A/N: Flangst...and ferrets. Prompts: "naked" and "illicit." Hermione's pov required.

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Back at Hogwarts, post-war, and I've become Harry sixth year, creeping around after Malfoy in the dead of night.

At least it's sheer curiosity, not suspicion, driving me to crack the Transfig classroom door and peer into the moonlit space.

Turned away, his hair glows like a hard-won halo. Everything's been too neat about Malfoy this year: appearance, schoolwork, behavior. But I suppose we're all trying hard to get back on track, or right the track we used to be on.

Movement at his elbow. Again.

Is he…? A flush heats my face, spreads like electricity down to my chest. But why would he come all the way down here to do…that?

Then, a clucking.

Alright. This is too bizarre.

Pushing the door wide with an alarming creak, I advance on Malfoy, his pale face panicked as he turns, cradling some long, fleshy, wriggling thing.

"Shh," he soothes. It takes me a second to realize he's not addressing me, but the thing now squealing in his arms.

"What is that?"

"What are you doing here, Granger? Get out!" he whisper-shouts. The thing pokes its head out from the crook of Malfoy's arm. Whiskers twitch. A small nose quivers.

"Is that a…ferret?" I can't help the grin.

Malfoy sighs in defeat. "Go ahead. Run off and tell McGonagall."

"Tell her what?"

He looks down at the creature, strokes its bare head with a finger. It clucks in pleasure. "I started caring for him last year, but then he got sick. Incurably. Lost all his fur. I was supposed to—" he breaks off, looking away towards the windows.

"Euthanize him?" I finish, taking a step closer. Malfoy nods. I reach out a tentative hand, touch the ferret's skin, which is warm despite its furlessness. He clucks, and Malfoy's eyes shift to me, wide with surprise.

"How much time does he have?"

Malfoy's gaze falls; his voice is small as he answers, "A week or so?" Our fingers touch as we pet the sick animal.

"Can I help?"

"There's not much to be done. I just give him something for the pain."

But he assents, and over the next several nights I learn the ferret's name is "Phoebus," help administer the pain draught, clean his cage with its magically constructed false bottom, which hides him from sight.

Night eight is hard; Phoebus is listless, the draught not enough. I take Malfoy's hand. I don't know what else to do.

Night nine he takes mine.

Night ten we find Phoebus still and silent, and Malfoy cries. My chest and throat constrict. I toy with my fingers, raise and lower my arms a couple times before wrapping them around him. He holds on so tight it hurts, and then he's kissing me, salty and wet.

That morning before lessons, we bury him near Hagrid's.

"He was…a good ferret," Malfoy says lamely, sincerely.

"You'll be even better someday." His cheek is warm beneath my hand.