They stared at Slughorn, the way the spell relaxed his whole body until he his posture crumpled until he was still and unconscious.
"Right," said Harry, as though this were merely another step of preparing a family picnic. Then, he jerked his head at Draco and told Hermione, "Do him next."
"Harry —"
"If you think I'd let anyone tamper with my head, Potter," said Draco lowly, and Hermione wondered how much of his nonplussed authority was genuine, "you've got another thing coming."
"But —"
"I have absolutely no interest in knowing anything about what just happened. And I promise you that if I wake up tomorrow not knowing how or why I left this room, it will make things much more difficult for you than if you just let me go on my way."
"But you'll tell —"
"Tell who what? You realise that I'd be implicating myself, too? You've tied me up in this now, and I'm not about to turn myself in as an accomplice to the drugging and obliviation of a professor!"
Harry worked his jaw. Hermione looked between them, helpless; for so many months now these two parts of her life had been orbiting each other. She wasn't sure they were ready to collide just yet.
"Harry," she began, and hoped he saw the pleading in her eyes. "I can't obliviate him, too. Even with consent it's difficult, but to do it on a non-willing subject — I'm not even sure I did it correctly on Professor Slughorn —"
"Fine. Fine, I get it. But if you so much as breathe a word about this to anyone, Malfoy, I'll kill you. I'm serious."
"Harry —" Hermione rolled her eyes.
"Fine," agreed Malfoy. "Now, can we leave? I don't fancy explaining to anyone else who might stop by that their favourite Potions professor is unresponsive on the sofa."
They all looked to Slughorn then. His head had lolled back, but he otherwise appeared asleep. Hermione was gratified to see his chest rising and falling; she had no idea how to tell if she'd done the spell correctly. And in tandem with Veritaserum?
"Should we wake him?" wondered Harry.
"No," said Draco. Hermione wondered why he sounded so sure of himself. "He'll wake up tomorrow, hopefully with no memory of any of this, and too embarrassed to have passed out in front of students to speak of it ever again. Any odd patches in his memory will be handily explained by what no doubt will be a very miserable hangover."
"And if he does remember?"
Draco shrugged. "I imagine you'll need a lot more than Veritaserum to take care of the mess that would bring. And if you get me caught up in this, Potter, I'll kill you."
She'd had enough. "Stop it, both of you," Hermione snapped. "We need to go before someone notices we're out of bed too late. If we're found with Slughorn — and with traces of Veritaserum still in his body —"
Merlin, it wasn't just expulsion; it was criminal.
Harry agreed, and they made quick work of righting the room. Hermione poured the rest of the drugged tea into the fire and tossed the cup and saucer in for good measure. The trace of potion fed the magical flames; they turned brilliant lilac before calming back to a modest size, enough to keep Slughorn comfortable for the rest of the night.
Harry and Draco redid the furniture in such a way that suggested the last partygoers had made a mild effort at tidying on their way out, perhaps out of fear of waking their sleeping professor with the noise. Hermione saw them keep careful distance from each other, working at opposite sides of the room, and eyed the gentle old man on the sofa. He looked relaxed, peaceful. She hoped what they'd done had been enough. They'd fulfilled the task Dumbledore set them, and hopefully eased Slughorn's pain. He wasn't exactly the finest person Hermione knew, but he didn't deserve this, either.
While the boys finished scanning the room for any incriminating evidence, Hermione crept to where Slughorn lay and pulled out her wand. "Porrigo," she whispered, and the sofa extended. She moved some cushions around until Slughorn had gently fallen onto his side, comfortably stretched along the plushness of the lining. At least he wouldn't wake up with a sore back.
"Can we go now?" asked Harry, and she turned around to find the pair of them standing several feet apart, watching her. It was so jarring that, for a moment, she forgot where they were; it was just her and these two people she loved in such different ways. Together. Somehow.
"Er — yes, alright. Let's go…"
It was an odd dance as they got to the door; Hermione charged ahead before they could make a problem out of who was to leave first. With one final glance at Slughorn, she stepped into the dark, silent corridor. If he woke up tomorrow, mad like Lockhart, she wasn't sure how she would forgive herself. What if he never woke up at all?
"Well," declared Draco softly so as not to wake the surrounding portraits, "what a lovely evening. Good night, Potter. See you on Sunday, Granger." And he strode off.
Harry watched him go with a scowl. "I'm serious, Hermione, if he looks like he's gonna blab, shove his head into a cauldron. Make it look like an accident. No-one can know —"
"I get it, Harry!" she hissed. "I'm not stupid!"
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was so energised, but she'd be damned if she let him take it out on her. "Right. Sorry."
"For what it's worth, I really don't think he's going to say anything. He's right: It would get him in just as much trouble."
"Yeah, but what if he tells Snape about Horcruxes —"
"Snape is part of the Order —"
"— or somebody else —"
"Who else? His father is in prison. He never leaves the castle, not even for holidays!"
A portrait stirred; they both froze.
"Come on, Harry; let's get a move on. We shouldn't be seen around here."
"You go. I'm going to Dumbledore."
"What? But it's late!"
"He needs this, he won't mind." He held out his hand for the vial.
She wanted to tell him no, that it wasn't fair that she risk everything — her life, her schooling, her ethics, her sanity! — for him, only to be left to walk home alone, in the dark and cold. That the least he could do was ask if she was okay, or give her any kind of reassurance at all.
But who was to say Harry wasn't right? Maybe Dumbledore did need this urgently. Maybe there was time sensitive intelligence to be derived from this memory of half a century ago. Intelligence that she had hopefully preserved correctly, and not banished to the ether with a botched attempt at a spell she ought never have attempted —
She pulled the little vial from her pocket. The wispy, twisting thing inside shimmered, like a little lamp in the darkness.
"Thanks, Hermione. You're amazing."
"Let me know how the meeting goes?"
"'Course! I'll tell you everything. Good night!" And he dashed off.
Hermione looked at the slumbering paintings around her and the dark, cavernous corridor ahead. Gryffindor Tower was always too far away, too high up. She had trouble picking up her feet.
Draco hadn't interacted with Ron or Harry in ages. She couldn't actually remember the last time. It seemed he'd lost interest in them, to be frank, though she couldn't say if that was because of her or everything else going on around them. She didn't know which option she preferred.
She hadn't given much thought, either, to the notion of her friends discovering what exactly the nature of their academic partnership had become. Perhaps she'd been deliberately avoiding it. They'd reacted so strongly when they found out he'd been helping her brew at all, but they had come to accept it with resignation. He was part of her routine, and they talked about him as such.
But begrudging brewing partners was very different from flirting, and kissing, and the way she looked at him when his back was turned, like she could never be close enough to him, even when he held her, even when he'd enveloped her in the prefect's bath —
They'd be outraged. Betrayed. The secrets she'd kept alone would be enough to justify it. The diaries, the Mark on his arm.
Hermione started on the next set of stairs with a sigh. They'd be right, but she knew she was right, too. It was to keep him safe. And, eventually, her friends would understand that too. They trusted her. She'd never led them astray before, and she knew she wasn't now.
The Fat Lady did not enjoy being woken. Hermione guiltily wondered if she ought to let her know Harry would be coming back soon, too, but found herself too tired to bother.
The tower was quiet, her dormitory dark. She dressed for bed as quietly as she could and climbed beneath her heavy duvet with gratitude. Despite not having to brew this week, she was exhausted. Did Draco feel the same way? What was he doing now? Sleeping, or staring at the ceiling, wondering about what he'd heard, wondering if he ought to try and piece it together? Or was he angry that she'd trapped him in this mess at all?
She pulled out the little diary from her bedside table. In the darkness, the binding looked grey and dull. Perhaps he really was asleep.
Very well. She wouldn't bother him. He needed rest just as much as she did.
But still, she left the diary beside her head, just in case.
Harry came down to the common room so late that Hermione had begun to regret her decision to wait for him. Ron appeared behind him, and Hermione wasted no time dragging them over to a discreet corner, out of the way of other late-risers heading to breakfast.
"Muffliato! Well, Harry? What did Dumbledore say?"
"Honestly, not much. We watched the memory —"
"And?"
"— and it just confirmed what Dumbledore already thought. Slughorn did tell Riddle about Hor — you know."
"So it was worth it."
"Yeah, but Dumbledore…" Harry shuffled his feet, restless. "He didn't say anything new, really. Not yet. He told me to think about it. About what it means, and that he'll talk to me soon."
Hermione blinked. "That's it?"
Harry shrugged. "I wish I had more to tell you, believe me. I think he was tired, honestly. He didn't seem well. Maybe you were right," he smiled sheepishly, "and I should've waited 'til morning."
Despite what she'd said last night, Hermione wasn't sure she still agreed. Did Dumbledore really have nothing more to offer? After all they'd done to retrieve that memory, the risks they'd taken, the danger they'd exposed to themselves and now Draco, too, not to mention the assault they'd committed upon a person meant to protect them —
Surely it must have been for something more than this?
Her disappointment must have been evident, because Harry and Ron both gave her the same cheery grin. "Come on, let's go to the Great Hall. I want to keep an eye on Malfoy today, too, just to make sure."
"Malfoy?" asked Ron as they climbed through the portrait hole. "What's he got to do with any of it?"
"Tell you later," said Harry, and Hermione silently followed behind them.
Despite Harry's concerns, Draco behaved the same as ever, and Hermione reassured Harry that she would take care of the situation if it seemed Draco were to go back on his word. There was no need, though; he kept himself conspicuously visible throughout the weekend, attending every meal and passing through the library whilst Hermione went through the Transfiguration reading with Harry and Ron. By the time Sunday afternoon arrived, and with it the start of the lunar cycle, she hadn't spoken to him in person since the night of the party, and not at all since finishing the potion Monday evening.
He was already there, as usual, when she entered the lab. "Why are you always here so early?" she asked as she put her cloak on the hook. It had been bothering her for ages. She didn't like feeling tardy.
"Do you really think I'd rather be anywhere else?" he countered.
She didn't, but to hear him say it aloud made something flutter inside her.
When she'd situated herself, she found him watching her with curious eyes. "I got you something," he said suddenly. "I meant to give it to you earlier, actually, but, well, things keep happening… It's in here…" He momentarily disappeared as he bent below to where his bag sat at his feet. Hermione's mind spun wildly, imagining outlandish bits of jewellery or an elaborately decorated box of the world's nicest sugar quills —
He gently brought a large, heavy-looking thing onto the benchtop. Hermione realised it was a book. A big one, and a very, very old one. She approached it with caution, though she wasn't sure if it was out of fear of what she might do to it, or what it might do to her.
The binding looked like dragonhide, with the title stamped in antiquated script and embossed with ink that would have once shone like gold. Now, dulled by time, Hermione could barely make out the title.
"The Tales of Beedle the Bard."
"It's my edition. Well, the Malfoy edition. The one I told you about."
Awed, Hermione ran her finger across the cover and noted the sides of the pages had been painted green. "How did you get this?" It must have been centuries old, like he'd said, handled by generations of his ancestors…
"I took it last time I was at the manor. I thought you might like to see it."
"You just took it?" she demanded, appalled. "But what if someone notices it's missing! You'll be —"
He rolled his eyes. "It's my book. I have every right to take it. And it's a children's book, essentially. No-one will notice it's gone. And if they do, there are lots of reasons I could have wanted to bring it to school. I've done it with family books before."
Hermione was momentarily floored by outrage that Draco had had a treasure trove of books at his disposal whilst she'd been limited by the library's availability — to say nothing of the Restricted Section! It swiftly passed, however, when Draco stood next to her and opened the cover. That he'd been raised around impossibly old things was evident; while Hermione wondered if she ought to wear gloves before holding it, Draco handled the pages like it was any other book, like the neat annotations in the margins were his own.
"See, there's notes on everything. All sorts of information. There were a few Malfoys who took interest in the legends and everything, but the main one was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Agrius."
"How many generations is that, exactly?"
"Seven."
Hermione blinked. "You really know it that well?"
"Of course I do."
"I suppose that makes History of Magic exams a bit easier."
Draco seemed taken aback by this; she saw the way he pressed his lips together in thought. How easy it must've been for him to saunter into Hogwarts, all this knowledge already in his head. "I suppose it does," he admitted softly, then flipped through a few more pages of the book. She wondered if he was revisiting favourite passages, or if it was at random. The print was smudged with age and the font was ornate; she spotted antiquated spellings and wondered how much meaning had been lost in contemporary translations.
"Thank you for showing me. You really didn't have to."
"Don't you want to read it?"
"Read it?" repeated Hermione. "But it's yours — it's a family heirloom! I can't take it."
"Why not?" Draco pushed it in her direction. "That's why I brought it here. You said you wanted to catch up on everything you missed, didn't you? By not being a pure-blood?"
"Yes, but —"
"Then here. Take it. I know you'll keep it safe, and I'll take it back when you're finished with it."
Hermione bit her lip. She wanted to, but what if something horrible happened to her and the book was destroyed? What if someone found it, and wrecked it, or asked too many questions about why she had something from the Malfoy collection in her dormitory?
"Whatever you're telling yourself in your head, stop it. You deserve to read it just as much as I did. Merlin, probably more. Take it, so we can get on with this bloody potion and go to bed."
Well, how could she say no to that? She carefully settled the book in her schoolbag whilst Draco arranged the tools they would need to prune the aconite. It was second nature now, and Hermione had decided it was one of the nicest parts of the brewing process. This was partly due to the fact that they could breathe freely while it happened and, when they were done, snog against the bookcase.
But it was getting late, and she had early Herbology tomorrow, so she pulled away from him with regret.
"Probably for the best," he murmured, and then yawned. "Fuck, what time is it? I don't even want to know."
"Me neither. Come on, let's go."
Hermione pulled her cloak from the hook and wrapped it around herself. Spring couldn't come soon enough, though she was terrified by what the world might look like then. These moments in the lab, with him, seemed to exist out of time. But they would never be enough.
His hand came around her elbow, stopping her before she could open the door. "Wait."
She did.
"I need you to promise me something."
She swallowed, then nodded. "What is it?"
"I meant what I said Friday, about not tampering with my head. But if I asked you to, would you obliviate me?"
Hermione's heart rushed, panic settling in like a second heartbeat. She didn't know what that meant, why he would want such a thing, or what sort of event might compel him to ask that of her. How could she? She could hurt him, or lose him, and none of it seemed worth whatever he thought the gain might be.
His hand was still around her arm; it squeezed a little. "Please, Hermione."
She couldn't say no. "Okay. Okay, yes. I will." But don't you dare ask it of me. Ever.
"Thank you," was all he said, and he let her go.
The door behind them closed heavier than usual, and Hermione felt the weight of passing time with every footstep.
