The door swung shut, echoing dully against the stone walls. Draco's eyes flickered over the space where she had stood, as if waiting for her to materialize out of the still air. The room seemed to hold its breath alongside him.
Granger.
He'd thought he would be alone here—he was always alone here—this was the one, the one place where he was supposed to be alone. The Room's magic wasn't supposed to you in if there was already someone inside. A sudden wave of hot betrayal rushed to his chest and he kicked the stone tiles, sending a stab of pain through his toe. Idiot.
And of all people, that—
It was on the edge of his lips, but somehow the insult didn't carry its old fire. He still heard his father throw the word around when they passed Muggleborns shopping in Diagon Alley, but there was something…diminished…in his Slytherin pride. These days looking in the mirror felt like gazing at an old photograph, faded and unreal. He kept searching for something familiar in his own reflection.
She hadn't even looked at him.
Her dismissal, the tense grasp on her wand, the way he could feel her itching to get away from him. Like he was some sort of insect, a virus she didn't want to breathe in. How ridiculous that a Mud-
This time it was harder to catch himself.
He'd known the Transitional Programme would be a useless waste of time, populated with preaching Hufflepuffs and Dumbledore's old pets. Granger was an obvious choice, Longbottom barely less so. He'd been surprised to see Blaise waiting for him at the long table, but he wasn't sure he'd call the other Slytherin a friend. For want of any better company they sat together at meals, but Draco found silence more and more comfortable.
He paced, covering the distance from the fire to the door in a few paces. The Room felt small today, like it had invented a cage just for him. It pressed him closer to the wood door, but he didn't want to think about entrances and exits. Let her come. What was one more annoyance in the string of headaches.
A glance of white against the dark stone stopped him. Bending to pick up the scrap of paper, Draco unfolded a small photograph, faded in the center where it had been folded and unfolded countless times. Three faces stared back at him, their arms wrapped around each other, smiling at the camera.
Granger, Potter, and Weasley stood in front of a small tent, evening falling behind them in a forest he didn't recognize. Potter and Weasley were unshaven. Granger looked tired, thinner than he remembered, but she smiled as she unwound her arm from Potter's shoulder. They jostled and readjusted, posing for the photo. Granger stumbled and clung to Potter's arm; the three leaned together in a laughing heap. The tiny Weasley looked at him and stuck out its tongue, disappearing from the frame.
Something moved in his chest, a heavy weight constricting. Draco closed his fist over the photo, creasing it hard against the center line. On the brink of dropping it back where he found it, he stuffed it in the inside pocket of his robes. Rubbing his thumb hard over his palm, he resisted the urge to crumple the tiny photograph where it sat inside the fabric.
Just as suddenly, the heat drained out of him, leaving him heavy and tired. Slowly, he wandered away from the door, across the stretch of room that suddenly felt impossibly long and cold. Settling himself back in front of the fire, he crossed his legs and pressed his palms against the heat of his eyelids.
He couldn't recall what had made him come back to the Room of Requirement that first September evening. Now it felt like he found himself here every night, staring into the fire for hours on end. The dark circles under his eyes warned him that he needed sleep, but it wasn't worth the hours of lying awake staring blankly at the green hangings over his bed. Better to sit here, awake, and at least have the silence of the Room.
The fire cast its gold glow over his face, and in a moment he was back. Flames licked his face, unbearable, devouring. Great beasts rose above his head, dragons and hounds, their fangs dripping with heat. Towers of furniture crashed, scalding and deafening, tongues of fire reaching out to grasp him, Crabbe's face twisting in the inferno—
Draco closed his eyes, pressing his palms against his lids. The cool of his hands soothed his aching head, but the red tongues of Fiendfyre burned against the inside of his eyelids. There would be no point sleeping tonight.