He comes out of the bathroom after washing, in a fresh shirt and trousers. His eyes skim and cast over her, before he moves to the – locked; she has tried to open it – cabinet that holds decanters of alcohol. He hesitates there, and then turns away, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Instead he moves to the row of windows that make up one wall, beyond which the sun lowers in the sky. Malfoy stands with his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulder leaning into one frame, head tilting tiredly to join it after a while, staring out into the bleak gardens below and the afternoon sky above. Hermione finds herself watching him; tall and lean, white-blonde hair going gold under the stain of afternoon sun creeping into the room, a statue that speaks of weariness and defeat, and an odd vulnerability. If he were a statue, she would name him The Loyal Traitor, she decides with dry whimsy one day, as he turns back to the room with a face that is carved in expressions of self-loathing so deep it startles her.