/

By the time Hermione and Harry finished describing what had happened on the train in the otherwise silent and empty Gryffindor Common Room, it was nearing two in the morning, and Harry was still reeling, pacing back and forth in front of the room's cavernous fireplace.

A lot had happened over the course of dessert: Snape had been named Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor (much to their dismay); it was confirmed Slughorn would be taking over Potions; Tonks' mother, Andromeda, was introduced as the professor for the new Healing class; Harry, Ron, and Hermione had realized they would have to find a way to tell Hagrid none of them were taking Care of Magical Creatures; and they'd seen Dumbledore's hand was still as black as ever.

But Hermione couldn't keep her thoughts from straying back to Malfoy. She kept replaying their exchange on the train, his marked silence, the way she'd pressed his wand into his arm, and above all, the pain she'd seen in his eyes.

"He's definitely a Death Eater, Ron. Tell us again, Hermione— what happened when you pressed his wand into his arm?"

Harry paused mid-pace to sit closely beside her on the sofa, their knees touching, giving her his full attention. Ron, his lanky limbs sprawled out in an oversized chair across from them, eyed the interaction with suspicion.

"Harry…" Hermione said reproachfully, her eyes unmoving from her lap. It was painful enough that her mind continued to replay the moment over and over.

"I heard him from the compartment— I know he was in a lot of pain, but I know you weren't pushing that hard. His Mark must still be healing or something."

Hermione winced at Harry's description.

"He's a Death Eater," Harry affirmed. "I know it."

"I think you're right," Hermione admitted quietly, the evidence too damning; she found herself conflicted, however, wishing it weren't true.

"We need to tell Dumbledore—"

"I don't think that's such a great idea, Harry, without actual evidence," she interrupted.

"But—"

She shook her head, "Doesn't it seem like Dumbledore has more important things than Malfoy to worry about at the moment? Plus, knowing Dumbledore, he probably already knows about Malfoy if he's a Death Eater, or at least, he must be keeping an eye on him."

Hermione saw that her explanation seemed to satisfy Harry, at least for the moment.

"Well, we'll have to keep a close eye on him this year— get some evidence. Maybe we can figure out his plan. Who knows what he's up to with whatever it is he wants Borgin to fix."

"You're sure he didn't talk about it with Crabbe and Goyle when you were in his compartment?" Ron asked through a yawn, referring to Harry's attempt at espionage beneath his Invisibility Cloak on the train, the attempt that had only succeeded in earning him a bloody nose and putting Gryffindor's house points in the negative before the school year had even really begun.

"No, nothing. He was too busy trying to get Parkinson off of him," Harry grimaced as if he'd just tasted something rotten.

Hermione smiled to herself, finding it a small consolation to visualize Malfoy on the other end of Parkinson's torture.

"That's unlike him," she mused. "He's usually the first to brag, and to love the attention." She wrinkled her nose at the thought.

"I've never seen Parkinson so peeved. Malfoy's really gone off her. Not sure who he should be more of afraid of this year— Parkinson or Voldemort."

"He's too good for Parkinson now?" Ron mused as he winced at Harry's use of Voldemort's name.

"Of course he is," she commented without hesitation, and Ron raised an eyebrow in response. She noticed Harry gaping at her.

"Oh, come on," she corrected, even though a small voice in her mind said, 'Well he is too good for her…'

"I only meant that everyone is too good for Parkinson."

This seemed to satisfy them both, and Harry carried on. "Nott was as silent as ever."

"Speaking of Nott— it's a bit odd he came back on the train for Malfoy, isn't it? He usually tends to stay out of things," Hermione realized.

"Maybe he's a Death Eater now too, with his father in Azkaban," Harry offered. "I mean, if Malfoy's one— why not Nott?"

Hermione chuckled inwardly at the phrasing despite the seriousness of the topic.

"Maybe," she said. "But Nott's so secretive, and difficult to read— I don't think we'd ever know about him for sure."

"Unless one of those brain-dead gits Crabbe and Goyle let it slip," Ron said hopefully.

"I don't think Nott's the type to brag," Hermione explained. "Especially to people like Crabbe and Goyle." Hermione wondered if Nott's personality was rubbing off on Malfoy— she mused he certainly seemed more evasive and restrained compared to years past.

"You're right, Hermione. Plus, the way Malfoy's been keeping his mouth shut… I don't think anyone but Malfoy himself knows."

"And they didn't say anything at Slughorn's little meeting?" Ron asked, failing to hide the jealousy from his voice. Hermione refrained from sighing in exasperation; the shadow of Ron's jealousy still seemed to be the fourth member of their friend group.

"No, honestly they didn't say much at all."

"Why d'you think they were invited, anyway?" Ron asked.

"Slughorn knew their grandfathers or something. But I think Slughorn was testing them, like he was testing all of us— checking to see if we're worthy of his collection, just like Dumbledore mentioned he would," Harry yawned, clearly unimpressed by the prospect of Slughorn's club, all to Ron's consternation.

Hermione shot Harry a warning look as Ron rose from his seat.

"Coming, Harry?" Ron asked sullenly as he headed for the boy's dormitory.

"In a minute," Harry replied before turning to face Hermione again.

Ron paused at the bottom of the stairs, but seeing his friends were now otherwise engaged, he disappeared slowly up the stairs, his expression still sullen.

Hermione looked to Harry with curiosity.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, "Thanks, Hermione— y'know, for looking for me on the train."

"Harry, you don't have to—"

"I know, but I want to. I'd probably be just about back to London by now if you hadn't come looking for me," he smiled.

"And thanks for giving Malfoy hell," he said, his cheeks reddening as he leaned forward. She'd given him plenty of hugs over the years, but for the first time Hermione could remember, Harry wrapped his arms around her.

Surprised, but grateful, she smiled at the warmth, returning his embrace. It was a new, but not unwelcome, sensation.

"And don't think I forgot about the necklace, Hermione. I bet we'll hear from Mr. Weasley or Bill soon," he assured.

"I hope so," she replied, pulling away.

/

/

After depositing the newly sorted first year Slytherin students into the common room in the dungeons without much more than a "follow me," Draco made his way toward Snape's office.

He couldn't quash the lingering guilt he felt for leaving the innocents to the devices of Pansy Parkinson.

I'm not a monster, am I? Draco considered.

"And if I have to tell any of you the password more than once you can be sure that not being able to get into the common room will be the least of your problems," Pansy had barked at the wide-eyed first years.

He cringed at the memory.

Suppose I am a monster.

Draco had done his best to ignore the feeling of Theo's shrewd gaze following him as he'd exited the common room, but he knew he'd have to answer his friend sooner or later.

Most likely sooner, Draco thought, now well-acquainted with Theo's unhampered persistence.

Draco had no doubt he'd be on the other side of Theo's interrogation in no time, tonight probably; he was sure his friend was burning for explanations for Potter's broken nose, his meeting with Snape, and, most of all, his altercation with Granger.

The promise of his four poster bed, draped in silver and green, seemed nothing short of a sick joke at this point.

Not that I'd actually sleep anyway, Draco thought, unable to ignore the slow, throbbing waves of pain coursing through his left arm.

Draco's knuckles had barely made contact with the hard, aged wood of Snape's office door before he heard his professor beckon him forward.

He entered the room in silence, choosing not to occupy the open seat across from Snape's desk. Instead, he gripped the back of said chair, the ache of the firmness of his ring pressing into his finger barely detracting from the pain in his arm. He hadn't been the only student late to the feast, but of course Snape only wanted to talk to him; Draco couldn't help but picture Granger sleeping soundly in the privacy of her own bed with envy.

Why couldn't he just take house points away from me and call it a day?

Snape didn't look up as Draco entered, furtively scribbling across a wide scroll of parchment.

"Sit."

"I feel like standing."

"Do not play games with me, Draco. As I have attempted to impress upon you before, I am on your side."

Seeing he was fighting a losing battle, Draco sighed and sat heavily in the chair as Snape tightly rolled the parchment. He met his professor's gaze in defiance, and as usual, felt as though his dark eyes were reading his mind.

"In fact, I advise you to avoid playing games in general this term. You no longer have that luxury available to you."

"It wasn't a game."

"No? Then please do not hesitate to explain to me the greater purpose of Miss Granger's new—" Snape paused, a grimace emerging on his face, "—adornment. I did not assume the necklace was a heartfelt gift, but perhaps I was mistaken?" Snape said slowly, deliberately, tenting his fingertips atop his mahogany desk.

Draco remained silent, stunned as the image of the smooth skin of the back Hermione's neck rushed to the forefront of his mind, as if out of his control. He tried to clear his mind, his brow furrowing in concentration as he regained control of his thoughts. His jaw clenched in anger as he realized with a start what Snape was doing— what the professor had done many times before, without him knowing any better.

"You're using Legilimency on me, aren't you?"

What Theo had mentioned about Andromeda Tonks' Legilimency ability entered his mind.

Is Snape a trained Legilimens too? How did I not see it, all this time?

Draco felt like a fool.

Snape did not flinch as he replied, "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"And you claim to want to help me— please. I'm leaving," Draco announced, his chair thrust backwards as he rose from him seat.

The sound of the latch of Snape's office door locking echoed through the room.

"Let me out," Draco commanded icily. "I won't tolerate being treated like Potter."

"You would do well to ignore Potter and his friends," Snape all but ordered, "they are neither worth your time nor effort. Now you will return to your seat on your own volition, or I will be forced to resort to other means."

Draco rapidly turned on his heel and sat unceremoniously in the chair he had just vacated, gripping both arms of the chair in irritation, his face grimacing in pain. He again felt a slow trickle of fresh blood travel down his left wrist.

"Your Mark still pains you, I see," Snape observed, and Draco could have sworn he saw a shred of curiosity and worry flash across Snape's eyes.

"It was Granger— she re-opened it," Draco explained, the image of her fierce brown eyes flashing through his mind.

Snape knocked on the top of his desk impatiently, and Draco obliged the command, rolling up his bloody sleeve and placing his arm atop the desk's smooth surface. The coolness of the wood was soothing against his inflamed skin.

His Mark was still jagged and raw, a mangled mess of red and black, and he knew it had very little to do with Granger poking around in it.

"The more you resist, the more it will pain you. I advise you to find a way to accept the Mark as quickly as possible."

Snape had tended to Draco's Mark on more than one occasion, diminishing some of the physical redness and pain as much as was possible. Draco had merely begrudgingly obliged then, but the continued ache was exhausting— a daily reminder of his father's failure, of his own impossible mission. Tonight, he was grateful for Snape's silent healing spells.

"A general Healing lesson will occur once per week this term for all sixth and seventh-year students, but Professor Tonks is planning to offer additional lessons for students who are interested in learning more advanced techniques. You will sign up for this."

"I've got enough classwork this term, thanks," said Draco, despite Snape's clear instruction. "Wouldn't it be better to have as little interaction as possible with my dear blood-traitor aunt?"

"There is no denying her appointment is less than ideal, but her skill is rather undeniable. Wouldn't you like to be able to minimize your own pain, should Granger get ahold of your arm— and your wand— again?"

Draco scowled at the unmasked insult. He reluctantly glanced at his mark before rolling his sleeve back into place; the pain had mostly eased, but his arm was still covered in dried blood. Snape had been sure to leave the clean-up for him.

"You have no choice in the matter… unless, of course, you'd prefer to lessen your chances of survival. The way you're choosing to refuse my help, I do wonder if maybe you have a death wish."

"I don't want your help. I can do this alone."

It was a lie of course, but he didn't trust Snape, no matter how many times his professor tried to help him, no matter how skilled a Legilimens he really was.

"You are not a fool, Draco, and it concerns me you are choosing to act like one. I know of the task the Dark Lord has given you— it is impossible for most, but not for me, Draco… think of the benefits of my position—"

"No," Draco's voice was firm. This was his task, and his alone. It was best to trust no one, and he was not so naive to think he could ever rely on some vague notion of camaraderie— he wasn't Potter, after all.

Thank Merlin.

It wouldn't hurt to have at least one competent person on my side, though, a small voice in Draco's mind whispered. The echo of his mother's advice chimed in, '"It doesn't hurt to have an ally."'

Draco admitted Crabbe and Goyle's blind loyalty was certainly useful, but a far, far cry from what he would call helpful.

He considered Granger for a fleeting moment, the way she'd jeopardized her Prefect status, the way she seemed not to simply break, but Bombarda her way through the rules time after time… for Potter, for her friends. He suddenly felt quite lonely— and despised himself for it.

He hated this too-familiar weakness, and tried to suffocate it whenever it reared its ugly head. Draco had never had the luxury of friendship, nor trust, and he was firmly entrenched in his own independence.

No, he was no Potter. And he wasn't about to act like him by putting Theo in harm's way, either.

"Perhaps, in time, you will see… think of your mother."

"Don't talk about my mother," Draco snapped. His mother had tried to help him all summer, to prepare him for his task, and he'd suspected she had sought Snape's guidance as well. Draco, of course, had refused her assistance at every opportunity; she was in enough danger already. How many times had his father put her in harm's way? He refused to do the same.

"Stay away from her, she— she's got enough to worry about," his voice cracked, and he abruptly rose from his seat to mask his additional display of weakness. Snape simply stared at him in silence.

"May I be excused, Professor?" Draco spat out the word.

Snape nodded, again saying nothing, his eyes boring into Draco's defiant expression. Without another word, Draco turned on his heel and disappeared into the hall.

Snape stared in contemplation at the empty doorway long after Draco had left.

/

A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing!