October 3, 2017
Author's Notes: Reviews appreciated!

Malfoy's Patented Daydream Scheme

Chapter Three: Daydreaming

The daydream charms arrived promptly two days later, delivered by carrier pigeon in a discreet package that all the same made Draco's face burn at the breakfast table upon its arrival.

Neville eyed the package and then glanced at Draco before looking away swiftly, as if to avoid Draco's impending wrath.

"What?" Draco ground out between clenched teeth.

"Nothing!" Neville replied, his voice falsely innocent.

"Just say it."

"I wasn't aware you owned chickens is all."

"I don't."

"Then what do you need a chicken-bathing kit for?"

Draco closed his eyes as the next words came out of his mouth. "I thought Hagrid's chickens looked a little muddy."

There was no way Neville believed that codswallop, but the man nodded his head as if this was a reasonable explanation. "I don't suppose you plan on giving the baths."

"No one else could possibly do it better than I could."

"Of course," Neville said before lifting his orange juice to his lips and ending the conversation.

Draco had two lessons to teach that morning, and then he secreted himself away in his closet office, locking the door securely behind him. A piece of parchment, a quill, and a well of ink awaited his notes as he took a seat and retrieved one of the charms from his desk drawer.

He glanced at the instructions one more time and then opened the box and pulled out a scrap of paper that read:

Classmate, partner, friend, then lover.
Passion in the classroom shall be discovered!

Draco rolled his eyes, but he gripped his wand and repeated the ridiculous incantation out loud. He'd expected a gradual sleepiness to overcome him, but, instead, he was immediately shoved into a daydream, the transition from his office to a student's desk in a generic classroom far too subtle for Draco's liking. He hardly felt like he was dreaming at all.

He took in his surroundings through narrowed eyes, unsettled by the familiar and yet glaringly wrong setting. Hogwarts and its classrooms were constructed of stone, yet this room had wooden floors and tall windows that emitted a plethora of light and looked out onto an empty plain—not the Forbidden Forest or the Black Lake. Sunbeams slanted into the room, illuminating motes of dust that danced like flaky snow through the air.

Radiating in the early evening glow, spotlit specifically by the sun's rays, Draco was perplexed to find Ginny Weasley sitting in the desk to the right of him. To be so bold as to feature her inside the daydream charm, either her brother's sense of humor had gone moldy or her ego (and ethics?) had inflated over the last few years.

She scratched at some parchment with a quill, her brow furrowed and her lips puckered in concentration. Draco's attention caught on her mouth until she looked up and noticed him staring, prompting him to quickly turn away, but not before he saw her smile at him.

Weasley leaned toward him, her shoulder brushing his. "Trying to copy my notes, Malfoy?" Her voice was low, nearly whispering, and she threw a glance at the front of the classroom where a woman who vaguely matched Minerva's description sat dozing in her desk chair. Students sat in desks around them, heads bent over textbooks and quills scribbling against parchment.

Draco didn't answer her, instead keeping his head turned away. What in the world was he supposed to do now? What script was he supposed to follow?

In the few moments that had passed since entering the daydream, the atmosphere of the room had begun to change. At first, Draco had not noticed a difference between the dream and reality, the setting feeling all too real to him, but as he observed his surroundings, he began to notice how the light cascading through the windows gave the dream a hazy quality. The heat from that light, from Weasley pressing herself against Draco, made the air a little thick. Not oppressively hot, but comfortably so, like snuggling under a heavy blanket for a post-lunch nap.

"Don't act shy now!" Weasley said, her voice lowering further. Maybe he imagined her breath against his cheek, but when he turned back to check he found Weasley too close. Her hand wandered under the desk to his knee, and she glanced at the teacher again, just to make sure she was still unconscious to the world.

A wave of heat surged through Draco's body, starting at his knee and quickly drowning the rest of him in flames.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice cracking on the word 'want' like a pubescent boy.

"Isn't it obvious?" Her eyelashes fluttered, drawing him into her eyes, which, he was fascinated to notice, were the exact same color as his favorite broom's handle, as brown and multihued as the wood he polished on a weekly basis.

Draco choked on that thought, his cheeks burning. He'd never polished his broom while thinking of her of course! She was such an obnoxious waste of blood purity and talent and attractiveness—No, wait! That wasn't what he meant to think!

"I want you..." Weasley said, her attention drifting downwards, possibly to Draco's lips, which he suddenly fought the compulsion to lick, "...to pass that jar of ink, please."

And then before Draco could comprehend what she'd said, she reached over him, using his knee as leverage to snatch the little jar sitting on the desk next to Draco's left hand. His heart was still pounding when she pulled away and returned to her own desk, leaving Draco feeling bereft and confused. He looked around the classroom for some sign of what to do, until Weasley's voice startled him, interrupting his examination.

"Don't you have your notes with you?" she asked, her eyebrow arched.

"No."

She sighed in exasperation. "Well, I suppose I can let you copy mine. We are partners after all."

"We are?"

"How else would you explain your good marks in Potions if I weren't your partner? We've been sitting next to each other all term. I'd think you'd remember a little fact such as that."

Draco shook his head, remembering what Weasley had said in Slughorn's classroom. "But you're terrible at Potions."

Weasley's cheeks reddened, and she readjusted her parchment, gathering the pages together in a neat stack. "I was terrible at Potions until you began tutoring me. Here." She handed Draco all of her notes plus some blank parchment and a quill.

"What about you?"

She waved her hand as if to brush away his concern. "I have a Transfiguration assignment I can work on in the meantime. Just return my notes before dinner so I can prepare for tomorrow's exam."

Weasley pulled a textbook out of her bag and engrossed herself within it, leaving Draco to puzzle over their current scenario alone. Apparently, in this universe, he and Weasley shared a Potions class, they were Potions partners, and he tutored her in the subject in their free time. At no point during their conversation had she shown him any scorn or derision. She seemed not to expect it from him, either, which suggested they worked well together. Maybe even liked each other. His face warmed at the thought, though he wasn't sure why.

He looked down at her tidy handwriting and appreciated how organized she kept her notes. They were easy to read and follow, reminding him a lot of his own note-taking style. He picked up the quill she'd given him and reached over to dip it in the jar of ink on the edge of her desk. She turned her head slightly to smile at him before returning her attention to her own assignment, and the heat in Draco's face blossomed throughout the rest of his body once more.

A swirly pink fog filled the room, and suddenly Draco jerked upward from an undignified slouch, back in his office. Using his sleeve, he wiped at drool drying in a trail from the corner of his mouth and said out loud to his bubbling potions, "That was it?"

The exclamation did not adequately describe Draco's feelings about his experience. On the one hand, the plot of his daydream had seemed a little too simple compared to the adventure that was advertised. On the other, the dream had felt so real. Draco's heart was still pounding, so ferociously it seemed to be seeking an exit from his rib cage, and his body was still overly warm from embarrassment and want.

Want! No, he didn't want Ginny Weasley! He was experiencing a natural reaction to close proximity to a female body. That was all. But if that was so, why, then, was Draco kicking himself for not daring to take the dream further? Why, then, could he still feel a pressure on his knee, as if someone had placed their hand there just moments ago? Why, then, did the memory of her smile make his stomach lurch and his heart flutter?

Frustrated with the very real physiological effects of the charm, Draco threw himself into writing down every detail of the daydream for his review later. Then he stood up and stretched, checked his potions, retrieved the rest of the daydream charms from his desk drawer, and retreated to his quarters.

He needed to make himself a little more comfortable for this task.

Two hours later, Draco collapsed into his armchair as if he hadn't already been sitting in it for the duration of four more daydreams.

He was exhausted, his body taut with strain, his limbs trembling.

Every single daydream had been about her. Every single one had featured red hair through which Draco was desperate to run his fingers; brown eyes that made him think of polishing firm, cylindrical objects; a mischievous smile that drove him crazy because he wanted to be included in her jokes. It didn't matter what kind of illustration adorned each charm's box. Each dream only vaguely matched the packaging's theme, and Ginny Weasley was the star of every fantasy.

Part of Draco was convinced he'd been sold faulty merchandise, and part of him was eager to order more daydream charms just to see if Ginny Weasley appeared in all of them.

He couldn't even say he hadn't enjoyed the dreams because, simple plots and horrible taste in love interests aside, Draco had to admit they'd accomplished the goal for which they'd been manufactured. Each daydream had felt realistic, not just because it had been difficult to tell them apart from reality, but also because whatever magic was involved in them made voyages on pirate ships and arctic tundra expeditions feel like plausible life experiences.

He felt exhausted, not only because of the unresolved sexual tension (the daydreams had sparked Draco's interest and imagination, but they had all been innocent enough in nature—frustratingly so), but also because of the adrenaline pumping through his system, urging him to go to Weasley at once and invite her on a globetrotting tour of the world's wonders.

He felt like he could do anything.

But the only thing he wanted to do right now was to tackle the puzzle of creating a daydream potion. While he was at it, mightn't it be beneficial to figure out how to lengthen the duration of the dreams, too? Purely as an academic conundrum to be solved. Draco himself had no interest in immersing himself in hours-long daydreams.

That's what he kept telling himself anyway.

He didn't notice he'd forgotten to eat dinner until nearly nine. His stomach twisted painfully, reminding him that he'd missed lunch as well. The thought of entering the Great Hall, of facing Minerva and Neville as if he hadn't spent all afternoon daydreaming about their favorite pupil and friend, made Draco recoil in humiliation. There was no earthly way he was going to face Neville after what he'd done. The Herbology apprentice was bound to see everything in Draco's face, especially if Weasley became the topic of conversation.

No, instead Draco donned his cloak, scarf, and gloves for a sprightly trek to Hogsmeade. As he had hoped, the brisk November breeze cleared his head and cooled his blood as soon as he stepped foot outside the castle, but by the time he reached Hogwarts' gates, his teeth were chattering with enough ferocity to shatter, so he Apparated into the village to forego completing his journey on foot.

He passed the Three Broomsticks without a glance, preferring the Hog's Head's poor selection of liquor over more standard fare at the cleaner pub. Draco would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all Neville, but Draco did not have a refined palate despite growing up consuming the best food and drink money could produce. Why bother spending two Galleons on name-brand alcohol when he could get just as drunk—or more so—drinking something similar for ten Sickles? It just wasn't economical, and, frankly, the luxury was downright wasteful, in Draco's opinion.

Humid warmth enveloped Draco as he entered the Hog's Head and unwound his scarf. The establishment was surprisingly deserted, except for a familiar redhead sitting alone at the bar. Draco's stomach sank, and for a moment he considered absconding to the Three Broomsticks after all. He'd gone through all this trouble to avoid talking and thinking about her, so he should definitely leave before she noticed him. Any minute now he was going to open the door and take a step back into the frigid cold. He was a mere moment away from fleeing the pub the same way he'd fled her presence three days ago, the same way he'd fled Hogwarts half an hour past.

Eyes locked on the bright spot that was Ginny Weasley's hair, Draco inexplicably drew closer, his legs moving of their own accord. He certainly hadn't given himself permission to approach her. He could have sat anywhere else in the pub—there were plenty of dark corners for him to claim—but he went to her as if he couldn't help himself. Maybe after an afternoon of close encounters of the Weasley kind he wanted to make sure that this encounter was not, in fact, a daydream as well.

She didn't look up from her dinner when he sat down, but she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. And then she smiled, surprised but pleased by his presence.

This had to be a dream, then. Weasley would never look pleased at Draco's arrival, except in a universe of Draco's own making.

"Well, look who it is," she said, her voice warm, warm enough to thaw the rest of the biting cold clinging to Draco's body.

He didn't know what to say, and thankfully the bartender placed Draco's usual glass of firewhisky in front of him, giving him a reason not to respond anyway.

The searing heat of the alcohol combined with Weasley's own warmth and the sultry interior of the pub left Draco boiling in his skin. His cloak and gloves joined his scarf in his pocket a moment later, shrunk and stowed until he needed them again.

"You left in such a hurry the last time I saw you," Weasley said.

"I had projects I needed to keep an eye on." He averted his gaze to hide the lie and considered one of the day's specials listed on a chalkboard behind the bar for his evening meal. Once he'd decided and given his order, then he looked at Weasley again, bracing himself for—well, he didn't know exactly.

His reaction was just the same as in his daydreams: a racing heart, the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears, the pulse in his neck jumping, an all-consuming heat overcoming him like a severe fever he'd suffered when he was eight. The fever had faded eventually then, and it began to fade now, giving Draco the false impression that he had regained his composure around Weasley. And then her lips quirked into an amused smile, the same one she'd constantly used with him since their reunion in this very pub three weeks ago, and Draco was struck by that smile, drowning in dizzying fever once more. His composure most certainly not regained, but obliterated.

He realized she had been speaking to him while he had been choking on his pounding, enflamed heart, and he cleared his throat. "Sorry, say that again?"

Weasley's lips twitched. "I said, we didn't get to finish our conversation."

"Which one was that?"

She waved her hand airily. "You know, the one about the authenticity of your Witch Weekly photos."

Draco scowled. "Look, those photos and that article were not my idea. I should never have agreed to such a ridiculous—" A plate of food was set in front of him, and he immediately dug in, ravenous. A moment later and with a full mouth, he continued his tirade. "A decent population of the student body has deluded themselves into thinking they fancy me, and it's horrible because they romanticize every little thing I do. If I scold them for wasting ingredients in class, they swoon. If I write snide remarks about their intelligence on their essays, they imagine I've written them love letters. If I happen to stand too closely, they find ways to sneakily put their hands on me. Did you know I've resorted to placing a Shield Charm on myself every morning, just so no one can get near enough to accuse me of touching them back?

"And that's just the students! You should hear what the teachers say when they think they're alone in the staff room! And the titters from biddies that follow me down Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. Three months ago everyone loathed me, and now that they've seen enhanced—and most certainly fake—photographs of my naked torso, they imagine me fanciable. Never mind the Dark Mark on my arm or the year I spent in prison!"

By the end of Draco's rant, Weasley's amused smile had dimmed, her brow furrowed in thought as she considered him. But he could see something there in her eyes, something that could not be deterred. He had not turned her off from the idea of him. In fact, he seemed to have intrigued her more.

He gulped at the sight of her expression and reached for the second firewhisky the bartender had been kind enough to serve preemptively. His fingers grasped at empty air because Weasley had stolen his drink right out from under him.

She raised his glass in a salute and knocked it back, wincing at the path of fire forging down her throat and into her belly. That had been Draco's fire, dammit!

"Forgive me," she said, her voice a bit hoarse from the alcohol. "I'll leave you alone, then."

She departed before Draco could protest. It annoyed him that his first instinct was to stop her, but as soon as she was out of sight, he had no choice but to admit how much he had actually desired her company.