Blaise first slept with Hermione when they were seventeen. It was the night that Dumbledore died. He didn't know why her friends had let her run away; certainly Potter was a mess, but the Weasel could have done something to calm her. She found herself somewhere on the seventh floor, gasping for breath, not willing to face her fellow Gryffindors with the bad news. Blaise had been watching out for Draco at the Room of Requirement.

He stepped out to see her crouched against a wall, hands splayed across her face in an almost feral gesture. He approached her cautiously.

"Hey," he said gently.

She went on sobbing.

"It's all gone wrong, hasn't it?"

She nodded this time, shuddering. He put his arms around her.

"Shh," he said. "It'll turn out in the end."

"For who?" she choked out. He tightened his grip.

"You'll see. We'll make it better right now." He slipped her hands under her knees and picked her up. She made no move to stop him, let him carry her into the Room of Requirement, onto the couch it provided. And when he undressed her, stroking her all the while, murmuring consolation, she let him touch her.