"I couldn't believe my ears, Albus!" continued Madame Pomfrey, waving away
the proffered bag of lemon drops and instead taking the cup of tea from the
table in front of her. "You should have heard the girl. No respect at
all!"
Dumbledore made several polite and noncommittal noises as he poured himself another cup of tea and listened to the mediwitch continue to vent her outrage. When she took a sip of her own and offered him the opening, Dumbledore changed the subject by asking how her patient had taken Hermione's comments.
"Oh, he took it well. Better than I would have expected, all things considered, and an improvement on his usual silences. I quite expected him to snap at her." Getting only another "hmm" in reply, Pomfrey was ready to snap at her employer. "Don't just sit there and hum at me, Albus. We must do something about Severus."
"You're correct, of course, Poppy. And we will. Severus without his temper is a very dull boy."
"I'm worried about his health, not his temper."
"I believe they are intimately related, dear lady, perhaps even more so than I previously suspected."
Pomfrey harrumphed this time, and sipped at her tea. Arguing with Dumbledore was more frustrating that arguing with a malingering first year with a test to avoid. "I suppose you're going to tell me I've been coddling him too much."
"No, not at all. It's your job to coddle your patients. But the fact remains that Severus is not getting any better. His mental state is adversely affecting his recovery and you know that as well as I do. It is my devout hope that becoming a father before the year is out may give him the will to recover."
"Don't count on it," came the tart reply. "He made it rather clear this afternoon that he has no intention in claiming responsibility for this child. Hermione Granger will be raising a fatherless bastard."
The mild censure in Dumbledore's face caused her to put down her teacup with a clatter. "Oh, don't give me that look, Albus. You can sit here and make all the noises you want about how wonderful it is to have a baby, but I wager you've never been up at all hours changing nappies and walking a colicky infant around the floor. Miss Granger will be doing those things, and she'll be doing it alone. Her academic career will come to a screeching halt amid diapers and spit-up and teething rings, and all the while the entire wizarding community will be turning their noses up at her for having a child out of wedlock."
"Really, Poppy. You paint a very bleak picture of Miss Granger's future."
"It is a bleak future, as you well know. Add to the mix the fact the prejudice she'll encounter as a Muggle-born and I can't imagine a more hopeless situation for a young woman to find herself."
"Well, then," murmured Dumbledore into his teacup. "We'll have to see what we can arrange, won't we?"
Madame Pomfrey shot him a suspicious glance, but the Headmaster returned an innocent look and changed the subject.
*****
Tired beyond bearing and still slightly shocked at her own rudeness to Severus Snape, Hermione trudged to her rooms and muttered the password to the portrait that guarded the Head Girl's dormitory. The suites reserved for the Head Girl and Head Boy were situated near the Prefect's baths and not far from the traditional staff quarters since the students who were chosen for those positions needed to be available to all students and teachers. She missed living in Gryffindor tower, but still spent a good deal of time in the beloved red and gold common room with Harry and Ron. After six years of sharing quarters with others, she found studying in her rooms almost too quiet.
At this moment, however, she very much wanted to be alone, and shut her door behind her with a sigh of relief. Crookshanks rose from his chair and stretched, mrrwing in greeting and making his way over for a scratch. He didn't object when Hermione scooped him up and held him close to her chest.
"Crooks, I'm a complete idiot. You do know that, don't you?"
The cat tilted his squashed face up to hers and narrowed his eyes in leisurely good will, purring madly.
"No, you don't think I'm an idiot. After all, I feed you and take care of you, so you love me, right? You think that's all there is to it?"
The ginger lump in her arms didn't answer. With another sigh Hermione collapsed onto her bed and held her familiar close.
"I'm going to have a baby," she whispered into the soft fur under her chin. "I've no idea what I'm doing, and I'm scared to death."
Unconcerned with his witch's confessions, Crookshanks butted his head against her hand and rolled on his back to invite more petting. Hermione obliged him, cooing nonsense and letting him sooth her nerves. When she had relaxed into a boneless heap, lulled into a peaceful calm by the nonstop purr, the cat abruptly sat up and gave her a long, hard stare.
Bemused, Hermione lifted her head to stare back. The golden eyes met hers, unblinking, for several long moments. Finally he gave her a small nod and turned with a flip of his tail to jump down and disappear into the en suite bath that was one of the better perks of being Head Girl.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she called out, even though she had some idea. Crookshanks had once again demonstrated his superior intelligence and cat logic by showing her that since she was quite capable of looking after him satisfactorily, then surely a baby couldn't present much difficulty. "Right," she called out, not even sure if the cat was listening. "If you think there's any comparison between the two, you're out of your mind." She paused. "And I'm talking to a cat. Ron's right. I am mental."
Dragging herself to her abandoned rucksack and rummaging for her homework and quills, she added, "At least I'm not talking to myself."
*****
Over the course of the next several days, Hermione did what she did best: research. The library at Hogwarts was extensive, but the section on human reproduction was rather slim. She did learn that her currently trim waistline would be a thing of the past by the time she was five months along, but the fatigue she was currently enduring would fade. Her best estimate gave her another month after that until her pregnancy would be obvious even under her school robes. Which gave her a few months to come up with a believable lie about the father, but somewhat less time to write to her parents and let them know they would soon be grandparents. She had little fear they would reject her and her child, rather, her anxiety was more focused on the fact they would use the situation to pressure her to leave the world of magic behind to attend Muggle university.
The medical text she found on labor and delivery was enough to give her the willies for days, devoted as it was to footling breech deliveries, umbilical cords wrapped around portions of the child's anatomy, and various other disasters, all described in full detail and often accompanied by color plates with lurid descriptions. A list of questions for Madame Pomfrey grew at a rapid pace.
A knock on the door startled her and she shoved the book under a stack of essays before she answered it. A short young girl she didn't recognize but who could not have been above a third year student thrust a folded slip of parchment at her and mumbled something about Madame Pomfrey before she scuttled off.
Intrigued, Hermione opened the note and recognized the neat handwriting as Madame Pomfrey's. The note also included a list of ingredients, and asked if she would go immediately to Professor Cluny and bring the items up to the Hospital wing. Her classmates might have recognized dragon heartstring and foxglove as standard for heart tonics, but few of them would have realized the dried hawthorn flowers and salicylic acid were also strong components of a potion to strengthen and heal a damaged heart.
It suddenly occurred to her that Professor Dumbledore might have had a heart attack. In a flurry she threw on her school robes and shoved her feet into her shoes before flying out the door. In the main hall she slowed, not wanting to cause a scene. The Head Girl pelting full tilt down to the Potions classroom would only cause unwanted speculation. If the Headmaster were truly ill, Madame Pomfrey wouldn't want to advertise that fact.
Cluny was in the middle of teaching a first year class, but paused in mid- lecture when Hermione slid into the classroom. When she explained her errand for Madame Pomfrey, the professor merely handed her his keyring and waved her towards the storeroom.
The trusting act merely underscored once more the difference between Snape and Cluny; Snape kept the storeroom locked at all times and trusted no-one in there without his presence. Truthfully Hermione couldn't blame the man since some of the things stored on the long, narrow shelves were either exorbitantly expensive, horrifically dangerous, or in some cases, both. Once inside, she shut the door to block out Cluny's droning voice and to momentarily indulge the thrill she always felt in surveying the neat, orderly rows of glass bottles and small boxes, the ceiling festooned with dried bunches of herbs. She loved the possibilities that hovered, just a cauldron away, among the many ingredients that surrounded her.
Several minutes passed as she retrieved the items on Pomfrey's list, double- checking her quantities and labeling each of the paper screws or small vials with names and measurements. When she'd finished, she locked up and returned the keys to Cluny, who pocketed them and bid her good day with barely a pause in his monologue.
Once back in the upper reaches of the castle, Hermione hurried a bit, the small basket she'd appropriated tucked under one arm as she climbed to the Hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey was in her office, but rose and beckoned as soon as she caught sight of her.
"Wonderful, Miss Granger," the mediwitch declared, taking the basket and sorting through the contents. "Thank you so much for your immediate attention to this." The older witch led the way past her office door to what Hermione had always assumed was a supply closet. Once unlocked, it turned out to be a small laboratory with two tall windows letting in light from the courtyard outside. Everything was neatly put away, but subtle details called her attention to them. The burner ring under the largest cauldron was tarnished, with accumulations of ash that would cause the flame to burn unevenly. The rack of supplies had a dark curtain fastened across the front of it, but dust on the folds showed the fabric had been pulled aside and left there for some time. Many ingredients aged prematurely when exposed to light, and Hermione cringed at the thought of it.
At the far end of the workbench, however, near a tall stool, a smaller cauldron and other pieces of equipment there were laid out in a different pattern. As easily as one might recognize a particular artist's work, Hermione could see the hand of Snape in the angle of the glass pipettes and the layout of the workspace.
"Is Professor Dumbedore going to be all right?" Hermione asked. She received a blank look in return, and immediately realized she'd let her imagination get the best of her. "Sorry. I thought these might be for the Headmaster."
"No, Albus is fine, dear. These are actually for Severus."
"Professor Snape has had a heart attack?" Hermione asked, stunned.
"No such thing. His heart was damaged the night... his heart has been damaged by a splinter from a broken rib, and it is somewhat inclined to sulk. Rather like its owner."
Hermione blinked at the spoken words that closely approximated her own thought, then blinked again at imagining what kind of injury would drive a splinter of bone into a man's heart.
"I heard that," came a deep voice. The two witches whirled to see Severus Snape leaving heavily against the doorframe. If anything, he looked even worse than he had several days previously.
"Good. Then we can discuss the preparations for the Vie de la Couer Elixer."
"Discuss all you wish, Madame. I have already explained to why I do not trust those chicken scratches. We agreed not to brew it."
"You agreed, Severus. Doctor Hazelton is a very old and trusted colleague of mine. He's served the patients of St. Mungo's for years. This," and she swept up a piece of parchment from the workbench and shook it at him, "is the best chance we have of dissolving that bone splinter and strengthen your heart."
"Hazelton is a quack and I wouldn't feed his potions to a dog. Unless it was Sirius Black, of course," he added as an afterthought. "You forget I've studied with the man. He couldn't create a new potion for all the gold in Gringotts."
"This isn't one he created, Severus. It's a translation from a Beauxbatons master."
Snape cut her off. "And that's supposed to be reassuring!"
As they continue to argue, Hermione snagged the parchment from Madame Pomfrey's hand and read it over quickly, then again, slowly.
"This should work," she ventured, interrupting the two.
Snape gave her a long, hostile look. "And when did you earn your Potions Mistress Diploma, Miss Granger?"
"Have you read it?" she returned coolly.
Snape took the few steps towards her to reach her, then listed suddenly to one side. Fortunately the stool was close, and he managed to catch himself and sit. Hermione relinquished the parchment when he held out one hand imperiously.
His dark eyes flicked over the text much the same as her own had. Blue veins traced across the pale skin at his temples and Hermione swallowed as she considered how very ill the man in front of her was.
"This might work," he admitted at last. "But I don't have the strength to cast the incantation." He said it as if he were only stating a simple truth, but Hermione could see that without drastic intervention Severus Snape would die in the very near future.
"I will cast the spell, Severus. All you need is to sit there and help me through the brewing."
"Leave it, Poppy. Just.leave it."
Hermione had heard that exact tone of quiet resolution before. More than once she and Ron had had to deal with Harry Potter's fatalistic acceptance of his supposedly doomed existence. Pushing aside her unsettled feelings towards the man, she cleared her throat to catch his attention and deliberately put a little sting into her voice.
"Professor, regardless of how you perceive your place in this world, I must admit that I think it's a better world for your existence rather than your absence. I suggest you give it at least a try before abandoning all hope."
A familiar sardonic glint began to burn in Snape's black pupils. "Miss Granger, if you insist on dragging in maudlin sentiment more suited to a new Hufflepuff and tell me the world is happier for my being in it, I shall be violently ill."
That's not what I said, and you're already ill." she answered back in the same tone. "I said it was better. Perhaps I should clarify and say more interesting. I certainly wouldn't use the word happy in reference to you, sir. I simply think your existence makes things more interesting. But then again, I like my strawberries with balsamic vinegar, so there you have it."
Despite himself, Snape paused, considering her words.
He'd never been compared to vinegar before, but the simile was oddly appealing. The best balsamic vinegar was dark, viscous and held more varied flavors than the finest wines. Blended over the years and aged in ancient casks, it was fragrant and added an appealing bite to everything it mixed with. A highly romanticized and incredibly Gryffindor thing to say.
"I'll take the potion," he conceded finally. "But I want you to brew it."
"Me? Don't be stupid. Madame Pomfrey is a licensed mediwitch."
"And I trust your abilities more than I do hers," he interrupted flatly. "You have an affinity for potions I have not seen in a decade, Miss Granger. You will know if the potion is effective before you even finish it."
Hermione turned an appealing look towards Pomfrey, but the woman merely shrugged. "He's right, my dear. To tell the truth, I've never been anything but average when it comes to potions making."
Glancing back at Snape, who remained propped against the workbench and was once again refusing to look at her, Hermione could only acquiesce. "If Professor Snape is willing to coach me, I'll do my best."
"Excellent," announced Madame Pomfrey. "The last thing we need is a good burgundy to form the base. Albus doesn't know it yet, but his wine cellar really will be used for medicinal purposes tonight." With those words and a swish of her robes, the witch left.
Leaving Hermione alone with Severus Snape.
Dumbledore made several polite and noncommittal noises as he poured himself another cup of tea and listened to the mediwitch continue to vent her outrage. When she took a sip of her own and offered him the opening, Dumbledore changed the subject by asking how her patient had taken Hermione's comments.
"Oh, he took it well. Better than I would have expected, all things considered, and an improvement on his usual silences. I quite expected him to snap at her." Getting only another "hmm" in reply, Pomfrey was ready to snap at her employer. "Don't just sit there and hum at me, Albus. We must do something about Severus."
"You're correct, of course, Poppy. And we will. Severus without his temper is a very dull boy."
"I'm worried about his health, not his temper."
"I believe they are intimately related, dear lady, perhaps even more so than I previously suspected."
Pomfrey harrumphed this time, and sipped at her tea. Arguing with Dumbledore was more frustrating that arguing with a malingering first year with a test to avoid. "I suppose you're going to tell me I've been coddling him too much."
"No, not at all. It's your job to coddle your patients. But the fact remains that Severus is not getting any better. His mental state is adversely affecting his recovery and you know that as well as I do. It is my devout hope that becoming a father before the year is out may give him the will to recover."
"Don't count on it," came the tart reply. "He made it rather clear this afternoon that he has no intention in claiming responsibility for this child. Hermione Granger will be raising a fatherless bastard."
The mild censure in Dumbledore's face caused her to put down her teacup with a clatter. "Oh, don't give me that look, Albus. You can sit here and make all the noises you want about how wonderful it is to have a baby, but I wager you've never been up at all hours changing nappies and walking a colicky infant around the floor. Miss Granger will be doing those things, and she'll be doing it alone. Her academic career will come to a screeching halt amid diapers and spit-up and teething rings, and all the while the entire wizarding community will be turning their noses up at her for having a child out of wedlock."
"Really, Poppy. You paint a very bleak picture of Miss Granger's future."
"It is a bleak future, as you well know. Add to the mix the fact the prejudice she'll encounter as a Muggle-born and I can't imagine a more hopeless situation for a young woman to find herself."
"Well, then," murmured Dumbledore into his teacup. "We'll have to see what we can arrange, won't we?"
Madame Pomfrey shot him a suspicious glance, but the Headmaster returned an innocent look and changed the subject.
*****
Tired beyond bearing and still slightly shocked at her own rudeness to Severus Snape, Hermione trudged to her rooms and muttered the password to the portrait that guarded the Head Girl's dormitory. The suites reserved for the Head Girl and Head Boy were situated near the Prefect's baths and not far from the traditional staff quarters since the students who were chosen for those positions needed to be available to all students and teachers. She missed living in Gryffindor tower, but still spent a good deal of time in the beloved red and gold common room with Harry and Ron. After six years of sharing quarters with others, she found studying in her rooms almost too quiet.
At this moment, however, she very much wanted to be alone, and shut her door behind her with a sigh of relief. Crookshanks rose from his chair and stretched, mrrwing in greeting and making his way over for a scratch. He didn't object when Hermione scooped him up and held him close to her chest.
"Crooks, I'm a complete idiot. You do know that, don't you?"
The cat tilted his squashed face up to hers and narrowed his eyes in leisurely good will, purring madly.
"No, you don't think I'm an idiot. After all, I feed you and take care of you, so you love me, right? You think that's all there is to it?"
The ginger lump in her arms didn't answer. With another sigh Hermione collapsed onto her bed and held her familiar close.
"I'm going to have a baby," she whispered into the soft fur under her chin. "I've no idea what I'm doing, and I'm scared to death."
Unconcerned with his witch's confessions, Crookshanks butted his head against her hand and rolled on his back to invite more petting. Hermione obliged him, cooing nonsense and letting him sooth her nerves. When she had relaxed into a boneless heap, lulled into a peaceful calm by the nonstop purr, the cat abruptly sat up and gave her a long, hard stare.
Bemused, Hermione lifted her head to stare back. The golden eyes met hers, unblinking, for several long moments. Finally he gave her a small nod and turned with a flip of his tail to jump down and disappear into the en suite bath that was one of the better perks of being Head Girl.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she called out, even though she had some idea. Crookshanks had once again demonstrated his superior intelligence and cat logic by showing her that since she was quite capable of looking after him satisfactorily, then surely a baby couldn't present much difficulty. "Right," she called out, not even sure if the cat was listening. "If you think there's any comparison between the two, you're out of your mind." She paused. "And I'm talking to a cat. Ron's right. I am mental."
Dragging herself to her abandoned rucksack and rummaging for her homework and quills, she added, "At least I'm not talking to myself."
*****
Over the course of the next several days, Hermione did what she did best: research. The library at Hogwarts was extensive, but the section on human reproduction was rather slim. She did learn that her currently trim waistline would be a thing of the past by the time she was five months along, but the fatigue she was currently enduring would fade. Her best estimate gave her another month after that until her pregnancy would be obvious even under her school robes. Which gave her a few months to come up with a believable lie about the father, but somewhat less time to write to her parents and let them know they would soon be grandparents. She had little fear they would reject her and her child, rather, her anxiety was more focused on the fact they would use the situation to pressure her to leave the world of magic behind to attend Muggle university.
The medical text she found on labor and delivery was enough to give her the willies for days, devoted as it was to footling breech deliveries, umbilical cords wrapped around portions of the child's anatomy, and various other disasters, all described in full detail and often accompanied by color plates with lurid descriptions. A list of questions for Madame Pomfrey grew at a rapid pace.
A knock on the door startled her and she shoved the book under a stack of essays before she answered it. A short young girl she didn't recognize but who could not have been above a third year student thrust a folded slip of parchment at her and mumbled something about Madame Pomfrey before she scuttled off.
Intrigued, Hermione opened the note and recognized the neat handwriting as Madame Pomfrey's. The note also included a list of ingredients, and asked if she would go immediately to Professor Cluny and bring the items up to the Hospital wing. Her classmates might have recognized dragon heartstring and foxglove as standard for heart tonics, but few of them would have realized the dried hawthorn flowers and salicylic acid were also strong components of a potion to strengthen and heal a damaged heart.
It suddenly occurred to her that Professor Dumbledore might have had a heart attack. In a flurry she threw on her school robes and shoved her feet into her shoes before flying out the door. In the main hall she slowed, not wanting to cause a scene. The Head Girl pelting full tilt down to the Potions classroom would only cause unwanted speculation. If the Headmaster were truly ill, Madame Pomfrey wouldn't want to advertise that fact.
Cluny was in the middle of teaching a first year class, but paused in mid- lecture when Hermione slid into the classroom. When she explained her errand for Madame Pomfrey, the professor merely handed her his keyring and waved her towards the storeroom.
The trusting act merely underscored once more the difference between Snape and Cluny; Snape kept the storeroom locked at all times and trusted no-one in there without his presence. Truthfully Hermione couldn't blame the man since some of the things stored on the long, narrow shelves were either exorbitantly expensive, horrifically dangerous, or in some cases, both. Once inside, she shut the door to block out Cluny's droning voice and to momentarily indulge the thrill she always felt in surveying the neat, orderly rows of glass bottles and small boxes, the ceiling festooned with dried bunches of herbs. She loved the possibilities that hovered, just a cauldron away, among the many ingredients that surrounded her.
Several minutes passed as she retrieved the items on Pomfrey's list, double- checking her quantities and labeling each of the paper screws or small vials with names and measurements. When she'd finished, she locked up and returned the keys to Cluny, who pocketed them and bid her good day with barely a pause in his monologue.
Once back in the upper reaches of the castle, Hermione hurried a bit, the small basket she'd appropriated tucked under one arm as she climbed to the Hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey was in her office, but rose and beckoned as soon as she caught sight of her.
"Wonderful, Miss Granger," the mediwitch declared, taking the basket and sorting through the contents. "Thank you so much for your immediate attention to this." The older witch led the way past her office door to what Hermione had always assumed was a supply closet. Once unlocked, it turned out to be a small laboratory with two tall windows letting in light from the courtyard outside. Everything was neatly put away, but subtle details called her attention to them. The burner ring under the largest cauldron was tarnished, with accumulations of ash that would cause the flame to burn unevenly. The rack of supplies had a dark curtain fastened across the front of it, but dust on the folds showed the fabric had been pulled aside and left there for some time. Many ingredients aged prematurely when exposed to light, and Hermione cringed at the thought of it.
At the far end of the workbench, however, near a tall stool, a smaller cauldron and other pieces of equipment there were laid out in a different pattern. As easily as one might recognize a particular artist's work, Hermione could see the hand of Snape in the angle of the glass pipettes and the layout of the workspace.
"Is Professor Dumbedore going to be all right?" Hermione asked. She received a blank look in return, and immediately realized she'd let her imagination get the best of her. "Sorry. I thought these might be for the Headmaster."
"No, Albus is fine, dear. These are actually for Severus."
"Professor Snape has had a heart attack?" Hermione asked, stunned.
"No such thing. His heart was damaged the night... his heart has been damaged by a splinter from a broken rib, and it is somewhat inclined to sulk. Rather like its owner."
Hermione blinked at the spoken words that closely approximated her own thought, then blinked again at imagining what kind of injury would drive a splinter of bone into a man's heart.
"I heard that," came a deep voice. The two witches whirled to see Severus Snape leaving heavily against the doorframe. If anything, he looked even worse than he had several days previously.
"Good. Then we can discuss the preparations for the Vie de la Couer Elixer."
"Discuss all you wish, Madame. I have already explained to why I do not trust those chicken scratches. We agreed not to brew it."
"You agreed, Severus. Doctor Hazelton is a very old and trusted colleague of mine. He's served the patients of St. Mungo's for years. This," and she swept up a piece of parchment from the workbench and shook it at him, "is the best chance we have of dissolving that bone splinter and strengthen your heart."
"Hazelton is a quack and I wouldn't feed his potions to a dog. Unless it was Sirius Black, of course," he added as an afterthought. "You forget I've studied with the man. He couldn't create a new potion for all the gold in Gringotts."
"This isn't one he created, Severus. It's a translation from a Beauxbatons master."
Snape cut her off. "And that's supposed to be reassuring!"
As they continue to argue, Hermione snagged the parchment from Madame Pomfrey's hand and read it over quickly, then again, slowly.
"This should work," she ventured, interrupting the two.
Snape gave her a long, hostile look. "And when did you earn your Potions Mistress Diploma, Miss Granger?"
"Have you read it?" she returned coolly.
Snape took the few steps towards her to reach her, then listed suddenly to one side. Fortunately the stool was close, and he managed to catch himself and sit. Hermione relinquished the parchment when he held out one hand imperiously.
His dark eyes flicked over the text much the same as her own had. Blue veins traced across the pale skin at his temples and Hermione swallowed as she considered how very ill the man in front of her was.
"This might work," he admitted at last. "But I don't have the strength to cast the incantation." He said it as if he were only stating a simple truth, but Hermione could see that without drastic intervention Severus Snape would die in the very near future.
"I will cast the spell, Severus. All you need is to sit there and help me through the brewing."
"Leave it, Poppy. Just.leave it."
Hermione had heard that exact tone of quiet resolution before. More than once she and Ron had had to deal with Harry Potter's fatalistic acceptance of his supposedly doomed existence. Pushing aside her unsettled feelings towards the man, she cleared her throat to catch his attention and deliberately put a little sting into her voice.
"Professor, regardless of how you perceive your place in this world, I must admit that I think it's a better world for your existence rather than your absence. I suggest you give it at least a try before abandoning all hope."
A familiar sardonic glint began to burn in Snape's black pupils. "Miss Granger, if you insist on dragging in maudlin sentiment more suited to a new Hufflepuff and tell me the world is happier for my being in it, I shall be violently ill."
That's not what I said, and you're already ill." she answered back in the same tone. "I said it was better. Perhaps I should clarify and say more interesting. I certainly wouldn't use the word happy in reference to you, sir. I simply think your existence makes things more interesting. But then again, I like my strawberries with balsamic vinegar, so there you have it."
Despite himself, Snape paused, considering her words.
He'd never been compared to vinegar before, but the simile was oddly appealing. The best balsamic vinegar was dark, viscous and held more varied flavors than the finest wines. Blended over the years and aged in ancient casks, it was fragrant and added an appealing bite to everything it mixed with. A highly romanticized and incredibly Gryffindor thing to say.
"I'll take the potion," he conceded finally. "But I want you to brew it."
"Me? Don't be stupid. Madame Pomfrey is a licensed mediwitch."
"And I trust your abilities more than I do hers," he interrupted flatly. "You have an affinity for potions I have not seen in a decade, Miss Granger. You will know if the potion is effective before you even finish it."
Hermione turned an appealing look towards Pomfrey, but the woman merely shrugged. "He's right, my dear. To tell the truth, I've never been anything but average when it comes to potions making."
Glancing back at Snape, who remained propped against the workbench and was once again refusing to look at her, Hermione could only acquiesce. "If Professor Snape is willing to coach me, I'll do my best."
"Excellent," announced Madame Pomfrey. "The last thing we need is a good burgundy to form the base. Albus doesn't know it yet, but his wine cellar really will be used for medicinal purposes tonight." With those words and a swish of her robes, the witch left.
Leaving Hermione alone with Severus Snape.