and then it was a light brush on the shoulder, a tap on the wrist. Even when he'd thought Harry was dying, he had not touched him.
The pressure on his hand increased, and he flinched, because now it hurt.
Harry was less holding his hand then crushing it, his grip so tight that Draco could feel the bones of his fingers grind together. He winced but didn't move. Harry's grip grew tighter and tighter until Draco thought he could no longer keep from exclaiming at the pain, and then Harry let go.
Draco took his hand back, and looked at it with trepidation. He half expected to encounter a shapeless blob of crushed flesh, but his hand looked the same. He wiggled his fingers. They worked. 'Ouch,' he remarked conversationally. 'So you've decided to blame my hand, then?'
Harry blinked for a moment, as if waking up out of some kind of dream.
'Sorry. Did that hurt?'
'Does Professor Sinistra want into Charlie's pants?'
Harry blinked again. 'I don't know, does she?'
'You don't pay attention to anything at this school, do you, Potter?'
'I don't follow every tedious bit of gossip, if that's what you mean.'
'There's nothing tedious about gossip.'
'Oh blah blah, Dean's dating Eloise, Parvati's marrying a Death Eater's son, Blaise is fooling around with Malcolm behind your back…'
Draco almost fell off the windowsill. 'Blaise is fooling around with Malcolm behind my back?'
Harry looked worried. 'I figured you knew. Everyone knows.'
Draco was speechless.
'Oh, dear,' said Harry, looking, if possible, even more wretched.
Draco recovered himself, and snorted. 'Don't worry about it. I don't care.'
'I know you don't,' Harry said. 'I wish…'
'You wish what?'
'That I could be a bit more like you,' Harry said. 'I mean, not in most respects of course. But it'd be nice not to care.'
'Not caring's overrated,' Draco said. The idea of a Harry who didn't care was foreign and somewhat bothersome to him. 'Anyway, on that topic, have you decided what to do about Hermione?'
'I guess I'd better talk to her,' Harry said. 'Only I don't know what to say.'
'Far be it from me to tell anyone to apologize,' Draco said. 'because, myself, I'd rather be chewed apart by rabid weasels. Then again, I've never been a git like you were last night.'
'That is such a lie,' Harry began indignantly, then paused. 'Right, you're just winding me up. Okay, so I was a git.'
'Yes, you were. You were a git of epic proportions. You were such a git, they should name a town after you. Dorksville springs instantly to mind.
Or, perhaps, Little Wankerton. I suspect that one's not taken.'
'Argh,' said Harry. 'Let me alone. Crushed, fragile ego, remember?'
'I decided a tough love approach might work wonders here,' Draco replied. 'Because frankly all the intensive moping and 'death, death, oh welcome death' stuff is starting to get on my nerves.'
'Then what's your advice?'
'Well,' Draco said thoughtfully. 'If I were you, which thankfully, I'm not, I would recommend that you recognize the fact that Hermione's about six times smarter than you, or me either for that matter, and therefore you should be honest with her. Because if you aren't, she'll see right through you anyway.'
'Be honest? That's your advice?'
'Well, take a whack at it. If that doesn't work, groveling makes a solid backup plan. Then again, why are you asking me? I'm not the one with the girlfriend.'
'You have a girlfriend,' Harry said.
'Not any more,' said Draco, and hopped down off the window sill. 'Look, try again with Hermione today, and if she still slams the door on you, I'll talk to her.'
'Thanks,' Harry said, a little stiffly. Draco could tell that he loathed the thought that Draco could talk to Hermione and he couldn't. On the other hand, he was biting it back, which Draco appreciated.
'I have to get some sleep,' Draco said. It was true. Exhaustion seemed to be drizzling through his bone marrow like cold water. Harry was starting to look very blurry indeed and he could hear his own pulse beating in his ears. 'Will you be all right?'
'I'll be all right,' Harry said. He caught Draco's expression, and almost smiled. 'I'll be fine. You look knackered, Malfoy. Go to bed.'
Draco was halfway to the door when Harry spoke again, and Draco turned around instantly, wondering if Harry was calling him back. He wasn't: he was standing now, obviously getting ready to leave as well, but he had paused, one hand on the window sill. 'Malfoy?'
'Yes?'
'Who do you think she is?'
Draco knew immediately what he meant. 'I don't know,' he said honestly.
'She looked like Hermione. It was a good disguise.'
'But you have guesses? I know you do.'
Draco nodded, slightly. The sun had risen outside the window, but there was still no color in Harry's face. He looked wan and ghostly, and Draco was suddenly reminded of the way he had looked second year, when he'd toppled off his broom during a match, and the bone in his arm had broken with a sickening crack. Draco hadn't been at all sorry, but a certain primal empathy of feeling had made him wince all the same. He remembered Harry's sick, pained, white-faced look then — he looked the same now. 'Who hates me that much?' Harry said, and his voice was a little wistful. 'To plan something like that?'
'If it's any consolation, Potter,' said Draco, as gently as he could, 'by my calculations, it didn't have anything to do with hating you.'
The sky outside Dumbledore's office window was pale gray, streaked with darker gray clouds. Hermione kept her eyes apathetically fixed on it while she waited for the headmaster to arrive. She was exhausted, having not slept all night, and she felt slightly dizzy. She had been absolutely dreading breakfast, but to her relief, McGonagall had been the first person to knock on her door in the morning, and had requested that she come straight to Dumbledore's office. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Harry had knocked on her door late in the night, and she'd opened the door, taken one look at him, and shut the door in his face.
I know he came to apologize, she thought. She'd seen it in his face. But she hadn't wanted to hear it then. She didn't want to hear it now. She wondered if she ever would.
The door opened behind her, and she heard someone come into the room.
A throat was cleared, and a voice spoke: it was Dumbledore, as she'd known it would be. 'I'm afraid I need to speak with you, Miss Granger.'
Hermione turned and looked listlessly at the headmaster. 'I know, sir.'
He moved to stand behind his desk, looking very grave indeed. 'Please come and sit down, Miss Granger.'
Hermione nodded. She had no idea how much the professors knew about the events of the night before. A great deal, she imagined — she'd seen it in McGonagall's face, and saw it now in Dumbledore's. At another time this would have withered her with humiliation, but now she was beyond the point of caring. She went towards the seat that Dumbledore had indicated, in front of his desk, and sat down, clasping her hands in her lap. 'What did you want to talk to me about, Professor?' she asked.
Dumbledore took the seat behind his desk, and regarded her gravely over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles. 'A rather serious matter, I'm afraid,' he said gently. 'Normally I would not call you in to discuss the private business of another student, even a close personal friend of yours…'
