Hermione had no intention of falling asleep. How could anyone possibly sleep in Draco Malfoy's bed? Draco Malfoy's bed. Unthinkable. Okay, so obviously he had a bed—probably a sock drawer and a hairbrush too. But Hermione had never pictured him actually sleeping in it. If she really tried, she could imagine him coiled up on the floor like a snake, or hanging from the rafters like a bat.
And he'd touched her.
Oh gods, was Malfoy really that desperate from lack of sex? Hermione had never heard of such outrageous idiocy. Maybe he'd lied just to avoid Azkaban, but somehow she didn't think so. For one, the story was far too humiliating. And second, he'd looked genuinely shocked when he saw her.
Of course, he'd smirked afterward and turned his back on her. And she'd felt weirdly rejected. Which was ridiculous—he could keep his cold, disgusting hands to himself. He deserved to be kicked and hit over the head. Twice. She just hoped she hadn't damaged the book.
But… his hands hadn't been cold or disgusting. They'd been soft and warm. Skilled. His tongue had been skillful and warm too, giving her goosebumps…
No. She had to have imagined that. Malfoy had probably woken up and started groping her in his usual selfish way, and she'd dreamed up those gentle touches. Yes, that was it. Just some hormone-fueled dream. Hormones and alcohol. Tonight she'd resorted to Firewhisky to fall asleep, and it had worked too well.
Hermione vaguely remembered stumbling to bed, barely able to manage the teeth-cleaning charm (clean enamel is happy enamel), and then collapsing…
Well, lesson learned. No more drinking. If tonight proved anything, it was that in this bloody castle, anything could happen. Constant vigilance!
Hermione cracked one eye open. In the pitch darkness, she could hear only Malfoy's quiet breathing. Apparently, he had no problem sleeping, but he wasn't trapped behind enemy lines. He wouldn't sleep so well in the Gryffindor tower with Ginny prowling the perimeter and Crookshanks sitting on his head.
Hermione shifted restlessly, her elbow brushing against the still-firm bed curtain. Merlin, how she wished she had a wand. They didn't even have Malfoy's wand—it had shattered to pieces when she tried to use it. That damn wand probably hated Muggle-borns.
She burrowed deeper into the blanket, her thoughts swirling and twisting like ribbons in the wind. Hands on her shoulders, lips on her neck…
No.
Maybe it was time to start dating someone. To move forward with life. Surely there were wizards out there who could offer romance, passion. Sex that wasn't just a desperate escape from reality but a standalone experience: slow and seductive, rough and hot, with sparkling eyes and skilled hands…
Merlin, was she really having these thoughts in Draco Malfoy's bed? Draco Malfoy's bed. Hermione let out a quiet giggle and closed her eyes again. Somewhere around here was Draco Malfoy's toothbrush, Draco Malfoy's slippers, Draco Malfoy's expensive cologne…
"ANSWER ME! Crucio! Crucio!"
"No! That's not the real sword!"
"Crucio!"
"It's a copy… no…"
She struggled, desperate to break free, to find help, to reach for salvation—
And suddenly, Bellatrix just vanished.
The pain faded, the blinding chandelier light dimmed, and Hermione was safe.
Yes, she was safe now, surrounded by warmth and a sense of power. No need to wake up. No need to run.
Safe.
She kept sleeping.
Hermione awoke in a warm haze.
Where was she?
She was lying on her side in total darkness, pressed up against something solid yet yielding. Her hand touched silky skin. She moved her hand higher. It felt nice. Nicer than her usual dreams. The scent of expensive cologne surrounded her—masculine, calming.
She leaned forward, wanting more, and—
WHAT?
Hermione jerked away, struggling to escape the layers of bedding. Her hand shot out and touched soft fabric. She felt it—it was a bed curtain. The bed curtain of…
Draco Malfoy's bed.
And that body was… oh, Merlin…
Her knee connected with something soft.
"OW!" came a painfully familiar voice. "Damn it, Granger!"
"Malfoy?" she croaked.
"Who else? Bloody hell!"
"Uh, sorry?" Hermione felt ridiculous, and the fact that she couldn't see anything didn't help. The barely remembered events of the night crashed down on her.
"OW! Tempus!"
A pale light filled the space, and there he was—Malfoy—shamelessly rubbing his groin and looking furious.
"I told you not to touch me!" Hermione hissed.
"Oh no, Granger. This time you touched me."
Hermione was horrified.
"I did not!"
She regretted the dim pocketwatch light because Malfoy's smug smirk was perfectly visible. His blond strands, usually sleeked back, now fell messily over his forehead. The light cast soft shadows on his neck and chest, down to…
"What are you staring at, Granger?" he barked. "Stop drooling over me!"
She slapped her hand over her mouth, then removed it, glaring. Of course she wasn't drooling. Malfoy was just being a jackass. She opened her mouth to retort, and that's when something horrible happened.
"Draco?"
A deep voice filled the room.
"Draco, what the hell?"
The protective spells. Hermione suddenly remembered the bed's privacy enchantments. Malfoy's charms had dropped—not just the ones keeping them inside but also the ones preventing anyone outside from seeing or hearing them.
Hermione and Malfoy locked eyes in panic. She knew that voice.
Tennant Rowle.
Whatever Malfoy had done during the war, Tennant—son of Thorfinn Rowle—had, according to rumors, done worse. But no one could—or would—testify against him. He hadn't even taken the Dark Mark. At Durmstrang, it was said there'd been chaos—teachers arrested for brewing illegal potions, for creating unregistered Animagi. And now Tennant was here, skulking around Hogwarts, sniffing things out.
He should've been in Azkaban.
"Did I hear you say Granger?" Tennant's voice dripped with malice. "Dreaming about that little Mudblood, are you?"
Hermione and Malfoy froze, avoiding each other's eyes. Silence. Then she heard the rustle of bedsheets and heavy footsteps.
"What's that light?" Tennant asked. "Wanking to a spellograph? Let me see."
A large shadow loomed closer to the bed.
Hermione dived under the blanket. Oh Merlin, he was coming closer…
"Back off, Tennant!" Malfoy growled. Hermione felt him pull more covers over her to hide her silhouette. "I don't have any bloody spellographs of some Mudblood!"
"Well, you've got something under there," Tennant purred. "Wanna share with the class? Or maybe… with me?"
"Try it and you'll get an Avada in the face!" Malfoy snapped. If Hermione hadn't known his wand was broken, she might've believed it. The bed curtain rustled.
"Tennant—" Malfoy's voice was nearly desperate. "Don't…"
"What—" Tennant began, but suddenly Hermione felt a tug, like Apparition but smoother and faster, and she squeezed her eyes shut against a flash of white light.
When she opened them, she was back in her own bed, surrounded by a heap of bedding. Her books lay at her feet. Shaking, Hermione sat up and reached for her wand on the nightstand. She nearly cried when her fingers closed around the carved vinewood. She sank back onto her pillow, one foot brushing—
Oh no. It was her rune-engraved box containing her astronomical clock.
That damn Malfoy spell had transported her, the bedding, and the books back and forth from the dungeons.
She opened the box and groaned. The bronze drum engraved with zodiac signs was dented, and the tiny celestial bodies lay in a tangled heap at the bottom.
That ferret broke my clock!
She jumped out of bed and set the box on the table. Then she lit a lamp and looked around. Romilda's bed was dark; the curtain was drawn. With the sudden influx of extra Gryffindors in the tower, they'd opened some small bedrooms, and Hermione had ended up in one with Romilda, since Ginny was hiding somewhere and wasn't speaking to her anyway.
Romilda. Hermione stared at the drawn curtain of the neighboring bed.
If Romilda had the brains of a Flobberworm, she wouldn't have been fooling around with Malfoy, and Hermione wouldn't have been groped by a wizard twice or terrified by Tennant Rowle…
Hermione looked at the large golden clock on the mantel—4 a.m.
At least Malfoy's Miracle-Spell had brought her back, saving her from having to sneak through the whole castle.
If this night taught her anything, it was that magic is not a toy—and certainly not a way to get passionate sex. These purebloods poured out magic like water. No respect.
Well, it didn't matter now, because she was going to break the bond right this second.
Then she'd confirm Malfoy's story with Romilda. He'd probably been telling the truth—this whole stupid mess was very much his style.
Hermione stood before the bed and began drawing a perfect circle with her wand.
Intermissum Harmonia Nectere.
Another motion. Again.
Intermissum Harmonia Nectere.
Nothing complicated.
She kept casting the counter-spell.
We Gryffindors always have to clean up after the Slytherins. Mean, selfish, handsy Slytherins.
Yes, handsy.
She hadn't touched him this morning, no matter what he claimed. She would never want to touch some…
In anger, Hermione slashed her wand on the last Intermissum, and the effect was instant.
A horrible crack rang out, and the bed seemed to shudder. Hermione lowered her wand as rips appeared in the bedcurtains, and long, jagged cracks ran along the bedposts. With another jolt, a rain of splinters came crashing down. She spun around, wand at the ready—but the splinters vanished, leaving no trace on her skin or clothes.
What the hell was that?
She looked back at the bed, but it was normal again—no cracks or rips. She grabbed a bedpost with one hand and shook it slightly. Solid as always.
Hermione shook her head.
Maybe it was a side effect of breaking the spell. Malfoy could've warned her.
There wasn't a sound from Romilda's bed—that girl could sleep through anything.
Hermione grabbed her makeup bag—she needed a shower to wash off the lingering slime of the Slytherin dungeons. And in the morning, she'd make Romilda a nice pot of tea.
***
"I don't understand why you're always in sweaters, Hermione," Romilda said, adjusting her tie.
"If I were a Eighth Year student, I'd wear dresses every day."
"I'm comfortable like this," Hermione replied from the couch.
There was nothing wrong with sweaters. She was even wearing a skirt—denim, but still.
"Come over here, Romilda, I need to talk to you."
There was still plenty of time before Monday's classes.
"I'll be late for breakfast," Romilda said, ruffling her hair.
"It's about Draco Malfoy."
Her roommate whipped around.
"Who?"
"Don't even bother denying it," Hermione said. "But I won't say anything… if you answer a few questions."
Romilda nervously sat at the other end of the couch, her hands clasped on her knees.
"Have some tea," Hermione offered, handing her a cup. "Extra milk, just how you like it."
Romilda downed the tea in one gulp.
"Why do you want to talk about Draco… Malfoy?" she stammered.
"Because you're sleeping with him," Hermione said calmly.
Romilda choked and set the cup down with trembling hands.
"I-I-I n-n-n… What's happening?"
"I put Veritaserum in the tea," Hermione said. "We're going to have a nice, honest chat."
"I didn't… I don't… "
Romilda's face flushed as she tried—and failed—to lie.
"When was the first time you spoke to Malfoy?" Hermione asked. Romilda started shaking.
"It was… it was…" She tried to press her lips together, but it was useless.
"The third week of term!" she blurted out. "He found out about me and Cormac and… and…"
"And what?" Hermione prompted.
"He offered me revenge sex," Romilda admitted, defeated. "To be my… mysterious lover."
"And then you started sneaking around together?" Hermione asked.
Romilda nodded.
"He's actually good at it. Always makes sure I finish. Unlike Cormac—I always had to remind him."
Hermione cleared her throat.
"Uh, well… that's considerate of him. All I wanted to know was—"
"Draco keeps a strict routine, which is kind of weird," Romilda went on.
Hermione realized with growing horror that the Veritaserum had made her roommate even more talkative. And direct. Clearly, Romilda had been dying to talk to someone about this.
"I always start with a blowjob," Romilda said, pouring herself more tea and adding milk. "Cormac liked to wait until later, but with Draco—it's always a blowjob first. He doesn't even think of trying anything else."
She sipped her tea elegantly.
"I thought maybe he'd like to take me from behind, but no—always straight to the—"
Hermione ruthlessly thought, Maybe that's the only way to shut you up, as she sipped from her own cup—without Veritaserum. Then she felt guilty. Bossing girls around, expecting them to serve—disgusting.
"So, you haven't told anyone else," Hermione cut in, interrupting Romilda's comparisons of Malfoy and Cormac's… technique. Merlin, she was ready to Obliviate herself, and they hadn't even started talking about the Vanishing Beds yet.
"Oh no, he's a Death Eater!" Romilda gasped, as if she'd just now realized that after weeks of sex with him. Then she looked annoyed.
"I thought he'd be… rougher."
"What?" Hermione blurted out, wincing at herself. Another question.
"Yesterday I wanted to try a game," Romilda grumbled. "You know, Draco the evil Death Eater, and me the helpless prisoner, but he freaked out. Slapped me and refused to do anything! Said you shouldn't joke about stuff like that."
"He hit you?" Hermione whispered. Stop asking questions!
"Just once," Romilda said, then beamed.
"Maybe Cormac will want to play! When we get back together!"
"You're getting back together?" Aaargh!
Romilda smiled.
"Oh yeah. Cormac still won't admit he was fooling around with that Hufflepuff girl—claims he was flying his broom that night—but he's super sorry." She took another sip of tea.
"I like Veritaserum. It's nice to see you finally learning something useful, Hermione. You should take notes. Wizards are stubborn, and once you—"
"Enough," Hermione cut her off. She was tempted to slap Romilda herself, but she had a mission.
"So how did it go, sneaking around with Malfoy?"
"Just great," Romilda said cheerfully. "The alcoves were a bit cramped, and he liked that creepy classroom with the gross heads, but then Draco came up with a new idea about his bed—" She suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth.
"I wasn't supposed to say that!"
Finally.
"What idea did Malfoy have about his bed?"
Romilda shook her head, but the Veritaserum won.
"Draco got nervous because I mixed up the meeting place a few times. I told him not to worry—no one would believe it anyway—but he's super obsessive about schedules and following orders. Total control freak."
"What was Malfoy's idea?" Hermione repeated.
"Well, he came up with a spell that, he said, could teleport me straight into his bed," Romilda's eyes gleamed.
"Just imagine—being in the Slytherin dungeons with all those bad boys!"
Not as fun as it sounds. Trust me.
"Draco told me to be here by ten, and he'd summon me to his bed. But I was a little late," Romilda giggled.
"Cormac saw me at the Leaky Cauldron and wouldn't stop staring, so of course I couldn't just leave. Then we went up to the North Tower to talk. He said I looked like an angel in blue…"
"In blue?" Hermione narrowed her eyes. Romilda never wore blue.
"Yeah, Draco picked it," Romilda rolled her eyes. "I tried to tell him it was your dress, but he wouldn't listen."
"Malfoy picked my dress? For you?" Hermione didn't even know how to feel about that.
"Yeah, when he was here setting up the spell," Romilda sighed.
"He didn't like the gold one or the purple one." She pouted.
"He's so picky."
"So the teleportation thing didn't work?" Hermione wanted to be sure.
"No," Romilda said, regretfully.
"But the day wasn't wasted—we had great sex in your bed!"
She stared at Hermione in horror.
"Sorry!" she squeaked.
"I wasn't supposed to do that! But my bed was a mess, and he's so elegant, I thought he'd say no…"
Hermione waved away the apology. After everything that had happened, she just didn't care anymore. A little ritual sheet-burning would fix it.
"Alright," Hermione said. "Thanks, Romilda."
She stood up.
"I hope you realize how dangerous it is to keep seeing Malfoy."
Romilda snorted and got up too.
"Not as dangerous as I thought. Just a regular vanilla boy, a little bossy. I'm definitely going back to Cormac."
She grabbed her bag and skipped out of the room, leaving Hermione gaping after her.
At least that's done, Hermione thought, walking over to the wardrobe mirror. Today, she felt surprisingly alert, and it only took a few light glamour charms to hide the traces of exhaustion under her eyes. She slung a tiny pink purse over her shoulder and walked out of the room with a spring in her step.
I must've been really exhausted to fall asleep in Malfoy's bed.
Maybe the nightmares will finally stop.