The Darkwood Wand

Marked

PART THREE

"Malfoy!"

Draco opened one eye, then closed it again. The bedroom was shadowed, the fire now only faint embers. His cheek lay on soft, warm skin, a slow heartbeat pulsed. He was buried in warmth with that flowery scent surrounding him, and he had no intention of waking completely.

"Malfoy!"

What was that pounding? Was he such a lightweight to get a headache from a little mulled wine? The body below him shifted with soft, annoyed murmurs.

"Malfoy!"

The pounding continued, but it wasn't Draco's head, it was his bedroom door. Draco opened both eyes and lifted himself on one elbow. His carved mahogany door shook under repeated blows.

Suddenly alert, Draco reached out a hand. "Accio darkwood," he said, although he couldn't see it, and the wand snapped into his palm. He staggered to his feet, entirely naked, muscles protesting. Was that a rug burn on his ...

"Open this door!" the muffled voice shouted.

Hermione was on her feet now as well. Draco gave her naked form a rapid glance but there was no time. Whoever was out there could blast through the door any second.

"The bed!" he hissed, and she nodded, leaping inside with surprising speed. The hangings snapped shut.

Draco warded the bed, then snatched up his paisley robe. Tying the robe shut with one hand, he waved the door open with his wand, prepared to hex whoever stood on the other side. But at the sight of the wizard before him, Draco could only stand frozen, wand raised, an incantation dying on his lips.

It was Potter.

Harry Potter.

Potter stared at him wide-eyed through those ridiculous glasses. Why did he look so surprised? It stood to reason that if one pounded on Draco Malfoy's bedroom door in the middle of the night, one would encounter Draco Malfoy.

"Tell me this is a nightmare," Draco groaned.

"May I come in?" Potter asked.

"No you may not. Piss off."

"I'd rather not discuss this in the corridor," Potter said, sounding like Theo.

Draco looked him up and down with a sneer. The Boy-Who-Lived looked more like the Boy-Who-Fell-Apart even in the dungeon's faint torchlight. He was just as scrawny as Draco remembered, eyes bloodshot and ringed with shadows, his black hair wild. The lightning-shaped scar stood out starkly against his pale forehead. But Potter's green eyes were sharp, he wore a long, fitted black jacket with the collar turned up and a wand was poised in one black-gloved hand.

"How did you find my room?" Draco wanted to know. This suite was separated from the rest of the dungeons with an extra door and password.

Potter shrugged. "Slughorn."

Draco glared. His Head of House would always roll over for the Chosen Git.

"I have nothing to say to you, Potter." Draco spat the name. "It's the middle of the bloody night."

"We need to discuss a certain witch," Potter said coolly.

Draco had to throw up an Occlumency shield to keep from reacting. Hermione ...? Now the situation was much more delicate.

"I'm here as a courtesy, which I doubt you deserve," Potter went on. "I could always bring in the Ministry."

Draco stepped back, silently allowing the Auror to enter. Potter flicked his wand and the fire blazed to life, revealing the pile of green bedding before the hearth and Hermione's red robe, which still lay open on the carpet beside a single empty mug. The other mug must have rolled away when she kicked ...