A/N: references to potions abuse; dub-con

June 5, 1998

"This is stupid," Zacharias Smith whined.

"Shut it," Draco ordered, though he secretly agreed.

Greg grunted, a sound that might have indicated that he agreed with either or the both of them.

They were currently wasting an unusually beautiful Friday afternoon - Draco's birthday, to boot - patrolling Hogsmeade in full Death Eater regalia, searching for potential dissidents. He would much rather be flying around the Quidditch pitch, enjoying the capricious Scottish sunshine on the shores of the Black Lake, or trying to charm his way back into Granger's good books.

He knew their current patrol was a tremendous waste of time. Anyone inclined to oppose the Dark Lord was either dead or fled from the village. Not even Gryffindors were so suicidally stupid as to remain living next door to Hogwarts now that it was firmly under the control of Death Eaters. The only more dangerous place to live in wizarding Britain would be Malbourne, the magical hamlet in the shadow of Malfoy Manor, now the headquarters of the Dark Lord's regime. Draco grimaced at the needling reminder that Voldemort stalked the halls of his family's ancestral home as lord and master, with no Malfoys present to check him.

"I'm hot," Smith continued his litany of complaints. "Why do we have to wear masks, anyways? It's not like anyone at the Ministry is going to arrest us."

"It's not like anyone is going to be intimidated by your pimply face, so keep your mask on," Draco snapped at him.

"I'm hungry," Greg said plaintively, his stomach growling as proof.

"You're always hungry, you big lump," Smith sneered.

"Bugger off, Hufflepoof. Drake, when can we head back to the castle for dinner?" asked Greg. "It's already past six."

An evil smile crossed Draco's face. "You and I can go now. Dear Zacharias can go just as soon as he finishes searching the goat pen behind the Hog's Head. Aberforth Dumbledore was a senior member of the Order of the Phoenix - there's no telling what he might have hidden under the goat manure." Like Theo and several others, Aberforth had gone missing after the battle at Hogwarts and was presumed dead.

"You can't - " spluttered Smith.

"I can," Draco confirmed. "I just did."

He walked away, chuckling, his arm slung over Goyle's beefy shoulder. He might have just turned eighteen, but Draco doubted he would ever be too old to enjoy a spot of Hufflepuff-baiting.

"How's your mum?" Greg asked once they had left Smith behind. From his hesitant tone, it was clear he was expressing concern, not just making conversation.

"I don't know," Draco confessed. "She sent me some chocolates for my birthday, but she wrote that she was indisposed and couldn't see me this weekend." He was no closer to finding out what was wrong with his mum, but the spidery state of her normally beautiful handwriting and her inability to see him had only sharpened his worries.

"I'm sorry," Greg said, his words sincere if inadequate.

Draco dipped his head in acknowledgement, and they continued their walk to Hogsmeade's main street in silence. Just in front of Honeyduke's, they ran across the Death Eater patrol that had taken the west side of the village.

"Anything of note, Malfoy?" asked Marcus Flint, pulling off his mask and wiping his brow.

"Nothing." Draco shook his head.

"Same here. Zabini, Longbottom - you two can head back up to the castle, or grab a pint at the Three Broomsticks if you want," Flint told the two younger Death Eaters. "Good job today, not that there was much to it."

Draco hid a smile, well-used to his former Quidditch captain's miserly praise.

"Where's Smith?" Blaise asked, his dark eyes - as usual - missing nothing.

"Up to his elbows in goat shit, if he knows what's good for him," Draco replied.

Marcus guffawed. "That two-faced prick deserves it," he opined.

"Yes," Blaise grinned in agreement, and even Longbottom's dour face brightened slightly.

"Drake, d'ya mind?" Goyle asked, looking towards Honeyduke's display window with longing.

"Go right ahead," Draco gave his permission.

Blaise waved a languid hand. "I'm off to Hogwarts. See you at dinner?"

Draco nodded and Zabini sauntered away.

"I think I'll check on Smith, make sure he's doing a thorough job searching through the goat shit," Longbottom offered, somewhat to Draco's surprise. The Gryffindor loped off without waiting for a response.

"Can you trust them together?" Flint asked curiously. "A Gryff and a 'Puff?"

"There's no love lost there," Draco stated with confidence. "Smith is shagging Longbottom's girlfriend - rents her by the hour from Carrow."

Marcus nodded safely. "No fucking way they're conspiring together, then."

"No," Draco agreed.

"Longbottom's a hard 'un. He may murder Smith and bury him in the goat pen," Flint predicted.

Draco shrugged. "No great loss, so long as he doesn't get caught." Then Granger would be even more adamant that he had to step up and become the Chosen One.

"Have a drink with me," Flint half-suggested, half-ordered, jerking his head in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.

"Alright," Draco agreed, curious as to what Marcus wanted. They were former Quidditch teammates, but by no means friends. "You can buy me a round for my birthday."

Inside the pub, Flint ordered Firewhisky for them both, an order that Madam Rosmerta scampered to fill. Draco sardonically thought that good service was one fringe benefit of taking the Dark Mark.

"So, er, how're things with Granger?" Marcus asked awkwardly.

Draco pasted a smirk on his face. "Wonderful. I love having a sexy, swotty Mudblood at my beck and call. The mouth she has on her . . . . " He trailed off, giving Flint the misimpression that he was referring to oral sex rather than Granger's tongue-lashings. The witch had not been pleased to discover that he had saved a Horcrux from destruction, and Draco's protests that he had only been following the Dark Lord's orders had fallen on deaf ears. He needed to figure out what Nuremberg had to do with it, even though Granger's attitude in the weeks since he had told her about Ravenclaw's diadem made it clear she found his defense wholly unpersuasive.

"Lucky you," Marcus said sourly.

"Are you having trouble with Bell?" Draco queried, after taking a moment to remember the Gryffindor Chaser's name.

Flint laughed without humor. "Oh, sure, we're just peachy, so long as I keep feeding her lust potions or Amorentia."

"Doesn't her brand make her obey and want to please you?" Draco asked. Granger struggled with that, and he doubted Flint's witch was nearly so strong-willed.

"My dad branded her, so Katie's bound to him, not me. He told her she has to do what I want, but she just lies there and thinks of England, unless I've given her a potion," Marcus explained.

"I'd go easy on the Amorentia - it can have some negative effects long-term," Draco advised, hiding his vague distaste at Flint's use of the love potion.

Marcus nodded. "Especially because I'm trying to knock her up. I know Amorentia's bad for the sprog. But it would be nice to have Katie look at me like I'm not a troll."

Draco blinked. He was not surprised Flint was trying to get Bell pregnant - the Dark Lord had made it clear that he wanted his followers to start producing the next generation of Death Eaters. Nor was he surprised that Marcus craved Bell's affection - his crush on the Gryffindor Chaser had been the worst-concealed secret on the Slytherin Quidditch team. But Draco had not expected Flint, a less than stellar Potions student, to know that particular obscure fact about Amorentia. "It can be," he agreed. "There are several historical examples of dangerously disturbed wizards and witches who were conceived while a parent was under the influence of Amorentia."

"Like the Dark Lord, if you believe the Quibbler," Marcus whispered, knocking back more of his Firewhisky.

"I think it would be dangerous for anyone to believe anything published in that rag," Draco warned, taking a cautious sip of his own drink.

"Yeah, I know." Flint sighed, returning to the previous subject. "I just want Katie to like me, how Granger likes you."

"I'm not an agony aunt, Marcus," Draco cautioned. "And I don't know if Granger exactly likes me." He knew she still had not forgiven him for sealing Potter's fate by swapping out the real Horcrux for a fake diadem, and she also was frustrated that they had no leads as to what the Dark Lord had done with the real diadem after Draco handed it over like a good little soldier. "But maybe try to do some things with Bell that she likes, instead of just shagging her. She's a good Chaser - find a pitch, ward it so she can't fly off, and let her have some fun. Treat her like a witch you're trying to score with, not a slave who has to do what you want."

"Yeah, yeah. That might work," Marcus said hopefully. He finished his drink and stood to go. "I think I'll head back to Katie now and give it a try."

"Good luck," Draco offered, hiding his internal pessimism. Really, the solution to Flint's problem was to stop coercing Bell to have sex with him, not the Draco could give him that advice without drawing suspicion onto himself.

He jogged back to Hogwarts, making it to the Great Hall as dinner was ending. He was pleased to see that Granger was seated next to Goyle, who must have fetched her from their chambers. She still was too thin to go skipping meals, but he also had warned her against walking the halls alone. Carrow was so free with Hannah Abbott's favors that Draco worried some of his classmates might think Granger was fair game, too.

He sat down next to Granger, wrapping one long arm around her waist to squeeze her close. He nuzzled her neck, smirking at how her pulse picked up from his antics. Extensive role-playing had blurred the line between fiction and fantasy for both of them. "I wish I could have taken you to Hogsmeade, pet. It would've been much more fun," he purred in her ear.

"But then I would have missed out on an afternoon studying in the library," she replied with a toss of her head, twisting away to hand him a plate made up with all his favorites.

He dug in with an appetite. "Thanks, Granger," he said, with genuine appreciation, choosing to focus on her actions rather than her words.

Dinner passed quickly and in relative silence at the senior end of the Slytherin table, with Draco, Blaise, Greg and Smith - snake by default, since he was no longer welcome at the Hufflepuff table - all tired and footsore from hours marching around Hogsmeade. Pudding had just disappeared from the table and Draco was preparing to take Granger and go when Greg slid a box of Chocolate Frogs in front of him.

"Happy birthday, Drake," he said gruffly.

Blaise handed him an unwrapped box from Scrivenshaft's, which, by its size and shape, contained a new quill. "Just a little token - my mother took care of the main gift."

"And it's much appreciated," Draco said with sincerity. Magda Zabini had obtained, through methods better left unexamined, Italian documents giving Granger a witch for a grandmother. If Draco ever fell from favor, or if Rookwood decided to renege on their agreement, Granger still would be safe from the Unspeakables and their experiments.

"I didn't realize it was your birthday, Malfoy," Granger apologized, flushed with embarrassment. "I didn't get you anything - I'm so sorry!"

"It's alright, pet." Draco winked at her. "You can make it up to me later."

"Speaking of that," Smith snickered, "I slipped her a lust potion as my present to you, Drake." He lowered his voice so Goyle would not overhear. "It's the same one I use on Abbott - your Mudblood will be begging for it in every hole." He gave Draco a grin that was meant to be ingratiating. "I noticed she's been a bit feisty, but this will bring her back in line."

Draco looked at Granger in horror. She looked almost feverish, with her brown eyes - normally shining with intelligence - glazed over. She leaned against him, panting softly and clinging in a manner that reminded him of Pansy at her worst.

"I won't forget this, Smith," Draco promised, as Granger's hand crept up his thigh. The Hufflepuff preened, clearly oblivious to Draco's real meaning. "Now go take a shower - you smell like a goat's arse."

He turned to Granger. "C'mon, pet. Let's get you to bed." She came along docilely enough, other than her wandering hands.

"Hands to yourself, Granger," Draco ordered just outside the Great Hall, his self-control already worn perilously thin by her stroking and rubbing. They were not even in the dungeons yet, but he was struggling not to throw her up against a wall and shove her skirt up, taking what he had wanted for weeks now and what she currently was so eager to give. Looking into her eyes stopped him, since Granger so clearly was not herself.

She pouted at the command but obeyed. Then, much to his consternation, she began unbuttoning her blouse, revealing a pale blue cotton bra.

"Granger, keep your clothes on," he hissed.

Her pout deepened, but she did up her shirt, much to his relief. "But I'm hot," she whimpered.

"Go to the bedroom and get changed into something more comfortable," Draco instructed once they reached their chambers. During their walk through the dungeons, he had formulated a half-arsed sort of plan.

Granger obeyed, sashaying off to their bedroom. "Hurry, please," she requested, giving him a heated look over her shoulder.

Draco took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, before rummaging through Snape's potions cupboard. Dreamless Sleep was too obvious, with its distinctive purple color, but there was a weaker sleeping draught that looked just like water. He poured a measure into a conjured glass, using a few simple charms to alter the color and flavor slightly to mimic a common contraceptive potion.

He nearly dropped the glass at the sight of her when he walked into the bedroom. "Oh, fuck! Granger, you're going to be the death of me."

She was sprawled on the sheets, wearing a scanty bra and matching panties that she must have transfigured from her pastel cotton. He had seen enough of Pansy's lingerie over the years to know that his ex-girlfriend favored frilly, pink unmentionables, but Granger was wearing nothing but three strategically placed triangles of material in Slytherin green, made out of a silk so sheer that he could make out her nipples. The amount of golden skin on display was mouth-watering and the delicate silver chains connecting the silky triangles reminded him, on a primal level, that she was his slave and he could do to her whatever he wished.

"Malfoy, please," she said with a sultry smile, holding her arms out to him.

A more advanced part of his brain noted the vacant look in her eyes and a telltale slackness to her jaw. Draco quite firmly told himself that even Marcus Flint - who possessed all the sensitivity and intelligence of a Bludger - knew that it was wrong to use potions to coerce a witch's sexual favors, even if said witch was the embodiment of his randiest fantasies.

"Drink up, pet," he directed, handing her the glass at arm's length. "I don't want to make any babies when I fuck you."

She downed the potion immediately, without comment, another sign of her compromised state. Granger always asked questions.

"Tastes fruity," she commented, licking her lips.

He was transfixed by that darting pink tongue, and she noticed. "Would you like me to suck - "

Draco cut her off with a kiss, rationalizing as his tongue tangled with hers that kissing was authorized conduct. He could snog her for the few minutes it took until the potion made her sleep, and she would hopefully not want to kill him or die from mortification once she sobered up. However, he had not taken into account Granger's quick, nimble little hands or her obstinate determination to get him into bed. She pulled him down on top of her and had his shirt unbuttoned before he could break off the kiss to protest.

"Slow down - we have all night," he admonished.

She shook her head, wild curls tickling his bare chest. "I want you now." She was unbuckling his belt and delving into his trousers and Draco knew he was perilously close to doing something unforgivable.

"Uh-unh," he grunted, grabbing Granger's questing hands and pinning them above her head.

Rather than objecting, she squirmed with pleasure underneath him and spread her legs in wanton invitation. "Please, Draco," she whined. "Please fuck me."

"It's not like you to beg," he observed, desperately trying to distract himself from the warmth and wetness he could feel even through his boxer shorts and whatever skimpy fabric she had between her legs. A real wizard never takes advantage of a witch, his mother had always taught him. Draco repeated that mantra in his head. A real wizard never takes advantage of a witch. Not even a sexy Mud- Muggleborn. It took more willpower than actual physical strength to pull himself away from Granger's body and flip her onto stomach.

"Draco," she squealed in surprised protest. He realized that was the second time in a row she had used his given name, something she never did other than as part of a safe phrase.

"I want to try something, but I need you to be relaxed," he said softly, running his hands down her sides, stopping to trace the runes low on her back with a fingertip.

"Alright," she agreed breathlessly. "Whatever you want."

Draco felt vaguely sick at her potions-induced compliance. "Just lay still," he told her, continuing to glide his hands up and down her back. After a few minutes that only seemed interminable, Granger's body went limp under his hands. Draco rolled her to one side, silently thanking Merlin that the sleeping potion had finally taken effect. With a flick of his wand, he pulled the sheet up to cover her from neck to toes, hiding her enticing body from his sight.

He stomped off towards the shower, his erection jutting out of his still-undone trousers, frustrated beyond measure that he would be celebrating his birthday with his own hand while the witch he wanted was snoring softly in their bed. "Happy fucking birthday to me," Draco muttered sourly.