Hermione Granger had had enough.
“Harry, give it a rest! Malfoy’s a git, and obnoxious, and terrible but he is a literal child, he’s not a sodding Death Eater!” she snapped, slamming her Potions text down in frustration.
Harry had that wild look in his eyes, the one that made her worry Sirius’ death had pushed him too far in his short, painful life. “I’ve told you, I have evidence –”
“You have theories,” she interrupted and Harry snapped his mouth shut, fuming.
But there, beneath the anger, was hurt. Hurt she wasn’t believing him. She felt her face softening, about to apologize when Harry knocked back his chair and stormed off.
Hermione sighed, shaking her head as if it could clear her thoughts and returned to her Potions textbook. She was reading three weeks ahead, to make sure she was prepared, and that week’s Potion involved Gregory the Smarmy.
“Smarmy? Seriously?” she muttered to herself, but as she read she found herself distracted by thoughts of Harry’s hurt expression. He was her best friend, and even if he was being unreasonable, she could have listened better. He was going through so much and had so few people to truly rely on. Surely she could be a better friend; perhaps do her own reconnaissance and find out what Malfoy was up to?
Hermione gagged as she realized that would involve stalking Malfoy. No, thank you. New idea.
It was times like these she missed pencils. You could wiggle a pencil just so, such that it thwacked on the eraser end then tipped back to thwack on the graphite end; no, quills just…were. Hardly useful for brainstorm fidgets.
Irritated, she returned to her reading on Smarmy Gregory and his Unctuous Unction.
Gregory’s Unctuous Unction is to be treated with caution; its effects can be somewhat unsavoury, as is the case with Amortentia, in that it dilutes a person’s free will and agency. The difference between the two is that Amortentia causes lust and longing, masking as romantic love, while the Unction causes the drinker to believe the person who’s blood is brewed into the potion to be their best friend, closest confidante, and trusted ally. Thankfully, the Unction is exceedingly difficult to brew, otherwise it would require more regulation like its romantic counterpart.
Can’t be that difficult to brew, she mused when the thought struck her.
Best friend, closest confidante, and trusted ally.
Why stalk Draco Malfoy when she could convince him to spill his guts to her? It wouldn’t be that hard to slip it to him with the Cloak, he’d come find her and they’d chat and then they’d know the relevant secrets. Brilliant!
Hermione flipped to the recipe and paused. Okay, so...it was going to be difficult to brew.
She sat back, rather pleased with herself. A challenge and being a good friend, all in one.
Not bad, Hermione, not bad.
–
It took her two weeks to perfect the potion, and this time she couldn’t use Myrtle’s bathroom for some reason the ghost wouldn’t moan about. Instead, she brewed it in an abandoned classroom under several notice-me-not charms, in a corner away from the desk she’d caught four couples shagging on in the year and a quarter she’d been a prefect. She hoped they were bothering with a scourgify.
Hermione liked to think she had standards, and at least one of them was “not a desk.”
Finally, she added a drop of her blood to the potion and set it to simmer for another two hours. It was nearly time. Time to enact the plan!
The Plan
Step One: Borrow cloak from Harry while the potion finishes simmering.
Step Two: Use cloak to spike Malfoy’s pumpkin juice - a strong enough flavour to cover the potion.
Step Three: Loiter like a creep to make sure he drinks all of it
Step Four: Scrub eyes for having to look at Malfoy that long
Step Five: Be in the library, back table, wand at the ready to cast a nonverbal muffliato, perfected last week.
Step Six: Pay careful attention to soul-sharing with Draco Malfoy, be prepared to direct conversation with questions about his Death Eater status (or lack thereof).
Step Seven: Encourage him to eat and sleep, as penance for using a questionable potion and because he looks rather wretched this term.
Step Eight: Never put this much effort into anything regarding Draco Malfoy, ever again.
Beautiful plan!
Step one went smoothly, once Hermione was persuaded to show Harry the plan. He added a few exclamation points by Step Four and rolled his eyes at Step Seven, but acknowledged it was clever. He thanked her with sincerity in his eyes and she knew choosing to believe him enough to try this escapade was worthwhile.
Step two was perhaps the diciest part of the plan, Hermione hoped, as she dodged several bodies moving into the Great Hall. She settled herself by the window, close to where Malfoy always sat, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Where the hell was he?!
She drifted closer to the Slytherin table, hoping someone would speak of him. Pansy and Daphne were talking about some dress shop, and Bulstrode was just focusing on her food. Crabbe and Goyle were there, both shoveling food in as if they had somewhere else to be; that gave Hermione pause. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum were never far from their blond overlord, maybe they were going back to him.
She surveyed the table and noticed Zabini and Nott looking at Crabbe and Goyle with inscrutable expressions. She tiptoed closer.
“He’s going to faint in class at this rate,” Nott was muttering, angrily stabbing a potato with his fork.
Zabini nodded. “If he weren’t getting so thin I’d assume he was getting meals from the kitchens, but something is bloody wrong.”
Nott rolled his eyes. “I think we’re all aware of the ‘something,’ Blaise. Rhymes, mars his forearm?”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. Could they mean the Mark?
“It’s more than that, and you know it,” Zabini replied, voice harsh. Nott sobered.
“Yeah. But I don’t know how to help.”
“The stubborn bastard would have to want to receive help in the first place,” Zabini muttered and Nott sighed.
“Yeah, not bloody likely.”
The boys went silent, both moodily picking at their food. Hermione mulled over what they had said – clearly she wasn’t the only one to notice Malfoy looked like death warmed over; his friends were worried. And Nott’s comment – could that mean that he had the Mark like Harry thought, or simply that it was an upcoming decision he would have to make? Surely the latter! He was a spoiled rotten sixteen-year-old; who needed that in their army?
Crabbe and Goyle hastily finished their meals and left the Great Hall, Hermione close at their heels.
They headed to the seventh floor and Hermione had a sinking feeling in her gut that they were headed to the Room of Requirement. The Slytherin Prince must have figured it out after raiding Dumbledore’s Army with Umbridge last year. Goyle took a potion out and downed it, grimacing; Crabbe did the same.
Hermione again had to stifle a gasp, this time by clamping a hand over her mouth, as the massive boys contorted and transformed into innocuous little girls, one in Hufflepuff and the other in Ravenclaw.
And then, they loitered.
So, they were wretched at guard duty, Hermione noted. They took their polyjuice out in the open, were not subtle at all should anyone walk by. Idiots.
Hours passed (2.5 to be precise) and Hermione was restless and hungry. She had planned ahead and made sure all her homework was complete for the day, but still – this was optimal reading time she was missing to stare at Crabbe and Goyle being incompetent! She was no closer to Draco Malfoy, and even if he emerged, he wasn’t going to be drinking anything for her to spike his drink – this was pointless!
Around 8:30pm, Goyle snuck off and Hermione decided to remain. She’d committed this much of her evening to a fat lot of nothing, she might as well see it through.
Golden opportunity struck forty minutes later as Goyle returned carrying a large mug of coffee and a small plate of scones.
“He didn’t say to bring him food,” Crabbe snarled, and Hermione nearly chuckled. His voice was so high pitched!
Goyle shrugged. “He barely eats, couldn’t hurt.”
Crabbe scoffed. “Going soft, he is. Better hope he’s shaping up, for his Mum’s sake.”
“S’not funny, Vince!” Goyle retorted, eyes wide in surprise.
“You’re right, it’s not. It’s serious, and he better be acting like it.”
“We’re here because he’s taking it serious,” Goyle muttered, seemingly still unsettled by whatever it was Crabbe implied.
Hermione did not have fond feelings for Mrs. Malfoy, who had wrinkled her nose in disgust at Hermione in Madam Malkins, but she could appreciate that if her own mother were in some sort of peril, she’d be taking it rather seriously too.
Shoot. Was Harry right? What was going on that involved Malfoy’s mum?
Hermione shook herself. She’d find all of that out once she distracted these two buffoons and spiked Malfoy’s coffee.
With an apology to her mum, she ripped the button off the top of her oxford and tossed it.
They didn’t notice.
Okay, strike one, button not loud enough to cause distraction.
This time she geminio’d her shoe and levitated it to make clop clop noises, like footsteps.
They were unmoved. Strike two.
Honestly, what wretched guards! Finally, she remembered her rather clever use of the avis spell on Ronald and cast a subtler version off down the corridor.
That, naturally, worked splendidly.
She crept forward on silent feet as the boys-as-girls ran from the birds, Malfoy’s coffee abandoned near the wall. Quickly, she tipped the potion into the mug and used magic to stir it in. A green vapor arose from the cup, then vanished.
“Perfect,” she cheered herself in a whisper and scurried back to her spot.
But the boys/girls never returned, so she cast a quick warming charm, followed by a stasis charm, on his coffee. Cold coffee might not be drunk in its entirety, and Hermione needed him to drink every last drop.
It was ten when the door to the Room appeared and an exhausted looking Draco Malfoy stepped out. He blinked looking around, likely for Crabbe and Goyle, then sighed heavily, his head dropping.
Hermione had never seen Malfoy like this. His clothes were rumpled, his hair mussed, his shoulders slumped. He looked exhausted, more than she’d thought he’d be. When he caught sight of the mug of coffee and plate of scones he slid down the castle wall to sit next to it and he let out a long, slow breath, the kind she exhaled when she was trying to keep it together and only barely succeeding.
He picked up the mug in one hand and sipped it, a soft moan escaping him.
Hermione blinked. Squirmed, rubbing her thighs together, then taking a deep breath. She was taking the fact that Draco Malfoy moaning had turned her on, just a tiny bit, to her grave. It wasn’t him, it was the sound, and really it was his fault for having a near-sensual relationship with that mug of coffee.
Malfoy shuddered slightly, and she wondered why. He stared at nothing, hopelessly, and she wondered why. Great Godric, she should never have to wonder about this git this much!
…But he looked rather defeated.
He cast some sort of non-verbal spell, and Hermione reached out with her magic. An alert spell, to notify him if anyone came up the stairs; clever.
Too bad she was already here.
He sipped his coffee slowly, all his movements heavy, like he was weighed down or moving through molasses. Hermione resisted the urge to tap her foot impatiently; the sooner he drank, the sooner she could get some answers and then get herself in bed.
…and maybe him, too. He needed it, clearly.
Finally he seemed to shake himself, some of the caffeine kicking in, and he began drinking in heftier gulps. She noticed the moment the potion took him; he stared down at his mug, confused, before blinking rapidly.
Hermione shed the cloak.
He kept blinking, only now at her. “Granger?”
“Hello, Malfoy,” she greeted, moving to sit next to him. It was the closest she’d ever been to him, excepting the fantastic moment she’d punched him. Warmth radiated from him and he smelled like pine and tobacco.
“Did you…” he looked at her then, grey eyes wide and unsure. A part of him knew this wasn’t right, knew they weren’t friends. But the potion was working.
“How are you?” she asked, and his brow furrows.
“Shit, Granger. I’ve been informed it’s rather obvious.”
Hermione nearly screamed in frustration; apparently he was a git, even to his “best friends.”
“Yes, why exactly are you on a hunger strike?” she asked in a false pleasant tone. He snorted, and even that was aristocratic, which was annoying.
He shrugged. “I constantly feel as if I’m going to projectile vomit in spectacular fashion, so food seems like a poor decision.”
She frowned. “Why exactly do you feel the need to projectile vomit?”
His mouth tightened and his eyes went dark. “No reason, Granger.”
Was the potion not working?
Play the part. Be the friend he needs, and he’ll tell you what you need to know.
“You can tell me,” she offered softly and he scoffed. “Clearly it’s eating at you. You should get it off your chest.”
He shook his head. “Stakes are too high, Granger. Just get yourself out and go be safe somewhere.”
Hermione’s chest tightened. “Safe?”
He nodded.
“Are you not safe, Draco?” she asked quietly, unexpected compassion coming over her. Her arguments as to why Voldemort would never want him, a sixteen-year-old boy, fly back to her as she watches Malfoy, said sixteen-year-old boy, carry a weight never meant for one so young.
He laughed, but it wasn’t joyful; it was a hollow, wry sound.
“No, Granger. Not remotely. Haven’t been for a while.”
“Why?” she asked softly and he rolled his eyes at her.
“Brightest witch of your age, are you?” he snarked, rolling his head to look at her and arching a brow. She huffed.
“Our lives are very different, Malfoy. Spell it out for me.”
“Draco,” he whispered and she startled.
“What?”
“My name is Draco,” he said softly. “I…I’m always just the Malfoy heir, but.. Can I just be me? For a minute?” he asks, exhaustion threading through every word.
This, Hermione thought, this is what she should have prepared for, foreseen somehow. That she had a bloody bleeding heart and that once she saw her archrival and bully vulnerable and honest she’d feel bad for his stupid, prejudiced self. Because she was an idiot now too, apparently.
“Sure, Draco,” she replied, the name sounding foreign yet strangely nice on her tongue. He sighed softly.
“This isn’t real, is it?” he whispered.
“Why would you say that?”
“You hate me. I made you hate me.”
She blinks, surprised. “And do you regret that?”
He made that eerie laugh again. “Yes and no.”
“Why yes and why no?”
He paused, reflecting. “That will take longer than your potion has, and you want something from me, don’t you? What is it?”
She nearly flinched away from him. “What?”
He smiled, but not a proper smile, it was sad and nearly painful. “Don’t lie, not now. What do you want from me?”
She blinks. “To know if you’re a Death Eater.”
His eyes shuttered and he turned away from her.
“What do you think?”
“I think Voldemort would have to be insane to recruit a sixteen-year-old boy into his army, particularly one as pampered as you.”
That biting laugh erupted from him again. “If it makes you feel better, Granger, I am decidedly no longer pampered.”
Hermione was surprised to note that she did not, in fact, feel better.
“It doesn’t,” she admitted and he glanced at her.
“I can’t tell you what you need to know,” he confided softly, “If I fuck this up, she’s dead. So despite this potion telling me you’re safe and trustworthy and you’ll help me, I can’t. All I can tell you is to run, Granger. Run while you still can, take your muggle parents with you, and hide.”
“She…your mum?” she asked and he gave her that pained smile again.
“Yeah. You’d like her, in a different life.”
“She’s being threatened?”
He scoffed. “Understatement, Granger.”
“Dumbledore could help –”
He cuts her off with a laugh. “Why would he help me?”
“You’re his student,” she responded snippily, never one to appreciate being interrupted.
“I’m a Slytherin,” he countered, a slightly more genuinely amused laugh rumbling out of him. “I’ve been nothing more than an evil Death Eater-in-Training to him since the moment I stepped foot in this place.”
“You were the one running around being a blood supremacist,” she pointed out.
“Not first year,” he whispered. She blinked, remembering; it was true. He had left her utterly alone first year.
“Why are you such a prick?” she asked softly, and it’s not the question she needs the answer to, but she asks it anyway.
“To you or in general?” he clarifies, just as quietly.
“Both.”
“In general, because I’m an arse,” he shrugged. “To you…” he shook his head, “you were better than me at everything and I hated it. I needed to make my father proud and there was Potter, getting on the quidditch team before any of our age were even allowed to try out, and then there was you, aceing every class, first every fucking time. He practically called me a blood traitor when he saw the class rankings, that I was second to you at the end of first year,” Draco shook his head. “I’m not saying it’s right, it’s just…why.”
She paused, reflecting on what he’d said.
“Are you a Death Eater?” she asked again and he shuddered.
“Was this where we were always going to be?” he whispered instead, “you fighting for the Light, a target on your back, and me, a pawn for the Dark with no options?”
Her chest tightened at his description of her, a target.
“I’m not one for divination,” she replied instead and he nods.
“I just want to sleep,” he murmured, eyes falling shut.
“Why don’t you?”
“Because if I fuck this up, I kill my mother,” he confessed, “after they torture her. Maybe rape her. And I can’t…I can’t do this, but I love her so I have to, even if it kills me instead. I have to try,” he whimpered and suddenly her hand moved on its own accord and she laced her fingers with his. His hand is warm, large and gives hers a gentle squeeze.
“You won’t figure it out if you’re too tired to think straight,” she advised. She should be running, horrified. He’s as good as admitted it, but he’s so clearly out of his depth.
“The Order could help,” she insisted again and a tear escaped from his left eye, the one facing her.
“They’d never trust a Marked Death Eater,” he replied woodenly, “and you have a spy in your ranks. They’d report me to the Dark Lord and my mother would…” he choked up, horror gripping him at the thought of his mother’s fate.
“Please,” she whispered, “Tell Dumbledore who the spy is, let us help.”
She doesn’t know when exactly this turned into a rescue mission, but it has. He flexed his fingers in her grasp before curling them around hers again.
“I’m sorry,” he said and he’s crying in earnest now, tears slowly leaking from him. He’s a pretty crier, at least for now, the tears simply rolling down his cheeks.
“Then stop it. Don’t do this,” she pleads.
“I don’t have a choice, Hermione!” he turns to her, grey eyes desperate, “There is no…there’s no way out. Just run and hide and live, escape this war before it consumes you!”
“Why do you care if it consumes me?” she asks, her own tears threatening. He smiles at her.
“We can pretend it’s just the potion, if you prefer,” he murmured, eyes searching her face.
“What else would it be?” she asks, her voice soft.
He kisses her then, cupping the back of her head with his fingers tangling in her curls, lips warm, and desperate. She gasps, opening herself to him, but she kisses him back, her own fingers seeking to knot in his hair. It’s a long moment they kiss, losing themselves as their tongues dart in a delicious dance.
“The unctuous unction only creates feelings of platonic love,” she breathes when he finally lets her go.
“Ten points to Gryffindor.”