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Hermione is making her way from the Room of Requirement down towards the Great Hall when she sees a flash of silver in the sixth-floor corridor.
She pauses on the staircase and squints down the hallway.
Someone is slumped against the wall by the boys’ bathroom—someone in Slytherin green and silver with distinctive pale hair.
Hermione takes another step down the staircase. Hovers her foot over the next and then sighs. Turns and steps off the staircase and heads down the corridor.
He doesn’t lift his head as she slowly approaches. His face is behind his knees—his wand has rolled away from his feet—his hands are holding onto his wrists as though he’s trying to fold himself as small as possible.
Hermione chews her bottom lip and crouches down in front of him. Reaches out a hand towards and then snatches it back.
“Draco?” she asks in the soft tone of voice she’d use for a stray kitten or lost child. “Are you—”
His head jerks up and she sees the tearstains on his cheeks—the redness of his eyes—the panic as he stares at her and his mouth opens and then closes again.
“Oh,” Hermione says, the answer to her unfinished question instantly obvious. She glances away as he lifts his arm and sniffles—rubs his forearm across his eyes—and picks up his wand between two careful fingers. “You dropped your wand.”
She holds it out towards him, and he snatches it roughly away without meeting her gaze. His throat bobs as he swallows—Hermione isn’t sure what else to say—he clears his throat and takes a shaky breath.
“Do you…” Hermione trails off as she glances towards the bathroom door. “Should I get Madam Pomfrey? Professor Slughorn?”
He shakes his head. “Just go away,” he rasps.
Hermione hesitates. Draco hasn’t made any signs of getting up—she wonders how long he’s been out here—if she leaves, will he just go back to trying to disappear into the wall?
The thought makes her heart twist with unwanted sympathy. Hermione sighs and extends her hand towards him.
Draco stares at it as though her fingers are coated in bubotuber pus.
“Come with me for a minute,” she says, keeping her hand steady. “I want to show you something.”
He frowns at her and gets to his feet without accepting her help. Hermione rolls her eyes as she stands. He licks his lips and fidgets with his wand before sliding it into his robe pocket.
“Show me what?” he asks in a rough voice.
“Come on.” Hermione takes a step and waits for him to catch up. His scowl deepens as he follows beside her—though beside is a bit of a stretch when he’s almost a meter away.
“If this is some stupid trick,” he mutters as she leads them up the staircase.
“It isn’t.” Hermione glances towards him and is strangely relieved to see him scowling. He looks a little more like himself and less like some devastated stranger in a hallway.
He scoffs and shoves his hands into his robe pockets. “Whatever.”
She walks briskly past the Room of Requirement—hears his hitched breath and hurried steps—continues down the corridor and up another flight of stairs that never seem to end. Her legs ache by the time they make it to the landing—she’s slightly surprised he kept up—and she gestures towards the end of the corridor.
“No one ever comes up here,” she says. “And there’s a mural in this room.”
The door is tucked behind an out-of-place pillar—she’d only found it by accident—she swings it open and gestures Draco in first.
He hesitates, glancing between her and the door. Pulls his wand out and narrows his eyes.
“It’s not a trick,” Hermione says as she rolls her eyes. “Look.” She points impatiently to the far side of the room.
Draco’s gaze follows her hand and his lips part slightly as he takes in the mural. Hermione allows herself one smug smile as she follows him into the room and closes the door behind them.
Perhaps it’s a little cliché to be so enamoured by the stars—the swirl of a galaxy smeared in watercolour—but there’s something about the glittering mural that calms Hermione’s mind. Reminds her what peace feels like.
Draco moves towards the wall—lifts his fingers to the glowing stars—his pale hair reflects the shifting pastels from the galaxies.
She studies his face more than the stars, fascinated by the softening of his expression—the cautious wonder—the self-conscious way he glances back towards her and sneers.
“Is that it?” he mutters, flicking his hair out of his eyes with his fingertips. “Hardly anything special.”
Hermione rolls her eyes at his affectation. It’s hardly believable when he immediately glances back to the starry wall behind him.
“You can’t fool me, Malfoy,” Hermione says mildly as she tucks her wayward hair behind her ears. “I’m glad you like it.”
She’d half meant it as a jab, but as the words hang between them, she realises that she is pleased. Hermione glances towards the surging galaxies and tries not to notice Draco’s face—his surprised expression—the way he scoffs and turns away from her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks after an awkward silent minute.
“No.” His reply is sharp. Instantaneous.
“It might help,” Hermione points out. “Letting it out.”
“Yeah?” He turns to look at her—brows furrowed in anger, his lips twisting in a sneer. “Is talking about it going to bring Vincent back? Going to stop me having nightmares about fire?” He takes a step forward—she takes one back—he lifts his hands as though he wants to strike her. “Think I’ll be able to go to the fucking bathroom if I talk about it?”
He heaves a breath—Hermione’s throat is dry; her head is spinning with useless platitudes—he lowers his hands with a disgusted scoff. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”
Hermione swallows and licks her lips. Clears her throat awkwardly. “It won’t—I mean—” she falters as he turns to glare at her. “It won’t change anything,” she says softly, trying not to wilt under the force of his stare, “but it might be better than crying alone in a deserted corridor.”
Draco’s expression hardens—he opens his mouth—
“You won’t know unless you try.” Hermione turns on her heel—prepared to storm off and leave him there—stops when she hears his voice.
“Who am I supposed to talk to?” Draco whispers.
She glances over her shoulder—sees him staring at the mural with such despair on his face that she can’t just leave. Hermione chews at her bottom lip and exhales a soft sigh.
“Well,” she says as she turns back. “You could talk to me.”