The Darkwood Wand

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After Tennant left, Draco eyed his bed as if it was a covered hippogriff cage. They had been seconds from discovery. Granger was probably hysterical in there. Draco felt a little hysterical himself.

He dragged out his preparations for sleep, fussily putting away his clothes and rings and cufflinks and tie pin. He tidied his already pristine desk and stroked the cat ears on his silver inkpots until the fuzzy points vanished. Ever since the harlequin had turned his inkpots into kittens, little white ears and tails kept popping out unless Draco petted them regularly. He could only pray Tennant never noticed.

Finally he stood before the bed once more, holding his wand, watch and pajama top. The green-shrouded bed was as dark and silent as death, but with wards in place, Granger could be setting off fireworks inside.

When he finally entered, she was sitting on one side of the bed, still in the blue dress, her bare legs stretched out, sandals off. His wandmaking book was on her lap, but Granger wasn't reading. She was writing on an open scroll with a strange Muggle implement. Her wand, stuck to a bedpost above its carved snake, provided a soft golden light.

"You're back," she said, not looking up. "Good. You can help me with this schedule."

Draco froze, still on his knees with his things clutched to his chest, and stared down at her. "Schedule."

"Yes." She drew long lines down the parchment and shorter lines across.

Draco silently ordered his brain to function and to his great relief it obeyed. "You want to put Tennant under watch," he said.

She nodded, eyes on the parchment. "He can't keep assaulting girls."

"Granger, you heard what Tennant said. You can't be anywhere near him."

More scribbling.

"Granger." Draco slid under the covers and tucked his wand, watch and top beside him. The wandlight brought out soft shadows below the water sapphire on her ... Stop that.

"You can't hope to track Tennant," he went on. "You don't know what he is. You don't know what happened to him at Malfoy Manor."

Granger finally looked at him, her expression somehow sad and angry at the same time. "He was bitten, wasn't he," she said quietly. "By a ... a rabid dog."

"Yes." Draco swallowed heavily. The Dark Lord had been a great one for visiting the sins of the father on the son, and Thorfinn's failure to capture the Golden Trio in London had rated more than a weak Crucio by Draco's hand. So much more. Draco remembered the feel of Fenrir Greyback's hot breath on his own neck, eager but thankfully denied. The scratching of claws across priceless Malfoy antiques. A bloody, long-nailed hand dropping on Tennant's shoulder, leading him out of the drawing room.

"But Tennant's not a werewolf," said Granger's voice, as if from a distance.

"I don't think so. Greyback wasn't transformed—at least not the time I saw." Draco's hand tightened on his wand, still seeing Greyback's hand. Tennant's wide eyes. It was the only time Draco had ever seen Tennant frightened.

He tore his mind away. He was in his bed again and Granger was frowning in thought.

"Tennant has wolflike qualities, though," she mused. "A fondness for rare meat and raw bones, heightened sense of hearing and smell. And, I assume, scars that cannot be removed or glamoured. Like Bill Weasley's."

Her voice was academic, but Draco didn't need to be reminded who let Greyback into Hogwarts to savage that Weasley in the first place. Draco looked away from her and fixed his gaze on the nearest bedpost. Its carved snake seemed to mock him. You stood with killers and monsters. Don't think your cowardice makes any difference.