— So... — Romilda picked up another dress. — Red or pink?
— For the North Tower? In this storm? The warmer one.
After dinner, Hermione sat on the sofa wrapped in a plaid flannel blanket, sipping tea. What difference did it make what she wore—pajamas, a camisole with shorts, or Harry's Quidditch jersey? No one would see anyway.
Romilda poked a hanger toward Hermione.
— You need to talk to Draco. You can't hoard grievances. When he started pulling my hair during sex, I immediately said, "Draco, that's only acceptable when I..."
— Romilda!
The witch snorted.
— I'm just trying to help.
— And I was going to talk to Draco. Really.
Hermione had even taken the Map with her to dinner—in case Draco didn't show up and she had to sneak into the dungeons. But he came. Just walked in, ignoring everyone with his usual Slytherin arrogance. Rumors of his involvement in the attack on Isobel had subsided, but he still seemed dangerous.
— So why didn't you talk? — Romilda tossed the dresses aside and pulled out a black skirt. — He stared at you all through dinner.
— He nodded at me! Politely!
— And?
— We aren't polite! — Hermione clenched her fingers around the hot mug.
— That's true, — Romilda agreed, holding a red sequined top against the skirt. — Politeness definitely isn't his strong suit. His entire repertoire boils down to "Do this," "Do that," "Lick your lips," "Get on..."
— ROMILDA.
The witch pouted.
— It's impossible to discuss boys with you. Will this lip gloss work?
Hermione tilted her head and squinted.
— Too pink.
— It won't last long anyway.
Hermione started fiddling with a button on her pajamas.
— Yesterday I left Draco in the tunnel leading to Honeydukes, — she admitted. — Ran off with Neville and Seamus.
Romilda's eyes widened.
— Left him alone? It's dark in there!
— He had a pocket watch.
— Hermione!
— He ran back into the tunnel and refused to come out!
Romilda began packing a small silver bag.
— Well, if it's over between you, you need to know for sure. It's important to have closure. Then you can find someone else. Someone... nice, — she picked up the bag and threw on a pink robe.
Hermione sighed.
— Draco is nice.
Romilda rolled her eyes and headed for the door, but paused with her hand on the handle.
— There's a party in Cormac's room tonight. Coming? No classes tomorrow!
Hermione smiled.
— Thanks, but no. Have fun.
Her roommate shook her hair and beamed.
— Oh, don't doubt it! We have a new game. Draco refused, but Cormac already agreed to grab my...
— ROMILDA!
The witch's ringing laughter carried even through the massive oak door. Unable to suppress a smile, Hermione poured more tea. The image of Cormac trying to portray a Death Eater was quite amusing.
And Romilda was right. Hermione needed to talk to Draco. Find out what was between them. Was there something else? Would this something survive the Vanishing Spell? Was this something fragile, fleeting, existing only due to magic—or durable, like magical dark wood?
Hermione curled up in the armchair, trying to read, but mostly watching the fire in the fireplace fade to glowing embers. The storm outside intensified, making the windowpanes rattle.
She had to know. Ask him.
Jumping to her feet decisively, Hermione pulled an oversized Weasley sweater over her pajamas, swapped flannel pants for jeans, and shoved her feet into sneakers. Unfolding the Marauder's Map, she froze.
Draco's dot was missing.
He wasn't in his bedroom. Wasn't anywhere at all.
Where is he? In the Room of Requirement? A new section of the Slytherin dungeon maze appeared on the map. (She and Harry should have thought of this earlier when they levitated Draco to the infirmary.) Clusters of dots with unfamiliar names—probably first-years—were wandering in circles. Most Slytherins were in the common room, but Draco wasn't among them. His bedroom was empty.
Hermione stood in the middle of the room, thinking. Only a complete madman would leave the castle in such weather. Maybe Draco is in a secret passage? Then the dot should appear soon...
Hermione shoved the Map into her bag and grabbed her wand, deciding to go to Draco's bedroom and wait by the door. On the sixth floor on the way from Gryffindor Tower, in the flickering torchlight, Crookshanks appeared before her.
— Crooks! — Hermione scooped him up, nuzzling into his soft fur, and continued down the corridor carrying the cat. — You're back! Where have you been, my fuzzy-wuzzy purr-machine?..
The cat patiently endured a minute of affection, then started struggling, nuzzling her hand. Hermione let him go and straightened up.
— I'm going down to the dungeons, — she told him. — Are you hungry? I have some dry food in my bag.
— MRAOW!
— Don't even think you're getting tuna, you bad cat who ran off like that...
Crookshanks' wails grew louder, and Hermione looked around nervously. She didn't want to attract the attention of Slughorn, whose office was nearby.
— Crooks, — she said sternly. — Enough. I'm not going back to Gryffindor Tower. If you want...
— MRAOW! — The cat immediately wound around her ankles.
— What are you doing? — She tried to move him, but he clung tighter, and she felt claws scratching her legs through her socks. — Crookshanks!
— MRAOW!
Barely keeping her balance, Hermione opened her bag and took out a bowl and a bag of food.
— Here, and you're getting nothing else...
— MRAOW!
— Ugh, you are the most spoiled cat in the world! Get off!
But it didn't help. Crookshanks wrapped around her ankles no worse than Barnaby the python, and Hermione's attempts to free herself ended with her flopping onto the stone floor, spilling the food.
— Ow! — she cried, rolling onto her back and shaking her legs, still shackled by fuzzy orange cuffs. — You're lucky I didn't paralyze you!
Crookshanks glared at her, his yellow eyes reflecting the corridor torchlight.
Hermione flopped back onto her back and groaned.
— Fine! I'll go upstairs and give you tuna.
Crooks instantly released his grip and licked her hand.
Grumbling about bruises, Hermione cleaned up the mess with her wand and marched back to her room, while Crookshanks ran ahead, clearly hurrying her.
— You must be really hungry, Crooks.
As soon as Hermione opened the door, the cat darted inside. The witch followed leisurely and saw him jump onto the windowsill.
— MRAOW! — Crookshanks stuck his head through the gap in the curtains, pressing his flattened face against the cold glass.
Hermione put her hands on her hips.
— What are you doing? — she scolded him. — It's dark and scary out there!
She pulled back the velvet curtains, revealing darkness where freezing rain raged. The wind howled, rattling the window frames.
— Wow... — she whispered, mesmerized by the fury of the storm.
She tried to close the curtains again, but Crookshanks resumed his concert.
— Crooks, it's cold! — she protested. But in vain—every time she tried to close the drapes, the cat clung to the velvet with his claws.
— Fine! — Hermione snorted. — Watch the storm and freeze.
She left the curtains open and began opening a can of tuna with her wand.
— If you can't come to dinner on time, why should I...
— MRAOW!
— Crookshanks, I've had enough of your nonsense... A-A-A-A-A!
Hermione screamed as a shadow burst from the wall of rain and hit the glass. She rushed to the window—the can of tuna fell from her hands, and Crookshanks jumped aside.
— What was that... A-A-A! — She screamed again as the shadow returned, turning into a growing black spot obscuring the storm. A blow to the glass, a sharp sound—and a crack crawled across the windowpane. The dark silhouette flew back, and something large and prickly hit the glass. A broom? What the...
— DRACO! — Hermione squealed.
She waved her wand, and the windowpane vanished, letting in the icy, howling wind.
— DRACO!
She couldn't see him.
— LUMOS!
Bright light flared at the tip of her wand, almost blinding, but it couldn't pierce the storm. And suddenly the shadow flashed again, a cloak billowing in the wind like the wings of a giant bird. The shadow rushed toward the window...
And missed!
Hermione's scream drowned in the howling wind. The witch scrambled onto the windowsill, grabbing the frame with one hand—just in time to see a falling black figure.
— ARRESTO MOMENTUM! — The fall slowed. — WINGARDIUM LEVI-O-SA!
Never before had Hermione cast this spell—one of her signature ones—with such desperate force. Her voice drowned out the roar of the storm, echoing off the bedroom walls. She stood on the windowsill, ignoring the cold, rain, and hail, wand outstretched, fully focused on the dark figure slowly floating up. I won't let you fall. Never.
Without losing concentration, she jumped back into the bedroom with unexpected agility, and in the same instant, Draco's figure flew through the empty window frame and landed with a thud on the red rug. With two waves of her wand, Hermione returned the glass to its place and closed the curtains. The sudden silence was deafening.
Draco.
Hermione sank to her knees beside the tall figure on the soaked rug. He didn't even look human—just a black, shapeless lump. With trembling hands, she turned him over, the hood fell back, revealing wet hair and, fortunately, a red face. Hermione hoped he hadn't gotten frostbite. She pulled off his icy gloves, revealing frozen but also red fingers, then removed his boots and socks with her wand. So far so good.
Draco groaned quietly.
— It's okay, — Hermione said. A wave of her wand—and the fire in the fireplace burned brighter. Sitting by Draco's head, Crookshanks meowed.
With feverish movements, Hermione stripped Draco of his soaked clothes: frozen cloak, jumper, several layers of shirts. The leather Quidditch uniform was soaked through and wouldn't yield, so she had to vanish it with a spell.
— Merlin... — the witch breathed. Draco's naked body was covered in spreading bruises, and his shoulder (not the one bitten by Tennant) protruded unnaturally. Dislocation.
Hermione aimed her wand:
— Brackium Emendo!
A blue beam hit the shoulder, the bone snapped into place. Hermione mastered this spell far better than Gilderoy Lockhart. Draco groaned in a strangled voice.
Quickly summoning towels, Hermione rubbed his body, then levitated him onto the bed. Heating blankets with a spell, Hermione wrapped them tightly around Draco's body and covered him with a quilt.
Draco groaned again, and Hermione rushed to pour hot tea. She brought the mug to his lips.
— Drink, — she whispered. — Take a sip.
His eyelids fluttered, revealing cloudy, unfocused eyes.
— Hermione... I... I...
— Drink. — She brought the tea to his mouth again, and he obediently took a sip. Coughed, but continued drinking.
— Everything's fine... — he rasped.
— Everything is NOT fine, you probably have hypothermia, — Hermione cut him off, climbing onto the bed next to him and casting a diagnostic spell.
— Temperature above 36 degrees, — she muttered. — You're damn lucky. — Grabbing his wrist, the witch felt his pulse—surprisingly steady and strong.
— Hermione... — Draco's eyes rolled back, and he lost consciousness again.
— Why did you do it? Why? — she asked, taking the mug away. The wizard didn't answer, sinking into a faint. His breathing was measured and deep. Merlin, he looked so exhausted. Hermione ran her fingers through his hair, slightly curling after her hasty drying. He could have died a hundred times during that flight, he nearly died right before her eyes.
An orange furry face nuzzled Draco's cheek. Hermione leaned down, pressing her face against her cat. Her tears wet his fur, but Crookshanks didn't move.
— Thank you, Crooks, — she whispered, hugging the cat with one arm and Draco with the other. — I don't know how you guessed, but thank you.
Hermione woke up in the morning with a weight on her chest. Draco had managed to get out of the layers of bedding during the night and press his warm naked body against her. Most of the covers were on the floor, and the single quilt was twisted and slid down to his waist, exposing Draco's long muscular back and strong shoulders. The fireplace had long gone out, and the room was pleasantly cool.
Hermione waved her hand, parting the velvet curtains, and sunlight flooded the room. Gently rolling Draco onto his back like a rag doll, she made sure he was still fast asleep, tousled blond hair falling over his face. Lifting his eyelids, Hermione checked his pupils—all normal, though shadows lay under his eyes. Fingers pink, warm. Shoulder moved freely. Madam Pomfrey should examine him to be sure, but overall everything was good. Hermione's gaze slid over the muscles on his chest—milky white skin scarred, a trail of dark hair leading to... She felt her cheeks flush.
Hermione pulled the blanket higher, covering Draco. He could sleep a few more hours. Sliding out of bed, she closed the curtains and threw on her robe. Crookshanks loudly demanded breakfast—she gave him a double portion of tuna, then let him out into the corridor.
Outside the door was empty—on a day without classes, few got up so early. She was about to close the door when a sharp knock on the window made her turn around.
Hermione's mouth opened in amazement. Behind the glass, the most beautiful owl she had ever seen was flapping its wings—with fluffy tufts on its ears and round orange eyes. It looked so familiar… Like a flying Crookshanks. The owl was clearly frowning—can owls frown?
Another impatient tap with the beak—Hermione hurried to open the window. The bird dropped a thin package onto the sofa, then perched on the mantelpiece, honoring Hermione with a slow disdainful blink.
— You are such a beautiful bird... — Hermione breathed, picking up a fallen feather from the sofa. — May I keep your feather? I've never seen such coloring.
The owl measured her with a suspicious look, then nodded.
— Thank you! — Hermione reverently placed the feather on the table and opened a tin box sent by Mrs. Weasley. — Want a crumpet? Homemade, with bird cherry jam.
The owl turned its head and condescended to the treat.
— What is your name? — The owl tilted its head, showing a silver tag on a chain. — Mercury. What a noble name.
The owl puffed up with pride, then extended a leg. Hermione unrolled the scroll, which had no addressee:
Mr. Malfoy,
I regret that the dark wood wand did not meet your expectations from the start. Such wands place high demands on the owner, but a firm hand always prevails. Your actions yesterday may have taught it a valuable lesson.
I strongly recommend trying to use it again. The result may surprise you.
Sincerely yours,
Garrick Ollivander,
Master of Wands and Magical Artifacts
Hermione looked up and met the owl's haughty gaze.
— Mercury, — she said sternly, — this letter is for Draco! — Now she remembered this magnificent owl she often saw in the Great Hall. — You're his familiar!
The bird importantly fluffed its feathers and fixed its gaze on the closed bed curtains.
— Oh, were you worried? Draco is fine, — Hermione stroked the bird's feathers. — What a caring boy.
She gave Mercury the rest of the crumpet, then opened the window and watched him gracefully round the tower, heading west. What a wonderful familiar. Surely a good friend to Draco.
Quickly showering, she put on jeans and a pink jumper, and checked on the night guest again. He was stretched out on the bed—arms at his sides, mouth slightly open. She kissed Draco on the forehead, left two crumpets next to him on the pillow, and went to breakfast.
The trip to the Great Hall took twice as long as usual—either a staircase changed direction, or she had to find detours. The Marble Staircase was half closed—at its foot Justin and McGonagall were trying to organize student repair crews. The Headmistress looked exhausted, and Hermione, feeling guilty, signed up for the afternoon shift.
She returned to the room with a tray full of food (disguised as a stack of books) and found Draco still asleep. He had rolled onto his side, and his hand had crushed a crumpet, smearing bird cherry filling on the bedspread. Looks like he'll sleep all day. Hermione cleaned up the mess and closed the curtains again.
Then she settled on the sofa with a book on magical sociology and a new scientific paper from Ravenclaw House. She always admired their passion for surveys and research and even participated in several herself. It seemed for the current work Isobel was sending out a survey by owl post to increase the sample size. The cover letter also stated that anonymous questionnaires yield more accurate results.
Hermione got the survey and cover letter thanks to Seamus, who was noisily filling out his copy at the Gryffindor table that morning. Her requests to be quieter had no effect, and only the threat of going to McGonagall made her friend give her the stack of parchments. However, Seamus got his revenge—he had clearly made a copy and walked away giggling with friends.
Hermione found the study fascinating, but put it aside in favor of a book on the history of magical surveys. However, thoughts kept returning to last night. Did Draco really fly through an ice storm? For me? Does that mean he...
She resolutely returned to the book, but soon picked up Isobel's study again. The idea of applying scientific principles to magic and sex was fascinating. Justin had his work cut out for him. In that alcove, he sounded nothing like a Victorian-era gentleman. And this question about Cushioning Charms is quite...
A loud groan and rustling in the bed made her drop the parchments. Hermione peered over the back of the sofa and saw a pale hand push back the golden curtain, followed by two long bare legs.
Another groan, a series of muffled curses—and Draco got out of bed, shamelessly naked. Hermione swept her gaze over him from head to toe, clutching the sofa for balance. Merlin.
Draco took a few unsteady steps, rubbing his face furiously. When he lowered his hands and saw Hermione looking at him, he froze. They stared at each other, and time seemed to slow down.
He cleared his throat.
— I need to wash up.
— Three doors down the corridor, — she forced out. — To the right. I'll cast a Disillusionment Charm on you.
Draco nodded, and she cast the spell. Hermione watched her bedroom door open and close, then exhaled slowly. He'll come back. After all, she still had his clothes.
For the next anxious twenty minutes, she tried to read and nearly fell off the sofa when the door creaked again.
— Are those crumpets? — his voice sounded.
— Chocolate with bird cherry jam, — she squeaked, peering over the sofa back again. The air by the table shimmered, and the crumpets disappeared into an invisible mouth. Sausages followed.
— Want tea? — she remembered her manners.
— Two spoons of sugar, — a pancake lifted off the plate and dissolved into thin air.
Hermione poured two cups, added sugar, and then dropped the teapot on the floor when an invisible arm wrapped around her waist. She felt a tall warm body behind her, smelling of rose water and peonies.
— Being invisible is damn arousing, — Draco whispered in her ear. — Let's finish the tea and experiment. Can you find my...
— Draco! — She broke free and vanished the spilled tea with a spell, then aimed her wand at the wizard. — Finite Incantatem!
He instantly materialized in front of her—absolutely naked. His lips were stretched into a wicked grin. Hermione froze, unable to tear her gaze from his pink-scrubbed skin, damp hair slightly curling on his forehead and ears. Oh Merlin and all his descendants.
Draco grabbed a mug and downed the tea in one gulp, then slammed it back on the table.
— Finish up, — he said. — You've had breakfast, right? — She nodded, unable to utter a word. — Excellent. Come on, finish your tea.
Hermione obediently swallowed the scalding drink, ignoring the pain in her tongue.
— You're scaring me with your silence, — Draco noted, taking her hand and leading her to the bed. — Is everything alright?
— Do you want to talk? — she asked as he parted the golden curtains.
Draco shrugged.
— You can be silent if you want. — He was already lying on the bed, pulling her with him. — Though honestly, I didn't even think that was possible.
He stretched out on the bed, still naked, his skin contrasting with the red bedding. But Hermione wasn't going to be distracted.
— Why did you fly to me last night? It was dangerous... — notes of Molly Weasley slipped into her voice, — ...you could have died!
— I know. — Draco's hands tangled in her hair, pulling her face to his. — But I had to.
— No, you didn't! — she said stubbornly. — I was looking for you, and if not for Crookshanks... And you were slamming into walls... falling... and...
His arms wrapped around her, pressing her close, and his lips showered her face with gentle kisses.
— My poor girl, — he whispered. — I'm sorry. I just couldn't wait. I needed to see you.
He flipped her over so she was now on the pillows, and Hermione burst into tears. The more she tried to calm down, the harder the tears fell—the tension of the last few days finally released.
— I thought since the spell was over, so were we, — she sobbed. — You were so polite, and at dinner... you nodded at me!
— I know. — Draco buried his face in her neck. — I'm such a coward.
— No, I'm the coward, I should have talked to you after dinner...
— And I—before dinner. Instead, I hid in my room...
— I left you alone in that tunnel! — Hermione wailed.
— You couldn't do otherwise. Shhh...
— And that horrible Nott said you were hopeless... — she hiccuped.
— Well, that's Theo, the eternal pessimist, — Draco chuckled. — But you stood up for me, right? — His lips stretched into a smirk. — I heard I was called brave.
Hermione looked up at him in surprise.
— He told you?
— Oh yes. — Draco touched his lips to her ear, and his hand slid down her breast. — His words gave me the courage to come to you... to ask...
Hermione's breath hitched. She couldn't speak, almost didn't dare breathe. All she could do was look into his half-lidded grey eyes, feel the warm hand on her hip. Ask what? Ask what?
He was silent too, just looking at her, a flush spreading across his cheeks. His jaw was tense—she could see him weighing his next words.
— Will you be with me, Hermione? — he finally breathed. — Without the spell? — He swallowed. — Hiding our relationship won't be easy, but we'll manage.
Hermione's heart nearly burst with happiness—and immediately clenched. She sat up abruptly, eyes flashing. — HIDE OUR RELATIONSHIP?!
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