Breakfast was torture of a different sort. Harry was in a particularly good mood after his banter with Slughorn, and he and Ron were brainstorming increasingly wild hypotheses about his relationship with Tom Riddle. Hermione, on her part, could not tear her eyes away from where Ginny sat nearby, looking troubled, and the way her eyes frequently flickered to the Ravenclaw table. When she would catch Luna's eye and they would smile at each other, and Hermione wondered how she could have been so blind. The way everything about them softened when they saw each other… How could anyone possibly think Ginny was interested in Harry?

Hermione didn't know how they would tell him. She hoped he would figure it out on his own, but based on the grins he kept sending Ginny's way, it seemed they were well beyond that.

And things had been going so well, too.

Her eyes drifted to the Slytherins. Draco was sat, as usual, at the end of the table, looking far away. He must have sensed her watching; for a long second, he held her gaze before shifting back to his breakfast.

He couldn't fool her, though. It was clear he still wasn't eating well.

The dormant worry began to stir.

"Hiya, Hermione."

"Oh — good morning, Neville."

"Mind if I sit here?"

"Of course not!" Hermione tugged her bag out of Neville's way. "Go ahead."

"Thanks." And with that, he pulled some sausages onto his plate and tucked in. At least, she thought, there was one person she cared about who seemed to be alright. In fact, this seemed to be Neville's best year yet, oddly enough.

With that happier thought in mind, she pulled out her planner to prepare herself for the day ahead. End-of-term exams had sprung up faster than Hermione had expected, yet she felt oddly detached from it all. What had once been an overwhelming frenzy of academia had become a bit… mundane. The whole castle, it seemed, had more important things to worry about.

"Hey — you're going to the Slug party, right?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. I'm bringing Ron. You?"

Neville shrugged. "I'm not invited, am I?" He grinned as he said it, but Hermione's heart broke. How could she have forgotten?

"Oh, Neville, I'm sorry."

"Nah, no worries." He chewed. "I'm trusting you lot to give me a full run-down after, though." With a smirk, he lowered his voice. "I heard a rumour about Firewhiskey in the punch bowl."

Oh. Marvellous. "Neville, I don't thi— Wait. Maybe —" It was utterly stupid, but it seemed like too convenient a solution to pass up. "Harry!"

Harry swallowed his toast. "Yeah? What's up?"

"You haven't asked anyone to the Christmas party yet, have you?"

Harry's eyes flicked to Ginny who was suddenly very interested in her pumpkin juice. "Er — well, no, not yet, but —"

"Oh, that's perfect! You can take Neville."

Harry spluttered while Neville rushed to intervene. "Hermione, he really doesn't have to —"

"Oh, don't be silly, both of you. Neville deserves to go, and Harry isn't going with anyone. Why not?"

"Er —" Harry looked around, searching for an excuse, only to realise that to publicly decline in front of their whole House would be unbelievably rude. "Erm. Yeah, alright."

"Excellent!" Hermione sat up straighter and reached for her tea. "That's sorted, then."

To her left, Neville shifted uncomfortably. "Thanks, Harry."

"Yeah, Neville. No worries."

Across the table, Ginny shot her a grateful look.

Hermione carried the pride that came from her rather convenient arrangement of Harry's Christmas date into the rest of the day. Exams were relatively pleasant (after last spring's O.W.L.s, she was hardly fussed) and the elves made an exceptionally nice dinner to soothe the exhausted student body. Thus, she went to the dungeons feeling unusually purposeful, even with the quivering excitement that had become a standard part of brewing.

Draco was already in the lab when she arrived. Actually, it had been a while since she'd made it there before him. Did that mean she should try to come earlier? Was he trying to send some sort of signal? Or did he just have nothing better to do than lurk in small brewing laboratories on his own?

He gave her a quick smile when she entered, Bubble Head Charm wobbling above her shoulders. Already, the room was several degrees warmer than the corridor. She hung her bag and cloak on the hook and, when she saw Draco had already prepped the cauldron on the benchtop, went to stand beside him.

"Hi."

"Hello."

She nodded to the potion. "Ready?"

Without a word, he got to work coaxing the potion to a simmer. Hermione helped, though there wasn't much to be done, really, and within a handful of minutes, the Wolfsbane was merrily bubbling away. Steam tickled her skin; she savoured the few minutes before the lab would inevitably become too warm for comfort.

Draco shifted beside her, exhaling. He looked wan and far away as ever; that perpetual frown still haunted him.

For an indecisive moment, she chewed her lip. "I didn't see you at dinner."

Draco scoffed, quirking an eyebrow. "Did I miss something special? McGonagall do a jig on the teacher's table?"

"Ha. No, but there was a very rich chocolate gateau. Shame you missed it."

"Oh? And I like chocolate gateau, do I?"

Hermione turned to him, thoughtful. "I don't know. Do you?"

For a second, Draco looked genuinely taken aback, and the heaviness that constantly hung about him briefly lifted. It was startling; how long had it been since he'd looked that… normal?

"I'm more of a fruit person, myself. When it comes to sweets."

"I see. Tarts?"

"Something like that."

Hermione couldn't help it; images of Christmas cakes and hot chocolate burst into her head. Is that what he'd be doing in a week's time? What did he prefer? Custard tarts with assorted fruits on top? Raspberries and cream? Curds and mousses? So many little things she'd never thought about but now —

"Excited for holiday sweets, Granger?"

She blushed; it made him smile, even though he still looked like he was afraid that she might implode or attack him at any given moment. He was such a skittish creature.

"Maybe," was her only evasive answer before she stepped away from the benchtop which was now becoming far too warm for comfort. At least tonight's brewing wouldn't be as unbearable as the arduous boiling required at the beginning of the process. Poor Snape having to do it on his own next week while everyone's gone home. I wonder if he'll say anything about it when we give him the flask tonight? 'Enjoy gorging yourselves while I slave away doing yourwork…'

She shrugged off her outer robes and hung them by her cloak. The soft bubbling of the potion filled the vacant space where their words should be. To Hermione, it sounded like a timer running out. How long was left? Thirty minutes? Before the potion would be complete for the month? And then — then tomorrow was Slughorn's party, and then they would all be going home for the winter hols. It would be two weeks — at least — before she saw Draco again.

And they were both thinking it.

"Are you going to your — parents?" he murmured a moment after she had thought the very thing.

She tried to sound nonchalant. "Yes." And you? Are you going to yours? Do I want to know what that even means?She'd already decided she wouldn't ask.

He saved her the trouble. "I'm staying. Here. Hogwarts, I mean. For the holidays."

"Oh." Oh. For a moment she couldn't understand the implications of it, only feel an odd sense of loss.

"Yeah." He still hovered by the cauldron whilst Hermione lingered by the coat hook, her fingertips twisting in the fabric of the hanging robes she couldn't quite let go of. Neither could quite look at each other until Draco lifted his gaze. "But I'll see you when you come back, I suppose?"

It was so silly, how she reacted to that soft question. Something in her clenched — near her heart, or her stomach — and then unleashed a flood of warmth that made her wonder if her organs were actually, properly melting. Who on Earth thought butterflies were remotely approximate to this feeling?

"Yeah… you'll see me. Of course." Swallowing, she hurried to add, "Wolfsbane won't brew itself, after all."

"Right." Draco nodded. "Right…"

For lack of anything else to say, they watched the potion simmer, releasing its purple-ish steam into the air. Within an hour it would no longer be toxic to breathe. Alas, when Hermione had asked Professor Snape exactly when the potion's vapour became benign, he'd merely advised her not to test it.

Does this mean no-one knows what it smells like mid-brew? Well, no-one still alive, at least.

Enough. This was the last time she'd see him — be alone with him — for weeks. And who knew what the world would look like then? Draco was staring into the cauldron, frowning again, a distant look in his eyes, and Hermione felt an inexplicable and yet overpowering need to guide him away from whatever thoughts troubled him.

She moved back to their workbench, standing by his side just far enough away that their arms didn't brush. It all felt oddly significant in a way she couldn't comprehend just yet, and she wondered if she ought to say something again. But what?

Draco, once again, spared her. "Weasley looking forward to the party?"

"Naturally." She grinned. "Last I heard, he was making bets with Neville on how many people will have a bit too much Firewhisky. I think they've got money on the Hufflepuffs."

Draco snorted. "Longbottom's coming too?"

"Harry's bringing him."

"Now that is something I look forward to seeing." Draco's face had brightened with mischief and sarcasm. His sombre, hunched posture was gone; now he playfully leaned against the bench, arms crossed as he eyed her. "I'm sure he was Potter's first choice. So, the girl Weasley beat him to it, then? Who's she bringing?"

"Oh, um…" Hermione swallowed, shame bubbling up, but she couldn't help herself — "Luna, actually. Lovegood."

Draco frowned in thought and she immediately regretted it. "Huh."

"Please don't tell anyone!" she begged, images of Ginny's furious face bombarding her. "Please — you have to promise not to tell anyone!"

"Alright!" Draco held up his hands in innocence and she realised that she'd moved closer. They now stood chest to chest. "Alright. I won't tell."

"Thank you."

His arms were still up as he looked down at her. They'd avoided prolonged eye contact ever since — well. Since. It was strange, looking at someone after you'd snogged them silly. It seemed that looking into his eyes overrode her brain of any thoughts but said snogging, actually.

We're both thinking about it, aren't we? When you kissed me — that sound I made — do you remember it? God, I was so embarrassed, but you just pulled me closer — is that what you want to do now? If we didn't need this ridiculous charm on our heads, would we be wrapped around each other like that? Right here, like this? Or against the wall — the bench — would you press me against it? Press me as close as you can? Would I do it, too — curl my fingers in your clothes until my knuckles turn white, bringing you so close and never letting you move away — sweep my palms across the back of your head — you neck — jaw — anything to feel you more —

Draco's hands lowered, slowly, and his left one came to brush against her shoulder. Hermione swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry.

"Your hair is so silly," he murmured. "Hardly fits in the charm." In her periphery, she saw one of her long, twisting strands pinched between his fingers. He let it fall to the floor. "You're a bloody liability around a cauldron, Granger."

If you've got an issue with incorrect hairs in potions, you should have a word with Bulstrode.

Actually, on that note —

"You are going to Slughorn's party, then? Who are you bringing?"

Draco's eyes left hers and he shrugged dismissively. "Don't feel the need to bring anyone, really. No-one in my House is particularly interested in Slughorn's little fêtes."

"Oh." Not posh enough? Or because you're all tainted by association? "That makes sense, I suppose."

"Mm." Draco peered into the cauldron. "About halfway done, I think."

"Oh." The room was truly warming up now; Hermione could feel sweat on her upper lip and in the creases of her elbows. Heat pulsed lowly through her body, too, though she wasn't entirely sure that was the potion's fault.

Regardless, she moved away. The lab was barely a dozen feet wide, but even that much distance lessened the temperature by a few degrees, so she dragged one of the stools to the bookcase opposite the workbench and perched on it. As usual, Draco still wore all the layers of his heavy robes, but she'd long given up trying to save him from heat stroke. Apparently, it was a lost cause; to each their own, after all. She, however, didn't give a damn about looking presentable, and pushed her sleeves even higher above her elbows and undid a few more buttons of her shirt —

"What the bleeding, blasted, bloody fuck is THAT?"

For a second, Hermione could only remark on the creativity of his curse. Very original. Then she followed his wide, terrified gaze downwards to where a lick of greenish-purple was visible on her sternum.

"Oh. It's nothing; just a scar." She tugged her shirt down an extra half-inch to better show him the benign discolouration of her skin. "See?"

"Scars —" Draco swallowed and sounded a bit strangled as he spoke. "Scars don't normally look like… that." He seemed far more disturbed than Hermione ever could have expected. Although, if she were being honest, she'd never really thought about him seeing her scar at all. "What's it from?" he wondered, eyes worriedly flickering between her face and her chest.

"Er — I got it in June." She didn't want to talk about this. Not now. Not like this.

"The Ministry." His easy posture was gone now; he looked as lost and haunted as ever. "I thought you were joking… When you came to clean — you were in so much pain… I-I didn't think…"

Hermione swallowed, unsure what to do. Her finger was still hooked in the neckline of her shirt, exposing the twisted skin which clearly continued past what he could see. As though sensing the attention, it tingled, and she thought she saw it flicker a shade darker in the candlelight. Truth be told, she hadn't thought about it in a long while. "It's much better than it used to be."

If anything, Draco blanched further. "This is an improvement? Merlin…" His eyes flickered between her face and her chest again. "How — how far does it go?"

"Oh — er — well, sort of…" She undid the next button, revealing the flesh between her breasts where the scar emerged on the underside of her bra band, a bit darker now, before disappearing again beneath her shirt. Across the fabric, her finger traced the path it took beneath her clothes, wrapping around her lower rib and finishing near her left hip.

Draco's eyes, which had followed the trail of her finger, did not move from her torso, tracing and retracing the image of her scar beneath her clothes. Hermione held still, let him come to whatever conclusion he needed. She hadn't lied. She really was fine. It hardly bothered her anymore. He didn't need to fuss.

Unless — did he think it was ugly? Did he see her as defiled somehow?

Before she could do up her shirt again, he spoke, a hoarse observation, "That's Dark magic."

Hermione looked at her scar again, the way it supernaturally shifted between colours, though much paler now than six months ago. It was entrancing, the way so many deadly creatures often were. Draco had moved several steps nearer, perhaps without noticing. She wondered if it would ever heal any more than this. "Yes."

"You could have died."

"Well, yes. I think that was rather the point. But I had a full week of intensive care by St Mungo's best specialists and —"

"— a week —"

"— I'm fine, now. Really. It's faded a lot and they said it's not going to — you know — cause problems, or anything."

Draco frowned, still staring at the bit of ropey skin he could see. "Does it hurt?"

"No —"

"Not even when you're scared?" His eyes seared her, clear now, and it struck her dumb. "Angry? Sad?"

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again, her thoughts casting back to the summer, how her chest had indeed ached with every shameful lie she'd told her parents — how she'd nearly collapsed form the grief of confronting Draco after the events at the Ministry —

He didn't wait for confirmation before he nodded. "Dark magic." His hand had come up, hovering a few inches away from her exposed sternum. Hermione wasn't sure he was even aware of it; he seemed utterly fixated on the twisting, shimmering mark. The shock and fear which had paralysed him had turned into something different, sharper. "Who did this?"

Hermione's mouth went dry as the memories came back with unexpected force. "His name was — is — erm — Dolohov."

With a satisfied nod, Draco's arm retracted. "He's in Azkaban."

"Yes, he is." With your father. Did you think he put this mark on me? Do you think he's capable of it, now? Do you know he's capable of it?

Draco's pensive frown returned and Hermione, suddenly self-conscious, quickly did up her shirt again, hiding her scar behind the linen. It twinged, as though insulted by the dismissal, and she mentally told the thing to sod off, thank you very much.

Draco stood, frowning and tugging at his left sleeve. But instead of returning to the awkward tension, he did what she had only heard him do once before.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she stammered before he'd finished speaking. He still looked at her with an odd, tormented expression, and the significance of it all weighed precariously on her shoulders. This wasn't how she'd expected tonight to go; she felt exposed.

She was distracted, then, by a tendril of purple steam. It dissipated before her eyes, and she looked to the cauldron with relief. "Potion's done."

Together, they inspected the cauldron's contents to confirm the Wolfsbane had correctly completed its brewing. Then, the silver flask was procured, and Hermione carefully ladled out the potion until only a purple residue remained, shimmering at the bottom of the cauldron. Draco waved his wand and that, too, disappeared. Their tools were put back in their proper place, ready for Professor Snape while he brewed the potion in their stead over holiday. Or would he prefer to use his own private space somewhere else in the castle? Perhaps they ought to —

"Finite incantatem."

She breathed deeply, humidity filling her lungs and ensconcing her in a floral, bitter aroma. Draco coughed, clearing stray particles from his throat while Hermione habitually pushed hair back from her face. Honestly, there ought to be a spell to keep it out of her eyes while the Bubble-Head Charm —

Doesn't matter. Not when —

It was silly, she thought, how they didn't have to say anything — didn't even have to look to know what they wanted. It had only been — weeks? And yet it felt more natural than breathing, especially here, in their laboratory, and there was not a single rational thought in her head when she took two paces in his direction and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him with all the sweet and conflicting emotions which had been wrestling with her since she'd stepped into the lab.

His arms came around her middle and his hands felt warm through the thin barrier of her shirt, though his touch was oddly delicate. Hermione would have none of it; she yanked him closer with such force that he made a surprised sound against her lips. His arms tightened around her waist, one palm pressing flat against her back, and Hermione felt like hot candlewax giving way as she melted against his chest.

She'd been surprised, at first, by how… bold she got with him. Of course, she had a temper and felt passionately, but she'd never seen herself as the sort who would take command of a snog until they were both flushed and panting, pupils so big she almost forgot the icy hue of his eyes.

She would miss him, she realised with a sudden assault of emotion. She would miss him so much more than she'd ever realised.

That thought didn't leave her head as they made the journey to Snape's office, where they handed over the flask of Wolfsbane. The professor eyed them sceptically as he flicked open the lid and sniffed potion; Hermione stared back blankly until, a moment later, their product was deemed adequate, and they were dismissed.

Good night? Happy Christmas? Hermione listened to their footsteps as they slowly walked down the corridor, side by side, yet not near enough for their hands to touch. How do I say good-bye? Or do I just ignore the fact that the world may be different in a month when we return —

"Oi!"

Draco's voice echoed sharply against the stones and Hermione flinched, heart leaping into her throat as she immediately pulled her wand and assumed a defensive stance.

"Piss off, Malfoy!"

Hermione squinted until the figure lingering against the wall clarified into the tall figure of Romilda Vane. She held a small box in her hands and looked absolutely furious.

"Now, now, Miss Vane; is that any way to speak to a Prefect?"

"What, you honestly want me to believe you're doing rounds? Crawling around the dungeons on your own in the middle of the night like some — Hermione?"

"Erm." Hermione smiled weakly in the flickering glow of a sconce which, conveniently, had decided to illuminate directly over her head. "Hi."

Romilda's open mouth closed and her eyebrows drew together in visible frustration. "I didn't know you patrol all the way down here."

"Yeah, well..." stammered Hermione, "we do have to cover the entire castle…"

Draco nodded sagely. "Indeed we do. And you" — he grinned wickedly — "are a student out of bed. Care to explain why you're 'crawling around the dungeons on your own in the middle of the night?'"

"That's none of your business —"

"Accio box!"

"Draco, you can't do that —!" Hermione's protests were lost in the sound of Romilda's fury as her parcel soared into Draco's hands.

"Let's see what we have here, shall we?" Without waiting for an answer, he opened the lid and peered inside. Romilda looked like she wanted to tear his limbs off. Hermione hovered awkwardly by his side, conscious of the abuse of power they currently exercised and yet morbidly curious. What was Romilda doing in this part of the castle?

Before she could get a look, Draco secured the lid on the box. "Care to explain, Miss Vane?"

Romilda ground her teeth. "No."

"Right." Draco tossed the box, but Romilda's attempt to catch it was, ironically, in vain. "Incendio!"

The small parcel ignited before it hit the ground and Romilda screeched in fear and outrage as the burning box landed several feet in front of her.

"Malfoy — what the fuck —!"

"Fifteen points for being out of bed, Vane. And — oh, shall we say another five for loitering around potions laboratories? I'll ignore your rude language — I'm feeling generous this evening."

Romilda's glare scorched fiercer than the weakly burning box. Hermione's fingers clenched around her wand, in case Romilda decided to fight —

But she just sniffed, turned away, and stormed off. Her parcel disintegrated to ashes behind her.

"That was unnecessary, Draco."

He shrugged. "We are Prefects and she was out of bed. Come on — can you think of a reason she should be here in the middle of the night?"

Hermione could not. She waved her wand at the ashes on the ground, which gathered themselves into a ball before vanishing. "You can't just destroy people's property."

"It was just a box of chocolates, Granger."

Hermione blinked. "Oh." What an odd thing to carry around the dungeons.

"Mm." Draco started off again and Hermione followed. "Probably imbuing them with some sort of potion. Why not just buy them, though? With the Weasleys' shop up and running there really isn't a need to make your own joke sweets…"

"But if that's really what she was up to, that's extremely dangerous! Fred and George at least made sure to test small dosages first — drugging chocolates and just giving them to some unsuspecting person — if you don't know what you're doing, you could kill someone!"

Draco smiled at her, eyebrow quirked. "So, aren't you glad I destroyed them?"

Hermione glowered, but it only made him laugh. It faded quickly, though, as they came to a halt at the junction which would send them separate ways.

Here we are. Now, what am I supposed to say?

In the dim, silvery light of the castle, his eyes found hers. She wondered why she'd ever thought of his gaze as cold, frigid; his eyes were molten warmth, wide and dark, just like when he'd held her in the lab. When he'd looked in devastation at the scar marring her chest. The mark in question was completely dormant now, subdued by the rush of tender heat in her blood, chaotic though it was.

She saw his throat bob as he swallowed, wet his lips. "I'll see you tomorrow. At the party."

It was a reassurance as much as anything else. "Of course." Maybe Slughorn will send us all home with cauldrons of infinite pineapple! We won't be able to chat, of course, but let's agree to make eye contact every time McLaggen shoehorns his uncle into conversation. And maybe you can show me (from across the room, of course) how to eat some bizarre, charmed confection —

She didn't say any of it. What was the point? Nervous laughter threatened to obscure anything that came out of her mouth, anyway.

"Er — I suppose I should go back to my tower."

"Right. It's late."

"At least exams are done. We can sleep!"

Draco smiled. "That we can."

Oh, God, I'm really going to miss you. Hermione swallowed. "Good night, Draco." Have a nice holiday. I'll see you in the new year, whatever that looks like.

"Good night, Granger."

They nodded at each other and went off in opposite directions.