Next morning they were served a reluctant breakfast by Kreacher, whose mumblings added a slight bitter aftertaste to every dish. Other than that, everybody was happy with how the New Year had been spent. After saying fond farewells to Sirius, Lupin drove Harry and Hermione home. The 1st of January, it was the last day before they would board the train back to Hogwarts. It had been a near perfect Christmas holiday, and Harry did not think anything could go wrong. But he was careless, both in thinking so and in what happened next.

Taking a bath in the evening, he was only wearing a towel as he left the bathroom and walked down the hall to his room. By chance, Hermione came in the opposite direction. Harry sent her a quick smile as they approached each other. It was only when he saw the look of confusion and horror or revulsion on her face that he remembered. His chest still bore the scars of Malfoy's handiwork. Not able to meet Hermione's eyes or see the look upon her face, Harry hurried past her and into his room, quickly slamming the door behind him.

"Harry!" Hermione yelled from outside, while knocking on the door.

"I'm not dressed," Harry replied, true enough.

"Just - talk to me. What was that? You didn't have that in the summer, when did you get that?"

"It's nothing, just leave it alone," he said, putting some pants on, but still able to see the scars in the mirror.

"If it were nothing, why are you acting so strange?" she asked.

"I just don't want to talk about it," he said, letting a shirt drop down to cover his damaged skin. Then he fell rather than sat down on his bed, suddenly feeling the weight of all the anger and humiliation that he had kept under lid since leaving Hogwarts.

"Harry, please," he heard her say through the door, and her voice was so soft he was not sure how he could even hear it. The door was very slowly, very tentatively opened until Hermione was able to enter. When her cautious glances could ascertain that Harry was dressed, she went inside the room, closing the door behind her and sitting down next to Harry.

"It's not nothing, is it," she asked rhetorically.

"I don't think I should talk about it," Harry said, his voice shaky and he hated himself for it, the feeling that he was losing control. Just like he had that night, no control over anything that happened.

"Let me see? Just for a moment," she asked him, and he didn't know how to refuse. When he said nothing, she took it as permission and lifted his shirt up to reveal the crude drawing etched into his skin, and of course the word underneath, the signature of the painter.

"Malfoy?" Her voice spoke the name so softly, it seemed almost ludicrous to Harry. It was a name that should be spoken with steel and hate in your voice, and certainly not be mentioned by someone as kind and sweet as Hermione.

"Yeah. Him and some others, they cornered me, night before we went away for Christmas break," Harry muttered, mostly because his voice was breaking and he didn't dare speak up. Hermione placed a finger on the scar tissue; it did not hurt, but her touch was cold and made him shiver slightly. Feeling equal parts angry and embarrassed, Harry jerked away and stood up, moving away and turning around. He did not want to face her, or have her look at him.

"He wanted revenge on you," he heard her voice behind him.

"Yes," he whispered. "They paralysed me, and he burned this into me. Then they left me alone in the hallway to wait for somebody to find me."

"That sounds awful," she said, getting up to stand behind him. "This was more than a week ago, why didn't you tell me?"

" What was the point of making you feel miserable about it too?"

"Oh, Harry," she said yet again. Harry had lost count how many times she had admonished him, or been relieved, or just sounded defeated with those words. She placed her hand on his shoulder and turned him around, until she could embrace him with her head against his chest, just above the scarring.

"You don't get it. I'd rather be miserable with you than happy on my own."

The next day they were both quiet, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger did notice that their usually talkative daughter was less loquacious, as Mr. Granger remarked with a dry chuckle.

"Just wish we could have had a few more days before going back to school," Hermione said, grasping at anything.

"That really is the end of things," Mr. Granger said. "Usually she can't wait until she can get back to school, and classes, and the school library. Must be because something's changed in this household. I wonder why. You have any idea, my dear?"

"Not the slightest, dear," Mrs. Granger said, smiling at Harry and filling some scrambled eggs on his plate. Hermione fenced back at her parents' teasing, sparing Harry from having to make conversation, for which he was grateful. While it felt good that Hermione knew, that she sympathised with him, telling her had also burst his wound open. All the rage he had felt, repressed for more than a week, would no longer be denied.

It simmered in him until it reached boiling point, and Harry knew he would have to respond in kind. He needed to get even, to exact his vengeance. It would be a very useful experience in how to track and trap enemy wizards, Harry thought, and be on his guard constantly from now on. Moody had been right all along with his mantra of constant vigilance. What everybody considered paranoia, Harry now fully agreed with.

His life had never exactly been normal or standard, but it had definitely taken a turn for the worse. Never mind, Harry thought, I don't care. I only know I am going to get Malfoy and his slimy little friends.