The day in their concrete box, Hermione and Draco had a silent agreement. A tolerance, a coexistence. But not a friendship. This changes nothing, Draco had said. And he meant it. Tried to mean it. He felt nothing short of shell shock from the experience. From the burning body, from the unintentional journey through Granger's mind, from the damned connection he never wanted. Had she been in his mind as he had roamed through hers? He couldn't look at her without extreme paranoia. What had she seen? Where had she been? Did she know? Was she even there?

Was she real?

The days passed without pause, night bleeding into day like spilt ink between sheets of parchment. Pansy seemed to improve, at least enough to return to classes without raising suspicion. Draco couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't ready, that deep down she was still a single inconvenience away from shooting up again, but she resisted any help after Sunday night. It was out of his hands. She returned to her room with Daphne and Millicent and Tracey, and Draco felt numb at the loss of her by his side— couldn't catch a wink of sleep. He wished he could recruit her to help him figure out whatever the hell was happening to him but Pansy didn't need that added stress. This wasn't her problem to fix. It was his.

Monday after the incident with the mudblood was the worst. Draco couldn't focus on Transfiguration, or Charms, or Potions or even Arithmancy, which had always come relatively easy to him. He would find himself subconsciously staring blankly into corners and out of windows, and when he'd snap back to reality, his body would be turned towards Granger. No matter where he sat in relation to her, he'd end up rotated in whichever direction she was. She never even looked at him. It was as if he wasn't there.

He also lacked the capacity to think coherently. His thoughts were simply not there. A phrase or word would get jumbled up and eventually vanish entirely inside a swirling whirlpool of chaotic nothingness. He considered the benefits of a venture to the infirmary, in case he had been the victim of a brain mushing jinx. Maybe Granger had figured out he was in her head and decided to punish him for it. But the mediwitch would have to run a diagnostic on his head, and he was too afraid of what she might uncover while inside.

Tuesday left him in the same predicament, but the thoughts were there. Sort of. The more he roamed the contents of his own mind, he could feel them. The words on the pages of his textbooks were legible, but blurry. Letters were out of place. After he had answered two of McGonagall's questions incorrectly, Theo decided to rag on him. "Our Golden Girl got your tongue tied?"

Draco's eyes refocused at the sound of his mate's voice. He was turned towards Granger again. He muttered obscenities under his breath and rotated back to face the blackboard. If only he could remember how to cast a body binding jinx, maybe then he'd fucking sit still.

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Theo quipped and punched Draco lightly on the arm. Draco couldn't figure out how to respond, so he simply didn't.

By Thursday Draco's confusion turned into rage. The mudblood had fucked up something inside him; didn't need a brain to know this was her fault. And she wouldn't fucking look at him. He barely remembered why they'd ended up in that box— that stupid fucking box. But she did this. And she was going to fix it, with her stolen fucking magic and her insufferable need to know everything.

...

September 20, 1996

Hermione rejoiced as her fingertips finally found the smooth leather spine of A Comprehensive Concordance of Complex Conceptions. After nearly an hour of using a seeking spell to scour the library for anything related to Legilimenic communication, she had determined nothing in the standard student sections would provide her with the information she needed. Many texts mentioned legilimency, but nearly all of them served as an encyclopedia, defining the concept without providing very much detail. Many, however, made mention of a text entitled Mental Magicks, which simply did not appear to exist. Madam Prince— an unpleasant witch who acted as if Hermione's mere presence was an inconvenience— told Hermione that the book she needed would be in the restricted section. It took a phony excuse and a great deal of insincere flattery to obtain her permission to enter the section.

Mental Magic wasa rather thin book, and though it did thoroughly detail the intricacies of Legilimency, there was only one mention of Legilimenic communication, and of course, it led her on another wild goose chase for A Comprehensive Concordance of Complex Conceptions. But finally, Hermione found the book. She settled herself into a quiet nook, skimmed the table of contents for the chapter she needed, and began to read.

Legilimenic communication requires a direct and unbreakable connection between the Legilimens, who serves as the projector, and his or her directed receiver. It is as much the projectors responsibility to ensure the mental line is secure as it is the receiver's. A break in the connection can be detrimental to both persons involved.

The information was surprisingly similar to what she had gathered from both Malfoy and Theo. She paused only to resituate herself, and continued:

A Legilimens may feel inspired to attempt to project into the minds of an unprepared receiver with no prior attempts to establish a line. Intentional improper communication is considered a highly actionable offense in most countries, especially in the event that the interaction results in any serious physical, emotional, or mental injuries to the receiver. Any witch or wizard interested in the art of projection should be warned: the consequences of even the simplest of mistakes are severe. Involuntary communication may induce nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells and aching of the area surrounding the brain, centered most acutely in the temporalis and occipitofrontalis muscles. Direct eye contact between a resistant receiver and their projector during the act may result in a gradual deterioration of the receiver's lateral and superior rectus, creating a weakened palpebra– an affliction which is commonly referred to as Loose Lid syndrome.

Hermione grimaced. Still, she noted that Malfoy had not lied, which only made her question further exactly how she had become a "willing receiver" without any prior knowledge, or any effort on Malfoy's part to "establish a line." She skipped the rather gory diagrams and lists of additional side effects, having just eaten lunch; Madam Prince would surely call for her expulsion if she heaved all over the concordance's crisp pages.

"Come on," she groaned, thumbing through an absurd number of pages dedicated to potential bodily harm. "Aha, connections!"

Due to the dangerous nature of Legilimenic communication, it is considered exceptionally advanced magic, and is rarely taught in any educational establishment. The skill is often, if not always, passed down through generations. Connections are rare, and are typically triggered rather than built. The most common sources of a Legilimenic line are familial love and trauma. Rarer, but still legitimate connections can be formed through mutual necessity, though these lines are far more intricate and difficult to navigate, and usually break when the necessary task is complete. In the final and most rare connection, the projector and receiver are considered bound, rather than connected. Though little is known about this anomaly, it is believed that these lines are established by Fate herself.

Hermione couldn't help but read the last line aloud, something stirring inside as her eyes fell upon the words. "Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff were rumored to possess a Spectral Link."

Spectral link?

Fate?

The box.

Malfoy.

She had done her best to avoid the blond after Sunday morning's awkward encounter. Pretending to forget the experience was beyond difficult, especially when every time she turned around, he was looking straight at her. She prayed he would stay out of her mind, prayed he had never entered in the first place. Untrained in occlumency, her best defensive strategy was to avoid any eye contact. She wasn't truly certain whether the box had been real– whether the Draco she saw was a delusion caused by excessive inhalation of Lupin's glitter. But Malfoy stared so intently at her that there was no denying something had happened. She just wished she could figure out what 'something' was.

The book never mentioned concrete boxes or burning bodies or shared emotions triggered by touch or how an untrained Legilimens could master Legilimency in a day. It was actually quite unhelpful, aside from supporting Malfoy's claims that forceful entrances into her mind would cause her pain, as well as discouraging her from ever attempting to "project"— as the book had called it— into Harry's mind again. Instead, she now had more questions than answers.

The grand bell chimed, alerting her that her free period had ended, and that she now had merely ten minutes to run all the way to Professor Sprout's greenhouse, located at the exact opposite end of the infuriatingly large castle. She would undoubtedly be late to Herbology.

Hermione rushed to Madam Prince's desk, and nearly jinxed the woman for the snail's pace at which she processed Hermione's request to check out the Comprehensive Concordance of Complex Conceptions. After around a dozen warnings along the lines of "if you spill so much as a drop of water upon this book, I will not hesitate to assign you detentions for the rest of the school year!" Hermione sprung through the library doors into the outside corridor, racing past the other students milling about in the hall.

As she turned another corner she, of course, ran right into the chest of the one and only Theodore Nott. She added another tally mark to the list of times her clumsiness had led her to a head on collision with a Slytherin boy.

"Do I need to be concerned about a fire inside the library?" He smirked as Hermione pushed herself away from him.

"What?" She panted, registering not a single word he had said. "Oh, no! I really must be going now, I've a class in five minutes and I mustn't be late." Her accent, which she habitually softened since primary school, grew thick.

"I'm sure a couple minutes won't kill you." He spoke smoothly, as he always did. Hermione tried not to swoon. She really didn't have time for this, unfortunately.

"Actually Sprout is demonstrating the proper maintenance for–" Hermione ran out of breath.

He laughed. She pressed her lips closely together and blushed, though in her defense, most of it was from the running. "I'm serious, Theo, I need to go. Bye."

"Let me walk you."

"Don't you have class?"

"I'd much rather walk the Golden Girl to the greenhouses than sit in on an insipid lecture about muggle bicycles."

"You should really go to class, Nott." She shook her head, turning to walk away. "Professor Burbage is unfond of tardiness." She called over her shoulder.

Theo appeared beside her, matching her pace. "I am quite 'unfond' of Burbage." He mimicked her voice. "You know that's not a word, yeah?"

Hermione blinked. "It is!"

"It isn't."

Hermione hmphed and sped up. Theo did the same. "Trying to outrun me, Granger? You'll be severely disappointed."

She took this as a challenge and walked even faster, verging on a jog. Theo remained right beside her nonetheless. He didn't even seem out of breath. Hermione, whose legs now felt like jelly, reminded herself to take up running, whenever Dumbledore decided it was safe to lift the castle lockdown.

"You're surprisingly nimble for a book owl."

Hermione whipped her head towards him, careful not to trip. "What– is– that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all. Just wondering if you can keep up."

Then with a wink, Theo began to sprint. The pureblood wanted a bloody race.

Hermione had a horrible history with running. In her muggle school's physical education classes, she could never meet the 11 minute time requirement for a mile run. This was often due to the other girls in her class tripping her, pushing her and doing anything they could to make her fall. Candace Cornell would of course earn the fastest time, and Hermione would be the last to finish. Her knees were never left unscathed from those runs– she had the scars to show for it. Hermione rarely felt the same level of giddiness she had the day she found out she'd never have to share the air of a classroom with Candance and her snickering little cronies again. Every summer she still fought urges to hex that red headed bitch.

Hermione considered stopping, tricking Theo into running far enough away for her to take a different route. But there was a challenge presented to her, and she never backed down from challenges. Plus, she might just arrive at Sprout's greenhouse before the witch could begin her lecture on the maintenance of dittany.

The grand bell rang; she was already late.

That was enough reason for Hermione to push her weight off her back foot. She willed her legs to move as fast as they could go. Theo remained in the lead, just fast enough that right before she could catch up he'd advance again. She wondered if this was a walk in the park for him, being nearly 30cm taller and having much longer legs. She panted. They turned a corner, then another, speeding through the corridors past a group of bewildered Ravenclaws congregating near the open door of Flitwick's passed the Great Hall, and the grand staircase, and the foyer. Hermione felt a fresh breeze meet her as they pushed through the doors and stepped out onto the grounds.

As they neared the gardens surrounding Sprout's classroom, Theo slowed. His shoulders were shaking from laughter. Hermione glared when he turned his head towards her, but she couldn't fight a chuckle.

"You're not too bad, Goldie." He said. "Knew you couldn't beat me though."

"You had a head start." Hermione coughed. Her lungs were burning and he had yet to break a sweat.

"That's a valid theory," Theo appeared to consider the idea. "Would you be interested in a rematch?"

"No!" Hermione groaned.

Theo looked pleased with himself. They stood in silence— rather, he stood in silence while she fought to catch her breath in the quietest possible manner. Hermione suddenly felt self conscious when she noticed his eyes were trailing her body. She took a moment to pull her uniform robes across her body.

"I think Barbage might hex you at this point, Nott."

"Theo." He corrected. "I'm considering feigning ailment. Think you could jinx me before you go tickle Mandrakes? A stinging jinx would suffice."

"I'm not going to jinx you, Theo." She rolled her eyes.

"Damn. Worth a try. It'd be a privilege to be anathematized by the Hermione Granger." He stepped closer to her, leaning slightly to meet her eyes.

Hermione's brows rose. "In the muggle world you'd be a remarkable lexicographer."

"Dictionaries are dull," He dismissed. "I'm far too charming to exist as a name on a dust cover. Now, if they were to display my face, I'd consider the offer."

Hermione laughed. "Define egotism, Theo."

"It's not egotism if I'm speaking the truth." He reached out to touch her cheek.

She flinched away. If Malfoy's touch could lock her in a concrete room, she was afraid to discover what Theodore Nott could do. If passion triggered connections with Slytherin boys, she needed to steer clear of him and his big brown eyes. And whatever she did, she could never let him put those hands anywhere Malfoy had. She already had one too many intruders in her brain.

Theo straightened. His eyes flickered, an amalgamation between humored and hurt. Hermione wondered if he expected her to swoon as she had in Potions, if he simply got off at the sight of her blush, or if his touch would have meant something more.

"Malfoy's been looking for you." He stated. Hermione could hear his voice harden, though the essence of a laugh was still plastered on his face.

"Oh." Hermione gaped. Malfoy. Always Malfoy.

He appeared to examine her for a moment. "Granger?"

"Yeah?"

"Be— be careful."

"Careful?"

"He's... off."

With that Theo brushed past her without so much as a goodbye.

Hermione felt as if she was on autopilot when she entered the greenhouse. An apology spilled from her lips like a well rehearsed poem. Sprout— who had always been rather fond of Hermione— waved her hand and conjured a chair.

Hermione sat, without truly realizing she'd moved at all. She was utterly distracted, paying no mind to the demonstration at the front of the room. She decided she would have to study the maintenance of dittany on her own, or even ask Neville.

All she could think about was Malfoy. Draco Malfoy and the concrete box.

The second Bellatrix's flames burnt out, he had left her alone in the room to find a way out. It was only when he had removed his hand from her corporeal arm in reality that she was wrenched out of his mind. It had hurt rather badly– left her reeling where she stood in the secret corridor. The feeling of being forced from the comfortable peace she felt within the four concrete walls left her exhausted and cold. She never even found her way to breakfast. Or lunch or dinner, for that matter. Starved on her own bloody birthday. Because the absence of Malfoy created a void in her gut, and she knew no amount of food would ever sufficiently fill it.

...

Draco's vision was blurry as he stood with his back against the cool glass of the Herbology greenhouse, waiting for Granger to leave. He would have never selected to participate in this class; Professor Sprout's voice alone was enough to drive him up a wall on an ordinary day, let alone a day like this. Standing within hearing distance of the witch only helped to infuriate him further.

Granger was the last to leave the class, only adding to his theory that she was actively avoiding him. The greenhouse had nearly cleared by the time she finally moseyed out of the door. He put every ounce of effort he had into his words, but couldn't manage to make them audible. Look at me!

Hermione winced as Malfoy's voice pounded against the inside of her skull. He was loud, louder than he had ever been before, and his words weren't a statement, they were a command. His energy was off; that wasn't his usual voice. It was fiercer, darker. Chilling, almost. She braced herself and spun on her heel to face him.

"Malfoy," She nodded curtly.

"Wh- wh- what," Draco stuttered now, stumbling over the syllables in his mind. What did you do to me? He'd prepared, even practiced what he would say when he saw her– when he finally got the chance to scream in her face, to tell her to fix what she'd done– yet all he could do was stammer like an imbecile. He felt his face flush. "Did you do?"

Hermione was truly bewildered. The insinuation that she had somehow done something to him– anything at all– was preposterous, at the very least. She remembered her book, her little muggle book on faces and emotions, and studied him. His expression toed the line between common paranoia and a complex form of vexation– eyes flicking around in every direction, unfocused on her, but his eyebrows were furrowed and his lips formed an even wider version of his seemingly permanent scowl. His body language expressed that he was simultaneously prepared to pounce at her and run away.

"I don't know what you mean," Granger's voice was blank. There was no emotion, if she had any at all. The scheming, lying bitch.

"I don't be- believe y-you." Draco glared at a patch of dittany flowers on the ground behind her, afraid that if he so much as met her eyes she would disassemble him again.

"That's not my problem," The mudblood stated. From his peripheral he could see that her lips were pressed into a thin line. She had the nerve to be calm in a situation like this.

"It," Draco gritted his teeth. "It really is."

Hermione was quiet for a long moment, thoughts racing in a manner she hoped Malfoy could not hear. The box, the book, the connection. It all didn't make sense, and now he claimed she had done something. She added this to another list of somethings she wished she understood.

"I really, really don't know what you mean." She silently willed him to meet her eyes, after all these days of questioning whether the box had been real, she needed some sort of sign.

Draco fought the urge to look at her. He wanted so badly to look. Look at her, meet her eyes which he could feel scanning his face. Look at something other than the plain green leaves rising from the dirt behind her. But he kept his eyes there. The words he could say to her formed and disappeared before he had the chance to open his mouth. His tongue was dry as a desert, so dry he considered dipping a hand into the garden fountain behind him and scooping some of its charmed water into his mouth. At least he still had the good sense to recognize that was a bad idea.

Hermione grew concerned. An uncomfortable silence stood thick between them. She didn't know what to do, wanting both to comfort him and leave him where he currently leaned against the greenhouse. Her hand found its way to his shoulder and again she was met with a jarring jolt of electricity. It travelled through her body from her fingertips to her toes. Touch, she reminded herself, touch. This time, she didn't lean into the stinging feeling. She jerked back.

During the millisecond that Granger's hand had connected with his shoulder, Draco felt himself melt. Clarity filled him. Touch. It's something in her touch. He managed to process the thoughts before her hand was gone. Gone.

Granger. He projected. You did something. How?

She looked up at him, and he was finally looking down at her. She met his eyes, held his gaze fiercely.

Sight. Sight too. Draco's clarity returned. He yearned for her to never look away from him, to hold his eyes until eternity faded. It was tranquilizing, the way her golden eyes met his, with a sweet innocence. Her eyes held understanding, like she knew without words. Knew everything. He didn't stop to wonder how she knew, or what she knew. It was soothing to feel perceived. His thoughts roamed peacefully, the typhoon fizzled away. The sun fell on his face. He could remember what the sun was.

This was Hermione Granger, Potter's mudblood, he tried to remind himself. But her blood status was so far in the back of his mind he didn't care who she was. She could have been a bloody Hufflepuff, or a muggle. He didn't care. He remembered his mission, but the urges brewing inside were driven by something else. Not a need to deceive but a need to touch. A need to feel that same fucking feeling from when she was in his box. Their box.

He wanted to grab her by the waist and push her against the glass walls of this wretched greenhouse. Wanted to fill his senses with her, override the stench of dittany and hydrangeas. Wanted to connect their skin– every part of their bodies until they were as close to one single being as magically and humanly possible. Wanted to touch her, wanted to feel her. Wanted that jolt of electricity, that excruciating relief. Her peace. Her calm.

He wondered if her lips would still be soft as they were in the kitchens. Wondered if maybe he could feel her in his chest again, feel whatever she felt, like he had on Sunday. If he could make her scream out his name, watch her cascade at his touch and feel her pleasure in his bones. Wondered whether her orgasm would feel like the Muggle's concept of heaven. If he could ride out her waves long enough to forget who he was. He felt impure, filthy, but he couldn't even hate himself for it.

Do you feel it? Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts. She was still staring deeply into him.

He didn't fully understand what she meant; her thoughts were no longer his, and he thanked Merlin that his were not hers. They wouldn't be without physical contact, at least. He wondered if he peeked inside her mind, he might find that her golden gaze was driven by pity. Whether she was mulling over the many ways she could manipulate him. Whether the moment of bliss he currently felt was just another of her tactics to fix him, to make him weak, to change him. He had a mission and in the single week following his first attempt, he was already behind schedule. All because of her.

Draco?

He smirked at the sound of his name in her voice. I don't know what you mean. He mimicked her.

This. Us. She motioned between them, but her voice remained inside his head.

Draco breathed heavily. The more she moved, the more she projected, he felt her. Her presence was addicting. He wanted more.

Hermione couldn't read Malfoy's mind, had no idea how to replicate the way she'd entered Sunday. She couldn't feel his emotions, couldn't find out the reason behind his darkening eyes. But she felt his presence as he spoke. She wanted him to speak and never shut up. Wanted to hear rather than see his life. His story. Wanted to go to the box– their box– and never leave.

We, he spoke into her, forcing the words. Forcing denial, a last saving Grace before he did something he would regret. Are nothing.

Hermione believed it even less than Draco did. It was an act, everything he did was an act. And she knew it now, because she knew the Draco at the piano, Draco with his mother. The Draco who grinned at the sight of a Death Eater burning alive. Draco who didn't want to be dark like his predecessors. Draco who was good.

You don't believe that.

Her voice was the last nail in his coffin. His fingers were tingling every second they were not on her skin. He had no judgement, no doubt, as he reached out to her and threw her against the greenhouse. As his fingertips graced her waist, the burning inside him subsided. The chaos subdued.

Do you feel this? He breathed the same breaths that she did. In and out. He now felt her heart beat beside his in his chest.

Draco–

Do you feel this? He projected louder. He needed to hear her say it. Say yes. Needed to know this wasn't some trick, some delusion in his mind.

Draco, somebody's going to see–

"I don't fucking care." He growled.

Then he collided his chest into hers. Pushed her back into the glass as far as it would go and considered pushing harder just to see how much effort was required to break the tinted glass. He grabbed her tiny wrists and pushed them above her head, restraining her, holding her there. She couldn't run, couldn't escape. Even if she wanted to. Couldn't run away with his sanity in the palm of her hands and leave chaos inside him again. He scanned her, searching for the best place to sink his teeth. Her lips or her cheekbones or that sharp collarbone? He settled for her neck, at her pulse point– to feel the beat of her heart somewhere more than his chest. Her skin was sweet on his lips as he suckled on it. She tasted like freshly baked pastries and coffee with something fruity. Coconuts. He savored it– trailed his tongue from the space behind her ear to the collar of her shirt.

Hermione didn't protest, didn't object to his touch, but she couldn't touch back. It was infuriating. He was all over her, holding her still. He was everywhere, the smell of cologne and mint overlapping the aroma of the garden around them. Her mind, as per usual, went ballistic. Was this real? Did she want this?

She didn't not want this. She felt a shift in his motions, in his touch. This was different than before, so dissimilar to the kitchens. This was passion, not angst. His lips against her skin were not angry, they were slow and firm. She pushed against the hand holding her wrists, not to escape but to simply have the power to do so if needed. He tightened his grip.

She wasn't against the idea of Draco Malfoy. He had been so... efficient before, after all. But he was unpredictable, rash. One moment slurs fell from his lips, then the next he was touching her. He was touching her now, his free hand on her ribcage, trailing the space between her breast and her hip without truly reaching either. It didn't hurt, exactly, aside from the jolt of electricity she felt at his touch. But it didn't feel good. This felt... off.

Theo had said he was "off."

"Do you feel this?" Draco growled against her chin. He was making his way towards her lips, trailing his teeth along the curves of her jawline. He didn't give a fuck if it bruised. Let them know, let them know you've been marked. The little pangs of pain she felt at the pressure of his bites coursed through him. It felt lovely.

He waited for an answer, a sign. But none came. She was tense. He felt it now. He pulled away. "Granger?"

She exhaled sharply, feeling his breath on her face. "Malfoy, I-"

Draco's eyes flicked from her furrowed brows to her pursed lips. He spiraled, having the capacity to think clearly now. Did she hate him? Had she seen his mind, his thoughts, his mission? Did she know now?

The girl, my Lord. The girl. Potter's mudblood. The words swirled past his ears. You will seduce her. Taint your purity if you must. He tried to clear his head of the voices. Then, once you succeed—

"Were you there?" He blurted, stepping away and releasing his grip around her wrists. If she could see into his mind, he couldn't afford to let her see this. That is, if she hadn't already seen this.

Hermione blinked. She knew exactly what he was talking about. The box. The room. He was there. "It was real?"

Without his chest against hers Draco's mind faltered once more. Words swirled in and out and he grasped at them to form a sentence. He could remember the box, but not the syllables to articulate it. "You were— there?"

Then the sound of clapping came from Draco's right and he snapped to face it.

"You did good, Draco." A voice slurred from somewhere in the distance. A boy stepped out from behind a tree and Draco couldn't quite place a finger on the source of the rage that rose within him. Adrian something... Adrian Pucey. "Had even me convinced there for a second."

What did he mean? Adrian, Adrian Pucey. He knew something. Something Draco should know. His fists clenched at his sides.

"What is he talking about, Malfoy?" Hermione felt like screaming. Was this really all a game? What did Pucey mean?

Malfoy only turned to her, eyes wide, like he was confused. That same expression he showed up with, same expression he stared at her with every day in class. Theo said he was off, was this the reason? Was he acting?

"Malfoy?"

"Oh, my bad, Drake," Pucey slurred again, stumbling out from the place he had been hiding for God knows how long. Hermione nearly laughed at the nickname. "Did I spoil it for her?"

"You—" Draco could only see the worry on Granger's face. His chest stung. "You need to— shut up."

"Malfoy? What is he talking about?" Hermione repeated angrily.

Adrian opened his mouth to speak again but Draco's racing thoughts formed one word. Secret. Then he was lunging at his friend, hands balled into a fist. His knuckles collided with Pucey's cheek. "Shut, up." He growled.

Hermione had had enough. "Malfoy!" But he didn't turn to look at her. He was scary, hunched over where Pucey now laid in the grass. His shoulders rose and fell as he took deep breaths. "Malfoy, what—"

"You," He panted. "You need to go."