Chapter 10:

On Thursday, Draco met Granger outside of the Potions classroom at the start of their lunch break. They needed to collect the ingredients for their Cruciatus Calming Draught if they were to begin brewing it by the light of the Harvest Moon. Granger had not spoken a single word of the odd experience they had shared two nights before, and for that he was grateful. He had no desire to rehash the display of affection. Is she thinking of me? Repulsed at the thought of having been held by me? Self-loathing threatened to overwhelm him.

It was uncharacteristic of him to show such compassion and kindness, particularly in the days after the War's end, but there had been something to her innocence and vulnerability. He had long thought his heart irreparably hardened. But seeing Granger's broken stance and the slump of her shoulders as she had sobbed into him chiseled away a little of the ice that encased the infernal organ. Draco had never been good at comforting people. Even with Pansy, he had taken to seeking revenge in her stead rather than consoling her as she wept. After all, how could someone who had caused so much pain say or do anything remotely reassuring?

She didn't push you away. It bewildered Draco when he thought of the way she'd stood with her face buried in his shirt and wept openly into his shoulder. His arms had encircled her, and he had held her tightly to himself. All the while, she had allowed such contact. What of that?

When they threatened to consume him, Draco tried to push these thoughts from his mind. Thinking about Granger was dangerous for his well-being and would set him back in terms of healing and planning his future. He had harbored a tender interest in her during his childhood, this much was true. But his father's prejudices, coupled his own emotional plight in sixth year and subsequent stint with the Dark Lord, had ruined any chance he could have had with her. He was beyond that little adolescent crush now—he was a grown man, aged beyond his years and more fucked up than any one individual should ever be. A lifetime of exposure to Dark Magic had ruined him—mind, body, and soul. With Pansy gone, he was certain no one could ever love him with all of his hatred and splintered pieces.

Granger rounded the corner, chewing on her bottom lip and looking as though she were perturbed. She could not bring herself to look at him as she walked past to enter the classroom. Her mood seemed to match his perfectly—confused, awkward, anxious. They had barely tolerated one another before that night, and now being around one another was unbearable.

Draco followed her into the Potions classroom to find Slughorn already explaining the properties of Amortentia. He wasn't really listening—Amortentia was child's play compared to some of the potions he enjoyed brewing in his spare time. As Slughorn spoke, he retrieved the list of ingredients he'd written the night before and went to the supply cabinets. Granger followed and stood next to him to collect what she could. "Some of these ingredients aren't here, Malfoy," she whispered to him, trying not to draw attention from the students.

"I'm well aware. I've already alerted Longbottom as to what we are brewing and what we hope to accomplish. Given his…understanding of the issues we wish to eradicate, he has agreed to assist us in whatever manner he can," came his curt reply.

They gathered various vials and pouches, Draco storing it all in his briefcase, on which he'd placed an extendable charm just that morning. As he was closing the doors to the cabinets, Slughorn called on them finally. "Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger are two of our returning seventh-year students and the top of their class. If any of you should have questions, you can ask one of us. Please, begin your work at this time."

With an impatient sigh on his part, Draco and Granger split to walk around the classroom. He was grateful for the distraction, even if it meant tutoring sixth-years in the ways of making the world's most potent love potion. It was a while before any of the cauldrons were a pearly sheen or emitting a swirling cloud. Draco was standing next to a particularly nervous-looking, heavy-set boy, showing him how to crush the cloves instead of chopping them when he suddenly caught a whiff of vanilla and fresh parchment.

He gritted his teeth. She must be standing over my shoulder. Merlin forbid I give unauthorized, but useful, tips to students. "Granger, if you could kindly leave me be, all I smell is that owl's nest you call hair."

The heavy-set boy looked up at Draco with a confused look. "Pardon?"

Draco looked up from his work to see that he was alone with the boy in the corner of the room and that the witch in question was on the other side by the door, frowning into a perfectly pearly cauldron. His heart began to thrum. How could he possibly smell her scent from this far away with all of the cauldrons around him beginning to swirl? He left the student to pace slowly around the room and save for one table that managed to turn their potion a violent shade of pea green that gave off the smell of rotten eggs, everyone else seemed to be achieving their intended results.

Leaning over each shimmering cauldron he came across, her scent never left him. He bent carefully into each swirling cloud and was growing more and dizzier with the concentrated impact each time. Slughorn smiled at him as he approached. "Tell me, my boy, what is it you smell that has you huffing at every table?"

Draco's eyes flickered toward Granger only long enough to see her head shoot up and he knew she was listening for his response. He cleared his throat. "Er—apples and chocolate and…cinnamon…" he tried to think of the exact opposite of what he was actually smelling because if he didn't clear his head of the intoxicating haze he was under, he was sure to retch violently into the nearest loo.

He grabbed his briefcase and stalked out of the room, grateful for the musty smell of the dungeon corridors. Why her fucking scent? Draco didn't love her—he barely even knew her beyond the swotty little priss she had been before the War. One thing in particular that Slughorn had said that afternoon repeated itself like a mantra in his head: "The potion can be a smell you may not fully recognize right away—but the potion is never wrong. You may not realize what is in your heart just yet, but trust in Amortentia."

The thought made him queasy with unease. He didn't really know much about the woman, except what his thirteen-year-old self had found attractive about her—her wits and intelligence above all else. As he swaggered through the corridors and up toward his room, her image popped into Draco's mind. Her lightly tanned skin, sprinkled with freckles all over; the warm chocolate color of her eyes with a gold that ignited when she got feisty; soft pink lips with endearing little bite marks from where she incessantly gnawed on them; her lean legs and modest curves—a sight he had only just had the pleasure of seeing as she studied in their shared space.

Groaning at the feel of his body reacting to the image of her undressing, he reminded himself that he was in desperate need of a shag, especially if he was starting to imagine Granger, of all people, naked.

o-o-o

Hermione made her way to the Great Hall for dinner, her mind still reeling from the Potions lesson. The scents that had swirled around in that classroom were still lingering in her nose and filling her lungs; her heart had yet to stop thrumming violently in her chest.

At seventeen, she had smelled freshly mown grass, spearmint, fresh parchment and a smell she had associated with Ron's hair. Cedar. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that Ron didn't use spearmint toothpaste, did he? No—he used peppermint. But he used spearmint—she had brushed her teeth with it and then argued with him about it later. When he had walked in the other night from Quidditch practice smelling like grass and musk and rain, the scent had made her heady even then. And parchment—admittedly, Ron never was one to actually study or apply himself. But he was. He studied in their common room every night, essays and notes spread out all around him.

How was it possible that, even in sixth year, when she was certain she wanted nothing to do with Malfoy, the Amortentia knew? Did it predict the future? The run-ins with him she had suffered through during school always ended in arguing or her punching him. She knew for certain that she had never felt anything more than disgust for him up until she saw him in Malfoy Manor this past April. He had not been spared a single one of her thoughts. But you've thought about him every day since then.

o-o-o

It was the first Friday in October when Malfoy first brought Astoria to his dorm room. Outside of Theo and Blaise, she seemed to be the only person willing to spend any length of time with him. They ate dinner together every night and spent time with the other former Slytherins in the eighth-year common room. Astoria was something of a quick learner when it came to potions, and it burned through Hermione's chest to listen to her giggles as Draco worked with her on her latest assignment. Beyond her bombshell looks, Astoria Greengrass was a saint of a witch—she volunteered her time and Hermione had never heard her speak ill of anyone. Her only downfall, in Hermione's eyes, was that she was interested in him.

Sitting in their shared common room, Hermione was dressed in comfy joggers and a long-sleeved shirt with her hair tied back in a messy bun. She had one leg splayed across the back of the couch in the most unladylike manner, a book clutched in her hands. It was nearing midnight when the door opened and Draco led a giggling Greengrass into the Room. "Oh, sorry, Hermione. We didn't think you'd still be awake," Astoria apologized sheepishly.

Hermione frowned at the beautiful lilt in her voice and waved her hand dismissively. "No problem. I'm about done with this chapter, then I'm headed to bed."

Astoria gave a small wave and Draco rolled his eyes as he ushered her into his room. "Have a good night! See you at breakfast!" she chimed.

Always the well-manner pureblood. The door closed, and Hermione's polite wave turned into a rude hand gesture she would never give if she were face-to-face with the girl. Finishing the chapter, she finally closed the book and rubbed her weary eyes. A sound stopped her trek back to her room—a moan. Well, more specifically, a beautiful, coal-haired goddess moaning his name.

Hermione stood stock-still and wondered why they hadn't cast a silencing charm. Feeling voyeuristic, she stood there dumbly as the sound of kissing, panting and giggling came muffled through the door. But she couldn't help it…she was mesmerized in a strange, perverted way. The bed creaked a soft rhythm and she could hear his masculine whispers. Her face grew hot at the thought of all the possible things he could be saying at this moment. Why wouldn't her feet move? It was as though she wore concrete shoes, pressing her into the spot.

It seemed like it went on forever, until she finally heard a final "Oh, Draco!" and then the sound of the two lovers laughing, breathless. Finally, after nearly sprouting roots, she tiptoed into her room.

In her room, Hermione stood with her back to the door for a few moments. Her heart was racing—why, she did not know. She had never outright heard people having sex—her parents were very private, and she had managed to avoid couples shacking up around the castle during her rounds. Her only exposure to the sound had been in the dirty films she had stumbled across in her father's study when she was ten and when she and Ron had been together. Ron had certainly not elicited those noises from her. As much as she had thought of her best friend sexually during their last year at Hogwarts and the following year on the run, Hermione knew in her heart that it wouldn't have worked out in the long term—they weren't compatible enough.

Her throat began to constrict as she thought of the abrupt and inexplicable way she had left things with Ron. Never having done anything to deserve such treatment, Hermione suspected he hated her now. Even more worrisome—Hermione knew she would deserve that treatment. It seemed, lately, that everything she touched turned to rubbish.

What did it say of her that Draco Malfoy had found love when she couldn't?

o-o-o

The following morning, Hermione thought it best to ignore the incident all together—she need not draw attention to the fact that she'd stood outside his door just a little too long. It wouldn't do to embarrass him, either. She pretended nothing was amiss as she brushed her teeth and Malfoy strutted into the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel to start his shower. Willing her blush not to rise to the surface, she asked, "Do you ever knock?"

With a roll of his eyes, he retorted, "Do you ever consider locking the door if you didn't want guests?"

Aren't men supposed to be happier after sex? He's still a prick. "I could be in here naked," she reminded him. "Or on the loo."

"I'm not deaf, Granger. I can hear through a door. And I can hear you brushing your teeth," he replied, a smirk blooming across his face. "If I hadn't heard the water running into the sink, your feet shifting weight impatiently every few seconds and your toothbrush dragging across your teeth, I wouldn't have walked in. These doors are dreadfully thin."

He knows. Convinced of this, Hermione tucked her face down closer to the sink to spit the toothpaste and conceal the blush that burned her cheeks like acid. He stepped into the shower and then extended his arm out to stuff his towel into the towel bar.

Nearly sprinting from the bathroom, she breathed an inhale of gratitude. She could avoid a concentration of his heady scent in their shared kitchenette. With unsteady hands, she made two slices of peanut butter toast, leaving the knife on the edge of the sink in the universal "not-sure-if-I'll-have-another-piece" way.

As she sat down with her toast and tea at the small two-person table, Malfoy strode in to make himself a cup of tea. It seemed the only time she could ever be free of him was when she was locked away in her room. He stopped short at the sink. "Why are you leaving dirty dishes lying around, Granger?" he asked in irritation, dropping her dirty knife onto the table in front of her.

"I wasn't sure if I wanted another—" Hermione stopped short, a whiff of familiar potion rising to meet her. She narrowed her eyes. "Are you using my lotion?"

A spoon clattered into the sink, metal on porcelain. "What are you going on about, Granger?"

She stood, drawing to her full height—an impressive foot shorter than he. "I can smell it. You used my lotion. Weren't you the one going on about how I am not to touch your things. And here you are using my toiletries! You hypocrite!"

Crossing his arms, Malfoy scoffed. "It simply fell into the basin and the lid fell off. I put it back. Perhaps if you didn't leave your shit to clutter the common surfaces, this wouldn't happen."

She narrowed her eyes once more. "It fell, you say?"

"That's right," he scowled at her.

Hermione stormed into the bathroom, knowing he would follow if nothing more than to keep their row going. "Tell me, Draco dear, how could it fall into the sink if I left it pushed all the way in the back corner? How did it, and nothing else, fall?"

Malfoy took on the countenance of a cornered animal then, stubbornly refusing to let up. "It all fell. And I had to replace it."

"Really, and you replaced it in exactly the same position it had all been in while I brushed my teeth?"

"I didn't use your damn lotion, Granger," he spat angrily, turning to leave. "Why would I want to smell like a common little Mudblood?"

A Hermione's face fell, he stopped mid-step, his back stiff, and stared straight ahead. Her breath caught and his head slumped forward, instantly remorseful. Malfoy turned, crestfallen despair etched into his features. "I didn't mean that, Granger."

A lump in her throat threatened to choke her and tears stung her eyes. She made to stride past him, but Malfoy reached out and grabbed her arm. Staring at his hand on her, she stopped next to him and refused to meet his eyes. With a great sigh, he loosened his grip, though he didn't let her go completely. "I really didn't mean it. Sometimes old habits creep back in and I speak before my mind can catch up with my mouth."

Hermione nodded, willing herself not to cry. No sooner than she had thought they were making some progress in their cohabiting relationship, and the word still so easily slipped through his teeth, like water through fingers. Malfoy squeezed her arm once more and shook it gently. "Hey, look at me," he softly cajoled, and she did as told. "Please, don't hold this against me. It was a slip of the tongue that came out of nowhere—I haven't even thought the word in months…"

Finally able to bring herself to look him in the eye, she found his grey ones sparkling in earnest, as though he were truly sorry. The words that came out of her mouth next sounded far away, as though spoken by someone else. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."

She pulled out of his grasp and went out into the main common room, her breakfast forgotten. He would be pissed about that, too, and they would probably have another argument about her sloppiness when she returned. Her face must have relayed what she was feeling, for Theo Nott was on her in mere seconds. "What happened?"

Why was it always Theo? Did no one else, anyone she trusted, ever linger in the common room? She groaned internally. "Nothing. I'm fine," she absently touched the scar on her forearm, and Theo grew angry.

"What did he do?"

Hermione winced at his tone and shook her head. "Nothing. Really. I need to tend to the Abraxans."

o-o-o

"What the fuck did you do?" Theo demanded, slamming his hands down on the table in front of where Draco sat with his head in his hands.

Looking an awful lot like someone had killed his kitten, Draco looked up at his oldest friend. Theo wouldn't care: Draco's sullen moods and pitiful looks didn't work on him as they did on Narcissa or Pansy. "What do you want, Nott?" he questioned, already exhausted from the pending conversation.

"I asked you a question," Theo reminded him, putting his face right in front of the pale wizard's.

What did I do? Why, now, did Draco care so much about Granger's feelings? He had spat the word at her with wanton abandon for years, so why did it slice through him so forcefully today? Because it hurt her. "Why do you presume I did something?"

Crossing his brawny arms, Theo scoffed. "It's always you. You are a fucking whirlwind of destruction."

"Merlin, if you spoke any sweeter, I'd think you were interested in me, Nott."

Theo slammed his fist on the table again. "Do I look like I'm playing games with you, Malfoy? What the fuck did you do to Hermione? I'm not going to ask you again."

"I called her…" his voice trailed off as he dropped his head back in his hands.

Breath hissing through clenched teeth, Theo growled, "Dammit, Draco. Why the fuck would you go and do something so stupid?"

Draco lifted his head and gave his friend an angrily incredulous look. "It's not like I fucking meant to. It just…slipped out."

"'It just slipped out!'" Theo taunted harshly. "Well, now I've got to clean up your fucking mess, Malfoy! You fucking dolt!"

o-o-o

A/N: Okay. Not much changed on this chapter. Next chapter begins something new...and the beginning of y'all hating me for a while…

Thank you for all of the love you've shown to this story. I hope you're all enjoying this! Please review! Special thank to tectonictigress for her beta work!