Standing in her room wearing only her undergarments, Hermione held her wand perpendicular to her stomach and was viscerally reminded of Juliet, ready to stab herself by Romeo's corpse. It was a somewhat apt reference for a Contraceptive Charm, she thought, though a bit too morbid for her taste.

Madame Pomfrey had shown them all how to cast Reproductive Charms during fifth year, but Hermione had never had cause to actually use one — until now.

Her abdomen glowed blue for a moment, as it ought to, and she allowed herself a moment of pride before she dressed for the day. She really was quite good at Charms.

The thought reminded her of Hogwarts, of all the academia she was missing out on, and she hurried to the kitchen before more gloomy thoughts could catch her. She found only Draco there, smearing marmalade on a piece of toast, and stopped dead in the doorway.

"H-hi."

He looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Good morning. Sleep well?" It was a performance for a non-existent audience; he knew very well how she'd slept, seeing as he'd done it right beside her, and they had woken up languidly together barely an hour ago. She felt heat in her cheeks again and hurried to her seat before Harry or Ron could catch her idling.

Kreacher appeared with a fresh pot of tea, for which she thanked him politely before gingerly sitting on her chair, holding her breath for a moment. She'd been right; she was aching.

Draco just raised an eyebrow again. Hermione ignored it and the burning in her face and poured her tea. "Good morning, Draco."

"Granger."

Before either of them could work out what to say next, Ron came in, bleary-eyed and hungry. "Morning."

"Weasley."

"Good morning, Ron."

Ron cast Draco an odd look, perhaps because the latter wouldn't stop smirking. He looked to Hermione next, a question written all over his features. Hermione shook her head. Don't worry, Ron. He's not bullying me. Well, maybe he is, but… never mind.

Harry came down soon after and they settled into their usual breakfast routine, except it was anything but usual. Hermione couldn't stop thinking about the monumental shift that had taken place, that Harry and Ron were oblivious to. The soreness between her legs wouldn't let her forget, nor would Draco's presence beside her. Was he thinking it, too? How was he able to stay so casual? Was his head also filled with her touches, with how it felt to sheath himself fully inside her —

"You alright, Hermione?"

She choked and had the distinct feeling she was at one of Slughorn's dinner parties. "I'm fine!"

"What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, just — just that it'll be Christmas soon."

"Oh." Harry's face fell. "Sorry, I forgot your parents are in hiding."

Hermione froze. So did I.

"Maybe we should send out a card," joked Ron. "'Happy Christmas from the Chosen One, the world's most notorious Muggle-born, a blood traitor, and an unwilling Death Eater!'"

"Don't call me that," Draco hissed. The temperature dropped several degrees, but Ron just rolled his eyes.

"What, finally managed to get rid of your Dark Mark, have you? Fine. 'Happy Christmas from two blood traitors.' Happy?"

Draco didn't say anything, just grumbled and took a sullen sip of tea. Hermione, however, had gone very still.

"Dark Mark," she blurted suddenly. "Harry, I forgot to tell you: I know who the Half-Blood Prince is."

"You what? I thought you said there wasn't anything else —"

"I forgot, alright? It's Professor Snape."

"Snape? How —"

"I noticed his handwriting in the memories Dumbledore showed us. It's still quite similar, actually, to how he writes now. It wasn't that hard."

Harry gaped at her. "Snape," he repeated. "I guess… I guess it makes sense. He's really good at Potions…" He made a face like he'd swallowed a lemon, stricken, and Hermione allowed herself a moment of smugness. After more than a year, she'd been proven right, and Harry knew it.

"But —" he stammered, "but those spells — Levicorpus — those were used against him, in the memories I saw, of my dad and stuff…"

Hermione didn't have anything to say to that. It seemed Harry would need some time to reconcile the two — Severus Snape and his beloved Half-Blood Prince — into the same man. She was more than happy to leave him to it, as long as it meant he didn't make any more astute observations about her own mental state.

Ron was shaking his head. "Blimey. Snape."

But before any more could be said on the subject, they heard a voice calling them from upstairs. Hermione's stomach dropped in terror before she realised it was Phineas Nigellus.

"Mr Potter!" he called. "Mr Potter, our esteemed headmistress wishes to speak with you!"

Harry rolled his eyes and looked regretfully at his uneaten breakfast. "Alright, alright." He stood from his chair and glanced at the rest of them. "Coming?"

There was a terrible scraping noise as they all got up at once to follow Harry out the kitchen and up to the third floor.

"We're coming, Phineas!" Harry bellowed up the stairs; it sounded like the former headmaster was rapidly losing patience.

"Mr Potter, do you fully realise how taxing the role of headmaster — or headmistress — can be?" scoffed the portrait, his voice muffled by the closed door between them. "Or do you think Madame McGonagall merely sits in her office having tea?"

Harry said something rude under his breath and jogged faster up the stairs. When they finally entered the bedroom, they found Phineas Nigellus halfway out of his portrait, with one leg flung out to the side until it disappeared, presumably into his frame in the headmistress' office.

"Ah, finally," he sighed with exaggerated relief. "I can't keep this up all day, you know."

"Sorry, Phineas," said Harry perfunctorily. "Professor?" he called. "It's me, Harry. And everyone else is with me, too."

"Ah, yes," came McGonagall's voice through the canvas. She sounded tired, Hermione noticed. Tired in a way she'd never heard from her former Head of House. "How are you? All of you."

"We're good, professor. Everyone's okay."

"That is very good to hear. It would seem I owe you a thank-you; I have no idea how you acquired that intelligence regarding the blood testing, but our sources have confirmed it."

"Oh. Great." Harry grinned at Hermione. "Glad we could help."

Thank you, headmistress. Now he thinks he has a mandate to send us on more suicide missions.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "You said you're 'all' present. Is Mr Malfoy there?"

The three of them turned to Draco, who was lingering near the door. He stepped forward, looking nervous. "Er — y-yes, I'm here, headmistress."

"Good morning, Mr Malfoy. I have news for you."

"About my mother?" Draco went even paler.

"Indeed. She is alive, however it seems she has been stripped of her wand."

"She's — she's not allowed to use magic?"

"That is what I've heard, but remember that she is alive, Mr Malfoy. That means a great deal in these times."

Draco appeared to be lost for words; he gaped at the portrait, looking very lost, until his eyes came back into focus, and he gave a minute shake of his head. "Th-thank you, headmistress."

"You're very welcome, Mr Malfoy."

"And my family, professor?" piped up Ron.

"All alive and well." There was a pause. "Hermione?"

Hermione startled. "Yes?"

"I can confirm that your parents are still safe, too."

"Oh. Oh! Thank you." It took several seconds for Hermione to realise the meaning of McGonagall's words, and then her heart leapt. "Oh! Professor, have you seen Crookshanks?"

There was a pause. "Your half-Kneazle? I believe I saw him stalking mice by the Entrance Hall last week."

"Oh. Wonderful. Thank you."

"Your owl, Harry, is well, too. Restless, though, I think."

"Professor?" asked Ron. "Is there anyone we know who's not alive and well?"

The silence got very tense all of a sudden. Even Phineas' expression turned dark. McGonagall took several moments before she spoke, even and low. "We have numerous agents out completing missions across the country, and some abroad. To be frank, it is impossible for me to give you an accurate answer."

It was a refreshingly honest if utterly miserable answer.

"Hogwarts is holding," she went on, "but the Ministry is growing more powerful by the day, and our plants in various departments are finding it more difficult to report. We have lost contact with several people. I cannot stress enough how dangerous it is — especially for you, Harry — to be in Britain right now."

"Are you saying we should leave?" demanded Harry, flabbergasted.

"No, but I would assist you all should you decide to. We did safely evacuate Scrimgeour, if you recall."

Harry shook his head emphatically. "I'm not leaving."

And that was it. If Harry was staying, so were the rest of them.

"Very well," conceded McGonagall, and Hermione swore she heard pride in her voice.

The meeting concluded, as the headmistress had a N.E.W.T. lesson to teach. Hermione realised it was a Thursday, and that she should be in that lesson, too. The thought brought on a wave of sadness and longing; she went back into the rest of the house feeling forlorn. She was beginning to understand Harry's restlessness — the rest of the world was carrying on, and they were just stuck.

The rest of the day passed as it always did, though the atmosphere had turned gloomy. There were no updates from Phineas Nigellus or any Patronuses, and their meetings to try and work out the next Horcrux raised more questions than answers. Hufflepuff's Cup was still out there, somewhere, and then there was the issue of Nagini: Even if they could get near enough to kill her, how were they meant to do it? They couldn't poison her very easily, and Hermione wasn't sure they even had enough venom left for two Horcruxes.

At least Harry was holding onto his Occlumency.

And then there was Draco. She lingered outside his door that night, hesitant, with something thrilling through her veins. Whether it was apprehension or excitement, she couldn't tell. There was a part of her that couldn't bear to wait a second longer to see him again — to sleep with him again — whilst the rest of her was anxious that some fundamental part of their relationship would be different now, or that she'd been a disappointment. After all, how was she meant to satisfy after God-knew-how-long he'd been fantasising about her?

She was being irrational and ridiculous, she knew. Before she could work herself into an untenable state, she opened the door and slipped inside the room.

Draco was there, sitting up in bed, reading a book by wandlight. He jumped when she entered, but she saw relief pass over his features before he locked and charmed the door with his wand.

Their eyes met and all her nervousness faded away. Of course, this was Draco, and they weren't fumbling sixth years in a brewing laboratory anymore. She could trust him. She was safe.

Hoping to project that sort of confidence, she strode to the bed and climbed into her side, surprised and pleased to find the sheets had been treated with Warming Charms.

"Hello," he greeted, sounding amused. "Tired, are we?"

Hermione hummed in agreement and let her eyes close, feigning sleep. "I'm afraid I didn't get to sleep much last night."

He chuckled and put his book on the bedside table. "I'm terribly sorry to hear that. Why ever not?"

"Oh, you know..." She yawned. "Some prat wouldn't leave me alone."

She felt the bed shift as he settled down beside her. "Well, we can't have that. Perhaps I'll hex him."

"Perhaps you should. I haven't been able to sit properly all day. It seems only fair."

He laughed again, his arms snaking around her beneath the sheets. "Sorry."

Hermione hmphed and rolled over until her back was pressed against his chest and she felt comfortably ensconced by his long arms.

Her heart swelled when he dropped a kiss to her shoulder and settled his body against hers.

It didn't take long, however, for their new routine to settle. Now, when Hermione went to his bed, they would end up clawing at each other from the second she entered the room — or perhaps it would take longer, until just before she'd fall asleep, and his hand would creep beneath her clothes. Then, it would be slow and languid, and Hermione would lie awake afterwards feeling so deeply satisfied she thought she might never move again, not if it meant leaving him and his body and the way he made her feel.

Occasionally, her thoughts wandered to Hogwarts, and she imagined their seventh year. Would they be shagging like this in the Room of Requirement? Or the lab? They'd come close a few times. It almost made her wish they had — sex was excellent, and she was profoundly disappointed they'd had to wait so long.

Then her imagination would toy with the idea, until her head was filled with images of her being pressed against the laboratory wall — or on the benchtop, perilously close to a bubbling silver cauldron — and she'd reach a hand out beside her to trace Draco's temple, just to see if he was fully asleep yet…

Then, in the morning, she would put her crumpled clothes back on, scamper to her room, cast the Contraception Charm, and head to breakfast as though nothing had changed. Only once did Harry and Ron remark she looked tired, and so she took to applying Anti-Inflammatory Charms to her face, too.

That was where she found herself now, smearing jam across a piece of toast and schooling her expression into something neutral even as her mind relentlessly replayed just a few hours ago, when she'd been straddling him —

Pop! "Kreacher has brought Master Potter his newspaper," croaked the elf.

"Great. Thanks, Kreacher," Harry said around a mouthful of porridge. He unrolled The Daily Prophet while the rest of them watched, curious. The propaganda had only got worse; Hermione wasn't particularly keen to see what sort of anti-Muggle bullshit was in print this morning.

As soon as Harry flattened out the front page, however, he froze. Hermione watched, waited for him to explain, but he didn't move. He didn't even breathe.

"Harry?" she asked.

Ron, beside him, craned his neck to read over Harry's shoulder. Hermione saw the moment he spotted it (whatever "it" was); he went rigid, too.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she hissed and stood up to lean over the table and read upside down:

MINISTRY UNVEILS NEW CABINET

Beneath the headline was a large photo of the Ministry Atrium, Hermione realised, though it looked nothing like how she'd seen it before. The statue in the middle had been replaced by a recently unveiled new work, according to the caption. Cast in metal and stone stood two witches and two wizards, each several storeys high, dressed in an ancient style. They stood proudly and though Hermione could clearly see where each of them might carry a relic, only one of them bore anything other than their robes and wand: A tall woman wearing pale robes and holding a golden cup in her marble hand.