telling him what had happened in the Gryffindor common room, what Harry had said, what Ron had said, what they both had done. And as she spoke, her small steady voice going on and on, Draco found himself at first unable to believe what he was hearing — and then, strangely able to. I knew there was something wrong. I knew there was something.
“And then,” she finished, her voice unsteady, “a-and then, Harry said he never wanted to see me or speak to me again, and I should never go near him. I ran out — I saw McGonagall and Lupin rushing up, but I ran past them. I guess they ran into the common room — the Veritas curse must have set off the wards, they have those wards up, you know, the Dark magic ones, and —”
“I know about the wards,” Draco interrupted her gently. “Sod the wards.”
She nodded. “Of course. I'm sorry.” Her voice was empty and flat, and when she glanced down at her hands again he saw that she had something balled up tightly in her right fist. He dropped his hands from her shoulders, and slowly reached for her hand. She let him, offering no resistance as he pried her fingers open, and he blinked at the familiar glimmer of gold that was revealed. It was the gold watch that Harry always wore on his right wrist, his gold watch with the dark leather band. “He threw it at me,” she said, by way of explanation, and closed her fingers again. “He said I should never come near him again.”
“I know,” Draco said. “You told me.”
“He's right,” she said. “There's something wrong with me. I don't remember — I don't remember having done anything with Ron, but I must have done, mustn't I?”
Draco took a deep breath. He knew his next words must be chosen with great care. “Hermione,” he said. “There is nothing wrong with you. I knew Weasley was developing some sort of — feelings for you. I just didn't realize he was quite this delusional about it.”
Her head snapped up and she looked at him almost accusingly. “How do you know he's delusional? How do you know it isn't me that's delusional?”
“Because he's the one telling the bizarre story, Hermione, not you.”
“You didn't see him,” she said, her voice rising, “he was so sure, Draco, he was so sure, and the way he looked at me — and he was under the Veritas curse, how could he be lying?”
“Because,” Draco said firmly. “The Veritas curse makes you tell the truth, but it doesn't gift you with knowledge you don't possess. In other words, just because he believes it's true doesn't make it true. He could be under a Confundus curse — or have been Memory charmed — or just be a complete nutter, for all I know, although I doubt it. What I don't doubt is that the Veritas curse, in this case, doesn't prove anything. Anything.”
He broke off, because Hermione was staring at him. Her eyes were enormous. “You believe me,” she said. “You really believe me, don't you?”
“Yes,” he replied, because he did. “I absolutely believe you.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said and burst into tears. He stared at her in alarm, but before he could do anything, she had thrown her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She was sobbing in a way he would not have thought possible, every bit of the controlled reserve that had kept her so calm throughout this past half hour swept away as if by a flood. Very gingerly he put his own arms around her, and held her as she wept. He felt sure that there were Things One Did in these situations, soothing noises to be made, heads to be patted, but he had no experience with comforting people, much less comforting anyone he cared about. He could do nothing other than sit and hold her as the tumult of her grief spent itself.
“I feel like I can't breathe,” he heard her whisper finally, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “I don't understand what's happening to me.” She still had her arms around him, her hands fisted in the back of his shirt. All of her softness was pressed against him, and he could almost taste the salt of her tears in his mouth. Against his will, he felt his body react to her proximity; after all, he was seventeen, and some things were beyond his immediate control. Quickly, he reached up and firmly detached her arms from around his neck.
“You should lie down,” he said, pulling away from her. “You're exhausted.”
She shook her head swiftly, her hand still gripping his shirt. “No. No. I can't. I couldn't possibly sleep.”
He sighed, his mind darting back and forth between various options.
Holding her on his lap again was not a workable one. Neither, apparently, was she willing to lie down on her own. He slid off the bed and knelt down in front of his small bedside table; he slid the bottom drawer open, and drew out a bottle. The label on the bottle proclaimed it to be wine from the Archenland Vineyards, bottled in 1867. He looked at it for a moment — it was meant to be a gift for Sirius and Narcissa, and was worth more than he cared to remember. But, it couldn't be helped. “Apierto,” he muttered, and the cork popped out of the bottle with a faint sound.
He handed the open bottle open to Hermione, and she took it and looked at blankly for a moment. Then, without hesitation, she raised the bottle to her lips.
“Whoa,” said Draco, jumping to his feet. “You're supposed to…oh, hell, whatever,” he finished in a resigned manner as Hermione knocked back a healthy swig — then gasped and choked.
She looked at him with watering eyes. “Draco, what is this stuff?”
Gently he reached forward and took the bottle away from her, placing it atop the bedside table. “Archenland wine,” he said. “You're supposed to mix it with water, technically…it's very strong.”
She made a face. “Tastes like oven cleaner,” she said, her words very slightly slurred. Draco was not surprised. Generally Archenland wine was consumed by the teaspoon. A whole glass could knock out a mountain troll. Already her eyelids were beginning to flutter down. “Draco,” she said softly, and reached out her hand. “Could you please…”
Very carefully he took the proffered hand. It was soft and warm in his grasp, a small alive thing which he held as loosely as he could; in the back of his mind, as always, was the careful thought that he must not be disloyal to Harry, and yet at the same time her pain hurt him in a way he couldn't explain. As always, the narrow space between the two people he loved most in the world was a precarious place to stand.
“Could you please,” she said again, and now she was definitely slurring her words, “find him for me?”
He knew she meant Harry. “You want me to try to find him?” he echoed.
“Make sure he's okay?”
