There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot
Lilac.
It surrounds him and he can't stop several deep inhalations. With his eyes closed, it's almost like he's right back at Hogwarts.
There's more than lilac, though. There's... patent leather. There's a tinge of parchment, but that's not quite it. It's more like the crackle of a new book, of flexing the spine for the first time and smelling the pages. Sometimes he thinks he might get a whiff of the Prefect Bath, of the unique oils and balms the water might use, but it's peripheral to the others.
The unique combination of this prevents Draco from delving too deeply into which specific component is affecting his nether regions. He can intelligently narrow it down between the scent of Hermione's shampoo or the scent of the brand new heeled pumps he bought for her (four distinct pairs of them, if anyone was counting). Thanks to Pansy's limitless knowledge of fashion and fashion-adjacent detail, he knows all the 'patent' description adds is the shine to the leather. Otherwise, it's regular leather with all the glorious and expensive smells associated with it.
He wants to drape Hermione in every expensive thing he can think of. New, fine, rich, rare. She's all of those things.
Rare, rich, and fine all describe the Eliot book, too, but he won't just send it to her via owl. At this point, he'll wait until he sees her again. It'll be a fitting extrapolation of his glee.
He's continued reading the Christie novel, 'N or M?' a little at a time. The main detectives are a pair called Tuppence and Tommy. In this book the two are middle-aged, but they've known one another since childhood. Draco has a distinct sense there are more books than this one, but the plot doesn't seem dependent on his having read the prior stories. He's gotten quite far into it at this point and can't deny he likes it. He wouldn't have persisted otherwise but it was still a nice realisation that he enjoys it.
Tuppence beats Tommy to the right locale in their detective work, among other speedy achievements. Draco can't help but wonder if Christie made a habit of writing intelligent and independent female leads at a time when (at least in the wizarding world, not that loads of things have changed since) women were considered secondary to their partners. He suspects she had, and it's not an idle guess that it's a large part of what drew Hermione to them - even as a child. Perhaps it wasn't just the mystery of the detective work. Maybe she didn't even know what it was that attracted her to it, and Draco would desperately love to debate the point with her in person.
He closes his eyes and takes another deep inhale of lilac, of leather, and of new books. Or perhaps used books. Books.
The amortentia he's brewing wafts deliciously about the room and Draco thinks he'll just leave it in the cauldron. There's no reason to vanish it. In principle. He let Snape bottle a few vials, since amortentia does take a not-insignificant amount of time and effort to brew. But even if its presence here is superfluous, it creates a delightfully delirious ambiance for Draco in the potions lab.
Might as well leave it.
And maybe he bottled one or two for himself, just so he can uncork the vials and smell Hermione. So what?
Maybe it was more than two. But all that means is that he doesn't have to smell his own samples while this cauldron-full is still atop Snape's secondary laboratory table.
Snape hasn't complained about this intrusion of space, which is... curious. It's not like there's an abundance of space here to be occupied with unnecessary projects. It makes Draco wonder what Snape smells. Whatever it is, he doesn't mind its presence here. Why doesn't he always keep a cauldron of amortentia here? It would be a staple if Draco had his own home lab. Someone (*cough*) could convince him to have one in every major room.
He knows better than to ask Snape about this.
On the opposite side of their little roommate détente, Snape does not ask about Draco's obsessive amortentia brewing or his odd (and exclusive) taste in Muggle fiction.
The legilimency training is a non-starter. Snape won't risk Draco getting into his mind - not even a teensy bit to spur some self confidence and motivation for Draco's ongoing studies, like a proper instructor might do. They practise and practise but he gets nowhere with Snape. He's stopped expecting anything different.
This won't matter unless someone other than Snape tests him. Draco can't figure out how likely this is and tries his hardest in lessons, just in case. He's always been one who's driven onward by successes (no matter how small) and has to battle against the continual failure of going up against Snape.
It never occurs to him that Snape might want to be tested. Not that Draco could compare to the Dark Lord, of course, but it's still something to do. And it checks to see if Snape is getting cocky.
Perhaps Snape is simply bored but none of this strikes Draco as a possibility.
His only concern is Hermione. He wonders if he could write to her safely. Where is she? Probably still at home. There are still almost four weeks until term starts at Hogwarts, not that he thinks she'll be returning.
He and Snape will, though.
Lucius is back at home. Draco has not been permitted to visit, spouting off random excuses about workload and apprenticeships and ingredient gathering in Denmark - of all places. But it could be anywhere, so long as it isn't the manor. It's clear that Snape does not trust his father not to interrogate him in his leisure time.
Lucius does visit Snape's little home once, to thank Draco for his diligent attention towards his mission. Draco does his best to seem subservient and grateful for the opportunity to shine. Snape appears to work overtime distracting Lucius, talking more than Draco ever hears him speak and befuddling Lucius with potential plans and possible strategies and other assorted nonsense. But to Lucius, fresh from Azkaban, nothing is nonsense. Everything has potential and he absorbs every detail like a dehydrated sponge.
He's too busy with Snape to pay much attention to Draco, simply farting out various generic praises for being a valued member of the cause. Draco wonders how he never heard the falsity (if not falsity, then outright desperation) in his father's words before now.
Draco doesn't even have time to inquire about his mother before his (gaunt, slightly trembling, visibly cold, with unacceptably thinning hair and unsteady hands) father is stepping back through the Floo to return to the manor. One would think he'd relish the opportunity to be in a domicile that does not contain the Dark Lord - even if only temporarily - but to each his own.
Ever perceptive, Snape grasps this nonverbal inclination.
"Your mother is going to be travelling soon."
Draco's eyes fly to meet his godfather's, black and inscrutable as ever.
"She needs a rest and your father understands. She's been on her own there for some time and deserves a well-earned personal holiday."
This is an angle no one would question. Yet an equally understandable position would be that Narcissa has missed her husband deeply during his incarceration for the past year and wants time away with him. Only him.
Something in Snape's gaze stops him asking. His mother will be far away and safe, for the first time since last May. It's a relief without comparison. At last, it's unequivocal good news. Draco dips his head in a quick half-nod and blinks, thinking about the possibilities.
Lucius will once again be running Malfoy Manor to his liking. He'll still be housing the Dark Lord, which he will undoubtedly be thrilled to do. His pride might make him fit to burst, full to the point of overflowing. Draco thinks he'd probably have chosen this path regardless of how badly Narcissa missed him during his incarceration, and wonders if his mother would be inclined to agree. What must she think about that?
"I will be out tomorrow night," Snape announces without any subsequent offering of detail. "You will be in 'Denmark'."
Draco accepts it. That is life with Snape. If there's something noteworthy to tell, Snape occasionally shares some of it later. Draco's not naive enough to think he gets it all - or even most of it. Sometimes he gets nothing more than this, the initial declaration of something. Only Snape can make a declarative statement ambiguous the way he does.
It's almost the end of July and Draco finds it difficult to believe he's been here for four weeks. A little more than that, in fact. Days with Snape tend to run together - as one might assume. His tasks and expectations rarely change.
Snape is definitely taking command of Hogwarts in September. Draco will be returning as a student, but in a slightly elevated role. He's Snape's official apprentice. Once this would have given him great pride. It would have been something to lord over the other, lesser students. Now, it's just a fact on his c.v. How will it help him? That is how Draco must think of things now, and not how they help him in social stature (which was the only pertinent consideration before).
He's heard little more about the hunt for Pansy and Theo. He isn't sure if he's supposed to inquire about this, although Snape is giving increasing signals that Draco could ask - if he were so bold. Draco isn't sure he is. His godfather still cuts an intimidating figure. Draco wishes he could be more confident of Snape's allegiances, but as things stand, he only takes what's blatant.
This doesn't offer much. Better safe than sorry, after all. There is more at stake than Draco himself.
Practising navigating this silent battlefield is a relief. It's a mental exercise he hadn't anticipated. Draco finds he enjoys the game, so long as he can think of it that way.
Thinking of it with the stakes it demands makes him collapse back onto occlumency, onto his growing ability to compartmentalise his anxiety. Not knowing the answers to something (or even the parameters to the inquiry) doesn't mean Draco has to fold into himself in a panic attack. He can parse through what he knows and doesn't know, using occlumency to release one fact at a time. He can sort through things with patience and rational thought.
He is getting better at it.
For things he can't parse through (see: Hermione's current safety status as it relates to her whereabouts; Hermione's current proximity to wizards who definitely, absolutely, wish she was theirs in any way possible, including in bed; Hermione's distance to physical danger of any sort and her ability to both recognise it and defend against it), Draco has been practising containing it in a corner of his mind. He can't help her. He can't help physically by being there and he can't help mentally by projecting his wildly optimistic thoughts onto her - or by catastrophising. The best he can do is hold her to her corner and hope she's alright. He cannot allow himself to spiral, so he doesn't.
Snape tests this almost daily. Draco wonders if Snape has inside knowledge of his battles with anxiety. It's equally likely that he does, or that he's just sensed it - the way an occlumency master could do. It makes no difference to Draco, in the end. His practise is the same.
Without stating it openly, Snape seems pleased with his progress. The signals are as tiny as a ten-minute shortening of practise time, or a grudging offer of tea right at the end. This does not usually come with conversation but Draco doesn't expect Snape to start one.
"Why Denmark?" This seems harmless enough. It can't seem prying, but there's a balance to strike between an innocuous question and a question that wastes time - like when Draco asked his godfather what his favourite book is.
"There's an extremely exclusive and secretive potions society that functions out of Copenhagen. I studied under a master there."
Good heavens. Draco nearly falls out of his chair and must work overtime to control the overt blanching his face is trying to do.
"No one will ask because they'll all be quite busy tomorrow night, but if someone should - or, gods forbid, try and drop by - you are not here. Do you understand?"
This implies that Draco should hide like a child if someone steps through the fireplace. He's not sure how he feels about this directive. What comes out instead is, "Ah, alright."
Temptation wins out. His mouth runs away with him, and maybe Snape will forgive him one lapse of this magnitude every three or four days. "What is everyone else going to be doing tomorrow night, sir?"
At least he included the 'sir.' Snape glares at him anyway. He takes long enough to answer that Draco reverts back to drinking tea while staring out the window at the dreary Spinner's End street view.
"Harry Potter is being moved tomorrow night. The Dark Lord is planning an attack."
Draco thought he was shocked a moment ago. He wasn't.
Once he'd have been clamouring for the chance to participate in a mission of that gravity. Once. Now, he's unspeakably (and good thing, as he's still shocked into silence) grateful to his godfather for keeping him out of it.
The knowledge that Snape was still accepted - nay, embraced - by the Order was shocking, something Draco attempted to take in stride. Snape had not elucidated how he'd kept their trust. Draco was left to assume Snape had everything in hand, as he always seems to, no matter how ludicrous it sounded.
Snape pours himself more tea, seeming done with dropping bricks onto Draco's head. Then again, Draco supposes he did ask. To that end: nothing ventured, nothing gained.
"How?"
He's not even sure which part he means. Snape graciously answers both - sort of.
"A guard of Aurors and members of the Order are escorting him to the Weasleys' hovel. There were complicating factors affecting the date of the move, but it's been settled on tomorrow night."
Snape seems to be holding something back, but as this is nearly always the case, Draco doesn't fixate on it. He's still astonished he's gotten this much, but Snape has a bit more for him.
"The attack will come while they are in transit, hopefully catching them unawares."
Draco considers this, wondering how he feels about it. What if it succeeds? What if it fails? But he probably won't get more on this particular topic. Counting himself lucky so far, he deviates.
"Have you heard anything about Hermione, sir?"
Snape's eyes tighten around the edges as if Draco's hit on something, but his expression smooths back out at once.
"She is with the Weasleys, undoubtedly wishing she could throw herself off the roof before spending another minute in that mental asylum they call a house."
Having not seen the Weasleys' home personally, this (plus the previous 'hovel' comment) nevertheless fits Draco's imagination of the place.
"And before you ask, no, I have not seen her myself."
"...Why is she already there?"
Snape sets down his chipped tea cup and steeples his fingers in front of his nose. "Reports are that she made a very prudent and proactive decision to protect her Muggle parents. She relocated them."
His blood runs cold, freezing his veins with a shudder. If Snape deems that action 'prudent,' it was necessary. Maybe she wasn't safe at home after all.
When they don't show back at Hogwarts (and especially if the attack on Potter fails tomorrow night and he escapes again), it's realistic to assume the Death Eaters will begin hunting the three of them in earnest. Their homes will be the first places checked, even if it seems too obvious.
"Is she... safe with the Weasleys?" His stomach roils unpleasantly as he grits this out. He can't stand the idea of that twat and his twat family keeping her safe.
That ought to be his job and he can't do it. The most he can do is sit here like a good little boy and avoid having his mind shredded by the best legilimens the world has to offer, until he's back at Hogwarts without her. And where will she be? Still with that red-headed twat?
His fear and jealousy coalesce into the tightening of his lungs and he hangs his head.
He's gotten better at this, Draco reminds himself. Compartmentalise it. Push those feelings into their respective corners (fear and jealousy have two distinct areas. Whether this was a good idea when he was constructing things or not, he holds them apart in his mind).
His elbows are resting on his knees already as he leaned towards Snape to talk, and he hangs his head to inhale. Maybe this tweak to his posture won't seem like a devolution, but his luck in this conversation has run out.
"For fuck's sake," Snape swears in derision, and that's enough to pull him free. The tone is standard but the cursing isn't and Draco raises his head to gape. He hasn't fully wrangled the jealousy into its respective box yet, but the fear has been shoved aside.
"I'm fine."
"You had better be. And yes, the absurd stack of shacks they call a house has been given every possible protection the Order and the Ministry can provide."
This declaration is also accompanied by the glint in Snape's eye that means there's more to this - another layer, perhaps, or a caveat. Ordinarily Draco wouldn't press. But something about that glimmer combined with overcoming the stab of fear makes him take his chances on something worse. He thinks he knows what it is, but will Snape confirm it?
"The Dark Lord is about to hold control over Hogwarts. How long will it be before he controls the Ministry?"
"Not long."
With that, Snape stands and sends his tea cup to the kitchen where Suz has been keeping busy this afternoon. Draco can't stop his followup, or the panic seeping into his voice.
"How long is 'not long'?"
He gets nothing back as Snape's robes swoosh down the hallway, flapping against open door frames as he passes by.
"How long is 'not long'?"
* * *
As Hermione predicted, Harry does not take it well.
Things are already tense when they arrive, even though Harry's undoubtedly glad to see everyone. He's been alone here on Privet Drive with naught but his aunt and uncle for company, stuck marinating endlessly on what happened to Dumbledore with no one to wrench him free from the masochistic cycle. Hermione can see it in his eyes, the deadness there, the dull misery where there ought to be green sparkle.
Harry takes the potential indignity of being tackled to the ground and having a handful of hair yanked out even worse. Hermione can't blame him. It's bad enough being the only 'child' in the room (if age is to be accounted for, and that's basically the entire reason they're here - to move Harry before he officially comes of age). He also had no say in the plan whatsoever, something Mad-Eye keeps reminding him of.
This isn't helpful and devolves into a row, with Harry shouting that of course he wouldn't have devised a plan that puts everybody he loves at risk, and Mad-Eye must be mad to even consider it. George posits that it is part of the man's name, after all, but no one else hears him except Fred.
Mad-Eye really might be mad, because he counters Harry's outburst by saying they could have invited Ginny and made it a full sweep of 'people Harry loves' at risk. Even Arthur steps in, then, because that really is absurd. There are eight different reasons why Ginny would not be part of this. But it distracts Harry (maybe Mad-Eye isn't mad after all; a theory for later testing) enough for Bill to grip a swatch of hair sticking up from the back of his cowlick and pull.
Harry swears colourfully, kicking out at a side table. Everybody else, long since resigned to this madness of Mad-Eye's, lines up to receive a bit of polyjuice.
"How long is this going to take?" Tonks asks her mentor, and she might mean the requisite prep of becoming 'Harrys', the extraction itself, or how long the polyjuice dose will last. Presumably it's the standard hour. This hadn't occurred to Hermione and she fervently hopes this will all be over in under an hour.
Voldemort might be able to identify Harry solely by the distinctive sulk he's got going on as everybody downs their (not) tasty beverage - although Hermione must admit it beats drinking the essence of Millicent Bulstrode's cat in their second year.
Not that she'd known it was a cat. For all the jokes about Hermione becoming a future 'cat lady' (and what is so wrong with that, anyway?), she would not willingly drink polyjuice to become a cat. And no, it's not because it wasn't meant for that purpose. Even in the interest of scientific curiosity and exploration, she doesn't think she would. She'll stand by it.
This sort of disjointed mental rambling has become more common over the past week. It's probably her mind's desperate attempts to distract her from her parents, the unending chaos of the Burrow that sometimes makes her want to scream, or the stress of the war.
The war that's really about to kick off a new phase tonight. Harry is openly acknowledged as their most valuable asset for the first time and they're rallying around him.
Hermione and Fleur are last for the polyjuice, an unspoken reluctance shared between the two witches. Fleur quirks an eyebrow and lifts her hand a smidge in a mock toast, and they both down theirs together.
It is bizarre. It's indescribable, and this is coming from a woman who was once made part cat from this potion.
Oddly (or perhaps not), Hermione notices the loss of her crystal-clear eyesight first and instantly reaches for the pile of glasses Moody's placed on a table in the middle of the group. The shrinking of her hair is next as it whizzes up into her scalp. It tickles. Then she can't help but notice the part she was dreading most, as her attention is wholly diverted to her general groyne region.
That is... something.
After things stop evolving (the verb 'growing' is violently rejected), Hermione gives her hips a little wiggle to see if it moves. It does not, still securely trapped in her knickers beneath her trousers. That these are one of the lacy pairs from Draco does not go unremarked upon in her contrary mental whirling. It's not comfortable, in her opinion. She just hadn't thought about comfort in advance.
She and Fleur exchange a silent look of speechless... something. It's not horror, not quite. Nor panic, but neither is it anything good. This is bizarre, in every sense. It's not just that it's Harry's body - which does corral the majority of this off-balance feeling. It's also that it feels like she's in the wrong body. The sharp disconnect between her brain and her limbs is stark.
She tries to focus but it's hard. Kingsley had recommended she and Fleur wear loose-fitting clothing and she's glad for it now. Harry, while not Ron's size, is still far broader in the shoulder than she is. Not that she'll be in this t-shirt for much longer. Gazing around the room, she sees the others in various states of undress as Harry splutters about indignantly.
That's quite fair. Even though this isn't her body, Hermione still feels uncomfortable just stripping down in a room full of people. She turns her back. Fleur does the same, after chastising Bill to look away.
A pile of clothes land at her heels as Tonks pitches 'Harry-esque' articles of apparel around the room. This reverts Hermione's preoccupation back to being 'Harry,' rather than any random wizard. Wanting to be quick about getting dressed, she holds herself to one masochistically curious glimpse of Harry's... of Harry in her own royal blue lacy knickers before stepping out of them. Eyes closed, she feels around on the floor for a pair of pants.
She can't think of it in anatomical terms or in slang terms. It's going to remain 'it' in her mind forever. Or like a child still in primary school, referring to it as a 'thing.' Harry's 'thing.' Even though she hasn't seen it unclothed (and prays she never will), she wants to burn this experience from her brain with a scalding hot branding iron.
This is worse than the Faulty Knob Incident, even though she did see that one naked. Possessing Harry's is so much worse.
She saw Ron's. She's now seen Harry's - sort of, and that takes her back to her 'sort of' with Lucas over last Christmas hols. Her brain begins to ramble again, trying to be helpful (she assumes), and connects this neatly to Hermione propositioning Draco in March. Then seeing Draco's... thing (apparently this is also a Thing now, and she'll just run with it) for the first time.
And now her brain begins to sprint from that to shagging Draco. It starts with the first time, the first time she'd ever felt... it, and how good it felt, and how good he looked, and -
Ohgodsohgodsohgods
Is this how it goes for wizards, or would her idiot runaway train of thought be doing this regardless? Hermione's mouth releases a single squeak and she turns back to the wall. Bending down, she pretends to fumble for something on the floor in the pile of clothes, now a mix between hers and Harry's.
Because it's getting hard. Harder. Wait, is this it? No, there's more. How is there more? She can't think about this. Nonononono.
Horrified, she tries to think of... anything. Nothing comes to mind but this disobedient appendage demanding her undivided attention and it's a negative cycle she can't seem to stop. OhGODS, she screams mentally into the void. She has a solid feeling Harry's body isn't attracted to Draco, but her mind is and her mind is calling the shots.
Draco. Naked Draco. Draco's hands and Draco's mouth and -
STOP IT. This part has to be a wizard thing. It must be. This inability to stop imagining it at the worst possible moment is literally everything she's ever heard about wizards and erections.
What a pain in the arse! She can't stand up straight. Draco would be laughing at this, but that big-throated one he has when his head tips back and he really lets it go. The kind one that's not at her, not quite, but something they can both laugh at. His eyes always sparkle and this is ridiculous. She's in Harry's body getting an erection thinking about Draco and it's ridiculous.
She can't possibly reveal to everyone in this room what's happening. How do wizards do this? Although she supposes they start getting practise with it much earlier in life, but this is quite disagreeable. It's verging on uncomfortable and she wonders if it's finally reached its peak... hardness. It throbs (the naughty thing, the adjective meaning both inappropriate and ill-behaved) in her borrowed trousers.
Maybe she can obliviate herself an hour from now.
A hand lands on her shoulder and she almost shrieks. One panicked look up finds Fleur. Hermione's not sure how she knows - maybe it's something in the eyes that reminds her of the French witch, but the whispered accent confirms it.
"Are you alright, 'ermione?"
"Yes," she gulps, moving to fidget with her hair and not finding any. "Yes. Thank you."
Whether it's the abrupt interruption, the French accent and delivery coming from Harry's mouth, or the simple commiseration from the only other witch in the room, it works. 'Her' erection starts to fade. She supposes it was hers. She can take responsibility for it.
Slowly standing up, Hermione sees no one else has noticed anything. Everybody's sorting through clothing, squinting on and off pairs of circular glasses, or heckling Harry without abandon. One Harry is standing next to Harry, clapping him on the shoulder rather than taking the piss. That one must be Ron.
Mad-Eye lets out a whistle so shrill it could be heard in downtown London. "Stop messing about. The clock is ticking. Let's go."
Yes, let's, she thinks in relief. She wants this over with and goes to stand next to Kingsley, who is taking her by Thestral. The last time she was on one of the great beasts was to fly to the Ministry of Magic a little over a year ago, and with great sadness, she realises she'll be able to see it now.