He had the dream again. He stood, legs planted, on a bluff overlooking the moors. The skies were heavy, smothering the world in cloudy grey. And the land below reflected them, color leached from the hills. Wind swirled past, lifting his hair, searching for grasses to tease. As Draco searched, scanning the horizon. For . . . .

Another rude awakening, just when he thought he might be getting somewhere. Granger was solidly asleep so he moved quickly, anxious to take advantage of the opportunity her closed eyes presented. He stealthily gathered clothes from where he'd stowed them in the wardrobe. He cast an extra concealment charm on what he hid there beneath his jumpers. What to do with it was a problem for another day, he thought, fingers lightly confirming its placement, its subtle whirring. Its continued presence among his things.

In the bathing chamber he dressed casually - denims. Draco supposed Granger wouldn't notice or care, but he knew his father would have been horrified. He could hear Lucius's voice in his head as he brushed his teeth. "Never leave your room in inappropriate attire, son. You're a Malfoy. People know we can afford it - they expect you to look the part. And fix your posture while you're at it." Draco straightened his spine and combed his hair.

Once returned to his place on the sofa - he'd practically formed a divot, he'd spent so much time on it - he silently summoned quill and parchment to draft the response he owed to the Carrows. Glancing up at Granger every minute or so to make sure those dark eyes hadn't popped open, he tried to focus.

His goal was clear - buy himself time - but how to achieve it less so. He needed to excuse his absence for the next several days? Weeks? Gods, no more than that? At any moment he or Potter would think of the answer and they'd be out. But with each passing night escape grew more elusive. So, an explanation to the cousins was required.

The most important thing was that they didn't find out the truth. Draco would need to order Weasley and Pans to quit interrupting their vile snogs with blabbering about him and Hermione Granger and Harry Potter and passwords and curses and mysterious caves. They were liable to stumble upon someone who knew the Carrows, someone who might inform Alonso.

Potential ramifications were keeping him awake, disturbing any rest.

The lack of control - Draco felt it keenly down in the dark. It was agony.

Granger remained still. He had to get the letter finished and hidden in the bottom of the basket for Nott to pick up.

I'm trapped in a cave on my own lands because the Malfoys are shit at recordkeeping.Insufficient in that it was accurate. And, embarrassing.

Weapon is uncontrollable and lost.More truth. But Alonso would suspect a trap, and any goodwill Draco had engendered would be destroyed.

I've decided to spend time surveying the Ministry before we act. There was an appeal to that one - but it would cause Alonso to lose his shit. There was no need to remind him about the Ministry. Every time he ranted about it Draco found himself thinking of Lucius. They sounded the same.

"Another fucking form," his father had complained, smashing a parchment onto his desk.

Draco had been sprawled in an armchair, under orders to study family lore while being supervised and occasionally quizzed.

"What's that, sir?" He knew he sounded eager. Eager to talk about literally anything but creepy long-dead uncles.

"This information I'm expected to disclose. About my own fucking home, my own business." Lucius pointed his wand at it, trying an Incendio. It failed - Ministry papers had some kind of anti-damage charm. Which embarrassed him and made the whole thing worse.

A few months prior, Draco would have ducked his head like normal and pretended like he hadn't seen or heard. But he was flush with the bravado of being fifteen, eager for a fight. Even - especially - against his own father. "Everyone has to fill them out," he said snidely.

"You want the Ministry knowing our business?" Lucius spat. "The more they know about it the more entitled they feel to wander about on it. To tax it. To take it, if the mood strikes. It's our right to tell them nothing - to tell them to fuck off."

"But if we don't fill them out, no one else will either. And then-"

Lucius stood behind his desk. Placed his hands slowly and carefully, leaning forward menacingly. "Am I hearing what I think I'm hearing . . . from my own son?"

Draco swallowed. "I just don't see the big deal."

Then Lucius had smiled. The scary smile. "I needn't argue with you about it and spoil a perfectly nice day. The Dark Lord will deal with problems like this first thing. It's one of his biggest draws - the streamlining of this . . . bureaucracy."

"Uh, okay." Draco snapped his book shut, and stood himself. "Until he wins, let me know if you want me to drop it by the owlery when it's complete."

Skedaddled out of there before his father could touch him.

In the end Draco settled on an illness, inspired by the prone form before him. It was believable enough, he hoped. But Nott interrupted before he could write it. "Malfoy." He'd arrived early with the delivery.

Granger was curled on her side. She slept with one hand beneath her chin and the other around her own stomach. As if holding onto herself for dear life.

"Keep it down," he whispered at the door.

Nott looked in the alcove's direction, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "How are things?"

"Things are fine."

"Got her moaning your name yet and begging for more?" Nott grinned.

Draco stepped so close to the archway his spine felt like it might be ripped from the back of his neck.

"Come in here and say that to my face-"

- was what he nearly said. But Nott had been a good friend these past few months. Loyal. Willing to join Draco when he simply couldn't do it alone.

"Nott?" he said instead.

"Yeah?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Theo's eyes narrowed. Seeking the source of the bluster. They flashed with resentment for a moment before he hid it behind mockery. "Feeling protective, mate?"

Ah. No. Not at all. "I don't want Potter to hear and think I'm some kind of pervert."

Nott exhaled, nodding with relief. "Right. For a minute there I thought you might be feeling the effects of your . . . situation."

Draco blinked. "What news is there? Any sighting of the creature? Heard more from the Carrows?"

Nott answered under his breath. "I'm worried, mate." He craned his neck to see if Potter was listening. "Lot of people know about this. Ron Weasley - which means his whole fucking family. That's like fifteen already. Pans isn't the most discreet. Me, of course, and I get drunk too much to be completely trustworthy." He grimaced apologetically. "Your mother and your elves. Nobody gossips like the elves. And Pansy asked your parents for the password. You know the old saying. Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead."

His jaw hurt from clenching. "I'm somewhat hamstrung in reeling it in now."

"I know," agreed Nott. "But if Alonso finds out - he'll use it against you. He wants to be in charge. And if he learns you're spending all this time with-"

He held up a hand for silence. And checked Granger's eyes. "I'll convey to them that there's a delay."

Nott shook his head, frustrated. "If they find out you're with Granger or Potter-"

"You don't have to say it." Draco cut him off. "I know." Knew the consequences, if his father or the Carrows found out that he was trapped with Enemy Number One. And what the fuck would he do if they found out about Granger? He gestured toward the path out of the caverns. "I'll see you tomorrow. Keep an ear out."

When Theo's steps faded, he checked the basket immediately. Fresh linens for her bed, as he'd requested, and wine. And sure enough, he had more letters. He spied Tony Dolohov's awkward chicken scratch - probably bitching about not being included again - and something from his solicitor, but he had to vanish it before he could confirm. His gaze had flicked automatically to Granger. And she was looking back.

"Breakfast is here." He'd been doing the arithmancy. She hadn't eaten in six days. If Draco didn't eat for six hours he would almost certainly die.

Yet she found the strength to argue with him. Of course she fucking argued with him, wanting a bath instead. "Food first," he insisted. And yet - it was a glimmer of Granger. A welcome glimmer, as determination lurked in her eyes.

She won, despite his best efforts, and went to have her wash. He gave her clothes he'd found in her knapsack. She'd not brought many options. Chewing his lip roughly as he'd rifled through it, Draco supposed she hadn't planned on a long trip. He made a mental note to tell Nott - bring her more clothes. But he'd found an old Gryffindor jumper. Hopefully it would help remind her who she was. What she was capable of.

He'd also found those tight Muggle trousers that looked comfortable. Too comfortable. Her clothes were frayed, the fabrics thin. What kind of fucking boyfriend did she have? If Draco had a witch of his own she'd never wear old things. He'd keep her well stocked with - well, whatever she wanted.

What would Granger want? He had carefully skipped over any of the undergarments in her bag. Easy to do, because she'd neatly labeled the bundles of her clothing. He'd approvingly noted her organization and been thankful for it. It made it easier to avoid the knickers. But his glimpses had indicated she wasn't like Pansy, that was for sure. Pansy favored bright silk with lace and ribbons. A time and place for those, of course. But instinct told him Granger tended toward . . . simpler.

A thought, as she toddled into the bathing room. What would Granger look like in fresh white knickers? And nothing else? Stop it, he commanded. You'll never know.

Worried about her weakness, he stepped near the door every few moments, listening for a crash. That would be just his luck, for her to fall and hit her head while she was climbing out of the tub. He busied himself with magically changing the sheets and unpacking a very nice looking breakfast. His stomach grumbled, protesting the wait.

Granger didn't crash, and she also didn't take long. When she opened the door he saw that she gripped at it, white-knuckled. She had an artificial color in her cheeks from the steam, and her hair hung damply in heavy strands. But three steps toward the bed and he was sure she was going to faint. "Come and eat," he asked. Hoped she couldn't hear the plea in it. "Granger." Don't make me beg. "You are visibly weak."

She steadfastly refused and retreated to the alcove, offering illusory promises of tomorrow. A whole fucking day away.

Damn her.

She wasn't even trying.

Draco's frustration grew every hour that she didn't join him for a meal. It was directed at her, yes - but mostly at himself. Potter had the Ginger laughing loudly in the middle of the night. Draco couldn't even get Granger to suffer a nibble of toast.

While she rested he occupied himself with the usual - eating for two and trying to escape. His arguments back and forth with Potter - "Try it in Latin, Draco!" and "Are you sure you're swishing your wrist properly?" - helped the hours pass faster than he'd have expected. What they lacked in original thinking they made up for in repetition and blind criticism.

When she woke she finally asked him about her fucking wand. He felt, for the half moment it took him to summon it, a great weight lifted. Images of her thrusting it at the door and casting something new, freeing them all and making him beholden to her forever, ran through his mind. But the weight came crashing down when she handed it back as if it were some kind of ineffective paperweight. So - Granger wasn't to be his key either. And her magic was definitely lost. Missing, he told himself. It would come back. Another decent orgasm or two and it would come back. If he'd cost her her magic . . . . No.

She asked about her watch, too. He . . . ignored that.

For a long time she simply watched him while Draco rewarded himself for his patience - he hadn't said one unkind word to her all day, a true feat - with the Scottish play and an exceptionally fine Pinot Noir. He was pleased and slightly sloshed when, eventually, the lure of the book drew her in. "What are you reading?"

A spark of interest. Draco manipulated it shamelessly, trying to coax her into a conversation about literature. Even Muggle literature - he'd have talked about literally anything with her to see the hazy dullness lift from her eyes.

Just to talk.

So he read.

"Blood will have blood." It should have been awkward to read to a conscious Granger.

"A deed without a name." And yet, the words rolled out of him, reservations dissolving.

"When our actions do not, our fears do make us traitors." He avoided her eyes, wondering if she'd fallen back asleep. Perhaps he'd lulled her into dreamland with his butchered verse.

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day." No. Every time he risked a check, she was staring.

"Did you read to me?" she interrupted. "When we were first trapped and I was out of it?"

Was it a trap? If it was, it was a good one. She seemed genuine. "Yes."

"Thank you. It was nice."

Uh oh. What's done cannot be undone. His breath was stifled. "Something to do. Potter suggested it."

He hadn't.

When he'd gotten her back to dozing - satisfying, to watch her eyes battle the inevitable and succumb to the sound of his voice - Draco took his walk. Endless laps to and fro from the archway to the loo door. He was going to carve a path into the stone.

Would she abide by her promises tomorrow? he wondered. Would she eat? She'd said she would. But how to get her to do it? Perhaps-

She gently interrupted his wine-soaked reverie. "Come, we'll to sleep."

Draco stopped dead. Clever witch. Was she inviting him? To her bed? She was reclined sweetly, her hair across the pillow, a hand beside her cheek. O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek.

No, he reminded himself. Wrong play. "Now is the time of help." Better.

"If it be mine, keep it not from me." Was that a ghost of a smile on her lips?

He set his glass down so abruptly it nearly toppled. "Quickly I'll let you have it." He joined her on the pallet, forcing her to awkwardly shift farther from the edge.

But Granger accepted his hand and squeezed it twice. The wine had emboldened him, had condensed his coherent thoughts into a rough and tumble stream. You shouldn't drink so much when she's around. And needy. And smelling so nice. And quoting Shakespeare from memory, damn the gods. He risked doing or saying something inappropriate.

Her muscles trembled beneath his hand. Draco had held back enough in his life to recognize it for what it was. He'd have none of that. "Let go, Granger. Don't hold back on my account."

And Merlin, she was an obedient patient. She was pressing against his fingers, goading him to - to what, precisely? He carefully avoided any penetration. That wasn't necessary. He could make her come without it. And come she did - twice, in rapid succession. "I'm done," she said the first time - it was extremely gratifying to ignore her. Felt like payback, a bit, to get her covering her eyes and shaking her legs and making that fucking sound when she thought she wouldn't. His head was light with the success.

He relaxed into a hot bath after she was tucked back into bed. Staring at his body in the tub, sickly pale and growing paler, Draco resolved not to wank. To stop from falling into some kind of pattern when it came to that. Divorce your cock from Granger's treatments - now.

Except the quickest way to get hot and bothered - other than an actual witch, naked in front of him - was to think about how he definitely shouldn't be.

Focus on undesirable things. His father came to mind. What would Lucius think of all this? Of Granger's body under his son's hands? One of his more memorable lessons came to mind.

Lucius had handed him a whisky as they sat together in the Library. "You're getting older."

He'd been about to return to school for Seventh Year. "Thank you, sir." Accepted the tumbler.

"Old enough to drink with your father," Lucius glanced at him, "and old enough to bed your first witch." He raised his glass in a toast.

That took a turn. But Draco had raised his in response. A little late for that, he'd thought proudly at the time. Underestimated me by a year. "Uh, I suppose."

Lucius settled into his chair, fingers tapping the arm. "I'm going to tell you what my father told me." This should be good. "Don't ever fuck a witch, son, who wouldn't be worthy."

"Worthy?" He took a sip and struggled to keep a neutral face. It tasted horrible.

Lucius squarely caught his eye - and held it. "Worthy of the Malfoy name."

Oh no. This sounded serious.

"Worthy of our magic's protection," his father continued.

Was Pansy worthy?

"Worthy of our money."

It always came back to money.

Lucius cleared his throat. "And worthy to be the mother . . . of your son."

Draco had nearly dropped the heavy crystal. "Isn't that, ah, what contraceptive potions are for?"

His father sneered. "And if she doesn't take it?"

"I'll carry one with me. Watch her . . . swallow." Her. Pansy, the only witch who'd touched him. He was itching to get back to her after a long summer of celibacy. Her and all the other girls in short skirts and buttoned blouses and ties, Merlin help him.

"Your naïveté is charming," his father drawled, long hair swishing. "But potions can be faked. Spoiled. Or fail. You'll be targeted, Draco."

Draco hadn't felt like a target.

But before he could think too long about how that didn't sound so bad, his father had leaned across the space between their chairs and gripped his shoulder - hard enough to hurt. "I imagine that after last year you have some tension to release. But do not risk it. The future of this family rests on your head - and on your son's, one day."

"Poor kid," Draco muttered, twisting uncomfortably under the intensity of Lucius's gaze.

Lucius's eyes widened. "Say that again."

It was the moment every father and son share eventually. Draco saw them as circling stags, antlers leveled. He certainly felt ready to charge, ready to defend . . . whom? It wasn't as though he had a witch that his father would deem 'unworthy.' Pansy wasn't the future mother of his child. But his father would have accepted her. So as Lucius's fingers tightened, Draco caved first. What was he going to do - fight him? Of course not. He didn't even know if Pansy would want to fuck again with a war coming. The entire discussion was a pissing contest, a pointless flex.

He wanted to get away. To retreat to his room, and his privacy, and away from these lectures. "Right," he said, standing and moving toward the door. "Fuck only worthy witches."

His father smiled, pleased to have emerged victorious. "Exactly." But then he'd done something strange - he'd stood too, closed the distance, and hugged him. Hugged Draco, tightly. "I want what's best for you," Lucius whispered in his ear. "Nothing ruins your life like binding yourself to someone wrong."

Draco didn't understand. "Are you talking about Mother?"

"No," he said fiercely, pulling back and tugging at Draco's neck. "Not your mother. I knew Narcissa was the one to give me you the moment I saw her." He laughed, his face too close. "I never gave her a choice but to be mine. But you'll see - some of your friends will choose poorly. It happens. I don't want it to happen to you."

Wallowing in his memories, Draco tried to be intentional. Thinking about worthy witches made him remember the few witches who'd deemed him worthy. Pansy, of course. She had fucked him again - quite a lot that year, as the stress of the changes at school and in the world overwhelmed them both. And, eventually, Persia. Astoria, too. Sort of.

His hand wandered beneath the water. No wanking had faded away to as long as you don't picture . . . her.

But he was weak. His visions of them dissolved and reformed into an image of Granger. How her hair had curled against the pillow. The hint of pink he'd caught on her cheeks when his fingers were between her legs. Her proud admission that her stomach rumbled. You did that. And finally, how she'd stared up at him from her bed - smirking subtly - quoting Macduff. She's still in there.

He finished then, his head hitting painfully against the side of the tub. Which didn't help the headache he earned from collecting his memories before he went out to face another restless night.

Their fragile peace disintegrated by morning. They started the seventh day with a fight.

To be fair, he woke up cranky. He was feeling the seclusion and the confinement. No fucking wonder his father wanted out of Azkaban. Draco couldn't imagine being stuck in a space like this - it was even worse, he supposed, in prison - and knowing you'd die in it. Plus, he heard Potter chatting animatedly with the Ginger, which never failed to be fucking annoying.

So when Granger woke, Draco greeted her rudely with a reminder of her promises. "Time to eat something."

He could see that mind of hers whirling - how to put him off, how to delay. "What do we have?" Feigning interest. She was an abysmal actress.

"A series of mysterious wrapped parcels. I didn't know what you'd want so I sent word to the elves via Nott to send a variety." A slight exaggeration. What he'd actually told Nott was a very specific list of items - everything Draco liked. He figured if it was good enough for him, Granger would probably like at least some of it too. She didn't seem the picky sort. "Do you want to come and sit here while I open them?"

"Sure. I welcome a change of scenery. I'll be right back."

He would have laughed if he wasn't watching her hobble pitifully across the stone floor. She barely made it. He'd never thought of Granger as particularly graceful, but this was rough, even for her. Moreover, she looked - terrible. As if holding her head up was too much. It further soured his mood.

Then she had the nerve to ask for coffee. A terrible idea. She hadn't had anything in a week. But he could tell from the sheen of green that forcing eggs and bacon and sausage wasn't going to work.

She got bread instead, slathered obscenely with butter.

"Granger. Eat."

Which, of course, made her resist him even more. She haggled over his tone. "I absolutely will not oblige you after you speak to me like that," she asserted saucily, hair swishing.

If she meant to provoke him she succeeded - it pushed Draco over the edge. "I don't give a fuck what you eat or don't when we're out of here," he told her. "You'll be his problem at that point." Her fucking boyfriend, whoever he was. Prick. "But in here, you eat or I make you eat."

Her eyes filled with tears - perhaps she missed him? Draco shouldn't have brought him up. Or was her display of emotion a response to Draco, his callousness? "You can't make me do anything."

They both heard the lie.

And stared at each other for a long minute. He wondered how he looked - whether she could see that he hadn't slept, that he was wracked with anxiety about letters and argumentative Death Eating heirs and a missing monster. Meanwhile he took in her trembling lips and the way she tugged at a stray bit of her hair and how when she turned just so he caught the briefest glimpse of a collarbone beneath the edge of her jumper.

Draco was just about to relent - to offer to let her wait, to ask if she wanted to try to bring someone else in, someone who would do a better job - when she picked up her food.

She tried.

He couldn't have put how it felt into words if he wanted to. So - he didn't.

Instead, he rewarded her with a coffee.

Rewarded himself with conversation. Draco was desperate for words, for prolonged discussion. For mental stimulation. Gods knew it was the only kind he was going to get.

Granger wrapped those little hands around the mug and closed her eyes in apparent bliss. Noted. Likes coffee. Takes it with cream. Be generous. He castigated himself when she reached for the carafe, rude, Malfoy, and resolved to pay better attention. Narcissa would be dismayed at him for failing to offer a refill before a guest had to get it herself. Granger rewarded him by jerking her fingers away. Disgusted by his touch, then, still. "Your mother?" she asked, between delicate sips.

"She doesn't eat much. But, yes, she lives at the Manor."

He had a pang of guilt. His mother, alone. For about the millionth fucking time he wished he had a sibling. A younger brother, ideally. Someone with whom he could wrestle and then play Quidditch. Or a sister who could give his mother the level of attention and engagement about things like dress robes that he never quite mastered.

Draco had only made the mistake of actually asking about it once.

Narcissa had been reviewing a pile of invitations at breakfast and sharing the more interesting ones with his father, who sneered at the Prophet between bites of bacon. It was the summer before he started at Hogwarts, and Draco was acutely feeling the guilt of leaving them.

"Why haven't I got a brother?" he asked. The voice of a boy who didn't know he was still little.

His mother rattled her teacup against the saucer and turned sharply to her husband. "Lucius, be nice."

Odd, because Lucius didn't move. His eyes continued across the paper like he hadn't even heard the question. Turned a page slowly.

Draco dreaded what came next, though he didn't know why.

"You want some competition, is it?" Lucius finally said. He looked sideways at his son. "Someone with whom to split the inheritance?"

"Lucius!" Narcissa admonished, frowning. "Not everything is about-"

"Money?" He laughed. "Darling, stop. If he's old enough to ask the question, he's old enough to hear the answer." He set the newspaper down and folded his hands. "Many years ago, the Malfoys had more children. Each generation had at least two, sometimes a half dozen. That presented a variety of problems. First, with each extraneous child, they doubled the chances of a dud." It hung in the air just long enough to make Draco wonder about his own categorization. "Second, we had fewer resources, because they kept being divided up and frittered away. So, several generations back, a tradition was born - in the form of a son. One son." He nodded sagely. "You may not be grateful now, but you will be the day I die and you inherit the vaults. I promise you that." He picked up his paper again, conversation concluded.

His mother had smiled gently at him. Like she was sorry, a bit, but not enough to do anything about it.

Come to think of it, she was still like that, sitting away in Wiltshire in the-

"Manor far from here?" Granger was asking.

"You know it is," he said. Discomfited.

"My head is a fog," she spoke slowly. "It must be a lot of work for Theo to come back and forth so often."

Theo. He didn't like that - her comfort with his name. He could picture her in Nott's arms, moaning into his neck. Nott would grin madly over her shoulder. Should have got to her first, he'd brag. And haul her away for a night like the charmer he was.

"No one calls him Theo. But yes, it's far. I'll make it worth his while when this is over." He grabbed his wand and disposed of the breakfast remnants. "A generous bonus." Draco's fist against his teeth, if Nott went near her.

"When will that be?"

Never. He stood, stretching, distracting himself from the threat. Nott, who was as skilled at flirting and inducing and seduction as Draco was shit at it. Nott, who was dark and funny and could get anyone to sit on his lap, and like it. Draco had seen it - had watched, jealous. Not of the objects of his attentions, but of the casual ease with which he wielded . . . himself. Theo made people comfortable. Made them laugh.

Draco felt her watching him, probing his thoughts. No, wait. She was looking at his stomach, at the skin above his trousers. "My eyes are up here, Granger." He was pleased to see that she was embarrassed to be caught, blushing hotly. He'd made her blush. Were there other ways he could make her blush?

Before he could discover any, Potter intruded. Her friends were determined that he would not be the only one with whom she spoke. "Hermione? How are you?" the Ginger whined. Fine. If they wanted to lie to each other about how well they were doing, Draco would damn well let them.

Plus, Granger had asked for another treatment, and he wanted to conduct an experiment - to see if an anticipatory wank would help him keep it in control. He hoped that he could stave off inappropriate erections if he kept emptied.

Cock ex ante, he told himself. Perhaps preferable to cock ex post.

It was contrary to everything he'd been taught. Staring at himself again in front of that infernal mirror, Draco prepared. And breathed to soothe his roiling stomach. "It's not like you have to fuck her. It's just - touching. You're good at touching. Even Pansy said you were passable at it."

Pansy had trained him thoroughly. Had gripped his hair in one of her hands, and his arm in the other, the first time he was granted permission to a teenage boy's most elusive and revered destination: beneath a girl's skirt. They'd been in the common room after everyone else went to bed. They were both hormonal and bothered and bored.

He'd been trying for weeks, wooing her to the best of his virginal, awkward, arsehole abilities. Because she was there, and had tits, and was mean enough to him that he noticed her. Mostly, she was there.

Finally, one night, she said she'd let him take a test. "If you pass, maybe you can take another."

He'd been hard instantly, in that stage when everything made him hard. Literally everything: concave breakfast pastries, the waft of a feminine perfume, fantasies of snogs in hidden alcoves. "What test?" He'd stood, fast, and come to hover over her.

"I'll lean back here, on the couch, and you can sit beside me," Pansy said. He'd sat, cock throbbing. She frowned. "Try not to act so eager. Girls should feel pursued - but not like they're being hunted." He'd leaned in, ignoring her, and sloppily kissed her neck. "Less spit. But necks are good."

Draco'd been so desperate, so anxious for more. His erection was a living thing in his trousers, jerking with anticipation.

"Now for your test," she chirped. "Have you made a girl come?"

"No."

"Haven't you touched a girl before?"

He blushed harder than a horny Hufflepuff. "Not yet."

Pansy liked that. "Well, I know how it's done," she lectured briskly. "I'll show you. Go ahead - you can try on me."

She'd corrected him every step of the way, tugging his head like the leash of an untrained puppy. "Not like that. Any skin that doesn't see the light of day, you're supposed to handle it carefully."

So he'd been more gentle. And Pansy seemed surprised at how quickly she responded. She taught him how to pay attention, how to see the little signs. To stroke very lightly until she was very wet so that it wouldn't hurt her. To notice when her pupils were dilated. To listen for her breath to hitch. To tease her until she lost control and her hips became his instructor all by themselves. She'd gasped, thrashing her head against the couch cushions, her legs apart and his hand hidden. "Don't stop doing exactly what you're doing at exactly that pace until I tell you."

And, it had worked. She'd groaned, loud enough that he looked over his shoulder twice to make sure no one was coming to check on the source.

When she was done she grinned meanly at him. "We'll call that A for Acceptable. Next time, I want an E. And when you achieve an Outstanding, maybe I'll give you a reward."

"Is that it?" he'd whined, gesturing at the absolutely agonizing erection between them. He'd pressed against her thigh, a bit, when she wasn't paying attention, to relieve some of the terrible urge. It had only made it worse.

She sniffed at it. "Learn early and often, Malfoy. Witches come first. Your kind has a lot to make up for."

"My kind?"

"Wizards, generally. Now, be off. Lest I downgrade your marks to a Poor."

So yes, he'd learned. And he'd been told, by the few who followed and been interspersed with her, that he did a decent job.

Well. That might have understated it slightly. Astoria had said he gave the best orgasm she'd ever had. Draco was a good and quick learner - had to be, if he wanted Pansy's next test.

Want it, he had.

His wank was successful, though it took a lot longer when he hadn't come straight from exploring Granger's cunt. As he got dressed he let himself listen to her voice through the door, talking to her friends. Her tone was relaxed and familiar, telling them about eating a lot. Liar. Draco supposed she didn't like to worry other people.

Were her parents worried?

What about that boyfriend? Surely he was on the hunt for her? Probably he was tearing London apart.

Granger and Potter were speculating on the magic keeping them contained when he joined. Their superior tones were fucking rich. Like only someone evil and different would use blood magic. Someone like him. Someone who was him.

If only she knew. He tried to imagine how Granger would react if she learned about the monster. She'd definitely never let him touch her again - which meant that she'd probably fucking die, that she would starve to death in this prison.

Thank the gods she didn't know, that she hadn't figured it out.

He realized, as he looked at her curled up in the spot in which he'd tossed and turned all night, that it was only a matter of time. She specialized in magical creatures. She was Hermione Granger, top of her class, Ministry wunderkind. As she improved and the fog of her mind lifted, as her magic returned, she'd see the improbability of her attack. She'd put the pieces together. By the time that day came, Draco needed to have her healed, her figurative blood washed from his hands, and to - ideally - be far away. He knew he never wanted to see the realization on her face.

To hear her tell him that he'd ruined her life.

A life that was dedicated, at present, to arguing with him - again! - about how often Potter was fucking the Ginger. "Four times a day?" If she'd been any healthier he'd have teased her about her boyfriend falling down on the job.

Instead, it was so awkward he was actually thankful for something he wouldn't ever have expected. Pansy had arrived, redheaded assistant in tow. "Let's both hope they bring good news."

It was not good news.

It started off badly, Weasley hovering over Pans like a rabid dog over water, and got worse. They confirmed what Nott had mentioned the day before - that they'd attempted to write to Lucius. Draco's fears swirled. He didn't need his father suspecting a delay, or that he was hiding, or knowing a damned thing about his predicament.

What he needed was wine - and the contents of his library so he could get the fucking answer himself. But Ron wasn't content with Pansy, apparently, as he leaned threateningly into the barrier. "The last thing we need is you caged and drunk, putting Hermione at even greater risk."

Even greater. Risk.

Draco's eyes shot to Pans, waiting for her to step in. To defend him. To say that while he was average in bed and a shitty boyfriend - he wouldn't assault a witch.

She was impassive. Face blank, as she watched Weasley froth.

Right.

As expected.

He could hear Lucius's voice in his head as he stumbled backwards, as he drew away. Your reputation is everything. And look at it, now, in tatters - not one of them speaking up, each of them expecting the worst. Potter certainly said nothing, despite their hours of discussions. Even greater risk. Nor the Ginger, who'd made him promise to help.

Draco lifted his hand to Granger - go ahead. Confirm it. Confirm what I've done to you.

No, not one of them defended him . . . except Granger herself. "He hasn't hurt me." Her voice was strong and clear - fighting back.

Fighting for him. Draco didn't know what to make of it, didn't have time to think about it.

"You mean he hasn't hurt you yet, " said Weasley, straining to get at her through the magic.

Yes. Weasley had the right of it. Come haul her out. Except - if Weasley did that he'd be left here, alone. And who would take care of her, if they were separated? She was still so weak.

"I'm strong," she said, as if reading his thoughts. Disputing them, naturally. "I'll be fine. And he has no motive to harm me."

"No motive except being a murderous Death Eating prick." But Weasley retreated quick enough to Pansy's side, seeking her protection.

A white hot rage flared in Draco's chest. Ron wasn't even worried about Granger. He was just marking his territory. Draco leaned forward, blood thrumming. The barrier was thicker than ever, its borders expanding. "For someone who purports to want his precious little ex out of here, you're not doing a very good job making it happen."

They could all fuck off. He was finished with them.

Including Granger, and her efforts to protect him, which he didn't need nor want. He abhorred the idea of his friends speculating at some kind of attachment between them - the way he did about Weasley and Pans. "Did you see the way Hermione leapt to Draco's defense?" Ron was probably muttering, as he escorted Pansy up into the freedom of daylight, her arm through his-

"How are they traveling in and out so fast?"

She could ask the most inane questions. "I don't want to talk, Granger. I need a-" fucking- "minute."

Drinking. That would help - he was feeling hot and unmoored. The news of no progress stifled. He summoned a bottle of firewhisky from the cave stores. Good stuff - aged for decades. The kind he drank at home when he'd had nothing better to do but lounge on comfortable furniture and while away the hours.

He couldn't even enjoy it because fucking Potter was workshopping a comedy routine in the next room over, drawing uproarious laughter from the Ginger. Draco seethed. The contrast between her and Granger, laying down, looking peaked, was stark.

He had to be better. Had to try harder. "How about a double this afternoon?"

"Okay."

Emboldened by the whisky, he ordered her to "make room."

He'd show her.

His head swam a bit, the drink taking hold.

She'd been right - he wasn't going to hurt her.

Draco made monsters, yes, but he wasn't one.

Not to her.

"Bossy," she said, as he dragged her against him. It stung where he was already smarting. All her friends expect you to hurt her. He'd never hurt Pansy - not physically, anyway. And yet she'd said nothing when Weasley leveled the accusation. Her eyes had been on him . . . awaiting the worst.

"Are you ready?" He had goals for her improvement tonight, and they required her to come apart several times.

"Yes," she said, so he moved his hand onto her stomach, under the waistband of her pants, down to between her legs.

He lay his heavy head behind hers, nose in her hair. We'll do this by feel. She smelled of the same soap he'd been using, and he liked that they smelled the same. From this angle he had a clear view of her ear. Small and nicely shaped. He wondered briefly if she'd like him sliding his tongue over it. Instead he slipped a finger against her cunt and found her . . . . "You weren't lying about being ready," he marveled.

He closed his eyes and focused on his fingers, on listening for the hitch in her breath that told him she was reacting. Granger's hips spurred him on. He tilted forward so that his lips were at the shell of that ear. "Hoping for something?" To bite it and see if she'd squeal. To pull her hard into his body and test the firmness of her arse with his rapidly hardening cock.

Draco meandered his fingers in no particular pattern. The nice thing about having nothing but time and no chance of his own pleasure was that he found himself motivated to drag it out. They had no plans after her orgasm except dinner - several hours away, still.

So he touched her carefully and whispered some more. Trying to show her in his touch - he wouldn't. Wouldn't hurt her. Not in the torchlight. Not with her skin so accepting. He wasn't good, but his hands would never bring her pain.

Granger.

Draco was determined. Yes he was terrible, yes. Evil, sure. Wrong - definitely. Bad. Weasley had been right too - Draco hadn't hurt her yet. But he'd never hurt her on this bed. Not with this piece of her, this precious, soft, delicate piece, in his fucking hands. In his brutal hands. The hands he'd cut and bled to birth what did this. It was worthy of verse - the blood, the night he was successful, had poured from his left palm. He propelled the memory away, and felt with that hand how she wanted it. She was chasing his fingers. Eager for -

His cock was aching. It twitched in time to her little movements. His experiment had failed - his agony unchanged.

It's what you deserve.

He deserved to be tormented and restrained while she was free and undone.

"Guiding me, Granger?" As he was guiding her. Coaching her, managing her through it.

Gods, he wanted her to tell him. Tell him what she wanted. Who she wanted. It was what he wanted, more than anything.

No. He had something he wanted more.

And for the first time his fingers stopped skating over her cunt. "I think you might want me here." Deeper.

She confirmed it with her movements, leaning into his shoulder and making a noise that said please. He nearly laughed at her comfort, at how far they'd come in just a few days. Instead, Draco sniffed again at her hair - cleaner, unfortunately, but he still found her beneath the soap. That rich scent all her own.

Granger tried to grab his thigh - to pull him closer? But he was hard as a rock and carefully maintained the distance.

"What are you hoping I'll do?"

Her hand, next best thing to her words, took his wrist and held it still. If he couldn't get the job done she'd do it herself. Draco didn't have to do anything more than be still. Granger - Hermione fucking Granger - moved herself onto him. Used him confidently.

Pressed his left ring finger, which he'd used to tease her, inside her body.

He was rewarded, tortured, with her sound. "You like that." Shocking. He was nearly paralyzed by the feel of her fluttering muscles. Delicate and sweet, pulling him closer.

Draco barely had time to analyze, memorize, how she felt - because she came. She spasmed on his finger, soft and warm and slick. And - strong. The strength he knew she had in her. He'd found it. Her body flexed around him deliciously, squeezing him with confidence. He could feel it - her - tugging at him. Merlin.

She acted for a moment like she might move away. She was fucking crazy if she thought he was going to let go before he felt that again.

Possibilities unfolded.

Could he get her to come from just a rhythm? From the pressure of his hand and her natural desire?

He played with her, exploring.

"I can't," she said.

"I think you can."

She could.

He was treading in a sea of whisky and his own sick lust. She'd said he was bossy. Fine - let him be bossy.

"Be good a little longer," he commanded. "Can you be good?"

Granger spread her legs. For him.

It was a fucking miracle that Draco didn't finish in his trousers. His whole body had contracted closer, trying to hold it off, which meant she somehow got her hand at the back of his neck - drawing them together.

No. That way led to revealing erections and uncomfortable questions. That way led to her fingers in his hair-

A hard line.

Even imagining it, Draco had to get away. The moment he felt her final tremors - he was gone. He'd been a hairsbreadth from pressing into her arse, tearing her clothes off, and begging her to fuck.

Proving them all right.

"Did it help?" He blamed the whisky.

"Yes," was all she said.

But she yawned like she was pleased.

It was something.

Draco fled.

Regardless of his ex ante orgasm, the ex post was just as intense. As soon as the door clicked shut he had his cock out of his pants, furiously pulling at himself. It took three rounds of Scourgify to remove the evidence.

If only he could do the same to the path that had brought him there.

When he was calm he went out and softly summoned a just-delivered basket with dinner and laundry. He left the food alone, waiting for her, but went ahead and opened one of the bottles of wine - might as well stave off his inevitable hangover for a bit longer. Under it was a stack of books. He recognized several of the spines from the Malfoy library but had never read any of them. He cracked the thickest one - a dark blue cover with gold bindings that appeared to be a history of blood magic tied to land. Thrilling. But he began from the beginning, scanning the old pages as quickly as he could, searching for something - anything - that could help. His eyes strayed from the dry passages every few minutes to check on Granger.

Because he was hungry. As soon as she woke they could eat. He was looking forward to her eating - to making good on her promises. And - maybe talking some more.

Halfway through her nap, Draco remembered that he needed to catch up on his correspondence - to finish that letter to the Carrows. He used one of the books as a desk.

Alonso & Alyssa,

Minor accident while working on the weapon. Await instructions.

DM

Was it too curt? Draco couldn't be bothered to care. They were both cunts. And not the sweet, wet kind. There was still an unopened letter in Nott's basket - but Granger stirred before he could get to it. Later.

"Good rest?"

While she bathed Draco unpacked the meal - chicken and vegetables, fucking yes, it smelled good - and did some thinking.

They'd already been trapped for a week. And his List, the one that had been hovering over his neck like the Mystical Sword of Damocles, had drastically changed. The to-dos of several days ago - recapture that fucking monster, ensure his father's timely escape, plan a homecoming - were now

delay & distract the new Death Eaters and

heal Hermione Granger

To accomplish the latter he needed to learn more about her. Beyond what he'd figured out in the past few days. He needed to understand what motivated her. Needed to lure the old Granger out, to keep her mind as engaged as her body.

Was she any good at chess?

He'd always wondered.

Looking around at the room, which had grown rather dingy from his regular foot traffic, he remembered the other thing on his new List:

escape

Of course. How the fuck did you forget about that? But somewhere about the time he pulled Granger back to the world of the living, it had slipped down the list of priorities. Out of sheer necessity, obviously.

He was pouring himself more wine when the door opened - and a pair of legs appeared across from the tea table.

Things About Granger. Another List. First: Nice fucking legs. They were longer than he'd expected - envisioned - and smooth, her calves delicately shaped. And what was she wearing? Some kind of - nightdress. With a robe tied loosely in the front.

Draco wasn't sure why he was so surprised. It's not like he hadn't felt beneath what it covered. But it made her so accessible. If he wanted he could just slide his hand up her thigh and find-

"Sit down and dig in." She'd said she was hungry.

But when she sat across from him he learned the Second Thing: Tits. He got a view of that mysterious and charming line down the center of a witch's chest. It beckoned him to follow and see where it leads. Into the curve of Granger's tits, specifically.

The Third doused his wildly inappropriate desire with cold water. "I'm off meat for awhile, I think." She looked like a child after their first broom ride. "Maybe forever."

So she wasn't just avoiding meals to be difficult. He'd been making her sick, prat that he was, bothering her with things that turned her stomach.

Because of the worst thing. Four. "My head. It's been full of terrible visions since the attack. I've seen a lot of bad things. Violence and torture." Granger swallowed, looking beyond him to the torches. "Without sharing details, some of those were of animals."

He did not know what to do with that. The implications washed over him in a jumbled confusion. Visions of violence and torture. Her own? On repeat? But if it was animals he thought not. So her body had been at rest for days to allow her busy mind to work. With the way her brows knit together as she told him - he imagined what that meant. That there'd been an inverse relationship between the stillness of her limbs and the vast intensity in her brain. That those errant tears she'd shed as he prowled in front of her, focused on his own bullshit problems, were symbolic of more pain than he knew. You did this, he thought again.

Draco's first instinct was to offload it back onto her - to confess it all, everything, and release himself. "It's me," he'd say. "I'm the monster who attacked you." The words threatened to roll off his tongue. "Weasley was right. I'm the reason your eyes are dull and you sleep all the time. I'm the reason you lost your magic. It was me." She magnified it with the subtle bow of her head, as if ashamed. Like she was the one who had done something wrong.

But that wasn't fair - this was Draco's burden. The only thing worse for Granger than being trapped with him would be to know that he was, in fact, the cause of her condition. Of her obvious pain. The terror a confession would instill in her - and for what?

No, he'd keep it to himself. It was the least he could do, to carry the yoke of his own fucking guilt. Today, tomorrow, and until she figured it out on her own. He'd accepted already that that day would come - but as he watched the light show off the different colors in her hair, he found himself hoping it was farther away than foreseeable.

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

He plied her with food and conversation. Maintained a careful watch over her consumption, which had improved slightly. Only took her three orgasms.

When she'd eaten enough and her cheeks were just barely flushed from the wine, she offered to wait until morning for another round. To see if she improved on her own. But with the sword pressing on his throat, with the persistent headache between his eyes, with the weight of his burdens heavy on his shoulders, Draco added another - what's one more? He was never going to be the cause of her regression - he resolved it right then and there. No matter what.

"Get up, Granger." Four times a day in the next room over - he could beat that. "Lie down."

She did as she was told, which he found he liked very much. A witch at his command. He'd never had that before.

Until he tried to figure out how she preferred to receive her pleasure. "You haven't seemed well enough to tell me." Before, when she was fucking comatose.

But the arguments of the morning hadn't gone entirely. Granger was as obtuse and difficult as ever. He should have taken it as a good sign, but he was too busy arguing with her.

"Let's not make this harder than it needs to be."

Thankfully, there were hints. She offered to take her fucking clothes off, which he hadn't been expecting at all. He was just grateful that she was wearing a nightgown instead of those infernal tight trousers that limited the range of his hands.

"Is that what you want?" he pleaded with her. "Would it - make this easier?"

"I don't care. Just don't - you know - mock me. If we ever get out of here."

Mock her.

"My body."

So that's what she thought of him. Not that he'd hurt her, physically, but that he'd destroy her reputation. He marked it down as Number Five on his list. She expected that Draco was going to run around telling his mates he'd frigged Hermione Granger and wasn't it a riot, she had a dimpled ass and wonky tits.

"I wouldn't."

His entire body tensed, fighting with her. Every muscle tight to the point of pain. Even his fingers, which left a fucking bruise on her hip. At which point he learned the answer to a question he'd just had - six - that Granger did not, in fact, wear knickers under nightgowns.

She was shockingly uninhibited, yanking the fabric up so he could see what he'd done to her. A witch with experience. He forced himself to stare at the blossoming shadow. And not -

The swell of her stomach.

The line of her hip.

How her thighs came together to hide the place where his fingers had been just hours before. He wondered at its color. Would he ever find out-

"I shouldn't have done that."

But she let him manhandle her some more, pulling her legs open to give himself room. A thought broke through the haze of bodies and damp and want. Draco had to know if the inverse was true.

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

He could see it - Granger entertaining a table in a crowded Pub, Weasley and her brother and Potter and the rest of those fucking Gryffindors he'd known, leaning forward to hear better. How they'd tip their heads back and scream with laughter when she described Draco Malfoy's pretend prowess. His lack thereof.

She proposed the truce. A reasonable one. "When we get out of this cave, neither of us will ever speak about what we've done or seen in this alcove, on this bed." She blinked at him politely, lashes fluttering and lips distracting.

Of course he agreed. Didn't tell her he would never. Not because he was ashamed of his ilk knowing about her - Nott and Pansy already did, and they were two thirds of his friends - well, more like Nott was one half of his friends and Pansy tolerated him after what he'd done - but because Granger was something private.

Something he wanted to keep to himself.

When he reached for her he learned Things About Granger Number Seven. Pillow debates turned her on. She was wetter than she'd been before - and didn't seem to mind him marveling at it, his fingers testing and enjoying the ease with which he stroked her. She came almost instantly, which soothed his wounded pride. And she made the most delightful noise when he pressed into her with a second finger. Her body rewarded him with trembling pulses.

She closed her legs around his wrist and laid one of her hands across her belly. Draco bit the inside of his lip so hard he drew blood. He knew what that meant. She was thinking of cock. Whose?

He saw himself standing over her - in a room far away, on a bed with white sheets. Her legs hung over the sides. She was smiling, bathed in the light and warmth of the sun. How precious the sight. How impossible that world. Draco would like to press his own hand, pale against her skin, onto her stomach as his dick took its fill. To feel what he did to her.

His cock and his imagination competed to be the most distracting. If she hadn't been holding his free hand he'd have given in and slid it into his trousers, to hold himself. To soothe the pain of it.

This is your punishment.

"Malfoy?" she asked, voice high and breathy.

"Yes?"

"Can I move a little more?"

This is what you earned.

"You should do whatever feels good." Not him, though. Draco swallowed, forcing his mind to remember how sick she'd looked after the attack, the tear that rolled down her cheek.

This is the torture you deserve.

She spread herself for him, hooking one of her legs over his and letting her head fall back into the place where his shoulder and neck connected. It fit perfectly. Her hair tickled his nose. He prayed to the gods her arse couldn't feel his reaction, but she didn't seem to notice. She was too distracted by his hand, which slowed everything down and praised her for the initiative. For giving him such access.

For the trust.

And, for the lesson. Eight. "You like a lighter touch, Granger?"

"I guess I do." She held her tits in her hands through the fabric. Her nipples begged for more.

"I think you like to be teased. I think you like to be played." She sighed, shivering and writhing in his arms, the pressure of her head pleasant against his body. "I think you like to ask for it."

"I think I want you to stop being a tosser." He'd made her properly cross. An achievement, when she was that relaxed.

He tried to hide his laugh. "Ask nicely."

Granger came again, the power of it so intense it radiated through him too.

While Draco was waiting for his cock to give up the ghost and return to the vaguely half-hard state he'd been in all day, Granger lifted her head and offered, apropos of nothing, to play chess.

"It's late." He had no desire at that moment. He wanted to lie on the couch and feel sorry for himself for a bit. Try to sleep. Maybe have a good dream for once, a dream of that other world. A world where everything was different.

"I feel well," she said, looking at him expectantly. Her tone was forcibly chipper. She was trying.

He got up and swept the table clear and fetched the board.

And learned that she was terrible at chess. Put that on the list. Nine. Draco had to admit, as he watched her ponder - and then miss - the most obvious moves, that it was a bit of a disappointment.

He supposed he'd always considered Granger to be analytical. Logical. Sharp and calculating. But she appeared to bumble her way through the game, never thinking about more than the pieces as they were presently arranged.

Her ability to anticipate was as absent as her magic. You did this; or had he? Perhaps she'd never been good at chess, he thought hopefully. Perhaps this wasn't one more strike against him. One more thing he'd caused.

Visions of torture

Loss of appetite

Dulling of mental acuity

Not that her game mattered at all long term. Perhaps they'd find the way out tomorrow and he'd never play her again. Never see her again. He knocked a rook over and had to right it.

Granger looked at him saucily, eyebrows raised. "Not trying to cheat, are you?"

"No," he said bluntly.

She pursed her lips. "Do you play often?"

"When I have a partner." A lie. He usually played by himself.

"Where did you get this set? From the Bunker or from Theodore?"

"No one calls him Theodore," he reminded her. "And the Malfoys stocked this place with several sets. I found it while you were - still."

She nodded, and lost her other knight. "What's your favorite piece?"

He sighed. "The Queen."

"Oh that's interesting." She moved her own into the direct line of one of his pawns. "Why?"

Draco pretended he didn't see and shifted his bishop instead. He watched her thinking. "She's the most powerful. She - gets what she wants."

Granger nodded. "As witches should." And promptly lost. "Good game."

She shook his hand, promising to play again. "Tomorrow."

His head was buzzing. The wine, perhaps. But he wanted some distance, some space from her. He was thankful when she went into the bathing room.

He returned the set to its place in the wardrobe and gathered up the laundry and remaining dishes. There was a slug of wine left and he worked on finishing it straight from the bottle. Tipping his head back he spied the corner of an envelope poking out of the basket - the unopened letter. He'd nearly forgotten.

Checking that the door was firmly closed, Draco opened it quickly. From his solicitor.

The noise in his head became a roar as he read.

He knows whom you've captured. He relays that all is forgiven. Take your time. Keep her close.

Very proud.

Draco burned the note reflexively and stood there for a moment, heart pounding.

Heart stopped.

Lucius knew about Granger.

How?

He threw his empty bottle so hard the shards carpeted the entire floor. They twinkled in the low light.

Granger made a rustling noise - no. "It's fine! Don't come out." He pushed his hands through his hair, surveying the mess. "Take your time."

Breathe, Malfoy. He forced himself to think. Lucius couldn't get to him here. He wasn't even out of prison. Yet. And he wouldn't get to Granger. Even if he did get out, even if he did come to find them - to find her - the barrier was a blessing in disguise. For now, at least, she was safe. Draco had time to plan.

To handle it.

The immediate problem was how to keep Granger's feet from getting cut to shreds.

He summoned every cleaning spell he knew to the forefront of his mind and cast them all in a mess of urgency. Scourgify. Tergeo. Depulso. He made her bed and removed the dust and banished the basket. It would have made even Kirby proud. He hexed the books into neat piles. They were just settling into place when she opened the door.

She looked around, confused and delighted. "Oh!" A bright-eyed witch, admiring that prison - her mind, her missing magic, the cave - of his making. Like it wasn't a hellhole.

Draco got away from her as fast as he could.

He came to the conclusion after muddled minutes in a scalding bath, thinking of how to adapt to this blow. And spoke aloud softly - for her to understand later, when he saved the moment. If she ever needed it.

"I don't know how Lucius knows about you." He rubbed the pads of his wrinkled fingers together. "Maybe - maybe he got Pansy's owl after all? And word that Potter's missing too? Perhaps he put it together?"

Water sloshed as he shifted in frustration. "I promise I don't. But - now that he knows, I need to prepare."

Draco licked his lips and twisted his hair. "I think - just in case - you should understand how we got here. Why you were attacked. If . . . if something happens to me, I don't want there to be unanswered questions."

Of course.

The memories. He'd saved them for each day. He had the perpetual headache to prove it. Draco wondered if he was doing it wrong. It certainly felt that way - as if he was pulling parts of himself through his skull, through his skin. He looked each time at the tip of his wand to see if he'd left blood. Was always surprised that he hadn't.

"So - I'm going to give you some older times too. Going back . . . awhile."

To a warm spring day, months before. And, perhaps, further.

"I'll keep saving what you'd need. In the unlikely event you ever see these."

Merlin, please. Never let her see.

He got out of the water, moving slow, anticipating the hurt. Dried off and pulled on joggers for sleep. Brushed his teeth and fussed with his hair and glared at the mirror.

Until he was too exhausted to put it off any longer. He lifted his wand to his temple.

The pain was indescribable. As he relived the events of the day, capturing them for Granger's insurance policy, Draco realized he'd forgotten something for his list. The tenth thing he'd learned.

That Hermione had him in a fucking chokehold.