He was in his clothes from the night before, on his back on the couch with an arm over his eyes. Hermione pushed herself into a sitting position and then padded to the bathing chamber to handle her morning ablutions. In the mirror she looked - better, actually. The smudges on her face had lightened and her cheeks weren't quite as hollow. She rearranged her nightgown and robe so that she was slightly more presentable.

But appearances were deceiving. Anxiety richocheted. The world's trauma was still heavy in her chest, the pain of it all playing through her mind. She splashed her face with the cold water from the tap. All this agony, and nothing to be done for it.

When she was finished she went to stand over her recalcitrant roommate. He did not uncover his eyes but sighed at her hovering. "Your morning status?"

"Hungry." Her voice was flat.

He reached for his wand with his free hand and sightlessly Accio'd the fresh basket of supplies that Nott must have left outside the door.

She snorted.

"What?"

"Got a headache?"

"Fuck off. I'd like to see you with a hangover."

She ignored him and reached for the basket, flipping open the lid and rummaging through it. "Looks like more books. Fresh clothes and linens. This must be the breakfast packet. Or is it lunch?" The rustle of paper. "Oh. Mail?"

She stood straight, a clutch of letters in her hands, and as she did Malfoy literally launched himself off the couch. He stepped close, his hand extended expectantly.

"Give those to me."

She looked up at him. Suspicious. "These look official." They appeared to be addressed to him, at his manor.

He pretended nonchalance. "I'm busy. I can't get behind on my correspondence just because I'm on an unexpected holiday in an undesirable location." His hand was open, waiting for her to relinquish the envelopes.

"Busy with what?"

"Work." He moved a little closer.

She almost laughed. "I think I would have heard if you worked."

"Just because I don't clock in at the Ministry or Gringotts or a shop doesn't mean I don't work. Hand them over and let's eat."

At that she took a step back. "What kind of work?"

"Investments," he said smoothly. "A joint venture. I'm . . . getting it off the ground." He closed the distance she'd created.

She held the letters close and watched him warily. "In what?"

He reached for the packet, his fingers brushing against hers. But she did not release them, and he stilled. Her head was tilted back to see his face, their bodies nearly touching. The torchlight made him very severe from this angle. He looked - mean, yes. Cranky, definitely. Guilty?

"You won't approve." His fingers lingered, and she released her hold. He turned away immediately, slipping the letters smoothly into his trousers pocket. "What have we today?"

He busied himself with unpacking breakfast. She stood there for several more moments, watching. He was rumpled from sleep, his face tinged with exhaustion and too much alcohol. But - just as obnoxiously handsome.

So handsome she must force herself to remember that he was bad. Dark and cruel. He'd been a Death Eater.

Those letters - she'd never seen him move so fast to get them away from her.

Does Malfoy have a lover? Someone whom he obviously wouldn't want to know about . . . this. Being trapped with some woman named Granger might cause tension with a girlfriend. She could picture his reply excuses now. Can't make our date, I'm on a trip. Destination is remote. Terrible tourists here. They smell bad and are quite morose. Unknown date of return. She was freshly thankful for their promises not to tell anyone about their pallet interactions. She could just picture him explaining it to some gorgeous model type: 'sorry darling, I had to get an old schoolmate off about fifty times but I hated every minute of it, promise.'

Or was he being honest - investments? He must have plenty of money. Did he really need more of it?

It could also be correspondence with his family, she supposed. He had told Pansy that he'd write to his parents himself. His father, imprisoned. A Death Eater with recent access to tunnels. At that she slid away from him, feet scraping on the stone floor.

But Malfoy didn't pay her any attention as he focused on their breakfast. He poured her a coffee, leaning forward to hand it to her. She accepted it without a word. Don't forget who he is, Hermione. She'd been worried about Malfoy mocking her to his stupid friends, the people who had known her in school. But to think that he could be relaying embarrassing details to his father . . . . Would he do that? She could imagine Lucius reading a letter aloud in Azkaban, his fellow prisoners chortling at her downfall. Recall the Granger girl? Potter's Mudblood, you must remember. Well she's trapped with my son, my heir, and he's got the chance to -

"Croissant?"

Hermione jumped, blinking. Don't think about it. "Serve yourself. I'll - pick at what's left."

"I don't think so." Malfoy was staring at her, his face carefully neutral.

What is most likely? Probably just Pure Blood heiresses, sending him marriage proposals. She shoved thoughts of the letters to the back of her mind.

He made up her plate with a little bit of everything - no meat, as promised - and placed it at the seat beside him before he loaded his own. This was better, actually. When they were side by side they didn't have to look at each other. She finally sipped her coffee, and picked up a pastry. They ate in silence for several minutes. She managed fruit, and even a few bites of egg.

The pallet was in front of them across the room, and at some point, apparently irritated by the tangled sheets, Malfoy shot a spell at it. The covers made themselves neatly. Meanwhile, Hermione focused on not thinking about the usual horrors that flitted through her mind at mealtimes. Starvation, burning of crops, kitchen accidents.

Just as he was finishing the last of his food, Harry called out a good morning. Malfoy stood immediately, crossing to the dresser and picking out a set of fresh clothes. "I'm going to change. Will you be ready to read soon?"

She ignored him.

He closed the door as Ginny pressed a bit - "Hermione, how are you feeling?" and Hermione answered honestly. That she was eating. Had slept. And every movement and coherent thought still felt like slogging through mud. When Ginny lowered her voice to ask whether Draco could hear, Hermione cut her off. "Probably. Let's not - talk about that. Everything's fine."

Harry shared that he'd already made a healthy dent in on the pile of books in his room, searching for clues. He was keeping a list of the different magic he and Draco had tried to get them out - spells to split the rock, to carve tunnels, to open new doors. All failed. "This place is a fortress, Hermione - a damn good one." He also informed her that he'd asked Nott a few days ago for paper and quill and envelopes. Probably Theo just gave him some of Malfoy's stash - since he's sending frequent and secret missives.

Harry had written to her parents and their bosses at the Ministry - and to Kingsley. That last name hung in the air. Had Harry asked about the tunnels in Azkaban, as planned? Or had he not, because Malfoy might somehow be reviewing their letters? She couldn't ask, because he might be listening through the bathing room door.

Harry was still talking. "I just let them know we're . . . out of commission for a bit. That the excursion has been unfortunately extended. But we'll be back," he said vehemently, persuading himself more than Hermione or Ginny. "Soon, I bet. At any given moment Draco or I will think of the password and we'll all be free."

Speaking of Malfoy, he was still in the bathroom when they finished their conversation, so she tried to be helpful. She stacked the breakfast plates, tucking them back into the basket, and began to look at the spines of the books he'd right-sized and stacked. Old, beautiful texts. Merlin, to have a library with these. But, the thought of opening one, reading through it - she couldn't.

She sat, staring at them. He finally appeared, looking hungover but clean. He was barefoot again, wearing a fitted shirt and black joggers.

He raised his eyebrows at her. Going to say anything about this 'fit?

"Harry is tearing through his assigned reading material. Anxious to find the way out, of course. Can you please float some more over to their room?" She held out a small vial. "And I think this is for you."

He took it gently from her hand. It was the second time he'd brushed his fingers against hers in the span of an hour. How odd, that she noticed. He'd had his hand between her legs nearly half a dozen times already - what did it matter if their fingers touched? And yet.

"I found it in the basket. Looks like a headache potion."

"Thank the gods." Malfoy yanked out the stopper and downed it in one gulp, showing off the pale lines of his throat. He looked almost instantly better. "I'll be sure to ask for another."

She tilted her head. "I don't need one."

"I will, though. Same time tomorrow." He smirked and moved as if to sit on the couch.

"Uh, can we - before the research?" She gestured awkwardly at the pallet.

He hesitated. "Now?"

"I'm sorry but - I feel pretty bad this morning. And - I don't think I can read, like - like this. Do you -"

"Fine, yes. Sure. Let's have at." He rubbed absentmindedly at the back of his neck.

She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Looking down at her lap, she slowly untied the robe and tossed it onto the floor. Now she was in nothing but the flimsy old nightgown. She reached for the hem - why bother with clothes at this point? He'd seen most of her - but she figured he might be uncomfortable and stopped. Without looking at Malfoy, who was no doubt glowering over her, she scooted backwards and lay down, her eyes on the curved ceiling of the alcove.

She felt very sad.

Malfoy's weight dipped the thin mattress as he sat beside her. "I thought you'd be better after last night."

Hermione reached up and lay a hand over her eyes for a moment, collecting herself. "I thought so too."

"No robe?" he asked.

"I don't like it when fabric bunches." She tugged the shoulder of the nightgown, avoiding his eyes.

A long pause before Malfoy answered. "Still want to take that off?"

She thought about it. "Kind of." The fabric was truly annoying.

"Then sit up," he ordered harshly. Hermione pushed herself up slowly with her arms, exhausted by the effort, and waited for him. He reached for the end of the shapeless nightshirt and tugged. She twisted, helping him to get it off - then he had it up, and over her head, and her arms, tossing it to the floor to join her robe. When he turned back towards her she was laying down again, one arm firmly across her chest. What must he think of her body?

"Shall we?"

She moved her other hand over toward him and he clasped it in his. She squeezed twice.

His long body stretched out beside her, head propped on his hand, looking down. Hermione tightened her muscles - subconsciously ashamed, thanks to a lifetime of being female in society, of her stomach.

He set his hand on it, spreading his fingers. She saw it, as if it wasn't her body. But it was - his skin pale against hers. This was a mistake. She should put the nightshirt back on. She'd thought she wouldn't feel self-conscious - it's just Malfoy, you'll never compare anyway to the girls he's surely fucked in expensive hotels and exclusive clubs, so let it go - but the feel of his eyes on her was proving to be more of a challenge than expected.

He began to stroke her skin. He pressed his hand over her hips, and up her side, across her ribs, down her other side, in a gentle, firm circle. She risked a glance at his face, searching for a hint of disgust. But there was none - he seemed only intent on his work, the task before him. She was a potion to be brewed, a puzzle to be solved. A checklist to be completed.

But eventually their eyes met. His hand halted instantly. "What's wrong? Should I stop?"

She shook her head. "You can move me," she said softly. "However you want. I don't care. Whatever's best."

"Fine," he said.

He kept his eyes on her face as he reached down, gripped her leg and pulled it toward him, spreading her. He trailed his hands over her inner thighs, from her cleft to her knees, the way he had over her ribs and stomach.

"Open for me if you like that."

Yes. She did.

He slipped his fingers there and felt how much she liked it. Testing inside her with a finger, she made a breathy little noise. He rewarded her with a second. At that, her hips raised to meet him.

"Responsive today." His voice was gravel.

He was right, her body was making little persistent movements against his hand.

"That's it."

She began to feel flush and wound up, and released the arm over her chest to press it against her stomach. He was inciting riotous feelings in it. She felt her breasts moving slightly as her body twisted beside him and tried to contain them again, embarrassed. She avoided looking at him - she didn't want to see his face.

"Touch yourself, Granger. I can tell you want to."

She did not let herself think. Do what feels good. Chase it. So she caught her breasts in her hands and brushed her thumbs over her nipples. They were so sensitive. She could feel the pleasure extend from her chest to where his hand was -

And then she came so hard she curled in on herself, her whole body contracting.

He patiently stroked her through it.

Hermione concentrated on her breathing and trying to relax her muscles. It felt like she'd done crunches.

As she felt the orgasm ebb away - she was ready again.

"Don't stop," she said. "I'm ready."

"I'll take that as a compliment, but I need a fucking minute." Malfoy sounded angry, and she turned to him in surprise, rising up on her elbows as he looked away. Had he strained his wrist?

"What's wrong? Do you want to get up?"

"I'm fine," he gritted out between his teeth. His hair was messy, torchlight shining through it. "And I cannot get up. At present." He gestured down, at his lap. At a tent in his loose pants.

She stared at where he'd indicated, confused, and then at his face, her eyes wide.

Malfoy laughed.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"I am." He flopped onto his back, an arm behind his head.

"Why?" she asked. It was her turn to lean over him. "What's so funny?"

"Your face. I just frigged you for about the tenth time, this one with your - your tits out - and your body all - there. And you're surprised I got hard?" He said it like she had made a silly comment about the weather. You're surprised it got hot in summer? Surprised that the leaves fell in autumn? Are you fucking stupid?

She bit her lip. "I guess not, when you put it that way. Is it the first time?"

Malfoy was studying her incredulously. No.

She felt - bad, actually. She hadn't really thought about the effect her treatments might have on him. It simply hadn't occurred to her. He didn't appear to suffer the whims or base instincts of mortals, other than being hungry all the time. She associated horniness with plebeians, and he was posh.

"Does it hurt?"

"I'll be fine." He rubbed his forehead. "You seem perkier."

She nodded. "Yes, I am. I think I - I'm ready to start on the books. After." She motioned down at her body. After you make me feel like that one more time.

"Fine. Lay back."

She did, swiftly, while he turned yet again on his side and propped his head up. His body was carefully apart.

He was just reaching for her when -

A thought had struck. She was being rude. Malfoy wasn't so otherworldly that he stopped being a man. A straight - as far as she knew - male. A person generally attracted to people with breasts. She'd been so focused on herself that she hadn't considered his interests.

"You can touch them, you know. If you want."

Malfoy recoiled.

Ouch.

"I confess I'm a little surprised to hear you say that. Seems unnecessary for our, uh, purposes."

Hermione shrugged, looking down at her hand covering her nipples. "Your fingers between my legs is a lot more intimate than grabbing a pair of breasts, you know? And it would probably help speed things up. If you did. Touch them. Anyway, I don't care if you want to. Seems silly to have you rubbing my hips and my belly but not these. They're just . . . skin."

"First of all, you're wrong. There's a big difference between touching this," he palmed her hip, "and those." He inclined his head at them.

"What's the difference?"

"Girls keep those," he looked at them pointedly, "locked up in bras. So they must be special."

She almost laughed.

"And second," he said, before she could argue. "I'll be honest that I do want to touch them, because they are tits, and tits are eminently touchable. And I hear you that it would . . . help move things along . . . in theory. But I don't think it's a very good idea. Not right now," he held up a finger as she opened her mouth. "Wait and see. If you really mean it."

Hermione pressed her lips together. Wait and see?

"One thing that would help," he confessed, "if you're willing, is a shift in position. My wrist is tired of holding my big head up." She nodded. "Come here then," and he reached for her, flipping her onto her side, and tucking her against his front.

He held her there for a moment, his arm strong across her middle. "Is this alright?" he asked. An odd question. He'd gotten her off from this angle several times already.

"Yes," she said, and laid her head down on his shoulder.

Malfoy began to trail his fingers over her stomach, her hips, her ribs, just as he had before. He avoided her chest.

After a few minutes, when she could feel the burgeoning pleasure begin deep inside, he ran his fingers down over her center and then pulled her leg, hitching it up and over his thigh so she was open. She was wet, of course, and he played with her for a long time until she was about to beg him to hurry up.

Finally he slipped a finger into her, curled it up and into a spot she liked, and brushed it very, very gently in a slow and steady rhythm. She hurtled into an orgasm, shaking against his arm and chest.

"Again, Granger." He kept up the steady, gentle movement of his fingers, trying to prolong it, and she did, she came again.

"Again." He was sweetly punishing until she cried out a fourth time, gripping his hand with hers so he would stop, please, no more.

Her brain was empty. All it knew was Malfoy behind her, body warm against hers. And her arse - it had somehow become tucked against him. She tried to feel, subtly, whether he was still hard. Before she could he shifted, separating them.

He leaned up and over to examine her.

"I think that counts as a double," she murmured.

But he was done. He rolled away so abruptly that her head bounced off his arm and onto the pillow. "I'll be back in a bit."

While he had what she presumed was a bath she used the opportunity to dig through her knapsack to try to find more clothes - but she was out.

She'd not brought many outfits. They had only planned to hunt the creature for a few days. She'd packed potion supplies and maps and a hat but not extra pants. And now she'd been gone over a week.

Hermione checked the daily delivery and found that someone - Nott, surely - had predicted this. There was a pile of Muggle women's clothing - still with tags. Underwear, socks, plain black leggings. A few t-shirts. Soft, expensive fabrics. Nothing warm, though. Nott, you dolt. It's cold down here. She dug deeper into the supplies. Malfoy had also been sent a fresh wardrobe. She rummaged through his things, mildly irritated, until she found something appropriate for chilly temperatures. The only non-black item.

It was going to make him mad him to see her wear it - a bonus.

She changed and found an apple to eat. And - yes, she was ready - something to read.

Ron had done as Malfoy ordered - there were dozens more books packed carefully into the basket, shrunk down. More than she had expected - he and Pansy had clearly been putting in the time, trying to find something that would help. It would have warmed her heart if she was capable of such an emotion in her current state.

Malfoy found her cross legged on the couch, a book open in her lap.

She looked up at the sound of his feet halting abruptly on the stone.

He was staring at her, his lip slightly curled. Oops.

She tugged the sleeve of the old jumper she'd found in his pile. Slytherin green, a tiny silver snake embroidered on the left of the chest. Old and soft. "I hope it's okay if I borrow this. I'm out of cave-appropriate clothes from my own stash. It's all Nott sent."

Still staring at her, Malfoy lifted a shoulder. He doesn't give a fuck what you wear, Hermione. Honestly. You were foolish to think he'd be mad. "Keep it." Then he grinned. "I'd pay something exorbitant to see Potter's face if he caught you wearing it. What are you reading?"

She ignored his jab at Harry. "About the ancient wizarding families and their territorial wars before modern times. There were a lot of magical boundaries and traps set to try to lay claim to disputed lands. Perhaps -" She trailed off, trying to think, a curl entwined on a finger.

He sat on the other end of the couch, grabbing the closest book off the stack. Connections between Crystals and Blood Magic.

Harry and Ginny were also searching, and they called back and forth a few times about possible avenues of follow up. Hermione tried to be as engaged as possible, sharing any ideas - "Malfoy's looking into blood magic, but I think we need to go into family history first."

After a cursory flip through his book - had he even read it? - Malfoy sighed and tossed it aside. "Hungry?"

Hermione just nodded, her nose buried. If he wanted lunch, he could very well get it out.

Snapping his wand at the basket, he unveiled a plate of sandwiches and more apples.

"No crisps," he said, looking as disappointed as she'd ever seen him. She resolutely swallowed a smile.

They ate lunch over their books - or rather, Hermione nibbled on a half a sandwich - cucumber, delicious - while Malfoy scarfed the other five. They spoke occasionally to read aloud potentially relevant passages. Malfoy seemed more interested in the food than the reading material, and she tried to hide her annoyance.

They passed the afternoon that way.

In the evening he set another volume aside with a thunk, rose suddenly, and stretched. They hadn't heard from Harry and Ginny in awhile. Hermione cringed, imagining what that meant. They were occupied.

Malfoy paced for a bit while she kept at it. The Malfoy family and their rich old neighbors had a long history of land battles. Fewer than she might have expected, though, had been overtly deadly. Though there were a lot of mysterious accidents among the heirs of the families who owned adjacent land. But advantageous marriages too. Hmm.

He stood near a wall, placing his hands on it and doing some easy push ups.

"What are you doing?" She couldn't help it.

He did another push. "Moving my body for a minute. I'm going to lose my mind if I don't get a slight sweat going."

"I suppose it is rather difficult, being in here, isn't it? Your legs are rather long. I imagine you require regular exercise."

He rolled his eyes. "You make me sound like a Thoroughbred Hippogriff, Granger. But yeah, I'm feeling a bit caged. If it's not too much of a bother, I'll just work out in this corner over here." He dropped to the floor.

Hermione nodded, returning her attention to her book. She tried not to watch - she wouldn't want someone staring at her while she moved about like an idiot.

Except Malfoy didn't move like an idiot. He was quite fit, pressing fluidly against the stone, lifting his body over and over and over.

"Don't look at me," he warned her crankily when she chanced a glance. "I never do this wanker shit in front of people."

Right.

She tried to listen, she did.

But - he was so there and so large and exhaling so loudly.

So more than once they made awkward eye contact, and averted their gazes immediately. He switched to crunches, doing an insane number of repetitions. His abs must be -

She'd lost her place in her book. He was too - present. Filling the space.

All that movement - actually, it was irritating. How is a person supposed to focus?

She addressed him when she couldn't take it anymore. "Are you almost finished?"

"Why? Want to join me?"

She snorted. "I certainly do not. But you're rather noisy, with all your . . . breathing."

"Distracting, am I? Can't keep your eyes on your own work?" At that he rolled to a stand and took the short steps to the couch, where he collapsed in a lazy heap beside her. Hermione scooted away, pointedly staring at her book.

The words swam together. "Of course I can mind my own work. It's riveting. But I cannot focus with that commotion. And now - you're all sweaty."

"Terribly sorry to cause you the most minor of inconveniences while I care for myself. I'll wash again before dinner. Speaking of dinner -" He was cheerful at the prospect. "Ready for that?"

No. "I'm not, but I'll try to eat something if it's time."

"It is. I'll be right back."

While he was gone she used the opportunity to ask Harry and Ginny what they were going to do with their evening. Ginny was going to try some spellwork to reclaim her magic. It hurt to hear it - Hermione's magic was as far gone as ever.

"Is Malfoy with you?" asked Harry tentatively.

"No, he's having another bath."

"How are things . . . going? With your . . . needs?"

"They're fine."

"Is he rough with you?" Ginny sounded strangled.

"He's not," she said simply. A vision of Malfoy's hand, pale against her stomach, flashed through her mind. The pads of his fingertips, testing between her thighs. "It's all fine. He's - we're - getting the job done. Cooperatively."

"Surely we're close to a solution," assured Ginny. "We've got about a hundred books among us. We'll find it, I'm sure."

"Mmm," Hermione said. She wasn't so confident. She'd been mulling on it, and was feeling worried. "I'm going to rest, guys, okay? Night."

None of it made sense. Her thoughts were thick, unwieldy. She was trying to pull the threads together of what she knew - from her experience, her work, things she'd read. You were smart, she reminded herself. Or at least people thought you were. You knew a lot about a lot of different topics - you should be able to figure this out. But the pieces of it were all fomenting in a stressful and overwhelming cloud. Why can't you escape? What is the connection between the creature and the cave? Maybe there was no connection. But the coincidence was too great - wasn't it?

When Malfoy came into the room she was curled in a ball on the couch, staring into space, a forgotten text open beside her. "What's wrong?"

She gave the tiniest shake of her head but did not answer.

He pushed his hair back from his eyes and started to get dinner out. "I could hear you shouting at Potter and Company. Did they say something to upset you?"

She shook her head again.

He cleared the little table of books, unwrapped Nott's latest package, and used his wand to arrange it all nicely. Pasta tonight. Which meant - yes, there were several bottles of red wine. He popped one open and poured two generous glasses, offered her one. She just stared at it in his hand.

"Come on, now, Granger." He cleared his throat. "You were doing so well."

She licked her lips and met his eyes. "I'm feeling rather down. I think I might just go to bed."

He set her wine on the table in front of her and downed his own. Filled his glass again. Began to dish out food onto their plates - hers first, and then his. He served her only a little. "You promised we'd have another - better - round of chess," he finally said.

"Sorry."

He sat down on the couch and picked up his fork. "I thought that passage you found about unexplored caves and their magical properties might be promising. I'll write to Pans, ask her to find more stuff about that if she can." He sipped his wine. "I think crystals might be a good avenue to explore, though." He stuffed himself with a bite of bread.

"I know what you're doing, Malfoy. It won't work." Her cheek rested against the back of the couch while she watched him eat. The fabric was rough.

"Though I examined every inch of this room in the first couple of days - when you weren't feeling well - and didn't see any obvious crystals. Just," he gestured around them with his glass, "black stone." He chewed a piece of pasta thoughtfully. "Do you think the barrier could be -"

She interrupted him. "I think it's some kind of ancient blood magic that one of your dreadful great grandfathers thought would be an amusing way to contain his prisoners." Bonus: will drive them all thoroughly mad within a few days.

Malfoy nodded thoughtfully, dabbing his mouth with his napkin and returning it to his lap. "You're probably right."

"And somewhere along the way your family lost the counter spell to release us."

"Us, the prisoners." He drank deeply.

Hermione wanted to throttle him. "Is the wine good? You're certainly going through it."

Malfoy reached out and picked up her glass. Pressed it into her hand. She took a small sip.

It was the best she'd ever tasted. "Oh."

"Nott sent the good stuff." Malfoy ate more of his dinner. His breeding and manners were always on display when he ate. He held his fork delicately and took precise bites.

She took a few more sips, and reached for some bread. "Trying to slim me down?"

He flinched and looked at her quickly. Eyed her collarbones. "What? Of course not."

She raised her eyebrows suggestively. "You gave me hardly any."

He grunted. Reaching for the pasta, he began to pile it onto her plate. "I didn't think you wanted any. I was hoping to give you enough to tempt you for at least a few bites. But if you're going to accuse me, Granger, of -"

Her lips twitched. "Calm down. I'm teasing you. And please stop - that is truly enough."

Her plate now overflowing, he set down the serving bowl and frowned. "It's not fucking funny. That's the last thing I need."

Uncurling herself, she took her fork and began to eat. She wasn't hungry, per se, but the wine had stimulated her appetite. "What don't you need?" she asked.

Malfoy refilled his glass and leaned back, watching her. "You coming out of here two stone lighter, and going around having people think I didn't feed you."

"I hardly think I've lost two stone," she snorted. "Don't be dramatic."

He sneered faintly. "You look terrible."

"Thanks."

"You know what I mean. Thank Merlin that Potter can't see you. He'd probably collapse this cave on us all, breaking through these barriers to come and kill me."

She sincerely doubted that. She remembered those early moments when they'd been attacked. It wasn't her Harry knelt beside. He'd been solely focused on Ginny. "Hmm." She took another bite. "I have gone a bit pale, I suppose."

He scoffed. "A bit pale, is it? Your ribs are showing. Your hip bones could cut me." He drained his glass.

Her cheeks were hot. She set her fork down. Not hungry anymore. "Apologies."

They sat in silence for a while, not looking at each other. When her glass emptied he refilled it.

"Have you ever been depressed?"

Malfoy contemplated the question. "How so?"

"Have you ever . . . struggled with . . . this?" Wine in one hand, she gestured at herself with the other.

He leaned further into his corner of the couch, turning to face her. His shoulders hunched slightly, relaxing into the conversation and the space. "In hindsight - there were times, yes, that I think I probably was. At school. After - Sixth Year." He nodded to himself. "But - just a bit, relatively. I've never . . . suffered. The way you are."

She stared blankly ahead, at the bed where she'd spent so much time in the past days. "It is suffering, isn't it?" she finally said.

He nodded slowly in her peripheral vision. "That's apparent." His voice was deep, thoughtful. Kind. Very un-Malfoy-like.

"I imagine I'm quite pathetic to be around."

A pause. "I wouldn't say pathetic."

"What word then?"

He tipped his head. "Maybe 'scary.' It is hard to watch."

Hermione smiled meanly. "Even for you?"

A smirk. "Even those of us without souls don't enjoy spending time with a living corpse."

Oh.

But Malfoy wanted to change the subject. "Have you ever been through anything like this before?"

She hesitated. "Not anything comparable to this, no. I think - after the war. And when . . . ." She trailed off. "When relationships have ended or changed, of course. I've been - very sad. But this is something different."

Malfoy reached for the bottle and topped off their glasses again. "In what ways?"

She sat for a long time, sipping and staring into space. "Well, there are the visions. I see the most awful things, playing in loops. I don't recognize faces, exactly - more like I can feel pain or fear other people have had. And when I can avoid those - it's like a wall of black stone, pressing down on me, pushing out any light, any feeling. Heavy, but also draining. It's not just that I can't do anything, it's that I don't even want to."

He frowned. "But you are doing things. You read today - quite a lot."

"I suppose. But everything is just . . . going through the motions. Like - when you were working out earlier. I cannot imagine being able to do that."

"Right now, maybe. But it's only been a little over a week since your - attack. I imagine you'll continue to improve. You certainly have done, right?

Hermione agreed. "But only thanks to your-" she stopped herself.

"Assistance," he supplied, his tone neutral. She took a large gulp. "Why do you think that -" he inclined his head toward the pallet - "helps?"

A question she'd avoided.

"Didn't the book say pleasure connected the body and the soul?"

"It did. Is that how it feels? Like - those connections are being reestablished?"

Is that how it feels when he touches you?

"Not really," she said. His lips twisted. "It just feels like an orgasm."

"Is it any different than . . . what you've experienced in the past?"

Yes, Malfoy - your hands have taken me to heights I never dreamed of and didn't know were possible. But she'd die before she told him that.

"I suppose it's a little different. Pleasure just for pleasure's sake - I've never done that before."

"Surely with yourself?"

Oh. Right. "I mean - yes. Of course. But not - with - someone else." Her cheeks were on fire. "Usually, you know - there's expectations to . . ."

"Reciprocate." His tone was indecipherable.

Those hands were resting in his lap, and she stared at them.

"And now, you're able to concentrate solely on yourself? You think it improves the healing?"

"I suppose so. Every tine I come, and in the minutes before and after - all the bad thoughts disappear. Like they've been shoved away. Instead of feeling nothing, I feel good. I feel - whole." She sighed, "Maybe it is my soul coming back."

"I see."

"Ultimately though, I don't care. At least I can use the bathroom by myself now."

He hummed in agreement. Malfoy picked at imaginary dirt on his clothes and then pulled out his wand to rearrange some of the books into alphabetical order. After they were sufficiently stacked he looked over her. Hermione was resting her head against the back cushion, struggling to control her bad thoughts.

He must have seen it on her face. "Shall we go again?" he asked.

She closed her eyes. "I'd hoped this morning would be enough. But - yes? I think you should."

"We should," he snapped. She looked at him, confused. "And whenever you're ready, we will. But I don't want this to become some horrible story in the Prophet about how I locked you up and mauled you against your will. Are you going to tell them that?"

"I've already promised that I won't speak of what happens on that bed."

"See that you don't." He was so prickly sometimes.

She stood, stretching. "I'm feeling it, I think." The wine. She wobbled slightly.

"Do you want more to eat?"

"No." She smiled, a bit silly. "I'm ready for bed."

"Fine."

She went into the bathing chamber, stumbling into the door frame.

"Gods, Granger. Will you be fucking careful?"

She ignored him and shut the door. She used the loo and washed her face and brushed her teeth. Examined the circles under her eyes. Her hair was an absolute fright - she pulled at the curls, wishing she had some magic to fix them. She recalled when she spent time on herself each morning. Dressing thoughtfully. Fixing her hair. Applying blush and mascara and lip stain. Hermione frowned. Had that been only a week ago? It felt like another life.

She lifted Malfoy's jumper to examine her stomach. Two stone - as if. Her belly was soft and had a slight swell, like always. That was just - her shape. Her hip bones weren't even defined - Malfoy grossly exaggerated.

She didn't usually wear green. She had an old sweater her mother had given her at home - that was about it. She had to admit it was a palatable color against her skin. It brought out the slightest hint of pink in her cheeks and contrasted nicely with her hair and eyes.

The wine had her head swimming. The day's activity had caught up to her. So many books, so many words. They blurred. She'd read, to be sure. But she didn't have the heart to tell Malfoy, Harry, or Ginny that she hadn't been able to process most of it. The letters simply passed through her brain - a repetitive swirl that didn't ignite much critical thought. Her heart wasn't in it. She knew the old Hermione would be horrified. She shoved the thought away. The old her was dead.

Malfoy was out there. She needed him to help her before bed.

He was stretched on the couch, facing away from her. He had a book in his hands, his long legs crossed at the ankles.

"Let's do this," she said. He twisted his head and looked behind and up at her. She laid down on the pallet. He closed the book slowly before he got up and came over.

He evaluated her with narrowed eyes as he sat - the same expression he'd used on his chess pieces. "Now that you're a bit better, do you want to try again - by yourself? I can wait in there." He gestured at the bathing chamber. Giving her space.

She frowned. "I've . . . tried. In the bath. To spare you." Malfoy blinked. "But it didn't work."

"It's probably just the magic of whatever attacked you," he said slowly, as if processing it himself. "Are you sure you want to do this? You look like you're in pain."

"I wish," she whispered. Pain would be preferable. "I feel nothing."

"Is your body ready?"

"Does it matter?"

Malfoy's tone turned irritated. "I know I'm just a means to an end here, but it doesn't feel good to manhandle a woman who hates me."

Hermione wanted to hit him for his selfishness, but she'd probably miss if she tried. She was verging on drunk. "Sorry the destruction of my soul is such a dampener."

"I didn't ask for this," he seethed. "You're being a little fucking presumptuous. Acting like this doesn't affect me at all. I've done and will do a lot of terrible shit in my life - truly, unrepentable. But this - this is the worst." He lifted his arms wide, indicating the room, the bed, her body.

This is pointless. Fighting with him - it only makes it worse. Just agree.

She moved, ever so slowly, to take his hand. She pressed it twice. "It's not against my will," she said gently. "It's not. Like you said earlier, I was able to read a book today - a week ago I couldn't move. You're helping me."

"Right."

A moment of silence.

"Should I get undressed?"

"About that." He looked away. At the wall behind her. "I've been thinking. Yesterday, and this morning - it was too much. From now on, clothes stay on. Tits stay covered. You can move, of course - you should be comfortable. But we shouldn't forget -"

"I get it," she interrupted. "I agree. Won't happen again."

The embarrassment was a tidal wave, about to pull her under.

"Thanks for understanding."

She didn't, not really. Just hours ago he'd shown interest in her breasts. Eminently touchable, that's what he'd said. But for whatever reason, he'd had a change of heart. Maybe he'd gotten a letter from a lover, after all.

"Shall I?"

"Yes."

He turned her into the usual position - so she was facing away, her head on the pillow instead of his arm, their bodies carefully apart. He touched her only as much as he needed to, sliding his hand under her leggings.

She came three times.

He was gone - off the bed, flopping onto the couch - before she could even turn back to look at him. He mumbled a spell and the torches lowered so that it was fully dark.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," she said. She meant it sarcastically.

She did not hear a response.

Such was how the next week passed. They established a schedule, cementing unspoken boundaries.

Hermione woke most mornings to Malfoy sitting or lounging on the couch, already awake. He was wearing what she called his "pajamas," but were in fact expensive track pants or joggers and a jumper. She asked him about them - he said she should be thankful, normally he slept in the nude. Noted.

She would alert him with a stretch and a yawn. He paused what he was doing - reading yesterday's Prophet, which Nott had begun to include with their deliveries - to look at her. "Granger," he'd say, and nod. Then he asked how did she sleep, was she hungry. He always had Nott's basket summoned in and sorted - he laid out the food and any new books. He took the liberty of assigning them each a drawer in the old dresser in the corner, where he tucked away bundles of clothes or clean laundry.

Hermione would get up and use the loo and come and sit on the couch. He wordlessly handed her a section of the paper he'd finished and poured her a coffee to sip while he got out breakfast. She'd asked him to please tone it down with all the food. Now it was simple - fruit and toast and eggs. Never meat. She felt guilty about it - morning meat had been the only time she ever saw enthusiasm from him. But he waved her off like it was no big deal and told her not to mention it again.

At some point Harry and Ginny would call a good morning and they would exchange any new ideas for how to get out or theories about things they'd read overnight that might be useful. Malfoy kept notes on a scroll - plus any requests for meals or things they needed - and put it in the basket to be returned to Nott and Ron and Pansy.

After they ate - Malfoy always watching and pushing more food onto her plate - she brushed her teeth and then come back out and climb onto the pallet. He joined, silently stretching out beside her. He arranged her firmly, facing up or away from him, and then got her off two or three times in quick succession.

After their conversation about keeping her clothes on, he was exceedingly careful not to touch her more than he needed to - only briefly on her stomach and hips and then between her legs. They hadn't discussed it, but she was sure she sensed his mild revulsion. He kept even his chest apart from her back. There were certainly no more opportunities to feel whether he was having a . . . reaction to her treatment.

As soon as Hermione was blissfully floating in the aftermath, Malfoy always got up quickly and began his morning routine. Sometimes she napped but usually she watched him as he tidied their dishes and space. She liked how he vanished his pillow and folded his blanket. Neat freak. Then he did a workout - sit ups and push ups and various other strength maneuvers. He exercised until he had a light sheen on his forehead and his hair was thoroughly mussed.

After that he always retreated into the loo and took a bath. He was usually in there a long time, and she would drag herself up out of bed and chat with Harry and Ginny. They were - bored. But also obviously not as miserable. They finished each other's sentences and laughed more than she would have expected for two people trapped in a ten by ten cage a thousand metres underground.

It was . . . obnoxious. Good thing she loved them.

After Malfoy's bath he stomped out in clean clothes - trousers and a sweater, usually. Always black. This was usually his crankiest time. He paced and shouted out more ideas for how to escape or passages from their research he wanted to follow up on. He cast dozens of spells, shooting them at the archway, their magical prison door, when he passed by it. Sometimes he'd make Harry try the same thing at the same time in case one of them had better luck or technique than the other. None of it ever made a difference. They were thoroughly trapped. Once Malfoy was as mad as a honey badger, he would collapse, frustrated, on the couch and bother Hermione.

Which book is that? he liked to snap. Was she thinking broadly? The solution for their escape couldn't be something simple, they'd tried everything. Did it have to do with the phases of the moon? No, that was stupid, why would the moon have anything to do with cave magic? On and on.

She quickly learned that it was best to let him spark and pick and fuss and mostly ignore. After awhile he would grab his own book and read, sullen and agitated. She found that she could also distract him with snacks, especially the little sandwiches that Theo brought. One day, while Malfoy was pacing with particular bluster and shooting spell after pointless spell at the barrier, she quietly lifted the basket lid and pulled out the lunch packet. She gingerly pushed the plate of his favorite - watercress and egg - in his direction, and greatly enjoyed the complete shift in him once he noticed. From loud whinging to practically purring. Draco Malfoy, temperamental and hungry house cat.

After lunch and a few hours of reading, Hermione would go and have her own bath. She usually timed it to when Nott came and visited. She had studiously avoided him thus far. He had yet to see her, and that was increasingly intentional. Malfoy must have sensed it, because he had started to warn her. "Nott will be here soon." At which point she would nod and wordlessly collect fresh clothes from her drawer and slip away.

He didn't ask the obvious - "Why are you afraid of him?" and she was grateful. She wasn't afraid, not really. Just rattled from the visit from Pansy Parkinson in the early days - how pretty she'd looked, how crusty it made Hermione feel. It made her cognizant of how she had been, outside and away from this horrible cave. You were a professional. You did your hair and wore nice clothes. You walked with your shoulders back and your head high and people respected you. You had colleagues who valued your opinion and friends who hugged you on sight. No, have. Have colleagues and friends. The fewer people, especially old schoolmates, who saw her now, hollow-eyed and wearing pajamas and shrinking behind Malfoy, the better. Pansy had been bad enough.

Besides, Malfoy talked to Nott more than anyone else and she didn't want to intrude. He surely needed an outlet - she knew she and Gin and Harry were probably annoying, from his perspective.

Sometimes Hermione couldn't help herself and listened to shreds of their conversations through the bathroom door. He would stand and chat to Nott at the archway, the closest to affable he ever got, asking about the weather and his mother and were Ron and Pansy doing anything useful. He also made copious and unreasonable demands about food.

And wine.

Malfoy's strident specifications regarding wines from his estate's cellars were almost comical. She imagined him hosting a fancy dinner party, raising his eyebrows and nodding tacit acceptance of praise from his guests. "Splendid vintage, Malfoy!" But she was getting a front row seat to how the sausage was made. He pays attention to details. And his memory is incredible. He knew every bottle in the Malfoy collection and could tell Theo which bin it was in. Rich prat. He liked to be surprised by whatever the elves made for meals but would clarify that if it was pasta, or if it was a stew, only certain wine could accompany.

Hermione's own bath was merely a chore. She tried to take her time, to scrub thoroughly, but she didn't like water the way she had before the attack. It felt claustrophobic to linger. As if at any moment she could slip beneath the surface and disappear. So she found herself washing quickly, swiping roughly at her sensitive places, before she rushed to get out.

It was easier once she was wrapped in a towel and safely standing on the stone floor. She brushed her wet hair, smeared some cream on her face. Then she put on whatever clothes she'd found in the dresser - sleep shorts or leggings and a sweater or jumper from Malfoy's drawer. Her favorite was the green one with the silver snake. She told him to have Nott send it back as soon as it was washed, and then it appeared in his drawer every other day.

After her bath she would lay on the couch while Malfoy walked - one two three four five six seven eight, turn. He sometimes asked if she wanted to do her own exercises. She always flatly declined.

Instead she researched, diligently flipping through the books, telling him which bits he should write down on his notes. There were a few scraps of helpful information and the occasional lead - one afternoon they all got very excited when Ginny read aloud that "The blood of a unicorn born under a full moon was known to open any lock." But then Harry found another reference that it only worked on actual locks and therefore not, presumably, magical barriers that stopped people but not magic or supplies - and besides, it was so rare none of them knew how to get it.

After hours of reading Malfoy told her to put the book away - other times he simply took it, declaring it was time for dinner. He poured wine most nights and they ate leisurely - sometimes across from each other, sometimes side by side - while he watched her intake intently. There were fewer awkward pauses in their conversation than she would have expected.

She asked him for news aboveground and he relayed whatever he'd gotten from Nott, albeit in a clipped, distilled way. He often inquired if she was feeling any better and she answered mostly honestly. A little. Not really. Define "better." They avoided topics such as: her insatiable need for orgasms to perform basic functions of living, his mother, his father, her inability to perform magic, his work and personal life, and his past as a Death Eater. But most other topics gradually became fair game.

He told her the occasional version of a story from Hogwarts in the early years - she liked to learn about people she'd known only as acquaintances. Malfoy was more connected than she would have expected, relaying tidbits about what their old classmates did for a living and where people had settled.

"He married a girl from one of the American schools," he said after swallowing a bite of salad, telling her about Quidditch teammates who were a few years ahead of them. "They live in New York. Think they had a kid." He speared a radish with his fork. "He develops containment charms for magical creatures."

He had an uncanny ability to speak about people without it feeling like gossip. He was not cruel or speculative. Simply - aware.

He prodded her for information, clarifying always that his interest was limited to the context of his own boredom. Hermione didn't often have the energy for stories, but occasionally told him fractals of her own life. She was careful not to reveal anything sensitive. But he seemed particularly attentive when she talked about her work at the Ministry, setting aside his fork and watching her over the rim of his wine glass.

After dinner he cleared their dishes. They would spend an hour doing an activity - sometimes shouting back and forth with Harry and Gin. Or rather, with Hermione shouting. Malfoy didn't talk to them unless it was about how to get out. On nights when Harry and Ginny were occupied, he seemed more relaxed.

He liked to play games - cards or chess. He preferred chess.

If she agreed to play with him his voice shifted instantly to the indulgent way he spoke to her at mealtimes. "Are you up for that?"

They played slowly. Mostly wordlessly except for her occasional murmuring that he didn't have to try so hard, she wasn't very good. But the stretches without conversation were not uncomfortable. Or at least, they weren't for her. Malfoy was intent on the game, his eyes on each piece before he moved it.

She could see the algorithms in his head, options and choices and likelihood of success. He's several moves ahead of you.

He always won, which seemed to irritate him.

On the nights they didn't play he sometimes he read aloud while she curled up on the other end of the couch, letting the words wash over while she watched the torches flicker. She liked that best because he was a very good reader. They'd finished Macbeth and Hamlet and now he was on Othello.

Eventually she would yawn and find him staring at her. "Long day, was it?" If she had the energy for a snarky reply she shot it at him. But more often than not she just got up, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed, waiting for him. Eventually he came and joined her.

The embarrassment had mostly faded as long as she didn't think about it too hard or too long. If she kept her brain away from conscious analysis about Malfoy and touching and how she must look and sound and feel - it was the best part of her day. He deftly employed those fingers in seemingly endless combinations, pushing her to new levels of pleasure. There were times Hermione thought he was making a game of it, testing himself and his prowess.

He'd quickly discovered how to touch her so that she came longer and harder than she'd ever thought possible, shuddering through orgasms that bled into each other. He had her gritting her teeth, squeezing his hand, grabbing her tits under her shirt, writhing like an animal in a trap. He had her making noises she'd never made before, noises that didn't sound like her.

Malfoy never initiated more contact than was necessary, but in the evenings he didn't move away if she pushed her back into his chest, if she arched her arse into him, if her head lolled into his shoulder or neck. Sometimes if he'd had a lot of wine with dinner he whispered in a guttural tone: encouraging her, ordering her to move a certain way or let go, telling her she could take it a little longer. And she always could. His breath tickled her ear and down her spine and intensified . . . everything.

Once he'd wrung every shred of pleasure from her, he stood. Swiftly. Fast enough that it would have hurt her feelings if they were in any situation but this one. He always went straight to the loo. Usually she was asleep before he came back out.

But on several of the nights he emerged before she slipped away, and she saw the look on his face. Hard. Angry. He moved about the room, summoned a pillow, and stretched out on his back on the couch, draping the thin blanket lightly over his legs. He rubbed his face and twirled his fingers in his hair.

He stared at the ceiling.

"Goodnight, Granger."

Had she heard it? Or dreamed it?