Chapter Text
The eighth year common room had been transformed.
Seamus Finnigan had apparently interpreted "Halloween party" as "what if a haunted house and a nightclub had a baby and we had a party inside that baby?"
Oh, that was a weird metaphor. Let’s not think things like that again.
Jack-o'-lanterns floated at head height, which would have been atmospheric if one of them hadn't been charmed to wink. Now it felt like being propositioned by a weird little, orange sex pest. Draco actively resisted the urge to punt it across the room.
The lighting was a moody, pulsing purple, the music was loud enough to vibrate in Draco’s back teeth, and there was a heavy haze of artificial fog rolling across the floorboards.
Draco stood at the entrance, surrounded by his fellow snakes, desperately hoping they were giving main character energy and not 'We are the weirdos, mister' energy.
Oh, fucking hell. Movie nights with Pansy had fundamentally rewired his brain.
"What the actual fuck?" Theo whispered from beside him.
Theo hadn't moved past the threshold. He had just dropped his plastic Muggle gun. It clattered against the stone floor, completely ignored, as his jaw practically unhinged.
Draco followed his gaze to the snack table. Standing there, nibbling on a pumpkin pasty and blissfully unaware of the fact he was about to be bent over the buffet, was Harry Potter.
He was wearing a filthy, ripped white vest, trousers held up by a tactical belt, and a smear of fake dirt across his forehead. Tucked into his waistband was an identical plastic Muggle gun.
Potter looked up. The pastry fell from his fingers, splattering onto the floor like Draco’s remaining will to live.
Oh, for fuck’s sake…
Potter and Theo began slowly walking toward each other, drawn by the undeniable, terrifying magnetism of two idiots sharing a brain cell.
"Harold," Theo breathed, sounding like he’d just found his wet dream made flesh.
Potter swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes dropped to Theo’s feet, then tracked slowly, agonizingly up the filthy, identical tank top. "Theodore."
"Are you barefoot, Harry?" Theo asked, taking a slow, gravitational step forward that practically dripped pheromones.
"I'm in the glass, Theo."
"Sweet Circe, they're going to start aggressively quoting dialogue and use the little guns as sex toys," Pansy noted, adjusting her black Morticia gown like she hadn’t just predicted a genuine health and safety risk.
"I am not watching my best friend court the Chosen One through the medium of a muggle action film," Blaise sneered, turning to walk away, but immediately colliding with Ginny Weasley.
She was wearing a dress made entirely out of the British flag, paired with massive red platform boots and hair that defied gravity, Draco had absolutely no idea who she was supposed to be.
Some sort of strongly political streetwalker?
She pointed a finger directly at Blaise’s chest. "You. Dance floor. Now."
Blaise, trapped in a flawless pinstripe suit and a drawn-on pencil moustache, drew himself up to his full height. "I am a man of refined tastes, Weasley. I do not 'dance' to whatever this cacophony is, and I certainly do not—"
Ginny grabbed him by his impeccably tailored lapels and hoisted him forward with surprising strength, pulling him nose to nose. "I’m sorry, did that sound like a fucking question to you, Zabini?"
Blaise didn't even blink. The man was profoundly aroused by being threatened. "No, Ma’am. Lead the way."
He let the tiny ginger menace drag him by his collar into the pulsing crowd, leaving Draco and Pansy standing alone in the fog.
"Well, that was efficient," Pansy murmured. “Didn’t know she had it in her to peg—Oh, Salazar's fucking sweaty trousers."
Her black nails dug into Draco’s leather-covered forearm with the force of a starved hippogriff.
"Ow, Pans! I bruise like a peach—"
"Shut your fucking mouth and look," she hissed, her voice dropping into a feral, rabid register.
Draco rubbed his poor arm and looked. Leaning against a stone pillar near the bar was Ron Weasley. He was wearing ripped denim jeans that clung obscenely to his thighs, a sleeveless red-and-black flannel shirt that left his Quidditch-thickened biceps fully exposed—which Draco would avada himself for acknowledging later—and a red bandana tied around his forehead. Fake tattoos crawled up his neck and down his arms.
Pansy made a small, pathetic, whimpering noise in the back of her throat.
"What is he supposed to be?" Draco asked, thoroughly revolted. "A lumberjack who lost a fight with a werwolf?"
"He's Axl Rose," Pansy whispered reverently. Her pupils were so dilated she looked legally blind.
"He's a Weasley," Draco reminded her, desperately trying to pry her talons out of his arm.
"Look at his forearms, Draco," she breathed, her grip turning agonizing. "He looks like he would fuck me, leave me with nothing but a concerning rash and shaky legs, and never call me back.”
Pansy looked up at him with a smile so manic he physically recoiled in fright, “I am going to climb that carrot like a fucking tree."
Before Draco could even process the absolute horror of his best friend wanting to be violently railed by Ron Weasley, Pansy swept away into the crowd, her black gown trailing behind her like a shadow of impending sluttery.
Draco was entirely alone.
Right then. To the bar. He shoved his hands into the tight pockets of his black jeans, popped the collar of the heavy leather duster, and stalked across the room. The coat swooshed. He looked devastating. He was a creature of the night. He was—
Oh, fucking hell, what was the point?
"Oi, Malfoy!" Finnigan shouted from behind a makeshift wooden bar, immediately ruining the aesthetic. "Mandatory minimum of one drink before you're allowed to brood in the corner like a twat. What's your poison?"
"Fire whisky," Draco drawled, leaning heavily against the sticky wood and attempting to recover his brooding dignity.
Seamus slid a glass and a bottle across the bar. Draco poured a generous measure, intending to drown his sorrows, but a body suddenly pressed flush against his left side.
A hand, dripping in an obscene amount of body shimmer, landed squarely on his chest.
"Oh, my stars," Lavender Brown breathed.
Draco turned his head. He was instantly boxed in. Parvati Patil materialized on his right, wearing a glittering green skirt so tight it restricted her stride to a penguin waddle, and two violently purple seashells strapped tightly across her tits.
Lavender was a fairy. Or at least, she was wearing wings and a tutu that was legally functioning as a belt. It barely covered her dignity.
Draco wondered for a second who they were talking to. "Sorry, can I help—"
"Don’t speak, gorgeous. Just let me look at you," Lavender ordered, her eyes raking hungrily up and down his body like he was the last sausage at breakfast, lingering pointedly on his tight white t-shirt. She stepped closer, invading his personal space until her cloying, aggressively floral perfume assaulted his sinuses.
"Where have you been hiding, you tall glass of pumpkin juice?" Lavender purred, her hand dropping to rest a hair's breadth above his belt buckle. She leaned up on her tiptoes, her voice dropping into a filthy, whisper. "And just so you know, Malfoy... I have absolutely zero gag reflex."
Draco inhaled his own saliva and immediately started choking.
"Oh, move over, Lav, he wants a mermaid, not a fucking moth," Parvati hissed, violently shoving her purple seashells against his bicep. "I’m incredibly flexible, Malfoy. I can put both my ankles behind my head."
"NO," Draco wheezed, his eyes watering profusely as he pressed his spine flush against the sticky wood of the bar. "No, thank you! Both highly commendable life skills, but I must—excuse me—"
He needed to escape. He forced his lips to part, attempting to flash a tight, polite, strictly-platonic-please-do-not-sexually-assault-me smile so he could edge past them.
He smiled.
The pulsing purple strobe lights caught his teeth.
Specifically, they caught the slightly elongated canines Pansy had charmed for him before they left for the party.
Both girls froze.
Draco watched their eyes drop to his mouth. He watched their pupils blow so wide they practically swallowed their irises.
"Oh no..." Draco squeaked.
Lavender let out a moan that belonged in a Knockturn Alley brothel.
"Oh my fucking God," Lavender breathed. She grabbed the lapels of his leather coat in two fistfuls and hauled herself flush against him. "Bite me."
"Get the fuck off him, you slag!" Parvati shrieked, elbowing Lavender hard in the ribs. She grabbed Draco's other arm with a desperate, white-knuckled grip. "Bite me first! Rip my fucking jugular out! I don't care if I bleed out on the floor!"
"Bite, Malfoy!" Lavender wailed, clawing at his leather duster and violently tilting her head back to bare her throat. "Ruin my life!"
"I'll let you do it on the Gryffindor table!" Parvati offered frantically, trying to straddle his thigh despite the severe physical limitations of her tight mermaid skirt.
"Desist!" Draco squawked, desperately trying to peel Lavender's manicured claws off his chest while violently dodging Parvati's aggressive seashells. "Unhand me! Stop offering me your necks, I don't want your blood!"
Suddenly, a small, authoritative hand clamped onto Lavender’s shoulder and physically hauled the fairy backward.
"Lavender. Parvati. Down," a sharp voice commanded. It was the exact, weaponised tone one might use on a dog humping a table leg.
Both girls froze, their feral thirst momentarily short-circuiting at the sheer, undeniable bossiness of Hermione Granger.
"Granger," Parvati hissed, aggressively hoisting up a slipping purple seashell. "We found him first. Back off and go read a book."
"He looks like he’s uncomfortable, Parvati," Hermione said dryly, crossing her arms. "Go find McLaggen. He's dressed as the giant squid and looking for somewhere to put his tentacles."
Lavender let out a frustrated whine, shot one last, starving look at Draco's fangs, and grabbed Parvati's hand. "Fine. Come on. Let's go see if Dean is wearing those tight trousers." They disappeared into the artificial fog, leaving a trail of body shimmer like the cheaper version of Dracula’s brides.
Draco slumped against the sticky bar, gasping for oxygen, and finally dragged his eyes up to look at his saviour.
His brain immediately flatlined.
Granger was wearing a simple, flowing white dress that clung to the swell of her hips and the curve of her waist in a way that made Draco’s mouth instantly turn to sawdust. Her curls were pinned up in a messy, elegant halo that he wanted to aggressively bury his face in.
And she had wings.
Actual, feathered, white angel wings charmed to her back.
She looked radiant. She looked ethereal. She looked like she could ask Draco to slit his own throat and he'd say ‘Oh, right. Yes, how silly of me, would you like to do the honours or shall I?”
His heart started the familiar, violent hammering against his ribs. Down below, his cock—the absolute, shameless traitor—gave a sharp, enthusiastic throb against his incredibly tight jeans.
"You alright, Malfoy?" Hermione asked, a small, amused smile playing on her lips. "You looked like you were about to be consumed."
"I was," Draco wheezed, trying to regain his Spike-level brooding dignity. He popped the collar of his leather coat and leaned against the bar, hoping he looked dangerous and not like a man who had just been sexually threatened by a tutu. "I had it handled."
"Right. You looked like you did." Hermione's brown eyes flicked up to his hair, down his tight white t-shirt, and landed squarely on his mouth. She blinked, her breath hitching just a fraction. "Are those... fangs?"
Draco smirked, letting the canines show. He leaned in a fraction, ready to deliver a line so devastatingly smooth it would melt her right out of her little gold shoes.
Hermione tilted her head, her eyes suddenly lighting up with recognition. "Wait. Are you... Spike?"
"Yes! That's it!" Draco blurted out with the manic, desperate enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever who had just been asked if it wanted a treat.
His soul immediately abandoned his body. He snapped his mouth shut, a furious, humiliating heat crawling violently up his neck and flooding his cheeks. Smooth, Malfoy. Very dark. Very mysterious. Absolute fucking mastermind.
But Hermione didn't laugh. Instead, that little crease between her eyebrows vanished, replaced by a soft, genuinely captivated smile. She stepped just an inch closer.
"I love that show," she murmured, her gaze dragging down the length of his leather coat before snapping back up to his eyes. "It suits you. The leather. The..." She gestured vaguely to his face, her voice dropping a fraction. "The whole...menace to society thing."
Draco’s heart stopped. She liked it. She actively, verbally liked it. His cock did a celebratory little ‘woohoo, fuck yeah!’ against his zipper.
"And you?" Draco asked, desperately trying to lower his voice back into a socially acceptable, non-squeaking register. He let his eyes trace the curve of her feathered wings, before landing back on her perfect face. "An angel?"
"Juliet," Hermione corrected softly, her fingers lightly grazing the edge of the bar, perilously close to his hand. "From a Muggle film. Romeo and Juliet. The modern version. I always loved the costumes. It’s a bit silly, really—"
"It's not silly." Draco said instantly. Because it wasn't. She looked like a fucking masterpiece.
The music seemed to fade into a dull throb. The artificial fog swirled around their ankles, isolating them from the chaos of the room. The scent of her vanilla perfume was entirely scrambling his frontal lobe. She was looking up at him through her eyelashes, her lips slightly parted, and for one glorious, terrifying second, Draco thought she was looking at his lips.
He swallowed hard. This was it. The moment.
"Can I—" Draco started, his voice rough. "Can I get you a drink?"
Just before she could let the smile fully reach her eyes—
CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.
"Drink for the lady?"
A giant, walking tin can stepped directly between them, shoving a plastic cup of aggressively pink punch into Hermione's hand.
Adrian fucking Pucey had arrived, wearing chainmail and a silver breastplate. He looked like an obnoxious, over-polished cutlery set.
"Adrian," Hermione said, blinking rapidly. She took a step back, looking slightly blinded by the glare coming off his chest. "You're... very metallic."
"I'm a knight," Pucey purred, flexing a bicep that made his chainmail clink irritatingly. "From that Muggle film. Romeo and Juliet. The DiCaprio one."
Pucey turned his stupid, symmetrical face toward Hermione, his smile all bright teeth and unearned confidence. He raised his voice just a fraction, ensuring half the room could hear him. "You’re the angel, I’m the knight. It’s a classic. Looks like we match perfectly, Hermione. Must be fate."
Draco’s stomach plummeted so fast it practically dented the floorboards.
That absolute fucker. That shiny, silver, cutlery-wearing prick. He hadn't just dressed up; he had dressed up just to aggressively cockblock Draco.
"Oh," Hermione said, looking round at her wings and back up at Pucey's chest. "I suppose we do. That's... a funny coincidence."
"I don't believe in coincidences," Pucey said smoothly, entirely invading her personal space. He reached out, his smarmy fingers brushing over the white feathers of her wings. "Care for a dance, Juliet?"
Draco’s vision actually went red around the edges until he looked at Granger.
Her spine went completely rigid.
She stepped back, putting distance between her wings and Pucey’s chainmail, and held the neon-pink cup back out to him.
"I'm actually speaking with Draco, Adrian. Thank you, but—"
"Come on, Granger," Pucey pressed, blatantly refusing to take it back. He actually reached out and pushed the cup back toward her chest. "Drink it. It’ll loosen you up. You’re always so... tightly wound."
Draco's eye twitched. Oh, this absolute fucking helmet.
Pucey was looming. Pucey was pushing. Pucey was ruining Draco's meticulously crafted, once-in-a-lifetime moment with his unearned confidence and his stupid, clanking armor.
Fuck it.
Draco stepped neatly between them, his hand darting out to pluck the cup smoothly from Hermione's grip.
"I'll take that," Draco drawled. His voice dropped into a deadly, aristocratic purr that owed absolutely nothing to the television vampire and everything to Lucius Malfoy. "I find myself suddenly parched."
Pucey’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp irritation. "Malfoy, that wasn't for—"
Draco didn't let him finish. Maintaining aggressive, unblinking eye contact with Pucey, Draco brought the plastic cup to his lips and knocked the entire thing back in one go. It tasted aggressively sweet, with a strange, bitter burn at the back of his throat, but Draco swallowed it down like a champion of pure, unadulterated spite.
He slammed the empty cup onto the sticky bar.
"And she's coming with me," Draco announced.
He clamped his hand gently but firmly around Granger’s wrist—pointedly ignoring the violent jolt of electricity that shot straight through him at the contact—and pulled her away from the bar, steering her directly toward the pulsing mass of the dance floor.
A heavy, hand locked around Draco's bicep like a fucking bear trap, stopping him dead in his tracks.
Draco slowly turned his head. He looked down at the hand, then back up to Pucey's face. The obnoxious, symmetrical smile was completely gone. Pucey's eyes were flat, cold, and utterly venomous.
Pucey leaned in, his voice dropping so low only Draco could hear it over the thumping bass.
"Hope you enjoyed your drink, Malfoy," Pucey murmured, the words slipping out like poison. "It's got a bit of a bite to it. Maybe it’ll teach you angels don’t belong with the devil."
Draco’s jaw locked. He ripped his arm away with a violent, leather-creaking jerk, baring his newly-charmed fangs in a genuine, feral snarl.
Without giving the oversized tin can another second of his time, Draco tightened his hold on Hermione's wrist and steered her firmly into the pulsing chaos of the dance floor, leaving Pucey to rot in the artificial fog.
Draco dragged her through the sea of grinding bodies, the heavy bass of some muggle song vibrating straight through the soles of his boots. He didn't stop until they were dead centre of the dance floor, buffered from the rest of the room.
He finally let go of her wrist. His fingers immediately felt cold and entirely deprived, which was pathetic, but he was currently operating on the emotional baseline of a touch-starved Victorian widow whose only hobby was staring at the sea and weeping into a lace handkerchief.
Hermione turned to face him, the pulsing purple lights catching the soft, devastating curve of her neck.
"You didn't have to do that, you know," she said, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the music. "I was perfectly capable of telling him exactly where he could shove that cup."
"I don't doubt it, Granger," Draco drawled smoothly, looking down at her. "But the man was an aggressive eyesore. All that clanking was giving me a migraine."
Draco paused, bracing himself. He waited for his brain to short-circuit. He waited for the humiliating, full-body blush to set his face on fire. He waited to accidentally squeak or tell her she had very symmetrical collarbones.
Nothing happened.
Holy fucking shit. He was having a conversation with Hermione Granger, and he hadn't stammered. He hadn't panicked. He actually sounded like a man who knew how to reliably locate the clitoris rather than a virgin who’s heart was trying to beat it’s way out his arsehole.
It’s the leather, Draco realized, Pansy Parkinson, I am going to buy you a fucking castle.
Hermione let out a bright, genuine laugh, the sound hitting Draco squarely in the chest. She took a tiny step closer, entirely invading his personal space. Her vanilla scent cut right through the artificial fog and the smell of cheap Fire whisky.
"Well, thank you anyway," she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes. "He was entirely ruining the aesthetic of my favourite film."
A playful, deeply dangerous little smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She reached out, her fingers lightly catching the lapel of his duster.
Draco’s breath hitched. His cock immediately stood at attention, saluting its commanding officer.
"So, Spike," Hermione challenged softly, stepping into his space until her thighs brushed against his. Her eyes flashed with mischief. "Do vampires like to dance?"
Draco’s brain, which had spent the last six weeks functioning entirely as a panicked, sexually frustrated potato, suddenly and miraculously provided him with a line.
"They usually prefer the dark," Draco drawled, his voice dropping into a smooth, aristocratic purr that was so devastating he almost turned himself on. He stepped into her space, letting his hands settle firmly on the curve of her waist. "But I suppose I can brave the lights for an angel, like yourself."
Hermione’s breath hitched. Her eyes went wide, and then her entire face lit up with a smile so luminous it felt like the heavens opened up.
Nailed it. Draco thought, his soul ascending directly to the astral plane. I am a god. I am a leather-clad, smooth-talking deity of seduction.
She stepped flush against him, her hands sliding up the leather lapels of his duster to rest on his shoulders. Her fingers brushed the hair at the nape of his neck, and Draco’s vision actually swam with the sheer ecstasy of it.
They started moving to the heavy bass. It wasn't proper dancing but her hips were moving against his, and her thighs were pressing into his. He gripped her waist like a drowning man holding a piece of driftwood, pulling her just a fraction closer.
Over her feathered shoulder, through the heavy haze of the artificial fog, Draco caught sight of the dark corner near the snack table.
Theo was backed up against the wall, pressed backwards by Potter’s filthy vest pressing into his chest. Theo caught Draco’s eye. He looked at Draco's hands on Hermione's waist, put a hand over his own heart, and wiped away a fake tear of profound, fatherly pride before unhinging his jaw to apparently swallow Potter’s face whole.
Draco, operating on a high of unprecedented masculine triumph, simply decided even that couldn’t deter him from the high he was on.
He was winning. He had outmanoeuvred the giant tin can, and he was currently holding the brightest witch of her age by the hips.
And then, the universe remembered that he was Draco Malfoy, and decided to brutally, violently humble him.
His vision violently blurred, the edges of the room tunnelling in until all he could see was the white fabric of Hermione’s dress. He opened his mouth, desperately trying to drag oxygen into his suddenly restricted lungs, but the air felt impossibly thin.
"Malfoy?" Hermione murmured, the playful lilt vanishing from her voice. Her hands tightened on his shoulders. "Are you alright? You've gone completely grey."
A cold, clammy sweat broke out across his forehead. His heart was hammering with a frantic, terrifyingly erratic rhythm, vibrating painfully against his ribs.
"I—" Draco dragged a shaking hand over his face. The music was no longer a beat; it was a physical, crushing pressure against his skull. "I think I need some air."
Draco’s knees staged a full-scale mutiny.
He pitched forward, his heavy leather duster swirling like a dying bat, and found himself face-first in the crook of Hermione’s neck. If he weren't currently convinced his internal organs were being rearranged, he would have appreciated the fact that this would probably be the last time he got so close to her tits.
"Malfoy!" Hermione squeaked. He felt her small, surprisingly strong hands clamp onto his biceps. She didn't waste time. With a strength that definitely shouldn't have been possible for someone dressed as a delicate celestial being, she hooked his arm over her shoulder. Draco felt himself being half-dragged, half-guided toward the portrait hole, his boots scuffing uselessly against the floor.
The cool, silent air of the corridor hit him like a bucket of ice water, but it did nothing to clear the pink haze in his brain. Draco slumped against the stone wall, his fake fangs catching painfully on his bottom lip just to really rub salt in the wound.
Just as the portrait of the Fat Friar began to look down at him in pity, the door swung open again.
Theo practically tumbled out. His white vest was filthy, his plastic Muggle gun was still tucked into his waistband, and he looked like he was vibrating on a frequency only dogs could hear.
"Stop right there, scholar pop!" Theo barked, pointing a dramatic finger at Hermione. "What has happened to our resident Prince of Darkness? Has he finally succumbed to the sunlight? It’s the fog, isn't it? It’s too much for his delicate, aristocratic lungs."
"He just became unwell all of a sudden," Hermione explained. Draco felt her grip tighten on his waist, her voice thick with a worry that made his traitorous heart do a pathetic little flip. "He was fine one minute and then he just... collapsed. I think it might be the heat."
Draco’s head lolled to the side. He managed to catch Theo’s eye. His tongue felt like a lead weight and his throat was a corridor of fire, but he forced his lips to move. No sound came out, just a jagged, silent shape of a name.
Pucey.
Theo’s chaotic energy vanished in a heartbeat. His eyes went flat and cold, the playful persona falling away to reveal the sharp, dangerous Slytherin Draco had grown up with.
"Oh," Theo whispered, a dark, predatory smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I see."
"See what?" Hermione asked, looking between them. "Do you know what's wrong? I should take him to Pomfrey—"
"No, no," Theo said smoothly, stepping forward to pat Hermione’s hand with a sudden, eerie calm. "He doesn't need the hospital wing, my little gorgonzola-tart. He just needs his bed. I’ll take him."
"Absolutely not," Hermione countered. Draco felt the defiant set of her shoulders as she pulled him closer. "You’re... well, you’re clearly intoxicated, Theo. You just called me a cheese-based pastry. I’ll take him. I’ve got him."
Theo looked at Draco—pale, sweating, and currently staring at Hermione’s wings with the glazed expression of a man witnessing a miracle. He looked back at Hermione’s determined face, and a slow, mischievous glint returned to his eyes.
"You know what? You’re right," Theo sighed. He leaned down, grabbing Draco’s chin and forcing him to make eye contact. "Go with your angel, Draco, there’s a good little demon of the night."
Draco let out a weak, pathetic sound that might have been a protest but landed squarely in 'whimper' territory.
Theo leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a lethal, barely-audible whisper against Draco’s ear. "Go on. Get some rest, mate. I’m going back inside to have a very... educational conversation with our friend Adrian. Be good now."
Theo straightened up, gave Hermione a jaunty, two-finger salute, and winked. "Good luck, my little ravioli! Don't let him bite you—unless you’re into that!"
Before Draco’s scrambled brain could even process the horror of that sentence, Theo had vanished back into the pulsing purple light of the common room.
"He’s an odd little duck isn’t he?" Hermione muttered. Draco felt her bracing herself as she started to lead him toward the stairs. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
Draco nodded, but he didn't much care about ducks to be honest. Every step felt like he was trying to walk on a trampoline during an earthquake. He was vaguely aware of his boots dragging, the scritch-scratch of leather against stone keeping a jagged rhythm with the pulsing in his skull.
"Almost there, Draco," Hermione murmured, her shoulder tucked firmly under his arm.
Draco. She’d said his name again. His brain, currently being marinated in Pucey’s mystery cocktail, decided this was the most important piece of information it had ever received.
"Thank you, Hermione," he croaked, his head lolling against hers. The vanilla and old parchment scent of her was so thick now it was like a heavy blanket over his heart. He barely registered the little jolt through her muscles at the use of her given name.
He closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth of her. It was a tactical error. The moment he lost his visual horizon, the world decided to spin clockwise while his stomach went counter-clockwise.
By the time they reached his door, Draco was reasonably certain he had transcended the mortal plane. She guided him toward the bed, and Draco let out a long, shuddering sigh as he felt the mattress meet his hamstrings.
"Okay, let's get this off before you overheat," Hermione said, her hands moving to the heavy lapels of his duster.
Draco’s eyes flew open, wide and glazed. She was right there. Centred in his blurred vision, her halo of curls backlit by a soft glow of his enchanted lamps. Her fingers were nimble, peeling the heavy coat back over his shoulders.
The touch sent a jolt through him that even the potion couldn't dull. Her palms brushed against the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and Draco’s breath hitched. This was a dream. It had to be. He’d finally lost the battle with his own brain and drifted off into a hallucination designed by a very specific, very lonely department of his subconscious.
"There," she whispered, tossing the coat onto a nearby chair. She reached for his boots, tugging them off one by one, her movements gentle.
"You’re an angel," Draco breathed, his voice barely a thread. He watched her move, his heart hammering a frantic, muffled beat against his ribs. She looked so soft. The white feathers of her wings caught the light.
He was definitely dreaming. In reality, he was a disaster in a basement, but here... here, he was being tended to by a celestial being who didn't seem to mind that he was a disgraced death eater with fake fangs.
"Go to sleep, Spike," she laughed softly, reaching out to pull the duvet over him.
He caught her hand. His fingers were shaking, his grip weak, but he held on like a drowning man. "Don't go back to the party," he murmured, his eyes half-closing as the dark edges of sleep began to pull at him. "The knight... he's a fork. You shouldn't dance with cutlery. It’s... it’s dangerous."
He felt a small, huffed laugh vibrate through her hand. "I'm not going back. I'm staying right here until you're asleep."
"Good," he whispered, his thumb grazing the back of her knuckles. "Stay. You're the only thing that's... that's heavenly in this place. I think I’ve been waiting for an angel, now you’re here."
His head sank deeper into the pillow. The potion was winning now, dragging him down into a heavy, velvet darkness. In his mind, he was already drifting through a white haze, the scent of vanilla leading the way.
Just as the last of his consciousness began to slip away, he felt it. A soft, fleeting pressure against his forehead.
"Goodnight, Draco," she whispered.
When the door finally closed, Draco sung himself to sleep.
“Love me, love me...
Say that you love me.
Fool me, fool me…”