On Thursday evening, Draco was walking through the castle's entrance hall with a sullen expression. He had been sleeping with Romilda Vane for two weeks now, and things were going fairly well. The sex was great, and he'd figured out how to avoid her constant chatter. Vane needed a clear routine, so she started with a blowjob practically the second they were alone. It was literally the only way to shut her up. So Draco was quite satisfied with that part of their arrangement.
The problem was the complete lack of discretion from the Gryffindor witch. Vane was incapable of following directions unless Draco was right there to supervise her. He told her to meet him in the alcove on the third floor near the tapestry of Sir Eric the Misplaced, and she wandered around the fourth-floor corridor, asking paintings where to find Sir Eric. He told her to wait in the old Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom (still the best location, even despite the leftover masks from the freaks), and Vane forgot which door it was and checked every room along the hallway — occupied or not. When she finally found the right one, she screamed "Draco!" so loudly that half the castle heard her. And she giggled while doing it.
An hour earlier, Vane had wandered into the wrong dark stairwell and passionately kissed a random blond Ravenclaw boy. Draco found them just as Vane was halfway into her "opening act," all while remarking how the guy "seemed shorter today." Draco had to wipe the stunned Ravenclaw's memory with Vane's wand and send him off.
He was so furious, he almost ended everything right then and there. Draco was on probation, and using forbidden spells — even with someone else's wand — was incredibly risky. Vane had first apologized, then gotten snarky, and then, when Draco started threatening her, got scared. She swore she'd be more careful, but Draco knew it wouldn't last. He was mad at himself too — only an idiot would expect prudence from a Gryffindor.
Still seething, Draco returned to his bedroom — a luxurious room traditionally occupied by the Head of House. The room had been empty for decades, since Slughorn preferred his enormous office on the sixth floor, and Snape lived in the dungeons behind the Potions classroom. Slughorn had been forced to place Draco alone in the cozy bedroom, since no one wanted to room with a Death Eater. Draco had enjoyed several blissful days there, inheriting a magnificent bed with a brocade canopy and dark wood posts.
A week later, a second, more traditional four-poster bed appeared, soon claimed by Tennant Rowley and his 90 kilos. Tennant had been off partying on the continent and suddenly appeared at Hogwarts, requesting a transfer. He had no issue rooming with Draco and immediately set about placing invisible traps around the room (a routine Durmstrang precaution), along with a dozen mysterious silver and crystal items.
Since then, Draco tried to avoid the room unless he needed to sleep. Tonight, thank Salazar, it was empty. He rushed through his bedtime routine — something close to home comfort — though he had to fold his own clothes like a house-elf.
But sleep didn't come. The scene with Vane had left him half-angry, half-aroused, and he tossed and turned in his luxurious bed. A thin ray of moonlight pierced through the canopy, reflecting off carved serpents slithering up and down the bedposts. When Draco finally fell asleep, another Azkaban nightmare awaited him:
…Curled up in a corner,
in tattered clothes, shivering, hearing whispers from the very walls:
"You are empty, Draco... so empty... no thoughts... no feelings... no life…"
"No…" Draco moaned, "No…"
The stones mocked him: "Pathetic, alone, forgotten by all, hated…"
Chains clinked as he turned over.
In the dirty, suffocating air, his body trembled with coughing. "You will return, Dracooo… you will return…"
"NO!!!"
Draco woke with a jolt, heart pounding, throat raw. Thank Salazar the protective wards he always set around his bed were still in place. If Tennant Rowley had heard Draco screaming at night, he would never let him live it down.
Draco tore off his sweat-soaked pajamas and pulled his wand from under the pillow. It took him three tries to reinforce the charms — the hawthorn wand vibrated in his hand, resisting him. Draco shook the wand a few times and frowned. Had Potter damaged it before returning it by owl? No, Draco hadn't been able to control his wand for over a year — since the day he'd faced Dumbledore.
Just nerves. Draco slid the wand back under his pillow and lay down again. He'd hoped regular sex would help, but his nightmares had only gotten worse. The Ministry kept him on a short leash — the Head of the Auror Office was just waiting for a reason to arrest him. Bloody hell, this thing with Vane could be his one-way ticket back to Azkaban if he wasn't careful. He had to find a way to control the girl — or end it entirely.
The next day, still brooding over the Vane problem, Draco climbed the stairs to the Divination Tower. Professor Trelawney had resumed her classes after the nag that had been subbing for her returned to the Forbidden Forest. The prophecy about the Dark Lord and her role in the war had boosted Divination's prestige, so more students than ever had chosen the subject, hoping to become oracles. The advanced class was mostly filled with girls from all four houses — including Vane and Loony Lovegood.
Attending Divination was part of Draco's probation — the Ministry considered the subject essential for "understanding how one's actions affect the future." Madness. Draco always left class with a splitting headache from the overpowering incense and a shadow of regret that the Dark Lord had lost.
Today's lesson was a complete disaster. Draco always sat alone at the smallest table — no one wanted to see his future, of course. But the moment the Slytherin climbed the wooden ladder and poked his head through the trapdoor, he saw that his precious solitude had been disrupted again. The round room was always filled with small tea tables, armchairs, and puffy poufs, but today Draco's table had a second pouf. On it sat the last person he expected to see in this class.
Hermione Granger.
After all, the Golden Girl's disdain for Divination, despite its role in defeating the Dark Lord, was well known. She certainly didn't look happy to be there — she sat almost comically stiff on the pouf, arms crossed and nose in the air, back straight like she'd swallowed a stick. Draco had no choice but to join her, since all the other tables were taken and no one would have invited him anyway — not even Vane, who was squeezed in with three of her friends.
He crossed the room and sat reluctantly too close to Granger. The lamp above them, draped with a silk scarf, cast a dim crimson glow. Draco was already sweating, and not from the heat.
Vane shot him what she thought was a "mysterious" smile. By now, everyone knew she was into Draco, but his harsh words, stern looks, and well-known disdain for Gryffindors kept people from assuming there was anything serious. It had become a running joke — Vane constantly chasing Draco. But it was still dangerous — someone would notice eventually. He had to fix this before…
"For Merlin's sake," came a venomous voice, "just set the quill on fire if it annoys you that much."
Draco blinked, caught off guard, realizing he'd been glaring at his quill while thinking about Vane. He looked at the speaker. Granger had stopped pouring tea to cast a disdainful glance at her cup, Draco, and the entire class.
She pointedly did not pour him tea, slamming the teapot on the table. Draco watched as she took a sip, flipped her cup onto the saucer, and raised it again.
"I foresee… wet tea leaves," Granger said dryly, looking at the dregs. "Charming."
Draco stared. Obviously, the war had damaged Granger's enormous brain.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.
"O.W.L.," Granger said crisply. "Dumbledore got eight Outstandings, and I plan to match him. I need the advanced Divination course to do that."
Draco picked up the teapot, hiding his surprise at her casual mention of the late Headmaster. No one mentioned Dumbledore around Draco. Even Headmistress McGonagall avoided his name during their short, icy conversation. The rest of the class watched in amazement at the civil exchange between the Golden Girl and a Death Eater. Draco noticed Vane's face turning red — was that idiot jealous? Of Granger? Granger, with her baggy robe, frizzy hair, and flat…
Well, maybe not so flat anymore. Draco hadn't spared Granger a glance this year, but it was hard not to look at someone sitting six inches away. The little Mudblood (was she always this small?) was dressed in Muggle clothes that were, frankly, shocking: tight jeans and a red sweater hugging every curve. Her dark hair was loosely tied, with curls falling over her forehead and ears. Up close, he could see her golden-honey eyes framed by thick lashes under sharp black brows. He saw the pale freckles on her nose and another dusting of them across her collarbones…
Draco flinched, dropping the teapot and spilling its contents. What was he doing, staring at Granger? Her curls, her eyes, her freckles, and…?
It wasn't about her being a Mudblood — the war had knocked all that blood purity obsession out of Draco. All that ranting about Muggle-borns, and the Dark Lord turned out to be a half-blood raised by Muggles. Draco felt cheated when he overheard that little detail. And furious. His family had been manipulated, his home defiled. That was wrong. Malfoys were supposed to manipulate others — not the other way around. After the war, Draco read a little about Tom Riddle and firmly took the side of his Muggle father — especially after seeing a photo of Merope Gaunt in the Prophet. Who wouldn't have run away? Imagine waking up one day and realizing you were married to that…
A sharp burn snapped him out of his thoughts, and Draco leapt to his feet — tea was running down his black trousers and shoes. He expected the witch to scream like Vane would, but Granger remained perfectly composed, as if sitting at a table with a deranged Death Eater spilling tea everywhere was perfectly normal in an advanced Divination course.
"Oh, darling!" Professor Trelawney fluttered toward him like a sparkling dragonfly, her eyes huge behind thick glasses.
"You must have towels on hand, Professor," Granger said coolly. "Surely you foresaw this little mishap."
Laughter rippled through the class, and Draco turned his grimace into a sneer. Trelawney turned away, muttering something about Granger's "earthbound logic." The Gryffindor witch seemed unbothered, waved her wand, and restored the teapot while cleaning up the spill.
Draco returned to his seat and immediately regretted it. The spilled (still scalding) tea hadn't vanished — it had pooled on his side of the tilted table and was now soaking his lap. Draco clenched his jaw, determined not to make another fool of himself, and pulled out his wand to cast Tergeo on the table and himself. The wand trembled slightly in his hand, and it took two tries to pronounce the spell correctly, but he managed. He added a quick cooling charm — if that damn witch had left even a slight mark on his skin…
"Shall I pour?" Granger asked politely.
Draco gave her his fiercest glare, to which she responded with a dazzling smile, her pearl-white, perfectly straight teeth mocking him. That familiar coldness wrapped around his mind — a wartime habit. Malfoys don't show emotion. Malfoys are above petty conflict.
So he shoved his wand into his pocket and poured himself some tea, sipped the hot liquid, and turned his cup upside down onto the saucer with flawless precision. Three counter-clockwise turns. Clear your mind. Look into the cup. Done.
Draco froze.
"What is it?" Granger asked, intrigued.
Draco would never admit it, but he secretly respected Divination. He knew the branch could offer astonishing revelations. His mother had been quite skilled — she once predicted that loyalty to the Dark Lord would destroy their family. His father had laughed at her tales of snake nests, blood dripping down manor walls, and hateful words carved into skin. But Draco hadn't forgotten.
Still, that didn't mean he could see the future — or that these wet tea leaves meant anything. Draco certainly didn't like what he saw now. Especially the leaves gathered near the handle of the cup, which he gripped so tightly his knuckles turned white. The shape of a heart was so distinct, it might have been drawn with a quill.
"Let me guess," Granger said. "You'll suffer — but you'll enjoy it."
Draco used every ounce of self-control not to snap at her. Instead, he masked his expression, placed the cup back on the saucer, and casually smudged the damned shape with his pinky. He carefully wiped his hand with a napkin and turned away, ignoring his neighbor.
Granger snorted, but Draco didn't care. He glanced across the room, watching the other Gryffindor girl giggle with her friends over their cups. Definitely not.
"Whatever you saw, it's surely nonsense," Granger's cold voice was almost reassuring. Draco turned his head to see her perfect profile, the curve of her cheek.
"Don't talk to me," he growled. Draco stood — the lesson wasn't over — grabbed his black leather briefcase, and, without another word, strode out of the classroom and down the stairs, away from that suffocating, unpleasant room.