Dramione Spellbound

Perhaps due to the fact that at the moment of displacement she was rushing along the first-floor corridor, Hermione nearly broke her skull on the bedpost, materializing on Malfoy's bed in a dazzling flash of light. By the force of inertia, she was flung through the drawn hangings right onto the floor — with a dull thud, Hermione landed on the thick carpet.

She lay prone, trying to regain her breath, waiting to hear Tennant's disgusting, smug voice. But only silence and gloom reigned around. It seemed the occupants of the bedroom were still at the party.

Nevertheless, Hermione took out her wand and rose to her knees, checking the room with a honed movement. No one. A nearly full moon shone through a row of square windows high up near the ceiling, picking out the gleam of silver and crystal from the darkness.

It was strange to be here — in a spacious room, beyond the cramped space of Malfoy's bed. The bedroom was approximately the size of her room in Gryffindor Tower, but seemed completely different. Was Hermione even still at Hogwarts or already in some aristocratic estate? The only signs that she was still at school were the stone walls and floor, as well as textbooks, parchments, and quills scattered everywhere.

She knelt between the bed and a green velvet armchair, turned towards a black leather sofa. In the corner, a grandfather clock with a mother-of-pearl dial stood tall — another faint source of light.

All the furniture was covered with intricate carvings — black walnut, Hermione supposed. She knew a little about wood species thanks to hours spent on woodcrafting magazines. On the top shelf of the bookcase, a small harp glimmered in the moonlight — the last thing Hermione expected to see in this room.

She slowly rose to her feet and turned to the obsidian fireplace, framed by blocks of black glass. The mantelpiece was filled with silver objects: framed photographs, vials, caskets. It was simply outrageous that the worst of the Slytherins bathed in such luxury. Even the poker was topped with a silver knob. Hermione stepped forward and pulled out the poker — it turned out to be surprisingly heavy for its size, yet perfectly balanced, like a rapier.

Returning the poker to its place, Hermione glanced at herself — still in a silk dress and sandals, with a handbag in a magically expanded pocket. She was in such a hurry for the party that she forgot to put on her pajamas. And vitamins. And a toothbrush. She couldn't go to sleep without brushing her teeth. Besides, she needed to go to the toilet.

She lit her way with her wand and unrolled the Marauder's Map.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The rectangular bedroom on the map was empty, except for a dot with her name. Nearby, a small square, labeled "personal bathroom," was visible — also empty. Hermione frowned. How did these Slytherins manage to get a separate bathroom? She should discuss this with McGonagall…

She blushed. Come on, Hermione. Explain to the Headmistress how you know about Draco Malfoy and Tennant Rowley's private bathroom.

With her wand raised, she stealthily headed towards the bathroom door, feeling like an intruder in this quiet room. Only the steady ticking of the clock and the sound of wind in the high windows disturbed the silence.

She was just a couple of steps from the bathroom when something caught her attention. On the nearest dresser lay a hand mirror, sparkling even in the gloom. The oval frame was adorned with silver beads and leaves, and every third leaf was strewn with crystal flowers. Leaning closer, Hermione saw the left half of her face in the glass — a widely open eye and half of a pink mouth, slightly agape in surprise, were visible in the clear reflection. Her styled curls had become disheveled during the evening. Such a clear reflection...

Hermione leaned over the dresser, and one long curl escaped her hairstyle, hovering an inch from the mirror's surface. She had already reached out to tuck the strand away, and her fingers almost touched the handle...

A quiet sound pulled her out of her trance, and Hermione sharply withdrew her hand. Barely audible, gentle sounds, similar to... meowing?

Intrigued, Hermione approached the two writing desks standing side-by-side against the wall. The black walnut desk with its prevailing order was clearly part of the room's original furnishings. The other desk, looking flimsy and repaired many times, was cluttered with scraps of parchment, books, and whiskey bottles. Hermione's attention was drawn to the first desk — most likely Malfoy's — where three silver inkwells stood in a row, and each one... had tiny white cat ears?

Hermione had seen stranger things in Hogwarts, so it was unlikely she could be surprised, but honestly, in her imagination, Malfoy was the last person who would keep inkwells with white cat ears on his desk. She extended a finger, intending to stroke the nearest inkwell. No. Hermione sharply pulled back her hand, feeling her face flush. Don't forget where you are.

She forced herself to turn away, but the silver inkwells and mirrors still flashed before her closed eyelids. No. Groping to open the bathroom door, Hermione hurried to leave the room. She flung her eyes open and froze — all thoughts of mirrors were eclipsed by a sudden surge of indignation.

The bathroom turned out to be no less luxurious than the bedroom: with a round, deep bathtub in the center, two green marble sinks with silver taps... and a crystal chandelier. Another door led to the toilet, into which Hermione slipped, grumbling to herself. Then she went to one of the sinks to wash her face. Merlin, Slytherins use too much hair product.

Malfoy's soap lay on a silver stand, its cedar and citrus scent unmistakable. Hermione unhesitatingly borrowed his pompous toothpaste, and at the same time transfigured a small towel (with a monogram!!!) into a toothbrush. The bristles came out too soft, but it would do for one night. Familiar rituals calmed her racing heartbeat, and while she brushed her teeth, her thoughts returned to the eventful evening... and to poor Justin.

At least the Hufflepuff was safe in his bed now. She found him again on the floor in an empty classroom, this time in just his underwear. Hermione transfigured trousers and a shirt for him, then brought him out of a state similar to the effect of a powerful Stunning Spell. But the wizard was still disoriented, and getting him back to his room proved a difficult task. Thank Merlin, Luna knew the secret of entering the Hufflepuff common room. Students giggled, seeing the arrogant Head Boy barefoot and clearly intoxicated, but, being Hufflepuffs, they still helped, bringing warm socks and cool cloth wipes, moistened with lemon water.

It was almost ten when Justin finally lay down, and Hermione watched him, tormented by guilt. He looked so bewildered, pale, and helpless on his cream comforter with black trim, and she was entirely to blame. Tennant had attacked Justin only because of her. Tomorrow, the story of the drunk, rowdy Head Boy would spread throughout the school. She would talk to McGonagall, Hermione decided, guiltily patting Justin's shoulder and rushing out of the room. Justin couldn't lose his prefect badge because of her.

Luna followed her out of the common room into the corridor. The enormous yellow clock at the entrance began to strike ten blows: boom... boom...

"Luna, look after Justin, please," Hermione said. "Maybe Hannah can help too."

The Ravenclaw nodded. Boom... boom...

"I will disappear in about three seconds," Hermione continued. "I'm fine, it happens every night, and I'll explain everything tomorrow. Okay?"

Then she turned and again rushed to run, covering half the corridor before a white flash transported her to the ominous Slytherin room.

And now she was brushing her teeth in this defiantly luxurious bathroom, staring into a mirror whose frame was decorated with silver shells. Her gaze fell on a crystal vial on the shelf, and the tip of her nose twitched slightly. Malfoy's perfume. Surely it cost a thousand Galleons. Hermione spat out the paste, carefully rinsed her mouth, and dried her hands. After a little hesitation, she took the vial in her hands and pulled out the stopper.

The rich scent almost knocked her off her feet, and Hermione felt her face begin to burn. Memories of dancing with Malfoy that evening... they were so close... magic and and music whirled around. He pulled her to him so naturally, so familiarly. She knew how that blush spread from his pale cheeks over his whole body, usually hidden by layers of black clothing. He was almost smiling at her, his lips curving into...

The bathroom door slammed open with a crash, and Hermione almost dropped the crystal vial when a wizard burst into the room with his wand raised.

"Malfoy," she exhaled with relief. "You scared me to..."

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

"Well, there was one idiot who wanted to sleep with someone without putting in any effort, and..."

"WHERE IS TENNANT?"

"What?" Hermione cast a glance at Malfoy. The Slytherin looked wild: his tie was askew, thick strands of platinum hair fell over his eyes.

"I thought you were watching Tennant," she said.

"I lost him."

Malfoy abruptly lunged towards the toilet door, peered inside for a second, then turned around and stepped back towards Hermione. He didn't even glance at his reflection in the mirror — he was so furious.

"You lost him? You had one job, Malfoy..."

"And what were you doing out of bed?" Malfoy demanded an answer, sounding exactly like a strict father.

"I forgot my toothbrush."

"Is that my perfume?"

Hermione put the vial back in its place and retrieved the silver stopper from the sink.

"Give it here," Malfoy demanded. "It's Étoile Magique."

Hermione rolled her eyes and handed him the stopper. Malfoy, with the air of a connoisseur, rinsed and dried it with his wand, then reinserted it into the vial. Apparently, the impending threat from Tennant paled in comparison to the prospect of spoiled perfume.

Having finished with this matter of life and death, Malfoy again turned to Hermione, who was still recovering from the memories awakened by the scent. It was difficult to imagine that this grim, unyielding Slytherin was the same man whose lips traced a winding path down her... Stop.

She braced herself for a new tirade, but instead, Malfoy took a step closer, his gaze growing heavy. This type could smell indecent thoughts from a mile away. His finger traced the small, jewel-decorated ball hanging around her neck — a failed Neptune from her astrarium project.

He lifted the shimmering blue sphere by its chain.

"Water sapphire?"

"Yes, it's..." She fell silent when he gently tugged at the chain, tilting his head. His eyes sparkled like that strange hand mirror.

"Were you saying something?" he asked.

That purring voice, so familiar to her from the party, made Hermione tense. She stepped back, tearing the chain from his fingers.

"Where is your Ravenclaw?"

Malfoy frowned.

"There's nothing between me and Isobel."

"Really?" Hermione's voice dripped with poison. "But I saw something entirely different. Is that how you lost Tennant? Enjoying the blowjob you begged for?"

"Of course not," Malfoy said. "I know this will shock everyone, but I'm not a sick bastard who runs around the castle in circles, forcing sex on every second person! Whatever was between me and Isobel, I did solely at Lovegood's request!"

Hermione snorted.

"Seriously, Malfoy?"

"Ask the Loony yourself," his face turned to stone. "If, of course, she can tear herself away from the voices in her head to answer you. Ask Lovegood why she so badly wanted me to show interest in Isobel, and why they were both so dissatisfied with me."

"I doubt Isobel was dissatisfied."

Malfoy laughed sharply.

"You'd be surprised."

"So... she dumped you?" Hermione asked.

He nodded.

"Well, of course, she dumped you, Malfoy. What you said in that alcove crosses all boundaries, and..."

"She didn't break up with me because of that," Malfoy said. "I'm sure she was considering agreeing."

He looked so annoyed by this very prospect that Hermione wanted to laugh. She was beginning to believe him, but couldn't let him know. He was clearly holding something back.

"So why did she break up with you?" Hermione asked. Malfoy's gaze grew even darker. "Well?"

He sighed.

"She felt that it would be better for her to find a more stable, albeit less charismatic, partner."

Hermione nodded.

"Sound thought. Continue."

"That's all."

"That's not all."

Hermione knew Ravenclaws well — they never limited themselves to three words if they could say thirty.

Malfoy's gaze reached the melting temperature of steel, but Hermione remained unyielding. Finally, he ground out through clenched teeth:

"Isobel felt that a relationship with me would be a tiring endeavor with an unpredictable outcome."

"...And?.." Hermione impatiently waved her hand.

"Tennant could appear here at any moment," Malfoy said, but Hermione didn't even flinch. If he wanted her trust, he would have to offer her something more.

With a sigh, he crossed his arms.

"She also expressed the opinion that the task of keeping me in check would be better entrusted to a stricter and more domineering witch."

They froze, staring at each other, until Hermione recovered enough to speak.

"Well, that implies it's generally feasible."

"I don't need a nanny."

"It's hard to imagine anyone who needs one more. Except maybe your roommate."

"Tennant," Malfoy snarled. He lowered his hands and cast a glance towards the bedroom, slightly raising his wand. "I know Gryffindors completely lack a self-preservation instinct, but could you finally get into bed before he appears?"

"Oh yes, we can't reveal your little secret, can we? Malfoy, who associates with..."

"You know perfectly well that's not it!" Malfoy sharply cut her off. "Tennant has set traps all over the room — that's his specialty. Last week I returned from Divination and found Millicent's cat in an invisible snare! Where it came from — I have no idea. The stupid creature almost died!"

Hermione gasped.

"He dragged cursed objects from home and Salazar knows from where else," Malfoy spoke more heatedly, "just for fun, and half of them are likely aimed at killing Muggle-borns! And you're walking around here and playing with perfume vials? What else have you touched? What's wrong with you, Granger? Do you even know what Death Eaters are like?"

Hermione looked up at him, remembering that sparkling mirror. The poker. The harp. Malfoy was absolutely right, and that in itself was shocking, but even more striking was the expression on his face. His tone. He was genuinely worried. How was that possible? Draco Malfoy, who cared about no one but himself and, perhaps, his mother, was furious because she had put herself in danger?

She shook her head. No. He just didn't want a dead Mudblood in his bedroom. And yet.

"You're right," Hermione said. "I shouldn't have been so careless."

Malfoy blinked in surprise. He clearly didn't often hear the phrase "you're right."

"There's something else," he said. "Even if you return to bed, Tennant will know you were here."

"How..." Hermione began, but then she guessed. "He'll smell my scent, won't he? Like yesterday, when you..." her cheeks slightly reddened, "...when you left."

"Yes," Malfoy said quietly, watching her intently.

"Okay," Hermione said, "we'll mask it."

She again took the vial with his perfume and pulled out the stopper.

"I'll just..."

Warm fingers closed around her hand, and Malfoy took the crystal vial.

"I'll do it," he whispered in her ear. "You might drop it."

He stepped away and dripped a little onto the floor and in the toilet. Closing the door, he again approached her, his face serious.

"I'm quite capable..." Hermione began, but Malfoy only shook his head, and she fell silent.

"Don't move." He tilted the vial, pouring a little perfume onto his palm. Then Malfoy extended his hand and with a light movement ran his fingers along her neck, leaving drops of the scent on her pulse points. Without taking his eyes off her, he repeated the same with her wrists and temples, his touches remaining just as gentle. Finally, he rubbed the remaining perfume between his palms and ran both hands through her curls.

Hermione's heart pounded wildly. Her whole body pulsed with excitement — from the way Draco Malfoy was staking his claim on her. Now she smelled of him, and she desperately wanted the taste of her skin to remind her of him too — that rich, addictive taste that haunted her...

And at the moment when she thought she was about to faint, like one of Justin's Victorian maidens, Malfoy picked her up in his arms. Stunned, she wrapped her arms around his neck, unable to tear her eyes away from him.

"Just in case," he mumbled, openly amused. Hermione giggled, and he laughed in response, pushing the door with his shoulder, while she dreamed of sinking through the floor from shame, pressing her cheek against his jacket. Hermione Granger didn't giggle.

"Drakey?" a low voice suddenly sounded. The doorknob rattled. "Are you there?"

Hermione's blood ran cold, and she and Malfoy exchanged glances full of horror.

"I have something for you here, Drakey," Tennant's voice sounded almost sober. "Younger than you like, but she says she'll sleep with you if you don't tell anyone."

With three swift steps, Malfoy covered the distance to the bed, threw Hermione onto the bed, and drew the hangings. Hermione saw a flash of his protective charms and took out her wand to reinforce them. However, she did not install soundproofing.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Tennant almost choked.

"Merlin, Drakey, go easy on the perfume! Smells of bergamot... and desperation."

"I dropped the vial," Malfoy said coldly.

"Well, come here. Damn, that stench is making my hair curl."

"I'm not going anywhere." Malfoy's voice oozed contempt. "And I'm not going to shag the children you dragged in."

Tennant snorted.

"You Malfoys have more swagger than balls."

The door slammed shut, Tennant's heavy footsteps sounded, treading on the carpet.

"Don't think that I didn't notice that you're not thrilled about my games with Granger. You want her, it's obvious to everyone. Are you scared, Drakey?" Another chuckle. "Not quite my taste, but I understand what you found in her."

Malfoy's voice sounded calm and composed.

"My rules are simple, Tennant. I don't shag stupid little girls and I will never shag one you try to pawn off on me, even if you bring a Veela with an apple in her mouth on a silver platter."

"Empty talk. When I serve Hermione Granger on this platter, you'll want a piece. Oh, yes, you will."

"You can try," Malfoy sneered. "If Dolohov and Bellatrix couldn't handle her, I doubt you will."

Hermione could not suppress a quiet groan. It sounded like a compliment, but, honestly, from Malfoy's side, it was quite stupid.

"Oh-oh, so you're afraid of her," Tennant said, satisfied. "You respect her. Delightful. Well, I'll leave you to wank off to her chocolate frog card or whatever you have hidden in your bed. And when I bring Granger, we'll see how scared you are then."

Hermione's chest constricted with fear, and she flinched when the bedroom door slammed shut. Tennant's goals were primitive and perverted, but he was intelligent. Now everything revolved around sex — she had heard testimony about Death Eater orgies at the trial. Sex was the only power Tennant had left.

But he wouldn't stop there. Tennant would want more than his father. He would leave Hogwarts and gather a new generation of Death Eaters. He has the name, charisma, and intellect. Hermione clutched her wand. He must be stopped. At all costs.