Left alone, Draco climbed out of bed and, still feeling a slight weakness in his knees, wandered barefoot around the room. His mind and body still refused to believe that Hermione Granger had, without any coaxing, knelt before him and taken his cock in her mouth. She clearly lacked experience, but she turned out to be a capable student. But he had disgraced himself—lost control inexcusably fast. Now the witch was gone, the bed was a sticky mess, and sleep was out of the question.
Draco hesitated, contemplating, then opened a drawer and took out Nicholas Malfoy's wand. The snake wand would surely handle the cleaning—if, of course, it didn't burn the whole bed in hopes that the Muggle-born witch was still somewhere here.
However, the wand felt like a heavy, unresponsive block in his hand. Draco almost had to shout cleaning spells, holding the wand with both hands, and still, he singed the sheets twice. He had to hastily return the wand to its place and head to the bathroom—to wash off the dark aura.
Calming down a bit, Draco climbed into bed (now more or less clean, but stiff, prickly, and slightly warm) and closed his eyes. Images floated before him again: Hermione sprawling on the bedspread, Hermione kneeling before him, Hermione with her hair down, her curls scattered around him. He hoped he would get a new wand tomorrow—another such night would finish him.
The next morning turned out dank and joyless and began with a strange Muggle Studies lesson studying tea bags. Then came Potions, where Slughorn joyfully suggested Draco come for extra tutoring after dinner.
— There is no shame in asking for help! — the professor boomed. He waved his wand, and the name "D. Malfoy" appeared on the board—last on a list of six under the heading "Extra Tutoring, 7:00 PM — No Trolls!".
Draco tried his hardest not to grimace. Hermione would definitely see his name (he knew her overloaded schedule from his days stalking Tennant). Yes, his Potions grades were terrible. On the rare days he attended classes, things went well, but he had missed most tests and hadn't written a single essay. However, Slughorn would never fail a Slytherin at NEWT level, and Draco knew enough for an "Acceptable" grade. But such arguments were unlikely to impress Hermione. He would have to postpone fantasies of fucking her into the Boggart cupboard in the DADA office until better times.
The rest of the day didn't go well either. Most of the castle staircases were now on strike and creaking threateningly, swaying more than usual and often not waiting for all students to get off at the landing. Draco got stuck on the sixth floor with a group of enthusiastic Hufflepuff first-years who had just mastered Incarcerous and were trying to descend from a rebellious staircase on ropes. He had to cast Cushioning Charms so these little idiots wouldn't fall to their deaths (and the blame, of course, would be pinned on Draco). Then he levitated them back, and they immediately created new ropes and jumped again, squealing with delight when Draco saved them once more. And all this without the ability to bind them with his own Incarcerous—the dark wood wand flatly refused to obey him. How Draco dreamed of a normal wand.
After classes, Draco changed into a thick wool jumper and trousers, threw on a heavy cloak, and headed to the third floor. Despite the freezing rain drumming against the corridor windows, he was seized by a slight excitement at the thought that he and Hermione would leave the castle.
Hermione was waiting by the statue of the one-eyed witch—wrapped in a long red and gold scarf, a matching bobble hat, and even her mittens were red. So cute... No, no, not cute. Gryffindor-annoying.
Draco raised an eyebrow.
— I thought we were going to be inconspicuous.
Hermione looked at her scarf hanging almost to the floor and wrapped it around her neck one more time.
— I'm not the one on probation. Give me your wand.
Draco mechanically handed her the dark wood wand. Humming under her breath, Hermione cast a series of spells, then created a small mirror and handed it to him.
The result was impressive. The changes were minimal—hair darkened, eyebrows thinner—but now Draco looked completely different.
— It'll do, — he grumbled, returning the mirror.
Hermione tilted her head, squinting.
— I like it. You look like Justin.
Draco gritted his teeth but remained silent. The witch turned to the hunched statue.
— Dissendium! — she chirped happily, and the statue moved, revealing a short passage.
When they descended, Hermione lit the tunnel with her wand.
— It's about an hour's walk to Hogsmeade. Let's go.
She slipped her mitten into his hand, and Draco didn't pull away. On the contrary, his fingers in black leather gloves closed around the thick yarn, and his pace slowed to match hers.
It was a strange walk. Holding her hand and chatting about nothing seemed surprisingly natural. Hermione stuck her wand into her hat, and the light danced on the tunnel walls as the witch nodded and gestured. Draco hoped his father would never find out about this.
— Does this tunnel only lead to Hogsmeade? — Draco asked.
— There are branches like this, — Hermione replied. — Most end in dead ends, but a couple of tunnels loop around. No one has really explored them.
Draco stopped in front of a dark turn, intrigued. Then turned to Hermione, who was beaming for no reason. Such a display of meaningless approval was novel to him, but pleasant. He was about to suggest meeting after dinner, but immediately changed his mind—he would only get lectures about Advanced Potions, NEWTs, and realizing potential. And Draco had no desire whatsoever to realize anything—he had seen enough of Malfoy potential. The entire wizarding world would be better off if Draco became a disappointment to his family.
So he just let Hermione pull him further until they stumbled upon stone steps leading to a wooden trapdoor. Here Draco stopped and began unwinding her scarf.
— There must be a witch under here somewhere, — he muttered, moving the scarf aside and pressing gloved palms to her bare neck.
— We need to be careful in London, — Hermione whispered. — If someone recognizes you...
— It'll be fine. — Draco tilted her chin up.
— We don't have to go to the shop. My wand is almost recovered, and yours... well, is just a little temperamental.
He snorted.
— Where did your Gryffindor courage go, Granger?
— You're the one taking the risk, not me...
Draco ran a finger along her cheek, touched more than he was willing to admit. No one but his mother had ever cared for him like this.
— No one will recognize me. Except Ollivander. — The old sneak is hard to fool.
Draco leaned in to kiss her, but Hermione beat him to it, standing on tiptoe and pulling his cloak to draw him closer. Her lips were warm, and Draco's mind immediately flooded with the thwarted plans of last night.
— Two working wands, right? — he whispered, breathing raggedly.
— Yes, — Hermione replied, blushing so much that the color of her cheeks was visible even in the dim light of the dark wood wand. — Let's go get them.
Wand in hand, Draco apparated them from the Honeydukes cellar to the dirty alley behind Ollivander's shop (he had once stood guard here while Death Eaters kidnapped the old man—a fact from his war past he decided not to share). Pulling up their hoods, they ran to the alley exit.
The rain had stopped, and the street, fortunately, was empty. Afternoon clouds covered the buildings and cobblestones of Diagon Alley with a grayish haze, and dim lantern light reflected in puddles. Hermione and Draco walked around the shop and stopped in front of a massive sign: OLLIVANDERS: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Draco yanked the door open, causing a large bell to ring, and literally pushed Hermione inside before the door slammed shut behind them. A wave of a hand—and the "OPEN" sign flipped to "CLOSED", and the blinds came down.
— Mr. Ollivander? — Hermione called, taking off her hat.
There was a creak of wheels, and a wooden ladder rolled smoothly into view. Mr. Ollivander himself stood on the third step, beaming with joy.
— Miss Granger! — The wizard jumped off the ladder with unexpected lightness for his age and stood behind the counter, smiling broadly.
— Hello, Mr. Ollivander, — Hermione said. — I hope you are well?
— Oh, yes, yes, — the old man replied. — And young Mr. Malfoy! I hope you are pleased with the dark wood wand?
Draco was definitely not pleased, but had already agreed to let Hermione explain the situation first, so he just frowned sullenly. She shot him a warning look, and he ground out:
— Mr. Ollivander.
Ollivander adjusted his cravat and folded his hands in lace cuffs on the counter. A small magnifying glass dangled on a ribbon attached to his waistcoat.
— And how can I help you?
— My wand is cracked, — Hermione replied, placing the vinewood wand on the counter.
The old man didn't touch it, just waved a hand—the wand rose into the air itself and began to rotate slowly.
— Ah, yes, vinewood. Elegant but powerful, like its mistress. — Ollivander brought the magnifying glass to his eye, and his good-natured smile faded.
— Yes, this wand has performed powerful magic, — he uttered. — Light spells, dark spells, spells no one has used before. — His gaze became serious. — This wand has severed bonds of love.
— Yes… — Hermione breathed.
Draco didn't understand what the old man was babbling about, but instinctively stepped closer to Hermione, placing a hand on her back.
— This act, unfortunately, caused serious damage to the wand, — Ollivander continued. He froze, bringing the magnifying glass to his eye again. — But then it was used for a higher purpose, which strengthened its core. Stolen, returned, stolen again… — He suddenly recoiled, the magnifying glass falling. — It suffered violence. quite recently.
— Yes, — Hermione repeated, this time more confidently.
— Are you alright, Miss Granger? — Ollivander asked concernedly.
— Yes, thank you, — Hermione replied. — Draco saved me.
The wizard's gaze shifted to Draco.
— Ah, yes! The noble wand!
Draco frowned.
— That damn wand… — he began, but meeting Hermione's gaze, he just sighed. — Fine.
— The crack was serious, — Hermione returned to the subject of her wand, — but it seems to be recovering, doesn't it, Mr. Ollivander?
He nodded, caught the wand in the air, and twirled it in his knobby fingers.
— Yes, yes. But full recovery without a master's help could take years, and a witch like you, Miss Granger, needs a wand at full strength. This way, please.
Past high shelves filled with narrow boxes, he led them through the shop into a tiny workshop. The cramped room with a high ceiling barely fit a workbench and a few blocks of wood against the wall. Ollivander sat at the workbench and conjured two wooden stools for Hermione and Draco.
— Allow me to cast protective charms, — the wizard said, placing the vinewood wand on a stand. From his pocket, he took an incredibly long, pale wand, as crooked and wrinkled as himself. — Spells on wood love to ricochet, you know! — He warned cheerfully.
Shimmering threads of light, somewhat like memories from a Pensieve, enveloped the vinewood, and the carving on it shone. Ollivander's wand traced intricate patterns in the air, and the wizard himself muttered spells until the entire vinewood flared with bright light, and then returned to its pristine appearance.
Ollivander picked up the wand and handed it to a delighted Hermione.
— Try it, my dear.
Hermione waved the wand—and four yellow birds soared into the air, circling above her head.
— It's even better than it was!
The master nodded.
— The vinewood wand suffered during the war, I presume—micro-cracks invisible to the eye. I repaired those too.
— Thank you, Mr. Ollivander! — Hermione beamed so much that Draco barely suppressed a smile.
— And now your turn, Mr. Malfoy. — The old man gave Draco an appraising look. — I must say, the dark wood wand suits you.
— Not at all, — Draco snapped, remembering all his grievances. He jumped up and poked the wand toward Ollivander. — I have nothing in common with this pompous stick. I don't drink warm milk, don't force witches to button their shirts all the way up, don't clean rooms, and certainly don't stand idly by when Hermione is attacked!
— Of course not, — Ollivander agreed peaceably.
— Moreover, I refuse to go through life doing good deeds against my will just because some old eccentric... — Draco faltered, staring at the wizard, who merely blinked serenely in response.
— The dark wood wand demands nobility, as I said, — Ollivander continued. — But it adopts standards of nobility from its master. — His watery eyes looked steadily at Draco. — Your wand disobeys because you haven't yet instilled your own moral foundations into it.
Hermione stared at Draco—it all made sense. He knew he wasn't the fiend he was considered to be, but that didn't mean he could subdue magical objects with the power of his high morality.
— That's ridiculous, — Draco said.
— Not at all, — Hermione countered. — You're very noble. You saved me! — She turned to Ollivander. — He saved me.
— That doesn't make me a hero, — Draco uttered. — Want to tell Ollivander what else I did that night?
— Mr. Malfoy, — the old wizard intervened softly, — your actions clearly indicate the presence of moral principles. Otherwise, the wand wouldn't have accepted you at all, let alone chosen you.
Draco's patience snapped.
— Are you seriously going to listen to a wand, Ollivander? Have you forgotten who I am? You spent a year in my dungeons!
— I always listen to wands, — Ollivander replied. — "The wand chooses the wizard"—that's what I told Mr. Potter when he first visited my shop. The wand knew the fate of us all lay in that boy's hands.
— Well, I'm not Potter, — Draco snapped, — and I make my own damn decisions.
Ollivander shook his grey head.
— You still don't understand. Stubborn. You refuse to admit you have clear moral principles, which means you cannot instill them into the wand. — His thin lips stretched into a smile. — And therefore dark wood, being equally stubborn, follows its own, very arbitrary code, manifesting nobility randomly. The wand wants you to take control.
Draco stared at the wand, struck by these words. Then shifted his gaze to Hermione—she had been unusually silent during the argument. Now she nodded encouragingly to him.
— No, — Draco said. — I refuse to possess a wand I can't trust. Sooner or later I'll be in a bind again, and then I'll deal with problems on my own terms, not at the behest of some stuck-up stick that thinks it's the smartest.
Hermione looked disappointed but remained silent as Draco placed the wand on the workbench.
— You were wrong, Ollivander, — he said. — Dark wood isn't for the likes of me.
The old man's smile didn't waver.
— Is that so? And what about the dark wood in your pocket?
— What, this? — Draco pulled out the splinter. — It's just a chip from my bed. If you like it so much... — he threw it at Ollivander, — ...take it.
The splinter flew toward the wizard, whose eyes rounded in surprise. But widened even more when the piece of wood suddenly changed trajectory and floated gently into Hermione's palm. She picked it up, stunned.
Ollivander jumped off the stool and, walking around the workbench, fixed his gaze on the splinter.
— May I? — he whispered.
Hermione handed him the fragment, and the old man brought it to his eyes, squinting.
— My dear, — he uttered, — you are magically bound to this wood.
— Maybe she should take the dark wood wand? — Draco suggested.
Ollivander shook his head.
— No, this has nothing to do with wands. This splinter is enchanted, and the charms are bound to Miss Granger.
Hermione blushed, then looked at Draco—her honey-gold eyes burned with determination. Draco barely suppressed a shiver—such a look rarely boded well for him.
— Draco, — she said calmly. — Tell Mr. Ollivander about the Vanishing Spell.
— Do you really think that...
— Tell him.
Draco turned to the master, still holding the splinter in his hands.
— This year I cast a spell for a Vanishing Cabinet on my bed.
He fell silent, but Ollivander just nodded.
— Harmonia Nectere Passus? Curious, Mr. Malfoy. And then you cast it on Miss Granger?
— No, — Draco replied coldly. — On her bed.
— Ingenious. — There was almost admiration in Ollivander's voice. — And how did you modify it?
Draco raised a hand, miming holding a wand.
— Harmonia Nectere Passus Tempus Nectere...
— He missed a word, — Hermione put in.
— Because I was interrupted! — Draco snapped, eyes flashing.
— You paralyzed my cat! — She turned to the master. — He paralyzed my cat.
— Hermione... — Draco growled.
— Crooks just wanted to help, — Hermione said. — You just had to pet him.
Ollivander coughed tactfully, and the couple fell silent.
— If I may ask, — he uttered, — is your bed still enchanted, Miss Granger?
— I don't think so. — Hermione took her beaded bag from her coat pocket. — Accio splinter!
A golden-brown piece of wood immediately landed in her palm, and she handed it to Ollivander.
— It's from my bedpost.
Ollivander brought the magnifying glass to his eye again, studying the splinter.
— You are right, my dear. There is no magic here. — He lowered the glass. — But you are clearly enchanted, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy's spell is now in your magical core.
Hermione's jaw dropped.
— Luna!
Draco looked at her in bewilderment.
— When people try to cast or remove charms from a wooden object, they must be careful, right, Mr. Ollivander? — she asked.
— Naturally, — the master replied. — Protective charms are mandatory. Are you saying...
— Oh, Merlin! — Hermione looked shocked. — It was me! I did it! I tried to remove the spell, but I was angry, made too sharp a movement, and splinters rained down all around... and then they disappeared!
Draco frowned. So he was right—she messed up the spell!
Ollivander was nodding.
— Magical backlash, strong enough to affect your core, — he explained to Hermione. — The spell wasn't broken—it transferred into you, embedding itself in your magic. Now you are the vessel connected to Mr. Malfoy's bed.
— That's why I end up in your bed every night at ten! — Hermione exclaimed and immediately turned crimson.
Ollivander looked embarrassed, and Draco himself nearly blushed.
— I added a time element, — he admitted.
— Incredible, — the master said.
Draco narrowed his eyes.
— You were in Ravenclaw, weren't you?
— What… yes, — Ollivander replied absently.
— Can the spell be reversed, sir? — Hermione asked. — Or will we have to destroy Draco's bed?
— I'll gladly remove it, my dear, — Ollivander said. He smiled slightly at both of them. — That is, if you really want it.
— We do, — Draco and Hermione answered in unison.
— Well, if you're sure. — Ollivander took out his wand again. — Place the dark wood splinter down, Miss Granger, and stand by the workbench. Excellent. — He turned to Draco. — Intermissum Harmonia Nectere, I presume?
Draco nodded.
Ollivander cast protective charms around himself and Draco.
— I'll modify it slightly, make the spell more delicate. We don't want to damage Miss Granger's magical core or leave behind enchanted wood particles.
— Are you sure you can handle it? — Draco asked. — Maybe Hermione should go to St. Mungo's?
— Absolutely sure. — Ollivander blinked. — I've removed ricocheted wood charms from my apprentices more than once. They always forget about protective spells. Always think they know everything. — He raised his wand again. — Of course, this spell is much more complex and powerful, but the principle is the same.
— I trust you, Mr. Ollivander, — Hermione said.
Draco wasn't so sure. A year spent in Malfoy dungeons had clearly affected the old man's sanity.
— I really trust you, — Hermione repeated, her eyes shining with Gryffindor madness.
The old man was their last hope, even if Draco didn't like it. He nodded in agreement, though no one was waiting for his approval.
Ollivander began a series of intricate wand movements.
— Intermissum Harmonia Nectere... Separatum Lignum... Sui Iuris...
At first, nothing happened, then Hermione seemed to sparkle. Draco realized it was wood particles swirling, which soon neatly settled into a pile on the workbench.
— Take the dark wood splinter, Mr. Malfoy, and try throwing it to me, — Ollivander requested.
Draco obeyed. The splinter flew toward the master, and he caught it with Seeker-like speed.
— The spell is broken, — he announced, returning the splinter to Draco.
— Oh, thank you, Mr. Ollivander! — Hermione rushed to hug the old man. — Thank you! — She turned to Draco, beaming. — It's broken!
Draco stared at Ollivander, shocked. The old man really did it. All these weeks the solution was right in front of them, and they hadn't noticed. Or rather, hadn't even tried to look. Draco knew Hermione had messed up the spell, albeit accidentally. And since when does the Brightest Witch of Whatever-Generation forget about a rain of enchanted splinters? They were just pretending.
Now the game is over. Time to return to reality. The Vanishing Spell had temporarily bound their fates together, but now they were free to go their separate ways. Like the dark wood wand, this witch is not...
— Draco? — Hermione asked concernedly. — Are you okay?
— Yes. — Draco's voice was icy, as befitted a Malfoy. — Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. How much do we owe you?
Ollivander waved away the offered gold.
— No need, my boy. It was a pleasure to help you.
He beamed at them.
— And for the new wand? — Draco asked. — A suitable wand? You can send it by owl.
— We'll see, — the old man replied.
Draco wanted to press him, but most of all he wanted to leave the shop quickly. He turned to Hermione.
— We need to go back.
She frowned at the coldness in his voice but nodded and began wrapping her scarf around her neck again.
When they left, the rain had stopped, leaving behind fast streams running over the cobblestones.
— Hold on to me, — Hermione said, eager to test her vinewood wand again.
With a light pop, they appeared in the Honeydukes cellar, where she returned Draco to his usual appearance.
As they walked back through the tunnel, a tense silence hung between them. Any attempt to speak sounded unnatural. They kept glancing at each other, opening their mouths to say something, but falling silent or shifting the conversation to the rain, the mud in the tunnel, or the time until dinner. Draco felt a gloomy mood overtaking him. He and Hermione didn't discuss the weather. They weren't polite.
Stopping at the foot of the stairs, they turned to each other. Hermione stuck the vinewood wand into her knitted hat, and golden light fell on the witch's upturned face.
— I guess that's it, — she said quietly.
— Yes, — he agreed. — A great relief.
— It'll be nice to have a... um... quiet evening. — Hermione fiddled with the end of her scarf, not taking her eyes off Draco.
Draco nodded, feeling his throat tighten. Could it really end like this—in a dark, damp tunnel?
— Don't you want... — Hermione began.
A loud creak interrupted her. Light flooded from the opening, illuminating Hermione but leaving Draco in shadow.
— Hermione, is that you?
— Neville!
— Hi, Hermione! Hey, Seamus, it's Hermione!
— Hi, Hermione!
— Come up, I'll hold the trapdoor, — Longbottom shouted. — Hey, Dean, Hermione's here!
— Hi, Hermione!
Draco gritted his teeth. Gryffindors.
— Coming up? — Longbottom asked. — Are you okay?
— Everything's fine! — Hermione shouted, head thrown back.
— Is Hermione down there? — came another voice, female this time. — Hi, Hermione!
— Need help? — Longbottom persisted.
— No, just wait a minute! — Hermione turned back to Draco, but he was already retreating deeper into the tunnel, dissolving into the darkness.
— Draco! — she hissed, trying to speak quietly but so he would hear. — Where are you going? Come back!
Stomping was heard from above.
— Hermione! I'm coming down! — shouted the Irishman.
— Draco! — she called again.
Her voice sounded weaker, but Draco still heard it. He stopped in the depths of the tunnel and turned around.
The Gryffindor stood in the beam of light from the open trapdoor, peering into the darkness with wide eyes. Then her shoulders slumped, and she wrapped her scarf around her neck again.
— Draco... — her whisper barely reached him before she turned and began to climb the stairs, stumbling for a moment and falling on one knee.
Draco instinctively stepped forward, but a hand was already helping Hermione out. The stone slab behind her fell into place, leaving Draco in complete darkness.
That evening he skipped dinner, preferring alcohol. House-elves had tidied up in his absence, arranging a whole Gryffindor branch on the sofa: Hermione's polished shoes, neatly folded gloves, the Durmstrang guide, and the pink cat carrier.
Draco sank into the armchair, which he had turned back toward the fireplace. He had almost reached the desired numbness when persistent scratching made him open the door.
He wasn't even surprised to see a ginger cat dash past him, and two snake-like shadows flicker in the corridor. Had he left the door open? Draco didn't remember. After Hermione left, he stood in that dark tunnel so long that the cold seeped into his bones. Somehow Draco made it back to the dungeons and his bedroom. Somehow incomprehensibly.
He slammed the door.
— Crooks! — Looking around the room, which swam slightly before his eyes, Draco found the fluffy ginger beast atop the grandfather clock, which just began to strike ten.
Then he looked at the bed—empty, of course. Hermione wouldn't appear.
— Fuck it, — Draco growled. There was no reason to stay awake anymore, so he returned to the armchair and took two more swallows of firewhisky. Or three. Or four.
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