Ginny was no longer in the common room, but Neville had taken a seat on the couch, and beside him, the Cowardly Bindweed sprawled across the cushions. As Hermione approached, the plant rustled slightly but left its vines draped comfortably, coiling around Neville's legs.
Hermione was surprised to see Neville sitting alone with the plant. Her friend had returned to Hogwarts taller, more mature, and undeniably attractive, and the aura of a war hero gave him an added sheen. Even Slytherin girls had taken notice—Hermione had often overheard them whispering excitedly when Neville accompanied her in the library. After all, his family was part of the infamous Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Neville gently pushed aside a few stems so Hermione could sit beside him on the couch. He smiled, but his expressive eyebrows were raised questioningly.
"What?" asked Hermione.
He cleared his throat.
"Is that a camellia in your hair?"
"Yes."
"From Justin?"
Hermione frowned.
"No. Why?"
Neville blushed and looked away.
"Oh… nothing."
"Neville..."
He looked at her again.
"Passion."
"Passion?" Hermione repeated. She pulled the flower from her hair and examined it again. The lush red-petaled bloom was the size of her palm.
"This flower symbolizes passion?"
"Longing, passion, and... intense desire," Neville replied, his face turning nearly as red as the flower.
Hermione leaned back against the couch.
"Wonderful. Just wonderful."
"So it's not from Justin?" Neville asked.
She shook her head, barely holding back a groan. Justin would never believe that a flower of passion had just accidentally ended up in her hair. Oh, Merlin...
Neville was now looking at her with curiosity.
"Did someone give you this flower?"
"I… don't know," she replied hesitantly.
"You don't know?"
Longing. Passion. And intense desire.
Impossible.
"Well, there is one wizard," Hermione admitted. "But it was an accident! He definitely didn't mean anything by it. It's just that he… has a very strange wand. It likes to play tricks."
Neville perked up.
"What kind of wand?"
Her friend had recently started an internship in Herbology with Professor Sprout and had taken to carrying wood samples around, which gave him a faint scent of cedar.
"I don't know. It's black and white checkered."
Neville's face lit up.
"You met a wizard with a harlequin wand?"
"A what?"
"Harlequin. Made from enchanted dogwood."
He smiled in his new unhurried way, the kind that left Hermione speechless for a second every time.
"Wandmaking is part of my wood types course. They say harlequins have playful and mischievous personalities—your wizard must be quite the joker."
Hermione's jaw dropped.
"That's definitely not him."
"Harlequins are very sensitive, you know. Your wizard—"
"He is not my wizard!!"
"Yikes," muttered Neville. The Cowardly Bindweed, sensing her distress, had already shrunk back into its pot, trembling in terror.
"Sorry, Neville, I..."
Neville gave her a stern look.
"Please apologize to the Bindweed."
Oh, for the love of… How low could she sink for the sake of preserving a friendship?
"I'm sorry," she said to the plant. "Um… don't be scared."
She continued, trying to speak as calmly as possible.
"It's just that your daddy has lost his mind if he thinks that wizard has any romantic feelings."
"It's all right," Neville said in the same soothing tone, stroking the plant's leaves. "Just because Hermione won't admit her feelings for the wizard doesn't mean you need to be upset. Right, sunshine?"
"You're a sweetie," Hermione cooed. "You're not jumping to conclusions like some people, are you? That silly wand was just making a joke, right?"
"The real question is," Neville said, "does Hermione's wizard know about her feelings?"
"Dear Bindweed, could you kindly tell your daddy that I don't have any feelings for that wizard, who definitely doesn't qualify as a joker?"
"I'm sure he's a riot," Neville sang.
Hermione paused in thought. Even imagining the words "fun" and "Malfoy" in the same sentence was difficult.
There was that evening when he kissed her, whispering the Harmonia Nectere spell. That had been fun—until he, as usual, lost his temper. She tried to think of another example.
"Once I dropped a mattress on him," she said cheerfully. "Now that was truly fun."
Neville stared at her.
"You dropped a mattress on him?"
The Cowardly Bindweed perked up, as if also awaiting confirmation.
"He was getting on my nerves."
Neville was now openly intrigued, and Hermione couldn't blame him.
"Let me get this straight," he said. "You're having a not-romance with an unfunny wizard who has a harlequin wand and on whom you drop objects?"
Hermione began counting on her fingers.
"First of all, it's not a romance. Second, I only drop things when he deserves it."
"You've done it more than once?"
"Well... sort of, yeah?" Hermione now shrank back just as much as the Cowardly Bindweed. "I… hit him with a book. And kicked him. But I had a very good reason!"
Neville looked at her with clear disapproval.
"That sounds extremely unhealthy. I'm surprised he's still interested in you."
"So am I, honestly… I mean, I—" Hermione suddenly clamped her hand over her mouth, cutting herself off. She had already said too much.
"You know I love you, Hermione," Neville said seriously, "and I'm not trying to lecture you. But you should treat men with a bit more respect. We have feelings too."
Hermione frowned again, turning over this unfamiliar idea. She'd been accusing Malfoy of disregarding her feelings, but had she ever considered his? Well... no, she hadn't.
Malfoy's main emotion this school year seemed to be irritation—at least until last night. Clearly, it took an entire bottle of Firewhisky for that man to express anything beyond anger, lust, or frustration.
"Maybe you're right," she admitted. "But it's complicated—he's not great with feelings. And honestly, Neville, it's not a romantic relationship. We just... end up near each other a lot."
Now Neville looked confused—he saw her in classes all day, and in the library at night. He was even in her weekly Transfiguration study group, which, oddly enough, also included Theodore Nott. Hermione strongly supported inter-house unity, and Nott behaved fairly civilly despite his inherent condescension.
"He helped me today," Hermione admitted. "Took care of me... in his own way."
She felt a strange flutter at the thought, but quickly pushed it down. A woman does not need spells and promises to murder rivals to feel special. She looked at the delicate flower in her hand. Was there some hidden message in this camellia? Or was it simply the botanical equivalent of cat ears and whiskers?
Neville gently took the flower from her hand and cast a quick stasis charm. Then he wove the camellia back into her hair.
"Your wizard must be very sweet."
"It's not about him."
Hermione patted the Cowardly Bindweed and silently begged that the topic was over. The gods appeared to hear her plea, as Ginny arrived, checking the common room entrance with her wand. Neville waved at her, and she came over, settling into an armchair beside the couch and staring at Hermione.
"My favorite cookie?" Ginny demanded sharply. The Bindweed seemed used to her—it only twitched slightly.
"Gingerbread," Hermione replied, and Ginny nodded. "I have something to show you," Hermione said, pulling out Ron's letter.
Ginny skimmed the parchment, then passed it to Neville.
"I already know all this," she said. "Thank Merlin Hogwarts doesn't allow uninvited guests—otherwise Mum would be showing up here every day." She looked at Hermione, her expression still cold. "Susan suits him much better."
"Agreed," Hermione said. "I'm planning to send them a fruit basket."
Neville laughed, and even the corners of Ginny's mouth twitched. Their friends had ruthlessly teased Hermione during her basket phase, which began in fifth year when she sent hand-assembled baskets to everyone on special occasions. At first, they were questionably received—except the chocolate—since Hermione tended to include things she thought people should like, not what they actually liked.
(Her first basket for Ron included OWL prep brochures, mock exams, and ribbons in every color of the rainbow so he could color-code his assignments.) By sixth year, she'd grown wiser—the gift basket for Ron was entirely edible, including the basket itself, woven from honey-orange bread.
"I have something for you," Hermione said to Ginny. She drew her wand and cast a light shielding charm around them, blocking both sight and sound. Then she opened her bag and took out the Enemy Revealer.
Ginny's eyes widened.
"This is Moody's..."
"Yes," Hermione placed the mirror carefully on her lap. "It barely shows anything in my case—thank Merlin."
Neville craned his neck to peek at the mirror.
"I don't like that dark shadow," he said.
Hermione shrugged.
"I think you should have it, Ginny." She handed it to the witch, who stared at the artifact, eyes wide.
"I don't know what to say, Hermione..." Ginny took a deep breath. "Thank you."
She examined the glass, tracing the largest cracks with her finger.
"Everyone thinks I'm crazy, but this isn't over..."
"It's not over," Hermione said. "You're not crazy. And you're absolutely right. Death Eaters won't just disappear—with or without Voldemort. And the castle will always be a dangerous place."
"Constant vigilance," Ginny whispered.
"This mirror is yours now," Hermione said. Ginny frowned as she looked into the reflection. "Do you see anything?"
"No," Ginny replied. "Look."
She turned the Enemy Revealer toward Hermione and Neville. The dark spot had vanished, leaving only a light haze—possibly someone's general dislike of Weasleys rather than Ginny specifically.
"Maybe you need it more than I do," Ginny said to Hermione.
"I'm fine, really. I'm careful." Hermione tried to think of something suitably paranoid to convince her friend. "Keep it, Ginny. It's clear today, but who knows what tomorrow brings."
Nodding in agreement, Ginny took out her wand and wrapped the mirror in brown paper, tying it with twine. Hermione removed the shielding spell and coaxed her friend into having some butterbeer. The three of them sat together, mostly in silence.
"Are you going to the Ravenclaw party tomorrow?" Ginny asked. Ravenclaw hosted one secret party each year, only inviting a select few. In sixth year, Hermione and her friends hadn't made the list, but this time Padma had personally ensured their invitations.
Hermione and Neville both nodded.
"And you?" Hermione asked.
"No, it's Mum's birthday. She wanted you to come, but I..." Ginny blushed slightly.
"It's all right," Hermione said. "I'm really looking forward to the Ravenclaw party."
She truly did want to go. Luna had mentioned that sixth-years were responsible for data collection during the party and always prepared a detailed report.
She stayed with Ginny and Neville until the tall golden clock in the common room struck half past nine. Neville gave her a hug and wished her good night, while Ginny gave a slight nod. Harry still stood between them like an iceberg, but Ginny's expression had softened slightly. Perhaps the distance pained her just as much.
Hermione had very little time left—just enough to get ready for bed: she put on her plaid pajamas and fluffy socks. She prepared her beaded bag for tomorrow, neatly tying up scrolls and checking the stoppers on the colored ink bottles. The large red flower now lay on her desk, and Hermione picked it up, raising it to her nose.
A sudden bright white flash made her flinch—and in the next moment, she landed on the Slytherin bed, dropping the flower as the beaded bag flopped onto her face. Malfoy's bed canopy, as usual, was drawn shut and protected by enchantments.
Hermione turned to look at Malfoy, expecting his usual mocking smirk or scowl. But he was sitting with his eyes closed, leaning back against the silver-tasselled pillows—a book lay open in his lap, and his glasses were slightly askew. He had fallen asleep—the very image of innocent virtue.
Or not quite virtuous. Unlike Hermione, wrapped up in her plaid flannel pajama set, Malfoy wore only black silk boxers, and the blanket had twisted down around his hips. He was fully on display, illuminated by the golden light of a floating candle: the line of his throat, sharply defined jaw and collarbones, scars crossing the intriguing trail of hair, the glow catching golden strands on his endlessly long legs. Even in sleep, in crooked glasses, Draco Malfoy looked dangerous. Wounded, but defiant. Unrepentant. Untamed.
He'll betray you, whispered her mind again. He's still a boy, immature. Uncontrollable. You won't be able to hold onto him.
Hermione frowned. She needed to be rational. Just grab the folded red blanket, wrap up in it, and sleep.
And yet…
She couldn't just leave Malfoy like that. He might crush his glasses or—worse—damage the book. She would just help a little. After all, he had stunned Tennant for her; she was sure of it.
Hermione knelt and crept closer, gently pulling the book from Malfoy's hands (Foundations of Wandcraft), blushing as her fingers accidentally brushed his thigh. She set the book aside and then, even more carefully, removed his glasses. For a moment she froze, unsure where to put them, then decided to stick them to the glossy black bedpost using a sticking charm.
The glasses ended up perched atop the carved snake head, giving it an academic look, and Hermione smiled in satisfaction. Then she looked down.
And froze.
Malfoy's eyes were open. Open. Clear, silver-grey eyes framed by dark lashes. Hermione's face was just inches from his, her outstretched hand still gripping the bedpost, her chest barely brushing against him.
She opened her mouth, ready to say something like, "um, I was just moving your glasses," but Malfoy shook his head. Just slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But she caught the motion and understood what it meant. Words would be useless. For the first time in a long time—maybe ever—she didn't want words.
He wasn't supposed to want her. She wasn't supposed to want him. She wasn't supposed to be this close, tangled in a web of danger and comfort, lies and truth. She remembered the lush camellia. Longing. Passion. Deep attraction.
Malfoy wasn't her wizard—the very thought was absurd. But he was oddly pleasant to be around, when he wasn't scowling. And not talking.
Hermione leaned forward slightly, brushing her lips against his, and felt the shiver run through his body. The first kiss was light, barely a whisper, a quiet hello. Then came the second—more deliberate. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she nipped his full lower lip, and in return she heard his ragged exhale, felt the coolness of his skin under her fingers.
She pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze again, and Malfoy looked up at her—just like that time he'd asked her to sing. Was he drunk? No signs of it. And really, who gets drunk and then puts on glasses to read about wand-making?
Her fingers skimmed his now-warm, flushed skin. She expected him to react somehow—to reach for her—but Malfoy just leaned back into the pillows, eyes half-closed, hands still. Watching. And thankfully, still silent.
She let her fingers brush the faint stubble on his chin, then trail down his lightly furred chest. This time, Malfoy had shed his sharpness and coldness along with his clothes—the suit, the rings, the scowl were gone, revealing… just him. Smooth muscle, a web of raised scars like cracks in porcelain. The twisting mark on his arm that he always kept hidden in public. A new gleam in those eyes, hiding countless secrets.
Hermione swallowed hard but didn't stop. She leaned down again, her lips tracing the intersecting scars on his chest. Suddenly she wanted to touch everything, taste everything—his tongue, his sweat, and… She blushed and straightened up, eyes darting downward. Then she looked back at his face, expecting the usual smirk.
But there was no smirk, no sneer, no frown—none of Malfoy's signature expressions. Instead, his eyes were half-lidded, his mouth slightly open, breathing deeper from her touch. How strange—to see Malfoy quiet and yielding, allowing her to do whatever she wanted.
He just lay there, open, like a blushing, milk-white flower.
He's dangerous. He's a trap.
But what an irresistible trap...