I Was Forced to Brew a Potion With My Enemy, But Our Hate Exploded Into Passion in the Dungeons

Professor Slughorn beamed, his large belly shaking with mirth as he clapped his hands together, the sound echoing off the damp dungeon walls. "For our semester-long project, we shall be fostering a bit of inter-house unity! You will be working in pairs, carefully selected by yours truly, to produce a perfect Draught of Living Death."

A nervous murmur swept through the classroom. The Draught of Living Death was a notoriously difficult N.E.W.T.-level potion, requiring a delicate balance and flawless execution. A single misplaced stir could ruin the entire batch.

Hermione’s hand was already halfway in the air, a question about the grading criteria on her lips, but it froze when Slughorn began reading the pairings.

"Finnigan and Parkinson… Longbottom and Zabini…"

She exchanged a worried glance with Ron, who grimaced in sympathy from across the room. The pairings were deliberately chaotic, a Gryffindor with a Slytherin in almost every case. Her stomach tightened. There was only one person left she could possibly be paired with.

"And finally," Slughorn announced with a flourish, "Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy!"

The name hit her like a physical blow. A cold silence fell over their corner of the dungeon. She could feel every eye on them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Draco Malfoy’s posture stiffen, his usual languid slouch replaced by rigid indignation. He turned his head slowly, a sneer already twisting his pale, pointed features.

"You cannot be serious, Professor," Malfoy drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. "I’m meant to work with her?"

"Now, now, Draco, my boy! A little collaboration will do you both good! Miss Granger’s academic brilliance and your own… considerable raw talent! A formidable combination!" Slughorn chortled, oblivious to the venom radiating from the Slytherin table.

Their first session was a masterclass in silent hostility. They claimed a workstation in the far back of the room, the space between them a frigid chasm. Hermione laid out her parchment, quill, and scales with sharp, precise movements, pointedly ignoring him. He leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, watching her with narrowed grey eyes.

"Are you going to contribute at all, Malfoy, or just stand there looking decorative?" she finally snapped, her patience worn thin by his silent scrutiny.

He pushed off the wall and approached the table. "I’m merely observing your technique, Granger. Wouldn't want you mucking it up before we’ve even begun." He picked up the silver dagger. "I’ll handle the Sopophorous beans. I doubt you have the finesse."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort but stopped. He was right. Crushing the beans was a common mistake; the juice had to be extracted with a precise slice. She watched, grudgingly, as he laid the shriveled bean on the cutting board. His long, pale fingers were surprisingly steady, the blade of the dagger moving with a fluid grace she hadn’t expected. He made a perfect, clean incision, and the rich juice bled onto the board. He didn't look at her, but a faint, smug smirk touched his lips. She turned back to her powdered moonstone, her cheeks burning with an unfamiliar mixture of irritation and a grudging, almost imperceptible, flicker of respect. The only sounds between them were the quiet scrape of her knife and the soft clink of his vials.

Weeks bled into a month, and their silent routine solidified. They took to working late, long after the other students had retreated to their common rooms, when the dungeons were quiet save for the bubble of their cauldron and the distant drip of water. The potion was progressing, its pearlescent sheen a testament to their unwilling but effective partnership. Tonight was a critical stage, requiring a sequence of seven counter-clockwise stirs, followed by a single clockwise one.

Hermione was exhausted. The long hours were catching up to her, her mind fuzzy at the edges. She’d been leaning over the simmering cauldron for what felt like an eternity, the fumes making her head swim. She finished the seventh counter-clockwise stir, her arm aching. She paused, losing her count for a split second in the haze of fatigue. Believing she’d missed one, she dipped her silver ladle back in for another counter-clockwise stir.

The effect was instantaneous and violent.

The potion lurched from a pale lilac to a sickening, dark grey. A venomous hiss erupted from the cauldron, and a thick, acrid vapor billowed upwards, smelling of burnt lavender and something rotten.

Before Hermione could even gasp, a solid force slammed into her side. The world became a blur of black robes and grey stone. She hit the floor hard, the air driven from her lungs in a painful whoosh. A hand cradled the back of her head, saving it from cracking against the unforgiving flagstones. Draco Malfoy was on top of her, his body a dead weight, pressing her into the floor. He had his face buried in the crook of her neck, shielding them both from the toxic cloud spreading through the air.

For a few heart-stopping seconds, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the dying hiss of the ruined potion. Hermione’s mind reeled, unable to process what had just happened. She was acutely aware of everything: the solid weight of his chest pinning her down, the heat of him seeping through their clothes, the frantic beat of his heart against her ribs. He had moved without a shred of his usual calculated grace; it was a raw, instinctual act of preservation.

Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, his face just inches from hers. His eyes, wide and alarmed, scanned her face. There was no sneer, no trace of mockery. She saw only genuine, stark fear in their stormy depths. His silver-blond hair was mussed, falling across his forehead, and his breath was coming in short, sharp bursts against her cheek.

"Are you alright, Granger?" His voice was low, rough with something she couldn't identify.

She could only manage a nod, her own throat tight.

He pushed himself off her completely and rose to his feet in one fluid motion. Without a word, he extended a hand down to her. Hesitantly, she took it. His fingers wrapped around hers, his grip surprisingly strong and warm. He pulled her to her feet with an ease that left her momentarily unsteady. His hand remained on her upper arm, his thumb brushing against the sleeve of her robe as if to steady her. The touch lingered, a silent, charged moment that stretched between them. Then, as if suddenly remembering who they were, he dropped his hand and took a step back. The mask of cool indifference slid back into place, but his eyes were still a shade too wide, his posture a fraction too rigid.

He stared at the smoking cauldron, his jaw tight with a frustration that, for once, didn't seem aimed at her. "It's ruined," he stated, the words flat and final. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated and entirely uncharacteristic. "The Sopophorous bean has been corrupted. It will turn to poison within the hour."

Hermione’s heart sank. All those weeks of work, gone. "So we start over?" she asked, her voice small.

"There isn't time," he countered sharply. He paced the length of their workstation, his long legs eating up the space between them. He stopped abruptly and turned to face her. "There might be a way to neutralize the corruption. A counter-incantation. It's archaic, involves runic principles."

She stared at him. "How do you know that?"

A flicker of his old arrogance returned. "Unlike you, Granger, I don't get all my knowledge from school-sanctioned texts. The Malfoy library is… extensive." He paused. "The procedure is in Archaic Elixirs and Antidotes. It's in the Restricted Section."

"Then we'll have to go," she said, her resolve hardening. "We need a pass from Slughorn—"

"And announce our failure to the entire school?" he cut her off, his voice a low hiss. "Don't be an idiot. I'll get us in. Meet me at the library entrance at eleven. Don't be late." He didn't wait for her answer, turning on his heel and striding out of the dungeons, leaving her alone with the wreck of their potion and the lingering scent of his cologne in the air.

Hours later, she slipped through the darkened corridors, her heart pounding with the illicit thrill of being out after curfew. He was already there, a tall shadow leaning against the heavy oak doors of the library, his face obscured by the darkness. He straightened as she approached and, with a quiet Alohomora, unlocked the door.

Inside, the library was a vast, silent cavern. Moonlight streamed through the high arched windows, illuminating floating dust motes and the spines of a million sleeping books. The air was cool and smelled of old parchment and beeswax. Under the dim glow of his wand, they navigated the labyrinthine aisles towards the iron-wrought gate of the Restricted Section. Another whispered spell, and the gate creaked open.

They moved through the narrow stacks in silence, their shoulders occasionally brushing in the cramped space. He was the one who broke the quiet, pulling a slim, leather-bound volume from a shelf.

"Bertram's Theories on Lunar Influence," he said, his voice a low murmur that was absorbed by the books around them. "Completely overrated. He attributes far too much to simple gravitational pull and ignores the inherent magical properties of reflected light."

Hermione stopped and turned, surprised. "I thought his work was foundational."

"It's fundamentally flawed," he countered, not with a sneer, but with the conviction of someone who had actually considered the argument. "He fails to account for the alchemical symbolism. The moon doesn't just pull the tides, it pulls at the very essence of liquid-based ingredients. It's a symbolic correspondence, not just a physical one."

She found herself stepping closer, intrigued. "But that's a purely theoretical branch of Potions. It's never been proven."

"Because no one has the patience for it," he said, his grey eyes finding hers in the dim light. "It requires a level of nuance that most potioneers lack. They follow the steps, they don't understand the why."

For the first time, she saw him not as a bully or a rival, but as a mind. A sharp, inquisitive mind that, like hers, wasn't content with simple answers. "I've always believed the final stir in the Draught of Living Death isn't about mixing," she confessed, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "It's symbolic. A clockwise stir to seal the magic, to signify completion and order."

A slow smile touched his lips. It wasn't his usual smirk; it was something quieter, more genuine. "Exactly." He reached past her and pulled a heavy, dust-covered tome from the shelf. "Archaic Elixirs and Antidotes." He held it out to her. As she took it, their fingers brushed. A small, simple contact, yet it sent a jolt through her arm. The air between them shifted, the old hostility dissolving into the quiet, dusty dark, replaced by a fragile, unspoken understanding.