The Darkwood Wand

Departure

We meet two new characters today! Because why not, we're 106,000 words in, let's bring in some new personalities.

Draco stared into space at breakfast Wednesday morning, ignoring the chaos around him. He was too busy mentally reviewing each incantation of the Vanishing Spell. Granger's notes were still in his satchel, and he could research during his free period while Tennant was in class. Studying Vanishing Spells in the library did not appeal to Draco—too Sixth Year—but he did cast the fucking thing, after all.

Finally, he looked up from his plate to catch Theo's eye, and the Slytherin jerked his head toward the Gryffindor table. Granger was staring and looking desperate. Well, he supposed that was understandable. She was without her wand or Whole-World-in-a-Bag. Who knew what was in that beaded thing. Draco had tried looking inside, but the purse's clasp slammed shut on his hand, its pointed brass catches clamping on his fingers like tiny teeth.

Ordinarily Granger's behavior would be noticed, but the Slytherin table had to contend with a First Year's accidental magic. This year's new cohort continued to embarrass the House despite Theo's efforts with tutoring and support. The Rosier boy set the tablecloth on fire last week, and yesterday the Selwyn twins made all the Cornish game hens dance on the Slytherins' dinner plates. This morning it was raining daisies, and it was easy to identify the culprit, a little curly-haired girl with a beet-red face.

After Granger's third oh-so-stealthy glance his way in as many minutes, Draco abandoned his breakfast. Thank Salazar Tennant was sitting with his back to the Gryffindors, finishing up a disgusting plate of nearly raw sausages. Without a glance for the Gryffindor table, Draco left the Great Hall and headed to the second-floor alcove. Then he crossed his arms and silently counted backward from thirty.

He'd reached seventeen when Granger dashed in, red-faced. "You could have walked a bit slower," she said, panting.

"Malfoys don't mince along," Draco said.

He looked her over. Gone was yesterday's sleek sophisticate; today the witch was full-blown Granger, with curls bursting out of the top of her head and a red jumper someone must have knitted in the dark with their feet.

"Well?" she asked, hands on hips.

"Well?"

Granger huffed. "Could I have my things back ... please?"

"Depends," Draco said. "I expect recompense for my trouble."

She frowned. "What kind of recompense?" Draco shifted closer, and she rolled her eyes. "Honestly, do you ever not ..."

She tasted like her chocolate from breakfast and one of her hands drifted to his waist and then lower. Draco pressed her against the wall of the alcove, deepening the kiss, and she switched hands, fingers tracing the edge of his trousers and dipping slightly inside, brushing bare skin. Fuck, this was more like it. She'd probably been thinking about this morning too. Maybe she would unfasten his trousers and ...

But Granger withdrew her hands all too soon, bringing them up to his chest, and Draco retreated reluctantly, his trousers unfortunately intact.

"I'm not sure I consider that sufficient payment," he said smugly. She'd have to earn her things back ... one by one.

"It's more than sufficient," Granger said. She tried to smooth her ragged jumper, but only caught a red-painted talon on the yarn. "Ugh," she grumbled, tugging it free. "I need to reverse this manicure spell."

"Don't you dare," Draco said. "Now let's begin with—where are you going?"

"See you tonight!" she chirped.