What the Room Requires

Chapter Three

 

DRACO

            I heard her following me. Fine. My hands still stung—however invisibly—with the bites of several snakes. I rolled my eyes as I passed between the gray trees, the pine needles crunching beneath my feet. I should have let her get filled with venom and die. Except, she probably couldn’t actually die, so she would have just screamed into my concentration as I tried to find a way out. Yes, it was better that I pulled her out of there. She was quieter. That’s what I told myself. I rubbed my hands and grimaced. My hands still hurt, though.

            “Do you recognize this door?” she said from right behind me.

            “Do you constantly ask questions?” I sighed.

            “How else can I learn anything?”

            “I dunno—maybe by listening for once in your life,” I shot back.

            “I’m trying to listen,” she said. “To your answer.”

            “No, I don’t recognize the door.”

            “I think I do,” she said. I jerked to a stop and looked at her. She walked past me, her gaze fixed on the door.

            “You do?”

            She did not answer. Her footsteps slowed as she approached the door, and she stretched out her hand and grasped the doorknob.

            “How do you recognize it?” I asked. She said nothing, just stood there.

            “Oh, I see—as soon as I ask a question, you stop talking. I suppose—”

            She turned the knob. Bright morning light spilled out through the gap. I flinched and held up a hand to shield my eyes. Hermione drew in a slow breath.

            “It is…” she whispered, pushed the door aside and stepped into…

            A bedroom.

            “Granger?” I frowned, then followed her. I was instantly hit with a fresh, floral smell. I had to blink to get my eyes to adjust. Hermione now stood at the foot of a quilt-covered bed. The walls were white, there was a tall paned window with a seat to the left, hung with purple patterned curtains. Straight ahead hung a huge bulletin board covered with pictures, newspaper clippings and flowery notes. Beside that, on the window wall, hung framed pictures of pansies and other flowers. On the floor, following the wall about thigh-high, stood bookshelves absolutely packed with books—but very neat. In the far corner, atop another pile of books, sat a little stuffed animal. The room was littered with all sorts of other girlie odds-and-ends: lamps and boxes and knick-knacks. I frowned at the pictures. They creeped me out—they didn’t move.