when she approached him. Oh God, was he referring to that?
"Go fuck yourself."
His smile was almost loving. "I could, but again, company is always better."
When his grip on her relaxed, she snatched her left arm out from between them, and placed it on his injured shoulder, thumb and forefinger spread. He didn't so much as flinch or try to stop her. He wasn't stupid. He knew what she was threatening to do to him. They both knew where he was vulnerable at that moment.
All she had to do was squeeze as hard as she possibly could.
Hermione didn't know what was more disturbing, the fact that she was fully prepared to inflict pain on him, or the fact that he seemed fully prepared to receive it.
"Go on, then," he urged. Impatient, resigned, expectant.
"You're as crazy as your father," she told him, her eyes wide.
"Do it." A sharp dig of his thumb into her captured, right wrist, re-enforced his command.
Damn him. If he wanted pain, then by God, she'd give it him. Her hand flexed over the dark bruise. She couldn't stop it from shaking as she squeezed lightly, once, and then stopped. He was braced for further pain. His whole body tensed in anticipation and his lips had thinned. Her pale fingers stood out in horrible contrast against the bruising.
A terrible understanding overtook her, and her hand went slack.
"What's the matter with you?" he hissed. His eyes promising all sorts of violence they hadn't previously covered.
"Follow through, you uptight bitch. DO IT!"
She dropped her hand and turned her face away, not wanting him to see her expression. He didn't have to, though.
"Hermione!" he took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him.
"I can't..." she said, hating how weak and pathetic she had become when he was concerned. "I can't!"
"Why?" he demanded. His eyes searched every inch of her face for an answer. Hermione was struck by the realisation that he was almost hungry to hear the one thing from her, that would make him even more angry.
"Because I can't hurt you! Is that so unbelievable?" she exclaimed.
It apparently was. If she thought she had seen exactly how cold he could be, she was mistaken. Her admission transformed him. The only positive thing to come out of it was that all the anger drained from his face. What was left was slightly worse, though.
He shook his head, as if denial was protection. "It was a mistake for me to come here today. I...I apologize."
Hermione stared at him as if he'd grown a second head.
"I don't see any reason for us to meet again until we go to London on the weekend," he said, coolly. "I'll let you know when we have to leave. Just make sure you have an excuse to be away."
It was like the culmination of a business meeting. He released her so abruptly she slumped back against the edge of the tub.
Draco didn't once look at her as he hurriedly dressed, while soaking wet, and left the bathroom as if the fires of Hell were licking at his heels.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Harry settled back into an armchair and slowly sipped his hot, milky tea. He was trying to ignore the fact that his head felt like it was being steadily grinded by a mortar and pestle.
"Sugar?" Snape asked, with barely leashed irritation. What he really meant to say was, "Why are you still here?"
"No thanks," Harry mumbled back. After the three hour long, Occlumency exam Snape had just put him through, talking hurt. Drinking tea hurt.
He rested his mug on a stack of books that looked older than Dumbledore and thought about the upcoming weekend.
Unfortunately, thinking hurt too.
But Harry wasn't about to tell Snape that. Too much opportunity for insult.
It had been their final lesson for the year and Snape had put Harry through his paces, all the while taking down rapid notes as required by Dumbledore. Snape's contribution to the exercise had been evil smirks and annoying tut-tuts every time Harry lost his focus and made a mistake.
The mistakes were few and far between, however, much to their combined amazement. All in all, Harry had done remarkably well and they both knew this.
Not that Snape was likely to offer up any words of praise. Harry figured it was enough that the man didn't insult him to death at every lesson. After three years of private coaching, they had apparently come to an accord.
Harry would refrain from calling him a 'miserable old, git' or anything to do