Later that afternoon, Hermione followed Draco through the streets with an expression of undisguised curiosity, until they stopped at last before the entrance to a Wizarding Thermal Spa.
"I didn't expect to be meeting another wizard today," she said, with a flicker of nerves. "You were completely vague on the telephone—you just told me to come. Is this the former Head of Slytherin House? A Potions master?" She glanced down at herself—black camisole top, grey cropped trousers—and grimaced. "Is this appropriate? I'm not exactly dressed for a formal call."
Draco looked at her briefly. From a purely objective standpoint, those shoulders were well-proportioned—soft and slender in the way particular to girls her age. But for a visit to a Potions master, it was undeniably informal.
He shrugged off his black casual jacket and held it out to her by the collar. "Here."
"It'll be too big," she murmured—but she put it on anyway. It was indeed too big, the sleeves falling past her wrists, but it had a relaxed, unintentional elegance to it. It also carried a faint, clean scent that she couldn't quite identify but found oddly settling.
"How does it look?" She turned on the spot.
"Fine." A faint smile appeared on his face.
He didn't usually lend his things to anyone. She looked quite good in it, though.
Inside, despite some preparation, Hermione was still struck by the scale of the place—a long corridor draped in climbing roses and thick vines, lawns on either side, Roman-style thermal baths gleaming in the distance, and the faint outlines of Georgian buildings beyond.
"It looks like a cramped courtyard from the street!" she exclaimed.
"Undetectable Extension Charm," Draco said, leading her down a quieter, cooler corridor at the back. "The original structure was considerably smaller."
He knocked at a door at the end of the corridor, listened, then opened it and gestured for her to go first.
"Welcome, welcome!" Slughorn emerged from the inner room—portly, beaming, arms already extended—and ushered them both onto the sofa with the enthusiasm of a man who had been waiting for exactly this.
"This is Hermione Granger," Draco said. "Mr. Slughorn."
Hermione greeted him politely.
"I've heard a great deal about your talent in Potions," Slughorn said warmly, adjusting the cushions behind him. "Severus must be very proud—two such exceptional students from the same school!" He stroked his walrus-like moustache, appearing to sift through some internal catalogue. "Granger... you wouldn't happen to be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, would you? Founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"
"I'm afraid not. I'm Muggle-born," Hermione said, with a trace of stiffness. She shot a brief, sideways look at Draco.
Exactly how had he introduced her?
Draco returned a mildly bewildered expression. What had he done wrong now?
She clearly thought she'd be unwelcome here. She wouldn't be. Slughorn had been devoted to Hermione in her previous life—she'd been a fixture of the Slug Club from the moment he'd heard she'd brewed Polyjuice Potion at twelve. Draco, meanwhile, had never once received an invitation. He touched his nose quietly and said nothing.
"My dear children, please—do I look like someone with prejudices about blood status?" Slughorn waved his stubby fingers in firm disapproval. He crossed the room to his desk and held up the photograph in the foremost frame. "Look here—one of my absolute favourites. Muggle-born, Gryffindor, the lot."
In the photograph, a beautiful young witch with red hair smiled out at them, bright green eyes catching the light.
Something stirred, quiet and strange, in Draco's chest.
Hermione breathed in sharply. "Is that—Harry's mother?" She'd seen photographs of Lily Potter before, gifts from Hagrid.
"Lily Evans," Slughorn confirmed, with the wistful tone of a collector who had once been outbid at auction. "Quite exceptional. Remarkably talented, wonderfully warm. I always thought she ought to have been in Slytherin, frankly." He sighed. "She married James Potter, of course—Harry Potter's parents. You know him, I take it?"
"He's one of our closest friends," Hermione said.
"How marvellous! Outstanding young people always seem to find one another—I've observed it for decades." Slughorn looked extremely pleased, and Draco noted, privately, the familiar gleam behind the old man's eyes. Harry Potter was clearly the prize in Slughorn's collection. The mental abacus was practically audible from across the room.
Slughorn led them briskly to the apothecary—a wide room with tall cabinets full of labelled drawers, multiple workbenches crowded with cauldrons of varying sizes and materials, brass scales, and an impressive array of equipment. Several cauldrons were already simmering gently.
"I understand you brewed the Mandrake Restorative Draught unsupervised?" Slughorn turned to Draco with interested eyes. "That's quite a feat. What possessed you to attempt it?"
"We had the ingredients available and wanted to put them to use," Draco said, with a mild shrug. "We tend to dabble in research between terms."
Slughorn made a noncommittal sound, then turned to Hermione. "And you, my dear—did you really brew Polyjuice Potion in your second year? All by yourself?"
"Yes—Hermione is fine. I brewed it out of curiosity, mostly." She smiled a little awkwardly.
"And how long did the effect last per dose?"
"Half an hour."
"Half an hour!" Slughorn threw up his hands in theatrical delight. "Draco, you never told me this! I would have said the upper limit for a second-year student was ten minutes at best!" He turned back to Hermione with open admiration. "Half an hour—that's commercial grade. That could go straight onto the shelf of a respectable apothecary."
Hermione looked pleased but self-deprecating. "You're very kind. I know the most potent Polyjuice formula can sustain the transformation for up to twelve hours—I'm nowhere near that standard."
The remark, to Draco's amusement, landed precisely as flattery on Slughorn—the old man looked quietly smug, as though the existence of an even higher benchmark were somehow to his personal credit.
He gestured toward a cluster of cauldrons simmering at the far end of the room. "At your level, what potions interest you most? What brings you here?"
"Felix Felicis," Draco said.
Slughorn halted mid-stride. His large, pale green eyes widened noticeably. "Felix Felicis? Do you understand what you're asking about?"
"A luck potion," Hermione said promptly. "One dose provides extraordinary good fortune for the duration of its effect." Slughorn's smile of approval was entirely predictable.
"Precisely." He assumed a fond, distant expression. "I took a spoonful at breakfast when I was twenty-four, and another at fifty-seven. Two perfect days."
Draco kept his expression neutral. He had heard this before. Beside him, Hermione looked as though she were already imagining her own perfect day.
Slughorn refocused. "You're not proposing to use it for examinations or competitions?"
"Absolutely not." / "Purely academic." They said it almost simultaneously. Slughorn looked between them.
"I see you both know what you're about." He rubbed his hands together, composing his face into something suitably grave. "I must be honest—this is an extraordinary ambition for students your age. The ingredients are exceptionally difficult to source, the process is technically demanding, and an error in preparation could have serious consequences..."
"That's rather the interesting part of advanced Potions work," Draco said mildly. "We're not expecting to brew it immediately. We'd like to understand the process—what the critical points are, where mistakes are typically made."
"Children, I admire the pursuit of excellence in any form." Slughorn moved to stand before the cluster of simmering cauldrons. "But before I discuss Felix Felicis with you, I'd like to satisfy myself that you have the foundational skill to handle what comes with it." He gestured to the nearest one, from which a dark, sticky substance bubbled sluggishly. "Tell me what that is."
"Polyjuice Potion," Hermione said, after one glance.
"Of course you'd know it—you've made it!" Slughorn laughed delightedly, clapping his hands. He had been reserving judgment until that moment; her answer settled it.
"Mr. Slughorn—the colour is quite deep," Hermione said, studying it carefully. "Will this batch hold the transformation for longer than usual?"
"One can't say for certain until the final preparation—but we do what we can," Slughorn replied, with a satisfied look at the cauldron.
The second cauldron held a liquid as clear and still as water.
"Veritaserum," Draco said. "Colourless and odourless. Forces complete truthfulness in whoever drinks it."
He had more personal experience of it than he would have liked. Umbridge had used it on students. And in the Headmaster's office, Professor Snape had administered it to Pettigrew without hesitation.
"Excellent," Slughorn said. "Extensive knowledge, accurate recall."
They continued to the third cauldron—a gold one, set against the wall. The potion within shimmered with a pearlescent quality, and the steam rising from it carried a scent so layered and extraordinary that Draco stopped where he was.
Chocolate. Rose—the particular variety from the gardens at Malfoy Manor, warm and slightly honeyed. And underneath it, clean and faint, green apple.
A deep, involuntary satisfaction moved through him. He breathed slowly, trying to gather himself.
"And this one?" Slughorn asked, his tone light.
"Amortentia." Hermione answered at once, leaning forward slightly, her voice taking on a different quality. "The most powerful love potion in existence. It smells different to everyone—whatever draws them most. I can smell freshly cut grass, new parchment, and—" She paused. A faint colour had risen in her face. "Watermelon."
Draco glanced at her without meaning to.
She had drifted closer to the cauldron, drawn by the scent, eyes half-closed, entirely unguarded.
"Very good, Hermione—though do be careful." Slughorn closed the lid with quiet decisiveness. "This is the most dangerous potion in this room."
"Because it can't produce genuine love," Draco added, pulling his attention back. "It produces obsession and delusion. Nothing more."
He knew this well. He had also, in the last thirty seconds, noted that the scent of green apple was not dissimilar to Hermione's shampoo, and he was choosing not to examine that observation further.
"Mr. Slughorn," he said, "may I ask what you're preparing these for?"
"A favour or two—and a profitable sideline." Slughorn waved a breezy hand. "Retirement has made me busier than Hogwarts ever did. Several apothecaries compete for my work. I've told them repeatedly that I'm too old for such responsibility, and they continue to write." He looked entirely unbothered by this inconvenience.
"Now—to business." He cleared his throat with an air of ceremony. He indicated a copy of Advanced Potion-Making on the corner of the workbench. "Your real examination. I'd like you to brew a batch of Draught of Living Death. I don't expect perfection—but the quality of what you produce will tell me everything I need to know about your ability."
History repeating itself.
Draco suppressed a grimace. In his previous life, this had gone badly—a clumsy, underdeveloped batch that he'd rather forget. But this time, he had Professor Snape's personal annotations, and rather more preparation.
A Malfoy did not repeat his mistakes.
"How shall we divide the work?" Hermione asked beside him, still slightly flushed—she was evidently still metabolising the effects of the Amortentia.
"I'll handle the cutting. You weigh." He picked up a small silver knife with a composed expression. The faint green-apple scent had not entirely left his senses. He chose to focus on the task.
"Understood." Hermione opened Advanced Potion-Making to the relevant page, set up the brass scales, and said after a moment, "Valerian roots are ready."
He took the valerian roots from her, found a clear space on the workbench, and began to chop them into even portions.
The warmth of his fingertips against her palm lasted a moment longer than necessary. Hermione turned to the bench and began measuring distilled water into a beaker, then weighed out the African sea salt, grateful to have something to look at.
She poured the blue-green salt into the beaker, watched it dissolve, then moved on to the powdered asphodel root, working to the rhythm of his knife on the board.
"Sea salt is dissolved," she said.
"Starting the fire." He pointed his wand beneath the cauldron and a blue flame appeared.
She passed him the beaker; he tilted it carefully to pour down the side of the cauldron.
"Temperature," she said, glancing in.
"Give it a moment—let it warm evenly." He set the beaker down, adjusted the flame to orange with a wave of his wand, and watched the surface of the liquid shift.
Hermione submerged the chopped valerian roots to soak, then began measuring the infusion of wormwood into a graduated cylinder. "The cuts are very even," she remarked.
"Obviously." A trace of satisfaction in his voice. He was watching the pale blue steam rising from the cauldron. "Wormwood infusion."
"Coming." She brought the cylinder over. He tilted the cauldron slightly with his wand; she poured half down the near side.
"Other side." He tilted in the opposite direction.
"I'll do the rest." He took the cylinder from her before she could lean over the cauldron. "You weigh the Sopophorous beans."
"Medium heat," she reminded him over her shoulder, already reaching for a handful of the hard, round beans from the cabinet.
She could feel her pulse still slightly unsteady, but her hands were steady enough on the scales.
Any Potions master of experience would have found the scene worth watching. They moved without redundancy—each one anticipating the next step, never in each other's way, the transfer of materials accomplished with minimal words and no hesitation. Slughorn was quietly certain they must have worked together in class for years.
Hermione was sprinkling powdered asphodel root into the cauldron in a fine, even stream; Draco was filtering the valerian root infusion through a muslin cloth into a fresh beaker.
"Hermione." He glanced across.
"Blackcurrant colour," she said, reading his expression without needing the question. She tapped her wand to reduce the flame to a small, steady blue.
He passed her the dropper. "Valerian root extract. Be careful—the cauldron rim is hot."
"I know." She took it carefully. A brief warmth at the point of contact. She turned back to the cauldron and squeezed the dropper with even pressure, counting each drop under her breath.
He watched her for a moment, then turned to the Sopophorous beans and began crushing them with the flat of the knife blade, extracting the juice from each.
"Dark purple," she said quietly, glancing at him.
"Good." He set the crushed beans in front of her. "Squeeze them individually—extract the juice from each one."
"The book says—"
"I know what the book says. Try it this way once." He demonstrated: pressed the flat of the knife gently against a crushed bean, and a substantial amount of juice welled out.
Hermione followed suit. The potion responded immediately—pale lilac, smooth and even.
"Well?" He was trying not to sound smug about it.
"...Acceptable," she said, which was essentially an admission, and they both knew it.
From his position near the door, Slughorn observed the scene with quiet, expanding pleasure. Not merely skilled—though they were clearly that—but genuinely attuned. They didn't speak unless they needed to, and when they did, half the meaning was in a glance. He couldn't think of another pair of students who had produced this quality of collaboration without years of concerted practice together. He hummed to himself, turned discreetly, and slipped out to pour himself a glass of mead.
"Last step," Hermione said, picking up the glass stirring rod and positioning it over the cauldron.
One, two, three... on the seventh counter-clockwise stroke, his hand closed over hers and stopped the motion.
She looked up. His face was very close.
"Do you trust me?" he asked, his pale grey eyes steady on hers.
"Yes—but this is a critical stage, we can't—"
"Clockwise once, then counter-clockwise seven times," he said quietly. "This matters to me too. I won't do anything careless."
"You have absolutely no regard for written method," she said, her voice somewhat strained, her pulse doing something it had no particular reason to do. "This is a completely different technique from what's in the book."
But his handling of the Sopophorous beans had just produced an unambiguous improvement in the potion's quality. She released the stirring rod.
He guided her hand: one careful clockwise turn, then seven counter-clockwise, slow and deliberate. To keep his balance, he braced his other hand on the bench to her left—which meant he was, effectively, encircling her from behind without quite touching her—and the proximity made a fine, low warmth settle across her face that she was entirely unprepared for.
"What's written isn't always complete," he said, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath near her ear. "The more complex the potion, the more it requires you to understand it—not just follow it."
She stared at the surface of the cauldron and tried to think about potions.
The faint trace of Amortentia was still in her senses somewhere. That was the explanation. The scent had been extraordinarily potent, and she hadn't fully cleared it. She was still slightly affected. That was all.
Draco was not thinking about her at all. He was watching the colour of the potion with considerable anxiety, leaning slightly toward the cauldron, jaw set. He had only ever approached this variant of the Draught theoretically—Snape's notes were meticulous, but they weren't the same as practice. The faint scent of green apple was not something he was registering.
He was almost entirely focused on the potion.
The cauldron was quiet; the liquid shifted, very slowly, from pale lilac to a clear, clean pink.
"Done." He exhaled. The smile that broke across his face was unguarded.
He lifted the stirring rod carefully from the cauldron and set it in the measuring cup. "Watch it closely. I'll find Mr. Slughorn."
"Yes." She breathed out slowly. Her mind had not entirely returned.
Slughorn came back with his mead still in hand, bent over the cauldron, and went still.
"Remarkable." He straightened, and his face had the particular quality of a man who has found exactly what he was looking for. "Remarkable! Flawless—absolutely flawless. I can say with confidence that you are two of the finest young Potions students I have encountered in thirty years." He finished the rest of his mead in one satisfied pull, looking rather like a collector who has just acquired something exceptional.
"I'm going to make an exception." He lowered his voice conspiratorially, pale green eyes gleaming. "You've come at a fortunate moment. I have, quite recently, assembled sufficient ingredients for a small batch of Felix Felicis. I intend to brew it—and I intend to brew it today." He glanced between them. "Tonight, nine o'clock. Come as my assistants. What you take away from the experience will depend entirely on you."
Draco and Hermione both went still. Then they looked at each other—and the same bright, arrested recognition was in both their faces.
"We'll be there," Draco said.