Draco sat on the bed, still on top of the covers, wearing nothing but a black t-shirt and boxers, a bottle of Firewhisky in his hand.
His pocket watch lay on the pillow beside him, casting a faint glow over the room.
He'd been wandering the school corridors since dinner, not even sure what he was looking for.
That same familiar hum had been vibrating in his veins all day—a dull rage simmering just beneath his skin. It had been his constant companion during the war, and now it was back, wrapping tight around his stomach in a way that made him uneasy.
He didn't understand what was happening.
Even the watch seemed to feel it, ticking quietly, steadily, in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat.
Before coming back to the dorm, he'd received a reward of sorts—a letter from his mother. He'd sent her a polite note thanking her for the wands.
And this is what he got in return.
No good deed goes unpunished.
My dear son,
Last night, Wiltshire was hit by a savage storm. The peacocks' aviaries flooded, and several of their feathers blew into the manor—an obvious omen of loss, misfortune, illness, or death.
Be careful.
Draco shook his head as he read the letter, then tossed it into the fire.
Those wretched birds had always hated him anyway.
He returned to the bed with the bottle of Firewhisky, glad that Tennant was off somewhere.
For an hour he drank, ignoring the faint rustle under the bed. Belladonna couldn't settle down tonight.
Worse still—the whisky was running out. Soon there wouldn't even be enough to share.
As if that prim Gryffindor would deign to put her clever little mouth anywhere near his bottle.
"That's not on the negotiation table, Malfoy."
He growled, threw the bottle at the bedpost.
Amber liquid splashed across the blanket, which immediately began to smolder.
The ticking of the pocket watch grew louder, faster.
And of course—that's exactly when Granger showed up.
Right on time. Ten o'clock sharp.
Still in that tight little dress she'd spent the entire day parading around in.
"Granger," he spat. "Sorry to ruin your night."
Her eyes flicked from the whisky-soaked bedpost to the smoking blanket, then back to him.
"You're drunk."
"You should try it sometime."
"I have," she replied, slipping out of the bag strap that curved around her distracting curves. "Didn't help."
He leaned closer.
"Helps me just fine."
She shoved him hard, sending him crashing into the other bedpost.
"You smell like whisky, Malfoy. And there's glass everywhere. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Draco let out a sharp laugh.
"Plenty. Where do you want me to start?"
He closed his eyes. He couldn't look at her—not like this. Not so bright, so alive, so sharp, like a kettle screaming on the stove.
A warm hand touched his forehead. His eyes flew open, startled.
Her face filled his vision, and when she pulled back, the tiny flames, the spilled whisky, the shattered glass—they were all gone.
"Where were you?" he demanded. "You're still dressed."
"How observant."
"Where were you?"
Silence.
"Were you with him?"
More silence.
Draco lunged forward and grabbed her wrist.
"Tell me!"
Instantly, he felt the cold tip of her wand press against his chin.
"Take. Your. Hands. Off. Me."
Draco recoiled, staring at his clenched fists.
She'd been with him.
His eyes narrowed, burning with anger.
"You're just like Blaise," he hissed. "Wandering off when you're supposed to be here."
Granger laughed.
"This is the last place I'm supposed to be."
She pocketed her wand, but Draco had no doubt—it was still ready, just out of sight.
She rubbed her eyes, sighed.
"I lost track of time."
"Doing what?" he bit out.
She shrugged, pulled a cloth napkin from her bag, and wet it with a flick of her wand.
"You've already decided, Malfoy. Who am I to argue?"
Draco blinked.
Even drunk, he could recognize a dodge when he heard one.
Maybe she had been screwing that Hufflepuff.
Or maybe not.
She had shown up fully dressed.
And she looked… disappointed.
He watched as she wiped her cheeks and hands with the damp cloth, her skin turning pink under the friction. He wasn't sure what expression he had on his face, but when she looked up, her gaze softened slightly.
"Were you?" he asked, quieter than he intended. "With him?"
She sighed, tucked the cloth back into her bag.
"Yes, I was with Justin. We were fixing my astronomical clock."
She let out another sigh.
**"Well—trying to. Pure silver's a nightmare to work with. Our Pluto kept collapsing. Tried aquamarine for Neptune—no better, kept cracking. Next time we'll try water sapphire."
She grimaced.
"We spent hours on those stupid planets, Godric damn it. I was on my way to Gryffindor Tower when I got pulled here."
Granger hugged her knees, resting her chin on them.
"Don't worry. No one saw."
She stared into space, lost in thought.
Draco felt the anger that had been boiling all day finally start to fade.
Of course she'd meet up with a wizard while wearing that dress—and spend the entire evening fiddling with some dumb clock.
Merlin, Hufflepuffs really were pathetic.
"You'll fix it," he said.
She blinked, looking up at him.
"Are you—are you trying to cheer me up?"
"No."
Granger smirked.
"You are trying."
She reached out, gave his hand a gentle pat.
"Don't touch me," he snapped, sharper than he meant.
Silence.
Draco regretted drinking so much. His thoughts refused to cooperate, tangled and slippery. Somewhere in the fog of his mind, Trelawney's voice echoed:
"Autumn… the time when the veil between our world and the spirit world is at its thinnest."
Right. The veil between thoughts… and feelings.
Draco pulled the blanket up to his chin and shut his eyes, hoping he'd pass out before he said something stupid.
Unfortunately, luck wasn't on his side.
When he opened his eyes again, Granger was still there—sitting next to him, under the blanket now, predictably reading a book.
And somewhere in the haze, Draco realized—she wasn't wearing her dress anymore.
She was wearing his black silk shirt. The one he'd carelessly tossed aside earlier. It practically melted into the dark green bedspread.
Her face, her hands, and the bit of skin visible at the deep neckline glowed softly in the dim light of the pocket watch. Her skin looked so warm. A soft, golden tan.
Draco froze, horrified, positive he'd said that part out loud.
But she didn't look up. Her eyes kept moving, reading line after line. A nightmare.
And then—she looked at him.
"What's a nightmare?" she asked.
You, Draco thought, but refused to say it out loud. He forced his gaze back to the ceiling.
She returned to her book, but he kept watching her. She was wearing his clothes.
If she was willing to wear his whisky-scented, cologne-soaked shirt… maybe she didn't actually think he was a monster.
People don't wear the clothes of monsters.
She looked at him again, eyebrows drawn together.
"Clothes of monsters?"
Fucking Firewhisky. He should've been asleep by now, not staring at Granger and mumbling nonsense.
"You're not about to throw up, are you?" she asked.
Draco shook his head.
Honestly, he probably deserved to throw up—and worse.
But no, his stomach was fine. It was just his brain that was scrambled.
Granger put the book down and looked at him from above, and Draco nearly flinched.
He wanted her hands on him again.
Except—he'd told her not to touch him.
Why had he done that?
She's just…
"You're so beautiful," he whispered.
She blinked, surprised. Then smiled.
"Now I know you're drunk."
"No," he insisted. "You deserve to hear it. From me."
Granger closed the book.
"Go to sleep, Malfoy."
"Can't," he said, sulking.
"Try." She slipped deeper under the blanket. "Securus."
Draco's pocket watch snapped shut on its own.
He frowned at his precious heirloom—betrayal.
He couldn't see Granger in the dark anymore, but he could hear her breathing.
He shifted closer.
"Sleep, Malfoy."
"Sing to me," he whispered.
Her low laugh rumbled in the darkness.
"Trust me, that's the last thing you want."
"Hum something, then."
Granger let out a soft snort.
"Fine. Close your eyes."
Draco obeyed.
And she started humming—some random tune, low and quiet.
"Is that… a song?" he asked after a while.
"Yes."
"You sound like a drunk Doxy."
"Feel free to hum yourself, then."
Draco yawned.
"No. Keep going."
He expected her to tell him to shove off, but instead, she kept humming.
Draco rolled onto his back and lay still, eyes closed, like a kid.
Warmth surrounded him under the blanket, safety wrapped in protective wards, with a woman beside him who couldn't sing to save her life but was wearing his shirt anyway.
Something soft brushed his forehead.
And he drifted off, feeling—of all things—peace.
The Morning After
Draco sat in the library, quietly waiting for death.
All he wanted was to lay his head on the cool desk and let the Grim Reaper take him.
Instead, he gripped a quill and tried to read the blurry lines of his Herbology essay.
Never. Drinking. Firewhisky. Again.
He barely remembered last night, but the pieces he did recall made him sweat.
You interrogated Granger about that Hufflepuff.
You asked her to sing.
You called her beautiful.
Draco had never called anyone—or anything—beautiful in his life.
He pressed his hands to his face, as if he could physically scrub the memory away.
Just thinking about it made his stomach churn.
Except—that wasn't his stomach.
Draco looked at his ink-smudged hands. He probably looked like a scarecrow.
He pulled a small mirror from his bag—and recoiled from his own reflection.
His reflection recoiled back.
Red, bloodshot eyes spun wildly in a face streaked with ink. His collar was crooked. His hair was a disaster.
He waved his wand at his head, hoping to fix it.
Instead, lace bloomed on his collar and his eyebrows turned violet.
"Stop that," he hissed at his chess-wand.
A few more flicks, and his eyebrows returned to normal, his skin cleaned up, and his hair flattened into something passable.
But he still looked awful.
Draco slapped a quick glamour charm over his eyes and glanced around to make sure no one saw him fussing with his appearance like some third-year girl.
Even so, no amount of grooming could help the half-dead belladonna plant on his table.
Granger's optimistic assessment had been wrong—twenty-four hours under Draco's bed had wrecked the thing.
It had arrived from Brungilda's nursery lush and green, covered in shiny black berries and purple bell-shaped flowers.
Now?
It was practically begging for death, shedding poisonous black leaves onto his essay.
Shriveled flowers dangled like limp flags, half the berries had burst, oozing toxic juice.
Draco considered mercifully torching it with a quick Incendio, but he hated wasting effort. So he dragged the botanical nightmare to the library, hoping to catch the attention of a certain Ravenclaw bookworm.
Last night had made one thing perfectly clear—he desperately needed a distraction.
Six nights stuck with Granger, and he was coming apart at the seams. And now that the vanishing curse seemed tied to her and not just her bed, it could take weeks to break.
Night after night of pure torture.
At this rate, he'd die of rage and sexual frustration. Which, frankly, he didn't deserve.
Well—okay. He deserved it. But that wasn't the point.
The point was—Granger was ruining his self-control.
He couldn't stay away from her.
He couldn't stop touching her.
He curled around her like a puppy in his sleep. Drunkenly called her beautiful. Interrogated her about other men.
This had to stop.
She didn't want him.
He needed someone else to take the edge off.
Hogwarts was crawling with nerdy girls desperate for attention.
He didn't need Granger.
So now Draco sat in the library, nursing his hangover, tending his half-dead poison plant, and laying a trap for a bibliophile.
He clicked his pocket watch shut.
Thirty more minutes, and if no one bit, he'd blow up the stupid pot and go nap somewhere.
Maybe—
"Is that… belladonna?"
Isobel MacDougal stood next to his table, wide-eyed behind her glasses.
Draco nodded, relieved. He shoved his shaking hands under the desk.
No more Firewhisky. Ever.
"What happened to it?"
"No idea," Draco rasped, then cleared his throat. "Maybe it's cursed."
The plant, in reply, rolled a berry toward him like it was mocking him.
"Did you water it?" she asked, sitting down to examine it closer.
Smart enough not to touch it.
Good. Blaise probably would've stuffed half the berries in his mouth and dropped dead on the library floor, landing Draco a one-way ticket to Azkaban.
"Yes," Draco lied. "Even found it a sunny spot."
Isobel tilted her head, squinting at the plant. It was disturbingly similar to how Granger looked at him.
"You should feed it flobberworms," she said.
"Why?" He immediately regretted asking.
"Flobberworm mucus adds nutrients to the soil," she explained. "Of course, belladonna venom will kill the worms, so you'll need to replace them before they explode and the slime leaks everywhere. Usually the guts—"
She stared at him, owl-like.
"Are you okay? You're really pale."
"I'm always pale," Draco managed, swallowing hard.
Isobel smiled—without showing her teeth.
"Right. But today you're extra pale. Are your hands shaking? Are you nervous?"
Perfect. Now he was acting like Tennant.
"Busy week," Draco muttered.
She nodded and stood.
"I know a good place to replant it," she said. "Belladonna hates pots."
Draco stood too, thrilled at the chance to get rid of the thing—but moved too fast and stumbled. She circled the table and caught his hand to steady him.
First contact. Excellent.
"Are you sure you're not sick?"
"Just… tired," Draco said, adding a tiny quiver to his voice. Nerdy girls loved fragile men.
That explained Granger's thing for Weasley and Justin Finch-Fletchley.
Isobel frowned.
"You should rest."
"Let's take care of our little friend first," Draco replied smoothly.
The plant seemed to agree, sagging in its pot while Isobel cooed over it.
Draco vanished the toxic mess from the table and followed her out of the castle.
Students stared. Isobel pretended not to notice, though she flushed a little.
Draco, meanwhile, scowled at anyone who dared make eye contact.
The bright sunlight made his hangover worse, but Isobel held his hand to steady him.
Better and better.
He didn't even flinch when they passed the new Dumbledore memorial.
The old man already had a marble tomb by the lake, but apparently that wasn't enough. The Ministry had added a shiny new statue at the castle entrance.
Cost a ridiculous sum.
Draco knew because most of the bill had landed in the Malfoy family vaults, and his mother's letters all summer in Azkaban had been full of complaints about the growing expenses.
Now the marble Dumbledore gleamed in the sun, perched on a round pedestal, steps surrounding it.
It looked so realistic Draco could've sworn the old bastard winked at him over his carved half-moon glasses.
"This way," Isobel tugged his hand.
Draco realized he'd stopped moving and hurried to catch up.
"Where are we going?"
They crossed the grounds toward a dark, ominous shadow against the blue lakes and emerald hills.
"To the best place for young belladonna to grow," she said.
"The Forbidden Forest."