The Unwanted Assignment

The Great Hall buzzed with the chatter of Eighth Years, but Hermione Granger’s attention was fixed on the syllabus in her hands. Potions, Advanced Theoretical Applications. She had already annotated half the margins in minuscule script when Professor Slughorn’s jovial voice cut through the din. “Ah, my bright sparks! A new term, a new challenge. For your first project, you’ll be working in pairs to develop an antidote for lingering curse damage—something we’ve all too much acquaintance with.” His gaze swept the room, lingering on a few faces. “I’ve taken the liberty of assigning partners, to encourage…collaboration.” Hermione’s quill stilled. She glanced at the seats beside her—Blaise Zabini, who was already smirking, and then— “Granger and Malfoy.” The name dropped like a stone into still water. Heads turned. Malfoy, slouched in the back corner, straightened as if struck. His grey eyes met hers, narrowed and unreadable. “Surely you’re joking, Professor?” Hermione’s voice was clipped. “Mr. Malfoy’s… past hardly inspires trust in a laboratory setting.” “Now, now, my dear,” Slughorn said, patting his belly. “War is over. I expect everyone to be on their best behavior. And you, Draco, are too talented to waste. Consider this a chance to prove yourself.” Malfoy said nothing, but a muscle jumped in his jaw. For the remainder of the lesson, Hermione barely heard a word. Her mind raced—she’d have to do all the work, check every ingredient, monitor every stir. He would sabotage her. He had to. At six o’clock, she arrived at the private laboratory Slughorn had assigned them. It was a converted storeroom, cluttered with dusty alembics and shelves of withered roots. She lit the torches with a wave of her wand and began organizing her notes. The door banged open. Malfoy strode in, robes billowing, his expression carefully neutral. He carried a scuffed leather case and set it on the bench opposite hers without a word. “Let’s set ground rules,” Hermione said, not looking up. “I handle the delicate work. You can crush ingredients and clean equipment.” A cold laugh. “And I suppose you’ll also decide the formula, the procedure, and take all the credit?” “I’ll decide what’s safe. You’ve done enough damage with potions.” He turned to face her fully, arms crossed. “I’m not the same sniveling idiot I was in sixth year. If you’re going to treat me like a Death Eater, this project will fail, and Slughorn will blame us both.” Hermione’s temper flared. “Then prove me wrong. Show me you can follow instructions without blowing something up.” They glared at each other across the bench. The air crackled. “Fine,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth. “Show me the base formula. I’ll prepare the bubotuber pus.” She slid a parchment toward him. He scanned it, then selected a mortar and pestle from the rack. For a few minutes, they worked in tense silence—the scrape of stone, the gurgle of a simmering cauldron. Then Malfoy picked up a vial of silver-green essence. “This is moonstone extract? It’s too refined. The lingering curses we’re targeting are tied to dark magic; you need a raw, unbleached catalyst.” Hermione’s head snapped up. “I’ve read every paper on post-curse healing. Moonstone is standard.” “Standard for petty jinxes. You want to counter something like a necrotic severing charm? This won’t touch it.” He held the vial to the torchlight. “You need to crush the stone with a silver blade—and then add a drop of troll blood.” She gaped. “Troll blood is caustic. It would destabilize the—wait.” She snatched her notes. The theory of dark residue… yes, that might work. “How do you know that?” Malfoy’s smirk was thin. “Some of us learned a few things from people who actually cast dark curses. Practical experience.” Before she could retort, he poured the moonstone extract into the mortar and raised his wand. “Cru — no, Wait. Resecto Silvum.” A silver blade materialized and began chipping the stone into powder. The process was mesmerizing, but Hermione noticed his hands shaking slightly. He was pushing himself—perhaps to prove something. “You’re adding too much pressure,” she said sharply. “You’ll shatter the pestle.” “I know what I’m doing.” Crack. The stone pestle split in two. A shower of sharp fragments and moonstone dust exploded outward. Hermione threw up a shield charm, but Malfoy took the brunt of it—a shard slicing his forearm. Blood welled, dark and stark. “Stupid—I told you—” She rushed to him, already reaching for dittany. “Hold still.” He flinched from her touch. “Don’t.” “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re bleeding.” She pressed the dittany to the wound. He hissed, but didn’t pull away. Their eyes met. For a moment, the animosity flickered—just a crack. Then he stepped back, rolling down his sleeve. “I’ll get a new pestle. Don’t touch my ingredients while I’m gone.” The door clicked shut. Hermione stood alone in the dim light, staring at the bloodstained mortar, and realized this project was going to be far more dangerous than she’d anticipated.