She took her teacup to her bathroom and shut the door behind her, dismissing him. If he wanted to her to have dinner or talk with him or... anything else, then he'd have to force her.

She stared at her pale reflection in the mirror and willed heart and temper to calm. It was already clear that he didn't care for her. Why did she have to create delusions for herself?

When she emerged after a few minutes, she expected him to be gone, not examining her bookshelves. But there he was. She watched as his fingers ran over a spine.

"You reorganized them." He glanced at her.

"Yes." She cleared her throat, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach. "They were organized by Muggle and Magical, then by genre, then some strange system I hadn't deciphered—"

"By publish date," he offered.

She blinked at his profile. "Brontë was filed after Joyce."

He frowned. His head swiveled to a top shelf where she'd replaced Brontë into alphabetical order by author's name. He plucked the forest green spine off the shelf and flipped open to the first pages.

"It's a reprint. 1931." His brows drew together. "The original must be in the library. I thought it was in here."

Leave it to Draco Malfoy to distract her by waxing eloquent about books.

She stood next to her bed as his fingers ran down the front page of Jane Eyre. "That's what you get for filing things with magic," she said primly.

The corner of his mouth twitched. And she wondered if she'd just made Draco Malfoy smile.

"I'll have the original brought to you."

She snorted. "I don't need the original."

His jaw tightened, and he nodded. Gaze on the bookshelves, he said, "Anything that you do need?"

She sighed. She didn't need anything besides his honesty, but she supposed she could indulge him for now. He'd stayed.

He waited for her reply, and she looked around the room, searching for something to ask for. She followed his gaze to the books as he dipped his head and fingered the cuff of his sleeve.

"Actually," she began. "There is… The Undesirable series."

His eyes turned on her, grey and warm. They urged her to continue.

"I found the collector's copies in the library. But I wondered if there were others I could take to reread?"

"You can take those," he said, eyes searching her.

"Oh, but those are..." She reached for words, trying to skate over the fact that she'd read his note from Lance Gainsworth. "They seemed… personal."

His eyes flickered, brows lifting, as he realized. He swallowed and looked away.

"I have another set. I'll have them delivered to your room."

"Thank you," she whispered, and she wondered if the deep inhale he took had anything to do with the reminder of the last time she'd thanked him—with her hand on his bare shoulder and her blood staining his lips.

"Are there other books you're enjoying?" he asked, eyes glazed over, focusing away from her. She frowned at his attempt at small talk, but then he continued. "Learning anything new?"