"You don't know him anymore." Draco sneered at her. "You don't know any of them. I've never seen so much dark magic. Not even at the Battle of Hogwarts."

She swallowed, feeling her stomach churn and tumble as her fingers dug into the spine of her book. She felt a desperate need to turn the conversation away.

"And how many people did you kill at Dover Castle?"

"You'll be glad to hear that I only sent off a Jelly-Legs Jinx before I was hit." He frowned at her and shifted on his feet.

"I'll be glad that you didn't have the chance to increase your death toll?" she said. "Like that's some kind of accomplishment?"

"I've only killed one person," he snarled. "It was at the Final Battle."

She blinked at him, taking in the information before hardening again. "And how did it feel? Throwing Killing Curses at your classmates and teachers?"

He sneered at her. "I'm surprised your lips are moving at all, Granger, when it's clear you're talking out of your arse."

His eyes burned into her, and she huffed in frustration.

"Please enlighten me, Malfoy. If there are so many things I'm unaware of—"

He stepped into her, eyes flashing, breath puffing on her face.

"I sliced Thorfinn Rowle in half and watched him bleed out at my feet. I made sure my face was the last thing he saw." His chest heaved, and a breeze whipped between them. Her eyes locked onto his, unblinking. "And I'd do it again," he said.

The heat unfurling from him was palpable, and she could taste the darkness he spat at her.

"Why?" Her voice cracked.

He wet his lips, and his eyes cast about her face before he replied, "He posed a threat to me."

Her mind spun with the possibilities. If he had been willing to kill a fellow Death Eater, what did that mean? Was he not as entrenched as she'd assumed—or was he more ruthless than she'd allowed herself to imagine? Or had it simply been self-preservation, an infamous Malfoy trait?

"Any other questions, Granger?" he said sarcastically, but it was a whisper in the space between them.

Millions, actually.

"What would have happened to me if you died?" she asked, watching his brows furrow, and his eyes clear. "Would I have gone back to Auction?"

His face twitched violently, like he'd been slapped. He stepped back from her, eyes tracing her from top to bottom, and he exhaled sharply. Blinking, his mask fell back into place.

"My mother would have taken care of you—"

"Why would your grieving mother spare a thought for me?" She lifted a brow at him, waiting for him to confirm her best theory. To admit that she was a pawn. Insurance.

He swallowed. "She wouldn't have let you go back to Auction." But he didn't sound convinced. He looked over her shoulder at the pond, and her confidence faltered.

"Would I have been returned to Dolohov?"

His head snapped back to her, and his eyes turned hard as stone. "No. He has no claim on you any longer." She felt a chill across her shoulders, and the same darkness rolled off of him again. "You don't need to worry about Dolohov."