From the doorway, Goyle asked, "What's that?".
"Magic," he snapped, the carving retracted and disappeared.
"What kind of magic?"
Draco slammed the stall door behind him, "your mother dropped you on your head; you wouldn't understand even if I tried to explain." He viciously told himself it was true even though Goyle's distress at Katie Bell's accident had been excessive. "You're so stupid you can barely levitate a feather."
Accident, accident.
He occluded and breathed. He hadn't meant to do it.
He thought of Goyle lingering outside the infirmary, not daring to knock, eventually being chased away by Madam Pomfrey. She had been furious at the Slytherin who's crooked grin she'd mistaken for gloating.
It refused to occur to him that Goyle had been taken aback by the implication of the initials.
As the weeks passed, the gentle pull reminding Draco of his commitment didn't go away, but it was nothing compared to the dread that had settled in his stomach like a stone.
He was terrified no matter how he occluded - clinging to the distraction of Hermione was the only thing that let him sleep at night. He fantasised about her talking to him like there wasn't a barbed wire fence between them. For Potter and Weasley, there was nothing outside her power to absolve. Why not for him?
During the daytime, he fought it and made himself face what he must do and focus on the glory it would bring, and he started going to the garden pavilion every day when he wasn't in The Room of Hidden Things. He had things to do, and it was warm, quiet and safe.
Draco had entered the room tentatively the first few days, sometimes with a crooked grin which could have been mistaken for malevolence, later confidently, knowing that Hermione wouldn't be there. He did his homework, studied Magical Furnishings and the Ways in Which they Break, Travelling From Neither Here Nor There; Madam Pince had even turned up a ridiculous story about children falling through a closet into a magical world.
The first Tuesday, Draco stopped at the door and stood there, outside the room, running his finger over the crack in the heart. He stood there until his feet started to ache.
He was deep in his notes from a conversation with Burke, comparing them to I Sent an Apple From the Cold Storage to the Kitchen Pantry, An Autobiography of a Magical Housekeeper when the hinges creaked open and closed. He sat up, but he didn't turn around. His chest was tight again, and the flames from the fire danced and made him dizzy.
"Malfoy?"
Her voice was uncertain. Draco swayed when he got up too quickly.
He thought, she's not supposed to be uncertain; she had been hurt, and he had promised. His hands were shaking like before.
The chair scraped against the floor when he gracelessly tripped on his way toward her. Stumbling forward and grasping for her, he knew the faerie charm was for him, not for her; it was for the ones who needed to be needed.
Draco pressed her cheek against his chest. His mouth was full of her angry cat tail hair when heavy sobs started tearing at her body. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and insult her, but instead, he pressed her firmly against his chest so she wouldn't rip apart.
"Do you not know what a comb is?" His heart beat so hard he thought it might burst.
"Fight me, Granger," and she cried harder and wrapped her arms around his waist. She had made up with the weasel long since; the wholesome trio haunted the castle yet again. He didn't know why the room still existed or why the blue thread still tied them together. He had no idea why she was here or why she let him hold her.
So he sat down in one of the deep chairs by the fire and pulled her onto his lap. He held on to her as if she was dying, and only by holding her tightly enough could he save her.