Draco's nose was buried in her hair. He breathed in deeply, then sighed, his breath warm against her neck. Hermione leaned against him, perfectly content to stay there as long as he needed.

"I missed you," he murmured near her ear.

"Really?" She giggled. "I hadn't noticed."

"Don't be coy, Granger." He squeezed her tighter, then stopped. "You're not in pain, are you?"

"Not really, just a bit stiff sometimes. Madame Pomfrey gave me some potions to take."

"Good." He went back to holding her hard against his chest. "I'm still not letting you do anything today, though."

"What? But I'm fine! I can prune flowers without keeling over, Draco. I'm not made of glass!"

"Too bad," he said happily, pulling away and dragging one of the stools over for her to sit on. "Humour me?"

Grumpily, she sat and levelled a glare at him as he set about preparing the aconite flowers. She was touched by his concern, though; she suspected her episode had spooked him more than he wanted to admit. So she would humour him. Once.

"I keep waiting for Potter and Weasley — or all the rest of your friends, actually — to ambush me," he said quietly. "I don't think even I'd blame them if they did."

"They're not going to tell anyone," Hermione promised. "Harry and Ron, they trust me and — well, even if they didn't, they know the headmistress knows about — about you. And they trust her."

Draco made a thoughtful sound as he unsheathed the knife from its slot in the leather roll and began to carefully separate the droopy purple petals from their stems. Had he really expected to be paraded through the Great Hall, outed as a Death Eater for all to see?

He worked in comfortable silence for a little while and Hermione was content to watch him, to study the way he hunched over to best see the plants. His chin nearly touched his chest, making his hair hang around his eyes. Even in the gloves, she could see how delicately he manipulated the flowers with his long, dexterous fingers. She imagined them tracing her skin, tangling in her hair, and had to reposition herself on the stool.

Together, the first day of brewing would take maybe twenty minutes of labour. On his own, Draco finished in a little under forty, during which Hermione had driven herself nearly mad with waiting. When the last flower had been decapitated and that concentrated frown finally left his face, he turned to her with a smirk. "Will you stop fidgeting?"

"See, this is why I told you to let me help," she retorted, but her eyes were busy watching him pull his dragonhide gloves off, finger by finger. Suddenly, she frowned, Ron's voice echoing in her head. "Why do you sit alone at mealtimes?"

"Why — what?" Draco faltered, the leather around the third finger on his left hand stretching too far.

"I mean, you're always on your own, in the Great Hall. When I see you, at least. Why don't your housemates want to sit with you?"

His playful mood was gone. "More like I don't want to sit with them."

"You mean they don't think —"

He shut the lid on the box housing the rotting stems. "No, they don't think I'm a defector, or a coward, or a traitor or anything else, Granger. Actually," he nearly laughed to himself, "they think I'm very impressive. And I've made it very clear that none of them are up to my standard."

Hermione watched him pack away the tools, trying to piece together his meaning. "So none of the others are Marked, then."

Draco turned still, hands braced on the benchtop. "No," he told her softly. "It's just me."

Hermione didn't know what to say to that, so she hopped off the stool and went to his side to help him tidy.

"What are you doing?" he asked without moving.

"Helping," she answered simply as she rolled up the leather into a neat scroll, its metal inhabitants clinking against each other.

"I thought I said you weren't to do any of that."

She could hear the smile in his voice, feel him shift beside her, and she bit her lip to hold back her grin. "You also told me to stop fidgeting. One or the other, Draco."

"What about a third option?"

She finally looked at him, then, and found that molten greed in his eyes that she'd been dreaming about. She only caught his gaze for a moment, though, before he ducked his head down and kissed her fiercely.

She reached for him hungrily, but it was nothing compared to the way he grabbed her. His long arms came around her again, but this time they splayed across her back, exploring, sweeping across her shoulders and waist. He tugged her closer against him, making her gasp against his mouth, which made him growl. She felt the vibrations of it where her hand was pressed to his chest.

It all got very muddled, then, just a frantic and never-ending jumble of limbs and lips and the most delicious sensations. She could never get enough, didn't think she ever would. She felt the cold wall against her back and shivered, arching into him as he caged her in with his body. His lips slipped from her mouth to her jaw, embarking on a neat trail from her cheek down her neck, loitering by her collarbone before she felt fingers come to the buttons at her throat. Slowly, it slid the topmost button from the eyelet, and then one by one it went down the rest, until her shirt was undone to her navel. He made a desperate sound against her neck and then she gasped and nearly leapt out of his arms when he ducked down and she felt his lips on her sternum.

"Does this hurt?" His voice was soft and hoarse, but so gentle.

"N-no," she stammered and then yelped when he dragged his mouth a little farther down the path of her scar. "It feels… nice."

And it did, though distinctly different than when he kissed the rest of her skin. Her fingers settled in his hair as he came to his knees, hands on her waist, softly exploring that tendril of blue-green-purple magic shimmering down her front. The colours were still more vibrant than they should be, and the edges were a little pink, but the pain was gone. All she could feel was him.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," Draco breathed against her ribs. "Never again, I promise…"

"It — it wasn't your fault," she gasped, half senseless.

But he shook his head. "I shouldn't have said it… I shouldn't have got this thing in the first place…"

She tightened her fingers against his scalp and tugged upwards until he stood. "Stop talking."

He did.


Hermione went to dinner early, as was her habit on days like today when brewing would require most of her evening. She'd persuaded Harry and Ron to come with her, since Tonks would supposedly be available to join them. Since Hestia had died and term had started, they hadn't shared many meals with Tonks. Hermione missed it.

She was the first one to arrive, and she wasted no time picking a roll from the pile and tearing it open with a knife. Steam came out the middle in long tendrils. She lathered butter on it before bothering to serve herself any more food; she was starving.

"Started without us, have you?" Ron appeared beside her and dropped into a seat. Harry followed.

They slipped into conversation about Defence — rather, Harry and Ron complained about Professor Snape's difficult curriculum — until Tonks arrived. She was still so much grimmer than she'd been over the summer, but she at least tried to smile. "Wotcher, Hermione."

"Hi, Tonks. Here, we've saved your seat."

Tonks dropped herself onto the chair and, with one elbow perched on its backrest, wordlessly summoned a bread roll into her other hand.

"Cool."

Hermione glared at Ron. "See? Maybe if you listened to Professor Snape, you could nonverbally eat your dinner, too!"

Ron was prevented from countering by the screech of owls soaring into the hall. Hermione looked up, puzzled, at the flock soaring around the ceiling, dropping thick rolls of paper onto people's dinner plates, to much outcry from below.

"Must be a special evening edition of the Prophet," Harry guessed.

"That's unusual," said Hermione. "We haven't had one of those in a while…"

It was lucky she hadn't served her dinner yet; a heavy newspaper landed squarely in the middle of her plate, sending her goblet of pumpkin juice flying. Tonks was immediately drew her wand to right the mess. "On it!"

"What's it say?" asked Ron, leaning over to try and read the headline.

"I'm not sure…" Hermione unrolled the tightly wound paper and smoothed it out.

REMAINS OF FAMED JOURNALIST FOUND IN DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES

In a press release today, The Ministry of Magic regretfully announced that the remains of accomplished reporter Rita Skeeter were found today deep within the Department of Mysteries. A spokeswizard for the department, who shall not be named for obvious reasons, made a statement expressing the department's regret regarding the tragedy.

"It really is unfortunate but, you know, we do our best to advise people how dangerous our work can be. It's not like we're breeding flobberworms down here! There's some real nasty stuff and, honestly, it's not wise to come snooping. People can and do get hurt like this and — well, it's sad because it's preventable, isn't it?"

Ms Skeeter had not been reported missing. It is believed her death was related to her work. As a result, the Ministry of Magic is instituting new regulations regarding journalists on the premises and access to various parts of the Ministry itself.

"We really don't want something like this to happen again," said a representative of the Department of Magical Accidents. "So we do think it best that the press have a more restricted role here."

Services remembering Ms Skeeter's life and career have yet to be announced. Her publisher has confirmed that, at the time of her death, she was writing a biography of the late Albus Dumbledore. They have not confirmed if it will be published posthumously.

More on page 7.

Hermione hadn't moved since she'd opened the paper. She read the last four words over and over again, waiting for them to make sense in her head. More on page 7.

Then, her fists seized so tightly they tore the crumpled edge of the newspaper. She stood, her chair scraping shrilly against the floor, and ran out of the Great Hall.