The Darkwood Wand

Night Six-Distractions

Draco sat up in bed on top of the coverlet, wearing a black tee and boxers and holding a bottle of firewhiskey. His pocket watch was perched atop a pillow, lighting up the small space.

He'd been haunting the school corridors since dinner, unsure of what he sought. All day he'd felt a familiar thrumming in his veins, that low-level rage just under his skin. It had been a constant companion during the war and now it had returned, accompanied by a twisting in the gut. He didn't understand it. Even the watch seemed to sense something, ticking low and steady in time with his blood.

Upon returning in his bedroom, he was treated to an owl from his mother. He had sent a note thanking her for the wands and this was what he had. Good deeds never paid.

Dearest son:

A wild rainstorm swept Wiltshire last night, bringing ominous portents. The peacock coops were flooded, and a few feathers made their way into the Manor, a clear sign of loss, misfortune, illness or death.

Beware.

Draco shook his head over the parchment before tossing it into the fire. Those creepy birds had always hated him.

He retreated to his bed with a bottle of firewhiskey, grateful that Tennant was off somewhere. For over an hour he drank steadily, ignoring the faint rustling sounds under his bed. The Belladonna was restive. Even worse, the whiskey was getting low—soon there would be none to share. As if a certain Gryffindor prude would deign to put that smart mouth on his bottle anyway. "That's not on the table, Malfoy."

Growling, he flung the bottle to shatter against the bedpost, spilling its contents in a brown-orange trickle onto the coverlet, which promptly began to smolder. The pocket watch's ticking grew louder and faster. That was when Granger arrived, of course, right on the dot of ten. She still wore that tight dress she'd been parading around in all day, in front of everybody.

"Granger," he spat. "Sorry to ruin your night."

She looked from the whiskey-covered bedpost to the now-smoking coverlet to him. "You're drunk."

"You should try it sometime."

"I have." Granger unwound her purse strap from that distracting torso. "It doesn't work."

He leaned closer. "It works all too well."

She pushed him away, hard enough so he fell back against another bedpost. "You reek of whiskey, Malfoy. And there's glass everywhere. What is wrong with you?"

Draco barked a laugh. "So many things. Where do I start?" He closed his eyes, unable to look at her—so vivid and bright, hissing like a teakettle.

The warm hand on his forehead took him by surprise, and his eyes popped open. Her face filled his vision, and when she sat back, putting space between them again, he could see she had vanished the tiny, heatless flames as well as the spilled firewhiskey and shattered bottle.

"Where were you?" he demanded. "You're still dressed."

"Well spotted."

"Where were you?" No answer. "Were you with him?" Again, no answer. Draco lunged forward and grabbed her arm. "Tell me!"

Instantly he felt a wand point under his chin. "Get ... your ... hand ... off ... me."

Draco fell backward again and looked down at his clenched fists. She had been with him.

He eyed her malevolently. "You're just like Vane," he spat. "Out fucking around when you're supposed to be here."

Granger laughed at that. "This is the last place I'm supposed to be." She had tucked away her wand, but Draco was sure it was at the ready. She rubbed her eyes and sighed. "I lost track of time."