Draco couldn't believe he was heading to Classroom C again.
His last secret meeting with Vane already felt like something from a past life—a time when he still had carefree days, an even more carefree witch on his arm, and the illusion of control. Now, each step was a struggle. He dragged his feet like some pathetic commoner and ground his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. His posture—Merlin, his mother would faint if she saw it.
He turned into the third-floor corridor, hoping to slip by unnoticed, but of course, he ran straight into a gaggle of first-year Slytherins. Draco plastered on his fiercest scowl, but the little gremlins just smiled at him. One of them even had a yellow Puffskein perched on his head.
"Mister Malfoy!"
"It's Mister Malfoy!"
"Mister Malfoy, do the trick again! Please!" a girl begged.
His chess wand shot out of his jacket pocket, spun in the air like a top, and showered them with pink sparks. The first-years gasped in awe and clapped.
"Stop that right now!" Draco barked, but the wand playfully bounced away from his hand. The kids giggled. He leaned down to grab it, missed by an inch, and the wand rolled behind him.
"I said STOP!" he growled, but the chess wand rolled into the middle of the group, weaving between their legs.
"Out of the way!"
The first-years shrieked and jumped as the wand tickled their ankles. Draco crossed his arms.
"I have a snake wand in my room," he hissed, "and it hates parlor tricks."
The black-and-white wand immediately rolled back to his feet. Draco held out his hand, and the wand leapt into his palm.
The kids clapped again.
He shot them another glare—which, of course, had zero effect—and stalked down the corridor. Merlin, he missed his hawthorn wand. That wand had a mind of its own too, sure—but at least it didn't dance.
Right now, he should be in the library with that tiny Ravenclaw girl, Draco grumbled to himself, pushing open the door to Classroom C. He'd spent his whole lunch break drafting a magical psychomatrix—completely wrong, of course—and there was still a magical sprout under his bed collecting dust that would probably fascinate her.
Both strategies were flawless, naturally.
But could he actually do either of them? No, because he had to mess around with the damn Vanishing Curse with Granger.
He didn't understand why she kept showing up in his bed.
The astrological clock had nothing to do with it anymore. He had removed the spell. Removed it. But she still appeared, night after night, turning his sleep, his body, and his mind inside out…
The abandoned Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was dim, lit only by the thin slice of an October crescent moon shining through the one large window. Draco collapsed into a chair, relieved that Granger wasn't there yet.
The mirrored doors of the cupboard in the corner reflected his pale, gaunt face and the shadows under his eyes.
He looked awful.
Obviously, he'd gone mad. Madness ran in the Black family. His mother with her frog-gut divinations, Bellatrix, Sirius, Andromeda's daughter—the Auror who married that old werewolf…
They were all insane.
Well, at least he wasn't alone. The war had driven Granger mad too—and how bad was it if Draco found that terrifyingly attractive?
He'd woken in the middle of the night to her lips brushing his chest, and he'd nearly passed out from the shock. She whispered about danger in that breathy voice, and at that moment, he would've done anything—anything—to become that danger for her.
Draco buried his face in his hands.
And then she had moaned that pompous Hufflepuff's name—Justin—and Draco's brain flooded with rage. He'd scared her. Hell, he'd scared himself. Thank Salazar she vanished from his bed right then.
He didn't need Gryffindor blood on his hands.
"Uh, Malfoy?"
Draco jumped, wand ready.
Granger had already stepped into the classroom. She stood a few paces away, arms crossed, watching him freak out in the dark.
How many humiliations did he have to survive this year? Apparently at least one more—the lamps flared to life, and his chess wand started rolling plaster heads across the floor, clearly having fun.
"Stop it!" Draco shouted, and the heads rolled back into place.
Pulling himself together, he faced Granger.
"You finally showed up," he snapped coldly. "I don't have all—"
The locked classroom door rattled.
"Hey! Is someone in there?" a voice called out. "Alohomora!"
Draco and Hermione locked eyes, horror-stricken. They could not be caught together in a locked classroom.
"Accio Granger's wand!" Draco hissed.
Her wand flew to him, and before she could protest, he grabbed her by the wrist and shoved her into the cupboard.
The mirrored doors slammed shut and clicked locked.
The classroom door burst open, and in stumbled a pack of idiots.
"Malfoy!" shouted the head idiot—McLaggen.
"Get out," Draco hissed, stepping between them and the cupboard.
The others quickly shuffled back, but McLaggen narrowed his eyes.
"We need this room for Dueling Club, Malfoy."
Draco barely stopped himself from groaning.
What the hell was he thinking? He should've just thrown a Disillusionment Charm on Granger or made up some excuse. But no—he'd acted on instinct. He'd hidden her away like he used to hide Daphne at Malfoy Manor during the war.
He stepped forward, hoping to intimidate them into leaving.
This was all McLaggen's fault, really. If that moron hadn't been kissing someone else that day, Draco never would've gotten involved with Vane and never would've cast—
THUNK.
The cupboard shook, muffled shouting coming from inside.
"What was that?" McLaggen asked suspiciously.
Shit. Game over. He'd attacked the Golden Girl and locked her in a cupboard—straight ticket to Azkaban.
Draco cleared his throat.
"I can explain—"
"It's a boggart!" one of the boys yelled.
"A boggart?" McLaggen echoed.
Draco turned to the cupboard. Not a bad cover. If only she'd stay inside…
BAM!
The cupboard doors slammed open, shattering the mirrors, and Granger flew out—looking furious.
"Aaaah!" the boys recoiled.
"How dare you!" she screamed at Draco.
McLaggen choked.
"Your boggart is…Hermione?"
Draco froze.
Honestly? That tracked. Her eyes had gone pitch black with rage, her hair crackled with magic. He almost stepped back.
Instead, he flicked his wand.
"Riddikulus!"
Completely useless, of course. But the chess wand didn't disappoint him—a puff of smoke, and suddenly Granger had black cat ears and whiskers.
"What the hell?!" she shrieked.
The boys started laughing nervously.
She spun around, saw her reflection in the shattered mirror—
"AAAAAAAH!"
With a deafening yell, she jumped back into the cupboard and slammed the doors so hard a chunk of glass fell out of the frame and shattered on the floor.
Draco blinked, then turned to the others.
"Get out!" he roared again.
McLaggen locked eyes with him—he was a Gryffindor, after all—then finally nodded.
"Come on, guys."
They filed out, whispering to each other:
"That boggart was creepy as hell…"
"Thought she was gonna rip his head off…"
Draco slammed the classroom door shut and cast every protection charm he knew.
"You can come out now, Granger."
Silence.
"Granger?"
Nothing.
Draco approached the cupboard cautiously, half-expecting her to fly out and claw his throat open.
"Granger, come on."
"No."
"You can't stay in there."
"Give me back my wand, Malfoy."
"Not until you come out." He wasn't planning on getting ripped apart tonight.
"No."
"I'll reverse the spell, I promise," Draco said.
The door cracked open.
"How dare you turn me into a cat? How did you know?"
"I've always known," Draco lied. He had no idea what she was talking about. "Cute ears, though."
The door slammed shut again.
Draco clenched his fists.
"Look, Granger," he said, trying—and failing—to sound guilty, "I'll fix you. I swear. Just come out."
He genuinely didn't get it. She had cat ears and whiskers. It could've been worse.
The door creaked open again, and she slipped out, looking genuinely shaken.
"I thought you liked cats," Draco muttered, confused.
"Bastard," she hissed, and darted right back into the cupboard.
Draco groaned and ran his hands through his hair. Could he not just shut up for one bloody minute?
"Okay, Granger, I won't say another word. I won't bring this up again. I'll sign another contract if you want. Just—please—get out."
Reluctantly, she slipped back out. She looked painfully cute, her nose twitching—
Stop.
"Don't move," Draco said. "Reverte."
Thank Merlin, the wand obeyed.
Granger checked her reflection in the unbroken shard of mirror, then rounded on Draco, hands on her hips.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she demanded. "There was no need to shove me in that cupboard!"
"As if I want to be seen with you," Draco shot back, the words escaping before he could stop them.
"Perfect," she snapped, spinning on her heel toward the door.
"Wait—where are you going?" he asked, alarmed.
"To McGonagall's office. I'm telling her about the Vanishing Curse. I can't do this anymore."
Draco lunged forward, blocking her path.
"Seriously?" he said. "You're going to tell McGonagall about the nights in my bed?"
Granger looked at him, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes like ice.
"Yes, it'll be awkward," she said coldly. "But I can trust the Headmistress—she'll keep it quiet."
Draco's heart slammed against his ribs.
If McGonagall heard the words "Vanishing Curse," he was done. Goodbye Hogwarts. Goodbye probation. Goodbye freedom. He'd lied to himself, thinking he was in control.
Come back to us, whispered the walls. This is where you belong…
"I can't go to Azkaban, Granger," he whispered. "It'll kill my mother."
Silence.
Granger stood before him—judge, jury, and executioner of the Wizengamot.
"You're not going to Azkaban," she said, and the sheer determination in her eyes stunned Draco. She sounded almost…protective. Like she'd tear down the Ministry itself to stop that from happening.
"There are other options," she went on, voice like steel. "We can keep trying to break the curse. And if that fails, we'll find a way to get rid of my bed."
Draco barely breathed.
"I won't go to McGonagall—if," she narrowed her eyes, "if you start treating me like a person. One with feelings."
Her bottom lip trembled, and for the first time in a long while, Draco felt a stab of shame. He had hurt her—snapping at her just now, calling her a Mudblood the night before. He'd never thought words could actually wound Granger. Annoy her, sure. Maybe scare her. But not hurt her.
He remembered the way she helped him when he woke from his nightmare about Nagini. How she let him kiss her and whisper Harmonia Nectere. How she curled up next to him when he lay down in bed last night.
But then… then… Draco clenched his teeth, replaying the moment she moaned another man's name in his arms. She deserved this pain. She hurt me first.
No. He shook his head, forcing the thought away. His gaze flicked back to Granger, who hadn't moved an inch. In fact, her cold stare had sharpened, cutting into him like glass. Even the classroom skeleton in the corner seemed to clack its jaw at him in disapproval.
Draco knew he needed to offer something in return. Maybe she was crazy enough to protect him, but she wouldn't keep doing it if he kept acting like this—hurling venom and threats.
"I'm sorry, Granger," he muttered so quietly he wasn't even sure she heard. He coughed, then forced his voice louder. "I apologize. For insulting you. For hurting you."
Granger's jaw actually dropped, and Draco's stomach twisted painfully. Of course she thought he was a monster. Everyone did.
But he was in this now, no backing out.
"This whole bed thing, the Vanishing Spell—it's my fault. I know that. I was a reckless idiot. And… and…"
His eyes darted around the room, landing on the skeleton again, who seemed to nod encouragingly.
"I'm sorry for calling you a Mud—uh, for calling you that." Cold sweat broke out down his back. "I don't believe in that pureblood nonsense anymore."
And that was the truth. Draco had enough problems without clinging to outdated bloodline prejudices. Honestly, keeping track of who was a half-blood, who was a traitor, and who was supposedly acceptable required a bloody spreadsheet. Much easier to just be an arse to everyone equally.
Silence.
"I shouldn't have pushed you last night," he went on, his voice tightening. "I shouldn't have accused you or threatened you or tried to—"
Stop. No need to list everything. They'd be standing here all night.
Draco forced himself to look her in the eye.
"And… thank you. For helping me, Granger."
When was the last time he'd thanked anyone? He'd never thanked Potter for saving his life, or Granger and Weasley for saving Goyle. He'd never thanked Snape for killing Dumbledore so Draco wouldn't have to. He hadn't even thanked his mother for sending him those bloody replacement wands.
Malfoys deserved everything they got. That's what he'd been taught. Gratitude was beneath them.
If Draco weren't currently losing his mind, he might've laughed—because Granger looked like she needed to grab the desk behind her just to stay upright. She closed her mouth, straightened herself like a cat flicking its tail, then said, "W-well. That's that, then.
I'm-sorry-too."
"What?" Draco blinked. He wasn't sure he'd heard her right.
"I said I'm sorry."
"You're… apologizing?" He stared.
Granger nodded, flushing.
"I shouldn't have called you a Death Eater," she said. "And I know you wouldn't… you wouldn't force or scare someone into…"
She gestured wildly, her face redder by the second.
"I mean, you didn't, when I… and you wouldn't… do some weird roleplay—"
"It's fine, Granger," Draco cut in quickly. Merlin, make her stop. Thankfully, she did.
Silence again.
Draco waited, wondering what she would do next. Personally, he wanted to bolt from the room and hide in a cupboard somewhere. But after all that, she'd probably chase him down out of some Gryffindor sense of duty—pry him out of said cupboard like he was her pet Kneazle.
Granger spun on her heel—his heart nearly stopped—and dug into her beaded bag.
"Well," she said briskly, "about the spell. My back issues of The Archaic Charm Digest came in today."
Her whole arm disappeared into the bag, and Draco heard the echo of objects clattering around.
"Damn, I meant to return that painting—oh, here it is. July issue."
She pulled out a scroll and spread it across the desk. Draco moved closer, squinting at the article she pointed to:
"Knots and Quirks: This Week's Magical Mishaps."
He smirked. Granger's lips twitched too, though she didn't look at him.
"This column's about a wizard named Dolby Heff from Barnstable," she explained. "Heff hated broomsticks, so he enchanted a giant wooden box to make a sort of flying carriage. He also charmed it to follow him everywhere."
Draco rolled his eyes. What an idiot. How was this relevant?
Granger shot him a sharp glance anyway.
"The problem," she continued, "is that by giving the box the will to follow him, he lost control of the spell. And he made a tiny pronunciation error, so the magic exploited it. The box did follow him everywhere—but it wouldn't let him inside."
Draco laughed under his breath, and Granger smiled too.
"Took the Aurors ten days to break the spell," she said. "Rumor is, they made their own tracking boxes for surveillance after that."
She grew serious again.
"Malfoy, I think that's what happened to us. You altered the Vanishing Charm to make Romilda appear in your bed at ten every night, right?"
Draco nodded.
"And it would send her back at eleven?"
"Exactly."
"Then I think when Crookshanks distracted you, you made a mistake."
"Possible," Draco muttered, hating how much that stung. He hated making mistakes.
"Almost certainly," Granger said, tapping the parchment. "Like Heff, you lost control. The spell has a will of its own now."
Draco thought for a moment.
"But what about that first night? You didn't appear at ten—only your bedding did."
"I wasn't in bed when the spell activated," Granger explained. "But when I finally lay down, it zapped me straight to you. And now it does it every night at ten."
"But…" Draco trailed off. "Oh, right—the broken clock still messes with the timing. That's why you keep disappearing at weird hours."
"Yes, though it's always at the top of the hour. I went back to my bed at exactly two o'clock today." She flushed.
"Merlin," Draco muttered, pacing. The plaster heads on the shelf stared at him, judgmental as always. "But that still doesn't explain why we can't break the spell."
No answer.
"Granger?"
She wasn't listening—she'd wandered off, poking at the bones on a shelf.
"Oh! A dragon's radius bone! And a piece of Kraken shell!"
"Granger!" he snapped. If she started cataloging the plaster heads next, they'd be here all day.
Too late.
"And who are you?" she asked one particularly ghastly sculpture. The skull had a cracked cranium exposing the painted brain. "Sir Mordock the Alchemist? Oh, he's famous! His theory about—"
"Granger!" Draco clenched his jaw. "Focus."
She sighed, dropped the label, and came back to the table.
"All right, get out your shard, Malfoy."
Draco snorted at her tone but pulled the shard from his pocket—a piece of magically treated ebony from Africa. Granger's eyes widened in the bright light. Her hand reached out, and the shard jumped right into her palm.
She looked surprised but didn't comment, just inspected it and laid it back down. Then she pulled out her own golden maple shard—the one from her bed, the one Draco had seen too many times at this point—and placed it beside his.
"That's odd," Draco said, staring at the two shards. "They should react to each other this close."
He cast a simple spell. The Slytherin shard lit up for a second. The Gryffindor one didn't.
Granger agreed.
"There's no connection. And mine doesn't seem enchanted at all."
Draco frowned.
"It has to be. Somehow."
"Maybe," she said. "Let's go over the incantation again. Say it aloud—but no wand movements."
"Fine."
He just wanted to get this over with. Her commanding tone was giving him a headache. How had Scarhead and Weasel put up with her for years?
He raised his wand but kept it still.
"I said, Harmonia Nectere Passus, then Tempus Nectere, Abito Nectere, Regressus Nectere… luna et stellae circulo…"
"Wait," Granger held up her hand. "When exactly did Crookshanks interrupt you?"
Draco tried to remember.
"I'd drawn the circles and started the spell. Then that beast leaped onto the table." He smirked. "Had to Petrify him."
"You Petrified Crookshanks?!"
"He was about to scratch me!"
"He should have scratched you!" she shot back. "How dare you freeze my cat!"
"I didn't know he was your cat!"
Not that it mattered. She knew that too, judging by the furious look she gave him—a look disturbingly similar to Crookshanks'.
Then she huffed.
"Fine. So—you started the spell, paused to assault an innocent animal—"
"Innocent?!"
"—and then picked up from a different place. You obviously—"
"I know, Granger." Draco's patience snapped. "I designed the damn spell, remember? Yeah, I get it now. I skipped a word, and the magic exploited the loophole. Now it just zaps whoever's in your bed back and forth whenever it wants. And because of your busted clock, the timing's completely fucked. Am I missing anything?"
"No," Granger said, sullen now.
"Good, then." He eyed her warily, worried his temper had wrecked their fragile truce. But she looked more annoyed than furious. Annoyed was fine. People didn't send each other to Azkaban just for being annoyed. Usually.
"I still don't understand why we can't break the spell," she muttered, leaning on the table with a sigh. She looked pale and tired, her dark jumper making her skin seem even lighter. Draco hated how the corners of her mouth drooped, how her lip trembled just a little.
Stop that.
They stood there in silence. Granger stared at the shards. Draco waited—not sure for what. Maybe some final signal that he wasn't going to prison tonight.
At last, she looked up.
"I think we've done all we can for today," she said, as if he had been the one holding them hostage here. "Time for bed."
She sighed again.
"Or the couch."
She handed him his shard and pocketed hers.
"We'll need to do more research. I'll get in touch."
Then she nodded—a short, ambiguous gesture—and left the room.
Draco stayed frozen, too drained to move. He knew he should go to sleep too, but the idea terrified him.
So instead he pulled out his pocket watch—half an hour until curfew. Maybe he could still catch Isobel MacDougal in the library. He barely had energy left to flirt, but skipping a night wasn't an option.
He grabbed his grandmother's wand, giving it a stern look. The wand drooped a little in response.
"We're going to the library," Draco told it sharply.
The wand perked up.
"And don't even think about making the books dance. Or change color. Or—"