Chapter 4
Lucius Malfoy's study was shrouded in shadow, illuminated only by the pale light of a few candles floating in the air and the crackling fire in the marble fireplace. The flames cast restless shadows on the richly decorated walls, where portraits of ancestors hung, their eyes cold and judging—just like the eyes of the man standing by the desk.
Draco knelt on the Persian carpet, which had once been a gift from the Minister of Magic himself. Now stains of his blood were soaking into the centuries-old silk. He could focus his gaze on the miniature patterns, on the intertwined snakes and dragons woven into the ornament. He could count each fiber, anything to avoid thinking about the pain pulsing throughout his body.
"Do you know why I'm doing this, Draco?" his father's voice was soft, almost caressing, which made it a hundred times more terrifying. "Do you know why I must teach you this lesson?"
He didn't wait for an answer. The wand in his hand made a fluid motion.
"Crucio."
This time the spell didn't hit Draco like a battering ram. Instead, it slipped under his skin like thousands of red-hot needles, each finding its way to nerves, to joints, to internal organs. He was burning from the inside, but he clenched his jaw so tightly that he felt his teeth grinding.
He didn't scream. He didn't beg.
Sweat ran down his back, his robes sticking to his body. He breathed through his nose, in short, broken inhalations. His body trembled, but his face remained stony—only furrowed brows, tightened lips, eyes fixed on the carpet.
Lucius raised his wand, ending the spell. He circled his kneeling son with slow steps, each tap of his leather boots echoing in the silence of the study.
"You're looking down," he observed, stopping in front of him. "Ashamed? Humiliated? Or perhaps simply... absent?"
With the tip of his cane, he lifted his son's chin, forcing him to look up. Their eyes met—identical shade of grey, cold as ice.
"Where are you, Draco?" Lucius asked, tilting his head with false concern. "Where does your mind hide when your body fails?"
Draco remained silent. His eyes stayed empty, as if he were looking through his father, not at him.
Something twitched in Lucius's face—a barely noticeable contraction of the muscle by his mouth, tension in his jaw.
"Answer when I ask a question," he growled, pressing harder with the cane, to the point of pain.
"I am here, Father," he replied with a voice as empty as his gaze. "I am always where I should be."
Lucius withdrew his cane, and on his face appeared a grimace that might have been considered a smile, if not for the cold glint in his eyes.
"Are you proud of yourself?" he asked quietly, stepping back a few paces. "Do you think that if you don't show pain, it will disappear?"
He turned abruptly, the wand in his hand drawing an arc in the air.
"Crucio!"
This time the spell hit with such force that Draco fell onto the carpet, his body arching backward. He dug his nails into the floor with such strength that several of them broke, and blood stained the light silk. He bit his lip until he felt blood flowing down his chin.
But he didn't cry out. Not once.
Lucius ended the spell, his breathing accelerated, as if it were he, not his son, who was enduring torture. He looked at the boy lying down with a mixture of fury and... something else. Disappointment? Fear?
"What are you trying to prove?" he whispered, putting his wand on the desk with a gesture full of disgust. "That you're stronger than me? Than your father?"
Draco lay motionless, breathing shallowly. Blood from his bitten lip stained the carpet under his face. Slowly, with effort, he rose to a kneeling position. His movements were mechanical, like those of a mannequin.
"No, Father," he answered, his voice barely audible, hoarse from the effort of restraining screams. "I'm trying to be worthy of the Malfoy name."
Something broke in Lucius's face. He grabbed his cane, silver, with a snake head forged by goblins. He took three long strides toward his son.
"Worthy?" he hissed, swinging it. "You know nothing of worthiness!"
The blow was so strong that Draco's head jerked to the side. He felt his eyebrow splitting, blood immediately flooding his eye.
"You think dignity is a lack of reaction?" another strike, this time to the shoulder. "An empty face? Cold eyes?"
The cane struck again and again, finding every vulnerable spot—ribs, back, shoulders. The sound of metal hitting flesh mingled with Lucius's heavy breathing.
"Dignity is power, Draco," each word emphasized with a blow. "It's control. Over yourself. Over others. Over the world."
The next strike hit his back, exactly in the place where two blows had already fallen. Something broke—a rib, or perhaps Draco's spirit. From his lips escaped the first, muffled groan.
Lucius paused for a split second, surprised by this sound. A shadow of triumph flashed across his face.
"At last," he whispered, his voice sounding almost tender. "At last something real."
The next blow fell on Draco's shoulder with such force that the boy faltered, resting his hand on the floor. His mask began to crack—with each strike, with each breath. His lips trembled, his eyes filled with something he hadn't allowed himself to feel for years.
"Where is your control now, son?" Lucius asked, delivering blow after blow. "Where is your dignity?"
Draco tried to crawl away, escape from the cane, from his father, from the pain. His fingers left bloody streaks on the Persian carpet as he desperately sought support. His body no longer obeyed commands—it trembled uncontrollably, twisted, tried to protect itself from further blows.
"No," escaped from his lips when the cane hit the side of his head. "Please..."
That one word, that weakness he finally showed, only fueled Lucius's fury. The blows became stronger, more methodical. Each found an already injured spot, each amplified the pain to the limits of endurance.
"Please?" Lucius repeated, his voice vibrating with emotion. "Now you plead? Now you beg?"
Tears mixed with blood on Draco's face. He could no longer hold them back, didn't want to. He cried—from pain, from humiliation, from hatred toward his father and himself.
"I just..." he stammered between sobs. "I just wanted... for you to be proud of me."
Lucius froze with his cane raised. His face, previously contorted with fury, now froze in a mask of shock. For a moment he stared at his son—at his bloodied face, at eyes full of something that was no longer emptiness, but terrible, childlike pain.
The cane fell, hitting the carpet with a dull thud.
Draco lay curled in a ball, his shoulders trembling from sobs he no longer tried to hide. Each breath brought a new wave of pain, each heartbeat pulsed in his wounds. But worst was the awareness that he had finally broken, that he had failed—his father, himself, the Malfoy name.
Lucius looked at him for a long time, something fighting in his eyes—anger with surprise, disgust with something that might have been regret.
"Get up," he said finally, his voice quiet, tired. "For Merlin's sake, Draco, pull yourself together."
He tried to rise, but his body refused to obey. His fingers slid on the bloodied carpet, tears still flowed, making it difficult to see.
Lucius watched him for a moment, then took a step forward and—to the surprise of them both—extended his hand.
"Get up," he repeated, and in his voice appeared a note that he hadn't heard since childhood. "Your mother cannot see you in this state."
He accepted his father's hand, allowing himself to be pulled up to a sitting position. For a moment their gazes met—silver-grey eyes, identical, yet so different.
"I'm sorry," Draco whispered, not knowing himself what he was apologizing for—for weakness? For being born at all?
His father was silent for a long moment, then picked up his cane and turned toward the fireplace.
"Never again," he said, without turning around. "Never again dare to show compassion toward an enemy. Understood?"
"Yes, Father," he replied, trying to stop the trembling in his voice.
* * *
Draco opened his eyes abruptly when someone's voice pierced through the fog of his nightmare. Someone's hand was touching his cheek, gentle and warm, but in his mind, still immersed in dark memories, this touch immediately merged with the last memory of his father's cane. Pain, humiliation, helplessness—everything returned in one blinding wave.
"Draco?" the voice was soft, but to him at that moment it sounded like a threat.
He reacted instinctively, without conscious thought. His body remembered the pain, remembered the need to defend itself, remembered the lessons of survival beaten into him during the war. His hand shot up, deflecting the threat with one violent movement.
He heard a stifled cry of pain, sharp and piercing, followed by the dull sound of a body hitting first the bedside table, then the hard wooden floor. The sound of breaking glass pierced the silence of the bedroom as the crystal vase shattered into dozens of sharp fragments.
Reality returned to him in one brutal strike of awareness. He was no longer in his father's study. He wasn't eighteen. He wasn't a prisoner in his own home, transformed into the Dark Lord's headquarters. This was his own apartment in London, his own bedroom.
"Celestine?"
On the floor, among the fragments of broken glass, sat his wife. Her slender body in a silk nightgown looked like the broken wing of an injured bird. She pressed her hand to her cheek with such force that her knuckles turned white. In the half-light of the bedroom, illuminated by the rising sun coming through the tall windows, he could see how her dark, usually composed eyes filled with tears of surprise and pain. Drops of blood trickled between her slender fingers, marking her fair skin with scarlet streaks—he must have hit her with his wedding ring.
"Mon Dieu, Draco..." she whispered, her voice trembling, which was unlike her. "What... what were you dreaming about?"
Draco sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her as if at an apparition. His heart was pounding like a hammer, his breath shallow and broken.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice sounding foreign even to himself—rough, hoarse, as if he had been screaming in his sleep. Perhaps he really had been screaming. "I didn't know it was you. I thought..."
He fell silent. What was he supposed to say? That he thought it was his father? That for a split second, in that moment between sleep and wakefulness, he was eighteen again and kneeling on the Persian rug in Lucius's study?
Celestine tried to stand, but her legs got tangled in the folds of her silk nightgown. She hissed in pain when her hand, seeking support, encountered a fragment of glass. A new trickle of blood flowed down her pale wrist.
"Don't move," he ordered, jumping off the bed. He approached her carefully, as if approaching an injured, wild animal. "I'll help you."
She hesitated, and he saw in her eyes what he had never seen there, even in the worst moments of their marriage—genuine fear. Fear of him.
He knelt beside her, scanning her injuries. A cut cheek, bleeding wrist, scratches on her long, slender neck. The ring must have deeply gashed her skin, as the wound looked deep, and blood was still flowing profusely.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, this time more quietly, more to himself than to her. "I had a bad dream. About... about those times."
Celestine nodded, her face already taking on its usual, cool expression—the mask that they both wore so often that sometimes they forgot what they looked like beneath it.
Blood from the cut on her cheek flowed in thin streams, marking her alabaster skin with scarlet traces. A few drops fell onto the carpet, soaking into the delicate fibers of the priceless Persian rug—a wedding gift from her family. Blood stains—another thing that would need to be hidden. Like many other things in the Malfoy residence.
He approached the bedside table made of rare, black wood and opened the top drawer. Inside, in special compartments, stood dozens of vials—each precisely labeled, each within reach. The privilege of being the owner of a potion empire.
His fingers unerringly found the vial of essence of dittany—the purest, strongest formula, available only to the wealthiest wizards. It was his own recipe, perfected after years of research.
"Don't move," he ordered, approaching Celestine. His voice was composed, cool, as if he hadn't just hit her with enough force to knock her off the bed.
Celestine sat motionless as he uncorked the vial. The smell of dittany immediately filled the air—sharp, herbal, with a hint of something metallic. He gently tilted her head back, exposing the wound. The ring had left a deep, ragged cut running from her cheekbone to her jaw.
"This will hurt," he warned, measuring a few drops onto his finger.
"I know," she answered, not flinching. In her eyes there was no fear, only that unbearable, cold composure that so often irritated him. And something else—something that resembled impatience.
He touched her wound, spreading the dittany with precise movements. The essence hissed upon contact with the open wound, and a greenish smoke began to rise from her skin. Celestine inhaled sharply, but made no other sound. She had always been a master at hiding pain—a trait he certainly appreciated in a wife.
He watched as the wound slowly sealed itself. First the bleeding stopped, then the edges began to heal, to join. But despite the powerful properties of dittany, he knew a scar would remain—a thin, white line marking her face. A visible sign of who he truly was.
"That's enough," he said, moving away from her. "You'll need to use a concealment charm for a few days. If you're lucky, no trace will remain."
Celestine touched her face, examining with her fingertips the place where just moments ago was an open wound. Her eyes met his gaze—and there was no accusation in them, which was worse than any reproach.
"You know you shouldn't wake me when I have nightmares," he said, putting the vial back on the table. "It's... dangerous."
Celestine was still sitting on the floor, pressing her right hand to her left wrist, where glass from the broken lamp had cut her skin.
"I had no choice," she replied. "An urgent owl came. From St Mungo's."
Draco froze, his hand suspended midway to the drawer where he kept spare vials of potions.
"From St Mungo's?" he repeated, his voice suddenly sharper, more focused. "At this hour?"
"It's Blaise," said Celestine, trying to rise from the floor. She hissed in pain when she moved her wrist too abruptly, and sank back to her knees.
Draco was beside her in two quick steps. Without a word, he helped her to stand.
"What about Blaise?" he asked, leading her toward the bed. Scarlet streaks immediately appeared on the bedding when she sat down, still pressing her injured wrist.
"He's fallen into a magical coma," she answered, with one fluid motion summoning the parchment that lay on the floor next to the broken lamp. The letter flew to her hand. "Theo sent an owl."
Draco snatched the letter from her hand with one violent movement. His eyes moved over the chaotic lines of Theodore's handwriting, and with each word his face grew paler.
"Draco,
Blaise is in St Mungo's. Magical coma. Healers don't know what to do. They say his condition is stable, but they can't wake him up. Come as soon as possible.
Theo"
Draco felt his stomach tightening into a painful knot. Blaise Zabini was one of the few people he could call true friends. They had known each other since childhood, attended Hogwarts together, survived the war and its consequences together. Blaise had stood by him when no one else wanted anything to do with the Malfoy name.
"I must go," he said, rising abruptly. "Immediately."
"Of course," Celestine replied, trying to stop the bleeding from her wrist with a piece of the bedding.
Draco quickly walked to the wardrobe, pulling out clothes. With one motion of his wand, he made the robes wrap themselves around his body. He cursed quietly under his breath, fastening the buttons of his black shirt with trembling hands.
A magical coma was not something that happened without reason. Something serious must have occurred for a wizard's magical core to shut down like that.
"Stay in bed," he instructed, approaching the bedside table. He took out two vials—one with essence of dittany, the other with a pain-relieving potion. "Use this on your wrist."
Celestine took the vials, but her gaze was focused on his face.
"Go," she said quietly. "Your friend needs you."
Draco hesitated, looking at her pale face, at the blood on her nightgown, at the carpet soaked with scarlet stains. Guilt—a rare feeling in his repertoire—pricked him for a moment.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised, putting his wand in the inner pocket of his robe.
She nodded. And he left, leaving behind his wife, blood on the carpet, and demons that were stronger than usual this night.
* * *
Hermione adjusted the sleeve of her official robes, making sure it covered her wrist. The last thing she needed was for Harry to notice the bruises—souvenirs from her last meeting with Malfoy. They walked briskly through the main hall of St Mungo's Hospital, passing the reception desk crowded as usual at this time of day.
"Fourth floor, Spell Damage ward," Harry muttered, leading her toward the lifts. "Exactly where Padma is. I wonder if it's just a coincidence."
"Two cases of magical coma within a few days," Hermione replied, trying to make her voice sound professional and matter-of-fact. "Statistically that's almost impossible."
The lift was empty, for which Hermione was grateful. She needed those few seconds to gather her thoughts, to prepare for what was to come. The air in the compartment was heavy with the smell of healing potions and disinfectants—an intense mixture that always made her feel uncomfortable. St Mungo's Hospital had never been a place of good memories for her.
"Are you feeling all right?" Harry asked, studying her carefully. "You're paler than usual."
"I'm just tired," she lied, avoiding his gaze. "All of this is... disturbing."
Harry nodded, though his eyes said he didn't believe her. They had known each other too long for her to easily deceive him. However, he didn't press—another thing for which she was grateful.
"Have the Healers noticed any similarities between Padma's and Zabini's conditions?" she asked as the lift stopped at the fourth floor.
"The report mentioned identical symptoms," Harry replied, stepping out into the corridor. "No response to standard awakening methods, intense brain activity despite the unconscious state."
The corridor was almost empty—a few Healers in lime-green robes were talking quietly at the nurses' station, a patient in a wheelchair was being led toward one of the rooms. At the very end of the corridor, in front of room number 412, Hermione spotted the familiar silhouette of Theodore Nott.
"Potter. Granger," he greeted them with cool politeness as they approached. "Thanks for coming so quickly."
"It's our duty, Nott," Harry replied, shaking his hand. "Especially since this is the second similar case this week."
"I just heard about Patil," Nott nodded, his usually impassive face betraying concern. "I don't believe in coincidences."
"Neither do we," Hermione admitted. "What exactly happened to Zabini?"
Nott glanced at the door of the room where his friend lay, and then back at them.
"I found him this morning, in his apartment," he began, his usually composed voice trembling slightly. "He was supposed to meet me for dinner last night, but he didn't show up and wasn't responding to messages. When I went to check what was happening, he was lying unconscious on the floor of his study. The Healers say it's a magical coma."
"Any signs of a break-in? A struggle?" Harry asked, taking out his notebook.
"Nothing," Nott shook his head. "The apartment was in perfect order. Only he... looked as if he had simply fallen asleep and couldn't wake up."
"Just like Padma," Hermione muttered, feeling an icy shiver run down her spine. "She was also found at her desk, as if she had fallen asleep over her papers."
Suddenly she remembered something important. She cast a quick glance at Nott.
"Padma had a meeting with you two days ago," she said, carefully observing his reaction. "I found a mention in her notes. Something about licenses for importing rare ingredients."
Nott frowned slightly, as if trying to recall the details.
"Yes, that's true," he confirmed after a moment. "She was consulting with me about new import regulations. My company imports ingredients from Asia, so she wanted to hear my opinion on the proposed changes."
"How did that meeting go?" Harry interjected, looking up from his notebook.
"Completely normally," Nott shrugged. "We discussed the regulations, I presented my concerns about several points, she agreed to reconsider the amendments. She was completely normal, professional. Nothing indicated that something was wrong."
"And then, the next day, she was found unconscious," Hermione summarized. "Don't you think it's a strange coincidence? First Padma, now Blaise. Both in comas, both after contact with you."
Nott paled slightly, his eyes widening in surprise.
"Are you suggesting that I...?" he began, then broke off, shaking his head. "That's absurd. Blaise is my friend. Why would I want to harm him?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," Hermione replied coolly. "I'm just looking for connections. And you are the only one I've found so far."
Harry gave her a warning look, then turned to Nott in a gentler tone.
"No one is accusing you of anything, Nott. We just need to investigate all possible leads. Do you remember if Padma or Blaise mentioned anything unusual? Any problems? Threats?"
Before Nott could answer, they heard the sound of determined, measured footsteps from the direction of the lifts. A moment later, Draco Malfoy appeared in the corridor. His black, perfectly tailored robes contrasted sharply with the white hospital walls, and his platinum hair was perfectly styled, without a single unruly strand. He looked as if he were going to a business meeting, not visiting a friend in a coma at the hospital.
"Ah, Potter," he said coldly, stopping a few steps away from them. "Of course you're already here. Is there any tragedy in which the hero of the wizarding world wouldn't stick his noble nose?"
His gaze rested on Hermione for a moment—it was a look so brief that no one else might have noticed it, but for her it was long enough to feel her heart stop for a second, then begin beating at double speed.
"Malfoy," Harry nodded coolly. "This is an official Auror Office investigation. Two people in magical comas within a week is not an ordinary coincidence."
"Oh, I can imagine," Draco smiled without a trace of amusement. "And naturally, Potter's first thought is to find the guilty party among Slytherins. Some things never change, do they?"
Theodore Nott cleared his throat slightly, as if wanting to defuse the growing tension.
"Draco, thanks for coming," he said, extending his hand. "Blaise is still being examined by Healer Chang."
Malfoy shook the outstretched hand, his face softening by a fraction of a degree.
"What exactly happened?" he asked, his voice now more matter-of-fact, though still cold.
"I was just about to explain," Nott replied, glancing at them nervously.
Hermione stood like a statue, struggling to maintain a neutral expression. She couldn't allow herself to betray any emotions—not here, not in front of Harry, not in front of Nott. One thought rattled in her head: How much did Nott know about her relationship with Malfoy? Had Draco told him? Did anyone know?
"I'm listening then," said Malfoy, folding his arms across his chest. "And I'd like to hear it from you, Nott, not the interpretations of our indispensable Auror Office."
Harry clenched his jaw, but didn't let himself be provoked.
"Nott has the right to talk to whomever he wants," he said calmly. "This is still an official investigation."
"Of course," Draco smiled with false politeness. "I'm sure your impartial investigation will lead you exactly where it always does—to the doors of former Slytherins."
His gaze slid over Hermione again, this time for longer. There was something sharp, probing in this look, as if he were searching for some sign in her face. Hermione felt her cheeks growing hot. She had to avert her eyes, pretending interest in Harry's notes.
"Perhaps we should get to specifics," Nott interjected, clearly trying to defuse the tension. "Blaise was supposed to meet me for dinner last night. He wanted to discuss the details of a new project he's been working on for several months. When he didn't show up and wasn't responding to messages, I went to his apartment. I found him unconscious on the floor of his study."
"What kind of project?" Harry asked, jotting something down in his notebook.
"Blaise bought the old Puddlemere United training ground," Nott explained. "He's planning to transform it into a Quidditch Academy for children and young people. The first of its kind in Great Britain. He wanted me to review all his legal documentation for ministry licenses. He was really excited about this idea, had been working on plans for months."
"Did you notice anything unusual in the apartment?" Harry probed. "Anything that might suggest the cause of his condition?"
Nott shook his head.
"The apartment was in perfect order. On the desk were academy plans, sketches of training grounds, a teaching program, financial calculations."
"Did anyone else know about these plans?" Hermione interjected. "Besides you and him."
"A few investors he was trying to convince," Nott shrugged. "And of course Draco and Celestine, as potential main financial partners."
Hermione felt her heart stop for a moment.
"Celestine discussed it with him last week," Malfoy confirmed in a neutral tone. "She was interested in the investment."
Harry was noting something quickly in his notebook, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
"A similar situation occurred with Padma Patil," he observed. "She was working on something intensively, and then suddenly fell into a coma. Without any visible causes."
The door to the room opened and a Healer came out.
"How is he?" Nott asked immediately.
The Healer looked at the gathered group, his gaze lingering a bit longer on Harry and Hermione.
"His condition is identical to Miss Patil's," he finally said. "The same intense brain activity, the same lack of response to any stimuli. His mind is working at full capacity, but is completely cut off from his body."
"Did you find anything in his blood?" Harry asked. "Any potion, substance, anything?"
"Nothing so far," Chang shook his head. "But some more advanced potions are almost undetectable by standard methods. We need more time for more detailed analyses."
"Can I see him?" asked Malfoy, his voice strangely tense.
"Of course," the Healer agreed. "Though I warn you, his condition may be... disturbing for someone close."
"I need to return to the Ministry," Hermione said suddenly, unable to bear the thought of being in the same room with Malfoy longer than necessary. "Harry, let me know if any new information emerges."
Harry looked at her with slight surprise, but nodded.
"Of course. I'll stay here a bit longer, talk to the Healers."
Hermione nodded toward Nott, completely ignoring Malfoy, and walked down the corridor toward the lifts. She felt his gaze on her back—intense, penetrating—but she didn't turn around. She couldn't. Not here, not now.
The rest of the day dragged on endlessly. At the Ministry, a stack of documents awaiting her signature, three urgent owls with inquiries that could wait, and an assistant with information that the Wizengamot had postponed voting on the new law until next week.
She worked mechanically, her mind torn between the case of Padma and Zabini and the constant, persistent thought of Malfoy. She tried to focus on facts—two people in magical comas, similar symptoms, no visible cause. There had to be some connection. There had to be.
But her thoughts kept returning to that brief, intense look they had exchanged at the hospital. To the way he had mentioned his wife—so casually, so naturally. As if it were nothing, as if he wasn't meeting Hermione in seedy motels, as if they weren't doing what they were doing.
When darkness fell outside the window, and most Ministry employees had dispersed to their homes, Hermione was still sitting at her desk. Her hands began to tremble—slightly, almost imperceptibly, but she knew what it meant. Time for another dose.
She looked around the empty office, then reached into the inner pocket of her robe. The small vial was there, as always. She unscrewed the cork with trembling fingers and drank in one gulp. Immediately she felt warmth spreading through her body, and the trembling subsided. Calm. Composure. Control.
Another dose, another day. Another step in the spiral of addiction from which she couldn't break free.
When she finally Apparated to her apartment, it was almost ten o'clock. The small flat welcomed her with silence and darkness. She lit the lights with a spell, then mechanically performed her usual evening activities—tea, bath, nightgown. She did it all with the precision of an automaton, each movement learned and repeated for years.
And then, when she slipped into bed, she finally allowed herself to face the truth—she had been waiting. All day she had been waiting for an owl. For a small black rose with another address, another room in another seedy motel. Another opportunity to lose herself in the pain and pleasure that only he could give her.
But the black rose didn't appear. That night, Draco Malfoy didn't summon her to him.
Why did this thought cause her such pain? Why did she feel so... rejected? After all, she hated what was between them. She hated herself for not being able to end it.
And yet she lay now in the darkness, listening to the silence of the apartment, and the only thing she could think of was: why didn't he come?