Chapter 3
Her nails left bloody trails on the stone floor. She couldn't remember when she had started scratching—perhaps when the second Cruciatus Curse hit her body, or maybe the third. She was only certain that her fingers, now injured and bleeding, still desperately sought anchorage in a reality she no longer recognised.
"Enough playing," Bellatrix Lestrange's voice cut through the air like a whip. "Let's move on to more serious matters, Mudblood."
A swish of the wand. One short spell. And suddenly Hermione was suspended in mid-air, her body stretched as if on an invisible rack. Every muscle taut to its limits, every nerve exposed.
"I'll ask nicely one last time," Bellatrix stepped closer, her mad eyes gleaming in the torchlight like those of a wild animal. "Where is Potter? What are you planning?"
Hermione clenched her teeth so hard that she felt one of them crack. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, but she didn't answer. Silence was the only weapon she had left.
"Very well," Bellatrix shrugged with feigned indifference. "We'll do this the hard way."
A sudden slash of the wand and the first word appeared on Hermione's forearm. Blood flowed from the wounds, forming letters. M-U-D-B-L-O-O-D. Each letter was an explosion of pain, each cut deeper than the last.
Hermione screamed. She couldn't help it. Her throat burned from the effort, her lungs desperately gasped for air, and black spots swirled before her eyes.
"I have all night," the witch murmured, examining her handiwork with sick fascination. "And plenty of space on your filthy body."
Another cut. This time on her arm. Then on her leg. Methodical. Precise. Like an artist's signature on their work.
Hermione no longer screamed. She had no strength for it. Her consciousness drifted somewhere beyond her body, beyond the pain, beyond fear. Her eyes, though open, no longer saw Bellatrix. They saw nothing. Only a momentary flash of fair hair, which disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
"I think we're losing her, Bella," a voice came from far away, deep, male. Rodolphus? Yaxley? She could no longer tell. "We can't kill her. The Dark Lord..."
"She won't die," Bellatrix replied with irritation. "Not yet. I still have a few ideas."
Another wave of pain. Somewhere on the edge of consciousness, Hermione heard her own voice—thin, weak, barely recognisable: "Harry... Harry no.."
"So you are communicating with him?" Bellatrix was immediately beside her, her face so close that Hermione could feel her warm breath on her cheeks. "How? Where is he?"
Hermione didn't answer. She couldn't. Her mind was drifting further and further away, protecting itself from reality.
"Bring in the blood traitor," she ordered, frustration ringing in her voice. "Perhaps the sight of his suffering will loosen her tongue."
* * *
She was awakened by an owl—a small, brown barn owl impatiently tapping its beak against the window. Hermione opened her eyes, for a moment not understanding what had woken her. Then she heard that insistent sound—tap, tap, tap—so different from the dripping in the dungeon that had been pounding in her head.
For the first time in years, she woke up feeling rested. No nightmares. No screams. No images of dying Ron that remained beneath her eyelids long after waking.
Her gaze fell on the empty vial lying on the bedside table. Malfoy's potion. It had worked. This thought evoked in her a mixture of relief and anger. Again, she owed him something. Again, she depended on him.
She got out of bed, feeling her muscles protest after yesterday's... meeting. The owl impatiently tapped again. Hermione approached the window, opening it with one jerk. The small bird flew inside, dropping onto her hand a rolled piece of parchment with the official Ministry seal.
Hermione,
Come to my office as soon as possible. It's urgent.
Harry
She put the letter down, glancing at the clock. Six thirty. At this hour, Harry should be at home with Ginny and James. Something must have happened.
She stood under the shower, allowing the hot water to flow over her body. Washing away the traces of last night, washing away the touch of his hands, washing away the smell of his skin, which seemed to permeate her every cell. She scrubbed her skin until it reddened from the force of her touch.
She looked at herself in the mirror when she came out of the bathroom. The shadows under her eyes were smaller than usual. Her eyes clearer. The only difference after one night without nightmares. She concealed the scarlet mark on her neck—a remnant of her meeting with Draco—with the high collar of her dress.
Forty minutes later she was already traversing the Ministry corridors. The early hour meant it was almost empty—just a few maintenance staff and two Aurors from the night shift, who nodded to her as she passed. Her footsteps echoed off the marble floors, rhythmic and determined, masking the anxiety she felt.
Harry's office was on the second level, deep along a corridor filled with magical windows, which this morning showed a cloudless, summer sky—a stark contrast to the inner unease she felt.
The door to the office was ajar. She pushed it open without knocking.
Harry stood by his desk, in an unbuttoned Auror robe, his hair in even greater disarray than usual. He looked as if he had been suddenly called from home—he was still wearing his house shoes, and his robe was thrown over regular clothes.
"Hermione," he greeted her, straightening up. "Thanks for coming so quickly."
"What happened?" she asked without preamble.
"Padma Patil," he replied, his voice low and tense. "A cleaner found her this morning in her office. She was lying unconscious at her desk."
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Padma Patil—always so organised, always so full of energy. They had met just last week at an interdepartmental meeting.
"What happened?" she asked quietly, gripping the edge of Harry's desk. "Some spell? An attack?"
Harry shook his head, running his fingers through his hair—a gesture that always betrayed his frustration.
"We don't know. Aurors are in her office now. No signs of a break-in, no signs of a struggle. She just... lay there, as if she had fallen asleep. But she can't be woken up."
"Where is she now?"
"At St Mungo's. They took her there immediately. The Ministry has already notified Parvati."
"We'll go there," Hermione stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. It wasn't a suggestion, but a decision. "We need to find out what happened. If this is some kind of attack on Ministry employees..."
Harry nodded. "I thought exactly the same thing. We need to be careful, but also act quickly."
His face suddenly hardened, and his gaze became intense—it was a look she knew too well. The look of Harry Potter who had found a trail and wasn't going to abandon it.
"We'll Apparate there," he said, grabbing his cloak. "The sooner we find out what's going on, the better."
Hermione nodded, following him towards the Apparition point. In her head, she was already making a list of possible causes—curses, poisons, rare magical diseases. But one thing was certain—no Ministry employee simply fell asleep at their desk, never to wake up again.
Something was very wrong here. And she intended to find out exactly what.
St Mungo's welcomed them as always—with a crowded hall full of wizards and witches with various magical ailments. A wizard with green spots on his face that kept changing shape. An elderly witch whose hair, turned into snakes, hissed at passing patients. A child levitating several centimetres above the floor, while his desperate mother tried to pull him down.
Harry walked confidently to the reception, showing his Head Auror badge. The young witch in lime-green Healer's robes immediately straightened up.
"Padma Patil," Harry said, not wasting time on pleasantries. "Brought in this morning from the Ministry of Magic."
"Fourth floor, room number seven," she replied hastily. "Healer Chang is attending to her."
Hermione followed Harry to the lift, ignoring the looks from other patients. Fourth floor—Spell Damage ward. That's where the most difficult cases always ended up. Hermione remembered it well from the war years—full of victims of dark magic, spells that couldn't be reversed. The place where Neville's parents lay.
A solitary figure stood outside room number seven—Parvati Patil, her normally flawless appearance now neglected, hair gathered in a careless bun, robes wrinkled as if she had slept in them all night.
"Harry, Hermione," she greeted them, her voice low and tired. "Thanks for coming."
"What are the Healers saying?" Harry asked.
"Not much." Parvati shook her head. "Her body is fine—no injuries, no signs of poisoning. But she's unconscious and... they can't wake her up."
Hermione moved closer, placing her hand on Parvati's shoulder. "Can we see her?"
She nodded, leading them into the room. Padma lay on a bed in the middle of the room, her face peaceful, as if she were simply sleeping. Only the rapid, chaotic movements of her eyes beneath her eyelids betrayed that something was wrong.
"Healer Chang says her mind is active," Parvati explained, standing at her sister's bedside. "Too active. As if she were trapped in some intense thought cycle."
Hermione moved closer, examining Padma carefully. Her breathing was even, but shallow. On the table beside the bed lay various vials of potions—the Healers' attempts to wake her.
"When did you last speak with her?" she asked, turning to Parvati.
"The day before yesterday. I dropped by her office. She was working on some important project for the Ministry. Something about standardising the trade of potion ingredients."
Harry moved closer, his eyes narrowed, analysing.
"How was she behaving recently? Did you notice anything strange?"
Parvati hesitated, pressing her lips together.
"She was... unusually focused. Padma was always diligent, but lately it was something more. She worked for days and nights. When I visited her, she had notes on her desk written in such tiny handwriting that I could barely read them."
The door to the room opened and Healer Chang entered—a tall, thin man with sharp facial features and an attentive gaze.
"Mr Potter, Miss Granger," he nodded. "I expected the Ministry would send someone. This is... an unusual case."
"What can you tell us about her condition?" Harry asked.
Chang sighed, looking at his notes.
"Miss Patil is physically healthy. No injuries, no traces of curses or spells. But her mind shows unusual activity—as if it were in a constant state of analysis, without the ability to stop. This leads to brain overwork, a condition similar to a coma."
"Could it be a natural ailment?" Hermione asked. "Stress? Overwork?"
"Possible, but unlikely. Normally the brain would shut down on its own, would fall into normal sleep. Here we're dealing with something different."
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances.
"Are you conducting any tests?" Harry asked.
"Of course. We're checking all standard procedures. Analysing her blood, magical signature, everything that might give us a clue."
"Meanwhile, can we take a look at her office?" Hermione asked. "Maybe we'll find something that helps understand what happened to her."
"Aurors are already there," Harry replied. "But yes, we can go."
Parvati looked at them pleadingly. "Find out what happened to her. Please."
Hermione nodded, squeezing her hand.
"We'll do everything in our power," she promised. "Padma is strong. She'll come back to us."
After leaving the hospital, they Apparated directly to the Ministry. Padma's office was on the third level—a spacious, elegant room full of books and parchments. Two Aurors were already examining her documents, carefully checking every drawer, every volume on the shelf.
"Have you found anything?" Harry asked.
"Nothing special, boss," one of the Aurors responded. "Normal Ministry documents, meeting notes, correspondence..."
"Her notes from the last few days are rather... intense," added the second Auror, handing Harry several parchments. "I've never seen anyone write so small and so much."
Hermione moved closer to look over Harry's shoulder. Padma's handwriting, usually neat and legible, was now microscopic, dense, covering every centimetre of parchment. Some pages even had notes written at different angles, as if the author didn't want to waste even a bit of free space.
"This is... abnormal," Hermione admitted. "As if her mind was working so quickly that her hand could barely keep up."
Her gaze fell on Padma's desk. Perfectly organised, every object in its place. Too perfect. Like an obsession with perfection.
She ran her fingers over the desktop, examining every centimetre. Something was missing here, she felt it. Something must have caused this condition in Padma—a person so intelligent and disciplined didn't suddenly fall into a coma without cause.
"Harry," she turned to her friend, "why did you actually send for me? I'm the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, not a Healer."
Harry sighed, running his fingers through his hair.
"Padma was working on a project that was supposed to go to your department," he said. "New regulations regarding the import of rare ingredients. I thought it might be relevant."
"Just that?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. She knew Harry too well to believe that was the only reason.
Harry hesitated for a moment.
"And I wanted you to be here," he finally admitted. "As Head of Aurors I can conduct an investigation, but... Hermione, we both know you're the most intelligent person I know. I need your perspective. Your logic."
"You think this is something serious," she stated rather than asked.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "The Healers don't know what happened. No traces of spells, no curses. But someone who is healthy and in full strength doesn't suddenly fall into a coma."
Hermione nodded, biting her lower lip—a gesture that always betrayed her intense thinking.
"Fine," she decided. "I'll help you. But I need more information. All her notes, correspondence, task lists. And I want to talk to everyone who had contact with her in the last few days."
"Of course," Harry agreed. "My Aurors are already working on it."
She looked once more at Padma's desk, at those obsessively meticulous notes, at the perfect order.
"Something happened here," she said quietly. "And I intend to find out exactly what."
Harry nodded, and in his eyes appeared that familiar spark—a determination that Hermione knew so well. Determination that always appeared when they faced a mystery.
"That's precisely why you're here," he replied. "Because I know you won't rest until you find answers."
Hermione spent the next few hours reviewing Padma's documents. Harry returned to the Auror Office to coordinate the investigation, leaving her alone with three boxes full of parchments that the Aurors had confiscated from Padma's office.
She sat at an empty desk in the corner of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, laid out the documents in perfectly even stacks, and began methodically reviewing each one. Her hands were steady, her movements precise, her face betraying no emotion. The perfect mask of a professional that she wore daily at the Ministry.
It's amazing how well I can pretend that everything is alright, she thought, reviewing another report. How perfectly I function, while inside everything is falling apart.
The room was quiet, most of the department's employees either working elsewhere or widely avoiding the room where she sat. Hermione Granger, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, commanded respect bordering on fear. Cold, ruthless, always composed.
Padma's last report concerned international standards for importing rare potion ingredients. A detailed analysis of legal loopholes, a chart illustrating the increase in illegal imports in recent months, proposals for new regulations.
"I wonder what Draco would say if he saw what I'm working on"—this thought came from nowhere, uninvited and unwanted. Draco Malfoy, currently one of the largest importers of potion ingredients in Great Britain. Draco Malfoy, the man who yesterday pressed her against the wall of a seedy motel, whispering humiliating words between kisses that tasted like fire and ash.
She shook her head, driving away that memory. Not now. She couldn't allow herself to be distracted.
Padma's correspondence was arranged chronologically and thematically. Hermione reviewed the letters from recent weeks, looking for something unusual. Most concerned work—dry, factual exchanges of information with officials from different countries.
A bitter thought crossed her mind: When was the last time I received a letter that wasn't about work? Apart from black roses from Malfoy and that one from Molly. Even Harry and Ginny stopped trying to invite me after I refused for the tenth time.
Hermione glanced at the clock—it was already five. She had spent three hours reviewing papers, and her head was beginning to throb with a dull ache. A familiar signal that it was time for another dose of Calming Draught. Her hand automatically wandered to the pocket of her robes.
Not here, she scolded herself mentally. Not at the Ministry. I'll hold out until I get home.
But would she really hold out? Her fingers trembled slightly, the pulsing intensified. Drip, drip, drip. The sound of dripping. Like then, in the dungeon. Like then, when Ron was dying.
"Ron? Ron?! RON!"
He wasn't answering. Just that accursed dripping of water on the stone floor. Drip, drip, drip. And then Bellatrix Lestrange's laughter, high and insane, echoing off the damp walls.
Hermione sharply inhaled, tearing herself from the memory. Her hand clenched around the vial in her pocket. Just one drop. No one would notice. No one had to know.
She should stop. Focus on Padma. On the documents. On the facts.
She returned to reviewing the papers, forcing herself to concentrate completely. Padma's last report, dated the day before yesterday, contained a handwritten note in the corner: "Meeting with Nott, went well, but licences need checking." Theodore Nott, another Slytherin from her year. Now the owner of a company exporting magical ingredients from Asia.
Why does it always have to be Slytherins? she thought bitterly.
"Do you have any news?"—Harry stood in the doorway, his face tired, but his eyes alert.
"Nothing specific," she answered, straightening up. "Padma was working on new regulations for importing rare ingredients. She had a meeting with Theodore Nott two days ago."
"Nott?" Harry frowned. "We'll check him out."
"It might be nothing," said Hermione. "Just an industry consultation. But worth checking."
Harry perched on the edge of the desk, studying her carefully.
"Is everything all right? You look tired."
You look like you need another dose, corrected the voice in her head.
"Just a long day," she replied, forcing herself to smile. "And I'm worried about Padma."
Harry nodded, though his eyes still studied her face. He was always too observant. Too caring. If he knew where she went after work, whom she met, what she did to forget everything... If he knew that his best friend, the model Ministry official, was an emotional wreck who functioned only thanks to calming potions and occasional, humiliating meetings with Draco Malfoy...
"Go home, rest," said Harry, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Tomorrow first thing in the morning we'll go to St Mungo's, they might have some new information."
Hermione nodded, gathering her notes.
"Good. Tomorrow morning."
When Harry left, she allowed herself a moment of weakness. She rested her forehead against the cool surface of the desk, closed her eyes, and allowed the tears, which she had kept in check all day, to flow down her cheeks. Tears for Padma. Tears for Ron. Tears for herself and what she had become.
One minute. Two. Three. She couldn't allow herself any more. She stood up, wiped her face, adjusted her robes. The mask returned to its place—perfect, impenetrable. Hermione Granger, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the woman everyone feared, walked out of the office with confident steps, nodding to the employees she encountered.
No one needed to know that the first place she would go after leaving the Ministry wouldn't be her home, but a seedy motel in the Muggle part of London, where Draco Malfoy was waiting for her. No one needed to know that in the inner pocket of her robes was a small black rose with another address.
No one needed to know that Hermione Granger, war heroine, top student at Hogwarts, Harry Potter's right hand, was falling apart. And no one needed to know that in her bag, next to Padma's documents, rested a small vial of potion that allowed her to forget—if only for a moment—about everything.
* * *
"You look terrible, Granger."
Malfoy's cool voice cut through the air of the motel room. His gaze surveyed her from head to toe with a mixture of contempt and something else—something she could never quite define.
"Bad day," she replied curtly, tossing her bag onto the stained carpet.
"You always have bad days." There was no sympathy in it, just a factual statement. "That's why you keep coming here."
He was right.
He moved closer. The collar of his shirt was creased, and on the white fabric was a barely noticeable trace of lipstick. Dark. Expensive. On his neck, just below his ear, she noticed a mark of similar color. When he took another step toward her, she detected the scent. Sweet, floral, intense. Elegant women's perfume, so foreign in this seedy room. Too elegant, too sophisticated to belong to this place. The smells of this room were different—mustiness, cleaning fluid, sweat. That scent was an intruder. Just like her.
Cherry lipstick. French perfume. His wife.
"Come on, Granger," he said quietly. "We don't have all day."
His fingers brushed her neck, but his gaze focused somewhere over her shoulder. He was with her, but simultaneously somewhere else. Her hands traveled to his shirt, unbuttoning it with familiar ease. Perfect, silk fabric, always of the highest quality. Her nails lightly grazed his skin beneath the material. He didn't react to that touch.
"You don't remove them," escaped her before she could think.
"What?"
"The marks," she said, gesturing with her chin at the red trace on his neck. "The lipstick."
Something flashed in his eyes. Unease? Irritation? This time it was he who didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed her wrists with one hand, and with the other slid into her hair, holding her head in place.
"And would you like me to do that?" he asked quietly, dangerously close to her ear. "To specially wash away the traces of my life for you, Granger?"
His breath was hot on her skin. The scent of those alien, sweet perfumes surrounded her, suffocated her, reminded her that she was just a shadow, a fleeting episode. That lipstick mark, that elegant red on his neck—so clear, so brazen—was like a slap.
"Would you like me to treat what we do as something more than it is?"
His words were sharp, precise, designed to wound. His fingers tightened on her wrists, his body pressing her against the wall.
Suddenly, without warning, he pulled her toward the bed. Usually they didn't have so much patience—usually everything happened by the door, on the floor, against the wall. Today was different. Today he led her across the room, not releasing her from his iron grip, until they reached the edge of the mattress.
He pushed her gently, and she fell onto the bed, which responded with a quiet creak. The mattress was hard, uneven, the sheets rough and smelling of industrial detergent. Draco stood over her, removing his shirt, revealing pale skin marked with several scars.
He smelled of her. That other woman. Her perfume permeated the air with the scent of luxury, wealth, status. Everything that these clandestine meetings in seedy motels didn't have.
Hermione turned her head, not wanting to look at that distinct mark on his neck. Cherry-colored, a perfectly drawn arch of a woman's lips. Lips that had the right to be where her lips would never be. On his neck, on his mouth.
He unbuttoned her blouse with one efficient movement. He had done it many times, knew every button, every fastening. His fingers were cold on her skin, his movements mechanical and precise. He knew what he wanted, how to achieve it, when and how to touch.
"Look at me," he demanded suddenly.
She hesitated, but obediently turned her head. His face was inscrutable, his eyes cold, focused. A mask of perfect composure. And yet something in it cracked—the slightest fissure in a glass surface.
"What are you looking at?" he asked sharply.
"Nothing," she replied quickly.
"You're lying." His fingers tightened on her hips with more force than usual. "You're looking at the lipstick. At the perfume you detected. You're wondering whose they are."
She didn't deny it. There was no point. Draco always saw through her like glass.
"You know whose they are," he continued, his voice oddly flat. "And you know it doesn't matter. Just like what we're doing now."
His words were like a blade, precise and merciless. Just like his hands on her body—effective, exact, but without a trace of tenderness.
"You understand that, don't you?" he pressed. "It doesn't matter. We don't matter."
Her eyes remained dry. Not because she felt no pain, but because she had learned not to show it. Especially before him.
"Of course," she replied just as coldly. "It's just sex, Malfoy. Nothing more."
His hands found familiar paths on her body, her body responded automatically. Mechanical, learned movements that led to the same end. Suspension, forgetting, a moment of relief that always came too quickly and was always too brief.
In the half-light of the room, in flashes of light through dirty blinds, his fair skin contrasted with her own. Their bodies were like puzzle pieces—fitting together, but never truly connected.
And throughout this time, that scent accompanied them—sweet, floral, too elegant for this room. Too elegant for what they were doing.
Hermione dug her nails into his shoulders, trying to hold onto reality. Her body responded mechanically, out of habit, but her mind wandered. That scent. Always that scent. It irritated her nostrils, filled her lungs, slipped under her skin.
The sheets rustled beneath them, the old springs of the bed protested with every movement. Draco held her hips firmly, too firmly—tomorrow she would have bruises. As always. Part of the routine, part of the agreement whose terms they had never established, but which both of them observed.
And yet there was something different in this. In the way his gaze avoided her eyes, focusing on the wall behind her, on the pillow beside her head, on anything but her face.
That lipstick mark on his neck seemed to pulse in the half-light of the room, drawing the eye like a magnet. Dark, elegant mark. A mark of belonging.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, a single strand of platinum hair fell across his face. He was beautiful in this moment—severely, cruelly beautiful, like a marble sculpture brought to life for a single heartbeat.
Hermione closed her eyes. She didn't want to see this. She didn't want to remember. She desired only what she had come here for—forgetting, cutting herself off from the world, from thoughts, from herself.
The rhythm of their bodies quickened, became more chaotic. The tension grew, the world blurred at the edges. Hermione felt that moment approaching, that brief instant in which everything else ceased to exist. Draco must have sensed it—he always knew, always read her body like an open book. He pressed her harder, deepened each movement.
And then there was only emptiness. Blessed, short-lived emptiness, in which there was no pain, no regret, no memories. Only pure, physical sensation—intense, deafening, and then... nothing.
Draco moved away, as always. Hermione lay motionless, waiting for the familiar sounds—the rustle of clothes, the click of a belt buckle, the creak of the door. She waited for that moment when he would tell her not to be late next week, or simply leave without a word.
Instead, she heard the soft clink of glass against wood. She opened her eyelids.
Draco stood by the small, battered table, on which sat a bottle of whiskey—cheap, Muggle alcohol that someone had left in this room. He was already dressed, but his shirt was unbuttoned, his hair still disheveled. He poured the amber liquid into a glass that looked of questionable cleanliness.
He raised it to his lips and took a sip, grimacing slightly at the taste.
"Disgusting," he muttered, but poured himself more.
Hermione rose on her elbows, confused. This didn't fit their routine. It didn't fit him—an aristocrat who would never drink from inappropriate vessels, let alone cheap, Muggle alcohol.
Draco turned and came back to the bed. For a moment she thought he wanted a second round—that sometimes happened too. But instead, he lay down beside her, on his back, staring at the ceiling. He didn't touch her, maintaining a few centimetres of space between their bodies.
The silence that fell was heavy, almost tangible. Hermione didn't know what to do. Should she get up and start dressing? Should she stay? Should she speak? This scenario wasn't in their unwritten script.
Draco moved beside her, the amber liquid in his glass gleamed in the dim light. His profile was sharp, aristocratic. Nothing in his face betrayed what he was thinking.
"This room is disgusting," he said suddenly, taking a sip of whiskey.
Hermione glanced at him from the corner of her eye, but didn't answer. After all, he always chose rooms like this.
"I could take us somewhere else," he added after a moment. "I have an apartment in Paris. No one would find us there."
Now she was staring at the ceiling. This conversation—the first real conversation in months of their meetings—seemed surreal.
"It wouldn't be the same," she replied slowly.
Malfoy rotated the glass in his hand, watching as the amber liquid washed against its sides.
"No," he admitted quietly. "It wouldn't be."
He took another sip of whiskey, grimacing slightly. For a moment, only the distant hum of street traffic could be heard in the room.
"They've postponed the Cannons versus Harpies match," he said suddenly, as if speaking to himself. "Third time this season. Pathetic."
"I don't follow Quidditch," she replied curtly.
"I know." He shrugged, taking another sip. "But it's still pathetic."
The silence that fell was neither comfortable nor awkward. It simply was—like everything else between them.
"Padma was taken to St Mungo's today," she said suddenly. "I was there with Harry."
Draco glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
"What's wrong with her?"
"They don't know. Something strange."
Draco looked at his empty glass, rotating it in his hands. There was no emotion on his face, no reaction.
"Something strange is always happening," he muttered finally.
He finished the rest of the whiskey and put the glass on the floor. For a moment he sat motionless, staring at the wall in front of him. Then he stood up and headed for the door, without saying a word. No "goodbye," no "see you." No mention of the next meeting, though they both knew there would be one.
When the door closed behind him, Hermione was still lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled of whiskey and his cologne, mixed with those damn expensive perfumes that didn't belong to her.