Draco Malfoy's history of poor decision-making continues after the war, when he returns to Hogwarts under strict probation. Bored and restless, he decides to cast the infamous Vanishing Cabinet spell to link his bed with the bed of a willing witch...
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"AAAAGH!"
Draco stepped away from the bed so quickly that he tripped over his own feet and down he went, slamming his face on the carpet. He immediately rolled onto his back to bewail his outcast fate.
"Fucking clock! Fucking spell!" he shouted. "AAAAGH!"
Why did that idiot Puff have to do something right for once? What was Draco supposed to accomplish in a single hour?
"My broom!"
Draco scrambled to his feet, swaying, then looked around for his shoes and robes. He'd fly up to Gryffindor Tower and ...
The wizard groaned aloud. Merlin, he was a right fool. It would take at least thirty minutes to circle the castle from the front doors to Hermione's window, if he could even find the right window in the dark. He couldn't just break into her bedroom anyway; it was a school night. Hermione would likely just toss him out again.
Draco collapsed onto the sofa. My own fault, wasting all that time. Who cared what color the bed was? Should've just taken her on the ...
No, Hermione wouldn't have wanted that. He should have just carried her to the bed and given the kittens a real show. Draco's cock, still half-hard, rose further at the memory of Hermione on her hands and knees on that Slytherin coverlet, topless, the red skirt fanning out around her, her hair a dark, wild storm cloud like on the first night she'd arrived. Her eyes had been so wide—hadn't she faced a cock before? Draco looked down at himself. Apparently not like this one.
But such self-satisfaction wilted in the face of his own rampant stupidity. Here he was, alone once more, deprived of a willing witch and ready to weep with pain. Draco looked dolefully at the scarlet shoes and gloves scattered on the carpet. How could they be so careless? Hermione was probably in the Fifth-Floor corridor right now, half-dressed, barefoot, wandless. Draco put his head in his hands. Fucking clock.
***
Draco showed up to breakfast on Monday with his cold mask firmly in place. Wanking before bed had failed to take the tiniest edge off his irritation, and his dreams were plagued with moist red lips and wild curls. Better than a man-eating snake or mad Quidditch player, but hardly restful. Another wanking session in the bath this morning made him feel even worse and he stalked into the Great Hall and fell into a seat opposite Theo.
Theo didn't look so well either. The wizard's green eyes were shadowed and his collar very slightly crooked. He didn't touch his pancakes, just drank tea and avoided looking at Daphne, who ignored him. Odd, thought Draco, they'd seemed closer at the Slime Club party.
Draco looked to his left to see Blaise staring at the Gryffindors, which drew Draco's eyes that way. And there was Hermione, looking entirely composed in a high-necked black jumper. She was reading a book and—Merlin and Morgana help him—eating a banana. Draco wanted to weep into his breakfast plate, but that might occasion comment, so he settled for scowling and trying not to spill his tea. Fuck, he was a mess. One would think he'd never touched a girl before.
