Part Two

Disclaimer: I'm not and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

Reviews: I would love it if you would read and review!

A/N: This chapter is heavy on Malfoy, but fear not, this is SS/HG story. Big love goes out to my beta, SnarkyRoxy – without her, this would be utterly out of canon, among other horrible things. She truly is brilliant!

Chapter Two

The light seemed to be burning against her eyelids, beckoning her back into consciousness. She felt the softness of a bed beneath her, the clean smell and crisp texture of a thin sheet draped over her small frame. The tiny sense of comfort was torn away as the pain suddenly made itself known again, her left side throbbing with a dull, insistent ache.

It all came back in a rush, a twisted kaleidoscope of memories that she had for one split second convinced herself were just nightmares brought on after an evening drinking Butterbeer heavily spiked by the Weasley twins. But it had been real. The Death Eaters, Hogsmeade burning to the ground, Lavender dead at her feet...

And Snape and Malfoy. It didn't make sense; why they hadn't killed her? She had lost consciousness when her old professor had pulled her into his arms, waking again in a strange place, her shirt missing, Snape standing over her with a wand. Hermione had thought for sure that he would kill her then, but the light from his wand was blue, the large gash against her side tingling as the flesh knitted itself whole again. Snape had murmured a complicated healing spell, one she had researched but never had the opportunity to see used before that moment.

She had remembered vaguely that Malfoy had been standing behind the older wizard in the shadows. Rather than a smirk or a sneer, something she would have expected to see on his face, he looked withdrawn, almost distraught. The whole situation confused her, and she tried valiantly to focus, to take it all in and process it. But her mind was too fractured, and after swallowing the contents of the third potion vial Snape handed her, that of the Blood-Replenishing Potion of which she could still taste on her lips, she felt herself losing consciousness once again.

Hermione maintained absolute stillness in the bed, keeping her breathing even as she strained to listen. She was trying to gauge her surroundings without opening her eyes. The room was light, she could tell, and she was pretty sure it was sunlight, by the orange-yellow glow against her eyelids. There was a sound of fabric shifting, accompanied by a cool breeze that smelled distinctly like the sea. A window, there was a window open somewhere.

A bird called out in the distance, and she emptied her thoughts on all but the sound, trying to recognize the specific type. It was a Peregrine, a type of Muggle falcon, native, she knew, to Scotland.

Several more minutes passed by before she was satisfied that she was alone in the room, as she could not hear anyone's breathing but her own, or smell anything beyond the laundered sheets of the bed and the faint smoke scent of her own hair, spread out as it was on her pillow. Hermione slowly opened her eyes, her hands drawing up into fists above the coverlet.

The room was small. Other than the narrow bed she was lying on, there was a small side table with a gas lamp to her right, and a rocking chair with several missing spindles on the backrest sitting nearby. Across from her bed, there was a weathered oak chifferobe leaning against the opposite wall, the only other piece of furniture in the room. The one window to her left was half open, the yellowed lace curtains twisting lazily in the breeze. The pink rose wallpaper was peeling in places, and the hardwood floor had seen better days, its wear not hidden by the faded pink rug to the right of her bed.

There were two doorways; the smaller one was closed, the larger opening free of a door altogether, its unused hinges rusted, the lower one dangling by one screw. She could make out a bit of the hall through the doorway, seeing that the rather worn down, country feel continued beyond her bedroom.

The room had a certain lived-in feel to it, but a recent emptiness, as if it had been abandoned. It most definitely did not fit into any sort of decorating scheme Snape or Malfoy would ever use.

"Finally awake I see, Granger."

Her dark gaze shot back to the now occupied space of the larger doorway. She sat up in the bed, pulling the sheet up close around her chest.

"Bloody fantastic vision you have, Malfoy," she replied, glaring at him. He was smirking, his gray-blue eyes drifting from her face to the sheet covering her nearly nude torso.

"Not like I didn't see it all last night," he laughed, leaning against the worn, wooden doorframe, crossing his arms across his chest.

Hermione tilted her head, staring back at him, finally taking in his appearance. He looked... odd. She realized with a start that it was because he was wearing Muggle clothing. She had never seen him in anything other than their school uniforms, or wizarding robes, and here he was, one of the most outspoken of "pure-bloods", wearing dark blue jeans, trainers, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. His white-blond hair wasn't slicked back, but uncombed, several stray strands constantly slipping down his forehead.

She blinked, her unease with the situation increasing. "What are you wearing?"

His smirk faded, and he shifted slightly against the doorframe. "Don't be daft, Granger. They're called clothes."

They stared at each other silently, and she unconsciously started chewing on her lower lip, not knowing what to say, what to expect.

"Where are we?" Her voice was soft, hesitant.

He looked across the room to the open window, staring out at nothing for all she knew, an unreadable expression crossing his angular face. "We're ten minutes south of Banchory."

"This is not Professor Snape's home," she replied with certainty.

"Of course not. Several Order members saw fit to burn his house at Spinner's End to the ground, coveted books and all. This is an abandoned farmhouse. Ugly as a troll's hovel, but safer than Hogwarts."

Unwittingly, Hermione felt a twinge of sadness. No one was hurt, but couldn't they have saved his books? Undoubtedly, she was sure the professor had quite a collection, one that could have benefited their fight against Voldemort.

"Malfoy."

The cold gaze of the eighteen-year-old Death Eater was back on her, his lips drawn out in a thin line.

"You had a chance. Why didn't you?" Whether she was talking about his chance to kill her, or the headmaster, neither of them really knew.

His lips parted, then closed again. He shook his head, a gesture that looked to be more for his benefit than hers.

"Severus made breakfast before he left. There's enough for you, if you get your lazy arse out of bed," Malfoy said quietly, a bitter undercurrent in the sentence. He pointed to the small, closed doorway. "There's a small water closet in there. Take a shower, and use soap. Lots of it. You smell like an overcooked Porlok, Mudblood."

Anger seared through her. The rest of his sentence, his taunt, was nothing compared to the derogatory term for her heritage he had never ceased to use against her. Even now, trapped and sore as she was, he still tormented her with it.

She rose up on her knees on the mattress, the sheet still clutched to her chest, but with less force then before, all of her emotion directed at him.

"The only way you ever got close enough to me to even try and smell me was because I was sliced open by a hex! Is that how you get under the girls' skirts, by hexing them first, ferret boy?"

He raised his wand so quickly towards her she flinched involuntarily, rocking back on the mattress, staring at him with wide eyes. His movement had jerked the long sleeve of his shirt back, exposing his forearm, and in turn, the black tattoo of the Death Eater. She had seen the Mark before, twice to be exact, but something about Malfoy's was different.

Across the Mark and surrounding skin, there were deep, angry slash marks cut into his flesh, distorting the image of the snake. They looked intentional, almost... self-inflicted.

Seeing her stare, her lips parted on a silent gasp, he yanked hard against the shirtsleeve, covering his forearm while lowering his wand. Her dark gaze met his cold eyes, and they regarded each other silently for several moments, the tension almost crackling between them.

He looked away from her, slipping his wand back into the deep, carpenter-style pocket of his dark blue jeans. He fumbled with his sleeves again before turning back to her.

"I'll never call you that again," he whispered, his voice thick with obvious hesitation. "If you swear you'll never mention my Mark to anyone else."

Her brown eyes lingered on his forearm, the Dark Mark safely covered. Wouldn't he have been proud of it? Wasn't that something they boasted about to other Slytherins, or showed to their victims to bring forth fear? And why on earth would he cut at it? She felt pity and confusion all in the same stream of consciousness.

But he had said... never again. He would never again call her that filthy name.

A slow grin spread across her pale face, the first true smile she could ever remember intentionally giving Malfoy. "Truce, then."

He mirrored her smile, though it seemed almost sickly. She would have laughed out loud if they were back at Hogwarts, but with his history, and the current situation, it was beyond inappropriate.

"Merlin, what has the world come to?" he muttered, pushing off of the doorframe and taking a few steps into the room.

She watched his movements unblinking. "You tell me, Malfoy. I have no idea, but I have a feeling you might."

He grunted. "It's... complicated." He shook his head again, sighing. He pointed to the chifferobe, changing the subject abruptly.

"Your shirt's ruined. The rest of your clothes reek, so don't change back into them," he ordered her, one side of his mouth twitching as she spared him a scowl. "There's a bunch of female Muggle clothing in this wardrobe thing. It's all clean, just Transfigure it if you have to. I'm sure that won't be a problem for you, Granger."

"Why are we dressing like Muggles? I don't understand..."

"For the love of Circe, stop asking questions!" Malfoy cut her off, exasperated. "Why don't you just nod and agree with me for a change? After all, we saved your life..."

"What?" Her scowl deepened as indignation sparked within her. "You were going to leave me if it weren't for the professor!"

Without even realizing it, she had whipped around, picking up the only weapon she had within reach. Malfoy jerked backwards in the doorway, deflecting the thrown pillow, flustered.

"You better be thankful I don't have my wand, Malfoy!"

He snorted. "I am quite thankful, actually." The smirk was back on his face as he regarded her one last time where she was sitting, fuming with crossness on the bed.

"There's a jar of salve on the side of the bathroom sink. Severus says you need to rub it onto your injury after your shower. The vial next to it is a pain potion. And don't try and sneak out the window. Severus personally warded this house tighter than Azkaban, which along with keeping unwanted visitors out, now also keeps a special visitor in."

He turned, shouting back at her as he disappeared through the entrance. "Don't take more than fifteen minutes or I'll feed your breakfast to the sink monster."

Hermione stared at the empty doorway, wishing she had another pillow to throw. "It's called a garbage disposal, you prat!"

She heard the distant bark of his laughter and sighed, looking around her surroundings dejectedly. This was all unreal; she really had no clue what to do, where to begin. Take a shower? The idea seemed ludicrous.

But she had to grudgingly agree with him; the smoke from Hogsmeade had permeated her hair, not to mention she was sure her brassiere, school skirt and socks were affected, if not covered with soot as well.

She peeked under the covers and sighed, looking down at what was left of her uniform.

"Okay, let's be practical." Her voice sounded odd in the small room, and she bit her lip. She tied the sheet tight around her chest and crawled off the bed, walking over to the weathered chifferobe.

She pulled hard on the lowest drawer, the wood creaking in protest as she jerked it open. Merlin's beard. Had this house been abandoned in the forties?

Hermione looked down at the assorted underthings, girdles and garters, sturdy stockings and a corset that almost looked Victorian. The drawer smelled like mothballs. She snorted, suddenly taken in by the absurdity of the whole situation.

Well, it's not like she would wear someone else's knickers anyway, even if they were clean and free of moths. She smirked at the thought, shoving the drawer closed.

She opened the doors to the upper wardrobe, peering inside to all of the hanging clothes. Her suspicions were confirmed. If this previous resident hadn't abandoned the house in the forties, then the woman who had occupied this room had a serious thing for retro apparel.

She sighed again, staring at all of the dresses in front of her. What did it matter, really? What was the point of trying to find something respectable to wear around Malfoy of all people? And where had Professor Snape gone? Weren't they both Death Eaters? Hadn't Malfoy run away, or disappeared, or had been killed by Voldemort after failing in his mission to kill Dumbledore?

And Lavender. Poor Lavender. And Ron, and Harry...

Hermione reached in and yanked one of the long sundresses off a wire hanger, banging the doors shut and walking into the small bathroom, closing the door behind her. She muttered a quick locking spell, not nearly complicated enough to keep out a determined wizard, but it would give Malfoy pause if he tried to sneak in on her.

The bathroom was ancient. The toilet had a pull chain, the water tank suspended from above. There was a claw-footed tub with a showerhead attachment hooked onto the worn tile wall. Two rather dingy looking, but thankfully fresh smelling, bath towels hung over the lone rung. As promised, the salve jar and potion vial were to the edge of the sink. There was also a hairbrush, a rolled, half used tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.

Her parents would never forgive her if she skipped brushing her teeth, a task she usually performed with wand magic now. She wondered if it had been the professor or Malfoy who had been thoughtful. Though she couldn't imagine why either of them would bother.

She peeled off her clothes slowly, her body still achy and tired. Leaning against the side of the tub, she twisted the prehistoric faucet handles, the water pipes groaning to life. Thankfully, clear water started to gush into the ancient tub, and she waited for it to warm before turning the main faucet over to shower mode and stepping under the spray.

Hermione went to the task of cleaning her thick mass of hair, grateful that there was both shampoo and cream rinse on the side of the tub in unmarked bottles, both smelling like ylang ylang and rose. The bar of soap had actual rose petals throughout, reminding her of a similar bar she had purchased for Ginny several holidays ago from a little Muggle cosmetics shop in Glasgow.

She pushed her memories aside, cleaning her hair as she tried to focus. She found it safe to assume at this point that Harry and Voldemort were still alive. Malfoy hadn't mentioned any of the others, but if the Boy Who Lived or the Dark Lord had died in the battle of Hogsmeade, she knew she wouldn't be here, in the place she considered Snape's "safe house".

Professor Snape had killed Dumbledore. Harry had seen it. So what was he doing saving her? Was he protecting Malfoy?

She turned around to rinse her hair, thoughts speeding through her head, different theories alternately presented and discounted. Was she worth something more to them alive than dead? She knew she was highly intelligent; she never wanted to be narcissistic to the fact, but she studied fiercely over the years in her quest for knowledge, and it was no secret that it was the main talent she brought to the Golden Trio.

But even if Voldemort accepted that she was an extremely talented witch, her Muggle-born status would outweigh any use she could bring him. She was only another pawn, in the way of the ultimate checkmate.

She turned off the water, standing naked, dripping in the bathtub, her eyes open but unseeing. If not the Dark Lord, then what would Professor Snape have to benefit from her? Had he brought her here to protect her? That made no sense.

He killed Dumbledore. Snape was a traitor, a murderer. So why he had healed her? She didn't understand.

She pulled one towel off the rung to wrap around her hair and used the other to dry off. Without her wand, it took her some while to get ready, towel drying her hair to a point where she could braid it loosely. She knew she was well past the fifteen minutes Malfoy had threatened her with, but she cared less at this point about the arrogant prat, even though her stomach growled in disagreement.

Hermione downed the unpleasant tasting potion in one practiced gulp, corking the vial and setting it back down on the sink's edge. She picked up the jar of salve and worked the sandalwood smelling mixture into the red and somewhat splotchy area of skin where the slicing hex had been.

She slipped the flowery sundress over her head, zipping up the back and turning around to look in the cracked mirror of the bathroom. It was obviously made for someone taller than her, as the hem hit her mid-calf, but she was pleased with the length considering she had no knickers. The waist was loose, but without her wand, she couldn't Transfigure it, as Malfoy had so helpfully suggested.

The top was sleeveless, the pattern busy enough, and her own stature small, that she didn't fret about not having another brassiere to change into. She would need to talk to the professor about getting her wand back.

She looked back at the mirror, scowling back at her fractured image. Somehow, she didn't think he would just hand it over if she asked. She needed to use that big brain of hers and come up with a plan. But she needed more information first.

Hermione walked hesitantly out of her bedroom into the deserted hallway. She moved slowly, her bare feet shuffling across the tattered carpet soundlessly. At the edge of the hallway there was a set of stairs going down.

She stood there for a moment, taking in the situation and just listening. The mouth-watering smell of bacon and eggs tickled her nose, the faint scent of chamomile tea underneath that. She could hear the clank of dishes, a muttered spell, and the residual light of said spell. Then a low singing voice, a lullaby in French...

She bit her lip, holding back the giggle. Merlin, was that Malfoy singing? Smirking, but still careful, she descended the steps, entering the living room of the house.

Like her bedroom, the main area of the house also had a worn-down, lived-in country feel to it. There were two overstuffed blue couches that had seen better days, a dark navy recliner nearly hidden in the shadows of the far corner, a low wooden coffee table, a rather large mahogany framed fireplace, and a lamb's wool rug covering part of the wood planked floor. Books upon books were stacked in piles well over a meter high along the walls. Perhaps Professor Snape had been able to save some of his extensive library after all.

She walked through the living room and into the kitchen, pausing at the entrance. At least this area of the house had been updated somewhat. All of the appliances were white, not the avocado green she had been expecting. It was an L-shaped set up, with a small, four person dinette set giving the kitchen an added feeling of hominess.

Malfoy's back was to her, but he had stopped mid-verse in his lullaby, flicking his wand so the plate that he had levitated fluttered gently back down to the counter. "Are you trying to sneak up on me, Granger?"

"Why would I do that?"

He turned then, his gray-blue eyes widening slightly as his attention was drawn to her dress. She crossed her arms across her chest, her chin raising a fraction at the look he was giving her.

"I told you to Transfigure anything you needed."

"That would have been nice. With a wand," she added darkly.

His lips pursed briefly. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head soundlessly.

"Your breakfast is on the table with a warming charm," he told her, his voice quiet as he turned once again to the sink. She stared at his back, blinking in surprise.

"You said..."

"Severus ordered me to feed you, or I would have let you starve," Malfoy grunted. "Why did it take you so long, anyway? I didn't think you were the sort of girl that took forever on her hair..."

"Please tell me, when is the last time you readied in the morning without your wand?" She cut him off, her tone strained with anger. He didn't turn around.

"Just eat your breakfast, Granger."

She glared at his back a few moments longer. When he continued to clean and stack the dishes with his wand, effectively ignoring her, she sighed, sitting down at the dinette. There was a plate upside down over another plate, a teacup to the left, a lone fork to the right. She noticed with dark humor he hadn't provided her with a knife. Perhaps he was smarter than she gave him credit for.

Hermione pulled off the top plate, uncovering two steaming eggs sunny side up, bacon, and toast with a single pat of butter. Her stomach growled, and she remembered with a start that the last thing she had eaten was a couple of chocolate frogs while walking down High Street yesterday afternoon.

She dug into the food ravenously, so caught up in the meal that she barely acknowledged Malfoy as he sat down at the table across from her. He was watching her with faint amusement, following her movements as she soaked part of the toast in a broken yolk on the plate.

"This... is... fantastic," she murmured between bites, glancing up at him briefly. "I had no idea Professor Snape could cook."

Malfoy set his elbows on the table top, resting his chin in his hands. "You know, he's not the epitome of evil you think he is. He saved my life. And he saved yours."

Traitor. Killer of Dumbledore. And she was eating his food. Her stomach suddenly felt sour, and she set down the piece of bacon she had been chewing on. She stared across the table at Malfoy, her mouth pulled into a thin line.

"I want my wand back, Malfoy." Her voice was low, her tone serious and sharp.

He exhaled heavily, pushing up from the table. "I don't have it. You'll have to talk to Severus."

Malfoy walked out of the kitchen, and Hermione stumbled out of her chair, her plan to stash the fork as a future weapon forgotten in her haste to follow him.

"Malfoy..."

He was on his knees in front of one of the couches in the living room, pulling a large, mahogany box from under the frame. She stood still in the entryway, watching as he heaved the box onto the low coffee table, working the latches to open it.

Pulling the two panels back, he revealed a gleaming, lacquered chessboard, a large velveteen bag containing what she assumed where the pieces falling out to the side of the board.

She was silent, tracing his movements as he set up the board in speedy precision, glancing up at her through several strands of his white blond hair when he was done.

"Severus will be home later. For now, you have nowhere to go. And neither do I. I don't know if you've figured it out yet, but I'm stuck here too." He frowned, staring hard at the antique, soapstone pieces before looking back at her. "I know it's not Wizard's Chess, but the game's the same."

Her mouth quirked up slightly. Had he forgotten so easily that she would be more used to the Muggle type of chess anyway?

Seeing her hesitation, his frown deepened. "Listen, I know I'm supposedly this Death Eater, and you're... Muggle-born, but can't we pretend to be friends for the next couple of hours and just play chess?"

She walked around the coffee table, kneeling down carefully on the other side of the chessboard. "You know, I'm really not very good at this game."

He glanced back at her, a slow smile creasing his angular face. "I guess this game might last awhile then, because I can't claim expertise either. For some reason, I don't think either of us have to worry about that fact leaving the room."

She mirrored his smirk, and he gestured back to the chessboard in front of them.

"Witches first."

They started the game, forgetting years of animosity as they played, both awaiting Snape's return.