A/N: See the end of the chapter for content warnings.

CHAPTER 27: TEMPTATION

Dearest Hermione,

I hope that you will join us at the Burrow this holiday break. At the very least you must come for Christmas dinner. I know you may have some apprehension about attending, what with all that unfortunate business with my Ronald. But I assure you that there will always be a place at our table and in our home for you my dear.

With love,

Molly.

Her eyes scanned the familiar cursive script of the Weasley matriarch for what felt to be the hundredth time that day. Since receiving the missive at breakfast, her thoughts had been consumed by the words inked upon the parchment. She hadn't meant to skip lunch, but once her class had ended she had meandered through the halls. Her feet had carried her as if of their own accord, and before she had even begun to comprehend her destination she had arrived at the foot of the owlery steps.

Throughout the day Hermione had been uncharacteristically distracted from her studies, going over each and every pro and con of attending the Weasley's event. With a resolute sigh she climbed the stone stairway, the stench of the bird droppings growing more potent with each step. Once she reached the landing, she brought her leather satchel around to her front, rummaging within for parchment and her self-inking quill. Scrawling a polite note sending her regards, however declining the invitation to Christmas, Hermione rolled the parchment into a tight scroll. Placing the tip of her wand to the scroll, she cast a weak sticking charm in lieu of a wax seal and signalled one of the school's many tawny post owls.

She stood there for a moment, watching the owl fly off into the distance – her scroll tied securely to its leg – and then turned her back on the large window. A single tear slipped down her cheek, she couldn't help but feel as if she had just closed a chapter on her life. Another family, the last one she had clung to, lost.

Passing through the school's grand entrance, she could hear the cacophony of sound that emanated from the Great Hall. Lunch was not yet finished, but she could not bring herself to face the crowds, much less stomach a meal. She crossed the hall, swiftly descending the stairs that lead to the dungeons.

Crossing the threshold into the Potions classroom, Hermione's eyes widened in surprise. "Harry?"

The wizard lifted his head, which had only a moment before been laid upon his folded arms atop their shared workbench.

"Hey, Hermione," Harry replied, sitting up and ruffling his fingers through the hair on the back of his head.

She shook her head slightly, as if to clear the shock from her system. "What are you doing here so early?"

"Well," Harry started, his emerald eyes flicking away from her for a brief moment. "I- Uh. You weren't at lunch. I figured if I headed here early I might catch you before class started."

Placing her satchel down, she sat herself on the stool beside him. "Why were you looking for me? Is there something you need?"

"Do I need a reason to want to talk to my mate?"

"Well, no," she replied, brows pinching. "We just haven't spoken. Casually, that is, for a while now."

Harry's shoulders slumped. "Yeah. Well that's why I'm here. I've been a bloody shit friend. Thought I should put some effort in."

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I'd like that."

"Good," Harry said simply, his posture straightening. "Now, as your friend. I have to say, you look knackered."

Of course she looked like shit. There was only so much glamours could do for a person, and she had not had a single moment of sleep the night before. She had not received her potion refill until that morning. If she was being honest with herself she had been tempted to skive off class – maybe just the one – and allow herself the smallest portion of the draft. Just enough to have a small nap. To restore her faculties. However, when she had exited the Hospital Wing, Malfoy had been waiting for her. He had been leant casually against the stone wall across the corridor, his hands in his pockets looking perfectly at ease. His eyes however, locked with hers, and there was no mistaking the commanding look reflected within their striking steel blue. He would not be letting her leave that hall with the vial in hand.

Hermione swallowed hard and returned her focus to her friend. She still didn't feel comfortable revealing the secret of her addiction to Harry, especially not in a room slowly filling with potential gossips who may overhear their conversation.

"I was up most of the night working on an essay for Advanced Arithmancy," she replied.

It wasn't technically a lie. In fact, it had been what she had occupied herself with until the early hours of the morning, before returning to her search for answers in the scrolls acquired from the Library of Alexandria.

Harry's brows furrowed, but he did not push her further on the topic. Instead, he asked, "So why weren't you at lunch today?"

"I got an owl from Molly this morning," she confessed.

Harry's brows shot up. "Oh, yeah?"

"She invited me to Christmas at the Burrow. Even mentioned all that unfortunate business with her Ronald. Told me not to worry about it. That I'd still be welcome."

"Unfortunate business?" Harry scoffed. "She always has had a blind spot when it comes to her own children's faults. Ron's been a right git recently."

"Have you spoken to him lately?" Hermione asked, curious despite herself.

"He owl's me every now and then. Mostly he just brags about his new lifestyle," Harry admitted, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Hermione felt a twist in her gut, a hollow sadness akin to a small void within. Not for the loss of her romantic relationship with Ron. No, but for the loss of her friend. Their friend.

She opened her mouth to speak, to somehow express the mourning she felt for their fractured trio. But before she had the chance to vocalise her thoughts, Hermione noticed the way the room fell eerily silent around her. Eyes snapping up, her gaze landed immediately on their small statured professor – her posture rigid as always – standing at the front of the class.

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Professor Stoutwood's stealth never failed to surprise her. For someone with such a commanding presence, she moved silently, not drawing the attention of those around her until she wished to do so.

"The potion we shall be brewing today is quite complex," the professor began, gaze sweeping across the room as she spoke. "As we have a double period this afternoon, you should have ample time to complete the brew. However, regardless of the generous time allocation, I suspect many of you will not achieve a successful result.

"I know your studies have been somewhat disrupted these past few years, and as such, I am aware that some amongst you have brewed this particular potion prior to today, while for others this task will be entirely foreign."

Professor Stoutwood stepped to the side. With a wave of her wand, a selection of ingredients appeared on the large timber desk by her side.

With a gesture to the array of potions ingredients the Professor asked, "Based on the items here, can anyone identify the brew?"

Hermione blinked a few times in rapid succession, attempting to focus her tired eyes. Sopophorous beans were the first item her gaze landed upon. They were easily identifiable and an unremarkably common potion ingredient, their identification did little to help her narrow down the potential brew. Her eyes moved to the next item; Valerian sprigs. Her breath hitched. No, they couldn't be. Surely not. Dreamless Sleep was far too simple a brew for this advanced class. The only reason Hermione had been unable to brew the potion for her own consumption had been the restriction on the more potentially hazardous ingredients.

With a deep breath she dismissed the idea of that particular brew, trying desperately to ignore the way her hands twitched at the mere thought of the violet potion. Her eyes moved to the next ingredient. From the distance at which she sat, it took her a moment to identify the dried flower; Asphodel. Next to it sat a glass vial of dark liquid that shimmered faintly with an emerald hue, Infusion of Wormwood. Fuck! They were brewing the Draught of Living Death.

She could feel eyes upon her, others in the class seemingly awaiting her answer to the professor's question. But Hermione could not bring herself to speak. The moment she had realised what concoction they would be producing, her skin had begun to grow clammy and a sharp pain pierced her chest. Beneath the haze of her anxiety, she distantly heard a feminine voice answer Professor Stoutwood's question.

"Excellent deduction," the professor praised. "Ten points to Ravenclaw."

Hermione heard the scraping of stools against the stone floor as those around her rose to collect their ingredients. She knew she should move, set about the assigned task, just as her classmate's had. Yet she could not bring herself to move.

"I'll go collect the ingredients," said Harry. She simply nodded in response, not trusting her voice in that moment.

It would be so easy – too easy – to sequester away a small portion of the restricted ingredients that were available to them today. No one would ever realise if she took just a little. The amount she needed would easily fall within the bounds of reasonable wastage, especially for a class of this size. The other ingredients she needed to brew the Dreamless Sleep could easily be taken from the common stores.

It was a quick brew, not even an hour. She could find time alone to manage that, no one would ever need to know. She didn't even need that much. Just a little extra. Only for those nights her meager ration wasn't quite enough. She just needed to sleep. Needed to be free of him. Just for a little while.

A shiver ran down her spine, she felt as if she was being watched. She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder. Silver eyes locked with her own. Malfoy's brows were furrowed in concern, his normally perfect mask remarkably absent.

"What's wrong?"

Hermione jumped, startled by Harry's return to their shared workbench. Breaking her eye contact with Malfoy, she tried to swallow, her mouth inexplicably dry. She needed to find an excuse. Needed to get away. Her gaze dropped to the ingredients Harry had brought back for their brew, her mind racing, formulating a plan.

"Those Sopophorous beans don't look very fresh," she lied, hoping Harry would not choose this moment to challenge her knowledge. "They won't yield enough juice. I'll go find some more."

Harry frowned, but thankfully did not press. His hand rose, fingers scratching at the base of his scalp. "Should I, uh- Do you want me to start?"

No. She couldn't let him brew on his own. Not this potion. Her eyes wandered briefly to the storeroom before snapping back to Harry. "Powder the Asphodel roots in the mortar and pestle, but don't start brewing until I'm back."

As she turned to leave the workbench she was vaguely aware of Harry shifting in her peripheral. She hoped he was following her instructions, but she couldn't bring herself to turn and check, her focus now solely on her destination. One foot in front of the other. She concentrated her efforts on keeping her steps controlled, lest she betray the frantic desperation she felt. The last thing she needed right now was to draw attention to herself.

At last rounding the corner into the solitude of the storeroom, she exhaled a quivering breath. Heart pounding in her ears, she set about her task. Crossing swiftly to the shelf she knew the Sopophorous beans were stored, she collected a fresh specimen. It would not do to let her cover story slip. Nobody could know.

The beans acquired, she moved onto her true purpose. Hermione began rummaging through the large variety of herbaceous specimens, searching for the one she needed. One bushel after another, the ingredient she required remained elusive. Her movements became increasingly frantic, tossing the unneeded herbs haphazardly to the side.

Why was it this fucking hard to find some bloody lavender?

The sharp pain in her chest intensified, as her breaths grew rapid and shallow. Her hands clutched at the edge of the shelf for support as the fine hairs that lined her arms stood at attention, her magic crackling along the surface of her skin as her panic attack took hold.

Suddenly, she felt firm body press against her own as an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against them. The weight of a broad palm pressed firmly against her chest, just below her clavicle, the warmth of the soothing touch seeping into her skin.

"Breathe, Granger," Malfoy whispered against the shell of her ear.

Her shoulders dropped the moment she recognised his voice, her body melding back against his. She shut her eyes tight. Fatigue washed over her instantly, the ever present exhaustion she felt only compounded further by the aftermath of her panic attack. A soft whimper left her as her knees buckled, trusting Malfoy in that moment to prevent her from collapsing to the cold stone floor.

Hermione was torn. On one hand, she was immensely thankful for Malfoy's presence. For the way he calmed her, brought her back from the brink of her crippling anxiety. But, on the other hand, she couldn't very well collect the ingredients she required now he was present. He was too intelligent, too observant, not to notice her intent.

What the fuck was she supposed to do now?

The sound of footfalls approaching snapped her from her internal struggle. She stumbled briefly as she was forced to adjust her bodyweight, Malfoy having let go of her suddenly to put a respectable distance between them. Only then did she note the dampness of her cheeks. Shocked by the fallen tears, she wiped aggressively below each eye with the back of her hand. One deep breath in and out, she schooled her features and turned just in time to see Parkinson round the corner into the storeroom.

"You've been gone an awfully long time, Draco," Parkinson began, her tone saccharine. "I was starting to grow concerned you might be stuck. What with all the filthy mud hidden away in here."

"Watch your mouth," Draco threatened, his voice deceptively calm.

"Why? Worried I might upset your whore? I'd be more worried about catching some Muggle disease from that muddy cunt of hers. Aren't you at all concerned your cock might rott?"

Hermione heard a low, aggressive rumble from Malfoy's chest. Through the rage that had flared to life at Parkinson's words, she felt a small flicker of something much lower, deep in her core, in response to the quiet growl.

"I know you'll remember your place, your heritage... Eventually. But can you not muster an ounce of tact? Do you have to be so fucking obvious about how you're sticking your cock in filth? Are you not concerned about how..." Parkinson paused, gesturing in Hermione's direction with obvious distaste.

"How this dalliance may tarnish your future wife's reputation?"

Lifting her palm, Parkinson curled her fingers over to inspect the perfectly manicured nails of her left hand. With her thumb, she flicked an imaginary speck of dirt from below the nail of her ring-finger, and raised her eyes to give Malfoy a pointed look from beneath her long black lashes.

Upon hearing the Slytherin witch's insinuation, Hermione's magic surged, cracking along her skin and causing her already unruly curls to charge with static. In an instant, she felt Malfoy's palm press firmly against the small of her back. The warmth of his touch grounded her, her eyes falling shut as she inhaled a deep breath. The magic that had broken free of her control receded and she felt it settle below her sternum. Now confined to her core, she was all too aware of the way the concentrated magic pulsed and writhed within her.

"Granger," said Malfoy, his voice tight. "Go back to Potter. I need to have a word with Parkinson."

Hermione's brow furrowed, she couldn't leave him like this. His rage was palpable, radiating off him in an obvious and uncharacteristic display. Left alone with the witch he was liable to do something that risked violating his probation.

"Yes, do run along, Granger. Run back to the boy who doesn't know how to die."

"What's going on in here?" Stoutwood demanded.

Hermione bit back the retort she had almost spat at Parkinson. Attempting to school her features into one of respect, she turned to face the professor.

Professor Stoutwood's eyes narrowed as she took in the scene before her. "Miss Granger, please return to your seat. I believe Mr Potter is in need of your assistance."

Oh shit. Harry had better not have started brewing on his own. The potion was far too complex for him to achieve a passable result if left to his own devices. She couldn't just leave Malfoy to deal with this situation on his own though, not when the Hogwarts professor's all seemed set on assuming the worst of him. However, before she could voice her objection, she felt the palm at her back push gently against her, encouraging her forward, before dropping away.

Reluctantly, she made her way to the storeroom's exit, sparing one last glance at Malfoy before she crossed the threshold and made her way back to her workbench.

"You were gone a really long time," Harry said. "Is everything alright?"

Hermione nodded, dropping the Sopophorous beans from her hand to her wooden chopping board. She was surprised to find that despite her rage at Parkinson's words, she had not ruined the ingredients in her clenched fist.

"I'm fine, Harry."

"Well, uh- I saw Malfoy follow you in. I wasn't going to follow, figured I need to start trusting you and your choices when it comes to him. But then I saw Parkinson follow him in and I was worried."

"I'm fine, Harry," she repeated. "I appreciate you asking. For you giving me my space and trusting my judgement too. But honestly, I'm ok. Parkinson was a bitch as usual. Nothing I'm not used to from her though."

"Ok. That's, er- Good, I guess." Harry scratched at the back of his head. "I powdered the Asphodel roots like you asked. We really should get started if we are going to finish in time."

Hermione looked around the room. She had not realised how long she had been held up in the storeroom, but now Harry mentioned it, she noticed that quite a few of the Seventh year Ravenclaws had already progressed through multiple steps of the draught. She withdrew her wand and cast a silent Incendio, a flame bursting to life beneath the pewter cauldron.

Grasping the stone mortar from in front of Harry she inspected the powdered root of Asphodel. Satisfied with the refined texture, she portioned out the required quantity.

"I'm going to add the infusion of Wormwood. When I tell you, add the Asphodel," said Hermione, handing him the measured protioned of powder. "Understand?"

Harry nodded once. Ensuring the cauldron had reached the correct temperature, she uncorked the vial and decanted the infusion of Wormwood. She held her breath, waiting for the liquid to reach the perfect viscosity.

"Now!"

Harry reacted swiftly, tipping the powder into the cauldron. Lowering her iron stirring rod into the concoction, she stirred twice in a clockwise direction.

"Quick, Harry. Three drops of Moondew."

She watched him squeeze the pipette. One, two, three drops. As the final drop fell, she released the Valerian root from her grasp, the two ingredients hitting the surface of the brew in the same instant. She lowered the iron rod once more into the cauldron and stirred the potion twice more in a clockwise motion.

The moment her stirring rod left the brew, she dropped the intact sloth brain into the brew, the liquid reacting violently, foaming in response. The foam rose rapidly, ceasing a mere inch below the rim of the cauldron. Just as quickly, the foam subsided, the liquid returning to a rolling boil. She breathed a sigh of relief. Now they wait.

Hermione knew she had brewed the potion meticulously, following the textbook to the letter until this point. However, he also knew she had followed those same steps in her Sixth year, and the final results had been far less than satisfactory. Obviously, she had been incensed when she had learnt that Harry had used the doctored textbook to achieve his immaculate brew. Especially since he had no possible way of knowing who was responsible for the alterations, nor their intent. But she was Hermione fucking Granger and she'd be damned if she hadn't made it her mission to learn how Harry had bested her that day.

Unsheathing her silver potions dagger, Hermione's fingers twitched in response to the memories that threatened to escape the recesses of her mind. She took a deep, calming breath, stilled her shaking hands and crushed the Sopophorous beans with the flat of the blade, releasing the juices from within.

The alarm Harry had set on his wand chimed, alerting the pair that the required time had passed since Hermione had added the sloth brain to the cauldron. She moved with haste, tipping the liquid she had extracted from the Sopophorous beans into the cauldron. The potion instantly turned the perfect lilac colour and Hermione couldn't help the way her mouth fell open a fraction in disbelief. She knew she shouldn't have doubted her late professor - Snape was after all a brilliant Potions Master - but she couldn't quite believe the drastic difference the volume of liquid made, compared to the last time she had attempted this particular brew.

She stirred the contents of the pewter cauldron seven times in a counterclockwise direction, just as the textbook directed. Then, trusting Snape one more time, added a single clockwise stir. The potion cleared instantly and she gasped. They did it, they actually did it. A perfectly brewed Draught of Living Death.

Hermione extinguished the flame beneath the cauldron and stood, staring down into the brew. It was flawless, utterly flawless. Taken in the right quantity, the potion posed no risk. Absolutely no risk at all. Only the sweet embrace of oblivion. It would be so easy to take a little, no one would have to know. She could sleep. A full, restful night of deep slumber with no twisted memories of the past to torment her.

Positioning her wand carefully by her side – ensuring it was out of Harry's line of sight – she cast a silent Accio on one of the small glass vials. Catching it in her free hand, she slipped it into the inner pocket of her robe before directing an Evanesco at the remaining vials.

"Harry," she began, drawing the attention of her friend, who had been consoling Neville at the next desk over, his cauldron emanating a thick black ploom of smoke. "We forgot to grab vials to bottle the finished potion. Would you mind grabbing some from the front?"

Harry frowned in confusion for a moment, his eyes dropping briefly to where the glass vials had once sat, before he shrugged. He clapped Neville on the shoulder once, then rose from his seat.

With her friends distracted, Hermione quickly withdrew the vial she had stowed in her robes. Using her wand, she siphoned a small portion of the clear liquid from the cauldron, before stoppering it and returning it swiftly to her pocket. The remainder of the class passed in a hazy blur. She hardly registered the praise she received from the professor on her exampliary brew, her sole focus on the little glass vial that weighed heavy in her pocket. The moment the class was dismissed, she was on her feet. With an absent minded farewell to Harry, she fled for the room's exit, not sparing so much as a single glance as she went.

A/N: Content warning - Addiction, substance abuse, rationalisation, relapse.