PART THREE
"Malfoy!"
Draco opened one eye, then closed it again. The bedroom was shadowed, the fire now only faint embers. His cheek lay on soft, warm skin, a slow heartbeat pulsed. He was buried in warmth with that flowery scent surrounding him, and he had no intention of waking completely.
"Malfoy!"
What was that pounding? Was he such a lightweight to get a headache from a little mulled wine? The body below him shifted with soft, annoyed murmurs.
"Malfoy!"
The pounding continued, but it wasn't Draco's head, it was his bedroom door. Draco opened both eyes and lifted himself on one elbow. His carved mahogany door shook under repeated blows.
Suddenly alert, Draco reached out a hand. "Accio darkwood," he said, although he couldn't see it, and the wand snapped into his palm. He staggered to his feet, entirely naked, muscles protesting. Was that a rug burn on his ...
"Open this door!" the muffled voice shouted.
Hermione was on her feet now as well. Draco gave her naked form a rapid glance but there was no time. Whoever was out there could blast through the door any second.
"The bed!" he hissed, and she nodded, leaping inside with surprising speed. The hangings snapped shut.
Draco warded the bed, then snatched up his paisley robe. Tying the robe shut with one hand, he waved the door open with his wand, prepared to hex whoever stood on the other side. But at the sight of the wizard before him, Draco could only stand frozen, wand raised, an incantation dying on his lips.
It was Potter.
Harry Potter.
Potter stared at him wide-eyed through those ridiculous glasses. Why did he look so surprised? It stood to reason that if one pounded on Draco Malfoy's bedroom door in the middle of the night, one would encounter Draco Malfoy.
"Tell me this is a nightmare," Draco groaned.
"May I come in?" Potter asked.
"No you may not. Piss off."
"I'd rather not discuss this in the corridor," Potter said, sounding like Theo.
Draco looked him up and down with a sneer. The Boy-Who-Lived looked more like the Boy-Who-Fell-Apart even in the dungeon's faint torchlight. He was just as scrawny as Draco remembered, eyes bloodshot and ringed with shadows, his black hair wild. The lightning-shaped scar stood out starkly against his pale forehead. But Potter's green eyes were sharp, he wore a long, fitted black jacket with the collar turned up and a wand was poised in one black-gloved hand.
"How did you find my room?" Draco wanted to know. This suite was separated from the rest of the dungeons with an extra door and password.
Potter shrugged. "Slughorn."
Draco glared. His Head of House would always roll over for the Chosen Git.
"I have nothing to say to you, Potter." Draco spat the name. "It's the middle of the bloody night."
"We need to discuss a certain witch," Potter said coolly.
Draco had to throw up an Occlumency shield to keep from reacting. Hermione ...? Now the situation was much more delicate.
"I'm here as a courtesy, which I doubt you deserve," Potter went on. "I could always bring in the Ministry."
Draco stepped back, silently allowing the Auror to enter. Potter flicked his wand and the fire blazed to life, revealing the pile of green bedding before the hearth and Hermione's red robe, which still lay open on the carpet beside a single empty mug. The other mug must have rolled away when she kicked ...
"Sleeping on the floor these days?" Potter asked, interrupting Draco's carnal line of thoughts. Concentrate!
Draco ignored the question and slid his feet into his embroidered slippers, then settled into the armchair. He wished he could call Tally for a cup of tea, but Salazar knew he didn't want Potter questioning her.
"What's with the lights?" Potter asked, still looking around.
Draco blinked in surprise, then remembered that the other wizard was a half-blood. Potter eyed the robe on the floor again, then looked at Draco with a small smirk. The Auror's expression had Draco smoothing his hair and closing his robe more tightly. He still kept his wand in hand, however.
Potter edged nearer the leather sofa. "May I?"
Draco nodded, surprised by the sudden courtesy, and Potter sat down to face Draco, shifting aside the Durmstrang book. Draco held his breath, praying that Potter wouldn't open it and recognize the handwriting in the margins. But Potter just gave Draco a hard stare.
"Tell me about Isobel MacDougal," Potter said.
Draco just managed not to sigh in relief. Not Hermione, then. Draco hadn't thought one dance with her at a party would bring in the Ministry's newest Auror, but then Potter had always been jumpy.
"There's very little to say," Draco sneered.
"You've been seen with MacDougal, I'm told," Potter said. "In the library, on the grounds, at a Ravenclaw party."
Draco weighed his next words carefully. "Isobel was helping me with my studies," he said. Potter looked skeptical. "It's true. Ask her yourself."
"I can't." Potter's voice was cold. "Isobel MacDougal is in the infirmary."
"What?" Draco sat up straight. "What happened?"
"What do you think happened?"
Draco jumped to his feet and so did Potter, meeting Draco eye for eye despite the five-inch height difference.
"What happened to Isobel?" Draco demanded harshly. "Tell me!"
"Where were you earlier tonight?" Potter asked.
"Right here," Draco snapped. "What happened?"
"Can anyone corroborate that?"
"No, I was alone." He raised his wand. "If you won't tell me about Isobel, I'll find out myself."
"I wouldn't try to leave," Potter said, stepping between Draco and the doorway.
Draco hesitated. Isobel in the infirmary. Her face, all wide eyes and black-framed glasses and round cheeks, swam into his vision. So swotty and innocent, with her odd appetites and written statements.
"Just tell me, Potter," Draco said quietly. He swallowed and forced out the word. "Please."
"Isobel MacDougal was found unconscious tonight in the library corridor." Potter's voice was clipped and professional.
"Was she ... was she ..." Draco couldn't form the words.
Potter still held Draco's eyes. "No sign of assault. Justin Finch-Fletchley found her and sent me a Patronus."
"She wasn't cut?" Draco asked. "She wasn't cursed?" The carved letters on Hermione's arm came unbidden to his mind, prompting memories of running his lips over the glamoured scars earlier that night. He had murmured broken apologies into her skin, too softly to be heard ...
"No," Potter said, green eyes boring into him. "She had apparently triggered a powerful Stunning trap."
Draco gritted his teeth, trying to maintain his mask. Tennant. He was here, in the castle. The attack was a message. Tennant knew. He knew about Hermione. That morning when the wards had faded and she had moaned Draco's name ... Tennant knew.
Had Tennant been in the room tonight, watched him and Hermione .... Now Draco couldn't repress a shiver of horror. No, Tally would have sensed it. Draco pushed the thought away to concentrate on his current situation, which was bad enough.
"Will Isobel recover?" he asked. His cool tone surprised even himself.
"Very likely. Madam Pomfrey didn't revive her, says it's better to let her wake up naturally." Potter said.
The darkwood wand felt heavy in Draco's hand. If all this was true, he should be packing his trunk right now, expelled. "Where's McGonagall?" he asked.
"Global headmasters' conference in Prague," Potter said. "Justin and I want to keep this quiet until she returns on Sunday."
"And Slughorn?" Draco asked. The Headmistress' mania for Inter-House Unity had prompted her to name the Slytherin Head as Deputy Headmaster, which allowed the wizard to be lazy and neglectful on an entirely new scale.
Potter shrugged. "He wants it kept quiet as well." He lowered his wand. "Why don't we sit down again, Malfoy."
Draco didn't like that soothing tone, he'd heard Aurors use it in Ministry interrogations before. But his legs felt a little weak, so he returned to his armchair and scowled at his unwelcome visitor.
"Are you here to arrest me?" Draco asked. Potter looked uncomfortable. "You're not here officially at all, are you?"
"I'm here as a favor to Justin," Potter admitted. "He says you're up to your old Death Eater tricks. That you threatened to throw him off the Astronomy Tower." Green eyes narrowed behind round glasses. "He says you've been pestering Isobel ... and Hermione."
Ah, there it was. Draco had been waiting for it. Good deeds never paid and failed good deeds were even worse. Potter might give Draco a fair hearing about Isobel but he wouldn't be so tolerant about his best friend.
"Justin also said you Stunned him in a classroom," Potter continued, "and Hermione had to revive him."
Draco eyed the Auror, wondering if admitting the truth, or at least part of the truth, would make the situation better or worse. "I know you have no reason to believe me," he said carefully, "but I'm not the Slytherin you're looking for."
"Tennant Rowle, I suppose." Potter sighed. "Hermione asked me to look into his trial. She says he's dangerous."
"He is," Draco said. "He's stalking witches and—"
"He's also at Durmstrang this week, according to Justin," Potter broke in. "Some DADA seminar."
"He's back."
"Do you know that for a fact?" Potter asked. "Do you have any proof?"
"Just the fact that Isobel is in the infirmary," Draco snapped.
"MacDougal was attacked after 10:30." Potter resumed his clipped voice. "That's when she left the library, where she was helping Madam Pince. Justin found her after his rounds, on his way back to the Hufflepuff basement." His eyes bored into Draco's. "What were you doing at 10:30 tonight, Malfoy?"
Negotiating for sex with your precious ...
"I was here, Potter," Draco said aloud. "Alone."
"Alone." Potter stood, and his gaze once again swept the room. He blinked at the invisible lights, then turned toward the pile of bedding and fluffy red robe lying before the fireplace. The tiniest tip of Hermione's vinewood stuck out from under the robe's hem, thankfully overlooked. Instead those sharp green eyes lingered on the crumpled pile of black lace and pink ribbons.
Suddenly Potter bent down, picking a creased silver card off the carpet. He straightened again and his eyebrows shot up, deepening his lightning scar. The embossed letters spelled out "SEX," and Draco wondered if he could Avada himself in humiliation before Potter disarmed him.
"Don't be thick, Malfoy," the Auror said. "You know what's at stake. Who else was here?"
Draco swallowed. "Nobody."
"There's a student unconscious in the infirmary. Tennant Rowle has an alibi, Malfoy—tell me yours."
"Nobody was here," Draco said more strongly. "Tennant likes ... to entertain. I refuse to pick up after him."
Potter set the card in a table, then stepped over to the fuzzy robe splayed on the carpet. "A Rowle entertains witches dressed in red?" Again the Auror's gaze shifted to the teddy and he frowned.
"Tennant has no standards," Draco said provokingly, hoping to draw Potter's attention.
No hope of that. Now Potter was stepping up to Draco's bed. "This bed is warded. Who's in there?"
"Nobody."
Potter turned back to him. "You're lying, Malfoy, and I can't imagine why," he said. "I did find ... irregularities ... in Tennant Rowle's trial and I will contact Durmstrang, but that's not enough. Rowle has no connection with McDougal. You do. Rowle is not in the castle, as far as we can tell. You are."
Potter stepped even closer, taking advantage of the rare height advantage over Draco in his armchair. "And Rowle isn't ..."
"Rowle isn't Marked." Draco's voice was wry. "I am."
Potter nodded, looking pained. Perhaps Wonder Boy wasn't a terrible Auror after all. Draco was glad to see it; he'd hate to be sent to Azkaban by someone incompetent. He felt a familiar cold despair settle into his bones, echoes of those whispering walls. Well, it had been fun while it lasted. He only wished he'd had the chance to ...
"Give me something, Malfoy," Potter said tensely. "I'm not here as an Auror. I'm just ... visiting the Head Boy on my night off. Help me keep you out of this."
Draco said nothing.
"Do you want to be expelled? Sent back to Azkaban while the circumstantial evidence piles up? Go through another trial, possibly a longer sentence?"
Draco clenched his fists, but was silent.
"Tell me the truth," Potter pressed. "Were you alone here tonight?"
A rustling of curtains had Potter spinning around, wand out, and Draco on his feet. A small figure slid out of Draco's bed and stood before them in a too-large green pajama top.
"Of course he wasn't alone, Harry," Hermione said calmly. "I was with him."
NEXT UP: Draco isn't helping.