Hermione averted her eyes as she took her usual seat. If Harry had noticed anything unusual about her demeanor since she’d arrived (and she was certain that he probably had), to his credit he hadn’t said anything.

Once Ron was gone, she knew, it would be a different story altogether.

Ron was as boisterous as usual, hailing the waitress for them and flirting heavily with her. The waitress had served them nearly every day they’d been coming here for lunch, so she was used to his flirting. Sometimes she scoffed at him, sometimes she even returned the flirting – but for the most part, she handled him with cool indifference.

Once they had ordered and the waitress was gone, Ron turned to Hermione. She braced herself – he’d probably be pleading Adam’s case again, she thought with a sigh.

“What’s wrong, Ninny?” he asked, his eyes filling with concern. She blinked in surprise. Ron only called her Ninny when he was teasing her, or when he was genuinely worried about her. Harry turned interested eyes to her as well, and she cast her eyes down at the table.

“Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Harry replied softly.

“Nothing that I want to talk about right now,” she amended, fingering her napkin.

“Is it anything we can help with?” Ron persisted. She shook her head.

“No – I’ve got to handle it alone.” The words were like a slap in the face to Harry, who recoiled as though she’d actually physically hit him. He blinked several times, and then smiled vaguely at the waitress as she placed his meal in front of him.

For the rest of the meal, Ron prattled on about his next match and the blonde witch he’d met the day before. Hermione tried to pay attention, offering him weak smiles of encouragement as he spoke. When it was clear to him that neither Harry nor Hermione were in a mood to talk, he heaved a sigh.

“All right,” he said, throwing his hands up in the air. “Floo me when the two of you are ready to be happy again.” He left the table, and Hermione watched as he went to the bar to pay their bill. Harry focused his penetrating gaze on her.

“Please don’t, Harry,” she said softly, feeling his eyes bore into her. “I just can’t talk about it right now.”

“All right – but you know that when you’re ready, I’m here for you.” He rose and went to tell Ron goodbye. While they both had their backs turned, Hermione fled the restaurant.

Once she was safe inside of her own flat again, she could breathe easier. What in the hell was she doing? She massaged her temple gently, squeezing her eyes shut against the images that had consumed her mind all morning.

Malfoy’s face above her. Malfoy biting her. Malfoy’s tender kisses on her neck… she groaned in frustration and flopped down on her sofa. She had let him inside twice now – once inside the bookshop, and once last week in her own flat! Surely she’d lost her mind.

She hadn’t heard from him since the morning that he’d left, and it had been eight days since then. She’d been so sure that he’d return – she’d cleaned her flat from top to bottom and was scrubbing the toilet when she realized what she was doing. She was cleaning for Malfoy! She’d dropped her washcloth and taken another scalding shower, trying to cleanse herself.

She couldn’t deny that she’d enjoyed their trysts; she had enjoyed them, more than she wanted to admit to herself. The problem was that once he was gone and the thing was done, she always felt dirty, somehow.

Who knew, maybe he was just doing it to bring her down a notch – knock her down off of her pedestal of purity. She snorted at this thought. It sounded so much like something he’d say that it frightened her that she’d even thought it. She glanced around the room, and then rubbed her eyes.

What she needed was to get out.

Once she was strolling down the streets of Hogsmeade, she began to feel better. He couldn’t get to her here even if he wanted to – it would mean publicly acknowledging her, and she felt fairly certain that that was something that he would never do.

She stopped and peered into a shop window, gazing longingly at the new style of robes that had just arrived. She’d never been a ‘girly-girl’ (or so Harry called them) – a girl who liked to shop, and have their hair and nails done, and so on – but for some reason as of late, she’d discovered that she rather enjoyed looking at the new robes that came out.

Perhaps it was simply because the state of her own robes was rather sad at the moment. She glanced down at herself, grimacing when she noticed the tattered hem of the garment. In the next instant, she was inside the shop, browsing through a rack of fashionable robes.

“May I help you, Miss?”

“No, thank you,” Hermione returned politely. She found a particularly lovely robe; the shade was a dusky rose. She glanced at the price tag and nearly fainted. “Excuse me – is this correct?”

The saleswitch looked at the tag and smiled as she nodded. “Fashion comes at a price,” she said. “It costs money to look good.”

“Right,” Hermione breathed, sighing. When the saleswitch had gone, Hermione cast a final longing look at the robe, and then headed towards the front door. Before she reached it, however, something tugged at the back of her mind. She stopped mid-step and glanced around.

Something was wrong here.

She couldn’t see anything amiss, but she could feel her pulse rising. She knew that she was in danger, even if the danger was invisible to her. She turned and fled the shop, ignoring the startled looks the other customers shot in her direction.

She didn’t stop running until she had put a good distance between herself and the shop. When she stopped, she doubled over and tried to catch her breath. When her nostrils filled with a familiar spicy scent, she stood up and looked around, panicked.

That was when an arm appeared out of thin air.

A hand clamped over her mouth, preventing her scream from escaping, and she was pulled backwards until her back was pressed against something warm.

“Hold on,” the voice commanded. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that it wasn’t who she thought it was – even though she knew better. No one else she knew could afford that expensive cologne, and he always smelled as though he’d bathed in it.

In the next instant, they were inside her flat, and he’d released her. She turned and glared at him, hoping he’d get the message that he wasn’t wanted there.

“Don’t I even get a thank you?”

“For what?” she snapped. “Kidnapping me?”

“Firstly, it’s not kidnapping if I take you to your own home,” he said coolly, glancing around with disdain evident on his face. “No matter how unpleasant it may be. Secondly, I expect a thank you for saving you.”

“Saving me?” she echoed incredulously. “From what?”

“From whatever you were in such a damned hurry to get away from.” She stared at him.

Right – she’d been running. She’d almost forgotten.

“Oh,” she breathed, frowning. “Well… thank you, I suppose. Now get out!” she pointed towards the door to emphasize her words.

He stared at her, his eyes slowly narrowing into tiny slits. “What’s the matter – didn’t you miss me?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she shot back, her arm dropping to her side. “How could I miss someone like you?”

He took a step towards her, expecting her to shrink away, but she stood her ground.

“What happened last week is not going to happen again,” she asserted, averting her eyes.

“Feeling guilty about it, are we?” he asked, his voice dripping with distaste. When her cheeks flushed scarlet, he knew he’d struck a nerve.

“I know you don’t understand it,” she began, shaking her head. “But they’re my friends, Malfoy. And I don’t like lying to them. About anything.”

“You haven’t told them yet,” he pointed out, his eyes darkening. “So how can it be lying to them?”

“Withholding the truth is just as good as lying,” she shot back, finally meeting his eye. “And besides, why should I bother telling them about it if it’s never going to happen again?”

“Who says it won’t?” he challenged, taking another step forward. She didn’t move.

“I say it won’t.” When he took yet another step, her mask of calmness evaporated. “Why are you doing this? Don’t you have someone better to torture? You’d be ruined if anyone found out about this!”

“As would you,” he said calmly.

“Please.” It was her turn to snort. “You know as well as I do that if anyone ever found out about what had happened, they’d think you forced me, or coerced me somehow. They’d blame you for everything. I’d be made out to be the innocent victim.” He stopped and eyed her thoughtfully.

“You’ve been thinking about this.”

“Yes, of course I have!” she said, the desperation clear in her voice. “I’ve done nothing but think about it for the last eight days!”

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about me,” he said smugly. She launched herself at him, battering his chest with her small fists.

“You arrogant bastard!” she swore, tears welling up in her eyes and blurring her vision. “I’m a Mudblood! A filthy, horrible, dirty-blooded half-breed, remember?” Her tears spilled over. “Why are you doing this? Why do you keep coming back, when we hate each other? I hate you!”

As soon as the words left her lips, she covered his mouth with hers, kissing him so hard that their teeth clacked together. Her hands worked feverishly, yanking his cloak off and dropping it carelessly on the floor. His shirt was the next thing to go – she tugged on it so hard that his buttons went flying everywhere. He made no noise of protest, and simply let her unzip his carefully pressed slacks, watching as she pushed them down around his ankles.

She made short work of her own clothes, shrugging out of her clean but wrinkled navy slacks and tugging her jumper over her head. His thumbs hooked beneath the elastic of her worn knickers, and with one tug they were gone. When there were no barriers left between them, she pressed against him and lifted one leg to wrap around his waist.

His hands gripped her bum, lifting her so that both legs were wrapped around him, and he slammed her into a wall. An animalistic grunt escaped her; a result of having her back pounded against the wall as he drove into her. His thrusts reached a fevered pace, and almost immediately, stars appeared behind her closed eyelids. She moaned as he spilled himself inside of her; her fingers were still locked in a death grip on his shoulders.

She dropped her legs, surprised at how wobbly they felt beneath her, and refused to meet his eyes. She was ashamed of her wanton behavior; ashamed at the words she’d thrown at him like weapons. She couldn’t find her voice to apologize, though in any case it seemed unnecessary, since he was pulling his clothes back on as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow him to.

Within moments, he was gone again, leaving a very confused Hermione in his wake.

The next morning, Hermione awoke with a pounding headache. She stumbled into the loo and retrieved a soothing potion from her medicine cabinet, sighing with relief as soon as the liquid entered her system.

She weaved her way into the kitchen and began brewing a pot of coffee. She was pouring a cup of the hot liquid when a tap on the window startled her, causing her to pour some out on the counter top. Cursing softly, she replaced the coffee pot and hurried to the window, where a black owl waited. The creature held out its leg, waiting impatiently for Hermione to take the small parcel it carried.

She watched the owl fly away with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Solid black owls were rare and costly, so she felt certain that she knew who the parcel was from. When the bird had disappeared from sight, she turned her attention to the parcel. She unwrapped it slowly, remembering the last gift he’d given her – it was shoved deep beneath her bed.

She unfolded the letter first, ignoring the soft brown package that had been attached to it.

To replace what I damaged.

She frowned at the note, recognizing his neat scrawl, and wondered what he thought he’d damaged. She picked up the soft package and opened it, her eyes widening as she stared at the scrap of bright pink in front of her.

A pair of silk knickers.

She lifted the fabric and examined it. To her surprise, they were somewhat modest, and looked almost exactly like the ones she’d been wearing the night before – except that the ones she’d worn yesterday had been made of cotton, not the sinfully soft silk that she was staring at.

She frowned to herself. Why would he care that he had ruined her knickers? Anger washed over her when she realized that perhaps it was an invitation to wear them for his next visit. How dare he be so presumptuous!

Her anger became tinged with despair when she realized that she wanted him to visit her again.

And again.

And again.