A/N: Hello and happy Sunday! Thank you so much for all your reviews. I'm living for your theories and reactions and I'm especially excited to see what you make of next week. But for now, here we are, and there's lots to unpack as our favourite duo carry on in their little laboratory...
The sky was a little dull, but Hermione hoped it wouldn't rain anytime soon. She was enjoying sitting alone in the stands, watching the team practise. Though she'd never understand the sport, there was something exhilarating about watching the players zoom by, miraculously catching the Quaffle like some sort of absurd, choreographed aerial dance. Harry, too, seemed to be coming into his own as captain. She wasn't surprised; she'd seen how good of a leader he was last year.
On the other side of the pitch sat the reserve players. She couldn't see very clearly from so far away, but Ron seemed to be watching the sky very carefully, and she imagined he was revising the many strategies he'd been devising with Harry. He had a real talent for it, as far as Hermione could tell, and she hoped that it lessened the sting of losing the Keeper spot.
She didn't dare look at the current Keeper, where he bobbed in front of the rings. Every time the Quaffle got near him, Hermione would suddenly lose interest and pretend to pull a leaf from her hair instead. Cormac had only got more brazen, and she was genuinely concerned that if she so much as made eye contact with him, he might take it as encouragement.
Harry chose that moment to summon everyone back to the ground. As she was so far away, she couldn't make out his words, but he sounded pleased enough and was gesticulating passionately. There was a slight personnel rearrangement during which several of the reserves were exchanged, and when he sent them back into the air, it was Ron who settled in front of the rings.
Should she cheer? Probably not; that would be rather inappropriate.
She gave a big smile, instead, and hoped Ron could see it.
By the time Harry called the session to an end, Ron had done rather well for himself, at least as far as Hermione could tell. He'd saved more shots — or however it was called — than he'd missed and seemed chuffed when he landed on the grass. Maybe showing up McLaggen was all the motivation he needed.
The crowd of players broke into clumps as the team disbanded in the direction of the broom shed.
Hermione moved to the edge of the stands to wait for Harry and Ron, pulling her cloak closer around her as she went. Autumn was well and truly here, and she wouldn't be surprised if October brought a cold spell.
Ginny gave a big wave on her way to the shed; Hermione waved back. All her hope of remaining unapproachable evaporated instantly.
"Hey there, Granger."
Oh no. "Oh — er — hi, Cormac."
The boy in question stood before her, leaning on his broom in a way that was probably designed to emphasise his best angles. Even if she appreciated that (which she didn't), it was pretty effectively countered by the sweat and filth covering all visible parts of him and his robes.
"Watching us, were you?" he smirked, like this was a secret.
She tried to ignore him and instead searched for her friends over his broad shoulders. "I thought that would be rather obvious."
He laughed at this. Hermione wondered if he'd practised it.
"Did you like what you saw?"
"Hm?" The entire team had disappeared into the broom shed by now. Why were they taking so long? "Oh — yeah, Ron played really well, actually…"
"Weasley?"
"I mean, the Quaffle only got through him a few times, and Harry seemed to think he did well — from what I could see, at least…" Unlike you, who got a lecture on why showing off is bad gameplay.
"First Hogsmeade weekend's soon." Cormac grinned wickedly and shifted closer, blocking her view of the shed and replacing it with the scarlet of his Quidditch robes. "I'd invite you to Pudifoot's, but I don't think you're the type, not a clever little witch like you —"
"I — what?"
"— but I do happen to know of a very cosy table by the fire at the Three Broomsticks and, if that's not enough, I'd be happy to keep you warm myself —"
"What — no, Cormac, I — I'm not going to Hogsmeade!"
His lecherous smirk dropped and Hermione realised she'd brought up her hands, ready to push him away. She shoved them by her sides again and fiddled with the edge of her cloak.
"Why not?"
"I — I've got something I have to do here, at the castle."
With an excessive roll of his eyes, he told her, "Well, reschedule it. Or bring whatever book it is with you." He seemed to like that idea; he smiled in a way Hermione did not like at all. "I don't mind if you're reading while I —"
"It's not a book, it's a potion!"
"Why the fuck do you need to brew on a Saturday?"
"It's — extracurricular. Slughorn was talking about it, don't you remember?"
Realisation dawned on his face, incredulous. "You can't come because you have to be with Malfoy?"
"Oi! Hermione!" Whirling around, Hermione spotted Harry and Ron trudging up the hill back to the castle.
"Sorry, Cormac," she called without any regret at all, "I've got to go. Bye!"
She didn't turn to look at him as she dashed up the hill. Ron and Harry both gave her claps on the back for dealing with such an "arrogant tosser" and Harry promised to be sterner with him at the next practice. Ron was beaming all the way to the common room.
"Thanks for coming to watch, Hermione."
"Yeah! It was great to see you in the stands."
Hermione smiled guiltily. "I'm sorry I can't come to many matches — you know I would, but —"
"Yeah, we know. Potion."
They were both windswept and dirty but had that manic glow that only came after flying. After last year's disastrous Quidditch ban, to see them like this again warmed Hermione deeply. She hadn't realised she'd missed it almost as much as they had.
That being said, they desperately needed a shower; she told them as much and shooed them up the spiral staircase. The practice had gone on a bit longer than she'd anticipated — or maybe it was Cormac's fault. She'd planned to finish her Herbology essay before tonight's brewing, but now…
In the end, she got most of the conclusion done before heading down to the dungeons. It was a pity the Wolfsbane needed more than supervision tonight, or she could have finished it in the laboratory.
"Hi — sorry I'm late." She quickly undid her cloak and hung it on the hook by her bag.
"Ah, just when I was wondering if you'd stood me u— what happened to your hair?"
"W-what?" Hermione's hand flew to her hair, feeling for more horrible goo — or perhaps someone had charmed it blue without her noticing — "What's wrong with my hair?"
"It's — er —" Draco outlined a large shape with his hands.
For a horrible moment she thought that a pumpkin had got stuck in her curls. Then she crossed her arms and glared at him. "I was outside. It was windy."
Draco snickered, evidently delighted by this.
"Are you done? Can we get to work now? I've got an essay to finish."
"I'm not the tardy one. Is it Sprout's?"
"The essay? Yes."
"Finished it two days ago."
"Good for you. Could you hand me the fluxweed, please?"
It took several minutes to arrange everything needed — the fluxweed bundles, the metal stand to suspend the cauldron over the benchtop, the extra dishes and tools — and Hermione had to double check the parchment on the wall to make sure they'd got it all.
"Why were you outside, anyway?" asked Draco while she reread the list for the third time.
"Gryffindor Quidditch practice."
"Ah." Seven fluxweed bundles, yes… Silver colander, yes… "And how was that?"
Hermione glanced at the cauldron, but she wasn't looking at it. They had everything they needed. She was thinking of Harry and Ron, laughing as they flew into the wind.
"It was nice."
Draco didn't say anything to that. With a final scan of the instructions, they got to work.
The first time Snape had demonstrated, Hermione had thought this part of the process must be the worst. Everything moved so fast and there was no opportunity to double check the recipe once you began.
And then there was the steam. While the monkshood petals were extracted from the potion, wrung out, then put back in again over and over until they'd disintegrated, the potion had to be kept at a rigorous boil over the burning fluxweed. Doing it in the classroom had been a frantic, sweaty affair.
Doing it in the tiny laboratory was unbearable. Within ten minutes she'd shucked her outer robes and was blinking sweat out of her eyes. She was certain her already frizzy hair must be pushing the limits of the Bubble-Head Charm. They worked in a frenzy, lifting out veil-like petals with the slotted spoons and extracting all the liquid into little silver dishes before returning them (now shrivelled) to the cauldron so they could do it all again.
For half an hour it went on like this, until the last flaky bit of flower melted into the potion, which had become a greyish shade of lavender. Draco carefully manipulated the burning fluxweed to cool to a simmer. Hermione leaned against the empty bookcase, shoving her sleeves up to her forearms and desperate for air that wasn't heavy with steam and smoke despite the protection of the Bubble-Head Charm. If the room had a window, she would have climbed out of it.
Draco came to stand near her. Sweat had been trickling down the side of his face since almost as soon as the cauldron had begun to boil, yet his clothes were still as immaculate as ever. Even his cuffs were done up, for Merlin's sake. Pompous pure-blood!
"You know," she gasped, "it won't kill you to roll up your sleeves sometimes. I promise you it'll be worth the degradation when you don't pass out from overheating."
The glare he turned on her was colder than she'd seen from him in a long, long time. It paralysed her. He didn't say anything for a long moment, though his wrists twitched at his sides.
"I like my sleeves long," was all he said.
Then he crossed his arms, leaned against the bookcase, and stared at the cauldron sullenly. Hermione took his lead and quietly settled in to watch the potion simmer down until all the fluxweed had turned to ash. A bit of sweat tickled the nape of her neck; she grit her teeth and tried to will it away. As soon as the Bubble-Head was gone, she was going to mop her whole head with a towel.
It didn't take very long for the adrenaline to dissipate, leaving Hermione tired and sticky while they waited. Draco hardly moved, though she saw his posture cave in a little and assumed he probably felt the same way. She wondered if this is what it felt like after a good Quidditch match — exhausted and desperate for a shower.
"Did you really leave the Slytherin team?"
"Yes. I said so at Slughorn's stupid dinner, didn't I?"
Hermione leaned her head back and closed her eyes. "There's no need to get defensive." She sighed. "It is a pity, though."
"Why?"
"I was going to ask you to knock Cormac off his broom."
Draco didn't say anything for a moment, probably as he tried to remember who Cormac was, then he scoffed. "Foul play, Granger? That's not very sportsmanlike."
"I'm not on the team." She shrugged. "Who says I have to be sportsmanlike?"
Draco chortled at this. If she opened her eyes, she imagined she'd see his head bowed, chin against his chest as he laughed to himself. "I regret I cannot be of service. However, I'm sure Potter or one of his Weasleys would be more than happy to oblige."
"Nah." Hermione winced as she readjusted her position; her leg had gone numb. "Can't get away with sabotaging their own player…" She shifted her weight between her feet a few times, grimacing as sensation gradually came back. "Is it nearly done? If I have to stay in here much longer I think I'll faint."
"Perhaps we need to get you a chaise longue," murmured Draco as he went to check on the small pile of burnt fluxweed.
"Or just decent ventilation." Hermione made a face; patches of her clothes were properly stuck to her back.
"It's burnt itself out. I'll add the ash, hang on —"
Her bag and cloak were in her hands before Draco had finished tipping the fluxweed powder into the potion in record time and then they were free at last, gasping fresh air in the corridor. Hermione groaned; all her clothes now smelt like smoky fluxweed. Draco made a disgusted noise as he wiped sweat from his brow.
"Well," declared Hermione primly as she awkwardly tried to pile her outer robes, cloak, and bag into a manageable bundle, "I'm going to go have a shower."
"Don't forget Sprout's essay —"
Hermione groaned again, already shuffling away.
Behind her, Draco chortled. "And best of luck with your Quidditch subterfuge! I look forward to the results."
"Goodbye, Malfoy!"
"Good night, Granger."
