Chapter Seven

Seventh Revelation

Hermione stretched, too comfortable where she was to really want to move, much. But then she felt arms tighten around her and she forced her bleary eyes open.

She found that she was laying atop a sleeping Draco on one of the plush, dark green sofas in the Slytherin common room. Brow furrowing, she glanced about. It was difficult to discern what time it was in the posh dungeons beneath the Black Lake, but she had a feeling it was early morning.

With any luck, they'd still have time enough to each sneak back to their dorm rooms.

She utterly ignored the giddy, fluttering warmth that curled through her as she realized she and Draco had slept in each other's arms.

Bracing her palms on his chest, she lifted herself up. "Draco," she said in an urgent whisper. "Draco? Wake up."

He mumbled something unintelligible and tightened his arms around her waist. Turning in his sleep, he pulled her with him.

What woke him, then, was the surprised squeak Hermione forced out as the maneuver wedged her between his body and the sofa cushions. Making a drowsy rumbling sound in the back of his throat, he opened his eyes, meeting her gaze.

"Morning, Granger," he said, smirking at how disheveled she looked with her wild, golden-brown hair in greater disarray than usual. "Funny, I don't recall us falling asleep."

Biting hard into her bottom lip, she narrowed her eyes in a scathing glare. Given their predicament, she couldn't bring herself to worry just now that she hadn't recalled falling asleep, or even making their way from the arm chair on the other side of the room—where they'd made the most of the night before their experiment was to begin, to phrase the activity delicately.

He chuckled as he rolled onto his back, once more. "Sorry," he whispered. Sparing a moment to look around the silent common room, he asked, "What time do you think it is?"

"Time enough for us to not get caught here, if we're lucky," she said as she sat up.

"Pity," he murmured, reaching up to stroke the tips of his fingers along her throat and over her collar bone. Her unbuttoned uniform blouse hung open, and the satin cups of her bra were pulled down to bunch beneath her breasts, baring them to his gaze. "Because this is really a sight I could stand to witness for a bit longer."

She grinned in spite of herself, but playfully slapped his hand away. There wasn't time for her to admire that he was in a similar state of undress; if she even entertained the notion, they'd risk that the entirety of Slytherin House might catch them shagging on the sofa.

Shifting to slip off him, she noticed something felt odd.

Standing, she met his gaze, again, as she righted her bra and began buttoning her blouse. "Draco, where are my knickers?"

He held up his other hand, displaying the bit of black lace and satin looped almost artfully around his fingers. "Whoops," he said after a moment, shrugging.

Frowning, she snatched them from his hand. Before she could step into them, however, they both heard the distinct creak of a door opening from the corridors that branched off the common room, followed by another, and another.

She felt her heart drop into her stomach as she glanced frantically from him, toward the corridors, and back. He held her gaze with wide eyes before the echo of footfalls reached his ears.

"Shit," he muttered from between clenched teeth.

Shooting to his feet, he latched a hand around her wrist. There wasn't time to reach the stairs to the main floor, and even if they did, they'd no doubt encounter other students—and some faculty—looking as they did, now.

He glanced over his shoulder, mouthing the word, "C'mon."

Nodding numbly, Hermione was right on his heels as they darted across the common room. Between two enormous trophy cabinets, a large, decorative curtain hung. He lifted the side of the dark, tasseled velvet and relinquished his hold on her arm to make an after you gesture.

Despite her chagrin at the hiding spot, she ducked beneath the curtain. She slid as far along the wall as she dared, making space for him beside her.

Long, painfully stretched minutes passed as they listened to snippets of conversation, laughs, footfalls, even some falling from students pushing each other about. Even in the darkness of their hiding spot, Draco could feel Hermione's irritated glare over the in-House bullying.

He shrugged, leaning to whisper in her ear, "First years finding their place in the pecking order, is all."

Inhaling sharply through her nostrils—the way the curtain was suspended from the wall left just enough room that the space was stuffy, but breathable—she turned her head to look in his direction, despite that she could barely make out his silhouette against the even-darker black of the wall behind them.

She opened her mouth to respond, but he slipped his arm around her neck to clamp his hand over her lips, silencing her. Fantastic, she thought with a roll of her eyes. Having the sides of their bodies pressed to each other was not very helpful, just now.

"Now, now, Granger," he said, his voice so low she barely heard him, but she could tell by his tone that he was smirking, even as he let his hand fall away. "We mustn't speak loudly—which you will if you get angry—or we'll get caught like this."

Holding in an unhappy groan, she shook her head. "I can be quiet, Draco."

"Is that a challenge?"

Brow furrowing, she once more turned her head to look at him. Before she could ask what he meant, she felt the tips of his fingers skimming along her thigh, easing the hem of her skirt upward.

Biting her lip to hold in a gasp, she shook her head. "You wouldn't dare," she said in a scandalized whisper.

He murmured a chuckle as he lifted her skirt higher, still. "Honestly, Granger. Have you learned nothing over the last few days?"

Hermione . . . found herself at an impasse at that moment. She both wanted him to stop, and wanted him to go on. But she knew if she said nothing at all, he'd make the decision for her, either way, and that was not going to happen.

She latched her hand around his wrist, halting his progress, even as she leaned a bit more into his side.

His eyebrows rose. "If you wanted me to stop, you could have simply said so."

"Draco, you idiot," she whispered, finding it her turn to smirk now, as she guided his hand a little higher. "I don't want you to stop, but that doesn't mean I don't want you to seek my permission."

Nodding, he sank his fingers between her thighs at her urging. He felt rewarded by the way her head fell against his shoulder as a hushed rumbling sound worked its way out of her throat. "Fair enough."

As she shifted, parting her legs a bit more for his stroking hand, she noticed . . . . "Draco, wait."

Not that he didn't adore hearing her speak his name in that breathy whisper, but this was getting a bit ridiculous. "Dear God, woman, you're going to kill me," he said as he stilled his motions.

She laughed as she shook her head. "No, no. Listen."

He paused a moment, straining to hear whatever she was referring to, but the effort wasn't necessary. The common room had fallen silent. Either everyone had finally made their way up to the Great Hall for breakfast, or they were about to push aside the curtain to find they'd been louder than they realized and gained an audience.

He felt it as she slid her arm in front of him to pull the curtain aside and find out which it was. A sudden thought caused him to wind his arm around hers, stopping her.

Whichever was the case, he wouldn't get in trouble for being down here so early in the morning, but she would. He could always browbeat anyone standing on the other side into not checking who it was sharing the hiding space with him.

He scowled at himself even as he said, "Let me." Honestly, this concern for someone else over such a simple thing was a bit grating.

Saving her life? Sure. But saving her reputation? Who was he turning into?

Swallowing around the sensation of his heart lodging in his throat, he pushed the curtain aside and poked his head out. He held in a sigh of relief as he stepped from their hiding spot.

"All clear."

Hermione felt the tension drain out of her so fast she had to lean against the wall a moment to keep her legs from going out from under her. It was odd, she realized, as she breathed deeply before pushing away from the wall. Despite the anxiety of the last few seconds, she was still a little wound up from Draco's antics.

Actually, more so, she thought, all too aware of a sweet little ache between her thighs as she moved to stand beside him.

"Should we wait a few more minutes to make sure everyone's at breakfast?"

Without answering, she started to cross the room, reaching back and lacing her fingers blindly through his to tug him along behind her. "Which way is your room?"

Draco's jaw dropped and he halted mid-stride without realizing. "You're serious? You want to go to my room to—?"

The look she cast him over her shoulder silenced him before he could finish the question.

Clearing his throat, he nodded. "Okay, well," he said as he stepped around her to take the lead, "this way, then."

Hermione bit back a giddy laugh as she trailed behind him. "Oh, wait!"

He let out a groan as he turned back to face her. "I wasn't joking. You're going to be the death of me at this rate."

She shrugged, blushing as she darted her gaze about. It wasn't that she didn't want to go, but . . . . "After how long we . . . well, how long we were at it last night, I have the feeling that if we get into a room with a bed, we might end up missing today's classes. Like, all of them."

Tipping his head to one side, he slipped his arm around her and pulled her tight against him. A half smile curved his mouth at the way she gasped when he slipped his hand beneath her skirt to cup her bare bum. She must've forgotten—though he was all too aware—that she'd never gotten a chance to put her knickers on, still clutching them in her free hand, even as they stood there.

"Granger," he said, dipping his head to scrape his teeth against her bottom lip before he continued. "If there are any two students in this school who can afford to miss a day's lessons, it's us."

She let out a little moan as she pressed herself more firmly to him—there was something so delightful about how the sounds she made set off a wash of color in his cheeks. Her gaze drifted from his to trace his mouth. "I sort of hate it when you're right."

He arched a brow as he nodded. "But I am right?"

She shook her head, her green-speckled brown eyes narrowing at the triumphant tone in his voice. "You are. Lead on."


He pressed forward, his legs burning as he ran faster. He didn't know how he avoided crashing face-first into the trees that whizzed past him as he moved; he simply did.

They were behind him . . . he could hear them. He could feel them.

Their terrible, crimson faces were an image in the back of his mind more than a solid reality. He refused to even glance over his shoulder at them, refused to confirm his mental picture of the creatures. He simply knew.

The same way he simply knew there was blood dripping from their sharp, gnashing teeth.


Ginny nodded a greeting to Madame Pomfrey behind the front desk of the school hospital as she dropped off her bag. "Where do you need me?"

Medicinal Magic had been the last area anyone thought would draw the youngest Weasley's attention. However, after the War, after seeing so many injured, so very many who'd needed aid that even the resident Medi-Witch's best efforts were barely enough, she couldn't think of anything more worthy of her time.

Professor McGonagall had agreed to let her volunteer during morning classes, which she had free, to accumulate hands-on experience prior to graduation. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to do most mornings aside from tidying up.

Madame Pomfrey nodded toward the lone, occupied bed. "You can check on Mr. Zabini."

"Blaise?" Ginny glanced from the Medi-witch to the patient, and back. One of Draco Malfoy's cronies. Joy. "What's wrong with him?"

Poppy arched a brow, but grinned warmly at Ginny's concern. Eventually the girl would remember to use the professional terminology she was studying.

"Medically, nothing. It is likely anxiety-related. He is complaining of nausea, sweats, and nightmares, but my examination of him showed nothing, physically, amiss. The elves brought him some breakfast this morning, but he was sleeping soundly and I did not wish to disturb him." She gestured with a wave of her hand to the table nearest Blaise's bed. "The tray is still there. Wake him—gently—and advise him to eat something."

Forcing a smile onto her face, Ginny nodded. She turned on her heel and made a reluctant bee-line for Blaise's bed.

Despite her misgivings, the closer she got to him, the more she actually found herself becoming concerned. He was twitching in his sleep, his dark cheeks were ashen, and she could see the sweat beading his forehead.

Sighing, she shook her head and pulled a nearby stool up beside the bed to sit. She placed a delicate hand on his shoulder to wake him, but pulled back again, just as quickly.


Just as he thought he couldn't make it another step—his lungs were ready to burst and his muscles screamed with every motion—he broke through the tree line to find himself in a clearing.


Wincing, she once more gave her head a shake. Odd, at that touch, she could swear a jumble of disjointed images whirled past her mind's eye. Too fast to make sense of it, so she pushed it aside. Her imagination, was all.

Nightmares were not contagious.

Yet, as she returned her attention to Blaise, she found that his trembling had subsided, and some of the color had returned to his face. Brow furrowing, she touched his shoulder, again.

"Blaise?"


As the creatures trailing him burst into the clearing behind him, he heard their footfalls slow. He slowed to a jog in response.

Then they stopped, altogether. He slowed further, still. After a few more quick steps, he heard nothing at all behind him.

Halting, finally, he turned to face them as he caught his breath. Their faces were, indeed, as terrible as he'd imagined, but he found he could not fear them anymore. Not as they backpedaled and lowered to one knee before him.

"I don't understand," he said, pausing a moment to force a gulp down his throat. "What is it you want with me?"

The one closest to him raised his crimson-skinned hand, pointing a single, clawed finger beyond where Blaise stood.

Ignoring the sudden chill down his spine, Blaise turned to follow the gesture. In the center of the clearing he saw something he'd not noticed when he'd entered.

Frowning, he approached the elaborately carved wooden throne, his footsteps cautious. Did they expect him to sit down? Was he a meal for some invisible beast, seated there, already?


"Blaise?"


The closer he drew to it, the less trepidation he felt. He found himself standing straighter, his shoulders squared, and his head held high.


"Blaise?"


He reached out to touch the arm of it. Just as his fingers brushed the wood—


"Blaise, c'mon. Wake up."

His eyes snapped open to the odd sight of Ginny Weasley leaning over him.

"Finally," she said with a sigh, smiling as she sat back. "You were actually beginning to worry me."

After a moment of darting his gaze about, he got his bearings—Madame Pomfrey had mentioned a student volunteer might check on him. "Right." He uttered a quick, hoarse chuckle. "The day a Weasley worries over any Slytherin student . . . ."

She shook her finger at him, trying to maintain a light tone. "Now, Zabini, any proper Medi-Witch treats all her patients with the same care and compassion, regardless of said patient's personal shortcomings."

He frowned at the insult that finished out her otherwise innocuous statement.

"Madame Pomfrey said you should eat something," she continued as she stood to cross to the table.

She couldn't help but glance over her shoulder at him as she removed the cover from the tray and gripped its sides. He looked like normal, if slightly-pale, Blaise Zabini, and yet, for reasons she couldn't name . . . .

When he'd first opened his eyes, she'd expected the whole of them to be a rich, velvety black. So dark, she'd see herself reflected in their inky depths.