"I really do not think Mrs Weasley is the sort to spoil children, and I am only too glad to help her wherever I can, with the little things." Hermione said. "All told, I have had a very pleasant, worthwhile time at the Burrow."
"Very well," Draco said, picking his newspaper back up. "Whatever makes you happy."
Hermione glanced at the back of the newspaper in his hands, and noticed today's front page read: "House-elf Found With Wand: Has Barty Crouch Broken the Law?", by Rita Skeeter.
Hermione found herself drawn to it at once.
"How dreadfully they treat house-elves..." she murmured, tilting the paper a few inches towards herself, to read more closely.
"What has happened to your hand?" Draco did not answer her, having noticed instead the scratches across the back of her hand.
He could hardly have missed them. Her nimble hands, already so fair and delicate, now bore several angry red marks, which alarmed him greatly.
In fact, he felt a sudden, sharp stab of distress at the sight. He could never bear such thin, angry marks, could never stand the thought of them anywhere on her at all.
"Is this what you mean, when you say they 'looked after you so well'?" he said, barely masking his irritation.
"Oh, it was Crookshanks," Hermione said, a little sheepish. "He was terribly angry today. Frightened by some Filibuster Fireworks going off just as we were getting into the car; and this morning we came by Muggle taxi, since we could not fit an Extension Charm in, you know, it was terribly cramped..."
"I thought Mr Weasley owned a car." Draco frowned.
"He does, but he had to go into work this morning, over some small emergency. A wizard called Mad-Eye Moody blew up his own dustbins, apparently convinced someone was trying to break into his house..."
Hermione suddenly fell silent. To her surprise, Draco had produced a small first-aid kit from somewhere, taken hold of her hand, and begun tending to it at once.
"Go on," he said casually, taking out his disinfectant and beginning to sort through his little bottles and jars, seeming entirely used to this sort of thing.
"Why do you carry that with you?" Hermione stammered, her face colouring slightly.
She had entirely forgotten what she had been about to say.
"Because of a certain clever little witch, who always manages to hurt herself so unexpectedly, and so clumsily," Draco said, drawing the words out.
He kept his eyes lowered, hiding whatever sorrow lay behind them. He gave his whole attention to those thin scratches, dabbing at them carefully with a cotton pad, his movements as light as a breeze.
Hermione stared at him blankly, her face gradually flushing bright red.
The cotton pad, tending to the wound, seemed remarkably cunning. It brushed the back of her hand so lightly, almost like a kiss, or perhaps a tease. Hermione felt the faintest itch across the back of her hand, and a matching little itch, somewhere in her chest as well.
Why was he always so careful with her, like this? He seemed to care more for her wounds than she did herself, almost to the point of fussing.
At that moment, Ginny's words echoed suddenly through her mind: "He has been far too familiar with you..."
She had no idea whether this counted as familiar; all she knew was that her own heart was pounding like a drum.
That night... the night the Dark Mark had appeared... he had shielded her, lying over her. They had been so close, their lips almost touching.
She remembered his hand tightening at the back of her head. He had tilted his face slightly, just then. His breath had drawn nearer, and nearer still. For one moment, he had seemed about to lean in properly, to touch her lips at last.
What might have happened, if no one had shouted?
She knew she was imagining the impossible again. It had probably only been her fancy. In a moment so urgent, so chaotic, so dangerous, surely no one would think of kissing anyone at all.
So, what had happened inside the tent, then? Had he truly kissed her forehead? Should she to ask him outright?
Hold back, Hermione, she told herself firmly.
Her own considerable pride kept her from asking again. Should it prove another misunderstanding, like the last time, when he had said she was like a sister to him, she feared she could hardly bear the shame of it, ever again.
"What is wrong?" Draco seemed to sense her mood shifting, and glanced up at her, alert.
"That day, why did you assume I might go out with Krum?" Hermione asked suddenly. "Afterwards, Harry and Ron heard why we had argued, and laughed themselves silly over it."
"Whatever was so funny about it?" Draco asked, frowning.
"'Why would Krum want to go out with you?'" Hermione mimicked Ron's voice, recalling the boys back at the Burrow, struggling to hold back their laughter. "'You two may squabble all you like, but leave my poor, innocent idol entirely out of it, will you? It is practically an insult...'"
"Did Harry say something of the sort too?"
"Harry said you were probably going a little mad, cooped up at home all summer." Hermione mimicked Harry's rather sympathetic tone. "'Poor Draco!'"
Draco gave an irritated snort. "Did you not go and put Ron in his place, then?"
"Ginny already did that for me. She told him he would never manage a date with a Veela himself, not in his whole life!"
"And then?"
"And then Mrs Weasley came into the sitting room, and sent us all straight up to bed." Hermione studied his expression. "Do not sulk about it. I am only telling you this to say that whatever awkward thoughts you had before were entirely unfounded."
"It was not so unfounded, really," Draco said, sullenly.
"In truth, no one would ever want to go out with me at all," Hermione said, watching him closely, deliberately offering up this rather discouraging remark.
How would he answer that, she wondered? Would he agree with her, or object?
She was trying to work out exactly what he was thinking.
Had his earlier bad temper been simple jealousy, aimed squarely at her, or had it, like Ron's, been irritation at some idol of his being coveted by admirers?
"Anyone who thought that would be a complete fool. Who could possibly not want to go out with you?"
Draco stared, pained, at the scratches on the back of her hand, saying, rather bitterly, "You are clever, you are lovely, and no one at all in Hogwarts is more skilled than you..."
"Oh, is that truly what you think?" she said softly, some small hope kindling once more in her heart.
He gave a low "mm" in reply, looking rather listless.
Hermione wanted to press him further, but hesitated. Perhaps he only meant to comfort her; after all, he had only just offered to buy her ice cream, coaxing her along like a child.
In any case, she did not wish to make a fool of herself again, chasing after false hopes.
They managed to hold a distance that felt, at least, not too awkward.
Let us simply be friends, then. Being friends is not so terrible, she thought, feeling his touch, wanting to cry and yet unable to, her heart full of quiet sorrow.
She sighed, and changed the subject.
"Harry has been under a great deal of strain lately. His scar, and his dreams..."
"Oh, that is exactly what I meant to ask you about. Could you tell me the details properly? He could not say much in his letter..." he said, though his hands never once paused, working as carefully as some painter at his masterpiece.
"Of course. Harry asked me to tell you all about it as soon as I could, anyway."
So she set her fanciful thoughts aside, trying to ignore the fact that he was still tending her hand, ignoring the cotton pad still brushing so gently at her skin, and began recounting, in careful detail, everything about Harry's scar, and his dreams...
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