Draco stared at the empty stairs, echoing soundlessly with the frantic, panicked thud of Hermione’s steps. Stared long after the trapdoor had boomed shut in the wake of her desperate flight. He stood and stared but didn’t see, because his mind was picturing again what had happened, and his lips were burning hot with the memory of her skin. Her knit jersey lay on the floor in a crumpled pile and he picked it up, soft wool in his hand. He didn’t know what to think. He knew what he felt, but he didn’t know if he should be feeling it. He thought he probably shouldn’t.