a/n: and finally, the last installment of to the highest bidder. may your predictions come true, itsjillian.

dedication: to the redemption that everyone deserves.

disclaimer: don't own.

to the highest bidder

i'd ruin the stars, just to see your smile

Broken goods.

First she'd been bought, then exhibited, and now, thrown away because of a hairline fracture.

Hermione slowly peered out from corner, and sighed in relief when she saw that no one was there. Tip-toeing on the plush carpets, she warily eyed every patch of shadow and blackened niche.

Jumping as she heard the low hoot of an owl, Hermione placed a hand on her heart, desperate for it to stop its frantic beating.

The achluophobia was a side effect of her years at the orphanage, at the dingy, wasted place, of standing in a pitch-black closet for punishments, of waking up in terror in her bed at night. It had gotten better in the Riddle mansion, but there were still nights that she had knocked on her father's door, shyly asking if she could come in.

But there, she had the liberty to blaze her entire wing with light. She didn't think Draco would take too kindly to it here, wasting his precious money on electricity bills.

Freezing when she saw a shadow move, she fearfully turned towards it. It's your imagination her hand chanted, but she still felt it was real, alive, coming to kill her –

"What in the hell's name are you doing outside my room at two in the morning?" a familiar annoyed voice came from behind it. There was the click of a switch and suddenly, the entire corridor was bathed in light.

Squinting against the light, she moved away from her husband. They hadn't met since the incident, nearly a week ago, when she realized just how dangerous her psycho of a husband was.

"First you call me gay, now I'm a psycho?" Draco said wryly.

Hermione gulped and blinked away the dark spots clouding her vision. She really had to stop thinking out loud.

"But it's so entertaining," this time, there was a pronounced amusement in his tone.

Clamping her mouth shut, Hermione turned a delicate shade of red. Her husband didn't look nearly as threatening in bright light, without a vodka bottle in his hand. He was standing in front of a mahogany door – presumably his room – and looked adorably rumpled.

His eyes were still bleary with sleep and his perfect hair was mussed and sticking out in different directions. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants – the only casual clothing she had every seen him in. While she was observing him, he stifled a yawn behind a hand.

"I was going to the kitchen?" Hermione slowly edged away from him. Their last encounter had set her on-edge and therefore it was a frazzled, stressed woman that woke up after a long-forgotten nightmare, seeing the shapes form in the gloom.

He regarded her suspiciously, a hint of a smile still playing about his lips, "The kitchen is on the other side of the manor."

"Ah, right," Hermione's face burned at her inadequacy with finding her way around the house, "I knew that." Resolutely not looking at him, she strode off in the other directions, her sensitive ears catching the faint trace of fading snickers as she attempted to make her way to the kitchen.

Unfortunately, the place did nothing to calm her down. She had started making a cup of hot chocolate, but her nerves grew even more strained as strange noises started creaking and scratching. She still remembered that night, and every time she closed her eyes, she could see his furious face and the intentions displayed so obviously in his eyes.

Abandoning the chocolaty drink, Hermione warily edged away from the room, arming herself with a knife as a precaution.

It did nothing to help – she still saw the figures materialize out of the gloom, the pressing darkness trying to suffocate her, the noises that were magnified by her heightened senses.

She froze when she heard the scratching of a tree branch, and the moaning of floorboards under her feet. She jumped when she felt the whisper of wind on her neck, and the indistinct words it mumbled.

Hermione turned another corridor, walking faster in her panic. Half-blind, her hysteria only grew when she realized she had stumbled into a hallway of barricaded rooms. Her heart thumping louder and faster, tears beginning to form at the corner of her eyes, Hermione nearly ran down the corridor, crashing into something at the end.

In an instant, that something had wrenched the knife out of her hands, pinned her against the wall and whispered harshly into her ears, "What the fuck are you doing with a knife?"

It was too much.

She had grown up in a dismal orphanage. She had been raised by a heartless man. She had been married – against her will – to a man with almost no morals and even less of a conscience. She had been forced to act in balls and galas and parties her entire life – forced to be someone she wasn't, to do things she had never wanted to do. She was locked in a mansion straight out of a horror story, moping about in her room – alone. She had been assaulted by her husband. She was wandering the dark, trying to suppress her phobia and failing miserably. And she had just been attacked in the middle of the night.

The panic in her chest burst, her heart simply unable to take more stress. Giving way to the hysteria, Hermione slid down the wall, curling up into a tight ball, and started sobbing.

The tears ran freely down her cheeks, marking her with its trails as she wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them to her chest. She couldn't take any more – wouldn't, shouldn't have to take more.

All her life, she was looking for affection. She didn't get any from the crisp attendants at the orphanage, nor from the father that scorned weakness. Her last hope had been her husband, but it seemed that disappointment was waiting there as well.

All she wanted was to be loved – was that so wrong?

Lost in her world of self-pity and humiliation, she didn't noticed when Draco knelt in front of her, until he asked – in a voice so soft she didn't recognize it as his, "Hermione, what's wrong?"

Momentarily shocked, she looked up to meet his gray eyes. They were swirling with emotions to fast and tangled to decipher, but – realizing she had just exposed her red, blurry, puffed-up face to him, she burrowed back into her arms, and started sniffing again, cheeks burning at the embarrassment.

She heard his low sigh of impatience – he wasn't get any information out of her. It was bad enough that she had broke down in front of him, she didn't need to tell him more secrets to add to his disposal.

Fully intending to hide in her arms until he went away, she was taken by surprise when strong arms wrapped around her, one snaking at the back of her knees, the other supporting her shoulder blades. Stunned, she looked up to him, watching his annoyed face as they moved back to the corridor he had first caught her in, entering the door he had stood in front of.

Staring at this uncharacteristic display, she yelped in shock as he unceremoniously dumped her on the bed.

It was a very nice bed – Hermione couldn't help but notice the thousand-count sheets, the silk hangings, the comfy mattress, the fluffy pillows laid out on the master bed.

Bewildered, she watched – content to lie on the bed – as Draco shut the door and turned off the lights. Her heart momentarily stilled at the sudden darkness and then started again, beating fast as ever as she heard the rustling of sheets – he had joined her.

"Draco?" Hermione cursed her voice for wavering, "I – what?" He had suddenly grabbed her by the waist and tugged her towards him, extracting the blankets from under her. She swallowed nervously as she found herself sleeping right next to the husband she had minimal contact with for nearly two months.

"Draco, why have you brought me here?" her voice sounded panicked and high-pitched.

He merely burrowed his face in the hollow of her neck – surreptitiously sniffing her lemon-scented hair – before mumbling, "What, expected me to leave my wife crying in the middle of the corridor?"

"Well, yes," Hermione answered honestly, that was exactly what she had been expecting him to do.

He groaned, the vibrations moving down her neck and giving her a tickling feeling, "Whatever – go to sleep woman, it's two in the morning." He tucked her closer under his arm, cuddling her.

Hermione blinked – before a slow smile grew on her face, "Teddy bear at the dry cleaner's, Draco?" He chose not to dignify her question with a response and – after uttering a dry laugh – she snuggled into his warm embrace.

That which is broken, can be repaired.

le -

Glares. "Give. Back. Mr. Bear."

"Oh, no, Draco." Giggles. Holds stuffed dog further out of reach. "Does this mean you're gay, after all?"

- fin

a/n: …i have no idea what just happened. like for seriously. no idea. but who doesn't love the idea of snuggling draco? also, to those of you who celebrate valentine's/singles awareness day, share your presents and gifts! also, who gave them to you… /winks/