Draco's footsteps echoed in the hallways as he made his way up to the Great Hall. Her strawberry smell lingered on his clothes, halting his thoughts. Already he wanted to turn back to the dungeons and crawl on his hands and knees to her, and lay his head on her lap. She looked indescribable, like a corporeal apparition of his most bewitching dreams. The silver sequins looked like she'd been dipped in a coat of diamonds, her brown curls shining like silk and cascading off her perfect shoulders.

Most of all, he hated how everyone could certify the same thing as him. How everyone could feast their eyes on her and allow horrendous thoughts to fill their mind.

The pain she felt and his own self-loath were the only things keeping him from ripping that absurd necklace off her delicate neck and diving into her clavicle. He should have apologised more. He knew she'd consent to the scene, but he'd still hurt her. Maybe the kick behind the knees wasn't necessary.

He'd made her cry.

He only hoped she wouldn't take too long to forgive him.

When he returned to the Great Hall, the buzz of discussions and laughter had resumed. The spill had been cleaned. It was like nothing happened. Keela was still in her corner, and Theo was chatting with Zabini. Scavengers and Trainers weren't wearing their uniform, but their Death Eater clothes instead.

He looked at the table in the corner where the glass jars were displayed and felt a wave of relief when he noticed number 41 had been removed. But all the other jars were overflowing. Darstan might just kill him—he'd been the one asking for the favour Draco owed him. To jinx Granger's jar so his parchment slip would be picked.

That had triggered something ugly inside of him.

Yaxley ended a conversation with Chinese sponsors and threaded his way to him. He brushed off his sleeves.

"I had to apologise to everyone," he hissed.

Draco cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I don't know what got into that mudblood."

"Oh, it's Christmas, for Merlin's sake. They miss their family and whatnot."

Draco tightened his fist, and the leather of his glove squeaked. "She's in the dungeons now."

Yaxley nodded. "Good. She'll remain there. I believe six days without food ought to make her think about what she's done. One day for every glass she broke."

Draco's lungs clenched painfully. "I agree. However, she might feel pretty weak for the second game. You know how dedicated I've been to train her for this, Corban."

Yaxley sighed, annoyed and sucked on his lips. "Right. Three days, then." He grabbed an intricate hors d'oeuvre from number 14's tray. "Actually, this tantrum hasn't been as detrimental to the Empire as I thought."

"Why?"

"Guests told me they were excited to see her fire in action in the second game." Yaxley winked and engulfed the entire hors d'oeuvre in his mouth. He chewed loudly, some crumbs falling on his shirt. "Said they couldn't wait for her crazy to come out." The words were munched together, but Draco understood them perfectly.

"Is that so," he deadpanned. He thought of Granger in her silver dress, bleeding in her dark cell. A fallen star alone in her crater.

Yaxley absently stared ahead, the shadow of a smirk on his mouth. "Someone said she was like a Phoenix… magnificent, ready to burst into flames. However—" he swallowed the last of his bite, "we got to make sure the Phoenix stays underwater. Under control." He looked intently into Draco's eyes.

A gleeful expression cracked his face suddenly and he clapped him on the shoulder. "You handled the situation very well. Thank you. I'll fetch her from the dungeons on the 28th." He left without another word.

Draco took a champagne glass from a tray that was just skimming him and thanked the player holding the tray, a wide-eyed pretty woman in an emerald dress—number 17.

She looked at him, baffled, mouth open in a perfect circle shape. Maybe he'd been the first person to thank her, out of the two hundreds who were here.

He downed his glass in a gulp, settling it on her tray, and took another, before doing the same thing. Number 17 gawked at him, silent.

He took his third glass in his hand, then frowned at her. "I'm really sorry about your evening." He didn't know if she recognized him, even with his mask on. In the end, it didn't matter if every player hated him.

What mattered is what she thought of him.

Without a glance to the emerald player, he walked away to join Theo near the Christmas tree. Theo spotted him first and met him halfway. He too was holding a champagne flute.

"That was intense," Theo muttered, head huddled close so the guests around them couldn't hear.

"Three days in the dungeons." He clinked his glass against Theo's. "Happy fucking Christmas." He gulped his third champagne in one go.

They didn't speak for a few moments and Theo's gaze settled in a spot amongst the crowd. Draco tried to follow his line of sight.

The player wearing the emerald dress was weaving through the crowd, baring that cruel cleavage and bold red lipstick.

"Pansy was emerald too," Theo said, eyes locked on her, and his tone was so soft that Draco almost didn't hear it. "Remember?"

Together, they watched the blur of emerald braiding through witches and wizards, remembering their long-lost friend, for one, and their long-lost love, for the other.

"Parkinson wore it best," Draco said.

It was two hours after midnight that Draco managed to steal a pain potion from the Hospital Wing, retrieve Granger's water bottle and trudge his way back to the dungeons, Keela at his side. The castle was silent, the last guest had left the Great Hall about 30 minutes ago.

The fire of the lanterns casted dancing shadows on the walls as he sank in the dungeons. The metal of the gates glistened with the orange light, and he marched in front of every cell until he reached the last one.

Granger was laying on her side, in the middle of her cell. Her hair was splayed on the stone around her head like seaweed.

The unlocking spell startled her awake. He slipped inside the cell quietly, crouching in front of her.

"Sorry," he whispered. "Didn't mean to scare you."

She rubbed her face and he noticed her makeup was smudged, her cheeks streaked with dried tears. Slowly, she scrambled to sit and winced when her knees bent. Reaching for her bare feet, she rubbed at them—they must be sore after wearing those infernal shoes for so long.

"It's okay," she replied, her voice like a trickle of water. She blinked several times, finding her bearings, before meeting his eyes. Her features softened as he extended the vial of potion to her.

"This should help," he said. He had removed his gloves earlier, and when her fingers brushed against his, his heart fluttered, restless. Keela was watching them, sitting right outside of the cell.

She swallowed the potion without even asking what it was exactly or what was in it.Trust, he thought as the entirety of his core warmed with sunlight. As her mouth worked to gulp everything, he reached for her feet. Pressed his thumbs into the plant, rubbing circles he hoped were relieving some tension.

She stiffened and shifted her feet away from him. "What are you doing?"

He froze, and pulled back his hands. "You're sore." He stated it like they had already discussed the state of her feet.

She didn't answer, studying him.

"Just relax, Granger," he said, casting his eyes down because she was breathtaking. He grabbed her feet again, maybe with a little more force than necessary, and resumed massaging it.

After a few moments, she relaxed and let out the tiniest grunt of relief. Sending a somersault in his stomach. He switched feet, and worked his hands on her skin, trying his very best not to develop a foot fetish.

"When you left," she licked her lips, drawing his eyes to them, and his breath caught in his throat, "I realised I forgot to tell you I'm sorry I spilled some champagne on you."

"You can't be fucking serious." His laugh boomed in the dungeons.

"I am!" She almost looked offended, and, at last, pulled her feet away. "Thank you, by the way. That felt nice."

Now, he felt like liquid sunlight was bubbling up his throat and reached his head. He realized how… kind she was, how her humanity wasn't dimmed even in a place like this.

"You're unbelievable," he muttered, half-amused.

"Thank you." She took a long inhale. "So, tell me how bad it is."

"Three days without food."

She nodded and pursed her lips, and she looked on the verge of tears, but she raised her chin proudly. "I can manage that."

He placed her water bottle beside her. "Granger." Their eyes locked. "I'll come back with food. Don't be ridiculous."

"No." Her tone was sharp, like a jab. Her face looked stern.

"I'm not leaving you here for three fucking days without food."

"Malfoy," she narrowed her eyes at him, "it's your turn to listen. You've risked enough. Theo is risking enough too. Every time you get too close, you're putting yourself in danger. You'll expose yourself. Don't."

He stiffened and stood. "I'm not your responsibility."

Granger did the same, although it looked painful for her to stand. With her heels discarded in a corner, she was back to her real height.

"I don't want you to get killed!" she hissed.

"I don't want you to starve."

"I'll be okay if I have water. I've known to manage hunger quite well."

He took a few hot breaths through his nose. "You're pissing me off."

"Good. Maybe you won't come back, then." Her eyes tightened.

He gritted his teeth and they held each other's gaze for a few moments that seemed like minutes. He couldn't detail every feature of hers in the dim light, but he saw the fire in the twinkle of both her eyes. Her conviction, her fucking stubbornness.

He wasn't sure which urge was more dominant inside of him. The urge to take back the water bottle and slam the gate shut behind him or the urge to grab her fucking perfect face and kiss her hard.

He was still debating the best course of action when her voice echoed in the cell, softer. "Just go, Draco. It'll be fine."

He knew she was right. Like 98% of the time. He simply wasn't able to muster enough will into his feet to walk away from her. He hated that he would actually listen to her. Since when Draco Malfoy was listening to anyone? Since when did she have such a hold on him?

"You better not fucking starve," he growled, then a cold draft ran through his bones.

He shrugged off his cloak and draped it over her bare shoulders. He didn't fucking care that Yaxley would notice his piece of clothing.

"Merry Christmas, Granger." He kissed the top of her head, absorbing her scent, and left the cell in a heartbeat.

Granger had come back to her room on December 28th and slept all day. Draco didn't know if Yaxley would let her stop in the kitchens first to grab some food, so he'd taken that matter into his hands. The kitchen house-elves adored him, so they let him take whatever he pleased.

He'd grabbed a plate of crackers with cheese, apple sauce, two boiled eggs and a chicken leg. Then, in his pocket, he'd placed an apple, an orange and a peach—he didn't know which fruit she liked best. He placed the food on her cot before she'd arrived and had stumbled upon Mr. Weasley, just getting out of the bathroom, hair damp.

"Oh—hello," Arthur said.

Draco didn't know what he'd seen, but he hadn't exactly been subtle. He was standing right in front of Granger's bedroom door. "Hi."

Arthur frowned and walked up to him. The white of his number 47 on the chest in apparent contrast with the brown of his jumpsuit. He stopped right in front of Draco and peeked inside Granger's empty room, noticing the food on the cot.

His mouth pursed when he looked back at Draco. "Thank you."

Draco shrugged him off and said nothing. He wanted to flee. He didn't need anybody to be polite or kind to him. He didn't deserve a fucking ounce of reasonable human interaction.

"I know you've been taking care of her," Arthur added. "In a way."

Protests almost burst from Draco's mouth, but he swallowed them down. Taking care of her. Granger wasn't his puppy.

He still couldn't find anything to say to him. Maybe the polite thing to reply would be something about Ron. About when he was a player.

"Hermione told me how you're trapped in here." Arthur wasn't taller than him, but his stare was piercing. At the mention of her name, his blood flared up with life. "I'm sorry you're in this situation."

"I don't want your pity," he drawled, taking a step back. "You're the one who's about to be thrown into the Arena."

Arthur's face softened, his features sagging. "I've been trapped here for four months. You have been for seven years. Probably longer. I have every right to be sorry."

He left him there and went to his room, closing the door behind him. Uncomfortable and hot, Draco closed Granger's door and left the hallway.

Him and Theo had to finalise the last details of their plan. The Polyjuice potion was bottled—a single batch had given them 13 bottles—and Theo carried one in the pocket of his coat with a concealment charm.

"You're still sure you want to do this?" he asked his friend. They were in Theo's room, and it was after dinner. Draco had gone back to Granger's room to check if she'd come back and he'd knock on her door, without response. Oliver later confirmed that she was sleeping.

Oliver was angry at him—he could tell from the frown and the harshness of his tone. He had every right to be, after how he'd treated Granger on Christmas Eve, in front of everyone.

"Yes," Theo answered.

"It'll be a bloodbath."

"I did it once."

"And you weren't the same after. Maybe I should do it."

"I know you're better at fighting than me, but no."Theo's eyes darkened."I do it because this way, you get to live and we get to plan our great coup together."

Draco scoffed. "At what price?"

"I'm willing to take any number of lives it takes." Theo's traits were hard, like hewn in stone.

"You said yourself you were helping players." Draco frowned. "And now you'll be killing them."

"I don't understand whether you're trying to make me feel guilty or else. And may I remind you that I'll have Granger's body and muscles. Have you seen her?" He chuckled darkly. "The best I can do is manage to put on a fucking good show and not get killed."

They stayed quiet for a while and Theo retrieved a pack of pistachios from his drawer. Draco eyed him closely, the length of his hair, curling at the nape. The shape of his nose, the hard line of his jaw.

"Listen," he said quickly, "I know we said you'll have to spend the night before in her room to make the switch easier, but—"

"Nuh-uh." Theo crunched a nut. "If you're about to tell me something about keeping my hands to myself, I'll throw you out of my room."

Draco remained silent, glaring.

Theo rose his arms in disbelief. "Malfoy, you're a bloody idiot, you know that?" He rolled his eyes. "You've kissed. That's code for me."

"You're good-looking." Just thinking about her being attracted to someone else made his stomach churn.

Theo smirked and settled a hand over his heart. "Aw, thanks, sweetheart. But Granger doesn't kiss every good-looking guy she sees." He chewed loudly. "Jealousy is not a good colour on you."

"I'm not jealous of your looks," Draco smirked. "Just making sure we're on the same page."

"Oh, we're on the same page, on the same bloody sentence and the same fucking word. Granger's yours."

The confirmation from someone else blurred the edge of his thoughts. He didn't own her.

But why did the word Yours make him feel so alive?

It was December 31st, the eve of the second game, and all players went to bed pretty early after dinner. Draco had watched Granger take her meal, talking with Arthur, Oliver and Reine. She hadn't smiled even once—she knew what awaited them.

They had met in the Room of Requirement yesterday with Theo, and they had rehashed the whole plan. It wasn't very complicated, it just had to be well executed. Normally, the second game never lasted more than an hour, but to make sure the Polyjuice would hold, they'd upgraded it so its effect could last two hours.

It should be enough. It had to be.

While the players were eating, Theo was sneaking into Granger's room and would remain there until the next morning. Two Gamemasters would patrol the castle at night and Draco knew their path by heart.

He had to get Granger alone before she went back to her room. The plan now depended solely on Theo's success, and there was nothing more he could do. His stomach still coiled with nerves.

Granger was the last one to leave the table, and he caught her eyes across the room. He nodded, chin on the right, a silent plea to follow him. He went all the way up to the fifth floor, but instead of turning left to his band's hallway, he turned right. She followed him from a distance.

He led her to the Prefect's bathroom, deactivating the ward that was keeping the players out of it. It hadn't been used in years. There was a giant bath with dozens of golden faucets, stacked in a three-tiered structure above it. The window displayed a spectacular stained-glass portrait of a mermaid, staring at them.

Granger entered the bathroom, silent as a mouse, after 30 seconds.

She stopped right near the wall clad in ceramic tiles. "Is everything okay?" she asked, worry etched on her face.

He was leaning against one of the sinks. He peeled himself off as she approached, marvelling at her beauty. He had rolled the sleeves of his training uniform up to his elbows. He liked wearing it although he hadn't trained Granger since before Christmas.

"That was my question for you," he said, searching her face.

"I'm not the one that's about to fight in the Arena." Her voice was breathy and her throat bobbed. "I'm really nervous. For Theo. For the others. I'm scared, actually." She crossed her arms and he couldn't help but notice her frail wrists.

He nodded, but his words got stuck in his throat.

She took a step towards him, her frown deepening. "What is it?"

"What do we do if the plan fails?" He was usually filled with self-confidence. But since he wasn't the one performing the act, it felt like he had lost all control of the situation. They hadn't planned anything in case their Polyjuice failed, somehow.

She tried to smile reassuringly. "It won't fail."

"I'm serious, Granger." His voice was rough. "What do we do?"

She bit her bottom lip to think and he felt his nerves come undone inside of him. "I'll tell you." She gestured to the both of them. "We are not gonna do anything. You, however, are gonna take Keela and disapparate to the farthest location you know."

His reaction was immediate. "No."

"Or maybe to Watford, so you can find the Order."

"I won't leave you here," he gritted through his teeth. What he didn't tell her was that he didn't fucking care about the Order. The Order wanted to take her away from him.

Granger was adamant. "If Theo fails, that can mean two things. One, he failed to impress the audience and therefore, Voldemort will kill you and Keela. Second, the potion fails and Theo reveals his identity, which means everybody will know we both cheated. It will be too late for me, but you'll have time to escape."

The more she talked, the louder his ears roared.

"Whatever fails, find the Order," she added, softer. "Or Ginny and Neville, at least. They know how to kill Voldemort. We were in Epping Forest, the last time I was with them."

He remembered the time when all that seemed to matter was getting Granger to tell him how to end Voldemort.

He still wanted to kill him, but it didn't feel like a primal need anymore.

He didn't want to think about the plan failing, but now the probability taunted him. He hadn't thought about the fact that this moment might be his last with Granger. They wouldn't be able to see each other one last time, if the plan failed. Draco would have to flee right away.

"Let's stay positive." Again, she tried to smile, but her eyes were glistening. She was holding his stare as if he was her lifeline, and his eyes dipped to the curve of her lips. His heart quickened.

"Granger," he muttered. The plan couldn't fail. He couldn't describe the despair that settled on his stomach at the thought of a world without Granger. What angered him the most was the fact that this, right here, might be their last moment.

Facing each other in a bathroom. Right before she'd spend the night with anothermanin her room. Their bodies were almost touching, and her face was propped up to his. She was looking at his mouth, blinking before glancing up at him.

Maybe she was daring him.

But he couldn't—

Because if he did—

Granger took a step back, like the spell was broken. Like she had waited long enough without being rewarded. "Good night, Draco. Let's not think about it too much." She sounded disappointed.

She walked back to the door. His feet remained rooted on the floor. His entire self was buzzing with yearn and need, impatience and excitement. Head swarming with undecipherable thoughts.

Already her smell was leaving him. A new sense of certainty came over him, smacking him right in the chest, and he bolted into action.

He grabbed her wrist just as she was about to open the door. She gasped in surprise—he hoped it wasn't pain.

He didn't even recognize his own voice as the words tumbled out of his mouth. "If this is the last time I see you, then fuck it." He cupped both of her cheeks and dove on her mouth. At first, he simply pressed his lips to hers, but when his senses exploded, his mouth started devouring hers.

She responded to the kiss in a matter of seconds, wrapping her arms around his waist to press herself against him. When she opened her mouth eagerly, he pushed his tongue inside and groaned with pleasure. She tasted like dew on summer grass. He cursed his past self for preventing him from experiencing this again sooner.

As he deepened the kiss, he backed her up until she was against the door. She moaned his name in his mouth and he nibbled at her bottom lip, tightening his grip on her curls.

"Granger, fuck. You—" he groaned.

"Don't talk," she breathed before crushing her mouth on his again.

Her hands were roaming his back, the hard lines of his flanks. Her scent was swirling around them, and he couldn't get enough, couldn't get enough, wouldn't get enough. Their tongue danced and twirled together and he pressed his body harder against her. Her breasts flattened against him, sending a rush of blood down his stomach.

His right hand roved down her shoulder and clutched her waist, fingers squeezing her flesh through her uniform. There was a myriad of praises in the back of his mind that he wanted to shout.

Instead, his left hand came down on her waist too, and she grabbed his face. The breathless sounds she made knotted even more intricately the ties cresting in his lower abdomen. She was divine, stunning, a goddess he could worship every day.

His hands reached all the way down to her arse, and he groaned in her mouth again. Her back arched, and she pressed her hips against him. She started grinding against his leg, eager to feel any kind of pressure. He squeezed her delicious arse, relishing her curves, and dipped his tongue even deeper in her mouth.

"Fucking god—" he growled, before sinking to her neck to kiss every inch of skin he could reach.

"Draco—" Gasping for air, she was responding to every graze of his teeth.

The sound of his name on her lips. He pressed his hardened cock against her, and when she kept grinding her hips, rubbing herself on him, an outburst of sensations took control of his mind and body.

Suddenly, he knew that in a matter of seconds, he'd unzip her uniform, unclasp her bra and rip her jumpsuit off her shoulders and slid it down her ankles. He'd hoist her up in his arm, grab her arse, and her breasts would be in his face. He'd suck at each of them, devoting his mouth to her hardened nipples until she'd squirm against the door and chant his name. He'd reach into her underwear and gather her moisture on two fingers before thrusting them inside of her. She'd clutch at his shoulders, panting and moaning, and he'd keep feasting on her breasts, plunging back and forth in her core. He'd keep the pace and would accelerate only based on the rhythm of her pants. And when she'd come undone, going limp in his arms, he'd do it all over again until she was boneless.

But this couldn't happen here, and not now.

By sheer force of will, he left her neck and stopped grinding himself on her. He returned to her mouth, still ravenous, but instead of devouring her whole, he slowed down. Focused on savouring her. Memorising the shape of her lips against his. His hands returned to her face, and he stroked her cheeks with both of his thumbs.

After a minute of slow kissing, he finally managed to peel his mouth off. He pressed his forehead against hers and remained there. Their quick breaths mingled in the few inches between their mouths. His chest was rising and falling and he listened to the sound of oxygen feeding her lungs.

She was alive. Breathing.

He leaned slightly back, just so he could see her face, keeping his palms on her face. Her amber eyes flitted between both of his, watching, thinking. Her cheeks were a wonderful shade of pink.

He briefly wondered if he'd scared her or hurt her. Of course he still wanted to kiss her—he wasn't even close to being done with the things he wanted to do to her—but they both knew they had to stop.

He couldn't take anything he pleased just because he enjoyed it.

They didn't speak but they kept staring at each other. Slowly, her hands reached up and she grabbed his wrists. She wasn't pulling him down or trying to peel him away from her face. She was keeping his hands there.

She caressed the skin of his wrist with her thumb. "The plan will not fail." Her voice was hoarse, and he decided that it was one of his favourite sounds.

He swallowed. "The plan will not fail."