The Easter holidays were suddenly upon Hogwarts, leaving the castle empty and quiet. With all the students out of the way, Hermione rather expected her fellow dungeon dweller to be, if not exactly cheerful, at least in a charitable mood. Since his illness, their relationship had gradually eased into the more civilized territory of friendship, and she actually found herself enjoying the Potion Master's acerbic company.
Hermione was therefore somewhat taken aback when Severus greeted her appearance with a snarl. He curtly informed her that he had no need or desire for her presence that evening. He rejected her formerly welcome offer to help inventory his storage room during the break, and went so far as to override her when she mentioned cleaning the latest potion spatters off the ceiling near where she spent her restful daytime hours drifting.
"For the love of Merlin," Hermione finally bit out. "Why are you so grumpy tonight? More than usual, that is?"
The Potion Master's hand slammed down on his desk. "Get out. Go write Potter, go chase the owls for all I care. Just get out!"
Despite his temper, Hermione knew the man well enough to tell the difference between real rage and was seemed suspiciously like embarrassment. Narrowing her eyes, Hermione inspected his person, then the desk he'd been lingering over. Severus glared back, but Hermione ignored him as she moved closer and surveyed the ragged quill and parchment scraps littering his desk. His inkwell had been recently filled, and his energetic scrawls appeared on most of the torn letters. The only other item on his desk was a new issue of Potions Monthly.
It was the work of a moment to grab the publication from under his hand, despite his abortive attempt to snatch it back.
"What have we here?" she crowed, zooming up out of his reach.
"HERMIONE GRANGER, COME DOWN HERE AT ONCE!"
Keeping the enraged man where she could see him in case he tried to 'Accio' her prize, she skimmed the table of contents for whatever had brassed him off so thoroughly. It wasn't difficult to find; the fourth major article announced a new addition to the list of forbidden poisons, designated as the Deadly Knightcap Variation, as discovered by Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and...
"They're JOKING! Neville LONGBOTTOM?" Hermione screeched in disbelief. "This was Professor Dumbledore's idea, wasn't it?"
The look on Severus Snape's face could have pickled every specimen on his shelves. "Yes," he enunciated through a teeth-clenched grimace. "The Headmaster felt it would bolster the young man's self esteem."
"Oh, be serious! Neville is a botanist, not a potions brewer."
"Mr. Longbottom did hit upon the flaw in the Knightime Knockout drops," Severus admitted, albeit in a pained voice. "It would only be fair."
Hermione was surprised he hadn't choked on that remark. "Somehow," she observed archly, "I think it has more to do with the Ministry still thinking you poisoned me deliberately."
"The Ministry may have accepted the accident that led to your demise, Miss Granger, but the Headmaster felt it would be, as he put it, advantageous to include Longbottom in the credit for discovering the poison."
"So, if Neville is innocent, it must therefore be logical that you are innocent," she concluded. "That doesn't really hold true, but I'm sure it's good enough logic for the Ministry."
"If I had ever had any intention of poisoning you, Miss Granger, I would have done so after your third year, rather than waiting until you had nearly left my classes." Resignation and annoyance radiated from Severus' form as he pulled his chair up behind his desk and resumed his seat. "And for my sins, I'll have to live with my work forever linked with that of...Neville Longbottom."
"Well," Hermione commented, her voice casual, "perhaps you'll get the sole credit for rediscovering that healing potion."
His hands shuffling the scraps together in a pile, Severus did not turn a hair. "What potion would that be?" he asked blandly. Hermione wasn't fooled.
"The one in your private laboratory you've been fussing over for weeks now. I keep hoping you'll let me help you out, now that you've so much more time available."
"I don't fuss," he replied testily. "I study."
"No, of course not. What have you found so far?"
Severus gave her an inscrutable look from under heavy eyelids.
"Oh, come off it, Professor. It's interesting, and I'm running out of cauldrons to clean. Nick and Myrtle are determined to drag me to the polo finals and I'm just as determined to avoid that at any cost. You can continue to use me as your personal lab assistant and I get out of several extremely boring headless polo matches."
"That bad?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Worse that Quidditch."
"And what exactly is wrong with Quidditch?"
"Good grief," Hermione muttered, remembering too late that anyone qualified to be a referee was more than likely a fan of the sport. "It must be linked to the Y chromosome."
"Perhaps. Though let's not apply that theory to Madame Hooch, if you please. Very well. As it happens, I'm ready to start some preliminary trials on the South American Phoenix Tears. If the potion does half what that scatter-brained alchemist claims it can, then it may make a significant difference in this war."
Hermione had the cheek to grin at him, and Severus busied himself with the task of tidying his desk before he could give into the impulse to smile back at her.
&&&&&
The next few weeks passed swiftly as Hermione and Severus debated the importance of anonymous ramblings from five centuries ago, in between grading papers and other dull, daily or rather nightly routine. For the most part they rubbed along tolerably well, with only a few incidents of friction between them.
Approximately twice a month, however, the Dark Mark burned and summoned him from his comfortable routine, sending him out into the night and towards the unknown. There were no more Malfoy-incited drinking binges, but on infrequent nights Severus returned with blood on his robes. At those times, he poured himself a carefully measured dram of brandy and drank it in contemplation.
As a rule Hermione did not attempt to speak to him, or even show her presence, but waited nearby, invisible. If Severus called out to her, she materialized and let him talk as much or as little as he wanted. Sometimes he quite obviously wanted distraction, and she provided it with long- ranging conversations. If her silent presence was preferred, she provided it and did not ask any questions.
A vial of dreamless sleep potion sometimes followed the brandy, but not often. She knew he did not like to rely on the drug, both because of its addictive qualities and the perceived weakness he admitted, if only to himself. On those evenings, Hermione waited in the outer chamber of his suite, reading quietly, alert for the sound of his nightmares.
Tonight was one of those nights. His robes had been banished to the laundry; it had taken three Exanguination spells to remove all the spatters from his clothes and hands. He had not summoned her, but spent a very long time staring into the fire before going to bed, bypassing the cabinet where he kept the sleeping potions.
Several hours passed while Hermione waited. She resisted the urge to look in on him – he'd made clear his dislike for hovering nursemaids and still called her Nanny Granger whenever she expressed any concern for his well- being. If his nightmares became severe, she would hear him talking in his sleep and a well-timed thump on the wall or dropped book near the doorway was sufficient to startle the notoriously light sleeper out of his night terrors without intruding on his privacy.
Eventually, the expected muttering came, and Hermione reached for her favorite text for this purpose; an incredibly long and complex treatise on wizarding politics during the goblin wars, and one of Professor Binns' favorite source materials. It had been a gift to the Potions Master from some grateful Slytherin parent whose spawn had managed to scrape up the N.E.W.T.s necessary to qualify for a Ministry flunky position after graduation; Severus used it primarily as a doorstop.
It made a satisfactory thump when it hit the floor, but for once did not have the desired effect. After the third time Hermione lifted the book and dropped it loudly, she became concerned.
Tentatively she phased through his bedroom door; she had not been within the room since his illness several months earlier, but it was apparent little had changed. Papers and books lay on various surfaces in relatively neat stacks. The robes he'd worn before being summoned were in a heap on the floor, looking as though they'd been kicked out of the way. The cabinet where she'd once found his Death Eater mask had been carefully closed and locked.
On the bed, Snape made another painful noise, but so quietly it seemed as though he were afraid of being heard. He did not respond when Hermione called his name, and with great trepidation she went close enough to hover beside the bed.
The man looked amazingly human and vulnerable here in his bed, his long hair disordered and lying in black streaks across the pillowcase. The thin, lightly creased skin over his throat did little to soften the harsh lines of his jaw or the knots of muscle and cartilage of his neck. His adam's apple moved convulsively as strangled words struggled to escape.
Leaning over him, Hermione struggled to understand him, but it was impossible. For a moment it occurred to her that she was leaning over him like a lover about to bestow a kiss, but banished that thought rather than examine it too closely. She was here to help, not put either one of them in a position they'd each find highly uncomfortable even if they weren't on opposite ends of the spectrum of life. What she really needed to do was find a way to break this nightmare, and the only idea that came to mind was the invasion she'd perpetrated once before.
He had not, apparently, remembered her appearance in his dream the night he'd been so terribly ill, but that did not mean he wouldn't remember any further forays. And despite her dread of the inevitable explosion of rage she could expect should he remember the dreams and her role in them, the idea of invading the sleeping Potion Master's mind was abhorrent for better reasons. Harry had made it perfectly clear how horrid it was to feel someone else invade your mind, and the lectures she'd attended on magical ethics had been quite strident on the uses of Legilimency. Traipsing through another being's mind, even with and especially without their permission, was absolutely forbidden except for extreme cases.
But it was allowed, she considered, in cases where a person's life or well beingwell-being was endangered. Severus Snape's life was not in danger, but only a callous person or a man in denial would think that extreme nightmares were not endangering his own health. Teetering on that moral caveat, Hermione steeled her nerve and leaned down, allowing her temple to graze his.
Opening her eyes in the dream reality, Hermione was shocked by what she saw. For miles in every direction, a bleak, barren landscape greeted her. The ground was nothing but dried desert mudflats, cracked into a mosaic of dirt tiles, dusty whirlwinds, and a scattering of withered, skeletal bushes. Overhead a few stars flickered fitfully, unable to compete with thea full moon which cast a thin, sullen light over the distant hills.
A deep, savage howl reverberated across the flats, sending the hairs on the back of Hermione's neck straight up in apprehension. As she cast about for the source of the threatening sound, she could just make out a figure in the distance, running towards her. Running was perhaps too optimistic a word; the man was staggering, barely upright, and looked to be in a great deal of pain.
Moving to intercept the figure, Hermione's command of her native language escaped her grasp as she recognized Severus Snape's dream self, despite the blood and dirt on his features. His mangled left arm was held tight against his body, the white sleeve ragged and blood-soaked.
"You must run," he said urgently, nearly throwing himself at her as he attempted to sweep her along with him. "He'll get you. He'll kill us both." His face was drawn with fear and hopelessness, his dark eyes flat with fatigue. Lines of exhaustion and pain marked his face.
"What?" Hermione demanded, confused. "Who?"
Reeling to a halt, Severus turned and flung out one arm to point behind him. Just coming over the distant hill, a great hulking form appeared. Baying a deep bass note, the slavering werewolf was larger than a hippogriff and loping towards them at a frightening speed.
"Run!" he shouted desperately, grabbing her arm and breaking into a shuffling trot. Hermione stumbled and nearly fell in the shock of the physical contact; only his firm grip kept her upright even as his fingers bit into her arm and ground the bones of her wrist together. "Come on!" he urged her.
"Wait!" she shouted, fighting against his contagious panic. "This is just a dream. YOUR dream."
Severus stopped and peered at her, confused, even as he threw a harried glance at the pursuing werewolf. He was visibly torn between his own desire to escape and reluctance to abandon her to the beast.
Seizing on her own experience and hoping desperately she was right, Hermione held out her hand, palm up. "Take this," she ordered.
A long silver whistle appeared in her palm; Severus stared at it for several moments before he reluctantly released her wrist and reached for it. Chest heaving, he took it from her fingers, lifted it to his lips, and blew.
At the very edge of her hearing, the high sharp pitch of the dog whistle pierced the eardrum and slid through the back of her skull. Several hundred yards away, the werewolf howled in pain as it lost coordination.
Shaking its head, the beast veered off the Potion Master's trail, then back on, its pace reduced to an uncoordinated gallop. It whimpered piteously as Severus blew the whistle again, and as he continued the high-pitched blasts, the creature's weaving path circled to a halt. Under the relentless high-frequency onslaught, it eventually curled into a shivering ball on the ground a scant stone's throw away.
As the whistle dropped from Severus' nerveless fingers, Hermione moved to his side and touched uninjured right arm. "Look," she whispered, remembering his fondness for sunrises. "The sun is coming up."
As he turned to look, her suggestion took root and influenced his reality. The horizon began to glow in a glorious display of reds and violet streaks, until a bright golden sun crept over the jagged skyline. The werewolf shimmered and became a fairly scrawny young man with brown hair, sprawled naked and face down in the dirt.
Exhausted, Severus sagged to his knees, his worn features raised in the pale light of the rising sun.
"Rest," Hermione told him, kneeling beside him. On a hunch she reached over to pull at his injured arm. "Your arm is fine," she told him, pushing up the ragged sleeve. "See? He didn't get you." Under her fingers, the skin was unblemished.
Frowning, Severus looked down at his naked arm, where only fine black hairs graced the back of his forearm. He touched it himself in disbelief, then turned his wrist over to see the underside. Like ink poured on parchment, the Dark Mark blossomed on his skin, turning it black.
Severus choked in despair as the tattoo began to smoke like a brand. His fingers dug at it, as though he could tear it from the flesh that was cracking and beginning to bleed.
"There's nothing there," Hermione told him sharply, capturing his hands with her own. "Nothing," she repeated. "Look at me! This world is what you make it out to be, Severus. There's nothing there. Nothing."
Panic-filled black eyes met her own, daring – begging – her, and Hermione put every ounce of confidence and certainty she could muster into her gaze. When he glanced down at his arm again, the mark was fading, barely gray against his skin and fading faster than dust before an energetic house elf.
"Nothing," he repeated numbly. His eyes closed and he reached blindly for her, cupping the back of her neck with his large hand and resting his forehead against hers. "Thank you," he murmured softly as his strength seemed to give out completely.
As she helped to ease him down to the cracked earth, the ground beneath him began to ripple and become a suspiciously familiar old rug before it began to disintegrate. The entire dreamscape rapidly evaporated around her, leaving her hovering over the Potion Master's bed once more, listening to the quiet rasp of his breathing as he slid into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Hermione paused to watch him before she withdrew, but he did not move. His black hair lay across one cheek, and she nearly gave in to he temptation to brush it away before chiding herself for being silly.
&&&&&
When summer came and the students left, Severus allowed Hermione to become fully involved in his research. He had a great sheaf of papers on the potion he was attempting to tease out of the ancient manuscript, and her first task was to read the entire thing from front to back. While she did spend a portion of her time preparing the preliminary test ingredients to his exacting standards, a larger proportion was spent going over the transcript line by line and debating the meaning of the more esoteric passages.
Trial after trial came up with nothing like the finished product was described as being, which Severus had translated as either a 'bowl of rainbows' or 'vessel of Quetzlquoatl feathers.' Suspecting that the mythical Aztec bird had actually been a phoenix of some sort had been the reason Severus had pegged the recipe as one for a healing potion in the first place, but there were actually no real phoenix tears in the brew.
When a few of their experimentations began to yield some promising results, Severus decided to put it to the test, but had no intention of trying their results on a living test subject. Instead, he had had a word with Poppy, who came back several days later with a muffled package.
"Don't ask any questions," she'd ordered shortly.
The package, when unwrapped, proved to be a platter-sized oval board with a piece of leather stretched across one surface. The other side bore the faded marking 'Property of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.'
"What is that?" Hermione asked curiously, floating over to hover near his elbow.
"It's the hyde of a nauga, stretched over oaken heartwood," Severus answered shortly. He lay the board on the worktable, leather side up, and picked up a one of the small, delicate knives used for preparing their ingredients. With a swift, sure movement he drew the blade sharply across the hide. The soft leather split apart, oozing blood and gaping at the edges exactly like a real wound.
"Ouch," Hermione winced in sympathy, though it had been a long time since she herself had suffered any injuries. "I suppose it's better than torturing rats, though."
"Hmm. I've no objection to feeding a painless sleeping poison to the creatures, but I have no desire to injure and then attempt to heal the little beggers."
"You mean they bite," Hermione pointed out practically.
"Exactly. Now, let's see how our first trial performs."
The salve, while brightly colored, was not the miracle cure it was supposed to be and Severus was obliged to cast a healing charm on the artificial epidermis. The next batch was no more successful, nor the next, but the Potions Master was not deterred.
"The definition of Potions Mastery is trial and error, Miss Granger. Knowledge of your subject is one thing, but more than that it requires patience, focus, and unflagging attention to detail. It may be weeks or even months before a breakthrough occurs."
Although Severus was by nature a night owl, Hermione did her best to be mindful of his human limitations and remind him when he ought to be sleeping rather than fiddling with his experiments. Frequently he ignored her, working until nearly dawn before succumbing to his fatigue. She knew that he slept more soundly when he went to bed exhausted, but sometimes he would heed her words. Calling her Nanny and telling her not to get herself in a pother, he racked his tools and allowed her to do the clearing up while he retired.
This soon became a routine, broken only by infrequent summons from Voldemort, and continued throughout June and July, all the way until the last week of August. By then, Hermione was seething with frustration at their lack of progress, but the Potions Master became even more exacting, only occasionally short-tempered, and ice-cold in his concentration on the puzzle that consumed nearly all his attention.
The latest batch made no more difference than the first, though the notes they'd accumulated on the recipe variations were nearly twice as thick as when they'd started and bottled samples of their failed versions were taking up three full shelves on the nearby case.
"I refuse to believe anyone with such sloppy thinking as this fellow would have been able to create a potion requiring such exacting methods," Hermione exclaimed as yet another recipe failed to give any results.
"There's no proof that this text is anything other than the cluttered maundering of a liar and braggart," Severus pointed out in a sharp tone, his own exasperation overcoming his usually controlled demeanor. "For all the evidence we've seen, this elixir is no more a curative that troll drool."
A few quick slashes of his wand cleared the refuse from their efforts and emptied the cauldron at the same time. Hermione refrained from pointing out that he'd failed to bottle the example to join the others.
Instead she floated over to the manuscript, still securely sandwiched between two sheets of glass on the heavy lectern where it was kept. "And no one that sloppy would have gone to the trouble of putting it in code unless there was something worth hiding," she added, glaring at it as though she could force the secret to the surface with just her gaze.
Severus walked over to stand beside her to inspect it as well. "I've been reluctant to admit it, but we are making no progress, only waste. Without further information, we are at an impasse.
"Professor Flitwick assures me there is at least one spell suspended in the text, but he was unable to discern its nature before he left for the holidays. When this was written, there existed only a few literate wizards and they were extremely vigilant when it came to selecting their apprentices and passing along their knowledge."
As if he'd made a decision, Severus picked up the glass carefully and carried the manuscript to the nearby worktable. Removing the brackets that held the glass sheets together, he lifted off the top sheet and laid it aside. "Europe was still cheerfully burning witches during that era as well," he added, "which leads me to assume there were a few very select standard spells shared among the literati."
"Did you ask Professor Binns' opinion on that?"
His upper lip curled a bit. "Yes. I did."
Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing at the thought of Severus having to suffer through a long-winded explanation from Binns. No matter how pared down the question, her fellow ghost was notorious for adding far too much information to what should have been a yes or no answer.
The gray wand outlined the edges of the parchment as though measuring it before he opened his mouth to cast the spell.
"Wait!" Hermione said abruptly.
"Don't ever interrupt me!" Severus thundered, nearly dropping his wand.
"I've just thought of something," she explained quickly, attempting to forestall his anger. "If you had done this much work to hide something, wouldn't you set a trap for the most obvious attempt to uncover it?"
His black eyes bored into her silvery ones, but she could tell he was thinking. "Encrypting the spell," he said aloud, as though trying the words out.
"Get the translation," Severus ordered, reaching for an inkwell and a quill. Hermione swiftly fetched the thick packet of notes and flipped them open to the code key he'd painstakingly constructed. Muttering under his breath while coding the incantation, he finished it, read it once, and then cast the new spell.
Like ripples on water, light spread across the parchment in waves, highlighting his harsh features from below. The phenomenon lasted only a few seconds before subsiding. Hermione and Severus nearly pounced on the ancient page to see what had changed, but it lay there on its glass, appearing exactly as it had for the last several months.
"Well," Hermione declared, unable to find a word to express her disgust. "That was hardly productive."
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Severus told her, still examining the text minutely. "Any reaction is progress at this point. For all we know it will require some time for a noticeable change."
"Time, I have," Hermione said tartly. "Patience is another matter."
"You'll learn," he replied, capping his ink once more, resigned to another night spent without progress. Once the glass plate was repositioned and the clamps reapplied, Hermione picked it up, intending to replace it on the lectern where it was kept. Severus made an aborted effort to reach for it, but pulled his hand back.
"I'm not going to drop it," Hermione reassured him. "Do you trust no one to be competent besides yourself?" she asked lightly, moving away.
His hawk-like gaze followed as Hermione carried the manuscript away just to make sure it arrived safely. "I realize that," he admitted, not answering her question directly. "I'd probably do the same if you were corporeal." He kept watch as she crossed in front of the cauldron stand and was treated to the sight of her form outlined against the flickering light of the burner.
The fact that Hermione was female rarely occurred to Severus, and when it did it usually had more to do with her personality than her person. Had she truly been corporeal, he mused, it was possible he might have seen the outline of her body through her robes at that moment. As a ghost, however, the light shone through her entire torso as well as the plates in her hands.
"Do that again," he ordered abruptly.
"What?"
"Move. Over there," he made a motion with his finger, indicating a spot near the cauldron.
Mystified, Hermione did as he demanded and floated sideways until she occupied a spot between him and the work table. As if in a daze, Severus walked over and took the glass panel from her hand. Lifting it, he held it out before him, blocking his view of the burner. The steady flame lit the parchment just as it had Hermione's form a few moments earlier.
"Do you see that?"
Hermione swooped to his side in an instant. With the light shining through the parchment, it revealed a half-circle with shimmering rays radiating from it.
"I see it, but I don't know what it means. It looks like a setting sun."
"Aurora," he breathed. "Roman goddess of the dawn, and the root word for all things golden."
"Gold?" she repeated. "Then why not use the alchemy symbol – circle with a dot in it, right?"
"Yes, and it was widely used in the Middle Ages. Now, it's considered archaic, but then, alchemy and potions making were not separate disciplines as they are now. In our unknown wanderer's day, everyone and his Muggle cousin would have understood the circle and dot icon to mean gold. No, he meant to hide this from the casual reader."
"That would explain why he was in South America, I suppose. So now what? Do we need to put gold in this?"
"Not precisely," Severus told her pensively. Abruptly, he thrust the plates into her grasp. "Start again, but cut the formulation by half," he ordered as he left the room. Unexpectedly alone, Hermione saluted the empty doorway before replacing the parchment in its holder and addressing the worktable once more.
She had all the ingredients laid out and was tidying up by the time Severus came back. In his arms he carried a cauldron smaller than Hagrid's four- pint mug at the Three Broomsticks. His long legs were bowed out in an undignified and very uncomfortable looking position.
"Is that thing SOLID gold?" Hermione asked.
"Very solid," grunted Severus. He staggered slightly as he heaved it onto the workbench. The thunk it made echoed through the stone room.
"You're lucky you didn't rupture something. Couldn't you have given it a Leviosa? Where did you find it, anyway?"
"It's impervious to spells," Severus explained, leaning on the table surface, one hand in the small of his back. "And I borrowed this from the Headmaster's hoard. Our school budget hardly extends to this kind of equipment, but Dumbledore was an alchemist for seventy years before he gave it up for the dubious joys of teaching. As both Headmaster and alchemist, he's in a position to collect the oddest bits and pieces."
"Like what?"
Severus threw a quelling glance at her, but answered anyway. "Mirrors, philosopher's stones and gold cauldrons are only a few of the things he's got squirreled away, Miss Granger."
Fishing into the pocket of his robes, Snape withdrew a set of gold implements. From another pocket he took out a small mortar and pestle. A heavy gold plating covered the head of the pestle, leaving the last third of the translucent green stone for a handle, and the dish of the mortar was plated with solid gold as well.
Within an hour, the little cauldron had produced a small sample of their most promising concoction. The Nauga hyde was once more split open, and a generous dollop of the colorful mixture applied.
They both waited, Hermione breathless by nature, Severus refusing to be unnerved, until the edges of the wound began to knit themselves back together, slowly repairing the damage.
"Next time you move that thing, try putting it on a platform of some sort and Leviosa the platform," Hermione advised absently, still focused on the mending hyde.
"Duly noted, Nanny Granger," Severus shot back, momentarily annoyed he hadn't thought of that before carting the thing down five flights of stairs. "I'm not sure we've made a breakthrough," he commented. "This is promising, but there are already countless other ointments on the market that can heal wounds like this."
"It certainly wouldn't heal someone who's just had his heart cut out," she observed. "I can't say I personally would have let someone drain me dry on an altar even if I knew I'd be perfectly fine the next day, but I can see this as a useful tool for religious ceremonies." The incision was now almost completely sealed, although a large ridge of healing tissue covered the seam.
"Does your translation actually say it's a salve?" Hermione asked. "I thought he made a few references to drinking along with everything else."
"Hmm," Severus answered thoughtfully. "It's possible this should be a drinkable potion. We won't know for sure without more trials."
He shot a sidelong glance at Hermione, waiting for her reaction, but she was staring off into space with a glazed look in her eyes.
"Hermione?" he called, concerned.
At the sound of her name, Hermione shook herself out of her reverie. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I think the sun is coming up. I'm starting to fade."
For ghosts, this was a literal description; as he watched her body seemed to lose cohesiveness.
"I asked if you were aware of the work we still have ahead of us. Though if you'd rather go watch your sunrise, I'm sure I'll be able to carry on without you."
Hermione gave him an exasperated look she once reserved for Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. "Of course I want to be involved," she told him. "It's just that I'm tired, and so are you if you're snapping at me like that."
"You're right, of course. We've worked all through the night, but at least we've some progress to show for it. Very well; let's leave it for now and come back to it tomorrow." A flick of his wand cleared the organic debris; he was obliged to heave the cauldron across the room to a locked cabinet. Even in his private laboratory he habitually locked away anything either valuable or dangerous. Hermione followed behind, carrying the implements, and put them alongside the cauldron.
"Do you want to go watch the sun rise?" Hermione asked, yawning, as Severus warded the cabinet with its precious contents. "There's a wonderful spot at the top of the staircases; I spend a great deal of my time up there." Severus gave her an odd look and she had a momentary flash panic, thinking he'd remembered her intrusion on his werewolf nightmare.
His next comments, despite the scathing tone, put her at ease. "What would possibly prompt me to climb sixteen flights of stairs just to see the sun rise?" he asked. "I'm going to bed and savor these last few weeks of summer before the horde descends once more. If you want to be of use to me, you can calculate the supply orders for the students; Minerva has finally given me an headcount of the incoming first years."
"I'll be here," Hermione promised, covering another yawn.
Severus gave her a short nod of farewell, but she was already de- materializing, one hand giving a languid wave as she disappeared. He stared at the empty spot for a moment before shaking his head and proceeding to his bed.