"You're going home tomorrow," Malfoy says in the evening, forcing a smile onto his lips as he straightens from his desk, where he's spent the last few hours furiously scribbling on reams of parchment. He stretches, working the kinks out of his neck and shoulders, and Hermione pauses in turning down the bedclothes and stares at him mutely. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrowtomorrowtomorrow – she can't seem to wrap her head around the idea. "Aren't you excited?"