"Do you even realize what you look like right now?" Malfoy asked hoarsely, leaning closer.
Hermione had no idea. But what about him? Did Malfoy understand what he looked like—half-naked, glasses slipping down his nose, book in hand? His hair was tousled, and dark stubble shadowed his sharp chin.
She didn't know what to say. Just a few hours ago, in the abandoned DADA classroom, they'd set clear boundaries. They'd agreed to keep things professional from now on. Yes—that was the plan. They would study the Vanishing Spell (she had already prepared separate assignments for both of them), keep their interactions polite during Divination, and maybe, occasionally, meet to discuss schoolwork. The late-night visits? Over. Done.
Except… here she was again. Wearing only a bathrobe and a towel. No wand. Again.
She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be staring at his chest.
Draco Malfoy might not deserve Azkaban, but he was still cold, still vile. Were his apologies genuine? Or just a way to dodge prison? Who knew. But tonight, nothing was going to happen—glasses or no glasses.
Hermione decided to ignore his question and tugged her robe tighter at the neck.
"I really wasn't in bed," she repeated.
He raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"Is that so."
"I don't understand," she said. She'd used the Marauder's Map to sneak into the Prefects' bathroom after curfew, hoping a hot soak would calm her nerves. But images of Malfoy had wrapped around her like steam, and now she was here, as if her fantasies had materialized.
"How could I get here without using a bed?"
Malfoy shrugged, eyes still on his book.
"Who knows? The spell's completely out of control now. And somehow you're tied to it—your magic—"
"My magic?" she narrowed her eyes. "Not still accusing me of stealing magic, are you?"
"Of course not. That was the dumbest theory I've ever heard."
"But you used to say—"
He sighed, clearly annoyed.
"Don't play dumb. You're as much a witch as anyone else in the magical world. Maybe even more magic than most. Some of the most useless idiots I know are pure-bloods." He shot her a sharp look over the rim of his glasses. "Want to talk about something else awkward? Or moan someone else's name again?"
Hermione swallowed. You've been a very bad girl, Miss Granger…
"There's no need for that," she muttered, burrowing into the blanket and shoving a pillow between them.
Malfoy returned to his book—a catalog of saplings from some magical nursery, judging by the illustrations.
"How hard is it to grow belladonna?" he mused aloud. "Suppose I leave a sprout in a pot under my bed. How long until it dies?"
"A day or two if you don't water it…" She scowled. "But that's not what I wanted to discuss!"
Hermione sat up straighter, hands folded on her knees.
"We need to talk about the spell. I don't understand how it's transporting me here without a bed involved."
Malfoy turned a page.
"No, you don't get to act like this is just my problem!" she snapped. "The timing is still unpredictable. I could disappear from Potions class and end up here. Tennant could see me!"
That worked. Malfoy finally set the catalog aside and looked at her, just the tiniest bit concerned. He tapped his knuckle against the nearest bedpost.
"Was there anything made of African darkwood in that bathroom?" he asked. "It's perfect for Vanishing spells. That's what gave me the idea."
Hermione glanced at the gleaming black bedposts, carved snakes thankfully staying still.
"I was in the Prefects' bath on the seventh floor."
"Well, check then," he yawned, setting down his book and glasses.
"What are you doing?" Hermione demanded. "I'm not finished!"
Malfoy ignored her and slid deeper under the blanket.
"I have an idea!"
"Brilliant," he muttered, turning away.
"We need to visit Borgin and Burkes."
That got his attention. He rolled toward her sharply.
"We need to what?"
"We need to talk to Mr. Borgin. He explained to you how to repair Vanishing Cabinets, right?"
Now he was flat on his back, staring at her. Hermione realized he must have been genuinely shocked—because her robe had fallen open a bit, and he hadn't even noticed.
She quickly covered up.
"I'm not allowed to leave the castle," he said.
"I can get you out."
She leaned closer, hair falling forward. When she tossed it back over her shoulder this time, Malfoy did notice her robe.
"How?" he asked.
"If I can get you out, will you come?" she pressed. "You need to be there. You can ask the right questions. Borgin won't even talk to me."
"No." He turned away again.
"Malfoy!" She shook his shoulder. "I cannot believe I'm begging you to do something that's in your own best interest! This is what Slytherins call 'negotiating'? I should—"
"For Salazar's sake, Granger," Malfoy growled, "if you're not going to fuck me, just go to sleep. Is this what marriage is like? Good thing my name's already in the gutter—at least I'll avoid that fate."
Hermione glared daggers at his bare back.
"I know you don't like listening to women. Romilda told me what you did to shut her up."
Malfoy turned back, suddenly interested.
"Is that an option?"
"Don't be disgusting."
The Slytherin smirked, sitting up in bed and propping himself on one elbow. The blanket slid down, revealing Sectumsempra scars and a dark trail of hair on his stomach. He definitely knew she'd been eyeing him earlier.
"This opens up all kinds of new negotiation strategies," he said dreamily.
"It's not on the table, Malfoy. In fact, there is no table." Hermione crossed her arms. "I'll go to Borgin myself."
His smirk vanished.
"That would be stupid, Granger. He's very good at… dealing with unwanted guests."
"I'm not afraid of Borgin." Hermione turned her back to him. "I'll let you know how it goes."
She pulled the blanket up to her chin and shut her eyes.
She felt Malfoy shift closer but didn't move.
"Granger," he barked. "Granger."
She didn't respond.
"You're being childish, Granger."
Says the mummy's boy.
He let out a heavy sigh.
"You don't know Borgin. You don't know what he's capable of."
Oh, she knew. He'd helped Malfoy let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts.
Now Malfoy was right behind her. His breath warmed her ear, and his hand slid over the blanket, resting on her thigh.
"Granger."
Hermione couldn't stop the shiver that ran through her at his whisper and touch. She waited for his lips to brush her skin, for his hand to slip beneath the covers.
But his fingers stayed still.
On Borgin's counter there's an inkwell with a brass lid, Malfoy said quietly.
"If you open it—say, while he's busy chatting with your father—you'll see a tiny face inside. Screaming."
Hermione didn't respond, but every muscle in her body tensed.
"A tiny face," Malfoy repeated, his voice low and dull. "Squeaky little voice… shouting, 'Help me! He trapped me in here! Help me!'"
She heard him swallow.
"Borgin saw me holding it once. He told me, 'Close it tighter, young Master Malfoy. Some guests are… unwelcome.'"
A cold wave of dread washed over her.
She'd been in that shop once—back in sixth year, following Malfoy.
What if she'd pushed Borgin harder that day? Threatened him?
What would've happened?
"You can't go to Borgin," Malfoy whispered into her ear.
"The Ministry's already watching him, and desperation's only made him worse. That whole shop is full of his 'unwanteds'—trapped in mirrors, medallions, boxes. Little trophies. He won't help us, Granger. We know too much. If we go in there, we're not coming out."
His voice cracked, and Hermione had the strange, almost absurd urge to comfort him.
"All right," she whispered, still staring at the canopy above the bed. "I won't go. I promise."
Malfoy's body noticeably relaxed behind her. His hand slid to her waist, still over the blanket, and he pulled her closer.
"Malfoy, don't even think about it…" she muttered, too tired to fight.
"Sleep, Granger," he whispered.
The candle went out, plunging them into darkness.
She felt him bury his face in her still-damp hair, his breathing evening out, slow and deep.
Hermione wanted to argue, but instead she yawned. Her eyes drifted shut, and she fell asleep—wondering how she'd deal with her curls in the morning.
* * *
She jolted awake in the Prefects' Bathroom on the seventh floor.
Outside, someone was pounding on the door, shouting.
"Hey, bathroom hog! Let someone else in! We've got classes too, you know!"
Hermione groaned, pulling herself to her feet, rubbing a bruised knee. She picked up her wand from the stone floor and glanced around. The benches and shelves were made of pale, rough-textured wood.
Damn.
She yanked the door open, facing a flood of insults and jabs about her wild hair.
By the time she made it back to her dorm, it was already past seven—the spell had never returned her this late before.
Fighting with her hair left little time for outfit decisions. Hermione, suddenly nauseated by her usual sweaters and jeans, threw on a tight red knitted dress—one her mother had bought before the memory modifications—and shoved her feet into black boots. She bit her lip as she glanced in the mirror.
Too clingy?
She shook her head.
Fine.
With a quick tap of her wand, she changed the beading on her purple bag to gold and tucked in her astrological clock. Then she left the room.
Despite the bruises and scrapes, Hermione actually felt rested for once.
The Great Hall gleamed that Friday morning—amazing how much you noticed when you weren't about to collapse from exhaustion. The enchanted sky overhead was clear and blue, the stone columns seemed to glow softly in the morning light.
Justin met her at the door, holding a long scroll.
"Good morning," he said. "Join me for breakfast?"
As always, the Head Boy looked impeccable—black sweater, slacks, and a gold silk tie dotted with tiny black specks. Up close, she realized the dots formed constellations.
Hermione opened her mouth to refuse.
She'd put off ORGAN—her little project of dating each remaining eligible male—long enough. Only Justin, Seamus, and that clever Ravenclaw seventh-year were left. Blaise Zabini was out—one creepy dark wizard in her life was enough. And besides, it felt wrong to flirt with other people while she kept getting transported into Malfoy's bed every night.
Even if there was nothing on the negotiation table between them. Nothing.
Trying not to blush, she glanced at the Slytherin table.
There he was—that infuriating blond prick—staring right back at her.
"Yes, thank you, Justin," she said firmly.
Sitting with the Hufflepuffs turned out to be a good choice because Justin had a theory about her clock.
"Look, Hermione," he said, unrolling his parchment. "This came to me last night. Your clock—it's engraved with zodiac symbols, right? That's rare for magical astrolabes."
He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to her.
"As I said—zodiac symbols. And the spheres on your clock represent the Sun, Moon, and the six Copernican planets."
He gave her a meaningful look.
"Six planets," Hermione echoed. "But the Zodiac is governed by nine."
Justin nodded.
"Exactly. Your clock is missing three planets: Neptune, Uranus, and Pluto. The zodiac will never sync properly without their ruling planets."
"That's it!" Hermione dropped the scroll and grabbed his hand. "You're a genius!"
"That's just the scientific method at work," Justin said smugly, eyes lingering on her hand until she pulled it back.
"We need to make three missing planets," she said excitedly. "Engrave their symbols, find the right colors… Are you free tonight?"
Justin's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered.
"Maybe."
Hermione nearly groaned. Why were all the men in her life so insufferable?
Fine.
She leaned closer, catching the fresh citrus notes of his cologne—nothing like Malfoy's darker scent.
"Justin," she whispered in his ear, "will you help me fix my clock?"
The Head Boy frowned.
"I suppose I could rearrange my schedule."
Half of Gryffindor table was already watching them.
Malfoy stormed out of the Great Hall, students scrambling to get out of his way.
Hermione stepped back, trying not to blush.
"Meet me on the third-floor landing," she told Justin. **"I know a good classroom."
* * *
Hermione had hoped to change back into jeans after her last class, but as she rounded a corner on the fourth floor, she nearly ran into Malfoy's roommate—Tennant Rowle.
He was speaking to someone, his back to Hermione.
She could only see a pair of skinny legs, the hem of a skirt—but Rowle's stance, his legs planted wide, said everything.
He was dominating the conversation.
"I… I don't think I should, Mr. Rowle," came the timid voice of a girl.
"Oh come now," Rowle purred. "You don't want to hurt my feelings, do you?"
He reached out—books toppled to the floor with a crash.
"I… I'm sorry, but I don't—"
"Oh, you want to," he murmured. **"You really do. Now stop—"
"There you are, child!" Hermione called, mimicking Professor McGonagall's tone.
Tennant Rowle turned, his rough features hard as stone.
Merlin, he was huge. Just like his father.
His scowl transported Hermione back to that London café—the one where Thorfinn Rowle dropped to the floor, stunned by Harry's red spell.
The girl shrank against the wall.
Hermione recognized her now—big blue eyes, delicate features. Must be Daphne Greengrass's younger sister.
Astoria. Something like a hotel name. Astoria.
"You're wanted elsewhere, Miss Greengrass," Hermione said.
Astoria squeaked in surprise but had enough Slytherin sense to use the moment.
"Th-thank you, Miss Granger!" she gasped, gathering her books with a flick of her wand and scurrying away.
Now it was just Hermione and Tennant Rowle, his lip curling into a smirk.
Unlike his father, Tennant's round, bulging eyes gleamed with intelligence. His reddish-blond hair had grown out from military cut. He wore a black uniform coat, high-collared, double-breasted with brass buttons. Hermione thought of Viktor—he had a similar uniform, but his was red.
Rowle left his coat unbuttoned.
No belt.
White shirt open at the neck, revealing thick, light-brown chest hair. Massive rings on every finger. A tiny gemstone gleamed in one earlobe.
He looked like half-soldier, half-pirate.
His stare made Hermione uncomfortable, but she didn't look away. Her wand slipped down her sleeve, ready.
They stood in the arched corridor, sunset slanting through the windows, painting the stone walls pink.
Rowle spoke first.
"So this is the famous Hermione Granger."
He shifted his stance again—feet wide, shoulders squared, daring her to be intimidated.
"Mr. Rowle," she said stiffly. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
"Pleasure's mine." His voice carried a mocking note.
It was hard to meet his eyes.
He didn't know she appeared in his dorm every night—hidden by thin curtains and temporary wards—but she knew.
Her cheeks flushed, and his grin widened.
"You look delicious in red," he growled. "Gryffindor's color, yeah?"
"Yes. Gryffindor."
"Durmstrang doesn't split students into houses," he said smugly. "It divides the school."
Hermione agreed privately but wasn't going to tell him that.
"We value differences here, Mr. Rowle."
"Tennant." His pale blue eyes gleamed. "Maybe you and I can set a better example for unity… Hermione."
"Let's hope so," she said. "The war's over. Students should feel safe in the corridors. That includes girls."
His gaze slid down her body.
"You're not a girl."
"I wasn't talking about me."
"Weren't you?" His voice dropped, darker now. "Hmm… maybe I've been wasting my time on children."
Hermione's glare sharpened.
"Exactly. And I'd better not catch you bothering any more girls."
"Or what?" His smirk widened. "You'll punish me? Sounds fun."
"I'm serious, Rowle."
He clicked his tongue.
"So righteous. But I see right through you, darling. You smell like lies. And sin. And sex. So many secrets…"
He stepped closer. Hermione didn't flinch, but her wand was in her hand now, steady and pointed at his chest.
His hands trembled—but he didn't try to hide it.
"Do I make you nervous, Hermione?" he asked, savoring every syllable of her name.
"Stop playing games with young girls."
"Is that a request?" His grin stretched wider. **"Ask nicely, and maybe I'll stop."
"Fine," she said in a bored tone.
"Please, dear Mr. Rowle, kindly refrain from intimidating underclassmen and manipulating them into sexual situations."
Another hungry smile.
"So who should I manipulate? Someone older? Smarter?"
"Not interested, Rowle. Keep your hands off the girls at Hogwarts, or I'll make sure you're thrown out."
Her wand didn't waver.
"Hmm, maybe I will," he purred. "Seems I've found a better option anyway."
He gave a mocking bow.
"Miss Granger."
Then he spun on his heel and strode down the corridor, his cloak billowing behind him.