There had been a lot of essays to mark over Christmas and thanks to one Miss Granger, who always seemed to hand in double the required length of parchment, it had been a dull and tedious process. But this was how Severus always spent the holidays... very much alone.

He had just been leaving the office to go begin his Defense Against the Dark Arts class when a distressed Pansy Parkinson ran in. Upon seeing him she began to cry and it was difficult to ascertain the reason in between all her blubbering. What he did gather was that something had happened to Draco. Dropping the rolls of parchment, he immediately followed her out.

When he arrived, Lucius' son looked close to death. It had frightened him. He barely registered that Zabini was there too until he was kneeling opposite him. He only grew more concerned when Pomfrey had confirmed that he was running a high fever.

Perhaps the two Slytherins weren't telling him something, but what?

Outside the hospital wing, he'd asked them. To his utter disgust, Miss Parkinson had once again broken down in tears. He suspected the boy knew but wasn't telling him... if only he hadn't looked away so quickly. It had been more difficult to read his thoughts than he'd anticipated. Inside the mind of Blaise Zabini, everything was untidy and nothing seemed to be compact or laid out in chronological order. It was odd how it didn't reflect the orderly manner with which he presented himself.

If the D.A.D.A professor didn't know any better, he'd say it was a very crafty use of Occlumency.

In fact, Severus had only been able to grasp a fleeting memory, of Draco, sitting in the Slytherin common room with a glass in hand, between Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. The former looked furious, while the latter looked amused. Draco was staring vacantly, as though he were far away. Severus couldn't see the significance of it or how it was relevant to what had happened to him this morning.

He was certain only of three things: firstly, that Draco had been responsible for cursing Katie Bell, secondly, that he was working on a plan to kill Dumbledore, one which he didn't care to share, and finally, that he was growing as Dumbledore had predicted, desperate.

Severus rushed to Dumbledore's office with these thoughts in mind. The situation at this point was precarious. Draco had proven to be a lot more dangerous than either two wizards ever realized. He had made an attempt on Dumbledore's life, one that endangered others. Snape could only blame himself, he should've known that the boy's arrogance and anger over his father's imprisonment would induce him to carry out the Dark Lord's mission so readily.

And now look at what he'd done.

It was clear that whatever had occurred, Draco was responsible. At first, he suspected that perhaps he'd been handling another cursed object… it would explain his unconscious state but not the fever.

No, there was something he was missing.

He reflected on the memory he had stolen from the young Zabini. It must have some relevance or it wouldn't have been on the precipice of his thoughts when he'd asked the question.

What is it he asked exactly? He had not specifically questioned him about what had happened to Draco, no, he had said there was something they weren't telling him.

He saw the moment being played out again in his mind, carefully this time, giving every detail his attention.

They are in the common room, Draco, Parkinson, the Greengrass girls, Davis, and, of course, Zabini himself... one of the Greengrass sisters is angry… angry with Miss Parkinson. She accuses her of lying.

That is all he was able to catch a glimpse of.

It made no sense to him, so he decided the memory was useless to the predicament at hand.

Upon entering the circular room, he found Dumbledore listening to chamber music while leafing through a muggle magazine.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore smiled as if expecting him.

Snape was infuriated. He should have never agreed to Dumbledore's request. Everything was going to hell. Draco was going mad, possibly one misstep away from becoming a murderer, and, or, killing himself while here they were playing a grand game of wizard's chess, moving these idiotic children around like some pawns on the board.

"Lucius' son is in the infirmary. I believe he's been cursed."

"Handling hexed necklaces again?" Dumbledore mused softly peering back down at his magazine.

Severus narrowed his eyes at the headmaster. "May I remind you that I have made an Unbreakable Vow?"

With a heavy sigh, the headmaster put away the magazine and turned off the music with a flick of his wand.

"What has happened Severus?"

"Parkinson came wailing into my office like a banshee, her and Blaise Zabini found him this morning in the boy's dormitory bathroom, unconscious and bleeding, from a head injury—which I healed—except I don't believe he simply fell. I had no choice but to take Draco to Pomfrey."

"And what did she have to say?" Dumbledore probed.

"It is as I suspected. He is running a high fever, probably the consequence of a curse or an infection."

"Is it possible that perhaps Blaise or—?"

"No. They are not responsible… yet it is inexplicable. He had no other signs of physical injury and there were no Dark objects to be seen around. He only had his wand."

Peering over his half-moon spectacles Dumbledore asked quietly, "And what of the Dark Mark?"

Snape studied the headmaster's expression and understood what he was driving at. "You believe it is the Mark that made him ill?"

"I do not know what to believe…" Dumbledore replied, reaching for a bowl of sherbet lemons and offering it to Severus.

He made no movement to take one. He eyed the older wizard disdainfully while he unwrapped the sweet and popped it into his mouth. Seeming to have satisfied his sugar cravings, Dumbledore sat back in his chair, deep in thought.

"I do not think it possible for the Dark Lord to kill us so easily," Snape scoffed, remembering Igor Karkaroff. "Otherwise some would have met their deaths much sooner."

Dumbledore was humming in thought. "I do not believe it possible either. No, I have a different theory… I wonder if the Mark reacts when someone attempts to remove it, a type of defense mechanism if you will.

Severus blinked.

He had never considered this. Never once having thought to rid himself of the Mark, he'd only allowed it to fade and still now he wore it as a reminder of all his mistakes; so he may suffer the deep anguish of regret for each day he lived and sweet Lily did not.

"Some time ago I was told—by a questionable source—that Barty Crouch Junior had almost been killed by his father," Dumbledore continued. "Apparently, before his son could be sent to Azkaban, in a fit of rage, he attempted to cut the Dark Mark from his arm…

"Of course, there were many rumors at the time revolving around Barty Crouch Senior and his family; some said that he had used the Cruciatus Curse against his son, for ruining his chances at becoming Minister of Magic, others, that he even tried casting a merciful killing curse to save him from the dementors, but what my informant told me was that when he had tried to rid his son of the Mark, Barty Crouch Junior doubled over in such pain that it rendered him unconscious and he entered Azkaban two days later still dizzy with fever."

The grey-haired wizard was looking at Severus again, waiting, perhaps, for him to confirm this story, but he had never heard of it or of anyone ever trying to remove the mark, and he certainly couldn't imagine the son of Lucius Malfoy ever wanting to do such a thing. He did not like how Dumbledore's explanations always left more unanswered questions.

"No... it is not possible," Snape said finally. "Even if it is true, Draco would not try such a thing. Why would he, when he is so enamored with the glory and honor of it all?" he sneered, the last words leaving his tongue in disgust.

"Perhaps our young Malfoy is not enjoying his apprenticeship as much as he believed he would and perhaps he is wise enough to know that it is not a simple matter of bowing out."

Severus wore a deep frown and thought again to what he had seen inside the mind of Blaise Zabini. This new information still gave no shape to it.

"I fear, Dumbledore, that we have missed something crucial."

"You may be right Severus but for now, I will see to it that Draco makes a full recovery."

With that promise, Snape left the headmaster's office. He was extremely late for his D.A.D.A class.

Hermione walked to the hospital wing quietly. She hated how she ended up there every flipping year, and this time she had actually pretended to be sick during Arithmancy to sneak over.

As she approached, she saw that the double doors were already open. She hadn't thought he'd have visitors while classes were in session so she peeked her head through. At the far end, a white curtain was pulled around a bed and the shadows of two people could be seen speaking in quiet murmurs behind it.

She could just hear bits and pieces of what they were saying and she edged closer to try to understand. Madam Pomfrey was saying something about blood replenishing potions and treating a fever… she couldn't get more than that because just then the curtain parted and out stepped Professor Dumbledore with Madam Pomfrey following after him.

"Hello Professor…" she trailed off as she glanced at the bed behind them.

Draco.

Dumbledore moved into her line of sight, blocking her view of him.

"Miss Granger," he smiled.

"I-I'm not feeling well," Hermione lied. Badly. She licked her lips and shifted nervously to one side trying to catch a glimpse of his blonde hair again.

"Is that so?" he asked, his bright eyes twinkling at her.

"Oh dear, well sit down," interjected Madam Pomfrey. "Let me put these bottles away, I'll be right back."

Hermione did as she was told, she moved to the adjacent bed and sat down. She began glancing around the room, hoping against all odds that Dumbledore would just leave so she'd have a chance to see Draco. She pursed her lips as he stood smiling brightly at her.

Hermione was reluctant to look at him, afraid that he'd see right through the lie and ask what she was really doing there. Instead, he asked, "Care for a chocolate frog?"

"No, thank you," she replied politely.

"Ah, but it is a universal remedy. The best cure for all maladies… it is why I've left some for our young Mr. Malfoy."

Hermione jumped at the chance to ask what was wrong with him, after all, Dumbledore had brought it up, it was perfectly natural to be inquisitive about these things—curiosity and all that.

Licking her lips, she asked, "What's wrong with him?"

"Many things," he answered with a sad smile. "Yet, not all afflictions are physical in nature, are they? It is much easier to remedy those... but other afflictions… those are not as simple."

Hermione's stomach dropped. Many things? She didn't understand, she felt he was trying to tell her something important but she could only focus on these other questions that had yet to be answered like, will he be alright, what happened, is he hurt, is he in pain?

"Tell me," Dumbledore spoke looking at her peculiarly. "What affliction ails you?"

Hermione hesitated.

Could she really lie to Dumbledore?

Draco's words sounded in her head. You're an awful liar.

She opened her mouth to confess that she wasn't actually ill, hell, she was about to tell him about that time she shoplifted candy when she was eight when just at that moment Madam Pomfrey returned.

"Well," said Dumbledore regarding the nurse. "I shall leave you to attend to your patients, I trust they will be safe in your hands."

Hermione released a breath of relief.

Madam Pomfrey gave him a reassuring smile. "You have my word, Albus."

"Goodbye," he said to them both with a twinkle in his eyes.

As soon as the headmaster shut the door behind him, she turned to Hermione and asked, "What seems to be wrong dear?"

Her cheeks turned a slight shade of pink, she opened her mouth but no words came out. She closed it, becoming even more uncomfortable. This was mortifying.

"It's that time of the month," she stuttered, glancing around nervously. "And I-I'm having really bad cramps and I just thought…" I'd die from embarrassment.

Thankfully Madam Pomfrey merely gave her a soothing pat on the back and a potion for the pain assuring her that it was all perfectly natural to feel some discomfort.

"Feel free to lie down for a little until the potion takes effect."

Dropping her head onto the pillow, Hermione couldn't believe she was not only lying to everyone but now she was taking a potion which she didn't need and skipping precious class time. She could only imagine the important work she would miss and the homework she'd have to catch up on.

Her world was officially spiraling out of control.

Luckily, after having seen Hermione take the potion and lie down in bed, Madam Pomfrey excused herself and left the room. She jumped at the opportunity, making her way behind the white curtain to Draco's bedside.

Her heart stuck in her throat as she tried to swallow.

He looked pallid… like he'd been asleep for a long time... like he'd always be asleep, never to wake again.

She sat down on the edge of his bed.

Her fingers brushed his hand and she noticed how hot he was running. Hermione closed her eyes trying to figure out what could've happened in the last twelve hours, trying to make sense of everything that had happened before that, like last night, like Christmas, like why she was sitting there, confused, and terrified, and sad, and angry with him, so very angry with him—because how dare he… how dare he become a Death Eater and try to kill Dumbledore, and almost kill Katie Bell, and call her a Mudblood, and give her jewelry, and hold her hand, and kiss her, and touch her, and then conveniently happen to fall unconscious so he didn't have to face up to any of his actions.

She just wished he would wake so he could answer the never-ending questions she had. She only wanted to understand, to be able to trust him, but how could she trust him when she didn't even trust herself around him?

Suddenly, an idea occurred to her and after it had crossed her mind, she couldn't shake it off.

She had to see it. The Dark Mark.

Seeing it would end all this. She would see it and confess everything to Harry, tell him that Draco was going into the Room of Requirement, go with him to Dumbledore… she would stop feeling this way.

Drawing her wand, she whispered Finite Incantatem.

For a split second, she wished that nothing would happen. That his arm would remain bare and it would be beautiful.

But the charm slowly began to fade and Hermione watched in horror as the Dark Mark appeared; red, swollen and septic. The flesh around it was slightly disfigured, but healed, as if he'd taken a knife to it. She understood immediately that it was the reason he was here—what was making him sick, though she didn't understand why. Had he tried to get rid of it or was Voldemort capable of doing something like this to his followers? And what did that mean, did that mean he was being punished for not succeeding in killing Dumbledore?

She quickly recast the charm, an errant tear spilling over as she blinked.

Hermione was furiously blinking back more tears, waiting for it to end. Because she thought once she'd seen it, once she knew, without a doubt, that Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater, the feelings would stop.

So she waited… and waited.

But there were only more tears.

Hermione crumpled in defeat, her forehead on his chest and she prayed for him to wake up, weeping quietly into the white sheets.

All of a sudden, she heard heavy footsteps echo outside the doors.

Madam Pomfrey!

She quickly jumped back onto her bed, wiping her eyes. Burying half her face into the pillow, she feigned sleep.

However, she soon realized, it wasn't the nurse, it was Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. She recognized their voices when they spoke from behind the curtain.

"What the hell is she doing here?" spat Nott.

"How should I know? Keep your voice down.'

"I bet she had something to do with this!"

"What are you talking about? He was alone."

"She didn't have to be there to be responsible—!"

"Be quiet!" warned Zabini. "You'll wake her."

"Sod off, I'll be as loud as I want, I leave Draco with you for all of fifteen fucking minutes and he's in the hospital wing!"

"He was in the bloody bathroom! Am I supposed to keep an eye on him in there as well?"

"YES!" Nott hissed. "Don't let him out of your sight—isn't that exactly what I said?"

Zabini was quiet.

"Fuck, I'm sorry Blaise. I just…"

Nott sighed.

She heard a chair being dragged against the ground.

They had stopped speaking.

Maybe they'd cast a silencing charm.

Hermione internally groaned. How was she supposed to leave now? Maybe she could just get up and go, but they'd probably realize she'd been awake the whole time, or maybe she'd have to wait for Pomfrey to return and 'wake her', but that could take ages—although Hermione didn't think she'd leave Draco unattended for too long...

"Didn't Snape give Pansy a pass?" asked Nott, breaking the silence.

"He did… I just didn't tell her."

Another awkward moment passed.

"When will he wake up?"

"Soon," said Zabini. "He's already looking better."

"He looks like hell."

"Like I said, he looks better. Snape said he'd be in here for at least another day or so."

The conversation took a lighter tone afterward and they were speaking softly for another ten or fifteen minutes—one can't tell time in hell—when Madam Pomfrey walked in. Thankfully she asked them to leave, claiming they were crowding the patient. Hermione found that odd and wondered if Dumbledore had asked her not to allow visitors. There was a curtain around his bed after all.

Her mouth went dry.

Had Dumbledore found out about the Dark Mark?

No, she thought quickly, if he had Draco would be facing Aurors by now… or worse… expelled.

"Besides," Madam Pomfrey, said placating them as they began to protest. "You can keep him company tomorrow evening while I've gone out for supplies."

"But I have Quidditch practice tomorrow evening," objected Zabini and Nott joined in explaining how he had Prefect duties to attend to and would be busy at that time as well.

"Then come right afterward, alright?"

They mumbled complaints, showing their obvious displeasure at being kicked out but agreed that they'd return tomorrow. As they were leaving, Nott suddenly asked, "What's wrong with Hermione Granger?"

Madam Pomfrey began to stammer something about a woman's body being a private affair and none of his business what anyone else was doing here as she ushered them both out, shutting the door.

Hermione cringed.

After a safe amount of time had lapsed, she stirred, pretending to wake. She thanked Madam Pomfrey politely and left.

At least lying in bed feigning sleep hadn't been for nothing. Now she knew to come back tomorrow evening.

Draco was dreaming or remembering. He wasn't certain, it all seemed so surreal. He was at Diagon Alley, it was Autumn and there were red, yellow and orange leaves strewn on the pavement everywhere, but no trees in sight. It was windy, a strong breeze suddenly blew and rustled his robes and all the leaves flew up, twirling in the air. They seemed to dry and discolor falling back down, brown and black. He stepped on one and it crunched, turning to ash.

His father stood beside him, talking to a man whom Draco didn't recognize. He knew better than to interrupt them. After all, it would be rude and he had nothing to say.

Just then he heard laughter. He turned toward the noise. Potter and Weasley. She was there too, smiling. It reached her eyes. They were waving goodbye to her, leaving her all alone.

He looked back at his father. The man who he had been speaking to was gone and he was surrounded by many people, all of whom were wearing masks and black robes.

The bell on top of the door of Flourish & Blotts jingled loudly as she swung it open and went in.

No one would notice if he left to follow her, just for a minute. It had been a while since he'd last seen her and he was curious to know how summer had changed her.

He waited all of five seconds.

He opened the door slowly, the bell gave a small tinkle and it shut again. He searched for her. She was climbing the stairs, her skirt flapping with each step and the movement hypnotized him. She'd gotten taller and the skirt sat shorter on her thigh.

He waited again. Five seconds. Ten would be better but he was impatient.

He made his way upstairs. He looked around and she seemed to have disappeared.

He stalked the first aisle with deliberate and slow steps, then the second, the third. He stopped at the fourth because he'd finally caught a glimpse of her through the bookshelf. Her eyes were cast down reading something. He walked to the very end of the shelves and around them to peer at her, half his face covered by the wooden frame.

She was chewing her lip and it made him want to know what she was thinking, what book she was reading.

He imagined for a moment that he could approach her and hit the book out of her hand. Just to see what it was.

She'd have to bend down to pick it up.

He could push her when she did.

Maybe she'd land on all fours.

She flipped a page.

Or maybe she'd fall on her back.

Maybe her skirt would ride up.

She flipped another page.

Maybe he'd—

"Draco," came his father's cold voice. It was quiet, he almost hadn't heard it. The curved end of his cane hooked his shoulder spinning him around. His father's lips were pursed, his eyes suspecting. "What are you doing?"

He was about to answer, to lie, when he heard another voice, calling him... it was softer. He turned back again and she was looking right at him, calling his name.

"Draco…"

He woke with a start. It was a little dark but he could see Hermione by the dim glow of candlelight.

She hushed him, "I didn't mean to frighten you..."

He stared, her skin was the color of milk… there was all this orange light and she had a glow.

"Hermione?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. She hushed him and he wondered if he was still asleep, still dreaming. He must be… he was… it was all a dream.

"You still have a fever, lie back down." He thought he was lying down. It was unbearably hot and he threw the blankets off of him. But they were on him again and he fidgeted beneath them.

"Madam Pomfrey's given you some potions for the fever and the pain."

He felt lightheaded. What pain?

She leaned in close, very close. "It's the Mark," she whispered so low he could barely hear, not over all the gushing water. Is there a waterfall nearby? "I think it's infected—"

He turned away from her. This wasn't a good dream. He didn't want to talk about that, not even here.

He felt her hands cupping his face. She was trying to quieten him again, but he hadn't been speaking, had he? She was saying something about delirium.

He liked that word... delirium.

His eyes were closing, everything was blurring.

It was hard to focus.

He felt a light caress on his forehead as he tried to go back to the other dream, back to the bookstore.

Maybe he'd just ask her what she was reading.

But then what fun would that be?