She should have let her die in the Ministry.

Remember? He said it would be better this way.

She looked back to Draco. His eyes were distant, staring out her window to the pond.

"She jumped because you told her to," Hermione hissed.

He turned back to her, his gaze cold. He didn't deny it.

"You told her that if there was an Auction, she should kill herself," she snarled. "Kill herself instead of fight."

His lips pressed together. "You seem to forget that Lovegood was a Ravenclaw, not a reckless Gryffindor." His eyes withered her. "She couldn't be talked into anything that didn't make absolute sense to her."

"Absolute sense?" Hermione repeated, feeling tears of grief threatening to spring. "So should I take myself to the tallest tower in Malfoy Manor as well? Maybe twist my sheets into a noose? Or I could always refuse to eat. Refuse food and water until I wither away—"

He stepped toward her. "I dare you to try." He sneered at her. "If you're really so miserable in your private suite, in your Muggle denims and jumpers, with your meals delivered three times a day—"

"Oh, thank you, Malfoy. For rescuing me—"

"Then be my fucking guest, Granger." He stepped into her again, and she felt the back of the tall chair pressing into her spine. "I have it on good authority that Macnair didn't brutalize Lovegood before she jumped. Better take your chances now before your circumstances change—"

Her hand was up, poised to strike before she stopped herself. Hitting him would be the most ill-advised action she could possibly take in her situation. His eyes glittered, scanning from her hand to her face, sizzling into her eyes and dropping down over her lips before sliding back.

"Are you stupid enough to do it, Granger?" His eyes flashed at her, something warm and daring.

Her fingers curled slowly, and she dropped her arm. She glared at his smug face, his eyes dripping over her and his lips pulling a slow grin.

She tore her gaze from his lips and said, "And will my circumstances change?"

She watched his eyes freeze over, like a glaze in a kiln, something opaque. A smirk that didn't reach his expressionless eyes.

"Play your cards right, Granger…"

And then his fingers drifted mockingly across her ribs.

She jerked and slithered away from him. "Get out."

A low chuckle as she turned to face the windows, dismissing him, smoothing out the wrinkled scroll held tight in her left hand.

"The Dark Lord requests an audience with you this evening."

A chill trickled down her spine, like ice water dumped over her head.

"Tell him I decline. But thanks." She spoke to the windows so he wouldn't see the way her eye twitched.

She heard a short breath of a laugh, and then, "I'll expect you downstairs in half an hour."

He didn't make a sound as he crossed the carpets, and it wasn't until the door clicked that she even knew he left.