A Notice-Me-Not Charm. She wouldn't have found this door unless she was looking for it, or already knew where it was.

Her fingers found the cool brass doorknob, turning. The dragon stared at her.

This was undoubtedly Draco Malfoy's bedroom. There would be no arguing that. Greens and greys and silvers. A Slytherin crest on the wall across from her. A dark-wooden four-poster bed with green canopy curtains hanging down. Bookshelves, though not as many as in her room.

Staring from the doorway, Hermione realized that her room was larger than this. Although Draco's room was the corner suite, hers seemed like two smaller rooms had been combined.

The doors to his balcony beckoned her, and she crossed in long strides, pushing the doors open and stepping into the cool night air.

No barrier.

Not that it mattered. She wouldn't throw herself off a three-story balcony, and she didn't need to climb down to escape — she could walk out the front door.

She moved to the edge of the balcony, hands on the stone railing, and leaned over to see the grass and greenery in the moonlight. When he returned, she would ask him nicely about the access to her balcony. It was lovely in the moonlight.

If he returned.

Her chest tightened, and she swallowed.

Turning to look at her own balcony, she realized just how close the railing was to her own. Just how close his bedroom was to her own. That Draco Malfoy had set her up in a suite as close as physically possible to him, and yet had not laid a finger on her in malice.

Why?

She moved into the bedroom again, turning her attention to the shelves, to the trinkets, searching for answers.

There was a carved statue of a dragon next to a framed photograph of Draco with Crabbe and Goyle. Neither item gave her any information.

Sliding closer to the bed curtains, she gave in to the urge to drag her fingers across the fabric. The bed was made, but something told her that it wasn't the elves who took care of the tidiness. She pulled open the drawers in his bedside table, finding nothing but chocolates, spare parchment, a handkerchief, and a few trinkets. The bookshelf near his bed was filled with familiar titles, and she let her hands drift along the books he kept close to him, noticing a conspicuous hole where seven books would fit perfectly…

The bathroom had a similar tub to her own, tidy counters, and a mirror she could imagine him in, sweeping his hair back with gel or deciding to let it loose.

After half a second's hesitation, she opened the drawers, finding that exact gel and the comb to go with it. She examined his products, some with expensive-sounding French names. She could imagine him here, stepping out of the tub, wrapped up in luscious towels, taking care of his fair skin with the creams and products in the drawers. Her smile faded in the mirror as she wondered if he would ever complete those rituals again. Stumbling from the bathroom, she shook her head, choking back the fear and uncertainty.