"Do you have any idea how you look right now?" Malfoy asked hoarsely, leaning closer.
Well, no, Hermione didn't. But what about him? Did Malfoy have any idea what he looked like, sitting there bare-chested, wearing glasses, reading a book? His hair all mussed and stubble on his pointed jaw?
She had no idea how to answer. They had maintained their distance in the old DADA room earlier that night, established boundaries. Hermione had been sure she and Malfoy could now move forward in a more ... professional way. Yes, professional. They would research the Vanishing Spell (she had already lined up separate assignments), speak civilly in Divination and perhaps have the occasional meeting. The nighttime visits were over. They were over.
Except here she was, wearing only a robe and a towel and again without her wand. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be looking at his chest. Draco Malfoy might not deserve prison, but he could still be cold and vile. Had he meant those apologies, or was he just trying to stay out of Azkaban? No way to know. And nothing was going to happen tonight, glasses or no.
So Hermione elected to ignore his question and clutch the robe to her chin. "I really wasn't in my bed," she repeated.
He raised a skeptical brow. "Indeed."
"I don't understand," Hermione said. She'd used the Map to sneak into the prefect's bathroom after curfew, hoping a good soak would calm her nerves. But images of Malfoy there with her had coiled up like steam, and now, as if her thoughts had brought her, here she was. "How can I be transported here without the bed?"
Malfoy shrugged. "Who knows? That spell is now wildly out of control. And you are part of it somehow, your magic ..."
"My magic?" she repeated, eyes narrowed. "You don't think I stole the magic?"
"Of course not, that's the most witless thing I've ever heard."
"But you always said—"
Malfoy sighed and looked quite put-upon. "Don't be daft. You're as magical as anyone else in the wizarding world. Probably more magical than most. The stupidest, weakest people I know are purebloods." He glowered at her over his glasses. "Any other awkward topics you care to bring up? Any other wizards' names you'd like to moan?"
Hermione swallowed. You've been very bad, Miss Granger.
"That won't be necessary," she said, slipping under the covers and placing a pillow between them. Malfoy returned to his book, which looked to be a plant nursery catalogue.
"How hard is it to grow Belladonna?" he wondered. "Let's say I keep a potted seedling under my bed, how long before it begins to droop?"
"Not long, a day or two, I suppose, if you don't water it—and that's not what I want to discuss!" Hermione took a steadying breath and sat up straight, folding her hands on her lap. "We need to talk about the spell. I don't understand how it can bring me here without using the bed."
Malfoy turned a page.
"Oh, no you don't," she snapped. "Don't act like this is only my problem. The timing continues to be unpredictable. I could Vanish from Potions class and turn up here. Tennant could see me."
That did it. Malfoy put down the catalog and gave her an almost worried look. Then he tapped the nearest bedpost with a knuckle.
"Was there any African darkwood in that bathroom?" he asked. "It's an excellent base for Vanishing Spells. That's what gave me the idea in the first place."
Hermione looked at the shining black bedposts, their carved snakes mercifully still. "I was in the prefect's bathroom on the seventh floor."
"Well, check it out." Malfoy yawned and tucked away his book and glasses.
"What are you doing?" Hermione asked. "I'm not finished!" Malfoy ignored her and slid further under the covers. "I have an idea!"
"Brilliant," he mumbled, turning away.
"We should go to Borgin and Burkes."
Malfoy rolled back to face her. "We should what?"
"See Mr. Borgin. He taught you how to repair the Vanishing Cabinets, right?"
Malfoy was on his back now, staring up at her. Hermione knew he had to be shocked, because her robe had opened a bit and he didn't even look. She closed it quickly.
"I can't leave the castle grounds," he said.
"I can get you out." She was leaning over him now, her hair falling forward. She pushed it back and this time Malfoy noticed her robe.
"How?" he asked.
"If I can get you out, will you go?" she asked. "You have to be there. You can answer any questions and Borgin won't talk to me anyway."
"No." He turned away again.
"Malfoy!" she shook his shoulder. "I don't believe this—I have to wheedle you into doing something that directly benefits you and keeps you out of Azkaban? Is this what Slytherins call negotiating? I ought to—"
"For Salazar's sake ... if you're not going to shag me, Granger, then go to sleep," Malfoy snapped. "Is this what it's like to be married? Almost makes me glad my family name is shit, at least I'll be spared that."
Hermione glared at his bare back. "I'm well aware that you don't listen to women," she said resentfully. "Romilda told me what you did to keep her from talking."
Malfoy rolled back toward her, looking hopeful. "Is that an option?"
"Don't be disgusting."
The Slytherin sat up and smirked, stretching an arm over his pillow. His coverlet slipped, revealing the Septumsemptra scars and that line of darker, downy hair. Clearly he hadn't missed her earlier looks.
"This opens up a whole new avenue of negotiation," he mused.
"That is not on the table, Malfoy. Nothing is on the table. I'll go to Borgin's by myself, first."
Malfoy dropped the smirk. "Now that would be stupid, Granger. He's very adept at handling ... unwanted customers."
"I'm not afraid of Borgin." Now Hermione was the one to turn away and face the curtain. "I'll let you know how it goes." She pulled the coverlet up to her chin and closed her eyes.
She felt Malfoy shift closer, but she didn't move. "Granger," he snapped. "Granger." She didn't respond.
"You're acting like a child, Granger."
That's rich coming from you, you big entitled baby.
He sighed. "You don't know Borgin. You don't know what he's done."
Yes, I do. He helped you bring Death Eaters into the castle.
Malfoy was right behind her now, his breath in her ear, hand sliding over the coverlet to rest on her hip. "Granger."
Hermione couldn't suppress her reaction to his touch and her whispered name. She expected to feel his lips on her skin, his hand slipping beneath the covers. But his touch remained still.
"On Borgin's counter sits a quill and a brass-topped inkpot," Malfoy said. "If you open the inkpot—say, while the shopkeeper is talking to your father—you'll find a tiny face inside. Screaming."
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.
Trying not to flush, she glanced at the Slytherins, where the blond git in question glared back.
"Yes, thank you, Justin," she said firmly.
Joining the Hufflepuff table turned out to be a good choice because Justin had a theory about her clock.
"Look, Hermione," he said, unrolling the scroll. "This came to me last night. Your clock has Zodiac symbols inscribed along the bottom, which is quite rare in magical Astraria and ..."
He glanced at Hermione and cleared his throat. "As I said, the signs of the Zodiac. And the clock's spheres represent the sun, moon and six Copernican planets." He looked at her significantly.
"Six planets," Hermione repeated. "Yet the Zodiac are ruled by all nine planets."
Justin nodded. "Your clock is missing planets: Neptune, Uranus and Pluto. The Zodiac will never synchronize with the rest of the clock without the other ruling planets."
"That's it!" Hermione dropped the scroll and grasped his arm. "You did it!"
"It is the product of a scientific mind," Justin said, pleased. He looked down at her hand until she withdrew it.
"We'll have to make the three missing planets," she said excitedly. "We can etch the planetary symbol on each one and make sure its color—you have time tonight, don't you?"
Justin looked at her with hooded eyes, considering. "Perhaps."
Hermione almost groaned. Why were all the men in her life so difficult?
Fine. Hermione leaned toward Justin, catching a whiff of his cologne, a lighter, more citrusy scent than Malfoy's.
"Justin," she whispered in his ear, "would you please help me fix my clock?"
The Head Boy frowned at her. "I suppose I could adjust my schedule."
Half the Gryffindor table was watching them now. Malfoy stormed out of the Great Hall, sending students scattering.
Hermione leaned away and tried not to flush. "Meet me on the third-floor landing, Justin," she said. "I know just the classroom."
***
Hermione had hoped to change into denims after her last class, but as she rounded a fourth-floor corner, she encountered none other than Malfoy's roommate, Tennant Rowle.
He was talking to someone, his broad back to Hermione. She could only see the girl's thin legs and a scrap of skirt, but Tennant's voice and wide-legged stance were unquestionably dominating.
"I don't think I should, Mr. Rowle," said the girl's timid voice.
"Now, now, you wouldn't want to hurt my feelings, would you?" Rowle reached out, and a pile of books fell to the floor.
"I-I'm sorry, but I don't—"
"Oh, but you do," Rowle purred. "You do very well. Now, stop—"
"There you are, child!" Hermione called out in her best McGonagall voice.
Tennant Rowle turned, his craggy face like stone. Merlin, he was huge. He strongly resembled his father, and his hard expression took Hermione back to the war, to a London cafe, where Thorfinn collapsed in a flash of red light from Harry's Stupefy.
The other witch cringed against the stone wall. She looked familiar, with wide blue eyes and delicate features. She reminded Hermione of Daphne Greengrass; this must be her younger sister. Astrid? Some hotel name. Astoria.
"They're waiting for you, Miss Greengrass," Hermione told her.
Astoria squeaked in surprise, but she was Slytherin enough to seize the opportunity. "Th-thank you, Miss Granger!" She gathered her books with a wave of her wand and ran off.
Tennant Rowle now stood before Hermione, his lip curled. Unlike Thorfinn's, Tennant's round, rather bulging eyes gleamed with intelligence. His sandy hair was growing out of a severe short cut, and he wore a black military jacket with a high collar and two rows of brass buttons. Hermione was reminded of Viktor, who'd worn a similar uniform in red.
Tennant, however, left his jacket hanging open without its wide belt and his white shirt was untied at the neck to reveal a thick mat of light brown hair. Heavy rings banded every finger and a small gem dangled from one ear. He cut an arresting figure, Hermione had to admit—half soldier, half pirate.
His stare made her uneasy. but Hermione didn't look away, just let her wand slide down her forearm, under her knit sleeve. They faced each other in the empty, ribbed corridor, the pinkish, slanting light of the late afternoon sun shining through rows of pointed windows.
Tennant was the first to break the silence. "Well, well, if it isn't the famous Hermione Granger." He shifted, once again adopting his wide-legged "tremble, little witch" pose.
"Mr. Rowle," she said primly. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
"Thank you. I'm quite glad to be here." His voice lightly mocked.
Hermione could hardly look him in the eye. Tennant had no way of knowing that she was turning up in his bedroom every night, hidden behind thin curtains and temporary wards, but she knew.
Her blush made Tennant smile wolfishly. "Don't you look delicious in red," he rumbled. "Your House color, yes?"
"Yes, Gryffindor."
"We don't have separate Houses in Durmstrang," Tennant said with a superior air. "They are considered divisive and would undermine the school's esprit de corps."
Hermione agreed, but she wasn't telling him that. "We celebrate our differences here, Mr. Rowle."
"Tennant." The wizard's pale blue eyes gleamed. "Perhaps you and I can set a better example ... Hermione."
"I hope so," she said. "The war is over, and students should be able to walk the halls in peace. Including young girls."
His eyes raked her figure. "You're no girl."
"I wasn't speaking of myself."
"No?" Tennant voice deepened. "Hmmm ... perhaps I am wasting my time with children."
Hermione was glaring now. "You are. Don't let me catch you bullying girls again."
"Or what? Will you punish me?" His smile widened. "Sounds delightful."
"I'm serious, Rowle."
Tennant clicked his tongue. "So proper. But you don't fool me, sweetheart. You smell of lies. And sin. And sex. So many secrets."
The wizard stepped closer. Hermione refused to step back, but her wand was now in her hand and pointed at him. Tennant's hands began to shake, but he made no effort to hide the trembling.
"Do I make you uncomfortable, Hermione?" he asked, savoring the syllables of her name.
"Drop your games with the little girls."
"Is that a request?" Rowle's smile widened. "Ask me nicely and I might."
"Very well," Hermione said in a bored tone. "Please, my dear Mr. Rowle, please refrain from creeping out our younger students and manipulating them into sexual acts."
Another hungry smile. "And whom should I manipulate instead? Someone older and wiser?"
"Not interested, Rowle. Keep your paws off Hogwarts girls, or I'll see you gone." Hermione's wand was still pointed at his face and her hand was as steady as a rock.
"Hmm, perhaps I will. I believe I've found a better prospect." He made a mocking bow. "Miss Granger." Then he turned away and loped down the corridor, his coat flapping behind him.
NEXT UP: Draco drinks too much firewhiskey.