"Hermione, do you think the nargles will give me back my shoes for the funeral?"
"What...? Luna?" She mumbles, eyes snapping open in confusion.
She's seated on Hermione's bed, smiling her kind smile. "My shoes. I'll need them."
Hermione bolts up, frowning and combing her bedraggled hair from her face. What is Luna doing here? Has something terrible happened?
The last thing Hermione remembers is Malfoy's bare back as he exited her room, the lash scars casting ugly shadows on his pale skin. She'd told him 'Happy Birthday'. Why did she done that? It was such a strange thing to say under the circumstances... Wasn't it?
She decided to leave the lamplight on after that. Just in case.
"Hermione, you're over thinking again." Luna scoots closer, stirring the air around them.
"I..." she pauses as she catches a faint whiff of something sweet. "Luna, what are you doing here? Has something happened? Where is McGonagall? Shacklebolt? Have you woken Nott? Has Headquarters been attacked?"
She grins, teeth yellow in the light and eyes widening in their owlish way. "No. Hermione, sometimes I think Harry has worn off on you."
Hermione slides from her bed, the carpet stiff on the soles of her feet. "Luna! I'm serious! What is going on?! Where are Shacklebolt and McGonagall?"
Luna's shoulders droop with an exasperated sigh and Hermione smells the heavy sweetness of her breath. There is a foulness about it, though, like she hasn't brushed her teeth. "They are attending the funeral, Hermione."
Hermione reaches out and grabs Luna's shoulder. Her skin is icy and wet from the rain. "Whose funeral, Luna? You're not making any sense."
Luna cranes her neck and tilts her head up to Hermione, the action unsettling and rigid. Hermione's skin crawls and her heart thuds in her chest at the endless possibility of disasters, but the odor of Luna's breath paralyzes her. It reminds her of the time she found an abandoned dead dog tied off in a garbage bin when she was ten.
In that moment, she notes the eerie flat-blue of Luna's eyes, no flush of pink at the edges or redness in the veins. Even her cheeks lack color. Hermione's heart lodges in her throat and she chokes on her own saliva. The earlier smell she'd mistaken for something sweet turns fetid. Not fowl breath but the breath of a—
"Mine." Luna finally chuckles, causing Hermione to wrench backwards, eyes wide with horror.
"Luna!" Hermione gasps. Not real! I'm dreaming! I'm dreaming! I'm—
"Hermione, what's wrong?" Luna lurches from the bed, shoulders robotic and legs unsteady. Her grin is macabre in the shadows, teeth dulled green and leaning like old tombstones. The shadows are playing tricks, she assures herself, but the sinking hollows of Luna's eyes send Hermione's fingers skittering across the nightstand and groping beneath her pillow for her wand.
It isn't there. But it doesn't matter! This is a dream!
"Hermione. Why am I always dead in your dreams? Why do all of us die?"
At that, Hermione turns and finds other silhouettes floating behind Luna, tall silhouettes and short ones. Ones with reddish hair and ones with black... and blond.
He steps forward, in front of Luna, and Hermione can't contain a groan of disbelief. Unlike the others, his pale eyes are electric, hateful. She throws her hands out in front of her, defenseless—but it's only a dream! Her mind screams. Just a dream! A dream! Dream!
He advances on her with fluid grace, lips peeling back and shoulders rolling with power. She attempts to knock his hand away, but it closes around her throat and she claws at his arms, jaw clenched and chest aching. She kicks and writhes, but it does nothing. His stances is unmoved, his eyes locked onto hers, chilling her very bones, but something else is off...
She takes a deep breath. Another. Her fingers loosen from around his forearms and she inhales a third time, loudly through her nose. His gaze never wavers and the grip of his hand at her throat is solid, yet painless. The promise of pain is there, but he waits, his body taunt and still. The silhouettes behind him seem to be waiting, too.
"Malfoy?" she speaks carefully around his grip. "This is a dream. You aren't real. None of you are."
He smiles, deliciously devilish. Can he smile that pretty? "Your head is a frightful place, Granger. I'd rather be dead."
She swallows, feeling the intimate press of his palm on her skin. "I'm going to wake up. Right now."
He leans close, smelling of summer sweat and day-old shampoo. "Then wake up."
Her body jolts at the deafening boom of thunder and she gasps thirstily for air. She is awake. Not asleep. Awake now. Just a dream. Awake.
Sleep pulls at her eyes, her vision bleary and her lashes fluttering, but she resists. The darkness outside the golden hue of her bedside lamp bleeds and runs as if the dream itself is clawing its way back up from the depths of her mind. She sighs with a moan before she realizes a warm hand is pressed to her throat and a pair of glinting eyes are hovering above her.
Her body freezes and, for an irrational moment, she is thrown back into the memory of all those cackling masks. Not that! Anything but that! Her mind screeches. Blood explodes from her heart, blasting like a freight train through her veins and she sucks in wild gusts of air. Anything but that! Not that! Not—
Grey. The eyes are grey. She drags in a steadying breath.
A dark point dawdles at the center of her vision, too close for her eyes to discern. Instead, she focuses on the owner of the grey glare behind it. "Malfoy..." she whispers, voice reedy with sleep.
He smiles. Oh yes, he can smile pretty. The dark spot at the center of her vision looms closer, close enough to nearly blot out Malfoy completely. My wand, she realizes. How did he sneak his hand beneath her head so easily without waking her? No one sleeps heavily anymore. The lightest noise can send anyone of them like a cat to the ceiling. The fact that he'd done it so effortlessly, right under her nose—literally—rattles her to her core.
If he knows where she hides her wand, then he no doubt knows where she hides her dagger. She blinks profusely and swallows. "What are you doing? Why do you have my wand, Malfoy?"
Something in his face tells her that he's fully aware of his inability to cast, yet here he is, his hand pressed hotly to her fluttering pulse, his hair drifting in and out of his face, his grasp confident on a weapon he will never use. Not unless he wants to poke her eyes out. The old Malfoy might have been that petty, but this Malfoy won't. She feels like a bird seduced by the serpentine dance of a cat's tail. Her heart stutters into a run and she's sure he can feel it beneath his palm.
As if understanding her train of thought, his eyes flit down to her neck and up to her face again. His smile turns lazy and he leans closer, his nose inches from hers. She can smell his skin, shirtless just as before, and scented strongly with summer sweat and a faint musk that's distinctly him. Her breasts rise and fall with her unsteady respiration as a jarring voice enters her mind. It shouts to force him away, to stop him, to command. She is his master, after all. The collar moves with the angling of his neck and she can see chafe scars just beneath it, but the shadows are too dark to see them clearly.
His fingers, not truly curled around her neck, abandon their place and trail up along her jaw. She flinches deeper into the mattress at the strange intimacy of his touch and he lays his eyes on her again, weighing her down with an unknown emotion. His gaze is so difficult to read, which wasn't always so. In their youth, his eyes were as transparent as a crystal stream. Not anymore. She studies him, perplexed and wary.
His face doesn't betray the telltale puffiness of sleep. Truth be told, he doesn't look like he's caught a wink of it. He's been combing his fingers through his hair until the locks now brush evenly along his cheeks. She suspected back in school that he had a compulsive need to keep it tidy. His forehead is smooth, absent any worry lines, and his brows are angled idly over his eyes—more out of inquiry than contempt, she realizes. There is something at the corner of his mouth, too, a dark smudge.
She frowns. Is that... blood?
On impulse, she reaches up to touch it before she can stop her curiosity. His lips are warm and chapped. He should drink more water, she thinks, and her eyes lock with his again. There is calculation in those wide, dark pools of mercury, but he doesn't stop her. As she pulls her index finger back, she does find blood. Had he bitten his tongue?
"Malfoy." She exhales, her voice breathier than she intends.
His grip on her wand tightens and she braces herself, feeling his fingers hook into claws along her jaw line, but his touch remains painless. She watches him, intrigued. The Bond makes it impossible for him to kill or overtly harm her, but why hasn't he sought out her dagger and tried? She'd been deliberately bold, not putting up any protective wards to keep him out of her room. Honestly, a secret part of her has been waiting for this, goading him into reaction. Though, the shortage of malice in his eyes startles her more than placates her. In her dream, he'd been flush with it.
"You stole my wand." She supplies emptily, wheedling him for a response. For anything.
His eyes trace her features blankly, but this time it's a meticulous blankness, the calm surface water over a quaking ocean floor. He masks himself, more than he ever has before, and that frustrates her. As a teenager, his emotions were dramatic and stormy. He'd been used to receiving what he wanted when he wanted it. Deciding to try something else, she places her hand, the one without Malfoy's blood, on his forearm, coaxing him to lower her wand.
He allows it.
For a second, she savors a flicker of triumph, but the subtle arch of his eyebrow sends her back into a fog. She feels like a child guessing at an adult's game. She doesn't like that. Not. At. All. She has half a mind to snatch the dagger from between the mattress and headboard just to prove a point, but that would be childish, especially in this game. On top of that, she'd lose her chance for Malfoy to respond by his own volition.
He must realize this, too.
Thunder shakes the ground and Hermione inhales loudly. Rain hammers against the windows and she notices one of the curtains has been pulled open. Lightning flashes as a fresh and pregnant band of the storm settles over them. The rain kicks up so hard that she thinks the water alone will shatter the windows.
Her gaze finds Malfoy and he's still observing her, a predatory patience in his eyes. Overwhelmed by their intensity, she averts her attention to other pressing matters. He nearly straddles her, one knee resting between her legs (which are angled awkwardly below her), and the other half-on and half-off the bed. His pajama shorts have ridden low on his hips, likely from restless tossing, and the muscles of his stomach throw soft gold shades on his skin. Her eyes follow the band of material along his lower waist, past the cut of his pelvic muscles to the faint trail of golden hair disappearing beneath the material.
Her eyes widen as she realizes her scrutiny has gone too far and, this time, Malfoy is fully cognizant. Snapping her attention back, a flicker of amusement greets her from his stare. Something else waits just beyond the deeper shades of grey, a limitlessness that frightens her. She'd thought Riddle's eyes had been frightening, but there'd still been fear. Men like Riddle fear losing the power they have. Hadn't Malfoy shared that same fear not so long ago? Not anymore, it seems.
She sees no fear at all. "What happened to you?" The question comes unintentionally.
Nothing. Just that staring piercing silence. Unlike Harry and Ron in the past, Hermione prided herself in understanding Malfoy. Her attention to detail made it impossible for him to hide his weaknesses from her. She knew how to strike, when to strike, but—more importantly—why to strike. It's probably one of the reasons he hated her so much, then, more so than her lineage.
His fingers ghost over her skin, reminding her that his hand still rests at her neck, and she shivers. "You whimper in your sleep."
Her mouth falls open and she chokes back a sound of shock. He just... spoke. His voice is much deeper than she remembers, a bit rough even, but the crispness of his tone suggests that this isn't the first time he's spoken aloud. Anger wells up in her
"You can speak." She says accusingly. "This whole time?"
He gives her a lopsided smirk, leaning back and inspecting the faint teeth marks on her wand. "You woke me, Granger. You called my name."
He ignored her question, but he's deft enough to distract her with something much more embarrassing.
"I do not do that!" She hisses, flustered. "I... was having a... nightmare. I do not whimper!"
His smirk breaks into a leisure grin, making her neck and cheeks flame. "Clearly."
Opening her mouth to offer him a thorny reply, she stops short when he takes her right fist and unfurls her fingers. She jerks at his touch, but he doesn't seem affected. Instead, he takes her wand and places it in her now open palm. She stares at him, confused, and he stares back, unreadable.
What does he gain from doing this? The hand at her jaw drops away and coolness fills its void. He abandons the bed and stands assessing her, his hands crossed over his chest, calculating, authoritative. Has he been faking this entire time? She scowls at him, fuming and bewildered. From the faint twitch of his mouth, he's enjoying her reactions far too much.
"What are you playing at?" Hermione demands.
His lips contort with a sneer, one that sharpens his face into nothing but bright eyes and glinting canines. "War. Aren't you?"
She sits up, gripping her wand to her chest as if to repel the turmoil in her heart. "War is no game."
"Says the soapbox shrub with an ethics complex."
She sputters indignantly at the reference. No one has commented on her hair in so long. She'd forgotten what it feels like. It shouldn't bother her—it didn't used to—but it does now. Her eyes flash. He means to incite her anger, to discombobulate her. He's been playing all along, hasn't he...?
Choosing to ignore it, she shifts gears. "How did you fool Pomfrey and McGonagall? Me?"
"I didn't fool anyone. You fooled yourselves." He drawls, the smoky edge of his voice befuddling her senses. "It's a wonder you have survived this long. You play at war, but you've bitten off more than you can chew, haven't you Granger."
Not a question but another jab she will ignore. His style is no longer a child's. It's patient, cutting and playful, like a cat who throws its quarry up into the air only to snare it between its claws again and again. Not even Nott is this... precise. She bites her lip.
"You could have told—"
"Is this how you treat birthday boys, Granger? Badger them to death?"
He shocks her into silence again and she glowers at him, frustration and familiar resentment bubbling through her veins. "You've not changed at all." He has, but she's desperate, reaching for any insult she can find. Maybe it was better when Malfoy kept his foul mouth shut.
"On the contrary." He chuckles shrewdly before turning away. "I'd like to sleep, so keep your whimpering to a minimum."
She can order him to stop, to turn around and answer her every question, and he knows she can, but both of them also know she won't. She'll never abuse the Bond in that way. It's her weakness and her strength. After he disappears into his room, shutting the door behind him, she stares down at the dried blood on her finger. Just how damaged is Draco Malfoy?
-o-0-o-
"You know the Laveau family are descendants of the Queen of Voodoo from New Orleans, right?" Sera stares at Hermione from over her plate of food.
Cicadas and afternoon birds sing cheerfully as the girls overlook the backyard from one of the tables on the veranda. Various flowering vines nearly choke the stairway down to a stone walk that leads out to a cozy little gazebo. Hermione has wanted to sit out there, but the weather has made it impossible. Thankfully, the gazebo is situated three feet above the ground on stilts, so the koi pond (which is placed at its very center) is high enough that the swollen rain water can't breach. It'd be a pity to lose all those shiny fish.
"Hermione!" Sera's voice startles her. "You listening?"
"I'm sorry." She laughs feebly. "Long night."
Sera arches an eyebrow. "I get that. Wanna talk about it?"
Yes and no. Hermione sighs, unsure of how to word what happened last night. "Malfoy... talked." Direct way is the best way.
Sera gasps. "I thought I heard a male voice! That was him? He actually spoke! Wow."
"You were awake?" Hermione feels oddly embarrassed.
"I've run out of Dreamless Sleep. I should have conserved it. What about you?"
Hermione nods miserably. Pomfrey was nearly impossible to convince in giving her just a few vials before they'd left Headquarters. Many of the younger members are using it too often as a crutch for sleep and the elder members have spoken about addiction. Isn't that what happens in war, though? There are plenty of Muggle history books that comment on the dangers of drug addiction among soldiers in modern warfare. A Magical war is no different from a Muggle one. War is war.
"I walk at night sometimes, too, just to clear my mind." She looks distant for a moment before reverting back to Malfoy. "What did he say?"
Hermione blushes uncomfortably. "He told me I woke him because of my nightmare."
Sera shrugs. "He had to talk sometime, I guess?"
"Yes but... I don't know. It's just shocking is all." Hermione bites her lip.
"You think he's been putting on? Portraying himself as weaker than he actually is?" Sera's dark gaze flickers down to the table warily. "It makes sense considering what he's been through."
"I'm not sure on that, either. I kind of think so, but..."
"There are some things you can't fake." She finishes, understanding what memory Hermione has gone to.
The day Malfoy suffered a seizure has haunted her, especially this morning. Her fingers unconsciously skim up her wand over the minor indents of his teeth. When he looked at them last night, she wanted to see more in his eyes, but this new Malfoy—whatever he is—holds his secrets.
Hermione takes a breath, readying herself for something she's been meaning to say for days. "Look Sera, I've been meaning to apologize the day I left you to watch him while he was... bathing. I'm really—"
"Don't worry about it." Sera waves her hand. "I'll admit it was super awkward, but I don't blame you for this situation. Do you always think everything is your fault, Hermione? I know things are bad, but you need to lighten up. Seriously." She smirks. "You should do something naughty just for the sake of doing it."
Hermione rolls her eyes. "I'm not a goodie-two-shoes, anymore. I thought that would be obvious. I was just apologizing—"
"And I said it doesn't matter. Your intelligence is questionable when you're like this." She winks playfully at her. "See? You need to do something naughty. You know I'm right. Too much stress on your brain has made you tetched."
"You're as bad as Ron when you want to ignore what I'm saying." She huffs, a little shocked by how easily mentioning Ron comes.
Sera's eyebrows soar. "Well, people do say I'm stubborn."
"I prefer the term pig-headed."
Both girls burst into laughter. It's a lovely and carefree sound that Hermione immediately savors. After a moment, both quieten down, content to relish a lighthearted silence together. Renoir, who's been lounging on the porch, ambles past them with a scowl. Sera flicks some of her food at him with her fork and Hermione giggles. Definitely Ron, she muses. Sera even eats like him. Luckily, sitting still isn't one of her strong suits. She burns food like a fire burns fuel.
As with many athletic girls, Sera shares a hard lined figure sculpted by agile muscle. She's all speed. Her facial features are regal in a sharp broad way which are offset by her almond-shaped eyes. Their color reminds Hermione of molasses, or the night without a moon. Nothing but stars and darkness. Her father's eyes had been that dark and, like Sera, they were always crinkled with a smile.
"You're doing it again." Sera grumbles.
"What?"
"Brooding." She acclaims. "I know this war is shit and things are bad—really bad for you—but you've got to lighten up. Take the good moments when you can. You don't get a lot."
Hermione is reminded of Andromeda's words. "You're as pushy as Ron, too." She mutters.
Sera chuckles. "Me pushy? Look in the mirror!"
Hermione crosses her arms, offended. "I'm not that pushy." Even as she says the words, she knows better.
"Right, and I was born a man-eating ogre." She scoffs.
"So you've finally accepted it!" A silky voice declares theatrically. "It's about time!"
Both girls jump and glare at the back door. Nott stands there watching them lazily, his shoulder pressed to the doorframe and his hands stuffed in his pockets. He wears a smirk that scantily glints his eyes, meaning he's in a more playful mood today. Hermione wonders if he actually got some sleep last night. The bruises under his eyes are lesser, their green more vivid.
"It speaks." Sera bristles.
"Ah yes. The villain of this fairytale." Nott drawls, shutting the door behind him and stepping out onto the porch. "He speaks at long last."
She whips around, facing away from him. "Fuck off."
Hermione makes a face at Sera. "Do you have to use such language?"
"That's her charm." Nott snickers, walking up to the table and taking the seat between them. "Lack of it, anyway."
Sera sticks her tongue out at him and he feigns a disgusted look of shock. She snorts and turns back to Hermione. "You better get on him as much as you do me about such language."
"Oh she does." He leans back in the chair, absently tapping his right thumb. Hermione has seen him do it before. He often does it when he wants to say something but decides against it.
"Good." Sera flips her hair. "I wouldn't want you getting away with anything."
He clicks his tongue and opens his mouth to reply, but then shuts it. Hermione frowns, considering him for a moment then studying Sera. She's braiding a thin lock of hair, her expression hardened at its edges. The comfortable mood of conversation dissolves and they are back to dead air.
Suddenly, a tumult of caws erupt from the trees to the north and everyone's at their feet, eyes wide and wands drawn. Crows, a murder of them, take to the sky with haste. Just birds. Hermione's chest unwinds and she finds she can breathe again. Everyone shares a sigh of relief and a small nod of reassurance, but no one sits back down. She can't remember a time noises didn't spook her anymore. The barest sound pumps her blood with crazed adrenaline.
Sera, needing to busy her hands, takes her empty plate into the kitchen and returns with three of Teddy's—Andromeda's—muffins. She offers them but both Hermione and Nott refuse. Nott does, however, seem to consider it for a moment, but changes his mind. Sera's expression falters and she covers it quickly with a curious glance at Hermione's book.
"So, have you found anything?"
Hermione shrugs, placing her hand over it unconsciously, protectively. "It's hand written. There's no name, so I can't pin down who authored it. I've found little to do with the House of Songs and more to do with obscure and ancient occultism—very dark occultism. Plenty of connections to astrology, mysticism and divination." At that her lips curl in reproach. "There's a legend of markings that can unlock magic in the blood of Muggles, though the word they use is 'chattel'." Hermione's stomach lurches and she finds it harder to speak. "The further I read, the more I believe the markings were being used as a conduit to drain life essence. There's mention of child sacrifice and cannibalistic magic."
"Well, that explains why it wasn't in the restricted section." Nott asserts sardonically. "Dumbledore couldn't have gotten this to you instead of having you jump through hoops and botching my cover—"
"There has to be something to help find a key." Sera interjects. "Maybe looking at this from a different angle will help."
"I suspect there's more than one key." Hermione opines. "I read about most of what I just told you this morning. Last night I found a passage—likely a prophecy. I'm not sure if it's connected with the Curse of the Harlot, but I'm not ruling it out." For some reason, blame paranoia (she always does), she omits Dumbledore's torn note. She'll probably tell them eventually, but not yet.
"How late did you stay up?" Sera inquires, her brows knitted.
"Long enough." Hermione looks away almost guiltily, a blush tinting her cheeks at the memory of just who left her sleepless.
Sera hums in understanding and Nott cocks an eyebrow at her, his eyes hungrily searching her face for clues to her abrupt change in demeanor. Whatever he finds satisfies him and he walks back into the house. Both girls look after him, one more confused than the other.
"He's been acting weird all morning." Sera claims. "More so than usual, and in a good way, which is... weird."
Hermione laughs unexpectedly and she covers her mouth. "Try spending six months with him in..." she trails off and her expression goes dim, the fleeting light gone from her eyes.
The air around her takes on the dark macabre of those dreary corridors which once brought her such joy. She swallows. Counts. Swallows. Breathes. A hand slips over her heart and she feels a little better as it resonates through her fingertips.
"Hermione." Sera squeezes her shoulder. "You and Nott can't do this. I've not seen the worst. Hell, my fight so far has been a walk in the park compared to both of you, but you can't do this to yourselves." She stops, her other hand grabbing Hermione's opposite shoulder. "Look at me, Hermione."
Hermione's jaw tenses, but she indulges her.
"That day I found you in the bathroom on the floor, it scared me. I've heard from others that you work like a machine. You can't let this build up inside you. You've been through hell already, and no one can walk your path. But dammit, you have to let others in! Both you and Nott are bound and determined to let this eat you alive from the inside. Neither of you can pretend you don't have weaknesses. This war can't afford that."
"I'm sorry." Hermione murmurs averting her eyes.
"Hermione." Sera purses her lips with a patronizing glare. "I said to stop apologizing. You are driving me fucking crazy with that! You of all people shouldn't be apologizing!"
"Language." Hermione sighs, defeated.
"Soon, you'll be apologizing for tornadoes and fucking hurricanes!"
"Does every expletive have to be the 'F' word?"
Sera rolls her eyes and flashes a sweet grin. "You seem to listen better when you're trying to correct my use of expletives."
Hermione ventures a smile and succeeds, slow warmth melting her heart. "Unbelievable."
"See? I got you to smile. And that was a real smile. I'm taking kudos for that." Sera wraps Hermione in a lingering hug before letting her go." You're welcome, by the way." She throws a wink over her shoulder as she departs into the house behind Nott.
The sweat down Hermione's back itches and she reaches behind to lift her shirt, allowing some of the stagnant breeze over her skin. A mosquito lands on her leg and she raises her hand to slap it, but decides instead to cast a stupefying spell. She does this on a whim, mainly to satisfy her curiosity and to be a bit cruel. She shouldn't be, but mosquitoes show her no sympathy.
"I can't believe you just used your wand to attack a mosquito."
She nearly bounds out of her skin, her hands gripping so tight her knuckles turn bone white. "Malfoy!" she chokes, unable to form any thoughtful commentary. "You could announce when you're skulking around!" At once, she realizes her back—most of it she should add—is exposed to his keen eyes. She whirls around, dropping the lose fabric of her blouse and giving him an acidic look.
He's standing at the base of the stairs, his bare feet submerged in rainwater, hair slicked neatly back with only one or two errant strands tickling his forehead and lips sporting a knowing smirk. His ankles are dotted with mud, which she finds odd on him, and his shirt is stained with perspiration. Has he been out walking in the swampy rainwater? Her expression molds into bewilderment and this only makes his smirk grow.
"Subtle, Granger. Are you just that bored? Can't figure out how to save the world, yet?"
She opts not to speak, deciding instead to study him. His expression sinks back below the surface, eyes glittering white in the sun and lips parted. It's a mirror reflection of the expression he'd worn all the times before, when Hermione would hope for venomous words or a chilling glare.
Sera's statement from earlier weighs her mind. The way Malfoy looks at her—at everyone—has been calculating. They just never observed him at the right moment. Malfoy is cunning, dastardly in his youth, but highly cunning. There's no way to discern what is happening in his head, or how damaged he really is. Especially now. He's thrown her into that black labyrinthine sea, the surface beautiful and glittering, but what lurks beneath? And which way to turn?
He'd spoken last night to throw her, confuse her. By those actions alone, he has taken control of her.
Her mouth parts at the realization, stunned. He seems to read her train of thought and grins that pretty grin. "You could always command me, Granger." He grazes his fingertips over the collar.
"No." she murmurs, looking at him intensely. "I won't do that."
He tilts his head to the side, a dash of pink coloring his cheeks. "Of course you won't."