Harry.
'Are you pleased?' she said, in a small voice. 'About being a Magid?'
'Sure,' said Harry. He looked peaked and drawn with exhaustion, there were black smudges of tiredness under his green eyes. 'You bet I am.'
She stared at him, and understood suddenly what it was that seemed different about his expression. It was flat, unreadable — and she had never been unable to read Harry's expressions before. She had thought she knew every tone and shade of emotion in his voice, on his face, but now…whatever it was he was feeling, he was hiding it from her.
'Harry, about before — ' 'No,' he said fiercely.
She stopped. 'No what?'
'No, I don't want to talk to you right now,' he said in a flat voice.
'But-' 'Let me guess,' he said, turning to face her and looking as angry as she had ever seen him, 'you thought of some other way to tell me how I'm a huge disappointment to you and you want nothing to do with me, and it can't possibly wait because you don't want to risk the chance of me spending even one more night thinking you might possibly, someday, change your mind. Right?'
Hermione was shocked at his bitter tone. 'Harry, I'm sorry-' 'I don't want to talk to you about this,' he said. 'I don't know why you're bringing it up again. Maybe you want to tell me again how much I've hurt you, how my behavior has ruined any chance I might have had with you. And then you'll go off and flirt with Malfoy, just like you did before. Because apparently everything he's done hasn't ruined his chances with you.'
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. He was right. She had flirted with Draco in front of him. And maybe she had done it to hurt him. If she had, it had obviously worked. Which was small consolation.
Harry turned around. 'Boomslang,' he said to the portrait, and it swung open.
'Harry, I'm sorry,' she said again, desperately. 'Whatever you want me to say — ' 'Right now there's only one thing I want,' he said. 'I want to be away from you.'
He stepped through the portrait hole. After a moment, Hermione followed him.
Ron, Fred and George were grouped around the fire, and greeted their entry with happy cries. Harry walked over to them and flung himself down in a chair.
Hermione, feeling herself on the verge of tears, turned the other way and ran up the steps to the girls' dorm.
Halfway up the stairs, she heard someone calling her, and turned around.
It was Ron. 'Hermione, wait,' he said.
She came down a few steps until she was standing just above him and he had to tilt his head back to look at her (a rare experience for Ron, who was one of the tallest boys in school.) 'What is it?' she asked.
'Are you in love with Malfoy?' he said sharply.
'What?'
'You heard me,' he said, sounding very stern. 'Because Harry thinks you are. I told him you weren't, but he doesn't believe it.'
'If Harry wants to know, why doesn't he ask me?' she said angrily.
'Oh, I dunno,' said Ron, irritably, 'maybe because last time he asked you anything you nearly took his head off.'
'Oh, so everyone knows about that, now?'
'Hermione,' said Ron, sounding a bit desperate now, 'you can't honestly be thinking of taking up with Draco Malfoy can you? I mean, it's completely mad.
He'll never make you happy, he'll just lead you a dance while he goes larking off with other girls behind your back, and he'll probably join a rock band and dye his hair blue and you'll have to wait at home with the kids while he swans around and eventually he'll leave you with nothing but memories and weedy little blond children.'
'Ron,' said Hermione respectfully, 'sod off, will you? You have no idea what you're talking about, you sound completely mad.'
'At least I'm not talking about dating Draco Malfoy!'
'That's because he'd never have you, you're not his type. And you're wrong about him.'
'Oh?' said Ron, looking furious, 'and how is that?'
'He'd never dye his hair blue, he's far too vain,' said Hermione, turned around, and walked into the girls' dormitory. Ron stood on the stairs, feeling extraordinarily irritated as the realization dawned on him that he hadn't gotten any sort of answer to his question.
As soon as the others had gone, Madam Pomfrey set to work healing the last of Draco's cuts and bruises. Half-asleep, eyes shut, he could feel light touches on his face, his neck and shoulders, as she healed the grazes and gashes there, the black eye and cut lip the Death Eaters had given him. She moved down to his sprained wrist and fixed that, too. Then she reached for his cut-open hand.
'No,' said Draco, pulling it back. 'Leave it alone.'
Madam Pomfrey was startled to see that his eyes were open, but didn't show it.
'Don't be ridiculous,' she said. 'That's quite a deep cut, you'll have a scar there.'
'I said leave it alone,' said Draco, giving her what he hoped was a threatening look.
'You want the scar?' she asked in disbelief.
He brought his hand up to his chest and curled it into a fist. 'Just leave it,' he said again.
