precision
Potions Classroom, November 3rd 1996, 10:35 am
There was a tense silence in the dungeons when Harry walked in with Ron in tow. Hermione could see her classmates looking warily between the three of them, then slowly erupting into whispers as Harry and Ron didn’t take their usual seats next to her, but sat at the station next to Lavender and Parvati instead. Harry flashed her an apologetic look; Ron ignored her completely, refusing to even look in her direction.
She tipped her nose up and busied herself with unpacking her ingredients for the potion they were brewing in class that day. She could feel her face flaming and a familiar, sinking mortification forming in a pit in her stomach.
Good, it’s not like I want to spend time with him any more than he does.
But it was hard to ignore how empty her station was, and how viscerally alone she was in that moment. Most of the other Gryffindors were friends with Ron and Lavender, and Neville had gone down with Black Cat Flu earlier that week.
I won’t let Ron and his stupid childish pettiness get to me. Chin up, Hermione.
But as she forced herself to look up, she found herself squarely meeting Pansy Parkinson’s derisive gaze. And that was a mistake because looking at Pansy made her insecure. She was beautifully dolled up, short dark hair sleek and not a strand out of place, eyes lined with sharp black liner and lips stained a dark crimson. Hermione had been so off-kilter that morning that she hadn’t had time to do anything with her hair but tie it back into a bun, and was acutely aware of the fact that her hair was fighting against the ribbon that restrained it. Her permanent and ongoing battle with her hair was a losing one, and she knew it. She hadn’t even had time to put on a little bit of mascara, or lipgloss, like she usually did, and felt strangely stripped bare.
Pansy’s dark eyes looked her up and down, before she sneered and turned back to talk to the tall boy next to her. Theodore Nott. Of course. They were practically glued at the hip after all. It was strange that they were in class without Malfoy though. The three of them, the ‘silver trio’ as she’d heard some pupils call them, were practically inseparable. Impeccably groomed, oozing wealth and elegance, and with sneers that looked so natural it was almost uncanny.
Do all pureblood Slytherins get lessons on how to sneer like that? What are the chances that every single one of them can do that stupid sneer that just suffocates you with their superiority complexes?
“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, there’s a spare space next to Miss Granger over there. Now do hurry up boy,”
She turned around just in time to see a familiar, lean figure hunched over the space next to her, taking out ingredients and glaring at the wooden desk like it had personally wronged him. She scowled before throwing a glare at a sheepish looking Slughorn who was studiously avoiding her gaze, and stared directly ahead, ears burning at the whispers from her classmates. God, nothing was going right for her these days.
“Granger, do you mind? Your ridiculous hair is taking up all of my breathing space.”
His voice was far too familiar now. Curt, abrasive and low.
“I suggest you shut up and choke instead.”
He really had to poke fun at one of her biggest fucking insecurities on a day where she felt awful as it was.
“You’ll need a partner to brew amortentia, Granger. Unless you want to fail this class, I suggest that you do something about the bird’s nest sitting obnoxiously on your head that’s bound to strangle me in the next minute.” He was keeping his voice low, lips barely moving, head still facing the front and not meeting her inflamed glare.
She huffed, but conceded and braided back her hair into a long, heavy coil before going back to furiously taking notes as Slughorn spoke. She was going to get this potion right whether Malfoy helped or not.
“Well, I bid you luck. This potion, as you are no doubt all aware, is a finicky one that requires precision. I bid you all the best of luck. Do not hesitate to ask me for any advice or clarification.”
As the class began to prepare the potion, she turned to face Malfoy.
“I want this potion done perfectly, Malfoy. Don’t you dare do anything to sabotage me.”
He made a non-committal noise at the back of his throat, and looked away from his books to glance briefly at her, derision seeping from every elegant movement he made.
“Granger. Believe it or not, I got my O in potions because I was good. Make sure you don’t make any mistakes, and keep up.”
She scowled at him, and began crushing the ashwinder eggs with more vigour than necessary, surprised that she wasn’t literally steaming from her ears like a cartoon because of how hot and bloody irritated she felt. As she turned to cut her phosphorous bean, she felt a cold hand close over her own, and stop her.
“Granger. Crush it with the flat of your blade to release the juice.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but for once, his face wasn’t etched with mockery or dark satisfaction. He looked almost peaceful as he turned back to the potion. The strain that had been evident in the tight lines around his face had eased, and he almost looked younger as he worked.
Even she had to begrudgingly admit that his technique at cutting ingredients was superb. He cut the gurdyroot with such speed and precision it reminded her a bit of watching chefs on those cooking shows on the television that her parents liked to watch. Except Malfoy’s hands were irritatingly pretty, long, slender, pale, and his movements were fluid with a deadly grace that the chefs on television never seemed to have.
“The book says to cut it,” she muttered by way of answer, indignant, and attempted to cut the slippery bean, which resulted in her cutting her index finger, and the bean promptly flying out of her hand and hitting Malfoy squarely in the face.
But his reaction confused her. He curled up his right hand, as if it were causing him pain, tendons straining as he pressed down on his index finger with his left hand. And if looks could kill, she would have dropped dead right there and then. The look in his eyes was deadly. The ice in his eyes could freeze hell over.
“What the fuck Granger? I told you to press it with the blade of your bloody knife. Stop being a fucking bitch and listen to me.”
She bit back a laugh at the outrage lining Malfoy’s pale face, and reluctantly crushed the bean with the flat of her blade, like he had told her to, surprised at how much juice came out from the shrivelled up little bean. And still wondering why his immediate reaction had been to reach for the index finger of his right hand, rather than where the bean had hit his face.
He leaned over to her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, smell the no doubt ridiculously expensive cologne he wore.
“If you had fucking listened to me earlier, you wouldn’t be fucking bleeding now, would you? Stupid little mudblood bitch,” he hissed. She could feel his breath tickling her ear, feel the venom in his tone.
She turned to glare at him. They were almost nose to nose, his face close enough to hers that she could count the fine lines under his eyes, see the slight, light smattering of freckles on his nose.
“What is it to you if I bleed? Why the fuck does it matter if I accidentally spill my own dirty, muddy blood?” Her voice was laced with disgust, broken pride and anger.
“Because I don’t want to see fucking muddy blood. It’s disgusting. Don’t keep fucking injuring yourself out of misplaced pride because seeing your blood makes me viscerally sick. It makes me fucking sick .”
He had gotten even closer as he spat his poisonous words at her. And she was all too aware of his proximity at that moment. The size of him compared to her. The etched marble face of his looking flush with life and heat as he leaned towards her. Draco Malfoy had never looked so alive.
She contented herself by muttering “fuck you” under her breath, before turning away from him and finally letting out the breath she had been holding. She could see Pansy Parkinson looking her way, expression cold and unreadable. But something about the way she was looking in their direction, gaze low and mouth tight, felt like it was laced with concern, rather than her customary disgust. Pansy looked almost worried .
“Ahem. Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy, I see your potion has made fantastic progress.”
Slughorn’s rich tones distracted her from her staring contest with Pansy Parkinson, and she turned herself around to face the cauldron, and unfortunately, her potions partner. Malfoy looked tense. Slughorn seemed clearly oblivious to the suffocating tension between her and Malfoy.
She nodded tightly, and busied herself with adding in the final crushed ashwinder egg.
“I think we’re done, sir.” She ground out, surprised at how even her voice sounded.
He bent over to peer at the sheen of the potion, then sniff the fumes.
“I daresay, both of you have exceeded my expectations. Absolutely exemplar. I haven’t seen it brewed this well in a long time. Bravo Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy.”
He gave her a wink, clearly seeming to think that it was all her work. She forced out a false smile, and snuck a glance at her stone-faced partner. His expression gave nothing away, but she knew he had smelled the fumes too. He probably only smelt gold in the amortentia. None of the Malfoys seemed to love anything, truly, with their whole heart. Apart from money. She sniggered at the mental imagery of Draco Malfoy as his namesake, a dragon, hoarding gold, and inhaled some of the fumes herself.
Freshly mown grass, new parchment… as usual.
And...a dark, heady, spicy scent that she had grown all too familiar with recently. Expensive musk.
She glowered at the potion, as if it was the potion’s fault that she was now smelling Draco Malfoy’s stupid fucking cologne.
7th Floor, November 3rd 1996, 10:42 pm
Hermione was deep in thought as she reached the seventh floor, and the end of her patrol, alone. Ron had refused to turn up for patrol with her, of course. She had spent the evening in the library reading up on everything she could about what the black ring tattooed on her left hand was. Glamours barely stuck to it, and she had been refreshing hers every morning, and it resisted every removal spell she had thrown at it. She’d even tried lifting part of the tattooed skin off and regrowing it to no avail. The tattoo reappeared on the fresh skin.
That evening, she’d taken a different avenue — researching whether it was tied to the core of her magic, rather than just her body. And she had gotten nowhere, but she had a niggling feeling that she was getting closer to the root of it.
But she was so distracted these days. She couldn’t stop thinking about the dream she’d had last night. Or how tired she was these days. Headaches. Nausea. Tense everywhere, constantly.
And – pain .
Sharp, blinding pain in her head. She reached out for the stone wall to steady herself, feeling a wave of nausea. The frustration that had been mounting dissipated at the agony that was ravaging her entire body, every single nerve ending burning white hot. And her head was pounding so loudly that she thought her eardrums would explode.
She could only hear the symphony of the drum of her own heartbeat harmonising crudely with the rushing of blood in her ears.The dim light of the torches were too bright, too disorientating, much too much. She could hardly even see straight, her vision tinged in a filter of pink-red. A sunset. Eyes burning hot hot pain pain pain pai n.
Closing them felt like grating sandpaper over the sensitive tissue of her eyeballs, but she forced them shut, feeling the relief that the darkness enveloped her in.
White spots danced in the back of her eyes.
I need to get back to the Gryffindor Common Room.
When the dizziness subsided a little, and the lights were bearable, she staggered towards the corridor of the Room of Requirement, using the stone wall as a crutch, breathing heavily with each step. Stopping every few steps to dry heave. The pain was still wracking her body, and every inch of her felt raw. She felt like she had been skinned alive. Every nerve ending screaming bloody murder.
Nine hundred and eighty-six…
Nine hundred and seventy nine…
Nine hundred and fifty-one…
Focus on the numbers. Feel the stone. Nine hundred and forty-four. Nearly there. Just a few more steps and you can rest.
And she bumped into something, kicked it and fell, landing on her hands in the stone with a muffled scream of pain. Sharp lances of pain shot up her limbs.
The agony in her wrists made her body viscerally lurch, and she had to force the rising bile down. She could feel bruises forming on her hands and knees. And a strange warmth under her hands. Wet.
She forced her eyes open with a groan. Nothing but spinning white dots framed in red for a few seconds. And then she blinked again, hardly even feeling the pain in her eyes anymore, The throbbing in her wrists blindsided everything else.
Her vision cleared enough for her to see, still a Seurat in pinks and reds.
She could tell that her cut from potions had opened up. Blood was running down the back of her hands in burning hot rivulets. But there was a pool of blood under her hands, warm and glossy. And sticky.
So much blood.
But I’m not bleeding much.
…
Fuck. It’s not my blood.
And for the first time, she turned her head and looked at what she fell over, squinting and trying to tune out the agony.
A body, curled in on itself, so so small. So vulnerable. Clad in nothing but black trousers. Exposed skin sallow and pale, unnaturally grey and covered in a mix of dried and fresh blood. A mop of blond hair streaking with grey. And cuts, slashes gouged out all over the exposed back.
Her feverish brain took too long to process the scene, to connect the dots. Malfoy. A marble statue, cold where it touched her burning legs. And bleeding out on the stone floor.
She screamed, vocal cords screaming back in protest and pain.
Ithinkhesbleedingpleaselethimstillbebreathingnononohecantbedeaddeaddeaddeaddeadtherestoomuchdeatharoundmehelphelphelphelphelphelp
The sensation of cold, wet fingers clamping around her wrists brought her out of her panic. The coldness was so blissful against the heat of her skin.
Fuck. He’s alive. If I don't do anything he’s going to die.
She forced herself to concentrate, focusing on the adrenaline and feeling of urgency. She just needed to heal the gashes on his back, keep him warm, and then find Madam Pomfrey.
Her hands were shaking too much. She dropped her wand and it clattered on the stone floor, before rolling into his blood. His hand went slack around her wrist.
He’s going to die die die die it’s my fault fuck fuck
Focus. Stop him from bleeding.
She reached for her wand, now sticky with his blood, and raised her trembling hand. She felt like she was going to pass out at any moment, but forced her eyes to stay open and focus.
“ Scourgify” .
The dried blood and gore cleared itself to reveal his battered back. She gagged at the sight of him. It was a wonder he wasn’t dead with how deep the gashes all over his back were. Blood was already welling up from the wounds.
“Vulnera Sanentur.”
Fuck. I really need to focus. Fuck fuck fuck.
Swish. Loop. Swish. Loop. Flick. Easy. You've got this;
“Vulnera Sanentur.”
The skin on his back began to weave and knit itself back together slowly. The black spots in her vision were getting worse. And she felt the world become a blurry haze of grey as she swayed on her knees.
I need to send a patronus. Nobody’s going to find us in time otherwise.
But as she reached into her magic reserves one last time to cast the spell, her legs buckled under her, and she fell to the floor, with a heavy thud. The last thing she remembered was the bliss of the cold, smooth floor and cold, stiff body under her.