Chapter 4: Neomycin

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Hermione ignored the tell-tale tinkle of the bell as she stepped through the familiar glass-panel door into the cream coloured waiting room. It felt claustrophobic with uncomfortable plastic chairs lining the poster-covered walls; a corner was sectioned off filled with old children's toys, and a low coffee table sat in the centre of the room covered in out-of-date magazines.

Making her way to the high bench on the far side, she peered over the top, fondly watching the man on the other side squint at the ancient white cinderblock computer, eyes magnified by gold wire-framed glasses to make him resemble a beetle, poking at the keyboard with two index fingers.

Hermione cleared her throat with a cheeky grin, "Hello, stranger."

The man jolted, nearly sending himself tumbling out of the computer chair in his fright, "Sweetheart! Good morning! I thought we weren't expecting you for another hour!"

"I thought I'd come in early to say hello before you had the chance to shove a saliva ejector down my throat," Hermione looked around the empty room curiously, before asking her father, "Where is everybody? I thought you were supposed to be fully booked today?"

Mr Granger's expression turned strained, "Our receptionist fell ill last night, and our assistant is on holiday. We couldn't find a replacement so I got stuck with the job while your mother takes the double-shift. We thought it would be best if we told all the appointments to come back in an hour. She's battling a real stubborn root canal at the moment."

Hermione nodded knowingly, "Upper molar?"

"Top left, right in front of a half-emerged wisdom tooth."

Hermione blanched in sympathy as she made her way around to the other side of the reception desk, "Want me to take over? I don't have to go to the lab today."

Mr Granger, who had still been typing with only two fingers, looked incredibly relieved as he bounced out of the seat, "Oh, thank you, Hermione! Yes, that would be excellent – let me just go and tell your mother! Can you call back Mrs Ainsworth and tell her she can come in straight away? I'll just go and set up my equipment…"

Hermione slowly seated herself in the computer chair and, with a soft smile to her erratic father, pulled up the information for his next appointment.

The hours flew by as grouchy appointment-goers came in one after the other, the phone ringing off the hook as more than one complained loudly about the clinic's tardiness. Hermione felt her patience begin to thin as one of their patients chose to knock the pile of business cards neatly stacked on the side of the desk onto the floor, huffing indignantly through a mouthful of blood-soaked cotton-wads. Ah, so that was Mr Root Canal.

Hermione took a deep breath through her nose as she crouched behind the desk, picking up stray pieces of card. She brushed imaginary lint off her clothes as she stood and leant across the table to place the set back on the bench, only to jump in fright. Standing there, watching her unblinkingly was a rather out-of-shape man with thinning blond hair and watery eyes.

"May I help you?" Hermione asked, feeling her heart beat unevenly in her chest.

The man didn't reply, instead choosing to continue staring at her.

Hermione shifted her weight on her feet, leaning back slightly as she glanced at the old computer monitor, "Er, you must be Mr Pettigrew. Why don't you have a seat? We're running a little bit behind today, but it shouldn't be longer than fifteen minutes."

The phone chimed again and Hermione rushed to answer it, happy to have an excuse not to talk to the odd man any longer. She gave him a wan smile as she gestured with her hands toward the line of seats before turning away to type in the appointment request on the other end of the line.

"Yes, yes. Well, we have a spot open on to fourteenth if that suits you? Nine o'clock? Of course, Mr Hamilton. Yes, I hope you have a pleasant day too," with a satisfied click she hung up the phone, glad to not have heard the chime from above the door announcing anyone new walking through them. Closing her eyes, Hermione stretched her arms above her head and felt her back pop. She gave a satisfied sigh as she reclined back into the swivel chair.

Snapping her eyes open, she found herself still being stared at by those disturbing watery eyes.

Hermione squared her shoulders defensively, and said in a much colder tone, "May I help you?"

Pettigrew gave her a simpering smile of too-small, crooked teeth, "You're much prettier than I expected, Miss Granger. I can see why he fell for you."

Hermione felt the blood leave her face, pooling in her stomach with a sense of dread. The man leaned further over the table separating them and Hermione had to force herself not to roll the swivel chair out of reach; he was far within the common courtesy of personal space. Pettigrew's nose twitched not unlike a rat's, "I was just, wondering, Miss Granger, if—"

"Peter Pettigrew?" came a chilly voice from the hallway. Hermione felt relief flood through her at the sight of the willowy, curly-haired brunette woman, whose usually-smiling mouth was turned down in a harsh, jagged line, "Come. It's your turn."

Peter flinched and retracted from where Hermione sat, scarpering into the narrow hallway under the hawk-like eyes of Hermione's mother. Dr Granger turned to her daughter, "You can go home now, dear. Our assistant has called in saying that she has arrived home early from her holiday. I'll have your father take over again until she arrives."

Hermione gave her a bright grin, "Thank you, I'll come back for my appointment another time, I think."

Mrs Granger nodded before a thin smile played over her lips, "Oh my," she feigned, "It seems that we are running low on anaesthetic today. What a shame I just happen to have a double extraction right now…"

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Peter whimpered as he tapped softly on his bloated purple cheeks. Sirius and James winced in sympathy.

"Sorry, mate."

Peter mumbled something through the heavy bandages.

Sirius blinked, "Come again?"

"So, what do we do next?" asked James, jabbing a straw into a glass of pumpkin juice and passing it to Peter who sipped at it timidly.

Sirius delved back into Hermione's trusty beaded purse with a grin, pulling out a narrow slip of paper.

"A-ha! Here we are…" flattening the sheet on the tabletop, he proudly presented the receipt to Peter and James.

"Paris? We're going to Paris?" James asked.

"No, I'm going to Paris. You're going to keep Remus off the scent, and I'm pretty sure Peter doesn't want to risk running into Granger's dear old mum again anytime soon. Besides, out of the lot of you, I'm the only one with any grip on French."

James nodded in agreement. When he had gone to visit Remus the night previous, he had been shocked to find Remus's beloved cottage had been turned completely upside-down. Drawers had been pulled out of their slides, clothes tossed across rooms, loose floorboards yanked up, and Remus wandered throughout it all muttering to himself as he flitted back and forth throughout the house in a state of utter disbelief.

"You all right, mate?" James had asked him.

Remus didn't reply for a long time, "I've lost it," he had moaned, distressed.

James grinned cheekily, "I can tell."

"Not me! I mean her bag! Her bag is missing! I've been looking for it everywhere!"

"What do you need a girl's bag for?" James asked slyly.

Remus span on the spot with a look of surprise, as if he had only just realised that James was standing there, "No reason! I just need it!"

James grinned. Remus flushed.

He feigned ignorance, "Could it be Hermione Granger's bag you're looking for?"

Remus grimaced, "How do you know about her?"

"Sirius told me."

"Big-mouthed mutt doesn't know how to keep his nose out of other people's business," Remus muttered darkly, "I bet he's the one who took her bag!"

James coughed uncomfortably, trying to drag Remus's attention away from Sirius's kleptomaniac tendencies, "Er… so what's so special about this Granger girl? I mean, other than the whole 'curing your lycanthropy' thing."

A dopey grin that James had never seen before spread across Remus's face, "She's just… nice, I guess. And sweet. And witty. And— and she just cares. She truly, honestly cares. I mean, in her free time she goes and knits sweaters for orphan penguins in Australia! Oswald Beamish couldn't hold a Lumos charm to her!"

"Who?"

"Honestly, did you ever pay attention in History of Magic?"

"No. How do you know about the penguin thing?"

Remus turned a decidedly interesting shade of pink, "I just do!" He nearly shouted.

"Have you been spying on her?" James barely covered a smirk with the back of his hand, pretending to yawn.

His friend instantly became flustered, which was a rare sight, "I'm not spying on her! I'm— I'm just making sure she doesn't report anything suspicious! The Ministry of Magic is already trying to figure out how to approach her about her potion!"

Remus didn't wait for a reply as he turned away with a huff and began to rifle through his cutlery drawer (which was curiously located on the stairwell). James lifted a towel off a table lamp half-heartedly when he heard a sigh.

Remus's shoulders were slumped as he leant heavily against the balustrade, the flustered grimace replaced with a forlorn look.

"I suppose it doesn't matter in the end; I'm a wizard and she's a muggle. I'm far too old for her anyway..."

James was dragged from his memories when a crumpled ball of parchment smacked him on the forehead, "Prongs! Get it together! We're Marauders on a mission here!"

"You guys still call yourselves that?" came a voice from the kitchen doorway. Scruffy haired and bespectacled stood James's grinning son, Harry.

"Harry, m'boy!" Sirius jumped up with glee to loop an arm around his Godson's shoulder, dragging him to the large wooden table, "How have you been?"

Harry ignored him to throw Peter an incredulous look, "What happened to your face?"

Peter mumbled something out from between bruised lips. Sirius waved him off.

"Good to see you here, Harry. We need your opinion since your old man's apparently too thick to even understand which end of a centaur to stay away from."

"Er, I'm pretty sure you're supposed to stay away from both ends."

"Exactly," Sirius winked.

"Hey!" James cried indignantly, sending his son a wounded look when he laughed.

"Anyway, James, as I was trying to tell your dense skull; I'm going to leave the bag with you until I get back, so try and keep it out of sight? Merlin known Remus will go rampaging through my place the moment he realises I'm gone."

James blinked; Sirius seemed to be able to read Remus all too well… or Remus just knew how Sirius ticked. Whichever.

"What are you doing with a woman's purse anyway, Sirius?" Harry asked, eyeing the upended beaded bag sitting innocently on his Godfather's kitchen table. Sirius stood up, dragging James from his own seat.

"It's a long story. Peter can fill you in on the facts. C'mon, Prongs, you can help me pack for Paris," he clapped Peter heavily on the shoulder as he walked out of the kitchen, jolting his jaw and making the poor man moan pitifully. Harry looked confused.

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The idea the Hermione makes sweaters for orphaned penguins actually was inspired by a true story of an old man in Australia, who spent his retirement making knitted jumpers for fairy penguins. It just reminded me so strongly of Hermione and her attempts to clothe House Elves I couldn't help but add it in. Review!