The following month was busy and fulfilling.
Hermione no longer needed to stay out until midnight to go home; simply mixing the potion took no time.
She usually got back to her grandfather's house by half past nine—Draco often took on the responsibility of driving her home.
Hermione's grandfather would sometimes see the boy through the window from the leather armchair in the sitting room.
The boy was always dressed neatly and would walk her to her doorstep on time. He would stand patiently at the iron gate and say goodbye to her for about fifteen minutes.
"You go first." The brown-haired girl would often kick a small pebble on the ground with her foot, her hands behind her back.
"You go first," the platinum-blond-haired boy would say lazily, his hands in his pockets.
"I want to watch you leave before I come in." At this point, the girl would raise her head, her tone slightly wilful.
"No, I promised Monica I would walk you all the way to the door," the boy said stubbornly, tilting his head to look at her.
"I am already inside the door," she said helplessly, somewhat exasperated by his persistence.
"You did not go inside the house." He remained firm, a fleeting smile playing on his lips.
The same scene seemed to play out every day. It eventually became a bit tedious, but they still enjoyed it immensely.
Eventually, the old man lost interest in "peeping at their behaviour and eavesdropping on their conversations."
During the day, three times a week, the boy would ring his doorbell and take her to study with the retired teacher named "Slughorn".
The old man asked in bewilderment, "Hermione, does a child like you really need summer tutoring?"
"Of course, there is no end to learning!" his granddaughter said with great interest.
She would always wait in the sitting room early, gazing at the sky through the window with tireless anticipation, fearing that a sudden downpour in Bath would soak the boy's neat clothes.
------
Three times a week, they would go to Mr Slughorn to learn how to concoct advanced potions such as remedies, enhancers, and tranquillisers.
The difficulty of preparing this type of potion was quite high for a wizard who was about to enter his third year.
"A calming agent is a medicine used to soothe and calm agitated emotions…" Hermione's clear voice rang out as she answered Slughorn's question.
"That is right, you were supposed to learn it in fifth year. It often appears in the Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations, and students always complain that the Calming Draught is difficult to make. But I reckon, with your abilities, it shall only take a little effort," Slughorn said, then suddenly clapped his hands excitedly. "So, let us start brewing! This time, you shall work separately, turning cooperation into competition, how about a contest?"
If you believe that this Potions Master's claim of "a little bit of work" is true, you are being rather naive. Even I, a wizard who has already experienced the full spectrum of O.W.L.s, still find this potion incredibly troublesome.
Making this potion required an extremely high degree of precision. You must add the ingredients to the cauldron in a strict order and in the correct quantities; you must stir the mixture a specified number of times, neither more nor less, first clockwise and then anticlockwise; when the cauldron boils, the temperature of the flames must drop to a specific level, neither too high nor too low, and be maintained for a specific period of time.
But Hermione, a genuine thirteen-year-old witch, remained silent and persevered through gritted teeth. She carefully added the last ingredient to the cauldron, and immediately a faint, silvery-white steam rose from it.
"How did you do that?" Draco asked, somewhat astonished. "You succeeded on your first try?"
"Did you not succeed on your first try?" She turned her head and looked at him suspiciously. "What, do you look down on girls? Do you not believe I can do it?"
But I did not succeed on my first try. In my past life, the first time I brewed the Calming Draught, all I got was a lump of dough. But this is her very first time.
"I did not mean to look down on you at all. You are amazing, much more amazing than me." Draco wiped the fine sweat from his forehead as he spoke, a small look of pride on his face.
"You are amazing too," she said with a smile, accepting his praise without reservation. "I reckon we are both brilliant. Do not listen to Mr Slughorn; we have never been rivals, we are partners."
"Partners?" He could not help but smile at her.
"Of course. My best study partner!" she said happily, smiling at him. "A very precious study partner; you would be hard-pressed to find another like him in the world."
"That is right," he did not know whether to be happy or disappointed, so he could only lower his head and start bottling the Calming Draught, muttering to himself, "I am satisfied with just this. It is good."
That evening, Slughorn again invited them to dinner at his restaurant. Draco found that the better they behaved during the potion-making process, the more talkative he became.
After a few meals, they had become familiar with the names of many of Slughorn's students.
For example, Dirk Cresswell, the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, was also a Muggle-born student whom Slughorn considered to be highly qualified.
For example, Barnabas Cuffe, the editor of The Daily Prophet, was always very interested in hearing Slughorn's views on current affairs.
They also learnt that Ambrose Froome of Honeydukes would send Slughorn a gift basket every year on his birthday; and that Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies, would often give Slughorn free tickets.
Slughorn would also frequently probe into Harry Potter's recent activities. They were not surprised by this; whether because of Harry's mother, Lily Evans, or because of Harry's own legendary survival story, he would not let go of such a "shining student."
Draco and Hermione both chose to tell him only what the general public already knew, such as that Harry was the youngest Seeker in the House, that he was very popular at school, and that he bravely rescued the students trapped in the Chamber of Secrets.
Slughorn listened with great interest, occasionally letting out exaggerated exclamations.
"We still do not understand why Professor Snape hates him so much." When Slughorn was drunk and getting carried away, Hermione casually mentioned Professor Snape's attitude towards Harry and could not help but look puzzled. "Harry has never done anything to offend Professor Snape."
Draco lazily raised his head, listening with little expectation—how could anyone possibly understand Professor Snape's true thoughts? He is a highly skilled Occlumens.
"Oh, I happen to know a little about that." Slughorn leant back in his chair, slightly tipsy, and said indistinctly, "In school, James Potter and Severus never got along, and in the end, James Potter married Lily… she was Severus's childhood sweetheart."
Draco and Hermione quickly locked eyes, and saw the earthquake reflected in each other's pupils.
-----
"I never knew Professor Snape had such a past." Hermione could not help but break the quiet as they walked side by side on a cobblestone path bathed in moonlight.
This was the route Draco took Hermione home. The streets were deserted now, with hardly any tourists left.
"I was shocked too. This explains so many questions, such as why Professor Snape never used the Sleekeazy's Hair Potion…" Draco was still reeling from the shocking gossip.
"I do not quite understand what you mean." Hermione looked puzzled. "What does this have to do with the Sleekeazy's Hair Potion? Your reckoning is way too far off the mark."
"The Sleekeazy's Hair Potion was invented by Harry's grandfather, Fleamont Potter. He certainly would not support his rival's business," Draco explained.
"That makes sense," Hermione said, dumbfounded. "However, I did not intend to consider this from a profit or industry perspective. Whilst it makes a lot of sense, I do not reckon that is the point."
"What is the point? Professor Snape does not hate Harry, he just hates James Potter, who looks almost exactly like him, through Harry?" Draco asked pointedly.
"Yes, that is what I reckon. I reckon he is a bit too prejudiced," Hermione said.
Harry, that poor chap… Draco could not help but feel a little sorry for him.
"It is best not to make this public knowledge," Draco said after a pause, "if you do not want Professor Snape to poison your pumpkin juice."
"Agreed. It is best not to dwell on such old matters. However, I might mention it to Harry," Hermione said thoughtfully. She studied the boy's enigmatic face in the moonlight. "By the way, Draco, what do you reckon Professor Snape's feelings were towards Harry's mother?"
"I do not know," Draco said softly, his eyes blinking uneasily.
"He might hate her. After all, she married his enemy, which is practically a betrayal for Professor Snape, is it not?" Hermione pressed on.
"But do you remember when you were in first year, Professor Snape used a protective charm against Quirrell in a Quidditch match?" Draco said, glancing at her. "Later, I looked up some information and learnt that those kinds of protective charms consume a lot of magic, and if overused, the damage to a wizard's magic is irreversible."
Unsurprisingly, he saw Hermione's slightly surprised expression. He stopped, gazing into her eyes that shone in the moonlight, and said gently, "If you truly hate someone, you would not go to such lengths to save her son, would you?"
"So, you reckon he likes her?" Hermione asked, staring into his usually indifferent grey eyes, which she sensed held a hint of tenderness.
Her words stunned Draco.
Like?
He suddenly reckoned of Professor Snape's perpetually gloomy, pale, and stern face, as if he had never understood what love was.
If he had ever loved her, then all of Severus Snape's stoic, awkward, eccentric, and withdrawn behaviour, and his perplexing acts of "feigning distress whilst secretly protecting her," finally seem to have a reasonable explanation.
"It is hard to say. But I reckon he probably never wanted her dead." After a long silence, Draco lowered his eyes and stared at the pale, uneven cobblestones.
"I am talking about love, and you are talking about death. I just do not understand what you Slytherins are reckoning!" Hermione exclaimed, thoroughly annoyed. She looked at him for a moment, but the boy stubbornly refused to look up at her. So she shook her head and continued walking.
Draco silently followed her.
Love.
Putting myself in his shoes, what if I loved her?
I could probably barely, bitterly, and painfully accept that "she does not love me," but I could never accept that "she will die."
Moreover, she died at the hands of my own master.
If that day ever comes, I would not hesitate to betray the Dark Lord.
On the thin, anxious street, Draco slowed his pace, watching her oblivious, briskly walking forward, and could not help but reckon.
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