On Sunday morning, Draco woke up from his own scream.
The effects of Pomfrey's potions had worn off during the night, and he dreamed of Dragomir Gorgovitch—the worst player of the Chudley Cannons, a team quite mediocre even without him. In Draco's dream, giant quaffles chased the seeker around the hoops until he vanished. Then all the balls turned into camellia flowers and exploded, showering the field with petals, after which Gorgovitch reappeared in black lace underwear, showing off his nails with the question: "So, how do you like my manicure?"
Draco's screams caused Madam Pomfrey to burst into his corner of the infirmary with her wand at the ready. In seconds, she tucked him back in and handed him a huge mug of cocoa.
— It's my fault, Mr. Malfoy, — she said, adjusting the cover. — Active use of sleeping potions can cause... peculiar dreams.
Draco inhaled the sweet steam, almost missing the nightmares featuring Nagini's gaping maw.
— I'll have to keep you until dinner, — Pomfrey continued.
— What? Surely not...
The nurse pursed her lips.
— I planned to discharge you by noon, but someone applied an extra layer of murtlap essence ointment to your wounds, and I need to make sure there are no possible side effects.
Draco groaned. Now it was understandable why he woke up yesterday feeling like he smelled of wet socks.
— Lie down, Mr. Malfoy, I'll bring breakfast. You can occupy yourself with reading for now. — Pomfrey departed, rustling her starched apron.
Draco looked at the book she had placed in his hands: "My Torment with the Ball" by Dragomir Gorgovitch.
— AAAAAAAARGH!
Draco assumed Pomfrey would be delighted to care for him all day, but to his surprise, it turned out school nurses have personal lives too. Pomfrey was clearly annoyed at having to cancel the trip to the peat bogs she had planned with her sister.
— Some plants in those bogs are over ten thousand years old, — Pomfrey grumbled, polishing the metal cots next to Draco's bed. — Beneath the peatlands of the Cade Fields lies a civilization over five and a half thousand years old.
Draco cautiously suggested the nurse let him finish recovering in his own room—then she could visit those delightful bogs. He felt perfectly fine, and certainly...
— The properties of murtlap essence are still poorly understood, Mr. Malfoy. — Pomfrey waved a rag with polish threateningly in his direction. — Only a qualified healer can correctly calculate the interaction with other potions.
With these words, the nurse majestically departed.
Despite the setback, Draco wasn't going to give up. He called Tully and ordered her to bring clothes, rings, and a watch. The elf appeared with red eyes and a hoarse voice and wouldn't stop complaining about the evening with Hermione and the white kittens ("ATCHOO!"). Draco was nevertheless glad to learn Hermione had been so easily distracted and quickly disappeared from the bedroom. He was also grateful for the opportunity to dress like a human again, although Tully brought the wrong pin for his black brocade tie.
But neither the dark wood wand nor the elf agreed to help him escape the infirmary ("REST!"). He had to wander through the empty wards looking for a secret passage. He hated feeling trapped. He had experienced that feeling too often during the war.
Draco's fingers slid along the stone walls, seeking traces of magic—though it made little difference. He couldn't run far anyway—he was obliged to spend the rest of his probation at Hogwarts, and then at the manor. Where else could he go?
He could move to France, Draco mused. After eight months of probation, of course. Maybe he could persuade his mother to move to their house in Normandy. Narcissa might even enjoy restoring that uncomfortable medieval castle. Anything was better than sitting at Malfoy Manor and thinking about... Enough. Draco abandoned the search for a secret passage and walked to the wide windows of the infirmary tower. From there, he saw a group of Slytherin first-years in a flying lesson. None showed talent—in a couple of years, his house would field a terrible team.
Soon the first-years were replaced by older students, mostly girls bundled up against the cold. Apparently, it was the Charms Club—most were trying to levitate each other. And to Draco's horror, Isobel and her friends, holding scrolls, were approaching the boys. The boys blushed and tried to flee—on foot or through the air. A determined Isobel pinned a sturdy Hufflepuff with long dark hair against a tree, and apparently extracted some answer from him because she began scribbling furiously on parchment. The arrival of Flitwick (in a knitted blue hat reaching his heels) put an end to the extracurricular research. Draco sighed in relief, watching students levitate over the grass, their striped scarves fluttering.
A sudden downpour interrupted the morning entertainment. Draco returned to his cot, where he found a lunch tray. After eating, he rummaged in the nightstand for his traitorous wand.
It did allow Draco to catch a spider in a glass of water—as Professor Moody once did—but freezing or paralyzing the insect failed. He only managed to turn it purple and grow an extra leg. Then Draco tried to blast the bed apart, but the wand only smoothed the sheets and fluffed the pillow. Stupid wand.
Thoroughly bored, Draco snuck into the storeroom for anti-dementor chocolate bars. Pomfrey caught him there and scolded him for sticking his nose everywhere, after which she forced him to brew Calming Draughts.
Draco liked Potions, but Calming Draughts got on his nerves. The heavy scent of lavender caused a headache, and crocodile hearts were damn hard to slice evenly. Then Pomfrey assigned him to replenish the Skele-Gro stock—and this potion turned out even worse. Brewing it was simpler, but the smell combined with the lingering lavender created an indescribable stench. Scarab beetles used as a thickener scattered across the table, and the wand refused to stun the pests. In despair, Draco began crushing them with a pestle, which led to the loss of valuable juice—some got on his tie and brooch (brocade and beryl—seriously?). And the wand refused to clean them.
The rest of the day passed in the same vein until Pomfrey appeared with dinner. The nurse insisted Draco eat everything, then scolded him for eating dinner too quickly. out of old boyish habit, Draco hid the unfinished meat pie under his pillow and, as soon as Pomfrey turned away, poured the tomato soup into a pot of dittany. He demonstrated the empty tray to the nurse while she folded bed linens with her wand.
— Well, Mr. Malfoy, — Pomfrey said dryly, still unhappy about the missed bog excursion. — You are free. And thank you for the help with the potions.
Draco stepped toward the exit, but his legs refused to move. The dark wood wand vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out.
— What?
The wand turned in his hand, pointing at Pomfrey.
— What? — Draco repeated. What else does this damn stick want? The Elder Wand was less trouble!
— It seems I must say something to you, — he muttered reluctantly. Pomfrey raised an eyebrow.
— Goodbye, Madam Pomfrey? — Draco ventured.
The wand didn't react.
— Have a pleasant time at your Prehistoric Bog?
Nothing. Draco shook the wand—to no avail. Pomfrey looked pleased.
— Apparently, — she said, — your wand has better manners than you, Mr. Malfoy.
— What do you want? — Draco exploded. The wand grew hot in his hand, and he dropped it with a curse. Then he looked grimly at Pomfrey.
— My apologies for my tone, — he forced out, — and rude words.
— And...?
— And thank you for the treatment. And for the help. And for tolerating Hermione, — Draco added more sincerely, feeling the wand release his legs.
— You're always welcome, — Pomfrey even smiled slightly. Draco grabbed the wand and walked frowning toward the exit.
Outside the infirmary threshold, a familiar figure awaited him—short, with a shock of unruly hair, but the rounded curves and shrewd green eyes did not belong to Hermione.
It was Theo Nott.
Who instantly cast a Muffliato charm.
— Just in time, — Theo said, as if Draco had stationed him there on duty. And Theo looked too elegant for such a task—in an exquisite green robe.
— I hope you're not planning to go in that, — the wizard continued, eyeing Draco's simple suit and mismatched tie pin, and then extended a green envelope with a silver embossed S.
Draco opened it and extracted a parchment:
INVITATION TO A SLUG CLUB EVENING
Horace Eugene Flaccus Slughorn
has the honor of inviting You
on Sunday evening,
October 22, 1998,
from 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM
in his office on the fifth floor
~ * ~
Cocktails and buffet
Dress code: Evening robes
Musical accompaniment: "Mystic Mandolins"
Draco looked up and smirked.
— Sucks for you.
— Sucks for us, — Theo corrected.
— We talked about this, darling. I prefer wizards tall, dark-haired, and elegan...
— It's already half past seven, so I suggest you don't waste time, — Theo cut him off irritably.
— You're absolutely right, — Draco agreed. — Drinks and snacks are already waiting for me in my room, so be so kind as to get lost...
— Professor Slughorn asked to ensure your presence.
Draco froze, surprised. The Head of Slytherin had ignored him since day one, roomed him with Tennant... And now invites him to a Slug Club evening?
— Rumor has it that on Friday you did the school an invaluable service, — Theo said. — Whatever you did, it sent you to the infirmary and Rowle—out of the castle forever.
— Is that so, — Draco smirked. — Why, it turns out I'm a hero.
— Now you're in McGonagall's good graces, which means—in Slughorn's too. — Theo looked at him appraisingly. — Don't miss the chance.
Draco threw the invitation aside and turned around. He didn't need to suck up to this lover of important acquaintances. He needed to find...
— Granger, — Theo uttered. Draco froze and slowly turned around.
Now it was Theo's turn to smirk.
— She refused at first, but seems to have changed her mind.
— Why would she? — Hermione didn't need Slughorn's favor.
Theo shrugged.
— Perhaps I accidentally mentioned that you were also invited at the study group meeting today. Oh, all-fucking Merlin. Draco stared grimly at the short Slytherin.
— I thought you wanted me to stay away from Granger.
Theo sighed.
— I do. Nothing but trouble. But I also promised Slughorn I'd bring you today. — He took out a pocket watch. — You have half an hour.
— Fine, — Draco snapped.
With a wave of his hand, he sent the invitation into his jacket pocket, resigning himself to his fate. Draco really hated parties.
At twenty past seven, Theo and Draco approached the ornately carved door of Slughorn's office. Theo listed the guest list on the way, which included Blaise and Daphne.
Draco only grunted hoarsely in response—the heaviness in his chest made it hard to breathe. The last time he crossed the threshold of this office was in his sixth year, when Argus Filch dragged him there by the scruff of his neck. The caretaker caught him near the Room of Requirement, and Slughorn's Christmas party became a convenient excuse to explain his presence in the corridor. Not that the caretaker needed reasons to humiliate Draco in front of the whole Club, including damn Potter. Seriously, if Dumbledore had picked up a couple more squibs with sadistic tendencies to patrol the corridors, the Death Eaters would never have snuck into Hogwarts.
— Terrible idea, — Draco said. — Everyone there is sure I attacked Isobel.
Theo shook his head.
— She insists it wasn't you. — His green eyes narrowed. — And, strangely enough, the Head Boy agrees with her.
Draco gritted his teeth. So Potter talked to Finch-Fletchley. Another debt to the Chosen One.
— McGonagall too, — Theo added. — And Slughorn hinted transparently that you might have been slandered.
Draco grunted, nervously adjusting his bangs and cuffs.
— Do you need a mirror? — Theo inquired.
Draco shot him a fierce look. Due to lack of time, he had to call Tully, who disapproved of his plans ("REST!"). However, the elf helped him dress in his best black velvet robe, starch his collar, polish his nails and family ring. Draco spent the saved minutes on styling his hair, rejoicing in his own grooming products. His head buzzed, his shoulder ached—but he'd had worse.
When he and Theo entered, presenting their invitations, all heads turned their way. The magically expanded office was drowning in emerald, crimson, and gold draperies. Fairies circled in the air like little sparks. Draco and Theo winced in sync upon hearing the screeching sounds of "Mystic Mandolins"—three skinny wizards were furiously plucking strings while a bony old woman wailed:
— My love has gone,
gone,
go-oo-one...
The singer sobbed for the "gone lover"—who was surely either boiled in her cauldron or fled while he had the chance. Even Theo looked shocked.
— My boy! — Slughorn boomed, squeezing Draco's hand in an iron grip. The professor wore a green smoking jacket and a matching cap, and his red nose shone like a Christmas bauble. — As head of our house, I raise a glass to your recovery!
Draco nearly shuddered—the whole castle would now know about his stay in the infirmary.
— Wonderful party, Professor, — Theo added obsequiously. — What could be more romantic than a mandolin?
The three of them involuntarily turned to the musicians and the old hag:
— Where has he gone, my lo-o-ove?
Empty arms, and hands are cold, and li-i-i-ips...
Loud smacking sounds made the Slytherins hastily turn away.
— It was a pleasure chatting, Mr. Nott! — Slughorn boomed again. — Enjoy the party while I chat with Mr. Malfoy!
Draco allowed himself to be dragged to a leather sofa. Better to suffer through it immediately, and then find Granger and escape. He hadn't seen the witch among the guests yet, but he spotted Blaise in a dazzling silver robe. He was trying to attract the attention of the crazy Weaselette, but she was busy sniffing her glass of wine. Her hair was still braided, but a translucent cape was added to her usual outfit. Draco decided the red-haired witch was setting a good example and swore to himself not to drink anything offered by the Potions Master.
Slughorn sat him on the leather sofa and sat opposite, launching into his lengthy apologetic outpourings. It seemed McGonagall stuck to the facts in her story—Draco was injured in the bedroom by a cursed object belonging to Tennant. It was Tennant who attacked Isobel, and Draco helped detain him, after which Tennant was kicked out of school. However, Slughorn clearly considered this version incomplete and craved details. Draco tried to say as little as possible.
— Candied pineapple? — Slughorn held out a box of colorful toffees and candied fruits.
Draco politely declined, and Slughorn continued the interrogation, constantly interrupting himself with new apologies for past neglect. He hoped Mr. Malfoy would see him not only as a teacher but as a friend, and would not hold a grudge for this unpleasant story with Mr. Rowle.
— You should have come to me immediately, my boy! — Slughorn rumbled, draining a glass of brandy. — My door is always open!
Draco evaded direct answers but quickly grew tired and desperately wanted to escape. His shoulder ached, and his throat was dry. He made an indistinct sound, then vanished the wine in his glass while pretending to drink.
Finally, Slughorn was distracted by host duties, and Draco nearly melted into the sofa with relief. Instead, he got up to look for Hermione. Lovegood and Longbottom had joined Weaselette and Blaise, and Finch-Fletchley was parading arm-in-arm with Isobel. She was still hiding parchment in her sleeve and studying it furtively when the prefect was distracted.
No one else approached Draco. Theo tried to seduce Daphne (looking very elegant in a blue silk robe) with candied fruits, and then nearly fell trying to catch her dropped glove. "Mystic Mandolins" were now performing a cheerful funeral song, one of the musicians livening it up by playing the triangle. Draco leaned against a wall covered by a tapestry and allowed the dark wood wand to fill his glass with apple juice.
— Draco!
He nearly dropped the glass when Isobel unexpectedly hugged him.
— How nice to see you!
The Ravenclaw was wearing glasses, dressed in a modest blue robe, her blonde hair twisted into a sleek bun. Behind her stood a purse-lipped Finch-Fletchley. All the guests at the party stared at them.
— Isobel, — Draco forced out.
— Mr. Nott thought a public display of friendly feelings wouldn't be amiss, — Isobel explained.
Draco barely suppressed a groan. Theo was a lover of sticking his nose in other people's business even more than Hermione.
— You'll be glad to hear our belladonna is thriving, — Isobel continued.
The line of Finch-Fletchley's mouth disappeared completely at the word "our".
— What a relief, — Draco lied. — Such a wonderful day we spent in the Forest.
He winked mockingly at the prefect.
Isobel tilted her head.
— Personally, I was chilly.
— But we kept each other warm, didn't we? — Draco drawled languidly.
Finch-Fletchley frowned.
— You were in the Forest with him alone?
— Naturally, — Isobel looked closely at her cavalier. — You haven't been drinking, Justin? I still need baseline figures.
The Head Boy nearly choked and blushed to the roots of his hair.
— I... I...
Isobel turned back to Draco.
— Did you receive the official results of the Ravenclaw party study? Personally, I was disappointed.
Draco nodded, remembering the blue-ribbon-tied scroll by his bed. He had glanced at the columns of numbers—and thrown the parchment into the fireplace.
— Statistically, the event was a failure, — Isobel stated sadly. — Analysis of steps, alcohol consumed, noise level, heart rate, and other markers clearly indicates a lack of festive energy.
Finch-Fletchley snorted.
— This data indicates nothing.
— There wasn't even a single full-blown fight, — Isobel continued. — Only you threw Justin across the room, and even then without injuries. Last year there were three fights at the party.
She tilted her head again, studying Draco.
— Of course, there was a war on at the time. Everyone's nerves were fraying.
Draco frowned.
— Did you at least ask people if they enjoyed themselves?
— No, — Isobel cut him off. — Based on our experience, people are incapable of assessing their own pleasure.
— That's complete rubbish... — Draco began.
— Take poor Justin here. He doesn't even remember offering to make me a "Happy Head Girl".
Isobel cast a strange look at Finch-Fletchley.
— I'm still waiting, you know.
— Isobel!
— Since we're ahead of schedule, why don't we...
— Isobel!
Draco didn't even bother inventing excuses—he just fled and crept along the wall until he bumped into another guest.
— Draco!
It turned out to be Romilda Vane in a terrifying orange robe arm-in-arm with Cormac McLaggen. And the fact that Draco felt relief spoke to his deplorable mental state. He took a sip of apple juice, trying to think of a conversation topic.
— How's it going, Malfoy? — McLaggen asked cheerfully. — Hope you're staying away from boggarts? — He turned to Vane. — His boggart is Hermione.
Vane squealed with laughter, spilling her drink.
— NO WAY!
McLaggen nodded.
— A rabid Hermione burst right out of the old wardrobe in the DADA office!
Vane stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd.
— She promised to come. Ran to Hogsmeade for a new robe at the last minute.
— I thought that boggart would rip Malfoy's throat out! — McLaggen continued with relish. — Or blow his head off with a curse!
Wanting to change the subject, Draco strained his underdeveloped social skills. Malfoys never tried in conversations—others tried to interest them.
— So, McLaggen, — he said, — playing Quidditch this year?
— No. — The other looked crushed. — Eighth years aren't allowed.
Of course. Draco knew that. Blaise was still grumbling. Vane patted McLaggen on the shoulder and looked at Draco reproachfully.
— Lovely robe, Vane, — he tried again.
— Cormac doesn't like it, — Vane shifted her gaze to her cavalier.
— Too much fabric, — McLaggen declared, stuffing a cheese bun into his mouth.
A Hufflepuff in a black and yellow checkered robe joined them.
— Hi, Wayne! — Vane exclaimed happily, then turned to Draco. — Wayne Hopkins.
He paled at the sight of Draco and recoiled.
— Oh, look, there's Justin! — he squeaked.
Vane followed his gaze.
— Is that the Ravenclaw you supposedly attacked?
Draco gritted his teeth.
— I didn't attack her.
— Of course not, — Vane patted his arm. She leaned in and whispered. — You even refused to play...
— Ravenclaw, you say? — McLaggen asked.
— Justin likes smart girls, — Hopkins replied. — Yesterday Hermione Granger was in his bedroom.
Vane squealed, spilling her drink again, this time on a house-elf. Draco clenched his fists.
Hopkins sighed.
— She was wearing this green silk blouse...
— With cleavage, — McLaggen added.
Hopkins nodded, sighing again.
Vane frowned.
— But she was supposed to wear that for Dra...
She glanced at Draco, who was just deciding which of the three he hated most. The choice fell on Hopkins, who had seen that seductive outfit intended only for Draco. Salazar, how he hated parties.
Hopkins seemed to sense Draco's hatred—he began to back away slowly. But the escape plan failed with the arrival of three more Hufflepuffs (fortunately, without Finch-Fletchley).
Draco managed to strike up a conversation with Hettie (Holly? Hortense?) Abbott, who stared at him in bewilderment but still answered questions about the weather. A few blissful minutes of talking about nothing—and his social death appeared in a screamingly tasteless robe.
— DARKNESS! — Trelawney proclaimed.
A huge silvery turban was wrapped around her head, and Trelawney herself smelled strongly of sherry.
— Mr. Malfoy, you have avoided great danger! But the threat still hangs over you like an inky-black cloak!
Everyone around stepped back from Draco.
— CLOUDS OF EVIL! — Trelawney wailed, waving her arms and nearly losing her balance.
— It's just his perfume, — Theo threw in, passing by.
Draco turned to shoot him a deadly glare, and when he turned back to continue the conversation, everyone had already scattered—even Isobel and Finch-Fletchley. Only the trembling Divination professor remained in place, swaying on her feet. With a heavy sigh, Draco led her to the nearest armchair—to heal her aura or whatever she fixes—and with difficulty extricated his fingers from her tenacious grip. Then he turned sharply, deciding to leave altogether, but a sudden flash of scarlet made him stop.
Hermione stood by the door with her back to him. Draco recognized the curve of her neck, too fragile for the heavy mass of curls. She turned—and he couldn't look away. Her scarlet robe with a deep square neckline fit her figure tightly. Hermione wore long gloves to match on her arms.
Their eyes met—and she smiled. Draco almost responded in kind but restrained himself in time. Malfoys didn't beam in public like blissful idiots. Instead, he nodded slowly, looking her over approvingly, and was rewarded when her smile widened. Approaching her now was impossible, so he retreated to the wall again. Hermione moved slowly through the hall, stopping to talk to dozens of Golden Girl adorers. She lingered briefly near Isobel and Finch-Fletchley, smiling at the prefect and looking over the Ravenclaw's parchment.
Finally, Hermione stopped in front of Draco. Now he could make out the flush on her cheeks and scarlet lips. Sparks of light from the flying fairies played on the curves of her chest in the deep neckline.
— You're here, — she whispered.
He smirked smugly.
— Missed me, Hermione?
She nodded, taking a sip of wine, and he noticed her nails had lengthened slightly.
— Of course I missed you, — Draco purred, leaning closer. — Confess, what helped distract you from thoughts of me?
— Justin!
— What?
— He was simply magnificent, — Hermione continued, — you won't believe what he did...
— Magnificent at what?
Hermione frowned.
— I won't tell if you keep interrupting.
Draco's jaw dropped as if unhinged. He felt unhinged himself—a red veil of rage obscured his vision, and the voices of Malfoys and Blacks hissed over each other in his head.
— You look ravishing tonight, Granger, — came another voice. It was Theo, passing by with two glasses. — And you, Malfoy, look... killer.
Hermione shrugged.
— He's always like that.
— I assure you, most Slytherins are much more tactful, — Theo remarked.
— I hope so.
Theo cast Draco a warning look and headed toward Daphne.
Hermione watched him go, frowning.
— Strange, he usually doesn't... what's with you?
Draco was still drilling her with his gaze.
— What were you doing in Finch-Fletchley's bedroom?
— How do you... — Hermione began, then shook her head. — I was helping him fix the astrarium clock.
— In his bedroom.
— Justin found a solution. We were making missing planets from pure gems, but real planets have cores.
— Cores? Like nuts? — Draco was confused.
— Sort of. Most likely made of iron. Muggles discovered the Earth's core in the 1930s, but only after... — She blinked and started over. — Anyway, Justin remembered Isobel's words about purity.
Draco nodded.
— Purity sounds like strength, but in reality, it's a weakness.
— Yes, exactly. — Hermione stared at him in surprise, giving Draco a few precious seconds to figure it out.
— So you and Finch-Fletchley fixed the clock last night using some Muggle science, — Draco concluded. — That means... — He fell silent, thrown into confusion.
— Yes, — Hermione said. — The time frame of the Vanishing Spell is fixed, and now we're one step closer to breaking it completely.
She bit her lip, expecting Draco to say something, but he looked around, unable to meet her eyes. People were glancing at them, whispers rippling through the crowd.
— What's wrong, Draco? — Hermione asked. — Aren't you interested? Don't you want the spell...
— Yes, of course I want the spell broken, — Draco snapped. — I've wanted that from the start.
Hermione tensed at his sharp tone. Merlin, he didn't mean that.
— That was always the goal, Hermione, — he said more softly. — You can't spend the rest of your life materializing in some Slytherin's bed.
Hermione nodded, but her shoulders slumped, and Draco felt awful. She and Fuf-Fluffy had made some breakthrough, and he just snapped at her.
Several couples were now swaying to a strange dance tune performed by "Mystic Mandolins". Draco held out his hand—almost like at the Ravenclaw party (and look how well that evening went, the Malfoy voice hissed in his head).
— Dance with me, — he said. — You can tell me all about the clock. Platinum with a core?
Hermione beamed and placed her red-gloved hand in his palm. Draco led her into simple dance steps and tried to move to the beat of the loudest mandolin (which at least played a coherent melody—the others tried to extract unknown notes). Hermione launched into a lengthy explanation, which Draco listened to with half an ear, preferring to focus on the familiar body he held lightly, the scent of her hair, and vague fantasies about red lipstick on his...
— ...We formed the sphere and core separately...
The singer sang again:
— Oooooh, your hands on my skin, and your tongue on my chin too...
Draco blinked. What? He looked at the witch's painfully sharp chin and jaw, adorned with a wart.
— ...But we needed to create a core and wrap it in platinum...
— Oooooh, your gaze undresses me, your hand grips my hair…
Draco involuntarily shifted his gaze to the singer's sparse and greasy hair. He shuddered.
— I know, — Hermione breathed. — It's scary to think how little we know about magic.
— Yes, — Draco said.
All the guests at the party were now looking at them, even Slughorn. Theo looked furious, and Daphne was stroking his arm. Isobel was restraining Finch-Fletchley, while Weaselette just shook her head with a doomed look.
— We need to stop dancing, — Draco said.
— But the song isn't over, — Hermione protested. — And I haven't told you about... — She looked around too. — Oh, to hell with them.
— I'd better go, — Draco said. — You can follow me in a few minutes, meet...
— I can't, — Hermione interrupted him. — I promised Slughorn I'd give a short speech. — She smirked. — I plan to talk about elf rights.
Well, Merlin witness, Draco was glad to miss that part, but he didn't say so aloud.
— Fine, — he replied sullenly. — See you in my room at ten. — He looked her up and down. — Wear that robe.
Hermione nodded with a smile. If she was nervous about returning to Draco's bedroom, she didn't show it. Draco released her and stepped back.
— We're partners in Divination class, — he heard her explain.
The path to the door seemed long, most of the guests staring at him. Draco stopped to thank Slughorn for the reception and express regret that he had to leave early.
— I understand, my boy! — the professor wheezed loudly. — Recovery is a slow business!
Draco bowed and headed for the door, leaning against the stone wall of the corridor for a moment to catch his breath. All evening Draco had been burning with the desire to blow up half the castle, but the dark wood would have disapproved of property damage, so he headed back to his bedroom, eager to vent his feelings on something, anything.
The only thing in his room were three white kittens clawing the furniture and frolicking on Draco's still-pink bed. Draco patted them with annoyance and put the inkwells back on the desk. The robe restricted movement, so he undid the collar and half the fastenings in front.
Then Draco spent a fair amount of time trying to return his bed to silver and green tones, but his efforts only turned the pillows into soft unicorns and added glittering rainbows to the canopy. Either the dark wood wand loved the color pink, or Hermione had added some diabolical element to the spell.
Draco finally gave up, pulled a chair to the fire, and sat down, stretching out his long legs. There was nothing left to do but wait for ten o'clock. The warmth of the firewhisky and the crackling of the fire lulled Draco, and he dozed off, then fell into a deeper sleep in the now-safe room.