The first night that Draco Malfoy spent holding Hermione Granger, he hardly slept. It was in fits and starts when it came at all, short bursts. His mind and body roused him almost immediately whenever he drifted off. Don't waste it.

He spent the first couple of hours with his nose buried in her hair. While he breathed her in, he pondered their general situation. It was becoming harder and harder to remember the world outside — to care about things like Azkaban and monsters and the Carrows. Perhaps he and Granger would be stuck for the rest of the year, a couple of hibernating badgers.

It was . . . not his worst nightmare, actually. Not any longer. It had been, that first day. Those first weeks. But sometime since, he'd realized that she wasn't such a bad roommate. That, if he set aside the pressure to heal her and his unrequited lust, he . . . enjoyed the little things.

Making up her plates.

Adding enough cream to her coffee to irritate.

Knowing she was about to share a passage of interest by the angle at which she inclined her head.

The transformation of her curls while they dried, from damp and heavy to springy fuzz.

Their dinner conversations. Those, perhaps, most of all. He hoarded the pieces of her he learned.

Tightening his arms, Draco's imagination drifted to another impossible world in which she dined with him at the Manor. She sat in her usual place at his right hand, no barriers between them. The past was different and they could speak unreservedly about anything. They chatted amiably while they ate — the minor irritations of her day, about what they'd been reading and news from their friends. Between courses he speculated aloud what he thought Muggles probably did to cook — "it's a wonder any of them have any fingers left, if I cut my own vegetables you'd have to call me Old Stumpy" — and got her to laugh.

Granger's laugh.

He had yet to hear it.

He'd robbed her not just of freedom and magic — but also her laughter.

That brought him back to reality. Who they were. He, a rutting piece of shit whose incessantly hard cock pressed into her like it had a hope.

Daft bastard.

Later he dozed for a bit on his back, a trapped arm serving as her pillow. He accepted the soreness. You can stretch tomorrow. Tonight, let her rest.

He had a brief but pleasant dream in which they were in the same positions in his bed. She was enticingly naked, pale moonlight showing off what he'd seen only under torches. Draco asked — "May I?" — and she lifted her leg and reached between them to guide him. Her cunt was tight and wet and it felt like he could die from the pleasure in it. He covered her in himself, her smooth back to his chest and his fingers occupied with her breasts and belly —

He woke with a start, just before he came, hard and rocking his hips. His free hand was not, mercifully, molesting Hermione. It was down his own joggers. Flushed and ashamed, Draco nearly shoved her off his shoulder and moved to the sofa.

He put his imagination away. That's enough. He'd have plenty of time when they were out — whenever it came — to imagine other ways it all could have gone.

But he turned on his side for a firm parting squeeze and found that he lacked the ability to leave her after all. Not when she was asleep and comfortable and she nuzzled her head against his bicep and shifted her bottom back against his hip.

He drifted in and out again. Dreamless, thank the gods.

Held her until she stirred, trying not to imagine how it might feel for her to turn and wrap her arms around him.

Pansy showed up during breakfast, her red-headed accessory in tow. Draco had to admit that Weasley was the perfect companion for what she delivered:

Excuses.

"There is something external," she said, hands apart like it was a fucking offering instead of a wild guess. "Something beyond our control."

"I won't stop looking," Weasley promised Granger directly. "No matter what he —" there it was again, their fucking disdain and disgust, "says, I won't give up on you."

"We won't stop looking." Pansy inserted herself. She and Weasley were using a lot of "we"s. "We interviewed a hermit" and "that's what we're thinking" and "we've done our best." It took him a moment to realize it wasn't Weasley who was so smitten. They were fucking, to be sure — probably all over the Manor library, he'd have to tell the elves to do a deep clean — but it was Pans who couldn't tear her eyes away. She stared as he spoke, turned her body to him, distracted him from focusing too long on Granger.

"We," Weasleby agreed.

Granger looked back at him, at them, probably coming to the same conclusion. Her ex, enamored with the witch Draco put in front of him. Was she resentful? That he'd contributed to that budding — sickening — relationship? "Thanks."

She didn't sound like she gave a fuck. Delightful, to hear it.

"We appreciate it," Draco offered, pointedly indicating Granger with his shoulder. "Don't we?" An immature dig — but he couldn't help it. Weasley was definitely fucking Parkinson, and he surely fucked Granger, but Draco had something he didn't — the momentary opportunity to be a we with her.

"You didn't have to do that," she told him when they left. "I wasn't upset or anything."

"Not jealous?" He tossed and caught his wand, avoiding her assessing gaze. If she was annoyed that he'd referred to them as a we, he didn't want to see it.

"What was between us, it ended a very long time ago."

How long? he wanted to ask. How many years, months, days ago? Was she properly over it?

"Are you seeing anyone now?" It spilled out. His subconscious, desperate for information, for context, taking control. His wand flipped across his fingers.

"No."

No.

No boyfriend.

No ring waiting in a drawer.

No one to accuse her of adultery.

No one for whom she'd need Draco's memories.

No, that wasn't right. No one . . . except herself.

"Why not?"

"I work. Worked," she frowned, and his chest twinged with guilt. "A lot. Why do you ask?" Suspicious.

"Just want to make sure I won't have some crazy boyfriend, bent on revenge, stalking me when this is done."

That was all it took.

Granger laughed.

Tipped her head back and everything, eyes sparkling with delight.

A deep, loud, magical sound.

Which part was so funny? That she'd date a vindictive type? Or that she had a boyfriend at all?

"It wasn't, like, a crazy question," he told her defensively. His assumptions were still evaporating slowly, the repercussions of her answer, no, echoing through him like her laugh on the stone. Granger was single. No one waiting for her on the surface.

But, then — who would help her, heal her, touch her when they escaped? He glanced at the archway. At the magic, rippling strong.

She was wiping her eyes, chuckling madly to herself. "Okay."

"Since we aren't going to be getting any fucking help from our friends, I suggest we get to researching."

She agreed, still smiling, and collected several books from the top of their unread pile. She canted a hip saucily, holding them for his inspection. "Would you prefer Wizardom's Most Daring Escapes or Tricky Charms for Home and Hearth?"

He made a face. "Neither."

She glanced at the pile. "After these it's Magical Terms, Defined, 1800 Edition."

"Right. Daring Escapes." She handed it to him. "Please," he remembered.

She sat roughly — had she always been ungraceful, or was it another effect of the attack? — nearly in the middle of the sofa, her head already buried in Charms.

So after he cleared the breakfast dishes and joined her they were close. Closer than normal. Their thighs nearly touched. Her right arm brushed his left when either of them turned a page. And he turned them regularly — so she'd think he was focused.

But his mind was on the bricks of one of his highest barriers tumbling down. Single. He wondered how single. Perhaps she had a bloke on the side, someone allergic to commitment. It was hard for Draco to imagine that she could be fully alone. He supposed, on the other hand, that if she did work too much her prospects among her colleagues might be limited. The Ministry was full of creepy and incompetent old chaps, lifers like Kennilson who wouldn't interest a fit young witch.

He summoned snacks from Nott's basket. Yet again, no crisps. But there were chocolate frogs, a request he'd made on the second day of her witch times. Did he imagine that their fingers lingered when he put them in her hand? Single.

Potter and the Ginger offered nothing while they worked, per usual. As fucking useless as Pans and Weasley. And Draco was cross, remembering how Potter had knelt beside Weasley in the attack's aftermath, paying Hermione barely any mind. Knowing she'd been single and playing Potter's chaperone made it all the worse. But Granger liked to talk with them. It was the loudest and most authoritative she ever got, projecting her voice so they could hear. "This might be helpful," she called. He watched while she trailed her finger over the passage. "To prevent household pets from escaping, it is advised to set containment wards around the edge of the property. Certain wards can be tied to particular animals, thus permitting adjustment of appropriate boundaries —" She looked up at him. "It's clearly a containment ward."

"Hmm." Single.

After several unproductive hours he stood to stretch.

She was smiling at the text. "What are you so happy about, Granger?"

"Nothing." But her grin grew.

"Come on, I'm bored." He didn't recall making a joke. Perhaps he'd done something unintentional. "What's so funny?"

"I'm just thinking about when we get out of here and I can get the whole story of how things are going with Ginny and Harry."

Smiling like that . . . for them. A reminder that she was a good fucking person. Selfless. Truly happy for her friends.

"Well, won't it be lovely?" She bounced a bit, waiting for him to join in her glee. "She's going to be so happy."

Draco had nothing to say to Potter — except maybe You're welcome for the room — but her delight was a milestone. "Granger. I think it's working." Hours of her orgasms, of his painful erections . . . finally paying off.

"What d'you mean?" She tilted her head.

"You're excited about something. Looking forward to something. And you laughed, earlier."

She pursed her lips for a long minute. Then she smiled again, a different smile. A smile for him. "I think you're right. It is working."

Ah. He memorized it, that smile. Progress. She wasn't there yet. But she was improving under his care, his supervision. Under his hands.

He needed another wank.

His cock sprang up the moment he got into the bath, expecting its due attention.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, pulling together the parts of her that he'd come to know and filling in what he didn't with his imagination. He found himself in the sexiest of locations — the Manor dining room. They were finishing the meal he'd dreamed the night before, Granger setting aside her utensils after eating every damned morsel. Her fingers circled slowly around the rim of her wine.

"Chess?" he offered. Their evening entertainment.

She smiled that smile, her smile for him. "I'd prefer cards."

He reached for her hand. She was just tipsy enough that she leaned against him down the hall to the parlor. He told her she might have to shuffle when it was Old Stumpy's deal and she laughed again, the sound filling the empty hall.

When he had her seated in front of the fire, he convinced her to make the game more interesting. "A wager?"

"Hmm." She lifted her eyebrows, waiting. Her hair was shiny, done by magic. She twisted it and put it up, using her wand as anchor. Her wand, useless no more. She could summon and cast at will. Apparate away if he was an arse. A powerful witch in his home of her own volition. "What kind of wager?"

"If I win," he dealt them each seven. "You take that off." His jumper, silver snake on her breast making him jealous.

"And when I win?" She picked up her cards, arranging them thoughtfully. She didn't look the least bit nervous.

His dream self, confident and flirty, looked down at his own. "You can do whatever you want to me." He had shit. Thank the gods.

"Tempting," she said dryly, "given the strength of my hand." But looking him right in the eye, she folded.

Reached for the hem of her — his — jumper. Pulled it up over her head.

Braless beneath, the perfect hang of her tits highlighted by the fire. She leaned back on one hand, trailing the other over her nipples while he crawled over the scattered deck. "Come here, Dra—"

"Malfoy?" A loud knock at the door. An interrupting elf? He shook his head, clearing the vision. No, a rude witch calling his name, distracting him from her. "I — I think I found it. An answer for the cave."

Fuck.

She'd found a definition in Magical Terms. Compulsive caverns. Granger watched expectantly as he read, his heart still flipping from the abrupt and unwelcome shift in his activities. Draco grew lightheaded as he dripped all over the stone.

. . . can be found on the lands of certain old wizarding families . . . . Such caverns protect the families and those whom they harbor. Their safety, his and Granger's, assured in this place.

Though ancient, the magic of such places is very simple; requiring no incantations or spells — so the last several weeks had been a complete waste of time. Hundreds of hours of research, of spells cast at that fucking door, for nothing — the cavern responds to the needs of the family which compels it.

The needs of the Malfoys. His needs. Which had been met — in the summer, his monster coming forth. But now —

This form of magic can both contain or exclude as desired. Well, something was settled. Ron fucking Weasley was no longer welcome. But, contain? As desired? He didn't desire —

It is controlled most often by the head of the family but any member with blood and proximity may wield its power. The Head. Of course. He couldn't soon forget.

He'd been summoned to his father's office. Lucius was at his desk, an array of knives glittering before him. He stared contemplatively at a tumbler of his oldest, finest whisky in his hand.

"Son. I leave for Azkaban tomorrow."

"I know." The trial had concluded the week before. Malfoy connections and privilege had secured him a few days' time to finalize his affairs.

"Which means that tonight I'm going to enjoy my elves' cooking, drink my finest, and fuck my wife."

It was only due to the gravity of the situation that Draco avoided a face.

"But first, we have business to which we must attend. I am prepared to pass my position as head of the Malfoys." A hint of disappointment. "To you."

Draco swallowed. "Is, that, ah, something you do with a wave of a wand?"

Lucius chuckled. "You've always been such a wit. Come here. I need your blood." He picked up one of the knives — the smallest, which for some reason was more fearsome — and balanced it on a finger.

"Blood?"

"Only the purest will do." He smiled broadly, his hair swishing over his shoulders. "That means yours." He yanked Draco's arm forward and shoved his sleeve up. The Dark Mark pulsed between them. "Be still," his father ordered.

Draco's blood had been dripped and poured and sprayed — onto objects, onto ugly jewelry, onto the Manor's walls, onto his own wand. "The Malfoys have always been obsessed with blood," Lucius muttered by way of explanation, flipping to the next spell on his list and making a fresh slash on his son's arm. If there was an apology or comfort anywhere in that mess, Draco knew this was the closest he'd receive. "Not just others', but with our own. We're fond of using it to trigger things. Wards, magic, spells." He'd laughed to himself, placing his wand painfully against Draco's wound. "Normally this happens automatically. It's your loss that I'm still alive."

When the ritual was complete — cuts made, oaths uttered, incantations recited — Draco sat weakly in the chair his father had occupied, his arm tender against his chest. He had to heal it himself. Lucius hadn't thought to.

It was his first time behind the heavy, old desk. He hated it, actually. It was not what he'd have chosen. Furniture that belonged to another era.

His father stood over him, glassy eyed and drained, seeming to accept that it was happening.

"Do you feel different?" Draco asked.

Lucius laid a hand against the marble mantle. As if feeling for the magic within. "Yes," he said softly. "I actually do. Like something is missing. Like the wards were propping me up, and now I need to learn to live without their crutch."

Draco tried to search within his own chest. But — "I don't feel a thing." Except the sting of the pain, and that he was tired of bleeding.

"Tell me again," ordered Lucius sharply. "Before I find your mother. About the wards."

Draco recited them and their counter spells, the words to reinforce and how often.

Wards for protection — against strangers, evil-doers, against invasion and weapons.

Wards to alert.

Wards to heal, to soothe, to safeguard their witches.

Wards to douse fires and keep the house warm.

Wards to keep Malfoys in — particularly children, lest they wander off — or out, as the case may be. "Back when we allowed ourselves multiples," Lucius smiled, finishing his drink, "there was more blood shed than you did today. Brother against brother. Only one could have the house. The other was often barred — forever."

"Right," Draco muttered, fingers tingling. "Don't fuck that one up."

"Exactly." His father's eyes glittered. "You could accidentally lock yourself out."

"Is that all? I need a blood replenisher and a nap."

"All that I know, unfortunately. Perhaps one day you can put that intellect to use and identify some of the spells we've forgotten."

"The magic lost with dead brothers," Draco said wryly.

His father contemplated him for a moment. "You'll do fine, son. I know you will. Don't lose sight of the goal."

"Goal?"

Lucius pointed at the crest on the wall. Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. "We play the long game. My imprisonment is unfortunate, yes. But trust that I'll spend every day resting comfortably in the knowledge that you carry on the line, the wealth, the vision. That my efforts — and your mother's," he conceded, as an afterthought, "weren't in vain. If not you . . . your son, or your grandson, will attain what I once dreamed of."

Perhaps he'd have been more interested if blood hadn't still been seeping through his fingers. "What's that?"

Lucius was dismayed. "Why do you think I've done all this, Draco? The Dark Lord's rise — it gave you a better chance. For power. A place in history. Now I go away to pay the price — and I'd pay it again, for the chance we had. Maybe in another life, another world, a different story, it would have paid off. We would have won. Maybe someday we will.

"Never forget, when my seat at the table is empty — it was for you. For you to have the power that Harry Potter and his ilk robbed from us."

Draco had blinked. Potter.

"Now." Lucius looked around the room one last time. "I'm off. Your mother awaits."

Relieved that it was over and to be alone, Draco leaned into the uncomfortable chair. He cradled his sore arm while the serpents of the crest looked on.

"What do you think it means?" he asked Granger. She was curled up on the pallet, her hands folded beneath her face. He'd been mean, lashing out in the midst of his confusion.

But in another reminder of the depth of her character — or perhaps the danger she was in, held in his clutches and allegedly by his choice — she accepted his apology. And then told him exactly what he didn't want to hear.

"There's something about this place that's keeping us in here. But it might be you." She waited patiently as he paced before her.

There was no fucking way. Draco had tried thousands of spells in every iteration. He'd thrown himself at that bloody wall, figuratively and literally. "Why would I want to be down in this dark, musty shithole with, no offense, the Ginger and Potter, and you?" A torturing temptress with a sweet wet cunt and untouchable tits and a brain like a fucking firecracker.

The room felt smaller than ever as her eyes widened at the dig. Nowhere for him to hide. But she was above it all. "I don't know. Are you worried about something out in the world?"

Only about a dozen things. Running a manor and wasting his life and protecting his mother and starting a doomed revolution and freeing Lucius and hurting people with the monster he fathered. But he'd had most of those pressures in the summer and the cave hadn't trapped him then. He'd passed through the barrier many a time. He re-read the passage. "No. Why would that matter?"

Granger sat up suddenly. "Malfoy, I think we got pulled in because you were protecting yourself."

"From?" He watched the ideas flit across her features.

"The thing. That attacked us." She thought he was quite stupid. "Read it again."

Draco replayed the night of the attack and his entry into the room, her body floating ahead. He felt badly about it now, that he'd walked behind while her arms and legs hung grotesquely. He should have carried her respectfully, as Potter carried Weasley.

"It sealed you in," she insisted. "I just happened to be here."

Except — that wasn't true either. As he watched her expressive eyes, her delicate features — the flare of her nose and the roundness of her cheeks — Draco slowly understood exactly what had changed.

That night, after the attack, her wand and watch in his pocket. Granger had been the difference. He'd followed her and felt the magic embrace them both. It had sealed them in. Together.

Her presence was the trigger.

Though. "That doesn't explain Potter and the Ginger." They weren't Malfoys. They didn't fucking belong there. Potter the Hero was his fucking antithesis. Draco felt it, deep in his magic. The cave didn't want them. His ire flared. Potter could get the fuck out and leave them in peace. Granger might even improve without them constantly bothering her and reminding her that she was trapped with her worst enemy.

"I don't understand the boundaries and nuances," she explained. "Maybe subconsciously —"

"Don't say it." No part of him had chosen this. Why would he have chosen — why would he continue to choose — the pressure to fix her and ruining the plans he'd made and the loneliness of solitary wanks . . . .

"Hermione?" The voice was so close.

Draco moved toward the door but Granger beat him to it. "Harry?"

His stomach plummeted. You did this. Not just the monster, not just her attack. Their entrapment —

"A coincidence," he lied to himself.

He didn't give a fuck about Potter or the Ginger, clinging to each other happily in some perverse fuck you. But he'd not soon forget Granger's expression, her disappointment and her own realization. "You're trapped just as I am." She knew — as he was learning — that Draco was the reason. That he was the unwitting marionettist, moving people around against their will. And against his. "It's not your fault," she said gently.

His jaw was clenched so tightly he'd made it sore. "Sure."

Granger turned away, frowning, and issued a series of competent and authoritative instructions. The situation was what it was, but they all listened to her orders.

"Harry, take Ginny home. Go straight out, don't stop. Gin, I'm sure you're tired but you've got to get out of here. Without knowing the trigger we simply can't risk a moment extra. Don't come back. Don't let Ron come back either. I suppose we need Theo, or we'll starve. Please just send a note if you find anything. Anything that could help. . . with the magic." She was polite enough not to say that could help Malfoy figure out how to control his own fucking wards. "I know you'll help find the solution. For both of us."

Like she wouldn't leave Draco down there, alone, at the first fucking opportunity.

Right.

"We love you, Hermione," the Ginger said. Pale and distraught, she was trying not to cry.

"Always," Potter confirmed, glaring at Draco.

Fuck off Potter. "We love you too," Draco told him cheerfully. Emphasis on the we.

Granger stood watch in the doorway, making him feel infinitely worse, for long minutes after they were gone.

That night, Draco rose from the sofa. Crossed the room, steps careful and quiet, to confirm her closed eyes and steady breathing.

He stood in front of the archway, wand loose in his fingers. A man ready for magic.

Turning his forearm, he showed off the Dark Mark. The Mark of a Malfoy. The cave must recognize it, recognize him. It must obey.

Staring at the barrier in the archway like it was sentient, an aware and unwavering companion, he took a breath.

Extended his hands, his wand —

And thought. Conscious thought, silent orders.

Compulsive caverns, they were called. Compel it then, he told himself. You are Master — head of the family. Head of this cave. You can contain or exclude as desired.

Desire.

He simply had to think it consciously, the way he had with Potter.

Let Granger go. He visualized the words in his mind. Tried to force them to mean something. Let her go.

Let her go and end it —

Except Draco was still rattled from her evening treatment. Try as he might the command dissolved, splintering and reforming into the image of Granger's face when he'd shamed himself before her.

Really, though it was partially her fault, he thought brattishly. She'd come out of the bathing chamber in a fucking shirt — just a shirt — her legs on display and her arse barely covered.

He'd hidden that he was salivating. Stop it. Behave.

The threat of the magic disappearing at any moment had calmed him, sobered him. It might be the last time he healed her. At any moment, the end would arrive. He'd done his job, he'd kept her alive, and they would part.

But in their familiar positions on the pallet she'd been upset, unusually self-conscious and rigid beneath his fingers. "Feels like I'm bothering you."

The last time, the last time in his head. Before he dwelled too much on what she might think, Draco proposed a change of position. He made her join him on the couch, facing away from him on his lap.

Acting on a whim he'd rubbed her shoulders. Her neck. Up and down her spine and over the muscles that were so tight above her hips. My promises stand, he told her with his thumbs. I won't harm you. He pressed it with his fingers instead of his mouth. I won't hurt you, Hermione. He massaged until he felt it seep into her body, until her shoulders released whatever terror they'd been storing. Even with Potter gone, you are safe with me. He pulled her against him, spread her legs wide and loose.

Her cunt pulsed the moment he stroked it. Trusting.

It might be the last time. He may never hold her again. At any moment he'd compel the cavern properly and they'd be free.

Twirling his thumb around her clit, he felt what he did to her. How she responded. Things were a shamble — her life, his mind, the future. Their escape. But not that. Not her body, under his hands.

Draco felt the familiar throbbing wave of an orgasm — his own — starting from the base of his dick and radiating up and outward. Instinct taking over and displacing good choices or restraint, his mouth found its way toward her neck, his face buried in her hair.

Every muscle went tight

held, cock spurting—

pleasure, radiating—

waves of it, from the source to his face and his feet and his fingers—

released.

Blissful dissipation.

"What's wrong?" Granger was asking somewhere. It filtered through the ringing in his ears.

She shifted in his lap and he felt the shameful stickiness in his trousers. "Nothing."

"Did I hurt you?"

He removed his hands from her body, mortification replacing, everywhere, where he'd felt good. "You've done what no woman has ever done, Granger. You unmanned me."

The shock on her face compounded his humiliation. She probably hadn't seen a wizard behave that way since she snogged Weasley in some alcove at Hogwarts. A rite of passage for a boy.

But Draco was — ostensibly — a man.

In the bathroom he washed himself and saved his memories of the day, moving stiffly. What must she think of him? She'd assume he was bad at fucking, that was for sure. One of those chumps who came in seconds, who shuddered to completion at the first tease.

Head and pride hurting, he finally went out to bed.

Unfortunately, she had not taken the hint. She was not asleep. Instead she confronted him, grimacing with second hand embarrassment. He supposed he couldn't blame her. What was a witch to say in the face of a man who came in his pants?

"I didn't even notice!"

He laughed at her joke. "Thanks."

Hours later, standing before the untamable barrier in the silent dark of night and stone, Draco tried to make it up to her. Truly, he tried.

He prayed to Merlin, to the gods. To sprites and nymphs and gnomes and any other magical thing that could help. Let us out.

He whispered commands and promises at the archway. "Release just her, then. Now."

But none of it mattered, none of it worked.

The cavern mocked him until he gave up.

Several days passed with their prior routine, the one they'd set before her witch times and a night in his arms.

Potter leaving had cast a pall over them both. Granger was morose, lost in her head. She wasn't rude or unkind, but she answered his stupid mealtime questions — "Do you keep up with the Quidditch rankings?" or "What do your parents do?" and "What's a dentist?" — with brief answers that failed to ignite further discussion.

She ate enough to keep him quiet but not with any relish. She researched thoughtfully, focusing her attention on books like Wielding Wandless Magic and Troubles with Sleepspelling: A Fix It Guide. She asked him to mark down a few passages in the notes he kept, a long aimless scroll covered in a variety of topics and ideas.

The least he could do.

For Draco's part, he hadn't the heart to tell her that something in him was very broken. That he'd tried but was no closer to figuring out how the fuck to free them.

The only thing he spent comparable brainpower on was how to respond to threats from the Carrows. Alonso had written back, promising that he would take matters into his own hands.

We've gone too far to turn back, Malfoy. The vampires thirst for the blood of traitors.

Draco burned it. And waited for confirmation that his father was equally vengeful. The Equinox was less than a week away.

He was cranky when Nott appeared one afternoon and Granger chose that day to meet him face-to-face. Theo, of course, was fucking delighted. He looked her up and down and, worse, she grinned right back. Draco burned hot with irritation.

"News?" Did his father know he wouldn't be there? He narrowed his eyes at Nott. "Yes or no, is it done?" Have you confirmed with the fucking solicitor?

Theo shook his head, mouthing that he'd tried. "He wasn't at his office." He glanced over Draco's shoulder at Granger. "Check the basket. Think I saw his handwriting."

"I'm sitting right here," she interrupted.

"Time for your bath?" He tilted his head toward it.

"No." She glared at him. "Thank you."

Fine, she could fucking guess at it then. Let her think he was scheming. She'd know soon enough, he thought crossly. Especially if Lucius managed to escape on his own. The whole magical world would assume. Draco Malfoy, his father's accomplice.

"It needs to be done by tomorrow," he ordered. "I've been more than clear."

Nott was frustrated at Draco's lack of understanding. Whatever. He could get over it. He'd get paid, wouldn't he? Draco turned from him obstinately.

The mail — perhaps there was an answer there. Perhaps Alonso and his father had given up on the whole thing. Draco could hope.

That would be a bit of luck — he could take his time to get Granger out and resume his aimless, pathetic existence. At least when he'd spent his days drinking he hadn't hurt anyone.

Reckless, he slipped the letters from the basket right in front of her — and promptly got caught. "What are you looking for?" Granger asked, obviously irritated.

"Sandwiches."

She gestured at his trousers. "No. You put it in your pocket."

"It's nothing to do with you." He shut the door firmly to avoid snapping that she reminded him of the elf who'd been his nanny.

He'd got three envelopes. The first — from Potter.

Malfoy, no progress. Brilliant plan, putting Parkinson on it. She and Ron are a matched set when it comes to research. All they do is distract each other. I'm checking with experts, will send ideas.

I went by Hermione's flat — there was a letter, enclosed. Her birthday is in a few days. I'm planning something special so she isn't so alone.

Burning Potter's note, he resolved to think about that later. Birthday.

The second was from Dolohov. A wall of whinging. Draco destroyed it immediately, rolling his eyes.

The third was addressed to Granger. He shouldn't have opened it, of course. Wrong, indeed. But a precaution he needed to take, lest she learn something inappropriate? Most assuredly.

Her parents. And they sounded frantic. It's been weeks since your friend Harry wrote. We don't remember ever going so long without hearing from you. Are you alright? We don't know what to do. We have no one to contact.

Leaning a hip into the sink, the Grangers' desperate concern in his hands, Draco could have killed Potter. Whatever he'd written to them had heightened their anxiety, not assuaged it. He'd been so busy fucking the Ginger he never sent another update. Thank Merlin Hermione hadn't opened it. It would have devastated her.

He burned it gently, ash swirling down the drain. Draco would take care of them himself.

That was it. Nothing from his solicitor. But Nott had said —

He opened the door.

She was in the same spot on the sofa, cross legged with a massive text open and covering her lap. Nothing had changed . . . except.

Her back was oddly straight. Her lower lip was thoroughly chewed. And she was blinking.

He checked the basket casually. "Did you go through this?"

"You're frightening me."

Her hand was beneath some of the pages. Keeping her place. Or hiding, as he hid the thumping of his heart — "Did you find something, Granger?"

"I . . . I thought maybe I had a letter."

You did, he almost snarled.

He held out his hand. "Give it to me." Had she opened it? Gods, if it was from his solicitor — no wonder she was scared. "Please don't make me take it."

She withdrew it from between the pages of her book and slowly gave it to him. Unopened. He hid the relief. "Thank you."

Back in the bathing chamber, he read what she'd held, fingers shaking from the fear and the near miss and the what ifs as he broke the seal. His solicitor.

Message received. Not happy. Making alternate plans.

He saw the threat in it. Could see Lucius in his mind, hair stark as Draco's against the stone of the prison, dark as the cave. He'd be prowling in his cell, lamenting his son's uselessness. "What's the good of capturing Harry Potter and Hermione Granger if he can't figure out how to use them?" Could see him sneering, could see him scheming with his fellow prisoners and the guards. Blaming Draco for his cowardice, for his reluctance. For his delay.

But at least Lucius knew he wouldn't be there at the appointed time. At least he wouldn't be expecting a weapon or a distraction or assistance.

Draco wished that helped with the guilt, the growing hard knot that occupied a rapidly expanding place in his chest.

Guilt. Quickly becoming his predominant emotion. Beating out even randiness. And anger.

He was mad at Granger. Furious, really.

Furious that she'd come so close to his secret, furious that she had so much power over him. Furious that he'd gotten so wrapped up in lust and loneliness that he'd forgotten. Staring at her quivering lip and pretty dark eyes he remembered. She's not yours. She'll never be yours. She works for the Ministry. She will be your downfall.

He'd deluded himself, with her cunt clenching around him, that they were on the same side. It wasn't her fault, not really. She'd been the same person the whole time, solely occupied with their escape and her healing. It was him, his distraction, that permitted the lines and sides to blur.

He'd spent so much time with his silly imaginings, his pathetic fucking fantasies, his visions of her in his Manor, his bed, his arms, his life.

And he knew he couldn't help it, he knew she and their situation held sway over him. But he could control it from being more. Draco had to replace the distance between them.

He did not speak to her for the rest of the day. Petty but necessary, he told himself as he seethed. Occupied himself, for once, not with visions of her in his bed but visions of her at the Ministry. At work. In official robes and tight blouses, little skirts and those calves in heels. Her hair, sleek and drawn up away from her face. Cheeks rouged and eyes lined. Granger the Professional — a witch who would be eager to put him in a cell with his father at the first chance.

As soon as she healed and learned the truth.

You set me up, she'd accuse, eyes flashing and wand at his throat. You set me up, attacked me with your weapon, and then you trapped me in a cage. In a cell, where you touched me under false pretenses for . . . however long they'd be there. It was nearly a month already.

He pretended to read through dinner, the words blurring into a mash before him. O, I have suffered with those that I saw suffer. More fucking Shakespeare, and perhaps his last. The words were too apt, making him feel worse. My library was dukedom large enough. But not large enough — it didn't contain the answers for how he should proceed. The way forward couldn't be found in a book.

Books didn't explain things like loyalties. Didn't map where they should lie.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. The Carrows, and Young Dolohov, and Gus Rookwood's randy widow. He looked up to see Granger staring at her hands, her plate barely touched. Right. Which bedfellow more strange than Hermione? Bedfellow, literally. Bedfellow, in his dreams.

Granger collected the plates that night, rattling them loudly. He couldn't tell if she was angry or guilty. Probably both. He understood. She shoved them in a clanking stack into the empty basket, ready to be returned to the Manor kitchens.

While she was in the bath he went to the dresser and collected her watch from where it was hidden in the folds of his trousers. Held it, casting the counter-charm to cancel its invisibility. The hands vibrated gently. Harry — Work. Ginny — Bed. Ron — Pub. How nice.

He scratched out a note for Nott. Take this to my jeweler. New band, best they have. For her birthday. Tucked it gently into the basket, in a corner where the dishes wouldn't smash it.

He was reading when she returned. "I'm sorry," Granger said softly. "Malfoy, please." Not angry with him then. Which made it worse.

He looked at her — wet curls, twisted lips, guilty eyes. And not in his jumper. He resumed his reading. Distance. You must.

"I'll play chess. Or cards?" He shoved his fantasies of her tits on his parlor floor to a faraway place.

Ignored her. She moved about the room in his periphery, frustrated and upset. He knew he was being petty and unkind.

He knew it and did it anyway.

Hast thou not dropped from heaven? No way Shakesy was a fucking wizard, he decided. As Granger turned away, the distance yawning between them, he knew there was no such place.

He couldn't sleep so he made himself productive. Wrote to her parents, wasting a lot of parchment in the process. It took about ten drafts. At some point during the eighth he cursed himself — they were just a couple of fucking Muggles. By the time she found out what he'd done he'd be long gone from her life.

And yet.

And yet, as he watched her sleeping. A pleasure to work with.

The next day was normal — save for the complete lack of speaking. They slogged through the motions, each of them slow and unhappy — breakfast and the Prophet, his exercising and her bath. Nott came and took the basket while she was washing. Prodded Draco to talk.

"How are things, mate? You seem . . . even angrier than usual." He made a life's-too-short-to-be-Draco-Malfoy face.

"You'd be mad too, if you were trapped with a nosy witch and no timeline for escape."

Nott nodded. "Word on the street is Alonso Carrow is out and about. Rounding up support, going to the club, hosting some party in a few days. He's mingling with the types you've been wrangling."

"Want to get together and complain about me cancelling Lucius's escape, I imagine."

"Aye. I expect so."

He was gone before Granger was finished with her bath, thank the gods, because Draco would have been forced to break the terrible silence if she fawned over Nott again.

The problem with not speaking to Granger was that it violated every instinct he had. He hadn't quite appreciated how much they spoke until they stopped. "How's the coffee?" or a longing "What's the weather?" or "Enough butter, Malfoy." And that was just breakfast.

She was so very present. Always in his sightline, his body keenly and painfully attuned to hers. Draco imagined it was how a blind or deaf man felt. Being deprived of her voice heightened every other sense.

Granger being the more mature, she was the first to offer an olive branch. He'd rolled to a sit, breathing heavily from his exercises. "Are we going to move on today?" She perched on the couch, hands folded and face hopeful. A nursemaid who expected that a child would make the right choice.

He couldn't. What was there to say? She'd reminded him who she was. They must remain apart, maintain their separation.

Instead he had a bath. A failed wank. A memory extraction.

Frustrated and surly, he returned to her. Paced the room and shot spells for cleaning and making the bed and organized the books and paced some more. He read.

Was deep into a passage about side effects of blood magic on the body — too fucking late for that, he nearly chuckled — when Granger abruptly set her own book aside, leaned toward him, and reached.

Her fingers slid up his shoulder, gentle and firm.

"Draco." His name on her lips — kind and inviting.

Another inch and she'd be touching his neck —

He hadn't fully accepted until that moment the precarity of his position. Of course he'd known he wanted to fuck her desperately, cad that he was. And he knew she occupied an inordinate amount of his conscious thought due to their situation and proximity.

But when Hermione's fingers moved over his arm she might as well have run them over his cock. It had the same effect. If not for his determination to prevent her from having grounds to accuse him of even worse than what he'd done —

Gods he nearly gave in.

Oh how it would feel to give in. To let her run her fingers up the back of his neck. To let her pull him close.

To be touched.

To feel her hands, on him.

To lower his face and turn it to the side, to match her lean. To kiss —

"Beware a cornered dragon," Lucius used to say.

"Don't you ever fucking touch me."

And Draco pushed her off.

"You seem to have forgotten what this is," he spat. "Or rather what it isn't. You have no right to touch me. We aren't in a relationship, Granger. We aren't friends. You did me a favor yesterday, reminding me of who you are. When this is over, when we're free, I —" want to end this torture — "never want to see you again."

She simply stared at him. The voracity of his ire had surprised — it was on her face, the disgust and confusion. Surprised them both.

You have your hands on her cunt every day, she entrusted you with her witch's blood — and then you acted like she'd stuck a burning poker in a wound when she touched your fucking shoulder.

Granger returned to her book. He felt the shift.

The power had been his, the past day. Since the moment she handed him that letter, he'd been in control. Draco had been managing their space and quiet, dangling her guilt in front of her like a marionette. He'd been the keeper of the distance.

Now the silence was hers. Granger pushed her hair behind an ear, occupied with her reading like nothing had happened. But he found himself glancing at her every time she turned a page, found himself trying to see if she'd look up at him. Found himself testing which words might bridge the abyss.

When she had finished her books she stood and added it to the pile they'd designated as Useless. Then she resumed her place on the sofa and laid her head on the arm, curled into a tight ball. She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at nothing.

Nott left his delivery later that afternoon. Draco met him at the door with a shake of his head. No talking. Nott frowned and tilted his head at the basket. You've got mail.

Draco waited until she went into the loo to check. A note in Nott's nearly unreadable scrawl.

Pans thought it was a good idea to piss off Alonso. Fight at the club. I was tied up and didn't see it. Weasel banged up but fine.

Of fucking course. Pansy probably liked it — Draco could see her smirk as she paraded her new toy in front of a man like Alonso. She'd finally found a wizard willing to take a swing at Carrow — older, wider, heavier — for her. Draco supposed she deserved it. Supposed it was what Pans had always wanted. Someone to give a fuck enough to take a hit. To show her off. To come to the club for and with only her.

He'd have to tell her congratulations, next time he saw her. He'd mean it too. Even Weasley was better for her than Draco.

But — Draco knew Carrow was now doubly pissed. He was one who liked to swagger, and not one who knew how to share. Getting publicly knocked around by a blood traitor with Ministry connections would be sure to enrage him, to set him off. Provoke him further toward his goals.

Granger came out of her bath, none the wiser, and returned to her spot on the sofa, curled into a ball. In a show of defiance she'd donned a Gryffindor jumper and those damned tight trousers. He thought perhaps she'd yell at him, finally, but she was as silent as ever.

When his stomach was grumbling obstinately he pulled the dinner packets out of the basket and arranged them on the table. He piled her plate with a bit of everything and slid it in front of her. Carefully arranged a napkin and her fork and knife.

As far as Granger was concerned he might as well not have been there.

So he waited. He could wait. In the latest round of their cat-and-mouse game he'd made the first move.

"No thank you," she finally said.

"You've had nothing all day."

"I can't."

Right. It had been two full days since he'd made her come — if he was feeling the disruption in their schedule, she surely was as well. "Get into bed. I'll help you."

"No." She didn't sound angry or upset. Simply — finished.

It had all backfired spectacularly. He'd meant for them to have distance, of course. A rebuilding of a low stone wall along a clear path. But — "I didn't mean for me to stop touching you. Just, we should maintain boundaries." He'd not intended anything insurmountable.

"I am." She stared at a torch, the flames dancing on her cheeks and chin and brow.

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

At that she pushed herself to a sit and looked Draco in his eyes. Her hair fell over her shoulders. "You've made yourself clear. I'd rather starve than accept your help."

"We have to figure this out," he argued with her. "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." Like a caress. "I just wanted to get your attention. I wasn't trying to fuck you. I wouldn't ever do that."

Ah. There'd never been any chance of her fingers in his hair, then. If he'd leaned down to taste her lips, if he'd drawn her into his lap, she'd have shrieked with horror. Draco, you fool. You've carved it all apart for naught.

He had assumed, and it had cost him. Worse, it had cost her. Bile rose in his throat. The taste of shame.

"I didn't think you were."

Granger leaned into the back of the sofa, arms crossed firmly across her chest. He watched her for another long moment, scrambling through his thoughts for how to proceed.

But the dinner was ready and it didn't make sense to let it go to waste. He ate, hoping she'd join. Poured wine, hoping she'd drink. Offered to read, hoping she'd listen.

"Read to yourself."

"Hermione." She looked at him, her mouth and face relaxed and bored. The worst part was that she didn't seem angry. Simply — indifferent. He was her healer, they were trapped, and she didn't give a fuck about whether he was upset with her or not.

Except he wasn't upset. "I lost my temper," he tried to explain. "I was stressed." By you and your body and my loneliness.

She chewed her lip and blinked.

It was all the answer he was going to get. He turned back to the meal. Eventually he cleared her full plate and his empty one, their glasses. Scourgify over the table.

Granger prepared for bed and got into the alcove, her back to him.

He didn't know quite what to do. What to say. He'd always resolved his tiffs with Pansy by walking away and waiting until they were both lonely enough to forget about it. As much as she'd taught him about how to use his tongue and his hands — Granger the beneficiary — Pans'd not bothered to improve or advise upon his communications with witches.

All he knew was Hermione herself, and what she seemed to like before. Bits and parts of her that he'd learned and saved.

Did you read to me? she'd asked after she first woke up. It was nice.

So he summoned The Tempest and resumed his place.

Used his most soothing voice.

I am your wife, if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow you may deny me, but I'll be your servant, whether you will or no.

Did she hear the plea? Or had she already fallen asleep?