Still with me? Wow, that's great.
Now it's time to take a deep, cleansing breath and pour yourself a hot cup of tea because we're headed to Advanced Divination ...
Draco stalked through the castle's Entrance Hall on a Thursday evening, scowl firmly in place. He'd been shagging Romilda Vane for two weeks now and it was going well enough. The sex was fine, and he'd figured out how to avoid the constant prattle. Vane required a strict regimen, beginning with a blow job practically the second she arrived. It was literally the only way to shut her up. So he was quite satisfied with that part of the arrangement.
The problem was the Gryffindor witch's utter lack of discretion. Vane was incapable of following instructions unless Draco was physically present to reinforce them. He'd tell her to meet him in the third-floor alcove by the tapestry of Sir Eric the Errant, and she'd wander the fourth-floor corridor, asking all the paintings where to find Sir Eric. Draco would instruct her to wait in the old DADA classroom (which remained the best place despite the pervy heads) and she'd forget which door and check every room in the corridor, occupied or not. When she finally entered the right room, she'd cry "Draco!" loud enough for half the castle to hear. And giggle.
Just an hour before, Vane had wandered into the wrong dark stairwell and started snogging a random blond Ravenclaw. Draco found them there, with Vane halfway to her opening act, saying the boy "seemed shorter today." Draco had to Obliviate the baffled boy with Vane's wand and send him off.
He had nearly ended the whole thing right there, he was so furious. He was on probation and casting forbidden spells, even with another's wand, was incredibly dangerous. Vane was apologetic, then defiant, then terrified when Draco started bringing out the threats. She vowed to be more careful, but it wouldn't last. Draco was angry at himself as well; he'd been a fool to expect discretion from a Gryffindor.
Still steaming, Draco retreated to his bedroom, an opulent suite traditionally available to Slytherin's Head of House. The room had sat empty for decades since Slughorn preferred his huge office on the sixth floor and Snape had lived behind the Potion dungeons. Slughorn had been forced to place Draco alone in the comfortable room since no one would live with a Death Eater, and Draco had enjoyed a few blissful days there, inheriting the sumptuous bed with its brocade canopy and carved darkwood bedposts.
A week later, a second, more conventional four-poster had appeared and was filled with the fourteen-plus stones of Tennant Rowle. Tennant had been off on a drinking bender on the Continent and turned up at Hogwarts without notice, announcing that he wanted to transfer. Happy to settle in with Draco, Tennant lost no time scattering invisible traps around the room (a routine Durmstrang precaution) as well as a dozen mysterious objects made of silver and crystal.
Draco tried to stay out of the room after that, except to sleep. Tonight the space was empty, thank Salazar. He fussily prepared for bed, the home-like routines settling his nerves even if he did have to put away his clothes like a house elf.
But sleep eluded him. The scene with Vane had left him half furious, half aroused, and he tossed and turned on the luxurious bed. A thin ray of moonlight peeked between the hangings, touching on the carved snakes slithering up and down the bedposts. When Draco finally slept, another Azkaban nightmare awaited:
... Crouched in a corner,
Ragged, shivering, the very walls whispering:
"You're empty, Dracooo ... so empty ... of thoughts ... of feelings ... of life ..."
"No ..." Draco groaned, "no ..."
The stone mocks him: "Wretched, alone, forgotten, hated ..."
Chains clank as he rolls
Body racked with coughs in the dirty, stifling air.
"You'll be back, Dracooo ... you'll be back ..."
"NOOOO!"
Draco woke with a start, heart pounding, throat hoarse and scratchy. Thank Salazar the wards he always set around his bed hadn't dissipated yet. If Tennant Rowle heard Draco crying out at night, he'd never hear the end of it.
He peeled off his sweaty pajamas and drew his wand from under his pillow. It took three tries to further strengthen the wards; the hawthorn wavered in his hand, resisting him. Draco shook it a few times and frowned. Had Potter damaged the wand before returning it by owl post? No, Draco had been struggling with his wandwork for the better part of a year, ever since the day he confronted Dumbledore.
It's just nerves. Draco shoved the wand under his pillow and lay back again. He'd hoped regular shagging would help, but his nightmares were worse than ever. He was on very thin ice with the Ministry, with a Head Auror eager to pounce on the slightest hint of wrongdoing. Fuck, this thing with Vane could be Draco's one-way ticket back to prison if he wasn't careful. He had to find a way to control her or end things altogether.
***
Draco was still brooding over the Vane problem the following afternoon as he climbed the stairs to the Divination Tower. Professor Trelawney had resumed her classes after the horse returned to the Forbidden Forest. The Dark Lord's prophecy and its role in the war had raised Divination's cachet, and more students than ever requested the subject, hoping to be Seers. The Advanced class was crammed with mostly female students from all four Houses, including Vane and Loony Lovegood.
Draco's own attendance was part of his probation: The Ministry considered the subject essential to "understanding how one's actions affect the future." Mad idea. Draco always left Divination with a raging headache from the perfumed air and a faint regret that the Dark Lord had lost after all.
Today the class took a dramatic turn for the worse. Draco had always sat alone at the room's tiniest table—certainly nobody wanted to See his future. But as the Slytherin scaled the wooden ladder and popped his head out of the hole in the classroom floor, he saw that once again his cherished isolation had been snatched away. The round room was crammed with tiny tea tables, armchairs and fat poufs as usual, but today a second pouf had been added to Draco's table. On it sat the last person he expected to see in this class.
Hermione Granger.
The Golden Girl's contempt for Divination, after all, was well-known, despite its role in the Dark Lord's defeat. Certainly she didn't look happy to be there: She was perched almost comically on her pouf, arms crossed and nose in the air, her back ramrod straight. Draco had no choice but to join her, since the other tables were full and none would welcome him anyway, not even Vane, who was crammed around a table with three friends.
He stalked across the room and sat uncomfortably close to Granger. The lamp above them, draped with a silk scarf, cast a dim, crimson light. Draco was sweating slightly and it wasn't from the stuffy air.
Vane gave him what she fondly considered a secret smile. By now everyone was aware of Vane's interest in him, but Draco's harsh words and scowls and famous antipathy toward Gryffindors prevented anyone from believing anything was actually going on. It had become a running joke, with Vane always looking for Draco. It was also dangerous—eventually someone would see something. He had to take care of this situation before it ...
"For Merlin's sake," a voice said acidly, "just Incendio the quill if you hate it so much."
Draco blinked in confusion before he could stop himself, then realized he'd been glaring at a quill on the table while he thought about Vane. He transferred his glare to the speaker. Granger had paused in the act of pouring tea to give the teacup, Draco and the entire classroom a sweeping look of contempt.
She pointedly did not fill Draco's cup, just set the teapot down with a thunk, jostling the table. Draco watched her sip her tea, slap the cup face-down on its saucer and pick it up again.
"I can see my future will contain ..." Granger looked into the dregs. "Wet leaves. Charming."
Draco stared. Clearly the war had unhinged Granger's giant brain.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.
"NEWTs." Granger's words practically crumbled from her lips, her voice was so dry. "Dumbledore earned eight Outstanding NEWTs and I plan to match that number. For that, I need Advanced Divination."
Draco picked up the teapot, hiding his surprise at her casual mention of their late Headmaster. Nobody mentioned Dumbledore around Draco. Even Headmistress McGonagall had avoided the name in their short, freezing interview. The rest of the class was staring, shocked to witness a civilized exchange between the Golden Girl and the Death Eater. Vane's face was red, Draco noticed—was the daft bint jealous now? Of Granger? Granger, with her baggy robes and bushy hair and flat ...
Well, maybe not anymore. Draco hadn't spared Granger more than a passing glance this year, but it was hard to avoid looking at someone sitting six inches away. The little Mudblood (was she always so small?) wore a Muggle outfit that was frankly a bit shocking: tight denims and a red jumper that clung to every curve. Her dark hair was piled up haphazardly with corkscrew curls bouncing over her forehead and ears. Up close he could see her thickly lashed, honey-gold eyes under straight, black brows. He could see the light freckles across her nose and another sprinkling on the creamy skin below her collarbone ...
Draco shivered convulsively, dropping the teapot and spilling its contents. What was he doing, looking at Granger? At her curls and eyes and freckles and ...?
It wasn't that she was a Mudblood; the war had effectively quashed Draco's enthusiasm for pureblood manias. All that red-eyed shrieking about Mudbloods and Muggles and the Dark Lord himself turned out to be half-Muggle, raised by Muggles. Draco had felt utterly deceived when he'd overheard that bit of trivia. And furious. His family was being manipulated and his home desecrated. It wasn't right. Malfoys were supposed to manipulate others. After the war, a cursory read of Tom Riddle's history put Draco firmly on the side of the soul-cracked loon's Muggle father, especially after seeing the Prophet's picture of Merope Gaunt. Of course the man had left! Imagine waking up one day and finding yourself married to that—
A burning sensation broke this line of thought and Draco leaped to his feet, tea pouring off his black trousers and over his shoes. He expected the witch to start howling, Vane-style, over the hot liquid that dripped onto her as well, but Granger appeared unimpressed, as if sharing a table with a loony Death Eater who drowned his surroundings in tea was only to be expected in Advanced Divination.
"Oh dear!" Professor Trelawney swooped in like a glittery dragonfly, her eyes bugged-out behind oversized glasses.
"I expect you have some towels on hand, Professor." Granger's smile was cool. "For surely you foresaw this little mishap."
Laughter rippled through the class and Draco turned a smirk into a sneer. Trelawney whirled off in a huff, muttering about Granger's "mundane mind." The Gryffindor witch appeared not to notice; with a flick of her wand she'd righted the teapot and cleared away the liquid.
Draco retook his seat and immediately wished he hadn't. The spilt (and still scalding hot) tea had not been vanished, only gathered into a small puddle on his side of the tilted table and was now pouring into his lap. Draco gritted his teeth, determined not to further look the fool, and drew his wand to cast a Tergeo on the table and his person. His wand wobbled slightly in his hand, requiring two tries to get the spell right, but finally he steadied it. He followed it up with a quick cooling charm—if that accursed witch had caused the smallest mark on his skin ...
"Shall I pour?" Granger asked politely.
Draco gave her his most terrible glare, and she responded with a bright smile, her pearly, perfect teeth mocking him. A familiar coldness settled over his mind, a habit from the war. Malfoys do not show emotion. Malfoys rise above petty sniping.
So he slid his wand back into his pocket and poured his own tea, drinking the hot liquid and placing the cup face-down on its saucer with delicate precision. Three counterclockwise rotations. Clear the mind. Peer into the cup. There.
Draco froze.
"What is it?" Granger asked, ever curious.
Draco would never admit it, but he had a sneaking respect for Divination. He knew this branch of magic was capable of surprising insights. His mother was quite skilled, and she had predicted that following the Dark Lord could destroy the family. His father had only laughed, of course, at her tales of "coiled evil," blood dripping from the manor's walls and words of hate carved into skin. Draco, however, never forgot.
But that didn't mean Draco himself could See, or that those literally sodding tea leaves meant anything. He certainly didn't like what he was Seeing now. Especially the leaves clustered near the teacup handle, which Draco was holding with white-knuckled fingers. The heart shape was as precise as if the leaves had been drawn with a quill.
"Wait, let me guess," Granger said. "You're going to suffer, but you'll be happy about it."
It took all of Draco's self-control not to lash out at her. Instead he cleared his face of expression and set the teacup back on its saucer, allowing his little finger to swipe across the damning shape. Draco wiped his hand delicately on a napkin and turned away, ignoring his tablemate.
Granger huffed, but Draco hardly cared. He was looking across the room, watching a certain Gryffindor giggling with her friends over their teacups. Surely not.
"Whatever you saw, it's likely nonsense." Granger's cold voice was almost reassuring. Draco turned his head to see her smooth profile, the curve of her cheek.
"Don't speak to me," Draco snarled. He stood, although class hadn't ended, and snatched up his black leather satchel. Without another word, he stalked off, swinging down the ladder and out of that stifling, perfumed, disturbing room.
______________________________________________
NEXT UP: Hermione writes Harry.