Dramione Spellbound

Chapter 27: The Party. Part One



After dinner, Draco decided to wait for Tennant in their room. The guy surely had to change — his shirt was stained all over from the giant bloody steak. Disgusting. But Tennant never showed up, and precisely at eight, Draco downed a shot of mermaid whiskey for courage and headed for the Ravenclaw Tower.

Ignoring the stares from students on the spiral staircase, he approached the portrait of Sir Garenth Ollivander. The medieval knight sat beneath a cypress tree, whittling a block of wood with a long knife. Shavings were scattered around on the grass, some tangled in his long, snow-white beard. An open scroll lay beside him.

"Blasphemy!" cried Sir Garenth when he saw Draco. He brandished his knife. "Thou art not of the house of Ravenclaw! Begone, heathen!"

Draco managed to keep a straight face.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Show me thy wand!" demanded the knight.

Draco held up his harlequin wand. Sir Garenth's eyebrows drew into a grim arch.

"That wand is not thine to bear!"

"I've ordered a new one," Draco said, suppressing irritation. Students were clustering at the far end of the hallway, too nervous to approach.

"A new wand? Of what wood? With what core?"

Draco frowned.

"If I tell you about the new wand, will you let me in?"

He wanted to end this conversation before Granger caught him arguing with a watercolor portrait.

"Verily so," said Sir Garenth.

"African Blackwood. Dragon heartstring. Ten and a quarter inches."

Sir Garenth leapt to his feet, stepping so close that his face filled nearly the entire frame.

"A wand of dark wood? For a Malfoy, whose touch defiles all noble instruments?"

"Open the damn door!" Draco snapped. The portrait of Sir Garenth rumbled aside, revealing the passage, and Draco stepped into the Ravenclaw Library without hesitation.

He found himself in a vast round room with pale blue walls hung with paintings and tapestries. The Ravenclaws seemed to have cleared out most of the bookcases, leaving only soft blue sofas and armchairs in the center. A magical gramophone turned its bronze horn toward Draco as he entered, its crank spinning in time with a light jazz melody. Draco recognized the Muggle music — they had studied it in mandatory classes. There seemed to be a dress code here, and for once, he didn't feel out of place in his black suit.

He paused at the entrance, feeling the weight of curious gazes. There was quiet murmuring, but nothing that sounded like "Death Eater" or "Azkaban." The whispers were more evaluative, inquisitive. A few eagles pulled out parchment and began taking notes.

"He must be on the list…"

"The last Slytherin to set foot in the Ravenclaw Tower was the Bloody Baron in the eleventh century, seeking…"

Salazar save me. Draco made his way to the table near the fireplace made of gray stone and poured himself some firewhisky. The clink of ice cubes echoed through the now-silent room. He downed the glass and poured another, then moved deeper into the library.

According to the map on the wall, the library's seven chambers were arranged in an arc around the outer edge of the tower, with no way to see more than one at a time. Draco stepped through a narrow gothic arch into the second chamber, admiring the tall stained-glass windows along the left wall. Lamps with tinted glass cast delicate patterns on both guests and furniture.

It was the same in every room — as soon as someone noticed Draco, there was a gasp, followed by silence. Even the jazz music would pause. Then, like wind in the grass, whispers would ripple through the air. Draco moved from chamber to chamber, the waves of unease spreading like ripples in water. He drained another glass and poured yet another. At this rate, he'd be blackout drunk before he even found Tennant. But Draco was sure his elusive roommate was somewhere around.

"That's your third glass," came a voice behind him.

Draco turned to see a short, skinny boy in glasses who looked far too young to be here. The Ravenclaw clutched a quill and parchment.

"This firewhisky is 46% ABV, Mr. Malfoy," the boy said, jabbing his quill at Draco's glass. "Each glass is 10.5 ounces. By my calculations, two glasses are enough to reach optimal intoxication."

He gave Draco a sharp once-over through thick lenses.

"You weigh about twelve stone, I presume?"

Draco glared down at him, then took a large sip.

"Ah yes, the ice dilutes it," the boy said, as if Draco had asked. "But you're pouring generously."

"No idea why," Draco said with sarcasm.

"That's certainly a point worth documenting," said the boy, scribbling on his parchment. "The last Slytherin in the Tower was…"

"The Bloody Baron, I know. Sorry, I didn't bring any chains."

"Chains? So you killed your beloved too, Mr. Malfoy?" a girl cut in, holding her own parchment. "I must say, I'm surprised. Rumor has it you—"

"I did not kill my beloved," Draco snapped.

"Oh?" the girl glanced around. "Is she here tonight?"

"She… she… I don't have a beloved!" Draco finished the whisky, trying to ignore their assessing gazes.

"Well, I'm not surprised," the girl sniffed and dragged the boy away.

Draco noticed his hand drifting toward his hair and forced it down. Tennant had to be here… or Draco truly was the first Slytherin in nine centuries to defile the Eagle Tower with his presence. Meanwhile, the over twenty ounces of firewhisky he'd consumed were boiling in his veins, and he moved on in search of food.

Each library hall was dedicated to a specific discipline, and as Draco passed from the Hall of Numerology to the Hall of Divination, he spotted a plate of cheese and crackers and froze in front of a display titled "Prophetic Cheeses Through the Ages."

"Mr. Malfoy!" Three Ravenclaw girls greeted him as he entered the next chamber. The faculty laboratory Isobel had mentioned stood in its full glory — along the wall opposite the stained-glass windows, instruments and research equipment were neatly arranged. Intrigued, Draco approached a bubbling flask entwined with copper tubing.

"We're analyzing the magic levels in the Black Lake," one of the girls explained. "Ravenclaws have been taking samples every year since 1843, but now, thanks to new methods, we can—"

Her voice faded as Draco stepped toward another table, where an astrarium stood — it resembled Granger's time-turner, but with a simpler design. This one included only the Sun, Moon, a few basic gears, and no dials. Draco's outstretched hand met a firm invisible barrier. It was nice to see a bit of sanity in Ravenclaws — which, frankly, was sorely lacking when it came to Lovegood or Isobel.

"Do you like clockwork mechanisms, Mr. Malfoy?" asked another girl. "There's an astrolabe in the far corner."

But Draco's attention was drawn to a large glass dome on the next table. It seemed to be sealed with sticking charms — the three muffins inside were violently attacking each other, clearly not aiming at the glass but savaging each other instead. One muffin had been nearly torn in half, its blueberry filling splattering against the glass.

"Struggle for dominance," the first Ravenclaw explained in a dry academic tone. "Two of the intact muffins are clearly Alphas…"

A dull thud — and everyone fell silent, watching as the wounded muffin smashed into the dome wall, blueberry juice oozing down the glass.

"Fascinating display," said the girl, and her friends nodded, jotting down notes. Draco stared at the dome, feeling a mix of revulsion and deep gratitude that the Dark Lord had never managed to recruit Ravenclaws to his side.

"Do you plan to dance, Mr. Malfoy?" one of the girls asked.

Draco's jaw dropped. Was she trying to ask him to dance?

"We've calculated a 31% probability that you'll dance tonight," said another. "Coming to a party just to wander around is illogical…"

Salazar, save me.

"…Though, perhaps, you'll have trouble finding a partner."

"Maybe he just came here to drink," the third girl chimed in. "Lewis calculated Mr. Malfoy's blood alcohol content at 0.08% back in the Numerology hall."

"Alcohol certainly lowers moral inhibition. And given the average level of intoxication at the party, his chances of finding a girl drunk enough to—"

"I'm not going to dance," Draco ground out.

"Well, that reduces the probability—"

"He might reconsider if someone asked him…"

"Unlikely. Twelve percent max. Look at his face…"

Draco turned to bolt but instead slammed his forehead into a metal rod hanging from the ceiling. Hooks dangled menacingly from one end, and pear-shaped weights from the other. He ducked away from the clanking iron and slipped through another pointed arch. Merlin, he'd have preferred the hiss of "Death Eater" and Azkaban threats. Lovegood—fine, she made sense. But who would've thought the rest of the Ravenclaws were just as unhinged?

He was now in the largest hall of the library — the potions laboratory, where a cauldron bubbled in the corner. The spiced scent of mulled wine drifted toward him. There was no furniture here, just a dance floor crowded with students swaying and spinning to an upbeat jazz tune.

Draco froze. Tennant was nowhere in sight, but on the dance floor, spinning with a stocky wizard, was Granger. Draco set his empty glass on the nearest table, suddenly regretting the amount of whiskey he'd consumed.

Hermione wore that pale blue dress—the one he'd once pulled from her wardrobe; he should've realized it didn't belong to Vane. Her flushed face glowed with a smile, and the springy curls that had escaped her tight bun bounced with each step, brushing her bare shoulders. The soft silk hugged her figure as she spun away from her partner and back into his arms. She looked so alive, in that Gryffindor way—and… happy.

Draco retreated into the shadows near a stained-glass window. He didn't want to see her smile fade when she noticed him. He should leave, resume his search for Tennant. But instead, he stood rooted, watching Granger squeal with laughter as the Irish Gryffindor dipped her effortlessly, a grin stretching across his wide face. Where the hell was Finch-Fletchley? How had he let this happen?

As Draco watched, memories surfaced through his slightly drunken haze: Granger in tiny shorts and a crop top, kneeling on his bed with a book held above her head; Granger's wet curls and damp robe; Granger leaning over him in an unbuttoned shirt. It was hard to reconcile the girl he met in the dark and silence with this radiant witch spinning on the dance floor. Surrounded by music and friends, she radiated warmth and energy.

"Seamus!" Draco heard her laugh as she teetered on the heels of her silver sandals, barely keeping balance. The music stopped, and the Irishman whispered something in her ear, but Hermione just smiled and shook her head. Seamus walked her to the drinks table and slipped away, winking.

Her gaze swept across the hall—and Draco, involuntarily, stepped forward. Stop. What are you doing? She'd be furious if she saw he barged in where he wasn't welcome. His chest tightened—once, Malfoys were welcome everywhere, at least in places that mattered.

But when the witch spotted Draco, she merely raised her eyebrows. Picking up a full glass of champagne from the table, she walked toward him.

"Well, well," said Granger, her cheeks still rosy from dancing. "Look who's here."

"I was invited," Draco said stiffly.

"I know," Granger replied. "Luna thinks you're putting on an act."

"What act?" Draco nearly groaned at his own impulsive question. He had definitely drunk too much.

She shrugged.

"That you're like this. Harsh. Cold. Detached."

"Sounds about right."

"No," Granger said firmly. "It's not."

Draco smirked, amused. She looked so sincere, this noble Gryffindor. He'd seen that expression on her face many times over the years—usually after one of his nastier remarks. So steadfast.

Suddenly, he felt the urge to test her resolve. He held out his hand, palm up.

"Then dance with me, Hermione," he said. His voice was soft, but every word of that short phrase was a challenge.

Granger looked at his hand—thankfully steady—then met his eyes again. Draco braced for the sad smile, the head shake. You're asking too much.

"All right," said Hermione and firmly placed her hand in his.

Draco almost dropped her small hand in surprise but instinctively curled his fingers around hers and led her to the dance floor, where a new tune was beginning—bass strings plucking out a slow, pulsing rhythm.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and raised their joined hands to shoulder height. He'd never danced to Muggle jazz before, but years of lessons hadn't gone to waste—he could improvise. Granger followed easily, her bright laugh escaping as he twirled her and pulled her back in.

The familiar tight knot in Draco's chest loosened, transporting him back to fourth year—when you could just dance with a pretty girl, and the Dark Lord didn't have you by the throat… He remembered Pansy at the Yule Ball—pink frills, black curls, proud to be on his arm. Now she wouldn't even look at him.

Now a very different witch was in his arms. After all those nights of forced closeness, tonight they were embracing by choice—free to drift apart or draw closer. Draco pulled her nearer, breathing in the floral scent he knew so well, as a velvet voice crooned:

Soft moonlightseems to reflectin the glow of your blush…

"You're blushing, Granger," he whispered, looking into her eyes.

She shook her head, curls bouncing, and Draco's hand slid down the bare, silky skin of her back. The infamous Black obsession crept into his thoughts, urging him to kiss her, to claim her right here on the dance floor in front of everyone. Suddenly, his vision blurred—he realized he'd pressed his face into her curls, just like he used to before sleep. And he was still holding her hand, that small, gentle hand that touched him so...

Hermione cupped his cheek.

"You're blushing too," she whispered back.

Draco pulled back slightly, and her hand returned to his shoulder. Malfoys don't blush. But the harder he tried to regain control, the hotter his cheeks burned—and the wider her smile grew.

He was about to raise his Occlumency shields, to take back control of the moment, when Granger looked past his shoulder, and her smile settled into a polite mask.

"So," she asked, "how do you like the Ravenclaw party?"

"Quite amusing," Draco said and blinked at his own unexpected words. He'd meant to say ridiculous or pathetic. Full of boring conversations, cheap drinks, silly exhibits, and annoying Muggle music. That's what he meant to say.

Hermione beamed in response. How long had it been since he said something that made someone happy?

"I've been informed my blood alcohol level is 0.08%," Draco continued. "And the chances of me dancing tonight were calculated at twelve percent."

"Well, you've exceeded expectations," Granger said. They spun, and her gaze grew thoughtful. "You can still exceed all of them, Draco."

His heart beat faster.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You have a future," she said. "You're not Tennant. You're not…"

She trailed off, but he knew what she'd meant to add. You're not your father.

"Don't be foolish," Draco snapped. The warmth in his veins evaporated, his steps slowed, and suddenly he became aware of his surroundings. The rest of the guests had backed against the walls, staring at them wide-eyed. Students crowded the doorways. Some Ravenclaws had pulled out quills, hurriedly recalculating their predictions.

"Granger and Malfoy…"

"…are dancing…"

"Probability less than two percent…"

Gryffindors began moving forward, and Draco tried to let her go, but his fingers seemed frozen.

"No." Hermione pulled him back. "The song's not over."

She shot a warning glance at her friends, and they froze, confused.

More than anything, Draco wanted to flee the dance floor — away from the hostile stares and all the unspoken things. But that would be unworthy of a Malfoy. So instead, he spun Granger one last time to the rhythm of the music, ending the dance with a graceful move. Then he led her off the floor amid the sudden silence.

"Thank you, Draco," Granger said loudly.

He nearly bowed, as he'd been taught, but instead he nodded, turned, and made his way toward the Transfiguration Hall. Guests quickly parted for him.

The Transfiguration Hall was packed, and the tall black clock at the far end struck nine. The guests stilled, watching the bronze figurines dancing across the dial. Draco used the distraction to slip into an empty alcove. Had Granger really danced with him like that? And called him by his name? In front of everyone? Merlin, Gryffindors were truly mad.

Her voice echoed in his head: "You're not Tennant." Sweet Salazar, did she think she was fixing him? Reforming him? He nearly groaned. Of course she did. She was just as unhinged as Lovegood. Did Granger really believe he had a future? Did he have a future?

Draco forcibly pushed the thought away and stepped out of the alcove. People stared, but thankfully didn't try to speak to him — he didn't need his dancing dissected down to punctuation marks.

No wonder this hall was packed — it was the smallest of the seven, but the most mesmerizing, with bronze statues that constantly changed shape. Draco watched with interest as a gleaming snake turned into an eagle, then a badger, and finally into a lion that yawned wide, baring sharp fangs.

Tearing his eyes away, he began checking the reading nooks. Peeking behind tapestries, paintings, and curtains, he disturbed couples doing anything but reading. Where was that bastard? Tennant had to be here somewhere, slinking between rooms like a thief in the night.

Stopping near a tapestry, he heard the familiar voice of Isobel MacDougal.

"You really think I could be Girls' Prefect next year, Mr. Finch-Fletchley?" Isobel's voice trembled with excitement. "I've always dreamed of it!"

Draco froze. What was Granger's little Hufflepuff pet doing in an alcove with Isobel?

"Absolutely," the Hufflepuff slurred. "I could put in a word for you, if you like. I've got quite a bit of influence in these matters."

Unbelievable. From Draco's experience, Finch-Fletchley was nauseatingly noble in every situation. Apparently, tonight he was well and truly drunk.

"Wh-what are you doing, Mr. Finch-Fletchley?" asked Isobel. "Miss Granger knows that you… you shouldn't…"

"You know what, how about you make me a happy Head Boy… and I'll make sure you become a very happy Head Girl."

Draco had heard enough. He stormed into the alcove and saw the lanky wizard looming over the chair where Isobel sat, one hand on her shoulder. The next moment, Draco had Finch-Fletchley pinned against the wall, his fingers digging into the Head Boy's throat.

He tightened his grip.

"Not feeling so noble now, are you, you sick bastard?"

"Draco!" Isobel cried, leaping to her feet. "What are you doing here? Let him go!"

He glanced at the blonde witch.

"You willing to do anything to be Head Girl?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, blushing. "He's just drunk. He doesn't know what he's doing. Let him go!"

Draco obeyed, and Finch-Fletchley sagged against the wall, swaying.

"He knew exactly what he was doing," Draco said, narrowing his eyes. "And that, I'll have you know, is very un-Hufflepuff of him." He shoved him out of the alcove. "Get out!"

Draco ignored the gasps and the clatter of overturned furniture outside, turning sharply back to Isobel, who had risen from the chair.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he snapped at her.

Isobel looked at him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Ravenclaws regained their composure quickly.

"I was showing Mr. Finch-Fletchley our copy of 'Hogwarts: Prefects Through the Ages.' There's a fascinating chapter on badge design…"

"Anything could have happened!" Draco barked. "You can't go sneaking into alcoves with wizards!"

"I'm in an alcove with a wizard right now," she shot back. "A Slytherin one, no less!"

Draco's eyes flashed.

"That's different, I—" He faltered. She was right. He was supposed to be the one making a move on her, not some drunken Puff.

He forced a grin.

"Or maybe not," he said, eyeing her from head to toe.

"Draco, I know you don't want to—"

"How would you know what I want?" Draco asked, stepping forward. Isobel backed into the chair, and he slipped an arm around her waist.

"Did you like what that pompous wanker was saying to you?" he asked. Maybe if he was crude enough, she'd slap him and run off, and everyone would be satisfied.

"If you're so eager to suck someone off," he purred, tugging at her dress, "at least pick a Death Eater's cock instead of—"

"Draco!" Isobel flushed but looked more excited than offended, and Draco groaned aloud. Seriously? Lovegood had seriously underestimated this girl — which, okay, was nice to see someone else be wrong for once — but still…

A quiet breath broke through his furious inner monologue, and he froze in horror, catching a familiar floral scent.

Draco let go of Isobel and turned around. He already knew who stood behind him, but some part of him hoped—prayed—that he was wrong.

He wasn't.


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