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Chapter Text

It all happened very quickly, objectively speaking. One minute Granger was screaming on the floor of the purple sitting room, and then her friends were there, and then gone, and then Draco, in a gesture both inexplicable and somehow inevitable, was reaching down to take hold of her ankle.

It all happened very quickly but in the months and years that followed Draco would play it over again in his head so many times and in such detail that those brief seconds seemed to stretch. Each breath he took was its own little scene, and each scene was eternal. The whole thing took four breaths.

One: Granger was screaming.

Draco had seen people tortured before. He had been tortured before. He had done the torturing. He knew how to turn off the sounds, make the inside of his mind white and blank and still. He knew how to not pay attention. But Granger was screaming. She was screaming and one of her feet (clad in a filthy pair of some kind of soft, off-white muggle shoe) was caught under the larger of the brocade sofas. She kept kicking it in time with her screams, and the little tassels danced and Draco’s mind was the opposite of still. And Granger kept screaming.

Two: there was a bellow from the doorway. The chaos of the room doubled as Potter and Weasley charged in. This space was too small, Draco thought wildly. Mother should have had them in the yellow room – the one on the second floor with the big south-facing windows. It wasn’t civilized, all of them pressed together like this. And the yellow room didn’t have brocade couches, so the tassels wouldn’t be swaying with Granger’s kicks as she tried now to get up. You couldn’t do that after cruciatus, you had to wait until the trembling stopped for your legs to hold you. She fell back then with a soft little noise of frustration, the kind you might make in Transfiguration if you turned your potted rosemary into a red-backed vole instead of a chestnut-cheeked one. Not at all the kind of noise you should make when you are going to die if you cannot stand up, and you cannot stand up. None of them were helping her. Why weren’t they helping her?

Three: Potter snatched Draco’s wand from his hand. In his replays later Draco would question obsessively and furiously: why had his wand already been out? He had not drawn it when the fugitives appeared – he had been gripping it already. Granger had been immobilized, there had been no enemy to fight, but Draco had been armed nonetheless. Father had always told him not to draw his wand if he did not intend to use it, and Draco tried to listen to Father. He did. So then, what had he intended to do as Granger screamed on the floor of the purple sitting room? And also, when Draco would consider this moment between the third and fourth breaths of his memory, he would wonder only a little less obsessively: why was his wand so easy to seize? Potter’s face was so intense, thinner than he remembered, the jaw set and determined, and Draco’s wand jumped from his hand as if it was relieved to go. He looked at Granger. He saw Weasley reach for her as Dobby appeared in the doorway. He saw the four of them make a chain, waited for the crack of apparition with a deep, desperate relief . And he also saw the knife leave Aunt Bella’s hand, saw it knock Dobby backwards even as the three of them vanished, saw the dawning horror on all their faces as Potter

let

go

of

Granger.

And vanished.

Four: Bella shrieked in fury. The chandelier was on the floor, Mother was in the corner with her hands over her ears, Father’s mouth was open and slack with disbelief, and Granger did not scream this time. Not as Draco’s aunt turned her wand on her again, not as the cruciatus curse made her twist and writhe. Draco was on the ground beside her now – he had been knocked over in the commotion. Her foot was very close to him.

Draco had seen people tortured to death. He knew how it would go, knew that the screams would start again before they stopped, before her throat became too hoarse to produce them. He knew that he had to stop feeling it with her. And then Draco’s hand did something strange. Stranger than drawing his wand in a room full of family, stranger than allowing Potter to lift that same wand from his fingers. Draco watched his hand drift as if it belonged to someone else, to the ground and then a little to his left, until it came to rest on Granger’s ankle. On the bare skin between her sock and the bottom of her trousers. That skin was very warm. It burned against his palm.

Draco felt like his chest was being crushed, was being squeezed in a vice. He had watched people tortured to death and he could not watch it happen to her, and he could not stop it. Granger turned her head. Not far, just a fraction, just enough so she could look at him, look into his face. Had they ever, in seven years at Hogwarts, looked at one another like this? Not a sneer or an eye roll to be seen, just Granger’s brown eyes, wide and deep enough to fall right into. Draco was going to faint. The weight on his chest increased tenfold and he tried to let go of her now but his hand was stuck there. It was stuck like she was a portkey and she was pulling him in. Draco turned away. He turned away and into the darkness that was crushing him, was crushing them, because Granger was with him, connected through that burning patch of skin. Granger was with him and somehow they were apparating away from Malfoy Manor, and it was apparition like nothing he had ever felt before. It hurt. It was cold. The weight of it was too much. He would die of this. He would die burning and frozen and crushed, and Granger was with him and she would die too, and so Draco held on. He held on until the darkness spat them out onto cold, wet earth under cold, wet moonlight, and time began again, and only four breaths had passed. Four breaths and Draco’s life would never, ever be the same.

The darkness around them was still and inert, the moonlight filtered through branches above their heads.

Draco staggered to his feet. It was far, far harder than it should have been. He felt as if someone had drained all the strength out of him. “What did you do,” he said. And then again, and louder. “What did you do?!” Granger was on her face on the ground. He could see her shoulders rise and fall with her breathing, but she did not move. Looking down at her tangled, dirty hair and her muggle clothes he could not imagine suddenly why he had cared that she would die. “Answer me!”
“Didn’t do anything,” came her muffled reply. “Thought it was you.”

“Horse shit,” Draco spat. Then, roughly, “Where’s your wand? Where were you hiding it?”

She rolled onto her back then, and he saw that she was bleeding. The chandelier had cut her face, and the knife wound on her forearm was very deep. The blood had run down her wrist and was dripping from her fingers black against her skin, and bits of glass in her curls caught the moonlight and glimmered, and her gaze was frank. Calm. “The snatchers took it,” she said. Her voice only trembled a little.

Draco wanted to give her his handkerchief. He wanted to kick her. “Don’t play games,” he said. “You can’t apperate without a wand. Take it out and send me the fuck back, Granger.”

She closed her eyes. Draco nudged her with his foot. Not a kick. He was too tired for that, but he’d work up to it. He would. But she didn’t open her eyes, and her voice, when she spoke, was steadier than before. “I don’t have a wand, Malfoy. I didn’t do anything. I don’t know how we got here or where we are. I don’t know how to find the others, and I don’t know how to send you back.”

She shook her head. It looked like it cost her, to do that.

The silence that followed was awful. It was awful because it was not silence. Because Draco could hear, in the woods around them, all kinds of creakings and rustlings. Because the wind had picked up and was finding its way through all the gaps in Draco’s clothing, and it carried with it a fine mist of water droplets, and somewhere Merlin knew how far away the Dark Lord was descending on Malfoy Manor and Draco’s family, and Draco wasn’t there.

“Help,” Draco whispered. He backed a heavy step away from the prone figure on the forest floor, then another. Then he had turned on his heel and was staggering away from her, shouting into the darkness: “Help! Help, is anyone there?!” They were in a ditch, he thought. Just a ditch, that was all, and in a few steps he would be stumbling onto a quaint little lane, and there would be the Parkinson’s manor, or even Knott’s townhouse, and he could floo home, he could fix this.

Branches slapped Draco’s face as he picked up the pace, less a walk now and more a faltering jog. His whole body protested. The branches were rough and wet, and he tasted blood, and every second he wasted here was a second closer to his mother being tortured, and still all he wanted to do was lie down in the leaves and sleep. “Help!” he screamed. He forced himself to a run now, past some kind of bush with thorns. It caught at him and he tore himself free, stumbling. “Help!” Something caught him again, by the ankle now, and this time he fell hard into a little wet hollow on the ground. There was mud at the bottom, icy and thick. Draco pulled his arms free of it, rolled clear and lay panting on his back in the moonlight, water seeping through his robes.

He could not move. The wild little noises surrounded him again, and Draco knew. This was not a ditch. It was not a tame little forest nook. These trees were too old, too active. He breathed slowly, tried to reconcile himself to the situation, tried not to let the panic take him again. He was lost in the woods. He was wandless. He had no way to return to the manor, to help Mother and Father navigate the confrontation that must be coming with the Dark Lord. He was utterly alone here, except for Granger.

Granger.

Draco turned his head the direction he’d come from. The direction he thought he’d come from. He couldn’t see much, but what he could see all looked exactly the same. Dead leaves and bare branches and deep shadows. “Fuck,” he said. He picked himself heavily off the ground and did not – by some miraculous exertion of will – run screaming in a new direction. He took a deep breath. Then another. He let his mind go empty and white and still. Then he began to walk.

It was a horrible ten minutes later that Draco stopped in a little clearing (for what felt like the fiftieth time) to listen for Granger’s breathing and heard instead her soft voice.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming back.” She had pulled herself to a sitting position and had her back to one of the big, solid trees. If she hadn’t spoken he would never have seen her there. He wanted very much to sit down beside her. Instead he nudged her again with his foot.

“You’re my prisoner,” he said viciously. “You didn’t think I’d just let you wander off? I’m going to hand you back to Bella myself as soon as we get out of here.”

Granger didn’t say anything. Draco thought her eyes might be closed again.

“You thought a little crucio was bad?” he asked. “She was just getting warmed up. A few more hours with her and you’ll be begging to talk, Granger.”

Her eyes stayed closed. “Hmm,” she said.

It made Draco feel crazy. “You’ll give them all up,” he hissed at her. “All your filthy Order friends. Potter and Weasel too.”

That did it, of course. Her eyes cracked open. “I don’t know where Harry and Ron went,” was all she said before closing them again.

Draco stared down at Granger. She looked very small. He thought about draping his cloak over her. He thought about taking his handkerchief out and pressing it to the wound on her forearm. He thought about putting his hands in her hair, shaking out the bits of glassy moonlight so they wouldn’t cut her further. He thought about drawing his foot back and kicking her hard, right where her ribs ended. About dragging her to her feet and forcing her to walk…where? “Are you just going to sit there?” he asked.

For a long moment Draco wasn’t sure if she was going to answer. Blood dripped from her fingers, and her hair moved a little in the wind, but she was otherwise utterly still. Then she said. “Yes.”

Draco thought again about all the things he could do. Then he turned and sat down beside her. It was wet in the leaves, but the big tree against their backs cut the wind. Her shoulder was warm. His arms were cold, so he leaned forward to free his cloak, swung it around to cover him. If the edge spilled over onto Granger’s lap, if it offered her a little protection from the rain, well. Things would be much worse for Draco if he let his prisoner die from exposure. He wasn’t going to sleep, he thought. Just let his eyes drift closed for a moment so he could gather his strength. Just a moment.

Things breathed in the trees around them, breathed and scurried and squabbled loudly. But he and Granger were hidden against their tree, tucked together under Draco’s cloak, and he could hear her breathing too. Soft and steady and warm beside him.

Chapter Text

“Draco.”

He was warm. Warm and heavy and slow. He had been on the verge of the deepest sleep of his life, but something in that voice was pulling him back. He frowned.

“Draco.”

He opened his mouth to tell the voice to leave him be, but could not work out how to speak. Everything seemed very far away. He opened his eyes. There was a face in front of him. A thin face surrounded by a golden halo. Draco lifted his arm – why was it so heavy – and touched the face. It did not feel as if he was touching something real.

“Draco,” Granger said again. She did not move his hand away from her face, which was still blurred and strange. She was kneeling in front of him. The halo was her hair, of course, lit now by the sun. It looked very soft. He touched it as well, but could not seem to feel the strands. His fingers were clumsy and did not want to close. “You have to wake up,” she said.

Draco scowled. He was awake. Granger’s face swam into clearer focus. She was very pale, and her lips were touched with blue. “Yer cold,” he mumbled. But it was so warm on the ground. He tried to pull her down; she could be warm as well, if she joined him. But she only made a little grunt of pain and untangled his fist from her hair.

“You have hypothermia,” she said. She sounded very insistent. Very bossy. Draco smiled. “If you don’t get up now you’re going to die here,” she told him. She was shivering. It was all very stupid, Draco thought. If only she would let him sleep…

But she was afraid, he realized. He looked intently into her face, trying to understand. Everything felt so far away. Granger was holding his hands in hers now, rubbing at them, and Draco thought distantly how strange that was.

“Come on,” she muttered. “Focillo.”

Nothing happened.

“Focillo,” Granger whispered again. A warming charm. She seemed quite desperate.

Draco met her eyes and nodded encouragingly. He was very warm already, but if she wanted this so badly…he concentrated on the distant feeling of her hands on his, tried to will the spell to work. He was so tired. Maybe she would let him sleep.

“Focillo,” Granger said, and this time something happened. It wasn’t like casting a spell himself. He didn’t feel the magic gather, didn’t direct it down his arm and shape it with a movement and an incantation. He felt something, certainly, but…it was more like there was a magnet between him and Granger, right at the spot where they touched one another, and it drew the power out of them both. It was almost enough to make Draco properly wake up, except…

It felt as if the charm had burned him. His hands were on fire, and the rest of him was suddenly so desperately cold that he could hardly move. His mind sharpened with the pain.

“Focillo,” Granger said again, and again Draco felt that strange tug, and the warmth – that felt like flames on his frozen skin – swept over them both.

She cast the spell twice more, until they were no longer shivering, and then drew back. Her face, now that he could see it properly, looked different in the morning light. It was thinner than he remembered.

“What the hell was that?” Draco asked. His mouth felt thick still, and his whole body ached. “What did you do?” There was snow on the ground everywhere, he saw now. It had melted against his robes and refrozen into a little skim of ice. Their breath was thick and white in the air.

“Warming charm,” Granger said shortly. “I went for a walk to keep from freezing. When I came back you were like ice.” There was a little more colour in her face now, but she was still very pale. Draco drew his cloak tighter around himself, conscious of how thin her clothing looked. Muggle trousers, a close-fitting, dirty shirt with a thin hood. The shirt had been blue once. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she went on.

Draco shivered. “We will,” he said, trying for vicious but managing to sound only petulant. “As soon as I work out where this damn forest is I’m dragging you by the hair to the nearest road and handing you over to the Dark Lord.”

Granger did not seem perturbed. “I was thinking,” she said. “While I decided whether or not to leave you here. We cast the apparition spell together.”

It was quite possibly the most horrible thing anyone had ever said to Draco. He was on his feet almost before she finished speaking, shoving her hard. She reeled backwards until her back hit the trunk of a tree. Snow thumped down on them. “Shut up!” Draco said. “Shut your filthy mouth!”

Granger just stood there, thin little shoulders squared against the wet wood, hair like a dirty halo around that thin little face. She went on as if he had not spoken.

“I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I can just about cast a lumos without my wand. I couldn’t manage a warming spell before you woke up, and there’s no way I could apparate wandlessly. I only know of two wizards who could ever do that. But the warming spell worked just now. When I was…” she looked down. “touching you.”

Draco stared at her. “That’s nonsense,” he said. “Magic doesn’t work that way. You can’t…pool it together like Galleons.”

This wasn’t entirely true. There were stories of course, of extreme magical compatibility between…well. But this was Granger.

Draco considered for one hysterical moment whether he would prefer to freeze to death in this forest or discover a soul bond between himself and this bushy-haired madwoman. Then he lunged forward and grabbed hold of her wrist, his fingers brushing her pulse, and tried to visualize dragging her magic into himself. He closed his eyes and pictured the Manor. Stepped and turned.

And stumbled on the uneven earth, decidedly still in the forest. He had to hold tight to Granger’s arm to keep from falling. She was looking at him with just the hint of a smile playing about her mouth.

“I tried that when you were sleeping,” she said. “Nothing doing. I think we both have to want it.”

Draco wanted to murder her. He would, as soon as they were back in civilization. He would throw her limp body back on the floor of the manor. He thought briefly of the way she had looked the night before, trembling at his feet, and the thought made him angrier than ever. “Then want it,” he hissed between gritted teeth. “Unless you plan to die out here with me!”

She had not stopped smiling, but now her expression turned serious. “Draco,” she said. “I can offer you shelter, you know.”

He could feel his lip curling, but she didn’t stop.

“I know Dumbledore said the same,” she went on, and Draco could see it again, that awful night at the top of the tower, his heart beating a sick rhythm against his ribs.

“Don’t talk about that,” he said. It came out like a plea, but as he spoke he was walking forward, crowding her, forcing her back against the tree again.

“Fine,” Granger said. She looked up at him, earnest and open and unyielding. “Then I’ll talk about you. I know you don’t want to watch people tortured on your floor any longer. We wouldn’t be here if you did. You aren’t like them. You can be better than this.”

“Shut up,” he whispered, trying to put venom behind it. “I’m not joining your pathetic little rebellion.” She could not move any further back, but still he leaned into her, pressing his body against hers as if he could press the breath out of her lungs, silence her that way. He was still holding her wrist. He seized the other one, then brought them both above her head and pinned them against the tree. Her hands were small and very cold. She shivered and he could feel it through his robes.

“Focillo,” he whispered, and felt again the tug of magic between them. Warmth pooled in his stomach.

Granger, infuriatingly, smiled.

“You can’t even stand to see me chilly,” she said. Then hissed in pain as he ground her wrists against the tree. Then smiled again. “Does that bother you?” she asked. “Do you hate yourself for not being cruel enough? Do you lie awake at night and practice cruciatus at on all the dust mites so you won’t embarrass yourself in front of your father?”

“Shut up!” he shouted.

Granger laughed in his face. “Make me,” she told him.

It didn’t matter that she was cold and thin and dirty. That her hair was tangled and her shirt was torn. That she was going to die like everyone who opposed the dark lord. It didn’t matter because she looked up at Draco and laughed in his face, and nothing had ever filled him with despair and fury and wanting the way that laugh did.

Maybe that was it. Or maybe it was just her proximity, her warmth. Whatever the cause, Draco realized that he was aroused just as, horribly, he felt himself twitch against her hip.

He saw on Granger’s face when she felt it, when she realized. She did not flinch or grimace. Instead she tilted her head to one side and kept looking up at him, that mocking smile still playing across her lips, and Draco felt himself grow harder. There was a considering look on her face – almost a calculating one – when she rolled her hips against him, arched her back so he could feel her breasts through the ragged fabric of her shirt.

Draco swore. He shoved his free hand between them, still holding her arms above her head, and pushed her shirt up, just enough so he could feel the skin of her stomach. Her pulse jumped against his fingers.

He stopped. They were both breathing as heavily as if they had been running. For a second he meant to step back, step out of the sphere of this insanity, but Granger…

Granger stretched up on her toes, her body still arched into his, straining to reach his mouth with hers.

It was the first moment since the snatchers had brought her to the manor that Draco felt in control. Like he had the upper hand. He did not let her kiss him. Instead he let go of her wrists to tangle his hand in her hair, dragged back on it to expose her neck, pressed his mouth to that instead.

But it had been a mistake to let her hands free. Before he had time to think she was sliding them into his robes, and her touch was shockingly gentle. Draco had not been touched like this. Not ever. He and Pansy had fumbled and groped their way through a few evenings back at Hogwarts before everything had gone so thoroughly to shit, but she had clutched at him in a way that had felt claustrophobic. His mother might put a stiff and fleeting hand on his hair every once in a while, but as a rule his parents did not touch. This softness now…he did not know what to do with it.

His own hand was still on Granger’s stomach, almost forgotten, as she ran her fingers lightly over his ribs, stroking and soothing. In an attempt to regain control Draco bore down on her, half pushing, half pulling her to the ground beneath the tree, rolling on top of her and pinning her with his weight, his mouth still on her neck, her shoulder, whatever bare skin he could reach. One of them – he did not know which – whispered a warming charm again, and Draco felt the spell reverberate between them, felt her skin fairly glow with it as the snow beneath her melted.

They did not undress. Not properly. Draco felt half-dazed, not allowing himself to be fully aware of what was happening, only knowing that her skin felt like hot silk against his, that he wanted more of it touching him, more of her softness, her yielding, wanted it and hated it simultaneously.

But there was a moment when they paused. Draco was on his knees between her legs, had leaned back to help tug her trousers further down. The zipper was down on her thin sweater, her breasts just barely contained in a tatty bra, small and neat and perfectly shaped, and he wanted to put his mouth on them. Wanted to put his mouth everywhere on her, really, except that he had not kissed her, would not kiss her.

Then one of her legs – long and bare and smooth – was free, was wrapping around his hip, and he was lowering himself onto her, pushing down and in. There was resistance, and then there was not, there was only the hot, wet grip of her. Draco did not understand how they had gotten here, had gone from baiting one another to this seamless meld in what felt like a single instant. He also did not understand how it had taken them so long.

Granger looked up at him, and her eyes were calm and very large. She was not laughing. She met his eyes and reached for him and said, without a trace of self-consciousness:

“Please.”

Whatever there was of him that her gentleness had not already undone, this word made short work of. Draco groaned. He kissed her. Kissed her and thrust as deep inside her as he could, as if he could bury himself forever in the warmth and strength and softness of her body. Her arms were around his neck and her mouth was open against his, and for those moments as they moved together Draco’s mind was empty. He could feel something building between them the way the magic had. It was like turning into the crushing darkness of apparition, except she was so warm. He had one hand on her jaw, holding her mouth tilted up towards his. The other clutched at her hip, spasming.

“I can’t,” he said into her mouth.

“Please,” she said again.

She was pushing back against him, gasping, but Draco could feel that his rhythm was off, he was ahead of her and could not wait. The hand on her jaw slid up of its own accord, buried itself in her thick hair. He drew back a little so he could look at her, spread out beneath him, as he thrust. There was a pink flush across her chest and her lips were swollen, and her eyes were on him, trusting and wild. God, she was beautiful. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and she was his.

“You’re mine,” Draco told her.

She looked at him. Stilled for a moment under his weight. Draco half expected her to protest, to sneer. Instead, so gently that he might have been imagining it, she inclined her head. She nodded.

It was with guilt and the sharpest, most intense pleasure he had ever felt that Draco fell over the edge, emptying himself into her with a rough cry.

She gasped a little, pulled him closer as he shook and spasmed against her, his eyes tightly closed.

“Mine,” he said again. He rolled his hips, chasing the last, almost painful burst of pleasure.

They lay there, both of them panting, for quite some time.

Then Granger made a little noise.

It might have been discomfort (his elbow was on her hair) and it might have been the beginnings of a laugh or a sob, and it might have been a prelude to speech. Draco didn’t know. He just knew that when he heard it the world came crashing back. He could feel cold mud on the parts of him that were touching the ground (Granger’s back must be soaked through) and the icy breeze down his neck. A stick was jabbing his thigh below where Granger was – still – wrapped around him. This was real, and it had happened.

Draco rolled off her and onto his knees, pulling his clothing back together with fumbling hands. He was going to be sick. He dragged himself away, half crawling, used the tree to pull himself to his feet. His chest was tight.

Somewhere, Merlin knew how far away, the dark lord was torturing his parents because of this girl. This girl with whom he had so mindlessly rutted in the mud like an animal.

“Who knew you were such a pathetic slag, Granger?” he spat out, his face still pressed against the tree. He could not look at her. “If I’d known you gave it up this easy I would have found a use for you years ago. No wonder Potter and Weasel keep you around.”

“You know perfectly well that was my first time,” she said calmly.

That calmness enraged him. “Shut up!” Draco shouted. He turned around and kicked at the forest floor; slush and leaf litter flew at her, little chunks of frozen mud. Draco saw them hit her face, her bare stomach. She had pulled her trousers up but her breasts were still out. He did not look at them. “I don’t care!” he shouted. “You’re a filthy, worthless little mudblood! If I need to hold you down and fuck you into the dirt to remind you that’s where you belong, that’s what I’ll do!”

Granger did not flinch. She raised an eyebrow as she – very calmly – adjusted her bra, zipped up her jumper. “Is that so?” she asked. “Is that what you think just happened?”

Her arm was bleeding again.

Draco thought about her small, neat wrists shoved up against the rough tree bark, the scab of her wound opening while he tore at her clothes, and nausea rose up in him. He turned away from her, swallowed hard. He had to get himself under control, needed to think.

Gritting his teeth, he stepped towards her until he was so close he could have prodded her with his foot. “This is how it’s going to work,” he sneered down at her. “You’re going to get up and you’re going to put your disgusting little hand in mine, and we’re going to apparate back to the manor.”

Granger looked at him with her stupid, placid eyes. “No,” she said.

Draco tried to kick her. He really did. But his body would not obey him. Instead he bent over and seized her injured arm, ignoring her pained intake of breath, and dragged her to her feet. “Do you think I need a wand to hurt you?” he asked furiously.

Granger just looked at him. Her hair was full of leaves and mud. She was shivering again, but she did not seem to mind. “Don’t make me wish I’d let you freeze to death,” she told him.

Draco wanted to cry. He just stood there holding her sticky, cold forearm until Granger shook him off. Then she turned and began to walk away. Draco let her go. After ten steps she looked back over her shoulder.

“I found a path over this way,” she told him. “While you were sleeping. You can come with me or not.”

Helplessly, Draco followed.