"Bullshit." The paper slipped from his hands as he turned, nearly running, towards the staircase that led up and to the main floor, where Hermione’s room was. Crossing the threshold of the open door (unusual, she typically kept it shut tight), Draco found it much the same as it had been just that morning. Except now the bed was neatly made, and the books that had been piled on various hard surfaces were gone. The faint smell of her soap lingered in the air. A few long strides into her bathroom revealed missing toiletries and a still-damp towel. Mind whirring, heart hammering, Draco stumbled back into the room, hands gripping her dresser so hard the knuckles turned white before pulling open one drawer after the other, all empty. Feeling as though every drop of blood had vanished from his body, Draco stared at his reflection in the dresser mirror, unseeing. He had no idea how long he stood there, in her room, surrounded by her scent, waiting for her to appear. He only faintly registered Harry and Ron moving around him, talking to him, discussing what to do next, but he didn't offer any response - couldn't form any words. She couldn't be gone. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.