A/N:

Now, this is the first time I'm posting on FFN for nearly half a decade. I was a very regular writer and user before switching full time to Ao3 in 2017, and, well, my writing from before then is embarassing. I elected to make a new account, but I am romantashas on all other platforms, other than YouTube, where I am SunnyVids, if you want to verify that I am a real person!

DISCLAIMER: I am not a lawyer because of J.K. Rowling, so I truly hope she doesn't sue me. #transpeoplearepeople

CROSS POSTED ON AO3 & WATTPAD!

11:14am on Saturday, 17 April 1999

Hermione has avoided Draco Malfoy for the entirety of their eighth year.

Eighth year at Hogwarts is extremely depressing. Everyone's consistently in a sullen mood, many crying on a daily basis, and there's a sense of a shared trauma. Hermione hadn't been around the year prior, she is blissfully unaware of the horrific acts that took place, but she had been there for the battle. She had witnessed first hand the many losses of their school.

Hermione had also suffered her own trauma. Lots of it, in ways others couldn't quite understand, except maybe Harry and Ron. The world had been heavy on all their shoulders.

But with Ron and Harry choosing to skip out on Year Eight, instead opting to skip straight to an Auror career, Hermione's left all alone.

She makes do; she finds that most people in her year keep to themselves, and she's more than happy to do the same. She has friends of course — Ginny, Luna, Neville, Dean, Seamus... the list could go on, really — but none of them are quite Harry and Ron. But they're enough to keep her sane, make sure she doesn't overdo it on the studying and actually ensure that she's eating and sleeping, and it works.

The Slytherins keep to themselves, too. Mostly out of self preservation; they know it'd be social suicide to say anything less than a civil hello to anyone outside their House after the war. She can't help but notice that many seem to be dealing with their own trauma. But nonetheless, apart from the required classes, Hermione rarely sees the Slytherins from her year out and about; not even in the Great Hall, where they seem to grab and go food rather than sit and joyously eat like they used to.

Professors knew better than to intervene. Headmistress McGonagall, at some point at the very beginning of the year, had pulled Hermione aside to inquire on inter-House unity. It was settled as a good idea for the younger years — break down the separations that led to echo chambers of prejudices. But for the older years?

No, the memories of the war were still too fresh.

Correction: Most professors knew better than to intervene.

Professor Slughorn, bless his stupidly jolly heart, remains as oblivious as ever, and has a mission to pair Hermione with every single other student in the class. Everyone is subjected to what's similar to speed dating, but with potions partners, and every project is a new collaborator.

Which is how Hermione finds herself in her current predicament.

Draco Malfoy.

They'd been assigned a partnered project to study and brew Veritaserum as their homework. It was a whole lunar cycle's worth of work — twenty-eight days to brew, with an extremely long ten-foot essay on the background, theory, effects, dangers, and process.

She can not be in close proximity to Malfoy for a whole bloody month.

Yet, here they are, sitting across from each other in the library, their first agreed study session right after breakfast. The tension is awkward — somehow even more so awkward from him, rather than her, and Hermione wants nothing but to pack up her books and run off. She can do this project by herself, surely. And it's not as if he wants to work with her, either.

They silently scour through books for nearly three hours. They hadn't said a word to each other at all, not even a little hello, and he took her lead in grabbing from the stack of books she had placed on the table. But, at this point, it's senseless; they need to converse and share their findings at some point, but neither have made the step to acknowledge the other.

It's Malfoy who speaks first.

"I already read that one," he drawls slowly, as Hermione reaches for a book from a newly-formed stack — Malfoy's finished pile.

She knows he read it already, of course. But their pile is done, and the only ones remaining are the ones he's gotten to already. "Perhaps you missed something," Hermione says cooly, trying to justify her avoidance to proceed to the next step. It's silly, really — she had wanted to avoid talking to him, that had been the point of her reaching for the book, yet now they're talking. There's no point in arguing, now that they've passed the boundary. But Hermione's always been too stubborn for her own good.

"I assure you, I haven't," Malfoy answers.

Hermione looks up at him for the first time. He's quirking an eyebrow up at her, almost as if he's...amused. She's not sure if she's ever seen an expression such as this actually shared with her, rather than to his friends in spite of her.

She taps her fingernails on the table, debating her next move. This is new territory for her. She's never had to study with Malfoy; she hasn't ever even had as much as a real conversation with him. She can't stand the idea of the next twenty-eight days. More, since they haven't actually started the potion yet.

"Stop that," he says. She glares at him before her brain registers he hadn't said it with an ounce of malice in his tone. When she realises, she blinks heavily, before stilling her fingers. His eyes linger before they drag back up to her face. "That book doesn't have any useful information, anyway. Only a sentence referencing it in comparison to another complex potion that falls under the lunar cycle."

"That can't be right," Hermione mutters, immediately rushing to check the book. She had borrowed this book during their second year, when she'd been in search of any information of Polyjuice Potion. She explicitly remembers reading about Veritaserum. And even if she hadn't had first-hand experience with it, surely a book called The Moon and How It Influences Potions should include a section on a heavily-popular potion that relies on the lunar cycle.

Frustratingly, Malfoy's right. A wave of her wand confirms only one instance of the word "Veritaserum" within the text, and flicking through the book in hopes her spell is wrong (even if it is never wrong) does her no favours.

"Must be an old edition," Hermione says meekly.

"It should be in there," Malfoy agrees, almost as if he's consoling her. No, surely, that can't be right. Draco Malfoy isn't agreeing with her, or consoling her. He's patronising her, of course. "Perhaps we should draft a letter to the publisher to inform them of their mistake."

Once again, he's raising an eyebrow, as if they're two jolly mates sharing a joke. It unsettles her. He'd gone from laughing at her to...laughing with her? Maybe?

It hits her, extremely suddenly, that Malfoy likely has no choice but to put his best foot forward when it comes to her. She and Harry had essentially been the line that prevented Malfoy from getting chucked into Azkaban for life. Even with their testimonies, and his somewhat-acquittal, the Ministry still keeps an extremely close eye on the ex-Death Eater, and likely will for the rest of his life.

Pissing off a member of the Golden Trio is not in his best interest. And Slytherin's were nothing if not reliable in fulfilling their self-interests.

Of course, there's another theory, one that she doesn't entertain too much. Perhaps he is genuinely grateful for her testimony, and finally seeing her as a person, rather than a dirty-blooded freak.

(Hermione had not testified for him, of course. She testified for herself. She testified for the precedent. As much as she loathes Malfoy and wishes to see him suffer for all the hurt that he's caused, she couldn't stand back and watch as the Ministry painted a very unreal picture of him. She and Harry had told the truth, and nothing but the truth. Yes, he was a bully. Yes, he had become a Death Eater somewhere along the way. No, he hadn't killed Dumbledore. No, he hadn't turned in the Trio when they had been brought into the Manor.)

"Look, Malfoy, there's no need for these false niceties," she tells him firmly.

Malfoy blinks. "They're not — "

"I assure you that I do not care what you think of me or what you say to me," she continues. "I gave my testimony fully knowing you were, and are, a tosser. I'm not going to retract my words. I'd rather you not pretend to enjoy my presence, as I don't enjoy yours."

His mouth reduces to a fine line, his nose flaring slightly. His face hardens, all traces of amusement gone. "Very well," Malfoy grits out, almost hissing as he stuffs a book into his bag. "You do the essay, I'll do the practical element. You mustn't need to be bothered with my presence."

He doesn't spare her a glance before throwing the sack across his shoulders and storming out of the library.

She wants to protest, to tell him off, but she doesn't fancy herself any more interactions with the insufferable Slytherin. And, as much as she hates him, she knows enough about his potioneering to know he'll do just fine at the practical, and she doesn't really fancy frizzing her hair up either. So, instead, she sits back and silently fumes as she does her part of the assignment.

They get a perfect score.

09:35pm on Wednesday, 23 November 2005

Hermione has avoided Draco Malfoy for the past month.

It's not because she broke down in front of him — well, it is, but not in the way you'd think. It's good to cry, she's not ashamed to cry, she's cried in front of plenty of people before. But never in front of Malfoy.

Growing up, her father had always told her to never show her bullies how much they affect her. Ignoring them is a sure-fire way of getting them to get bored and stop.

But her bullies had never gotten bored. They had never stopped.

At least, not until the war had put real consequences to their bigotry. Perhaps they had learned. Or perhaps they had receded back, only silently thinking about their prejudices, because the tides have turned and the hope for redemption matters to them more than making real amends.

Hermione's sure it's the latter.

But, yes, she had broken down in front of Malfoy. It may have been her own actions that had brought her to that point, but it still had been too raw of a moment with Malfoy for her to come to terms with.

The aftermath had been significantly better. Daphne had been released as a newly accused Death Eater had been on the run. The Aurors put their full forces into the hunt, and Hermione had made some strides with Pansy Parkinson. She likes to think that Parkinson has a level of respect for her now.

They now discuss the books they've been reading, like an odd little book club with just the two of them. Hermione wonders if Parkinson's newfound friendliness stems from loneliness and a desperation to connect with someone. Anyone. Even if it is the Mudblood from school.

Nonetheless, Hermione appreciates the new effort, as it makes her daily visits to the cell much more bearable. It's been over two months since she first took Pansy Parkinson on as a client, and the odd stand-still of the case has shifted from unsettling to workable.

She has time for her other work now. She's finally set a date with the Wizengamot for a hearing on Susan's expulsion legal rework. They've lobbied hard to the school board, gaining support from many. The discrimination against Muggle-borns in the expulsion rules are highlighted to the public, and it's shaping up to be a great case.

Hermione doesn't think the Wizengamot can shoot it down.

Of course, they'll try, because Hermione is determined they have some conspiracy to make her life as difficult as possible. But still.

She gets home from work late, immediately hoping to kick her shoes off and relax. But something unsettles her — on her way home, she swears someone's following her, but when she looks back, no one's there. Even spells and wards don't catch anything. Then, there's flickers of light, and what she swears is a shadow. She hears creaking, only to find out its her Muggle neighbours arriving at their flat.

It's not the first time her paranoia gets the better of her. It's one of the few consequences of surviving a war.

Logically, she knows it's likely nothing, but her anxieties refuse to let her relax. She keeps her shoes on, eats dinner with her eyes staring around her flat like a hawk, and doesn't set her wand down.

At a certain point, it becomes a bit ridiculous. She finally undresses, slipping into something more comfortable, wand still at her side.

And, of course, as the law of the universe works: As soon as you let your guard down, even just a little, that's when something strikes.

There's a loud banging at her door. Someone knocking frantically.

Hermione clutches her wand, debating not answering it, but her curiosity outweighs her fear. She holds onto the doorknob, considering her actions, before turning it and looking out at the intruder.

It's Malfoy.

"Can I come in?" he asks, his face impossible to read clearly. From the moment she opened the door to right now, his expression had seemingly shifted from horrified, worried, to relieved, then blank. He could be there to profess his secret undying love, or he could be there to murder her. There was no telling.

Except, well, Hermione has a pretty solid guess it isn't the first option.

She hums, thinking about it for a moment. "No," she settles on.

And she slams the door in his face.

"Fucking — " Malfoy bangs on the door with his fists. So, murder seems likely. "I'm trying to be nice and help you, you ungrateful witch!"

"That seems a bit overdue, don't you think?" she scoffs. "Maybe, let's say, fifteen years?"

"Look, Granger, we need to talk," he all-but-yells through the door.

Hermione looks down distastefully at her nightwear, grimacing. How had he even known where she lived? That is surely against any social norm to show up at someone's door without notice at such a late hour, when they are barely even coworkers, let alone stand each other.

"Fine," she decides. "Just... Just give me a minute."

She's quick to change into something more suitable; just a simple pair of jeans and a teeshirt, but it's already a huge improvement over the sheer robes she had been wearing prior. She braces herself before opening the door. Perhaps he's gone, now. It's been nearly five minutes, and it's pure silence. Surely he's gone. She would've left about —

He's still standing there, perfectly still and patient. He quickly looks up and down her body, clearly noticing her change in clothes, but doesn't comment on it.

"Had to ward your precious books against me, did you?" he asks sullenly as he steps into her home.

Hermione hums tiredly. "Something like that." She spins around, raising an eyebrow expectantly. A clear stance that he is not, under any circumstances, allowed to sit down in her home and get comfortable. "So, what is it?"

Malfoy stares at her stupidly for a brief moment before saying, "We got Harlan Barracus."

"Oh," Hermione answers. "Well, that's good."

Is he here to rub it in? She doesn't think so. He doesn't look as if he's smug, or ready to scold her again. He simply nods at her, looking...awkward? Stricken?

She's still learning his moods. Something pulls in her chest at the idea that she already knows enough to be familiar. When had that happened?

"Is that it?" she asks.

His eyes rake over her face, as if he's searching for something. She swears she still sees that flicker of worry, but she can't place why. She must be mistaken. Perhaps it is simply just more awkwardness.

A part of her can't wait until she's fluent in the language of Draco Malfoy.

Another part of her hopes she will never have to spend that much time with him in order to gain fluency.

"No," he decides after a minute. "I think we should talk."

"Yes, you said that earlier," she points out. "About Barracus?"

"No," he says. "Well, yes. About a mix of things."

Malfoy breezes past her, immediately beelining towards her kitchen table, ignoring her clear stance by the doorway that should indicate to any rational being that this was to be a quick visit. Instead, he sits down and makes himself at home, pointing to the other chair as if this was his humble abode, and he was inviting her to sit.

Oh, how she loathes him.

Hermione stands stubbornly, narrowing her eyes as he shrugs. He immediately locks onto her little pile of mail, and reaches out to snoop through it.

"Oi, stop that!" she scolds. When he doesn't pay her any mind, she swats his hand, but it's too late. He's done enough snooping to be satisfied.

"Lots of fanmail you got, Granger," he notes with a taunting smirk. "You're worse than Potter — at least he tosses his."

"I toss mine!" she insists. Then, more calmly: "If you really must know, these are people we've won cases for," she explains. "They're rather heartfelt and a reminder of why I do this, especially when I have to deal with people like you."

Completely forgetting that she was going to refuse to sit under any circumstances, she sits in the chair diagonal from him. Malfoy is smug, and it takes her a moment to realise why, but by then, it's far too late. She curses herself internally for falling for his little game.

"I've noticed you have taken a step back from the case," Malfoy notes, finally getting to the point. "No longer trying to play Auror, eh?"

"Well, not much I can do," Hermione grumbles unhappily. "You stole off the forensics report, so I can't even glance at it until the Wizengamot forces you to hand it over. And since it isn't even technically a legal case yet — "

"You have no standing," Malfoy finishes joyfully.

She glares at him.

"Look, Granger, it's for the best," Malfoy says, not unkindly. "You're not an Auror."

She could've been. She almost had been. She'd been offered the position, but she had declined it.

("Come with us," Ron had once murmured against her lips, the night before her eighth year had started. When their relationship seemed bright and endless, when she thought they would be together forever. "Kingsley will let you — he's been going on about how he wishes you hadn't turned the offer down. You can get your N.E.W.T.s still."

"I can't," Hermione had told him, pulling away. "I can't."

"Yes, you can," Ron had insisted. He held her hands within his, desperation in his eyes. It's as if he had known, in that moment, that their relationship wouldn't survive the distance. That he had a glimpse into the future, seeing where their relationship would end up in two years' time. Beautiful, linked, but not romantic. It's better that way.

"I can't," she had repeated. "I have to do things my way. And it's not as an Auror. Maybe not in the Ministry at all. I want to make a difference."

"We... We make a difference," Ron replied, clearly hurt.

"You do," she had agreed. "But I want to make a different kind of difference.")

Hermione hadn't regretted that decision. She hadn't looked back. She's happy where she is, what she's accomplished so far, and she can't wait to see where the rest of her life takes her. But she constantly itches for more.

"I'm perfectly capable," she spits out in return.

Malfoy leans back slightly. "I never said you weren't. But you're not an Auror, and that's a fact. There's rules to it. Years of training. You can't just play the role and expect everything to miraculously line up."

She stares at him with determination, daring him to continue. She knows he's not exactly wrong — last month had proved that. But she's not some child to lecture to.

"It's...dangerous," he finally finishes. There's an odd look on his face, one that she can't quite yet decipher. Perhaps one day, she'll learn.

"I can take care of myself," she insists.

"Once again, I'm not saying you can't," Malfoy says with a frown. "I can too. So can Potter, as much as I hate to admit. But we still end up in St. Mungo's more times than I'm comfortable with. It... It's not a matter of capability. It's a matter of visibility."

"I survived the war as a Muggle-born, and the Chosen One's best friend," she argues. "I had two very large price tags on my head, and I survived. Then, I completely reformatted the Wizarding legal system. I have plenty of visibility as it is."

"It's different," he insists, running a hand through his hair.

Hermione stares at him once again, refusing to give him any satisfaction of entertaining his idea.

"You need to start trusting me," Malfoy says softly. "It's important that you do."

This catches her off guard. She blinks at him several times, her previous combative mood dissipating quickly. The conversation suddenly feels a lot more real — that perhaps Malfoy hadn't meant to be condescending this entire time.

"I... I can't," she answers honestly.

His face falls. It's not surprised, but there's something weighing heavy in his expression. "I'm not a Death Eater, Granger. Not anymore."

Hermione blinks rapidly. "That's — No, I didn't think you were. That's not it." She brushes her hand across her face, trying to find the words. "It's just... I don't trust people on a whim. I can't. Especially when they don't tell me the truth."

Malfoy is silent for a moment, considering. "If I always told you the truth, I wouldn't need you to trust me."

She thinks about this for a minute. Trust is often blind, filled with faith. She's long past thinking of him as a Death Eater — she never really has seen him in that way. She had understood from the start that it wasn't a conscious choice, but one filled with desperation. They had all done despicable things to protect their family during the war. She had erased her own parents' memories. Malfoy, on the other hand, had fought on behalf of them.

But she doesn't know if she will ever be able to detach the Auror before her from the Slytherin tormentor. She thinks about the times that he wished her dead. Every instance that the word Mudblood had slipped from his mouth, full of venom. And he had never once apologised for it. She doesn't think he ever will.

Malfoy isn't a villain. But he certainly was a bully. He wasn't — isn't — a good person.

Perhaps her reason for mistrust goes further than the lack of truth. She wonders if she'd trust him even if he did tell her everything.

"Granger."

The voice brings her out of her thoughts. Malfoy is looking at her expectantly, as if he's awaiting an answer.

"I need you to answer a question for me," Hermione states. Her lip quivers slightly in hesitation, but then Malfoy nods, and the question spills out of her. "Why do Harry and Ron trust you?"

His brow furrows slightly. "Haven't you asked them this?"

"I have," she confirms. "I know you're a competent Auror. But they don't really tell me much more. I want to hear it from you."

Malfoy is silent for a while. His gaze catches something outside, staring blankly. Eventually, he blinks out of it and looks back out at her. "I hadn't necessarily intended to join the Aurors. But when we got out of school, I was doing potions by order, and then the attacks started... The Death Eaters approached me to join them."

"You said no?" she asks. She doesn't know why she sounds so surprised, she knows he's not a Death Eater. His family had fled the Battle of Hogwarts. She's shocked that they would even approach him with that history. By the end of eighth year, Narcissa Malfoy had become a status symbol of restoration and redemption. Lucius Malfoy had ended up in Azkaban, and Draco Malfoy had barely escaped a sentencing himself, but was acquitted, bar an annual review by the Ministry to ensure he's not up to anything nefarious.

"I said no," he confirms. "And then I took them straight to the Aurors myself. Goyle had never been so bright — he relied too heavily on our so-called friendship. But he," Malfoy pauses, taking a deep breath, "he bragged about killing this girl and I just couldn't be a part of that. I couldn't let it slide either."

Hermione had heard about the beginnings of his partnership with the Aurors, but she didn't realise it stemmed from them approaching him to join.

"You see, I know how the Death Eaters think," Malfoy explains. "The Dark Lord lived in my house for a long time — too long. I sat in meetings. I watch them kill and torture people. I went to school where people would brag about who they Crucio'd that day. I loathed it. But I never did anything about it. Robards saw the potential, I guess. He saw someone who'd understand the moves the Death Eaters would take."

"Like a strategist?"

"That's one way to put it," he says. "Of course, it's much more complicated than that, but yes, essentially I figure out what they're up to before more people can get hurt. But it is tricky. I don't know everything. Things don't always go as planned."

"Last month's attack," she says out loud. Malfoy nods. "If that's it, why so secretive?"

He laughs darkly. "That's far from it; that's only the tip of the iceberg. And its secrecy is essential, or else it puts everything at risk. Especially with someone like you."

"Like me?" she asks, her voice rising slightly. He gives her a warning look.

"Even saying this much is pushing it, but you're a stubborn swot who doesn't know how to let go," he warns. She almost protests, except he's entirely right, and she's grateful to even have this much information at this point. When she asked her question, she hadn't anticipated a whole story — one that didn't exactly answer her question, at that — but she soaks in the new knowledge happily. It feels like there's finally an olive branch between them.

A truce.

Perhaps a little bit of trust. In the work sense, at least.

"So, that's why you're really in charge of Parkinson's case, then," Hermione surmises. "It's not just that you found her, but because you need her intel on Death Eaters to figure out their next move."

"You and I both know that Pansy knows nothing."

This makes Hermione jolt her head up suddenly. "What?"

"Don't play the fool, it doesn't suit you," he comments. "We both are aware of Pansy's lack of involvement, just as we both know that Daphne is aware Flint is dead."

Now, Parkinson's level of knowledge is understandable for Malfoy to know. He supposedly deals with Death Eaters, and they're close friends. Were? Are? She's still not quite sure. But the news of Daphne throws her.

"How do you know that?"

"I have eyes and ears everywhere."

Hermione narrows her eyes in suspicion. "Did Daphne tell you?"

"She didn't need to," he grins menacingly. "You just did."

She gapes at him. "That is a dirty trick, Malfoy."

Curse the bloody snakes. She should've seen that coming from a mile away.

Hermione grimaces at the huge bit of info she just revealed. Sure, she may have been cleared from the latest terror attack — but Daphne is clouded is so much suspicion and mystery that surely that is enough grounds to continue an investigation, even if Ron has relaxed in his mission.

"Does... Do the other Aurors know?" she asks. "About Parkinson?"

"Of course not," Malfoy answers easily, acting offended that she had even asked. "The only way she's escaping a lifetime in Azkaban is if everyone believes she meant to kill a Death Eater."

"So, if it wasn't because he was a Death Eater, why do you think she killed him?"

"Are you fishing for information, or do you already know?" he asks, squinting his eyes a little, trying to figure her out. She wonders if he was starting to learn the language of Hermione Granger as well. She doesn't say anything; she keeps her face as passive as possible. He doesn't seem bothered. He rolls up his sleeves, placing his hands on the table comfortably. "I think that she had enough of Marcus's behaviour. She witnessed something and snapped. Maybe she genuinely thought she was saving Daphne's life. Either way, I don't think the Wizengamot will just let that slide. Their hate for Death Eaters is the only thing that triumphs their love of stripping people of their lives."

It's true, and all this has been considered heavily by Hermione. Except, they've made huge strides in the past few years. They've won cases already involving self-defence. It wasn't a huge leap to make a case about the defence of another.

"She just needs a good Defender, and she has me," she vocalises confidently, instead of airing her doubts.

He shrugs doubtfully. "Open and closed case if she killed a Death Eater. Don't even need a Defender for that — good or not."

"You're right, it would be easier," she allows. "But how long are the Aurors going to believe that she's just withholding information? At some point, they're going to suspect something."

"They won't," he assures, without any doubt in his voice. "I've ensured they won't."

She doesn't press that fact. She doesn't think she wants to know.

"Will you tell them about Daphne?" she asks. She fears for the answer, though she knows it wouldn't be in his interests to tell the Aurors about Daphne if he's gone this far to protect Parkinson. If found out, he'd probably be sent to Azkaban himself. Hermione, at least, has a legal stipulation that determines that she is entitled to withhold any information that a client reveals. Malfoy, on the other hand, is required to announce any new intel that pertains to a case — and these are both huge secrets to keep.

Malfoy shakes his head. "Of course, I won't. But, I'm more curious as to how you found out. I only suspected. She's been hiding it well."

Hermione frowns. He's graced her with plentiful information that paints a clearer picture today, but she doesn't know if she can provide him this. "I just know. Parkinson really hasn't told you anything?"

Malfoy wrinkles his nose unhappily. "Well, there's this little obstacle where you have to butt your nose into any time I even interact with her. So, no."

Hermione glares at him, and he returns it. But their newfound truce overtakes their bitter feelings, and then both relax slightly. Her eyes wander down to where his forearm is on display, and blinks at the black ink visible on his skin.

"Your Dark Mark… It's showing."

It's not supposed to show. It only does if Voldemort forces it out, or if the bearer consciously allows for it. But, now, with no Voldemort, the Mark stays invisible, a hidden secret to most Death Eaters, and makes life much more difficult than just lining up all the witches and wizards and seeing who wears the Mark.

Malfoy looks down at it, staring for an odd amount of time. His expression is tight, his brow furrowing a little.

After a moment, he says, "I hadn't realised it was visible."

Hermione balks. "How could you not know?"

"You're a clever witch, Granger," he grumbles irritatedly. "You must surely know the spell work only allows it to be seen when it is intended — "

"I know how it works," she snaps back. Then, with sympathy: "But that type of spell… Doesn't it hurt to show?"

It's silent for a long moment.

"If it ever has, I have long forgotten how it felt."