After a night full of restless dreams, Draco slept through all of Sunday morning. The spell must have whisked Granger away earlier than usual—he was sure of it, though he never fully woke up. Eventually, he dragged himself out of bed and trudged to the bathroom, only to return still groggy, exhausted, and—worst of all—completely out of sorts.
Salazar be his witness, he had plenty of reasons. He'd spent all of Saturday surrounded by poisonous plants, bloodthirsty pastries, intrigue, and curses—not to mention the touches, the kisses, and the subsequent nervous breakdown. And then, of course, Tennant.
But that had all been manageable. What stuck with Draco most were those last moments before sleep, now haunting his mind. Lying in the dim light with Granger, talking softly, and then… playing kiss-for-a-hint? Had he gone mad? After she vanished, he couldn't sleep either, and it was only at dawn that he finally slipped into unconsciousness.
He'd planned to hide out in the dungeons until lunch—he wasn't hungry anyway—but he needed to keep an eye on Tennant. If that bastard was going to "prepare the ground" near Granger, Draco wanted to know.
He stared at himself in the mirror while shaving—Salazar, he looked awful. This school year was truly wrecking him, and knowing it was all his own fault didn't help. He had planned a quiet year where everyone hated him, maybe a fling with some random Gryffindor girl, and what did he get instead? A psychopathic roommate hunting the same witch who, somehow, ended up in Draco's bed every night. And he had no one to blame but himself.
Draco dragged the razor across his sunken cheeks, once again wondering—why had he reacted so strongly to the not-terribly-surprising news that Granger didn't want to sleep with him? He'd estimated his chances at about one in three the moment he took her shirt off. And yet, when she said no, he'd spiraled. That had happened before—with Slytherin witches even—but he had never reacted this badly.
He wiped his face and returned to the bedroom to get dressed. This makes no sense, Draco thought, pulling on black over black over black over black. She thinks I'm disgusting. Then why did she kiss me so gently? Touch me so tenderly? Let me stroke her skin, lick— Merlin, he was aroused just remembering it.
Draco collapsed onto the leather sofa and dropped his head into his hands. Lately, he found himself in that position far too often—head in hands. It was probably bad for his health, but he'd wager Granger had this effect on a lot of men.
Sex means something to me.Gods, what if Granger actually has feelings for Draco—even just a little? What if she's forgiven him—even just a little? What if she's just really friendly? Gryffindors are like that, right? Always hugging and kissing, and in front of everyone too.What if she just wanted him and couldn't resist—because... that's just how she is?Surely she kissed that Puff boy too. Draco pulled so hard at his hair that it hurt.But not like she kissed me. Not like...
"Why do you look like death warmed over?" came the last voice Draco wanted to hear.
Salazar, even Tennant looked better than him today. Cheeks rosy, eyes gleaming—almost too brightly, with a faint madness. His hands weren't even shaking.
"Headache," Draco said. "Just need some food."
Lunch was a nightmare. Granger sat with the Gryffindors, Finch-Fletchley looked puffed up more than usual, and—thank Merlin—Weaslette was absent. But Granger kept staring at Tennant, violating all of her promises from last night. To Draco's horror, he realized she was watching how Tennant ate.Why the hell did I give her that hint?! Was I really that desperate for a kiss?Draco had to fight the urge to clutch his head again.
"Tigress is watching me," Tennant murmured, lowering his voice.
"She's on high alert, thanks to your idiocy," Draco snapped. He shot Granger a scowl, but she simply continued studying Tennant in what she probably thought was a stealthy way.
"Gonna have some real fun with that Mudblood," Tennant said, crunching through his pork chop right down to the bone. Granger narrowed her eyes, and Draco focused all his willpower on not groaning aloud.
He'd planned to tail Tennant after lunch, but Headmistress McGonagall caught him first. In two months, they'd had only one extremely awkward conversation, and since then they'd avoided each other.
"Mr. Malfoy." The stern witch peered at him over her glasses. "I've been informed that you require a new wand."
"Yes, Headmistress," Draco replied, surprised.
"Your mother arranged for a specialist to assist you with the selection. He's waiting for you in the Divination Tower."
"Yes, Headmistress," Draco repeated. With McGonagall, brevity was best.
Her sharp gaze didn't soften.
"You're very fortunate, Mr. Malfoy, that this man agreed to help you."
Draco couldn't argue. His black-and-white wand had been behaving decently, but it lacked power. He needed something stronger—especially if he was going to face...
McGonagall frowned slightly, noticing Draco had drifted off, so he quickly added:
"Thank you, Headmistress."
The old witch swept away, huffing exactly like Granger, and Draco headed to the Slytherin dungeons to retrieve his grandfather's wand along with the broken hawthorn one.
The Divination Tower seemed an odd place for a meeting, though on weekends, with Trelawney likely passed out somewhere, it was probably empty. When Draco climbed through the trapdoor into the round room, he saw a single visitor—Garrick Ollivander.
The wandmaker was strikingly different from the frail, wasted old man Draco had last seen during the war in the Malfoy Manor basement. Ollivander had always been reserved, and his round silvery eyes made him a bit eerie. He was still thin as a wand, gray, and disheveled—but now his face was full of color, and his movements had renewed energy—like he'd been given a second chance and intended not to waste it.
Ollivander pulled aside one of Trelawney's heavy curtains and opened a window, dispersing the cloying incense that always lingered in the air. Draco breathed in the fresh air with relief—another headache was the last thing he needed. He now saw that most of the small round tables had been pushed to the walls, clearing space in the center. On the remaining tables lay long, narrow blocks of wood.
"Mr. Malfoy." Ollivander's voice still rang gently.
"Mr. Ollivander," Draco replied quietly. "I'm sure my mother has already thanked you for agreeing to meet me. I'd also like to express my gratitude."
The wandmaker's thin eyebrows rose in surprise at Draco's courtesy, but he merely nodded.
"Lady Malfoy mentioned you needed a replacement. Your wand was hawthorn, I believe?"
Draco placed the broken pieces on a nearby table, and Ollivander stepped forward to examine them.
"Ten inches. Unicorn hair. Moderately flexible."
Not anymore.
The old wizard placed his bony hand on the broken wand and closed his eyes.
"This wand was broken under... interesting circumstances," he said.
You don't even know the half of it.
"It resisted a hostile hand. I sense fear."
"It was… a misunderstanding," Draco said quickly.
"Hawthorn is usually quite yielding, especially paired with unicorn hair," Ollivander said thoughtfully. "But this wand became stubborn, unyielding. More powerful than before—but brittle. Dangerously brittle."
Ollivander opened his eyes and blinked owl-like, not taking his gaze off Draco.
"I presume you had difficulties with it."
"Yes," Draco admitted.
"Some spells and magical objects are closely tied to the wizard, Mr. Malfoy," said Ollivander. "If the wizard changes, so do they. A clear example is the Patronus."
"I can't cast a Patronus," Draco said. He had never tried, but he was sure he wouldn't be able to.
"Of course," Ollivander blinked again, slowly. "It's the same with wands. When the owner changes, often the wand does too. But not always. Curious."
Draco was surprised. Changes? He thought of himself as the same bastard he'd always been—only worse.
"That was a very unhappy wand," Ollivander said gently, handling the pieces with care. "Years of use with bad intentions, then dark deeds... eventually, it was forced to turn to the darkness itself… it was betrayed by its master."
"I never betrayed—"
"You changed, Mr. Malfoy. You refused to kill with that wand, used torture only under coercion. That weakened its loyalty to you."
Draco barely suppressed a groan. There's nowhere lower to fall than when even your bloody wand betrays you.
"Then Mr. Potter took possession of it." Ollivander closed his eyes again, as though listening to the wand's voice. "It submitted to him—to the darkness inside him… But when it returned to you… the wand resisted… and then was delighted when it was used for a familiar dangerous spell..."
It took every ounce of Death Eater training not to start shifting on his feet. This old man was too perceptive. He just needed to get used to his grandmother's wand. Sure, it was a little eccentric. So what.
Ollivander suddenly opened his eyes wide, and Draco nearly flinched.
"And then the hawthorn wand once again found itself in the hand of a witch or wizard of great power and virtue."
The wandmaker shook his head sadly.
"It was too much for the wand," he said, running his fingers gently over the fragments.
Draco rolled his eyes, and he didn't care if Ollivander noticed. Were they really here to weep over a broken wand and its shattered dreams?
"Well, let's move on, then," Draco snapped, pulling out the two wands his mother had sent and slapping them onto a nearby table.
Ollivander approached, practically sniffing with curiosity.
"Ah... very nice... very nice..." the wandmaker murmured. "A charming little harlequin wand. But not quite right for you, is it, Mr. Malfoy? Those wands prefer light, joyful, mischievous magic... and like-minded owners."
Draco said nothing. He didn't need some old lunatic reminding him that he was neither light-hearted nor joyful.
"A favorite wand, once owned by a bright, energetic witch," Ollivander continued, lapsing into melancholy as he ran his fingers over the checkered wand. "Your grandmother, Lucinda. One of my first clients I personally assisted as a young apprentice. So charming..."
Draco agreed. His grandmother had died when Lucius was still a child, but he remembered how her portrait would look down at him with sparkling blue eyes—though she never spoke to him.
"And this..." Ollivander set aside the grandmother's wand and picked up the heavier one. The old man practically hissed.
"Oh, a very famous wand. Twelfth century. Snakewood and dragon heartstring. Eleven inches." He shook his head. "Also known as Schlangenholz. I've never worked with this wood myself, but Gregorovitch... well... Great and terrible things were done with this wand. Much blood, much pain." He shuddered. "Nicolas Malfoy."
"Nicolas," Draco whispered.
There were rumors that his ancestor had killed hundreds of Muggles under the cover of the Black Plague. What was his mother thinking, sending him that wand? The one later passed to his grandfather Abraxas...
Ollivander's ghostly hand hovered over the two wands lying on the table.
"Of these two, you've used... this one." His thin finger pointed to the checkered harlequin wand. "Curious choice, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco barely held in a sigh. Nothing curious about it.
"Well, let's see if we can find something better," the wandmaker said.
Draco nodded again, relieved he no longer had to look at either Nicolas Malfoy's wand or his broken hawthorn one.
Ollivander pointed to the cleared space in the center and pulled a measuring tape from his robes. The tape snatched itself from his hand and began frantically measuring every possible part of Draco's body as he stood with his arms spread. Why a wandmaker needed to know the diameter of his right ankle but not the left was a mystery, but Draco said nothing. This wizard clearly knew his business.
"I couldn't bring my full inventory, of course," said Ollivander, finally letting the measuring tape return to his pocket. "So I've limited myself to a few wood samples. But first, we must determine the core."
Both were surprised to find that unicorn hair no longer responded to Draco. At dragon heartstring, Ollivander simply nodded.
"Your character has fully formed, Mr. Malfoy," he said.
Draco wasn't thrilled by that—it meant he was doomed to stay this strange forever.
Then Ollivander began handing him samples of wood. Draco felt like an idiot, waving around twigs as if in a Divination class with Trelawney. They tried ash, walnut, ebony, even shimmering silver lime—no luck.
Ollivander grew increasingly excited—he started pulling out the most unusual woods like willow or plane. But nothing worked, and soon both wizards stared at a pile of rejected samples: Draco, irritated; Ollivander, delighted.
"I'll need to do some research, bring rarer species..." the wandmaker began, then abruptly fell silent, eyes wide.
"I sense the presence of another wood in this room." He narrowed his eyes. "On your person, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco hesitated, then pulled out the splinter of wood from his bed. He'd been carrying it in his pocket, thinking it too dangerous to leave unattended.
Ollivander clapped his bony hands with delight and gestured for Draco to place the splinter on the table.
"African blackwood," the wandmaker breathed reverently. "A deeply magical species." He blinked, opened his mouth as if to say more, then thought better of it.
"What?" Draco asked. The old man was clearly holding something back.
Ollivander waved a hand dismissively.
"Nothing worth worrying about."
But he watched Draco closely, and Draco could see his mind working—exactly like Granger's.
"Mr. Ollivander..."
"Take the splinter and give it a wave, if you would," Ollivander said absently.
Draco obeyed, feeling like a complete idiot. He didn't sense much—just a faint tingling—but the wandmaker looked satisfied.
"Decided. African blackwood, dragon heartstring... and ten and one-quarter inches."
A broad smile transformed Ollivander's face.
"You're such a picky client!"
"What even is this wand?" Draco demanded. He felt like he was back with Isobel, dissecting the meanings of vowels in his name.
Ollivander was packing the samples into a large case with silver studs. He paused and looked Draco over appraisingly.
"Wands made from African blackwood are extremely selective and form very strong bonds. They obey only those with strength and... nobility."
Draco's jaw literally dropped. Nobility? For a Malfoy—whose name literally meant 'bad faith'?
"Most wands adjust to their owners," Ollivander continued as casually as if commenting on the weather. He finished with the case and began returning the furniture to its place. "But African blackwood is more... demanding."
The old man suddenly stepped close, raising his cloudy, aged eyes to Draco:
"This wand demands nobility, Mr. Malfoy—which means you are capable of it."
"I'm not going to spend the rest of my life trying to live up to a bloody wand!" Draco snapped. Merlin, as if he didn't already have enough pressure.
Ollivander merely shrugged.
"I can only offer the wand. Whether to accept it—that's up to you. You can keep the harlequin wand, but once you feel the power of blackwood..." he smiled, "...there's no going back."
A flick of his wand—and the curtains slammed shut. With surprising energy, the wandmaker crossed the room and lightly descended the stairs, heavy case in hand. His white, disheveled hair vanished through the trapdoor, leaving Draco alone in the quiet room.