CH-35

Finally, she voices her question. "Can I practice on you?"

"What?" I say, surprised.

"It's just… I haven't ever practiced on anyone with any skill in Occlumency. Harry learned a little, but he's no good at it, and I—"

I shake my head. "Granger, don't worry. Potter's better than Rowle at Occlumency. You'll be able to get into his head just fine."

"But I just want—"

I shake my head again. "You're not getting into my head, Granger," I say firmly.

She points her wand at me. "Legilimens!"

I immediately shut down my mind, giving her no entrance. There is no way that she will ever look into my thoughts. I don't care that I'm capable enough of defending the most important memories from her. I will not let her into my head. I've drawn myself a line, and this is it. She can control my actions. Toy with my body, my heart, my soul. But she will not know my thoughts.

Her attempts to pry her way into my mind tickle more than hurt me. I can feel when she's given up.

"You really are a very skilled Occlumens," she says.

I grin. "Obviously. Otherwise, would I dare cross the Dark Lord?"

She sighs. "Well, I'll be interrogating Rowle in two days. I'm busy brewing a plethora of potions at the moment, and I can't be gone from headquarters for more than an hour at a time."

"Go on back, then," I say. "You've already been here a while."

She nods. "Yes, I should go."

She walks past me slowly, and a moment later I hear the pop of her Disapparition.

Sighing, I make my way over to the couch and sit down. Then I feel the charm burning me through my shirt and pick it up to look at it.

My initials slowly vanish, replaced by the words, "Thank you", in small script.

I can only stare at the charm, dumbfounded. My chest feels incredibly warm, and this inexplicable happiness bubbles up inside me. Bloody hell. I repress the emotion, still unable to take my eyes off the tiny words. Finally, I cover them up with a finger and force my eyes shut.

What have I done to deserve this?

I'm not supposed to be emotional. Emotion generates weakness. Malfoys are strong, authoritative, detached, clever—not emotional.

Never emotional.

Hermione Granger. Hermione. I wish I could call her that. Not Mudblood Granger, not Know-It-All Granger, not Prude Granger. Not Granger. Hermione.

What has she done to me? What have I done to myself?

Fuck.

I'm absentmindedly stirring an Antidote for Uncommon Poisons when I look up at the clock and realize that it's already almost half past three. I turn to the only other person in the kitchen.

"Ginny, can you look after the potions while I go out? Malfoy asked me to meet him, so maybe I can finally get some information on prisoners."

"Sure," she replies, getting to her feet. She'd been sitting beside George's stretcher, bouncing pebbles off the opposite wall.

"Thanks."

I exit the kitchen, pause to tell Harry that I'm leaving, and depart from Grimmauld Place.

He's pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table when I arrive. He doesn't even notice my presence, and I take the opportunity to get a good look at him. His white-blond hair is a little messy, but his overall appearance is as immaculate as usual. He doesn't have his cloak on, and his button-up oxford shirt is very flattering.

"Malfoy," I say to get his attention.

He stops and turns to look at me. "Granger. I heard about what happened at Bristol."

"Heard about it?" I repeat. "Then you weren't there."

He shakes his head. "No. How's the Order?"

I probably shouldn't tell him the details. Powerful Occlumens or not, he shouldn't know too much about the Order. After all, we know that there's a traitor. Then again, he didn't know anything from our side about our planned attack on Bristol, so it couldn't be him… could it?

"We're all right," I say. "We think there's a traitor. Do you have any idea who it could be?"

"Sorry, no," he says.

Disappointment.

"But I can help you narrow it down," he continues. "The traitor had to have known about your plans to attack us at the Leaky Cauldron and Bristol, but they can't have known about Nottingham. If they did, I'm sure Voldemort would have known, and it wouldn't have been so successful for you."

Yes, that's true. Who could that be? All of the people who were immediately informed about Nottingham can probably be eliminated. Lupin, Tonks, McGonagall, and everyone who was staying at Grimmauld Place or Shell Cottage at the time should be fine.

I frown. Who didn't participate in the fight at Nottingham? Some of the professors have been gone for some time, but I highly doubt it could have been any of them. Vector, Sinistra, Trelawney… I have the highest respect for all of them—except maybe Trelawney, but that's beside the point—and I doubt that any one of them would have betrayed us.

Then Malfoy's voice interrupts my thoughts, "After Nottingham, I'm sure Voldemort will suspect that you've got a spy in his forces."

I look up to see that he's turned his back to me. "Will you be all right?" I ask.

"I'll be fine," he says after a short pause.

"Some of our people might have been captured at Bristol," I say. "Do you know—"

"I can't help you with prisoners," he says, knowing my intention before I can voice it.

"But… Blaise still hasn't returned. I think he might be with the others."

He turns back around to face me, and that smirk is back on his face. "What, you think I'll risk my neck for the 'friend' who gave me this?"

He rips his shirt open, and buttons clatter to the ground. I hiss involuntarily and take a step back. I stare, transfixed, at the long, ugly scar that mars his otherwise perfectly sculpted chest. I remember the twisted scar that ran across Blaise's back. It doesn't look as thick or long as this one—Malfoy's scar seems to extend lower, under the part of the shirt that he hasn't ripped apart.

"Yours… it looks worse than his."

I start walking toward him, and his eyes burn into me, watching my movements.

"Granger, what are you doing?"

I don't answer, just maintain my pace until I'm right in front of him. I look into his eyes again, wondering just how much it must have hurt to have a gash like this one inflicted upon him by his best friend.

I look back down at his chest, studying the way that his flesh grew back together and healed. Suddenly, I have a desire to heal the emotional pain that this wound left behind. His right hand begins to lift up, and I instinctively grab his wrist, holding his hand in place. To my surprise, he doesn't resist or shy away from the contact.

Slowly, I reach out my right hand and lightly brush the top of his scar. He takes a sharp breath, and my hand jerks back automatically. I can't have hurt him—physically, this scar healed years ago. I glance back up, hoping to see those silver eyes, but they're closed.

For some reason, I'm fascinated. I want to push him, see what he'll let me do to him before he reverts to calling me a filthy Mudblood. I want to know more about this new, civil Malfoy. Then maybe he won't seem as intimidating.

I trace his scar, feeling the rough, bumpy texture beneath my fingers. He shudders just slightly, and a thrill courses through me. Then his left hand wraps around my wrist, preventing me from moving any farther along the scar.

I glance up at him and watch as he swallows. I've never had this effect on him before, have I? He's clearly strongly influenced by me, at least right now. Surely, if the rumors at Hogwarts are to be believed, a girl has touched his chest before. What makes me so different?

No! My mind shies away from the possibility before I can think it.

"Malfoy," I say quietly, trying to get him to open his eyes. I want to see them, use them to get a clue to his thoughts or emotions.

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