Apricity – Chapter Nine

"Try one more time, Mr. Blaise. Using the basic swish-and-flick method."

Someone cleared their throat. With a shaky voice, they said, "Exsuscito."

Like a bolt of lightning cracking through the darkness, Draco's body went rigid and his eyes snapped open. He gasped as he felt air entering his lungs, relief flooding his body as though he hadn't tasted oxygen in millennia. He sat up, clutching a hand to his chest as he glanced around in bewilderment.

All around him amongst the tables were the familiar faces of his Seventh and Eighth Year Divination class. Their expressions were a mixture of varying horror, from mild discomfort to teary-eyed concern. No one seemed able to speak save for Professor Trelawney, who was tutting and muttering to herself about the "dangers of future-walking while fatigued," and moving towards a sink at the back of the classroom to retrieve water.

Pansy knelt down beside Draco, who's mind felt muddy with confusion. Her brows were knitted together with something he couldn't place. Sorrow? Worry?

Remorse?

"Are you all right?" she asked, voice small. "It's been twenty minutes."

"Twenty . . . ?" Draco searched her eyes, trying to figure out why he was on the floor of the classroom and why the back of his head hurt. "Did I go somewhere?"

"I think so," said Seamus Finnegan, a wariness in his eyes that Draco had seen before. He had never trusted him, and probably never would. "You were out like a light, and muttering things."

"What the fuck was I muttering?" Draco said, feeling disturbed. There was a sea of eyes on him for reasons other than his tattoos, he was on the floor, and he had no idea what had happened.

"Expletives." Blaise crouched down next to Pansy, near Draco's outstretched legs. "A lot of expletives."

"But that's par for the course," Pansy said, and she sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Draco pulled one knee to his chest and combed his fingers through his messy platinum hair. "Sorry for what?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but something like a ripple of magic made its way through Draco's magical core. He sucked in his breath at the sheer, overwhelming power of it, and then groaned. It was almost too much to bear.

"What's happening?" a Seventh Year witch cried, one of the girls with tears on her face. "Is he dying?!"

"Hopefully," another Seventh Year girl muttered.

Draco stared at her, his expression intense and deadpan. He wasn't sure what had happened, and he understood that he was a social pariah, but wishing death? Really?

The witch went pale and turned her face away.

Another ripple, and Draco pulled both knees up. He rested his elbows atop them and buried his face in his hands. The storm inside of his mind was swirling, the smoke and consternation rising up to the top of his heart, making him feel too full. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe through the acuteness of it.

Wait.

His eyes snapped open and he lifted his head. He glanced around, ignoring everyone else's expectant expressions, and saw one face missing.

"Where is she?" He turned to Blaise. "Where is Granger?"

"With Madam Pomfrey, in the Infirmary. She was—" He grimaced. "—not as calm as you."

"Not as calm? What do you mean? What do you mean not as calm?" Draco felt panic surging through his system, and he didn't know why. His memory felt hazy. Confused. Like it was thousands of kilometers away. He dug the heel of his palm into his left eye socket, feeling a headache coming on. "What do you fucking mean not as calm, Blaise?!"

"Language in the classroom, my dear boy! Language in the classroom." Trelawney swayed into view, lowering a wooden cup of water down to Draco with her wand. As he snatched it out of the air and gulped it down, she spoke. "Something went array with the vision spell. I don't believe it was you to blame, given that Miss Granger was fatigued. The magic seems to have pulled your consciousness through the cosmos and into her own."

Draco glanced at Pansy, who was smoothing out the back of his blazer. When their eyes met, she looked away again, but took his empty water cup from him. Without a word, she got up and walked it back to the sink.

Odd.

He looked up at Trelawney. "What does that mean? Professor."

Trelawney blinked her owlike eyes, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Dreamwalking. It would seem you and Miss Granger walked a dream together, rather than each of you catching glimpses of your futures—which is what the spell was for." She frowned, then. "I'm still not quite sure how it happened, as the spell is in a different realm of magic than dreamwalking . . ."

Draco felt another wave of magic, this time like a mallet pounding against his skull, and he hissed through his teeth. There was a flash of something behind his broken memory—something solid. Lights. A purse, colored black. A tower.

A tower!

Right as Draco got to his feet, the memories slammed into his head like the Hogwarts Express. He cried out in pain and staggered to the side. Blaise and Finnegan both rushed forward, each taking one of his elbows to help him stay upright. He hung his head, trembling as image after image hurtled past. His eyes were open, but he could see nothing. No color. No grey. Nothing.

"Mate, what's wrong?" He heard Blaise's voice from far away.

"Draco? Draco, are you all right?" Pansy, and her cool hands against his cheeks.

Finnegan to his left, one hand on his elbow and the other on his shoulder. "Just breathe, Malfoy. Whatever it is—just breathe."

Lights. Christmas lights, twinkling on the promenade in Paris.

The Eiffel Tower in the distance, like a dark sentinel of metal and stone.

Floral cream wallpaper from the Victorian era, and a window that overlooked the city.

A ruched red dress, sheer black nylons with a run in the knee. Strappy high heels.

The Weaselbee, with his face stained red with rage.

"Lavender wasn't as frigid as you. So, who's fault is it that I feel like I can't control myself when you dress like that?"

Cigarettes. A pub. A dark alley.

The tall man with the hat and the meaty hands.

"Let's see if you fuck rude, too."

The pungency of sweat.

Probing fingers.

"I'll do whatever you want me to do to you. I will, okay?"

Pain. Pain. Pain.

A wand on the bed.

"I can't, I can't, I can't."

Granger.

"Salazar, fuck. I have to go."

Draco shoved Blaise and Finnegan away, turned, and booked it out of the room. He had to be there when she woke up. He had no idea what he was going to say, or what he could possibly do to help. He didn't know if she was going to be angry, mortified, or in despair. He didn't know if they were even going to be able to look each other in the eye.

He just knew he had to be there.


McGonagall wouldn't let him in the Infirmary.

"You don't understand, Headmistress," Draco said, speaking the words slow and careful. McGonagall was in his corner, but she was testy and he didn't want to give her any reason to regret helping him with his parole extracurriculars. Having Head Boy on his school resume could make or break his internship at the Department of Mysteries. "When she wakes up, she's going to need someone there, and I am the only one who—"

"The only one who what, Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall cut him off, her voice shrewd as she eyed him over the top of her rimless glasses. "The only one who could cause Miss Granger the most distress? No, I don't think so. Until I hear Professor Trelawney's official report, no one is entering the Infirmary for visitation."

"Fuck," Draco cursed, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

"Mr. Malfoy!" McGonagall said, her brow furrowing with ire. "Do I need to take points from Slytherin?"

Draco's anger, panic, and desperation were pushing his sanity out of orbit.

"I don't give a flying fuck how many points you take away, okay?" he said, eyes wide as he steepled his fingers and pointed at her. "I'm here because Granger is my friend, and she needs my bloody help. If she opens her damn eyes, and I'm not there? She's going to lose her fucking mind. Do you understand me?"

McGonagall stood there, staring at him with her jaw agape. He saw the decisions flying past in her eyes, and he knew he had to be seconds away from detention. Or worse: expulsion.

But Draco was done messing things up. He was done standing by and watching everyone suffer. He was done taking the coward's path. He hadn't gone to Dumbledore for help when he could have saved his life. He hadn't stepped forward to stop his aunt and help Granger when she was screaming in his Drawing room. He hadn't helped support his mother when she was hiding food and staying up in the wee hours of the morning eating it.

He could regret cursing at McGonagall later.

McGonagall put her hands on her hips, her pointed hat seeming to stand straighter as she fixed Draco with a withering stare.

"No one is entering the Infirmary until I hear Professor Trelawney's report," she said through pursed lips. "Off to dinner with you, or off to your common room. I don't care which."

With a sweeping of her robes, she turned and stormed back into the Infirmary, slamming the door shut behind her. A split second passed, and then Draco leapt forward, grabbing the door handle.

A violent shocking pain reverberated up to his shoulder blade. He let out a growl, jerking backward. He massaged his upper arm, glared at the door, and conceded defeat. He was fortunate he hadn't gotten detention for his outburst.

Draco tangled his fingers in his hair, tipping his head back to scowl at the ceiling. This was fucked. This was all so fucked. If Granger woke and realized that he wasn't there . . .

His thoughts trailed off.

Granger hadn't realized he was there. She hadn't known he was inside of her memory. When she woke, would she have any idea at all? Would her memories be delayed, too? Would she even realize that she'd relived her trauma in front of the entire class?

Was he going to have to sit her down and tell her he knew?

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and trudged back down the corridor. There were too many emotions in his heart. Emotions he wasn't used to dealing with. Before the Dark Lord, he'd felt nothing but a conceited sense of pride in himself based purely upon his blood status and family name. Then, after the Dark Lord moved into the Manor, he felt only fear. After the war ended, he felt shame and when his mother died, grief.

Now he felt angry. Frantic. Needy.

He didn't want to think about the awkwardness or the consequences or the explanations that would need to be given. He wanted to be there when she woke up. He wanted her to know that he'd been there—that he'd seen everything and he'd seen how strong she was.

Because when he thought about it, that was what he'd always admired about her, and it was what had made him feel threatened when he was younger. In the face of danger—while she was being attacked—she was thinking on her feet. Offering gold to dragons and saving faeries from iron traps. Figuring out the weaknesses and strengths of her enemies and knowing when to use them.

Her strength was a trait his father always wished Draco possessed, and the more cowardly he was, the weaker his father thought he would become. Draco regretted letting that fear get in the way and control his treatment of her.

He wanted to be her friend.

She needed friends. She needed people around her who weren't going to hurt her and cheat on her. She—

Weasley.

Ron fucking Weasley.

Crackling his knuckles in an absentminded manner, Draco turned and headed for the Great Hall.

As he was stepping off the bridge between the Infirmary and the main castle, Draco was surprised to see Theo coming towards him. He looked nervous, terrified, and panicked, all at once. His robes were open and he, like Draco, seemed ignorant of how cold it was outside.

"Draco!" Theo called, skidding to a halt in front of him. "Are you—was she—"

"I didn't get to go in," Draco said, carding a furious hand through his hair. The breeze from the ravine whipped it forward into his eyes again. "McGonagall's got the doors jinxed. No one's allowed in."

Theo shot a frown behind him, towards the bridge. "What do you—I mean—what—what happened? Like, what happened? Did she—is she okay?"

"Calm down," Draco said, even though he was anything but. "If she was hurt, McGonagall would have told me."

"Well, what happened?" Theo crossed his arms over his chest.

"A spell went array in Divination. That's all. She'll probably be fine."

"No offense, but maybe McGonagall thought you were lying." Theo walked around him. "Maybe she'll let me in."

Something Draco didn't recognize—something acidic and biting—rose up like a tidal wave inside of him. His hand shot out, pressing flat to the center of Theo's chest, and he turned his head to give him a once-over.

"Don't," he said. "McGonagall said no one goes in. I'm Head Boy. If she said no to me, then she'll say no to you."

Theo looked away and when their eyes met again, he was glowering up at him.

"You're Head Boy by sheer luck, and you know it," Theo said.

Draco's mood flashed toward a fiery place. Theo was his best mate, but ever since the incidents on Friday with Granger and the Weasel, something had soured between them. Something that wasn't entirely irreparable, but that felt like one wrong step could make it so.

"Yeah, but I'm still Head Boy. And I said . . ." Draco held his gaze, raising his eyebrows. ". . . What the fuck I said. So let's go back to the castle and go to dinner."

"No." Theo wrenched himself out of Draco's grasp. "I'm sorry McGonagall won't let you in to see her, but the rules that apply to you don't apply to the rest of us. I'm your best mate and I'm happy to be, but I can't keep pretending like we didn't fight on opposite sides of the war. You chose the wrong side, and these are the consequences."

Draco felt Theo's betrayal like a thorn in his heart, and his anger—already volatile—began to boil.

"The consequences?" he bit out through clenched teeth. "What consequences? Not being able to see my friend when she might be hurt?"

Theo shook his head. "For someone who a few days ago was adamant that he didn't care, it sure seems like you care now. You can't do that. You can't just hold people at arm's-length for later. You hated her on Friday and now it's Monday, and she's your friend? And yeah. These are the consequences. You chose the wrong side, and now you don't get to go into the Infirmary and see Hermione."

Draco opened his mouth, about to respond, but Theo was already walking towards the bridge. He watched him go with ire burning hot inside of him.

Theo didn't get it. McGonagall didn't get it. They didn't understand what Granger had been through. They didn't know what Draco had seen in her memory. And neither of them could possibly know the sorts of things he'd seen with the Dark Lord living in his house.

Granger's assault wasn't the first one Draco had seen; she was just the first person that he had the strength to want to do something about the aftermath.

She wasn't going to want Theo when she opened her eyes, and she wasn't going to want McGonagall.

Draco waited there by the end of the bridge, expecting Theo to come trundling back out with his tail between his legs. But when the minutes went on and on, Draco realized with a sinking feeling that Theo might have been right.

Maybe these were the consequences.

And when he marched back to the Infirmary building, opened the door, and saw that no one was in the corridor? He knew that McGonagall had allowed Theo inside. Granger would wake to Theo by her bedside, and not him.

Why did that make him so fucking sad?


Draco fell asleep on the couch in the Head common room.

He hadn't meant to, but for some reason, the moment his head hit the pillows, exhaustion barreled into him. It was in his mind and his magical core, weighing him down into the cushions. He stretched out, crossed his ankles, and laced his fingers behind his head. All of about two seconds passed by for him to think to himself that Trelawney's "dreamwalking" nonsense must have drained his magic reserves, before he passed out.

There were no dreams this time.

He woke in the darkness to the sound of the common room portrait closing. His eyes fluttered open. The small measure of surprise he felt at the fact that the Christmas lights weren't on faded when he remembered the reason why they weren't.

And then he remembered everything else.

He sat up, his hair falling into his eyes as he did so. He could just barely make out Granger's small form in the shadows, lingering near the portrait.

The silence felt heavy.

"Hi," she said.

"Hey."

Draco looked at her shadowy form, wondering if she knew what had happened. Wondering if her memories were as dark as his. Wondering if the only reason why he was present in her memory was because of the dreams he'd been having of her for the past five years, and if that meant that she was having them, too.

He stood up.

Who was he kidding? Of course her memories were darker. She lived through it; he had only watched, a prisoner trapped.

"Are you—" he started.

"Have you—"

They stopped and started again.

"I was—"

"Did they—"

Another, longer pause.

"I'm just going to get something to eat," Granger said in a monotone. She cast the spell that turned the Christmas lights on, adding a familiar ambiance to the common room. Draco watched as she traipsed behind the couch and into the kitchenette. He heard her opening the refrigerator and getting a dish out of the cupboard.

He looked at the ground and contemplated confronting her, but what could he possibly say? What could he say to someone whose mind he had been trapped in while she was being attacked? There was no comfort he could offer her. No solace from a past nightmare.

But that was the thing, wasn't it?

The past, and the fact that he couldn't do anything about it.

If he could, he'd go back to the day the Snatchers brought her, Potter, and the Weasel to the Manor, and he'd take a stand for the right side. He'd stop his aunt, and he'd help Granger. He'd go all the way back to the day the Dark Lord tasked him with the cupboard, and he'd choose his own death. He'd go back to the first day of First Year and he'd find a way to be less conceited and more friendly.

If he could mend the past, he'd bring his mother back.

The past was certain. But the present was ever-changing. Tumultuous. Something he could influence. And in the present, he had the power and the control over his decisions. He knew that things could never be the same between him and Granger after what they'd experienced together, regardless of what happened in the present, and regardless of whether or not she knew she'd been harboring his consciousness inside of her own.

Well, they could stay the same. If he wanted them to.

But did he want them to stay the same? Could they? Could he walk the halls of Hogwarts knowing that no matter how safe they were, Granger would never be able to feel that same measure of safety? Salazar, did she even feel safe with him in the common room?

That made his stomach churn. He could never—would never—hurt her like that. He'd done some reprehensible things in his life, but nothing like that.

His thoughts were all over the place, and he wasn't sure how much Granger remembered, but he knew he couldn't waste any time. He needed to talk to her about it. Tonight. Now.

He needed her to know she didn't have to feel as alone as he did.

Draco sighed and dragged his hands through his sleep-ruffled hair, heading towards the kitchen. He shouldered the edge of the wall between the sitting room and the kitchenette, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her stir some sort of pasta in a bowl. He was six-foot-four, but he felt like he was eight feet tall. Granger was so small.

Perhaps she just looked that way now that he worried about her.

"Granger."

Her shoulders jumped. She whirled around, a dripping spoon in one hand and her wand in the other. With a hard swallow, she nodded to him.

"Did you need the kitchen? I'll be done in a minute."

"No," he murmured, studying her face and trying not to remember the feeling of her cheek scraping against the brick wall of that building. "I wanted to talk."

Something shifted in her eyes, which she averted from his. She turned back to the pasta.

"About the failed charm in Divination? I think it was my fault. I was fatigued, and Professor Trelawney said—"

"Not about that."

She cleared her throat. "Ah, well . . . I did hear that Headmistress McGonagall wouldn't let you into the Infirmary. I must admit, I didn't believe her when she said you were out there."

"Why?" Draco said, his voice a bit hoarse from slumber. "And which part was unbelievable?"

"The part where you came to visit," she said, lifting the bowl and taking a bite. She turned, cheeks round with pasta, and talked around a mouthful. "Why would you visit me?"

Draco raised one brow. "We both passed out. Maybe I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Granger snorted and took another bite. "A comedian in Slytherin? That's a first."

"And yet there's a comedian in Gryffindor." He narrowed his eyes. "Her jokes could use some work."

"Come off it." She took a third bite, chewing fast and sloppy. "And yes, I know we both passed out. Perhaps it was something in the charm."

"Perhaps."

Except it wasn't. It couldn't be. If it were, everyone in the class would have passed out and walked each other's dreams. Only Draco and Granger had experienced the phenomenon. Now, he just had to figure out if he was the only person who remembered it.

"In any case, I'm sorry she wouldn't let you in. When she assigned you as Head Boy, it wasn't because she thought we were friends. It was because she wanted me to keep an eye on you. Whether we're friends or not, she couldn't possibly know if we don't report it to her."

"I don't need to report anything to anyone," Draco said, forcing himself not to snap the words out. "Have a nice visit with Theo, though?"

"Yes, he was lovely. I'm just sorry you couldn't come in. I just don't think it's believable to anyone that we would be friends."

Something inside of Draco's stomach jerked, and he frowned. He didn't know what to name the emotion—he just knew he was a little bit brassed off at Theo. They weren't seeing eye-to-eye.

"Well, we are," he said, the words falling out of his lips. It wasn't until he said them that he realized it was true. He supposed it hadn't felt as real when they were still just thoughts. But now, it was real.

They were friends.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Stop that." He frowned. "Stop apologizing."

Her response was to eat more. He watched her, the Christmas lights from behind him the only illumination in the kitchenette. Her curls looked limper than usual, and her clothes were rumpled. He was sure it was because she'd been in the Infirmary for hours, depending on what time it was.

She sure could eat.

Draco didn't know how to broach the subject of August 17th, 1998. What if she didn't know he'd been in her memory? What if him bringing it up just made things worse? Maybe she knew she'd relived the memory, but wasn't aware that he'd been there?

"I've got to use the loo," Granger said, setting her bowl on the counter. "Have a good night."

Draco eyed the bowl. Before today, he would have reamed her out for not putting it into the sink and using a charm to set it to wash. But now, he couldn't bring himself to do it. She'd been through enough, hadn't she? He could wash the damn bowl.

He did so as the sound of the bathroom door shutting echoed into the room.

No. He couldn't just pretend like nothing happened. He couldn't pretend he didn't know. He couldn't even look at her without remembering it—remembering how she'd tried to reason with the man by offering herself up to him in other ways. How she pleaded with the man to wait, as though she understood there was no way out and just wanted to gain some sort of control back.

He couldn't act like everything wasn't completely fucking upside-down now. How could he? How could he when he just wanted to . . .

Draco closed his eyes, placed his wet hands on the edge of the sink, and hung his head.

He wanted to hold her, and it felt like a release to admit it to himself. He'd never before wanted to hold anyone other than his mother, but he wanted to hold Granger. If she would let him, he'd hold her for as long as she needed to understand that no one was ever going to do that to her again.

Because Draco would never take a witch's wand from her, let alone Hermione Granger's wand. The fact that Weasley had not only gone back to the hotel room to drop off her bag, but had opened it, held the wand, and left it there?

His fingers pressed into the sink, hard.

He wanted to find Weasley and show him what it felt like to be without his wand. He wanted to rip it out of his hands and snap it in half. Then, he wanted to slam his fist into his face over and over again, until he was unrecognizable. Draco wanted Weasley to suffer ten thousand years for every time Granger had to wash herself in the shower that night. For every minute she spent lying awake, staring at the ugly wallpaper with her wand clutched to her chest like a security blanket.

He was so fucking angry.

Draco dried his hands with a towel by the sink, not bothering to use his wand for any of it. He went to his room and changed into a pair of grey trackies and a white V-neck tee, and then he sat down on the edge of his bed. He traced the memorized outlines of some of the tattoos on his right arm with his fingertips, gazing at his bookshelf until it blurred.

He had to talk to her.

Standing up, he went back out into the hall. The door to the loo was still closed, yellow light filtering out beneath it. She'd only been in there for fifteen minutes and according to her track record, she had at least thirty more to go. He didn't know what she did in there, but something told him that it had to do with what happened in Paris.

Draco sat down on the floor with his back to the wall beside the bathroom door. His legs bent up to his chest, arms on his knees, and one hand gripping the opposite wrist, he settled in. He tipped his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes.

Forty minutes later, the door opened and the light clicked off.

Draco, who had been dozing, jolted awake. He looked up at her, his hair in his eyes.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi." Her brow furrowed. "What are you doing? Did you need to use the loo?"

"Nah," he said, yawning and rubbing his eye with the side of one fist. He stood up, towering over her in the small hallway. "I told you I wanted to talk to you."

The lights in the sitting room cast flickering shadows across her face. Her curls were piled atop her head. She looked exhausted.

"There's nothing to talk about," she said. "I want to go to bed."

Draco felt the last vestiges of his drowsiness dissipating.

Did she remember?

"I don't want you to go to bed," he said, trying to make eye contact with her. "I want you to talk to me."

Her eyes widened, gaze darting down to take in the sight of his tattoos—his neck, his exposed chest above the low neckline of his shirt, his biceps and forearms—and then it lifted back up again.

"I know you're used to getting what you want, Malfoy," she said, tone icy, "but I need to go to bed. I don't have anything to say to you."

She turned to go and without thinking, Draco's hand shot out. He was aiming for her hand, but he missed and grabbed her wrist. There was a moment where he was surprised at how cold her skin was under his own, and then she was whipping around with her other hand up.

Crack.

She slapped him.

Again.

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, her tone shrill. "Don't touch me, don't talk to me, and don't be my friend!"

Draco blinked down at her, his cheek stinging. He rubbed his chin, letting out a mirthless laugh. He was angry. Angry that she'd slapped him. Angry at how helpless he felt. But mostly, angry that he was right.

She remembered.

"All right," he said, nodding. "Chill, yeah?"

"Chill? Don't tell me to chill!"

"Ay!" He raised his voice. "You just fucking slapped me."

Granger hesitated, lifting one hand as though she were going to reach for him. She drew it back to her chest, and the ire in her face faded into a crestfallen look that Draco couldn't place. She lowered her gaze and when she spoke again, her voice sounded defeated.

"Good night."

"Tch. Yeah," he said, cracking his neck.

She turned and walked back to her room. Right as her hand closed around the knob, Draco called to her.

"If you have any nightmares, my door's unlocked. Or you can call my name." He lowered his chin and viewed her through his lashes. "I'm a light sleeper."

To his surprise, she said, "Okay."

"But if you slap me again? I won't be so nice."

"Okay. I . . . I won't do it again." She sounded like all of the air and steam had rushed out of her. She couldn't even look him in the eyes. He wondered if it was because she knew he knew about her past. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" he murmured, taking a step closer. A curl was in her eyes. For some reason unknown to himself, he wanted to move it.

"Yes," she whispered. "I am."

"Good," he said, and then he sighed. The fire of his anger left him, and he accepted the small win. It wasn't the talk he'd imagined, but it was something. He scratched the back of his head and then curved his hand around the back of his neck to massage it. "Good girl. That's good. Go to bed."

She stared at him like a Hippogriff caught in lumos light, and then practically threw herself into her bedroom.

Draco tore his gaze off of her closed bedroom door a few moments later and went into his own dorm. He fell into his bed, hoping that he didn't have any nightmares of his own.