The days that followed the visit passed in a blur, and chilly January rolled on into a milder, bleaker February. Hermione acted on autopilot; she went to her lessons, handed in all necessary homework, and spent her free periods in the library reading or studying, even though she had no appetite for work. Once lessons were over, she went back to the Head's Common Room, worked on homework that she had received that day. She was constantly reading, her nose buried deep in the pages of a thick volume on some subject or other. In between reading, working, and her lessons, she fed and changed Anielle; cuddled her, and played with her, and told her that she loved her no matter what. It was a kind of distraction, she told herself. A distraction to stop her worrying so much. But even Ginny and Lavender and Parvati, her friends, had noticed a change in her.
She had also visited Draco again, once or twice, but forced herself not to stay too long by his side. And, each time, she felt her heart break just a little bit more.
One evening, when Hermione was alone in the Head's Common Room, and Anielle was fast asleep, she heard a knock on the door. Hermione turned towards the noise but did not get up to answer it. She had too much on her mind; it was causing her more pain than anything had ever done before. She missed Draco. She wanted him to get better as soon as possible. She was worried about him, and scared for him.
She wiped her wet eyes with the back of her hand. There was another knock on the door. This time, breathing heavily and slowly, Hermione got up from the sofa and went to answer it, though she had no intention of speaking to whoever was behind the polished oak wood. She wanted to be left alone tonight, the same as every other night. Why should this evening be different? Hermione wanted to think.
She reached for the brass doorknob, turned it clockwise and opened the door carefully. Standing there, looking grim and tired, was Ron. His brown eyes were dull and lifeless. He didn't look as though he had had much sleep. But to tell the truth, neither had Hermione. She had lain awake each and every night since her visit to St. Mungo's , her mind whirring and her heart thumping, aching with pain and hurt for the one person she loved but feared she might never be able to see again if things turned wrong. She had asked Draco's Healer, a woman called Mildred, to contact the castle when he woke from his coma, so that she could talk to him. She asked them to keep her informed of any developments – good or bad – in his condition.
"Hi. Are you okay?" Ron asked quietly. Hermione shook her head. Tears burned at her eyes once more. Her curls bounced on her slim shoulders.
"No. No, I'm not" her breath caught in her throat, her voice tearful and wobbly. She put a hand to her face. Several salty tears seeped down her cheeks. Ron took a step forward. Hermione shook her head once more.
"No, don't. Please, Ron – I appreciate the gesture, but I don't want to see anyone right now. Please, just go. I'm sorry" she sobbed, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. She was tired, and scared, and upset. She knew Ron only meant well, only meant to ask after her like any other friend would – but she just couldn't face having anyone in her company. She needed to swallow down her grief alone.
Ron cast his eyes to the floor. "Ok" he mumbled. "Ok, I'll go. What shall I tell the others?" he asked.
"Tell them?" Hermione looked up, sniffing tearfully. "Why would you tell them anything?" she enquired.
"Well, they sent me here to see if you were alright. What shall I tell them? That you're ok? They're worried about you, Hermione" he replied. Hermione sniffed again, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her woollen dressing gown. She reached up and placed a hand on the edge of the oak door.
"Tell them I'm coping, but I'd rather be alone right now" she answered quietly. She even managed a weak, half-smile, which Ron returned with sympathy in his eyes. Then he turned to leave. Hermione watched his back as he made his way along the short distance to the flight of stairs that lead on upwards towards the Gryffindor Common Room. She then closed the door tightly, and locked it with a tap of her wand, which she had stowed in her dressing gown pocket, though she did not know exactly why.
She walked back over to the sofa, smoothed down the fabric of her dressing gown. She eased the belt slightly, loosening it just a little. The fire was crackling, ablaze with orange flames. It cast ominous shadows along the cream walls, illuminated the marble hearth and lit up the tapestries that hung immaculately on the bare paint. Slowly, Hermione sat down, leaning back against the sofa. She stretched her legs out in front of her as far as they would go. She reached up to touch her face; it was streaked with tears and wet from the crying she had done. She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking, and the pain of an invisible thread constricting her chest. It felt like someone was trying to tear her heart from ribcage, twisting and turning the pumping muscle until the pain was too much.
Hermione curled her legs up beneath her, tucking her feet underneath her gown. She hugged herself for extra warmth, for some little comfort that she was trying to hold onto. But she knew that she was only clutching at straws; like someone was holding them out to her, and she was terrified of drawing the short one for fear of the consequences, and one of those was losing Draco. A lump rose in her throat when she thought of him, and she helplessly tried to swallow it down again, with no avail. It was like a piece of wood had stuck in her throat; scratchy, and uncomfortable.
Hermione bent her head, her brown curls falling in front of her face. She was unaware that she was shaking violently, but not with cold, or even fear. Not purely fear, anyway – no, she found herself trembling so violently because her grief, every memory of Draco, of all the times that they had spent together - and now seeing him lying comatose in St. Mungo's, unable to see her, speak to her, or hear her – was a greater pain that someone pushing a crowbar between her ribs and forcing her bones apart.
But she knew she had to grieve alone, for the sympathy of others, the company of her classmates, would only encourage the pain to greaten so much more.