But there was no one else in the room and Draco flung the blankets back weakly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet flat on the cold floor. He noted absently as he slid off the bed and tested his strength, hanging onto the bed with his hand, that he was still in his battered leather Auror chausses but his chest was bare and bandaged around, as was his shoulder. He took a step, his mind on Hermione, telling himself that she was fine. That she'd recovered and didn't need to be in the infirmary. She wasn't dead. She wasn't. He wobbled, awkward and unsteady on his feet, still feeling weak and his stomach feeling hollow and empty, and his head all foggy. He stumbled slow step after step to the door and clung to the doorframe, steadying himself and taking a breath.