Draco marched into the library, determined to hook up with his third witch of the year. This time, there would be no stupid blunders or rabid Kneazles. See, Ministry? He can learn.
Isobel MacDougal was in her usual spot with a friend, both scribbling furiously on parchment. Draco lingered by the Magical Behavior section, taking a moment to study her. Her blonde hair was pinned up today, glasses sliding down her nose. If he was lucky, she'd—
"Death Eater!" someone hissed.
Draco kept his face neutral with effort. His eyes darted toward two pale second-years peeking from behind a shelf. He flicked his wand in his pocket, trying to cast a silent Stinging Hex—but instead, the boys' noses turned bright clown red. They squeaked and bolted.
Behind him, Madam Pince loomed.
She was starting to look like one of her ancient books—parchment-thin skin, inky-black hair. Her robes were brown today, stitched with gold thread in stiff geometric patterns.
"Mister Malfoy," she said dryly.
"Madam Pince," Draco replied, keeping his hand on his wand. A book nudged his shoulder, sliding partway off the shelf.
"I'm just researching," he murmured smoothly. "Working on myself."
He held up a book.
Self-help reading was part of COPE (Character Optimization and Personal Enhancement)—a required probation program. As far as Draco was concerned, it was nonsense. He was already the best version of himself. He hadn't killed anyone this year, hadn't used Crucio—what more did they want? If his "best self" wasn't great, that wasn't his fault.
Madam Pince narrowed her eyes but said nothing, disappearing toward the Astronomy section with a strange smirk.
Draco sighed in relief and made his way to his target. Isobel was now alone, surrounded by books.
"Good evening, Miss MacDougal," he said, approaching her table. He tried not to look threatening—but it wasn't easy when you were tall, dressed all in black, and carrying generational trauma. She jumped, gripping her quill as if she might stab him with it.
"You're smudging your ink," Draco pointed out.
The Ravenclaw dropped her quill, fumbling for a handkerchief to wipe her fingers.
"Th-thank you."
Her eyes flicked to his book—and Draco realized, to his horror, he was still holding it.
"Tears Flow—and Sleep Comes: Self-Soothing Techniques for the Troubled Mind."
Fantastic. He might as well set the book on fire with Incendio, Obliviate her memory, and then sink through the stone floor. Unfortunately, that wasn't a viable plan. So he just stood there, looming, trying not to look as awkward as he felt.
"Can I help you, Mister Malfoy?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," he said. "My psychomatrix chart… doesn't add up."
"W-what's wrong with it?"
"The Heart's Desire number," Draco replied, managing to sound concerned even though this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done. He still couldn't believe Hogwarts included psychomatrix calculations in the OWL-level Numerology course. Professor Vector insisted it was purely academic, but Draco had seen the gleam in her eye when she talked about "calculating soul-longings."
"And what does your chart say?" Isobel looked genuinely perplexed—probably because she was being asked to discuss a Death Eater's heartfelt desires.
Draco shoved the ridiculous book back onto the shelf and opened his satchel, hoping she'd notice the black embossed leather and the palladium buckles. She didn't. She just shrank back in her chair, like she thought he was about to pull out a cursed artifact or a severed head.
Gritting his teeth, Draco unfurled his parchment across the table. If he was lucky, she'd spot his deliberate vowel mistakes.
She did.
"Oh dear," she murmured.
Draco sat down across from her without asking. She didn't object—didn't even look up. Perfect.
"Vowel calculations can be tricky," she said, her finger tracing the sloppy decimal placements he'd scribbled. "But that's no excuse to ignore the Y in 'Malfoy.' It has to be accounted for."
Draco gave her his best repentant expression.
"I thought it was a vowel."
"It's only a vowel when it sounds like one. For example, Yaxley has two vowels, not three."
She blinked, and Draco froze. Bloody hell. Yaxley. Corban Yaxley—the bloodthirsty Death Eater now rotting in Azkaban. The Daily Prophet had written gleeful columns about his atrocities after the trials. And now, of course, Yaxley just happened to have the numerologically perfect name to illustrate her point.
Fucking vowels.
Draco looked at MacDougal. She was staring back, her brown eyes wide, the name "Yaxley" still hanging between them like a bad smell.
Now what?
"Guide me," he said softly, his voice more shaky than he liked. He sounded… lost. This was a bad idea. His meltdown in Snape's classroom still lingered in his mind, and he was definitely not in the right state for seduction today.
Thankfully, MacDougal took him literally. (Ravenclaws—never the sensitive ones.)
"You need to recalculate your vowel derivatives, Mister Malfoy," she said eagerly. "See—"
She bent over the parchment, scribbling notes, and slowly the ghost of Yaxley faded from the air.
"Magical psychomatrix is a subtle science," she explained. "Your current chart gives you a Heart's Desire number of eight: ambition, a tendency to misuse power, and—well—inflicting harm."
"Can't be right," Draco said.
She blinked again, and he smiled—just a little. She smiled back, shy, and then bent over his scroll once more, ink splattering from her quill.
"You misinterpreted the Y and ignored vowel placement in your name—that reveals your deepest desires, you know."
Draco arched a brow. Deepest desires, huh? Isobel flushed pink.
"So what's my actual number?" he asked. Just please not a stupid three. And for Merlin's sake—not a pitiful six. Malfoys had standards.
"Well…"
Before she could finish, the library's books lifted themselves off the tables and floated back to the shelves. Closing time.
"Oh—" Isobel jumped, hurriedly gathering her notes, watching in dismay as her Astronomy scroll drifted away.
She struggled with her heavy bag, and Draco reached out, taking it from her.
"I'll walk you out," he said smoothly. "You never did tell me my Heart's Desire number."
"It's…"
But Draco was already striding toward the exit, knowing perfectly well she'd have to follow. And of course—Isobel obediently trailed after him into the corridor.
"M-Mister Malfoy, you don't have to walk me out. Your number is two," she said, almost blurting it out.
"And what does that mean?" he asked, though he already knew.
"My bag," she suddenly said more clearly, snapping out of the library trance she always seemed to fall into. "Now you know your number. You can go."
Draco put on an exaggeratedly wounded expression.
"Of course." He handed her the bag. "Sorry."
The quick apology caught her off guard. Hmm. Promising tactic. Apologizing was easy when you didn't actually mean it. It was an entirely different beast when the words came from the heart—that's when your chest tightened and your throat closed up, trapping the truth inside.
"Two means a desire for peace, harmony, and balance," MacDougal went on. "You're… someone of unwavering loyalty."
Draco's Slytherin training saved him from dropping his jaw right then and there. Merlin, what utter nonsense this magical psychomatrix was.
"Do you actually believe that, Miss MacDougal?" he asked.
"It's… surprising, yes," she admitted. "But numbers don't lie."
"I'll admit," Draco said solemnly, "my life hasn't exactly been filled with peace, harmony, or balance."
He deliberately avoided stepping closer. He was just a guy in the corridor. Nothing to be afraid of.
But apparently, she didn't appreciate the effort. She shifted nervously, like she was ready to bolt at any moment.
"What's your number?" Draco asked.
"S-seven."
"Ah. A seeker of truth." He tried a smile. "So, you want to know, don't you… Isobel? What it's like?"
He slipped back into his usual line.
Her eyes narrowed.
"What exactly is what like?"
Draco blinked.
"Er—"
Think! But she was already standing there, hands on her hips, staring him down and completely scrambling his brain.
"I… uh…"
Failure.
With a snort, she turned away.
"Lights-out soon," she said, not looking back. "Good night, Mister Malfoy."
He watched her walk away, chin high, and felt the familiar blend of frustration and intrigue swirl in his chest. She'd snorted at him. A flash of another witch flickered in his mind—the one who kept rejecting him, again and again. Draco shoved the thought away.
A nice chat about his "heart's desires." Good, he told himself. That was progress.
He turned toward the dungeons, already plotting his next move. Tomorrow was the stupid presentation of that dusty potted sprout. Perfect.
Draco sat on his bed—shirtless, glasses on—flipping through Brunhilda's Handbook of Magical Plant Care, when a familiar white flash and dull thump on the mattress announced Granger's arrival.
"Couldn't resist, could you?" he murmured, eyes still scanning the chart of temperate zone flowering plants.
"I don't understand," Hermione's voice wavered. She was kneeling on his bedspread, wrapped in a fluffy red bathrobe, an enormous white towel twisted around her hair.
Draco raised an eyebrow, careful not to jump to conclusions.
"You realize," he said, "that getting into your bed right now is basically the same as getting into mine?"
"But I wasn't in my bed!" she blurted, her robe loosening at the collar. The fabric slipped just enough to make Draco wonder what—if anything—she had on underneath.
"Don't tell me fairy tales," he replied, turning a page. "You're soaking wet."
"I wasn't even in the dormitory!" Hermione sounded close to hysteria. "I was in the Prefects' bathroom! And then—my wand!"
She started scrambling around the bed, one hand holding the towel on her head, the other clutching her robe closed. Draco set the handbook aside, peering through the dim candlelight, trying to see if she was naked under that robe.
She threw the pillows around in a panic, her scent—flowers and soap—making his head spin. The towel slipped off, revealing wet, curling strands of hair. She turned to him, eyes sharp, as if accusing him of stealing her damn wand.
Water glistened on her forehead, rolled down her cheeks, and trickled along her neck toward her—
"Malfoy!" she snapped. "Pay attention!"
"I am paying attention," he said, tossing the book away. Now he was entirely focused on the wet, sweet-smelling woman in front of him. She radiated heat, fresh from the bath, and her robe slid, revealing her thigh.
She didn't look like the strict, uptight witch from Snape's classroom anymore—and Draco felt something in his chest loosen, just a little.
She was here. Not with that pompous Puff.
"You have my full attention, Granger," he murmured. "Do you even know what you look like right now?"