Suddenly I was flying backwards, and after a stuttering second of shock, I felt the black and blue force of a wall impacting my back. Disoriented, I glanced up, right into the angry face of a girl who looked as though she had also been thrown into a stone wall – except face first. In fact, her little turned-up nose looked somewhat squashed, not those ski-lift noses that celebrities have. The round jaw that made her face a perfect circle was framed by a choppy haircut, a lot like Snape's, except more awkward on her round face. Her eyes were perfectly spherical, even as she was scowling ferociously. I half expected a dog's growl to force its way through her uneven teeth.
"What do you think you're doing?" she shrieked, and I was surprised by how high-pitched and prissy her voice sounded.
I looked at Draco in confusion. He was standing slowly, and I was surprised to see a blush on his pale complexion.
"Leave her alone, Pansy."
The Dog Faced Girl huffed a little, and wheeled on him.
"Dray-co," she purred, "don't tell me that you're choosing her over me."
"For another thirteen hours, I am," he told her, striding over. As he walked towards me, the embarrassed aura vanished, as though that close to me, I was worth all this humiliation. I smiled evilly. Dog Faced Girl made a pouty face and slid into a seat, clearly used to being second-best.
"Are you really choosing her, Draco?" came a sultry British voice. If Draco hadn't existed, this would have easily been the most attractive boy at the school. He was Draco's polar opposite, his dark skin and smooth black hair just as attractive as Draco's ice prince appearance. Draco stared him down, apparently ignorant of his obvious beauty – and I say obvious because everyone knew it, especially him.
"Yes, Blaise," he replied. "Do you have a problem with it?"
"She's a Muggle," Blaise laughed.
"Yeah, so?" snarled Draco. Blaise looked surprised, and then angry. He whipped the wooden stick that all these wizards seemed to love so much from somewhere and started waving it around.
"Mister Zabini," an oily, sultry voice intoned. The Man in the Dress – Snape – slithered over, geisha-like, in his long robes. The black British boy's attractive face twisted into an equally attractive scowl.
"Yes Professor?" he inquired, his voice rough.
"I trust there's no problem here," Snape murmured.
"Of course not, Professor." He slid the wooden stick back into his pants pocket. (I tried to find a way to say that but everything sounded dirty so I decided to just embrace the pre-pubescent boy in me...)
"Miss Cole, Mister Malfoy, please come with me," Snape murmured, whisking around dramatically. I was never going to get used to this ducklings way of walking around, but I guess that was how wizards did it.
We traveled up a few staircases (was it me, or were they moving? Or was my head just spinning from being so near to Draco?), down a hall or two, and suddenly we were in a long, windowed room. There were all these white hospital beds, iron frames and all, lining both sides of the room. It looked like something out of a World War I era movie, except it was surprisingly peaceful. And the paintings were moving.
"They're paintings!" I exclaimed joyfully, finally understanding what the "screens" were – the brushstrokes were startlingly obvious once I accepted all that. Draco gave me that look again, the one that made me feel like an idiot, and the Man in the Dress flipped his hair a little in a very aggravated way.
Sitting on one of the hospital beds was the trio, flanking each other with numbers if not with sexiness. At the foot of the bed stood Dumbledore, sans cart-wheeling shot glass, and a lady in a nurse's outfit. For a moment we all stood there, and the awkwardness was almost tangible in the air.
"So, Miss Vera, how has your stay at Hogwarts been?" inquired Dumbledore gravely.
"It's been… nice," I hesitantly responded, my eyes tracing Draco's furious scowl.
There was an awkward silence. I was almost choking on the animosity in the room.
"So what's all this about?" I asked quietly, to stop the angry stares the boys were exchanging, indicating the assembled forces.
"Mr. Potter and his friends would like to express some qualms they have regarding your situation, Miss Cole."
I glared at the Know It All Queen. She was clearly the one with some "qualms." She saw me looking and immediately accepted my acknowledgment of her leading role, jutting her jaw out resolutely.
"I looked into the laws and I talked to Madame Pomfrey about the wizarding equivalents," she said matter-of-factly. "How old are you, Veracity?"
"Eighteen," I replied slowly, trying to figure out why she cared. She looked disappointed. Suddenly it all clicked.
"Wait," I laughed. "Are you trying to say that this relationship I have with Draco could be classified as rape?"
I chuckled to myself. No one else was laughing. Snape was glaring. At Draco's concerned expression, I sobered myself quickly, except for the errant giggle that escaped.
"Actually, yes," Hermione replied defiantly. "I read the law carefully, and it says that consent can only be given when all parties – namely, the female party – have uncompromised judgment."
Now I had to force myself to laugh. She was right - I hated to admit it, but she was right.
"We're just worried about you," Harry quickly interjected. Hermione looked upset. Apparently she wasn't worried – she just wanted to get her way. "And if you make any decisions like this."
"I don't plan on getting pregnant, if that's what you mean," I muttered, rolling my eyes.
"What does this have to do with getting pregnant?" asked Ron. We all wheeled to look at him, and the scary Man in the Dress actually snorted into his billowing black sleeves. Hermione stared at him in badly-masked horror.
"Anyway," she said, collecting herself quickly, "we just think that we can… cure you of this… if we act properly. Perhaps even break the spell."
What was this, Beauty and the Beast?
"It's my spell," Draco snapped.
"Yeah, and I'm not complaining," I quickly chimed in, apparently finishing his sentence for him. The four good guys looked appalled; Snape looked vaguely impressed.
"You can't complain," Hermione replied, stressing every word as though I were some disagreeable four year old.
"Why don't we just try Miss Granger's idea?" Dumbledore offered. "Madame Pomfrey agrees that it could be beneficial." She little nurse lady smiled. She was cute - this wasn't her fault. I blamed Granger.
"I don't think I'm going to like this," I muttered, staring at her face as it brightened at Dumbledore's acceptance of her little evil plan.
"You won't," she promised cheerfully.
It was a three minute walk down the stairs, a two minute jog up a different set, and then a long hallway and a moving picture away to their "Common" Room. It was like a renaissance lounge, with little tapestries of stupid lions. Why didn't the tapestries move? I was tempted to cheekily inquire, but I was too mad at Hermione to even open my mouth. I knew it was childish, but I held my lips pressed together.
Harry showed me to a squashy couch that faced a cheerfully crackling fire.
"We're going to work on our homework," he told me kindly, "but you're welcome to read any of our books if you're interested."
Hermione rolled her eyes at Harry's kindness – apparently I was some lost cause to her – and stomped off up a set of stairs.
Ron slid into a seat right next to Harry. "So really," he whispered, leaning in towards his friend, "what does it have to do with getting pregnant?"
Harry looked severely awkwarded out, so he quickly opened a book and started writing. Ron had the decency to look bashful at this point, although he was still confused, and shuffled off upstairs.
"Does he really…" I began tentatively.
"Yeah," Harry muttered. "He has a lot of siblings."
"So apparently his parents don't understand it either," I muttered derisively.
"Hey," snapped Harry, looking angry for once. "You don't know them. Don't judge the Weasleys."
I stared at him, tempted to apologize. But then I remember I was angry, and crossed my arms.
"Does Draco like the Weasleys?" I suddenly heard myself asking. I kicked off my pumps and wiggled my bare toes.
"No," snapped Harry, trying to keep his eyes on his potions book.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because Malfoy likes being Pureblooded and honoring that tradition." Harry sounded disgusted.
"Pureblooded," I repeated, hugging my knees onto the couch, moving my toes into the thick couch cushion. "Do you mean Pureblooded wizard? Because I heard Draco mention that he didn't like people who don't come from wizarding families."
"Yeah," Harry replied. "Ron's Pureblooded too, but his family actually acknowledges Muggleborns deserve the same rights."
"Well I mean, Draco makes sense," I allowed, now trailing my fingers over the couch. "I mean, wouldn't people with more wizard in their blood be more magical?"
"No," snapped Harry, looking up, his face disgusted. "Hermione is a Muggleborn and she is smarter than any other witch or wizard in our year!"
"Or at least she thinks she is," I replied. Harry glared at me. "Draco is at least smart enough to get around Dumbledore's security – that's got to count for something."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, suddenly intense, suddenly leaning in towards me, scowl gone, face interested.
"Well, he said something about Dumbledore increasing security and a Dark Lord and then how I got here – that's why he's in trouble, right?"
Harry was staring at me evenly.
"What exactly did Dra—Malfoy – say?" he asked quickly. I glared at him.
"You think I could remember?" I haughtily asked. When I should have been saying, do you think I could forget? But somehow I knew that repeating Draco's little secret mannerisms – the rubbing the forearm, the fear of this "Dark Lord" – would be contrary to his best interests.
We lapsed into silence. Harry started writing with a quill, scratching away at the paper.
"Is that really a feather quill?" I asked. Harry nodded. "Draco said that you guys use them but I just couldn't believe it, but he told me, y'know. And I always believe what Draco says because he's the only person who has been really honest with me, because I have to be honest with him so I know that he has to be honest with me and—"
"Will you you please shut up about Malfoy?" Harry snapped, his hand almost snapping the feather quill in two in his outburst of anger.
I glared at him, part of me extremely embarrassed. It was like his name was bouncing around in my head and the only way to stop the annoying ping-pong game was to say it, out loud. Draco.
Harry kept writing. Ron crept down the stairs, his ears stained a bright shade of pink, followed by two guffawing boys who looked exactly identical. By their flaming orange hair they must have been Ron's brothers – older, judging by the way they were laughing at him.
Ron slid into an empty seat next to Harry, looking absolutely miserable. Apparently he had just learned that the stork wasn't real. Or was it? Maybe in this world, sex was only an option. I giggled to myself. With people like Draco existing, the choice was an easy one.
That was a dangerous thought, and one that brought the idea of him back spiraling into my mind. Now it was a different nervous energy, like those pinpricks of energy that flared up on my skin when he had leaned in towards me. I could feel the heat of a blush creeping across my cheekbones and caressing my throat.
I tapped my fingers across the wooden arm of the chair. Draco had done that, tapped his fingers. Each nail made a satisfying click. When I had been lying in his bed, bare legs tangled in his green silky sheets. A cascade of fingers across the wood. As he had looked me over, eyes straying from his internal debate to my perfect body…
I quickly shifted in my seat, putting my bare feet back on the ground. My fingers, now spasming at a super-human speed, were earning me glares from the other people in the lounge, so I deliberately curled my fingers around my elbows to stop the somewhat involuntary twitching.
Harry had said I could read a book. Quiddich Through the Ages was propped up against his arm rest. I jerkily grabbed it. The Golden Snitch. I stared at it, flipped through. Broomsticks. Draco had a broomstick, I recalled. By the drawings, it was a Nimbus 2001, one of the best models. Draco would be selective about what he rode.
I practically threw the book into the fire.
"What is wrong with you?" Ron harshly asked, springing up to reclaim his beloved book. He practically stroked the cover.
"Nothing, I'm not crazy," I snapped irritably. "Although I though Draco was crazy," I remember quickly, laughing at the memory, "when he started talking about being a wizard and then this one time he was telling me about—"
Hermione had come down the stairs and was staring at me in blatant horror.
"This isn't working," Harry interrupting my gushing rant on Draco's wonderfulness. "She can't stop talking about him."
"Yes I can," I muttered quickly, trying to keep back a blush. Harry gave me a look that quickly told me that no one bought my lie, and then turned back to Hermione.
"Any other clever ideas?" he asked archly.
"Immersion therapy?" Hermione offered.
"No way," I replied, "It is way too cold out there for swimming in that lovely Black Lake of Death that you guys have here."
They all stared at me.
"That's not what immersion therapy is," Hermione replied. "It's a therapeutic technique that is used to cure people of a sort of fear or obsession with any object or person or experience. It is built on the foundation of prolonged exposure to the source of obsession."
Although she sounded like she was regurgitating a textbook, I couldn't help but smile. Prolonged exposure to Draco Malfoy. Sign me up.
"I'll try that one," I said, trying not to sound so chipper. Hermione looked depressed. Harry looked disgusted. Ron was eating something – again.
It took like five seconds to get down to the dungeons and suddenly we were standing in front of a small stone room where many kids in green capes were reading books intently.
Draco was easy to find with his Lady Gaga hair, and before I knew it I had sat down next to him, squeezing onto the same chair and rejoicing at the small points of contact between us.
"We're going to expose ourselves to each other," I gleefully whispered into his ear. He grinned at me, a half-smirk that made my spine tingle with heat.
"That's not what I meant," Hermione grouched. "Since she couldn't go cold turkey, I thought over-exposure would cure this little…"
As she looked for some rude word, both Draco and I glared at her, and she decided against it.
"So, I want you two to go somewhere alone and just… get tired of each other." She sighed, clearly not liking the idea, and stomped off before she had to see the two of us together any longer.
"So," I offered coyly, "can you think of any way for us to get tired?"
That was a cheesy pick up line. I would have felt embarrassed, but somehow Draco's hand was resting on my knee and by the jumpy light in his eyes, he wasn't upset by my lack of creativity.
This time, when Draco turned to lock his bedroom door, I was happy to be trapped in a room with him. I promptly plopped down on the bed. He nonchalantly removed his outer cloak, his gray vest, and loosened his green tie. Why was he wearing so much clothing? I almost whined aloud.
After a moment, he sat down next to me on the bed, leaving a buffer between us.
"C'mon," I murmured, hooking my hands around his tie and pulling him towards me, "I'm not sure how long we have before Miss Bossy comes barging back in here with more therapy ideas."
I leaned in to kiss him with the plan of continuing on to just ravish him completely, but he pulled away.
"No," he replied slowly.
"What?" I asked, drawing back in shock. A slithering feeling of rejection had made my stomach turn over, made a coldness creep over my body.
"You heard what Granger said," he drawled, a little smirk creeping onto his face. "The law is very clear, and she read it closely."
He leaned in closer, leaving a hair's breadth between us, his soft breathing caressing those small hairs behind my ear. I shuddered involuntarily – a shudder that unsettled my stomach further, but in a different way. It was wonderful that we were always on the same page.
"I know," I replied, snaking my way around so that my face was nestled in his neck, except not touching his skin. I could feel the warmth of his pulse radiating across my lips, teasing me. "And we both know that we can't risk any issues with this being… non-consensual."
He raised his hand and ran it over the air above my arm, and it was as though I could almost feel his fingers touching my arm.
"She is always right," he whispered into my collarbone, skimming his nose across my button-down shirt. Every inch of me was screaming, but I felt my muscles give way, and as I slid backwards onto the pillow, I felt my eyes close.
It was terrifying in a wonderful way. Unable to see him, I could only feel his presence hovering somewhat, felt the static as his hands almost touched mine.
When I opened my eyes, he was above me, staring into my eyes with his piercing gray stare. I felt my lips part. He glanced down over my face, and it was like I could feel the touch of his gaze spreading a simmering line across my skin.
After a moment he sighed, spreading warm, musky breath across my face, and then rolled back onto the other side of the bed. We both stared at the canopy for a minute.
"I'm in trouble," he confessed.
"Why?" I asked, fighting to keep my gaze on the intricately twisted draperies and not on his face.
"I made a promise that I can't keep," he replied, sounding tortured. I rolled over, lying on my side to watch as his face contorted in that fear that had been lurking in his eyes for so long.
"It's alright," I murmured as comfortingly as I could, running a hand along his burly shoulder, trying to keep my own panic at his panic disguised.
"You know that Dark Lord that Dumbledore was talking about?" he whispered, and it sounded like tears were collecting at the back of his throat. I nodded mutely. "Well, my father used to work for him, and he got sent to a sort of… jail… recently, and so this summer—"
There was a sudden sharp intake of breath, but it wasn't me, and it wasn't Draco. Draco sat bolt upright, and shouted a spell at his door. It swung open onto nothingness with a loud bang, and he sprang angrily out into the hallway.
"What's going on?" I asked, jumping up to follow.
"Potter!" snapped Draco. "He's been listening, and he can't hear that, and he always seems to know."
He sounded anguished, angrily striding down the corridor.
"But no one was outside your door," I reminded him, trying to sound soothing.
"That doesn't mean anything," he snapped. "There are ways… This is a magical world, Vera. We may have magic, but the other side does too!"
He had wandered into an empty hallway where the blank walls and a few concerned portraits watched us silently.
"We need somewhere to be alone," he muttered, taking broad strides. He paced across the hallway. "Somewhere Potter can't find us," he continued, pacing back. "A place where we can hide." For a third time he paced.
"Uhm, Draco," I hesitantly offered. He glanced at me. A door had slowly immerged from the wall. "I'm pretty sure that wasn't there before."
"The Room of Requirement," he breathed. "That's how it works."
He quickly pulled open the door and pulled me inside.
"Potter used this last year for his stupid little club," he muttered, excitedly rifling through the room. It was filled to the brim with little bits of crap – broken record players singing a bar of bad opera over and over, fraying carpets rolled up and leaning against piles of other things, bureaus and cabinets and roller-skates and silly pointed hats.
"Amazing," Draco murmured. He was like a kid in a candy shop. I was just happy that the fear was gone, that his face was clear again and the tears were gone from the back of his throat. I wandered around as he began digging excitedly through the piles. There was an old mirror that I ran my hands across, surprised when my touch left a mark. I kicked a pair of boots, and watched in awe as they began to perform a wild jig.
"What's this?" I asked, opening a tall cabinet. It was beneath a sheet.
"A Vanishing Cabinet," Draco called back, now looking through a bookshelf with unmasked excitement. "They were pretty popular a while ago because they can…"
And suddenly he broke off, dropped the books, and hurried over. He examined the cabinet, pulled off the sheet that was draped over it, and slid his fingers over the carved surface.
"Veracity Cole, you are a genius," he breathed, staring at the cabinet with unmasked adoration.
"I am?" I asked, staring at him with unmasked adoration.
"Oh, yes," he replied, a genuinely happy smiling spreading across his face.