The Darkwood Wand

Night Five-Warnings

Hermione said nothing, but her body tensed.

"A tiny face ..." Malfoy repeated, his voice hushed, "with a tiny voice ... screaming 'Help me, he trapped me here! Help me!'"

She heard him swallow. "Borgin saw me holding the inkpot. He said, 'Be sure to close that tightly, young Master Malfoy. Some customers are ... unwelcome.'"

Hermione felt a thrill of fear. She had visited Borgin's alone herself in Sixth Year, tracking Malfoy himself. If she had pushed the shop owner harder, threatened him perhaps, what might have happened?

"You can't go see Borgin," Malfoy breathed in her ear. "The Ministry has him under surveillance and it's only made him more desperate. That shop is full of trapped 'undesirables,' in mirrors, lockets, boxes. Like small trophies. He won't help us, Granger. We know too much. If we went into that shop, we'd never leave."

His voice very nearly wavered, and Hermione felt the urge to reassure him.

"Alright," she said, still facing the curtain. "I won't go. I promise."

Malfoy's body relaxed behind hers, and his hand moved up to her waist, still over the covers. He pulled her closer.

"Malfoy, don't even think about ..." she began wearily.

"Go to sleep, Granger," he murmured into her ear. The candle went out, casting them into darkness. She felt him bury his face into her still-damp hair, his breath turning slow and even.

Hermione tried to object, but all that came out was a yawn. Her eyelids dropped, and she was wondering how she'd manage her curls in the morning when she too fell asleep.

***

She woke with a jolt in the seventh floor's prefect bathroom, with muffled shouting and banging from the other side of the door. This smaller bathroom only allowed one student inside at a time.

"Bath hog! Let us in! Other people have classes too!"

Hermione groaned and staggered to her feet, rubbing her bruised knee. She picked her wand off the stone floor and took a moment to look around. The wood of the bathroom's benches and shelves was pale and coarse-grained. Damn. She yanked open the bathroom door to face a torrent of abuse, plus snickers over her wild hair. By the time she'd hobbled back to her room it was past seven o'clock—the spell had never returned her so late.

Wrestling with her hair left little time to match up an outfit and suddenly she was sick of jumpers and denim. In desperation Hermione pulled on a red knit dress her mother had bought before the Obliviation and shoved her feet into black ankle boots. Looking herself over in the mirror, she bit her lip. Too tight? She tossed her head. It's fine. She tapped her purple bag with her wand, turning the beads gold, and tucked the Astrarium clock inside. Then she left the room.

Despite a few scrapes and bruises, Hermione felt quite well-rested this Friday morning. The Great Hall blazed forth in all its glory; it was remarkable how much she noticed when she wasn't dead on her feet. The enchanted sky above shone crisp and blue, the stone pillars seemed to glow.

Justin met her at the double doors, holding a long scroll.

"Good morning," he said. "Join me for breakfast?" The Head Boy looked elegant as ever in his black jumper and trousers as well as a gold silk tie with tiny black dots. Upon closer inspection, the dots appeared to be constellations.

She opened her mouth to say no. She had set RAW aside for now; only Justin, Seamus and that bright Seventh-Year Ravenclaw remained. Blaise Zabini was out—one creepy dark wizard in her life was enough. Plus, it didn't seem right to pursue other wizards while popping into Malfoy's bed every night, even if nothing was on the table. Nothing.