Hello everyone, still with me? Awesome.
Somebody recently asked me if this was an anti-Divination or a pro-Divination story. If pressed, I'd consider it a positive-neutral Divination story. A very woolly branch of magic, ripe for abuse and misrepresentation, yet capable of surprising insights. We'll see a lot of Divination in the remaining chapters.
Draco woke up reluctantly to dim morning light and a soft, purring weight. A feeble effort to move his legs sent him to the floor with a thump. He felt like his head had split in half. He didn't even want to open his eyes, convinced he'd see brains and blood pooling on the carpet in what Mother would surely consider a suggestive pattern.
It was Wednesday, right? Fuck, he needed to go to class. No, he wouldn't go to class. He'd lie here until he felt better, which he estimated would be two weeks from never.
"YOWL!"
Oh Salazar, the cat. Draco opened his eyes a fraction. He was lying beside the sofa, still wearing yesterday's heavy jumper and trousers, although he'd shed his shoes.
"YOWL!" Cranky was backing away, hissing at the round, pink box. "YOOOOWL!"
Draco clutched his head. This was intolerable. All he needed was for the inkpots to turn into kittens again and join the uproar.
"Tally," he called softly.
The loud crack nearly took Draco's head off. He shifted so he was sitting up on the floor, eye to eye with the elf.
"Mr. Malfoy!" Tally scolded, long hands on tiny hips. "You is to be in class today! CLASS!"
"My head hurts," Draco said thickly. Fuck, he sounded pathetic.
The elf sniffed. "Drinkings and carryings on with womens. WOMENS!" She pointed a long finger at the red glove Draco now realized he was clutching to his chest. Tally's malevolent gaze turned to the cat and she gave an enormous sneeze that rang in Draco's skull.
"Tally," Draco began, "could you possibly take Cranky to—"
Tally gave another sneeze that should have taken her own head off at the mere suggestion that she could take any cat anywhere. Tally would bring food, she announced.
"And a headache potion, Tally—"
"EVIL DRINKINGS!" Tally shouted and disappeared with another mind-damaging crack.
The elf returned with breakfast for Draco and bowls of food and water for the cat. And Draco's tray did include a headache potion beside the salt shaker. Tally didn't remain to be thanked, however, just departed with another unnecessarily loud noise.
Draco felt much better after the potion and breakfast, and was actually enjoying a third cup of tea when more aggravation arrived in owl form. Mercury bore two messages, and Draco wasted no time tossing the first into the fire. His service in Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad had taught him to burn any pink envelopes immediately.
He unrolled the other missive:
My dear son,
Swirling clouds have gathered over the Manor, casting darkness over the House of Malfoy.
Beware.
Your loving mother
Draco wrote a quick reply:
Dear Mother:
It is always a pleasure to hear from you.
I feel obliged to point out, however, that the dark clouds may signify nothing but that it is October in England.
Love,
Draco
He tied his note to Merc's leg, then left his bedroom window open and headed off to a long bath. He was still submerged when Merc returned and perched on the edge of the tub. Cranky was crouched on the towel rack above, tail swishing.
"Merc, why don't you—" Draco began.
Cranky pounced, missing Merc by inches and landing in the bathwater with a yowl. Draco also yowled and scrambled out of the tub while the wet cat streaked out of the bathroom after the startled owl. Draco could hear outraged hissing and hooting from the other room.
Unwilling to get involved, he took his time dressing and combing his hair. Draco finally entered the bedroom to find Merc on the windowsill, his orange feathers fluffed up in anger, and Cranky dripping water on his bureau. Likely scratching the wood, too. Draco untied the scroll from Merc's leg:
My son,
If you had seen these clouds, then you would understand. Peacock feathers also scatter the grounds and the broken twigs at the front entrance form a provocative pattern.
The sight moved me to cast forth crystals, and I fear to share what I saw.
Love,
Mother
Draco sat at his desk to write this reply, using a kitten-eared inkpot.
Dear Mother,
While generally I would advise you not to give in to your fears, in this particular case I urge you to do so.
Nevertheless, I'm glad to hear you're enjoying your gem collection.
Love,
Draco
And so the morning continued, with Merc returning at intervals with another message and fighting with a still-damp Cranky every time. Draco was almost driven to go to class, but he remained in his room, penning more notes to pass the time.
Mother apparently had all day to write as well:
Son,
Heed me for your own protection.
Upon the casts in your name, the serpentine stone threw patterns indicating Change, Struggle, and most surprisingly, Love.
Furthermore, in subsequent throws, the heart-shaped stone clustered again and again with a small ruby.
Mother
_____________________
Dear Mother,
Divination is truly a remarkable branch of magic. For it is true that I Struggled with that traitorous harlequin wand you sent, and the snakewood has Changed. I would Love for you to send any other wands you have available, as Ollivander's wand has proved a shocking disappointment.
Thank you,
Draco
_____________________
Son,
I beg you to take my words seriously.
In all the years I've cast gems in your name, never before have the heartstone and ruby come so prominently into play.
These portents call to mind the mingled blood and slime within the frog entrails of a few weeks ago.
Be cautious in matters of the heart.
Mother
P.S. Unfortunately, those two wands were the only ones in my possession, as your earlier Malfoy ancestors were buried with their wands, and I regret to say that grave digging does not feature in my plans for today.
_____________________
Dear Mother,
I always welcome your insights about the dripping of frog slime in regards to my romantic pursuits.
Love,
Draco
Merc did not return after that, and the wizard was pleased to be finished with the baffling exchange. He brought out the snakewood wand to clear the orange feathers from his room, which it did with much resistance, setting fire to half of them. The wand also kept trying to hex Cranky until the cat hid under the bed.
This little chore accomplished, Draco settled on the sofa with another cup of tea to ponder Mother's owls. Why the sudden interest in his love life? Surely she wasn't pursuing a betrothal for him again. Draco shuddered, remembering those preliminary talks regarding the Greengrass daughters before the war. Theo wouldn't speak to him for a week.
He continued to sip tea with Cranky curled by his side, the cat sleeping off his busy morning. No need to worry about Mother: She would see reality when her overtures to other families were rebuffed. No matter what her little heartstone said, no witch of sense would tie herself to a Malfoy.
The day crawled by so slowly that Draco nearly missed lying in the infirmary. He actually turned to his studies in desperation, and hunger drove him to the Great Hall for dinner. (Tally wouldn't even respond to his calls at this point.) Cranky left Draco in the Entrance Hall and he was able to take his seat without incident. He started in on his meal, sparing a glance for the Gryffindor table.
Hermione.
Their eyes met, and Draco froze, his fork clenched in his fist. Then he gave a small nod, and Hermione nodded back. He felt like dropping his head into his shepherd's pie. Is this what we do now? Nod?
Hermione left the Hall soon afterward, and Draco forced himself to stay in his seat and make an utter mess of his plate without taking another bite. The Hall was nearly empty by the time he stood. Thank Merlin there were no classes tomorrow due to Hermione's antics with the staircases. He needed to pull himself together. After all, his troubles were over. Tennant was gone, the spell was broken, and the threat of Azkaban had receded. He had even made some sort of weak reentry into society. He just needed a decent wand.
After dinner Draco went to the library to find a book for Hughead's creature profile project. Dugbog, Erkling, Erumpent, Fachen ... ah, there. Then he sat at his usual corner table. This was an important project. He wasn't waiting for anyone.
After an hour he slipped the book into his bag and left the library. He found himself in the Astronomy Tower, of all places, watching storm clouds gather over the mountains. An icy wind chased him out again and into the Seventh-Floor corridor. It wasn't until Draco had roamed over half of Hogwarts, visiting a certain ill-tempered if exquisitely carved staircase and the old DADA classroom, that he realized what he was doing. Fuck, I'm as bad as Tennant. He turned on his heel and walked down to the dungeons.
Draco was so distracted that he was three steps into his bedroom, tugging at his tie, before he realized he wasn't alone. Someone was seated at his desk, and Draco's pulse leaped at the sight of dark, bushy hair until the person spun the chair around, face in shadows.
Theo.
Draco made a quick hand gesture and another lamp flared, revealing the portly wizard in an emerald green jumper. Theo's tie looked crooked, but that had be to a trick of the light.
"How did you get in here?" Draco demanded.
The wizard smirked. "Slughorn."
Draco glared. That old git would give him up to anyone.
"Your inkpots have ears and whiskers," Theo said. "Likely an ancillary result of the Principle of Artificianimate Quasi-Dominance."
Draco transferred his glare to the wiggling inkpots on his desk. "They just want attention."
Theo leaned back in the wooden chair. His gaze cut over to sofa, noting the scattered red shoes and gloves. "I see you didn't take my advice. People almost never do, and they always regret it."
Draco said nothing, just moved to the crystal water pitcher that had replaced his tea tray. He poured himself a glass and settled on the sofa, picking up the Durmstrang book. Hopefully Theo would take the hint and leave.
No such luck. "Strange things have been happening in the dungeons," Theo said. "Odd ripples in the air, the familiars are agitated. People say something is haunting our House, another Heir of Slytherin, all kinds of rot." The wizard pursed his lips. "I don't like to hear such things. Something needs to be done."
"You're wasting your time," Draco said, turning a page. "Slytherin's name is shit, and well-deserved, too. You're not going to restore our House with your little games."
"I can at least limit the damage," Theo said. "We don't need more trouble and dark rumors."
Draco gritted his teeth and said nothing. The only sound was the crackling of the fire and plinking of icy rain against the window panes. The long-threatening storm had finally arrived. Theo gave the water pitcher a significant look, which Draco ignored, so the wizard stood and walked over to serve himself. Minding other people's business was thirsty work.
"I hear St. Mungo's just received a new patient. In the Janus Thickey Ward." Theo sat down in the desk chair and crossed his legs, the very picture of ease. "The same weekend that you spent in the infirmary."
Draco wasn't surprised to hear this. His former friend's network of informants was deep and extensive; Theo probably had Tennant's medical chart in his pocket.
"Just be glad Tennant is gone," Draco advised. "You wouldn't believe half the things he was planning."
"Granger." Theo's green eyes narrowed. "Rowle was watching her, and I overheard them speaking once or twice."
"Tennant chased anything in a skirt."
"Granger is no ordinary skirt."
"True enough," Draco said easily. He waved a hand toward the door. "If that will be all—"
"It certainly is not all," Theo said. "We need to discuss Granger."
Draco rolled his eyes. " You've made yourself quite clear, Nott. Golden Girl, look but don't touch, Fiendfyre in a female form, danger danger danger, abandon all hope ye who enter—"
"This isn't funny," Theo snapped, his cool persona finally cracking. "I had the great displeasure of speaking with that very witch this afternoon."
Draco managed to keep his face expressionless, but he was moaning inside. Fuck.
"I may have shared a few opinions," Theo admitted. "And she defended you. She called you brave. Why would she do that?"
"She's a bleeding-heart Gryffindor."
"You must have done something."
"You should take your own advice, Nott. Stay away from Granger."
Theo shook his head. "Malfoy, Malfoy ... if you wanted to go this route, you should have consulted me. I know a nice Hufflepuff. A half-blood witch who lost family in the War. The very picture of forgiveness."
"A Hufflepuff?"
"Any witch is better than Granger, except that mad Weasley bint." Theo looked sour, and Draco wondered if he'd had similar words with Blaise. "Granger could ruin your life."
"Enough," Draco snapped. "You don't give a shit about my life. All you care about is your precious House and your future career. You were perfectly fine letting Tennant pounce on witches until he got careless about it. You might look all clean and starchy, but you're as tainted as the rest of us."
Draco leaned forward, grey eyes holding green. "You really think Slughorn is going to help you advance? Put his reputation on the line for a stinking Nott?"
Theo was unmoved. "There are subtle ways of helping. And I might be able to help you, Draco. If you stay away from Granger."
"Granger and I ..." Draco paused. "It's nothing. We're not even speaking."
"You did something to Tennant. For her."
Draco couldn't meet those sharp green eyes. Instead he stood, setting down his glass and walking over to the hearth. He slid out the silver-handled poker Hermione had wielded against Tennant, weighing it in his hand before thrusting it into the fire. Red-gold sparks flew and burning embers scattered on the silver-green carpet. He withdrew the poker and turned back to Theo, who was standing now.
"You need to stop this, Malfoy," Theo said. "You think a public romance with Granger will redeem your name? Quite the opposite. You'll only pull her down."
"There will be no public romance," Draco said coolly.
Theo looked skeptical. "You've danced with her twice. Why else would you do that? So far nobody's taking it seriously. Most people see Granger as a prissy bookworm, and you as a dark fascination—brooding but possibly misunderstood."
Draco glared.
"But you and Granger together?" Theo's green eyes widened. "Publicly? That's a whole other narrative. She would be the innocent Golden Girl and you'd be the vile Death Eater seducer. You'll end up in Azkaban, mark my words, and Granger—well, she and Potter have always—"
The water pitcher on the table suddenly shattered in a shower of crystal shards. Theo leaped backward, arms protecting his face, but Draco stood unmoving, one hand clutching the darkwood chip in his pocket so tightly the wood grain was probably imprinted on his palm. He felt a burning on his forehead.
"She is not going to Potter." Draco strode forward, still holding the poker in his other hand. Theo's wand was out, but Draco loomed over the shorter wizard.
"I know I'm hopeless, I know I'm dark, I know I'm tainted," Draco jabbed the end of the poker against Theo's chest with each final word: hopeless, dark, tainted. "But unlike you, my not-so-friend, I'm not a total fucking coward."
Theo backed away, a black burn mark on his green jumper, right over his heart. Draco lowered the poker. The word coward still hung in the air, and Theo's face was flushed.
"Granger called me a coward, too." Theo's voice was quiet. "You told her what I did during the war, didn't you?"
"I didn't say a word."
Theo took a deep breath, clearly steadying himself, then looked at Draco. "Fine, then," he said. "Go ahead. Court disaster, Destroy both your lives and reputations. You'll see. It won't be worth it."
Draco sneered. "Well, that sounded rehearsed. Did your little speech work on Blaise?"
"You both are acting like fools."
"Unlike you, I suppose," Draco drawled. "Because drawing fake patterns in tea leaves is the height of sensible behavior."
"I refuse to discuss—"
Draco had had enough. "Yes, yes, you love to go on and on about those terrible Gryffindors, don't you? How bad they are for us? But what about you, Nott? I still consider Daphne a friend. What exactly makes you any good for her?"
Theo paled, but Draco just rolled on. "Look at how you treat her. You sneer at the things she cares about, you lie to her face, you behave like an utter piece of—"
Theo's wand was raised and Draco tensed, well aware that his only defense was a hot poker and a darkwood chip. Then Theo let out a rare curse word and stalked out of the bedroom, slamming the door.
Draco blinked, startled by the sudden exit. He should have brought up Daphne sooner. The bedroom was silent again except for the snapping fire and sleeting rain outside. He looked around at the carved wood, the green silk and brocade and gauzy silver hangings. These furnishings could be part of the Manor, missing only the stamped and embroidered Ms that his forebearers had found necessary to apply to every available surface. The room's walls—papered in silver brocade—seemed to close in.
His gaze fell on the black leather sofa, still cluttered with shoes and gloves.
"She won't hear a word against you."
"She thinks you're brave."
Theo lied easily when it suited him, but those words had a ring of truth.
"She'll go far in the Ministry. All the way to the top."
Draco remembered the bitterness in Theo's voice. A public romance with Draco might not only hurt Hermione's Ministry ambitions, but Theo's as well. Theo didn't need dangerous reports of suave, evil Death Eaters causing trouble and scheming for power. Nobody needed that. Nobody needed such a scandalous pairing.
Should he shut her out? End their something for good along with the spell? Draco began to pace restlessly. The very idea of abandoning Hermione made him anxious. It would never work. Not while they lived in the same castle, and it was only October. She'd stalk him like that wretched cat of hers. She'd haunt his dreams. It was too late. She was under his skin.
He thought of her bright little face under the Sorting Hat. Her hand in the air in class after class through the years, outstripping all others with her brilliant mind. That same hand connecting with his jaw in Third Year. Her fingers clenching tightly as his mad aunt carved letters into her arm. Maybe Hermione had always been under his skin.
And now she was in Draco's blood, too. No other woman had ever aroused him so. The desire, the need, triggered by their sudden close proximity these few weeks, ran through his veins now. Without the Vanishing Spell, he might have ignored those feelings, although his behavior in that first Divination class with her—staring at her curls and freckles and dumping a pot of tea on himself —indicated otherwise.
Draco looked down at the poker in his hand, that iron rod so straight and strong, its ornate handle shining silver in the lamplight.
Four words echoed in his mind, but it wasn't the mad Black voice, nor the snide Malfoy voice. It was that sensible, reasonable voice suggesting something was neither sensible nor reasonable.
Go to her.
Now.
***
It was nearly nine by the time Draco had gathered his nerve and presented himself before the Medusa tapestry. The weather had deteriorated further, with howling wind and heavy sleet pounding the corridor windows. Draco wore Quidditch leathers under his heavy cloak and jumper, his broom in hand. He unraveled the tapestry's long, loose thread, then hesitated before the open passage to the Hogwarts grounds.
Go on. Don't be Theo. Don't be a total fucking coward.
"YOWL!"
Cranky was back, trotting down the corridor toward him. The cat spotted the dangling green thread and batted at it.
"Get away!" Draco stepped in front of the passage entrance. "And no, you can't come along!"
"YOWL!" The cat bristled, its tail twitching.
Draco began pushing the cat away with his broom, wishing he had a wand or pink box. "Get out!"
Cranky yowled loud enough to wake the dead, prompting Draco to look around nervously for Moaning Myrtle. Merlin knew he didn't want to deal with her tonight. He did manage to sweep the cat away from the passage, though, and slipped inside, slamming the entrance shut.
The cat's cries were cut off, replaced by deathly silence inside stone walls. Draco calmed his harsh breathing, then felt his way down the curving stairs.
He pulled on his thick gloves and pushed at the stone door, stepping out into an icy blast and an onslaught of sleeting rain. The clatter of ice against the castle's stone walls was nearly deafening and it was utterly dark. Freezing water hit his face like a thousand knives and every breath drew tiny grains of ice into his lungs. Could he do this?
Draco turned to face the walls and opened his pocket watch, which shone surprisingly bright in the swirling storm. Twice he tried to place the watch on his broom handle with a wandless sticking charm and twice he failed. Why hadn't he brought Spellotape? His cloak flapped wildly, smacking him in the back of the head. If he only had a wand, even a broken one ...
Inspired, he wandlessly summoned the darkwood chip and tucked it inside one of his gloves. The chip felt warm on his palm. Once more he tried the sticking charm, and the watch stuck fast to the broom handle, its lid open. Lightning flashed, drowning the small white light, then the watch glowed forth again in the darkness.
Draco mounted the broom and kicked off the ground, and a harsh gust nearly knocked him off the broom. Desperately he clutched the wood handle as he rose ten feet, twenty feet, higher. Without a wand, a fall would be fatal. Another gust slammed him against the stone walls.
You're mad, the Malfoy voice hissed. Why now? Why risk yourself so?
Sleet hammering on his hooded head, Draco rose yard after yard and then leveled off, staying close to the walls. He'd never survive in the open air. He flew cautiously forward, his right shoulder brushing the castle stone, the watch's small light leading the way. He only had to follow the walls, along the Great Staircase Tower, then around the Divination Tower until he (literally) hit Gryffindor Tower. Salazar, how would he find her window?
The staircase tower was brightly lit, thank the gods, the bannisters hung with banners. Draco flew along the glass panes, not worrying about being seen from inside. Who would fucking believe it? Another gust threw him hard enough against a window to risk cracking it—he'd be a mass of bruises at the end of this—but Draco kept flying, tight against the castle.
He took a short rest underneath the bridge to the Clock Tower, which afforded some shelter from the wind and freezing rain. Huddling beneath the stone ... truss (he'd actually done well on that Muggle engineering exam), Draco tried not to panic. In calm conditions the risk of a flying injury without a wand was negligible, but he'd been nearly torn off his broom twice and couldn't feel his fingers inside his gloves. What if the wind hit his head against stone and he lost consciousness?
You're mad. You're acting like a Gryffindor.
He didn't care.
Another slam into the stone battlements warned Draco to pay closer attention. He'd left the shelter of the Clock Tower bridge and Gryffindor Tower now loomed above him, black against the maddened grey clouds. Only a few windows were lit, as most of the tower's occupants had shut their curtains against the cold. Draco was shivering so hard he wondered if he'd shake right off the broom, but his legs and hands were frozen to the wooden stick at this point. His tiny watchlight was no match for the strengthening storm as he began to rise, level by level. What if her curtains were closed? Would he even recognize her window? Everything looked so different in the dark ...
Draco felt like he was ascending inch by inch, but he was making better progress than he knew, for soon he was nearing the crown of the tower, where more lighted windows shone like golden eyes. His watch's light cast a tiny white dot on the dark stone. Which one?
Then he saw it: a flash of orange in one of the windows. Maybe it was Cranky, maybe not, but Draco aimed for the window anyway, silently commanding his broom to rise. Twice the freezing wind threw Draco against the glass pane, making his head ring. Please, Salazar ...
Another swirling gust threw him backward, away from the tower. He was in the open air again, but a hundred feet higher this time. The wind was like stone walls falling on him from all directions and he couldn't see. He remembered the window, the orange flash, the pane, fixed all the images in his mind. He felt the warmth of the wood chip inside his glove. Inside. Inside. Inside ...
Draco was never sure how, but he felt himself zoom forward, striking his shoulder against stone. Missed! He screamed in agony, then toppled off his broom into darkness.
NEXT UP: Hermione meets a sweet, lovely owl.