Previously: Chuckling to herself, Hermione began scribbling ideas on the back of a receipt from Tesco. Another standard potion wouldn't do for her rebuttal. She would have to create something from scratch.


Chapter Seven: Pennyroyal

2 July 1987

Algie was a bloody sneak.

The starthistle had not produced the spiky, star shaped blossoms Hermione had expected. Instead, several deep purple, trumpet shaped flowers had sprouted from the branch that morning. Algie had created a magical hybrid of starthistle and belladonna.

It was a clever way to test her abilities, she had to admit. Anyone could purchase starthistle blossoms at an apothecary. This way, he could be sure she'd kept the plant alive herself.

Marching up Algie's drive, Hermione rapped her knuckles against his front door. A shout came from within, commanding her to hold her hippogriffs, as if she'd been knocking for the past ten minutes.

"Aha," Algie said as he opened the door, taking the sprig of starthistle and belladonna from her. "Very good. You can start today, I presume?"

"I can, but I hope you didn't want me to return the whole plant. My neighbour has already laid claim to it. He's a Potioneer."

"Not a problem. Take all the cuttings you like. I have a few other hybrids around here that may interest him. Now, let's get started. We've a lot of hippogriff manure to shift. If we get enough done by lunch, I might tell you how I managed to ensure the belladonna portion of the plant blooms in icy conditions."


4 July 1987

The combined scents of newly dug earth and fresh, green leaves enveloped Hermione as she pressed soil around the base of her latest offering from Algie: the lovechild of henbane and Angel's Trumpet. Charity's garden now had several plants for each day Hermione had worked. They were equally split between Algie's hybrids and ordinary plants of extraordinary quality.

"If you keep up your current pace," Snape said, "you'll need to expand into my garden by the end of the summer."

Hermione looked back at him over her shoulder. "Would you mind?"

"I could be persuaded to accommodate you."

She laughed. Each of Algie's creations had sent him into a flurry of research. Standing up, she dusted her hands off on the seat of her jeans and cast a speculative stare at his garden.

"If I'm going to plant anything in your garden, it'll have to involve aconite in some way."

"Why in Merlin's name would I need aconite? I'm not friendly with any werewolves."

"Oh, believe me, I know. But aconite symbolises misanthropy."

Instead of taking her teasing as an insult, he made a quiet exhale that sounded almost like a laugh.

"You may as well begin now," he said. "I know of a place where you can obtain a cutting from an impressive specimen."

She didn't stop to ask where they were going; she simply took his offered arm and waited. With a breath-stealing squeeze, the bright, open sunshine of Charity's garden was replaced by the soft green light of a dense forest. Everything around them was alive, buzzing with magic.

"The Forbidden Forest?" Hermione asked in a whisper.

Snape nodded. "Just beyond the outer wards. I discovered it in my first year of teaching."

A year which he would have spent going back and forth between his two masters. Hermione shuddered.

The aconite was, indeed, an exquisite plant. Far bigger than the Muggle variety, its deep indigo flowers would not have looked out of place in Hagrid's garden, blossoming alongside his gigantic pumpkins. A group of little roe deer watched from a distance as Hermione sliced off one of the smaller leaves and cast the charm to make it grow roots. After a moment's consideration, she took another cutting for Algie.

Tilting her head back to gaze up at the tall, tall forest canopy, Hermione gave voice to one of the many questions she had about this past version of Snape.

"Can you fly yet?"

He looked down his nose at her. "Obviously. I've been able to fly since I was eleven. Can't you?"

"Barely." She chuckled. "I meant without a broom, though. You could, in my time."

"Ah. Yes, I can."

"Can you teach me?"

"No."

"Why not? Is it Dark?"

"Like all magic, it depends upon intent." He lapsed into his teaching voice, the cadence so familiar that Hermione found her fingers itching for a quill to take notes. "In most cases, it is not overtly harmful. There is a vast spectrum of shades between the Killing Curse and Expecto Patronum. Broomless flight's place on that spectrum is not why I doubt your ability to learn."

"I'm perfectly capable—"

"I was not speaking of your skill, or any lack thereof. The flight itself may not be Dark, but it is powered by Darkness. The more Dark spells a person has cast, the more successful their efforts will be. Do you truly think you meet the requirements?"

"You might be surprised. I was researching cures for Dolohov's curse, remember? I cast it quite a few times."

"Hmm. Very well, but if you find yourself stuck up a tree, don't expect me to come to your rescue. You'll have to wait for the fire brigade. Stow your cuttings somewhere; you'll need to take both of my hands to start."

Drawing her lower lip into her mouth, Hermione paused for a moment to consider what she was about to do. Going all panicked and high-pitched would not win her any points with Snape.

"How much concentration do you need to manage it?" she asked, resting the aconite against a tree.

"Not a great deal. Why?"

"I'm a bit afraid of flying. I've tried brooms, thestrals, hippogriffs, dragons—"

"Dragons?"

"Oh, you'll see." Flashing him a grin, Hermione grasped his hands. His skin was slightly rough, callused from years of brewing. Repeated rubbing of a knife handle over a spot on his left middle finger had created a raised bump. "Anyway, I never took to flying in any form. I tend to become a bit clingy when I get more than two or three feet off of the ground."

"There will be no clinging today. Why do you wish to learn yet another method of flight if it frightens you?"

"If I know I can catch myself, I might be less afraid."

Snape's only response to this was a derisive sniff. Tightening his grip on her hands, he took a step towards her. The roe deer inched closer as well, their delicate hooves not making a sound.

"As I said, successful unsupported flight requires tapping into one's Darkness. As I cast it, you should be able to feel some of the effects. Pay attention. Volate."

The deer skittered away. One doe remained a second longer than the others, staring at Snape and Hermione with big, solemn eyes. Taking to the air was not what made Hermione draw in a sharp gasp. Heat spread over her body, radiating out from the point where his skin touched hers. It was as Dark as he'd promised, as if drawn directly from that secret place within everyone that whispered forbidden things.

"Vol… You-Know-Who taught you this way?" she asked.

"Absolutely not. I created this spell."

"Oh."

Hermione tried to focus on the sensation of flight, to absorb what she was supposed to be learning, but all she could feel was heat and closeness and skin. Snape, she reminded herself. This is Snape. The quickening of her heartbeat didn't care—not with such a delicious spell pulsing through her and warming her blood. His spell. Snape's gaze drifted to her mouth. Before Hermione could decide whether to lean in or retreat, they came back down to earth with a thud.

"That should be sufficient," Snape said. "Your turn."

Nearly an hour later, Hermione hadn't managed actual flight, but she had managed to slow her descent when leaping from a tree. She could catch herself, after a fashion.

She'd also almost convinced herself that there had been nothing to her momentary flicker of… all right, she could name it: attraction. It had been attraction, but it had also been a fluke. A blip. Purely physical. She'd never once had some sort of schoolgirl crush on him. Not even when he'd delivered that speech about Dark Magic at the start of her sixth year. Not even a little. Everyone had bizarre, impulsive thoughts, now and then. Such thoughts didn't mean anything.

Or perhaps this was why other witches and wizards used brooms. Unsupported flight induced madness.

"No," Snape said as Hermione once again failed to levitate off of the ground. He held his hands out to her. "Come here, and do try to actually pay attention."

Hermione shuffled away from him. "Actually, we should probably be getting back, don't you think?"

Snape arched an eyebrow. This time, when he looked at her lips, his stare was calculating. It left her cold.


Charity paused in the hallway, peeking into Hermione's room. "What are you working on?" she asked.

"A potion." Waving a hand at the papers spread over the bed and floor, Hermione groaned. "Snape and I have a bit of a battle going on."

"A Potions battle?"

"Yeah. Do you think Professor Dumbledore would give me a phoenix feather if I asked? Or, wait, is it even his to give? I think I might have to ask Fawkes directly."

"No idea, I'm afraid." Perching on one of the few clear spots on the bed, Charity held out a plate piled with custard creams and chocolate digestives. "Biscuit?" She waited until Hermione was discontentedly nibbling on a custard cream before she spoke again. "Phoenix feathers? Are you trying to make some sort of healing potion?"

"Sort of, I guess. I'm not really sure."

Hermione was entirely sure. In addition to her next move in their battle, she was working on formulating one of the potions that would be tucked into her potentially life-saving gift to Snape. She just needed to obtain a feather from Fawkes or a hair from someone who could come to Snape's aid in the Shrieking Shack. Acquiring both a feather and a hair would be preferable. Narcissa Malfoy seemed the most likely candidate for the hair. Hermione knew Narcissa would be at the Battle of Hogwarts, as well as being indebted to Snape for saving her son's life.

The potions had to work. Both of them. She could do this. She could push past the boundaries of the rules and risk ruining a few cauldrons, as Horace had once advised her to do. Maybe some of Algie's experimental plants...

"Well, just don't make your potion anything to do with de-greasing his hair," Charity said. "I tried mentioning it once. He didn't speak to me for about a month."

Hermione remembered the weeks following the end of the war, when George's hair had looked like a ginger version of Snape's. Taking care of himself hadn't been a priority when he couldn't stand to look in a mirror. What were her chances of convincing Snape of the merits of therapy? Considerably less than when she'd broached the topic with Harry and George, that was for certain.

Dusting the biscuit crumbs off of her pyjama top and onto the floor, Charity opened her mouth to say something else. Hermione, absorbed as she was in her notes, missed the moment when Charity's words died on her tongue. She also missed the cause of Charity's silence.

The silver phoenix book that had transported Hermione to 1987 had been left out on her bedside table. To most people, it would look like a fancy diary. Not to Charity. Charity's face went pale as her lips pressed together into a thin line.

Hermione didn't notice.


Notes: My beta reader, Vitellia, helped with the incantation for broomless flight. When I thought the plural form of "Fly!" sounded the most like a spell, she encouraged me to use that one, since the Latin in the books was always a little off. So if you're one of the few readers who actually speak Latin and are itching to correct me: I know it's wrong, and I did it anyway. Thank you again for all of the reviews, follows, and favourites! xx