"He just looked so much like him...sounded so much like him...for a moment I thought..." Pansy mumbled wretchedly, sobs hiccupping out of her. "Merlin...I didn't mean to..." Thank god, the girl's voice trailed off to a whisper that died to nothing, and a few seconds later, she heaved the deep, hitching breath of someone who was finally dead to the world. Hermione just sat there by Pansy's sleeping form, shell-shocked, stunned, a wellspring of tears inside her that she kept choked down. If she started crying she'd fall apart, and she couldn't do that. She thought about going back upstairs, but the thought of facing Draco...what could she say? She didn't know what to do, couldn't decide. Didn't know. Couldn't decide. So in the end Hermione just sat there, staring at the wall, hands knotted up in her lap and nails digging red crescents into her palms.