She let her fingers drift across the fabric of the robes as she pushed the drawers back in, and she jumped when a thought crossed her mind.

Was this Pansy's room?

She glanced at the bed with its creams and golds. She looked to the bookcase with its Muggle books. She took in the fabrics in front of her, and cataloged the knickers.

None of this screamed Pansy Parkinson. Pansy wore red lipstick to the breakfast table, and never needed to reapply throughout the day. Pansy would never be caught dead in pale colors, especially her knickers. And Pansy once asked Daphne Greengrass in third year if Muggles knew how to read. Hermione knew she wasn't joking. No, this wasn't Pansy's space.

She shut the drawers, memorizing the placement of the belts, and moved to the windows, finally pushing aside the soft material and peering out into the grounds. Like she'd guessed, the pond sparkled from this view. The gazebo attracted the early morning fog like bubbles in a glass, and just beyond the gates that encompassed the Manor, she could see the sun dappling the ground. Just to her left, a balcony attached to her sitting room.

Hermione blinked. There must be a door. How far was the drop? How much length would the curtains and bedsheets give her?

The door handle rattled, and Hermione spun as Lucius Malfoy entered her suite, eyes landing on her at the window. She clutched the curtains in her fingers, one hand sliding slowly to the comb in her pocket.

Lucius's eyes were abruptly pulled from her as he looked around the room, gaze landing on the bookshelves, the sitting area. He paused on the bed, sheets twisted from her sleep. His grey eyes snapped to her again.

His lips pulled up into an echo of a smirk. "Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Miss Granger."

She felt her heartbeat pressing into the gauzy curtains, her fingers curled. He stood between herself and the door. And if there was a way onto this balcony, how quickly could she sprint out and hurtle over the edge. Grass or stones below?

He tilted his head, examining her, waiting for a response that didn't come. His eyes flicked over her satin pajamas, over the rumpled bedding.

"I see you've made yourself quite at home."

He moved into the room, strolling between the wingback chairs, examining the carpets, moving to the drapes.

Where Narcissa was cautious and warm, Lucius was decisive and cold, inscrutable. He slithered into the sleeping space, eyes turning over the bed curtains and landing on the wardrobe, still open from her investigations. He pulled the doors open wide and just like his wife, an impossible expression spread across his lips. She'd never seen someone frown a smile.

"All the correct size, I presume," he muttered.

Hermione guessed that Lucius Malfoy was not the kind of man who muttered things aloud by accident.

He shut the wardrobe with a click. And turned to her, standing between her and the bed. The comb teeth clicked between her fingertips.