Chapter Text
“Have you got an extra quill, Hermione?”
Hermione rolled her eyes but fished one out of her bag and handed it to Harry. Honestly, the boy was constantly prepared to risk his life at any given moment, but never to take notes in class. If only his sudden interest in Potions would inspire him to pick up a school supply or two.
Slughorn wandered past them on the way to his desk, muttering to himself. “Hor’s d’ouevres, in the works, spirits, taken care of—”
“What’s he on about?” asked Ron.
“His party,” Hermione groaned. “It’s all he can think about.”
“Again?” Harry asked, ducking a little lower in his seat.
Hermione gave him a sympathetic pat on the knee. “He has some international Quidditch star coming in on short notice.”
Predictably, both boys perked up at the news. “Which one?”
Hermione shrugged. “Ask Ginny, she’s the one who told me.”
Her friends visibly deflated, and Ron shook his head. “So many facts in that brain of yours, and you couldn’t find room for just one more?” Hermione gave Harry a slight shove with her shoulder, pushing him into Ron, and Ron gave a much less gentle shove back, nearly unseating her.
“Ow,” Harry complained, rubbing the unfortunate shoulder next to Ron. “How do I always end up in the middle?”
All three shared a grin, and Hermione was still smiling as she turned back to her parchment and the boys carried on scuffling beside her. She had that warm feeling of rightness in her belly—a sense for at least this one moment, all was as it should be.
“Welcome, welcome,” Slughorn announced from the front of the room, and they all turned to face him. “I’ve completed inventory today and found that unfortunately, our supplies have grown unexpectedly meagre. Potions is a journey of trial and error—rather a lot of error, for some of you, and that exploration can be costly. But fear not! I’ve devised a plan to transform this negative into a benefit for all. I’d like you to spend this lesson combing the grounds for potions ingredients.”
A hum of whispered conversation filled the classroom, and Slughorn raised his voice. “This assignment will test your knowledge, replenish our materials, and, depending on your efforts, mind, provide our beloved institution with some additional padding in the budget.”
“Provide him some free time from lecturing, more like,” Hermione muttered.
“There are a few stipulations,” Slughorn continued. “You’ll stay in pairs, for safety. You’ll be judged on how well you perform. And,” he gave them a significant look, “the winners will be rewarded. Extra credit toward your final project!” There were a few groans of disappointment, and a clatter erupted as students made a run for the door.
“Do you know, Harry,” Ron piped up in a faux casual voice, “just yesterday I was leaving the pitch and I was dead sure I spotted a patch of stinging murtlap?”
Harry turned to him, and the boys exchanged what Hermione was sure they believed to be devious looks. Ron grabbed his bag and loped off, calling over his shoulder, “Hurry, Harry, the murtlap awaits!” Harry fumbled with his own bag, then glanced over at Hermione.
“Oh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Erm, Hermione, do you want to tag along with us?”
“That’s not a pair, then, is it? I think I can struggle through an afternoon without you.”
He frowned. “It’s just that we’ll only drag you down, you know? Neither of us care about extra credit, we just want to skive off to the pitch.”
“I did somehow piece that together myself, yeah.”
“Right,” he said with a small laugh. “I’m sure one of the girls would love to search with you?”
“Oh, go on, Harry,” she said, rolling her eyes again. “I’ll be fine.”
“‘Course you will,” he grinned, and took off.
“Oh, wait!” he said, skidding back to their table, and Hermione felt her heart lift. “Your quill!” He gave her a brilliant smile and passed the quill over before sprinting off after Ron. Hermione let her smile drop.
Harry was right; she didn’t want to spend the period playing Quidditch. But it still hurt to be the odd one out again. She took her time putting away her things, surveying the room to see if a half-decent partner was left. It was mostly empty already, but that was alright. She was more than happy to work on her own.
“No partner, Mr. Malfoy?” she heard Slughorn ask, and Hermione picked up her pace, determined to escape without the professor’s notice. Malfoy was detestable at the best of times, and there was something decidedly off about him this term; he’d gone from the center of attention to silent, brooding presence. Neither version was pleasant, and she didn’t care to be there when whatever he was holding in burst out.
But Slughorn had him cornered right at the classroom door; there was no way to leave without drawing attention to herself. Hermione busied herself at the table, trying to look inconspicuous.
“Oh, yes, Professor, I’ll just be meeting them outside.”
“And who is it you’re meeting?”
There was a split-second pause. “Parkinson, sir.”
“Oh no, my dear boy, I believe you might be mistaken. Miss Parkinson was paired with Miss Bulstrode.”
“Ah, thank you, Professor. I’ll just find someone else then.”
“You could use those extra points most of all, you know,” said Slughorn. His tone was kindly, but Malfoy glowered. “I advise you not to let this opportunity pass you by.”
“Wise words as always,” Malfoy replied, the veneer of courtesy now gone from his tone.
But Slughorn didn’t seem to notice; he merely patted Malfoy on the shoulder and turned to scan the room. Hermione panicked, tossing her quill to the ground and diving under the table.
“Miss Granger?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes, Professor?”
“It appears that you’re unpartnered as well. Perhaps you and Mr. Malfoy might work together?”
Hermione groped for an excuse, but Malfoy beat her to the punch.
“An excellent suggestion, Professor. Shall we, Granger?”
She gave him her most incredulous glare, the force of which was admittedly diminished by the fact that she was crouching under a table, and clambered up with as much dignity as she could muster. Malfoy watched her with obvious disdain. Flushing with irritation, she followed him out of the room.
“What are you playing at, Malfoy?” she hissed once they were out of Slughorn’s hearing.
“Telling the old man what he wants to hear so he’ll get off my back. Never fear, Granger, I haven’t suddenly acquired a taste for low company.”
“I see,” she said, although she didn’t—she’d been certain he’d enjoy the chance to goad her a little more. Maybe it wasn’t worth it without his toadies egging him on. “Meet you back here at five ‘til then?”
He nodded and turned away, heading toward the Slytherin dorms. Ah, now it all made sense—he thought he could just leave her to do all of the work.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she called after him.
He froze, then turned in a slow circle to face her.
“Wherever I fucking please. Which, I warn you, is none of your concern.”
“Oh, it bloody well is. Do you really think I’m going to let you have all of the points after doing none of the work?”
He stepped toward her, not stopping until they were toe to toe and she had to crane her neck to look up at him. He was obviously trying to use his height to intimidate her. He stared down at her, and Hermione stared defiantly back, but she felt her anger flag just the slightest bit. She’d already noticed that he looked ill, but from here, looking straight into his tired eyes, it was even more obvious. If it were anyone else on the planet, she’d be concerned.
“I think that I’m not a mousy little swot and therefore don’t give a shit about extra points.”
Hermione scoffed and turned to go. As if she didn’t hear that one every day. “Your material’s as tired as you are, Malfoy. You’d probably just slow me down anyway.”
“What was that, Miss Granger?” a silky voice demanded from the adjoining corridor. Hermione groaned and turned to face Snape. Potions professors past and present were conspiring against her today.
“Just planning our project for Professor Slughorn, sir.”
“I see. And what project is that?”
“We’re collecting Potions ingredients—he says that the stores are running low, so we’re to search for anything useful.”
Snape only continued staring, so she huffed and carried on. “Whoever brings back the most wins extra credit.”
“And you and Mr. Malfoy elected to complete this task together?”
“Erm, well, Professor Slughorn did the electing. But we’ll cover more ground apart, so…”
“Indeed. And Mr. Malfoy, you were heading toward the dorms because?”
“I forgot my cloak,” he said flatly. “Sir.”
“Quite irresponsible of you. In that case, I believe you would be best served by following Slughorn’s direction and working more closely with Miss Granger. Extra credit would not be remiss in your case.”
Malfoy coloured and opened his mouth to argue, but Snape cut him off.
“Need I remind you that, as your Head of House, I’m required to notify the guardians of those students who are placed on academic probation? I insist that you do everything in your power to prevent that from happening.” He glared at Malfoy, then turned his attention to Hermione.
“As for you, Miss Granger, how irresponsible that a prefect would both disregard a professor’s direct instruction and allow another student to abscond from class altogether. I’m tempted to take points from Gryffindor.”
Hermione fumed and only just managed to bite her tongue.
“However, perhaps some time in each other’s company will be punishment enough. You two will carry out this assignment together, as directed,” Snape commanded.
“Yes, Professor,” Hermione answered. Snape locked eyes with Malfoy for a long moment.
“Yes, Professor,” he finally muttered. Snape inclined his head, and she and Malfoy turned away.
“But,” Snape called, forcing them to stop in their tracks. Malfoy swore under his breath as they turned to face him again. “As both of you have already proven yourselves untrustworthy, let me provide you with some…encouragement to comply.” The professor pointed his wand at the two of them and gave it a few dramatic flicks.
“You can’t cast on us!” Malfoy protested.
Snape arched a brow. “Can’t I?” he replied, then swept off in a billow of robes.
“How can someone be so grim and yet so flamboyant?” Hermione wondered aloud. Malfoy only stalked off, so she shrugged and hurried to catch up.
It was a silent walk to the outer doors, Malfoy fuming beside her.
“Do you feel any different?” he demanded as they stepped outside, and she shook her head.
“Neither do I,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can only assume that we’re in for a nasty surprise once we trigger this thing.”
“What do you suppose the trigger is? Proximity?”
“I imagine so, but I can’t say that I fully understand the workings of that greasy head.”
“How far do you think we have?”
Malfoy shrugged. “Shall we try and find out?”
Hermione thought of Marietta Edgecombe and shuddered. “I think I’d rather not risk it. I prefer not being covered in boils.”
Malfoy gave her a look. “Weirdly specific, but I take your point.”
“Let’s just try to find a few ingredients and turn them in. Maybe it won’t take that long.”
“Right. I’m sure all this snow is simply teeming with plant life.”
“Oh, do we need to go back and fetch your cloak?” Hermione offered, in what was, in her opinion, an extravagant gesture of goodwill. She pulled her own out of her bag; she kept a spare one shrunk in there for situations just like this one.
He gave her a superior look. “No, Granger, I’m a wizard. Haven’t you heard of warming charms?”
“No detour then, splendid,” Hermione replied. “Let’s not talk anymore.”
“Fine by me,” he said.
They crunched along the frozen path, each peering at opposite sides. Malfoy outpaced her immediately, thanks to his stupidly long legs, and Hermione found that she was enjoying herself after all. It was quite pleasant to be outdoors in the crisp winter air. And she had a perfect vantage point to observe just how often Malfoy had to stop and renew his warming charm, and how increasingly annoyed he became each time. She was almost thankful that Slughorn was a self-indulgent social climber who cared more for parties than lessons, and her best friends were Quidditch-obsessed underachievers. Almost.
She was already dreading the debriefing she’d get when Harry got word of this. He’d accuse her of wasting an opportunity to investigate. Perhaps she should tackle Malfoy now and turn his pockets out. Or try to strike up a casual conversation. “Say, Draco, up to anything nefarious lately?” Or maybe, “You know, after considering your comments on blood purity, I find I’m curious to learn more. Do you happen to know of any meetings I can attend on the subject? The more clandestine, the better!”
A flutter in the corner of her eye pulled her from her thoughts—it was her spare quill, wafting gently to the ground. Hermione stooped to retrieve it, then cast a quick drying charm on both the quill and her mittens, followed by a warming charm for good measure—hers was undoubtedly leagues ahead of Malfoy’s. Perhaps she’d go cast it on him and rub his rodent face in it. Smirking to herself, she was tucking the quill into her robe pocket when she heard a yelp.
Malfoy was splayed on his back in the snow. Hermione barked a laugh and made her way toward him.
“Are you alright?” she called, still laughing.
“Of course, I’m alright,” he sneered, scrabbling to his feet, “no thanks to you. We agreed not to trigger the jinx! I should’ve known better than to trust a mudblood.”
“You triggered the jinx?” she asked, interest piqued. “What was it?”
“You triggered the jinx! I was innocently walking, as we’d agreed, mind you, while you hung behind and purposefully caused me to get tripped!”
“Tripping doesn’t make much sense,” she mused. “Maybe it’s some kind of binding? Did it feel like a pull, maybe?”
“Don’t change the subject!”
“I didn’t—we’re talking about the jinx!”
“No, we’re talking about you triggering the jinx!”
Clinging to her last shred of patience, Hermione sighed. “Malfoy, I only dropped my quill, I wasn’t doing anything underhanded.”
He scoffed. “Of course not, perfect Granger would never.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You can blame my innate clumsiness. Mudblood trait, I’m sure.”
“You’re lucky I haven’t broken anything!”
“I certainly feel that way.” She moved to help him dust the snow from his clothes and he jerked out of her reach.
“I don’t need your help,” he muttered. “Or your paws on my person.”
“Fine, stay cold and wet for all I care.”
“Exactly! Why bother to pretend that you care when you don’t? You do-gooders are always so two-faced, it’s maddening.” He pinned her with his gaze, shoulders heaving, and she rolled her eyes.
“You sound almost offended that I don’t like you. You do remember, don’t you, that you’re the one who hates me?”
“I don’t hate you,” Malfoy said distractedly, straightening his clothes. She snorted, and he met her eyes again. “I don’t waste enough thought on you to hate you.”
“Well, you certainly go out of your way to share your opinions with me often enough.”
“It’s hardly my fault that there’s a certain order to life that no one else bothered to explain to you.”
“Your benevolence knows no bounds. Now would you like to stand here chatting about it some more, or are you done with your tantrum?” She spun on her heel and strode forward.
“Tantrum?” He dashed to catch up to her. He was obviously gearing up for another rant, and Hermione let that last shred of patience fly.
“Look,” she snapped. “You dislike me for racist, illogical reasons, and I very reasonably dislike you because you’re a slimy little weasel. But we’re only going to be stuck together for a few more minutes, so let’s just be quiet.”
“You can’t call me a slimy little weasel and expect me not to respond!”
“Oh, you’re right on that point. I always expect you to respond, Malfoy. And provoke, and whine, and draw whatever attention to yourself that you can.”
“I can’t help that I command attention,” he drawled.
Incensed now, she whirled to face him. “Yes, I know,” she said, and Malfoy halted too, clearly taken aback. “Deep down, you know exactly how pathetic you are, and you’ll do anything to hide it. To distract yourself from it. You can blame blood status all you want, but the fact is that I’ve been better than you since we were eleven years old and you can’t stand it.”
“How dare you,” he snarled, drawing his wand, but Hermione only spared him a disdainful sniff and resumed walking.
An idea struck her, and she veered off the path and in the direction of the Forbidden Forest. She was trudging through the ankle-deep snow now, but she’d charmed her boots to be weatherproof, so it wasn’t much of a concern. Not for her, anyway—she doubted that Malfoy had been as sensible. He struck her as purely fashion over function.
“Where are you—come away from there!” he shouted, unleashing a stream of curses once he was forced to abandon the path and follow her.
“Just imagine all the magical plants,” she called back.
Hermione skirted the boundary for a while as Malfoy continued his outburst. She almost admired the depth and breadth of his vocabulary of swears—she definitely heard some French, and there was another language that she wasn’t quite sure of. Russian, maybe? Finally, though, she’d had enough, and she plunged straight into the forest.
There was a lovely hush beneath the trees, and it somehow felt a little warmer as well. The canopy caught the snow, and Hermione found that she was surrounded by greenery; maybe she actually would find something useful growing. After only a few steps, she was able to breathe again, and let her ire roll off her shoulders.
She luxuriated in the peace around her.
Faintly, she could hear Malfoy following along the tree line, yelling and then wheedling. “I can’t see where you’re going! The jinx, Granger—you’re going to set off the jinx!”
His voice sounded farther away than it surely ought to, which was fascinating, but she didn’t bother to try to reason out why. She would only appreciate that it was. She wandered idly, not venturing any deeper into the forest, but keeping to just this side of the trees. Then she caught a flicker of movement for the second time that afternoon. She patted for her quill; it was still safely in her pocket.
Hermione took a small step closer—yes, there was definitely a slight rustling in a patch of foliage on the forest floor. She observed for a moment. It had to be tiny, whatever it was, so she was more curious than alarmed. Stooping, she inspected the leaves of the little clump of plants. She didn’t recognize them, so it couldn’t be one of the major poisons (or even one of the moderate or mild ones, she thought with some satisfaction; she knew her magical botany), but that didn’t mean that it was safe to touch, particularly here in the forest. Scanning the ground, she grabbed a nearby twig and used it to part the leaves with care.
Then she drew in a breath—a pair of glowing eyes stared back at her.