The air was stagnant and suffocating. Portraits embroidering the walls asked her what was wrong—while a few others commented on the inappropriateness of her dress—but Hermione could barely hear any of them. Focused on getting back to her faraway dormitory, she moved as briskly as she could in her uncomfortable, strappy high heels. Only there could she avoid the harsh judgment of her peers. Only there could she escape the sinking feeling in her stomach.

Up the stairs she went, past the Bloody Baron and past Peeves the Poltergeist, who the baron was berating for scaring a group of first-years. Slytherin's ghost terrified Hermione even more than he once did, now that she knew he was the murderer of Helena Ravenclaw.

Love rarely ended well for women.

She shook sour thoughts of Shakespearean romance and wound through the many paths of the castle, one of which a Hufflepuff prefect was pacing. Before the badged boy could utter a word, she was already well onto the next hallway—the last obstacle between her and the safety of her bed.

"Hermione Granger! What a sight for sore eyes on this fine evening. We haven't had the chance—"

"I'm sorry, Nick. It's not a good time."

Lifting the skirt of her dress, she circled around the ghost and hurried down the stone corridor. Some portraits snored while others complained of her loud gait, but their voices were a mile away. There was only one portrait that she wanted to see, and when she found him sipping wine with Sir Cadogan, she let out a sigh of relief.

"Back already, are you?"

"I don't want to hear it, Ulysse. Brio—" She had nearly forgotten that the password changed. "Sorry. La neige."

Ulysse's frame moved aside, which apparently Sir Cadogan did not expect, as he stumbled over his own discarded helmet, spilling his wine all over Ulysse's beige robes. The nobleman cursed in French, and, ignoring him, Hermione swung one leg through the portrait hole. It was notably smaller than the hole behind the Fat Lady or Ariana Dumbledore, but perhaps that was how it was so well-hidden.

"Party didn't tickle your fancy?"

Still with only one leg through the hole, Hermione was in a rather compromising position, so when the familiar, bored drawl sent her hobbling backward in surprise, she nearly fell. Fortunately, she was sober, unlike Sir Cadogan, and as such, she was able to regain her balance, plant her feet on the corridor floor, and growl, "You and that ruddy Disillusionment Charm."

"It does come in handy." He leaned against a portrait on the wall opposite her, much to the long-nosed wizard's protest. "Especially when it comes to slipping away from rather terrible parties."

Hermione had come to know Malfoy as a constant—an unusual constant, and often a negative one, but a constant, nonetheless. His absence had been apparent since their post-Hogsmeade meeting, and suddenly, he was there again—exactly as Ron had come back after leaving her and Harry alone in the woods. Back then, she was angry. This time, she did not know how to feel.

Fear and relief and confusion left her with dozens of whirring questions. She only dared to ask one.

"Why did you follow me here?"

Silver eyes were boring into her—molten pools of mercury, curious and trepidatious just as she was.

"I don't know."

"You don't know," she repeated.

Whatever game Malfoy was playing, she did not have time for it. Her haven was behind her, and she wheeled around to return to it. After all, the dormitory was a better constant than Malfoy: It was predictable, warm, and safe—three words that could never describe the young Death Eater.

Her gurgling intestines interrupted her dramatic exit.

"Been skipping meals, have you?"

"That's none of your business."

His silver pools were suddenly tarnished and murky—unreadable.

"I only ask because there are spells for that."

The young heir could have been setting a trap. Whatever truth was in her drunken words must have resonated with him, because he knew he could approach her without so much as an invitation. Maybe he thought he could manipulate her too.

Warily, she inquired, "Food-conjuring spells? But that defies—"

"The spells I speak of don't conjure food, Granger; we both know that's not possible. They're meant to keep you from feeling hungry or thirsty for a while. That's it."

"I've never heard of such a thing."

Horcrux hunting would have been much more manageable if the three of them had not felt as hungry during times when food was scarce. She had spent days sorting through tomes to determine which were important and which were not. How could she have missed magic so critical for survival?

"I'm not lying to you, if that's what you're getting at."

"That's not what I was getting at, actually!"

Malfoy did not seem to believe her, and he was right not to. Through gritted teeth, he said, "Fine. If you come with me, I'll teach you."

"Come with you where?"

Company was precisely what Hermione needed. Nevertheless, he was still Malfoy, and she was too intelligent to overlook her lingering suspicions.

"I assume you won't be needing inside, then?" Ulysse drawled.

"I'm not sure," Hermione said, crossing her arms. "Is there any reason I might want to go back to my dormitory instead of with you, Draco?"

Ulysse Moreau grumbled and closed the portrait hole while Sir Cadogan hummed a tune and poured more wine into each of their glasses. Malfoy, on the other hand, had knit his brows together. It was not anger that he was emanating, but befuddlement.

"Well?" Hermione pressed, paying Ulysse no attention at all.

"I'm not out to curse you, Granger. If I were, I would've done it already."

"That's reassuring," she spat. After a brief pause, she asked, "So where are we going, then?"

"For a walk."

"You want to go for a walk."

"Yes, it's this thing where you move your legs and you go places. Maybe you've heard of it."

"It's not so much what it is that concerns me, Malfoy. I want to know why."

He kicked the wall with the heel of his shiny black shoe. The portrait behind him huffed, "You almost kicked me in the head, you stupid boy!"

Malfoy ignored the long-nosed wizard. "I don't know if you've noticed, but Filch cleans this part of the castle round now. I, for one, am not keen on doing detention with him for something as juvenile as being out of bed without a prefect's badge."

"We might get seen together again," Hermione pointed out. "Is that really something you want to risk after recent...accusations?"

"I've been accused of worse."

Hermione searched his eyes for dishonesty. All she found was the glint of loneliness—the same glint she so often found in her own.

"We can't be long."

With a nod, Malfoy rounded and padded down the corridor. He had slowed his usual long-legged strides, a detail that was not lost on Hermione as she fell into step beside him.

The two trudged down the hallway, accompanied only by the sound of flickering torches and apneic paintings of witches and wizards long deceased. Why he wanted to go for a walk with her, she did not know, but if she pushed aside her own inhibitions, she was glad he did.

Finally, in an effort to avoid her own thoughts, she decided to break the awkward air. "That girl with Dewey Blunk—"

"Cerita Grubbly. She's a sixth-year."

"Grubbly as in Grubbly-Plank? Are they related?"

"Yes, but as you could tell, Cerita charms far fewer unicorns."

"Well, if unicorns aren't her forte, I happen to know a griffin she could try her luck with," Hermione muttered.

Malfoy snorted and their blanket of silence draped over them once more. Hermione still could not understand why he wanted to go for a walk with her, and the more time they spent saying nothing, the more she questioned his motives—as well as her own.

"Did you ever do this before the war?" she suddenly asked. "Wander the corridors and such?"

He halted. "Why?"

"It's just a question."

He watched her intently before continuing onward. "I was a prefect. If you were performing your basic responsibilities instead of babysitting Weasley, you'd know wandering the corridors was sort of the whole point."

"You didn't have to invite me along if you just wanted to be rude!" Hermione shouted, stalking after him. His pace had become nearly too fast for her.

"Sorry."

Breathily, she marched just behind him and asked again, "So did you?"

He did not answer her.

"Well, I did," she admitted, "and not just because I was a prefect—and not with Harry or—" She cleared her throat. "—or with R-Ronald."

A question was in the way he looked at her then, and to her horror, her heart fluttered. Anxiety had a way of doing that, and she had to convince herself that was all that it was: anxiety.

"I'd practice spells," she elaborated as she shook the feeling, "around the castle. I used to do them in the common room or the girls' dormitory, but people thought it to be a bit annoying."

"Complaining about practicing magic?" he scoffed. "Gryffindors are even more pathetic than I thought."

They were approaching a path not often traveled and Hermione noted that they had to have been walking quite a long while to reach it. A dusty, dimly lit staircase beckoned her to sit on the bottom step. In all of her time as a prefect, she had never seen anyone in that corner of the castle.

"It's probably my own fault, honestly," she admitted, clunking her bony knees together. "I can get a bit—erm—obsessive. People were trying to do homework and I was always fussing with wand techniques."

"Wand techniques are important," he replied, sliding down the wall across from her. "Any self-respecting wizard would agree."

"I suppose I don't know many self-respecting wizards, then."

His steel eyes shone brightly even in the semidarkness. Hermione did not know how long they said nothing, but she must have been watching those eyes for ages. She was searching them again, but she wasn't sure what she was hoping to find.

"Are you leaving for the holidays?" she blurted.

"I'm going to Avuelle," he said absently, "with my mother and father."

The posh Wizarding village of Avuelle, France seemed like a fitting place for the Malfoy family. Hermione imagined that their Yule celebration would be traditional and lavishly decorated—something quite different from the way she always spent holidays with the Weasleys.

She could even picture Malfoy there, his pale hair green beneath the charmed fairy lights, polished silver dishware lain out before him by his family's French house-elves. When they were younger, she thought Malfoy basked in his wealth and all it granted him, but the only time she saw Malfoy truly surrounded by his wealth, he was terrified and miserable. She imagined the Lestranges and Lord Voldemort were to blame for that.

Perhaps, it was actually his father.

"You don't sound all that pleased."

"That's because I'm not."

"I see."

He was somewhere else after that. Metallic orbs had glazed over for nearly an entire minute before he asked, "And what about your family? What do Muggles do for Christmas?"

Hermione sighed and rested her head against the cold, stone wall. She decided not to tell him that her parents had no memory of her and she had sent them to Australia, where they had spent over a year of their new life. As he held onto his secrets, she would hold onto her own. Already, they had given each other more than they should have.

"I don't actually celebrate with my family. I usually go to the Burrow."

"Weasley's?"

"Yes," she said, her face pinkening. "Not this year, though."

He looked like he was trying to decide something. Before he could, her stomach grumbled again.

His expression turned to that of annoyance and he pulled out his wand. His long, elegant fingers fit his new wand well, and after their last Defense Against the Dark Arts class, it was clear to Hermione that he was its master.

"Ventra Exprimendum."

The peculiar pain of weaning off food had diminished. At least one spell was capable of dulling the ache of famine, and an unexpected sense of trust swelled in its place.

"How did you—"

"Swish twice, then flick. You'll feel twice as hungry after it lifts in the morning."

"I should eat breakfast then," Hermione deduced.

He nodded.

When Hermione had decided to come back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she did not know what would come of a year without Harry, Ron, or mortal peril, but she most certainly did not think that she would be going on spontaneous walks with Draco Malfoy, let alone enjoying one.

"Avuelle, then. You must have family there."

"Sort of."

"Sort of," she echoed.

"Yes, Granger, sort of."

Hermione realized what this must mean. The family was not of pure blood.

Based on her own blood status, she determined that she needed to change the subject.

"You know, I don't know that I've ever seen Slughorn sweat as much as he was tonight."

Malfoy laughed: a real true, belly laugh that Hermione might have shared with Harry. "It looked like he'd taken a dip in the lake."

"And the way he snuck off when he should've intervened! I've seen fifth-year prefects defuse situations better."

"It almost would've been better if he invited that bloke that liked the frogs."

Hermione chuckled, noting how like Ginny he was. "Tobias."

"Right, your boyfriend."

Her face was so hot that it had to have been bright red. "I'll hex you again, Malfoy. I swear it."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Do you want to test me?" she asked, drawing her wand, though it was a bluff.

Then, a shadow danced under the torchlight and Hermione's newly-full stomach sank. Spending time with Malfoy made her insides twist when she was doing it in secret, but being caught made her want to vomit.

"Erm—hello."

The intruder was the other Hufflepuff prefect—a slight girl with dark, bulging eyes and long black hair. She was a head shorter than Hermione with thick teal spectacles and the traditional badge. It gleamed beneath the flame, misplaced upon the girl's oversized robes.

"Look, I don't know what you two are up to, but it is late, so if you could go back to your dorms and use the Astronomy Tower next time like everyone else does..."

"We were just coming back from Slughorn's party," Hermione said, gesturing her gown. "We weren't—you didn't think—"

"I don't need to know the details," the girl said, holding up her hands in surrender. "Please just—er—just get to your dorms. I can't have you blocking the stairs and I know you both used to be prefects, but—"

"You don't need to explain yourself," Hermione said, standing. She met Malfoy's eyes. "Erm—tomorrow at one? For our Potions lesson?"

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled, glancing at the prefect.

And with a withering look from the Hufflepuff, she started back towards her room. For once, she slept soundly.


Author's Note: I had a really hard time writing this chapter for some reason. I was feeling ill and I think I've been stressed out with the COVID-19 pandemic. With that being said, I am editing a future chapter, so I'm over the hump. Stay healthy, stay safe. And remember: "Constant vigilance."