The Darkwood Wand

Honor

Alone once again, Draco slid out of his bed and staggered naked across the room, still a little weak in the knees. His mind and body were still processing the fact that Hermione Granger had knelt on his bed and sucked him off without any convincing on his part. She hadn't been experienced, but she was a quick study. Draco had been the one to embarrass himself—a shocking lack of self-control. Now the witch was gone, his bed was a sticky disaster and he'd be lucky to get a wink of sleep tonight.

Draco hesitated, thinking, then opened his bureau drawer and picked up the Nicholas Malfoy wand. Surely the snakewood could clean the bed if it didn't burn it down in the hope that the Muggle-born was still inside.

But the wand felt heavy and rigid in Draco's hand, unyielding. Draco had to hold it with both hands while practically shouting the cleaning spells and still he singed the bed twice. He hastened to return the wand to its drawer and then took a bath to wash off the dark aura.

Now a bit calmer, Draco crawled between the sheets (clean enough, but stiff and scratchy and a little warm) and closed his eyes. Images of Hermione stretched out on his coverlet, Hermione kneeling between his legs, Hermione with her curls tumbling around him danced behind his eyelids. At least he'd get a decent wand tomorrow; he couldn't take another night like this.

***

The next day dawned cold and ominous, starting with a baffling Muggle Studies lesson involving tea-bags. Then it was on to Advanced Potions, where Slughorn jovially suggested Draco stop by after dinner for a bit of tutoring.

"No shame in asking for help!" the professor boomed. He waved his wand and "D. Malfoy" wrote itself on the blackboard, the last of six names beneath the heading "Tuesday Tutoring 7 p.m.—No Trolls Allowed!"

Draco tried not to grimace. Now Hermione would see his name there that afternoon. (He knew the witch's ridiculously full schedule from their days tracking Tennant.) It was true that Draco's Potions marks were abysmal. He brewed well enough on the rare days he attended class, but he'd missed most of the exams and hadn't written a single essay. But Slughorn would never fail a Slytherin in Advanced Potions and Draco already knew enough to earn an Acceptable NEWT. Draco doubted such reasoning would carry much weight with Hermione, however, and his little fantasy of shagging her in the DADA classroom's boggart wardrobe would have to wait another day.

The rest of the day was no better. Most of the castle's staircases were now radicalized and swinging worse than usual, often with students still clinging on board. Draco found himself trapped on the sixth floor with a pack of manic young Hufflepuffs who had just learned Incarcerous and kept trying to rappel down an uncooperative staircase to a lower floor. Draco had to cast cushioning charms to keep the little idiots from falling to their deaths (for which he would surely be blamed). Then he levitated them back up, only to watch them conjure more ropes and jump down again, squealing in delight as Draco rescued them once more. And the darkwood wand wouldn't let him tie them all up with his own Incarcerous. He couldn't wait to get a decent wand.

After his last class, Draco changed into a thick, woolen jumper and trousers and grabbed a heavy cloak before heading to the third floor. Despite the icy rain tapping against the corridor windows, he felt a quiver of excitement at leaving the castle.

Hermione stood beside a statue of a humpbacked witch, wrapped in a long red-and-gold scarf and matching hat with a giant pom-pom. She even wore red mittens. So cute ... no, no, not cute. Obnoxiously Gryffindor.

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were supposed to be discreet."

Hermione looked down at her scarf, which dangled almost to the floor. She wrapped it around herself one more time. "I'm not the one on probation. Hand me your wand."