The Darkwood Wand

Transfiguration

Hermione kept looking back toward the one-eyed witch's statue as she walked away with her friends. Stop it, he's fine. Draco was perfectly capable of getting out of the tunnel, even without a wand, and he had his pocket watch to light his way.

She had to do some fast talking to draw the other Gryffindors from the statue, claiming that Honeyduke's was closed for a Ministry Department of Health inspection. Honestly, that should be the truth—Hermione loved the sweetshop, but those cellars were appalling.

Draco's dot appeared in his bedroom an hour later, but he didn't show up to dinner. Hermione lingered for an extra hour at the Great Hall, then went to her common room and pretended to read her new library book on magical sociology. But she was really considering and rejecting ways to get into the Slytherin dungeons. Maybe if she Disillusioned herself and ... No. She wouldn't impose on him like that. Draco said he was relieved the spell was lifted. Maybe he wanted a night off.

Hermione made sure to be in bed by ten anyway with the curtains closed. Ollivander could be wrong, after all. Crookshanks had snuck off somewhere and she could hear Romilda and Pavarti giggling over a Witch Weekly quiz.

"Oooh, I'm best suited to a winter wedding!" Parvati squeaked. "Douglas firs!"

"Shhh!" said Romilda. "Hermione's sleeping!"

Hermione didn't mind, though. The quiz questions reminded her of Draco's answers to the wood magazine quiz: Winter ... I like all the dead trees ... I am intelligent, tolerant, low-maintenance ...

She smiled to herself and raised her arm to look at her wristwatch: 9:58, 9:59, 10. 10:01. 10:02.

Nothing.

At 10:15, Hermione turned off her wandlight and slid under the covers. The spell was truly broken. This was good. This was healthy. She was glad.

She looked up at the shadowy canopy. Was that really that it? Had the spell been all that bound them together? Was their something merely a convenience?

Surely not. People don't jump in front of wolves for a convenience.

Hermione sat up with a gasp. Merlin, Draco wasn't being noble, was he? Stepping aside and being all honorable? That would be just like him, despite his snotty words about the darkwood wand. That could be the case, but how would she ever know? He'd never admit it.

There had to be a way to find out. Maybe Harry could nick her some Veritaserum. Maybe she could ambush Draco and perform a quick Legilimency; after all, Ginny had caught him off-guard. Maybe she could stage another scene of mortal peril and he could leap in and ...

She flopped down on her back again. Or maybe she could just talk to the man. Either he was happily plotting ways to lure more witches into his bed or he missed her, too.

Maybe he does miss me. Maybe he's thinking of me right now, lying in that sinful bed, that long, elegant body flushed with arousal. Maybe he's touching himself ...

Hermione's own hand drifted downward.

Maybe he's setting his pocket watch to my agenda, thinking of touching me, stroking me inside with another spell, bending his head to taste me, allowing me to taste him ...

"Ow!" she pulled her hand away—those bloody nails! She felt around for her wand, determined to reverse Leanne's spell, then stopped.

No, she wouldn't take off the manicure. One must be optimistic. She and Draco would have a nice, rational, mature conversation if she had to yank him into an empty classroom and hex him with a Body-Bind.