Draco wasn't sure if Hermione understood all the feeling he tried to pack into his pleading, tired utterance of her name because she looked away, her eyes turning down to her fingers, dancing slow and careful over his Mark. She was silent though, and he was silent; both of them sitting in the dim, grey light that filtered in through the curtains, her hand on his arm and he trying not to think about the fact that she was right. The quiet stretched on and on, growing thicker and harder to break with every passing minute, but Draco didn't leave because Hermione was still outlining his Dark Mark as if it wasn't a hideous symbol of evil and mistakes, a tenderness in her touch that made a lump lodge itself in Draco's throat.