Draco's conversation with Lovegood officially ended his plans to stay late in the library—or, honestly, to ever willingly talk to a Ravenclaw witch again.
So he retreated to his dorm early.
After several restless nights, he felt like he deserved at least one normal sleep. Thankfully, Tennant wasn't in the room, which meant Draco could get into bed and close the curtains without enduring his roommate's usual creepy comments.
He grabbed his Advanced Charms textbook, trying to push the memory of today's class out of his mind. One of the first-year idiots had even smiled at him at dinner. Draco silently begged his mother to hurry up and find him a wandmaker.
His earlier talk with Theo and Blaise still gnawed at him too.
Once, they'd all been close friends—until sixth year, when Draco pulled away, obsessed with the Vanishing Cabinet. He didn't regret his choice. Crabbe and Goyle had been easy to replace. Theo and Blaise… not so much.
He leaned back into the pillows and lit a floating candle. Then he pulled out the reading glasses he never wore in front of anyone and flipped open the book to the section on Ascendio—an OWL-level spell that might actually be useful if he ever decided to just launch himself into the air and leave everything to fate.
For about an hour, he lost himself in the peaceful repetition of charms practice. The dark grandfather clock in the corner chimed ten. He thought about writing to his mother but decided against it. Doing homework in bed was already pathetic enough. Writing letters to his mum would make it worse.
Maybe he should just—
A white flash.
He didn't even flinch, though later, he wondered why. Maybe because deep down, he wasn't really surprised.
"Bloody hell, Granger!" he snapped, dropping his book.
The candle hovered between them, casting soft light on her irritated face.
"Don't you bloody hell me, Malfoy," she shot back, waving a fat scroll tied with a red ribbon. "This is entirely your fault."
"I knew your counterspell wouldn't work. I saw you eyeing the bedposts, and then you just left instead of trying again."
She was right, and he knew it. But he wasn't about to admit that.
Her current appearance annoyed him even more than usual.
Instead of the skimpy outfits she'd worn during the other vanishing incidents, she'd come prepared for a long night in the cold Slytherin dungeons—plaid flannel pajamas, fluffy red socks, fingerless gloves, and a quill stuck in her hair.
She'd also brought a book and a tiny purple handbag, and Draco found himself strangely irritated that she clearly had so little faith in his magical ability.
"I have a test tomorrow, Malfoy, and I'm not letting your idiocy ruin my education."
Then her eyes widened, and she lunged for his notes.
"Oh! Ascendio—did you read the addendum about—"
"Shut it, Granger," he cut her off, snatching the parchment back. "Maybe you're happy to hang out here all night, but I'm not. We should be spending our time figuring out how to get you the hell out of here."
She huffed.
"Sorry for trying to make the best of the situation. Unlike you, I actually care about my education. Clearly you're rubbish at undoing your own spells, and this is going to take time. In the meantime, my studies come first."
Draco leaned in, towering over her.
"Well, my priority is breaking this spell. So unless you want to do something more interesting in my bed, you might want to start researching ancient magic."
He inched closer.
A little voice in his head—very Malfoy-ish—whispered, What the hell are you doing?
He ignored it.
Her perfume smelled like flowers, and her eyes shimmered gold in the candlelight.
"Your choice," he said, smirking.
He expected her to blush or back away, but instead she rolled her eyes.
"Oh, go on then, Malfoy. Seduce me."
Draco blinked. For a second, he was back in the library with Lovegood, but no. This was about winning now—physically and mentally.
He grabbed her wrist.
A deafening shriek exploded around them, bouncing off the enchanted curtains like an echo chamber.
Draco yanked his hand back, heart hammering.
Granger smirked.
"Handy spell, isn't it?" she said smugly.
Draco sat still, waiting for his pulse to calm.
When he looked at her again, the little witch was sprawled on his pillow, scribbling in her Numerology workbook, acting like he wasn't even there.
Unacceptable.
He lunged forward, hands wrapping around her throat.
Her eyes went wide, but she stayed silent.
"I could strangle you without even touching that bloody pajama top," he growled. "Or make it disappear entirely."
A cold wand tip pressed against the pulse point in his neck.
"Or," she whispered, "you could be a ferret again."
Draco cursed. Of course she brought her wand this time.
"Or," she continued, yawning theatrically, "we could stop playing stupid games and act like civilized adults. We can study and work on breaking the spell."
With effort, he let go of her.
Merlin, she was a nightmare.
"And first," she added, pulling out another parchment, "sign this."
I, the undersigned, _____________________, solemnly swear not to disclose any information about my impulsive, poorly-executed Vanishing Spell on the Hogwarts beds to anyone—living, dead, or portrait.
I also take full responsibility for any suffering or academic consequences resulting from said incompetent magic.
Draco exploded.
"I'm not signing that!"
"Then I'll tell McGonagall."
His coldest Death Eater glare earned nothing but another dismissive snort. She dropped a quill into his hand.
Scowling, Draco scribbled his name on the parchment.
Granger tapped it with her wand, sealing the contract, then slipped it into her ridiculous beaded handbag—round, shiny, with a stupid bow on top. Draco nearly laughed at the absurdity of it.
"Now then," she continued, "for your information, I have started researching ancient wood magic. Subscribed to the Wandlore Weekly today. And I've drafted a few theories about what went wrong."
She handed him a scroll tied with red ribbon.
Draco glared at it.
All he'd wanted was a little peace before bed, and now he had a mini-McGonagall assigning him extra homework.
"I'll read it later," he muttered, tossing the scroll aside. "I'm going to sleep."
Granger shrugged.
"Fine. But don't blame me if I keep popping in here. Again. And again…"
He shot her another glare, but she just wrinkled her nose at him.
She wrinkled her nose.
"Don't treat me like your bloody lapdog Weasel," he snarled.
"Oh, he was way harder to deal with than you," she replied, turning back to her essay.
He didn't believe her for a second. She was just trying to rile him up.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you out of this bed right now and let Tennant find you."
That got her attention.
"You wouldn't dare!" she gasped.
"Oh, it'd be a disaster for both of us," Draco admitted. "But at this point, I'm almost willing to sacrifice my entire Hogwarts career just to get rid of you."
Granger narrowed her eyes.
"I don't believe you. You wouldn't leave me alone with Tennant."
Damn it. She was right.
And Merlin, that pissed him off.
"Fine," he snapped, grabbing her notes. His fingers tightened. He wanted to crush the parchment—to crush her into the bed, to pull her hair, to—
No.
His body's reaction was embarrassingly obvious in thin silk boxers. He yanked the blanket over himself, casting a quick glance at Granger. But she was already buried in her textbook again—the prim little virgin.
Was she a virgin? Probably. Well, unless the bloody Weasel had—
"What's wrong with you, Malfoy?" she asked sharply.
He looked down.
He'd torn her scroll in half.
Granger tilted her head.
"I didn't know you wore glasses."
He ripped them off.
She just smirked and went back to reading.
He sighed, repaired the parchment with a flick of his wand, untied the ribbon, and, muttering curses under his breath, started to read.
"Vanishing Containers: A Thorough Investigation."
Oh, bloody hell.
It really was a thorough analysis—Draco had to give Granger credit for that.
If he'd had notes like these back in sixth year, he would've fixed the Vanishing Cabinet in days, not months.
No wonder Potter had won.
With someone like Granger on his side, of course he did.
She'd even dug up obscure references to temporal magic linked to vanishing objects—stuff that apparently Muggles would call "time machines."
Draco snorted.
That clearly wasn't his case.
His spell hadn't been about time travel; it was about precise, regular activation. Like an alarm clock, embedded into the wood, set to go off…
Click.
Something clicked in his mind, but the thought slipped away.
Either way, one thing was clear: he'd lost control of the Vanishing Beds.
If he'd ever really controlled them to begin with.
The spell was acting on its own now.
"Obviously," said Granger in her most condescending tone. Draco looked up, realizing he'd just said that last part out loud.
She went on:
"And considering I woke up in my own bed at 2 a.m., it looks like the timing's broken too."
"You reappeared here at ten," Draco pointed out.
"Sure, but who knows when I'll vanish again?" Granger stretched out comfortably on his bed, holding her book between them, wiggling her toes in those ridiculous red socks.
"My prediction is this will get more chaotic," she added, waving her quill for emphasis. "I'll start popping in and out of this bed at random. At any time." She sighed. "We need to break the spell. Or we'll have to go to McGonagall."
Draco's blood froze.
"You wouldn't dare…"
She looked him right in the eye.
"I will if we can't fix this. We cannot risk a Gryffindor showing up in a Slytherin bed next year."
That little know-it-all was right, Draco realized.
Even if he somehow got Granger to keep her mouth shut, someone would eventually discover the connection between the beds—and it would lead straight back to him.
"Don't worry, Malfoy," she said, and Draco realized he'd already buried his head in his hands, wondering if he should just flee the country before this whole disaster destroyed his life completely. Merlin.
"We'll sort this out," she said. "For now, it's just between us, and that's how it'll stay."
He looked at her, and her expression was as cold and calculating as any Slytherin's.
"For now."
Draco nodded, unable to speak, and stared back at the notes in his hands.
"Let's assume," she said, "that you cast the spell and somehow messed up in two ways: you lost control over where things move, and you lost control over when."
Granger bit her lip, and Draco silently watched her.
It was actually fascinating—to see her mind working like that.
"The Vanishing Spell was never meant to be that complicated," she said. "It's just supposed to move things from one cabinet to another and back. But you didn't stop there—you added a time element, and then let go of the control over when the spell should re-activate."
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"I wanted to make sure Vane disappeared at eleven," Draco said, smirking. "Even if I was… preoccupied."
"Well, obviously the spell couldn't handle that. Even the smallest interference was enough to throw it off."
"That orange monster," Draco muttered suddenly.
"What?"
"That Kneazle of yours."
Granger's eyes sparkled.
"You're blaming Crookshanks for this mess?"
"He distracted me while I was casting the spell!"
She thought about it.
"Maybe. Crookshanks loves when I do magic. Always tries to get involved." She smiled softly. "He thinks he's helping."
"Yeah, great help," Draco grumbled.
"Well, it's a possible explanation," Granger said. She opened her tiny handbag, and Draco watched as she shoved a huge Numerology textbook into it.
He heard a muffled thud from inside.
Definitely an Undetectable Extension Charm—probably combined with Weightless Enchantments too.
And she was lecturing him about over-layering magic on objects?
If that bag ever collapsed, it would take both of them with it.
Granger slung the bag over her shoulder and tucked her wand into her pajama pocket, getting ready for her next random disappearance.
"We'll meet in my room at lunch tomorrow and try again." She glanced around and sighed. "I wish I could just walk out of here right now. I even brought the Map."
"The what?"
Granger flushed.
"Nothing. Never mind. Good night."
She pulled a red blanket out of her bag, wrapped herself up in it, and stretched out again, her back to him.
Draco froze, staring at the little curly-haired figure, feeling weirdly rejected in his own bed.
Nobody rejected a Malfoy.
But he didn't say anything. He'd already made enough of a fool of himself tonight.
Malfoy Manor in winter. Christmas trees in the glittering foyer. Crystal snowflakes drifting room to room… strings of lights over the doorways, fir branches curling around the staircase rails…
He lay in bed watching the snow outside, too excited to sleep. So warm…
Draco opened his eyes in the dark.
He'd been dreaming of Christmas at home, before Hogwarts, before the Death Eaters, before the Dark Lord.
When he'd been safe and loved, and nothing could ever go wrong.
He'd been in bed, watching the snow on Christmas Eve, hugging his flannel hot-water bottle…
Flannel.
Draco blinked in confusion. His arms were wrapped around something warm and flannel—but he wasn't a little boy anymore, and this definitely wasn't a hot-water bottle.
His hand slid along a curve—a hip—and he heard a soft, familiar mumble.
He smiled into the dark.
Granger's pajama charms must have mostly worn off by now, and all he heard was a faint "mmmm…"
She was still lying on her side, facing the bed curtains. But now he was behind her, and both of them were bundled under layers of red and green blankets.
Draco pressed closer and, to his absolute delight, felt her press back.
Well, well. What would she let him do?
His lips brushed her temple, and his hand slid under her top, across warm, velvety skin, just barely touching her…
Flash.
She vanished.
Draco sat up, cursing the spell's timing.
She was gone, leaving him—once again—with a hard-on and no outlet.
He groaned and flopped back onto the pillow. Why couldn't he have woken up sooner?
Well… he didn't actually want to.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good dream.
Maybe he should write to his mother about it. She'd be pleased.
For now, though, he and Granger were really going to break this spell tomorrow.
And finally put an end to these infuriating nightly visits.
"Thank Salazar," he whispered, burying his nose into Granger's red plush blanket as he drifted back to sleep.