:::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.
