But Hermione doesn't scream. Instead she just curls her hands tightly together and squeezes until it hurts, the pain both a distraction and a relief. Hermione is rather certain that is not a healthy coping mechanism, and she really doesn't care. The clock on the wall by the door ticks quietly, and she watches the thin seconds hand spin around the clock face with excruciating slowness, the minute hand even slower. Time seems stretched thin like taffy here, and the more she watches the Merlin-damned clock, the slower it appears to move. She waits for Malfoy to return. And this is what her life has become. It is infuriating, that his return is a much anticipated event, but it is frightening being in his rooms without him, where any Death Eater could conceivably force their way in past the wards and locks if they were skilled enough. And...it is lonely.