Malfoy is a quiet drunk, and so is she. Three sheets to the wind – no, four, at least she decides in a hazed attempt at drunken pedantry. She giggles, madly, hysterically, lying on the bed with a glass of firewhiskey and feeling as blitzed as she has ever been. They don't talk. But he lies on the bed beside her – close enough that she could reach out and trace the straight line of his nose if she wanted, which she doesn't – and it is companionable. There is a strange pleasantness to this sea of emotion churning through her. Sadness and grief and anger and a hazy, mellow absence of caring. Hermione revels in it as she stares up at the canopy of the bed. She charmed it to look like a Muggle visualisation before she got too drunk. It is colour-changing swirls and whirls, mesmerising and hypnotic, and she feels like she is swelling and expanding and contracting again with the image.