Draco landed in the school courtyard to catch his breath. His legs were still shaking. The air was crisp and frosty, and in the distance, Gryffindor Tower loomed, cold and impregnable. I wanted to protect you, cover you...
He exhaled his irritation in a small white cloud. Some protection—letting him catch pneumonia.
Climbing back onto Vane's wretched broom—the "Airwave"—Draco rose into the air and began inspecting the grounds. He circled slowly at a low altitude, shivering in his thin transfigured clothes. Finally, he spotted twigs and debris near the Whomping Willow. It seemed the broom had fallen victim to the storm, the tree, or both at once. Draco bound the debris with Incarcerous and flew to the castle's main entrance.
Once inside, he strapped Vane's broom to his back and headed for the dungeons, clutching the bundle of debris to his chest. His old broom had been a top-of-the-line "Star Racer" with custom charms tailored to his weight, height, and flying style. Ordering a new one would take months—all the gold in his vault wouldn't speed up the process. The wood needed time to absorb such complex spells. Well, my own fault, Draco mused. He was lucky it wasn't his broken bones scattered across the castle grounds. Ordering a new broom would also allow him to tweak the navigation charms...
Draco froze on the stairs, puzzled by his own maturity. A few weeks ago, he would have sulked, raged, and sent stupid letters to "Windswept Premium Brooms" by owl. Oh well, whining helps no one... Stop it!
Muttering under his breath, he raised the grate and entered the common room, where Daphne was demonstrating auromancy to excited younger students. Auras shimmered, swirling in rainbow vortices. Daphne's magic washed over Draco despite his attempt to slip along the walls unnoticed.
— Draco, your aura! — Daphne rushed to intercept him, her blonde braids bouncing. — It's changed! Such a wonderful yellow-green color!
Trelawney's aura color chart unfurled in Draco's mind, and he shuddered. Does his aura now reflect friendliness and willingness to help?
Apparently, he said this aloud, because Daphne nodded happily.
— And care, Draco, — she added. — So much warmth.
At that moment, Draco realized he was speechless. It felt like his jaw was somewhere around his knees. Daphne's students stared at him, reminding him of Trelawney's Divination Club.
Daphne clapped her hands.
— I can't wait to tell Narcissa!
— Please don't, — Draco pleaded. He already imagined the letters from his mother.
Daphne nodded.
— Of course, of course. Let your mother Behold it herself.
Her gaze slid to the wooden debris in Draco's hands.
— Is that a broom?
— Was a broom. Careful, there are sharp... — Draco stopped abruptly, horrified at himself. Stop it.
Daphne gently stroked the twigs.
— A very unhappy broom, — she whispered.
— Well, it shattered into pieces, Daph.
The witch smiled at him again, and Draco wondered if she was meeting with Lovegood to practice that piercing yet vacant stare. Suddenly Daphne hugged him tightly, ignoring the sharp splinters.
— Oh, Draco! I knew you'd come back to us!
Draco rolled his eyes, feeling awkward.
— Where's Nott?
— Don't know, — Daphne released him, frowning. — No one has seen him all day—I can't even find him on my dowsing map.
She shook her head, her long golden braids swishing. Dowsing, ugh. Draco had no desire to study Hermione's arithmancy grids.
— I don't understand, — Daphne continued. — When I try to find Theodore using spells, divination, or scrying, nothing works. Cards stick to the table, frog guts...
She kept muttering something about clouded mirrors and congealed slime, while Draco shifted impatiently from foot to foot, holding the bundle. He noticed the dark wood wand peeking out of his pocket, and Daphne's skirt slowly lifting.
— Stop it, — he hissed at the wand.
Daphne fell silent, confused.
— What do you...
— Um, stop all this, — he told her. — You're too close.
She frowned.
— What do you mean?
— Too close, — Draco repeated, seizing on the idea. — Mother could never Read Father's fate. During the war, she cast stone after stone for him, peered into every mirror, practically climbed into the fireplace to interpret smoke swirls. Even cut open his favorite peacock to study the liver. Nothing helped.
Daphne pondered, tapping a finger on her lips.
— Now I remember. It's quite possible. The stronger the Seer, the more likely their feelings... — Her cheeks turned pink. — Tell me, Draco, — she asked. — Have you ever seen a heart in your tea leaves?
— Yes, — he admitted.
— At the bottom of the cup?
Draco shook his head.
— Near the handle.
— EXACTLY! — Daphne cried out ringingly, making everyone in the room jump. She snorted. — Okay, I have to continue reading auras.
Patting his arm, she proudly walked back to her students. Draco watched her go, wondering if he had helped Theo or made things worse.
Draco immediately retreated to his bedroom, where a hot bath and perfectly tailored clothes awaited him. But after changing, Draco didn't want to stay in the room. Although Tennant and his junk were gone, without Hermione, this luxurious bedroom still seemed gloomy and ominous, especially after a day spent in the light-filled tower. Shoving his wand and watch into his pocket, Draco left.
The Slytherin common room was now full of screaming children, mostly first-years playing Exploding Snap. Draco winced, dodging a card that flared up under his feet—in his time, first-years weren't allowed such liberties. They should have spent time learning the layout of their damn rooms.
At least Daphne and her fans had disappeared, so Draco boldly took the armchair by the fire. He picked up the nearby Daily Prophet and began leafing through it, ignoring whispers and stares. Tracey Davis slipped under the raised grate, leading a pygmy crocodile on a leash. She cast an appraising glance at Draco, clearly considering whether to approach, but eventually disappeared into the dungeons.
Soon Blaise appeared, still dressed mostly in black but looking less ominous. His tie was silver-grey, and tiny stars sparkled on his black robe. The wizard took the chair opposite Draco, his dark eyes shining with curiosity.
— You look... different, — Blaise noted.
— Daphne says it's my aura, — Draco turned the page.
— Agreed. You look calm. Truly relaxed. — Blaise smiled. — She must have been very good.
Draco clenched the newspaper in his fingers, wishing he had stayed in his room. This wouldn't do. He was a master of keeping secrets, but they were always dark secrets—dangerous and deadly. For years he hid his fear, fatigue, and rage. And now he sat in plain sight, displaying his supposedly friendly and caring aura.
— You look unusually cheerful too, — Draco went on the offensive. — Still trying to get into Weasley's secret cave? She'll chew you up and spit you out, that cutie.
— Perhaps. — Blaise cast an eavesdropping charm and took out a silver flask. He handed it to Draco, who took a cautious sip. — Ginevra could be an excellent investment after Hogwarts. This weekend we're looking at an office in Diagon Alley.
— An office for what? — Draco couldn't help asking.
— A private detective agency, — Blaise replied imperturbably. — Something like unofficial Aurors, as I understand it. Investigating crimes the Ministry can't get around to.
— Sounds dangerous.
— Oh yes. — Blaise's smile widened. — That's the fun of it.
— You sound like a Gryffindor.
Blaise shrug.
— I did a little research—there really is a market demand for problem-solving with a slight flair of chaos. Perfect for us.
Draco chuckled.
— Theo will flip out.
— Yes. — Blaise frowned. — Have you seen him today?
— Probably hiding somewhere and sulking. — Some people are so dramatic.
Blaise's fingers drummed on the green velvet armrest.
— Theo is different this year. Detached. Obsessed with restoring Slytherin's good name, and now Daphne isn't... — He fell silent. — He's not who he used to be.
Draco rolled his eyes.
— Yes, because Theo went through so much during the war. Hiding behind curtains and fainting at meetings is truly exhausting.
Blaise clenched his fingers into a fist.
— Theo was going crazy all last year, especially because of you and Daphne. He was sure the Dark Lord would win and spent countless hours organizing escape routes for all of us, including Narcissa. Personal portkeys, foreign accounts, fake documents. — He lowered his voice. — He even contacted the Order of the Phoenix.
Draco straightened up.
— I didn't know that.
— Well, Theo likes to think through all options. Fortunately, none of it was needed.
Draco looked at the newspaper in his hand, where Augustus Rookwood's photo was displayed below the fold. The dark wizard grinned, skinny fingers gripping prison bars. Draco couldn't imagine Theo taking such a risk—surrounded by Death Eaters, including his own father, he would have literally signed his own death warrant if exposed. Unlikely Theo shared anything substantial with the Order, but still...
— Does Daphne know? — Draco asked.
Blaise sighed.
— Of course not. For that, Theo would have to stop being a snob and finally talk to her frankly. Daphne has no idea who Theo is. The real Theo.
— Don't be so sure, — Draco said. He remembered how Hermione slept next to him, helped him cope with nightmares, touched him with her gentle little hands while he only growled and hurled insults or demanded sex. — Sometimes they just know.
Blaise looked at him intently but said nothing, and the wizards spent time in pleasant silence, reading newspapers and passing the flask. Then they went to dinner together, and Draco sat opposite Daphne. Theo finally appeared but sat apart and refused to look at anyone. He didn't even scold the first-years who caught two wandering blueberry muffins and staged muffin races on the table. Daphne kept casting anxious glances at Theo, and then looked at Draco as if expecting him to do something. Fucking aura.
Meanwhile, Draco watched the Great Hall doors until he saw Hermione and Weaselette enter. Hermione shot Draco a displeased look before sitting with her back to him. Great, so she found the portkey.
Theo left before dinner ended, and Daphne fidgeted in her seat.
— I can't even Read his aura, — she worried. — Draco, could you...
— No, — Draco said firmly. He wasn't going to chase Theo around the castle. — I won't interfere.
Daphne looked at Blaise, he sighed, then got up and left the hall, his black robe billowing. Draco noticed Vane watching Blaise closely and hoped the Gryffindor wasn't crazy enough to mess with Weaselette.
Draco lingered at dinner, convincing himself he was just watching the muffin races (he bet on the smaller muffin with extra blueberries—more power), until he saw Hermione leave. But Daphne prevented him from following the Gryffindor witch, looking meaningfully at him and the teapot between them.
— Fine. Only one reading, — Draco said. He was glad they were friends again, but he had other plans for the evening.
She nodded happily, and Draco picked up the teapot with some trepidation. He hoped Daphne wouldn't start squealing in front of the whole house at the sight of a big fat heart.
In Divination lessons with Hermione, he was quite careless with tea leaf readings, but Daphne was much more demanding. She watched Draco like a hawk as he poured tea, drank it, then swirled the remaining water before placing the cup upside down on the saucer.
— Very good, — her praise sounded almost insulting, as if Daphne expected him to break the cup or spill tea on his chest. — Now imagine your immediate future.
Draco had no trouble with this, as his immediate future likely involved sex with Hermione in his bedroom. Daphne stared unblinkingly at the overturned cup on the saucer. Finally, she nodded, and Draco lifted the cup and handed it to her.
Daphne peered inside, her face remaining impassive, then turned the cup and looked again.
— You have defeated a powerful Enemy, — she said in a quiet voice. — His tea leaves have drained from the cup and gathered on the saucer, defeated.
Draco rolled his eyes but remained silent. Apparently, the formless tea dregs quite accurately reflected Tennant's current state.
— I See... I See... — Daphne leaned so close her nose almost touched the rim of the cup. — Ah, yes, a Lover.
Draco smirked smugly.
— Pressed to the edge, almost hidden from view, distorting the clear shape... — She looked up, meeting Draco's eyes. — If the Lover remains hidden, any joint future will flow away like water.
Draco's breath caught.
— Rubbish, — he rasped.
Daphne just made a strange melodious sound that reminded Draco of Lovegood.
— I See a closed book, — she continued, — a prowling cat. Both symbols speak of secrets that drain, drain your energy. — With each "drain," she waved her hands Trelawney-style, and Draco fidgeted in his seat.
She turned the cup one last time, and Draco prepared to see a Raven, a Grimm, or—Merlin forbid—some Flower. Instead, Daphne set the cup down and took Draco's hand.
— Draco, dear Draco, — she smiled, — you have a Chicken.
Draco stared at her. Better a Grimm.
— A new beginning, of course, but wings spread... — She pressed a hand to her chest and sighed. — You give so much tenderness, so much generosity...
— Can you speak quieter? — Draco hissed. — Is that all? Looks like a bat.
Daphne ignored him.
— Tenderness, — she whispered, reminding him of Vane with her "mysteeeerious lover". Draco's patience snapped—he pushed the bench back with a loud screech.
— I'm leaving, — he said coldly. He was fed up with this nonsense back in Divination. Hermione would have rolled with laughter if she were here.
Daphne's small hand suddenly gripped his palm with unexpected strength.
— Heed the warnings, Draco, — she said sternly. — Let the tea leaves swirl.
With this absurd statement, Daphne released him and left the table. Draco remained seated, watching her walk away, her blonde braids swaying in time with her steps. All women in this castle are insane. Wherever you're hiding, Theo, maybe you should stay there.
Draco returned to his bedroom, for some reason expecting to see Hermione in green underwear lying on his bed. But the room was empty. He ignored the teapot on the silver tray and poured himself firewhisky. Then he lit the fire, threw on his paisley robe, and waited.
He waited and waited.
Seriously, what was so important occupying this witch? Draco let out a long, martyred sigh.
— Accio book! — Draco waved his hand. He could either read or continue drinking, and then his immediate future wouldn't be so pleasant if he got completely drunk.
A thin book flew into his hand, and Draco managed to read a whole page before realizing what he was holding. "Step one: unpack your pain. Arrange feelings like toothbrushes and shoe trees. Dig into the corners of your heart in search of lost crumbs of sadness..." Oh Salazar. He looked at the cover: Tears Flow—Sleep Deep: Self-Help Techniques for Soul Wounds. Draco threw the book on the floor, cursing. Where was Hermione anyway?
Close to nine, with a soft pop, the witch finally appeared—in a pink short set and wearing his emerald ring on her finger. In one hand she held her bag, hair cascading over her shoulders.
— You, — Draco said sternly, — are late.
— I know, I hoped to leave the Transfiguration group meeting early, but Nott didn't show up either, and no one knew the 101 principles of Artificial Animation Quasidominance...
Hermione continued listing how she helped classmates, how she helped McGonagall negotiate with the last rebellious staircase, how she helped Weaselette order a checkered robe and matching cap, how she helped a bunch of other people who weren't Draco.
— Okay, okay, — he interrupted irritably. — I'm sure you did a bunch of good deeds. — He moved closer. — You need to prioritize.
Hermione nodded.
— Absolutely right. — She took a scroll from her bag and unrolled it with one motion. — I'm behind on all fronts!
— Yes, we're behind, so why don't we...
— Just look! — She shook the parchment in front of his nose. — My evening study schedule has gone to hell. Look at the last two weeks—I fell asleep, then we fought, then...
— Then did other things, — Draco stepped closer and took her hand. He pulled the ring off her finger. Taking it off turned out to be unexpectedly unpleasant.
Hermione snorted, remembering a new cause for dissatisfaction.
— Seriously, Draco. A portkey? I got a warning from the Ministry!
Draco shrugged.
— I'm sure you handled it.
— Well, I wrote to the Auror Office that I'm conducting research on portkeys, alas, an undeservedly forgotten area of such powerful magic...
Here we go again—chatter about object sizes or something similar. Draco led her to the sofa, sat her on his lap, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
— Are you nervous again? — he asked.
She shook her head.
— Don't think so.
Draco almost groaned. Would it always be like this now—Hermione chattering like a magpie while he slowly went insane? Although it's quite cute—the way she... No-no-no, less talk, more sex. Stop being adults!
— But I have to be an adult, — Hermione declared. — I'm nineteen.
Draco gritted his teeth.
— And I'll never get eight NEWTs without a clear plan, — she continued.
Draco couldn't clutch his head—his hands were busy with Hermione, and he wasn't going to remove them—but the situation was heating up. What was this witch willing to sacrifice for eight NEWTs? Draco, of course, wasn't going to get eight NEWTs. Not even four. Three—that's what the Ministry required for successful probation completion, and that's what they would get.
Hermione rested her head on his shoulder, relaxing in his arms, but Draco remained tense. He couldn't distract her from studying every night, coercing her into sex—that sounded exhausting even to say.
— I allow you to make a study schedule, — he said magnanimously. — But you spend two hours a day alone with me. Minimum.
— Two hours? — Hermione lifted her head. — Here?
— Or in your room. Or in the library. — Draco's eyes sparkled. — Or in the DADA office. — He had plans for that big wardrobe.
— But how...
— We'll figure it out. Promise. — Draco's hand slid under her top—a pink cotton thing with a book embroidered on the chest. — Promise, — he whispered into her neck.
— But two hours a day isn't enough to…
— Promise. — His other hand slid between her legs, and Hermione gasped. — Do you want to go back to nightmares and sleepless nights? — Fingers found the edge of her shorts. — I need you.
— You... you need me, — she whispered.
— I don't hear a promise. — Fingers found her warmth and moisture, and his voice became indecently low as he whispered in her ear: — Promise.
— Yes, I promise, please...
— Maybe I should stop so you can sign a contract?
Hermione's face burned, but she looked him straight in the eye.
— No, you're right. — Her gentle palms rested on his cheeks. — And I need you too. I promise.
Draco rewarded her with a long, deep kiss while his fingers caressed her inside, and Hermione cried out loudly when she reached orgasm. Wasting no second, Draco carried her to the bed, admiring her flushed body as he removed his boxers and robe. Then he began pulling off her pink set—her limbs were limp as if he had overdone the Brackium Emendo. He kissed his way down her body, and she came again—this time from his tongue, but this orgasm seemed to energize the witch. She flipped him onto his back and straddled him, summoning the vinewood wand for a contraceptive spell. Draco brushed back Hermione's damp, disheveled curls to see her face.
— I'm going to fuck you now, — she said, gripping his wrists, long nails digging into his skin. — Do you like that?
— Yes, gods, yes, — Draco groaned.
She let go of one hand to position herself, then agonizingly slowly lowered herself onto his cock, her lips stretching into a smile that looked very Slytherin.
— Hermione, please... — She was so hot, tight, practically scalding. This sweet torture continued until she sat on him fully, and then she began to move—faster, even faster, face flushed and eyes shining. This image had dominated his fantasies since that very first night when she loomed over him, hair wild and book raised for a lethal blow. He had seen nothing more beautiful—neither then nor now. And as Hermione continued to ride him, Draco was ready to promise to get a dozen "Outstandings" on his NEWTs if she demanded. Fortunately, the witch didn't guess this, so he was able to come without making a single frightening academic vow.
Afterward, they lay side by side, sticky with sweat, Draco's heart beating steadily and triumphantly. After so many obstacles and pauses, they finally fucked in his bed, as the gods intended. Draco had already begun planning other positions, assessing the space with an appraising eye: distance between bedposts, angles of inclination...
Hermione rolled onto her side and ran a finger down his slick chest.
— What are you thinking about?
Draco distracted himself from sexual geometry and pondered the answer. Dangerous question. Oh well.
— Wondering if you can reach the canopy while kneeling.
— Why... — Hermione faltered, blushing.
— You asked.
She purred contentedly.
— Indeed.
Another fantasy surfaced in Draco's mind.
— I know what we need.
He stood up, took her hand, and pulled her out of bed, summoning his wand on the go. Hermione grabbed hers, and in a moment they were standing in the luxurious bathroom, Draco lighting candles on the chandelier.
Their reflections played on mirrors, green marble surfaces, and the rapidly filling tub. When they stepped into the water, Draco uttered a spell—and water lilies began to fall around them, bobbing on the foamy surface. Hermione squealed with delight, nearly slipping and hitting her head on the marble edge, but Draco caught her in time, and they sank into the water.
A mischievous smile bloomed on Hermione's face, which Draco didn't appreciate (being distracted by a pair of firm, foam-covered breasts). Only when something small and yellow floated under his arm did he realize what she had done. Draco jerked, splashing them both and nearly flooding the bathroom.
— Damn it! — he exclaimed. All the lilies had turned into rubber ducks, and although the dark wood wand tried its best to reverse the spell, it was clear—this was another diabolical transfiguration spell. — Change them back, Hermione!
Hermione tried to make a deal, promising a thorough blowjob without S.P.E.W. evaluation if he kept the ducks, but Draco refused—he couldn't relax while those little birds stared at him. When he admitted this, Hermione agreed with him and turned the ducks back into lilies.
Satisfied, Draco swam to her seeking warmth and tenderness.
— What do you want, Hermione? — he whispered. — Tell me, my love. — His voice trembled on the last word.
Hermione opened her mouth, and since she was almost fully submerged, water immediately rushed in. Draco held her while she coughed, arms wrapped around his neck. When she finally could breathe, she stared at him, flushed with arousal and hot water.
— Are you okay? — he asked.
— Y-yes, — drops from her hair ran into her eyes, and she shook her head, trying unsuccessfully to shake them off. Draco chuckled and did it for her, running a hand over her wet hair.
— Good, — he said, positioning her properly and placing her hands on the marble edge of the tub. Her legs wrapped around his waist. — Hold on.
At first, he moved slowly, then faster, harder, and this time Hermione's cries echoed off marble, serpentine, and glass, amplifying every sound. Merlin, Gryffindors are so loud—Draco adored it.
— I'll make you scream until you're hoarse, — he breathed.
— P-promise?
— Promise.
Afterward, they remained sitting in the tub—Hermione settled on his lap, both watching the lilies still on the now-calm water. Between the flowers, one forgotten yellow duck suddenly surfaced.
— I won't get tired, — Hermione said.
Draco frowned.
— Of what?
— Like I said—I won't get tired of you, Draco. Ever.
He snorted.
— Of course you will. This... — he waved a hand over them surrounded by lilies, — ...this isn't worth your future.
Hermione turned on his lap, looking him straight in the eye.
— I define my future. No one else. Me.
Draco shook his head, and now water was getting into his eyes.
— You'll join the Ministry after graduation, and everything will change.
— No, Draco. — She took his hand underwater, squeezing his fingers. — It's the opposite. The Ministry of Magic won't change me. I will change the Ministry of Magic.
— You can't...
— You'll see, — Hermione said. Their faces were level as she sat on him, leaning one hand on the marble edge.
— You're crazy, — Draco insisted. — You can't change anything being with a Death Eater.
Hermione ran her fingers along his cheekbone. Then pulled his face an inch from her lips and whispered two words:
— You'll see.
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