July, with Hermione Granger by his side, was dazzling and delightful. Before they knew it, the month was drawing to a close, and the brewing of Felix Felicis was nearing its end.
Draco and Hermione learnt how to filter the potion residue using a filter cloth woven from unicorn hair, and how to add the filtered potion three times to a pot preheated to one hundred degrees Celsius at a specific angle and position.
Under Slughorn's guidance, Draco carefully dripped a drop of unicorn blood into the steaming potion. Then, they watched with great interest as Slughorn personally demonstrated how to pour the potion from the cauldron into the beaker without wasting any of the ingredients.
"You must maintain a uniform, continuous, and slow pouring motion, just like pouring honey... At the same time, you must keep the cauldron warm to prevent any potion residue from remaining on it." He explained and demonstrated at the same time.
His chubby little hands deftly and gently placed a unicorn horn into the golden liquid. The horn slowly rose and fell in the liquid, with tiny bubbles forming at its tip.
"Very good! Next, it needs to be kept away from light and left to stand for six months. It is only considered successful when bubbles appear on the surface of the potion." His smile carried a hint of calm. "This is the most crucial point. Many potion beginners overlook this, reckoning that they are done once they have brewed all these ingredients. But in reality, this potion is very delicate. Even slight exposure to sunlight or a sudden jolt can ruin it."
Hermione took out her notebook and began taking notes. Her intelligence, dexterity, diligence, and eagerness to learn left a deep impression.
Slughorn nodded in satisfaction. "I knew a Japanese potion-maker who was very talented! Unfortunately, he never succeeded in making it."
"Because of the bumpy ride?" Draco seemed to have reckoned something.
Slughorn nodded sadly. "He lives in an earthquake zone."
Earlier the next afternoon, Draco went to his grandfather's garden to have tea with him and polish a paper he had finished long ago on the burning of witches by Muggles in the fourteenth century.
"I heard you have been getting close to a Muggle-born girl lately." Abraxas took a sip of his tea, watching his grandson Draco with an impassive expression.
Draco's quill paused for a moment. Without looking up, he said in a casual tone, "Mr Slughorn said that?"
"Slughorn speaks highly of that girl," Abraxas snorted, adding sourly, "That old chap who steals other people's children! Ever since you met him, you have not come to see your grandfather much."
"Grandfather, of course I care more about you. What I value is his potion-making skills. If I learn them, would we not be part of the Malfoy family?" Draco said lazily.
"That is true." Abraxas was convinced. He cleared his throat and said with an air of superiority, "Listen, I do not care what kind of wizards you associate with. Even amongst wizards, who can compare to the Malfoys? Anyone with talent is worth courting. However, your father is a staunch pure-blood enthusiast, and this concern for bloodlines can even cloud his judgement. He will definitely not be happy about it."
"Thank you for reminding me, Grandfather." Draco finally finished writing the last word. He stood up, smiled at Abraxas, and poured him a cup of tea. "I have to go. A very important potion is at a crucial moment today…"
"Go away, go away," Abraxas waved him off dismissively, then chuckled. He adjusted a pair of gilded round-framed spectacles and turned his gaze back to the newly arrived Daily Prophet, intently examining the large photograph on the front page. A short, stout, bald man with a haggard face and shifty eyes caught his attention.
He glanced quickly at the headlines and articles on the front page, his expression changed drastically, and he could not help but let out a rapid exclamation.
"Merlin's beard!" he called to the boy who had just reached the door. "Boy, you must come back and see this!"
The Daily Prophet's headline read:
Peter Pettigrew's Escape from Azkaban
The Ministry of Magic confirmed today that Peter Pettigrew recently escaped from Azkaban prison, and there is currently no indication that anyone assisted him in his escape. Although Azkaban officials stated that nothing unusual was found, some wizards from the International Confederation of Wizards have begun to question Azkaban's security system, believing it may have serious vulnerabilities…
Draco frowned as he looked at the huge photograph on the newspaper and the man in it, marvelling at how magical and fateful the cycles of history were.
In my past life, Sirius Black also escaped Azkaban around the same time. Given that he has already been exonerated, I had expected Hogwarts to be a bit calmer this year.
"Draco," Abraxas said, a deep line forming on his forehead, "I reckon you need to get back to Malfoy Manor as soon as possible."
Draco understood immediately. Malfoy Manor was clearly more secure than the spa resort. He was one of the men who had captured Peter Pettigrew, and was likely to face his retaliation.
Although I personally believe that the cowardly mouse simply does not have the courage.
Abraxas hesitated for a moment, then suddenly stood up, leaning on the table for support. He said seriously, "Lucius and Narcissa are still travelling in Peru. I do not know when they shall find out. I shall go back with you first."
The old, lazy grandfather vanished in an instant. He straightened his back, displaying an air of authority, and said, "I shall give you an hour to pack your bags and say goodbye to your friends. We shall leave promptly in an hour."
Draco rushed back to his room. He opened a black leather trunk in the corner, tapped it with his wand, and the items in the room lined up and flew into the trunk.
He grabbed another piece of parchment, hastily wrote a few lines, called over Joan who was dozing in the garden, and told her to deliver it to Hermione immediately.
Finally, he ran to Slughorn's room and knocked urgently on his door.
"Sir," he said, panting, "I am so sorry, I have to go with my grandfather temporarily and will not be able to continue learning potions from you. Thank you so much for your guidance and help during this holiday…"
Slughorn showed no surprise—he also had a newly arrived copy of The Daily Prophet in his hand.
"Of course, I completely understand. It is my good fortune to be able to teach such a talented student as you. It is just a pity that I have not fully taught you about the Wolfsbane Potion yet," he said regretfully.
After hesitating for a few seconds, he approached Draco urgently, and as if having made up his mind, lowered his voice and said to him, "I reckon you are indeed in great danger. One of my students, you know, Barnabas Cuffe of The Daily Prophet, is the editor in charge of this story. He wrote to me that Peter Pettigrew has been talking in his sleep in Azkaban, repeating the same phrase over and over again, 'He is at Hogwarts…he is at Hogwarts.' I have good reason to believe that he might take revenge on you."
Draco looked up at Slughorn's large, watery, light green eyes, which were filled with earnest worry.
He is at Hogwarts? What does that mean? Does it refer to me, Harry, or someone else?
"Tell your grandfather about this. I reckon it is necessary to take precautions early." Slughorn continued rambling.
"Thank you for the suggestion," Draco said urgently. "However, given that I have to leave immediately and the situation is urgent, I have a request."
"If there is anything I can do to help, please let me know," Slughorn said.
"I do not know if this will offend you. If possible, I would appreciate it if you could make a copy of a picture of Lily Evans for me," Draco said bluntly.
Slughorn was stunned for a moment. He had never expected to hear such an irrelevant request at such an urgent moment.
For a moment, his nose stung with tears. He leant on the hard sofa armrest, slowly stood up, walked to the desk, and took out a beautifully framed gold photograph from the back of the pile of pictures.
"How about this?" he asked softly, showing it to Draco.
Draco went closer to look. He saw it was a wedding photograph of Lily Evans and James Potter. They were smiling brightly and freely, full of joy and boundless anticipation for the future, completely unaware of the dangers that fate held for them.
"Lily sent this to me after her wedding. She said it was the best photograph she ever took." Slughorn's chubby fingers traced the photograph one last time. Finally, reluctantly, he pulled it from the frame and handed it to Draco.
"That would be wonderful," Draco said gratefully to Slughorn. He carefully placed the photograph in the inside pocket of his clothes and gave Slughorn a grateful smile.
"I know who you are giving it to," Slughorn suddenly said, turning his back to Draco as if wiping his eyes. "Please give him my regards."
"No problem. Thank you." Draco reckoned to himself, why is this old man getting sentimental?
You will meet him someday, at Hogwarts.
"Draco. I…I reckoned you were just ordinary friends…but now, under these circumstances, for you to make this request…I am finally convinced that you must be Harry Potter's best friend." Slughorn's trembling voice successfully made Draco stop in his tracks.
Slughorn seems to have some genuine affection for Harry's mother, rather than simply exploiting her talents.
Draco was overwhelmed with emotion, but he did not turn back. He said "Thank you" again, and walked out hesitantly.
He crossed the long corridor and opened his room door to find his luggage already packed. Draco looked around, briefly reminiscing about the wonderful month he had spent here—mostly with Hermione.
I began to learn about her childhood. She was a girl who grew up in a bright world filled with picture books, gentle parents, a grassy back garden, and smiling faces.
And she began to delve into my past. I was a boy who grew up in a wondrous world of countless spellbooks, doting parents, a luxurious mansion, and flying broomsticks. Undoubtedly, I was never lacking in magical talent, but no one had ever told me what empathy was.
They began to exchange ideas. I always enjoyed updating her knowledge of everything in the magical world, just as she was very happy to tell me about the high-speed trains, spacecraft, and nuclear bombs that Muggles were researching.
We had something in common. We both believed in knowledge and revered wisdom.
The vivid memories brought a smile to his face, making even Peter Pettigrew's escape seem less important. He exhaled and prepared to grab his luggage to find his grandfather. Just then, a gust of wind rushed in through the door, and a tangled mess of brown hair snuggled into his arms.
"Draco!" Hermione's muffled voice came from his chin.
He smiled and returned the unexpected joy, asking, "Why are you here?"
She carried the warmth of the outdoor sunshine and a fresh, invigorating scent. For the first time today, this made him feel warm inside.
"I was so worried about you." Hermione let out a soft whimper, like a small animal, and hugged him even tighter.
A sense of helplessness and unease has crept into my heart. His sudden departure has caught me completely off guard. It leaves me feeling empty. I feel a pang of reluctance, but I know he has no choice but to leave.
"All right, all right… I am fine." Draco patted her fluffy head contentedly, comforting her. "Do not worry, I am not afraid of Peter Pettigrew. If he comes looking for me, I shall catch him a second time. It is just that my grandfather is a bit of an overreactor."
She seemed to be persuaded by his calm tone, and she finally let go of his hand and looked up at him.
It was then that Draco noticed the tears welling up in her eyes. He took out his handkerchief and wiped away her tears whilst teasing her, "I have reason to suspect you are eyeing my handkerchief; this is the third one already."
Hermione sniffled, then smiled through her tears. "No, I did not mean to cry," she said, struggling to speak.
"I know those handkerchiefs followed you willingly," Draco said seriously, casually placing the pale grey silk handkerchief into her hand. "Clearly, you like it more."
Hermione clutched the handkerchief, both amused and exasperated, and could only wipe her eyes for a whilst. Once she had calmed down, her brown eyes looked at him earnestly again, "I shall help you, I...we shall all protect you."
"All right." He gazed happily into those anxious chocolate-coloured eyes. "I believe in you. One day, you will become a great witch to protect me."
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