Work Text:
Draco Malfoy was under no illusion that he owed his presence in sixth-year Potions to anything other than Snape’s leniency.
His natural intellect and the threat of his father's influence had rendered actual effort unnecessary in most of Draco's classes to date. Potions in particular had been highly enjoyable, since the glorious moment Snape had cut Potter's expectations of favouritism to ribbons in lesson one of their first year. Draco had never forgotten it. Now, with his father in Azkaban, he had been counting on his Head of House's influence to keep his marks up.
In reality, things could not be going worse. As their first lesson progressed, it was becoming distressingly clear to Draco that their new Potions master was going to give him exactly the marks his efforts merited.
It should have been a point in his favour that Slughorn was a Slytherin, but the old fool was clearly already under Potter's spell, regardless of house loyalties. This was typical. The little git got away with bloody murder with everyone except Snape. Worse still, the Professor looked to be delighted with Hermione Granger, too.
He turned his head to look at Granger. The rapt, sycophantic attention she was displaying couldn't be real. The brightness in her eyes was entirely unnatural for this time in the morning.
How could she possibly know so much about Potions, as well as everything else? He had known what the Amortentia was, of course; any self-respecting young wizard had a working knowledge of love Potions, if only the tell-tale signs to avoid. But she must have learned all she knew from books, rather than the personal experience of growing up with wizarding friends and parents. Did she ever do anything except study? Was there any trace of bodily feeling under that bushy, buttoned-up exterior?
A faint blush still coloured her cheeks, and he wondered for a moment what she had been about to say. New-mown grass, fresh parchment, and… what? What did Granger find so appealing she balked at sharing it with the class?
From where he was sitting, the spirals of steam barely affected him. He didn’t see what the fuss was about. Amortentia smelled vaguely familiar, like a fond aroma remembered from childhood. He supposed it was peaceful; calming. But there was an undercurrent of something he couldn't put his finger on, something that made his spine prickle with unfamiliar tendrils of wrongness.
Draco's fallback tactic for coasting through lessons was simply sitting between Crabbe and Goyle, which made any modicum of skill look impressive. Unfortunately for Draco, neither Crabbe nor Goyle were anywhere near qualified to take sixth-year Potions, and sitting near Hermione Granger was going to have the exact opposite effect on his marks. In so small a class, the unfavourable comparison was inevitable.
Being a newly-marked servant of the Dark Lord, entrusted with twin missions of murdering the headmaster and tearing a hole in the Hogwarts defences should have been enough for any sixteen-year-old. But, to his horror, Draco’s mother had made clear that he was expected to study for his NEWTs as well.
“Ensure you pass your classes, and flourish at school,” Narcissa had murmured as he boarded the train. “Not only to avoid the suspicion of your professors. The Dark Lord has spies everywhere. Any sign of weakness will be reported, and will reflect badly upon us."
It was going to be bloody hard work.
***
Draco's mind was absent, roving through countless terrifying possibilities, until pulled back to the dinner table by his fellow Slytherin's repeated nudges.
He hefted the gratin dish across wordlessly, and pushed his own plate away. He had no appetite, the burden of responsibility lying cold and oppressive between his shoulder blades. The food before him turned his stomach.
He hadn't had a moment of peace since the moment he had been Marked. And he would not, until he fulfilled the Dark Lord’s wishes. He supposed peace, of a sort, would also await him if he failed.
At the prospect of his failure, the eyes of the snake reared up before him. It was as if he were back in the drawing room at Malfoy Manor. He saw his aunt's mouth set in a rictus of mad joy, and her eyes shining with hope and zeal as she gripped Draco's arm by the wrist and shoulder. He felt searing pain behind his eyeballs as the Mark was burned into his arm by the Dark Lord's wand, to the sound of high-pitched laughter. He imagined he could smell singed flesh, and the hand holding his goblet began to shake.
He needed something to push it all back into the dark corners of his subconscious. Just enough to let him function.
A movement from across the hall caught his eye. Granger. Her ridiculous hair, usually a most unwelcome sight, was at that moment just the distraction he needed. She was bidding good night to the Gryffindors at her table, rising to gather her things.
He stood swiftly, smoothing his robes and nodding to Crabbe and Goyle to follow him as he made to leave the hall. She was just ahead of him as they reached the doors, dipping into her bag to pull something out, when he shouldered past her.
"Out of the way, Mudblood."
A single glance backwards told him her expression was one of extremely satisfying shock, melting into righteous fury.
There. It felt good, putting her in her place.
For a brief moment, it quelled the darkest thoughts inside him; the ones that whispered of his fate, should he fail at his task. It made him feel superior; put some of his old swagger back into his step.
He felt a slow smirk creep onto his face. Well, that was something.
***
At dinner the following night Draco toyed with the green beans on his plate. He was sick of the sight of them.
Even his mother’s remembered whispers in his ear that he must act naturally, must maintain the pretense, were not enough to tempt him to eat. He needed something else to focus on. Anything to stop his thoughts drifting back towards the horrors that had deprived him of sleep for much of the previous night.
His eyes flicked across to the Gryffindor table, where Granger was deep in conversation with her friends. He hardly ever saw her without Potter and Weasley. How jarring it had been, meeting them in Diagon Alley before term began. It must have been the shock of seeing her so comfortable in their world, walking around as if she were entitled to be there.
He watched her, and he remembered.
His fingers smoothed pure green silk, testing the weight and weave of Madam Malkin's finest, and he appraised its effect on his double in the mirror.
His mother insisted he look the part of the Malfoy heir, especially now that they had permanent house guests. Draco had gained nearly two inches since his sixteenth birthday, so she had swept him off to Diagon Alley that morning promising him a trip to Quality Quidditch Supplies if he would submit to being measured, pricked and poked for the time it took to fit several new sets of robes.
He had acquiesced as, coincidentally, he also had business there. Business about which his mother knew nothing at all. Honestly. It was as if she thought he was twelve, still; not a near-grown man, a year from his majority, and already in the service of the Dark Lord.
His nose twitched, catching a scent on the air at once commonplace and uncanny. It wasn’t strong enough to be perfume, but, faint though it was, he felt it distract him, turning his stomach at the same time as it teased his brain. His eyes flicked around the room in the glass beyond his own reflection, seeking the source.
Three pairs of eyes stared back at him. Potter, Weasley, and the inevitable tagalong: Granger. The Mudblood must be the source of the unnatural scent permeating the shop. No wonder he recognised it, and no wonder it repulsed him.
Picking a fight with Potter was always entertaining, but he was unusually glad of an excuse to escape the oppressive atmosphere. He couldn’t get out of the shop fast enough.
Across the hall, she was getting up from her seat. She might have noticed the weight of his gaze on her; he wasn't sure. His muscles jerked him to his feet almost of their own accord, a less conscious decision than it had been the day before. Crabbe and Goyle fell over themselves to lumber after him towards the doors of the Great Hall.
He didn't know why he was following her. He could hardly stand to be in her close presence, let alone expose himself to her strange odour. But he couldn't deny himself the satisfaction the look on her face had produced the previous night, and the brief respite he had enjoyed.
No more than a second after their exit, Granger trotted by, freckled nose in the air, and this time he was aware of the faint whiff of cloying scent following her.
Did they all smell like that, he wondered, or was it just her? He didn't know any other Muggleborns to compare. Was it a natural scent, the product of her skin and her sweat and her blood, or was it something artificial that Muggles used to cleanse themselves, to cover up their normal odour? Soap, or shampoo?
Musing as he was, she was past him before he managed to attract her attention.
"Hey, Granger," he sneered.
She did not even break stride, sweeping towards the main staircase without a passing glance. He hadn't meant to dart after her, but in any case, it was already too late.
"Granger, wait - your hair - damn it!" He clenched a fist as he whirled around, catching Crabbe and Goyle smirking foolishly to each other, as if they had the brains to share a joke at his expense.
"What?" he barked, shooting them a glare. "What the hell are you laughing about?"
It was a shame, partly because she had made him look stupid in front of his friends, and partly because he had a particularly choice remark poised to deliver, one about whether Loony Lovegood had found any nargles in Granger's nest of curls yet.
Still. It would wait for tomorrow.
Tomorrow. He had something to look forward to. The knowledge dawned on him rather pleasantly. The score was still even, after all. He had definitely gained a point at Granger’s expense the night before. Before long, he would be winning.
***
Draco lingered in the entrance hall after dinner the next evening, teasing Crabbe and Goyle with snippets of information on the Death Eaters and Voldemort, which always impressed them. Idiots that they were, they weren't likely to guess his real motive. Not for the first time, he felt secure in his choice of followers. They had no way of guessing that his thoughts were occupied by the infuriating witch with nargle-curls, and how to outwit her.
There was no way she would get the upper hand two days running. He would make sure of it. He would strike as she left the hall, when she least expected it. The next point would be in his favour, and -
"If you stand there much longer, Malfoy, people are going to think you're one of the castle statues, and not just your pestilential, cadaverous self." That voice, so irritatingly clear and self-assured, could only belong to one person. "Now, move, before you lose Slytherin points for loitering."
With that, she was gone, leaving him slack-jawed and furious for the second day running.
Two-one to Granger. It was unconscionable. It was wrong.
It must be redressed. He'd make her regret it; messing with Draco Malfoy. Starting a game she couldn't finish.
Well, he'd finish it for her.
***
In the weeks that followed, Granger tended to get the upper hand more often than not. It was, conceivably, even a good thing: if he began to beat her for more than a few days in the little game only he knew they were playing, his interest would wane. His thoughts would turn back to the Dark Lord and his Marking, the hopelessness of his task, and the constant, unrelenting dread of being the last of his name. It was a relief when she bit off a remark that made his blood boil, leaving him clenching his fists in an impotent rage, even more determined to get the better of her the following evening.
Lying awake at nights, he thought of her.
He doused the fear and panic at his failed plot to smuggle the old man a cursed necklace in dreams of spiteful repartee, storing up as many insults as he could think of for future use. He thought of calling her a bitch; a whore. Too common; too pedestrian. They didn't do justice to the feelings she provoked in him. Or to the formidable, vibrant reality of her. He reached for more magical inspiration.
She was a medusa, the witch with snakes for hair, and a look that turned men to stone.
She was a harpy, out to tear chunks of flesh from him with her stupid, shrill beak.
One night in late November, he stared at the canopy of his four-poster and re-lived the moment that evening when her brow had furrowed, and she had narrowed her eyes to blaze fury at him.
It was the most alive he had felt all week, especially given the numbing Occlumency he was forced to employ in his Floo calls home, in lessons, and with Snape. Keeping up the façade of the cool, collected Malfoy heir in the Slytherin dungeons was becoming exhausting. But with Granger, there was no need for pretence. His hatred of her was real. He had no need to fake anything.
And he had plenty to be angry about. She and Potter had been invited to Slughorn's rotten little dinner club, a gathering Draco had zero interest in attending, despite never having been refused an invitation to anything in his life. He was unsure what irritated him more: the fact that a Muggleborn nobody had been invited above him, or the attendance of Potter, the Boy Who Lived To Annoy Him.
He sometimes thought Granger even relished the opportunity to spit venom at him. Her wit wasn't sharpened for Draco alone: she was handing down some zingers to Weasley, lately, according to the conversations on which he shamelessly eavesdropped in Potions. As a fellow connoisseur, he had to admit that some of her comebacks were rather inspired. Apparently, she too had plenty to be angry about.
He wondered idly if the exclusion of Weasley from Slughorn's new Brown-Nosing Society had anything to do with the fact that Granger now consistently left the Great Hall alone after dinner. Or was it the fact Weasley had taken up with the unrivalled irritant that was Lavender Brown, and invariably smelled of her overpowering floral perfume?
That would be amusing, if Weasley had snubbed Granger in favour of Brown. For one, it would annoy Granger. Secondly, Draco had always known the Weasel had no money or style; now Draco knew he had no taste in girls, either. Not that Granger was any more attractive than Brown, and of course the damning fact that she was Muggleborn wouldn't have counted for anything with Weasley. But between her and Lavender Brown there was an obvious choice, blood notwithstanding. One was shallow, vain and emotional; the other was whip-smart, fierce, and, dare he acknowledge it, occasionally witty.
He had begun to appreciate this fact in their after-dinner exchanges. His own jabs could verge on the repetitive, if he were feeling lazy. Keeping up with her repartee was harder than he would like to admit.
The next evening, he rose after her. On his way out of the hall, he gave a lazy flick of his wand to shift her a few inches to the right, her feet scuffing the stone floor.
She jumped. Arms wide, she froze to regain her balance, then spun around to face him, eyes blazing.
"You're in my way again, Mudblood," he drawled.
"How very original. Surely you can do better than that, Malfoy." She looked him up and down, her expression scathing, and shook her head. "You're supposed to be one of the brighter Slytherins in our year. Not that anyone would guess it from your recent Potions marks. You do remember which way up a cauldron goes, don't you, Draco?"
And with that barb, she hitched up her bag strap, held her head high, and left him in the middle of the entrance hall, still spluttering for a rejoinder.
It was the best part of his day.
***
The next evening, she called him an arrogant, pointy-faced tosser, and a group of first-year Gryffindors fell about laughing.
Alone once more, he took out a quill and scored another point to Granger on the piece of parchment he now kept in the breast pocket of his robes. How would he know he had bested her, if he didn't keep a private track of their skirmishes?
As the term dragged on, Draco was no further towards achieving either of his seemingly impossible tasks. He spent long, sleepless nights in the dungeons, brewing Polyjuice to transform Crabbe and Goyle into rather uncanny first-year lookouts. His free periods were spent in the Room of Requirement, racking his brains in front of that damned cabinet, or in the library, researching the properties of magical portals until he felt as if his eyeballs were trying to escape his skull.
Every day was much like the last. Fail at sleeping. Get dressed; fail at eating breakfast. Fail to concentrate in lessons, then fail to fix the Vanishing Cabinet.
Except for that instant of suspense. The moment when he would see her gather herself to leave the Great Hall after dinner, and he would follow, curiosity compelling him to find out what she would come up with tonight. Whether she would pretend ignore him, ducking through the crowd of students like a witch with places to be, or whether she would be waiting for him with an insult on her lips, or a sharp retort to one of his own.
Sometimes, he caught the smell of her as she whipped around to face him. Just as it had that day in Madam Malkin's, it invaded his nostrils and confused his senses so he didn't know whether he was coming or going. There wasn't room in his brain for a single thought about Voldemort. It was bliss.
There was only her. Her piercing voice, her superior expression. Her stupid hair. A light, floral scent, with a hint of cherries.
***
This was it. The long-awaited moment.
He had made lazy small talk at the perfect pace until he was sure she had nearly finished eating. Then he had clapped Crabbe and Goyle on the shoulders and swaggered out of the hall ahead of them, proclaiming loudly about the important things he had to do that night.
Outside the doors he turned, stalling; engaging them in conversation.
"Fancy going down to the Quidditch pitch this evening, either of you?" he drawled, without much interest.
"S'dark already," grunted Crabbe, ever the more observant one.
"Scared of the dark, are you, Crabbe?" He smirked to Goyle, who joined in with his own habitual 'hur hur.' "Come on. I've been working on a charm to make the snitch glow in the dark, I'd like to try it out." As a matter of fact, he had. He missed flying with the team. Not that he had the time to commit to anything else, these days.
Any second now.
Any second now, and…
She swept past in the company of the female Weasel, pretending she was oblivious to his existence, nose in the air, insufferable expression of superiority on her face, shoes clicking briskly on the stone floor. He ignored her in return.
A draw, today, then. No barbs had been exchanged; no points had been scored. He felt unsatisfied; empty. He had hoped a few rounds on the Quidditch pitch would help, but the exhaustion in his muscles afterwards had only underlined the sense of unease in his mind.
The next day, he was convinced that, for a small second, her lip curved in amusement when he asked if she knew which end of a broomstick was which. He couldn't help the answering smirk which rose to his lips as she spat a response, telling him what he could do with said broomstick. She made to retreat, but not before he glimpsed the shadow of mirth in her eyes.
The memory of it made him feel warm inside, bubbling up from within as sleep evaded him that night. He remembered the bounce of her curls as she tossed her head, one that sent a wave of scented air his way. It was the Muggle preparation she used on her hair, he realised.
Gardenias, he could smell. Floral, but fresh. Becoming. It if hadn't been Granger, of course.
The degree to which his mood became reliant on her would have been disturbing, had it not happened so gradually. The infinite slowness of the change meant that Draco was habitually sitting behind her in lessons before he realised what he was doing. It made sense to sit in the only place where he could watch her, but she couldn't see him. Like a wasp in the room, it was always better to know where she was. To have the upper hand.
On occasion, he would involuntarily crane his neck for a waft of gardenia-scented air to reach him. As much as her smell bothered him, he felt compelled to check it was still there.
It categorically wasn't a sexual thing, Draco reassured himself. He just wanted to be aware of her presence; to be prepared. In any case, it wouldn't matter if it was sexual. Nothing like that could ever be permitted, even if, in the unlikeliest of scenarios, his interest was reciprocated. She hated him; surely, it was unthinkable that she was becoming equally invested in the strange game he was playing.
Sometimes, he thought he caught her glancing at him across the Great Hall. He took care to sit where he could see her leaving, of course, and it would have been foolish to assume she didn't notice, bright as she was. Beyond that, there was what he could only describe as an awareness. Between lessons, in the library, always from behind, out of the corner of his eye, he caught her looks. Perhaps she was keeping tabs on him, the way he was on her.
Draco's lack of an invitation to Slughorn's Christmas party was a snub that was doubly vexing. He would miss the fine wine, canapés and political chit-chat. But he especially wanted to watch Granger embarrassing herself. It was bound to be an entertaining spectacle. How could she know how to behave amongst sophisticated witches and wizards without the kind of upbringing that made it second-nature? At the very least, she would need a companion born into magical society who could shadow her. Show her their ways. A glance here, a hand on the small of her back, the tiniest of nods…
Too bad for her she didn't have one. Or did she? Draco heard disturbing rumours.
He pinned a third-year Gryffindor to the wall on the way to Potions in search of confirmation. McLaggen. She was going with McLaggen. The smarmy wanker hunted Nogtails, for Gods' sakes. Didn't she know they were endangered? That the creature protection lobby was out for his blood? That sort of bollocks should have been right up Granger's alley. He had half a mind to tell her.
A sudden, mad image flashed into his mind of her on his arm. Of Draco whispering hints and introductions into her ear, smoothing her path into society to the point where her talents and her intellect could speak for themselves.
He had honestly never given a single thought to what was under her robes until that moment. But as the vision of her turned to him with grateful thanks in her eyes, a memory resurfaced. Her curls, tamed, her robes a shimmering blue, on the evening of fourth year's Yule Ball. He could see now, as he never had before, how she could become a dangerously alluring witch.
Since then, slowly, insidiously, as gently as the tide coming in, he had begun to wonder about the softness of her skin.
It was the only thing that made spending Christmas at the Manor bearable. He clutched his knife and fork at the dinner table, averting his eyes from the giant snake that curled at its master's feet, and willed himself back to a quiet classroom. In his mind's eye, Granger's fingers tangled through her hair as she tackled a particularly thorny Arithmancy problem, sending a waft of scented air towards him. It soothed him; allowed him to detach from his surroundings just enough to survive the horrors. Not for the first time, he was glad of the protection of Occlumency. Learning had taken more effort than he was used to, but it had been a worthy investment. Every face at the table was turned towards Voldemort, though Snape did cast the occasional curious glance in Draco's direction. He would have to be even more careful, on his return to school.
Fortunately, he had perfected his façade. If he threw enough insults at her, directed enough looks of scorn her way, he would be safe. No one, let alone Snape, let alone Granger, would begin to guess the harrowing thoughts that burrowed their way into his brain, carving out a space for her faster than he could suppress them.
He told himself that he was still in control. The game they were playing belonged to Draco. He had initiated it, and he could stop it, any time he liked.
This comforting delusion was shattered by his least-favourite Potions master, one morning in mid-February.
Slughorn, the tactless buffoon, was under the impression that his Valentine's Day lesson would be something of a treat for them. Learning to brew Amortentia, he explained jovially, would be a bit of light relief from the otherwise arduous preparation for their NEWTs.
"And to make things more interesting," he continued, "I shall be pitting you against a student you haven't yet worked with this term - just for the novelty, you know." Slughorn winked at Granger, who was curiously frozen in her seat.
With hindsight, it was inevitable. The Fates really did have it in for him, this year. Of course it would be Granger.
He studiously avoided looking at her as their names were called together, shifting his belongings to the desk beside hers with the reluctance of a man going to the gallows.
"Malfoy." Hearing her say his name without its usual venom did strange things to his stomach. She greeted him with the smallest of nods as he sat down, as if proposing a truce.
"Granger," he muttered as he acknowledged her with a nod of his own. She clearly agreed with him, for once: the quickest, safest way out of this dire situation would be to pretend nothing was amiss; that they were not enemies, or antagonists, but simply Potions partners, with not a stray thought to spare for each other beyond the desk they shared.
Slughorn's definition of light relief clearly diverged somewhat from Draco's. It wasn't even useful, he thought bitterly as he sweated over his own vials of ingredients, trying to ignore the tendrils of gardenia-scent that crossed the sharp divide of their textbooks, placed like a barrier halfway across the desk. Seducing witches, by artificial means or otherwise, was the furthest thing from his mind. He had made no more progress in his secret missions, and was beginning to despair of ever doing so. And besides, the only witch his brain had room for, whispered something deep inside him, was the infuriating swot with whom he was sharing a desk.
She looked tired again, today. He fancied she bore the telltale signs of sleepless nights that were all too familiar from his own mirror. He had first noticed it on their return to school. In lessons, she concentrated as hard as ever, but there was a shadow of misery that clung to her, infusing their nightly exchanges of words with a quiet fury that made him wonder if she, too, was coming to rely on the outlet. A means of channelling all the surplus rage and frustration it wasn't safe or acceptable to display elsewhere.
They managed to brew with barely a word between them. He had expected her to critique his every move, to pick apart his technique purely for the sake of doing so, but she was strangely silent and focused.
He watched her, a part of him revelling in her meticulousness. She prepared asphodel, ground ram's horn and minced rose petals with a delicacy that made him shudder with something he couldn't quite name. He closed his eyes. It was torture.
She wasn't doing it to needle him, but because it was in her nature to be precise. He found himself trying hard to match her perfectionism with his own. Not for the satisfaction of beating her, but for the pure pleasure of doing something well for its own sake. He was surprised at how easily it came to him; how companionably they fell into a rhythm of adding ingredients. Their stirring became ever more synchronised, as they neared the end of the simmering phase.
"That's it, Malfoy," she urged, her voice tense with an excitement that Draco found he shared. Bending their heads low over their cauldrons, they watched for the exact moment pearly spirals of steam began to rise. Hers was complete just a moment before his. Point to Granger, he noted automatically.
As the milky-way sheen of the spiralling vapour rose towards her face, she froze. First, utter shock. A split-second of unguarded horror. Then what he could only describe as intellectual curiosity. It melted slowly into a kind of knowing confusion, her movements became uncertain, and she tangled a hand through her hair in the way she did when deeply unsettled.
She hadn't thrown one glance his way, but her hands were faintly trembling. She reached behind her for the stool and sat down again, her fingers gripping the edges of the seat.
Her eyes flicked up to his, at the precise moment the vapour reached his nose.
It made him think of warm things. Golden sunlight on wool. The fireplace crackling in his study as the rain lashed the Manor on a winter's eve. Home. And, encircling it all, he smelled the sweet, floral shampoo she used, the hint of cherries, and the scent of her own skin.
He couldn't tear his attention off the way her eyes clouded with complicated emotion. There was doubt there, and a puzzlement that made her brow crease, in a delicious frown he suddenly longed to smooth from her forehead with forbidden kisses.
Granger. It smelled like her.
It was the exact scent he would have chosen for her, had he not already known it was hers. On some level, he should have known it from that term's first lesson, the overwhelming wrongness nudging at his subconscious like a half-remembered dream.
He could think of nothing but her stupid, delicious hair. It consumed him, the longing to run his fingers through it, to pull her face to his, and show her the dangerous depths of what they had brewed together.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't risk inhaling an iota more of that lethal concoction.
He had to get out.
***
The Slytherin dungeons weren't far, and he made it inside before sinking against the damp stone wall, boneless and trembling.
He cursed her. If it had been her intention to humiliate him, she couldn't have succeeded more thoroughly. Even as he cursed her, his fingers itched to feel the softness of her skin beneath them, to hold her. To have her. The feeling was dizzying; all-consuming.
He closed his eyes, and reeled. Adrenalin washed his veins, and panic consumed him. This couldn't be happening. It was unconscionable. It was wrong. It was…
Fake. That's what it was. He couldn't be in love with Granger. The idea was preposterous.
Perhaps he had come into contact with the Amortentia, somehow; his dangerous reliance on her presence morphing into full-blown obsession under the influence of the potion. Could there have been some on the outside of his dragonhide gloves when he removed them to stir with greater precision? The potency of Amortentia was such that skin contact was mildly dangerous, after all.
Perhaps the potion had been too potent; even the fumes having unintended effects. Had they got far too close to the vapours, in their eagerness? That could be the only reasonable explanation for her own curious reaction.
The fog of Draco's panic cleared a little, in the face of these very reasonable explanations. Slughorn's office was just down the corridor. He would wait until after the lesson had finished, and demand the antidote. He had permitted himself to use her as a distraction for far too long. He had been foolish, and today's events showed it. He had let his guard down; allowed her inside his head, where dangerous things could happen. But soon, he would stop wanting to kiss her, and he would be back in control.
The door to Slughorn's office was ajar when he reached it, and voices filtered out into the corridor. One was high-pitched, almost tearful. "I don't know how it happened, Professor, I was so careful, I always follow decontamination procedures to the letter -"
Draco stopped in his tracks, a hand raised to push the door open, and listened.
"Calm yourself, Miss Granger, these little accidents happen to the best of us." Slughorn's tone was amused. "You can't have absorbed much, or you would not be aware of the fact that your… infatuation is manufactured."
"I'm not out of my mind, Professor, I'm just painfully aware that I'm having feelings that I shouldn't be. About - this person. The last person it would be possible for me to feel this way about."
Draco was listening harder than he had ever done in his life.
"Fear not, Miss Granger. I happen to have a stock of the antidote on hand just for this very reason."
"Thank you, Professor." He heard her shift with anxiety as Slughorn rootled through drawers and papers, quills tumbling to the floor as he searched. A tense minute later, a vial clinked, and he heard a cork pop.
"Drink up, Miss Granger. The effects should be almost instantaneous, but do make yourself comfortable in the meantime."
Draco heard the creak of a leather chair as she sank into it, her murmured thanks, and silence as she drank.
Slughorn prattled on. "I do hope to see you at my next little gathering, Miss Granger. I seem to remember you and Mr McLaggen were on rather good terms at the last one?" The Professor had all the subtlety of a bludger. Draco didn't know which party Slughorn had been attending, as Granger's efforts to escape the oaf had been blindingly obvious on his own foolish attempt to gatecrash. He should have known then that his obsession had gone too far.
"No need to say a word, Miss Granger. Of course it would be indelicate of me to inquire as to the object of your desires. A young lady's secrets are her own, after all." Draco felt a flash of indignation on Granger's behalf, picturing Slughorn tapping his rouged and puffy nose and smiling in what he imagined to be a conspiratorial fashion. It was none of his business. It was none of anyone's business. Neither of them had asked to suffer like this.
"How long did you say it should take, Professor?" Her voice was weary, uncertain.
"Feeling better now, are we?" Slughorn asked absent-mindedly, already busying himself with the papers on his cluttered desk.
"A little, I think." The Professor seemed not to hear the dread in her voice as she spoke. "Yes. I do feel much better, now. Thank you for your help, Professor," she finished weakly.
She was lying. It was obvious.
Slughorn was a blind fool not to notice. "Excellent, excellent!" he sang as he ushered her towards the door. "You will excuse me, my dear, but I feel the need to put the old feet up for a spell. Age, you know…"
Draco was unaware of edging away from the door until he felt the stone of the opposite wall against his back. He felt paralysed. If the antidote didn't work on her, then what were the odds it would work on him? And what did it mean? That there was no cure? No hope of relief?
That he really was in love with her?
She closed the office door behind her, and as she turned, their eyes locked.
Somehow, he was still standing upright. But how? The earth was unstable, and solid ground treacherous. The things of greatest certainty in his life had crumbled into dust. And the possibility that she might feel the same shook his world on its foundations.
Draco felt as if he were walking a cliff edge. A step in any direction could pitch him headlong to his downfall. He had to talk to her, though. Had to know what she was feeling, and what she had smelled in that fateful cauldron.
The words froze in his throat.
He knew she was going to bolt a moment before she did so.
"Granger, wait -" he managed.
But with a look in his direction, one heavy with dread and scorn, she fled.
***
He ran after her. He didn't have a choice.
When his lungs were burning and he was sure she had vanished, he leant over a nearby balustrade and fought to regain control of his breathing, until he heard voices and the approach of students. He was in no state to confront another human being.
Draco ducked through the first door that opened, charming it locked behind him, and sank to the floor against it. His behind registered the cold tile before his eyes caught up to his surroundings.
A bathroom. He looked around the gleaming white emptiness, a shiver running to his navel as he spotted the snakes adorning the taps. For a second, the coils of Nagini slithered through his mind. His master had always had a thing for snakes. This must be the famed entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
He held his panic in check. He had nothing to fear from the monster, pure-blooded heir that he was. That fate would only await a…
"Mudblood," said a high, girlish voice. "that's what you call her, isn't it? I've been listening to you from the pipes, you know. "
He tried to get up too fast but slipped with one foot, and slid full length onto the floor, cursing.
The shrill, snide voice was a girl's. It was a girls' bathroom, then. That explained why he had never been inside it. From his new perspective, with one cheek on the floor tiles, he could see under all the cubicle doors. There was no one there.
Perhaps someone was playing a joke on him. "Get down, whoever you are," he hissed, "I know you're standing on the toilet lid."
"Looking for your girlfriend?" the voice giggled, then became wistful. "I do miss standing on things, though, now you mention it."
"I'm in no mood for this," he spat. "I came here to get away from people, not to play games."
“Good thing I’m not technically a person, then, isn’t it.” A smoky form drifted through one of the cubicle doors, solidifying into the shade of a rather frumpy schoolgirl. A sort of second-year-Granger of a ghost, to Draco's eyes.
He eyed her suspiciously. “Why are you talking to me?”
“I’ve got a question for you,” the ghost sing-songed. “Am I still a Mudblood, even if I don’t have actual blood in my veins any more?”
"Why do you care what I think of you? You're dead."
The ghost gave an ear-splitting wail, and vanished behind the cubicle door.
"She's just as rude to me, actually." He wasn't sure whether he was talking to the ghost, or to himself. "She gives as good as she gets. She even slapped me in the face, once." He smirked at the memory.
The girl's face reappeared through the door, pouting. "The living are so insensitive. Don't you think I'd love to be able to slap people who annoyed me? Like that Olive Hornby - "
"I don't think she's inferior, you know. It's just a word that gets her riled up. And it's so damn satisfying to see her angry."
It was true. He had long since separated the negative connotations of the word with the living, breathing reality of Granger, a person so evidently born to magic he could think of her as nothing but a witch.
"Who is she?" The ghost had fully reappeared once more, her expression hungry for gossip.
He shrugged. "A girl who hates me. Or at least, I assume she hates me. She used to. She probably should, still." If it were Crabbe or Goyle listening, if it were anyone but the ghost-girl cocking her head to one side and staring at him through huge, green glasses, he wouldn't have voiced these strange, new thoughts.
"Because you call her a Mudblood? Tease her for the same reasons dreadful people used to tease me, back when I was alive?"
Draco felt oddly at ease with her. And since she had declared herself to be Muggleborn, he could guarantee she wasn't one of Voldemort's rumoured spies.
"That's just the start," he admitted. "Trust me, there's much worse."
She leaned towards him, eyes shining. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I’m very good at keeping secrets. Not like Olive Hornby. And you're the first living person I've talked to for, oh, ages. If I told anyone, you wouldn't come back and see me again, would you?"
It was enormously freeing, unburdening himself to one of the castle's ghosts. He felt the crushing anxiety lift as he confessed his sins to date, and those he was expected to commit in the future.
“And on top of everything -” he knew he was sounding hysterical, now - “on top of it all I’m supposed to pass my bloody classes, and I can’t do all the work expected of a sixth year and fix this wretched cabinet, I just can’t do it, and if I don’t -”
“I know the Riddle boy was the one who killed me, you know. I’m not completely stupid.”
A chill ran down Draco's spine. It was one thing to see Voldemort's inhuman glee at using the Cruciatus. To know what the monster was capable of. But it was another to be confronted with one of his first victims, a fellow Hogwarts pupil. To fully understand the bloodshed that was expected of him.
It changed everything.
***
That evening, she darted out of the Great Hall almost as soon as he sat down. Excusing himself, he followed her halfway up the main staircase before she turned around.
"Granger, stop," he began.
"I don't have the energy to fight with you tonight, Malfoy," she snapped.
"And you think I do?"
"Goodnight, then." Her dismissal was firm, but he couldn't help himself. He had to know.
"Granger, humour me. What did it smell like, to you?"
It was the wrong thing to say. He should probably have started with an apology, of some sort.
She was incandescent, gloriously so. "This is just a stupid game to you, isn't it, Malfoy?" she cried.
He didn't respond. It had started as a game, to be sure, but what it had become was so terrifyingly far from amusing.
"Well, it’s not a game to me," she continued. "It’s my life. I'm a real person, with real feelings, and I won't let you toy with me for your own amusement anymore. Good night."
It was only after she started avoiding him that Draco understood how readily Granger had been crossing his path. How much her participation in their little jousts had been not just willing, but enthusiastic.
She rarely ate in the Great Hall, now, disappearing after lessons to the library or the Gryffindor Common Room. When he tried to follow her, he was met with the piercing gaze of Madam Pince, or the haughty glare of the Fat Lady. In lessons, she took care to secure a desk at the back of the room, flanked by students of other houses, so he couldn't even watch her in secret.
He missed her.
He missed the way her eyes would comb the hall for him at dinner, pretending to ignore him only once she had pinpointed his whereabouts. He missed their barbed exchanges, and her fleeting half-smiles. He missed the scent of her hair, the way it moved as she walked, and the brisk sound of her footsteps.
In the absence of Granger's actual scent, he took to keeping a handkerchief dipped in Amortentia on hand to keep thoughts of Voldemort at bay. It was pathetic, but her light floral aroma was something he had grown to need in order to function. He wasn't sure which was worse, though. The memory of the snake's eyes, or hers as she had told him to stay away from her.
His steps took him more and more often towards the girls' bathroom on the second floor. The ghost had become an outlet for his frustrations, albeit a pale shadow of Granger. He wondered if she ever noticed him disappearing, or cared where he went.
If he had been failing badly before, it was nothing to this. He consistently neglected to put the necessary time and effort into following Voldemort's orders. Owls from his mother bore outwardly innocuous messages with increasingly desperate subtexts, fearful at the lack of news from Hogwarts. He stopped replying, unsure what lies she wouldn't immediately see through. She had taught him social graces, diplomacy and intrigue herself, after all.
His father had only taught him hatred. A hatred he now understood to be unfounded. A witch was a witch, and a wizard a wizard. There was no more to it than that.
After the episode with the poisoned mead, he felt like he was going mad. He must already have been mad to think such a dire plan would succeed. Unless -
Unless part of him had wanted to fail? What did that mean - did he want to betray his family? Guarantee his own death?
Draco retreated to his only sanctuary, the second-floor bathroom. He checked every cubicle. There was no one there, not even the ghost. He breathed a sigh of relief, and turned to look at himself in the mirror.
Gods, he looked awful. His robes, brand new at the start of term and a flawless fit, now hung upon his thin form. His cheeks had hollowed, his once-angular profile now actively gaunt. Dark shadows lurked under his eyes. What was happening to him?
The conflict within him was unbearable. He was exhausted, wrung out with the effort of concealing his Dark Mark from his peers and professors, and his longing for her from everyone.
It was too much. Something had to give.
"You win," he snarled at his reflection. "Have it your own fucking way. Condemn us both to death, why don't you. You absolute cretin. Falling for Granger, of all people." A bitter laugh escaped his lips, and the crack in his façade of indifference was enough to make his hands shake. The absurdity of the situation hit him with all the force of a bludger, and he laughed until he startled himself with the volume of the noise he was making.
He had to regain control. To master himself. Had to push this hysteria aside, and put himself back together to face the world.
It seemed all but impossible.
Now that he had started, he was afraid he couldn't stop. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, his shoulders shaking with laughter that turned to sobs as he caught a glimpse of his reflection's abject misery.
He didn't hear the door open, consumed as he was by his own despair.
"Malfoy?"
She was reflected in the mirror behind him, in a torturous echo of a day long ago in Madam Malkin's.
Fuck. Apparently, fate had yet more agonies in store for him. Not her. Not now.
"Would you kindly fuck off, Granger?" He was horrified to hear his own voice shake.
She hesitated, still hovering near the doorway, and for a moment he was torn between the fear that she would leave, and dread that she would stay.
She took a single step closer, and a breath of what smelled like spring reached him on the air. Oh, Gods, he was done for.
"What's wrong, Malfoy?"
He laughed, his own voice still sounding too loud in his ears, echoing off the tile.
"What's wrong? What's right, more like." His voice was harsh, and he saw her flinch.
"Have you gone completely insane?" Her hands were on her hips, her tone sharp, and he knew she had no intention of leaving him in peace. He was glad.
She wanted to stay? Well, then anything she heard was her own fault. He didn't care anymore. He took a deep breath.
"If I had, it would be entirely understandable. My father's in Azkaban, and my mother's living in a house full of murderous maniacs, one of whom is sure to feed me to his pet snake next time I go home. And on top of all that, I'm going to fail my NEWTs."
She shook her head. "It's still ages to the exams. You have time to catch up -"
This time, his amusement was real. "That's your main concern, Granger? Did you miss the part about the snake?"
"I was getting to that bit." Unbelievably, she was still here. She inched towards him, cautious but unafraid. "Voldemort is in your house?" Suspicion edged her tone, and her expression was incredulous. He nodded. "No wonder you look so terrible."
He smiled bitterly. "Thanks, Granger."
"Sorry. I mean obviously you still look -" she broke off with a cough, turning aside and running a hand through her curls. "I mean -"
"That's not all, though." Draco couldn't believe what he was about to say. He felt weightless, the burden of responsibility falling from him as he formed the words that would surely be his own eventual death sentence. It would be a sweet escape.
"I know I should hate you, but…" His throat constricted.
"But what?"
He said nothing. There was nothing but the overwhelming sensation of blood rushing to his brain, and the intense look of curiosity on her stupidly intriguing face.
"But what, Malfoy?"
He felt the tips of his ears prickling. A jolt of adrenalin left his stomach nauseous and his palms damp. His heart was thumping so loudly he could hear the beat pounding in his head.
She waited, as Draco threw himself to the wolves. "But you make me feel things."
Granger stepped closer, the inches closing between them until the scent of her invaded his skull. He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, closing his eyes in despair. He was lost. It was agony.
It was delicious.
"Granger, I - "
"I know." There was an edge of trepidation in her voice, otherwise so clear and firm.
"I can't be attracted to you, I -"
"I know. Believe me, I know." Now, she sounded darkly amused.
"No, you don't, you -"
"I've always known you despised me, Malfoy, but I never thought you considered me stupid. Do you?"
He said nothing.
"Do you?"
He forced it out. "No."
"Then allow me to reassure you that I almost certainly know what's going on in that ridiculous head of yours."
He felt a prickle of dread.
"You're scared. You've always been a coward, and a bully. You've hidden behind those goons you call friends and the power of your father's influence ever since you can remember. You're terrified that for once in your life, you want something that your father's galleons can't buy you."
She took a breath. "For possibly the first time ever, you feel powerless. Like you're in the grip of something that's impossible to resist.”
She had taken precise aim, and skewered him where he stood. He thought he would rather be pinned to the wall by one of the castle's suits of armour, a spear through his thigh.
“You know how I know?” He risked a glance at her, and found she was looking at him, her head on one side. Her voice was low, now; confessional. "You make me feel things, too."
At once, his panic faded into numbness. She couldn’t have said what he thought she had said. He must have been mistaken. He couldn’t feel his feet. He wondered if he was going into shock. Incredibly, he was still standing, and she was still talking.
“I’m absolutely mortified that the source of these feelings is a total arsehole, one who has taken pleasure in tormenting me for years and who, until recently, regarded me as utterly beneath him.” She considered him, an arm’s length away. “But, from the way you’re looking at me now, I’d venture you think of me as something more than dirty.”
“Oh, believe me, Granger, I have plenty of dirty thoughts about you.” He didn’t know where it had come from, but it was true. He wanted snatched kisses in alcoves, hands upon thighs under desks. He wanted her in his dungeon bedroom, spread for him on green silken sheets.
She reddened slightly, but her voice was crisp. “That may be so. But I’d wager you're mortified, too.”
She couldn’t know how right she was, and how much he wanted to deny it. “You’re mortified that the source of these feelings is someone you considered to be beneath you," she continued, ticking points off her fingers as she spoke, as if she were in class, and reciting the uses of dragon's blood. "You're furious at your own body's betrayal of the beliefs you were raised to inherit. You're aghast at the implications if anyone in your world discovered what you've been feeling. Your parents. Your pureblood friends. Voldemort.”
He flinched at the name. He couldn't help it.
She had him pinned again. “Don't bother denying that you're in deep with him. Harry thinks you've taken the Mark, but I can't quite believe you'd be that stupid."
He said nothing, but his expression gave him away. They had been watching each other far too closely, for too long. Of course she would guess the truth. The shock in her face was physically painful to see.
"You did, didn't you? You evil, contemptible -"
"He threatened my mother." Draco interrupted her before her anger could gain momentum. "He said he needed another Malfoy." His voice thickened.
He needn't have continued; he didn't owe her an explanation. They owed each other precisely nothing. But despite himself, he went on.
"He said it would be me or her. He made me choose. She would have wanted to do it, but I begged Aunt Bellatrix not to tell her until it was done. With my father in Azkaban, it was up to me to do something."
At that, she spoke. "Your father! He wouldn't have let you do it, would he? You're sixteen, for God's sake. If he were there, he would have stopped it. Wouldn't he?"
Trust her to pinpoint the exact thought that had plagued Draco for nights on end, after it had happened. Would Lucius have stepped in, found a way to placate the Dark Lord?
"I don't know." Draco's face twisted. "He said he was proud. In his letter. When the news reached him in Azkaban. He's always told me how lucky I am to be born a Malfoy. That I'm so fortunate he's there to step in and pull strings; that I'd have been expelled without his influence. Never in my life has anything I've done on my own merit ever been good enough for him. Nothing except that."
The long-sought praise from his father had tasted like ashes in his mouth. He had realised at last how deeply he had craved it. How much he had longed for the nod of respect, the hand on his shoulder. He had gone to bed feeling hollow, unable to account for the fact. He should be feeling like he had gained something weighty, not that he had lost a part of his soul.
Now, seeing the disgust in her eyes, tinged with sorrow and pity, he realised that if this was what it had finally cost him, then perhaps his father's approval wasn't something that was worth having, after all.
He felt his throat tighten and tears prick his eyes. He had probably already said enough to deliver them both to the snake, should Voldemort ever come to know. And his mother was right: there were spies everywhere.
She was looking up at him, now. Close enough to reach out and touch, if he wanted to. "I've watched you in Potions, Malfoy. You don't need him to pull strings to get you good marks. You just have to actually try, and want to succeed for your own sake, not his."
Their conversation had already gone far further than he had ever dared imagine it would. She had seen parts of him he had never shown another soul. She had confessed he made her feel things, too. He wondered what they were. If they were anything but pure loathing, it was more than he deserved. He remembered the look on her face as she smelled the Amortentia, her mingled shock and curiosity. Had there been longing, there, too?
"What does it smell like?" He hadn't meant to ask her. And yet, somehow, something inside him was still burning to know.
Thoughtful, she tilted her head to one side, and after a long time, she spoke. "It smells… like sun-warmed wood. Greenness. Hope. Like growing things, but somehow sweeter; like the freshness of," she paused, "of roses, after rain."
He smiled at her. Despite the agony of the past hour, it was instinctive. Her description was so apt; it was as if the rain clouds had briefly parted, and let a single ray of sunshine into the shadow of his heart.
She stretched a tentative hand towards his chest, and he reached to take it in his own, more in surprise than anything else. Her fingers were soft, delicate. She didn't pull away.
As he brought them slowly to his lips, he caught the scent of cherries in her hand cream. He closed his eyes, and breathed in against her knuckles. "You have completely and utterly broken me," he whispered. "I don't know what to do. I am good for absolutely nothing. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't do any of the things my family expect of me, I just… exist. In this hell. A hell of your making."
Her tone was uncompromising. "Whatever this is, we made it together, Malfoy. It's not going away. But it doesn't have to be like this. It's up to you, you know."
He looked up. It was the same fierceness she used to insult him, only now there was a determined heat to it that made his stomach flip. Her scent surrounded him, no longer nauseating, but blissful; intoxicating.
She stared him down, and he couldn't look away. "We can help. Let us. Let Dumbledore help you and your mother. And you can help us defeat him."
She was all hopeful anticipation, as if she already expected him to say yes.
It made him want to.
He had never sincerely considered the prospect of switching sides. For one thing, no-one in Dumbledore's clique would believe that his intentions were genuine, that he wouldn't go running back to Voldemort for his own personal gain as soon as he had some decent intelligence from the Order.
The witch in front of him had made him doubt everything else he ever believed, though. Why not this?
Her voice was soft, persuasive. "With you on the Order's side, we'd stand a chance."
Still holding her hand, he gave her the tiniest of nods. It was the most he could do, overwhelmed as he was by her proximity.
When she leaned into him, and brought one slender wrist behind his neck to pull him towards her, he felt like he was falling.
She stopped, her lips an inch from his.
"If you kiss me now, this is real. There's no going back. No more games, Draco."
He nodded again, the smallest assent. The silent grace with which she accepted his surrender, without demanding anything more from him, melted his last reserve.
"No more games," he promised.
And when her lips brushed his with infinite softness, he was no longer in hell.
It was pure heaven.