Haunted

The dungeon classroom buzzed with quiet chatter as students filtered in, robes swishing and cauldrons clinking. The scent of damp stone and faintly burnt herbs lingered in the air, familiar and grounding to Draco Malfoy. He kept his expression composed, but inside, his mind churned with anticipation.

It was Monday, the start of their third week of classes, and he knew what was coming.

Professor Slughorn had hinted the previous week about reassigning potion partners based on performance. It was a measure Draco approved of; nothing frustrated him more than carrying an inept partner. Except this time, the stakes felt different. Today might just be his chance—a small crack in the barrier Hermione Granger had built around herself.

He took his usual seat near the front, his movements deliberate and controlled. His eyes scanned the room briefly, catching Hermione entering a moment later. She looked tired, her hair slightly frizzier than usual and a faint crease was still visible between her brows. She didn’t look at him, didn’t even glance his way, as she settled into her seat with practiced efficiency.

Draco exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Focus.

Slughorn waddled to the front of the room, his broad smile almost entirely obscured by his mustache. “Good morning, class! I hope you all had a restful weekend. Now, before we begin, I have a little surprise. As you know, I’ve been observing your work these past two weeks, and I’ve decided it’s time to reshuffle our pairs. This is to ensure we match complementary skill sets and allow everyone to flourish.”

There was a ripple of murmured reaction from the students. Draco kept his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened.

“Let’s see… Mr. Malfoy, you’ll be working with Miss Granger.”

Draco’s breath hitched, but he masked it with a faint smirk, leaning back slightly in his chair. He caught the slightest flicker of surprise on Hermione’s face as she glanced toward him, then quickly schooled her features into indifference. She rose, collected her things, and moved to sit beside him without a word.

Perfect.

Slughorn continued announcing pairs, but Draco barely heard the names. His mind raced with possibilities, crafting strategies as he straightened his back and adjusted his cauldron. This was the opening he needed. He wouldn’t squander it.

When Slughorn finally clapped his hands and announced the day’s task, Draco couldn’t help but smile.

“A Draught of Living Death,” Slughorn said with a dramatic flourish. “A famously delicate potion. Your task is to brew it to the best of your ability, paying close attention to the subtle nuances that make it so challenging. I’ll be evaluating not only the final product but also your methods and collaboration. Begin!”

Draco pulled out his ingredients with calm precision, laying them neatly on the table. Beside him, Hermione did the same, her movements quick and methodical. For several minutes, they worked in silence, the soft chopping of roots and the gentle clink of glass vials filling the air.

Draco glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Her focus was absolute, her brow furrowed as she measured out asphodel. He could practically see her mind ticking through each step of the recipe.

“You’re cutting that too fine,” Draco said, his tone casual.

Hermione paused, her knife hovering mid-air. “Excuse me?”

“The asphodel,” he said, gesturing. “You’re cutting it too fine. The smaller pieces will dissolve too quickly and destabilize the infusion. Slice it thicker.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not what the text says.”

Draco smirked faintly. “The text is outdated.”

Her knife clattered to the table as she turned to face him fully. “Outdated? This is Advanced Potion-Making we’re talking about. It’s considered one of the most authoritative—”

“It’s riddled with errors,” Draco interrupted smoothly. “Snape was my godfather. He gave me private lessons for years. Trust me, there’s a better way to do this.”

Hermione stared at him, skepticism written plainly across her face. “And you just expect me to take your word for it?”

Draco shrugged, reaching for a vial of wormwood. “Not just my word. I have other texts that back it up. If you want, I can show you.”

She hesitated, clearly torn between indignation and curiosity. “You’re saying you have sources that contradict the standard textbook?”

“I’m saying I have sources that improve upon it,” Draco said, keeping his tone even. “If you’d rather stick to the book, fine. But don’t blame me when Slughorn says our potion is mediocre.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed further, but she didn’t argue. “Fine,” she said after a long pause. “But I want to see those texts. If you’re so certain, prove it.”

Draco felt a flicker of triumph but kept his expression neutral. “Seven o’clock, the library.”

“Seven o’clock,” she repeated, her tone clipped.

They returned to their work, the tension between them crackling like static. Despite her initial resistance, Hermione grudgingly followed Draco’s adjustments, cutting the asphodel thicker and altering the timing of the wormwood infusion. The potion began to take on the pale, silvery shimmer that indicated success.

When Slughorn made his rounds, he stopped at their table, his mustache twitching with approval. “Excellent work, the both of you! The consistency is nearly perfect—very impressive, very impressive indeed!”

Hermione offered a tight smile, but Draco caught the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. She hated not being the one in control.

Good. Let her be curious. Let her wonder.

The library was quiet as Hermione slipped inside, the warm glow of lantern light illuminating rows of shelves. She glanced at the large clock hanging over the entrance—it was just past six. She had an hour before her meeting with Malfoy, more than enough time to get some studying done.

Taking her usual seat in the middle of the library, Hermione arranged her books and parchment into a tidy stack. She opened Magical Advancements in Arithmancy, but the words on the page blurred as her thoughts drifted.

Draco Malfoy. Potion corrections. Snape’s notes.

The idea was both absurd and tantalizing. Harry’s sixth year had been filled with unexpected victories in Potions thanks to the Half-Blood Prince’s book. Snape, as she now knew, had been the author of those ingenious modifications, each one subtly improving the results. That knowledge had burned in the Room of Requirement during the battle, or so she’d thought. If Draco truly had access to Snape’s teachings beyond the standard curriculum...

Her fingers brushed over the parchment in front of her as curiosity bloomed. What could she learn? What secrets might Snape have shared with his godson that had never made it into any textbook?

She shook her head, chastising herself for getting distracted, and tried to refocus on her Arithmancy. But her concentration wavered until a familiar figure stepped into the library thirty minutes later.

Draco entered the library, scanning the room with a frown. He’d hoped to arrive before Hermione and claim a more private table, but there she was, seated squarely in the middle of the main floor. It was far too exposed, and the thought of their conversation being overheard set his nerves on edge.

She was bent over her work, her quill scratching across parchment, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the nearby lantern. He hesitated for a moment, allowing himself to watch her unnoticed. The intensity with which she studied fascinated him, her focus unwavering—except for the slight furrow of her brow that suggested her thoughts might not be on the page.

Taking a steadying breath, he strode toward her, arranging his features into a mask of confidence.

“Granger,” he said, stopping at the edge of her table.

She looked up, startled, and blinked at him. “Malfoy. You’re early.”

He raised a brow. “I could say the same about you.” Gesturing around the busy library, he added, “This table’s a bit… central. Perhaps we should move to a study room? Wouldn’t want to disturb the other students.”

Hermione considered him for a moment before nodding. “That’s actually a good idea.”

“Follow me,” Draco said, relieved.

He led her to a private study room tucked at the far end of the library. Once inside, he closed the door behind them, and the quiet of the enclosed space was immediately more intimate. Turning back to her, he caught the faint, familiar scent that always seemed to linger around her—a warm blend of vanilla and something darker, richer. It hit him harder in the small space, making his stomach twist unexpectedly.

“What perfume do you wear?” The question escaped before he could stop it.

Hermione blinked at him, clearly taken aback. “What?”

He cleared his throat, quickly composing himself. “Your perfume. It’s… unique. I thought I recognized it.”

Her expression softened slightly. “It’s a muggle perfume. Vanilla and coffee-based. My mum wore it—it reminds me of home.”

Draco nodded, his mind racing to cover his slip. “Makes sense. My mother has quite the collection of perfumes. I’ve gotten pretty familiar with them over the years, but yours is different. I thought maybe I’d get it for her. Can you tell me the brand?”

Hermione’s frown softened, and she tilted her head as if trying to figure him out. “Sure. It’s called Dulce by Rosie Jane.”

“Thanks,” he said quickly, internally berating himself. Smooth, Malfoy. Very smooth. Idiot. Focus.

Hermione settled at the table, shaking her head as if to brush off the strangeness. She looked at him expectantly. “So, about that potion—can I see the texts you were talking about?”

Draco reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of books, placing them on the table with deliberate care. As he handed one to her, their fingers brushed briefly. A sudden flutter of warmth spread through her stomach, and she felt her cheeks flush.

“Thanks,” she murmured, quickly looking down at the book to hide her reaction.

“Turn to page 397,” he said, leaning in slightly as she opened the book, pointing to a specific section. “About halfway down, you’ll see the recalculated formula for the asphodel infusion. The rate of dissolution is updated to reflect advancements made in 1978. The textbooks we use still reference the old method, which isn’t as effective.”

Hermione opened the book and began to read.

Draco watched her as she read, her brow furrowing slightly in concentration. He’d noticed the faint blush when their hands touched, and it gave him hope. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered—a fragile thing he wasn’t sure he deserved, but couldn’t bring himself to extinguish.

“Fascinating,” she murmured. “I hadn’t considered that these methods might be outdated.”

Draco allowed himself a small smile. “Just because you think you know something doesn’t mean it’s immutable. Things change.” He wasn’t just talking about the book.

Hermione glanced up at him, and their eyes met. She smiled faintly. “Thanks for this. Can I borrow it for the week? I’d like to read through more of it.”

Draco leaned back, offering her a small smile. “Keep the book if you’d like. Consider it a gift.”

Hermione blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I have another copy,” he lied smoothly. “Besides, it looks like we’ll be partners for the year. You might as well have it.”

She smiled—genuinely this time—and it made something inside him twist. “Thank you,” she said softly, standing to leave. “Are you heading out?”

“I’ve got other homework to finish,” he replied.

She paused, curious. “What are you working on?”

“Muggle Studies,” he admitted reluctantly.

Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re taking Muggle Studies?”

“I wanted to learn more,” he said simply. “My mother was supportive. My father… less so.”

Hermione’s expression softened, her curiosity evident. “What’s your essay about?”

Draco hesitated before answering. “Muggle religions. I chose Catholicism—it seemed the most… relatable.”

To his surprise, she laughed lightly. “I was raised Catholic. Do you want some help with it?”

Draco hesitated, then nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

For the next hour, they worked together, the tension from earlier easing into a more comfortable rhythm. As the librarian announced closing time, they packed up their things.

“Thank you,” Draco said quietly as they walked toward the exit.

Hermione turned to him, her expression thoughtful. “No, thank you. I really appreciate the book. I think you’ll enjoy Muggle Studies—if you ever need help, let me know.”

Draco watched her disappear down the corridor, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Maybe—just maybe—he’d taken the first step.

Draco’s footsteps echoed faintly in the dimly lit Slytherin dungeon as he made his way back to his dormitory. The cool air clung to his skin, the faint scent of parchment, vanilla, and coffee still lingering in his senses. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her on his way down to the dungeons—her quick, genuine smile, the way she’d offered to help him with his essay, how she blushed when her hand had brushed his when he’d handed her the book.

He rounded a corner and nearly collided with Blaise Zabini, who leaned casually against the stone wall outside the dormitory entrance. Blaise straightened, his dark eyes glittering with curiosity as he took in Draco’s expression.

“You look… different,” Blaise said, his tone teasing. “What happened? Did Granger finally hex you, or is that an actual smile I see?”

“What are you on about, Zabini?” Draco muttered, though his attempt at indifference felt hollow. He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself.

Blaise smirked. “Because you’re smiling, mate. And you don’t do that. Not unless you’ve got a damn good reason.” He crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow. “I hope you took my advice. You deserve to be happy, you know.”

Draco frowned slightly, but Blaise’s words lingered. “We’re not just our worst decisions,” Blaise added, his voice softer, more sincere. “You can spend your whole life punishing yourself, or you can move on.”

For a moment, Draco couldn’t respond. He nodded stiffly, the weight of Blaise’s words sinking in. “Goodnight, Blaise.”

“Goodnight, Draco,” Blaise replied with a knowing grin, stepping aside to let him pass.

Draco pushed open the dormitory door and entered his room, the familiar space dimly lit by the emerald glow of the enchanted fire in the hearth. He set his bag down carefully and began to get ready for bed, his movements slow and deliberate. His thoughts, however, refused to quiet.

As he sank onto his mattress, the subtle scent of vanilla and coffee clung faintly to his skin. He froze, realization dawning. He smelled like her. Her perfume must have transferred when they’d been sitting close, the soft intimacy of their study session suddenly sharper in his memory.

A strange warmth crept over him. It wasn’t creepy, he told himself. It was comforting, grounding, and unlike anything else in his world.

Without thinking, Draco called softly for his owl, Zephyr, which swooped down from its perch near the window. He grabbed a piece of parchment from his desk and scrawled a quick note.

Mimsy, In this week’s package, include a bottle of perfume called Dulce by Rosie Jane. It’s a muggle brand. Please include my potions notes from my sessions with Severus. They’re in the library desk, bottom left drawer. ~Draco

He folded the parchment neatly and tied it to the owl’s leg, stroking its feathers briefly before sending it off. The owl disappeared into the night, and Draco sat back down on his bed, exhaling slowly.

He winced slightly—maybe it was a bit… peculiar. But if no one knew, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he truly believed she’d ever give him a chance. Yet even these fleeting moments, her smile, her blush—he could hoard them like treasures. Perhaps they would be enough to quiet the chaos within.

As he lay down, the faint trace of her perfume still lingering, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Blaise’s words echoed in his mind.

And yet, as her blush lingered in his mind, a dangerous thought crept in. Maybe—just maybe—she’d let him in. Maybe he could learn to deserve it.