A/N: Thank you, to all the people who reviewed. It's given me the confidence to keep going with this and while I really don't know how long I will maintain the inspiration I really do appreciate all the feedback. Thank you! I hope you enjoy a little bit from Hermione's conflicted pov.

She can still see the word, carved into her skin, even after it's been magicked away and only the memory remains. A lot of things only remain now in memory, that word in her flesh, the color of blood, the voice of a man who'd stood before her too close and asked her name. The memory of how she had lied.

More often than not she finds her memory taking her back to those words and that touch and a promise in his looks so dark that she bit her lip and shivered at the reminder. No one had ever spoken to her like that, regarded her in such an overtly threatening way. Not like that and it wasn't something she would ever have expected, she, the smart one, the clever one, but never particularly the pretty one.

Never gorgeous.

Hermione isn't inclined to think of herself in such a way, is more concerned with knowledge and books and survival than she is neat hair (though it was so much better than it had been when she was young), and her teeth (though they were fixed too now, weren't they). She considers herself quite sensible, even as she still takes the time to dab perfume to the pulse points of her throat. She considers herself careful, though it had been that which attracted his attention in the first place, when he had caught the scent of the delicate fragrance in the dark chill of the forest.

Vanity had given her away and his attraction to her had been received with disgust. He had deserved no less or course for he is repulsive, hateful, evil. The actions he took, his threatening presence, the people he worked for, all of these things made him despicable, worthless in her eyes, and yet-

And yet.

She hates herself for remembering, late at night when Harry and Ron are already asleep, troubled with dreams tainted by their own fears. But she remembers, she cannot stop herself, remembers how close he had stood and the darkness of his eyes and the heat of his body. He is older than she, rougher and crueler and so different that she worries her lip in the dark and wonders just for a minute what it would have been like had he had the chance to bring her closer.

She banishes the thought before it can edge into territory that she is not comfortable contemplating, where the smell of danger cloys too sickly sweet and she can think, closer.

And when her dreams take her where her lucid mind refuses to go she wakes guilty and muddled, her reactions slow and hair tousled.

Ron and Harry laugh at her, affectionate and normal, Ron makes a comment that is meant to be flattering but it just comes out awkward before he makes it endearingly worse by trying to cover it up. Harry laughs at him and Hermione smiles tolerantly, full of affectionate love for both of these boys, these young men.

But when she looks at Ron, smiles at him and watches as he blushes and smiles back, she feels guilty.

She tells herself she doesn't know why. She knows she is lying to herself.

Mudblood, she remembers.

Dobby's blood, the frailty of his body, she remembers.

Gorgeous, she remembers.

And the darkness of his eyes, the promise therein, and the feeling, stirring forbidden and unpleasant in her gut.

Unbidden, she runs.