The Darkwood Wand

Negotiations

"It's time to put some things on the table," Granger said.

Draco stared at the tray between them, an idiot portion of his mind distracted by its even woodgrain. The rest wondered what this daft witch was about: What did she mean by negotiations? What exactly was she willing to put on the table?

He met her gaze again and suddenly he was back in Divination on that first day. Granger's dark-gold eyes coolly surveyed him. He half-expected her to open that pink mouth and say in a dry, crumbling voice: "I need eight NEWTs."

And now she was frowning. Did she want Draco to say something? Clearly this was another bloody test, and at a moment where he could have used some counsel, both the Malfoy and Black voices chose to be silent. Not even his weak voice of reason had anything to contribute.

Draco tried to reason it out anyway. He was no stranger to seductive witches—Slytherin girls had begun throwing themselves at him in Fourth Year. In Sixth Year, he'd enjoyed a few heated weeks until the Dark Lord's crushing expectations ended those games. Then he'd withdrawn into a sullen silence, snarling at any girl who came too close, even Pansy. He hadn't forgotten, though. The softness and smooth allure, the sideways glances, explicit whispers, breathless compliments. Girls creeping out from under desks, behind tapestries and bookshelves. Rushed moments in alcoves and classrooms and behind library shelves.

But never had Draco felt such wild excitement as he did now, looking at Granger perched on the other end of the sofa like a fluffy red bird.

"So," he said, trying to sound amused. "A table." He raised a hand. "Allow me to place something on it."

Draco conjured a pale silver card between his fingers and placed it on the wood surface. Granger hesitated, then reached out a small hand and flipped it over.

The card displayed three capital letters embossed into the card in looping black script, in letters so extravagant they could hardly be read:

Granger's expression didn't change, but color spread across her cheeks. She bit her lip, then shook her head.

Draco died a little inside at the sight—Sex isn't on the table? But I wore the paisley robe! Aaaagh!—but he didn't let it show. Malfoys didn't groan and clutch their head while flinging themselves about in despair, no matter how justified.

Instead he placed a second silver card beside the first. Granger turned it over. Two words this time, written in the same heavy calligraphy.

TASTE ME

Granger looked away, her whole face on fire now. "That's not on the table," she said.

"Forgive me, but it is," Draco returned.

She looked back at him, then shifted slightly. Draco watched her tongue flicker out, wetting dry lips, and the blood in his veins began to thrum.

Granger slipped a hand into her robe pocket, murmuring a spell, and a pale gold card appeared, face down. A counteroffer.

Draco flipped it with a practiced flick of his fingers. Plain black letters read:

I'LL TOUCH YOU

A concession, if a very small one. Draco touched the gold card and it changed:

WHERE

This time, Granger didn't look away. She drew her wand and tapped the card.