Here lies the concept of Heaven and Hell again, Draco thought bitterly to himself.

He'd been having trouble understanding how the muggles and their beliefs of something so powerful could exist to damn them or rejoice them, how someone they couldn't see or couldn't feel could sort them out like fruits that are at their prime or have gone rotten. These muggles put so much faith in some great being, most of them weaving throughout life not to upset Him so when the unavoidable moment came their souls would lift to Heaven instead of the fiery bits of Hell.

Adding more to his confusion, he wondered now how this Ultimate Being living in the sky could offer redemption. After he'd researched the concept of muggle religion (late one night when the library had been deserted and no one to see a curiosity that could be the end for a pureblood), he stumbled upon various texts of this book called the Bible that referred to how this God person could lead the darkness to the light. God gifted redemption to the people of the darkness, people who'd lost their way so long as they chose to do good and repent on their sins. After he'd read that, he wondered how exactly God could make those stray ones get back on track.

With stinging flesh, sore bones, muscles tensed and locked, Draco knew the stupid concept of 'walk a mile in someone's shoes' was more relevant than what he liked it to be; and maybe this was a way this God could cause the stray to follow the right path again.

"Easy, there. Don't fidget so much, the bruising is still tender."

Or it's all really a load of rubbish, he told himself angrily as a pair of soft hands helped him sit up on a lumpy cot.

"You're impossible to settle," Ginny Weasley was looking at her friend's angry brown eyes. "Honestly, Hermione, sit still. You're going to swell up again."

Malfoy kept his frown on his borrowed-expression, wishing for the Weaslette to shove off and not come back as all he wanted was to be alone.

Ginny sighed again. "I know you're itching to go downstairs and join the plans Remus has for the Order, but you can't," she spoke like she really knew what was bothering her friend.

She moved forward, fluffing the warm quilt on Draco's borrowed-lap and he had to subdue the natural instinct to tell her to get her filthy Blood Traitor hands off him—but this really wasn't his body, was it? It's not like he could claim full control of Granger's body and reject all of her touchy friends (as much as he'd like to).

In all his distaste to have people touch him, Draco had to unwillingly admit he was only treated with care and affection. It was a nightmare most of the time, being treated like he was about to break, like he was made of glass, but then he remembered he was possessing Granger. They treated him—her—like the most precious thing because she was their little Warrior Princess.

He had never been handled with so much care, even if they didn't know it was him. When he was younger and got sick due to the change of the weather, or for spending too much time flying on his broom when it rained, the house-elves would usually tend to him. They did it with shaky fingers, giant eyes filled with fear, and they never spoke to him. Once or twice through a haze of fever he thought he saw his mother enter his bedroom, brush the sweaty strands of blonde hair from his forehead, kiss him gently there, but then it was gone; like a dream induced by the fever.

The closest he got to being treated like he was cared for was last year, on the night he'd gotten hit by the curse Potter sent his way and sliced him up, all the blood in his body draining out. Snape had been cautious with him, Madam Pomfrey had healed him gently as she clucked her tongue and stared at him disapprovingly, and then Pansy had been less desperate and ran gentle fingertips over his skin when he was in his hospital bed.

But there was no warmth. There never was.

"Mum says you've to eat up," Ginny snapped her fingers in front of her friend's face, bringing her back from whatever daze she had drift off to. "You've refused to eat for the past two days and she's starting to get upset. Now eat before she comes here and forces the soup down your throat, Granger."

Malfoy raised a brown brow that wasn't his, staring carefully as the Weasley girl brought a wooden-stool beside the lumpy cot he was in and then magically summoned the tray of food that was sitting on top of her dresser.

Knock. Knock.

Ginny was adjusting the tray of food on her friend's lap, careful not to hurt her as she made sure the sharper edges of the tray weren't digging into her skin, when someone knocked at the door of her bedroom. "Come in," she said fleetingly, staring at Hermione as she frowned at the food.

With a creak against the doorframe, the door opened and a head mopped with dark hair poked its way in. Malfoy frowned even deeper; it was Harry Potter.

"Fleur's looking for you, Ginny," the Chosen One spoke after a quick second of silence.

Ginny made a sour face, rolling her eyes in complete annoyance that Draco had to wonder what was so wrong with the French beauty that the Weaslette hated. "Fine," she said, standing up from the seat she'd barely taken, "but you're to stay here with her."

Potter's eyes flickered with apprehension, with the need to flee. "I'll send up Tonks. I've got a few things to do."

"No, you're staying with her," Ginny told her him sharply. There was something in her eyes, like a warning of her own that mixed with a severe parental gaze that everyone mostly saw on Mrs. Weasley's face. "She's your best friend, for Merlin's sake," she added in a whisper that held irritation before she stalked out of her little bedroom.

The door closed with a bang behind Potter's ex-girlfriend, and Malfoy could see the panic in the Boy-Who-Lived. It had been three days since Draco had appeared at the Weasley home, and it'd been a day since he was attacked by his mental aunt in Diagon Alley—three days in which Potter scurried off when 'Granger' walked into a room, avoiding her and not talking to her unless it was required of him.

Even though he'd been exposed to the Weasley breed for a while now, Malfoy had not lost his wit in the slightest. He knew perfectly well that Scarhead was avoiding his little Gryffindor Princess at all costs, muttering hisses at the Weasel King when they thought that 'Granger' wasn't listening.

So much for friendship, Malfoy scoffed loudly, following his thought as he tried sitting up a little taller on the old cot. He winced at the movement, catching Granger's arms colored by bruises and scrapes as they tried assisting him.

In the failed attempt to move, grimacing and letting out a hiss through clenched teeth that was given, Harry couldn't help but move his way to his aching friend. With every step he took to her, the more he tightened his palm into a fist as the sunlight inside Ginny's bedroom highlighted the Hermione's mangled body.

"Here," Harry breathed, carefully setting Hermione's arms on her sides before he took a seat on the wooden-stool and took the tray from her lap. "Chicken noodle soup," he said, scooping some of the soup from the bowl and lifting it to her with the spoon.

Malfoy made Granger's face twist in disgust.

"You mentioned once that your mum used to give it to you when you were ill," Harry cleared his throat, looking at the spoon instead of his friend. "I mentioned it to Mrs. Weasley and she thought....she thought it would make you feel better."

"I was tortured," Malfoy snapped. "I don't have a bloody cold."

Harry raised an eyebrow at the girl, curiosity and shame filled his green eyes. "Just eat, Hermione," was what he chose, inching the spoon with soup closer to her mouth. "You'll feel better."

He had colorful curses, beautiful insults drenched in the right amount of evil, but Draco had to push them aside for the Boy Wonder because he was, unfortunately, impersonating the Bookworm. And there wasn't a chance in hell that the Gryffindor Princess could ever be so cruel to Potter, was there? So instead of taking the Malfoy-approach, he said, "You've been avoiding me."

The girl on the cot had opened her mouth and took the contents from the spoon, and Harry felt like he'd just been slapped across the face. "Just busy," he mumbled as he took the spoon back from her and scooped up more of the soup. "Important things to tend to, you know."

"More important than your friend who happened to be attacked?" Malfoy asked, a little sneer to the response as he grudgingly took the spoon into Granger's mouth so he could eat. "Well, what a great friend you are, Potter."

Harry knitted his brows, confusion pooling onto his face for a moment; before the shame came back and he looked away from her. "I can't look at you," he whispered so low that he wasn't sure if it even came out at all. "When I do...You've given so much up for me and I just keep taking and taking."

Malfoy swallowed the soup, rolling his borrowed-eyes as Potter was all dramatic and refused to look up. "I'm sure you haven't." After all, what did Granger have to give to the Chosen One other than endless amount of annoying information?

"Don't do that," Harry snapped, finally looking up with angered gaze. "Don't pretend like you haven't given up anything for me." He grabbed the spoon and clunked it back into the bowl. "You've put your life on the line from day one. You've been petrified, exposed to murderers, targeted for being my best friend, made to fight time and time again, gone on the hunt for Horcruxes, lived on the run, tortured twice because of me, and now you've given up your parents!"

Draco furrowed the Bookworm's brows, looking at Potter like he'd just told him a story that was too unbelievable to be heard or comprehended. He watched as his childhood enemy stood from the wooden-stool, paced to the door, muttering angrily to himself, shaking his head like a mad man.

"You shouldn't have to send your parents into hiding," Harry turned away from Ginny's door, looking at Hermione like his body was being injected with acid and he couldn't contain the pain. "You should never have to depart from them, but you did. You sent them away, your only family...for me."

At the look Potter was giving, like Death was cutting layer by layer of his skin, Draco couldn't fathom his enemy's pain, his weakness. He'd grown up learning the worst thing any wizard—any man—could do was allow the world to see what could destroy him. He was taught to hold in emotions because they were crippling. If you wanted power, respect and strength you weren't supposed to feel.

But Potter felt.

Potter glowed with emotions, yet he was strong, respected, and had his share of power. His weakness was evident as his emerald eyes glistened and his forehead creased with remorse and sorrow, but he was brave. He was what Draco was not, courageous and human.

'You're going to tell Harry it's not his fault.'  It was because of that clear difference between the two that he understood Granger's comment the last time he saw her.

Potter was a push away from being a martyr.

"It's not because of you," summoning the courage that lingered in Granger's body, Malfoy cleared her throat and with a sting reached for the tray of food before speaking. "Not entirely at least, but it's mostly about me. We're at war, Harry. We're fighting against people who want my kind dead. They're coming after me and they won't hesitate to go after my parents. That's why they were sent away, to protect them from evil people."

Harry's anger eased a little, but he could still hear the voices in his head that told him it was his fault. "You're like my sister," he whispered, holding his ground. "I will always fight so you don't have to lose what I did."

Draco nodded once, flicking brown eyes to look at the bowl of soup, spinning the spoon inside of it. "What do you think of redemption?" He didn't look up as he asked a question that should've never come out; he watched noodles swirl instead. "Is it possible?"

Before Harry could register Hermione's question thoroughly, the door to Ginny's bedroom opened and in walked in a familiar redheaded.

"Hey," Ron smiled warily as he eyed his best friends carefully. "You two have been here for a while, just wanted to make sure everything was all right."

There was a definite glint of jealousy and caution in the Weasel King's eyes, Draco could see it. It made him snort to himself, spinning the spoon once more as he tried not to comment on the fact that Weasley distrusted his best friend and how pathetic he was for openly showing how into Granger he was.

"I'm just leaving," Harry spoke up, catching the concern in Ron's eyes. "Stay with her, will you? And make sure she eats." As the redhead nodded, a little too willing as he took a seat on the wooden-stool, Harry turned back to his friend before leaving. "Oh, and Hermione, it's possible. People can change."

X

The room was a lot darker than it had been since Hermione first stepped foot into it. The marbled walls seemed to have gone completely black, the magic holding the lights was fading, the candles refused to burn brightly, and there was no sunlight entering the bedroom through the grand window that had been opened for the purpose of warmth.

She was sulking again, a fury and misery over her as she tried sinking into a leather armchair until she disappeared into the fabric and became a dust-mite. Everything was going terribly and she didn't have any means to fix it.

Impersonating Malfoy was proving exhausting, all emotional and nothing physical. Snape had kept his promise, watching over his 'godson' and kept him from all the torturing that occurred down in the cellars of Malfoy Manor. She'd been stuck in the dark bedroom, occasionally getting the visit of Veda the house-elf, shut away from everyone on the order of Severus Snape.

It's not that she particularly disapproved of Snape's methods of keeping Draco from turning into a murderer, of turning into a real Death Eater and a monster, but she couldn't help but to feel useless and inept. There were people—innocent people, people she'd known, victims—down in those cellars, being tortured and murdered and she was just sitting in Malfoy's bedroom drinking tea and eating the food Veda brought up for her. 

She was Hermione Granger, she was meant to assist the fight for the greater good of the world. She was supposed to help, to save lives, to put a stop to the war. But no, Fate was not a friend of Hermione Granger's at the moment. Fate had decided she hated Hermione, that she deserved to be punished for some reason that Hermione couldn't comprehend.

Not only was she stuck in Draco Malfoy's body, listening to the deaths and the screams of innocent people, enduring the chills of nightmares of her torture from the previous summer, being in the presence of Dumbledore's murderer, but she had to witness a poor soul taint his hands with blood; all the while loathing himself.

After stumbling into Malfoy's bedroom two days ago, catching Zabini sat at the edge of Malfoy's bed, looking completely miserable and like he was about to end his life, Hermione had pleaded in her own way for him to stay. She hadn't cared that the voice that escaped her lips was that of Malfoy's, but she needed to help Blaise. She needed to be there for him, support him as he faced the fact that he'd been inducted to Voldemort's circle.

Blaise hadn't commented on the curious and strange way 'Draco' had been acting, only shooting him a look full of disbelief as 'Draco' told him to get into the bed and sleep. He hadn't said a word when 'Draco' had told him that he was here for him, that he would help him in anything that he needed. He hadn't questioned when 'Draco' promised him they were going to find a way out of this, that he vowed to make sure he found safety. Nothing had been said from Slytherin to Slytherin as 'Draco' took a seat on the armchair and sat silently, allowing Blaise to sleep in his bed and drift away from the fact that he had the dark mark branded onto his skin now.

Hours had passed since, and then Hermione endured the presence of Snape for an entire minute when he entered the bedroom and told Zabini he was required for something. Blaise had shot 'Draco' a look of fear, but as Snape had thrown his 'godson' a cautionary one, Hermione had to force herself to make Malfoy's silver eyes look away.

She let Snape take Zabini. She let him lead Blaise to a bloodbath, she was sure of it.

Sighing deeper, more frustration seeping into her system as it had been an entire day now since she heard from Blaise, Snape, or anyone.

Knock. Knock.

Launching herself out of the armchair she'd been sulking in since she woke up ages ago, Hermione made Malfoy's feet rush for the door.

As she turned the handle, hoping deep in Malfoy's chest that it was Blaise, all that optimism was squashed as Fate decided to spit at her face and laugh, bringing someone to the door Hermione didn't want to see ever in her life.

It was Lucius Malfoy.

"We need to talk,"  the disgraced man said to his son, trying to hold his head up high like how he was holding the glass with liquor in his left hand. "Let me in."

For goodness sake, Hermione groaned internally. Inhaling once, she pushed her annoyance and repugnance away as she stared at the man with the traditional Malfoy mask of nothingness. "I don't think that's a good idea, Father," she pulled out her dull tone. "I think it's best if you leave my wing now."

"Despite the people in this house, Draco, this is still my home," Lucius retorted firmly, frowning instantly at his son's brush-off. "As such, we need to discuss the fact that Severus has been keeping you away from...activities. When the Dark Lord returns, Draco, he won't be pleased."

Hermione stared at the man with the mask still on, but it was slowly trying to wither away the more he spoke and the more she grew disgusted. "You wish me to go torture people, Father? Would that help restore respect to the family name?"

Mister Malfoy's grey eyes darkened, becoming black as fury seeped into them. He clutched onto his glass of liquor tightly, his free hand shaking before balling into a fist. "I'm protecting you," he said after a moment of tensed silence. "The Dark Lord has no place for the weak, Draco. Severus is the one putting you in danger. You know how this works."

"If you wanted to protect me you should've never become a Death Eater," and then the Malfoy-charade was gone. She was back to being Hermione, back to being the righteous girl. She couldn't hold it; she couldn't pretend to feel nothing when there was only hate and outrage and deep pity. She didn't know what possessed her to do so, the Malfoys had chosen their side, but somehow it felt wrong.

How could Lucius look his son in the eyes and tell him that partaking in the torture of others, in their murder, would protect him? How could he say that by joining a sick and vile cause was for his son's benefit? How could he insinuate that by following Voldemort—by pushing his son to do the same—was for Draco's good?

After a second of letting his son's comment sink into his ears, Lucius took his free hand and clasped the boy's shirt with force. "Don't, Draco. Don't you dare for a second—"

"Let him go." Interrupting the hostile moment between father and son with a clink, clink, clink that had gone unheard by the two blondes, another one approached. "Step away from him," Narcissa Malfoy ordered, wand out and pointing it to her husband.

 Lucius let his grip go. "I need to talk to him," he told his wife, something in his grey eyes going from angry to distressing. "He needs to realize what's going on, Cissy."

"He needs not to hear you when you are in this state," Narcissa replied, stepping closer to stand in front of Draco like a mother about to protect her child from an attack. "He will not be participating in anything, Lucius."

"He'll be reprimanded!" Mister Malfoy hissed at his wife, pulling on a frown that did not reach his eyes with fury but instead made them glaze with anxiousness. "Do you want the Dark Lord to know that Draco's been dodging his responsibilities? The Dark Lord gave him tasks, Cissy. He's to complete them."

Mrs. Malfoy kept her mask on as she looked at her husband. "Severus has informed the Dark Lord of Draco's assistance to him. He gave me his word the Dark Lord won't harm Draco. He is not going down to those cellars."

Lucius erased some of that anxiety in his grey eyes and replaced it with resentment. "Severus is meddling," he told his wife, his free hand back into a fist. "I'm doing what's best for Draco, he is not. Severus doesn't see clearly the place we are in, Narcissa. The Dark Lord won't tolerate preferences, especially since Draco failed to murder Dumbledore! He is our son and I'll—"

"He is my son!" Narcissa Malfoy's blank tone was gone, fury and her own share of indignation taking over. "And I'll protect his well-being—something you have neglected to do years ago, Lucius." She pushed her son back into his room, turning on her heel and slamming the door on her husband's face.

To say that Hermione was surprised was an understatement. Through Malfoy's silver eyes she stared at his mother, watched her heave as she tried to settle her anger, as she tried to pull on her mask.

Still very shocked, Hermione took a hesitant step to the woman who had once looked down at her. "Mother," she called her, the word burning at the tip of Malfoy's tongue. As much as she was pretending to be him, she was still sensitive to the fact that she'd sent her own mother away; a mother that didn't know Hermione existed now. "Are you all right?"

Narcissa looked up at her son, blue eyes ranging between infuriated, sadness, frustration, and regret. "We aren't a family," the woman muttered. "We haven't been for a while, have we?"

Don't say anything, Hermione told herself, holding the words she wanted Malfoy's lips to say. She is not your mother. This is not your place to console. She hated to think that way, but she couldn't respond. She wasn't sure what Malfoy's family-bond was like. She didn't know his problems or his nightmares.

Taking the silence as an answer, like her question had been rhetorical, Narcissa Malfoy fixed her fine dress-robes and straightened her posture. Her expression was back to being masked and her blue eyes blank.

Without a word,  Hermione watched Mrs. Malfoy head out of her son's bedroom. The woman had muttered a spell, making sure the room was locked from the outside so no one unwanted could come in.

Hermione let out a giant breath as she could hear Mrs. Malfoy's footsteps echo in distance from the hall outside. She headed to the bed dressed in silky, black sheets that was pressed against the middle wall of the room. She'd been right. Being Malfoy was far more emotionally exhausting than it was physically.

Not only was she dealing with his problems but with her own as well. She couldn't push away the thoughts of watching Mister and Mrs. Malfoy and not think of her parents. They were everything the Malfoys were not. Her father was a firm man, yes, but he was nothing but marshmallow on the inside; and her mother was warm, sweet, and caring. Her parents loved her, and they made sure she knew it from the very first moment of her life. In Malfoy's case, on the other hand, she doubted he felt the same way.

His family might be pureblooded, his family might be considered the best among the Wizarding World—according to other bigotry and ignorant idiots—but they were frozen. They were not a family, they were acquaintances. And in the field, with her dirty blood and muggle parents, Hermione knew she was superior to the Malfoys. Her family was genuine.

Wiping away a tear that'd fallen as she thought that, as she remembered her parents, there was a crack bouncing off the bedroom walls and then there was an intruder.

"Malfoy," Hermione gasped, shooting into a sitting position from the middle of his bed as she found brown eyes staring at her from across the room. "What are you doing here?"

At her loud tone, Malfoy frowned disapprovingly at the Bookworm possessing his body. Pulling out her wand from the pocket of her jeans, he waved it at his bedroom door to cast a Silencing Charm.

"How you're the brightest witch of the age, I'll never know," he sneered at her, crossing her arms over her chest. "Someone could be outside, Granger. Use your head and think."

Too surprised and overwhelmed to be upset, Hermione inspected the figure before her. "How'd you get inside? It was Veda, wasn't it? There's no other way you could've apparated inside. Wait—why are you here?"

"I said think, not babble," Malfoy snapped, rolling her eyes in the process with his share of frustration. "But to answer your question...I finally got a moment of solitude and decided to check up on you."

Hermione knitted the boy's brows. "Check up on me? Why?"

"Were you not...You haven't gone on any missions, then?" Draco asked, furrowing his borrowed-brows, too. "You've been here all this time?"

"Snape doesn't let me, well you," she told him, a questioning look still playing on the face that wasn't hers. "Do you know something, Malfoy? Was there an attack?"

Malfoy dropped his confused looked and instead masked the Bookworm's expression into nothing.

"Who's hurt?" Hermione asked, worry thumping in her borrowed-heart. She was smart after all, she knew what that silence and attempt to not reveal anything was about. There had been an attack. Something had happened.

Puffing out air from between Granger's lips, Malfoy took cautious steps to his own bed. "Death Eaters attacked Diagon Alley," he informed her. "Tonks, the Weasley girl and I were supposed to be buying dresses for some rubbish wedding for the older Weasel, and we were ambushed." He stopped at the foot of his bed, staring into his own silver eyes as they filled with anticipating tears.

"And?"

"They got you," Malfoy muttered, looking away from his own face twisting into sadness. He moved Granger's fragile fingers and pulled up the sleeve of the sweater he made her body wear to expose her left arm. "It was Bellatrix again."

Hermione edged closer to her own body, squinting Malfoy's eyes to try and see through the dim light in the room. As she managed to zero in on her own flesh, Hermione noticed the carved words of 'MUDBLOOD' on her arm were not scars that had stitched themselves up months ago, they were reopened wounds, thicker ones.

Taking one of Malfoy's long fingers, Hermione allowed herself to reach over and trace his fingertip over her arm. She felt her torn and rampaged skin. It was bumpy, thick, scabby, and deep. It was bright red, tender to the last decree. She was sure it was never going to fade away now, not with the redone damage to her flesh.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, halting Malfoy's fingertip over the slanted B on her wound. She looked up at the Slytherin, meeting her own eyes he had transformed into emotionless orbs. "I'm so sorry, Malfoy."

"What for, Granger?" Draco stared back at his own face, his eyes looking concerned. Something that was not normal for him, the emotion so sincere.

Hermione did not remove his finger from her mutilated forearm. "I didn't want you to get hurt," she murmured. "Not by being me, Malfoy...I-I should've know, though... We're at war, I'm a Mudblood and—"

"Leave it, Granger," Malfoy hissed at the girl, ripping her arm away from his fingers. "This wasn't your fault, so shut up. I don't need your apology, nor do I want it."

She raised one of his eyebrows, confusion back onto his face. He was aggravated, she could see that clearly, it was an emotion she was so keen to see on him, but there was something else. For a second she saw something that seemed like offense, like he'd been offended and ashamed.

"I should go," he spoke the next few seconds, glaring at the Gryffindor Princess. "The Weaslette went to spend the night with Lovegood, having some sort of sleepover at the headquarters for your precious Order while you're meant to have undisturbed bed-rest all night." He glared a little rougher, something crossing his head as he licked her bottom lip and caught the fruity flavor to them. "Though I expect the Weasel doesn't know the meaning of that. He's snuck up to visit more times than should be appropriate, Granger."

Though she was no longer surprised, merely confused thoroughly, Hermione ignored his last bit. "Don't go," she didn't know why she said it, but she stood back on his feet and walked to her body. "Don't leave, Malfoy."

About to call for his house-elf, Draco was taken aback as Granger made his fingers grasp her wrist, pulling him to her. "What are you on about, Granger? I can't stay here."

"No one's coming," tears were pooling into her borrowed-eyes and she didn't know why. It felt like it'd been a long day, a long day where her emotions had been throttled and butchered and exhausted. She couldn't be Hermione because she was Malfoy, she couldn't be around his acquaintances because she loathed them,  she couldn't be around his Godfather because he was a traitor; she couldn't be around Blaise because he wasn't here.

But with Malfoy around she could have a shred of normality back. She could have her body around, she could have a connection to those she longed for, a connection to those she loved and missed.

"Please."

He was a shred of sanity, even in the insanity of it all.

Draco stared back, watched her turn his eyes into a reflection of her despair, of her exhaustion and her withering faith. It was what he was doing to her—what his body and his home were doing. They were eating her up alive, tearing her apart little by little.

He was given warmth, affection, and friendship—even if they weren't meant for him—and she got his darkness. Yeah, he'd gotten tortured for being her, but she'd gotten tortured for being her too and that didn't cancel their situations off. He had the upper-hand, she was losing it.

"Fine," he told her in a tone too low. "But once Veda enters the room I must leave. I told her to appear if someone headed this way."

Hermione nodded, his blonde hair tousling around as she did so. She pulled him with his own fingers, leading him back to the bed; not catching the skepticism laced with aversion that Malfoy was expressing across her face. She just wanted to lie down, to go into silence and solitude with the only thing that was hers in Malfoy Manor.

As Granger settled him on his bed, putting his body on the right side of it, Draco hesitantly lowered her own on the left side. He lay down next to her, still well aware that she was holding his—her own—hand. Their fingers were intertwined, but he or she didn't say anything. They just lay together, like it was normal.

Giving him a squeeze with his own fingers, Malfoy turned to look at the Bookworm. For a second, a rather short one, he didn't see her in his body, he saw her in her own. He could see her brown eyes staring at him, and though there was exhaustion beyond belief like in all those pictures he'd seen of her, there was also warmth. There was something pure and defined.

Without wanting to try and figure it out, he shut his borrowed-eyes as he enjoyed the comfort of his silk sheets instead of the Weasleys quilts. And without knowing why, he squeezed her fingers, too.