"Don't you need us to come with you?" Hermione asked.
"I'll be all right on my own. Hermione, thank you." Harry said. "And Draco—"
"What?" Draco glanced at him idly.
Harry looked at the Slytherin boy—one hand in his pocket, expression slightly awkward—and said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Draco said, looking away toward the window with sudden interest in the view outside.
"Oh, boys," Hermione sighed, then asked Harry once more, "Are you absolutely certain you don't need us?"
Harry smiled at her. "Go study. You don't have time to waste."
The last of the day's light broke through the castle windows, spreading crimson along the deep corridor. At the far end, the boy and girl stood before the enormous stone gargoyle, doing their best to look calm as they watched Harry step onto the spiral staircase.
The staircase creaked upward, disturbing the drowsy gargoyle. It stared through half-lidded eyes at the couple whose faces carried a shadow of unease.
"Draco, are you all right?" Hermione tugged at his sleeve as the staircase rose to its full height. "You were a bit short-tempered just now. I've never seen you get angry at Harry before—not like that."
"I lost my temper. I can't say I'm proud of it." A faint flush crossed Draco's face. "A bit childish, wasn't it? I won't do it again. But you—you seemed so upset with Harry that you were crying. Are you all right?"
He watched her expression anxiously. She smiled, pressing her lips together.
"Oh, Draco, you've got it wrong. I wasn't crying because of Harry. I knew he'd be angry." Hermione smiled at the worry on his face and said lightly, "You know I'm not someone who cries easily."
"But you were crying quite hard," Draco said, his face still taut, still remembering how warm the tears on her cheek had been. "If it wasn't Harry, then what was it?"
"I'm not entirely sure. It was a bit inexplicable," she admitted. "I think hearing you defend me was… a bit overwhelming."
Hermione Granger had never considered herself a crier. Through years of self-discipline and the pride that ran in her bones, she had shaped herself into someone habitually strong.
Apart from a few nights in her first year, crying homesick behind her bed curtains, she had learned to keep herself in check most of the time. She only wept on very rare occasions—and looking back, most of them had something to do with Draco Malfoy.
"Overwhelming?" Draco repeated the word, genuinely puzzled.
"Perhaps 'touched' is more accurate." Hermione took his hand, her fingers slipping between his, caressing it the same way she had when facing Harry's anger in that classroom. "Thank you for seeing what I'd been doing—and for saying it. Before today, I never realised how much it would mean to have someone else understand what I do quietly."
Her Draco was a boy who truly saw her.
He noticed everything she did in silence, and understood her better than anyone. When she had been at a loss for words—embarrassed, questioned, misunderstood—he had rushed forward and spoken for her like the most brilliant defence lawyer she had ever witnessed.
"Thank you, Draco," she said.
"Oh." He was taken aback. "You're… welcome?"
Just a few words of recognition, and she was this happy?
His Hermione—turns out she was easier to move than he had ever imagined.
He had once thought she would be extraordinarily difficult to reach.
Then she looked at him and said, "In return—I see you too."
"What do you see?" he asked, a flicker of curiosity in him.
"I can see you're very worried," Hermione said quietly. "Are you all right?"
She had sensed his mood darkening from the very first second Harry described the aching scar. His ease had retreated; his smile had faded.
"I'm fine." Draco tried to smile at her.
"Really?" She studied his face.
"Really," he said, aiming for nonchalance. "Come on."
Hermione knew it was an act.
His feigned ease wasn't genuine—she had seen him truly at ease, and this wasn't it. A melancholy he was trying to conceal, as though he wanted to say something but couldn't, sat quietly in his eyes. She looked at the boy who thought he had hidden himself so well.
He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "If he had remained quiet and dormant, I'd have been more worried; now that I know he is truly plotting something, I feel—more settled. It only confirms what I feared."
Hermione knew he was trying to comfort her.
They walked hand in hand through the last of the setting sun. "Draco, you know I'll always be here with you, don't you?"
She understood how much he carried. She was perhaps the person in the world who understood his fear better than his allies, his parents, or even his enemies—because she had taken the trouble to look.
Even without that scar on his forehead, he bore no less pressure than Harry. "You don't have to keep your guard up in front of me," she said quietly, watching the crimson light on the corridor floor. "You don't have to be invincible. You can be angry, frustrated, unhappy. You can cry honestly, just as you can laugh honestly."
She kept her eyes on the floor, not watching his face. She sensed him tighten his grip on her fingers.
"I'll always be with you," she continued, "just as you're always watching me. You can share everything—the good and the bad. Don't pretend to be fine when you're not. I won't laugh at you. I'll give you a hug, just as you wipe away my tears. All right?"
Draco turned to look at her, his carefully maintained composure slipping. She always saw through him. She always knew the right moment.
Her words were like a fine, drifting fragrance settling gently on his heart, slowly warming the cold blue of his worry into something closer to light.
"I know you're not used to this," she went on, her voice soft. "I know you feel awkward about it. But try—share something with me. You don't have to wear armour in front of me. Just try, all right?"
"All right," he said softly. "I'll try."
Hermione felt the tension in her chest ease. She looked up at him and smiled.
"I admit it," Draco said, encouraged by her smile. "Harry's scar genuinely frightens me. Every time I hear news like this, I panic a little." He paused. "I think I was irritable today mostly because I didn't want to accept it. I took it out on Harry for throwing a tantrum—and then did the same thing myself. That was hypocritical."
"According to a certain Muggle psychological theory, you were probably still in the 'denial' stage," Hermione said gently. "Panic is normal. Accepting something difficult takes time. You don't have to be ashamed of it."
"Yes. I'm terrified," Draco said plainly.
Taking advantage of her easy tone, he added, his voice carrying a clear note of complaint, "I'm filled with anxiety and in need of company. Can you spend the rest of the day with me? I want to study together—I don't want to be doing it alone."
Hermione considered this. His complaint was not unreasonable; because of her work helping Harry, they had had very little time together lately. She had planned it that way, in part—but that didn't make the separation any easier. It was unpleasant for her too.
"That's something I can manage—" She traced the lines of his face with her gaze, finally settling on his grey eyes. In them she saw the loneliness of being overlooked, and beneath it, a careful, childlike anticipation. It was that rare, unguarded side of him that she could never resist.
"Tonight I'm all yours," she said impulsively.
"Hermione—" He stopped.
"What is it?" She turned, confused.
"Sometimes I have to be impressed by Gryffindor enthusiasm." He grinned crookedly.
The melancholy had vanished completely from his eyes.
"What does that mean?" Hermione asked, genuinely baffled. Weren't they supposed to be heading to supper? And then to the library?
"Tonight you're all mine," he repeated, with an expression of deep satisfaction.
"Yes," she said matter-of-factly.
"…Completely mine." He let the words hang in the empty corridor.
Hermione's cheeks grew warm as understanding dawned. "You dreadful boy—I was talking about time! Study time!"
"No." His burning gaze moved across her eyes, her flushed cheeks, her lips, her neck. He leaned closer and said in that voice she found insufferable—light and warm, like carbonated summer soda. "All of you is mine. Your time, your soul, tonight—"
"I promised none of that!" Hermione said firmly, blinking and backing away until her shoulders met the cool stone wall.
"Hermione Granger, you can't take it back—" He placed both hands against the wall on either side of her face, his presence suddenly enveloping her like a held breath.
"And I haven't settled with you yet," he added, narrowing his eyes. "Who was it that lured me into becoming Harry's sparring partner?" A dangerous, thoroughly unfair smile spread across his face.
That smile. And his voice. And the way he was looking at her—all of it reminded her of a kiss a few days ago that had left her unable to stand properly for several minutes afterward.
Hermione would not readily admit that her enthusiasm for Harry's spell practice was not purely tactical.
Another reason—entirely to do with Draco's kisses—was rather embarrassing.
What he had done to her ears and collarbone that afternoon had been simultaneously alarming and wonderful. He had turned off the simmering wolfsbane brew and come back with that same smile, pinching her waist, kissing her—and then sketching along her ankles and calves with his hands, working toward the backs of her knees.
That gentle, infuriating painter! She had been completely powerless to resist him.
Who could resist those careful, reverent hands, that quiet, adoring gaze?
He had clearly seen how easily she melted under his attention and had taken full advantage, until the bell for Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration class interrupted them at precisely the right moment. If it hadn't, things would have spiralled considerably further.
At this moment, the memory of it—and the smile on the face of the boy in front of her—made her heart flutter and her back slowly slide down the wall.
But he had no intention of letting her escape. His hands followed her down, his eyes holding hers, until they were crouching face to face in the corridor, and he still refused to relent.
"Trying to get away?" He raised an eyebrow.
"No," she managed, in a voice she did not entirely recognise as her own.
Was he going to kiss her? She had nowhere to go. She stared at him, trying to anticipate his next move, her heart beating foolishly fast.
"By Merlin, I always want to tease you. You blush so wonderfully," Draco said, suppressing a laugh. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair that had fallen across her eyes gently behind her ear.
He was perfectly composed—and perfectly aware that she was not.
Even that simple gesture was enough to make her heart stagger. His long fingers moved with slow deliberateness from her forehead along her brow, to her temple, to the curve of her ear, then down the line of her jaw. Each inch of skin he touched felt like it had been brushed by a lit match.
"Hermione Granger," he murmured, leaning close to her burning ear, "I won't let you get away." Then he smiled with complete satisfaction and kissed her forehead.
Hermione stared blankly at his collar. One button was undone. His collarbone, just barely visible, rose slightly as he leaned forward, and she found herself involuntarily inhaling.
Oh—he smelled absolutely devastating.
"I promise I'll behave tonight and won't do anything you don't like." He crouched in front of her, smiling down into her bright, slightly glazed eyes, stroking her hair with quiet restraint. "I only want your academic time. The rest—your body, your soul—are still yours."
Draco quietly swallowed the word: for now.
For now. He thought this with great patience, giving her a meaningful look she would not entirely understand.
Hermione had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. She only knew that she was now thoroughly interested in his collarbone, and that he seemed blissfully unaware of this fact.
She felt a faint pang of disappointment as he gently lifted her to her feet—as easily as if she were a kitten—then took her hand properly and continued walking.
After that, she could not stop glancing at his collarbone out of the corner of her eye for the rest of the evening.
---
Draco Malfoy always kept his word.
He simply held her comfortably as they reviewed their lessons, exactly as promised.
He did not tease her. He did not kiss her. He did not sketch on her skin.
Hermione sat sideways on his lap, let her gaze linger once more on his collarbone, sighed quietly, and pulled her thoughts back to Harry and his scar.
"You seem preoccupied," Draco said, glancing up from a book on goblin rebellions. "Thinking about Harry?"
"Mmm. When Harry was describing his dream today, a disturbing thought came to me." Her eyes moved restlessly, and she hesitated. "You probably noticed it too—the strange mental connection he has with the Dark Lord. It's very unusual."
"Yes, it's concerning." He glanced at her, brow furrowing. "It could simply be a side effect of an unsuccessful Killing Curse from over a decade ago, couldn't it?"
Hermione was quiet for a moment. "That snake reminded me of something," she said at last. "Do you remember Harry's Parseltongue?"
"Of course. Difficult to forget. No Slytherin blood whatsoever, and yet he speaks Parseltongue. Who would believe it without seeing it for themselves?" Draco shook his head. He had checked the Potter family tree himself one afternoon in the library—no Parseltongue speaker anywhere in the lineage.
"There is something I have to notice," Hermione said uneasily, her fingers unconsciously moving against his shirt. "Besides Slytherin's descendants and the Dark Lord himself, there was one other who displayed that ability." She paused. "To be precise, it wasn't a person. It was a fragment of a soul—the soul in the diary. Young Tom Riddle."
Draco had stopped turning pages. He could feel her trembling.
"Harry said that that spirit called forth the Basilisk during the fight," she said, shrinking slightly as she looked at him. She seemed almost frightened by her own thoughts—but pushed on. "Professor Dumbledore once explained Harry's Parseltongue this way: he said that when the Dark Lord struck Harry that night, he accidentally transferred some of his own magic into him." She spoke softly, and a chill ran down her spine as the idea fully formed. "What if it wasn't only magic? What if he accidentally split his own soul—split it through the act of killing—"
"You mean—" Draco's face went white. The book dropped to the floor with a thud.
He did not reach for it. He stared at the trembling girl on his lap, shaken by the implication of her words.
Hermione gripped his collar, pressing on despite herself. "Let us review what happened that night. The Dark Lord killed Harry's mother right in front of him. Hilbo's notes say that the Killing Curse can fracture the soul. You've also mentioned the theory of soul-splitting—and the more the soul is divided—"
"The more unstable it becomes," he said gravely.
"Unstable." Her eyes filled with growing dread, her voice barely above a whisper. "Is it possible that his soul was so fractured, so unstable, that it could no longer control itself? What if, at the moment of killing, his volatile soul split again—involuntarily?"
"You mean—that part of the soul ended up in Harry?" Draco's throat tightened along with hers. "That it's that fragment of soul which speaks Parseltongue, not Harry himself?" He swallowed hard. "What exactly are you saying? That Harry became a Horcrux? That's impossible. A Horcrux has to be an object—"
"Not necessarily," Hermione said with difficulty. "Hilbo's notes do mention it. Horcruxes don't have to be objects—animals can theoretically be used, though they're far less reliable. Animals have limited lifespans, and a living creature with its own consciousness is far harder to control than a static vessel." She exhaled. "Theoretically, then, a human being could be used as a Horcrux. It would simply be—extraordinarily evil."
"And therefore," Draco said, arriving at the cold conclusion, "entirely within the realm of possibility."
"Consider Quirrell…" Hermione said quietly, drawing out another scrap of troubling evidence. A look of sudden regret crossed her face—as though she wished she hadn't started pulling at this particular thread.
"You turned him to stone," Draco murmured. "He wasn't living anymore—he was a cold, hollow vessel. When the petrification was lifted, he collapsed. He couldn't contain the Dark Lord's soul."
He stroked her shoulder blades absently, thinking hard—then his eyes lit up. "Wait—Hermione, don't despair just yet. Harry is perfectly well. He has his own independent thoughts. There's no other voice in his head, is there?"
"That's true!" Hermione seized on this, her relief audible. "Harry does seem completely himself. Oh, Draco—perhaps I'm overreaching. Perhaps I've been dwelling too closely on this and spiralling into paranoia."
Draco's eyes still darted anxiously, but he kept his voice encouraging. "Besides, Harry was wounded by the Basilisk fang—and survived. His arm was exposed to a venom that can destroy a Horcrux."
"Yes! And nothing happened to him. He's definitely not a Horcrux." She leaned against his shoulder, still shaken, as he frantically smoothed her hair.
"Let's wait and see what Dumbledore says when Harry comes back," Draco said, with far less certainty than he wished he felt. "If something were wrong with Harry, Dumbledore would know."
"Yes… that's right…" she said faintly, staring at his collar.
His collarbone was still there, undeniably lovely. But her mind was held hostage by her own terrifying conjecture, and she had no room left for anything else.
The June night breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the cool scents of drizzle, leaves, grass, and earth, stirring the thin white curtains into soft motion.
What should have been a pleasantly drowsy sound seemed to grate on her nerves tonight. They sat against one another in quiet, turning no pages, offering no smiles.
---
"I'd wager he'll be furious in the end," Hermione said the next morning in History of Magic class. Out of character, she had sat not in the front row but in the very back, and was whispering to Draco rather than taking notes on Professor Binns' droning lecture. "We'll have to keep this from him again until we know more."
"It's only a theory. Why frighten him?" Draco muttered, studying the back of Harry's head—the poor boy was already yawning. "I imagine he had quite a night."
"He didn't get back to the Gryffindor common room until well past midnight," Hermione said. "He spent a long time in Dumbledore's office and then went to meet with Sirius. I heard he gave Sirius rather a thorough scolding."
"Sirius deserved it," Draco whispered, with clear satisfaction. "Who told him to keep it all from his godson and let you shoulder the blame? Do you think Harry actually shouted at Dumbledore? I'd love to see that."
"Have some compassion, Draco. Haven't we done the same?" Hermione said, frowning, and turned back to her History of Magic textbook, marking key points with her quill. "How are we any different from Sirius?"
"Well, according to Sirius, the last thing Harry needs right now is more shock. He's already carrying the weight of the Tournament finals, and yesterday he had quite an outburst over the scar." Draco, noticing her expression, attempted to lighten the mood. "Hermione—don't look so serious."
"Oh, that's very funny," she whispered, her tone conveying the precise opposite.
"It won't bite—" he said idly, letting his gaze drift pointedly toward her collarbone as he said it, then adding with clear implication, "worth a try."
"You are insufferable." She glared at him, embarrassed and briefly unable to recall the word she'd been trying to write down.
"No—I am Draco," he said pleasantly, resting his chin on one hand to look at her.
She blushed and went back to her underlining.
Draco Malfoy's smile, however, faded soon enough. At noon, he was once again forced to push open the door of that wretched Transfiguration classroom and participate in Harry's special spell training as a sparring partner.
"Draco, are you actually enjoying this?" Harry asked suspiciously. "You seem remarkably willing."
"Absolutely. I'm dreadfully bored," Draco said with a straight face, raising his wand. "I suppose I simply want something to do with my hands."
"Well, whoever cares, Harry—use him!" Ron said enthusiastically. "It's practically unheard of, a top student voluntarily offering to be a practice dummy!"
Draco, expressionless, unleashed a varied repertoire of spells on the poor, unfortunate boy who—if Hermione's conjecture was right—might not be entirely himself.
Of course he hadn't wanted to come.
His first instinct had been to step away from the situation, find some solitude, and think.
Reason told him to keep his distance from Harry until they knew more. A Slytherin's self-preservation instinct told him to observe from a careful distance and stay uninvolved.
And yet he had come anyway—because Hermione was frightened, and he was not going to let her face this alone.
Given how shaken she was by her own conjecture, she was struggling to act normally around Harry. She was terrified of letting something slip.
"Harry, are you all right? Your scar—has it been hurting at all?" She asked the boy on the mat with careful casualness, after they had run through several complicated spells.
"It hasn't," Harry said, mildly annoyed.
"What did Dumbledore say?" Draco cut in quickly before she could continue.
"Professor Dumbledore thinks my scar aches when Vo—" Harry glanced at Draco with irritation, "—when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named draws near, or when he feels a particularly powerful surge of hatred. Because that failed Killing Curse bound us together. He said the scar is no ordinary wound."
Harry was unconsciously touching his forehead. He tried to stop thinking about it.
The scar was calm now, giving nothing away. As though that searing pain had never happened.
"Well, since Dumbledore has offered a theory, let's take some comfort in it for now," Draco said, stealing a glance at Hermione behind him.
She was listening intently, her brows drawn into an anxious arc, pretending to study the spell list as she tried to conceal what she was actually thinking.
---
In the last Herbology lesson of the school year, Professor Sprout led the class from the second greenhouse toward the third, guiding them past unusually bouncy, overexcited Mandrakes.
Hermione deliberately fell behind the group and caught Draco's sleeve. "Shouldn't we tell Dumbledore about the conjecture as soon as possible?" she asked in a low, urgent voice.
"Perhaps. But before that, I'd like to hear Sirius's thoughts first," he murmured back, slowing to match her pace. "We should discuss this with him privately before taking it any further."
"Why not go straight to Professor Dumbledore? He'll surely be able to come up with a way to verify—"
"Hermione, don't forget—Sirius is Harry's godfather. He cares about Harry and his safety more than anyone else in the world." Draco's tone was measured. "How to verify this conjecture, and whether or not to involve Dumbledore, is not a decision for us to make. It's Sirius's."
"You seem a little wary of Professor Dumbledore." She studied him with a searching look. "The way you say it, it sounds as though you think Dumbledore doesn't truly care about Harry."
Draco raised his eyebrows without denying it.
"Wait—" Hermione said, surprised. "Draco, do you not trust him?"
"I'm a sceptic," Draco said frankly. "I'm fairly sceptical of everyone—except you."
Hermione gave a small smile and said, half-joking, half-exasperated, "You do need to get rid of that habit."
Then she blinked. "But this is Professor Dumbledore. Can you doubt that he's a good wizard?"
"I don't doubt his principles. He's a great, upright, and principled wizard. I've never said otherwise." Draco glanced around to make sure they were not being overheard, then took her hand quietly.
Hermione breathed easier. She had been half-afraid he was about to say something that would genuinely unsettle her view of the Headmaster.
"Tell me," he said, organising his thoughts. "How long after Sirius left Azkaban before he sent Harry an owl?"
"Not long at all," Hermione said. "He's been corresponding with Harry since he got out—quite frequently before they even met."
"And when Sirius learned that Harry was unhappy at his aunt and uncle's house—did he take steps, as quickly as he could manage, to make Harry's situation better?"
"You can't quite put it like that," she said. "Harry still goes back every summer—Sirius takes him to visit for a meal and so forth. But I do see what you mean. Sirius cares enormously about Harry. He's been quietly watching over him all year. Ron is quite envious—not many godfathers would send a Firebolt as a Christmas present."
"So we agree: Sirius—unreliable in many ways, but within his means, he cares for Harry both materially and emotionally?"
She nodded.
"Then let me ask you," Draco said calmly, "where do you get the idea that Dumbledore shares that same concern? In the eleven years before Harry arrived at Hogwarts—while Harry was malnourished, mistreated, and kept in a cupboard under the stairs—where was Dumbledore, who has complete freedom of movement? Did he visit? Did he take steps to improve Harry's circumstances?"
"Oh, Draco, you can't think like that. How could Professor Dumbledore possibly know what Harry experienced day to day? If he had known—"
"The address on the letter," Draco said simply.
"What?"
"Harry told me he used to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs," Draco said curtly. "When he received his Hogwarts acceptance letter, he was astonished—and he told me so with a kind of bewildered grin—that the address written on the envelope said 'The cupboard under the stairs.' He told me that his aunt and uncle panicked when they saw it, and moved him to a bedroom upstairs immediately."
"I remember him mentioning that once," Hermione said sadly. "How could they treat a child that way—"
"Do you see what that address means?" Draco said, his eyes narrowing. "The address was written that precisely. It means Dumbledore always knew exactly what Harry was enduring. And yet he did nothing." He looked at her innocent face carefully. "Can you honestly say he was genuinely invested in Harry's wellbeing?"
"That's because his aunt and uncle behaved abominably!" Hermione protested. "It's not that Dumbledore wanted Harry to live like that."
"Then why not write to them sooner? Frighten them into treating Harry decently? You don't imagine a wizard of his abilities would be helpless against a pair of frightened Muggles?"
"He absolutely couldn't interfere with them—that would violate the Statute of Secrecy!"
"All right, invoking the Statute of Secrecy—good, you're thinking about the law. Let's set aside wizarding methods entirely, then, and think like a Muggle." Draco pressed on with calm purpose. "How much do you think it costs, in pounds—not Galleons—to raise a child from birth to the age of eleven?"
"I've never thought about it," Hermione said seriously. "Quite a lot, I imagine."
"Do you think that family was happy to spend extra money on a child who wasn't theirs?"
Hermione hesitated. "Out of humanitarian principle, they should—"
"Does a selfish Muggle family particularly consider humanitarian principle?" Draco said flatly. "They think about why they should spend their own money on someone else's child—especially when they have their own son to raise."
"Your thinking is very worldly, Draco," Hermione said, slightly prim.
"I call it 'reality.' Raising a child is expensive—especially for an average Muggle family—and that's not solved by words." He paused. "You have to consider that for years, no one was providing them any financial assistance."
"How do you know there was no assistance given?"
"Harry only got the key to the Potter family vault when he was eleven, and no one had ever accessed it on his behalf before. This means Dumbledore never used a single Knut of Harry's inheritance to make his guardians' burden lighter." Draco's expression was dry. "There was nothing going in and nothing coming out. Given that the Dursleys knew the boy they were raising would eventually leave for the wizarding world and become a stranger to them—do you genuinely expect them to have treated him generously? He was fortunate to survive at all."
Hermione kept her mouth shut.
After a long pause, she said reluctantly, "I don't think Dumbledore did it with any malicious intent. He simply—"
"He was busy," Draco said, smoothly providing the excuse before she could. "He simply didn't see those hardships as hardships. He assumed young Harry was resilient enough to endure whatever stupid mistreatment the Muggles inflicted—as easy to raise as a weed. And so, as we all know, Harry grew up like an orphan, in stark contrast to his cousin's comfortable life." He paused, then added with pointed irony, "Quite the coincidence, isn't it—do you know who else grew up an orphan?" He spread his hands theatrically. "Tom Riddle."
"That's going too far!" Hermione said, flushing. "The Dursleys did give Harry a home—not a warm one, but a home. You cannot compare Harry to Voldemort. They are entirely different people, shaped by entirely different circumstances."
By this time they had reached the entrance to the third greenhouse, and they hurried inside just behind the last of the class. The air was thick and steaming.
Hermione glanced quickly at the students around her, who were fanning themselves and muttering complaints about the heat, and went quiet. Only once Draco had pulled her behind the canopy of a large, umbrella-shaped tree—out of earshot—did she continue, her expression troubled.
"I still believe Professor Dumbledore must have had his reasons. He was making what he believed to be the best decision available to him."
"Perhaps it was the best option he could imagine. But I don't think it was the best option for Harry—and Harry himself doesn't seem to have found it particularly pleasant." Draco softened his tone slightly and pulled a face at her, briefly making her laugh. "I suspect he's been putting Harry through some form of character-building—adversity training, perhaps—but I haven't yet worked out the purpose."
"Harry has had quite enough adversity, don't you think? He's already in a perpetual state of danger," Hermione said, fanning herself impatiently. She mimicked his cautious glance behind her, checking for eavesdroppers.
Draco leaned closer and began casually gathering her thick hair into a knot. "Either way—I think Sirius, as Harry's godfather, has made considerably more effort to care for Harry than Dumbledore has. That's all I'm saying."
"All right, you've made your point." Hermione let him tie her hair, then asked, "Why do you have my hair tie?"
"A certain cunning girl left it in my pocket," he said. "I suspect there are one or two in every pocket of my clothing."
She smiled smugly. She had marked her territory.
After a moment, enjoying the sweet fragrance of the umbrella flowers, she said, "So we go to Sirius first. When do you want to go?"
"After Herbology—through the passage behind the hump-backed witch," Draco said, kissing the top of her hair when she wasn't looking.
He had a selfish reason too: he could not bear to watch her remain frightened and unsettled by something this heavy, with no one to carry it alongside them. He needed to find someone who cared as much about Harry as they did—someone who might think differently—and no one was better suited than Sirius Black. Unreliable as the man was, he was also sharp when it mattered.
"Can I come with you?" she asked as they slipped quietly back into the stream of students.
Draco gave a sharp look to Zabini, who was glancing their way with amusement, and asked Hermione softly, "Aren't you worried about breaking the school rules?"
She looked at Harry ahead of them, laughing with Ron, last night's darkness apparently behind him for now.
"Yes," she said. "But there are more important things."
"Don't worry too much," Draco said, concealing his own anxiety behind a light tone. "The Black family's knowledge of Dark magic runs deep. Maybe Sirius will tear apart your conjecture entirely and offer a better explanation. Maybe you've been worrying for nothing."
"I hope very much that he will," she said brightly, fiddling with the ends of her neatly tied hair.
At the front of the greenhouse, Professor Sprout was launching into an enthusiastic presentation.
"You all covered Mandrakes in your second year, but I couldn't resist showing you this one in the last half-hour of our final class." She gestured proudly at the enormous plant behind her. "This is exceptionally rare. In all my years at Hogwarts, I have never seen a Mandrake this large."
The students craned their necks in collective admiration. Neville Longbottom, from the front row, exclaimed, "That's extraordinary!"
The plant occupied an entire corner of the third greenhouse, its broad green leaves rising six or seven feet, spreading to the ceiling and trailing back down to the floor like a small jungle.
"Will Hogwarts keep it?" Neville asked in a dreamy voice.
"Yes indeed. In a few years, it may be as famous as the Whomping Willow," Professor Sprout said warmly.
The distant school bell rang from the castle.
"Class dismissed!" She clapped her hands, her rosy face beaming. "I wish all of you the very best on your exams next week."
The students were reluctant to leave—either the enormous Mandrake or their kind Herbology professor held them in place. They lingered around Professor Sprout, asking questions about final exam preparation and drawing out their last minutes in the steaming greenhouse.
"Doesn't it strike you as a bit revolting?" Ron said at last, yawning, glancing at the Mandrake. "Just imagine the thing buried underground—whatever's down there must be grotesque. And deafening. I can see why they let it grow—pulling it out would knock everyone in Hogwarts flat."
"I hadn't thought about it that way before," Harry said. "Now I can't un-picture it."
"What do you think—" Ron turned around to continue the thought, only to find that the boy and girl who had been standing directly behind them a moment ago had vanished entirely.
"Where did they go?" He stood there for a long moment, staring, his mouth slightly open, as though he had witnessed something done by Merlin personally.
"Who?" Harry asked.
"Hermione and Draco!" Ron threw up his hands. "It's so strange—sometimes I feel as though those two have a Time-Turner between them. They just disappear!"
"Yes, that's right," Harry agreed, yawning. "They always seem to be on a different timeline from everyone else."