Her chest seized as she was hauled roughly to her feet.

"Get it together, Granger," hissed in her ear. And then he was dragging her out the door.

The Dark Lord was here. And she was appearing before him.

She felt tender fingerprints on her skin, left by bruising hands. Marked in more ways than one, like a whore. Voldemort would be thrilled.

With a gasp, her mind sharpened, whirring.

She was being brought to Voldemort.

The back of Draco's head bobbed down the stairs as she followed dutifully.

Voldemort would be reading her mind.

She had no shoes on. The Manor's marble stairs were cold on her arches and toes.

Think of a lake with still waters. A bookshelf with leather tomes.

Draco's hand slid down the banister, long fingers that had grabbed at her hair, held her down, pinched at her skin. Her vision blurred with unshed tears.

He pinched her instead of penetrating her. Her mind was flooded with images of an attack, of a rape, but that's not what had happened.

His feet were heavy on the stairs as they turned the final staircase. His boots. His Death Eater boots.

That's not what had been happening at Malfoy Manor. Even though it should have been.

She paused on the final steps, feeling her entire body tremble.

Think of a lake with still waters. A bookshelf with leather tomes.

She opened a book. Tea with Narcissa Malfoy—her soft hands on her shoulder, her wrist. She snapped it closed and tucked it at the far edge of the shelf.

Another book: Lucius Malfoy's Secrets. Standing at the edge of a study, "Gregory Goyle. Senior," the playful lift of his brow as he baited her. A key turned, locking the pages of the book like an old diary, and the text pushed back into a forgotten shelf in the corner.

Draco walked to a door and waited for her. Fitting that it was the drawing room again.

Seven beautiful red spines, the collector's editions: A Hand on My Jaw—Healing the Cut; You Don't Drink Coffee Anymore?; The Gazebo; Strong Lips on My Arm; Happy Birthday, Draco; A Cobalt Jumper, Standing Watch at My Window; We're Quite a Pair, Aren't We?

She separated the copies, sending each of them to bottom shelves, tucking them into other books, tearing the covers off of them and sending their pages over the top of the bookshelf.

Standing by the door to the drawing room, his eyes were off in the distance like one of the Malfoy statues lining the corridors. When she reached him, he grabbed her arm and pressed her against the wall. She didn't flinch when he took her chin in his firm grip. Any memories of softer touches had been buried.

In place of the glossy red spines, there were inky, leathery copies filled with hair tugging, pale fingers on her ribs, electrocution, a week's isolation, the sharp pang of his ring as he backhanded her, and take my cock so good, don't you.