Covered in Crimson

Another lull in conversation followed as Draco and Hermione thought about the implications of his last comment. “Well, someone obviously was able to imagine it, because they caused it to happen,” he’d said. She mulled two inferences of his pronouncement. First, there was still an unknown person or group who had targeted Draco for unknown reasons, and without information about their identity, he would continue to be at risk of succumbing to their egregious manipulations. Second, Draco was beginning to accept that his horrific behavior was not entirely his own doing.

Draco was stewing over his statement, too. Who in his life would have the ability, the opportunity, and the desire to poison him in such an insidious way? It would have to be someone with whom he had fairly regular contact, and who had easy access to his home, including everything he ate and drank. That couldn’t be more than a half dozen people, counting his parents. He shook his head in disgust and frustration, recognizing that it was probably someone to whom he and his family were extremely close. The depth of the betrayal weighed heavily on him.

The quiet, which had now stretched to nearly an hour as both were finally lost in their own thoughts, was broken by the sound of the wind howling outside the windows and a reverberating crack followed immediately by the sound of something crashing to the ground. Draco rose to investigate, and opened the front door to find that a four meter long, ten centimeter thick branch had fallen across the walkway that led to the cottage’s front porch. It was also snowing again, quite heavily. They were in for another very cold night. He pushed the front door closed, fighting against the force of the gale trying to keep it open. He turned to inform Hermione of the worsening conditions.

“I know, it looks and sounds pretty brutal out there,” she beat him to the punch. “What was that noise?”

“A huge branch fell across the walkway. It didn’t do any other damage that I can tell, but for something that big to come down, this is going to be one wicked storm,” he observed.

“Great,” she whined. “If we had our wands, we could do a charm to surround the house, or at least take temperature and pressure readings. We have no idea how bad this will be or how long it will last.”

“At the rate it’s coming down, it wouldn’t surprise me to see a storm about double the snow that we had last night,” he stated, rubbing his hands along his arms to warm them.

“Do we have enough wood inside the house for the night?”

He nodded and told her, “While you were sleeping this afternoon, I brought in a good couple of armfuls and put it in the cabinet. We’ll have enough till morning, anyway. In the meantime, though, the wood that‘s left on the porch will get wet from the snow. That will make it harder to burn, won’t it?”

“Don’t worry about that, Draco,” she placated. “From what I’ve seen, it’s really old wood, so it’s very dry internally. The snow won’t really penetrate the layers; it’ll just steam off as long as we put it into a hot fire.”

“Oh, well that’s good, I guess.”

“Yes, it is. You shouldn’t have to worry about going out in the storm, at least till morning.”

He walked into the kitchen. “I’m getting some water. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine for now. I just wish that whoever put the food in the house had thought to include some tea,” she grumbled.

“A nice hot cuppa would be good right now,” he agreed as he returned, having consumed his fifth glass of water for the evening.

“If you could have anything at all to eat or drink right now, what would it be?” she asked, mostly to get conversation going.

“Besides chocolate?” he grinned, looking at her from under his fringe.

“Sure, besides chocolate.”

“That’s a tough one. Maybe roast lamb,” he offered, “with mint jelly, honey glazed carrots, and jacket potatoes.”

“Not something I’d eat every day, but that does sound yummy,” she agreed. “I’d have barbecued pork ribs, the kind that get all sticky with sauce on the grill so you have to lick your fingers off every two or three minutes. I’ll have that with chips and sliced tomatoes, if you please.”

“Is that a Muggle dish? I don’t think I’ve ever had that.”

“You haven’t?” she gaped. “You don’t know what you’re missing!”

“Precisely.”

“The meat gets so tender that it just falls off the bone, and the sauce gets all caramelized and gooey,” she enthused.

“Sounds barbaric to me. Who ever heard of eating things with your fingers, right off the bone?” he sniffed.

“Well, how do you eat a chicken leg? It really isn’t any different from that,” she challenged.

“I eat a chicken leg like any other civilized person would, by cutting the meat off the center bone with my knife and fork,” he retorted.

“Then you miss half the meat and all the fun.”

“Fun? What’s fun about eating things off an animal’s skeleton?” he argued.

“Because you can lick the juice off your fingers. It’s the yummiest part.”

“Believe me, there are other things that are much more fun to lick off,” he smirked.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to scold him for his cheek, huffing with indignation. “Why do boys always have to turn everything into something sexual?”

“Look who’s calling the kettle black. I said nothing about sex. I was talking about icing on cakes or sweet cream on pudding. Who’s the one with the filthy mind here, Granger?” he taunted imperiously, triumphant that he’d got one over on her.

She sputtered and spat, but technically, he was right. She was the one who had leapt to the conclusion, regardless that she had been spurred on to it by his leering smirk. She was certain that her entire body was flushed crimson with mortification. Her skin felt hot, and there was no doubt that her blood was bubbling in her veins.

Draco looked at her and laughed heartily. “You should see the look on your face, Granger. It’s priceless. What I wouldn’t give for a camera right now!”

“Prat,” she muttered, tossing another pillow at her tormentor.

“You walked right into it, Granger. How could I resist?”

“Easily, if you had any sense,” she pouted.

“Chill, Granger, it’s not that big a deal,” he told her, waving a hand as if shooing away a pesky gnat. “Besides, you were right in the first place,” he confessed.

“Oh! You!” she accused, now more exasperated than embarrassed.

“The atmosphere is just so… heavy. I thought we could do with a little laugh.”

“At my expense, no less.”

“Oh, come on. Like I haven’t been humiliated ten times over since we got here. Just evening up the score a little,” he grinned in what she was sure he thought was a winning, engaging way.

“Whatever you say, Malfoy. I’m just glad to know I was right in the first place,” she answered haughtily.

“Fine, you win,” he acquiesced. “Spoil sport.”

“I’m just trying to protect whatever dignity I have left, Malfoy.”

“You and I, Granger, are way past worrying about dignity,” Draco observed.

“Hunh. I suppose you have a point there,” she acknowledged.

“Of course, I may have no shame left, but at least I’m still a prat,” he avowed self-effacingly.

Hermione just shook her head, as annoyed as she was amused, but grateful that they’d at least come to some kind of peace, however uneasy it might be. She watched as Draco dropped tiredly into the armchair beside the hearth after having restocked the fireplace, the bark of the new logs catching quickly and adding a brighter glow to the room.

The extra warmth in the room was in stark contrast to the dramatically increasing howl of the wind against the windows; they were rattling in their frames, telling the storm’s violent story. Draco shuddered once, having felt a draft creep in from an unseen crevice. He noticed that Hermione had drawn the thin blanket up to her chin and snuggled more deeply into the sofa. He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

“Getting tired?” she asked.

“I guess so. It’s been a rough couple of days,” he noted, meeting her eyes purposefully. “I’d imagine you wouldn’t dispute that.”

“Not in the least,” she agreed.

“How about you?”

“What?” she started, having been lost in her own musings for a moment.

“Are you tired, too?” he rephrased.

“Not exhausted, no. But I doubt it would take long for me to fall asleep if I closed my eyes and surrendered to a pillow,” she quipped.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said, heading to the loo to relieve his strained bladder. She heard the tell-tale flush, then the rush of the faucet, and a moment later he was off to the kitchen for another glass of water.

“Draco, I’ve been thinking,” she began.

“Alert the media!” he teased.

“Shut it. I’m being serious here,” she scolded.

“Sorry. My natural wit and sarcasm seem to be aching to make an appearance,” he explained. “Can’t seem to help myself.” His wry grin told her that there was no threat or cruelty in his commentary.

Hermione rolled her eyes – again – and flicked her gaze to the chair, encouraging him silently to have a seat. He caught her hint and obliged.

“What were you thinking about, Granger?”

“Our sleeping arrangements for the night.”

“Ah. Yes. I guess it’s time we deal with that, isn’t it?” he prompted.

“Here’s what I’m thinking. It doesn’t appear to me that you’ve had any violent urges or tendencies in several hours. The only issues that have been apparent are your headaches when you try to remember things, and your withdrawal symptoms. Am I correct? Is there anything going on that you’ve not told me?” she asked, looking straight into his steel-colored eyes in an attempt to gauge his truthfulness.

“Granger, I’ve been more honest with you in the last twelve hours than I have with anyone in the sum total of my conscious memory.”

She grunted a mirthless laugh and nodded her assent for him to continue.

“I’ve not withheld anything from you, and I’ve told you everything that I understand – and don’t – about what’s been happening to me. If you don’t know it in this moment, then I don’t either.”

“I…I believe you, Draco. Our discussions have been nothing but brutally blunt. I’d be lying if I said I trusted you even moderately, but I think you have been as honest with me as you are capable of being, considering what you don’t know about how the potions or spells have really affected you.”

He waited for her to continue, desperately curious about where she was headed with this entire preamble. He guessed she was trying to delay the inevitable in sharing with him her conclusion.

“I’ve decided,” she breathed, “that we will share the bed tonight, with a couple of conditions.”

He concluded that keeping his mouth shut at the moment was the most prudent course, so again he waited for her to speak. He met her eyes once more.

“First, we will both remain fully clothed, except for shoes.”

“Agreed.”

“Second, when I get into the bed, I want at least one layer of sheet or blanket between us.”

“Fine.”

“Third, you will not touch me in any way.”

“Not intentionally.”

“Not at all, Malfoy.”

“Granger, I can’t control whether I roll over in my sleep. I might accidently bump into you, or toss my arm so that it touches you. For that matter, you could be the one who bumps into me,” he argued, not unreasonably.

“Well, I suppose that’s technically true. But do your best to stay on your own side of the bed.”

“I promise.”

“One final thing, Malfoy.”

“What’s that?”

“If for some reason I get, um, uncomfortable with your presence during the night, I would ask that you do the gentlemanly thing and leave the room.”

“I suppose that’s fair, as long as you don’t kick me out just because I snore,” he assented, adding just the tiniest bit of humor.

“If you’re not any louder than Ginny, we’ll be alright,” she offered.

“Since I have no frame of reference, I guess I’ll need to trust your judgment on that one, Granger.”

“That you will, Malfoy,” she replied. “Now, how about we get organized? I feel like I’m starting to fade, so if you’d help me to the bathroom, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” he agreed, stepping to her side to lift her from the sofa.

“I’d like to try to stand again, I think. Could you just help me get to my feet first?”

“Whatever you want, if you think you’re strong enough.”

“I won’t know until I try, but I do feel a little better,” she admitted.

“That’s good. I’m glad to hear it,” he told her, genuinely.

Draco wrapped his arms around her back, hooking them through her armpits to lift her. He waited until she found purchase with her feet, both of them aware and slightly uncomfortable at the other’s proximity. For some reason, it felt different and more intimate than being lifted, almost like an embrace. “Okay? Do you want to try a step or two?”

She nodded, feeling that her knees and hips were solidly aligned. Putting one foot ahead of the other, she moved about a half meter with Draco supporting her while stepping backwards. “Oooh, feeling a little lightheaded,” she mumbled.

Draco shifted immediately, bringing one arm under her knees and sweeping her up into his arms with a speed she hadn’t expected. “I’ve got you.”

Hermione nodded again, resting her head lightly against his chest. “I’m sorry, I thought I was ready.”

“No problem, Granger. I’ll carry you to the loo and get you settled, then you can call me back when you want me to put you in bed.”

“That’s good. Fine.”

In five long strides, Draco had entered the bathroom and settled Hermione near the toilet. He avoided eye contact, but asked the question, “Do you need my help with your sweats?”

“I think I can handle it if you just help me sit. I can shimmy them off,” she assured him.

“Okay, if you think so.”

“Mmmhmm. I’ll be fine. I’ll need your help to wash my hands after, though.”

“Sure. Just call out when you’re done.” He settled her in place and left to give her some privacy, hearing the snick of the catch as he closed the door behind him.

Rather than wait just outside the door, he went back to the sitting room and stoked the fireplace with two more large logs, hoping that would be sufficient for the night. He remembered then about all the water he’d consumed, and had no doubt that he’d have to get up in the middle of the night to relieve himself; he’d check the status of the fire then.

He grabbed the blanket that Hermione had left on the sofa and went into the bedroom to add it to the pile of linens along with the cloak that he’d draped over the chair hours earlier. The bedroom was quite chilly, but would probably be tolerable once they got under the blankets, he hoped. An old-fashioned bed warmer would even be welcome on a night like this. Or a warming charm. Once again, he lamented the loss of his wand.

He considered turning down the bed, but thought better of it, deciding it would be more prudent to keep the sheets as warm as possible rather than expose them to the cold air. He heard the toilet flush a moment later, and waited a few more seconds for Hermione’s voice to ring out.

“Draco!” she called.

“Be right there.”

He opened the door to find her seated, once again fully clothed, on the toilet and awaiting his aid to move to the sink. Two steps and one scoop later had her standing, supported lightly by him, against the counter.

Hermione turned on the tap, both hot and cold by force of habit, and cleaned her hands. “What I wouldn’t give for a toothbrush,” she moaned.

“I’m with you there, Granger. I’ll make a deal with you – I won’t breathe on you if you don’t breathe on me,” he teased.

Her lips tightened into something that resembled a smile; it was as if she didn’t want to show her teeth. “Hey, in all those linens, was there a small washcloth or something?”

“I don’t remember any washcloths, but I think there was a small hand towel. Why?” he wondered.

“If you can manage to tear it in half somehow, we could wet it and have something to scrub against teeth and gums. It would be better than nothing.”

“That’s not a horrible idea, Granger. Do you think you can balance here for just a minute while I dash to the other bathroom?”

At her nod, he sped to the smaller en-suite and retrieved the item he’d remembered. It was pretty worn, which would make it relatively easy to rend.

He reentered the bath where Hermione waited for him with the two halves held up for her inspection. “Take your pick, white or white?”

She smirked and reached for the cloth in his right hand. “Thanks.” After wetting the fabric and wringing out the excess water, Hermione wrapped it around her forefinger and scrubbed it along her teeth and gums, then scooped a handful of cold water into her mouth as a make-shift rinse.

“That’s a little better,” she pronounced.

“I’m sure it is. I’ll do the same once I get you settled in the bed,” he noted.

“I’m ready.”

He bent to tuck an arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her back, lifting her without strain, and set her down a few steps later beside the bed. “I’ll just turn down the blankets so you can get in.”

Draco helped her to settle in as comfortably as she was able, and gave her an extra pillow. “For your legs, if you still want to elevate them a little,” he explained.

“Thanks, that couldn’t hurt.”

“Okay. I’m going to go get cleaned up, and I’ll be back in a moment. Need anything else when I come back?” he questioned.

“No, I think I’m good.”

He nodded and went to tend to his needs in the bathroom, leaving her to snuggle in to the sheets and blankets.

When he returned about ten minutes later, she was clearly on the cusp of sleep, but mumbled a “G’night” as he sat on the side of the bed. True to his agreement, he made sure that a layer of sheets separated them, and he turned on his side facing away from the woman who would share the room with him for the night. Five minutes later, Draco was deeply slumbering while the wind howled and the snow piled up outside.

The meeting began fifteen minutes later than scheduled, due to the late arrival of two senior Aurors who had escorted a captured Death Eater to a holding cell in Leeds, pending his transfer to Azkaban. The expected contingent of ten was now present, each participant with an important part to play in the upcoming offensive. Now that the last Horcrux – save Nagini – had been located and destroyed, they were ready to try to put an end to this senseless, devastating conflict once and for all.

Hermione had begged to be part of this planning meeting; her role in the war had been strategic and focused almost solely on the Horcrux destruction mission, and now she was itching to get into the final battle planning. It wasn’t that she’d felt unimportant in her assignment – she knew its critical value – but she wanted to be able to say she’d truly been part of the fight. This was her chance.

The meeting had been convened for all of twenty minutes when the property that they’d believed unplottable and the door that they’d thought so securely warded had been breached by eight Death Eaters. How they had discovered their location was a complete mystery, but one that would have to go unsolved. For the moment, they were fighting for their lives. The ruthlessness of the raiding party was evident when they started their attack with Avada Kedavra spells, immediately killing four of the meeting participants in the close-quarter venue. The surviving Light officers fought back with enough force to dispatch two of their attackers, but while they were now evenly matched in numbers, they were not quite as ruthless and thus less likely to use Unforgiveable, deadly spells, regardless of the restrictions having been lifted by the Ministry-in-Exile for soldiers in battle. The only thing that saved the remaining group members was the pronouncement of one of the Death Eaters, obviously someone who was a leader of this team.

“Bind and silence them. These are senior strategists. We need some of them alive,” he’d shouted.

Just moments later, the six survivors had been stripped of their wands, captured, and transported to a cold, damp, and pitch dark dungeon. They were separated into individual cells; this was undoubtedly a substantial facility. One by one, each of them was removed to an interrogation room and subjected to intense questioning, torture, and beatings. They had all been trained to withstand such treatment and had, thus far, successfully resisted their captors’ efforts to uncover the Order’s next moves.

It had been two days since they’d been brought to this facility, and each of them had been interrogated at least three times. It was clear that their captors were growing frustrated and impatient. The meager rations they’d been served on the first day had been limited to water now, and the violence level in their sessions had amped up significantly. It appeared they did not have access or supply of Veritaserum, as it had not been used. The other alternative – that they simply enjoyed torturing the information out of their captives – was too ridiculous to entertain, given the time constraints that the final stages of war had placed on all of them.

Hermione Granger had survived the initial battle, and had been questioned – by former year-mate Draco Malfoy, no less – three times without revealing any useful intelligence. It helped that the group had only begun their discussion of the final offensive they’d gathered to plan; there really wasn’t much to tell. On the morning of the third day, as near as she could tell, Draco came to her cell one more time, intent on getting her to talk, or she’d feel his wrath.

“Let’s go, Mudblood. You and I have some chatting to do,” he sneered, grabbing her by the arm and tugging so hard she feared it might have dislocated. Despite the fact that she’d been beaten once and tortured with the Cruciatus twice already, Hermione was not in terrible condition at the moment. One of the hooded women who’d brought them food had healed her wounds and given her a potion that minimized some of the effects of Draco’s powerful “Crucio.” She didn’t know why. Maybe they didn’t want to kill them until they were absolutely certain they couldn’t pry any information out of them; maybe they needed to prove their captives were still alive as part of some extortion or prisoner exchange scheme. Hermione had no idea, but she was glad of the respite. She had a sinking feeling that her reprieve was not to last.

Draco wrenched her arm again, and tossed her into a room that she’d seen before, during her second interrogation. This chamber had no iron bars, just four stone walls broken only by a thick wooden door. It was many meters away from the main corridor of cells, and any screaming she might do here would not be heard. She fell heavily against the floor, bruising her ribs and shoulder; she could do nothing to break her fall with her wrists bound tightly behind her back. She tried not to cry out, refusing to fuel Malfoy’s bloodlust.

“Not so much a know-it-all now, Mudblood. Filthy piece of scum,” he taunted, kicking at her already injured ribs, causing her to wheeze involuntarily as air rushed out of her lungs. “If you won’t tell me what I want to know, you will pay the price. And it will be dear.” He chuckled, and it sounded anything but funny. He knelt on one knee, drawing his face within centimeters of hers. “Are you ready to talk, Mudblood?”

“I have nothing to tell you, Malfoy.”

“Is that your final answer, Mudblood?” he jeered, seemingly enjoying the taunt. She wondered if he wasn’t glad that the information he wanted was not forthcoming.

“You know it is, Malfoy.”

“Then I guess it’s time I really teach you a lesson about what happens to little Mudbloods who don’t do as they’re told. Silencio! Evanesco!”

She gasped soundlessly as her clothing vanished before her eyes. She felt sick to her stomach, anticipating what was likely to happen; they’d not tried this tactic on her yet, but she always knew it was a possibility. She tried to close her eyes, not wanting to see what was coming, but Draco Malfoy had other things in mind. He cast a spell that forced her eyes to remain open, seeing, and aware. He planned for her to witness her own defilement at his hands.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she mouthed, “No, Malfoy, please.” Of course, her words were not heard, and though they were plain enough to understand, went ignored by the man who was so clearly intent on “punishing” her.

His own clothing disappeared in a matter of seconds as he quickly tore the garments from his own body. She was stunned to see how erect, how red and angry, he was. “Oh, Merlin,” she thought, “he gets off on this. I’m in deep shit now.”

Draco had freed her hands because their position behind her back made it harder for him to gain the leverage he wanted, but immediately bound them again in front of her body. He wasn’t at all concerned that he couldn’t control her, having such an enormous height and weight advantage over her. He tossed his wand aside in favor of a more hands-on approach, and grasped both of her small hands in one of his, stretching them up over her head. He wasn’t even really concerned that she might manage to get in a scratch or two; that would stoke his anger and make his experience more… intense. He would punish her as she deserved, and take his pleasure from it.

He started by pummeling her with closed fists wherever he could reach on her squirming, twisting body. Stomach, face, hips, legs, breasts. Her mouth was open in a raw expression of pain, and it made him even harder. He bit her, drawing blood in several places. Shoulder, nipples, wrist, tongue. The last swelled immediately as he tasted her blood in his mouth. He spat it out, but again it spurred his bloodlust on. His legs – his knees – pinned hers to the floor no matter how much she tried to twist and kick. He split his knees apart, pushing hers wide with the action. He levered his hips and pushed viciously into her dry, unwilling vagina, tearing both the entrance and the canal with the ferocity of his thrust. She felt the rip of her tender skin, and screamed silently at the incredible agony. He didn’t care; he was so intent on his end. He thrust again, and again, and again, filling her with his thick, hot length, sheathing it to the hilt. One hand had wrapped around her throat and he squeezed, not hard enough to kill her, yet, but enough to leave the mark of his hand and to cause her vision to dim. There was still no mercy in his movement. He sped on, now holding her arms high above her head again as he tore her apart over and over, his way slickened by the volume of blood that now coated his penis and flowed freely from her injury. He latched on to her right breast with his mouth and bit down hard as two more brutal strokes took him to a shuddering climax, buttocks clenching as he spilled his seed deep inside her.

He rolled off, apparently lost for a moment in his own fog of euphoria. Hermione, drifting in and out of consciousness, didn’t hear the door open behind them, but did note the shocked intake of breath from the woman who’d entered the room. “Oh, Merlin, no,” she whispered, and cast a spell at the girl bleeding on the floor. “Finite Incantatem.”

“We can’t wait. Now!” another voice said, and a black cloak fluttered down to cover the spent man and his victim.

“NOOOOO!” she screamed at full volume, waking him in an instant.

“What? What happened?” he asked, his voice confused and thick with sleep.

“NOOOOO!” she screamed again, tears coursing down her cheeks.

As he looked at her, it seemed that maybe she wasn’t awake. She was dreaming. Obviously it was a nightmare, and a bad one at that. Oh Merlin, he thought, is she dreaming about what happened? About when I raped her? What do I do? Shit! What do I do? He wrestled with whether to wake her or let her be. Would she interpret him waking her as an attack?

The decision was taken from him mere seconds later when Hermione’s eye flashed open to meet his own. It would have been difficult for an observer to tell whose were more frightened.

“YOU!?” she shrieked, scrambling away on the bed so much that he feared she might go over the edge. It was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out to grasp her arm, but knew immediately that it would only make the situation worse. Just the look in his eyes that said he’d considered the possibility set her off, and she let loose a blood-curdling scream that might have cracked crystal, had there been any present in their forest hideaway. “AAAHHHHH! NOOOO!”

“Wait, Hermione, please. I’m not going to hurt you,” his voice shook with regret and pleading.

“YOU! You raped me! Don’t touch me! Get OUT!” Terror was evident on her face and in her body. She had curled up tightly into a protective ball, eyes wide and staring. She rocked back and forth and hugged her knees to her chest. Even though she was looking at him, she didn’t seem to really see Draco. It was almost as if she was looking through him, at the image she’d last seen in her nightmare – her memory – of his assault.

Thinking that it would probably be a good idea to not be in the same bed with her for the moment, Draco slowly and quietly lifted the linens and placed his feet on the floor. He would back away, he thought, and give her time to recover from the traumatizing dream that had shocked her into wakefulness.

“It’s alright, Hermione. I’m leaving you alone. I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly, as if to say “Are you nuts?” and went back to rocking, a blank gaze now her only expression. She was murmuring, “No, let this be a dream. This can’t be real. Please, Merlin, no.” Another shriek of “NOOOO!” rent the air seconds later as she fully came to terms with the fact that her dream was the memory of the events immediately preceding their arrival at the remote cottage.

While Hermione seemed to be stuck in that living nightmare, Draco was in the midst of a crisis of his own. Despair at having caused someone such deep anguish was a new feeling, and one he could not say he relished. His gut was churning as he thought about the pure panic he’d seen on her face and heard in her screams. I caused that, he thought. I did that to her. He groaned deeply, unfathomable shame bubbling up in his throat. He sunk to his knees in front of the hearth and folded over onto himself until his forehead touched the floor.

She would carry the burden of that horrible experience for her entire life. And he would carry the burden having been the cause of her pain. He wondered, How many others? He would probably never know. He couldn’t bear to know. How many lives have I ruined? How many lives have I ended? What kind of beast does this? Why should I walk the earth while they lie in their graves – or worse – didn’t even receive that small dignity because of my brutality and callousness? It hadn’t even registered that he was sobbing until he couldn’t breathe through his bitter tears. “I’m so sorry, Granger, so desperately sorry. I can’t believe that I did that to you, that I’ve reduced you to this,” he whispered to the night. “I wish I’d never been born. I wish I could die. I deserve it after what I’ve done.”

Maybe that’s it, he thought, the solution that puts everything right. I could just walk out into the storm, lie down in the snow, and never wake up again. She would never have to look at me again and know that the person who had raped her still walked free. I wouldn’t have to look at her and live with what I’ve done to her, and Merlin knows how many others. I don’t know how I can ever live with what I done and what I’ve become.

He rose to his knees and swiped his sleeve across his face, drying his tears and wiping his nose, a grim resolve overtaking his shame. Draco Malfoy may have taken the selfish, cowardly route for most of his life, but tonight he would do something that would put another person’s needs before his own. With more determination than he could ever recall, he took to his feet and moved briskly toward the cottage’s front door. He grasped the handle, hesitating for only a fraction of a second. As he turned the knob and wrenched the door open, he heard yet another sob and whimper come from the bedroom where his victim had relived her ordeal.

Was she calling for him? Did she need him? Was it more cowardly to stay, or to go? He would let her decide.

“Draco.”