“Yes—” Her mouth trembled. “I just want to know that he's all right.”
“I know,” Draco said. “So do I,” and he shut his eyes, and willed himself to concentrate. It was very difficult for a moment, as his mind was whirling.
He forced himself to think of Harry, and his mind groped through the black space that separated them, searching for the familiar shape of Harry's thoughts, the known contours of his mind. He found him, finally, a vague shimmer of light in the darkness. Harry, he said. Harry, can you hear me?
There was a long silence. Then a very faint, almost undetectable reply. I can hear you.
Are you all right?
Another pause. No. I'm a long shot from all right, Draco. I may never be all right again.
Do you want me to come and get you? Draco asked, knowing that he would have to leave Hermione to do so; knowing that he would, if Harry wanted him.
This time the response was immediate. No. I'm in Lupin's office. They brought me here. I'm in trouble, I think. I don't care, though.
Harry –
They're coming. It's all right, Malfoy. There's nothing you can do for me.
Nothing anyone can do.
And Harry's mind shut down like a door being slammed shut. The force of it seemed to knock Draco back into his body; his eyes flew open. For a moment, he blinked at the light, his eyes adjusting — he had been in such a profound darkness. He hurt, but it was not a corporeal pain — he was not even sure it was his pain. It was Harry's, but then Harry was almost his own self. It was the first time in his life that he had ever thought that if he could take someone else's pain and bear it himself, he would.
“Hermione…” he began, in a half-whisper — and paused.
She was asleep, her cheek on her hand, her body curled among the pillows. Her long dark lashes looked like ink strokes against her pale cheeks, and her chest rose and fell steadily with her breathing. He began to stand up, but realized that he could not — her outflung hand was tightly bunched in the material of his sleeve, and he could not pull away without waking her.
With a sigh, he moved closer to her, and pulled the corner of the blanket up so that it covered her shoulders. Then he lay down beside her on the bed, and stared up into the darkness.
The prefects' meeting room was freezing cold. He was freezing cold. Ron felt sure his fingers were turning blue, but when he looked down at them, they were the same color they had always been. It was hard to believe.
Had he been able to take himself to a doctor or mediwizard, they could have told him that shock drops body temperature, but he couldn't, and wouldn't if he had been able to. He didn't want to see anyone. He wanted to sit in this room forever. He wanted to die.
Over and over in his mind he kept replaying the scene in the common room. What he had said. What Harry had said. The look on Harry's face.
He'd known it would be bad, but not that bad. Hermione had told him so many times, here in this very room, that she was quite sure that Harry didn't love her any more; that she suspected he knew that she no longer loved him either. And he'd believed her. Why shouldn't he believe her?
Hermione had never lied to him.
Only, apparently, she had.
A spasm of nausea twisted his stomach as he recollected her words in the common room. I do not love you, she had said. I do not love you and moreover I have no idea what you are talking about. So she had lied.
Apparently she never had had any intention of telling Harry: not at New Year's, not ever. Looking back now, he could see how she had put him off and put him off. He'd been too blinded to see it at the time.
The sickness came back in a wave. This time, he was able to breathe through it. It was difficult, but he managed it by concentrating. In fact, he was concentrating so hard that he did not hear the door of the meeting room open quietly. It was only when he looked up again that he saw that she had come into the room, and was looking at him with an expression of alarm.
“Ron?” she said gently. “What's wrong? You look ill.”
He got to his feet and stared at her, and Hermione stared back. She looked the same — the same — the faint scarlet light from the glass window teased the gold-red glints in her tumbled hair. She wore it down because he liked it down. He'd told her that. And she was wearing her black school robes, and under them her blue pajamas that he had given her two years ago.
“What,” he said, and his voice came out creaky and unfamiliar, “are you doing here?”
Her lips parted and she looked at him in surprise. “I know I haven't come lately,” she said. “But please don't be angry — you know it isn't easy for me to get away.” She took a step towards him, and when he did not move away, she took another. She put her arms around him, and he let her, unresisting. “I have to leave soon,” she said. “Don't lets waste our time being angry.”
He looked down into her face. Her familiar, beautiful face. He remembered the first time she had asked him to meet her there. And she'd cried on his shoulder. Harry didn't talk to her any more. He didn't love her. She wasn't sure she loved him either. She wasn't sure she ever had. She'd made mistakes, terrible mistakes. Would he ever forgive her.
Could he still care about her. And she'd kissed him. He'd about fallen off the table in shock. It had been weeks before she'd tried that again. And he had marveled. How she'd been so able to behave in public as if nothing were wrong, or strange, or different. She'd told him she was terrified of hurting Harry. Harry had so many troubles these days, they'd driven him half mad. He wasn't the same Harry. He might even be dangerous. Help me, she'd said. You're the only one who can. His thoughts, his memories, broke up into whirling fragments and spun around his head like startled birds. He clutched at her. He heard his own voice as if it came from a distance. “Why did you,” he said. “Why did you lie to him?”
Her voice sounded suddenly sharp, startled. “Lie to who?”
“To Harry,” he said. “Why did you lie to Harry?”
When she replied, her voice sounded defensive. “We both lie to Harry,” she said. “All the time. We have to.
