Granger's face is inscrutable as I speak. I try not to guess at what she's feeling or thinking and blaze ahead.

"So with the snake gone, and the Horcrux in Potter gone - wait, have you remembered that part yet? I should have checked sooner, sorry; the turn of the war was the Dark Lord striking Potter down. He survived, but I think it was because of the Horcrux. So that one's gone too, and now there's just the original left. And the Resistance is moving against him."

Glancing Granger's way to make sure I'm not overwhelming her, I start to pace behind the table holding the row of empty cauldrons. I have too much energy.

"We have an opportunity to get Potter out, to end the war for good. That should happen within a couple of days. Then, hopefully within a few weeks, it's all over. It'll all be over and you can leave."

I feel like that's more than enough to be going on with for now. Let Granger process what I just told her, which should provide plenty of question fodder for her to pepper me with as she so desires. I move back to the mound of various bags, bottles, and jars of ingredients I need to make the scar lotion again. We'll need three cauldrons of it to begin testing when and how to add the Campanula rapunculus.

Granger's still watching me but it's almost perfunctory. Her expression is vacant as if she's thinking about something very far away, and she can take all the time she needs.

She seems to think better with her hands busy, though, which isn't surprising. I also do better when I multitask while I think; as long as I'm not trying to read, that is. That nuance wouldn't bother Granger in the slightest, I'm sure.

After grabbing a medium-sized flask with a flat bottom, she pops open one of Snape's vials and decants it, allowing the liquid to pool across a larger area so she can inspect it in the light. I similarly go to work with the acne cream, dolloping precise splats of it into the bottom of each of my cauldrons.

"That's a terrible squelching noise, you know," Granger notes almost conversationally, and I hide a grin.

"I'll try to keep it down," I promise, trying to think of the next opportunity I'll have to splat down some more.

We work in companionable silence for a few minutes before she asks, "How is Harry getting out? Is it something like… like this, with me being here?"

Fair question, I reflect. She has nothing else to compare it to. "No. Zabini is going to impersonate Potter so we can break him out. He'll stay there in the dorm where Potter's been and maintain the fiction for as long as he can, buying the Resistance time. We hope."

A couple of things seem to flash across Granger's face at this, all at once, but I don't try to assume what's going through her mind. At last, she ignores the Zabini bit of the plan entirely.

"Why is it happening now?"

This is also a fair question; Zabini's been able to impersonate Potter all along. Anybody could have been, for that matter. "Severus thinks the Resistance is close to finalising their strategy of attack on Dunrobin. We couldn't have kept up the act for long; our chances of getting caught at it now are still very high. But also, none of us thought of it."

I confess this openly with a half-shrug as I look at her for a reaction. She doesn't give me one, keeping things very close to the vest. I can't help adding one unnecessary detail, knowing this, too, might eventually make its way back to Ginny. "Zabini thought of it tonight when Severus was updating us on the Resistance. He volunteered."

"Would you have volunteered?" Granger asks me outright.

"He's in a better position to appear to go on holiday," I tell her honestly. "If the Dark Lord summons me, I'd be sunk, and so would the whole plan. Blaise doesn't have a Dark Mark."

Granger absorbs this thoughtfully. "I didn't know he didn't have one."

This doesn't seem to require a response, so I let it pass unremarked and light the fires under my cauldrons to begin fully liquefying the acne cream.

"Can you pass me the wotsit?"

"Come again?" I ask reflexively and close my eyes at the unintended sexual innuendo. "What do you need?"

Granger politely ignores my innate childishness and gestures towards the set of ladles; measuring spoons, really.

"Eloquent, Granger," I say with a hypocritical snort. "Next time, I'll have the elves bring up some actual cheesy wotsits, if you'll deign to eat in the lab. Maybe you're just hungry."

"Shut up," she grumbles, snatching the set from my hand. I feel an almost electric shock when her fingers touch mine and turn quickly back to my cauldron.

We keep working in more silence, Granger occasionally talking to herself in a low voice. "Clever, he separated the walnut skins from the newt's breath before he added the…"

I lose the rest as she turns away, her thick plait flipping over her shoulder.

"See if you can figure out which bit he's manipulating to adjust the length of time the potion extends to," I offer. "He had several varieties; this one is the longest he made. It keeps the scar masked for up to ten hours."

Granger nods absently, one brown eye comically distorted through the flask where she's practically pressing her nose against the thing.

"Are you still seeing Blaise tomorrow?" she asks me out of the blue.

"I think I am," I reply. I'd been thinking about this, too. "We'd covered everything tonight that I thought we'd talk about tomorrow, but now that he's going to be staying in the park as Potter, probably dying there if the attack goes poorly… I should probably buy him a pint. We don't know exactly when he'll be called upon to make the swap. It could be tomorrow, for all we know."

"How likely is that?"

"I don't know for sure," I confess. "Severus isn't kept in the loop of their specific strategies. He just knows they're close to making a move."

"I meant, how likely is it that Blaise dies right there in the park?"

"Ah." I scratch the back of my head. "Well, same answer, really. None of us know how good their plan is. But if he does, we're in trouble, too." I look at her squarely. "If the plan fails and the Resistance loses this war for good, the Dark Lord will immediately suspect that Potter wasn't where he was supposed to be; even if he doesn't have absolute confirmation of it."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"If Potter's Polyjuiced, for example. The Resistance is making good use of this potion of Snape's for extended Polyjuice disguises."

Granger looks impressed at this, eyeing the flask in front of her with renewed interest.

"But even if he recognises other Resistance fighters as former captives of the park, ones that had supposedly been sold into slavery and instead popped back up to keep fighting… he's still going to make the park his first stop. And the Manor will probably be his second."

She's quiet. Reflective. "What do we do then?"

I give her a wry, awkward sort of smile. "Die fighting, I guess. Cheers."

Granger contemplates this, turning the flask in her hand around and around, watching the potion's colour inside change against the light. She doesn't seem to be readying another question, so I turn back to my own cauldrons. They're nearly to the point of setting overnight, and -

"Is there a way I could leave here before the attack happens? Could I help?" she asks me, a slight tremor in her voice.

Of course she wants to. And I want her to, as much as I don't want her fighting Death Eaters - my own father, possibly - in the Scottish Highlands outside Dunrobin Castle.

Whispering in the back of my mind is the possibility that if the fighting goes past a sudden strike into a prolonged battle, I myself could be summoned. Gods, that would be horrible; what's my contingency plan for that?

I do want her out of here, out of her captivity. But this is one thing I have to deny her. The least I can do is explain why.

"Your presence here is - important to the Dark Lord. Obviously. My father volunteered to ensure it. All of our lives are on the line if you're found to be somewhere else. You know what I did to protect my parents the last time they faced a direct threat."

She does know. I killed Dumbledore.

"I can't throw that away, now," I whisper. "I can't risk my mother's life. My father's made choices, and so have I, that she shouldn't be punished for. I want to give you anything; everything. But please don't ask me to give you that."

Granger's eyes are welling with tears and I understand. I make the only promise I can.

"If we happen to get enough notice that the Resistance has lost, I won't make you wait for him to arrive here. I'll give you a wand and throw you in the Floo," I try to crack a smile. "It's the best I can do. I'm sorry."

"What's the difference of just doing that now, then?" she pleads with me, and my heart starts to break.

"The longevity of the plan. Blaise will appear to be Potter. But if the Dark Lord happens to pop in here anytime in the next few weeks, and you're found to be gone… it'll all be over, before it even starts. He'll kill us for the deception - or even if he considers it incompetence, that you simply escaped, he'll still kill all three of us. And he'll know the Resistance is moving against him."

"Can't someone impersonate me?" Two small tears sliding down her cheeks and I have to put my hands in my pockets to avoid going to give her a hug. I want to put my arms around her so badly it hurts.

"We don't have anyone left, Granger," I admit. "There's no one else in on the plan. No one else around we trust enough to fill in. And if the Dark Lord suspected something, the first people he'd want to see are me and my parents. Everyone has to be accounted for, or I'm sure my mother would volunteer for the job."

Crying properly now, Granger manages a small hiccough. "Your mother is… lovely. I didn't expect that." She gives me a wan smile out of place among her tears. "Don't tell her I said that part."

That stern bossiness sounds quite like Granger, even through the crying. I'm about to speak, thinking we have a chance at moving past this for the night, when she wipes at her eyes harshly with the palm of her hand. "I think - I think I need to go to bed. I -"

I nod, mute, my eyes downcast as she brushes past me and out the lab door.

As hard as it was to tell Granger those things, to see the crushed look on her face, I'm still feeling better about our situation than I have in months. A slim chance of success is still a chance, and I'm making peace with the promise I made to her, almost on the fly: that if the Resistance loses and we get notice of it in time, I'll send her out through the Floo.

I'd die standing in front of her anyway; why should she have to be standing there at all?

It feels as though so many nebulous things are becoming clear. We're teetering on the point of a knife, but decisions are being made. Plans set.

Blaise and I do go for that pint.

Before we've even ordered, he's handing me a folded, sealed parchment with Ginny's name on it. Instinctively, I know he's written her the same sort of letter I struggled with to Granger. Well, I hope it came easier to him than it did to me.

I tuck it into my robes without a word. We both know the odds of me ever getting it to her are miniscule; if the plan works, he can do it himself - if he still wants to. If it doesn't work, well, he's assuming he'll be gone and that somehow, I won't be? Not likely.

But as I found doing it myself, the labour-intensive writing of it was therapeutic all on its own. Maybe it was just as helpful for Blaise to get it down on paper as it would be for Ginny to read it.

I hope so.

I decide I'll give it to Granger. If she gets a chance to use the Floo at the very end, maybe she can find her way to Ginny. If Ginny survives the loss of the battle, that is.

This thought process is depressing enough for me to order two firewhiskies instead of pints.

Somehow, my closest friend in the world and I have very little to say, on the last night we may ever see one another. Not much seems to need saying; halfway through his glass, he pivots his stool to face the live music and I do the same.

Forty minutes later, the band takes a break, and maybe we're finally ready to talk. I feel I should try, anyhow.

"Any regrets?" I ask stupidly, but what else are we going to talk about? Blaise or I taking the bartender home? Please.

Blaise really should get one last shag, I think morbidly, then think my own prospects are as bleak as his - if I'm already assuming we're both going to die sometime in the next fortnight. I down the rest of my whisky, instead, and raise my glass to the bartender for two more, trying to get my head back on straight. This will work. The plan will work.

Blaise, incredibly, turns the tide of my spirits. "No. No regrets. The only thing driving me up the wall is not knowing when it'll happen. The waiting is worse than thinking about the plan itself."

"You'll only be waiting more, in that dorm," I point out, apparently determined to bring him back down, and I curse my mouth.

He pays me no mind, though. "Yeah, but at least something will be happening - somewhere. And while we're on the subject, don't visit me. We don't need you on his visitor logs, drawing suspicion."

"Not everything gets logged."

"I know, but you already visited him last night. Two in a short span will look weird."

He's probably right about this, but I'll make that call. I'm sure Severus can find a way to get me in.

"Potter's probably as anxious for something to start happening as we are," I reflect. "I told him he'll be leaving but I couldn't tell him exactly when."

I reflect back on something Blaise said a few weeks ago, in this same pub,

('she was never meant to be on the sidelines')

and how the same is true of Potter.

"You ever think they're all mental?" I ask, out of nowhere, and Blaise looks baffled as I cast a quick muffliato on our table.

"All these bloody Gryffindors," I clarify, "can't wait to get back to battle. Even Granger. I don't think of Granger as some warrior queen like Ginny, but she destroyed one of the -" I mouth 'Horcruxes' "- herself. She was never afraid of getting in my face. No fear, and it can't all have been because I didn't hit back."

"Brave idiots, the lot of them," Blaise agrees. "I couldn't wait to be done with the war."

"Same here."

We fall silent as the bartender brings the next round to us, then walks off. I refresh the muffliato, just in case.

"They probably felt the same way. They were just… more motivated to force an end to things. Our side was more content to just field the attacks reactively rather than surge ahead proactively. Even now, how the Dark Lord hasn't cared about expanding his stretch of power into Europe. Our whole side just wants to laze about."

I've never thought about it like this and I can tell Blaise hasn't either.

"Maybe that'll work to our advantage, now," and his use of 'our' has swapped sides. I know we both notice that.

"Granger's advantage, at any rate. Ginny's. Even yours, probably," I tip my glass at him. "But I don't think to mine. No matter which way this war ends, I'm fairly certain the Malfoys are fucked."

('What would you get out of winning?

'Stature. Power behind the Malfoy name. Freedom to do as I like, when I want and with whoever I want.'

'Then what difference does the war make to you?'

'Because if your side wins, I lose all of those things')

Yes, that's about the way of it, I think. And either way, I lose Granger, but in only one version of this upcoming battle, she can live.

"I was never in this war because I believe in the rot ideology they all preached. I was more concerned with being on the winning side, maintaining our standard of living." It seems important that I say this out loud, at least once. "I don't know if that's better or worse, but there it is."

Blaise tilts his head as the band clambers back onstage to begin their next set. "I don't think there's any doubt that it's better. Being self-interested is always better than being actively malicious, I'd have to say."

"Even if it went along with being passively malicious?"

He sighs. "Drake, neither of us can undo our part in the first war. All we can do is try to rectify our mistakes now, and we are trying."

Acknowledge the mistakes and do better next time.

Big mistakes to rectify, though.

But I can't let this creeping mood bring Blaise down, too. Not tonight. "What do you want to do, Zabini? Listen to this heinous band play another set? Do some shots?"

He cracks a smile. "I could go for some real Quidditch, but I don't fancy going to the park and we don't know enough people on short notice for a full match."

I snort. Nor do we know enough people - any at all, Quidditch aficionados or not - to whom we could explain why we wanted it tonight, what made it so important. "What else, then?"

Blaise blinks a couple of times and an odd look appears on his face. "Think we could find somewhere to play some poker?"

Struck, I stare at him. That hadn't crossed my mind. I haven't played cards in ages, but I feel a slow smile start up. "I don't, but I bet Theo does. Want to drop in on Nott?"

Theo is not at home, but an elf greets us as we dust ourselves off stepping out of the fireplace. We ask for 'Master Nott,' which always sounds funny out loud, and the elf cracks off to see if his master wants to come investigate the new arrivals.

Turns out, he was at dinner with Pansy, who is hopping mad when they Apparate back into Theo's entrance hall. Theo hears our proposal for entertainment and tells Pansy she can come gamble, too, which placates her somewhat.

All four of us Apparate into an extremely seedy part of London. I'm giving Theo a healthy side-eye as he strides right up to the mangiest looking building on the row. He draws a small rune on the doorbell, which looks like it hasn't functioned since 1972, revealing a magically-concealed brownstone.

I really didn't want to be out too late, but I'm determined to give this night to Blaise so I'm along for the ride. This underground casino Theo knows of is a lot more than just poker, and Pansy immediately fucks off to play craps after getting a bag of galleons from Theo.

Being more of a blackjack man myself, I nevertheless join Blaise and Theo at the poker table until Blaise takes my first fifty galleons in six hands. Tosser.

I re-establish myself with some blackjack at the adjacent table, close enough to spit smart-arse comments at the other poker masochist - Theo - and Blaise, who is making short work of the few other players with them.

As it happens, I'm not out too late after all. Blaise clears out two games in a row, raking in pots of galleons and sickles.

Maybe ninety minutes after we arrive, he declares himself done and stands. Theo, properly disgruntled, wanders over to where Pansy is gathering quite a crowd as the only witch playing craps, and Blaise hovers behind me to sneak a look at my hand.

I bust on the next card and rise from my table, too. I've largely broken even, but it was fun. Blaise, on the other hand, racked up, but still wants to go.

"Quit while you're ahead, and all that," and if that isn't advice for the rest of life too, I don't know what is.

We wave to Theo and Pansy from across the room and head for the exit. Theo jogs over, slightly out of breath.

"Leaving already? Daphne and Tania are about to stop by. Stay, mates, for a little while. Come play some craps. It's still early."

Blaise and I exchange a quick look and make a hasty excuse or four, practically tripping over ourselves heading down the stairs, leaving Theo with a very peculiar look on his face.

Heading for the nearest Apparition point, something finally strikes me. "Zabini. I think Theo thinks we left together. Together."

He stops flat in the middle of the street and spins to stare at me, astonished.

But we aren't dating any witches. We aren't even trying. We're frequently seen at the pub on Friday nights, sans dates. We have openly and publicly shunned the last witches we were seen with. We do an awful lot of things together, arrived in Nott's Manor together only hours ago and just left an illicit casino with dubious excuses, just before two more witches were due to show up.

He starts laughing and I can't help it. I crack up too. Of all the things going on, it's really nice to have one that's truly hilarious.

Wiping his eyes, Blaise finally calms down. He conjures a small drawstring sack for his winnings and hands it to me. "For Ginny. Put it with the note I gave you."

"Oh, Zabini. Not a good idea, I don't think," I shake my head, pushing it back at him. "Sorry, mate, but I think there's an excellent chance Ginny views that as payment for services unknowingly rendered."

"Hm." Blaise scratches his head, concerned about this dilemma. "Yeah, maybe so…" he trails off, then recovers admirably. "Probably so. That's alright. I'll figure something out."

I'm sure he will.

Arriving back at the Manor, I find myself sneaking down my own wing as if I was naughty being out late. But all is quiet, the lab next to my room dark, and I illuminate it with my wand as I step inside to check the cauldrons.

Granger was plainly working on Snape's time-lengthening potion at some point today. Her workstation looks different than it did last night when she departed, upset, for her own quarters.

Mine hasn't been touched. If she investigated what I did, I can't tell. It's been settling for twenty-four hours now, and I get ready to finish the process. I want to be able to work on it with the new ingredient tomorrow, all day, but I also want to show Granger how I brew it. I told her I would.

Splitting the difference, I set to work on two of the cauldrons out of three, deciding I'll show her the process on the third after Snape comes by tomorrow morning.

I call for Jasper, and the elf cracks into the room. I ask for a tray of coffee, stifling a yawn, and maybe some biscuits. Jasper nods enthusiastically, vanishing on the spot. It's hard to tell if I'm actually tired, or just sleepy because I stopped drinking, but coffee will help either way. The glamour needs to be added at the ninety-third minute of a simmer, so I'm in for a bit of a wait.

Starting the simmer on the two cauldrons for tonight - as well as a timer in case I doze off on this lab table - I grab a chair to sit down. This is probably a mistake, getting relatively comfortable, and I yawn again.

I close my eyes. Just for a minute.

After all, I did set the timer. Might as well not waste it.

My arm gives a massive twitch, almost a jerk, really, while my face is pressed into it and it wakes me up. Seems like I've always twitched myself awake if I'm somewhere uncomfortable, it drives me mad, but I jump all over again when Granger is sitting at the table across from me, the middle cauldron between us.

"Merlin, Granger, how long have you been there?" I rub my eyes and try to slow down my heartrate, which is definitely only racing because she scared the shite out of me.

"You scared the shite out of me. Oh, the coffee is here. Cheers." I reach for a cup and she hands me one.

However long I was asleep, it was long enough for this coffee to no longer scald me. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Seemed like you needed it, and I can see the timer. There's still quite a while to go. Didn't seem like there was any rush." She's trying to seem casual but I think I detect a little more to it. Then, no; I'm not going to try and assume anything she thinks or feels. It's just me wishing there was something there.

"Why are you glittery?"

Startled, I look down, scrutinising my robes. "Am I?" It's still dim in here, probably another reason I nodded off. I wave my wand at the lights, bringing them up another few notches.

"I think it's sticking to your hair more than your robes," she smirks into her coffee cup as I conjure up a mirror in horror.

She's right, and I brutalise my own hair scraping my hand back and forth in it. "Gods. Stop laughing."

"Sorry," she snorts. "So, a strip club, was it?"

I'm immediately affronted. "Poker game for Zabini. Met up with Nott, and even Pansy was there, if you must know."

An odd shadow crosses her face but she wipes it away. "Poker games don't typically come with glitter on the side, Malfoy."

Blinking, I try to remember more of the room we were in. There were definitely no strippers, no stripper-esque music. But come to think of it, the cocktail waitresses were scantily clad, and along the west (?) wall, there were two poles running floor to ceiling.

"You're realising I'm right, aren't you?"

"The lights were so low…" I trail off.

"Yes, they would be," Granger snipes and I can't help myself.

"Spent much time in strip clubs, Granger?" I let her flush red in annoyance before I admit, "It wasn't operating as one tonight, but yes, alright; I'm willing to bet that happens there on occasion. It was partially set for it."

She raises her eyebrows at me in a way that's both prim and superior at once. "And the glitter?"

"I think the waitresses must moonlight as something more. Perhaps if I'd stuck around longer tonight…" I waggle my eyebrows at her and she purses her lips. "No wonder Theo wanted to stay. Wonder what Pansy will have to say about it."

I creak out another yawn and Granger changes the subject.

"Biscuit?" she offers.

"Go on, then," I hold out my hand but she pulls a face. "Don't give me that look just because I said yes. I'm willing to eat in my potions lab. I'm not a heathen with my food. I know it won't go anywhere it's not supposed to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she sputters, and I very deliberately finish chewing and swallowing the chocolate biscuit - definitely one of Suz's - before I answer.

"That perhaps prior experiences with food have taught you to be cautious around cauldrons, that's all," I shrug, gleeful at her bugged-out eyes, so furiously offended.

Deciding that's probably as far as I should press my luck with this unexpectedly delightful exchange for one evening, I check the timer and stand up, stretching. Still almost half an hour to go.

Motioning towards her two cauldrons of work, I ask, "How far did you get?"

Granger stands too, still looking very resentful as she walks over to the furthest cauldron on her side of the table. "I think I'm nearly there, but I'm stuck on one bit. I can't pin down which ingredient affects the time limit which makes me think it's the one I'm missing. I'm planning to ask Snape about it tomorrow." She goes to the ingredient cabinet and brings back a very long and detailed parchment crammed with miniscule writing and squints at it.

"Stop trying to read that, you'll go blind," I tell her sternly, bringing the lights up another notch. "Who can write that small?"

"Some of us take pride in our handwriting," she sniffs, bringing her cup back to her lips with her other hand. "Yours is chicken scratch."

"Poppycock," I say and she nearly spits out a mouthful of coffee.

"Please don't use such language around the potions. This is a refined environment, if you hadn't noticed."

"Even though I permit - nay, encourage - the eating of snacks?" I lift an eyebrow. "Fine. I promise to try and do better."

I won't, though.

"How did you know I was here, anyway?" This finally occurs to me to ask. Bit late now, but I'm curious.

Granger turns a little pink again, her eyes never leaving the cauldron. "I'd asked Suz to let me know when you got home, in case it was early enough to work in here some more."

Yes, that was probably all it was. Our labours will directly benefit her, after all. I tell my heart to slow back down. Pesky thing.

But that's hard. After the past months, I've worked myself to the bone to push my feelings for Granger down, back, out. I have no right to them. I was making progress; really, I think I was.

No, I'm not interested in dating, but that doesn't mean anything. It's too soon. But I've been coming to terms with the fact that this brilliant, amazing witch will never be mine, never be for me. I'll do everything in my power to get her out of here safely, to live her life on her own beautiful terms. I might have to die to make it happen, but even if we win, she's going to leave this Manor of her own accord. Without me.

Why isn't she quizzing me on the next topic of horrendous truths I owe her? Surely she's just Occluding the misery and trauma she'd had so she can focus tonight, but I need something to balance my mental scale back to sanity.

But now she's refreshing her coffee and moving over to my second and third cauldrons, examining the difference. There isn't much of one, aside from the full liquefaction of the one simmering on heat. The third, of course, was meant to wait for tomorrow when I could show her what I was doing. I could have started it tonight on a marginally different timer once I woke up, but I wasn't thinking about that at the time. Too preoccupied with being unexpectedly glittery.

The timer I did set is rapidly approaching the specified deadline of ninety-three minutes.

Granger is watching it count down. "So it's… six figure-eight stirs, starting at the twelve-o-clock position of the cauldron?"

I don't know why I'm surprised she remembered it precisely. I take another chance to brag a little; she's about to see it, after all. "While I stir, I have to recite the glamour incantation. Takes a bit of practice to stir with one hand and cast with the other. It's a bit like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time."

"I think it's the other way around, actually," she says offhand, still refusing to be impressed. She's trying to hide a smirk and not managing it.

"Is it? No," I insist, stubborn to the grave. "Pat your head."

"You just wouldn't rub circles in your hair no matter the challenge," Granger says with a positively maddening confidence.

Offended, I turn to face her squarely. "That's not what it is. I know I'm right. 'Pat your head and rub your tummy.'"

"'Tummy'?" Her incredulous half-laugh is equally insulting and I'm about to miss my timer.

"Stomach, then, you immature witch," I say haughtily, the very picture of maturity as I face my cauldron and do my best to concentrate. I'm all discombobulated. Now all I'm thinking of is how to do one hand in a patting motion and the other moving in a circle, and maybe I can use that part, at least.

The stirring is circular; well, no, it's a figure-eight, and damn the gods, that's harder. "Shit, get over here, Granger. Grab that spoon and stir the other cauldron while I cast."

"Forgot you only have two hands, did you?"

"I swear to Merlin, Granger…"

"How many times have you made this now? Good thing you didn't have all three going at once," she snickers, picking up a spoon and assuming the proper position by her designated cauldron.

"You're a lovely shade of red," Granger observes next. Relentless witch. She's wrinkling her nose just a little, too. "And your hair is getting a bit - sweaty."

I know. I close my eyes and count to ten for infinite patience. Down from ten, actually, per the timer, and I open my eyes to begin the first stir at the twelve-o-clock position, in unison with hers. I force my brain to pull forward the glamour incantation.

I have to lean back at an awkward angle for the casting to cover both cauldrons and my figure-eights are slightly wobbly. That's quite worrisome but on the sixth one, both my cauldron and hers glow with the incandescent steam rising in a thrilling swoosh that signals the successful blend of the glamour to the potion.

After that surprisingly dicey success, the rest can wait until the morning. It's really very late, and Severus will be here early. Granger should get some sleep.

I suggest this wisdom and she nods, agreeable enough. I do not try to detect any lingering sense of reluctance, reluctance that might match mine if I allowed it to surface.

But when she leaves… her eyes flick back to mine, and do I detect something there? No.

Making my way next door to my own rooms, I wonder vaguely if I dreamed the last two hours. Am I still unconscious and twitching, head down on the lab table?

It's only after I climb into bed that I realise she could have stolen my wand while I was asleep and turned me into a cockroach; done anything she wanted.

Escaped.

The idea that my mother would suffer if Granger went missing must have resonated. I'll need to thank her for so thoroughly befriending Granger over the last month.

Because I'm completely besotted again. I want nights exactly like this forever. All of the potions projects, new inventions, making groundbreaking, world-changing discoveries side by side with Hermione Granger.

She's perfect. She's everything.