The Darkwood Wand

Curiosity

Hermione hadn't meant to fall asleep. How could she possibly sleep in Draco Malfoy's bed? Draco Malfoy's bed. Inconceivable. Alright, so the man had a bed, just like he likely had a sock drawer and a hairbrush. But Hermione had never pictured him asleep in a bed. If pressed, she would have imagined him coiled on the floor like a snake or hanging from the rafters like a bat.

And he'd touched her. Ye gods, had Malfoy really been that desperate for sex? Hermione had never heard of such rampant idiocy. He could be lying to stay out of Azkaban, but she didn't think so. One, the story was too humiliating, and two, he'd looked totally gobsmacked to see Hermione there. Then, of course, he'd sneered and turned his back on her. And she had felt oddly rejected. Which was ridiculous—he could keep his cold, nasty hands to himself. The man deserved to be kicked and clocked on the head. Twice. She just hoped she'd hadn't damaged the book.

Except ... they hadn't been cold, nasty hands. They were smooth and warm. Knowing. His tongue had been expert and warm as well, sending shivers up her ... No. She'd probably dreamed that part. Malfoy had probably woken up and started molesting her in his selfish way and she'd dreamed those gentle touches. Yes, that was it. Just a hormonal dream. Hormones and alcohol. She'd resorted to drinking firewhiskey tonight to help her sleep and it had worked all too well. Hermione vaguely remembered staggering into her bed, barely able to cast a mouth-cleansing spell (clean enamel was happy enamel), then collapsing ...

Well, she'd learned her lesson. No more drinking. If tonight proved anything, it was that anything could happen in this bloody castle. Constant vigilance.

Hermione opened her eyes a fraction. It was pitch-dark in the bed, and she could hear Malfoy's soft breathing. He apparently had no trouble falling asleep, but then he wasn't trapped in enemy territory. He wouldn't sleep so well in Gryffindor Tower with Ginny prowling the perimeter and Crookshanks on his head. Hermione turned restlessly and her elbow hit the still-solid curtains. Merlin, she wished she had her wand. They didn't even have Malfoy's wand, since the bloody thing just splintered into pieces when she'd tried to use it. The horrid stick probably hated Muggle-borns.

She burrowed deeper into her bedding, thoughts dancing and twisting like ribbons in the breeze. Hands on her arms, lips on her throat. ... No.

Perhaps she should start dating. She needed to move on with her life. Surely there were suitable wizards out there offering romance, desire. Sex that wasn't a charged, desperate escape, but its own experience: slow and seductive, rough and heated, with glittering eyes and knowing hands ...

Merlin, was she really having such thoughts in Draco Malfoy's bed? Draco Malfoy's bed. Hermione giggled quietly, her eyelids slipping shut again. Somewhere around here was Draco Malfoy's toothbrush, Draco Malfoy's slippers, Draco Malfoy's expensive cologne ...

***

"... ANSWER ME! CRUCIO! CRUCIO!"

"No! It isn't the real sword!"

"CRUCIO!"

"It's a copy ... no ..."

She scrabbles to escape,

seeking help, seeking safety,

reaching out ...

And Bellatrix just faded away. The pain eased, the glaring light of the chandelier dimmed, Hermione was safe ...

Yes, she was safe now, surrounded by warmth and strength. No need to wake. No need to escape. Safe. She slept on.