Something thuds heavy back against the door, and then slides down – the light is blocked as it seems Malfoy sits slumped down against the door. She can picture him, whether she wants to or not. She hugs herself, smelling him on the soft tee-shirt, and it is not unpleasant as she had thought it might be, but makes her think of safety and an aching sadness at once. It is a long time before his shadow moves again, flickering out of sight before the long, stretched silence is broken by the rush of water into the porcelain bathtub.