Chapter Sixty-One: Onion Soup and Felix Felicis
"Oh, Mum, of course I want to get ho soon, but this is a rare opportunity... Yes, Draco is with , but that's not the point... Please, don't say that... Mum, he's not mine—Mum? Are you still listening to ?" Hermione's voice ca through the open door from the living room, growing progressively quieter.
In Draco's suite at the Wizarding Hot Springs Sanctuary, a long telephone cord stretched from the study to the sofa in the center of the living room. Hermione held the receiver at one end—she was trying to reassure her worried parents.
Without doubt, any parent of a thirteen-year-old girl would inevitably worry about their daughter possibly staying out all night, no matter how justified the reason.
"Oh, Dad, thank God! You finally got the phone. It's like this—because the potion is special, it can't be exposed to light, so it can only be brewed at night. It's not that I intentionally wanted to co ho late..." Hermione's tone softened as she explained into the receiver.
Draco was in his study replying to tedious letters.
Nothing important—Blaise attending a party with his mother and discovering gossip about a classmate; Pansy getting into a fight with so wizard's daughter and scratching her face.
Crabbe and Goyle—one boasting about how many extra bowls of rice he'd eaten, the other pitifully asking if he could copy howork.
Then there was Theodore, who'd successfully brewed a Hiccoughing Potion over sumr—a feat beyond what a soon-to-be third-year should accomplish. This deserved praise from Draco, given Theodore had eagerly written to boast about it. Rare for this introverted boy to have monts where he felt "happy but no one to share it with."
"Mum, please give the phone to Dad... Please, don't assu I'm like that... No, this really has nothing to do with him... He's nobody to ... Why should I let him on the phone? Does this potion really need brewing at night? Am I the kind of girl who lies?" Hermione said indignantly.
Draco would occasionally pause, eagle-feather quill hovering, to listen to sounds from the living room—where Hermione's voice was gradually rising—and chuckle to himself.
She'd recovered her energy, it seed.
Hermione wasn't lying. All Potions Masters knew Felix Felicis should be brewed away from sunlight, making night preparation essential. This was precisely why Slughorn—the cautious Potions Master—required them to co at night to learn brewing it.
However, Hermione didn't want to go ho today not only because of potion-making lessons, but because she didn't want her parents to worry.
She'd been crying in the garden too long and her eyes were swollen. She was now applying ointnt Draco had given her, trying to reduce swelling as quickly as possible.
Draco was losing interest in continuing correspondence. After hastily replying to a few letters, he couldn't resist leaving his study to see if the sulking girl needed help.
Hermione sat on the sofa wearing what looked like comical spectacles, with a ring of sticky yellow ointnt on her left eyelid. The ointnt didn't sll pleasant—sowhat like petrol in the Muggle world.
She was absently holding the phone to her ear, listening, seemingly at a loss with her overly lively mother. Simultaneously, she was applying ointnt to her right eye before a hand mirror.
Seeing him erge, she wrinkled her nose and, in desperation, mouthed to Draco, "Help ..."
Draco suppressed a laugh, pretending to ignore her silly look with ointnt on her face. He sat beside her with an air of superiority, took the receiver from between her shoulder and ear, and said calmly to Mrs. Granger, "Monica, it's ... Yes, that's right... You can rest assured, I've already booked a room for her nearby. She can move in anyti after the potion is made... If we finish early, I'd be happy to take her ho... Of course, it's my duty... Don't ntion it... It's no trouble at all... Alright, no problem, I'll take good care of her..."
Finally, he put down the receiver and gently tapped its back with his finger. As if it had a mind of its own, the receiver whooshed back to the base of the old-fashioned telephone in the inner room.
"Right," he said matter-of-factly, as if he'd done sothing extrely simple. "She agreed quite readily. Not as difficult as you made it seem."
"That's because she was chard by your looks!" Hermione said, pursing her lips. "Mum is a bit superficial—she's always had a very good impression of you..."
Draco was in good mood. Her words seed to subtly approve his appearance. Casually picking up a green apple from the fruit tray on the coffee table, he twirled it in his hand and looked at Hermione. "Want one?"
"No need," she said listlessly, still examining her dark circles.
Then her stomach rumbled, spoiling the mood. She blushed, picked up a mirror, and completely hid her face behind it.
Draco chuckled. He grabbed a Baroque-style sterling silver handbell from the coffee table and shook it several tis. Accompanied by lodious ringing, a yellowed parchnt suddenly darted through the door crack, floating lightly before them.
"Mr. Granger treated to a al yesterday, so of course I can't let his daughter go hungry. Don't be shy—order sothing to eat, just to keep company. I'm starving." He said casually, then took a bite of the green apple, sweet and sour juice instantly filling his mouth.
His hunger was temporarily relieved. With a satisfied sigh, he gestured for Hermione to look at the parchnt.
It was a nu, with food and drink nas flashing across it. He hadn't forgotten his evening study session with Slughorn. It was no easy task—no one could endure it without eating sothing beforehand.
Hermione glanced at him, seeing how much he enjoyed eating the apple, and was convinced by his performance. She looked at the nu hanging in air with interest, studied it montarily, then hesitated and turned to look at him again. "What should I order?"
"Oh, you just need to tell the nu what you want..." Draco said casually. The cream-colored nu swayed mid-air, as if agreeing with him.
"Well then—French onion soup, Brussels sprouts, cherry jam tart..." she said cautiously to the nu.
The nu swayed several tis, and the dish nas Hermione ordered gradually appeared on the blank space on the back.
"What would you like to drink?" Draco asked.
"Anything is fine," Hermione said casually, looking curiously at words appearing on the nu's back.
Since that was the case, Draco calmly ordered her a large pitcher of chilled waterlon juice—given the girl said she liked the sll of waterlon.
Speaking of which, why would Hermione like waterlon flavour? Did she even like that fruit? He thought her favourite was strawberries. Puzzled, he casually ordered himself roast lamb chops, Yorkshire pudding, and a pot of Keemun black tea.
The nu quickly jotted down his words. After Hermione lost interest in the nu, Draco rang the bell again, and the parchnt shook and flew swiftly under the door.
Hermione picked up the hand mirror again, wanting to examine her eyelids.
"By the way, where did you get this ointnt?" she asked curiously. "I've never heard of it before."
"Oh, it's an ointnt obtained through special channels," Draco reassured her. "It's already been tested and works well, so you can rest assured."
The anti-swelling ointnt was sent to Draco by the Weasley twins—it was for treating bruises from the telescope incident, and unexpectedly ca in handy here. Draco had confidence in their product—it could work instantly on bruises, so reducing swelling would be simple.
"Do you think the swelling will go down before nine o'clock?" she asked worriedly, turning her head slightly. "Look, is it better now?"
When learning to brew Felix Felicis at night, she didn't want to leave a bad impression on a Potions Master like Slughorn.
"Co a little closer," Draco said softly.
The sky outside the window was pitch black, and flickering yellow candlelight suddenly shone from the wall lamp. Hermione moved closer to him; Draco stretched out several fingers, held her chin, and brought her face directly toward him, making her look closer.
She let him manipulate her face, unaware that anything was amiss.
The dim candlelight flickered, bringing her a drowsy feeling. She stared blankly at his face, mind sowhat sluggish, only fragnted thoughts vaguely surfacing:
His hands were warm. His face was very close to hers—so close she could see his deep-set double eyelids and thick eyelashes.
His eyebrows seed a little darker than before. His eyes appeared sowhat deep in dim light, and he was staring intently into hers.
His face seed to have matured—no longer the round face of a first-year. He'd lost his already limited baby fat, leaving only a pointed chin and well-defined cheeks.
But his lips were still so thin. They were pressed tightly together, shaped like gentle waves, and extrely rosy in colour.
All these details were too clear, too captivating. Hermione awkwardly looked away. Her gaze moved upward, sweeping past his straight nose, and focusing on his hair.
He seed to have stopped using hair gel to style his hair into a slicked-back look for a long ti. Instead, he let it down casually, the platinum-blond ends smoothly covering part of his eyebrows and ears, making him look gentle and lazy.
This reminded Hermione of a certain feline, the kind that made you want to pet its fur.
Forgetting her earlier nervousness, she couldn't help but smile and say, "I like your hairstyle now."
His dark eyebrows lifted slightly, and his eyes filled with a bright smile. For so reason, she knew this was a sign he was in good mood.
"Are you praising ?" he asked cheerfully. After studying her carefully for a while, he finally lowered the hand supporting her face and told her with satisfaction, "Don't worry. The ointnt has been completely absorbed, and the redness and swelling are no longer visible."
"That's brilliant. Thank you!" she said happily, then held up the mirror to wipe off the sticky residue.
Draco sat frozen on the sofa, staring at her. He suddenly felt hollowness in his palms.
At that mont, he realized he'd touched her face earlier—even if to wipe tears or check ointnt—which seed to have crossed a line.
Earlier, he'd held her hand while stirring the potion, so close to her his face could touch her hair.
He didn't know what was wrong with him today. Why did his body feel sowhat out of control, and why did he keep unconsciously wanting to get closer to her?
Perhaps it was because he'd been exposed to too many Amortentia ingredients.
That's right. That's roughly it.
But why didn't she reject him? Why did she let him get so close? Why wasn't she wary at all?
He glanced at her, heart a jumble of emotions. One was worry about her complete lack of wariness toward the boy, and the other was strange pleasure.
Why was it pleasant?
It wasn't because, at this mont, his coat was still wrapped tightly around her, as if embracing her at all tis. And she, comfortably hiding her skin inside his clothes, wore an expression of complete entitlent.
This expression made the boy's heart twist even more.
Shortly afterward, steaming hot food appeared out of nowhere on the dining table.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you could see garden lights twinkling, and tiny fairies, no bigger than a thumb, softly humming songs, carrying little lanterns as they flitted among the rose bushes, wings fluttering beautifully.
The boy and girl sat side by side, enjoying the night view while savoring their al.
"It's simply like a dream..." Hermione exclaid with curiosity in her eyes. If she had more ti, she'd love to go to the garden and study those magical creatures.
Draco smiled.
Was such a sight really that exciting?
If this girl arrived at Malfoy Manor and saw that famous, enormous garden, and the endless stream of magical creatures hidden within it, what kind of dumbfounded expression would she have?
He took a sip of hot tea, mind filled with the image of her overjoyed expression, and his smile widened further.
Hermione turned around, about to say sothing to him, but caught his sudden, radiant smile.
In an instant, she swallowed her words back down, only feeling a little thirsty.
She absently lowered her head, trying to drink so onion soup, but a thick strand of hair stubbornly fell from her cheek and almost slipped into the soup.
"Watch out!" Draco saw it in ti. His hand brushed past her earlobe and swiftly grabbed the mischievous strand of hair, preventing it from suffering the tragic fate of falling into soup.
Hermione's face flushed red instantly.
"Thank you..." In her haste, she looked up at him and said in a startled tone, "My hairband! I think I left it at Professor Slughorn's potion station..."
Draco raised an eyebrow and continued to gently hold her hair with his left hand. Although her hair was a little wavy, it was still quite docile and felt nice to touch.
"My hands don't mind playing the role of a hairband for now," he said casually, strange fulfillnt welling up inside him.
It was as if a hollow, invisible corner had been filled by this clump of hair. His palms no longer felt empty.
Even more strangely, his face seed to have caught her blush, turning suspiciously red. Casually scooping up a piece of Yorkshire pudding with his right hand and putting it in his mouth, Draco dared not look at her again—not at her face, not at her hair, or at the clothes she was wearing.
He had to pretend these things were nothing unusual.
The girl mumbled sothing under her breath, seemingly thanking him quietly. Her hair was being steadily bound and tangled by his hands, and she didn't seem to mind; Hermione just kept drinking soup, earlobes slightly warm.
On a sumr evening, ti flies. By the ti the two potions apprentices, who dared not look at each other and sat stiffly, finished their al, it was almost nine o'clock.
---
With excitent and anticipation, they hurried to Slughorn's room and, under his guidance, officially began learning to brew Felix Felicis.
Today, under Slughorn's guidance, they needed to process potion ingredients such as belladonna extract, lemon juice, Ashwinder egg shells, and Acromantula venom.
These materials were exceptionally rare; assembling a complete set was no easy feat, and there was virtually no chance of loss or waste due to improper handling. Slughorn chose to trust them, boldly entrusting them with the task. Their skillful processing of ingredients for brewing the Draught of Living Death during the day was the source of his confidence.
In order not to betray Slughorn's trust, they were extrely careful.
Hermione finally found her hairband. As she retied her tousled hair, she said to Draco, "I don't want a single hair falling in and contaminating the ingredients—"
"Oh, actually, one strand didn't go in, look—" He hesitated for several seconds, then picked up the strand of hair from the nape of her neck and held it between his fingers.
"Ah, thank you..." she said hurriedly, then untied the hair tie and retied it.
"You're welco..." he said in a lingering voice, then turned around and began processing the materials.
Then ca the busy, stressful, and ti-consuming process of handling ingredients. After that, they needed to mix these materials in a cauldron according to specific order and thod, then heat them over low fla.
"It's turned bright orange," Draco said wearily as he stirred the mixture evenly with the stirring rod. Hermione, hearing this, carefully began adding salamander eggs to the cauldron.
"One, two, three..." she counted softly; he counted in his mind for her, afraid of adding too much or too little.
"Alright, that's enough," he said—and she stopped dispensing.
Holding his breath, he continued stirring until Hermione said, "It's turned red."
"Excellent!" Slughorn, who'd already finished a whole box of crystallized pineapple, walked over, waved his wand, stabilized the fla under the cauldron at low heat, and announced to them, "Now it needs to heat for three days."
The wall clock chid twice. In the midst of busy work, it was already past midnight.
"It's so late already. Children, go back and rest. You can co again in three days at the sa ti," Slughorn said with a yawn, sounding tired.
Hermione and Draco nodded silently. A night of potion-making and prolonged tension had left them exhausted.
They finally ran out of energy to think about anything else and blushed incoherently.
---
When they finally returned to their suite, exhausted and ready for good sleep, sothing went wrong with the room reserved for Hermione.
The door wouldn't open; the magical key seed mismatched.
You cannot use a door-opening charm like *Alohomora* to open the door of a room in any magical hotel, inn, or sanatorium.
Almost all doors were enchanted with powerful protective spells to ensure guests' safety and privacy.
This ant they had to go to the front desk and find the fairly kind receptionist to get a new key.
However, when they arrived, they found it empty, with only a wooden sign on the counter reading "Temporarily Closed." They stood there awhile, but no one ca.
"There should be soone on duty here twenty-four hours a day," Draco said irritably, tapping his fingers nervously on the counter. "I'm going to file a complaint against them."
"Never mind, Draco. Let's go back," Hermione said with a frown.
A sudden downpour had just passed through the corridor, and the wind carried a chill. Draco saw her shiver slightly, then sneeze softly.
"Alright." He finally made up his mind. "You go to my room and rest first. Co back to argue with them tomorrow."
They went and returned, walking through those long corridors once more.
The light was dim, with only a few scattered candles flickering in wall corners. Hermione was a little scared and quietly tugged at his sleeve.
"If you're scared, you can hold my hand and walk with ." Draco was still sleepy from dim light. He yawned, and his worries were swept away by sleepiness.
Without a word, he grabbed her hand. Her slender fingers were a little cool, and he instinctively wrapped them in his, trying to warm them.
"I'm not scared. I'm just not familiar with the way," Hermione argued quietly, unconvinced.
"That reason makes sense," he said, seemingly trying to suppress a laugh.
Hermione's face felt a little hot. Thankfully, it was dark, and no one could see her face clearly.
The darkness and cold rain amplified her senses. Her heart pounded violently, making loud noise as she walked down the corridor.
The scent of roses blooming at night, mixed with dampness after rain, rushed into her nostrils without hesitation, bringing gentle touch to the loud noise.
Perhaps it was because she was too exhausted. She tried to co up with reasonable explanation for her inner turmoil.
She could feel that his hand was slightly larger than hers, warm and strong, soothing her coldness. On his ring finger was a snake-shaped ring, which seed to be a birthday gift she'd given him not long ago.
"You're still wearing that ring?" Her tone beca inexplicably light.
"Oh, yes, I like it very much," he said lazily.
A feeling of satisfaction welled up inside her, and she followed Draco back to the warm and bright suite.
"Sa as always, I'll sleep on the sofa for the night—you sleep in the bed," Draco said. He walked to the living room, habitually took out his wand, intending to lengthen the sofa, but then froze.
The owner of this sanatorium had clearly placed so protective spell on the furniture; it could not be changed in size at will.
He'd originally understood the rule perfectly well. Otherwise, so wizards might have infinitely expanded a bed or sofa to save Galleons, until they could cram the whole family into one room.
But in the current situation, this rule seed sowhat inhumane.
Draco shook his head and gave up.
"This will do." He frowned, glanced at the short, narrow sofa, and turned to go to the bedroom wardrobe to find extra pillows, blankets, and quilts.
"Draco... thank you for letting sleep in your bed... honestly, it's a big bed... I an..." she said hesitantly as she followed behind him.
"What?" He turned around in front of the wardrobe, holding a pile of bedding, and looked at her in confusion.
"I think... it's not like there's not enough room for two people to sleep in that bed... otherwise, you... could... co with ..." She t his gaze, eyes fixed on the carpet, and said the words.
There was no reason for her to cause him so much trouble and then shalessly ask him to give up the bed.
Draco seed to be the kind of person who was very particular about sleep—she still couldn't forget the faint dark circles under his eyes she'd seen in his dormitory last ti—he was definitely not the kind of person who could "just fall asleep on the sofa."
What's more, this sofa looked even more uncomfortable.
Hermione Granger—was this a blatant invitation for him to share a bed? Was this reasonable? Draco's mouth hung open, his face extrely unnatural. "This isn't gentlemanly behaviour."
"We're friends, aren't we? I trust you." Hermione quickly looked up at him.
"Innocent girl!" Draco stared at her.
She looked at him with trusting eyes, treating him as a friend who would never hurt her.
"I don't trust myself. What if I punch you or kick you in my sleep..." he said half-jokingly, trying to hide his helplessness.
"I'll forgive you, as long as you forgive beforehand. Because I might punch or kick you back." Hermione was amused by him, and her face was no longer awkward, but instead showed so innocent and lively spirit.
The boy and girl glanced at each other and couldn't help but smile lazily at each other.
Then Draco noticed the extra bedding piled up in the wardrobe and suddenly had an idea. He placed the extra pillows in the middle of the bed, dividing it in two.
"Isn't this better? At least there's a barrier, reducing the chances of us punching and kicking each other in our sleep," he said lightly, feeling that his mind was really stuck.
"Very good, let's do it that way." Hermione nodded in agreent, tone tinged with weariness.
They took turns going to the washroom to clean up quickly. At three in the morning, as they'd agreed, they each covered themselves with a blanket, lay properly on either side of their pillows, and soon drifted off to sleep amidst rising and falling drowsiness.
---
Hermione Granger dread again that she was learning to fly in the sky. This was often a heart-pounding, thrilling dream.
She clung tightly to the person in front of her. Subconsciously, she always believed that with him there, she wouldn't fall. The pleasant, faint, refreshing scent filled her nostrils, making her feel safe. She was less afraid.
The sleeping girl peeked her head forward, feeling a tickle on the tip of her nose. She frowned in annoyance, then finally opened her eyes.
The first thing that caught her eye was platinum-blond hair. A few strands of hair mischievously stuck up—brushing against her face—that was the culprit.
Half-asleep, she ruffled his hair; it was soft, fluffy, and felt wonderful to touch. She sighed contentedly, moved her head, found her most comfortable position again, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath of that delightful scent.
Wait a mont!
When the second hand struck about thirty, or three hundred, she suddenly snapped back to reality. She could feel that what she was holding wasn't a blanket or a pillow, but a living being breathing!
She opened her eyes and found herself resting her head on the boy's shoulder, her hand on his chest, her face close to his head. His eyes were closed, and the dappled sunlight cast shadows on his trembling eyelashes.
Hermione gasped softly, then sat up abruptly and saw the ssy pile of pillows that had sohow been kicked to the foot of the bed.
She hurriedly grabbed two large pillows and placed them where they were supposed to be. She breathed softly, feeling a little thirsty, so she wrapped a blanket around herself and tiptoed to the kitchen to get water.
Before leaving the room, she glanced at the bed with unease. Draco, face flushed, was still lying properly in his spot, covered by the blanket, as docile as the pillow in the center of the bed.
It seed the scene she'd just witnessed was entirely her imagination. She secretly rejoiced that he hadn't woken up, and then, like a guilty cat, slipped away from her cri scene.
Draco, who remained completely still, would never admit he'd woken much earlier than her.
What he'd seen was perhaps even more bewildering than what Hermione had seen: she was like a delicate kitten, facing him, curled up in his arms. Her thick hair covered his pillow, her head rested trustingly on his arm, and her slender hands gripped his clothes tightly.
As for him? His self-control was completely lost in sleep: his face was buried in her hair—which seed to exude a sweet and delicious fragrance; his arm, though pressed down by her head, had its own thoughts—it was happily holding a handful of her hair; his other arm was also damnably busy, loosely wrapped around her, with its hand on her waist.
The worst part was that he could feel her breath. Her face was pressed against his neck. Her lips were slightly parted, exhaling faint, warm breaths onto his collarbone, as if tickling him.
These unprecedented complexities intertwined, giving him an indescribable feeling—an empty stomach, a thirsty mouth, and inexplicable anger.
rlin! He wasn't made of wood! He was a perfectly normal boy!
At one point, he wanted to give up struggling. He wanted to simply hold her tightly, even tighter, to the point of embedding her in his arms and never letting go.
But he couldn't. His reason rushed back, telling him: he couldn't do this to her.
*You hurt her like that.*
*She never liked you.*
*At this mont, she trusts you, smiles at you, and treats you as a friend.*
*Isn't that enough? Draco Malfoy, how much more greedy do you want?*
After a mont of stiffness, he tried to calm his nerves. Finally, he mustered his courage and carefully pulled his arm away from under her head, attempting to focus intently on the ceiling.
Before he could even figure out where the pillow in the middle had gone, she took the initiative, finding him again, embracing him, pressing him down, murmuring sothing, burying her face in his hair, and rubbing against his burning ear. She even took a deep breath, seemingly quite satisfied with everything.
It was as if she liked the sll of him.
It was as if she liked touching him.
It was as if she liked to hug him.
Then, amidst the pounding of his heart, she gradually regained consciousness. He quickly closed his eyes, knowing he didn't know how to face her.
The next second, she suddenly sprang away from him.
*See? She was startled. Her reaction didn't lie. She didn't like him at all. It was all an illusion.*
Draco felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He dared not move, much less open his eyes. He endured it all.
He endured Hermione's gasp, the thud of her pillow hitting the bed, and the clatter of her slippers as she walked away before he dared to slowly open his eyes and exhale softly, slowly, and dejectedly toward the ceiling.
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