Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d wanted him to stop her. She’d wanted him to reach out and keep her there, to tell her everything was going to be alright. But of course, they already knew it wasn’t. That hope had been smothered the minute Rowan had decided to pursue the lead Maisie gave her. The moment she stepped foot in the warehouse. And the point of no return was the minute she’d apparated almost directly into Malfoy’s bloody bedroom. What had she been thinking?

Her head still hurt from enduring Malfoy’s legilimency, and she nearly was forced to sit back down as the room seemed to tilt on its axis in front of her eyes. She placed a hand on the wall to steady herself, blinking rapidly to clear her mind. Was it possible for her brain to feel so physically sore? So sluggish to the point that it was hard to concentrate on what he was saying.

His grasp on her bare wrist was enough to make her look up and stare at him. Of course, his expression was unreadable, except for the flush that dappled itself over his cheeks. And that flush was likely from exertion more than anything. No rash decisions. She’d have protested if it weren’t true. She’d made nothing but rash decisions up until this point. What was she thinking? She was no Gryffindor, she had never attempted to act like a heroine in a novel. But, she mused, perhaps everyone would go to the lengths to protect someone they loved.

A connection between this thought and something she’d said to him earlier began to lace itself together in her mind. She stopped it short, clearing her throat, forcing her thoughts to clear before the connection was fully made. Nodded once to Malfoy and dusted off her skirt. So far she had no plans to do anything except go home and collapse on her bed from exhaustion. But she pressed her lips together before nodding once more: “Alright.”

Write to him. Visit him. She’d already done both of those things before, and nothing good had come of it. Rowan hardly doubted that would change.

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