The Darkwood Wand

Beacon

"So." Romilda held up yet another dress. "Red or pink?"

"For the North Turret? In this storm? Whichever is warmer."

Hermione was on the sofa Wednesday after dinner, wrapped in plaid flannel and sipping tea. It didn't matter what she was wearing—pajamas, a short set or Harry's Quidditch jersey. Nobody would see it.

Romilda pointed a hanger at her. "You need to talk to Draco. You can't let things fester. When he started pulling my hair during sex I spoke up right away. I said, 'Draco, it's alright to do that while I'm—'"

"Romilda!"

The witch huffed. "Just trying to help."

"And I was going to talk to Draco. I was."

Hermione had even brought the Map to dinner in case he didn't show and she had to sneak into the dungeons. But he did turn up. Just walked in, all Slytherin hauteur, ignoring everyone. The rumors accusing Draco of Isobel's attack were fading, but he still looked dangerous.

"Why didn't you, then?" Romilda tossed the dresses aside and pulled out a black skirt. "He was staring at dinner."

"He nodded at me! Politely!"

"So?"

"We don't do polite!" Hermione's hands clenched on the hot mug.

"That's true," Romilda conceded, pairing a sequined red top with the skirt. "He certainly doesn't do polite. He was all 'Do this,' 'Do that,' 'Lick your lips,' 'Get on your—'"

"ROMILDA."

The witch pouted. "You are terrible at girl talk. Does this lipstick match?"

Hermione tilted her head and squinted. "Too pink."

"Well, it won't stay on long anyway."

Hermione played with a button on her pajama top. "I left Draco in the Honeyduke's tunnel yesterday," she confessed. "I ran off with Neville and Seamus."

Romilda's eyes widened. "You left him alone? It's dark down there!"

"He had his pocket watch."

"Hermione!"

"He dove back into the tunnel and wouldn't come out!"

Romilda began packing a small silver purse. "Well, if it's over between you, you need to know for sure. Closure is important. Then you can find someone else. Someone nice." She picked up the purse and selected a pink cloak.

Hermione sighed. "Draco is nice."

Romilda rolled her eyes and walked to the door. She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. "There's a party later tonight in Cormac's room," she said. "Like to come? No classes tomorrow!"

Hermione smiled. "Thank you, no. You have fun."

Her roommate tossed her hair and grinned. "Oh, I will. I have a new game for us to play. Draco wouldn't do it, but Cormac said he'd grab my—"

"ROMILDA!"

The witch's high-pitched laughter could be heard through the heavy wooden door. Hermione poured another mug of tea, unable to keep from grinning. The mental picture of Cormac trying to play Death Eater was rather funny.

And Romilda was right, She needed to talk to Draco. She had to know about their something. Was it still there? Would it outlast the spell? Was it fragile, ephemeral, held solely by magic, or was it solid and hardy, like those magical darkwood trees?