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He waits until the cold has seeped through his waning warming charms; until the echoes of the pealing bell have faded under the rumbling roar of passing engines.
The ink on the scrap of paper has bled into an indiscernible greyish brown. Maybe to someone else it would just be a nondescript piece of stained paper. Maybe that’s all it ever was and the numbers he knows by heart are figments of his fractured imagination.
The receiver is cold against his ear, the plastic hard against his chin. A tinny ringing sound, as though the bells are still tolling somewhere far away.
Six rings. Seven. Draco’s clammy fingers clench around the twisting cord as he stares at a piece of graffiti in front of him—a black scrawl that might say anarchy or anxiety—the shape of the letters blurring as his breath catches in his throat. He’ll hang up after ten—no—eleven—twelve rings.
A soft crackling sound. A voice, distant and dreamy. “Hello?”
“It’s—” he clears his throat and chokes on air. “Malfoy—Draco—Hermione?”
A pause. A deeper voice—not hers—something about who and time of night and Draco's about to slam the receiver back down again when Hermione’s voice cuts through the cold plastic.
“Where are you?”
Draco closes his eyes and tries to remember. “I don’t know,” he admits in a jagged whisper. “I left the Cauldron and just—I just kept walking.”
“I’ll find you,” Hermione says firmly. “Stay there.”
A clattering sound. A long beep.
The receiver slips between his fingers as he leans against the side of the telephone booth. The beeping fades as his gaze shifts—his attention caught by the glow of passing lights—the glass fluctuating between yellows and reds and back again as he shivers.
The lights scatter as the door opens in a gust of brown curls and warmth.
“Oh, Draco,” Hermione says as she flicks her wand and the warmth settles across his exposed skin. “Let’s get you out of the snow.”
His fingertips are almost touching the scalding porcelain. The tea is steaming up between them—like ghostly fingers reaching towards the sky—and Hermione’s scarf smells faintly of blood orange and strongly of mint.
“I didn’t mean,” Draco murmurs as he stares down at the sugar granules at the bottom of his unwanted tea, “to interrupt you and your boyfriend.”
Hermione shifts in her seat. Taps her fingertips on the table. “Simon had a fight with his girlfriend and was sleeping on the couch.”
“You’re not the girlfriend?” Draco studies her fingers—she still bites her nails; the dark burgundy polish is chipped—there’s a plaster around the side of her palm. No rings.
“No.” She adds milk to her tea and stirs it clockwise, counter-clockwise, clockwise again. “Who gave you the black eye?”
His fingers drift towards his face and Draco frowns as he returns his hand to the table. The cold had numbed him enough to let him forget. But now as he thaws in the café, the memories threaten to return. Or maybe it’s just her gaze on his face that aches like a bruise.
“He snapped my wand,” Draco whispers towards his teacup. The sugar has dissolved—the amber hue seems a little darker than before. Perhaps it’s just a trick of the light. “Said I didn’t deserve to wield magic when all I did was tarnish the family name.”
Hermione makes a quiet sound as her fingers stretch towards him and then stop—awkwardly—in the middle of the table. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, and the words hang like her fingertips—close enough to reach but too far away to touch.
“He disinherited me,” Draco says as he pushes his saucer towards her. “Told me to leave while I could still walk.”
His fingertips linger on the edge of the flower-patterned porcelain. Hermione touches the other side with one finger, then another.
“Do you want to stay with me?” Her voice is gentle—soft like the cashmere around his neck—and Draco bites down on the inside of his cheek and nods.
Simon is snoring on the couch as they tiptoe through Hermione’s flat, Draco’s fingers pinching the hem of her jumper as she weaves them down a hallway and through a door that she reaches past him to close.
“I’d offer the spare room,” she murmurs as she waves her hand and a soft yellow glow spills from the walls, “but I doubt you want to sleep on a pile of books.” She smiles—not at him—and he lets her jumper slip between his fingers as she turns to a dresser against the wall.
“The floor’s fine,” Draco says as he slides his hands into his coat pockets. It looks hard and painful and as though it will bruise him even further, but perhaps she’ll grace him with a blanket—a pillow—
“It’s a big bed, Draco,” Hermione says as she thrusts something—a shirt and sunflower-patterned pyjama bottoms—into his chest. “The bathroom’s right across the hall.”
He escapes into the bathroom because he doesn’t know what to say. If he speaks his mind, then he’ll be back out in the snow again. If he doesn’t speak his mind, then he’ll end up nestled between her sheets.
Draco chews at his lip until the scab splits open and the blood drips down to stain Hermione’s pristine white sink.
He almost trips—almost casts a reflexive curse—hops away from the hissing cat who darts like a shadow to Hermione, already asleep but stirring as Crookshanks nuzzles against her face.
It would be easier to find a clear patch of floor. Draco gently closes the door behind him and takes a step towards the bed. She folded down the covers for him—plumped up a pillow—the lights dim further as he hesitates.
You don’t deserve this, his father’s voice rings in his ears as Draco slides between the blankets and covers his face with his hands. If he breathes—if she wakes up—
A mumble that might be good night. A yawning stretch as her foot brushes against his ankle and doesn’t move away again.
The lights fade completely, and Draco stares up at the darkness and blinks away sudden hot tears.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and the blankets shift as Crookshanks drapes himself between them.
Faintly—between Simon’s muffled snores—he hears the bells tolling the hour.
Somehow, it’s already tomorrow.