Chapter 1
“Harry, you’re going to cut your fingers off if you keep getting distracted,” Hermione hissed, tapping her paring knife on the cutting board in front of him aggressively.
“Pomfrey would be able to reattach them.” Harry shrugged, looking sheepish but not chastened.
“What do you keep looking at anyway?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed Nott grew the fuck up over the summer.” He glanced over his shoulder again, still not paying attention to the sharp blade in his hand.
Hermione was less than subtle when she leaned around her best friend to follow his gaze. Theodore Nott had been in many of her classes, often nipping her heels at the top of the class ranks. He hadn’t stood out much in their previous years, but Harry had a point.
“His jawline has certainly caught up with the rest of him,” she whispered, snatching the knife Harry was still playing with, having ruined the roots that were supposed to be finely sliced. “He shot up a foot while we were gone last year, but he didn’t look so chiselled when we saw him in May.”
Choosing not to think about why they had been back in the castle briefly in May, Harry quietly asked, “Is he seeing anyone?”
She thought about it for a moment. “I haven’t heard anything or seen anyone spending more time with him than normal, but it’s only been a few days.” The Slytherins had mostly kept to themselves since the student body had returned on the first.
Not that she hadn’t seen plenty of their year mates. The eighth-year students shared a new common room and had all of their classes together rather than being crammed in with the seventh years.
The next time she peeked around Harry, she was startled to see Malfoy already looking in their direction from his place directly next to Nott. It wasn’t a glare as she might have expected. Something more like curiosity painted his features. Hermione jerked back around, ducking her head and pretending to work before she could see Malfoy’s reaction to her obvious glance.
“He saw me looking,” Hermione whisper-shrieked, picking up ingredients at random in an attempt to try and look busy.
“Nott?”
“No, Malfoy.”
“Oh, I didn’t see him over there,” Harry blatantly lied. “Haven’t heard much from him so far. He’s been keeping his head down.”
“He’s certainly quieter,” she murmured, trying to get back on task with their potion.
The potion didn’t stand a chance at keeping Harry’s attention. He was already looking back over his shoulder at the Slytherin pair, the movement as unsubtle as Hagrid trying to keep a secret. Malfoy was whispering something to Nott, flicking his eyes towards Harry and Hermione’s table. He was obviously talking about them, and Harry wanted to catch his eye so that the ferret would know he had been caught.
Malfoy was unbothered by Harry’s stare. He narrowed his eyes and mouthed, “What?”
Harry didn’t bother responding, instead turning back to Hermione, who had nearly completed the potion he was supposed to be helping with. “He still looks like a ferret.”
“That’s not what you told m—” Hermione started to say before Harry pushed her off her stool. She caught herself before she fell, but not before she let out an undignified squawk.
“What was said in the tent stays in the tent,” Harry hissed. Hermione was laughing too hard to reply. “I should have joined the Aurors with Ron.”
“Ms. Granger, Mr. Potter, are you nearly through with your brew?” Slughorn asked from the front of the class. Nobody was surprised that Slughorn’s favourite students weren’t scolded for fooling around in class.
“Yes, sir,” they replied in tandem.
“Good, good. It seems that most of you are wrapping up your potions. This was just a warm-up to get your minds back into the cauldron. We’ll spend the remainder of the double block discussing our term project as soon as we’re all cleaned up. When your brew is sufficiently purple – more of an eggplant than a plum colour – please place a labelled sample on my desk, clean your stations and prepare to take notes. Thank you!”
“Is that eggplant enough, you think?” Harry asked, leaning over the cauldron.
Hermione’s reply was cut off by Malfoy shoulder-checking Harry on his way down the aisle, nearly knocking his glasses straight off his nose and into the definitely-not-eggplant potion. “Arsehole,” Hermione muttered. “I don’t care how pretty his hair is – he’s still a prick.”
Harry chuckled, writing their names on a vial. Hermione’s more colourful language was the best thing to come out of their year away from authority figures. “Malfoy being a prick will never change,” Harry said. “Nott, on the other hand… You’ve spent more time around him than me. Is he just as bad?”
“He’s never made a fuss about my blood status when we worked together in Arithmancy in sixth year, but he might just be polite in his bigotry.”
“How thoughtful,” Harry chirped, making a point as usual to speak lightly about blood status or anything war related. The pair had made a pact going into eighth year that, as much as possible, they wouldn’t be sulky. They could talk about their experiences without wallowing. Instead, they joked, and it worked for the most part.
“Now, class! Settle up and listen down,” Slughorn called out over the students.
“No doubt Sluggy had a tipple at lunch,” Malfoy stage whispered to Nott, loud enough for Harry to overhear.
He chuckled, heartily agreeing, but Hermione’s elbow abruptly cut off his laughter.
“In an effort to avoid a generation of witches and wizards addicted to Dreamless Sleep, I’ll be teaching the seventh and eighth years how to brew a Night Terror Tincture. Instead of removing the possibility of any dreams, this draft eliminates the potential for nightmares and night terrors, even negative memories resurfacing in a dream state. It’s not lucid, as you cannot control the content of your dreams with this potion, but you can rest assured that your unconscious musings will be pleasant. Mundane, at worst.
“It is a very complicated potion that has not been taught at Hogwarts before. Unlike most potions, where we follow a strict recipe, this potion requires individualised, intuitive ingredients from each brewer. These ingredients will have to be personally harvested and prepared, significant to the brewer and the drinker alike, as this potion may only be brewed for oneself.”
Hermione’s hand had been in the air since the first mention of the Night Terror Tincture, but she lost the battle with her patience at Professor Slughorn’s last comment. “Sir,” she interrupted. “If everyone’s ingredients are different, how can we possibly all make the same potion?”
“Well, my dear,” the old man mumbled, fiddling with the buttons of his waistcoat and looking at the ceiling as if the answer would be written there. Slughorn was brilliant with the younger students, but he was useless the second he had to explain the more advanced theory. After an uncomfortable pause, he coughed and answered, “Magic,” with a half-hearted shrug and turned back to his chalkboard, mumbling as we wrote.
Hermione’s irritated sigh was echoed by the Slytherins in the back. She tuned out the professor and directed her attention to the textbook open before her.
Night Terror Tincture
Starting with a rainwater base and the first few steps of a standard sleeping draft, this concoction requires intuitive ingredients personally symbolic to the brewer. This specificity necessitates that only the brewer may benefit from the potion’s intended effect. Consuming a draft brewed by another may result in experiencing that individual’s night terrors. Ingredients that do not properly or adequately symbolise the required emotional state can lead to potion failure or worse.
There are three categories of intuitive ingredients:
To make ashes of forgiveness, the brewer must personally harvest grace and burn it to ash. For best results, incinerate the chosen material in a glass container to avoid contamination of extraneous ashes.
A thimble of powdered secrets can be procured from any object capable of being ground into a powder, eliminating any substance containing moisture unless first dried. Moisture will deem the ingredient inept. Be especially aware of tears, for even dried, the resulting reaction may be quite volatile.
Three drops of fear are the final ingredient to be added. The drops may be of any liquid of adequate significance. Be mindful not to invoke worry, for only proper fear will result in an effective brew. Note that tears are, once again, not a viable option.
Consumption of a potion brewed with insufficiently significant ingredients can—
THUNK.
Hermione dropped her forehead to the book on her desk, groaning. She wondered if she really needed a NEWT in potions. Surely, brewing proficiency wouldn’t be required in order to draft legislation and save magical creatures from oppression and the wizarding world’s outdated customs.
Hermione sat back up, shaking the notion from her mind. She would never drop the class, no matter how tempting the idea might be.
At least Harry was suffering alongside her. He had a better grasp of intuitive magic, like the conquering power of love and all that rot. There had never been logic behind Dumbledore’s explanation of Harry’s history, and Hermione still wasn’t sure she had entirely come to terms with it. Love may have stopped Voldemort, but surely that must have been hyperbole. Lily Potter must have done some sort of sacrificial magic or ancient ritual because she couldn’t possibly have been the first mother to die for their child.
Harry’s elbow digging into her side brought her back to reality. She must have been grinding her teeth again. He knew how much she hated that she couldn’t break that habit.
The students around them were packing their bags, and Harry was staring at her with a wrinkled brow. Getting a little lost in her mind was nothing new, but it happened with more frequency these days.
“Shall we?” Harry asked, beginning to gather her belongings for her.
They made their way to the library without discussion. He knew she would want to check out every book there was on intuitive potion ingredients, and she wouldn’t want to risk another eighth year checking them out first.
Hermione entered the vast space with purpose, knowing which exact aisle should have what she needed. She gathered a stack of books she knew discussed potions involving sleep, making her way to her preferred table. She dropped her bag on the floor next to her chair and began spreading out her spoils, sorting the books by relevance.
Harry scanned the shelves as he followed her out of the potions section, always worried he wasn’t pulling his weight academically whenever he worked with Hermione. It was impossible, he knew, but he was done taking advantage of her help.
“What about a text on tinctures in general?” he asked, holding out a book titled Tinctures in Tandem.
“It’s not technically a tincture,” she explained, waving off the book. It wasn’t the first time she had noticed that the magical world cared more about alliteration than accuracy. “Tinctures are dissolved into alcohol. This is just a standard, stand-alone potion.”
“Which is unfortunate,” a crisp voice cut in. “A potion for night terrors would probably go nicely with a nightcap.”
Malfoy stood at the end of the nearest aisle, leaning against the shelves and scanning the rows opposite with an unhurried slouch to his shoulders. He didn’t have any lackeys trailing behind him—a sight it seemed they would be getting used to this year.
Harry cleared his throat. “Malfoy,” he acknowledged, shuffling uncomfortably like his hands couldn’t find his pockets and his eyes couldn’t decide where to rest. After stammering unflatteringly, he managed to stutter out, “M-maybe Ogden’s could be one of your personalised ingredients.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, pulling her first-choice book closer. This stuttering, awkward version of Harry was still an improvement compared to how uncomfortable it had been watching Harry return his rival’s wand after the trials. The Savior of the Wizarding World had sweat through his shirt in the time it took Malfoy to stomp up to them, grunt out a crisp “Thank you for speaking on behalf of my mother,” and stomp away, pocketing his sorely missed hawthorn wand.
Now, Harry was leaning his hip against the table, poorly projecting “cool and casual” in the face of Malfoy’s smirk.
“Not a terrible idea, Potter. Too bad I’m not afraid of fire whiskey.”
“What do you mean, afraid of fire whiskey?” Harry asked, adjusting his lean and crossing his arms.
“Drops of fear,” Hermione explained before Malfoy had the chance to be condescending. “The only liquid intuitive ingredient.”
“She’s right, of course,” Malfoy added – surprisingly without a hint of derision in his voice. He slowly approached their table, scanning Hermione’s pile of books. “It’s an assignment that will require some uncomfortable introspection. Probably easier than the school hiring a fleet of mind healers for those of us returning to the castle.”
Harry’s bark of laughter received a sharp shush from the ornery Madam Pince. Hermione looked at him askance, hoping to communicate with her eyebrows that he needed to tone it down. Harry’s laugh turned into an awkward cough, and he finally took the seat across from his best friend.
The effect of Malfoy’s smirk was watered down by the slightest crease of confusion in his brow.
Hermione cleared her throat, hoping to pull the conversation along. “The concept is rather interesting, though. These potions weren’t in the standard seventh-year text, so I’m unfamiliar.” She paused, waiting for Malfoy to call her a bookworm or a teacher’s pet.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Granger. Potter’s the one you should be worried about with his potions record.”
“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry ground out, slipping easily into antagonism and forgetting he was ever flustered.
“Same as you, I’m sure. Getting a head start on this awful assignment to be through with it as soon as possible.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Hermione aimed for dismissive politeness. “After all, you were trained by the most exceptional potions master in recent history.”
“Slughorn barely tolerates him,” Harry cut in.
“She obviously meant Professor Snape, and she’s not wrong,” Malfoy clarified. “I was just passing through and thought I’d point out that you’re wasting your time on sleeping draughts.”
“Excuse me?” Hermione asked indignantly.
“You’ve been able to brew a sleeping draught for years, Granger. The new element you should be researching is the unique ingredients.”
She knew he was right, but she wouldn’t be telling him that. “And where do you suggest I redirect my attention?”
“The restricted section, obviously. Students have never been encouraged to work with intuitive ingredients before. Mistakes can have extreme consequences. Dumbles wouldn’t have wanted second years causing mass hallucinations or something of the like when a potion exploded.”
Harry snapped his head up to glare at the ferret at the mention of Dumbledore but hesitated when the git didn’t look smug. Instead, Malfoy was looking at his shoes like he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth.
“Too bad I don’t have my pass from sixth year still,” Hermione cut in, squeezing Harry’s fist where it was clenched on the table.
“I still have mine from Severus last year,” Draco offered.
Was he trying to help them? Harry wondered. He met Hermione’s gaze. She also looked hesitant. Before they could accept what seemed like an offer to help, Malfoy continued.
“I don’t have it on me, though. So, you’ll have to meet me there later. After supper, perhaps? I’m sure you don’t want to put it off any longer than that, Granger.”
“Oh, um… yes, that would be great,” Hermione agreed, sounding appreciative, but her furrowed brow gave away her confusion.
Malfoy’s pleased smirk made Harry even more cautious.
He took a slow step backwards, as if unsure if he wanted to but waiting for either Gryffindor to continue the conversation. When the silence stretched for a beat too long, he began to turn and said, “It’s a date, then.” With a cheeky wink, the blonde enigma walked away, snatching a book off the shelf on his way. As soon as he left the aisle, Harry and Hermione turned to each other with matching dumbstruck looks.
“Did he just wink at me?” they asked simultaneously, recoiling in tandem when they registered the other’s words.
“What?” Harry asked as Hermione spluttered, “Excuse me?”
“Did you not see what I saw?” Harry rushed out, gesturing between himself and the spot Malfoy had just occupied.
“Yes,” Hermione said carefully. “I saw Draco-fucking-Malfoy wink at ME.”
“No way. He definitely winked at me.”
“As if,” Hermione scoffed, maintaining a library-appropriate whisper.
Harry gaped at her, affronted. “What makes you think he couldn’t have possibly winked at me?”
“I didn’t say you aren’t winkable, but I don’t think that’s what just happened,” she insisted, waving her wand to return the apparently useless books to their places on the shelves.
“I know I’ve won the argument when Hermione Granger starts making up words,” Harry said smugly, standing and picking up his bag.
“You don’t know that winkable isn’t a word!”
“Christ’s sake, Hermione. I’m not illiterate, you know. Please don’t try to argue that winkable is a word. Accept defeat.”
“Fine,” she whisper-shouted, standing and shouldering her bag, crossing her arms tightly in a classic Hermione I’m-about-to-tell-you-why-you’re-wrong pose. “Language is a constantly evolving construct. Where do you think new words come from, anyway?”
Harry could have kept arguing, but his attention had snagged on the way Hermione’s crossed arms pushed her cleavage into the v-neck of her too-tight sweater. It was clearly leftover from their sixth year because everything she had bought before their current term started was annoyingly baggy. Her breasts must have grown quite a bit since sixth year because he would have remembered if her cleavage had popped like that every time she was in a strop.
“If you keep staring, I will make you trade jumpers with me.”
“I wasn’t staring,” Harry said, maintaining eye contact with the exact spot he knew her left nipple to be. He could have sworn he saw it harden under his gaze, but Hermione pushed his chin up to meet his eye before he could be positive.
“Men are pigs,” she declared, shoving her wand into her knee-high sock and pivoting to stomp down the aisle.