Malfoy was always on time. For some reason, Hermione still couldn’t bear to wait for him to knock. Their interaction was brief, but even in those fleeting moments, her body always tensed and she felt apprehensive. He’d arrive and stand outside her door, though several feet away, as if it pained him to be too close to her room. So, she’d have to walk nervously into the window-lined corridor to meet him. He played the part of a normal wizarding student expertly in his grey Slytherin vest, with his blonde hair neatly styled. A few stray strands always covered his eyes. But his pale angular face would tell the real story. Her stomach would turn as she’d approach him and hand him the potion. With a concentrated effort, she’d make sure to pull her hand away before their fingers could touch. And to ensure he ingested the contents, Hermione would force herself to watch him.