Chapter Four
Draco was lying on his bed, staring at the dark ceiling. It was completely empty in both the dormitory and in the Slytherin common room as all the other students were in classes which Draco had not been able to bring himself to attend. Pansy had been asking after him, he had heard her outside the door, asking practically every boy that passed where he was. He found his stomach tighten with a subconscious wave of annoyance, almost to the point of anger. Why would she not just leave him alone?
He had assured Goyle that his life would not be worth living if he let Pansy know where he was. "Deny any knowledge of my whereabouts, of my very existence even, or things will be rather uncomfortable for you" he had warned, and when he thought about it now, he had never sounded more like his father. This realisation sent a pang of almost unbearable heat across his stomach and chest; after all, it was his father's attitude which was the building block of every reason why he and Hermione could never work. He knew he shouldn't let his family dictate every detail of his life, but the pull he felt towards them was almost as strong, and just as illogical, as the one which existed between him and Hermione.
He was startled, and jolted upright, by a sudden rapping on the wooden door of the dormitory. Oh God, not Pansy, he thought, before realising that she would be in the class he was supposed to be in right now. He stood up and moved towards the door to look through the one-way spy hole to see who it was. When he did so, he rapidly wished he hadn't. She was stood there, wearing a casual floral dress and white sandals on her slender feet. Her thick brown hair fell across one shoulder and stayed there so obediently that, had she been any other girl, he would have been sure it were the product of hours of attention. She lifted her head, her eyebrow slightly cocked in trademark Granger style, something which sent a smile tugging at the corners of Draco's lips. Although she had very little make-up on, just a hint of black mascara thinly spread over her long eyelashes. Yes, there was no denying it; Hermione Granger was beautiful.
This was the precise reason why Draco did not open the door; did not even call through the door to her. Without realising he was doing it, he pressed his whole body up against the door as though he were trying to break through it in order to be with her. He stayed silent and still, even as she knocked, louder and ever more insistently; every knock sending a bittersweet vibration over his body.
"Draco?" she called, and at the sound of her voice, his hand shot to the door handle and he gripped it, hard. He stopped himself, just, from opening the door there and then so that he could feel the warmth of her body and just speak to her again. Instead he remained rooted to the spot, leaning his head forwards so that his forehead was pressed against the cold wood.
The curve of the spy glass made her seem so close to him that he imagined that there were no door between them; that it was not the door he could feel his head resting against, but that they were stood there, forehead to forehead, his breath dancing around with hers in that almost non-existent space between them. Instead he watched as she backed away from the door, and opened her bag. She took out a piece of paper and a pen and leaned on the wall as she wrote. She folded it up, pushed it under the door and turned around. He stood there, still gripping the door handle as she walked away from him, feelings of regret already bubbling in the pit of his stomach.
He turned around once she had gone from his sight, so that his back was against the door and slid down it until he was sat down on the carpet. He reached out and picked up the folded paper which she had pushed under the door. As he unfolded it he felt an overwhelming need to cry, and squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears from escaping.
He felt ashamed and stupid that he had reacted this way because she had only written two words in her swooping, curling hand: 'Thank you.'
Hermione walked up the steps from the dungeons, pulling her cardigan from the bag which hung around her shoulders. As she pulled it up around her arms to protect them from the biting cold, she became angry at herself. She had believed that Draco cared about her. She had jumped to this outrageous conclusion based purely on a few insignificant moments, most of which had been blurred and distorted by the veil of pain which surrounded her head. He had taken her to the hospital wing; that was it. It was hardly a declaration from the rooftops of his undying love for her and besides, once he had done so he had left her and then, it seemed, disappeared. Or had he deliberately hidden himself from her, she thought, but the latter explanation still hurt too much for her to contemplate further.
Although she spent the entire walk back to the Gryffindor common room reminding herself of every harsh word he'd said to her, reminding herself how little evidence she had that he cared at all, she still couldn't shake one particular question and, she thought, it's funny how when you want to believe something, you place the burden of proof not on yourself, but on those trying to convince you otherwise. Yes, this question would not leave her alone until she knew the answer to it.
Why had he still been sat with her at midnight, at least 3 hours since she had fallen?