The Darkwood Wand

Masks

For the first time since returning to Hogwarts, Hermione woke up to the buzzing of her wand.

Her six-thirty a.m. spell call was so ingrained in the vinewood that she didn't even have to cast it anymore. But this year her sleep had been so patchy and disturbed that she was always up before dawn.

On Tuesday morning, however, Hermione woke to her hair vibrating madly. She slid the wand out of her curls and rolled over, fighting her way back to a lovely dream with soft touches and satiny skin and a crystal ball that chanted perfect NEWT scores: "Arithmancy, Outstanding; Charms, Outstanding; Divination, Outstanding ..."

A clatter and angry hiss jerked her awake, and Hermione opened her eyes. Crookshanks was batting at the still-vibrating wand, which then skittered across the coverlet and fell between the mattress and bedframe.

"Crooky, stop that!" Hermione scolded. "Accio wand!"

The vinewood popped out from behind the mattress and slapped into her palm. "Quies," she said to stop the buzzing. Crookshanks jumped off the bed, offended.

Hermione just stretched, now smiling. It was nice to wake up in her own red and gold-draped bed and not in a bathroom or corridor or alcove. The morning sun poured through a single wide window, picking out brass knobs and gilt-edged picture frames, and shone on the red velvet curtains and rows of leather-bound books. Not a creepy silver object in sight.

She felt a bit chilly, though, still missing that familiar warmth, a hint of cologne. Hermione pulled up her coverlet and closed her eyes in an attempt to recapture that dream. Her last clear memory was falling asleep tucked into a long, curled body, her ear against a steady heartbeat, trying to match Malfoy's slow, deep breaths.

Her hand slipped under the covers. Would he match her breaths too, in other ways? She assumed sex with Malfoy—if they ever had sex, the very idea made her equal parts excited and anxious—would be quick and forceful. Demanding. But maybe he'd try it slow and deep, too ... sometimes. And would he like it loud? She felt like she'd like to be loud, expressive. The models in Fred and George's magazines seemed to like it loud, although maybe a few took it a bit far with the screaming. She'd had to put up a silencing ward back in the tent just to read some of those pages. Well, if noise bothered Malfoy, she'd conjure him some earmuffs ...

The very idea of Draco Malfoy shagging her while wearing earmuffs halted Hermione's own touches and nearly sent her into hysterics. She burrowed deeper into the covers, trying not to wake Romilda with her giggles, and it was some time before she regained control of herself. Earmuffs. Merlin help her when winter arrived. She'd never stop laughing.

Thoroughly awake now, Hermione hopped out of bed to shower. Then she dug through her trunk, suddenly dissatisfied with her choices. She was tired of jumpers and denims. Her groping hands found a grey pencil skirt that she'd worn under her robes when testifying for the Wizengamot. She had some black pumps in here somewhere, too. And where ... there it was, a purple silk blouse. Seemed like a bit much ... Well, why not? She didn't have to track Tennant today, since she'd left the Map for Malfoy.

She slipped on the skirt and blouse and stepped to the mirror to wrestle with her curls before Romilda woke up. A jarfull of Sleekeazy's helped smooth her hair into a large, puffy bun on the top of her head. She looked quite unlike herself, but that was alright. Malfoy might like it.

Her smile wavered. Tennant might, too. The thought of the big wizard almost made her trade her outfit for denims, a puffy vest and maybe Hagrid's beekeeping hat. But Hermione resisted the urge. Tennant was Malfoy's problem today and anyway, no Rowle would dictate her wardrobe. Stubbornly she put on her earrings (tiny amethyst hearts, a present from her parents in Sixth Year) and lipstick. There.