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Detention with Professor Snape turned out to be a lot more tolerable than Hermione had expected. Rather than scrubbing cauldrons by hand or gutting newts, she had been given another list of potions to brew before he left her to her own devices. It thrilled her that he had allowed her to work in his private lab again, unsupervised. Did Snape have more faith in her than he wanted her to think?
She was amazed at the sheer quantity of potions her professor was responsible for providing. It didn't seem fair for him to have this duty on top of everything else he was doing for the Order (not to mention how demanding being a Hogwarts Professor could be in the first place). No wonder he wanted my assistance.
Part of her felt a little let down to realize just how desperate he had been for help. He probably would have let anybody do it, given that they could brew a decent Calming Draught. And yet, she knew he would never have entrusted this duty to anyone who was incapable of fulfilling it. After all, there were plenty of Slytherins who would be happy to work under him, with the impression that the potions were all going to Madame Pomfrey. Still, it gave her a wonderful sense of importance to be taking on this duty herself.
Hermione was almost done with a triple batch of Invigoration Draught when Professor Snape returned to check on her. He came to stand beside her and looked into one of the cauldrons with an unreadable expression. Hermione could feel herself tensing up under his scrutiny and had to focus extra hard on her brewing in order not to screw up.
As she picked up the stirring spoon, Professor Snape stopped her with a gentle hand on hers. At the contact he immediately withdrew it, but she took his meaning and looked up to him for an explanation. "I know it says to stir eight times clockwise, but the potion will turn out better if you stir it seven times clockwise and then once counterclockwise." Hermione gawked at him a moment before remembering herself and following his instructions.
"If the potion turns out better this way, why isn't it written down like that?" She glanced at Snape in time to see the corner of his mouth turn up in pleased thoughtfulness.
"The directions in a Potions Textbook are based on officially recognized standards. When a potion is invented for the first time, each step is calculated precisely based on the properties of the ingredients involved and the ways in which they interact with each other, the cauldron, the heat, etc. But a potion is more than just a mathematical equation." Hermione had bottled her batches and was watching the Potions Master in fascination. For once, he didn't look mean or spiteful at all. He was very clearly in love with Potions. In fact, she wondered if he didn't miss teaching the subject.
"A true Potion Master can sense what a potion needs beyond an equation. One must be in tune with the magic of the potion and sensitive to its needs. It is almost like communion; like a trance." Hermione was baffled by this explanation. It made sense, but she was intimidated by his raw talent. A shiver ran down her spine. The Half Blood Prince must have been a natural at Potions, as well.
Something just didn't seem to fit. The idea that the Prince and her Professor had both made the same alteration to their Invigoration Draught based on feeling was ridiculous.
"Is there a right way to brew a potion, then? I mean, is it a matter of finding the alterations to the formula that the potion requires, or do different Potion Masters come up with different modifications?" Professor Snape seemed to think about this a moment. If she didn't know better, she might have thought he was impressed by her question.
"It's difficult to say," he began slowly. "You see, there aren't very many Potion Masters around here. And, as I'm sure you can't imagine, I don't really go to the conventions." He sneered at her, daring her to comment on that. When she didn't, he continued. "My guess, however, would be that different Potion Masters make different amendments to their potions."
Hermione's mind was spinning as she ran toward the library. Professor Snape had let her out of her detention a scant half hour before curfew and she was determined to have an answer before she went to bed.
Madame Pince was not impressed when she bolted through the library door and headed straight for the section that contained the old school records. She finally had another lead on the Prince, and this time she felt so close she could practically smell blood.
Books were splayed half hazard across the tables as she ripped through volume after volume in her quest. Little tidbits about her professor kept jumping out, teasing her each time, then letting her down. She did not need to know what year he began Hogwarts, or the fact that he was a Slytherin, or that he had been a Potions Prodigy. None of this was new information.
But then she found it. A yearbook from his last year at Hogwarts gave a brief biography of each of the graduating students. There, on the first line, was her answer: "Severus Snape, son of Tobias Snape and Eileen Prince…" Prince! She could practically jump for joy! A jolt went through her body at the thought that Harry's book, with all of its scribbles, contained instinctual Potions insight from her very own Professor Snape!
If I could just find a way to get my hands on that book!
Hermione was breathless when she reached the Common Room, and it wasn't because of the stairs. She immediately saw Harry and Ron over in a corner playing chess and went to join them.
"How was the greasy git?" Ron said, without taking his eyes off of the chessboard.
"Professor Snape was just fine, Ron." She responded. She watched Ron deftly snatch Harry's bishop then glanced toward the boys' dormitories. Is it up there? she wondered. She took a seat on the couch beside Ron and began contemplating thief tactics. It wouldn't be the first time someone broke into his dorm to steal a book. Then she saw it. Leaned against Harry's leg was his half-opened bag with the Prince's Potions book visible through the opening.
Her heart leapt. He would never believe an interest in looking through it after Ginny's effort to steal it from him a few weeks ago.
Her fingers itched to grab it and read it cover to cover. It was like a treasure chest guarded by a dragon. Ok, so maybe that wasn't the best way to think about her best friend. Still, there had to be some way to distract them long enough for her to get it from him.
Hermione was so intently focused on the book that she didn't notice when Cormac McLaggen materialized in front of her. "Evening, Hermione," he began. She startled at the sound of her name and looked up at him.
"Oh, hello Cormac." She said, irritated that he had interrupted her concentration.
"Slughorn's Christmas party is coming up. Are you going with anyone?" Hermione stared blankly at him, trying to comprehend what he was asking through the fog of broken concentration.
"I—no." she said offhandedly.
"Good!" He exclaimed, "Then you'll have no objection to my offer!" Hermione looked back up to him once more.
"Your offer?" she repeated in confusion, trying to remember what he had been asking her.
"To be my date. I'll finally have you all to myself." An alarm seemed to go off in the back of Hermione's mind and she was suddenly very alert to the situation. A glance at Harry and Ron told her that they were so involved in their chess match that they hadn't even registered McLaggen's appearance. She was defenseless.
"I—that is…" she broke off. As much as she really didn't want to attend the party with him, she had no excuse not to. She hadn't even given the damned party a thought. That's not for weeks!
"We can meet in the Common Room before the party, then. And I'll escort you." He winked, to her horror, and left their group to retire for the night.
Fuck.
Severus was standing at the entrance to the Malfoys' grand ballroom, where the Dark Lord's throne had been erected temporarily. But there was a feeling of something different in the air. The walls swayed as he passed, walking purposefully toward the commotion at the center of the room. Although, he couldn't quite remember what his purpose was.
The Death Eaters were standing around in a perfect circle, their necks bent identically from identical heights to stare at something on the floor in the middle.
There was movement, but no sound.
Severus stepped into his place in the circle and suddenly the chaos seemed to be around him. The creature on the floor was screaming in agony as Death Eater after Death Eater threw curses at her. Her. He recognized that bushy hair anywhere, but hadn't seemed to notice it before.
Hermione. Her face was distorted with agony and he tried to step to her, to cover her and protect her from their curses, but he was frozen in place. He looked helplessly at the other Death Eaters and suddenly saw that they all had his face. They were going around the circle throwing hexes at her and then it was his turn.
He felt himself raise his wand, torn between what he had to do and what he wanted to do. He felt his mouth open, ready to curse her. How could he stop this torment?! And then his wand sliced through the air with practiced efficiency.
"Avada Kedavra!" he heard himself scream, and her body stilled; her torment ceased. She was lying as he had found her on the floor the other night, but there was nothing peaceful about the empty stare of her soft brown eyes not quite focusing on him.
Bolting upright, Severus cursed aloud. This was why he didn't sleep! He ran to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. His whole body was shaking and he couldn't seem to brush away that nightmare. He stared at his own naked reflection in disgust. He needed to distance himself from her. People who get too close to me always end up dead.
Take Albus for example. Severus started a cold shower to wash away the horrors of the dream. It was only a matter of time before he would have to kill Albus too. He only wished the little brat, Draco, would give him some clue as to when that might be. It didn't help that the Headmaster wanted him to do it. Even then, he would never recover from the guilt. And then, everyone he knew who wasn't a death eater would hate him more than ever.
She would hate him.
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