Dozens of books were stacked on top of a coffee table that cost more than many Muggles' cars. The witch felt out of place at the cottage, because even though it was small, most of the furniture inside of it cost more than anything she had ever owned. Each time that she set down her mug, she assured that it was placed atop an old print of the Daily Prophet.

"Bartholomew, no!" she screeched, batting at the air behind the misbehaving Wampus cat in an effort to scare him away.

The cat simply rolled over onto its side. Her fair host, dressed in all black, walked into the room and stepped over the animal on his way to his usual armchair. After sitting down, he patted the Wampus on the head.

"He's growing just as fast as I said he would," the woman pointed out. "Look at what he's done to the rug!"

The wizard looked down at the Persian rug and sighed. Discernible claw marks had compromised the intricate embroidery. "Well, I'll have to fix that later, I suppose."

"Draco, it's been less than a week and he's eating nearly twice as much," she hissed. "We need to figure out a way to keep him under better control." The youngest Malfoy opened his mouth, only to be met with a dark look. "And no Imperius Curse."

"Good thinking, Granger, but I actually have a better idea. Calming Draught. Not exactly its intended purpose, but it should still slow him down. It's safe enough for Kneazles, so I'd assume the same would be true for a Wampus."

Hermione was surprised at his suggestion. "That's actually a really good idea."

"You say 'actually' like it shocks you."

"I mean, you are the one that decided to bring him into your house," she retorted, looking back down at the creature. It rose and fell as it slept, living out its dreams by pawing at the rug.

"I could always just finish the project on my own," he threatened, shrugging. "You're still not exactly up to snuff yet."

"I've been studying nonstop, thank you very much!" she snapped, gesturing the books on the table. "I only stopped to keep him from destroying the rug before it was too late!"

"Well, he's sleeping now. Back to it, Granger."

Hermione scowled and opened the book she had been reading. Her brows were knit together as she irately read the words on the page, eager to learn everything she could before Bartholomew was full-grown. Each day, she arrived at Draco Malfoy's home bright and early with an armful of books. After scoffing at several of her choices, he would saunter to his bookshelf, select a few texts, and add them as required reading. She would never admit it, but secretly, she quite liked it. It felt like being back in school.

"Be ready to practice at four," he said, getting to his feet. "We have a calming potion to brew."

The brunette froze. "We?"

"What? Did you think you were just going to leave me to do it on my own? It's a perfect learning opportunity."

She could not argue, but still, her stomach lurched. Calming Draught was not necessarily a high-level potion; in fact, it was so simple that she brewed it in her fourth year. Nevertheless, it had been over a decade.

Bartholomew purred and stretched and her eyes landed on him. If she did not brew the perfect potion, he would be the one to pay the price.

The kitchen table was covered in an old potion-resistant tablecloth that Draco had found in the linen closet. Atop the table was his favorite cauldron, a cauldron pedestal, a handful of ingredients, a small paring knife, a cutting board, and an iron ladle. A smirk played at the corners of his lips as he waited for his houseguest to find her seat.

At a minute after four o' clock, she shuffled into the kitchen, her hair sticking out every-which-way and an anxious look on her face. She blew a large gust of air out of her mouth and sat down at the table.

"You're late," Draco chimed.

"Oh, come off it, Malfoy. I was in the next room over. It was only by a minute, anyway."

"Ah, but would that fly with Professor Snape?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"You're not Snape," she growled. "Can we just get started?"

"Fine. You read on Calming Draught to prepare for this, surely?" He seated himself beside her.

"I mean, I—well, yes. I did." She scratched the back of her neck. "Maybe I should grab my book—"

Draco shook his head and pushed the ingredients her way. "Ah, ah, ah. Use your intuition. You've been reading about potion-making for five days straight, Granger. Let's see how much you've learned."

Panic immediately set in. Even in school, she always used a book to give her proper directions. "But—"

The handsome blond leaned back and crossed his arms. "Go on, then."

With a quick glare, she waved her wand and lit the fire beneath the cauldron. Two smoldering grey irises were fixed on her as she picked up the first vial and uncorked the top. She quickly flitted her gaze towards him, looking for some sign of approval or disapproval, but to her annoyance, his expression offered nothing.

Chopping was one of her least favorite parts of Potions class when she was in school, and she quickly discovered that that had not changed in adulthood. With each slice to the lavender before her, she noticed Draco's eyes following her movements. Frustrated, she spat, "Can I help you?"

"Just observing, Granger," he murmured, his chin resting in his palm. "Problem?"

"No, it's fine, I guess," she grumbled, finishing her last cut. Still uncomfortable by his gaze, she picked up the cutting board and scraped the lavender into the cauldron. As she uncorked the next vial, she found herself growing increasingly bothered by him. "Can you at least tell me if I'm doing it right?"

He shrugged. "Do you think you're doing it right?"

"I don't know!" she exclaimed, dumping the Honeywater into the cauldron. "I think it's right, but I don't have my book to check my work."

"You won't always have a book around."

Urgently shuffling through the vials, she spat, "We're doing research, Draco, not field potions. I'm getting my book." She stood to retrieve it, but Draco simply grinned and waved his wand. Horror was evident in Hermione's expression as A Healer's Guide to Potions floated into his grasp. "Give it to me, Draco."

"If you're going to be a world-renowned potioneer, you need to be able to do it without a book, Granger," he taunted. Tucking the book under his arm, he continued to preach. "I thought it lucky I ran into such a capable witch, but if you can't even brew a batch of Calming Draught without a textbook, I'm not entirely sure that you'll be suited for this."

Livid, Hermione seized a vial of pearl dust and carefully tapped some into the cauldron. Draco watched intently as she stirred and moved onto the morning dew, her tongue slightly poking out the side of her mouth. With each stir, the brew changed colors: from chartreuse to pink to violet and finally, as she added the last ingredient, to blue.

The classically handsome wizard clapped. "Well done, Mudblood. Well done."

She smirked, too proud of herself to acknowledge the nasty nickname. "The perfect shade of blue."

"Indeed. I suppose we'll only know its potency once we put it to use. There's some venison in the ice box, if you'd like to do the honors."

Hermione's eyes widened. "I-I mean, don't you think this should just be a test batch? Perhaps you ought to brew another."

"Not so confident now, are we?" he drawled, swinging his legs around. Once he was standing, he pushed in his chair. "Just a moment ago you were convinced it was the perfect shade of blue. Is it or is it not?"

The witch's insides twisted and turned as she examined the potion again. Draco Malfoy had a way of making her second-guess herself. "I think it's good."

He leaned against the table, hovering uncomfortably close to her. His focus did not graze over the potion even once. Instead, he stared at the Muggle-born, his grey eyes tired and untelling. "You think?"

"It's good!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "Is that what you want to hear?"

With a nod and a smirk, he replied, "Very good. Now, if you're truly confident, you'll pour it into Bartholomew's bowl."

The brunette's heart was pounding, but still, she flicked her wand to quickly cool the potion and seized the cauldron by its handles. Within moments, the Wampus cat was lapping up a mixture of blood and potion.

A sleeping creature had claimed the young Malfoy's armchair. He and his wild-haired research partner sat on opposite ends of the sofa, observing the cub as it snored.

"I think it was a bit stronger than we intended." Draco stretched. "It's a nice little break from all the chaos, though. Good work, Granger."

Hermione felt her face flush. Compliments were such a commonality for her that she often took them in stride, but when they came from the cynical wizard, she felt a sense of warmth. Harry Potter buttered her up to do his bidding. Ron Weasley was impressed by mediocre parlor tricks. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, had standards. To meet those standards, especially when it came to potion-making, was a feat worth its salt.

"Thank you." She yawned and wrapped her arms around one of the throw pillows. "Merlin, is it possible that the fumes got to me?"

"Hardly," he scoffed.

After a quick glance at the clock above the fireplace, she realized that it was well past nine in the evening. "Is it really so late? I probably ought to be getting home."

Malfoy shrugged. "Suit yourself. I was going to make a late dinner shortly. You're welcome to join."

It was unexpected, but the offer made Hermione's stomach flip. The two of them ate together often as of late, sharing a quiet breakfast with coffee while she read or nibbling at sandwiches while Draco played with Bartholomew. However, there was something inherently intimate about dinner. Perhaps, that was why she usually left earlier.

"If you're not going to answer me, I'm going to assume you don't want one."

Hermione's face became pink as she realized Draco had been saying something to her. "One what?"

"A steak," he repeated. "Merlin, Granger. A few days of reading and your brain has turned to mush all of a sudden?"

"Oh, um—" Something about a steak dinner with the blond Slytherin sounded more appealing than she ever thought it would. "—I don't know. I don't think so."

Draco squinted. He knew that she wanted to stay, yet she was turning down his offer. The young heir had always been able to read women, but the Muggle-born challenged him. Her expressions did not give everything away, unlike most. He could only tell that she was denying herself sustenance when she needed it. The rest was a mystery.

"You're sure?" he pressed.

"Yes, quite," she said, firmly, piling her books on top of one another. "I-I suppose I can leave these here, can't I? Um—well, I'll see you tomorrow morning, then."

He nodded. "Bright and early, Granger. We have work to do."

The brunette cleared her throat. "Right, work."

The small apartment in Cadsfordshire had become more of a hostel than it was a home. Hermione Granger murmured the counter-charms to her many enchantments and unlocked the front door.

Her stomach rumbled and regret set in. Dinner in her apartment consisted of stale bread and cheese, and as she chewed, she could not stop thinking about the juicy steak that she could have been eating. Still, she was not sure why Draco's offer had made her so nervous, but her speculations made her want to vomit.