomfort of acceptance - and felt Malfoy studying her.

She met his eyes. He was impassive, but did not look away.

"Are we going to move on today?" she asked.

He responded by going into the bathing chamber to get cleaned up. Too bad, she thought. He looked delicious when lightly sweaty. If he wasn't going to speak to her, at least she could admire his aesthetic.

Later, when he finally ran out of things to do and joined her on the couch, he picked up one of the new books from Pansy and Ron - about blood curses and dark magic - and began to read.

Hermione had had enough.

Steeling herself, she turned to him, leaned forward, and brushed her fingers lightly on his shoulder. Close to his neck. "Draco."

He whirled on her, shoving her hand away with violent force. "Don't you ever fucking touch me."

He looked vicious.

"I didn-"

"You seem to have forgotten what this is. Or rather, what it isn't. You have no right to touch me. We aren't in a relationship, Granger. We aren't friends." He said it like a slur. His tone was ice, was fury. "You did me a favor yesterday, reminding me of who you are. When this is over, when we're free, I never want to see you again."

Of course.

Shock. That was the only way to describe it. Her heart wasn't even pounding. She felt - numb.

Hermione turned back to her own book, eyes blurred with tears.

No. Do not cry. Don't give him the satisfaction. She controlled her breathing, counting silently to eight for each inhale and exhale. Don't let him see.

After a long time she turned a page, because it was what a reading person was supposed to do. But she wasn't reading, couldn't see the words. All she could see was his face, over and over, the rage in it. The juxtaposition with the man who had lain beside her so many times, who had pet her and played with her and made her feel unspeakably good - it was jarring.

Don't you ever fucking touch me. It was a bell, ringing from a tower. A warning.

He's right. You - presumed. She analyzed the way she'd placed her hand on his shoulder. She supposed the way she'd brushed him with her fingertips could have been misinterpreted. On the other hand - she'd touched him before and he'd never reacted this way. Usually it was Malfoy touching her. But there had been exceptions. She'd laid her hand over his when he spooned her in bed. And in the bath, she'd held onto his thighs. Sometimes, in the throes of pleasure, her head landed on his shoulder or she pressed against his body. He hadn't seemed to mind, those times.

This time was different. She supposed he had a line. Those other times, he'd initiated. He'd spooned her. He got into the tub. He didn't mind her reaction to his action. But - she wasn't allowed to initiate.

This information was inconsistent with her prior understanding of men. Padma and Parvati used to giggle, about how wild it made the boys when they took the lead. And Ron and her other casual boyfriends had always seemed to like it on the rare occasion that she kissed them. But not Malfoy. He wanted contact only on his terms.

Don't you ever fucking touch me. Or maybe - he was drawing a new boundary. He probably didn't mind if other witches touched him. But he did not care for her relaxation of the inherent distance between them.

He'd been so angry. Reminding her they weren't friends. They weren't in a relationship. And, she agreed. They were together only through happenstance, through a series of random and unfortunate events.

Except - they were in a relationship. Not a relationship with a common or easy label, of course. It was - undefined. But Malfoy had seen her at her lowest. It was disingenuous to say they weren't connected, somehow, someway. It was simply false. They were connected. Through shared experience, in the walls of this room. To say they weren't was - no. There had been too many moments of peace, of humor, of shared trust. He knew her in ways that no one else ever had.

Don't let him take that from you. He doesn't get to decide.

There were two Draco Malfoys, and she had seen them both. They terrified her in different ways.

She did not eat dinner - she couldn't. Her stomach revolted when he pulled the meal out. Before he had snarled at her that afternoon she might have thought it was a peace offering - now she suspected he simply had posh manners and it meant nothing at all. He slid the plate toward her.

She was curled up on herself on the side of the couch, her arms protectively around her legs. She'd nearly put on Malfoy's favorite joggers earlier but decided against provoking him. Instead she was in an old pair of leggings and a Gryffindor jersey. Her hair was loose, messy, and she pushed it out of her eyes.

"No, thank you." They were the first words in hours.

"You've had nothing all day." His tone was indecipherable.

"I can't." It was the truth.

"Get into bed, I'll - help you."

His euphemism for her pleasure. Except it didn't feel like help anymore. The idea of his hands on her after what he'd said, and moreso how he'd said it - she felt sick.

"No."

"I didn't mean for me to stop touching you," he said, voice heavy. "Just - we should maintain boundaries."

"I am."

"You're regressing already. You need to eat."

She faced him fully, hoping he could see the despair she felt. "You've made yourself clear. I'd rather starve than accept your help."

He frowned, the unintended consequences of his words reflected in his eyes. "We have to figure this out. We still don't know how long we'll be here. You can't-"

"Touch you. Yes, I know. I didn't mean it like that, by the way - I just wanted to get your attention. I wasn't trying to fuck you. I wouldn't ever do that."

"I didn't think you were." A hint of defensiveness. Good. Let him stew.

After awhile he began to eat his own meal, and poured two glasses of wine.

He offered her one, and she waved it off. He drank them both.

"Shall I read to you?"

She was indifferent. "Read to yourself."

"Hermione."

She looked at him - he felt bad. She could see it.

"I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." His hair fell into his eyes. Now you will never know what it feels like.

She blinked at him. Don't you ever fucking touch me.

"I lost my temper. I was - stressed."

It was hard for him to admit, she knew. But she had nothing in response. He had revealed himself and his true feelings, and that was the end of it.

They stared at each other for a long minute before he sighed and looked away. She prepared for and got into bed, facing the back of the alcove. She listened as he cleared the dinner away and filled up the basket with the things for Nott to collect - laundry and dishes and probably whatever letters he'd written in secret when she wasn't looking.

She heard the creak of the couch as he stretched out. The clink of his wine glass. He began to read - The Tempest.

The sooner she was asleep, the sooner he could get up and write to his lover or his mother or his father or - who knows.

She ignored the even lilt of his voice as best she could.