Warning: This chapter contains implied self-harm and vague descriptions of self-inflicted injury.

"You cast the Dark Mark?" Harry and Ron stared at Draco, apparently too shocked to be angry. Yet. "Why?"

"Had to protect my arse, didn't I?" Draco was looking between the three of them, that desperate, animal-like defensiveness creeping into his posture. She hadn't seen him like this since Christmas, when his Vanishing Cabinet had blown up in front of them. "Dumbledore had died and the — the Dark Lord would want to be responsible for it. So I cast the Mark above Hogsmeade —"

"But what about the break-in? The shop?"

"Can you imagine what would've happened if Dumbledore had died and an inexplicable Dark Mark appeared in the sky, apparently unrelated and cast in the middle of bloody Hogsmeade?" demanded Draco. "It would be total pandemonium. People would've lost their minds, thought the Dark Lord had taken over Hogwarts —"

"Hang on — the 'Dark Lord?'"

Draco looked both helpless and furious, eyes darting frantically between the three of them while Hermione watched him get cornered, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could do. "Th-that's what he's called, isn't he?"

Harry took a step closer. "He's called Voldemort." Draco winced, which made Harry frown. "Show me your arm."

"What? Why?"

"Why not?" countered Ron.

There was no going back; Harry's eyes were fixed on Draco's left forearm, where his fingers were now clamped around his wrist, keeping his sleeve secure.

"Show us."

"No."

"Something to hide, Malfoy?"

"No, I just don't follow your orders, Potter!"

"Show me your arm!"

Hermione's back was against the wall, her shoulders curving over as she held her abdomen which was now throbbing with pulses of sharp pain. "Stop," she pleaded weakly, but no-one heard, and it was too late, anyway.

Harry reached for Draco's arm, who snatched it out of his way and leapt backwards until his shoulder bumped the wall and he was literally cornered.

"Show me your arm, Malfoy!" Harry bellowed.

"FINE!" spat Draco. "You want to see my fucking arm? HERE!" Draco thrust forward his arm and shoved the sleeve up to his elbow, unveiling the Dark Mark writhing on his skin. Hermione cried out; it echoed hoarsely against the walls of the lab, and then there was a hollow, pained silence in which everyone stared and nobody spoke.

Until Ron said, "Why does it look like that?"

Hermione was wondering the same thing. She'd only really seen Draco's Mark the one time, at Christmas when she'd ambushed him, and it had looked normal to her, as far as Dark Marks go. But now it was raised around the edges, inflamed, with fierce red lines and bumps criss-crossing it in all directions. Hermione went very cold and very still, and then she ran to the ingredient cupboard.

Behind her, she heard Draco say, voice trembling, "Well I don't want it on me, do I?"

"You did that to it?"

"You try having one, Weasley, and see what you do to it!"

Hermione stumbled back into the laboratory proper, slippery murtlap leaving slimy patches on her sleeves as she rushed to Draco's side. He was still standing there with his shaking arm held out, like it had got stuck there. "Here." Her own hands were trembling as she struggled to drape the pickled murtlap over his exposed forearm, babbling senselessly, "Here — this should help — it'll counter the Dark magic a little — they gave me loads in St Mungo's —"

"What? No — leave it —" Draco tried to push it off, but she held fast.

"Please! Hold still — you need to let it heal." The murtlap slid between her fingers as she struggled to wrap it around his arm. "The Mark is bad enough; you don't need any more pain, and I'm sure it just makes the Dark magic worse, to feel like that —"

"Hermione?"

Hermione could hardly breathe anymore and the pain was only mounting. Draco was giving her this awful, desperate look she couldn't answer, and then Harry cleared his throat again, but this time his voice was laced with heavy accusation that made Hermione think her chest would split open.

"Hermione?"

"Harry, please," she gasped, "just let me help him — and then I'll explain —"

"You knew, didn't you."

It wasn't a question and it didn't even occur to her to deny it.

"Harry — please —"

"What," demanded Ron, "so you did know?"

"I —"

"Fuck, that's why McGonagall didn't let you in the Order, isn't it! Because you lied —"

"Hey!" shouted Draco. "Don't call her a liar! This is on me —"

"Oh, right, 'cause you're a Death Eater —"

"Don't call me that!"

"I'm sorry, isn't that what they call people with Dark Marks?"

"I don't want it!"

"Please — please, stop it —" Hermione's slimy hands came to her chest, as if that might help soothe the pain. To see that look of disgust and betrayal in Harry and Ron was so much worse than McGonagall; she couldn't bear it. Her chest was going to burst, split along the seam of her scar until she was hollowed out. She felt tears on her cheeks and clawed at her shirt, but nothing helped, not when the lab was full of so much yelling their voices had started to blend together and she didn't know who was saying what anymore.

"Oh — fuck." She felt Draco shift beside her but couldn't see him; her vision had gone blurry. "Now yours is going off, too. Shit, shit, shit —"

"What's wrong with her?" That sounded like Harry's voice; still tense, but the arguing had stopped. She felt their eyes on her as she gasped for breath, wondering if she would faint or vomit. Her fingers finally found purchase on the buttons of her shirt and she tore at them with shaking hands until she heard seams rip and the buttons bounce off the floor. There were sounds of horror and surprise; an arm came around her back to catch her before she crumpled to the ground.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Hermione — you told us you were fine, after the Department of Mysteries — you were in hospital —"

The familiar smell of murtlap greeted her as a sheet of it was slapped onto her exposed chest, soothing her enough that she managed to suck in a desperate breath. She couldn't stand up anymore, but that was alright, because the arm she recognised as Draco's guided her down to the ground where she leaned against the wall, holding the murtlap to her front as it dribbled down her abdomen.

"Potter — in the cupboard — there's a basin of pickled murtlap —"

It spoke volumes, Hermione thought, that Harry seemingly obeyed Draco's instruction without question. She heard the sounds of footsteps — the door — the sloshing of the brine — and she realised that the stuff on her chest now must've been what she'd given to Draco.

"Here," she offered it back weakly. "You need it."

"Don't be daft," insisted Draco and put her hand back on her chest. "I'm not the one about to pass out on the floor."

"But —"

A blurry figure knelt down in front of her and she realised it was Harry, holding out what must have been all the murtlap in the cupboard. It dripped onto her legs. "Here."

She took it, holding her breath as the movement seemed to lash at her all over again, but the softness in Harry's voice had eased it somewhat. Hermione let the murtlap flop onto her front, covering her in vinegary slime. Dimly, she wondered if she'd be able to salvage these robes.

It must have been minutes that they watched her, apparently uncaring of the fact she was sitting on the floor with her shirt completely undone, waiting to see if the murtlap worked. The unfinished argument still hung in the air, a live wire waiting to catch, but for now, all they could seem to think of was her.

Her scar still hurt. It would do for days, she imagined; she'd not had an episode like this since she'd left St Mungo's. In fact, she'd forgotten it could produce pain like this. She'd thought it would never happen again. But her breath was coming a little more evenly now, her ribs able to expand just a tiny bit more, though she had a feeling she was still crying. She couldn't quite tell; any other sensation felt numb in comparison to the delighted shimmering of her scar.

Harry was the one who spoke first. "Hermione, are you alright?"

She expected Draco to answer. Stupid question, Potter. Does she look alright? But when she opened her eyes, she found him, too, watching her with enough concern that she wondered if they were about to cart her off to Madame Pomfrey.

"I — I will be," she croaked. Her voice was surprisingly hoarse, like the Dark magic had sucked it out of her.

"What is that?" asked Ron. "I mean, obviously it's from when you got cursed, but — but you told us it was fine. And I've still got some scars, from the brains, but they don't" — he swallowed — "they don't do that."

"I am fine," she insisted softly. "Usually… It's Dark Magic he cursed me with. It never really goes away…"

"Then why —"

"She told you, Weasley: Dark magic," Draco said, though not maliciously. Hermione suspected he just wanted to spare her the trouble of talking. "Don't you remember our lessons? Dark magic feeds on —"

"— emotions, right…"

"So —" Harry frowned and worked his jaw. "So every time you feel — sad, or afraid… this happens?"

Hermione tried for a shrug but wasn't successful. "No, not like this. Sometimes it hurts a little, but the murtlap helps. That's why I keep some here, in case I need it."

"But… but you did know? About his Dark Mark —"

"I am still here, Potter."

"Shut up."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. "Please stop."

"Sorry."

"Sorry, Hermione."

For a long moment, she just focused on being able to breathe. She kept her eyes shut; if Harry was still looking at her like he had been, like she'd personally betrayed him to Voldemort, she'd never be able to breathe again. "Yes, I knew."

Ron swore, and Harry's voice was weak when he asked, "Since when?"

Was this really how it was going to happen? With her broken on the floor, unable to do more than confess? She'd always imagined this happening in Gryffindor Tower, with her in control, able to explain, to make them understand…

"Christmas," she admitted softly.

"Christmas!"

"That's why you stayed behind, isn't it?"

"For Merlin's sake, stop shouting, Weasley," said Draco with what must have been a roll of his eyes, "unless you want her to spend the next week in the special ward at St Mungo's."

Hermione dared to open her eyes. It took several seconds before anything came into focus at all, but then she saw Ron standing several paces in front of her. Harry was beside him, lips pressed together and hands balled into fists at his side. Draco was out of her field of vision, somewhere to her right, perhaps slouching against the wall like he had been when this whole debacle had started.

Harry only managed to look at her shoes as he asked, "Why didn't you tell us?"

Suddenly, she remembered that night in the tower when they had confronted her for brewing with Draco without telling. Were Harry and Ron feeling the same déjà vu? And would they forgive her for having yet another selfish answer?

"I knew he wouldn't hurt anyone."

"You knew he wouldn't hur—"

"Well she was right, wasn't she?" Draco snapped. "Don't you think that if I wanted to get you, I would've done it by now?"

Ron snorted. "Like you could. What, were you going to drag Harry into a broom cupboard and serve him up to Voldemort on a platter?"

"I could've hurt her."

No-one said anything to that. The implications hung heavy around them, in this little space where they'd been alone for so many hours. Hermione couldn't help but imagine it, too; all the times he could've attacked her and she would've been completely without help.

But those thoughts didn't upset her like they might've done. They were so far removed from reality, from a completely different universe populated by completely different people. I knew he wouldn't hurt anyone. Including me.

If Harry or Ron wanted to argue, they were prevented by the low chime signalling impending curfew.

Harry swore. "There's no way we'll get back to the tower in time."

"The rest of us are prefects," Hermione said weakly. "We can just say we were patrolling. W-we should go now, though."

"Yeah, yeah…" Suddenly, Harry shucked his outer robes. "Here, wear this, Hermione. I'll wear the Cloak and follow you two." Harry held out the robes, politely averting his eyes. It seemed her clothes were beyond repair; a Scouring charm would only leave behind an unpleasant residue and she'd be doomed to smell like animal brine forever.

But Harry's plan was for the best and so, with one hand holding the slippery murtlap to her chest, she tried to push herself off the floor, sucking air through her teeth as the movement made her whole torso ache and smart.

"Are you sure you don't need the Hospital Wing?" asked Ron nervously.

"Yes — just — just help me up, please?"

Ron hurried to her side, but it wasn't enough. Before Harry could drop the Cloak and help, Draco was at her other side, gently guiding her up with one hand on her back and the other at her elbow. He'd rolled his sleeve back down; both cuffs were tightly buttoned.

Hermione stumbled to her feet, holding her breath until she was stable enough for the pain to ease. Draco retreated almost immediately and busied himself with donning his own cloak, making sure his prefect badge was prominent on his chest. Harry draped his robes around Hermione's shoulders, leaving her arms in to keep the murtlap against her skin. Then, Harry disappeared beneath the Invisibility Cloak, and they left the lab.

Draco set off almost immediately, his footsteps quick. Before Hermione could think it through, she called, "Good night, Draco." Her voice echoed off the walls, bouncing around the darkness.

Draco stopped, but if he said anything, it was too soft to hear. Then, he was gone, disappeared around a corner, his footsteps fading into silence.

"Well," said Ron awkwardly, "shall we be off?"

Hermione nodded and began the long trek with a heavy sigh. The pain was lessening, though the residual ache still made it difficult to breathe properly. Her pace was slow, but Ron matched it, letting her lead the way, never complaining when she stopped to lean on his arm.