Hermione had found him in the library after she and Draco had fucked against the wall in the foyer. They had been rather loud, and when she entered and saw Martin, couldn’t help her blush, wondering suddenly if he had heard, and how long he had been in the Manor. He had greeted her first, bowing, but made no sly remark or bore no knowing smile. Whether or not he’d heard the commotion, he made no reference to it, and occupied himself with his painting. It was at that moment that Hermione was struck with how much he reminded her of Harry. Her heart had constricted strangely at the realization. How had it taken her so long to notice that? Suddenly unable to look him in the eye, she had gone to the window, pretending to gaze outside at the grey sky as she grappled with her thoughts. The methodical strokes of his brushes against the canvas and the tinkling of the jar that held his turpentine soothed her.