"He really likes you — I'd bet my wand on it!" Ginny Weasley whispered fiercely, going red to the ears.
"Ginny, I have told you this a dozen times already — he's a good friend. A friend from next door, nothing more. And besides, he treats me like a little sister." Hermione said, with barely concealed impatience, turning a page of Miranda Goshawk's The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four.
Raindrops tapped steadily against the living room window of the Burrow. Everyone was occupied with their own affairs.
Harry was contentedly polishing his Firebolt. Ron was working on his willow wand beside him, the wand-care kit Draco had given him for his thirteenth birthday open on the table.
Fred and George were hunched together in the corner, heads bowed over a long piece of parchment, quills scratching away in low, conspiratorial murmurs. Hermione suspected they were expanding the product range for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
"But he carried you all the way back!" Ginny pressed, looking at Hermione as though she were being spectacularly dim. "You have no idea how he looked doing it — completely serious, completely gentle. He took off your shoes. He tucked you in. He didn't make a single sound. Don't you think that's a bit unusual?"
"Your brothers would do the same for you, wouldn't they?" Hermione said, keeping her voice composed with some effort.
"My brothers would absolutely never smell my hair, or sneak a kiss on my forehead while I was sleeping! That is not what brothers do — that's just odd!" Ginny protested.
"Perhaps you were mistaken? His back was to you," Hermione said. Her cheeks were pink, but she held her ground.
"It was just a silhouette — I admit I couldn't see clearly..." Ginny allowed, momentarily less certain. "But something still feels off. He's far too free with you."
"We're close friends. He was helping me."
"I have reservations," Ginny said. "People only reach out to touch someone they actually care about — otherwise they keep their distance. And I'd think that would be even more true of someone as guarded as Malfoy. Think about it honestly: when you didn't need help, when there was no crisis to manage — did he ever touch you, or do anything that couldn't be strictly justified as necessary?"
"It's fine, he doesn't really —"
Hermione stopped.
Details rose in her memory, one by one, quiet and unhurried. The way he would brush a stray strand of hair back from her face without remarking on it. The way his fingers had laced through hers in the dark, that easy, natural grip. The way he had leaned in and plucked a leaf from her hair as the Ministry officials stood around them, as though tidying her up were the most ordinary thing in the world.
All of it so natural. Natural the way the warmth of his breath settling into her hair when they bent over a cauldron together was natural — enough to lower her guard entirely, every time, before she even noticed.
"He's probably just used to looking after people," Hermione said softly.
After Ginny's relentless questioning, she had caught herself longing for the scent of cedarwood.
Ginny made a distinctly sceptical sound.
"Malfoy? Used to looking after people? You don't believe that yourself. Or has he simply made you believe it?"
Hermione sighed and let the argument go. She turned to the window and the rain coming down in grey sheets, and felt that her inner state was not unlike the weather.
---
The melancholy eased somewhat when she saw Draco on the platform.
She had already stowed her trunk in Harry's compartment and returned to the platform to say goodbye and thank Mrs. Weasley for a generous, warm holiday.
"Don't be silly, come back any time you like," Mrs. Weasley said warmly, pulling her into a hug.
By the time Hermione was ready to board the train, Draco had already done so. He was lounging against the window of an otherwise empty compartment, his platinum hair resting against his hand, gazing out at the platform with a distracted air.
Then he saw her. His eyes caught hers through the glass, and his expression shifted — the disinterested look giving way to something more alive, more like himself — and he gave her a slow, lazy smile. He crooked a finger at her.
Hermione's face went immediately, helplessly red.
She had absolutely no intention of going to him. Harry, Ron, and Ginny were waiting for her in their compartment. She had somewhere to be.
Of all the infuriatingly presumptuous things — beckoning her like she was a pet! What did he think she was? She thought indignantly.
Her feet, however, had already made their decision.
She appeared at the door of his compartment looking thoroughly cross about it.
She was angry with herself. This was not the behaviour of someone with a clear head and a sensible approach to life. That face was the problem. That face consistently sabotaged her better judgement, and it was becoming a genuine inconvenience.
Draco was alone. He had dispatched Crabbe and Goyle to the next compartment along — where Blaise and Pansy were undoubtedly irritated to have their privacy interrupted, which pleased him considerably.
Hermione sat down opposite him with the energy of someone who had made up their mind to be firm about something.
"What do you want?" she asked, with her most authoritative expression.
"Do I need a specific reason to seek you out?" the boy opposite her said, folding the newspaper he'd been holding and setting it aside.
He seemed to be in a genuinely good mood. He smiled at her with the uncomplicated ease of someone without a care in the world, grey eyes bright.
"If there's nothing particular, I'll go back to Ginny," Hermione said, lifting her chin and staring at a point somewhere past his left ear. She didn't quite trust herself to look at him directly. She might ask about the forehead.
"One minute. I've been meaning to ask you something since camp." Draco's voice was easy, unhurried. "How was it, staying at the Burrow? Was it good?"
"The Weasleys are wonderful," Hermione said. Some of the stiffness left her shoulders before she could stop it. "You should have seen Crookshanks chasing gnomes through the rose garden — Harry laughed so hard he choked on his pudding."
"Hiccoughing?"
"On nice evenings we'd have dinner outside, and the air always smelled of grass and honeysuckle." She found herself smiling at the memory. "After dinner Mrs. Weasley would bring out strawberry ice cream, and Ginny would always dash ahead of her brothers to take the biggest strawberry and give it to me. They couldn't get near her."
"You still love strawberry ice cream," Draco said, with a small, fond sort of smile. "When the trolley comes round, I'll get you one. A big one."
"I am perfectly capable of buying my own ice cream, thank you!" Hermione said, puffing up slightly.
She was not a child! Why did he always use that tone — gentle, indulgent, as though coaxing someone younger than himself, when she was older than him?
"Of course you are." He pulled a face at her, entirely unrepentant.
"And Mrs. Weasley?" he asked, after a pause. "Was she kind to you?"
"She's lovely. Always cheerful — except when Fred and George are in the middle of something." She noticed his sceptical look. "Yes, she has her strict side too. She doesn't approve of us using magic for household tasks during the holidays. She'd rather we do them by hand."
"You could have cast spells perfectly legally at the Burrow. It's a wizarding household."
"I know. But she's a disciplined mother, and she runs the household according to Hogwarts' guidelines for summer."
"And yet she's produced Fred and George."
"Draco! Don't forget that their eldest brother Bill was Head Boy and earned twelve O.W.L.s!"
"Even so — expecting a guest to do household chores seems rather impolite to me."
"The Weasleys have a great many children. Mrs. Weasley simply can't manage everything on her own. A mother who raises that many children and still keeps a home running with that much warmth — I'd think anyone would have enormous respect for her."
"Surely her own children are sufficient for all that."
"I was there for a long time and created extra work for everyone. Helping with small things where I could — that's only right."
"Was Harry also expected to help?"
"Certainly."
Draco pressed his lips together and said no more on the subject.
"Mrs. Weasley isn't the sort to take advantage of anyone," Hermione said. "She simply doesn't like idleness. I was happy to help. All in all, it was a very full and pleasant summer."
"Good," Draco said, picking up the newspaper again. "As long as you were happy."
Hermione glanced at the front page in his hands. The headline read: House-Elf Found Holding Wand — Has Barty Crouch Broken the Law? By Rita Skeeter.
Her eyes sharpened.
"They're being so unfair to her..." she murmured, and reached out to straighten the paper a few inches so she could read the text more clearly.
"What happened to your hand?"
Draco had already set the paper down. His eyes were fixed on the back of her hand — on several thin, reddish scratches running across it.
He couldn't not notice. Those hands, already pale and fine-boned, now marked with long, narrow lines. He felt an immediate, disproportionate distress at the sight.
"Is this what 'being well looked after' looks like?" he said, in a voice that was trying very hard not to be sharp.
"It was Crookshanks," Hermione said, with a slightly guilty expression. "He was already in a terrible mood today — he was frightened by some of the Weasleys' fireworks when we were loading the car. And then this morning we had to take a Muggle taxi, because we couldn't use an Undetectable Extension Charm in front of the driver, and it was absolutely packed —"
"I thought Mr. Weasley had a car."
"He did, but there was a small emergency at work this morning. Apparently a wizard called Mad-Eye Moody was convinced someone was trying to break into his house and blew up all his dustbins — the Ministry had to send someone round —"
Hermione stopped.
Without any particular fanfare, Draco had produced a small first-aid kit from somewhere, taken hold of her hand, and begun to examine the scratches.
"Go on," he said calmly, opening the kit and selecting a small bottle with the manner of someone who had done this before.
"Why do you carry that around?" Hermione said, somewhat flustered. Her train of thought had entirely derailed.
"Because a certain witch of my acquaintance has an impressive talent for injuring herself at unexpected moments," he said, in a deliberately long-suffering tone.
He kept his eyes down as he worked, which concealed whatever his expression was doing. He cleaned each scratch with careful, unhurried movements, the cotton pad barely grazing her skin — light as a breath, light as nothing.
Hermione watched him and said nothing at all, which was unusual for her.
Why was he always like this? He treated her small injuries with more concern than she gave them herself — more concern than they deserved. And yet the care seemed entirely genuine. He wasn't performing it.
Ginny's voice rose in her memory, unbidden: He's being far too free with you...
She didn't know if this qualified as what Ginny meant. All she knew was that her heart was making itself heard.
That night — the night the Dark Mark appeared — he had covered her with his body. They had been close enough that she could feel his breath. She remembered the hand behind her head tightening. She remembered the slight, involuntary tilt of his face.
If no one had shouted —
She knew she was inventing possibilities. In a moment of genuine danger, no one thinks about kissing. It was wishful thinking, and she should stop.
But what about the tent? Had he really kissed her forehead, as Ginny insisted? Should she just ask him?
No. She held firm.
Her pride wouldn't allow it. The last time she had misread the situation, and he had said something about sisters, she had wanted to sink directly into the ground. She was not repeating that experience.
"What is it?" Draco seemed to catch some shift in her expression, and glanced up at her.
"That night at the camp," Hermione said, choosing a different question. "Why did you think I might want to date Krum? Afterwards, when Harry and Ron heard what our argument was about, they were insufferable."
"What did they find so funny?" Draco said, frowning.
"Ron said —" she mimicked him well: "'Why on earth would Krum want to date you? You can have your little spat, but don't drag my innocent idol into some unnecessary battle, alright? It's insulting —'"
"What about Harry?"
"Harry said you were clearly going stir-crazy from being stuck at home all summer." She adopted a tone of exaggerated sympathy. "Poor Draco!"
Draco made a disgruntled sound.
"I hope you set Ron straight."
"Ginny did it for me. She told him he'd never manage to date a Veela in his entire life."
"And then?"
"Then Mrs. Weasley came in and sent us all to bed." Hermione watched his expression. "Don't be put out. I'm telling you because the whole thing was completely absurd from the start. Those worries you had — they were groundless."
"They weren't groundless," Draco said, in a slightly sulky voice.
"Nobody would want to go on a date with me, anyway," Hermione said, directing a calm, deliberate look at him. She wanted to see how he'd respond.
Was the jealousy she'd witnessed something specific to her — or had he simply been annoyed on behalf of his Quidditch idol, the way Ron had?
"Whoever thinks that is an idiot," Draco said flatly, fixing his attention on the last scratch with unnecessary precision. "Who wouldn't want to? You're clever, you're —" a brief pause — "you're the most skilled witch at Hogwarts, and that's before anything else."
"Is that what you think?" she said softly. Something small and warm moved in her chest.
He made a low sound of agreement, looking somewhat put-upon.
She almost asked him something else. She stopped herself. Perhaps he was only saying it to make her feel better; he had, after all, just been on the verge of buying her ice cream and coaxing her like a small child.
She would not make herself ridiculous over another misreading. She had decided.
Let them be friends. Friends was perfectly good. Friends was safe.
Even so, sitting across from him, she felt a quiet, inexplicable sadness that she couldn't quite put away.
She changed the subject.
"Harry's been struggling. His scar, and the dreams he mentioned —"
"That was actually what I wanted to ask you about," Draco said immediately, his manner sharpening. "He couldn't put much in his letter. What are the details?"
His hands didn't slow. He continued with the same meticulous care, as though finishing the work were its own requirement.
"Of course. He asked me to tell you as soon as possible."
So she set aside the other thoughts, doing her best to ignore the cotton pad still moving softly across the back of her hand, and began to recount what she knew of Harry's scar and the dream in careful detail.
Outside, the rain thickened against the glass. The train had already left the station and was heading north.
---
The sky had darkened early under the heavy cloud, and the lanterns in the compartments were lit even before midday. Following the warm glow of the light, Hermione made her way back to her own compartment, took a breath to settle herself, and slid the door open. Harry, Ron, and Ginny turned to look at her.
She dropped down beside Ginny. "What were you all talking about?"
"What Bill said on the platform — about this year being something special," Ginny said, then paused and sniffed the air slightly. There was a faint medicinal smell about Hermione's hand.
"And whether you'd been left weeping on the platform," Ron added cheerfully, "or had eloped with Krum, given that no one's seen you since King's Cross. Right, Harry?"
"I wasn't worried," Harry said with a grin. "Figured someone would be getting agitated by now."
"I know exactly why this year is going to be interesting," Hermione announced, ignoring their looks. "Draco told me all about it. They're holding the Triwizard Tournament."
"What's that?" Harry asked.
"The Triwizard Tournament was established about seven hundred years ago," Hermione said, leaning forward with the eager energy of someone who has been sitting on interesting information. "It's a competition between the three largest wizarding schools in Europe — Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. Each school selects a champion, and the champion competes in three magical tasks. It's held every five years, with the host school rotating."
"We've never heard of it," Ron said, looking surprised.
"It was discontinued. The death toll became far too high, and all previous attempts to revive it failed — until this year. Which is why Bill said he'd thought about coming back to Hogwarts. It all makes sense now."
"I'm not sure how I feel about Beauxbatons students," Ginny said, wrinkling her nose. "I met some of them in the woods, and they were rather —"
"I think it'll be a brilliant opportunity," Hermione said warmly. "Young witches and wizards from three different countries, learning from each other. Think how interesting it could be."
Harry and Ron lit up immediately and launched into enthusiastic speculation about the tasks, the prize money, and the various school rules that might technically be violated in pursuit of either. Hermione listened with an indulgent expression.
"Draco Malfoy told you all this?" Ginny murmured, leaning close. "You two were alone together?"
"We were having a conversation, Ginny."
What Hermione didn't think about until later was that somewhere between comparing notes on the Weasleys and discussing Harry's scar, the melancholy she'd carried for the last week of the holidays had quietly disappeared.
"Right. Only chatting," Ginny said pleasantly. "And the ointment on your hand just appeared there on its own, did it?"
"That's —" Hermione closed her mouth.
---
In a nearby compartment, the subject of their conversation was writing quickly.
Sirius —
Drop everything and come back if you can. You probably already know that Harry's scar is hurting again. The timing is not coincidental. And then there are the dreams. I believe there is something significant here —
He set the quill down and looked out at the rain, grey and relentless against the glass, and let his thoughts settle into the familiar, uncomfortable shape of what he remembered.
Harry Potter, the fourth champion. His name had come out of the Goblet of Fire at the start of that year, and almost no one had believed him when he said he hadn't put it in. Draco himself hadn't believed him, at the time.
But after three years of knowing Harry, Draco now had a clear understanding of the kind of person he was. Harry had plenty of courage. If he had wanted to enter the Tournament, he would have entered it and said so plainly. Denying it gained him nothing.
That meant Harry had been telling the truth.
Which meant that someone had entered his name deliberately.
Which meant that the Tournament itself had been engineered as a trap.
Draco remembered the moment Harry had returned to the arena, Cedric Diggory's body in his arms. That image had never fully left him. Harry's voice, wrecked and insisting: the Goblet had been Transfigured into a Portkey. A graveyard. The Dark Lord, and what had been done there.
Now he sat and tried to assess it coldly. The Dark Lord's strength was, at present, barely a fraction of what it had been. But the Dark Mark had appeared over the World Cup — exactly as it had in his previous life. There were loyal followers still in the shadows, still waiting.
Was there enough left of the Dark Lord to carry this through? Draco wasn't certain. But he couldn't afford to assume the answer was no.
He picked up the quill again:
...Combined with the Dark Mark at the World Cup and the major event Hogwarts is hosting this year, I believe Harry is in serious danger. There is a conspiracy being laid for him, and he will need his godfather close.
He looked apologetically at the eagle owl waiting on the seat beside him and held out a handful of premium owl treats.
"I know, Joan. It's a long way in the rain. But it's important."
Joan nibbled at his fingers without complaint, untroubled by the weather. She spread her wings and launched from the warm compartment into the downpour, and was gone.
Draco sat in the quiet and watched the rain, and the unease settled in his chest and didn't shift.
---
After noon, Harry's compartment filled up — Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom arrived and squeezed in, and the talk turned to Quidditch, the World Cup, and endless speculation about the Tournament.
Hermione found her attention drifting.
She had a brief, sharp pang of regret. She could still be in Draco's compartment. They could have talked about something worth talking about — equal rights, or the appalling treatment of house-elves, or the deeper implications of everything the Daily Prophet article had raised. Instead she was surrounded by increasingly passionate Quidditch debate.
But she had no good reason to go back to him now. And Ginny, sitting directly beside her, missed absolutely nothing.
She resigned herself, opened The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four to the Summoning Charm, and tried to concentrate. She had been impressed by Draco's use of Accio at the end of the previous year and had been determined to master it herself before term started.
She was not making good progress. The scratches on the back of her hand were still giving off a faint warmth — the ointment doing its work — which was mildly distracting.
It was the ointment. That was the explanation. It had nothing to do with Draco's hands.
Nothing whatsoever.
She told herself this firmly, and found she couldn't stop picturing the way a strand of his hair had fallen across his forehead as he bent over her hand, and the small, unaccountable smile he'd given her when he looked up and found her staring.
Who could resist that smile? she thought, despite herself.
"You can stay as long as you like," he had said, still holding her hand, his grey eyes fixed on her.
"Alright—" she had started.
Then: "No — I should go back and check on Crookshanks, get him out of his basket, and tell the others about the Tournament —"
She'd made to stand. He kept hold of her hand.
"Draco, I need to go," she had said, her heart making its continued opinions known at an unhelpful volume. "My hand —"
He hadn't let go. He had simply looked at her — that way he had, careful and intent, as though she were something he didn't want to stop looking at — and said quietly, "Be careful. Don't hurt yourself again."
"I'll try," she had said.
"Good," he had murmured, and finally released her.
Hermione closed The Standard Book of Spells on her finger and stared at the rain-blurred window.
The train rolled on through the storm, and outside the world had turned entirely grey.
Somewhere to the north, the towers of Hogwarts were waiting.