After dinner, Draco headed to the library in as good a mood as he could muster, considering the day he'd had. The whole vanishing spell nonsense was finally over, and now he could get back to his usual routine—being cold, ruthless, and hated by almost everyone. Getting tangled up with Gryffindors had been stupid—a mistake he didn't intend to repeat.
Tonight, he'd focus on the Ravenclaw girl Luna Lovegood had mentioned. If this Imogen girl needed a quick trip to the dark side to boost her self-esteem, Draco was happy to help. Not that he planned on pretending to be a gentleman—he wasn't in the charity business. A vigorous shag would do her good, and she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut about it afterward. Besides, there was something incredibly arousing about seducing a prim, intellectual type.
His mind kept drifting back to Hermione—how he'd whispered Intermissum Harmonia Nectere against her ear. The memory clung to him, creeping in throughout the day, like he'd cast his own personal Vanishing spell that teleported him back to that moment.
But Granger, of course, had felt nothing but disgust. She couldn't wait to run off and spread her legs for some bumbling Hufflepuff. Good, Draco thought darkly as he entered the library. He'd replicate the experience with another spell and a far less irritating witch. Hermione would become nothing more than a distant memory.
He spotted his target immediately: the Ravenclaw girl was so absorbed in her towering stack of books, she didn't notice Draco settle into a table in the dark corner of the room. He carefully arranged his scrolls and textbooks—Ravenclaws appreciated that sort of orderliness—and opened his Divination manual. But instead of reading, he quietly scanned the library wing.
And there was Blaise.
Zabini was hunched over at a tiny table, looking more sinister than usual, half-hidden in shadow. At the start of the year, Blaise had strutted around in elegant green silk robes, but over the past week, he'd switched to flowing black ones. He used to flirt and joke with the girls; now he prowled the castle like a Dementor with a toothache. Strange.
And Merlin only knew what Blaise was reading. One of his books was spattered with blood, another let out a faint whimper now and then, and a third lashed at him furiously with its ribbon bookmark. The only thing missing was a glowing sign over his head: DANGEROUS DARK WIZARD.
Blaise caught Draco's gaze and frowned. Draco returned the look, then went back to studying his Ravenclaw target. She was attractive enough—blonde, pink-cheeked, glasses perched precariously on a tiny nose. Maybe he could—
"The key is the ecliptic, of course," came a voice nearby, "that's why the zodiac signs are engraved along the base. But I can't figure out how they're affecting the hands..."
Draco almost groaned out loud.
Of course he deserved every curse and misery life could throw at him, but did the gods really have to make sure he couldn't have one single evening without Hermione Granger?
No such luck—the little know-it-all and her favorite prefect had just marched right into his corner of the library and plopped down a few tables away from Madam Pince.
Now Draco had two options: leave now and try again tomorrow, or stay and hope Granger left before his target did.
Option one was obviously smarter.
So naturally, he chose option two.
Unfortunately, that meant he'd have to listen to Granger and Justin-Fucking-Finch-Fletchley fussing over that cursed clock again. He couldn't even cast a Muffliato to block them out—this part of the library was in Madam Pince's line of sight, and she was ruthless when it came to spells near her precious books.
Annoyed, Draco turned back to his essay on scrying mirrors.
"Don't forget the four elemental signs of the zodiac," Justin was rambling. "Fire, air, earth, and water. Fire signs—"
"That's rubbish," Granger cut in. "Look, it's simple. We're in Libra right now, ruled by Venus. But the clock thinks we're in Aries, ruled by Mars. That might be why Mars won't lock into place."
Draco glanced up just in time to see Finch-Fletchley scowl, clearly offended that he'd been interrupted and corrected. Get used to it, mate.
"I know magical astrology can be complicated, Hermione," Justin said patiently, "but you shouldn't underestimate the power of fire—starting with the greatest of all, the Sun—"
"Drop it, Justin. I told you, I'm not adding any fire to the clock. End of discussion," Hermione said firmly. "It's a delicate mechanism, and it's already been through… well, enough."
Their argument went on, annoying other students—including Iseult (or was it Irene?) who shot them a few sharp looks—but Draco didn't mind. Their bickering actually made a nice background hum for his work. He finished his scrying mirror essay and was halfway through sketching the anatomy of magical beasts when the conversation shifted.
"That's very clever, Justin," Hermione said, her voice soft with admiration—a tone she never used with Draco.
"Simple logic," Justin said smugly. "See? The gears are elliptical, and the distance between the teeth is exactly the width of a quill. That's pretty significant…"
He dropped his voice to a whisper, and Hermione leaned in, nodding as he continued murmuring.
Then she laughed softly.
"Justin!"
Draco clenched his quill so hard that the dim candle on the neighboring table flared up, casting sharp light over his corner of the library. Granger and the Puff jumped. Even the Ravenclaw girl noticed Draco now and shrank back. Blaise looked up from his blood-splattered book and raised an eyebrow.
Draco rose slowly, eyes locked on the Head Girl. Finch-Fletchley frowned but didn't look away.
Hermione tucked the broken clock back into its case.
"Don't mind him," she said loudly to the Puff, in the same tone she used with Potter and Weasley a thousand times before. Then she swept out of the library with her nose in the air, her pet idiot trailing after her.
Draco stayed where he was, fists clenched.
The Ravenclaw girl started packing up too, clearly eager to flee, and Draco realized he had to move fast. A subtle flick of his wand—and her stack of books toppled over. His grandmother's wand wasn't very powerful, but it was good at sneaky little spells. He just hoped Madam Pince hadn't noticed.
Draco walked over to the Ravenclaw's table, crouched down, and—like a bloody Muggle—began picking up the books by hand. He stacked them neatly and looked up at her, forcing a smile.
"You sorted these by subject, right?" he asked.
The blonde girl stared at Draco like he was about to rip off her head and add it to the book pile. Why is this so difficult?
"Do you like Care of Magical Creatures?" he tried again, spotting the top book—an annotated anatomy text stuffed with notes and little scraps of parchment signed Isobel MacDougal. Ah, right. Isobel.
"That's my favorite subject," Draco lied smoothly. He quickly pulled out his own sketches of magical creatures.
"But I'm having a bit of trouble with the manticore," he said, trying to sound concerned. He spread his half-finished drawing on the table in front of her. "So, it's got a human head, lion body, and… it has a snake tail, right?"
"Scorpion tail," MacDougal whispered, shivering a little as she shifted so the books were between her and Draco. She peeked at him nervously over the stack.
Draco sighed inwardly. Is this really worth it?
Then he thought of Vane wandering the halls calling, "Draco?" and Granger hurling books at his head, dropping mattresses on him, jabbing a wand into his throat. This has to be better. Because it can't possibly be worse.
"Like this?" Draco picked up his quill and doodled a little curly pig's tail on the manticore sketch. MacDougal craned her neck to look.
"It… it's too small," she whispered, her fingers twitching like she wanted to fix it. "The tail's as long as the manticore's whole body. It has five segments."
"Like this?" Draco asked, lengthening the tail.
"N-no." She looked at him properly for the first time. "I-it curls, and there's a stinger at the end."
"Ah. Got it." Draco dipped his quill in her inkwell and drew a perfectly proportioned scorpion tail, shading it delicately. He even added sensory hairs. The girl gasped and abandoned her defensive book-fort.
"D-don't forget the venom glands," MacDougal murmured, her gaze fixed on the parchment. Her curtain of blonde hair hid her face.
Draco nodded and, trying not to grimace, carefully marked where the glands would be. Disgusting little monster.
He held out the sketch to her.
"What an impressive stinger you have, Mr. Malfoy," she said breathlessly.
Blaise coughed from his corner, and Draco bit his tongue to stop himself from firing back a crude remark.
"I could never draw a manticore that well," she added.
"Keep it," Draco said, stepping back. "I can always draw another."
"I—I can't accept that!"
"Of course you can." He gathered his books and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Good night, Miss MacDougal."
He winked at her, and she immediately turned crimson.
Draco made a strategic retreat, feeling satisfied with himself for the first time in days. Not bad for a first meeting.
He wandered the castle aimlessly, ignoring curfew. Eventually, common sense reminded him of the early Herbology lesson in the morning, which led him back to the dungeons just before midnight.
The dorm was quiet and dark. Tennant's bed curtains were mercifully drawn. Draco washed up, pulled on silk pajama bottoms, and crawled into bed.
That's when the scent gave her away—a light, floral trace in the air. He drew his wand, whispered Lumos, and soft golden light illuminated her.
Hermione was asleep, lying on her side facing him, tucked under his green bedcover all the way to her chin. Draco noticed the protective spells she'd cast—so subtle no one would have detected them from the outside, yet keyed to let him through. Impressive magic. His own wards were cruder, purely functional. Hermione's spells were like spider silk—delicate but no less strong.
Still, Draco added his own charms and slid under the covers beside her.
He leaned back against the pillows, wondering what he should do. Should he wake her to talk about the curse? Why hadn't it broken?
Hermione sighed softly and solved the problem for him by curling closer.
Draco didn't pull away. He didn't want to ask questions. He didn't want to argue. He just wanted to close his eyes and bury his face in her soft hair, knowing she was here—not off somewhere with that smug Hufflepuff.
Of course, she hadn't exactly chosen to be here. But she wasn't curled up in the corner behind a shield spell either, ready to hex him at the first opportunity. She'd keyed her wards to include him. She hadn't waited up to lecture him about his latest disaster. She'd just settled into his bed and fallen asleep. And when he came in, she moved closer.
Staring at the embroidered snake on the bed canopy, Draco tried to make sense of it all.
The whole evening had been strange—being polite to that Ravenclaw girl had been disturbingly easy. And now there was this—this sort-of-trusting witch curled up beside him.
It wasn't right. He was Draco Malfoy. He was supposed to be ruthless, cold, and hated by everyone.
There had to be some balance between "future Azkaban inmate" and "fuzzy little kneazle kitten."
Draco was still trying to figure out where that balance was when sleep finally pulled him under.