Draco paused, and sighed. “Blaise?” he said. “Look, it's been a long day —”
He broke off as the figure raised two slender hands and pushed the hood back: a cascade of brown curls tumbled out, framing a white face.
Hermione.
Draco gaped at her, all clever commentary flying out the window. “What are you doing here? Someone might see you.”
She looked at him blankly, as if he were speaking another language.
“Malcolm Baddock already saw me,” she said. Her voice was distant, and very calm. “He let me in. I told him you'd kill him if he said anything.”
She paused. “I think you should let me into the room now.”
He looked at her more closely. “Does Harry know you're here?”
Her reaction to this question was unprecedented: she flinched violently, and her eyes filled with tears. Shocked, he reached out for her, then thought better of it, and unlocked the door instead. He pushed the door open, and ushered her into the room; with a last look up and down the corridor, he followed her in and shut the door behind them.
He threw his towel over the back of a chair, and studied her. She had taken a few steps forward and now stood very still in the center of the room, between the bed and the fireplace, her hands at her sides. He felt vaguely relieved that he was generally a neat person — the room was extremely tidy: his fencing clothes, tossed across the back of an armchair, the only sign of mess. Then again, she didn't seem as if she would have noticed if he'd been collecting garbage on his floor since the start of term.
She stared around her like someone in a distracted dream.
Draco shifted his feet, wondering what to say, which rarely happened. He was also increasingly aware that he was wearing damp pajamas which were sticking to him. “Hermione,” he said slowly. “Would you mind telling me what this is about?”
She turned slowly and looked at him. Her face, above the white-lined collar of her blue cloak, was very pale, her eyes like huge black coins.
“Your room is very nice,” she said. “You never said you had such a nice room…”
“Hermione,” he said, more sharply.
“You have a fireplace… I wouldn't have thought you'd have a window… oh, the rooms are built into the cliff, aren't they? That's so —”
“Hermione.” Without thinking about it, Draco crossed the room to her, and caught at her wrist. She looked away from him, her eyes wide and blank. A sudden horrible thought assailed him, and he tightened his grip on her wrist involuntarily. “Did something happen to Harry? Is he all right?”
“I don't know,” she said, meeting his eyes finally. “Draco, do I seem…mad to you?”
“Do you seem what?”
“Do I seem like I've gone mad?” Her breath was coming quickly now, in ragged gasps. His hand where it held her wrist was slippery, and he was suddenly even more conscious of his damp, half-dressed state. “Lost my mind?”
he opened his mouth to say her name again, then realized it was becoming repetitive. Instead, he took her by the shoulders and propelled her towards the bed. She sat down obediently on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. He stared at her, and she stared back.
“I need to change my clothes,” he said. “Sit right here and don't, uh, don't turn around.”
She nodded dully. Any fears he might have had that she would be tempted to swing around and sneak a peek were relieved by her expression. She looked about as interested as if he'd just told her he was about to go work a very dull Arithmancy problem backwards in Japanese.
Feeling as if he had wandered into a very strange dream, Draco went to his clothes chest, pulled out a pair of black trousers and a Knarl Lagerfeld dark green shirt, crossed to the other side of the room, and changed hurriedly, watching Hermione as he did so. She did not move from her place on the bed, only sat where she was, staring down at her hands. He pulled his shirt on, buttoned it, went back to the bed, and sat down next to her. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Why don't you tell me what happened?”
She didn't reply, only stared past him, at a point beyond his left shoulder.
He reached out, and took hold of her shoulders, gripping them tightly.
“Hermione,” he said firmly. “I assume you came here because you wanted my help. But if you don't tell me anything, I cannot help you.”
“I know,” she said, very softly, not raising her eyes to his. “I know, but how can I tell you what happened when I don't understand it myself?” His grip on her shoulders tightened, and she winced. “I've gone mad,” she said. “It's the only explanation.”
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was very steadily. “You,” he said, “have always been the sanest person I know. If you're mad, then we all are. I am. Harry is. Weasley is —” Her shoulders jerked violently under his hands, and he ducked his head to try to see her face. “Ron? This has something to do with Ron?”
She nodded, a tiny nod. “Yes.”
“Tell me,” he said. “Not what you think happened, or what you think might be wrong with you. Tell me the facts.”
She took a deep and ragged breath, and raised her eyes slowly. They were so dark the pupil seemed to have disappeared into the iris; they looked like black tunnels, going on and on forever. “You won't believe me,” she said, and her voice cracked with pain. “Harry didn't believe me, and you won't either, and Ginny will believe Ron because he's her brother, and what will I do, I won't be able to stand it if you don't believe me, I won't be able to stand it —”
“I'll believe you,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “I believe you already.
Just tell me what happened.”
“All right.” She nodded, and looked down again at her hands, balled into fists on top of her knees. “All right,” she said again, and then she began to speak, haltingly at first, then in a rush of words like a river undammed,
