How poetic that it was blood — Granger's blood — that shook Draco from the routine. That rattled his ability to stay disengaged, to keep her — literally — at arm's length. Her blood that spurred a choice.

He noticed it immediately, that morning. Something was off.

It irritated him at first. It wasn't that she didn't sneak her normal surreptitious looks while he did his push ups and his stretches. Her brief sidelong glances never failed to make him feel smug. No, that morning she stared at him openly, the torchlight shining on, not in, her eyes.He'd learned to recognize the difference. Draco exercised with extra gusto — hoping to ignite her interest, to draw her attention to himself specifically and away from wherever, whomever.

But he didn't distract her once. Unusual. She didn't even seem bothered by his stink and heavy breathing.

Her distance compounded his intensifying stress. You are running out of time. The Equinox was a week away. He was supposed to be . . . not here.

Instead he was trapped with Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. And the monster — linchpin of Lucius's plot — was nowhere to be found. Nott had looked for it, upon request, and come up empty. Draco's best guess, given it hadn't attacked anyone lately, was that it was deep in the caverns somewhere. If it had made its way out to the moors and hurt another person, the Prophet hadn't reported it.

As best he could he channeled the anxiety and frustration into repetitions. One, two, three, four. Into lifting his body, into flexing his muscles over and over. Five, six, seven, eight. And over. He found comfort in the burn and strain.

And he needed the distraction from a nearby witch, fidgeting on the sofa and staring past him.

What could be wrong with her? Perhaps she was missing home? Her parents? Her boyfriend? Perhaps she was suspicious? Or perhaps, like Draco, the relentless darkness and small space were simply wearing on her. He was contemplating it, ways to cheer her, when —

"Is he in the bath yet?" Weasley yelled snidely. Snottily.

He. The word carried a lot of weight. He. It was not a nice word, not the way Weasley said it. The Ginger was right about him, of course, but he didn't think Granger knew that. Draco swallowed. Didn't know it yet.

Was that what they talked about, then, while he was ripping silver strands from his head? When he was bent over the sink, pain radiating up and down his neck, wand shaking? He — Draco Malfoy.

He'd been so wrapped up in his concerns and movements and her — that he'd delayed getting in the tub. And therefore interrupted their daily shit-talking.

To be fair, Draco couldn't blame Weasley for trying to keep Granger reminded. He would do the same, if he was them. Never let her forget who he was. With whom she was trapped. He.

He should have maturely ignored it. But his guilty conscience and exhaustion and persistent headache fused together and he reacted . . . just as expected. "Why don't you just fucking ask her what you want to ask her?" His voice ricocheted around the tiny space. "Ask Granger what I've done to her. Ask whether I've hurt her. Ask whether she's going to need you gits to hunt me down and castrate me when this is over!"

Potter and Weasley didn't have the fucking courage to fight with him. He should have known. But Granger pushed back. "Don't take out your bad mood on my friend."

She clambered off the sofa and walked a bit, eyes flashing. A measure of success, he supposed. He'd gotten her vertical. Apparently angry enough to ensure they were still imprisoned, she tested the barrier, leaning into the shimmer.

For a moment he saw a vision of her walking through it, magic melting away. He saw her leaving, hair down her back, casting nary a look over her shoulder as she went. He lifted his hand, horrified, and moved to follow —

But there was no change.

They were still stuck, cursed, and doomed. "Making you mad, am I?" His teeth ground unpleasantly.

The provocation backfired.

"— feels bad that she's with someone safe," Granger argued, matching his crankiness, "and I'm out of sight and stuck with our worst enemy."

Ah.

There it was.

"Of course."

Draco was delighted to hear it from her — the truth. It sank into his chest, into his bones. Into a place beneath where his breath stuttered. Worst enemy.

Granger's feelings, revealed.

Finally.

He'd been looking for days, fool that he was, for something lurking in her eyes. Looking for . . . something beyond the healing he gave her on that pallet. Thought, once or twice, that he'd seen it — when he was reading, or when he came out of the bath properly attired, or when they learned about each other over his elves' dinners.

Primarily he was concerned that she might become infatuated. Might wake from this nightmare and hate him for letting her . . . feel something. A captive ingratiating herself to her captor — a tale as old as time.

Draco didn't want that.

Didn't want Granger feeling something for him. Not — under these circumstances. Not — ever.

But he'd been looking for the wrong thing. Hermione felt something, alright. She'd simply been appeasing him with politeness. Her conversation. Passed sandwiches. He — her worst enemy.

He should have been grateful for her candor. It was a good reminder — a necessary one — for them both.

Those two words distilled it all. Weasley was with someone safe — Harry Potter. Not stuck — not in danger — like Granger was. Worst enemy — Draco, not anyone else. Not his father, not the Dark Lord, not Umbridge or Yaxley or Alonso Carrow, nor any of the others.

Too true.

Except, Draco wasn't grateful. He was a fucking arse.

"Was I your worst enemy this morning?"

She looked like she'd been caught as he lit into her. Eyes wide and lower lip trembling.

"Or was I your worst enemy last night or the day before that or the day before that?" Granger scouted the door behind him. "When my fingers were the only reason you could get out of bed?" He couldn't resist. How would she respond?

She certainly didn't correct him.

Instead, she fled. Retreated to the bathing chamber and then refused to speak to him for hours, laying on her bed.

Which, unfortunately, gave him plenty of time to think. He had to read and re-read Creative Containment Charms four times before any of it signified. Not that it was helpful. He resisted the urge to throw the book against a wall. He blamed her — he couldn't focus with her . . . there in front of him. Filling his view with the evidence that proved her words right. Her worst enemy — yes.

You did this.

She'd realize it soon enough.

When she found out . . . .

A thought for another time.

After several more worthless texts, Draco stood to stretch his legs. He needed to be alone. Perhaps splash his face with cold water. Take that delayed bath, sweaty as he'd gotten.

"Oh." She'd gotten up too.

They fumbled, looking between each other's feet. Or, perhaps it was just him. Granger was extremely annoyed by his presence, brow furrowed and lips pressed tight.

"You use it first," he insisted.

When she returned he tried to feed her. But she was jumpy and irritable, avoiding eye contact.

"Go use the loo," she ordered firmly. "I've got to talk to Ginny about something. For women."

Uh oh.

Draco's turn to flee.

Her meaning crashed through him. Her agitation throughout the day. Her far off looks. Her discomfort.

Granger was a witch.

A witch of child-bearing age.

A witch who had been trapped with him for weeks.

It was expected — or should have been, if he'd thought critically about anything beyond himself and his own bullshit — that she'd go through —

"Malfoy." A call. For him. He opened the door, the dawning awareness dizzying. "I'm having my —"

"Witch times."

She looked everywhere but at him. A new and unfamiliar awkwardness settled between them. Draco didn't care for it. How could he cut the tension? The room was too small already, too small for the two of them and her undeserved embarrassment.

This was the way of the world, the way of bodies.

Many witches dealt with it regularly.

But he struggled with how to tell her that she needn't worry. He wouldn't mention it, acknowledge it. He'd let her be.

She settled in for a nap and he covered her, hoping perhaps she'd say something so he could fill in the words, the space between. You needn't be ashamed. But she didn't — and why would she speak, especially in her state, to her worst enemy?

He ate alone, mostly for something to do. Set some aside in case she wanted it later. But the silence and her back and what came next loomed.

When Nott appeared, Draco dictated quiet orders. "I'm sorry in advance, but I need you to make a double trip today." Granger's face wavered in his mind. "Right away, actually."

"I have plans tonight," Nott whined. "I'm going to —"

"Return to the Manor and collect another basket."

"Whatever for? Haven't I brought everything you've requested?"

"Yes," Draco hissed. "But there's something for which I didn't plan. Granger's . . . in a witch's way."

"A baby?"

Draco rubbed his forehead. "Not that way. She's . . . having her monthly." Blank blinks. "Her witch times." Gods he could be thick. "She's bleeding."

"Merlin, no," Nott whispered, a hand over his mouth. He looked like he'd see a ghost. Draco could have laughed if it wouldn't have woken her. And he didn't want her thinking he was mocking her with his friend — further confirming her conclusions about his character.

"She'll be fine. But you'll need to hurry back with . . . supplies."

"What supplies?"

"You're a smart man, Nott. You should know these things."

He shook his head, teeth bared in a grimace. "This is beyond my —"

"Then go find a witch and fucking get educated."

Overwhelmed by the urgency — and motivated, perhaps, by Draco's serious tone — Nott turned to race away.

"One more thing." Draco checked to be sure Granger was still. "I have an old pair of joggers in the top drawer of my dresser. Have Kirby fetch them — he'll know which ones."

"What for?" Near panic. "Some kind of ritual?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Just — bring them."

Since she was on the couch he had nowhere to go. He paced for awhile and then sat awkwardly on the bed. But that was her space and he didn't belong.

As he watched the back of her head and waited for her to stir, he spun his wand in his fingers and thought about . . . blood.

Bad blood, bad words.

Mudblood.

Draco heard the hundreds of times his father had said it. Not only his father. How many times he'd said it, her worst enemy, himself.

To Granger's face, a crowd of Slytherin teammates surrounding. He'd been proud, that day, of standing up to her.

Except — whose blood was actually dirty? Because he was fairly sure Granger's had never mixed with the dirt and stone around them.

Had never dripped, like his, from her hand and spilt on the cave floor. His blood, sticky and smelling heavily of old galleons.

Blood of death, of pain, of destruction —

His blood, birthing monsters.

Just as red as hers.

Worst enemy — no wonder. He'd let himself forget, briefly, how this must feel from her perspective. And now that her blood was coming between them, presenting a barrier to her healing . . .

Her worst enemy would call her names. Her worst enemy woud leer at her in this moment of pain and vulnerability. Her worst enemy would let her suffer, would let her regress.

She jerked suddenly awake on the couch and wobbled to a stand.

"Can I —" help?

"I've done this before. Just leave me alone."

The door slammed behind her.

To occupy himself he tried, without success, to recall the last time he'd said that word aloud. He supposed he wished he could take some credit for a conscious decision, but there was none. Somewhere along the way it had simply slipped from his vocabulary, a relic of the past.

Draco parsed it all in his mind, fussing around the room. Folding and re-folding her blanket, clearing dishes, pulling at his hair.

Until she emerged, frown prominent. The setback was plain on her face. He'd lost several days of progress, judging from her expression. The slope of her shoulders and the twitch in her fingers showed him all he needed to see.

Her blood wasn't dirty — not like his.

"I think it's time for your bath." He decided. You are not her worst enemy. Maybe she thought he was, but he'd prove her wrong. "I'll go and start it."

Granger's blood could never, would never do what his had.

"I'll take one tomorrow."

Hers was natural.

"You'll take one now."

Her blood — the blood of witches, of life.

He watched the tub fill. Watched water pour out, hot and clear.

It would cleanse her — and so would he.

Granger's blood — similar to his only in color. Superior in every other way.

It took some mild pushing — and the opportunity to remind her that he could pick her up, toss her around — before she relented.

He gave her a few minutes to settle herself, pacing outside. Preparing. Then he opened the door.

Her worst enemy — would never.

But Draco would.

He nearly fucked up, of course, convincing her.

"I don't want to wake up tomorrow to the version of you that can't eat or talk or tell me to sod off." He liked that last bit especially. Hoped he'd catch more of it, her ire, before he healed her and never saw her again.

Hermione looked shocked, to be sure, that he was inviting himself into the most sacred of spaces — a lady in the water. But she didn't splash him or try to run.

She didn't scream when he pulled off his clothes.

So he persisted.

Until he slipped. "I've only got a couple of days left before —"

"Before what?" she asked, staring up at him. He heard her suspicion.

Before the monster must be found.

Before it needs be contained and hauled to Azkaban.

Before he released it into a tunnel where the waves pound on the southwest side.

Before Draco, Young Malfoy, led the greeters, all the eager faces ready to open their arms and receive —

"Nothing important."

He wondered for a moment what she thought as she bore witness to his body for the first time. What she thought as she felt it, his skin on hers, when he shoved her aside and sank behind and under her like a great lout.

Granger was silent, in fact. No commentary of any kind. He supposed she wasn't one for blatant attacks.

Her judgment was the kind that lurked in subtle jabs. Disgusted looks.

He avoided her face — couldn't bear to see another.

Instead Draco found himself wholly preoccupied with the weight of her in his lap. With a slender neck — revealed when he put up her hair, lifting the mass of it into a semblance of a knot. With the way her back pressed against his chest. And with those tits again, hidden for weeks, bobbing merrily in the water.

Touch her only as needed, he reminded himself.

It was just about the hardest thing he'd ever done, keeping his hands to her cunt and her stomach.

He simply wasn't strong enough.

Not when her skin was warm as the water. Not when her arse spread so perfectly, his cock happy to be smothered. Not when he caught her looking at his Mark — horror missing — with a solemn acceptance.

"Admiring my secret shame?" The history he'd carry forever.

"No. May I?"

And she touched it — touched him — slowly, tracing its outline and the shape of the snake. Draco wondered if Granger noticed that every hair on his body had lifted to attention, his every nerve attuned to where her fingertips stroked. "Probably never thought a man sporting one of these would have his hands," several times a day, "between Hermione Granger's legs."

"It's all in the past," she told him. Her voice was assuring, alluring, and something in her tone pushed any thoughts of anything else away. His father, the monster, Alonso Carrow, vampires — faded to black. Absorbed by the steam and stone. "You don't judge me for this, do you?" She showed him her forearm. Bellatrix's — his family's — sin, etched forever, a constant reminder for her to see.

"I don't think I'm in a position to judge for anything. Especially this."

He touched the scar, forgetting that she might not want him to. Trying to cover it, to erase it, with his fingers. But Hermione didn't seem bothered by its presence. She didn't try to hide it. She was not ashamed.

Nor should she be.

"I should be apologizing," he told her.

"I think saving me probably makes up for it."

Saved.

For once his mind chased down — not a memory or an alternate world — a future. Their future. He already knew it. The future in which someday, somewhere, he would have to apologize. For what he'd planned and what he was yet to do. Who he was. Draco would apologize, one day — not only for the monster and her illness and the cave's magic — but for how he thought he might feel. For what was to come between them.

"I haven't saved you," he told her. This will get worse.

But he began to touch her in the way he knew, in the way that would make her feel better, at least for a time.

And again, his weakness won.

His lips found their way — just inches, really, her neck was right there — to her pulse. To a place between her ear and jaw.

They lingered as he stroked her. He hadn't even realized at first that he'd done it.

Until she tilted her head — not toward him, not to interrupt — away. So his mouth could explore freely.

So he could nip at her.

So he could taste.

As he ran his hands, his fingers, through her blood. And found that she was wet and sweet as ever, her body slippery and accepting. If she hadn't told him it was her witch times he'd never have known that it wasn't her natural desire at all.

He realized, in the flickering light, the stone and steam a cocoon while he pet her and held his mouth to her neck, that this was the most intimate moment he'd ever had. The closest he'd ever come prior had been fucking, of course. But having sex with a prepared woman who'd worn silky knickers and strode toward him confidently — that was completely different. Watching Granger's untouchable nipples lift and dip across the waterline, he knew this was . . . incomparable, really. To have this woman spread her thighs and let him ogle her body, let him trace the vein at her ear with his lips as his fingers drew in her witch's blood —

Worst enemy. She wouldn't be so comfortable if he was. When she shuddered in his arms, when her fingers dug into his legs, when the sound of her pleasure echoed on the steam . . . he knew he wasn't. She may have thought it consciously — and he'd keep letting her think it — but her body knew the truth.

That he'd never fucking hurt her. He swore it to himself. I won't hurt you, Hermione. Kissed it into her neck. An oath in wet skin.

"Shall we do that again?" he offered. His cock was confused. It had thought for a brief moment that perhaps the water was a medium to the end of his suffering. He'd thought wrong.

But she declined. "I'm rather hungry."

While she dressed and did whatever witches do, Draco set out the leavings of the dinner. While she drank and ate beside him on the sofa — he resisted the urge to drag her feet into his lap, to rub them and risk more unnecessary touch — he thought back to Third Year. How he'd wondered then — does muddy blood taste different?

He knew the answer, finally — had felt it under his fingers.

Would have tasted it on his tongue if she'd let him — from her neck or her cunt, he didn't care.

Watching her smile at him, her hair frizzy from the bath and wearing his favorite joggers, Draco selfishly wanted as much of her, every part of her, as could be allowed.

In the few hours of sleep he got that night, he found himself again on the moors.

The sky had darkened — a cage of grey — and he wasn't alone.

He'd found something. Not what he was looking for, not what he wanted. A shifting mass of dark magic on the horizon. He recognized it and it recognized him. He moved, each step an obligation. The brush was rough against his calves, the wind sliding crossways on his face.

The breeze distracted him enough that he looked, for just a moment, away from his target.

To a feminine figure — far. She was closer to the monster than he was though, and he began to rush. Began to run.

Not toward her, but toward his beast.

To catch it before it saw her.

Draco woke with a start.

Turned his head so fast his neck pinched — Granger was still curled in a tight ball on the pallet. She's right there. He could have crossed to her in two strides. She's fine. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even. She's here, in this room. She was covered to her neck with the warmest blanket they had. As long as she's here, she's safe. He turned on his side and tried to rest again.

Draco wrote two letters the next day. Letters that needed to be sent.

The first, to his solicitor. Tell him I won't be there at the Equinox. He'll have to wait.

Terrifying in its simplicity. But what more was there to say? Even if Granger woke up and thought of the way out, whatever it was that he hadn't tried, he wouldn't have time to get it all done. Lucius had indicated that delays were excused. And Draco was taking him up on it.

The worst part of it wasn't the content itself. It was the inference he knew his father would draw — that Draco had listened to his last communiqué and did as he was told. That he'd retained Granger in his clutches and was "taking his time." "Keeping her close."

He was — taking too much time, her healing was too slow — but not at his father's behest.

The second was harder. To Carrow. Weapon malfunctioned. Equinox canceled. Guest delayed indefinitely. It wasn't hard because it would upset Alonso — that was a feature, not a problem — but because Draco knew what would happen.

The minute the Carrows received his little love note they'd be summoning everyone they knew to that horrid castle, wringing their hands and getting people drunk and speculating on his motives and whether they were being double-crossed. They'd be ingratiating themselves with Trocar, politicking with big words like coup and insurgency. Asking what would it take, what must they promise, for him to bring in his friends, his covens, for their ruthless support.

Draco shivered. Nott would have them delivered by the end of the day. Nothing more he could do about it.

Granger was up, anyway. Yawning and stretching and looking at ease in his joggers with her hair tumbling down in thick strands from the bun he'd made.

"How are you feeling?"

"Alright," she said shyly. She moved away to the loo while he unpacked breakfast, piling her plate with beans and eggs. She would damn well eat today. He needed a win.

She did eat — victory — but she lacked what little luster he'd coaxed from her, the past several weeks. He caught her rubbing her stomach more than once as she sipped her coffee.

"Can I help you?" He said it so she'd know what he meant. Help.

She declined. "Let's skip a day. This will be a good test." He thought he saw a hint of a blush, but she hid her face in the newspaper.

She researched diligently, as if she had fresh determination for an escape. "I really think it's going to be some kind of lost ward," she mused mid-morning.

"What's that?" He lifted his head from where he'd been pressing against the stone floor, hoping she noticed that his arms were bulging.

"Perhaps some kind of misapplied boundary for safety around the firepit. And we're just outside the perimeter — stuck by the stone." She chewed her lip, a curl near her ear twining over a finger. "If we identify and cancel the ward, we'd be free."

He rolled to a sit. And then a stand. Paced a bit. Not a bad idea, that. "Like there's a sphere of protection — and we're caught outside it?" She nodded solemnly, her eyes on the archway. "But it wasn't there before . . . that first night." The months he spent here.

Granger shrugged and returned to the ridiculously sized book in her lap. "That's true of every possibility. Clearly there was a trigger the night of the attack. Was it a full moon?"

He groaned. "Not the fucking moon again. That shit wouldn't affect a bloody thing down here beneath all the world's rock."

She shuffled the pages absentmindedly. "Don't swear at me." But there wasn't passion in it. She'd moved on already, her mind working. She held up a hand for another book, pointing at it on top of one of the piles, and Draco summoned it for her.

The best part of the day was dinner — potato hand pies, though damn he missed meat — and he ate three of them while she and Weasley discussed Potter's thrilling evening plans.

"We're going to play chess," the Ginger said. She was in a good fucking mood, sounding like she'd come off another round of orgasms. "We've just finished off one bottle and Harry's about to — fine, go ahead, yes I'll drink it — open another." She giggled like a schoolgirl.

Granger set aside her fork.

"We'll be needing more hangover potions," Potter trilled.

Draco heard the pop of a cork. His father's wine, getting Harry Potter laid. He'd have laughed if the Ginger wasn't doing it for him. Loudly. "Harry says we should do our best to enjoy each day because before we know it we'll figure it out and probably wish —"

She was cut off abruptly by Potter whispering. A rustling. The Ginger giggled again. Draco had half a mind to replace their hangover potions with something that would stifle libido. Perhaps hair sprouting or boils or unrelenting gas. "What are you doing, Hermione?" Weasley asked. He caught the pity in her tone.

Granger stared down at her plate.

"Hermione?"

"We're doing the same as you," he said between his teeth. "Wine and chess." He wished Granger would pipe up and deal with them. "She's tired today." She looked the part, hangdog over her food.

He hoped he was properly conveying his disgust that they were so cozy while their friend suffered.

"I'm thankful Hermione," called Weasley after a pause. "I know how much worse I would be if you hadn't borne the brunt."

Borne the brunt.

The brunt. Of the attack.

Of his monster.

Granger, taking one for the team of two.

He knew immediately, how it had played. How Granger had surely thrown herself in front of Weasley. Had sacrificed herself, mindlessly accepting the blow. No wonder Potter was having a grand fucking time. And perhaps her more gradual improvement wasn't indicative of Draco's abilities.

"We're done." He had some yelling and drinking to do. "Good. Night."

Granger knew it was coming. Filled her mouth and looked away while he shared his suspicions. Confirmed them when she sank low into the corner of the sofa.

"I didn't know this would happen," she whispered. "I reacted on instinct. Monster appeared, I moved."

Draco's heart was pounding. He had the intense urge to grip her shoulders and shake her sensible. "You little fool. Your bloody hero instincts got us into this mess in the first place. Here we are doing this, whatever it is. Fucking ourselves emotionally and mentally and sexually for who knows how long because you couldn't let a Weasley take a hit for once."

Gods he was mad.

He saw it all — a world in which he hadn't come when the wards called. A world — a side path — in which Potter blithely led two witches down into hell and knelt beside only one. A world in which Granger had no one to wait with her by that boulder in the pitch black while her hero took the Ginger back to safety. She'd have been there — wand useless, monster close — alone.

What if she'd been attacked again, by herself in the dark?

"That's the —" motherfucking — "problem. You are someone you should care about." Because one thing would come first — her restoration to health or their freedom — and he wouldn't be there anymore. To feed her and watch her. "You should give yourself just as much protection as you gave Ginny fucking Weasley."

He saw round eyes and the little hairs on her arms on end. Stared at them as she talked. "I don't want to fight," she whispered. "What's done is done, water under the bridge."

"So you have no answers."

"Do you want to play chess?" An absurd pivot. And then — "I don't feel well." She laid a hand across her belly.

Draco relented.

Besides, there were benefits to chess. First, they were a measure by which he could judge her mental acumen. He liked to see the — admittedly, minuscule — improvements in her strategy. Second, he liked to watch her while she stared at the board. Third, she tended to drink more wine when she played, and he figured wine would help her pain.

It worked like Charms.

She guzzled down a whole bottle over the course of their games. Though he matched her glass for glass.

Unfortunately, her strategy was still fucking abysmal. On the bright side, he only had to place one of her pieces back and tell her "try again" twice. Improvement. And she considered all her moves carefully.

Which meant that Draco had, in his own tipsy state, plenty of time to watch her think. And bite her lip. And brush a finger over her cheek. And smile slyly when she thought she'd bested him. Next time, maybe. And play with her hair.

When Granger conceded and shook his hand — fingers lingering, he could have sworn it — she tried to go to the loo. Tried, because she nearly crashed — would have, had he not caught her — to the floor.

"Can't hold your liquor?" Or was that him?

The torches blurred into a halo behind her hair as she pulled her arm from his hand. Echoes of that first day. Do not touch me, Malfoy. Never. "Do you usually get girls drunk?" she mocked. "Before crawling into their beds? I need to pee."

"That's pretty vulgar for you, Granger. And no, usually I'm the one who gets drunk before getting into bed with . . ."

Pansy.

Sluggish thoughts remembered. No. Not Pans. Never again. "I'll miss you, Malfoy," she'd said, eyes glistening with the most emotion he'd ever seen from her. "I wish you hadn't done that." And then she'd taken those long legs and their past with her.

Persia —

Drunk, definitely. A year and a half ago. Would never have happened if he'd been sober.

"Anyway, I'm not crawling into your bed, ever." It was too close. It would violate the rules he'd made.

When it was his turn for the loo he leaned over the sink, leaving Granger long minutes to hopefully fall asleep before he could do something embarrassing like share how long it had been since he fucked.

He changed his clothes and washed his face and brushed his stupidly overlarge teeth and thought about how his head wasn't quite as sore as usual and of course it wasn't he hadn't saved a memory all day. Refreshing. Maybe he'd sleep better. Until tomorrow, tomorrow, when he'd collect today.

Today. The first day he hadn't touched her cunt in weeks.

"This will be a good test," she'd said that morning. For whom? Because he didn't like it. Fussing with his hair before he went out to lie down, he reminded himself that her healing had to take priority as long as they were confined. Until she got her magic back. And — they'd lost a day, for a stupid fucking reason.

When he was summoning his sad blanket and his sad pillow — gods, he missed his bed — Granger interrupted. "I think we're past that, Malfoy." She was smiling, patting a space she'd . . . left?

"That will be weird in the morning."

"Will it really be weirder than needing your hand between my legs several times a day just to function?" Chess game aside, Granger's higher level reasoning was definitely improving. Making excellent points.

"Honestly, yeah. I think sharing a bed," he'd already decided, he headed her way, "which I'm totally going to do by the way, now that you've offered, it's far superior to that fucking couch — might be weirder than making you come. That's purely medicinal."

He lay beside her. It was the first time he hadn't molded her into the position he wanted and reached for her legs. It felt . . . . He'd been right. It was weird.

Mostly because Hermione's face was very close and she was staring at him. Intently.

"Are you drunk?" he asked.

Distracted himself with conversation. When he finally caved, when he turned to look at her, confirmed her eyes were glassy and her lips were curved —

She was moving toward him, sliding across the pillow, leaning and approaching —

"What's wrong with you?"

Merlin, her cheeks were pink.

"Granger. What. Is. It?"

"I — I think I'm not used to going a whole day without —" treatment.

Draco's hands on her body.

In his own haze of intoxication, it seemed a very good idea for him to touch her no matter what. "Do you want me to wade into the red sea? Orgasms help with cramps." Pansy'd told him that once, as a joke. Not an invitation. And he'd have said no, to her.

"Fuck off."

"— I can draw you a bath right now." That was an invitation.

She did want a bath. He could tell she did.

Did she want what came with it? His hands on her hips and thighs? His mouth on her neck and his fingers in her cunt? His legs and his cock and his chest, wet and pressed —

Draco was already hard. Hoped she wouldn't notice, he would be horrified if she spotted it before —

— he started the water. "Get in."

Didn't have to tell her twice, she tore off her clothes. Pulled her shirt up and over her head, confident and relaxed. Her belly was soft and round, and her tits spilled out, jiggling distractingly. Her hair swished and her lips twitched and she dropped his joggers to the ground like they were about to —

fuck, if he wasn't staring at the stone wall, his back turned. She'd leaned toward him on that bed, he'd felt it. He'd be damned, she'd nearly fucking kissed him. She was drunk enough that if Draco had turned and watched her undress, she would have let him.

She certainly watched while he took his clothes off. He supposed he'd take it and be thankful she didn't voice her comparisons to the other men with whom she'd disrobed.

Then he was in.

He was in and she was on his chest and he felt her feet against his calves and she lolled her head on his shoulder. "Comfortable?"

"Very."

Fine. If she would be, he would be. He hadn't looked and she had leaned and gods he wanted.

Draco was having several drunken realizations.

Forcing her legs wide, up and upon so she couldn't hide, not one bit of herself —

"Like this."

He'd told his father to piss off, in so many words. Could hear the rage and disappointment when his son's message made it to him.

Her arse pressed hard against his cock and the pressure was —

"You're hurting, aren't you?"

Alonso too. Alonso was probably gnashing his teeth with the fucking vampires at that very moment.

But Draco didn't care. Draco didn't care. Fuck Alonso.

He had the world's lushest witch in his lap and they were both drunk.

"You're going to feel much better when I'm done."

He had bought himself time. As much time as he needed, really.

Which meant that he was in no rush for Granger to come.

"Not yet. Wait."

His father wouldn't be out by the Equinox. Without Draco's help, maybe Lucius would never get out. Would stay in prison.

Maybe he could take a moment — just a moment — to enjoy this.

To watch her body moving on his, teasing his cock and grabbing his thighs and her neck arching —

"You want me to bite you here."

Granger wanted his mouth on her skin.

"Not until you relax and let those tits loose."

A treat. A reward. Something to occupy his eyes while his hands did their duty.

"Come for me." Just the first. They had time. He'd make her do that again —

While Draco touched her he let his desires and filthy thoughts break through — putting an animal in the yard to run before it went back in the cage.

He'd tried to tamp his own lust far enough down that it would have no effect on his treatment of her, on his touch. On the boundaries between them. But the sight and feel of her was simply too much. Want want want. Not just around his cock, but in his hands. His hand, in hers. They wanted to touch — all of her. His arms wanted — to hold her. He longed to feel her fingers in his hair. His lips — and hers —

He noticed some of the little things, for the first time, as she came again, jerking forward with the intensity of it.

The small pocket of skin where her arm met her shoulder. He would have liked to pinch it and see if she squealed.

Had wizards in her past lingered properly over the ridges of her spine?

An idea formed, forced its way through the thickness of the wine and want — his list. Things About Granger.

She had a mole on her shoulder. He wondered if she'd ever seen it in a mirror.

More like Things He'd Like to Do to Granger.

Touch that mole with his lips.

Her back — another terrain, ripe for exploration. He'd hunt for freckles, gamboling slowly across shoulder blades and ribs and a flare below her waist.

"That's good," he said, and she groaned. He bit her neck, hard — since that was one thing he was allowed to do.

Worst enemy — that was him, as he used her blood to make her come once more. Because he would have liked to spread her out on a bed on her stomach and spend hours memorizing the map of her, charting her geography. Finding how many brushes of his fingers, how many shivers, it took to get from the top of her left shoulder to her right hipbone.

Put it on the list.

When she was finished he held her for a moment. "Better?"

Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger in a bloody bath.

Bloodbath.

A slaughter, a struggle —

In his chest, anyway.

"I'd be grateful for a review."

It came out of him before he could think. Desperation in his tone.

"Review?"

"Of how —" that went, how she felt, how he compared to the fucking boyfriend she never mentioned — "I did."

"Oh!" He felt her swallow against his cheek. "That was very nice." Chipper.

Kind.

"If you don't mind, I need some space."

Granger scrambled to give it to him.

As he lay there in the low torchlight, her bath water cooling, Draco rested his hand lightly on his cock to monitor his slow acceptance that he wasn't going to be put to use. Not a quick learner.

The ramifications of the past six months had been swirling the whole time, his anxiety building. He'd known something terrible was going to happen. Had felt it as he put the pieces together, as he connected the theories and mixed them with blood and words.

He supposed he'd thought the terrible thing was going to be some intended victim, some Azkaban guard with children at home and a pretty wife who loved him. Some dumb bloke who'd profit off a momentary stunning. Not — never this. Not Granger, wan and weak. Not Hermione, admitting to her witch times and opening to his hands in her blood.

She'd never forgive him, when she found out. When she saw in his memories that he'd had moments in which he'd enjoyed it.

You had your fun, he told himself. Saw her body again, swirling in the steam. You've made memories enough to keep your cock busy for years. Decades. After he landed in Azkaban or married some poor Pure Blood witch . . . he'd always have this night and the one before, always have the vision of how the water dripped down her perfect arse before she covered it with a towel. Would always have Granger to remember, to think about, when he was alone in a shower. The start of a list of things he'd like to — would never — do.

When he was confident the water was colder than the sofa, he got up and dressed again and went out. He expected her to be resting, but she was sitting.

Waiting for him, perched in the same spot on the edge of the pallet where he'd waited for her.

Like she wanted to talk. "Do you . . . you can still sleep here."

Perhaps because he'd already allowed himself so many realizations that night, Draco recalled for the first time in a long time the Muggles, injured by his monster. The first victims. The hiking couple outside Levisham. And the mother in her own fucking yard. An ample woman wearing a house dress and letting out her yappy dog. Some Muggle contraption had blared in the background. He'd been only a few minutes late, a few minutes behind it. Watching Granger forcing a cheeky smile — he thought of that mother again. Her closed eyes and smudged makeup and pulse. He'd felt for it, fingers fumbling on her neck. Had blinked with relief when he found it.

Draco had fled, unsure, when the woman's family came searching. She's only stunned, he'd told himself. Repeated it over and over, out of the village and all the way back across the moors.

"That's alright."

"I insist," she said, making room.

Staring at the space she'd left him, he thought of her probable and very dumb boyfriend, who let her traipse about on ill-planned Ministry missions. Potter understood her potential and that he wasn't worthy — surely why he'd kept his hands off of her. Weasley whiffed his chance, Krum had given up. But that boyfriend of hers, that bastard definitely knew it. No doubt had a ring nestled in his knickers drawer, waiting for some romantic occasion to make her properly his. Draco expected her to drop his name, a hint, any day. He bristled. Some wanker. Twat.

Granger kept smiling at him, patting the pillow. "You've earned it."

The bath was over. The fantasy was done. Their reality was sofas and separateness —

"Malfoy — Draco. Please."

Draco.

It sounded so nice.

Granger's command.

When he was stretched out beside her and he felt her watching him again, he heard that she was thinking. Heard a question coming as clearly as if she'd spoken. It was in the twitch of her lips as she bit her cheek in his periphery.

"Purely?" she finally asked. He thought he heard some courage in it.

But his answer on that pallet was not how she'd felt while she came on his fingers. How her body appealed, how charming her concentration when she lost to him in chess.

His answer — despite it all, despite what came next — was how much he was looking forward to the day ahead.

How never in his life had Draco taken the time to stay in one place and revel in the simple presence of another human being.

He had no more deadline — the Equinox escape was cancelled. The monster's Muggle victims were being treated. And Granger was beside him.

They were safe in that cave. He was keeping her safe. He had as long as he needed to heal her. He could pretend, for awhile — for a night — that he had all the time in the world. That they were alone in the world.

"As purely as I can."

Draco waited until she was asleep to pull her into his arms.