He debated awakening the redhead just to see it, then paused to consider just how important he would find frost if awoken from a deep sleep to witness it. He might just ruin Ron’s love of winter forever.

Laughing to himself, he padded down to the dormitory bathrooms. The tiles were cold beneath his feet, making him rush over to the shower and mutter the charm that got the hot water going. As he stood under the stream, he thought up ways to make his behaviour up to Draco.

He could offer to obey him again, but something told Harry that this would only discomfit the blond. It also made a great deal out of – well, certainly not nothing – but it was a bigger gesture than he wanted. He needed something casual, something that carried his message plainly without embarrassing Draco or himself.

He probably needed to ask Hermione. But what would she say? Would she tell him to stop associating with Death Eaters? Would she clasp his hands warmly and say, ‘about time!’? Either way, she would know the right answer, and the right answer was what Harry needed.

He would risk her displeasure and ask.

He was still up earlier than any of the other boys, so he toweled himself off and moved into the sitting room.

After which he blushed immediately: Hermione was, as always, the second person up; she was seated on one of the overstuffed armchairs, legs folded elegantly under her as she examined the passage of a book entitled, oddly enough, All About Strangely-Shaped Rocks. “Harry!” she exclaimed when she looked up, startled by some small noise.

Harry flushed to the roots of his hair. “Whoops. Er, sorry,” he muttered, attempting to sidle from the room.

“No!” she exclaimed, one hand raised. “Wait! Uhm – I’ve been wanting a chat with you.”

Oh sweet Merlin. Harry stood there in his towel and nodded completely against his will. He should have been freezing, but his embarrassment was keeping him warm.

Hermione wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “D’you really think Draco Malfoy took the Mark out of choice?” Her entire body was in one, rigid line, her eyes wide with anxiety. She looked as though her very sanity hedged on the answer.

Since Hermione thought it was so important, Harry decided not to dissemble or even hedge. “No,” he said.

She relaxed, breath leaving her in a whoosh. “Oh! Thank Merlin. Uhm – well, me neither, obviously. I thought maybe, when I was getting to like him, that it was sort of wishful thinking... Like – well, maybe I didn’t want to believe anyone could really be like that, hate like that, and so I, uhm, projected that goodness on to him. It’s called transference, have you heard of it?”

Harry had to admit that he had not.

“And now...” She bit her lip. “We can’t be friends with Malfoy.”

“Can’t we?”

“Don’t you see?” Her eyes glinted worriedly. “V-Voldemort is a Legilimens. He’ll see us being friendly to Draco, and that could very well get him killed.”

Harry paled. He hadn’t even thought about that, which was truly remiss of him – considering that he and Snape had supposed that Dumbledore had blocked their summer memories for the very same reason.

“Exactly,” she said, replying to his mere expression. “At first, I was horrified at the Mark, but I’ve continued to keep my distance for a reason. The horrible part is that we can’t even let Draco know we still like him, or...” She trailed off miserably.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Draco wanted to be friends with me on the train to Hogwarts,” he said.

Hermione nodded. “I suppose. That must mean that their plans changed. Or perhaps he was truly working under his own power?”

“I doubt it. It was one of the first things he did – he wasn’t even a Hogwarts student yet! His father probably ordered him to befriend me. I’ll have to ask.”

“You mean for him to pretend to be carrying out the original plan,” she filled in, harrumping thoughtfully.

“Precisely,” Harry said with a mischievous grin. “Hey, befriend Harry Potter, and when he trusts you enough, slip some poison into his soup or push him off a cliff. To a Death Eater, that probably sounds like an excellent business opportunity. I’ll bet we could even ask Snape to drop something at a Death Eater meeting, like he suggested to Draco it would be a good idea.”

“Slytherin,” Hermione accused, but without heat.

Harry’s grin grew an inch. “Thanks. Uhm, I was thinking maybe I – maybe we – could make this up to Draco somehow. He’s been through an incredibly tough week. But extravagant gestures embarrass him.”

“Extravagant...? Embarrass Draco? Are you certain we’re talking about the same wizard?”

“You should see how he blushes,” Harry replied.

“I have. He’s doomed to show his emotion on his face at all times, he’s that pale.” She twirled one brown curl around her finger as she thought. “Ask me again this afternoon. I’ll think on it, okay?” She closed the book on her lap. “Now – about you and Ron–”

Ron stumbled out through the room that he and Harry shared, reaching the bottom of the steps before noting that Harry was barely half-clothed. He blinked, turning from Harry to Hermione.

Harry gaped, and opened his mouth, but Hermione beat him to the punch.

“Oh, there you are, Ron,” she said in a breezy sort of voice, as though Harry spent a great deal of his time parading about in a towel. “I was just saying that Harry owes you an apology.”

“Huh?” Ron stammered, rubbing at his eyes. “For what?”

“For not listening to you about Draco Malfoy,” Hermione filled in, again, before Harry could speak.

“You should be apologizing to him,” Ron bit out.

“I did.”

Ron paused in scrubbing the dust from his eyes. “You what?”

“Apologized to Draco. At length, last night,” Harry said. “You were right. I was a prat.”

“What did he say?”

Harry frowned. “He was – uh, upset. But I had more to apologize for than I realized, so...”

“But you have made it up?” Ron demanded.

“Yeah, I think so.”

The smile on Ron’s face kept breaking up, and he turned to stare at Hermione. “Now I know how you feel when me and Harry fight. I don’t know whether to hug him or slug him that it took so long!”

Hermione smiled smugly, hiding the expression behind a forest of hair.

After a moment’s contemplation, Ron hugged Harry; of course, the towel dropped in the unexpected motion, and while Ron immediately leapt back, he also thoughtfully shielded his best friend from Hermione’s view.

“Jesus Christ!” Hermione swore, Muggle in her distress, hiding her eyes. “Harry James Potter, cover up! Why have you been standing around like that for so long anyway, you’ll catch your death!”

Harry grinned as he scampered up the stairs and began readying himself for the day.

After very little consultation with either of her two best friends, she busied herself with obscure preparations for hours, first with books and then with actual items. By eleven, she was ready, a small, covered basket in hand, and standing at the portrait hole, tapping her foot. “Come on, you two, or it’ll be too late!”

“For what?” Ron muttered to Harry as they followed her down to the Hospital Wing. An expressive shrug was Harry’s only reply.

When they arrived, Draco Malfoy was seated up in bed, a steaming plate of food before him.

“None of that!” Hermione announced. “We’re going on a picnic!”

Draco stared at her as though she’d lost whatever mind she’d had. For that matter, he was not alone.

“A picnic, Hermione?” Ron demanded. “But it’s bloody freezing out!”

Harry had to agree. Although the temperature had heated slightly with the rising sun, it was still far from comfortable out-of-doors.

“Just trust me, will you lot? Draco, can you stand all right?”

“Well–” Draco shot a confused glance at Harry. “Well sure I can stand...”

“Excellent. Come along, then. I stole you some of Harry’s clothes, and so...” She laid out a faded, long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans, withdrawing them from the basket resting in the crook of her arm.

Madam Pomfrey moved to Draco’s bedside, shaking her head. “I am so sorry, children, that does sound like a...” She gave the large windows that lined the Wing a dubious glance. “...a wonderful idea... but Mister Malfoy has to stay here for now.”

Hermione tsked. “He must be healed from what happened on the pitch. And I’m no mediwitch, but even I know that malnutrition and sleep deprivation only take a handful of days to overcome, when it’s minor. What’s the matter with him that he has to stay?”

Harry felt like he was at a Quidditch match, watching first Madam Pomfrey, then Hermione. He didn’t want to open his mouth for fear he’d mess up whatever plan Hermione had in mind, and noted that both Draco and Ron were similarly close-lipped.

Madam Pomfrey, meanwhile, was dithering, a slight flush to her cheeks. “Mister Malfoy has... has another injury.”

Hermione nodded as though these words had confirmed something for her, although Harry was still a step or two behind the bushy-haired girl. “I hardly think,” she said acerbically, “that Lord Voldemort is likely to call Mister Malfoy to tea. And,” she tacked on, “if he did do, the four of us together would rather have more of a chance of stopping him than any one witch.”

Madam Pomfrey, who had started when Hermione had named the Dark Lord, began to redden.

Draco headed her off at the pass. “I’m ever so sorry,” he interjected smoothly. “Miss Granger has always had a bit of a... problem reigning in her temper, haven’t you, Hermione? I seem to recall a powerful slap not so very long ago.” He grinned winningly at Hermione, who flushed. “However, she also has this rather annoying habit of being right. There is only so long you can keep me here, in good conscience. Everything has healed but for that which will not be healed.”

“Come on, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry pleaded earnestly, looking as wide-eyed and as innocent as he was capable.

“You’ve got to let him outside sometime. Otherwise he’ll be white as paper,” Ron interjected. “Besides, my mum says that sick people need plenty of sunshine and fresh air.”

“Oh – oh, very well, you charmers,” Madam Pomfrey said, but she did not look particularly upset. On the contrary, she looked absurdly pleased. “Make certain you have him back by two!” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione said. “I’ll make certain.”

“Good girl,” Madam Pomfrey praised. She disappeared into her office with a parting grin.

“You three are amazing,” the bushy-haired girl intoned, someplace between disapproving and admiring.

Harry exchanged an impish grin with Draco and Ron, then recreated his best innocent look. Ron burst into laughter, Draco a slightly more reserved step behind.

“In any case, let’s scoot over here a bit so he can change,” Hermione ordered, tugging on Harry and Ron’s sleeves. Draco sat motionlessly for about a half a minute, staring at the three of them, before springing into action, jumping up and swinging the curtain around his cot completely. Sounds of rustling bedclothes and dropping shoes could be heard from behind its green enclosure.

“You weren’t serious about going outside, were you?” Ron whispered.

Hermione grinned her own, wicked grin in response.

“Hmm,” Harry said, exchanging a wary glance with Ron.

“Here, take this,” she said, digging once more into the basket and withdrawing two small phials, each stopped with a cork surrounded by wax.

“What is it?” Ron wanted to know.

“It’s good for you, now take your medicine.”

Ron sighed dramatically before wedging the cork free and downing it.

“What does it do?” Harry wondered.

“Now is not the time to get all Slytherin, Harry. It’s a surprise, obviously. Now, drink up.”

Harry obeyed her as well. “Oh! The taste isn’t bad at all.”

Ron shook his head, shrugging.

Hermione withdrew a third phial from her basket and popped the cork. “Bottoms up,” she announced, sipping hers slowly. “I actually somewhat enjoy the taste. Like – cinnamon and smoke, don’t you think?”

Draco emerged from behind the bedcurtains and gave an odd, awkward nod to Hermione, who smiled warmly at him, digging around in her basket. “Here you are, Draco.” She passed a fourth phial off to him.

The Slytherin took it from her hand with a surprisingly delicate grip, examining it in the crisp light shining in through the window. Harry, who had not taken the time, examined the potion.

It was a deep, clear, vibrant green with touches of olive. It seemed to sparkle – or spark? – in the morning light as he twisted it about in his hands. He uncorked it and peered over the top at Hermione, then at Harry and Ron.

Hermione blinked, withdrew her wand, and, before anyone could so much as react, incanted, “Aurelius toxicum.”

Draco, Harry noticed, was groping at his own hip in vain; looking, indubitably, for the wand that was not there. As Hermione lowered her own wand in concern, the Slytherin boy calmed and viewed the potion again.

“What was that meant to do?” Ron demanded. “The potion looks the same.”

“It shows if it’s got a poison in it,” Draco replied, his voice dull.

“Draco!” Ron chided. “We all just drank the same thing, me and Harry and Hermione!”

“Out of different bottles,” Harry said slowly.

“Damn it!” Draco swore. “Of course you wouldn’t – Hermione – I know... I just... oh, shit.” He glared at the concoction as though it had been entirely at fault, and downed it. After an interminable moment, he swallowed, then offered the bushy-haired girl a feeble grin.

“Come on, then,” Hermione said, tugging at his arm. “We’ve got to be outside soon, or we shall be very sorry.”

“Shall we?” Draco echoed, looking alarmed as they exited the Wing.

“Oh yes,” she replied. “Draco – did you know that the word ‘poison’ and the word ‘potion’ have the same root?”

“What?” Ron whispered to Harry as the pair walked arm-in-arm ahead of them down towards the Great Hall. “What on earth is she babbling about?”

“I think,” Harry said, “that you made up with Draco and I made up with Draco and now Hermione is, in her own way, making up with Draco.”

“By talking Latin at him?” Ron sputtered. “She’ll bore him to tears! She’ll make him think she’s doing her best to torture him!”

“That’s you, Ron,” Harry quipped. His expression turned serious, and he frowned. “For all you or I know, Draco finds Latin fascinating. We don’t know him very well.”

“No, he’s made sure of that,” Ron replied, offhand.

That was good enough to chew on for quite awhile, really.

“Don’t you think it’s sweltering?” Ron suddenly announced. “They’ve muddled the heating spells for the castle again.”

Harry nodded; it was genuinely, uncomfortably warm. Hermione was actually fanning herself with her hand. “What did they do, set the castle to char-broil?” he demanded.

“It’s – it’s actually kind of cold,” Draco replied hesitantly, obviously not wanting to start an argument over something as uncontroversial as the climate. He frowned in puzzlement. “Oh – well, it does seem to be getting a bit warmer all of a sudden.”

“Oi!” Ron exclaimed as they moved outside into the cool air, which felt like a soothing benediction in the wake of the heat they had left behind. “That’s better!” Ron exclaimed.

“Quite,” Hermione replied with a grin. “The potion is working in you all, isn’t it? I’m almost uncomfortably hot, myself.” She unwound her scarf and tied it around her waist with a smile.

“Thermos Theros?” Draco inquired politely.

“In one, Mister Malfoy,” Hermione replied solemnly. “Five points to Slytherin.”

“Hey!” Ron exclaimed. “You can’t do that!”

“She’s a prefect, she can, and she just did,” Draco said with a smirk.

Ron rolled his eyes and in general looked put-out. It was amazing, Harry reflected, how fast that smirk of Draco’s flickered into uncertainty these days. He wished with an odd pang that he would see the Slytherin regain some of his old confidence. Being branded had taken a lot out of him, and more than physically.

Harry didn’t have to wait long. A spark shone in Draco’s grey eyes as he straightened, his chin jutting out, hands clasped behind his back as they walked. “Well then, Miss Granger,” he said in his best Severus-Snape tones, “will you favor us with the dangers of Thermos Theros?”

“Certainly,” Hermione replied airily. “An imbalance of the feverfew can cause a stomachache – not to mention that it ought not to be used in particularly cold climes. It would not do to be unaware of your frostbite until you had inconveniently shed a limb.”

“Cheekily answered, but five points to Gryffindor nonetheless. Unless they’re awarding points to the Unsorted House?”

Hermione shook her head, flushing. “No. I was by to talk to Dumbledore yesterday about the House, but he’s convinced that the Houses are the best way to keep watch on potential Death Eaters and potential allies alike.” She snorted. “Not that he said as much, you understand.”

Ron growled. “It’s no use, half the school’s Unsorted these days, or at least they pretend they are. It’s grown fashionable.” He eyed Harry. “Predictably.”

“That’s not my fault. People just know a good idea when they see one,” Harry protested.

Hermione shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid it is your celebrity, Harry. Nobody joined S.P.E.W., now, did they?”

Ron turned red from the effort of keeping silent, and Harry coughed into his scarf.

“S.P.E.W.?” Draco echoed politely. “What’s that?”

Ron groaned.

“Why, I can’t believe you didn’t catch wind of it!” Hermione exclaimed brightly. “I was certain I’d discussed it with anyone I could get my hands on, so honestly, I figured it would’ve reached you by now. It’s the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare, I formed it in my third year or thereabouts.”

“Elvish Welfare? You mean, you would like House Elves’ masters to treat them more fairly?”

“Yes, as in, with wages, for starters. I know what you’re going to say: any elf would rather die than accept them, but that’s only because they’ve been taught to believe that servitude is the only way that they can exist–”

“Because it is,” Draco interjected.

Hermione frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it in a literal sense. You are Muggleborn, but surely you know...?”

“Enlighten the Muggle,” Hermione replied acerbically.

He flushed, equal parts anger and embarrassment. “The House Elf is a breed of elf–”

“Race,” Hermione corrected.

“Very well, a particular race of elf, bred – er, created,” he added, without prompting, “by wizards nearly a millennia ago.” A smirk crossed Draco’s features. “Their creators were singularly diabolical. No House-Elf can survive without a master of some kind. It’s a fact.”

“But Dobby did,” Harry said. “Once he left your household, there was a period of time where he belonged to no one, before Dumbledore took him on.”

“The agreement doesn’t have to be stated, it may be implicit. Indubitably, you were his master, however briefly.”

Harry shivered, wrapping his arms tightly around his frame. He still hated that word.

“From Dobby’s point of view, there wasn’t a time he didn’t have a master. The House Elf gives his eternal loyalty to the family that employs him, and the family gives that Elf his very life in return. To be given clothes and sent out into the world is practically a death sentence, because a House Elf can seldom find a new master before he perishes; no one wants to take on an Elf that has been banished from house and home.”

“But – but that’s awful!” Hermione exclaimed as Harry and Ron moved towards a giant oak and sprawled out on the earth.

“Yes, perhaps,” Draco replied indifferently. “But I am afraid it is – in this case, quite literally – the nature of the beast. There are actually a dazzling array of rules and regulations to govern the behaviour of a House Elf.”

“And it’s all down in their DNA?” Hermione exclaimed, horrified.

“In their – their what?”

“Their genes?”

“They aren’t given clothes, Granger, didn’t I just explain?”

“Hermione means to ask you if that’s all in their nature,” Harry translated.

“Yes, every last bit; it’s magically engraved there.”

Hermione deflated. “Oh. Well, bollocks.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t campaign for their better treatment if you think it’s important,” Draco said.

Ron hit him in the shoulder.

“Ow! Back to enemies so soon, Weasel?”

“Call me that again and I’ll give you something to shout about,” Ron warned. “Or do you answer to ‘Ferret’?”

“Food, anyone?” Hermione inquired sweetly, opening her basket. “I brought tons of sandwiches. Made by aforementioned House Elves. Although they’re always quite sulky with me. Now I think I know why. It must seem like I’ve been offering to murder them for a favor.”

“Aurelius toxicum,” Draco said, waving his hand over the basket.

“Ha ha,” Hermione deadpanned. “Do you prefer tuna, ham and cheese, or roast beef?”

“Ham and cheese,” Ron said, and “roast beef,” said Harry. Draco took the tuna, while Hermione rummaged and eventually came up with another ham-and-cheese.

“Just how big is that basket?” Harry wondered as Hermione dug into it and withdrew a picnic blanket.

“It’s Charmed, of course,” she replied. She dug out a book – not the one on rocks, Harry was grateful to note – and propped herself up against the trunk of the oak, letting the closed volume rest in her lap. For a minute or two they all ate quietly, each one very hungry. When Ron reached for his second sandwich, rummaging inside Hermione’s picnic basket, the bushy-haired girl spoke again.

“Are you all right, then?” she inquired of Draco. “We’ve been worried.”

“Could have fooled me,” Draco snapped.

Hermione’s eyes grew wide with the effort to convince her audience. “I knew you got the Mark and I wasn’t sure how good a liar you are, Slytherin or no. If you cried in my arms over it, don’t you think Voldemort would figure that out? He is a Legilimens.”

Draco’s eyes darted frantically to Harry’s, before alighting once more on Hermione. “I – I don’t believe you.”

“Then why are you here eating my sandwiches?”

Draco paused, looking thrown, gazing down at the half-eaten tuna sandwich in his hand as though it had done him a personal wrong. He swallowed stiffly, and a small bit of tuna salad plopped unceremoniously from the edge of the sandwich and onto the grass. “Because you Shanghaied me.”

“You don’t go anywhere you don’t want to.”

“I did just a couple of days ago. And I got a pretty little skull on my arm for my trouble.”

“Draco Malfoy!” she exclaimed. “Why are you being so difficult?!”

“Difficult!” he exploded. “I’m being difficult am I? Well, then, turn your whole bloody life up-side-down and see how you damn well like it...” He paused in his rant, eyeing Hermione with a grimace. “All right, very well, we’ve had this discussion, but your being introduced to the Wizarding World was the nice sort of surprise, I imagine...” He slumped. “Imagine waking up one morning and knowing for certain that the better part of your life has been a lie, and your father served a madman who turned on him like a rabid dog, that you will be expected to cave in to this madman or he’ll murder your mother – not because he doesn’t like her, but because he supposes it’d break you and besides, it’d be fun.” Draco’s breathing had gone funny, and his pupils were dilated with impotent adrenaline.

Hermione’s brown eyes softened, and she scooted slightly closer to Draco, resting her hand quietly over his. He jerked wildly in response, glaring at her.

“Granger!” he nearly shouted. “Don’t be getting any ideas.” The old sneer was back.

Ron opened his mouth to say something – most likely angrily – but Harry shook his head, and the redhead’s mouth slid shut. Hermione, for her part, looked torn between pity, confusion, and anger. Draco, under the weight of her gaze, blinked away his haughtiness, replacing it with his own confusion. It was obvious he had become aware of his mistake, and the heat decorating his cheeks said he had no idea what to do to rectify it.

“You’re... reactive today,” Harry said quietly once both Hermione and Draco had reached their own conclusions.

“All three of you make me feel like I’m wearing my guts on the outside!” Draco exploded.

“You should know that Gryffindors like to touch people,” Ron offered hesitantly. “A lot. You should be more afraid if a Gryffindor goes out of her way not to touch you. Then she likes you for sure.”

“What? But that makes no sense!”

“From a Gryffindor point of view, it does,” Harry said, thinking of the way Ginny used to literally hide from him.

Hermione cautiously placed her hand over Draco’s again, keeping eye contact. Harry watched her hand squeeze his, then let go. “All right?” she inquired.

“All right,” he replied, after a moment. He frowned, looking puzzled. “Sorry, I guess.”

She smiled warmly. “Sure. I guess I should’ve been a little bit more sensitive, anyway, just bringing up the Mark like that. It’s awful, and I shouldn’t want to talk about it, if I were you.”

Draco’s smile grew wider with what looked like relief, and he nodded, reaching for another sandwich. “Whatever we talk about or don’t, I’m glad you got me out of there,” he finally said. “I was practically dying of boredom. Class notes just don’t make for decent reading material, and while Madam Pomfrey’s lovely and all, even her company grows wearying after several days of saturation.”

“Oi!” Ron exclaimed. “That reminds me.” He dug in the pockets of his robes. “I was meaning to give it to you yesterday... might have some entertainment value, anyway...”

Draco looked up at Harry, who shrugged. He had no idea what Ron was on about.

After a moment, Ron stopped searching, holding his hands cupped around a small object. The others gathered around, peering closely as Ron slowly removed his right hand to reveal...

...a Snitch, which darted quickly away before Draco snatched it out of the air.

“Where in bloody hell did you get this?!” Draco demanded.

“Well... I kind of stole it,” Ron admitted.

“Ron!” Hermione exclaimed.

“What?” Ron demanded, hurt lacing his tones. “I’ll give it back. It’s only a practice one anyway, Hermione, it’s not the one they use in matches. I was cleaning out the broom shed and it was tucked away in a corner, covered in dust... no one’ll miss it...”

“What were you doing cleaning out the broom shed?” Harry wondered.

Ron launched into a rueful but perfectly hilarious story involving Professors McGonagall, Sprout, and the Venomous Tentacula, which ended, of course, in detention. Harry privately suspected that the snitch, while intended as a present for Draco from the get-go, had probably also been Ron’s little revenge for what he viewed as an unfair punishment.

“Stealing is still quite wrong, Ronald,” Hermione chided him. She looked over at Draco, who was pouting. “But since our Slytherin-in-residence is so terribly bored... and imprisoned...”

“Your Slytherin?” Draco demanded, plucking up a handful of grass from the turf underfoot. “And here I thought I took up too much space to belong to anybody.”

Ron began to laugh. “You do, mate. You do.”

Harry turned to share the laugh with Draco; but the other boy was absorbed in the action of ripping the handful of grass to tiny pieces.

With an odd, threadbare smile, Draco let the wind claim them.