Goyle held his wand on Hermione. Draco pointed his at Goyle. Potter took a step back and leveled his own weapon at the man still on the floor.

"I think this is what people call a stalemate," Draco said.

"Oh, but it's not," Hermione said. "I have something Gregory wants."

Goyle began to smile. It was a hideous thing and spoke of poor dental care and too many cigarettes, but that wasn't what concerned Draco most. What worried him was the cool pleasure that slid through all of Hermione's words. He knew her well enough to be afraid. Goyle, naturally, did not.

"You've got the wand," he said. "Hand it over."

"I'm going to have to reach down into my handbag to get it," Hermione said. "Do you think you can hold off cursing me long enough for me to do that."

"I ain't nobody's fool," Goyle said. "You just put that pretty leather bag on the floor and slide it toward me with your foot."

"I really don't think you want her to do that," Potter said.

Goyle sneered. "You don't think I'm going to trust her to reach into her bloody bag and pull out the Elder Wand, do you?"

Potter shrugged. "On your own head it be," he said, "but she's got an undetectable extension charm on that thing, and more than one nasty trap inside it."

Goyle did not appear to be impressed. "Jus' slide it over," he said. "I'll be the judge of that."

Hermione smiled, bent down slowly, and set her handbag on the floor. The line of her leg as she slid it toward him was long and lean and everything Draco appreciated in a woman's limb. He hoped it wouldn't end up limp and lifeless on the floor before the night was over.

Goyle squatted down, his eyes still on them, one hand holding his wand with a near-death grip. Well, Draco couldn't blame him for that. Potter did have a history of solving problems by disarming people. He reached the other hand down into Hermione's bag without looking and felt around. His face went from smug pleasure to confusion. He pulled out the pair of hiking boots Hermione had used in the Forbidden Forest, looked at them with fury, and threw them across the room.

"I paid good money for those at Harrods," Hermione said, narrowing her eyes. "Taking the wand in no way means you have license to destroy my things."

Goyle's mouth twisted in a sneer, and he pulled out flats and tossed them across the room as well, then a book on the best tourist spots in Bulgaria, then a pack of cigarettes. No wand.

"How much of yer crap do you have in here?" he demanded.

"I told you she has an extension charm," Potter said.

"A girl likes to be prepared," Hermione said.

"What the -!" Goyle pulled his hand out of Hermione's back. Blood dripped from one finger, which seemed to be missing the tip. He sucked on it and stared at the lot of them, angrier by the minute.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Now I'm going to have to clean," she said. "And blood is so hard to get out."

"What the hell do you have in there, bitch?" Goyle demanded.

That was too much. Holding a wand on them was fine. That was just business, and Draco'd held enough wands on enough people in his time to understand that sometimes, if you played at the edge of the law, that was necessary. Calling Hermione a bitch was something completely different. Unacceptably different. "There's no reason to be vulgar," Draco said. He frowned. "She told you she'd get it out for her, and Potter warned you she had traps in there. You really ought to have listened to them."

"Bugger off, Malfoy."

Draco shrugged. He'd heard that more than a few times in his life. It had lost its power years ago.

Goyle shoved the bag back toward Hermione. "You get it out," he said. "Bitch." That last bit seemed to be directed at Draco as much as it was at Hermione, and Draco felt his irritation grow. This had been a very bad night. He'd had to feel up Potter's arse, see Hermione threatened, hand over the cloak he had rightfully stolen, and now this imbecile was determined to descend to schoolyard taunts.

Hermione squatted down, reached her hand slowly into her bag, and closed her fingers around something.

Draco expected her to fling a bit of flash powder or Peruvian darkness up into Goyle's face. That would let them get away, no foul no harm. Whatever she claimed, she'd have told him if she had the wand. She wouldn't have led him up to Dumbledore's tomb. Not if she already had it.

She pulled out a wand knew at a glance, sharply said, "Avada Kedavra," and Goyle fell, the look of shock still on his face when he hit the floor.

Draco looked at the Elder Wand, at the body on the floor, and all he could say was, "Shite."