For one mad moment, chaos reigned supreme in the Gryffindor dorms.
Shrieks came from all sides.
“It’s Malfoy!” wailed Neville Longbottom, diving under the bed.
“Ron, say it isn’t so!” Seamus Finnigan exclaimed, his expression indicating imminent hysterics.
“Oh God,” Dean Thomas kept repeating fervently. “Oh God… Oh God.”
Harry seemed to be transfixed with horror. “Give me your bed sheet!” Draco demanded determinedly. “Right now!”
Ron just sat and stared.
“Fluffy?” he said at last. “Fluffy?”
Seamus was shaking by now.
“Please, please don’t let that be a pet name…”
“Oh God,” Dean said with even deeper fervour.
“Keep it up, Thomas, I’m sure he’ll pay attention one day.” Draco wrenched the bed sheets off Ron’s bed, and finally got his shame covered. Not before time, either. These Gryffindors were ones for the unseemly staring.
Made a chap feel quite naked.
“Malfoy?” Harry said at last.
Draco glanced over and saw how pale he was.
“Don’t swoon, Potter. I’m not here to ravish you.”
“Who are you here to ravish?!” Seamus’ voice had become shrill by now.
“Oh God,” said Dean.
Everyone was still staring at Draco. He began to tie the sheet around his waist.
Must think. Must plot.
Item One: Human again. That’s good. That’s definitely good.
Item Two: In Gryffindor tower. Bad, bad, bad. Even worse.
Item Three: Was naked in Weasley’s bed. Can wash, and wash, yet will never be clean. Or out of the tabloids.
Item Four: Clothing. Must somehow acquire… clothing.
“What have you done!” roared Ron, catching Draco off guard and around the middle.
Startled, Draco went down with a crash. Ron fell on him and began to swing.
“They’re wrestling,” Seamus chanted in the tones of one beyond trauma. “They’re playing rough little games, they’re—”
“Seamus!” Harry snapped. “You’re not helping.”
Seamus appeared to be beyond hearing as well. “I think he’s straddling him.”
“Oh God,” said Dean, the broken record with the broken mind.
“Get off me!” Draco snarled, more and more aware that this sheet was not secure. “This is all your fault, Weasley. If you hadn’t kissed me…”
Item Five: Did I just say that?
Item Six: I did. To quote Thomas—oh God.
“Oh please,” Seamus gasped. “No details. I beg you.”
“Seamus!” Ron spluttered. “You can’t think I’m—you can’t possibly imagine—”
“Now I’m sure there are plenty of innocent explanations for you to be… in bed with a naked Malfoy,” Harry said weakly. “I—I, this could be some form of mass hallucination. Or! We could all be on drugs.”
“Be on anything you like but me,” Draco snapped. “Off!”
The mental picture that ensued apparently made Seamus fall off the bed.
“Plenty of innocent explanations,” Harry murmured feebly. “Oh, if only I could think of one…”
Seamus, now on the floor, was rocking back and forth.
“Malfoy’s wearing a sheet and Ron won’t get off him and Ron’s starting to get all sweaty and look crazed with animal lust…”
“Jesus, Finnigan, you need to get out more,” Draco said. “And you need to get OFF me, Weasley. Or I’m telling Chang about this.”
Ron looked blank.
“How did you know—”
Almost absentmindedly, but to Draco’s enormous relief, he scrambled up.
Draco got up, smoothing his sheet and bestowing his traditional Slytherin sneer upon them all. He was aware that the lofty, contemptuous air came off better when he was clothed. It was just one of those things.
“Malfoy!” Harry said, striking the Hero Note of Righteous Indignation at last. “I demand to know what you did to Ron!”
“Don’t be graphic,” implored Seamus.
“I didn’t do anything to Ron!” Draco returned sharply.
There was a gurgle of “First names, too,” from Seamus.
“Listen, it’s all quite simple. We were in bed—no, wait—then there was the kiss—hang on, but that came after the—my clothes were in the bathroom—but that’s not important and—I haven’t had them on for ages, anyway…”
“Oh God.”
“Shut up, Thomas. And then he tackled me to the floor, but hang on… I didn’t mean—I’ve left out the rat part…”
“Animals too! Ron, how could you!” Seamus cried.
“No, no, but look, it’s all right. It’s not like I haven’t been in Ron’s bed before—I mean, I’ve been in it for months… when I wasn’t in Harry or Hermione’s and… sweet Lord, will no-one stop me?”
For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy found himself entirely tongue-tied.
He looked around at the white, shocked and nauseated faces.
“So,” he ended brightly, “I hope that’s all cleared up. Now, let us never speak of this again.”
“Malfoy, you are a crazed, lying, evil naked person,” Harry said with deep conviction.
“I need a shower,” Ron exclaimed suddenly.
“You need a shower,” Draco remarked. “Try being washed by tongue alone for months.”
“Oh… eeeerk…”
Seamus’ horror had apparently reached the point of no vocalization.
“And what’s up with your hair?” inquired Neville, who was under the bed and did not seem up to speed with the entire situation.
Draco became aware of a terrible covered, floppy sensation around his neck.
His hair was unbrushed! Ungelled! Unkempt!
In front of Gryffindors!
He had had enough. Being naked was one thing. Being badly groomed was quite another.
“I am going home,” he announced.
“Oh, thank God,” said Dean, slightly varying his formula.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Ron exclaimed.
Seamus gave a moan of terror.
“I mean, look, hang on, you were in my bed!” Ron shouted. “I mean—rat theft! Sexual harassment! Indignity!”
“In your dreams,” Draco snapped.
“Malfoy,” Harry said firmly, “I think you owe us an explanation.”
He stood up. Draco could have told him that looking valiant in small pyjamas was a losing proposition, but in view of his sheet situation decided to keep quiet.
“And I’ll give you everything you deserve,” he replied smoothly. “Tomorrow.”
He shouldn’t have done it. But hell, he was a Malfoy, he couldn’t help it.
He blamed his ancestors.
He waved coquettishly to Ron.
“Be seeing you, lover.”
He cracked a smile as he left the Gryffindor dormitory on the gasp that burst from all throats. The smile carried on as heard Longbottom’s apprehensive question, “Is he gone?”
The smile only faded when he realised that he should have begged or stolen some robes.
Oh God, he was wearing a sheet.
Oh God, please, please. He couldn’t bump into anyone.
He must look like such a complete, utter prat.
Hermione had picked up the book she’d left in the common room when she looked up at the stairs and saw him.
He looked like a sword of moonlight made human standing on the nighttime steps, hair the impossible colour of childhood innocence grown too long, locks straying at the nape of his neck and cheeks. A soft shock fell into his eyes, which glittered with the dazzling elusiveness of silver light upon water. The moonlight had been crafted by a Renaissance sculptor, each plane of his face severely angled and starkly perfect. His cheekbones and jawline were smooth as the slashes of a knife. His nose, chin, forehead, were shaped by centuries of aristocrats to slope into the same elegant curves as an ornament they commissioned would have been expected to.
His skin was the same colour as marble, which was oddly fitting for the sharply defined lines that made his throat and chest and arms. It was a beauty that seemed designed, like a Greek statue, a celebration of strength in a form that looked fragile as the stem of an expensive wineglass. The crafted hollow at the base of his long throat, the sleek fan of his collarbone and the rounded rise of his shoulders looked far too carefully created to be anything but impossibly delicate.
White material curved from snake-hips. This attire seemed absolutely natural for this frail moment of beauty, quivering pale and lovely as a candle flame.
Then she squinted against the moonlight and assembled the pieces of that face for recognition instead of aesthetic admiration, and realised it was Draco Malfoy.
Bloody hell!
She jumped as if she had been stung.
“Malfoy!”
He stepped forward, carrying off the sheet with the arrogant grace of a young emperor.
Hang on, the sheet?
It looked as if Malfoy was trying to smile in a placating fashion, which looked distinctly odd on him.
“Now, Hermione—”
It took Hermione a few minutes of thought to realise that this was her name and thus quite an appropriate thing to call her, so incongruous did it sound on his lips.
“What are you doing coming down from the… boys’ room… wearing… one of the Gryffindor sheets? What did you come up in? No, don’t answer that… Malfoy, you’ve been missing for over a month!”
Malfoy shrugged somewhat helplessly.
“Uh. Look, there are reasons for—”
“Drugs?” Hermione demanded. “Dark charms on Harry? Some kind of—liaison—with Neville Longbottom?”
Malfoy almost jumped out of his sheet.
“Ew! Ew, how unbelievably gross! Listen, I could do a lot better than Longbottom.” He looked grouchy. “I should hope I’d at least rate a Dean Thomas.”
“Was that a confession?!”
“Ewwwww!” Malfoy began deep breathing to calm himself. “Absolutely not. Honestly, are you secretly reading porn behind a History of Hogwarts? Because for a so-called dedicated student, you have a dirty mind. First fancying Professor Loveheart, now this…”
Hermione put a hand on her hip.
“That is exactly the kind of disgusting thing I would expect to hear from you, Malfoy.”
“Glad I didn’t disappoint.”
“But… wait… How did you know I’ve read a History of Hogwarts?”
Malfoy looked distinctly shifty, which was a familiar look Hermione was rather grateful for.
“Ummm—hasn’t everyone?”
“Well, Malfoy, I didn’t know you could read.”
“Hey, my grades aren’t all about seducing the professors with my celebrated good looks.” He smirked. “Who has the time? Anyway, consider Professor Flitwick… who has the inclination?”
Hermione had never noticed if Malfoy did well at school or not. Though, given his enthusiasm for Potions and Arithmancy—besides, it wasn’t like she cared.
Another thing popped into her mind like a firecracker, which wanted attention.
“And how did you know I fancied Professor Lockhart? Not that I did,” she added quickly. “And you still haven’t explained your disappearance, or the—sheet—”
“Er—ah—who didn’t fancy Professor Lockhart?”
“What with that sentence and the fact you just came from the boys’ dormitory, I’m starting to wonder about you—”
Hermione was actually starting to feel quite comfortable. Teasing boys was something she did exceptionally well, and Malfoy was starting to look like Ron when he hadn’t done his homework.
When Draco Malfoy suddenly remembered that he was, once again, Draco Malfoy.
“I’d love to stand around here chatting all night, Granger,” he drawled. “But this sheet is wicked draughty, if you get my meaning. Besides, I shudder to think what Professor McProtectorOfMaidenVirtue would imagine if she came upon us in our questionable clothing. What would that do to my reputation?”
Hermione suddenly became acutely conscious that she was wearing a nightshirt, which was absolutely ridiculous considering he was wearing a sheet.
Please, please don’t let me be blushing.
She wished desperately for just a shred of Malfoy’s incredible poise, quite unmoved by the fact that he was wearing bedclothes. Malfoy had even been able to stand right up and threaten the madman who had turned him into a ferret and bounced him around a room.
At certain times, you had to admire him—the utter jerk.
“Of course,” Malfoy continued, and his voice became winding as a snake’s, “If it is a choice between that rumour and one about Longbottom…”
The pale-haired Slytherin walked slowly towards her. Hermione stared up at the cool gleam of his eyes as his voice curled rich and warm around her, in a sort of frozen disbelief.
In a moment, he was so close she could have reached out and touched his bare chest.
Obviously, she didn’t do anything of the kind.
“What are you on, Malfoy?” she hissed.
His smile was pure Malfoy. “Nothing now. Give me a minute.”
“Ugh—Malfoy, have I mentioned lately that you’re revolting?”
“Is that why you’re having such problems breathing?”
Bugger.
“Come now, Hermione…” Malfoy’s voice was silky. “Where’s that Gryffindor kindness? You wouldn’t let that reckless despoiler of purity Longbottom sully my good name?”
He moved in towards her.
Her chest exploded into spangles of panic. She raised a hand and shoved him away, which of course involved touching his bare skin, which was more physical contact than she had ever wanted to have with Malfoy.
It also awakened all kinds of disturbing thoughts about skin taut over muscle, hands sliding and the possible softness of locks that fell into certain eyes, but Hermione put that down to the stress of the moment.
Malfoy lifted his hands in a gesture of innocence, which was not damn well likely.
“Get out!” Hermione snapped.
He shrugged, setting off that upsetting interplay of muscle under skin again.
“As you wish.”
He slid out of the common room. A moment after he had gone, Hermione realised he had not given her an answer about any of the important questions she had asked.
Bugger, bugger, bugger.
Well, that had gone incredibly well, Draco thought to himself. Of all the prats in the world… he had been wearing a damnable sheet when she saw him again.
A sheet!
He still couldn’t believe it. He supposed he had to be grateful that she had not gone off shrieking with contemptuous laughter. As for whatever had possessed him to make a move on her, all pure and Gryffindorlike in her girlish nightshirt, something he could not possibly touch…
He had tried to distract her from awkward questions, and got carried away.
Please, Draco thought. I can’t take any more embarrassing scenes. Let me just get to my nice cozy bed, and I’ll deal with everything in the morning.
“Blaise Zabini Is A Tart,” he whispered, and the door swung open.
Malcolm Baddock let out an ungodly howl.
Draco cursed Murphy, and every Slytherin in Hogwarts, including Professor Snape in fluffy slippers that brightened Draco’s day somewhat, showed up at the entrance in double quick time.
And stared. And stared.
Some of the girls were staring in a way that made Draco quite uncomfortable.
Blaise Zabini was eyeing the tie of his sheet in a way that made him feel distinctly panicky.
Pansy Parkinson flung herself at him in a way that made him feel really victimised.
“Oh, Draco!” she cried. “God, we were all so worried!”
“Er… that’s nice… Watch the sheet…”
Everyone obeyed him and watched with interest.
“Where have you been?” demanded Pansy.
“What have you been doing?” asked Goyle.
“What happened to you?” inquired Snape.
“What are you wearing?” Crabbe wanted to know.
“Isn’t that a Gryffindor sheet?” Blaise was just a wee bit too observant.
Draco looked around at all the worried, curious, questioning faces hemming him in. He squashed the urge to run.
“I can explain everything,” he promised.
There was an expectant pause.
“In the morning,” he added, and swept off in true Malfoy style, leaving his entire house staring after him.