The Darkwood Wand

Conversations

The library was nearly empty Monday afternoon, with most students outside enjoying the rare day off. Sunlight slanted through the tall, stained-glass windows and glinted off glass cabinets. Hermione had settled in one of her favorite spots, enjoying a bit of quiet among the gargoyles.

It had always baffled Hermione that gargoyles rated an entire library section. Madam Pince had arranged a few miniature stone figures among the books, but the shelves still looked a bit bare. Not even Hermione had much interest in the topic; all gargoyles did was sit on buttresses and spit out rainwater. They also had a disgusting sense of humor, so the first thing she did upon entering the section was silence all the miniatures.

The area's single table was quite secluded, though, despite gaps between books that allowed her to see into the adjoining Magical Creatures section. Hermione had been there for more than an hour, a reference book on werewolves open before her. The chapter on the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct was interesting, especially the section about the brave Aurors who tracked werewolves all over Europe to get them to sign it.

But Hermione wasn't reading. She was staring into space and twirling a curl on her forefinger like ... like a girl.

She needed to talk to Malfoy. Sleeping night after night in a sumptuous bed with a long, blond Slytherin was dangerous. If Hermione kept leaving things up to chance, she would find herself doing something she wasn't ready for. Yes, they needed to talk. They needed a plan. They needed to lay out exactly what was on the table. At least Hermione did; clearly everything was on the table for Malfoy. He probably had things on the table she'd never even heard of ...

Stare. Twirl. Stare. Twirl.

Hermione yanked her hand out of her hair. Anyway ... she and Malfoy needed to talk. Yes. Talk. Maybe they needed a flow chart: First this, then an arrow to that, then a curved arrow to that, and then that...

Lovely, she sounded like a Ravenclaw. If Malfoy wouldn't accept a prepared statement (too bad, it was an intriguing idea) then Hermione could only imagine his response to visual aids. Maybe he wouldn't notice a little activity chart, posted on the canopy for easy reference even while he was down ...

Hermione ducked her burning face into the cool pages of her werewolf book. Oh Merlin, she shouldn't get so flustered in the library. Sexual frustration, that's what it was. She hadn't had a good go with herself in, well, eight days. Romilda danced in and out of their room at random intervals, often skipping classes (so irresponsible) and Hermione certainly couldn't indulge herself in Malfoy's bed, although clearly he wouldn't mind, would probably want to ...

Stop it. Hermione couldn't breathe now, both due to her thoughts and her nose pressed into creased parchment. Ron and Harry used to tease her about drooling over books and now here she was literally doing it. Over Malfoy. After eight days.

She quickly cleaned the book, feeling guilty, as if she'd come all over it or something. (She had no doubt such things went on in a castle full of often-bored teenagers, and so never read a Hogwarts book without scourgifying it first.) Ewwwwwww.

None of this was helping with her problem.

Stare. Twirl. Stare. Twirl.

It was all very simple: This situation required a comprehensive discussion about boundaries. He wouldn't enjoy it, but means to an end and all that. Malfoy might be used to being in control with women, but he was capable of change. The past eight days had demonstrated that. He'd progressed from grabbing her and snarling "Mudblood" that first night to fretting about her safety and holding her so ...

Hermione twisted the curl tighter, tugging at the skin above her ear. Had he really changed so much? Or had he always been like this, hidden beneath that cold Slytherin mask? Had the war driven the human side of him deeper and deeper, but not crushed it entirely?