Isolation

Chapter 8: Touch

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Hermione hadn't managed a blink of sleep.

Ginny had become inconsolable fairly quickly, and Hermione had simply rocked her back and forth, stroking her hair until the redhead had become too exhausted to remain conscious. She knew Molly comforted her daughter in a similar fashion, and she'd spent the majority of the night thinking about her own parents and how much she missed them. Her weary brain had then naturally dragged her to thoughts of Harry and Ron, and finally, Malfoy.

In her defence, it was impossible not to think of her cold houseguest when he was always there, but he'd been a little easier on her strained thoughts as of late. Despite his arrogance, prejudices, and the rest of the complicated recipe of flaws, Malfoy was certainly more bearable than he'd been before. She'd even found herself - accidentally, of course - leaving for the library later than usual so she could spend more time in his presence. It was all for studious purposes of course; McGonagall had asked her to keep an eye on him, and she found it somewhat fascinating to witness all the subtle changes.

Plus, it felt good to have a consistent male presence again, even it was forced, and said male was a prat.

Still, watching him adapt to his surroundings, and to her, was so intriguing, and she had secretly challenged herself to influence him as best she could. Hermione was almost certain that if, and that was a massive if, she could break his prejudices, then he wouldn't be so bad to live with.

Then again, probably not. Her Gryffindor optimism could be a pain in the backside at times, but she'd try anyway; if only to erase the word Mudblood from his vocabulary.

Her lack of sleep was clearly starting to muddle with her head, and a glimpse at the clock told her it was already half six in the morning. She checked that Ginny was completely out before she carefully moved her to the side, reaching out with the hem of her sleeve to brush away some dreamy tears from the younger witch's face. Hermione silently headed to her friend's desk and scribbled a quick note, apologising for leaving and explaining that she needed some rest.

With a parting sad look at the pretty redhead, she crept quietly away from her former living space and wandered down the lonely corridors back to her dorm. It was only a short distance, but her steps were slow and thoughtful as she noted, yet again, just how dead Hogwarts seemed. Yes, the halls were still bleak with the winter morning, and it was too early for anyone to be up on a Saturday, but she had always adored Hogwarts for feeling so alive and warm. Now, every brick looked darker and every room was colder, and the entire Castle had a similar atmosphere to that of a graveyard.

It was a haunting comparison...One that constantly reminded her of how dismal everything was. It would be the 1st of November on Monday, another month since Dumbledore's death. Half a year, and it still made her heart shrink.

With a troubled sigh, she mumbled her password to the pride of lions, but the door didn't open all the way. She frowned and pushed against it, feeling resistance from the other side. She slipped in sideways and instantly tripped on something; something fleshy that sent her tumbling to the floor with a shocked gasp. With a frustrated breath, she chucked her hair out of her face and glanced over her shoulder, her eyes going wide when she noticed what, or who, had caused the obstruction.

"Oh God," she whispered, pivoting on her knees and crawling over to him. "Malfoy? Draco!"

He looked dead. It was as simple as that.