Just as she was hesitating and struggling internally, Moaning Myrtle was stirring things up again.
"Oh, he's still here! He's carrying a little basket! It smells... like warm soup? Waaah... I haven't had hot soup in so long. My mom's pumpkin soup was the best when she was alive. Now all I get is cold, dirty tap water..."
Moaning Myrtle's cries were tinged with envy; her transparent figure floated back and forth by the door, her nose twitching incessantly.
It was as if they were greedily inhaling the fragrance that was seeping in through the crack in the door.
Perhaps it was Moaning Myrtle's tearful complaints, tinged with craving, that had the opposite effect.
Or perhaps it was Hermione's inherent pride and stubbornness that prevented her from hiding behind the door like a coward.
She took a deep breath and vigorously wiped her eyes and cheeks with the sleeve of her wizard's robe, removing the remaining tear stains.
Then she straightened her back with all her might, even though her legs were still a little weak.
Her hand rested on the cold brass doorknob, her fingertips trembling slightly.
But in those brown eyes, the flame that belonged to Hermione Granger had been rekindled.
That was a stubborn flame, refusing to bow down or surrender to anyone.
" Moaning Myrtle, please move away from the door," she said to the ghost floating beside her.
Although his voice was still a little hoarse, he had regained his usual composure.
Moaning Myrtle pursed her lips, reluctantly floated a few steps away, but still craned her neck, staring longingly in the direction of the door.
The next second, Hermione gritted her teeth and yanked open the wooden door.
The light outside was a few degrees brighter than inside the bathroom.
In his hand, he was indeed carrying a simple little wicker basket that seemed somewhat out of place with his refined demeanor.
The rattan is woven in a fine pattern, contrasting with the white linen underneath, subtly exuding warmth.
The moment their eyes met, the air seemed to freeze.
Hermione clearly saw a fleeting, complex emotion flash across Draco's eyes.
She was also certain that Draco had seen her still-swollen and red eyes.
Draco's gaze lingered on her face for a moment, sweeping over her from her reddened eyes to her slightly swollen nose, inch by inch, without the slightest hesitation.
He frowned slightly, but quickly regained his composure.
Draco didn't speak immediately, nor did he try to step into this territory that belonged to Moaning Myrtle. He simply stood quietly at the doorway, looking at her calmly.
Then, he gently handed the small wicker basket he was holding forward.
"I think you might not have gone to the Great Hall," he said, his voice clearer and gentler than when he spoke through the door.
"It gets a bit chilly in the castle at night, and it's easy to catch a cold on an empty stomach. This is from the kitchen, it's still warm."
Hermione didn't immediately take the basket.
She simply stared at him sharply.
Draco was too calm, so calm that it made her uneasy, and she couldn't figure out what he was thinking.
"What... what are you doing here?" Hermione finally spoke.
Her voice was tense and highly guarded.
"Are you here to laugh at me? Or do you think you didn't humiliate me enough in the classroom, so you came all this way to add a few more insults?"
She tried to arm herself with anger, to dispel the slight wavering that had quietly grown in her heart because of the warm food he had offered.
Draco seemed to have anticipated her sharp retort, showing no surprise whatsoever.
He simply watched her quietly.
A silence spread between the two, lasting only a few seconds, yet feeling as long as an eternity.
Then, he slowly began to speak:
"I'm sorry about what happened in the classroom just now..."
The impact of this apology coming from Draco Malfoy was no less than, and perhaps even greater than, his classroom rant. "Am I some kind of man-eating beast?"
Hermione was completely stunned.
She had imagined countless possibilities.
Draco might continue to mock her embarrassment, might pretend nothing happened and change the subject, or might continue his inexplicable "game" in a more subtle way...
But she never imagined he would apologize.
So direct, so simple, without any embellishment or explanation.
His eyes were fixed on her, unblinking, without a trace of mockery or scheming.
At least it doesn't seem so at this moment.
Draco seemed to be carefully observing her reaction, or perhaps waiting for some silent judgment.
In the washroom, only the sound of dripping water from the faucet broke the silence, drip, drip.
A heavy and eerie silence hung between the two people outside the door.
Inside the wicker basket, the warm aroma of creamy mushroom soup, mixed with the sweetness of honey mint tea and the subtle sweetness of fresh fruit, wafted gently through the gaps in the wicker, filling the damp, chilly air between the two.
The warm, enticing aroma of the food contrasted strangely with his sudden apology.
This plunged Hermione's already chaotic mind into even deeper confusion.
Hermione stared blankly at Draco, at his calm, expressionless face, at the wicker basket he handed her, still steaming slightly.
These images, like several completely unpieceless fragments, raced through her mind, making her dizzy and disoriented.
An apology? Malfoy is apologizing? To her?
A sense of absurdity enveloped her again, even temporarily overshadowing her shame, anger, and vigilance.
She instinctively took half a step back, her back pressing heavily against the damp, cold door frame.
"What... what do you mean?" Hermione's voice was still hoarse, but she was no longer choked up.
Instead, it turned into deep confusion and a barely perceptible tremor.
"Sorry? Sorry for which 'joke' you said? Or for your whole... inexplicable night?"
Her tone was questioning, puzzled, and tinged with urgency.