Hermione stumbled when she landed in her living room — she had probably been too buzzed to Apparate safely, but she didn't care. Slamming open the door of her potion cabinet, she searched for something to slow her breathing and stop her swiftly rising panic attack. Black spots began to appear at the edge of her vision, and her hands shook so badly that she nearly dropped the Calming Draught when she tried to unstopper it. After downing the potion, she lay down on top of her bed — still fully clothed — willing her racing heart to calm. Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. Crookshanks pressed his head against her temple a few times, but when she didn't respond, he curled himself next to her instead.

Letting her guard down had been a mistake. What an idiot she'd been to believe that Draco had changed, that he was different. She had fooled herself into thinking that his behaviour over the past few weeks proved this — even Harry and Ron had seemed to think so. If he had changed, then why in the bloody hell did he have the Dark Mark crisply inked onto his forearm?

From the trials following the Battle of Hogwarts, she knew the Marks faded. Voldemort's death caused the foul magic that had created them to dissipate, although the Marks themselves could not be wholly removed. Since Voldemort's death, she hadn't seen one as prominent as Malfoy's: it was crisp and defined amidst a swirl of green and black ink work that covered his entire forearm. She hadn't even seen what else he had tattooed there — her vision had gone fuzzy the moment she'd seen The Mark, and she hadn't been able to think of anything but the need to escape until she'd arrived home.

After all his talk of healing and recovering from trauma, she found it hard to believe that he'd have inked something like that into his skin forever… It made little sense. She felt sick. Was Ginny right? Was this just part of some elaborate scheme to redeem himself in the eyes of society? Could it really just be a ploy to restore his family's name and return to his former elevated status?

Hermione's Floo flared to life in the living room, interrupting her spiralling thoughts, and she heard Harry's voice calling for her.

"I'm in here," she managed shakily.

Harry appeared in the doorway and she sat up, drying her eyes. Harry approached her immediately, pulling her into a hug. "It's going to be okay, Hermione," he said soothingly as he ran a hand over her hair. "You're safe, I've got you." They stayed that way for quite a while until Hermione's breathing returned to normal and her heart stopped beating as frantically.

"How about some tea, hmm?" Harry asked rhetorically, already moving towards the door.

While Harry was preparing tea, Hermione considered her reaction to seeing Draco's Mark. She'd known he had it, of course, but she certainly hadn't expected that. The sight of Draco's Mark startled her, but the crushing feeling in her chest felt like hurt… which was strange. She should expect this sort of behaviour from him, right? He'd tormented her for years in school, and after everything he'd done to her, she should hate him (by rational evaluation). So why did she feel so hurt? Her head throbbed.

Harry returned with two cups of chamomile tea, and she accepted hers gratefully. Sitting on the bed together, they drank their tea in companionable silence for some time. After spending years together during the war with no one else for support, they'd become family; Harry could always tell when it was best to let her process in silence, knowing she would speak when she was ready.

After some time, Hermione spoke softly, haltingly, "I just don't understand…. I'm supposed to be stronger than this."

"That's rubbish, Hermione. You are strong. None of this changes that fact. What you've been through — what we've been through… it's not normal." He huffed a dry laugh. "Honestly, it's amazing any of us can even function… Maybe not the best time to bring it up, but what you are doing with the Ministry Program is going to help so many people. I think sometimes we don't even realise how fucked up we all are, you know?"

"He shouldn't be able to affect me like this, Harry. I don't understand," she pleaded, hoping that somehow Harry might make sense of this for her. She set her tea on the side table and put her face in her hands, groaning.

Harry was silent for a long while, rubbing soothing circles between her shoulder blades.

"Well…" he began hesitantly, "once you get close to someone, you start seeing them differently. It's been nearly ten years since Hogwarts. All of us have changed, some more than others," he trailed off, thinking.

After some time, he added, "Look, we were all quite pissed and I don't think any of us were thinking clearly tonight. Whatever that was, I really don't think he meant to hurt you, Hermione... if that makes a difference…"

Hermione nodded, and they returned to drinking their tea in silence, sitting side by side on her bed. When they had finished, Harry took both of their teacups and stood.

"Are you going to be alright? I don't mind staying over."

"No, Harry, I'll be fine now. Thank you… You're a good friend," she said, smiling weakly up at him.

"Alright," he said, studying her for a moment. Then, he kissed her softly on the head and left the room; she heard the Floo soon after.

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, staring vacantly into space, her mind churning. Something Harry had said was bothering her: once you get close to someone, you start seeing them differently. Was she "close" to Draco? She chewed on her lip, thinking. She thought about the way he had looked at her when she'd broken down in front of him at the Ministry; how he'd been so worried about Theo (someone he hadn't seen in years) and done everything in his power to save his friend; how he listened attentively to her ideas; how her breath had caught when his fingers had gripped her chin and angled her face towards his.

Hermione groaned in frustration, and rolled onto her side, pulling the covers over her head.

She was so confused — so conflicted. Her head hurt.

Each time she shut her eyes, the oppressive image of the Dark Mark seemed to hang in her mind, making it impossible to drift off to sleep. It was almost 2am, and she had reached her limit. With no respite from the unwelcome memories that surfaced in her mind, she gave in, texting Ginny and taking a Dreamless Sleep Potion.

Several hours after she turned off her alarm, Hermione finally got out of bed, pulling on her favourite PJs: cosy flannel pants and a loose unfitted crop top with the Lion of Gryffindor emblazoned on the front. The shirt was from an alumni event, but had been much too large on her. Instead of transfiguring it, she'd cut it. She had never worn a crop top, and they were coming back in style, so she thought she'd give it a shot. Now, it was one of her favorite loungewear items; loose and comfy, it was perfect for spending the day at home. Once she dressed, Crookshanks (who'd slept on her chest all night, like her very own weighted blanket) led the way to the kitchen with his tail high in the air.

The first thing she did was owl Harry: Won't be making it in today - Sorry

His reply came half an hour later. You don't have to apologise to me. I get it. Are you okay?

I will be. Is he there? she shot back, the spark of anger she'd felt last night resurfacing. This poor owl was getting quite the workout.

Yep — been pacing the conference room like an irritated Hippogriff since before I came in though.

Hermione laughed humorlessly. "Serves him right," she said to Crookshanks, who agreed with a meow.

She continued reading. I think there's coffee on your desk. Want me to Floo it to you?

Some of her anger dissipated at that, turning to regret. She didn't reply. Harry could decide whether or not to send it along on his own. She had been getting too comfortable and let her guard down. It served her right, she thought; how much change was someone like him really capable of?

Hermione made herself a cup of coffee in her kitchen, hoping that the familiar smell would bring her some comfort. A scratching sound came from the window, drawing her attention: there was a familiar large eagle-owl perched on her planter box. She rolled her eyes — surely he couldn't be serious. She decidedly ignored it and started in on her breakfast.

The owl pecked at the window again, but Hermione fastidiously continued eating, ignoring it completely. Crooks jumped up to the counter so he could glare out at it, tail flicking. A terrible skrrreeek came from the window as the horrible bird dragged a talon down the glass — Crookshanks let out a yowl and hissed, doubling in size as his fur stood on end. Hermione finally relented and opened the window. The owl looked completely unashamed, and she wondered if owls ever took on the traits of their owners like some other animals. She removed the letter, scowling as she opened it.

Can we talk about it?

-D.M.

She rolled her eyes and scoffed, hunting for a pen.

I'm not sure that there's anything to talk about. I saw everything I needed last night.

-H.J.G.

I'm sorry that you saw it like that. I was pretty sloshed last night — I wasn't thinking. I had planned to talk with you about it, I swear, but the timing hadn't seemed right at work. I'm usually more aware of my actions, but I was thoughtless last night. I fucked up — but it's not what you think; I promise. Please let me explain.

-D.M.

You don't need to explain yourself in order for us to maintain a professional relationship. I'm planning to take some time off this week, and when I return, we can finish the program outline. I'm sure you can manage the implementation on your own. I was really only brought in for the analysis anyway.

- H.J.G

Hermione re-read the letter, hoping that it came off as cool and aloof, though she felt anything but. She supposed that perhaps there were some benefits to owling. It forced her to take time to plan what she was going to say. If she were texting or speaking over Floo, she didn't think her emotions would be nearly so easy to control. This way, at least she could try to pretend that she just wanted to forget it and maintain their professional relationship.

She waited for what she felt was an appropriate amount of time for a return owl. Satisfied that she'd gotten the last word and had established boundaries with him, she returned to her room to take a shower. She fully intended to spend the rest of her day on the sofa under a pile of blankets with a good book.

Draco read Hermione's last letter, for the third time. What if I don't want just a professional relationship, is what he wanted to send, but he didn't dare — he had no right. He'd screwed up. Again. The letter crumpled as he clenched his fist in frustration and he hastily smoothed it back out.

She was angry and rightly so — he should have told her about this ages ago instead of avoiding the topic. He'd gotten the tattoo for a reason, and shouldn't have felt like he needed to hide it from her. He looked down at his forearm: The Mark was the most recognisable element of the tattoo, centred as it was, with black ink tracing the outline of the original. But unlike the original, there were cracks running throughout the skull, giving the impression of deterioration, and green buds burst from the empty eye sockets. A thorny vine (also green) choked the snake as it emerged from the skull's mouth. He rested his palm over the Mark. It had been a symbol of fear that he would never be able to remove, so he transformed it. He chose to use the modified tattoo as a symbol of his progress and his refusal to accept those original values.

He picked up his quill. He hated discussing this part of his history with her so plainly — his ugly, shameful past beliefs — but it was important that she understood he wasn't that person anymore. If he wanted a second chance, he was going to have to explain everything and let the last of his defences fall. Option 2: Drop the walls, he thought wryly.

When Hermione exited the shower and returned to the kitchen to retrieve a book, there was another note on the counter where she'd left the window open.

I know you have no reason to believe me, and maybe you never want to see my face again. But I need you to understand why, even if you don't agree.

After the war, I wanted nothing but to hide, to forget myself, my family, my past, and my failings. I didn't think I had a future. Luckily, I met someone who helped me realise I could change. She gave me a book, a story about an American raised believing in white supremacy who had disavowed that belief. It felt like I was waking up. So much of what he said mirrored the beliefs I held, and the rhetoric was so similar to the extremist views that enabled Voldemort's rise to power. I started reading more and talking to others who had been in similar circumstances. It helped me understand that though this was an inescapable part of my past, it didn't have to be my future.

Just like my past, the Mark will always be there. So instead of trying to hide from it, I changed it, not allowing the symbol to have power over me anymore. We need to remember, so that we don't make the same mistakes. I'm sorry that I didn't share this with you sooner and ended up causing you more pain. I never wanted to hurt you and I'm so sorry I did, Hermione. I'll go to Shacklebolt in the morning and have him add another Auror to the project. That way, you can stay as involved as you want to, but you don't have to work with me directly. I'm sure I can find a way to work with someone else as a go-between.

Respectfully,

D.M.

Hermione sat at the kitchen table, staring at the letter in her hands, unsure of what to do. She'd been surprised to realise that she didn't want him to work with someone else. But perhaps that would be for the best. Whatever this was had been too fragile, too messy. They could never be anything more, and with how quickly she'd become emotionally invested in this (evidenced by last night's reaction), it would only end with her being hurt. Somehow, she could already feel that she was in too deep.

She ignored the letter for the rest of the day, unsure of how she should respond. That night, she couldn't sleep — thoughts of the letter kept her mind busy. Everything was so confusing. Draco was nearly unrecognisable compared to the hateful boy he'd been.

There had been a few defining moments in their history — moments that had changed the way she saw him. The first was her second year at Hogwarts. She could vividly recall his disgusted face and the hate in his eyes when he'd called her that filthy word for the first time. The second, was when she'd been lying on her back on the floor of The Manor, breathing raggedly during a break in his aunt's ministrations. She'd looking up at him through her tears and found his eyes red rimmed and shimmering, a desperate, hopeless sort of longing on his face. The third had been just a few days ago, when she'd told him she had found the counter-potion for Theo. He'd called her brilliant and looked at her in a way that she'd never seen before — a way that scared and thrilled her. It made her curious and Hermione had never been able to leave a question unanswered. Even if it was better not to know...

Hermione groaned and tossed off her covers. Muttering to herself as she rolled out of bed to pen a quick note, she called for an owl before she could lose her conviction.

Meet me for coffee at 9.

When she settled back into bed, she found that her mind had inexplicably quieted, and she drifted off to sleep.