His fingers making contact with her cheek served about as well as a temporary freezing charm. Perhaps it was his closeness or feeling rather self-conscious that he was so focused on her face, but she did her best to convey calm on the outside. Instead, she almost nodded impatiently as he asked her if she was ready. But she held her tongue and only nodded slightly, looking into his eyes (Merlin even kneeling he was still taller than her). "As I'll ever be." she replied quietly.

---

His throat went dry the moment they made eye contact, and even without trying he knew his voice would sound hoarse if he tried to speak. It was a miracle in itself that his hands didn't shake when he raised his wand; it had been a while since he'd removed anything from anyone's skin, let alone in such dire circumstances.

He cast the incantation quietly, and in a split seconds the shards flew out of her face, combined into one single share in between their heads, and then vanished into thin air, leaving a glitter-like substance to float to the floor beneath them. It was not immediately better.

"Shit," he hissed, feeling for his pocket. He pulled out a soaked handkerchief, and with yet another wave of his wand it was dried. "Here," he said, lifting it up to press against her cheek where the worst bleeding was.

---

She'd never seen this incantation before, and flinched as she felt the shards of glass fly from her skin and collect into the air. For a split second, Rowan thought they were going to burst and fly into her face again. She flinched again as the shard dispersed, but her eyes widened in surprise as the small particles drifted peacefully to the floor between them, some of them landing in her lap. She reached out and brushed a finger on the folds of her skirts. The pad of her finger came away with the fine dust, and she raised her finger to inspect it further, only to have Malfoy press a handkerchief to her cheek.

She took the kerchief from him, her hand brushing his as they made the exchange. Rowan lifted the kerchief off her cheek and looked down at it. Blood blossomed in irregular patterns across the fine cloth and she returned it to her other cheek, imagining she looked quite a horror now. "Thank you," she said, her lips pulling up in a truly grateful smile.

---

The moment she took the handkerchief he wanted it back. It would have been much less awkward to mop up the remaining blood than to remain on his knees in front of her, entirely too close and with nothing to do with his hands. He was left to watch as she cleaned herself up, and to wonder why the way she smiled was making him feel like squirming.

Finally he decided that enough was enough and returned to his feet, finding a spot on the edge of the bed an armlength away from where she sat on the footstool. "Do you know any good healing spells?" he asked, trying to keep his tone casual despite his heart's sudden erratic rhythm.

---

With each pat, the blood on the kerchief lessened, though it stung whilst she did so, and she winced again as he got up and sat further down the bed from her. Eventually, the blood seemed to ebb and the alarm from seeing her blood lessened to a degree.

"Healing spells?" she turned to him, alarm written on her face and she got up, kerchief forgotten as she whirled around to him. "Why, are you hurt?"

She would have stopped there, but having just sprinted through the building combined with the act of standing up so suddenly brought stars to her vision and she stumbled forward. Her hand rested on his shoulder as she closed her eyes to try and steady herself.

---

There wasn't much time to register her question, because she'd fallen forward, her hand bearing down on his shoulder. He instinctively reached for her other arm, his hand wrapping around her forearm. Raphael stared blankly at her, trying to wrap his mind around how she'd reached the conclusion that he was the one who was hurt when she was the one sponging the blood off of her face.

"Now I want you to ask yourself the same question again," he said, staring up at her with an expression of disapproval, "But really think about it this time."

---

Whatever concern she'd felt at the possibility of him being injured disappeared as soon as she saw his expression. Her mouth flattened and she glared at him, taking her hand off his shoulder as if he'd scalded her. She wrenched her other arm from his hand and turned away, not wanting him to see her cheeks burning, never mind the fact that her head was still spinning.

"I do," she answered his question, her back to him as she walked to the vanity and sat down. It was easily the nicest table she'd sat at aside from the ones they had at Hogwarts - even then, this one was rather elegant, engraved with lettering and filigree.

Merlin, the windows had certainly not spared her when they shattered. The worst was over, however, and Rowan focused as she slowly drew the tip of her wand over the smaller cuts on her cheekbones, jaw, and forehead. There were two that she ultimately had to leave on her forehead and her cheek, for they were larger than she dared try to heal. If only they had some dittany. "That should do." She said over her shoulder, slipping her wand up her sleeve before she turned on her seat to face Malfoy again. "Unless you're injured in some way." She added, her tone cool.

---

The unimpressed expression remained on his face as she walked away from him. He felt immediately disconcerted by the shift in the dynamic, which in itself was disconcerting; he hadn't realized how almost warm they'd begun acting towards each other until her demeanor turned frosty and her words cool. Uncertain of what he was feeling and what he was supposed to be feeling, Raphael remained in his seat—but only until she'd cast the healing spells, and then he found himself too curious to stay seated.

He moved across the room until he came to stand a few feet behind her. He looked at her reflection of the mirror, remaining quiet and keeping his expression blank.

Until, you know, he felt compelled to talk... as he always eventually did.

"If you had thread you could sew it up," he suggested quietly, eyeing the open cuts on her forehead and cheek, "I didn't know you worked as a seamstress." He was referring to the box she'd been carrying earlier—the one that had scattered across the floor and had ultimately been lost to the storm. There was no judgment in voice; if anything, it was curiosity.

---

Looking at him, she did not care for the expression on his face that had suddenly softened slightly. Nor for the tone of his voice that followed. It was easier to bristle at a mocking tone and volley back some sort of retort than sound like she was trying to make excuses for her family's money or lack thereof. "I found growing up that I was half-decent at it." Rowan replied, doing her best as if she were attempting to talk about the weather. "So when I need some extra pocket money, I mend dresses for various people. Including that wonderful debutante earlier this evening who was so kind as to quite literally kick me out of the room."

Her voice kept as level as she could, her hand on the vanity's table as her finger casually traced over one of the carvings in its side. Why she'd let him be privy to this information was beyond her. She stood up, suddenly feeling restless and uncomfortable sitting under his gaze. "But go ahead," she continued loftily as she made her way across the room to the table and chairs. "By all means make fun; can't have been worse than what she said to me." She meant to sit down, but instead leaned against the table, not wishing to leave more watermarks in the fine fabric of the upholstery than she had to.

---

For some reason, it had always been much less fun to mock someone who asked to be mocked, nor to tease someone who seemed to self-assured. He hadn't intended to do either, but in her challenging him to do so he realized how low she probably thought of him, and suddenly he felt rather sensitive and insecure. Raphael was self-aware enough to know that he didn't always think before he spoke, nor did he regularly consider the feelings of others before he gave his opinions, but he was raised right, and that meant not punching downwards when it was unnecessary. His usual victims were from his own social circle or—as she'd acted like on more than one occasion—who always had to have the last word.

"It's a useful skill to have," he said, trying to keep his voice event despite his discomfort. In truth Raphael knew very little of the trade, nor how useful it really was—he only paid attention to those who mended clothes when he needed something mended. But he couldn't deny that the idea of Yaxley doing something so lowly as mending seemed silly; he was relatively sure the Ministry paid its departmental workers well enough, and though he'd never admit it he'd always considered her an intellectual equal.

Or something like that. Maybe he shouldn't go that far.

"What did she say to you?" he asked instead. She'd mentioned him flirting with a debutante before the storm had sent them running, so he wondered whether it was the same one.

---

"Yes, yes," Rowan replied dismissively. "Quite useful for mending clothes you must wear until they're suitable enough for hand-me-downs or rags, and quite useful a skill when you need a dress for the ball and must mend it yourself in addition to applying more magic on top of it to make it seem like you can afford such a gown." Her voice grew faster and stopped suddenly as she realized how close she had just been to telling him she'd been at the Minister's ball.

Instead, she slid into answering his next question, hoping it was seamless enough he wouldn't have noticed, and she gave an unladylike shrug, thinking back to what she'd said. "Said that she wanted to have a go at you this evening since Miss Carina seemed to have you all to herself the last one. And that she was planning on befriending one of your sisters to get an in with you." In truth, the entire conversation stayed in Rowan's mind like a permanent sticking charm and she was loathe to admit it had an effect on her. "Then when I accidentally pricked her ankle with my needle, she kicked me and told me to leave." In more words than that, but there was no need to repeat the choice words that had come out of the debutante's mouth.

She crossed her arms across her chest as she looked at him frankly. Was he really that sought after a man in Society, she wondered. The Malfoys were quite rich, and pureblood to boot, which certainly didn't harm their reputations when it came to debutantes and their mothers clucking after them. But that was where Rowan's family differed; not to mention what mattered to those in Society. Family name and money.

---

Raphael realized he'd struck a nerve, but wasn't sure whether it was his casualness about the topic or the use of the word useful that had done it. Maybe it wasn't anything he'd said at all; maybe it was the fact that he'd said something, given that no one would presume him to have any in-depth knowledge as to what seamstresses did or how to even use a needle. He tactfully remained silent, opting for a soft expression that could have been mistaken for sympathy instead of words—until she revisited the name Carina. Carina Walters.

He'd met the debutante before, and only remembered her name because she'd made a not-so-subtle effort to repeat it so often that he couldn't forget it—and in that respect he guessed she'd been successful. However, he didn't associate the name with the pinnacle of femininity or grace or whatever virtue she'd been trying to communicate when she accosted him with her gaggle of friends.

"You pricked her?" he inquired with a poorly-hidden chuckle, "So a proficient seamstress but no good a tailor. That's good to note." He was light in his teasing, a smile on his face. He didn't despise Miss Walters, but he did get a kick at the mental image of her shrieking when Yaxley jabbed her with the pointy end of a needle.

---

With all her ranting, he'd had the good sense to appear sober and not sporting that pompous expression that he'd worn at the beginning of the night when she'd run into him. Still, Rowan sent him a scowl - though it was more of a chastising expression than a truly irritated one. She averted her gaze, pursing her lips. "In that case, I must practice more," she muttered. "Clearly I missed."

Missed what, she didn't care to clarify, rather let him wonder what she'd intended to hit instead. Might as well, he couldn't think worse of her than he already did. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she met his gaze again.

---

His smile remained but his brows knitted in question, though he was afraid to ask aloud what she meant by that. Apart from being distasteful of stuffy debutantes he couldn't imagine what she might have against Miss Walters—unless she holding back certain details of their conversation. He held her gaze, not with any clear intention. It was a moment of calm in the storm—literally and figuratively—and there was nothing that needed to be said that couldn't be shared with an exchanged look.

His expression soft, he opened his mouth to say something that died on his lips the moment the wall gave. The charm on the windows had held up against the storm, but they'd made the mistake of not charming the walls as well. Cracks formed around the edge of the window, accompanied by an ominous crunching sound, but before he could comment part of the wall crumbled and the wind came in.

Raphael instinctively moved towards the only corner of the room where there wasn't an open area: the space between the bed and the wall next to it. It took a mere four steps, and along the way he grabbed hold of her upper arm and dragged her with him, and just as the smaller furniture in the room began to shift and turn over Raphael pulled her into a lying position on the floor next to him.

---

She'd seen his expression before she realized what was happening. Whirling around, she stared at the walls, mouth agape. Apart from shock, she felt indignation rise in her as she realized what she'd failed to do, and she almost moved towards the wall as if to confront it. Before she could even take a step forward, an iron grip was on her arm and she was being dragged backward by Malfoy.

It was just as well - the walls immediately crumbled and she could only stare helplessly as Malfoy pulled her next to him on the floor next to the bed. This time she was well and truly terrified. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she watched the walls around them collapse inward. A shriek escaped her as one section of the wall looked like it was headed straight for them.

---

It was useless to try anything, he told himself. He was too stressed to do anything practical and his skills to rusty to do anything worth trying even if his heart didn't feel like it was about to beat right out of his chest. The walls were crumbling and there wasn't anything they could do, he told himself. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The pavilion, which he'd planned as their safe place, was unreachable now that the danger came from all around them.

He did the only thing he could do: he threw one arm over Yaxley's body, turned over so he was covering her upper body with his own, and ducked his head down against her neck, waiting for something—pain, peace, quiet, death, whatever fate had in store for him.

---