Chapter 9:

"Ah…the Elixir of Life is an extremely advanced and difficult potion that many wizards and Muggle alchemists alike have tried to obtain and none have fully succeeded," Slughorn was saying to Malfoy and Hermione, shaking his head so forcefully that his neck wobbled.

"We're not trying to obtain everlasting life, Professor. Merely trying to heal those who have suffered repeated Cruciatus Curses and are living with lasting repercussions," Malfoy reasoned, speaking slowly and calmly.

Slughorn nodded thoughtfully. "This seems unattainable, even for my two best students…"

"Professor, with all due respect, this is our project, and we will succeed. We are simply asking for access to the necessary ingredients," Hermione said, her tone displaying her indignance at his questioning of her intellect.

"We can send off for the ingredients if we must—I have plenty of gold in my vaults," Malfoy offered, folding his hands in front of him.

Waving away their consternation, Slughorn sighed. "That won't be necessary. But, heed my warning: if a single ingredient is mixed the wrong way or under the wrong constellation, the result will be catastrophic."

Hermione exchanged glances with her prickly counterpart and said, "Understood, Professor. I think we can manage it."

"We are more than competent," Malfoy added, and a surge of contentment went through Hermione when he included her in that statement.

Slughorn grunted and gestured toward his supply cupboard. "Of course you are, Mr. Malfoy. It's nice to have you back, by the way," he mentioned, placing graded essays on both of his top students' desks.

Malfoy unraveled his, and Hermione noticed it was a foot longer than her own with a large '120' at the top in red ink, no other red blemishing his neat script. She opened her own and frowned at the '116' at the top, a red note in the margin about her incorrectly placing the brewing time of the potion at dawn instead of dusk. Malfoy looked over at her parchment and grinned widely. "Hmm, well look at that, I beat the Hermione Granger at something."

"Oh, bugger off, Malfoy," she said, gritting her teeth and pushing her essay into the depths of her bag.

"Hmm, you aren't testy at all, are you?" he teased, his tone more belittling and agitating than friendly.

Hermione's cheeks burned as Slughorn came around once more. "Professor," Malfoy drew his attention, "Granger and I were wondering if you would be okay with us coming by Thursday during lunch to collect the necessary items we need for our project?"

Not having wondered that at all, Hermione reluctantly went along with her partner. She'd assumed they would retrieve everything after class one day. Slughorn smiled widely. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy. I'm teaching the sixth year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs about Amortentia that day…perhaps you both could assist in tutoring?"

Nodding, the two got up to leave the classroom. Desperate for a few minutes away from Malfoy, with the hopes that her agitation with his higher marks would dissolve, she ran ahead of him. He would be there, right behind her in Ancient Runes, as usual. The only time they ever had apart was when they separated for him to go to Alchemy and her to Arithmancy and when he was out on the Quidditch pitch training first years or refereeing the practice games.

Hermione was not used to being bested on any assignment, and she couldn't shake the feeling he was doing it to get under her skin. He couldn't possibly write essays that long without good reason, could he?

She propped herself primly into her seat at the second to last desk beside a seventh-year Hufflepuff. She began pulling her books out of her bag, setting up a fresh sheet of parchment on which to take notes. He came in a few minutes later. Hermione looked up at him, disgusted at the poncy smirk he was wearing as he passed her table, his portfolio-style briefcase swinging entirely too merrily next to him.

Malfoy slid into the seat behind her and pulled out his own writing utensils to take notes as Professor Babbling came into the room. Tapping her wand on the blackboard, Egyptian Hieroglyphics appeared. "Can anyone tell me where these particular symbols could be found?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air, but to her surprise and apparently to Professor Babbling's surprise, she called on the blond git behind her. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy…?"

"Those are Egyptian Hieroglyphics, and by the looks of them, I'd say they could be located in the Book of the Dead?" he finished, entirely too smug for Hermione's liking.

"Correct. And what exactly is the Book of the Dead?"

Hermione tried, she really did. But he was quicker than she again and he finished up his explanation without even being called on. "It's the ancient Egyptian funerary text—also referred to as the Book of Coming Forth by Day. It contains the Egyptians' beliefs on the afterlife, how to preserve a body for the journey and spells and incantations to ensure the departed reaches said afterlife safely."

With a glance over her shoulder, Hermione gave him an incredulous stare. How on Earth did Malfoy know all of this? As far as she could remember, they hadn't yet discussed Ancient Egypt in any class thus far.

He gave Hermione an insufferable wink and a smug grin as he relaxed back into his seat. This was twice in one day that he had outdone her, and she was not enjoying it one bit. She carefully took notes as Professor Babbling spoke and drew new symbols.

Still fuming, she packed her bag at the end of class. He was getting ready to walk out when Hermione reached out and grabbed his robes. Startled by her touch, Malfoy turned on his heel and glared at her. "Is there some reason why you're pawing at me?" His voice was venomous.

"How did you know all of that information?" she asked him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Did you cheat and find out what we'd be studying today?"

He snorted. "No, Granger. Believe it or not, you're aren't the only person who enjoys reading."

"Ancient Egyptian Funerary texts? We haven't covered that material in any class thus far. The only time I've ever seen reference to it was when I was in Muggle school." Her lips were curved downward at this point, trying to solve the mystery.

"I guess you have your answer then," Malfoy said as he strode away from her. "Oh, and Granger? Six-fifteen. Don't be late."

Hermione bristled at the thought of having to sit with him in the library again. During their last foray into the battered room, they'd gone over the gist of what he wanted to do for their year-long project, and she couldn't deny that his ideas were intriguing. But she hated admitting to herself that she was interested in his mind—formidably complementary to her own. I guess you have your answer, then. Did he secretly read Muggle books behind his father's back?

o-o-o

Hermione sat in the library, grading third-year Care of Magical Creatures papers—a task Hagrid had been thrilled to unload on her. Waiting for Malfoy to finish his flying lessons with the children, she listened to the soft pattering of rain on the window. Hopefully the thunder and lightning would wait until after her meeting with Malfoy—if she was going to have a PTSD-induced flashback, she'd rather it take her in bed and alone. She could only imagine the shit talking Malfoy would do at the sight of her having a meltdown.

At six-thirteen, Malfoy strode into the library, his hair mussed and plastered to his head in some spots. Clad in a royal purple Wulfric House Referee jersey, he was still sopping wet, dripping water falling from his frame. He began unstrapping his arm pads as he took the seat across from her. Wrinkling her nose, she scooted her papers away from his side of the desk. "Ugh, you could have at least done a drying spell."

He rolled his eyes and retrieved his wand to evaporate the water. He didn't appear to be irritated at the wet clothing, or the state his hair was in. In fact, he appeared as though being back on a broomstick had made him lighthearted and exhilarated for the first time in years.

Hermione watched him over her papers, sneaking a peek only when he was distracted. She secretly hoped he wouldn't tend to his mussed hair—it made him look light and carefree. Human. Inhaling deeply with the intent to let out a dramatic sigh, she instead breathed in a breath full of Malfoy. Freshly mown grass and the ground after a summer rain; spearmint and cedar; a slightly musky scent that was him after Quidditch. The way that scent clung to her nostrils and sent a wave of warmth over her frustrated the witch to no end. Willing her cheeks not to flush and trying her best to sound disgusted, she quipped, "You need a shower."

Malfoy glowered at her as he sat back in his chair, pushing the wet hair off of his forehead. "No shit, Granger. I tried explaining this to you last week when you jumped all over me for wanting to meet at seven."

"Well see to it that you're here promptly at seven next time. I can't take another night of that foul odor," she spat forcefully, trying her best to mimic irritation, though there was a foreign coiling in her belly that suggested she was anything but.

His lighthearted demeanor rapidly dissipating, he rose without looking at her. "We need to get started on the Restricted Section."

"We haven't finished the other areas yet," she remarked, gesturing at the area around where they sat.

"Yes, but everyone knows all of the best answers come from the books contained within the Restricted Section. Why don't you work out here and I'll work in there? This could get done twice as quickly," Malfoy reasoned, far too sensible for Hermione's liking.

Refusing to wait for an answer, he stalked off toward the back corner of the library. His scent still clung to the air, and she spotted his Quidditch bag alongside one of the bookshelves. From it protruded the corner of a leather book—the journal Healer Little had given them weeks ago. If he was carrying it in his bag with his Quidditch gear, that at least meant he was writing in it on occasion, right?

Curiosity was burning in her like wildfire. What would the Slytherin Prince have to write about? Would he write of the War? His regrettable decisions? His feelings about losing Pansy Parkinson? His dreams and ambitions? The possibilities were endless, and Hermione surveyed the journal from afar, her eyes unwavering as she recounted the few interactions with Malfoy she had labored during the War.

Then, it happened. The moment she had been dreading since it had begun to sprinkle earlier that afternoon. She'd held up decently over the summer, but her mind was frazzled with thoughts of Draco Malfoy and she was emotionally weakened by the separation from her longtime friends. The sound rumbled through the old castle walls, causing dust and loose mortar to topple down. Lightning flashed, illuminating the bookshelves for a few brief moments.

Then she was back in the Great Hall on the second of May, the room filled with people—broken and battered bodies littering the floor as others sent hexes and Unforgivables at one another. Molly's screech rang through her ears as she watched Fred fall to the ground, limp. The acrid taste of blood burned metallic on her tongue and the memory of Dark Magic caused tremors to shiver through her entire body. Sweat lined her lip as she remembered how choking the humidity had been that night. Screams clouded her mind and the clenching of her eyes brought flashes of red and green light.

The library faded from focus as she watched her friends and enemies fall, scream, curse. Falling limply from her chair, Hermione covered her ears with her hands, trying desperately to drown out the sound of the godforsaken screaming. The moans and gurgles of the injured and dying were a staccato rhythm playing through her fatigued psyche. She clenched her eyes shut as she swallowed repeatedly, her throat burning dry as cotton. Rocking back and forth with tears streaming down her face, Hermione fought to hear Healer Little's voice giving her commands. The Healer's voice sounded as though it were underwater, and Hermione knew then that she was drowning.

o-o-o

A loud crash of thunder and a bright snap of lightning shook the castle, extinguishing the sconce that had lit Draco's workspace. Looking up from where he was struggling to rebind a book on forbidden artifacts of the sixth century, he sighed. He withdrew his wand from his back pocket and muttered a quick Incendio to relight the sconce just as a piercing scream echoed through the devastation.

Not just any scream, but the shriek that had haunted his nightmares since the spring. Just the mere sound of it brought the vision of the ballroom at Malfoy Manor to the forefront of his mind. His aunt's cackling as she carved into the smooth skin of the witch's arm. His face ached where the crudely healed scars littered his smooth features after the chandelier crash. On his tongue, the taste of the blood and dust that had settled around the house after Potter's quick departure. Reverberating through his heart, he could feel the wrath of the Dark Lord as he let out a guttural screech upon finding out that Potter and his friends had escaped the Malfoys' clutches. Above all else, however, he could smell the sweet scent of vanilla, mixed with a summer rainstorm and a brand-new roll of parchment, clouding his senses.

Granger's screams ripped through his brain like a knife through flesh, and it was difficult to discern if the sound was in his mind or in the library around him. Upon realizing that it had been her scream that brought the visions to his mind initially, Draco leapt from his chair and sprinted through the library to the table where he had left Granger fifteen minutes prior. In the pitch-black room, another flash of lightning illuminated the scene. The sight that lay before him both frightened and bewildered Draco in that moment: the pages of various books lay strewn about the floor and an ink pot splashed across the hardwood floor and the fabric of Granger's trousers.

Most frightening of all was Granger herself. Sitting with her back against the shelves, she rocked into them repeatedly, causing books to rain down around her. Her hands were clasped tightly over her ears, sandwiching her face, and her eyes were shut so tightly, Draco almost wondered if it hurt. As the tears streamed down her face, her voice grew hoarse with each fresh screech.

Draco was at a loss. They were not friends or even cordial—he had insulted her earlier that day and she had returned the favor only minutes before. But something in the raw, aching way she was breaking tugged at his long-hardened heart. He hesitated only a moment more and then went to kneel beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Granger. Granger! Snap out of it," he whispered, trying to be stern, though his voice shook with worry.

Granger's eyes settled on his, though she appeared to be looking straight through him. A chill, like that of the first snow of winter, ran through Draco's veins. "He's dead—they're all dead," she muttered.

Draco had no idea who he was—that could refer to any number of men who had died here months prior—but he nodded, his eyes wide and weary. "That's right, Granger. The Dark Lord is dead—he'll never harm anyone again…"

Commencing her rocking, she closed her eyes once more and began sobbing. Draco had no idea what how to help her, but his mood was shifting away from worried and moving with a dangerous recklessness toward anger. Anger at Granger, for not exposing herself to her trigger as she was instructed and for not remembering how to breathe; anger at Potter and Weasley for leaving him with this shit storm; anger at the War and the Dark Lord for ruining everything he had ever cared about; anger at the Gods for making a thunderstorm appear on the one night Granger wasn't holed up in her dorm room.

Placing his hands under her elbows, Draco pulled her into a standing position. His next course of action, he decided, was either going to snap her out of her episode or set her further into it. He knew that once she came back to him, the feisty witch was sure to be spitting pissed. He tucked her wand into his back pocket, lest he get hexed for his actions.

Granger fought him tooth and nail, all the while yelling about Antonin Dolohov attacking her as he wrapped his arms around her securely. "Stop resisting, Granger, or you're going to get hurt!"

As she thrashed about, Draco considered putting her in a full body bind before deciding against it. She's scared and upset. She kicked into the air and lifted up a few times in his arms, screaming non-coherently into the still night. He knew what Granger needed and he was going to deliver. He tightened his arms around her in a vice grip, struggling only slightly as her fights turned into feeble protestations. Wandlessly opening the door to the courtyard, he struggled to march them into the cold rain. His breaths fell from his lips in swift pants, though he knew it was more out of blind rage than from half-carrying, half-dragging her. Her breathing slowed as she felt the rain wash over her.

A flash of lightning slithered across the sky and thunder clapped in the distance, a crack louder than Apparition. "Goddammit, Granger. Pull yourself together," Draco hissed through clenched teeth, his anger at the world and this witch causing an aching in his chest.

Granger's face tilted up toward him, and the absolute brokenness he saw etched into her features nearly brought him to his knees. He closed his eyes for a moment before reopening them to stare at a place behind her. Remembering Healer Little and Luna's soft-spoken commands, he breathed—in through the nose, out through the mouth. As the seething anger began to ebb, Granger's mousy voice caught him off guard. "Harry?" she whispered, disoriented.

Draco dragged his eyes down to meet hers. The breath was swept from his lungs at the look she gave him, damaged and mournful. "No. It's Draco, er-Malfoy…" he replied in a maladroit whisper, noting that it was Potter she asked for and not Weasley.

The haze in her eyes lifted and sobs wracked her body. When her face dropped into his shoulder, he leaned back slightly, unsure of how much contact he should be making now that she had been pulled from her vision and knew in whose arms she was so tenderly cradled. "Calm down, Granger. It's just a rainstorm. I won't let anyone harm you."

The air was cool as the rain pelted the pair. With his Quidditch jersey and robes clinging to his own body, Draco glanced at her thin clothing. She shivered violently, though he was unsure of whether it was because of the cold rain or her body's reaction to the violent episode. Pulling his robes off quickly, he cast a drying and a warming spell on both her and the robes before he draped it around her shoulders and clasped the fastener around her neck.

Granger looked up at him once more, the tears leaving burning trails down her cheeks. It was then that she replaced her forehead onto the front of his shoulder and sobbed openly into his body. She knew who he was, knew where they were—he could see the awareness in her eyes. And yet, she took from him exactly what she needed in that moment—something no one else could give to her. The assurance that he understood her shattered soul for the blackened void it was currently, that he had his own bottomless abyss to match.

The heat from her tears soaked through his already wet Quidditch ensemble. Draco sighed deeply, giving up the hardened façade he wore at all times. He allowed her moment of weakness and gave her a rare moment of compassion, wrapping his arms around her shoulders in a stiff, uneasy fashion. Never having felt so strange or confused in his life, he rested his cheek against her crown. He breathed her scent—one that had tormented him for endless days and nights—and his heart stuttered as the smell soothed parts of him that he didn't even realize were in need of a salve.

They stood like that for Merlin knew how long, her shaking becoming tiny tremors and her sobs quieting to hiccups. As the rain calmed to a drizzle, Granger stepped away from him. His hands fell to his sides, and Draco made no move to continue their embrace. Making a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, Granger gave him a melancholy smile. "I still hate you," she told him, a hiccup wracking her shoulders.

A gruff laugh escaped Draco's lips. "The feeling is mutual, trust me," he told her, betraying his heart as he searched her wide eyes.

Convinced that she was not going to have another episode, he cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck with one unsure hand. "Right, well…why don't we call it a night in the library?"

Granger nodded as she swiped her hands under her eyes, pushing the tears away. The pair went in silence to retrieve their bags and schoolbooks from the library. Hopeful that she would feel no need to use it, Draco handed her the wand he had confiscated earlier. Their trek to their rooms was made in complete silence, each one contemplating the series of events that had unfolded over the course of the evening.

When they stepped into the Wulfric Common Room, Theo took one look at their state and sprang to his feet. "What the bloody hell happened?" he asked, coming around the couch to stand in front of Granger.

His hands slid over her upper arms and he leaned down to look into her eyes as she bit her lip and looked at the ground. Draco raised one hand behind her, effectively silencing Theo's questioning. "Not tonight, Nott."

Theo recoiled slightly but knew better than to argue with his friend. He looked as utterly perplexed as Draco felt in that moment, but he nodded once and backed out of the way to allow the Heads to pass.

Granger went into her room, and Draco knew she put a silencing charm up as soon as he heard her footsteps stop shuffling. Thoughts were running through his head at rapid-fire and he felt nauseated, a migraine beginning. He knew perfectly well why he'd done it—Granger needed a harsh hand to guide her or she would never face her triggers. But the event that transpired once they were in the rain is what confounded him most: the odd embrace they'd shared for entirely too long in the pouring rain, two enemies against the outside world.

He willed his mind to settle as he peeled away his wet Quidditch clothing and stepped into the shower. He allowed the steam and the warm water to relax his aching, freezing limbs and back as he forced himself to think of anything else besides the way Granger had felt in his arms.

o-o-o

A/N: I have loved hearing from you all! This was my favorite scene in the first version, so I just enhanced it some. I couldn't bear to change the whole scene. You're all amazing and I want to thank you for the love and support. It is important for me to hear what you all think, especially as I rewrite this story in preparation for beginning a completely new sequel. Please take a few minutes to review-it would mean the world. Beta love to tectonictigress!