“No,” said Potter, in a tone of voice that was supposed to make me straighten my back, click my heels, and shout, “Sir! Yes, sir!” like one of the Muggle soldier-boys in those idiotic war films that give Weaselbee such a hard-on.
“And don’t think,” Potter continued, squinting at me through his ridiculous glasses, “that I don’t know exactly why you want this case, Malfoy.”
“That’s precisely my point, Potter,” I bluffed. “I have the experience—more than anyone else in the department—more than the entire department put together, in fact. I grew up with Dark artefacts. I was handling Dark artefacts when the rest of them were still playing with their rattles. I—”
Potter never shouted.
But he could do a ‘quiet insistence’ that put my father’s to shame. I assumed it was down to his having saved the world. “Then who are you planning to give the case to?” I asked, backing off a little without actually conceding defeat.
“Ron,” said Potter.
“And I’ve borrowed Hermione from the Being Division.”
“Granger?” I—um—sort of squeaked, because—well—no, let’s not go there just yet.
I suppose you’re wondering what the f—I mean, what in Merlin’s name is going on, aren’t you?
Well, first, you need to know that I’m an Auror.
Yes, I know—Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Prince, Betrayer of Hogwarts, Voldemort’s youngest Death Eater, now fights for truth, justice, and—all of those other things.
Who would have thought it?
I refused at first because, despite the war and the reckoning afterwards, I still had things pretty cushy—living off the fruits of my ancestors’ labours—but something Pansy said when I read out the Ministry’s letter made me change my mind. The truth is that, since the war, the Wizarding world has been a hard place for most pure-blood families, and Pansy made me realise that a man on the inside might do a bit of good.
Not that I ever fail to do my duty, you understand.
I just—you know—exercise a little discretion.
Secondly, you need to know that a certain Dark artefact has disappeared from the Ministry’s Dark Artefact Storage Facility—DAS-F, as we Aurors call it—at Hammersmith.
And why am I so concerned about that, you ask? Why am I prepared to swallow my pride and beg Potter for the case, so that I can be the one to retrieve the Ebony Wand?
Keep reading; you’re about to find out.
Granger turned up half an hour later.
It had been a few months since I’d seen her.
Working unsociable hours, and having a job title that, to most pure-bloods, counted as an Unforgivable Curse, I did seem to spend an alarming amount of my spare time with Potter and Weaselbee, but Granger never joined us—mainly, I think, because that idiot Weaselbee’s roving eye had finally broken the camel’s back.
Or words to that effect...
Anyway, Granger hadn’t changed—she was still hiding what looked like a pretty impressive body under five layers of knobbly-tweed, and still wearing a bush on top of her head, though her hair was longer now, and even wilder, like the Lady of Shalott’s in that painting by—
“Malfoy,” said a voice from the cubicle beside mine, “you’re drooling.”
I silenced the idiot with a sneer, and followed Granger into Potter’s office.
“You’re not on this case, Malfoy,” said Potter, immediately.
I held up my hands in surrender. “Granted. But I do have important information about the stolen artefact, which I’m sure Granger,”—I emphasised her name a little, sucking up like the true professional I am—“will see the value of.”
The golden girl eyed me thoughtfully. “Draco’s right, Harry,” she said at last. “We need all the intel we can get.”
Potter sighed. “All right, Malfoy, take a seat. For now.”
I pulled up a chair, and wedged myself between Granger and Weaselbee.
“Okay,” said Potter. “As you all know, the Ebony Wand was stolen from the DAS-F some time between one o’clock and half past two this morning.”
“Haven’t they heard of wards in that place?” I grumbled. (Malfoy Manor might not have the fancy iron-pinned, granite-lined, adamantine-sealed storage pits the DAS-F boasted, but at least we Malfoys knew enough magic to keep our heirlooms safe).
Potter glared at me. “It was an inside job, Malfoy; Cuthbert Pince took it.”
“So the rumours about Madam Pince’s secret love-child were true?” I quipped.
“The point is,” Potter continued, “whatever he’s planning, with the Ebony Wand, Pince is now the most powerful wizard in Britain.”
“Why?” chirped in Weaselbee. He looked, round me, at Granger. “What makes that wand so special?”
“It magnifies spells,” she replied. “Have I got this right, Draco? You use your own wand to cast a spell on the Ebony Wand, and then—from what I’ve read—when you use the Ebony Wand to cast the same spell, the effect is somehow multiplied.”
“And that used to belong to you?” said Weaselbee, looking at me, incredulously.
“My grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy,” I said, with dignity, “left it to me in his will.”
Weaselbee’s thought processes clunked noisily. “So why,” he said, frowning, “didn’t you use it when you were—you know?”
“Wards,” I said. “I couldn’t touch it till I was twenty-one.”
“My grandfather was a stickler for the ancient ways.” I drew Granger and Potter back into the conversation. “And, because I couldn’t touch it,” I explained, “no one else could, either—including my father—and that at least kept it safe from You-Know-Who. I had a wonderful twenty-first birthday, though, what with the Aurors battering down the door, and the Ministry making me pay the confiscation costs.”
Granger gave me a sympathetic smile.
“So we need to find Pince,” said Potter, getting back to business, “before he starts super-hexing everyone.”
“But, the thing is, Potter,” I said, making another attempt to get myself assigned to the case, “the Ebony Wand was created by a pure-blood for pure-bloods.” I turned to Granger. “I’m not saying that touching it would kill you or anything, but you really should have a pure-blood with you—”
“She will have,” said Weaselbee.
Crap. I was always forgetting that—technically—the ginger git was one of us. “Yes,” I conceded, nimbly, “but there’s a complication...”
They waited for me to elaborate. “Well?” Potter prompted.
“Draco,” said Granger, “you’re blushing!”
“I am not,” I said, indignantly. “It’s hot in here, that’s all. What I was going to say, is that my grandfather acquired the Ebony Wand for a specific purpose.”
“What spell did he cast on it?” asked Potter.
“Is that even a spell?” said Weaselbee. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a love charm, Ron,” said Granger, “of sorts.”
Weaselbee laughed. “Are you saying that Grandpa Malfoy had trouble getting Grandma Malfoy to say ‘I do’?”
Luckily for him, I had good reason to let that slur pass, but Granger replied, seriously, “The Lusting Spell’s classed as Dark magic because, unlike Amortentia, it does create real feelings. And, with the Ebony Wand to intensify it, it must have been amazingly potent. But—I’m sorry to bring this up, Draco—didn’t your grandfather pass away some years ago?”
“Then what makes you think the spell will still be active—that is what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? And if it was cast with the express purpose of making your grandmother—um—want your grandfather,”—she shrugged—“why would it affect anyone else?”
You just can’t pull the wool over Granger’s eyes, can you?
“Are you willing to risk it, though?” I countered. “I mean, suppose someone were to mishandle the wand and, as a result, develop an insatiable desire for, um, a dead man or, you know, something...?” I looked at Potter. “The fact is, I’m the only person in the Auror Office who’ll be totally immune to the spell.”
“I’m not sure that actually follows...” said Granger, thoughtfully.
“And, anyway,” said Weaselbee, “Pince must have cast his own spell on the wand by now.”
“Pince?” I said, witheringly. “Pince’ll be...” But I remembered myself just in time, and let the rest hang in the air—not least because Potter was eyeing me suspiciously.
“Yesterday,” he said, “Kingsley pointed out to me that—compared to the other Aurors—you are surprisingly lenient, Malfoy—at least, when pure-bloods are involved. He’s ordered me to keep you on desk duty for a while.” His voice dropped lower. “I really don’t care if you throw your own career away, but I won’t have you trashing mine as well.”
“We will take all the necessary precautions, Draco,” said Granger, reaching out and gently squeezing my arm. “Nobody’s going to point the Ebony Wand at anyone and cast a Libidino. I promise.”
Now, as you’ve probably gathered, I wasn’t being one hundred percent forthcoming when describing my grandfather’s antics with the Ebony Wand.
Call me Dark; call me devious; call me as embarrassed as a teenage boy caught getting a hard-on at the sight of his mother’s friend’s cleavage—
(Yes, she did, and that’s a tale that deserves telling another time).
—but, as far as I’m concerned, the Malfoys’ soiled linen has had more than enough public laundering, thank you very much.
So I couldn’t bring myself to—er—didn’t tell them the most humiliating—um—the most important thing about the Ebony Wand...
That being so—and given that Potter had officially banned me from working in the field—the only thing I could do was wait, and hope to bat away each turd as it flew at me from the fan.
For the rest of the day, I was confined to my cubicle, with strict orders to catch up on my paperwork.
In the Muggle world (if I’ve understood things correctly) that would probably have been the ideal opportunity to sneak off and insinuate myself into Granger and Weaselbee’s investigation. In my world, it meant that I was tethered to my desk with a modified Body-Bind Curse (known as an Auror Office Special).
And, just to put the sauce on the pumpkin pasty—and the kibosh on anything involving a Geminio’d double—my cubicle was clearly visible from Potter’s office door.
So I spent the afternoon resting.
I knew that the Ministry wards would protect me at work.
But once I went home, it would be open season.
And the next few nights were going to be exhausting.
That evening, I ummed and ahhed over whether or not to change into my pyjamas but, in the end, I thought, why not? Duelling can be a physical business, and black silk is particularly flattering.
So I got undressed and, wand in hand, sat on the end of my bed, waiting. I must have dozed off and woken with a start at least a dozen times, but when he arrived, at about half-past two, I was wide awake.
He tapped at the window. “Malfooooy...”
He must be hovering on his broom, I thought.
“Malfoy, open the window...”
Oh, piss off!
“Malfooooy, I’ve got something for youuuu...”
Yes, I’ll bet you have.
“I only want to talk to you, Draco...”
One intensely annoying thing about this situation is that complete strangers think they have the right to use my first name. I sighed. Time to get it over with.
I got up, marched to the window, and opened it.
Cuthbert Pince was waiting impatiently, one hand suggestively gripping his rampant broom handle, the other clutching a big box of chocolates—honestly, do I look like the sort of wizard who’ll put out on a first date?
“Where’s the Ebony Wand?” I demanded.
“Safe, where no one else can find it,” he said, with a grin and a giggle that were meant, I think, to be seductive. “Oh, Malfoy,” he purred—I levelled my wand at him—“I’m going to give you a night you’ll never for—”
“Finite Incantatem Erroris.”
He fell off his broom.
Yes, I know I should have been more professional, and found a way to interrogate him about the wand, but you try keeping your cool when a person of your non-preferred sex thinks he’s on a promise.
There was no more trouble that night—which pretty much confirmed Pince’s claim that the wand was safely hidden, at least for the time being.
The following morning, totally knackered but dragged into work bright and early by Potter’s Auror Office Special, I broke the good news to Granger and Weaselbee.
“You’re saying he just came to your house?” said Weaselbee, suspiciously.
I put my hand on my heart. “I swear to Merlin.”
“Why? Why would he do that?”
“It doesn’t matter for now, Ronald,” said Granger. She turned to me. “You say he’s in St Mungo’s, Draco?”
“He fell from my bedroom window.”
Granger’s only reaction to that was the tiniest flicker of a frown, quickly banished.
Weaselbee, on the other hand, peered at me from beneath puckered brows, like a Neanderthal confronted with the Daily Prophet’s cryptic crossword. “And where’s the Ebony Wand?” he growled.
“Pince wouldn’t tell me.”
“We’d better go and see if they’ll let us question him, Ron,” said Granger, picking up her little, beaded bag.
For the rest of the day I toiled at my paperwork, keeping my ears flapping like the baby elephant’s in that Muggle film. Nobody bothered to tell me what was going on but, late in the afternoon, from the sudden excitement in and around Potter’s office, I deduced that Granger and Weaselbee had either persuaded Pince to give them the wand, or were pretty close to finding it...
At six o’clock sharp I went home to the Manor, and prepared myself for another interrupted night.
I wasn’t disappointed.
Shortly after midnight, my bedroom doors flew open and there stood Weaselbee, framed in the doorway like a ginger Frankenstein’s monster.
All that was missing was the flash of lightning.
“What’s going on, Malfoy?” he demanded.
I’m really not sure what impressed me more—the way he’d blasted through four layers of Malfoy wards to get to me, or the look of grim determination distorting his normally placid face. He was fighting the Libidino spell with every fibre of his being.
“I take it you’ve found the Ebony Wand,” I said.
He muttered something incoherent, and advanced on me like the Big Bad Wolf stalking Little Red Riding Hood, despite all his obvious efforts to control himself.
I backed away, trying to keep a healthy distance between us. “I can cancel the spell and make the desire go away,” I assured him, “but I need to ask you some questions first.” He was getting far too close for comfort. “Hang on to a bedpost.”
He grasped my bed with both hands.
“Right,” I said. “Is the Ebony Wand safely back at the DAS-F?”
Sweat was beading on his forehead; his answer was painfully terse: “Yes.”
“Did anyone other than you touch it?”
That was precisely the answer I’d been hoping—er—dreading. “And you’re absolutely sure that no one else—”
“All right. Get on the bed.”
“This is going to knock you out,” I explained. “It’ll be safer if you’re already lying down.”
I could see that he didn’t trust me, but that he also knew that what I was saying made sense. He climbed onto the bed.
“Finite Incantatem Erroris,” I said, and watched his body relax, and the tension ebb from his face, as he lost consciousness. I levitated him out of the bedroom, and locked him in one of the bathrooms to sleep it off.
Then I lay down on my bed, folded my arms across my chest, and waited for the main event.
By now, it must be blindingly obvious to you that when my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, with his Dragon Pox-fevered brain, cast his Libidino spell on the Ebony Wand, he totally bollocksed it up.
(That’s the technical term, by the way).
His intention was to ensure that, when the time came for me to settle down with a boring—I mean, a good little pure-blood wife, I could cast his souped-up Libidino on her and—kapow!—I’d be looking forward to bedroom bliss for the rest of my days. (Though why he thought that I would need magical help to keep a wife happy, I don’t know).
Anyway, what he actually did was bequeath me a totally fucked-up wand that turned anyone who so much as touched it into a ravening sex-Inferius intent on tracking me down and shagging me to within an inch of my life.
(And if anyone ever does—consummate the spell, I mean—that’s it. We’re bonded.
For all frigging eternity).
So... Remember the twenty-first birthday fiasco I mentioned?
The Ebony Wand was confiscated by a female Auror.
She was an attractive witch, and I’m a red-blooded pure-blood, so when she came back, later that night, and—without so much as a ‘by your leave’—ripped off her robes and demanded I service her, I was only too eager to oblige.
But the moment her hand closed round me, and she tried to guide me in, some magical sixth sense—or maybe just some memory of my wartime experiences—told me that something was Very Wrong Indeed.
There was Dark magic in those fingers!
It only took me a moment to realise that it must somehow be connected with the Ebony Wand and its Libidino spell.
And then to remember that Dark magic always exacts a price.
With superhuman self control, I pushed her away...
And the next thing she knew I had her locked in the bathroom, hammering on the door, begging and wheedling, and threatening me with emasculation. I kept her imprisoned there for three days, periodically sending in a house-elf with food and other necessities, whilst I camped in the Library, trawling through a stack of ancient Grimoires and scouring my grandfather’s diary for clues, until I was able to work out exactly what he’d done wrong and devise a counter-spell.
So, as you can see, I really am the only person in the world who’s immune to the Curse of the Ebony Wand, because—as Astoria Greengrass puts it—I’m the only person in the world who’s already convinced that I’m completely irresistible.
I didn’t have long to wait.
Having followed Weaselbee’s trail of destruction all the way to my bedroom doors, Granger floated into my chamber like some Pre-Raphaelite nymphomaniac, clad in a sheer, nude-pink nightgown, her crazy hair tumbling about her shoulders and down her bare back.
And was I right about that body of hers!
“Draco,” she murmured, approaching me with outstretched arms, her bosom heaving with desire—
Which was precisely when I realised that, with all the trouble I’d been having, I hadn’t seen to myself in almost three days. Merlin, at that moment, I could have bent Granger over the back of a chair and fucked her twice without so much as taking a breath in between...
But I didn’t, because—as I demonstrated earlier—I happen to have superhuman self control when the whole being bound for life issue is raised. “Granger,” I began, feeling for my wand...
“I want you,” she declared.
“I know,” I said, sympathetically, but shuffling backwards to be on the safe side.
She climbed onto the bed and, crawling on all fours, quickly overtook me. “Draco,” she said, straddling me with such a mixture of wonder and greed and triumph on her face you’d have thought it was all her own work, “you’ve got a huge erection!”
Yes. Tell me about it.
“Your granddad made a pig’s ear of that Lusting Spell, didn’t he?” she went on, leaning in and ghosting her lips over my mouth, my chin, and my Adam’s apple, whilst—at the same time—settling her very eager pussy on my very hard hard-on.
“If you’ve got that worked out,” I gasped, still—somehow—managing to feel about for my wand, “why are you here? Hm? Surely you’ve also worked out the counter-spell?”
“Mmmmmmm,” she said, though whether she meant she had, or whether she was just enjoying sucking my ear lobe, I couldn’t tell.
“Granger...” I gave up on the wand-finding business and tried, instead, to grasp her shoulders and push her away bodily, but—for some reason—my hands closed on her breasts and, whilst I was there, I couldn’t stop myself appreciating their ripe fullness, especially since Granger made the most wonderful sound in response, somewhere between a sigh and a moan...
And then she took things to a whole new level: “Draco,” she sigh-moaned, rocking her hips so that her entire weight was riding my hard-on, “oh, Draco, make love to me. Please. I want you.”
Now, as it happened, two nights of waiting for Granger to come and ravish me had been the perfect opportunity for me to realise that—despite the potential Muggle-born problem—there was no one I’d rather be magically bound to.
Think of all the witches you know. Who would you choose?
But still... “It’s—it’s too big a step...” I swallowed hard.
“The Slytherin Sex God’s turning down sex?” She sat back on her heels, grinning naughtily. And then—obviously thinking that she needed to show me exactly what I was missing out on—she pulled her nightgown off over her head.
I looked up at her smooth, pale body—the proud breasts, the slender waist, the curvy hips, the darling little triangle of golden-brown curls, behind which lay paradise—and I almost lost control.
Then inspiration somehow dawned inside my fuddled brain: “No, I don’t need to turn it down,” I said, excitedly, “I just need to release you from the spell first!”
I scrabbled at the coverlet, desperate to find my wand.
“But if you break the spell,” said Granger, coming up on her knees, “we’ll never know what it’s like to be magically bonded.” She backed up a little, leaned down, and—burrowing inside my pyjamas—did amazing—um—terrible things to my hard-on with her lips, and her tongue, and her cool, cool breath. “We’ll never know,” she breathed, “the ultimate sexual pleasure, Draco...”
“You’d be willing to bind yourself to me,” I panted, “just to experience magically-enhanced sex?”
“I have a feeling we’re going to end up together, whatever,” she answered, suddenly sounding quite serious. “So wouldn’t it be a shame,”—she curled her fingers round my shaft—“to settle for a lifetime of ordinary sex, when,”—locking her eyes with mine, she lifted my cock to her lips (so the rest of what she said was somewhat muffled, but none the less persuasive)—“thanks to your grandfather, Draco, we can have the sort of sex most people can’t even dream of?”
Well, I couldn’t argue with that, could I?
I insisted on being on top, which made her laugh. “All right,” she said, “if you must. But...”
She Accio’d her wand—why hadn’t I thought of that?—and cast some sort of Jelly-Mattress Jinx.
“What are you...”
“It’ll be more fun, Draco,” she said. And she was right.
I’ll admit there was little finesse to our first coupling; I simply thrust into her, making her cry out—in relief, I hope, or maybe in response to the sudden flare of Dark magic—and then got straight down to it.
But with each stroke, the undulating mattress sank beneath her, and her pussy felt like an entire universe, waiting to take me, deeper and deeper and—as Granger herself had pointed out, I’m not a small man—deeper than any woman had ever taken me before, even though my thrusts seemed infinite...
And, ohhh, the smile on her face—oh, that satisfied smile!
She’d got me, and she knew it!
She lifted her hands and, placing them flat on my chest, pushed me until my back was arched like a cobra and my pelvis must have been jammed against her clit. “There,” she said.
I ground into her, and she writhed on the shivering mattress like a wanton. “Merlin, Granger,” I groaned, “if you keep that up, I’m never going to last!”
She rose up and, wrapping her arms around my neck, nuzzled my ear, whispering, “Do that a few more times, Malfoy, and you won’t need to last...”
Then she tightened herself hard around me, and I heard myself sobbing into her lovely hair, “Stop it, woman... Stop it... I swear... I’m going to drown you...”
Her pussy clenched again, and she let out a delicious, deep-chested moan—and I was a man on a mission.
I lowered her onto the mattress, and set about making her come. I wanted to thrust, of course—hard and fast and furious—but I held myself in check for her, grinding, grinding, gently but firmly, grinding, grinding, until—Oh, fuck!—she screamed, arching her back and jutting out her breasts...
I felt her coming!
And, somewhere amidst all her wild, hungry spasms, my balls exploded, shooting such a load out of me, the tremors spread way beyond my groin, driving deep into my legs and burning straight up my spine, until—for the first time in my life—the climax enveloped my entire body, and filled my head with stars.
Afterwards, as we lay side-by-side, breathing heavily, “Are they true,” asked Granger, sounding like the cat that got the cream, “all those rumours about you being able to keep it up all night?”
“Is that all you want me for,” I sighed; “cock?”
“Cock and your money,” she replied, wittily.
Now, obviously, I’ve always been proud of my staying power. But, at that particular moment, magically bonded to Granger, I suspected it would be far more fun to let her think that I was spent.
Who knew what lengths she might go to, to—er—revive me?
“I don’t know where you heard that bullshit,” I said, closing my eyes and pretending that being worked on by the Gryffindor Sex Goddess was having no effect. “Right now, Granger, all I want is a good night’s sleep. The last two days have been a bitch.”