Saving You

Without Walls

:::Without Walls:::

Draco carried Hermione up the grand staircase and down the vast candlelit corridors to his chambers. Carefully, he laid her out on his pristinely made bed, then turned, heading to the majestic washroom that was through a nearby mahogany door. He returned a moment later with a damp cloth. Seating himself on the bed, he leaned over her, gently dabbing her bruised face, cleaning the blood away. Her left cheek and bottom lip were swollen, and black and blue was already starting to color her skin.

Though there should have been pain, Hermione didn't so much as wince. In her downcast eyes he saw only wariness and the faded remnants of shame.

Swallowing, his gaze fell to her uncovered torso, his stormy eyes taking her in. She brought her shaking hands up to shield herself from his view.

"Why are you trying to hide?" he asked, jaw tight. "I've already seen all of you."

She swallowed. "There are bruises…"

Draco placed the cloth on the bed beside him, took her hands in his, held them away. He looked from her averted eyes back to her chest. He could immediately see the harsh bluish marks forming there, darkening her porcelain skin.

He swore, shot up off the bed, started to pace. He would kill that sick fuck for touching her. He would rip him into pieces! He would—

"It doesn't matter, Draco."

Hermione's soft, sad, reassuring voice stopped the torrent. Draco looked at her, his silver eyes bright. He walked to her with purposeful strides, sitting himself on the bed beside her, taking her by the shoulders. She had dragged the dark duvet up over her breasts, too reluctant to let him look again. "Yes, it does," he told her firmly. She only looked away. Draco took her chin in his hand, turning her face back to his. "It does," he insisted. His metallic eyes reached into her dark brown ones. And then he shook his head, looked away. When he spoke next, his hands were in his lap. His gaze was down and his voice was as quiet and solemn as the grave…

"I told you not to go." The words weren't accusing. They were haunted—looming, lingering in the silence once they were spoken, thick and dark, like fog in the night sky. They were something else, too, some other adjective… filled with some other emotion that neither of them wanted to name.

"I didn't have a choice," was her numbing reply.

The words had Draco up in an instant, had him pacing back and forth, the tempest raging once again. They were like fuel on simmering flames, and he had to take a calming breath. The last thing she needed was anger and accusations. The last thing she needed was to be afraid of him, too.

"What if I hadn't gotten there in time?" he asked her, his voice ragged, his eyes strained and intense. "God, Hermione, I won't always be able to save you! One day I'll be too late." He ran a tortured hand through his white-blond hair. "I was almost too late today…"

"It doesn't matter," she whispered again, only this time she was staring straight into his eyes. "It never mattered."

The words, the voice, that look in her eyes—they frightened Draco, rocked him to the core. He came back to her, taking her cold hands in his. "You can't believe that." His voice was low. Why was she saying these things? Why did she sound like she believed them? Why was she looking at him with dark, dull eyes—eyes like the ones he remembered from all those months before, the ones he had examined through the compartment window on the Hogwarts Express…

He had never seen her, truly seen her, before that day. He remembered it now—that moment her wary gaze had pierced through him like an arrow. Her curls had been soaked and stringy with rainwater. Her wet clothes had been clinging to her wisp of a body, and her thin hands had been folded resignedly in her lap. Her smile had been faint, wistfully curved upward with all the solemnity of prophet, and her eyes had watched him with mysteries in their dark depths. They were eyes that had seemed to reach beyond past, present, and future, eyes that had looked as if they'd known all the world's secrets—eyes that had looked as if they knew too much.

It had been those lightless eyes that had first drawn him in—and seeing them now haunted him even more then they had then. She was her again, that mysterious girl from the train, the one he'd so badly wanted to know, the one he'd so badly wanted to save.

And he had saved her—or, at least, he'd thought he had. But it seemed now like that girl had never really gone. It appeared that she had lingered like a shadow, hidden in the cloak of night where she wasn't needed, but always clinging, always waiting to follow Hermione back into the cruel light. If only she could see that she didn't have to go back there. She could stay safe under the stars, under the cradling cloak of twilight, away from the merciless break of day. What duty did she owe to a harsh sun that only beat down upon her? Why did she insist on bringing herself where she'd only be burned?

She had faded into nothingness again, had let the shadow-girl take over her, until she was Hermione and Hermione was the shadow—protected, unaffected, unscathed by the ruthless rays of sun. Why did she insist on marching on into the horizon, into a sunrise that would singe and scorch until there was nothing left of her but ash? Didn't she know how much her life was worth? Didn't she see how precious she was—to the world, to her friends… to him.

No, he realized as he watched her downcast eyes. This girl saw nothing, felt nothing. She was merely a shadow, cast by flames, the creation of an unforgiving sun.

And suddenly, Draco was filled with purpose.

Slowly, gently, he lowered her back further onto the pillows, until she had no choice but to raise those haunting eyes to his. He took up his wand, his gaze resolute—held the tip whisper-soft against her neck.

"Wha-what are you doing?" she stammered uncertainly.

"Taking away the armor," he told her, determined. "Making you see the truth."

Her eyes narrowed at that, puzzled, not understanding—then widened as she realized what he meant to do. "No, Draco. Don't," she pleaded softly.

His firm hand came up to cup her cheek. "You were right that day," he told her. "We have passed this point." He tucked one smooth spiral behind her ear. "Why are there still walls between us?"

The familiar words caused her breathing to quicken, caused the panic to take hold in her eyes. "You said it yourself," she tried to reason desperately. "Those walls have to be there." She shook her head, the fear reaching deep. "They will always be there."

Draco could hear the panic, understood it more than she knew. But he wasn't going to let her go on believing that she was nothing. Not when she was everything to him, despite the past—or maybe even because of it.

"No, Hermione," he told her seriously, his finger lightly tracing down one bruised cheekbone. "They're coming down tonight." Another pause. "I have to show you…"

That you're beautiful… That you deserve the world, despite what that monster told you… despite what he did to you… That I would have given you that world, if only things had been different…

"Let me show you…"

With a whispered word, light sprang from his wand. Hermione immediately turned, trying to wrench herself away, hiding her face, clutching the blanket against her body.

He kept his steadying hands on her. "Look at me," he commanded quietly.

Her voice failed her. She shook her head.

Draco gently let his palms run over her arms. For the first time, he felt the heavy scars that he'd seen all those weeks ago in the infirmary. His fingertips brushed down, softly running over the ridges and valleys that rose and fell on her unconcealed skin. But he wasn't disgusted. No, the only feeling that consumed him was regret. He had been her enemy for so long, completely indifferent to her suffering—superiorly ignorant to the idea that she even could suffer. With royal nonchalance, he had dismissed her from his mind entirely—had hardly cared enough to spare her a thought.

And these scars were the proof that she'd paid the price for his apathy…

Hermione flinched at his touch, tensed. She began to shake. But he didn't stop his tender exploration. "Look at me," he commanded again, his hands running softly over her wrists, her forearms, her elbows. Another moment… "Look at me, Hermione."

The sound of her name on his lips, so firm and still so pleading, had her eyes wanting to obey of their own accord. But she paused. How could she let Draco see her like this? How could she let him see her scars? Her shame? Her failure?

Draco could read her thoughts, could almost hear them in his mind. Determinedly, he shoved his left sleeve up to his elbow. His pale skin showed no sign of the Dark Mark; like hers, it had been concealed to prevent discovery. His gaze sharp on her, he held the wand against his skin.

The walls were coming down tonight. Every last one of them…

With a whispered word, a green light faded against his arm. The Mark suddenly appeared, black and ugly on his skin. He looked at it briefly, bitterness making him grind his teeth. But purpose filled him, and he grabbed her hand anyway, running it carefully over the dreaded brand.

Hermione could feel the coarseness against his skin, and, with furrowed brows, she turned to see what it was. Her eyes saddened at the black they found there.

Tense moments went by. "We all have scars," he said through his teeth.

Hermione looked at the Mark, assessed it with gentle eyes—and in the process somehow forgot her own unconcealed skin. She had heard it was painful, that it felt like a thousand poisoned knives stabbing straight through the bone. Had it hurt him that way? Tender regret filled her as her fingers softly traced the ugly skull, the snake within.

"Will you look at me?" he asked her quietly again.

Hermione swallowed. A moment passed. And then she slowly brought her eyes to his.

There was a line, clean and straight down one delicate cheekbone. Draco could see the burns running down her neck and over her shoulder, disappearing behind the blanket. His eyes came to hers, and he could read the fear. He felt it, too—because for the first time, he was vulnerable. For the first time, he was as defenseless as she was.

Draco shook his head, leaned down, brushing his warm lips against hers. The kiss was soft, softer than any he'd ever given her. He was reassuring her, she knew. He was telling her that she wasn't alone. That she wouldn't be hurt. That she needn't be afraid.

Draco moved his lips from hers to gently press them against her nose, her darkened cheek, her bruised temple, her hair. He made no attempt to move fast. There was no rush. He kept his hands and lips above her neck, touching her face, her throat, stroking and soothing the scars that rested there.

"The first time, your hair was straightened and your skin was concealed," Draco said, his breath brushing her ear. "This time there's nothing between us. There's nothing to hide behind. Only the real you and the real me—without walls."

Hermione moaned as his mouth met hers again, his tongue softly probing past her lips to mate slowly, sensually with hers. Her breath caught at the first feel of his hands against her body. A fleeting insecurity returned, passing through her—but it soon melted away, replaced by the warm pleasure of his touch on her skin.

His body was over hers, pressing down softly. She should have been frightened, but the weight was pleasant, familiar—so unlike the heavy pressure her father's body used to trap her down. Draco's power over her was just as consuming, but it was contained. And though she was trapped, it was a confinement she never wanted to escape.

She felt Draco's hands pull the blanket out from between them. He moved his mouth down, the feeling warm against her chin, her neck. His lips tenderly rubbed the burns along her throat, warming her, making her feel lightheaded. She should have been panicked. He was touching her scars, her pain. But strangely, she wasn't afraid. His lips were soothing the fear, kissing the hurt away. All of a sudden, the pain was in the past. This was the present, and she was safe...

The backs of Draco's fingers brushed the swell of one breast, the whisper of a touch affecting her more than any other ever had. His lips pressed against her collarbone, her shoulder. His hand ran over her stomach, smoothing down her side, easing away the ache. His mouth moved lower, as well, touching one breast, then the other, his lips reverently kissing each black-and-blue mark, his tongue gliding over the bruises to the hardened peak.

Draco's hand eased under the waistline of her pants, below the elastic of her white cotton underwear. She was warm there, and he moaned at the wetness that was waiting for him. He had barely touched her, hardly held her, and still she was ready for him...

The earth had almost stopped moving. Hermione felt every breath, every touch, every glowing sensation in slow motion. Everything was perfect. They had all the time in the world.

She was in a trance. Her hands were moving of their own accord: to Draco's lapels, where she helped him remove his regal robe; to his throat, where she carefully untied his black cravat; to the silver buttons of his dress shirt, where her fingers shook as she freed them from their clasps; to his shoulders, where she ran her palms, bringing the material down; to the hem of his white undershirt, where, with eyes locked together, she brought the cotton fabric over his head; then, at last, to his bare chest, where, entranced, she ran them over hard muscles and warm skin. They didn't stop—couldn't—until Draco's hand came up to cover them, pausing the movement, pressing her palms hard against his heart.

"Do you feel it beating?" he asked her, his breath ragged, his eyes searching hers. She nodded, swallowing uncertainly as she felt the erratic drumbeat against her hand. "For you," he told her passionately. "Only for you."

Draco's hands moved to unbutton his pants, and with her help, he pulled them off. He dragged hers down, as well, and then her underwear, pulling both completely off her and letting them fall forgotten on the floor. His eyes left hers to run worshipfully down her body, taking in the scarring that rose above the skin, the jagged rises and falls that crisscrossed over the white.

Beautiful…

Hermione watched him watching her, waiting for his reaction, praying to God that it wouldn't be disgust. His eyes came back to hers, and he could see the hesitance there. He shook his head, ran a finger down the lone scar on her cheek. "You have nothing to be ashamed of," he told her, his jaw tight, his eyes bright with tension, with passion. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

A part of her wanted to argue, but his hand was at her center again, making her gasp, causing the words to evaporate off of her tongue. His voice had been tense, earnest. He was telling the truth, she realized. Draco thought she was beautiful. And with him she felt beautiful, was beautiful. Wasn't that all that mattered?

Draco felt her hand circle his manhood and begin to stroke, grasping and squeezing slowly, causing him to swallow hard with pleasure. His breathing was as shallow as hers now, the deep breaths unsteadily coming in an out.

As if by some cosmic strength, some magnet force, the two joined together. Looking into her eyes, Draco eased inside of her, moving slow, penetrating deep. They began to move as if in a trance, rocking slowly, their faces close, their lips touching, their eyes intense and locked together. Neither could look away. There were no lies between them now, no spells, no magic but the kind they were making here and now.

When it was over, Draco held her close in his arms, curling his body around hers, burying his face in her silky curls. Her breathing evened, and her eyelids became heavy. She blinked languidly, but kept them open. She couldn't sleep, couldn't miss these precious moments, the ones she had waited so long for, the ones she knew would be over too soon.

After a long time, she turned herself in his arms, until their faces were close together, their slow breaths mingling. "I missed this," she whispered after a while. She looked through her lashes into his eyes. "Being close to you."

Draco said nothing, only situated her naked body tight against his side. He had missed it too, all of it: the feel of her cheek against his shoulder; the feel of her breath as it gently brushed against his neck; the feel of her smooth palm as it rested over his heart…

But he frowned at the feel of it against him now. It wasn't smooth, the way it had been before, the way he remembered it. For the first time, he could feel a ridge there.

Light brows furrowing, he held her hand away from his chest. There was a harsh, raised horizontal line across it now, with tiny vertical scars where the stitches had been. "Is this...?" He trailed off, his gaze searching out hers. Reluctantly, she nodded, and his jaw clenched tight. It killed him that he was the reason for one of her scars—killed him because it made him no better than the heartless bastard who had caused all the rest.

He swallowed in the silence, tormented, sickened by himself. "You did this because of me," he said through his teeth. "For me." His gaze was dark as he watched the intolerable line. "You shouldn't have," he told her bitterly. "I shouldn't have let you."

"You didn't let me," she reminded him gently. "I did this."

He only shook his head. He stared at her palm, the slash that ran clean across it. With infinite gentleness, he stroked his thumb over the scar.

Hermione watched him watch her hand with those piercing silver eyes, longed to soothe away the guilt. "It doesn't matter, Draco," she tried to tell him.

His eyes snapped to hers, and he immediately held her away. "Stop saying it doesn't matter," he commanded harshly. "It matters. You matter." He shook his head, gritted his teeth—swallowed, finding calm. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, tense. "I can't bear the thought of you being in pain..." The uncharacteristic confession was darkened by something akin to regret.

Carefully, Hermione laid her head back down, her brown eyes considering the once-injured palm. "It didn't hurt," she assured him softly, numbly.

He swallowed. "Then why do I feel the knife cutting across my own hand?" Why do I feel it slicing open my heart? Why am I bleeding to death inside? He didn't admit the rest out loud. He had already said too much.

But somehow, she could feel the words he didn't say. "You shouldn't feel guilty," she whispered sadly. "This wasn't your fault."

"Really?" he asked resentfully. He turned his face so that his cheek rested against her hair, folded her scarred hand in his. The scent of her soft curls was like a narcotic, but still it didn't soothe his unrest. "I shouldn't have given him your blood," he said quietly after a while.

"He might have killed you if you hadn't, Draco," she reminded him. "You didn't have a choice."

She felt his head shake against hers. "I should have protected you," she heard him say. "I should have done what was right."

Hermione held herself away so that she could look into his eyes; they were dark, like smoke, the kind that rose from burning wood; like the shining steel of gunmetal just before the fatal pull of the trigger. "I knew what I was doing when I filled that filled that vial. I knew who it would end up with. I did it anyway." She smiled sadly, shook her head, her soft curls swaying. "It was my choice, Draco. You can't take that blame away from me."

He only clenched his jaw. He looked away, unconvinced.

Hermione sighed. "I don't want to talk about this," she whispered finally. "I don't want to waste the little time we have left together thinking about what might happen when we're not." She reached out, turned his face so she could look into his eyes. "And we won't be," she told him seriously, sadly. "After tonight, things have to go back to the way they were before."

Draco's jaw worked, but he didn't disagree.

Hermione averted her gaze too, unable to bear it—and became aware of the room around her for the first time. Her gaze slowly roamed, taking in the splendor. It was a master's suite, spacious and elegant—far more so than the Head Boy and Girl rooms at Hogwarts could ever be. Striped Regency wallpaper spanned from ceiling to floor, thick, dark forest strips interchanging with black ones that were lined in fine gold dots and decorated with an intricate floral design. Windows faced the canopy bed, their heavy curtains pulled back, secured by braided ropes, and moonlight streamed in, aiding the candle flames that burned in the antique-gold chandelier above. The furniture was made of dark, smooth wood, the seats and sofas cushioned in shades of green, gold, and cream.

Slowly, she climbed off of the bed, wanting suddenly to run her hands over that smooth wood, over the etched windowsills, the dark velvet curtains—wanting to explore this place she'd never been, this place she'd never be again. "Your room is… beautiful," she said with a sad sort of awe.

Draco watched her. The way her pale skin stood out against the dark room had his heart burning, had his teeth gritting tight. He felt a wave of possession run through him at the sight of her there, in his room, amongst his things. His hands fisted, crumpling the black silk bed sheets in his grasp. "None of it was my doing," he assured her dismissively.

Hermione roamed slowly, letting her scarred palm run over the frame of the antique sofa, the bookshelf, the surface of the mantelpiece over the hearth. "What about these," she asked, coming to stand underneath two large landscape paintings that hung in heavy gold museum frames on the wall.

"Two of Thomas Hardwick's," he informed her, his dark gaze on the scar-white burns that cascaded down her shoulder blade instead of the colors that cascaded down the canvas.

Her eyes widened a bit, returning to the wall to admire the dark brushstrokes. Hardwick was one of the wizarding world's most influential post-Impressionist painter's, renowned for his landscapes, particularly ones of the English moors. "I can't believe you have these," she whispered, shaking her head in wonder. "It's like… having a piece of history all to yourself. Owning a piece of time." She lifted a hand, let it linger in the air inches away from the black treetops and starless night sky. "They must have cost a fortune each."

Draco rose, stepping into his pants. Slowly, he came up behind her, taking her by the shoulders, holding her naked back against his front. Her long curls were feather-soft as they swept against his chest. "These are nothing," he dismissed with bland smile. "My father would never allow anything of real value in this part of the house."

Hermione slowly turned in his arms, her brows furrowed as if she wasn't sure she understood. "You mean… there's more?" she asked him, unable to fathom the idea.

There was an awestruck look in the depths of her dark eyes, a faded version of the one he'd seen there years before—the one she'd get while listening to the teachers talk about eras past, while learning something fascinating, while discovering something new.

Draco couldn't stop his mild smile from tinting with affection. He laughed under his breath. Tilting his head, he considered her for a moment. And then he began to back away. He grabbed his dress shirt from the bed, tossed it to her. "Put this on and come with me," he commanded. "I have something I want to show you."

The sun had long since disappeared behind the trees that surrounded the Burrow. The Weasleys had long since gone to sleep, each amiable redhead safe and sound within their beds. Harry sat alone now in the darkness of the silent living room, his head resting against the comfy cushioned sofa back, his emerald eyes staring up at the ceiling. He wanted to sleep, but he'd been forced to give up on the idea entirely. There was just too much on his mind, too much he was unsure about—Hermione, Malfoy, Voldemort...

Ginny…

Christmases at the Weasley house should have been like a dream come true. How many times had he prayed for warm apple pie, for hot chocolate with marshmallows by the fire, for presents with big bows sitting under the tree with his name on the card? How many times had he imagined being surrounded by people who truly loved him? How many times had he longed for a real family? Now that he had it, however, it was bittersweet. Because she was always there, smiling at him, looking at him with those bright blue eyes…

And he couldn't look at her like a sister. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it. He worked at it, forcing himself to seem platonic—but no matter how much time passed, how much effort he put into it, he could never be platonic. Not with her…

He could hear the merciless tick tick of the clock. His dry eyes burned, longing to close, but his busy mind rebelliously ordered them to stay open. Eventually, he forced himself to rise from the sunken cushions of the couch, to head dutifully towards Ron's room, where the relief of a soft bed was waiting. Slowly, he began to step up the narrow stairs—but his feet paused as they reached the landing of the next floor. He was instantly aware of the subtle glow that came from somewhere to his right—it had him stuck, had him unable to move on.

His eyes narrowed. White light shined out from underneath Ginny's closed door. She must still be awake, he realized warily. He stared as shadows played in the small space between the bottom of the door and the carpet, signaling movement within the room. Instantly alert, he listened in the silence, his jaw clenching as the sound of her humming voice quietly wafted down the short hallway.

His hand tightened on the banister, his fingers gripping, trying to hold him where he was. He looked down the steps, where he knew the little hand of the clock pointed accusatorially at the one. It was late, he tried to reason with himself, too late to be pestering her—too late for her to be plaguing him.

But even as he fought with himself, he was striding to her door. He couldn't fight that automatic part of him, the part that always led him to her like a magnet, even when he knew it would be better to keep away.

He could hear her footsteps now through the door, could hear her muted singing more clearly. He recognized the tune. It was My Curse, a ballad by the Weird Sisters.

He stepped closer still, her muffled voice luring him in like a siren's call. He was near enough now to make out the words, and they hung heavy in the air around him. The song was about waiting, about patience wearing thin, about love so loyal that it stayed even when unrequited, even when spurned. The lyrics were like a message, as natural as if she had written them herself—as cutting as if she was singing them to him alone.

Silently, he pressed his forehead against her door, closed his eyes. Frustration and accusation had never sounded so melodic. It was the perseverant hope that made the song so haunting, that endless struggle between endurance and defeat. Ginny had that, he knew, that persistence inside of her, that defiant refusal to give up on him. The sound of her voice cut into his conscience. He had sworn to her that he wouldn't keep her waiting forever—a promise made in a moment of panic that he was sure now he'd never be able to keep.

The song ended. Her voice slowly faded and silence fell again. He knew he should go, knew he should head upstairs where he belonged—where she would be safe from him. But, of course, he was a glutton for punishment. He couldn't force his legs to move, couldn't force himself to walk away. He shook his head at his own stupidity—but it didn't stop him from slowly raising a fist to the door. Quietly, he rapped his knuckles against it.

A moment went by. The door opened hesitantly, just a crack, and Ginny's bright ocean eyes peered curiously at him through the small space.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Hey."

"Hey." She opened the door an inch more, her eyes narrowing speculatively. "You're still awake? I thought you were going to bed early so you could be up at dawn for Hermione's surprise."

"I'm heading up now. I just… saw your light on." He shrugged a shoulder. "Thought I'd say goodnight."

"Oh. Goodnight." One eyebrow arched when he didn't turn, didn't move, only continued to watch her. "Was there… something else?"

His own eyebrows furrowed. "No."

"No?" He shook his head, confirming it. "Oh." She waited again, expecting him to move, but he didn't. An awkward moment… "Were you… wondering about the pies? Because I wrapped them up and put them with the rest of Mione's gifts..."

He nodded. "I saw."

"Oh," she said again. "Grand. Then you should be all set." But still he watched her, not moving, not turning to go. Slowly, unsurely, she opened the door all the way. "So did you… want to come in for a minute?" she asked him perplexedly.

God, she was scantily clad, wearing nothing but a flimsy tank top and the shortest of short shorts! Harry's eyes immediately averted, looking beyond her instead of at her, bringing her milky skin and the slight swell of cleavage out of focus. "Why?" he asked warily.

Her ginger brows furrowed. "I don't know," she said carefully. "To talk?"

"At one o'clock?" he returned stiffly.

Ginny frowned. "I thought…" She trailed off, looking uncertainly between him and the door. "Well, you knocked…"

"Right. To say goodnight."

Ginny watched him, watched the way he stared just over her shoulder, his jaw clenched tight, his body tense. Her gaze softened. "Right…" she answered gently, knowingly. "Well goodnight then."

He nodded jerkily. "See you in the morning."

"It is the morning, Harry," she threw back mildly.

His eyes glanced dully at hers. "I know. I meant… see you later in the morning. When it's light out."

Her lips curved slowly. "Can't you see me well enough in this light?"

The provoking words had Harry's eyes snapping back to hers. And then slowly, darkly, they traveled downward—over her bear shoulders; over her collarbones to the round swell of breasts, where a few tiny freckles were sprinkled across her rosy skin; over her abdomen, where her lavender tank top clung to her small waist; over her smooth thighs and long legs. When his gaze finally returned to hers, it was haunted and hot.

He didn't answer, but that look in his eyes said everything. It had her own eyes widening, had her breath catching, had her heartbeat picking up. And suddenly, she wasn't so flippant or confident or daring. In the darkness, with his gaze intense on her skin—with her bed waiting for them both behind her—she suddenly had the feeling that she'd gotten in over her head. "Later in the morning, then. When it's light out," she agreed breathlessly. "Goodnight, Harry." She whirled the door closed so quickly that it caused a breeze to ruffle his hair.

Still, Harry didn't move, not after the door had shut, not even after he saw the light shining out from underneath it go dark.

"Not likely," he said bleakly under his breath.

He watched the closed door for a long time before finally turning and continuing up the stairs. He laid out on his cot but didn't sleep, just stared at the ceiling, waiting for Ron's alarm clock to ring.

The Emerald Ball was still swirling in the hours after midnight. The haunting sound of strings still spun its web over the jade and forest-colored sea. Couples were still dancing, revolving elegantly around the marble floor, and dainty ladies were still watching coyly from behind their black lace fans. Gentlemen were still going back forth over their snifters, debating politics, commenting on principles, and criticizing the changing tide of the economy.

Lucius Malfoy, however, was not among the pack. He had broken away from the festivities to take care of some business—something he was always compelled to do if presented the opportunity. He sat now in the master's study with his longtime associate, the host of the ball, Edward DaMont. Their scrutinizing eyes both scanned the long inked parchments in their respective grasps, and though the room was empty, habit kept their voices stern and low when they spoke to one another. Long minutes were spent discussing various discrepancies between older pages and newer ones, and though those discrepancies were signs of rising fortunes, their lips stayed straight, with only the barest, driest hints of smiles.

After a long time, the quiet was broken by a resounding knock against the door.

"Enter," Edward called, not looking up.

The door creaked eerily as it slowly opened, but neither man raised his gaze—not until the newcomer spoke, breaking the silence, filling the room with that dark, familiar voice that was like ice and fire all at once.

"I hope I'm not interrupting…"

Both men's eyes suddenly snapped up. Lucius shot to his feet. "My lord."

The Dark Lord slowly reached up one skeletal hand and lowered his dark hood away from his face. "Lucius," he greeted with that crack of a grin. His black gaze moved to the man seated diplomatically behind the desk. He was older now, a statelier, more refined version of the boy he remembered meeting so often in passing all those years ago. "Edward," he added, acknowledging him. "It's been quite a long time." He watched as the other man slowly, cautiously rose. "I hope I am welcome...?"

Edward's dark hazel eyes were unreadable. "I would never dare say otherwise," he said.

One corner of Voldemort's crooked smile turned up at the tactful reply. "I'm happy to hear it," he returned, folding his long fingers together. "We have so many people in common. And a friend of my friend is always a friend of mine." Wistfully, his head tilted to the side. "I only wish I could have enticed you to make it official all those years ago," he went on reminiscently. "You had everything to gain…"

"And everything to lose," Edward returned with a pleasant smile. He pulled his timepiece from his breast pocket, considered it with narrowed eyes. "Speaking of which, my wife has been waiting," he said, returning the pocket watch to its home within his robe. "I'll leave you two to your business. We can finish ours another time."

"My gratitude," Voldemort stated mildly, watching as the younger man came out from behind the desk and headed towards him with unhesitant strides. Slowly, he stepped aside, clearing the path to the door—bowing slightly, condescendingly, as the other man passed. "Wish the lovely Minuet a happy Christmas on my behalf."

Edward said nothing, but his eyes were dark at the sound of his wife's name. He glanced one last time between the two men, then let himself out of the room, closing the heavy door behind him.

Voldemort watched the dark wood amusedly for a moment before returning his eyes to Lucius. "He looks the same," he observed. "Still youngish. And handsome as ever."

Lucius nodded once. "The years have been kind to him."

The Dark Lord's smile was tight at the words. "Yes. The years have a perverted way of punishing those who are worthy and rewarding those who are not." He crossed his black-clad arms. "I am evidence enough of that fact."

Lucius' silver eyes were framed by furrowed brows. "Edward DaMont is a very powerful man," he said carefully.

The skeleton man nodded. "Still, he was the weakest of that little group of friends." He took up a gold frame that rested on a surface nearby. It was a picture of Edward at the end of his Hogwarts days, young and strapping, a disarming smile on his face. Sprinkled on the common room furniture around him were two other boys and three beautiful girls, each one peering at the camera with a different expression—but all looking entirely superior in a perfect portrait of that era's Slytherin Court. The Dark Lord's eyes considered the other two men in the photo fondly—one smirking from over a snifter of brandy, the other raising his brow aloofly from his regal position in an armchair, a cigar held between his fingers, a string of smoke winding into the air. "They were good to me," Voldemort remembered, wistful. He shook his head. "How unjust a world it is that lets him prosper while the better men rot away..." His gaze slowly rose. "Whether it be behind bars or in the grave..."

Lucius' jaw tightened, but the Dark Lord didn't see. His black eyes were already back on the frame in his grasp, wry and reminiscent at the memory of his fallen generals. A moment went by before he replaced it on the glass tabletop.

"You were all seriousness when I walked in, Lucius," he commented after a while, casual once again as he slowly stepped further into the room. "Nothing the matter, I hope."

Lucius shook his head. "Nothing the matter," he confirmed. "DaMont and I were merely discussing a joint venture, running over the latest numbers and such."

The Dark Lord slowly shook his head. "Work, work, work, Lucius. Always work. I'm beginning to believe you're determined to never have any fun. Even at the grandest party of the season, you're busy examining facts and figures." He clucked his tongue, tisking amusedly. "Were they to your liking, at least?"

Lucius glanced back to the long scrolls of paper piled on the desk. "Quite. Profits are up," he answered, and one corner of his mouth tilted. "You should know by now that I only ever make sound investments," he stated, him smile dry and drenched in arrogance.

Voldemort nodded, the movement slow. "Yes, we are similar in that way," he said with a smirk. He turned his eyes away, considering the room. "Recently, however, I've been learning to enjoy the beauty of a true gamble." He glanced briefly at Lucius. "Speaking of which—where is your son?"

Gleaming silver grayed to smoke. "You pose an excellent question," the other man said stiffly, his jaw clenched, patient but perturbed. His teeth were gritted; he was reluctant to admit the truth—but too wise to consider covering it up. "One I'm afraid I can't answer. It appears he made his escape as soon as my back was turned."

The Dark Lord laughed quietly. "Ever true to form."

"Yes," Lucius agreed resentfully. "I wish I could say I was surprised. But I believe he's lost the capacity to put me in that wretched state."

Voldemort's smile was dark and wry. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," he stated quietly. "The night is still young. There's still plenty of time for him to live up to the task."

Lucius' gaze narrowed skeptically at that. "Ominous words," he replied guardedly. His blond brows furrowed, trying to make sense of them. "Should I be expecting something?" he asked, his eyes searching his master's endless and unrevealing black ones.

The Dark Lord looked on with mild amusement. "You should always be expecting something, Lucius," he told him dryly. "The moment you cease is the moment before you find a knife in your back."

Lucius raised a brow. "That's vague," he said stiffly. "And hardly reassuring."

The Dark Lord laughed, the sound slow and smooth as oil. "I know, I know," he told his friend ruefully. "It's like a storybook. If I give away all the intricate little details now, the ending won't have quite the same kind of impact." He slowly, deliberately shrugged one pointed shoulder. "Besides, I'm only a character in this little tale, Lucius. Not even I can claim to know what's going to happen next." He circled DaMont's majestic desk, running his hand over the dustless surface. "I merely came because I have a feeling about tonight," he informed the younger man easily. "Perhaps I've been infected by the holiday spirit, but I have a giddy sort of feeling that a gift is on its way."

Lucius tilted his head, watching the Dark Lord's long, pale hands wrap around the sides of Edward's wing-back chair, carefully pulling it out and seating himself in it. "I've never known your instincts to fail you, my lord."

"And here is to hoping tonight won't be a first." Voldemort motioned for Lucius to sit across from him. "Just in case, I wanted to make sure our priorities are in check. I need to know that we're on the same page," he went on when the other man was settled, folding his pale fingers judiciously on the desk.

Lucius crossed his arms. "We usually are." He frowned into the silence. "Is there… something specific you wanted me to do?"

Voldemort smiled calmly. "What you've always done, Lucius. Go on about your business," he said. "Let Draco go on about his."

Lucius' eyes narrowed. "You mean let him run wild," he deciphered skeptically. The Dark Lord's pleasant smile was confirmation enough. "But why?"

"I know he's a bit… unorthodox," Voldemort allowed amusedly. "But I've dealt enough with him these past weeks to assure me of his intentions. And I'm confident his enterprises, whatever they may be, are in line with mine." He crossed his arms amusedly at the way his friend's jaw tightened patiently. "You still look uneasy. Don't you trust me?"

Lucius took a while to answer. "It's him I'm skeptical of," he finally said warily.

The Dark Lord tilted his head, his smile sly. "I though it was you who assured me he knows his place. I thought it was you who said he knows better than to fail me…"

"What Draco knows and what he does are two different things," Lucius said cautiously.

Voldemort clucked his tongue. "He bears the Mark now, Lucius. And earned it fairly by completing his Task," he reminded the cynical man. "I trust that he'll do what I need him to do. I trust that he will do what is right." One corner of his mouth tilted up. "I only find it a bit troubling that you do not…"

Lucius uncrossed his arms, rested them rigidly on the armrests, his hands gripping patiently. "When it comes to skill and strength, of course, I have no doubts," he assured the Dark Lord calmly. "He's what I made him to be in that respect." He paused cautiously before continuing. "It's his dedication that I have my reservations about," he went on quietly. "He's apathetic. He doesn't care about expectations or consequences. He's been like that his entire life—willful and self-serving. My strict regimes and schedules never affected that in the slightest."

The Dark Lord nodded slowly. "He is untamable. That's what makes him such an asset." His black-orb eyes gleamed like onyx. "A wild animal is ten times more ferocious than a broken one."

"And ten times more unpredictable," Lucius reasoned. "Volatility is a dangerous thing, my lord. Draco is dangerous."

Voldemort's smile stayed wide and thin, but one corner twitched with the first sign of impatience. "I know. That is why I chose him."

Lucius bent his head. "And, of course, we are honored that you did so," he said—wiser, quieter now. "I would have never endorsed his election if I didn't believe he could fulfill our expectations." He dared to look up. "But he hasn't proven to me that he's ready for this amount of responsibility. I'm still not certain he knows what true loyalty is."

The Dark Lord's smile was slow and smooth. "Oh, I think he does, Lucius," he countered quietly. His black eyes were bright. "In fact, I'm counting on it."

"As are we all," Lucius sighed, his own eyes dark.

The Dark Lord nodded slowly, watching his young friend with furtive self-satisfaction. The man before him didn't know just how much was riding on his son's true loyalties.

He would soon, though. They all would...

"Go back to the celebration," he commanded after a while. "Drink. Be merry for once," he insisted when Lucius grimaced. "It is Christmas, after all. What better time than today to celebrate the coming of a new king." He laughed quietly under his breath—and then slowly disappeared, evaporating into the air in black wisps of smoke. The lingering echoes of his quiet laughter sounded as warm as Satan's as it lifted above the room.

"Where exactly are you taking me," Hermione asked, biting her bottom lip, unable to keep a small smile from tilting. The world behind her eyelids was black. Draco's hands were gentle over her closed eyelids, his bare chest pressed against her back as he slowly guided her forward. And although she was being led, blind and uncertain, she was surprised to find that she wasn't afraid. For all she knew, he was steering her to the open edge of a cliff. But she was entirely at peace with it, with him. She was entirely trusting. He could take her wherever he wanted—to heaven, to hell. She would go with him willingly, just as long as he stayed close.

"You'll see," he said amusedly, his voice coming from just behind her, close to her ear. "We're almost there…"

Moments passed in silence, but neither rushed to fill it. He was too busy with the spring smell of her hair, the feel of her back against his front as he gently eased her forward. She was too busy with the feel of his body against hers, with the feel of his warm breath against her ear.

Finally, he paused, drawing her to a halt. "I'm going to take my hands away now," he warned her quietly. "But don't look. Not until I say." Slowly, he took his hands from her face, his arms from around her. She felt him draw away, making her suddenly cold. She heard the slow creak of heavy doors being pushed open before her—then, he was taking her by the hands, gently pulling her forward. He brought her a few steps before pausing. Slowly, he released her hands, and she brought them up to fiddle nervously with the diamond at her throat. Her smile faltered briefly when they found bare skin.

Draco's jaw worked as he watched her remember that she'd given back the necklace. He swallowed as her hands slowly fell back to her sides, trying to swallow the bitterness down with the saliva, trying not to let the resentment taint these few brief unguarded moments—these dwindling moments that very well may be their last. "Alright," he told her, making his voice strong, keeping the regret out of it. "Open your eyes."

Hermione's eyelids parted slowly, almost hesitantly, the warm amber immediately finding that bright silver gaze. And then, just as slowly, she let her eyes shift, let them roam, wide and in wonder, around the open room.

"Oh my God."

Cool marble was beneath her bare feet now instead of carpet, white and grey warping together in that regal way. Bright candlelight illuminated the crisp white walls that stood tall and far apart, leaving a wide expanse between one side of the room to the other, revealing not a mere room, but a hall, large and overwhelming. And filling the vacant space across the cool floor and along the broad walls was the most extensive personal collection of masterpieces Hermione had ever seen. White sculptures were scattered across the floor, their surfaces gleaming in the soft glow of candlelight—romantic women sprawled out seductively, built men frozen in a flurry of muscled motion, children playing together, invisible wind in their curls. Colorful paintings were mounted in impressive gold frames, representing every art movement one could think of, spanning from the Old Masters of the Renaissance, to the Gothic painters and the Mannerists in the 16th century, to the Romantics, to the Pre-Raphaelites, all the way through to the Impressionists at the end of the 19th century…

"This is the gallery," Draco informed her after a while, his eyes watching hers as they slowly circled the room in awe.

Hermione shook her head. "You say it so casually," she whispered breathlessly. Her hand went to her heart. "Merely the gallery. And here I was thinking somehow I was in heaven…"

Draco's lips tilted up, but the smile was as tired as it was warm. "You're not," he assured her humorlessly. "Trust me." He knew better than anyone that the gold and silver weren't blessings–they were merely the gleaming prison bars of his gilded cage.

He watched her as she began to slowly step forward, began to examine one sculpture, then a painting, then another, her lips tilting into a small, serene smile. His silver gaze stayed on her, moving over her as if memorizing her, as if internalizing the sight of her, this sight he would never have again. She looked so small in the room; so small in his dress shirt, which was sizes too big for her fragile frame. The sleeves were too long, reaching over her wrists, and the hem fell down to her thighs, hiding the white cotton of her underwear, but revealing her long, uncovered legs. The scars were hidden again, concealed by the old spell, seemingly forgotten in this place of beauty, this place where only smooth alabaster remained.

She looked so comfortable, barefoot, clothed only in his shirt—so at home here in his home. Draco felt that wave of possession wash through him again, and for a moment, in the silence, he pretended that she belonged here. That it was hers as much as his.

"I wish I could show you everything," he said after a while. "There are antiquities and masterpieces sprinkled on every wall in every corner of this damn place. But it would have been impossible to take you through the entire house…"

Hermione swallowed, the wisp of a smile thinning. Yes. Impossible, she knew. There were too many rooms and too little time. And the chances that someone would see them—would see her—were far too high. "That's alright," she whispered, meeting his gaze, smiling reassuringly, gratefully. "I never thought I'd even get to see this much."

A muscle in Draco's jaw twitched. His eyes stayed on hers for a moment, dark and haunted, before they slowly traveled, searching her bruised face. "How do you feel?" he asked her quietly. The black and blue was dark now, purple like night, causing his teeth to grit.

Hermione swept one long curl behind her ear, gently brushing the mark that colored her temple as she did. "I'm fine."

Draco came forward, slowly closing the distance. "Your face…"

She turned self-consciously to the side. "I did the spell in a rush," she explained with a faltering smile. "The new ones always take more time to hide." She shrugged one tired shoulder. "I'll fix it before I go…"

"That won't take away the pain," he pressed, unable to bear it—unable to bear the idea that she could. He brought one hand up to lightly flutter against the vicious bruises. "Let me get you something…"

Hermione brought her own hand up. "Leave it, Draco," she commanded quietly, taking his fingers, bringing them away from her face. "I'm okay. I promise." With a small, reassuring smile, she slowly began to step away, extending their joined hands until he reluctantly released her, letting her continue her careful sweep of the room. "I… don't remember how we got here though," she admitted after a while, glancing hesitantly at him, then back to the sculpture before her. "Did you apparate us?"

Draco followed a few steps behind her, giving her space, but not too much. "I have a charmed portkey that gets me in and out," he said of the antique sugar spoon that he kept safe in his robe pocket. "The estate is like Hogwarts, enchanted to prevent apparition." He crossed his arms, his eyes always on her as she moved from one piece to another. "My ancestors thought disapparating and apparating indoors was in bad taste," he went on, his smile taut. "And easy escapes were bad for Malfoy business, particularly in the 16th and 17th centuries, when the dungeons were regularly in use."

Hermione's brows furrowed and her gaze went to his. "The 16th century?"

He nodded. "That's when the house was built."

Hermione's amazed eyes went back to roam the room. "So long ago," she mused with a wistful smile. She shook her head. "It must be wonderful having so much history."

But Draco's smile was tight at the sound of her admiration. "Don't let the fine things fool you," he warned her bitterly. "My prestigious family tree was watered with the blood of innocent people. The titles, the money, the priceless works of art—they're the spoils of war." He glared around at the beautiful masterpieces as if they were demons he couldn't exorcise. "This house is the same as it always was. A prison."

Hermione's eyes softened on Draco's profile. "One day it will be yours," she reminded him gently. "You'll be able to make new memories here."

His dark gaze was suddenly finding hers. "Not the memories I want to make," he told her meaningfully. "Not with the people I want to make them with."

Hermione swallowed. She felt something heavy suddenly weighing down her heart, some strange mixture of longing and regret. She didn't answer, didn't speak, couldn't—only turned her sad eyes away from his and went on studying one painting after another in the silence.

Minutes came and went, long and quiet. Hermione slowly made her way around the room, the only sound the light pitter-pat of her bare feet as they slowly padded across the marble. She spent a long while gazing at each moving masterpiece, as if learning each one by heart: a medieval knight and maiden embracing under the shade of a tree; the Madonna slowly rocking her bright-eyed Child back and forth; an aristocratic lady closing her parasol and turning her pale face to the sun; Artemis angling a sacred arrow high at some wild bird that flew somewhere out of frame; a portrait of a precocious child that waved at her from its seat. Time seemed to stand still, though she knew it was probably flying by quickly, and as she turned back out of the gallery and into the long corridor, she wondered if it had been hours or only minutes that she had spent within the beautiful room.

Draco followed her out, still leaving a few steps between them. He watched her, his jaw tight, as she silently began to examine the framed portraits mounted on the high corridor wall, the ones his hands had prevented her from seeing on the way in.

Hermione's tired eyes scanned from one severe face to another, where smirks and sneers were frozen in place. "They don't move?" she asked, glancing at Draco.

He shook his head. "My father charmed them to be still when I was younger. He never explained why." His narrowed gaze went to the harsh, familiar eyes of his ancestors. "I imagine it was because he was tired of listening to them," he added grimly. "They liked to criticize."

Hermione moved slowly down the corridor, taking in all the Malfoys that had come before. The majestic regalia in which each aristocrat was adorned illustrated the evolution of high fashion over the centuries. The first noblemen wore their regal doublets, their leather jerkins, their codpieces fastened over hose, their sophisticated hats adorned by jewels and accented with long feathers. Next came the men in intricate collars, in loose breeches and heavy capes, their pale faces accentuated by long moustaches and pointed beards. After them were the men in waistcoats and powdered wigs; after them, their dandy sons, who wore long sideburns and silk cravats. The regal women, just like their fathers and sons, followed the pattern as they stretched down the hallway, the shapes of their gowns changing, growing and then shrinking, their hairstyles varying depending on the decade.

They looked so mighty in their expensive attire, so superior with their lips curling, with their chins held high. Hermione swallowed, hating the way they seemed to look down on her, hating the way their silver eyes seemed to follow her, seemed to see through her, condemn her, even though they were frozen in place.

"They're so stern," she whispered warily. "Like they know what I am." She hugged her upper arms. "Like they know I shouldn't be here." She searched their metallic gazes for some kind of warmth, but could only find cold ice and contempt.

Draco stepped towards her. "They're paintings, Hermione," he stated mildly. "And the real people are long dead." His gaze went to the portraits, daring them to try to argue. "What they think or would have thought doesn't matter."

But Hermione knew better. "Yes it does," she countered quietly. She looked back to the paintings, to where the watchful eyes were dark, even as moonlight shined on them from the tall windows of the parallel wall. She shook her head, her smile tilting sadly. "They wouldn't have approved of me…"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "No," he answered cautiously. "They wouldn't have." She glanced at him, and he longed to smile, longed to reassure, but couldn't. "I doubt they would have approved of me, either," he told her tightly. "They weren't easily impressed."

Hermione's gaze watched him for a moment, before turning back to the heavy frames on the wall. "What about him?" she asked thoughtfully, nodding to one particularly unsympathetic man whose portrait was labeled Abraxas Malfoy, followed by a date of birth and death. "Your grandfather, right?" she asked as he came to stand beside her. "Was he good to you?"

Draco's smile was annoyed. "Not particularly," he said. "He was a hard man—like my father. Very strict, very taciturn; never satisfied, always finding fault." He shook his head, his jaw tight as he considered the cold, familiar face. "In all the years I knew him, I don't think I ever heard him laugh. I don't think he knew how." He shrugged a shoulder, trying not to care. It didn't quite work. "My mother's father was apparently much more charismatic," he went on grimly. "But I never knew him." A moment passed. And then he turned his eyes away from Abraxas' harsh silver ones and towards Hermione's deep amber. "What about your grandparents?" he asked her speculatively.

It was Hermione's turn to shrug, the movement uncomfortable and weak. "My mother's parents died before I was born. I only ever knew my father's mother—Eleanor."

Involuntarily, Draco remembered the framed photograph from her memory, the one of the young girl with glazed, tired eyes. The one her bastard father had looked upon with such adoration, even as he'd impatiently called out Hermione's name. He frowned. "The old black-and-white photo at your house…?"

Hermione nodded, the movement subdued. "Her. When she was around my age," she explained. She shook her head, her eyes becoming wistful, her smile becoming languid and sad. "My dad loves that picture," she mused quietly. "He's always saying how much I look like her…"

Draco's jaw clenched. "I didn't notice," he lied.

Hermione shook her head, suddenly flooded with the memories she'd had so carefully stored away. "She was hard, too," she remembered wistfully. "Finicky and disapproving." Her eyes narrowed, and she laughed under her breath—humorless, almost disbelieving. "She had this miniature bull terrier that she absolutely adored," she recalled thoughtfully. "That ugly thing was her whole world. She was always petting it and pampering it. It went everywhere she went, and when she looked at it, her eyes would light up with this… boundless pride." That reminiscent smile began to falter, fade. "But whenever she looked at my father, it was with such utter… distaste," she went on numbly. "She showed him no affection. She treated the dog like her son and her son like the dog."

Draco's brow went up. "And his father—your grandfather?"

Hermione shook her head. "They never talked about it, and I never asked. But I always got the impression that my dad never even knew who his father was." That ghost of a smile was back on her lips. "It's rather sad, really," she mused after a moment. "He spent his whole life isolated. Completely without a father. Dependent on a mother who genuinely disliked him, competing with a dog for her attention." She looked down at her hands. "Still, he was devoted to her," she remembered sadly. "He was always trying to connect with her, always trying to make her love him. He was trying until the day she died…"

Draco's brows furrowed. "When was that?"

She had that vague look in her dark brown eyes. "Just before I started at Hogwarts," she answered numbly. Just before… Hermione shook her head, trying to shake the memories away with it. She didn't want to remember, didn't want to recall the reasons why. But the black-and-white picture of her grandmother flashed before her eyes like a mirror image—the reason behind the bruises, behind her father's fixation with her, so full of passionate adoration and violent resentment.

She swallowed, her smile heavy with sorrow. "At first I was glad when it happened," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "She did nothing but hurt him."

"So he hurt you?" Draco demanded. Hermione's eyes fell, unable to meet his piercing gaze. His jaw worked at the silent acknowledgment, the grim acceptance the action signified.

Silence fell—heavy, haunted. She felt more than saw him begin to slowly step towards her. She summoned the nerve to raise her gaze to his—but a voice abruptly had them both halting, turning, had them both instantly alert.

"Master Draco, Master Draco!"

A house-elf was hurrying down the corridor in their direction, the hem of his pillowcase almost tripping him in his rush. Hermione immediately turned to the side, bringing a subtle hand up to her hairline, hiding her face, and Draco stepped in front of her, shielding her identity from the approaching servant.

The house-elf slowed, detecting that he'd interrupted—though what exactly, he wasn't sure. His young master had never been one to hide his dirty deeds—not even the giggly lady friends that he tended to entertain in his part of the house. This shift in behavior had the little elf nervous. He was suddenly afraid of what he'd gotten himself into.

"Squiggly doesn't mean to disturb you, sir," he told his master carefully, coming forward now with cautious, timid steps.

Draco crossed his arms superiorly over his bare chest. "What do you want?" he asked impatiently.

The servant looked uncertainly beyond his young master to the girl, then back again. "The master has returned, sir," he told Draco hesitantly. "He and the mistress have just arrived home."

"What!" Draco's head was suddenly whipping around, looking suspiciously up and down the empty corridor, alert, aware. He quickly grabbed Hermione's hand. "Come on," he commanded urgently, dragging her back towards the gallery doors. "You too," he threw over his shoulder at the house-elf. "Quickly."

Squiggly followed, barely slipping through the heavy mahogany doors as Draco slammed them shut. Hermione watched, uncertain, as he began to pace rapidly back and forth, a line marring the space between his brows, his jaw tight as he tried to sort through his racing thoughts.

His mind was instantly running through options. Trying to hide would be a mistake—he knew that without a doubt. Lucius was like hound dog at sniffing out trespassers on his territory. And although one might think the endless choice of unfrequented rooms would be a haven, there was no corner of this manor that his father didn't have eyes and ears on. The paintings talked to the servants, and the servants always reported to their master—and if the master found Hermione hiding, there was no telling what he'd do.

What he'd conclude…

No, running was the only option. He had to get Hermione out of there, and fast.

The house-elf was anxiously beginning to wring his little hands together, his wide eyes looking woefully at the mysterious source of his young master's agitation. "He is asking for you, Master Draco," he forced himself to say, his worried gaze slowly going from Hermione to Draco. "He is demanding that Squiggly show you to the drawing room at once."

Hermione licked her lips, dry and still a little swollen. For a moment, she'd almost felt comfortable here. She'd felt almost serene, almost as if she'd found some haven, surrounded in beautiful things, making her warm, bringing her peace of mind. But she was back to reality now, back to the truth. She wasn't welcome here. She didn't belong.

"I can't stay here, Draco," she said quietly, watching warily as he stormed back and forth.

"Obviously," he bit off, not stopping, not looking up.

Hermione looked wearily around at the timeless paintings—it would be her last look, she knew. They looked back at her with perplexed, pitying gazes. "I'll go home…" she conceded tiredly.

Draco's stormy gaze snapped to hers. "Out of the question."

"To the Burrow, then," she offered, her voice as calm as his was uptight, her body as still as his was restless.

"Excellent," Draco returned sarcastically. "And how exactly do you propose to get there?"

Hermione's eyes went wary as her body absorbed the familiar harsh tone. "A fireplace…?" she suggested dully.

Draco shook his head briskly. "The only one connected to the network is in the drawing room."

Hermione reached a hand up to lightly finger her temple, where behind the purple, a headache was beginning to brew. "The portkey, then. The one that brought us here."

Draco was still a flurry of motion, forward then back, forward then back as he wracked his brain. "It's in my robe pocket back in my chambers," he told her, teeth gritting. "We'd never make it back to that side of the house without being seen." But an afterthought had his gaze snapping suddenly to the elf. "You—you have powers. Use them," he barked expectantly. "Bring it here."

The servant looked hesitant. "Squiggly has lost the ability to apparate," he admitted, his gaze lowering ashamedly. "He has been beaten too many times, sir. His magic is weak." The baleful look of utter irritation on Draco's face had the creature's wide eyes watering. "Perhaps if lady flies, Master Draco…" he dared to suggest, his voice quivering.

The steel-eyed man only clenched his jaw. There was only one part of Hermione's education that she hadn't excelled in—and that was learning to control a broom. They both knew she'd never make it on her own, not in this dark, not in this cold, not with this many miles to travel—not without getting lost or crashing and killing herself first.

Hermione felt herself begin to grow tired. She could feel the cloak of night unwrapping from around them, could feel the proverbial sun coming up, waking them from this interlude, this dream—trapping them, revealing them, tearing them apart. Her dark eyes were dull as she watched Draco pace back and forth. She could see his mind running, desperately searching for some solution. But she didn't feel his desperation, didn't feel anything. Her heart was numb again, heavy with defeat.

"You shouldn't have followed me, Draco," she whispered sadly. "I would have been alright. It didn't matter." She shook her head slowly. "You should have stayed away…"

Draco stopped short. "Don't say that," he commanded harshly, his eyes intense. And then he held a hand up, looked away. "Don't say anything. I need to think." He went back to pacing back and forth, his heavy footsteps the only sound against the silence.

That silence only lasted for a couple of moments before the house-elf's anxious voice broke in again. "The master will surely punish Squiggly if he does not bring you to him now. Squiggly is sure he will be whipped or worse for his insolence!"

Draco's wand was automatically pointing down on the servant. "I'll whip you myself if you don't shut up," he threatened dangerously.

Hermione stepped between him and the elf just as he began to menacingly move forward. "Draco…" Her thin hands went up to ward him off, her voice trying to soothe. And then her brows furrowed uncertainly. "Draco?"

He had stopped short, his narrowed gaze turning speculative as it considered her, and then the wand that was frozen outstretched in her direction. He watched the pointed end for a long time, his rapid thoughts settling like the chill after a snowstorm. Slowly, heavily, he lowered his wand, his dark eyes shifting back to hers. "I have an idea."

His quiet tone, tense and haunted, did nothing to comfort. "What is it?" she asked. He didn't answer her, only began to slowly come forward… dark, determined—so much so that Hermione had to fight the instinct to back away. "Draco…?" Her voice was cautious, her eyes uncertain.

Draco didn't reassure her. He only took another step forward, then another. "Do you trust me?" he asked her. Another step. Her questioning gaze came up to his, but he didn't soften. "Yes or no," he pressed. "Do you trust me?"

He was close now, so close that his eyes were just above hers, staring down, unreadable, intense, waiting for an answer. She searched his face, searched those stormy silver eyes, the ones that gave away nothing and everything. After a long time, her lips solemnly curved. "Yes."

Draco didn't show the relief, the regret. Instead, he brought one hand up, combed it reassuringly through her hair. "Then close your eyes," he commanded gently. Her brows furrowed further, her gaze searching his for answers. "Close your eyes, Hermione," he commanded again.

She swallowed. She sensed that she should be afraid—of what would happen, maybe even of him. But his fingers in her hair, combing through the wild curls, soothed her. And slowly, finally, she let her lashes fall.

Draco felt a pang in his chest as he watched her eyelids. Why did she love him? Why did she trust him so easily, so utterly? She should hate him—for what he was, for what he was about to do. She should be terrified. But she wasn't. She held her eyelids closed, just as she had on their way to the gallery, giving herself over to him completely, blindly letting him lead her wherever he may.

Jaw tense, eyes haunted, he slowly bent his head; gently, chastely, he pressed his mouth against her bruised one. He felt her lips smile, felt bitterness blacken his heart. Slowly, carefully, he drew away half an inch—and then swiftly turned the tip of his wand to her waist.

"Sopor."

The anesthetizing spell conquered her immediately; unconscious, she began to slide to the floor, and, jaw clenching, Draco caught her and easily swung her up into his arms.

The house-elf went wild at the sight of the girl's limp and lifeless body, first falling, and then helpless in the hands of his volatile master. "Master Draco! What have you done, sir!" it cried, panicked. "What have you done?"

Draco looked dull. "Nothing compared to what your master will do if he finds out why she's really here," he said deadly. He angled his head towards the double doors. "Come with me. Quickly." He stormed off, not waiting for the creature follow.

Squiggly swallowed, scurrying to keep up with the determined strides. "Where is we going, Master Draco? Where is you taking her?"

"To the dungeon," Draco answered without emotion. The elf stopped short. "Hurry up," the silver-eyed man snapped darkly, not stopping, not looking back. "We don't have much time." The servant took a deep, calming breath, drumming up all its courage before following again.

Draco didn't look down at the weightless, wilted girl in his arms—didn't even dare to glance. He stared straight ahead, his face showing nothing but dark determination as he carried her swiftly through the decorated corridors. Minutes passed, long, silent except for the echo of his footsteps and the strangled moans that the anxious house-elf couldn't restrain—moans that became louder the closer they got to those ominous stone steps that led down into darkness.

The gloomy stairwell was soon before them. Draco glared down to where the steps disappeared into shadow, lifted Hermione higher, held her tighter against his chest.

"Please, Master Draco," he heard the house-elf plead quietly from its cowering place behind him. "It is dangerous in the dungeon. The lady will freeze! She will suffer if you leave her there."

The words had Draco stiffening. She would suffer if he didn't. If the truth was discovered, a dungeon would be the least of either of their worries.

He stepped cautiously down—one step, then another, then another, until he was standing before the heavy door in its gothic stone frame. Thick wood panels were secured by tarnished metal and rounded nails, solid except for a small square cut out with vertical bars. Behind those bars, nothing was visible but black.

Adjusting the girl in his arms, Draco stepped closer, threw the heavy iron bolt back—pushed the heavy door, which creaked eerily as it opened. He stared a moment into the waiting blackness, banishing second thoughts—then slowly, carefully, willingly stepped into it.

The frigid air was degrees chiller than the rest of the drafty house; it instantly had his lungs aching, had his bare skin crawling with gooseflesh. The ominous sound of loose water dripping echoed in the silence, snow runoff that leaked in through cracks in the stone, and the scratching, squeaking echoes of scurrying mice lingered close to the ground. The scent of mold, of excrement—of death—lingered all around, but Draco didn't hesitate, didn't turn back. A whispered word had dim flames lighting the torches along the low walls, revealing the medieval cells in a dusky glow. Rusted bars gave way to stone chambers where iron cuffs sat empty and heavy chains rested, waiting to wrap around innocent skin like it had so many years ago.

Draco remained resolute, like the stone around him—forced himself to carry Hermione further into the dungeon, forced himself to lay her out carefully among the dirt and the dead rats on the cold ground. A thick layer of dirt was the only thing separating her warm skin from the cool stones: rodent filth and bits of earth that had trickled in through the cracks in the walls…

And bone dust from the mudbloods who had been shackled in these same irons, who had died forgotten in this same place centuries before…

Draco wouldn't let himself waver. "Chain her feet," he commanded quietly.

"But sir—!"

"Chain her feet, I said," he snapped at the nervous elf. The servant reluctantly went to obey, dragging the heavy metal cuffs across the ground, leaving trails in the dirt. He secured them around her bare ankles, tightening them until they were locked painfully against her skin.

Draco didn't look at the shackles—couldn't. If he did, he wasn't sure he'd able to bear it. He wasn't sure he'd be able to follow this through. So instead, he crouched down by her shoulder, tucking the curls that had fallen across her face behind her ear, stroking a tender hand over the black-and-blue.

Beautiful…

Slowly, his eyes fell to her bare neck, where his necklace had once resided, marking her, making her his. Not seeing it there, where it was meant to be, had emptiness curling in his stomach, had resentment burning holes in his heart. With dark, desperate eyes, he watched her closed eyelids, watched the serene tilt of her lips, so innocent and unaware. "You can take the necklace off," he told her quietly. "You can give it back, but it won't change anything. You'll always be mine." He nodded hauntedly to himself. "I'm going to do whatever it takes…"

Whatever it takes… to keep you alive…

The words were a promise, one she didn't hear, one she would never know about. She could never know what she truly meant to him. He would never say the words, never say more than he just had, never so that she—or anyone—could hear it.

Jaw set, eyes hardening again, he rose up off of his haunches and faced the elf. "Stay here," he instructed emotionlessly. "Watch her. Do what you can to keep her warm."

The servant's head swung rapidly back and forth. "But Squiggly is afraid of the dungeons, Master Draco," the creature pleaded desperately, its body quaking. "Squiggly is cold, sir. He is scared—"

"Watch her," Draco snapped, his voice impatient, his eyes unsympathetic. He was striding from the dungeons before he could falter, closing and bolting the heavy door behind him, shutting the elf—and Hermione—inside. He forced his feet to walk, forced himself up the steps and away from her—forced himself to do it with a cool, characteristic smirk on his face.

There was only one thing to do when you couldn't run or hide…

Lie…

His parents were waiting in silence in the drawing room, Lucius stiff, staring contemplatively into the ashen hearth, Narcissa at her writing table, composing the first of many long letters about the evening. They were still adorned in their evening finery—him in his velvet and silk, her in her designer gown.

Draco entered soundlessly, watching them for a moment with dark grey eyes. They were like statues from the gallery—beautiful, stately, but cold and hard as granite. He knew he'd have to be that same way—iced over, unreadable—knew Hermione and the truth were depending on it to shield them.

Well, if his parents had taught him anything, it was how to be aloof. He'd had a lifetime to learn by their example. And sadly—or, in this case, fortunately—playing the arrogant and apathetic prince now came as naturally to him as breathing.

He came forward, clearing his throat. "I understand you wanted to see me…?"

Lucius whipped around at the wry sound of his son's voice. "Yes," he snapped. "I wanted to see you—at the Emerald Ball," he specified pointedly.

Draco raised a brow. "Well I was there," he reminded his father amusedly. "In fact, I seem to recall us arriving together. Did you forget?"

"I remember," Lucius replied. "But when it was time to leave again, you were nowhere to be found." He crossed his arms expectantly. "Where did you disappear to, Draco?"

Draco only arched his brow higher. "Where do you think?"

Lucius smiled, but one corner of his mouth twitched with annoyance. "Oh, I don't know," he answered coolly. "Perhaps to drink yourself sick in an Irish tavern? Or to rut like a dog in a bordello in France? Or maybe to gamble your inheritance away in some back-alley game of craps?"

Draco plopped down onto the antique settee, casually sprawling himself out. "All worthy guesses. Too bad I didn't think of them myself." He sighed gravely. "Oh well. I suppose there's always next year."

Lucius' gaze narrowed. "So you're saying you came directly home?" he asked suspiciously. Draco merely looked at him with that drab smile. "What pressing business could you have possibly had here that couldn't wait until after the ball?"

Draco shrugged a princely shoulder. "I was dying of boredom. And I'm sure you'll agree that nothing is more pressing than avoiding one's imminent death."

As usual, Lucius didn't find his son's impudence amusing. "Don't get cute," he snapped impatiently. "You embarrassed me. You knew your presence was required tonight."

"Required? Please," Draco snorted. "They couldn't tell me from the next waltzing idiot being suffocated by his cravat."

"On the contrary," his father returned coldly. "Your absence was noted. Suffice it to say that it did not reflect well."

Draco sent his father a wry smile. "I'm sure you'll recover," he said blandly.

"Hmm," Lucius agreed mildly. His speculative silver gaze ran over his son. He was still wearing his dress pants, but they were wrinkled now instead of finely pressed, and their black hem was dusted with dirt. The older man's head tilted. "You've ruined your trousers," he observed, nodding skeptically to them. "What have you been doing?"

Draco knew this was the moment of truth—or, rather, the moment of deception. He sat up, smiled stiffly, using his resentment instead of disguising it. "Getting my hands dirty," he informed his father tightly. "The evening took a few… unexpected turns."

Lucius' gaze sharpened. "Oh?"

"Yes, oh," Draco said back. He shook his head, let out a harsh little laugh. "I came home thinking I was escaping my societal duties—only to have to play the proper host for our little houseguest when I arrived."

Lucius went still, but his silver eyes went razor-sharp. "Houseguest?" he asked through his teeth. "What houseguest?"

Draco kept his gaze cool. There was no way out now—no going back. "A friend from school," he said after a moment. He cracked an arrogant grin. "Or, rather, an enemy."

Lucius' lip was curling. "I have no patience for your little riddles. Who is here?" he demanded harshly.

Draco swallowed, managing to keep the bile down—managing to keep the cavalier look on his face. "Hermione Granger."

That had Narcissa's eyes snapping up from her stationary—had Lucius' going wide and incensed. "Potter's bitch?" he roared at his son. "You dare to bring that mudblood whore into my house?"

Draco rose, looking calm and satisfied. "Into the dungeon, to be precise."

"Dear God," Narcissa whispered, holding a hand to her chest.

Lucius was shaking his head, was pointing a ringed finger that quaked violently with restrained rage. "You've gone too far this time, Draco," he swore. "Do you know what you've done! What were you thinking, bringing her here—taking her captive? A girl like that will surely be missed! The Ministry will be knocking on our door, tearing our home to shreds."

"You know I'd never let that happen."

"Do I?" Lucius bit back in disgust.

Draco's smile was placid. "Your faith in me is touching," he stated dryly. But the brutal look on his father's face had him slowly sobering, had his smile turning tight. "To be fair, I was perfectly within my rights," he went on crisply. "She was the one trespassing. I found her snooping around here, looking for evidence to condemn us all."

"What!" Lucius brought a hand up to press his fingers into his eyes, exhaling deeply, his jaw clenching tight. Tense moments passed. Patience came, but only barely. He let his hand lower, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet with forced calm. "She didn't find anything, I gather," he said through his teeth.

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Draco returned with an arrogant smirk. Slowly, casually, he began to circle the room. "I'm not ashamed to admit I enjoyed every second of…" A smile haunted his lips. "Of interviewing her. You have no idea what it's been like having to share a dormitory with that thing." He shook his head, as if trying to shake off filth. "I was glad to finally have a reason to shut her up."

"You sedated her?" Narcissa asked, wary, looking at her son as if she didn't recognize him.

"Thoroughly," Draco assured her darkly. "She'll be out until at least the afternoon." He turned to his father, who was watching him malevolently through slitted eyes. "As much as I would have loved to hear the mudblood scream, I thought you would rather her remain unseen and unheard." He forced himself to grin. "Almost as if she was never here at all."

"I would rather you have threatened to call the authorities and sent her on her way," his father spat. "That would have been the conventional response."

Draco merely shrugged. "I'm not a conventional sort of man," he said.

Lucius crossed his arms, the muscles at the back of his jaw tensing, clenching tight. No, his volatile son had never been conventional. He'd been bending rules and breaking laws for as long as the older man could remember…

He'd been suspicious after his peculiar conversation with the Dark Lord earlier in the evening. It had come like an omen, a warning—of what, he hadn't been sure. The Master had advised him to prepare for something unexpected—but this scenario would have never crossed his mind.

If it had been a few hours ago, he would have made Draco answer for his dangerous, impetuous behavior. But he was familiar enough with piecing puzzles together to know that this was part of a bigger picture—one he was sure not even Draco had been permitted to see. The Dark Lord had the maddening tendency to keep people out of the loop and on the edge of their seats…

But all would reveal itself in time, Lucius knew. Until then, he would have to do as he was told.

Go on about your business. Let Draco go on about his…

Lucius shook his head, exhaling slowly on something close to a sigh. "You rash, thoughtless boy," he accused—but quietly, thoughtfully. "All this time, and you still won't think before you act." He looked his son up and down skeptically, wondering how capable he was of bearing the consequences, the ones no one but Voldemort could contrive. "She'll go crying to the authorities," he predicted. "She'll spoil everything we have planned."

Draco could see the violence dissipate, the danger wane into grim acceptance. He was gaining ground. "No she won't," he reassured his father. "She isn't here. She never was—A swift memory spell will see to that." His voice was firm now, hard and certain, trying to convince the older man that he was competent enough to take care of this on his own. "She'll wake up tomorrow, safe and cozy in her little bed—and whatever justice was dealt her tonight will be so far removed from her brain that she won't even remember enough to think it was a dream."

"She better not remember any," Lucius threatened, quiet, dead.

Draco looked straight into his eyes. "That can be arranged."

A long moment passed, heavy, tense—one man waiting, secretly desperate for the other's consent. Finally, Lucius nodded. "Arrange it then," he said. Draco nodded once and turned to exit, burying any sign of relief. "But don't mistake this for approval," his father's voice halted him. Slowly, he turned back to face the stern sound. "I'd be dealing with this my own way if I had anything to say about it. However, the Dark Lord has privately expressed his wish that I not stand in the way of your impulsive little exploits." His gaze was dark and doubtful. "He seems to think they'll be beneficial in some way."

Draco smiled bitterly. "And I can only imagine how much that must irk you after all the trouble you went to to make me more like you."

Fire lit again in the ice of Lucius' eyes. "I wouldn't try my patience any further, Draco," he warned quietly. "You've already spread it uncharacteristically thin." His gaze whipped to the woman who was watching the scene warily, his hand reaching out for hers with the command of a king. "Come Narcissa. It's time for bed," he told her. He looked back to Draco. "We'll stay out of this sordid business—brash and inappropriate as it is. But I can't promise I'll be so forgiving if I find the girl is still on the premises after tomorrow." His nose crinkled, as if it smelled something foul. "If it wasn't for the Dark Lord, I wouldn't have let it stand tonight."

"Well I'll be sure to thank him," Draco said tightly.

Lucius' gaze was narrowed meaningfully on his son. "I wouldn't if I were you. I'd keep my mouth shut." He tilted his head. "She isn't here, remember? She never was."

Draco's jaw clenched as his parents walked regally around him, heading through the drawing room doors and out of sight. Once they were gone, so was the apathetic mask—but he didn't breathe, didn't have time to feel relieved. This wasn't over, wasn't even close. As long as Hermione was in the dungeon—in the manor—she wasn't safe.

Troubled, he lowered back onto the settee. What to do from here? Where to go, where to take her? He only had until sunrise to figure it out…

Hermione lay sleeping on the ground of the dank dungeon, blissfully unaware of her sinister surroundings. The sedation spell was strong, letting her breathe calmly despite the icy air that frosted her lungs and the heavy chains that bruised her skin, letting her rest peacefully despite the gnawing attention of the rats, despite the dirt, despite the dark. Her body shivered violently, trying to fight off the cold she couldn't feel—but she didn't wake, didn't even begin to stir. She was totally relaxed, as if sleeping on a cloud instead of a cold stone floor. Her mind was moving slow, almost still… beyond nightmares, even beyond dreams, in a blank, warm place where everything was serene and secure…

So she did not awaken when a tall hooded figure rose like smoke from out of the shadows and into the dim firelight. The trembling house-elf, however, quickly cowered away—not quickly enough. The harmless creature was taken care of in one swift and fatal flash of green light.

Distractions dealt with, the figure turned on Hermione, stalking forward until it towered over her unconscious form. It watched her for a moment from behind the shadow of its hood—watched with black-hole eyes that burned. It raised its wand. A whispered word had the tip becoming sharp like a blade—and for a moment, the shadow lingered, as if he would use the weapon to stab the girl. Instead, he suddenly stabbed clear through the palm of his own hand, smiling over gritted teeth as the point went in one side and out the other—then expelling a breath as, just as swiftly, it slid back out. Blood instantly pulsed from both sides of the wound, deep red against lily white—proving that this dark form was flesh and blood, that he was something far realer than merely a shadow…

Flesh and blood, but not necessarily a man. Humanity was not gauged in the body, but the soul.

With another movement, a familiar vial of blood was drawn out into the fading torchlight, the reflection of dim flames glowing in the glass. Raising the thing up, the figure ripped the cork out with his teeth—spat it off to the side, where it landed forgotten in the dirt. Quickly, he turned his palm, opening it over the already-full vial, combining his blood with hers until it overflowed.

A quick incantation had the hole sealed and stitched—and yet another had a small, rickety wooden table conjured out of air. Rows of jars and casks were pressed together on its surface— silent, focused, the figure placed his wand and the open phial among them.

He took up another container, a green glass jar without a label, unscrewed the rusted cover. Pale fingers reached in, grasping a pinch of powder. "The crushed petals of sunflower to bind us in life," he said quietly, drawing his hand out, sprinkling the delicate yellow into the phial with the blood.

He returned the jar to its place, retrieving another, this one larger. This time, his hand drew out a single round black berry. "The toxic juice of nightshade to bind us in death..." Gaunt fingertips slowly squeezed the belladonna's fruit over the vial until careful beads of black liquid fell.

Taking the phial up, he cautiously swirled it, letting the ingredients blend thoroughly into the blood. With narrowed eyes, he watched it settle—then smiled, raising the thing to his lips, drinking half of the red contents down. He swallowed slowly, relishing the copper taste of blood and poison—relishing the sweet hint of victory, which seemed closer now than ever.

A moment passed. Carefully, the figure lowered onto his haunches, holding the sleeping girls head up by her hair, holding the vial to her lips. "Drink," he commanded quietly, forcing the rest of the red into her mouth—and she did, swallowing the blood unconsciously.

Another moment passed. Crisply, the shadow snapped a finger. A flower appeared, its stem short, its ivory petals open around its yellow face. "A white lotus—" he took the bloom, "to seal the pact…" He reached within the folds of his dark and regal robe, produced a silver sewing pin. Taking Hermione's limp hand, he pricked the delicate tip of her index finger, guided it carefully to the flower, smearing the dark dot of blood that appeared onto one thin petal. Dropping her hand, he turned the minute point on himself, piercing the pale end of his own finger and daubing the speck of red onto one of the petals on the opposite side.

He could feel the tiny taste of belladonna begin to churn his stomach, but it was the anticipation that had him growing eager. Pushing himself up, he grabbed his wand from the table—pointed it at the lotus with intense, impatient eyes. "Cum sanguis sanguine, una vita unit!" he whispered, and black shot from the tip—not light, but something darker, something like steam or smoke, wisping slowly forward, falling over the flower, seeping in. The ivory petals absorbed the strange strings of twining shadow, beginning to change, darkening until the entire bloom was black.

And just as slowly, he felt exhaustion fall over him, staggering, powerful, threatening to persuade him to sleep. Willpower kept him upright, kept his eyes open, fighting off what seemed to be the affects of some strong sedating drug…

Or some strong sedating spell.

His eyelids flickered, and he briefly let them close. Could it be…? He swallowed, suddenly more cautious than he'd ever been.

Through the sudden weight of drowsiness, he became aware of a growing ache—the twinge of dull pain at his temple and along the side of his face. Reaching up, he pressed a tender hand to his cheekbone. It was sore to the touch. His gaze shot back to the girl, sharpening, his breath holding, not yet daring to exhale—searching the darkened marks that bruised that same side of her face.

Still, he didn't dare breathe. Eyes alert, he strode to her, crouched down by her again—seized her wrist, brought it close under his hazy eyes…

And exhaled finally on a whisper of a laugh.

Because on either side of her hand was a small, newly-stitched wound—puncture wounds, as if she'd been stabbed straight through the palm and out the back of the hand…

Puncture wounds identical to his!

He threw his head back, laughing quietly, silkily—then brought his eyes back down to consider the girl. Her body trembled and her teeth chattered against the cold, but he knew she was too deep under to be aware. Carefully, he tucked her hand back with the other one. "You sleep easy now, girl," he mused softly, bitingly. "But you're about to awaken into your worst nightmare." One long white hand moved over her head, slowly, affectionately stroking her soft curls. He raised one wavy strand away from her ear, leaned in ever so slowly. "Sweet dreams," he sang quietly...

And then disappeared.