Except for the day after the mission to get the diadem, Draco had been working a mission every day. Two on surveillance and recon, and one today that had ended in a small clash with some of Voldemort’s allies; they didn’t know who they had been, just that the dead they’d left behind hadn’t had the Mark. Draco had killed two of them and wounded a third. When he, Lupin, the two Aurors, Ron, and Neville had returned to the house, blood had covered Draco’s face like a veil from a deep slash across his forehead, and he had been limping badly thanks to a gash down his leg. He was pushing himself too hard, and he wouldn’t talk to Hermione about anything. He wouldn’t even say hello if he could avoid it.