Warnings: Violence, threats and general mayhem.
"Somehow," Hermione Granger said, "I am not reassured."
Draco fell back on the mattress, unable to speak, both from surprise and the brutal kick to his stomach. He couldn't see a thing—the bed was completely dark with the curtains closed. Wheezing, he tried to speak. Granger? How ...
"Accio wand," the witch said crisply and he heard the sound of wood smacking against a palm. "Mors stimulus tuus!"
The Stinging Jinx. Draco braced himself for an onslaught of painful welts, but Granger held his hawthorn wand, and it fought her, emitting red sparks. She yelped as the sparks flashed into flames, and a terrible snapping sound rang in the enclosed space, extinguishing the wand's fiery light.
Draco found his voice. "Bitch! You broke my wand!"
He lunged, catching hold of a leg, but a resounding hit to the face by a blunt object made him release her. Granger had found Dodonus' book of prophecies. Another hit to the top of the head nearly knocked Draco silly, and he fell onto his back again.
"Tempus!" he cried.
His pocket watch atop a pillow snapped open, its thin white light revealing Granger on her knees beside him, book held high over her head, poised to deliver the killing blow. The witch wore a tiny white top and matching shorts and her hair was a dark, wild storm cloud. She loomed over him like an avenging goddess and Draco had never been so shocked and aroused in his entire life. Speak, you fool—speak!
"Listen, I—" His words were cut off as the book descended again, this time squarely on his nose and Draco howled in pain. Rage overcame shock and he sat up, knocked the book aside and shoved Granger backward. He was on her in an instant, pinning her wrists to the mattress.
She glared up at him in the pale light, undaunted. "I cannot wait to hear your explanation for this, Malfoy."
Draco struggled to comprehend the enormity of the situation. How could this possibly happen?
"I'll see you back in Azkaban, you sick bastard!" Granger railed. "Sneaking into witches' beds and molesting—"
His hands on her wrists tightened at the mention of Azkaban. "Not so fast," he said. "I'm not in your bed. You're in mine."
Her eyes widened, and Draco rose to his knees and dragged her to a sitting position. The watch's light picked out the silver bed curtains, snake bedposts and Slytherin crest on the canopy.
Then he pushed her down again. "Yes, Granger," he crooned, "you're in the Slytherin dungeons, in my hands and my bed."
Granger looked horrified; her eyes shifted to the Dark Mark just inches from her face.
Draco sneered. "Care to threaten me some more?"
"Release me now, or I'll—"
"Or you'll what? I'm supposed to just let you leave? Find your way out of the dungeons without a wand?" He smirked. "Hermione Granger, caught sneaking out of Draco Malfoy's bed in the middle of the night." He looked significantly at her thin white top. "Whatever will people think?"
Granger struggled, trying to bring up her knee, but he had her legs pinned with his body. "I'll take my chances," she spat.
No, that wasn't happening. If she woke Tennant ... Tennant ... "You will do no such thing," he told her. "You will lie still and listen or I swear I'll throttle you."
His hands tightened on her wrists again, but Granger just glared. "I cannot imagine any explanation you could possibly provide," she said.
"Vane," he answered promptly. "You were supposed to be Romilda Vane."
"You thought she'd be easy pickings? Too frightened to resist? You twisted, depraved son of a—"
"No!" Draco was offended. "We had an ... an agreement."
"What?" Granger blinked. "You're Romilda's mystery lover?"
Draco nodded, watching the witch under him closely. The rage and horror faded from her face, replaced by a thoughtful frown. It was oddly soothing. Draco took the opportunity to calm his own breathing. Perhaps she'd see he was telling the truth. She was supposed to be the Brightest Witch of the Week, or whatever. He loosened his grip on her wrists slightly, a calculated risk, a silent request for trust.
She was looking up at him again, and Draco felt stripped to his bones by those wide eyes. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to look firmly down at her.
"I'll need to speak to Romilda, of course," Granger said in a prim, judgmental tone totally at odds with her current situation. "Let me up."
Draco opened his mouth to say he'd do no such thing, that she would follow his orders, but instead found himself releasing her wrists and rolling off her body. Her eyes flickered downward as she scrambled to a sitting position and Draco sat up as well. Yes, little Gryffindor, I'm still half-hard, care to help me with that? You don't have to settle for the Weasel.
Granger colored and snatched a pillow to her chest, but her long, slender legs were still stretched out before Draco, her bare feet topped with pink toenail polish. Draco blinked at the sight; pink seemed so ... girlish for Granger.
"So you're shagging Romilda," she prompted, as if they were cozily gossiping on the second-floor staircase.
"Yes, but she, like all Gryffindors, has no discretion. It's only a matter of time before we're caught."
"So you ..."
"Yes, I cast a spell to move her from her bed to mine. Like the Vanishing Cabinets," he explained. Granger's face turned to stone at the mention of the cabinets and Draco almost cringed.
"Tonight was the first night," he said. "She agreed to it." It was important that she believed him, that she didn't think he was pulling girls from their beds. Draco felt sick to think of it.
Another thought came to him. "Why were you in Vane's bed, anyway, Granger? Wait ..." Draco groaned. "Let me guess. You have an ugly orange cat and you always make your bed."
Granger stiffened, and Draco could almost see the magic crackling around her. The witch was going to blow them both up if she wasn't careful. "Are you saying you ... you ... with Romilda ... in my bed?"
Her voice rose as she spoke, with the words "my bed" hitting an unbearably high pitch. If she'd had a wand right then, Draco wouldn't have bet two knuts on his life. Of course, that didn't stop him from answering.
"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist," he sneered. "It's the only action that bed is likely to see, after all—where are you going?"
Granger was on her knees again, dropping the pillow. "I can't remain here another moment. You're sick and despicable and ..."
"Wait." He grabbed her arm. "Are you going to report this?"
She tossed her head. "Of course."
"And what about my wand?" he demanded. "You broke my wand!"
"YOU DON'T DESERVE A WAND!" Granger yanked her arm from his grip. "If the Ministry had snapped your wand in the first place, like they should have, this never would have happened! You should be in Azkaban!"
Draco had heard people say the same thing, multiple times a day, but somehow the words cut sharp coming from her. Even bleeding-heart Granger wanted him locked away in prison. Well, he'd probably end up back there sooner or later, either from others' malice or his own stupid, self-destructive streak. Back in that former Dementors' nest, feeling the boundaries between nightmare and reality blur until ...
"Malfoy!" Granger's shrill voice pierced his mental fog. "Pay attention!"
Draco looked up. She was sitting back on her knees, arms crossed in rigid disapproval. "I need the counterspell, Malfoy."
"What?" Draco asked, suddenly distracted by the little embroidered teapot on Granger's white top, right between her ...
"Do you honestly think I'd sleep in a bed linked to yours?" That familiar know-it-all tone had returned to her voice. "I read all about Vanishing Cabinets after Sixth Year. I'll lift the spell from my bed and break the connection."
Draco eyed her doubtfully. "It's quite complex, a delicate process ..."
"If you can do it, I can," Granger snapped. "Tell me the counterspell."
He nodded, resigned. Certainly he didn't want to return to Gryffindor Tower again. Draco picked up a jagged piece of his former wand.
"Point the wand at the bed," he said, ignoring the ache in his chest as he raised the empty shard. "Trace a circle like this, pausing at 30-degree increments. The words are Intermissum Harmonia Nectere, repeated at every pause. This will take precise timing, and a light hand. If you aren't—"
"I can't leave, Malfoy," Granger interrupted.
"That's right, I have to tell you—"
"No, I mean I can't leave." Draco now realized the Gryffindor witch was slamming her hand against the bed curtain. "This bed is strongly warded, inside and out," she said, "and neither of us has a working wand. I'm trapped!" She continued to test the curtains.
"Just until ..." Draco began, then looked at his open pocket watch. Half-past midnight. Odd, Granger should be gone by now. He had designed the spell to bring the witch here at ten o'clock and then automatically Vanish her away at eleven. (An hour of Vane was more than enough, he'd reasoned.) So why was Granger still here?
No matter. Clearly the spell was fucked up somehow. They'd just wait until his wards dissipated and Draco would try to sneak her out without alerting Tennant. Unlikely, but possible. Then Granger would break the Vanishing Spell and that would be the end of it. Draco yawned, touching his nose tenderly. Definitely swollen. His head ached as well and it still hurt to breathe.
Draco eyed the witch still beating on his bed curtains with her bare hands. It looked like Granger tentatively believed him. He wasn't headed to Azkaban quite yet. As for his wand, he'd owl Mother tomorrow and she'd sort something out.
Meanwhile, he'd just lay back on silver-tasseled pillows and enjoy watching a half-naked witch bounce around his bed. His mind drifted to when he first woke, that soft, smooth ...
"Don't you dare go to sleep!" Granger screeched.
He glared. "What else do you suggest I do? Break my hands against warded curtains like a fucking moron? Merlin, I thought you were intelligent. Just give it a few hours."
Granger groaned and sat down with a thump. Even Gryffindors faced reality eventually. "Fine," she grumbled.
She stretched out as far away from Draco as possible, and bunched the bedding around her like a little fortress. Her eyes shone malevolently over the pillows like that creepy Kneazle she owned.
"I warn you ... don't you dare touch me again," she hissed.
Draco sneered and turned his back on her, closing his eyes. The little hypocrite didn't seem to mind his touch when they woke earlier. Clearly gagging for it. Well, she'd have to find another wizard willing to roll in the mud. His breathing steadied despite the lingering pain—he'd had worse, after all—and he found it surprisingly easy to drift off to sleep.
NEXT UP: Girl Time with Hermione.