It was something that he had always done; every time they came back to Hogwarts, no matter the warding spells she used. After a startling first year, Hermione grew used to the sight of Tom sitting on her bed, rifling through her charmed bag, or bringing something up later, that he’d taken from the wooden, hope chest in her room. He’d scowled when she compared him to a raccoon. He hadn’t talked to her for three weeks after that, though Draco had.