Severus was groggy when he woke up, and it took him a moment to remember what had happened. When it came back, he swallowed hard as his painfully empty stomach tried to rebel yet again. Nausea had overwhelmed him after the trial, and as humiliating as it had been, he was glad Draco had been there to help him to the suitable facilities. As painful as the trial had been, however, he felt a faint but persistent relief. So might someone with a hideously infected wound feel as it was drained... left closed, the filth and poison it concealed could be hidden, but only when it was revealed to the world could it be healed.
He scowled. That last thought had been positively maudlin. He opened his eye, determined not to keep indulging in pus-focused melodramatics.
It was almost dawn, he saw, glancing over at the tiny window. The sky was a greyish auzure, too dim for the sun to be up yet, but hinting at its approach. He turned his head to look the other way, and blinked in surprise. Hermione was curled up in a large chair beside him, her feet tucked under her and her hair down, twiddling a curl between her fingers as she gazed at the window. His movement seemed to draw his attention and she looked down at him. "Good morning," she said quietly. "How are you feeling?"
"I'll live," he said wryly, making no effort to sound pleased about it. "How are you?"
"The same, more or less." She took a deep breath, blowing out a weary little sigh. "Yesterday was... I'd say 'emotionally draining', but that would be wasting a perfectly good excuse use 'nightmarish'."
He nodded. "I would have suggested 'painful and demeaning', but your word choices are also acceptable," he conceded, watching her carefully. She'd seemed the same as ever, when she'd brought him back to Percy Weasley's flat and his spare bedroom, helping him out of his outer robes and into the small bed. But she'd had time to think things over now - although he was sure her conjectures had been reasonably accurate before, she'd never asked him what had really happened that night, and he'd never told her. Would she think more of him? Less?
"Yours are pretty good, too." She gave him a tired smile, and he couldn't detect any difference in her manner. "Do you want to know what happened, or would you rather wait until after you've had some tea?"
He considered. On the one hand, he wanted to hear the worst at once. On the other... if she went to fetch tea, it would give him time to collect himself a little more. It was insidiously pleasant, exchanging murmurs in the dim room, the conversation unnervingly honest and almost intimate. "Tea first, I believe," he said, making a rather sour face.
"That sounds wise to me," she agreed, uncurling her legs and wincing a bit as she stood up. She'd been sitting by his bedside long enough to grow tired and stiff, he realized with some surprise. "I'll be back in a few minutes. And don't try to get out of bed - you haven't eaten for more than twenty-four hours. Your knees won't hold."
He glared after her as she left the room. "Bossy little brat," he muttered very quietly. She was entirely correct, of course, but he didn't care to have it pointed out to him. Only the knowledge that having her help him back into bed would be even less dignified kept him from defying her on principle. Still... as foolish and sentimental as it doubtless was, her vigil at his bedside as he slept was certainly a hopeful sign. It meant, surely, that she didn't hate him. That she wasn't planning to leave.
The pillows went everywhere as he sat bolt upright, realizing what he'd just thought.
He didn't want Hermione to leave. Far from being angry at how long he was taking to get well enough to throw her out on her backside, he was almost glad that he was recovering slowly, because it meant that she would be with him for longer. Why in the name of Merlin had his feelings on the matter changed so utterly?
Oh, god. He hadn't done anything sloppily sentimental, had he? The strain of yesterday and her admitted kindness in caring for him hadn't induced some sort of pitiful infatuation, had it? If it had, he was going straight back to St Mungo's. To the Fourth Floor. There was a lovely Resident's Ward he could rest in until he recovered from losing his mind.
He examined his own emotions anxiously. Could he live without her? Certainly. Did he long to spend every moment of his time with her? Not particularly. Did he desire to spout treacly poetry on the subject of her assorted body parts? Definitely not. Did the image of her with another man fill him with rage and/or despair? He conjured up a suitable mental image, using Percy Weasley as a handy fill-in. No, no murderous impulses.
Gathering up his pillows, he leaned back against them, brow furrowed in thought. So far as he could determine, he showed no especial signs of infatuation. He'd spent enough time around hormone-controlled teenagers to recognize them when he saw them. So why, then, did the thought of her going away make him so uncomfortable? Why was Hermione Granger alone so suddenly important to him? What unique thing did she offer that no-one else did? After a moment of concentrated thought, it came to him.
Companionship.
Hermione was intelligent, articulate, and thanks in part to him, well-educated. She could converse coherently on a number of subjects, and it wasn't necessary for him to oversimplify his conversation in order for her to understand it. They shared many interests, upon which they could both discourse with reasonable eloquence. She didn't object to his foul temper, and he rather enjoyed the very rare occasions on which she got temperamental herself - he found the resultant fights quite enjoyable. They worked well together, on those days when he was well enough to join her in the laboratory. He appreciated her rather dry sense of humour, though he rarely admitted it, and... he trusted her.
That last surprised him a little, and yet it was true. Hermione's judgement was usually sound, and her work consistent. She was honest, ethical, and one of the most fundamentally good people he had ever met - although he didn't share the traits, he admired them in others. And Hermione had enough of a subtle, sneaky streak to balance them out and keep her from becoming annoying.
In short... he had a friend. A companion. Someone to share things with and talk to and spend time with. He'd never really had such a friendship before, and the thought of losing it, or having her go away, was quite distressing. So. Although he had not succumbed to sentimental weakness entirely and developed... horrifying thought... some kind of adolescent crush on the girl, he had to concede that he wanted her to stay around.
He therefore had some serious planning to do. He would have to come up with a way to reverse his earlier position on her presence without appearing to capitulate or get sentimental about it. Hermione had never been as easily manipulated as most Gryffindors, either... he would have to be particularly cautious not to alert her to his intentions.
Having placed the situation in a context he was comfortable with, he relaxed again, just as Hermione slipped through the door again, with a tea-tray bobbing along behind her like an obedient pet. Just in time... she had a disturbing tendency to know when something was bothering him, and he had no intention of having her pestering him. Not that she ever did pester, he had to admit - actually, she'd barely asked a single question since she came to Spinner's End, most perplexing...
"Mr Weasley sent an owl last night, after you fell asleep," she told him, handing him a cup of tea with lemon. "The trial wound up fairly quickly after we left. For some strange reason, Minister Scrimgeour lost his taste for grandstanding after we'd made our appearance."
"Probably because we made him look a complete fool," Severus said dryly, sipping his tea. "Your performance was admirable."
"Yours was good, too." She smiled ruefully and sipped her own tea. "You would have made a marvellous actor." She shook her head, pushing her untidy curls back from her face with an absent hand. "Bellatrix was sentenced as soon as the less-interesting witnesses had had their say - and even on the subject of Bellatrix, imagine that."
"A most unusual event, for a show-trial like that one," Severus agreed, his expression as sour as hers. "Did Arthur tell you what sentence was given?"
"She was found guilty of multiple murders, torture, spying, and, at the last moment, High Treason." Hermione looked down into her cup. "Since the Dementors are no longer available to suck people's souls out, Scrimgeour had to settle for the only crime he can still behead people for."
Severus swallowed hard and nodded slowly. That... came as a shock. It wasn't the wizarding way to hand out death-sentences... to destroy souls, shatter memories, and the like, yes, but usually they were too squeamish for real killing. "When?" he asked quietly.
"At noon. It won't be a public event, but anyone she's wronged has the right to see her sentence carried out." She stirred her tea, her face introspective. "Neville's going. He said he won't believe she's really dead until he sees it with his own eyes."
"I suppose I can see why," Severus sipped his tea again, hoping it would un-knot his stomach a little. "Do you intend to go?"
Hermione shook her head. "Only if you want to," she said quietly. "I wouldn't let you go alone, of course, but... well. It's not something I especially want to see. I've seen enough death."
"As have I. No, I have no desire to observe." He leaned back against his pillows, looking down absently at his hands.
Bolt upright again, two pillows sliding to the floor and his tea almost spilling as he realized, for the first time, that he was wearing a pale grey nightshirt with blue stripes - not one of his, not nearly so voluminous - and, he realized, shifting a leg cautiously, significantly shorter. "What on earth..." He stared at her in shock. "Did you...?" He trailed off, quite unable to say it aloud.
She went faintly pink. "It's Percy's," she explained. "I didn't want you to have to sleep in your clothes, so I used a Switching Spell to exchange it with your robes. And I closed my eyes," she added, going a little pinker.
Severus realized he was blushing a little himself. "Well... good," he said rather lamely. He was glad that she hadn't peeked - few would have resisted the temptation, but she seemed to understand how much it bothered him to be exposed in any way. Still, the moment of trivial embarrassment had helped to break the tension a little. She tucked his pillows behind him again with a flick of her wand, and he leaned back with a little sigh. He was very tired, still, probably due to the lack of food.
She sipped her tea, not speaking again until both blushes had faded. "While we're in London, I should go to Diagon Alley," she said thoughtfully. "We're shockingly low on supplies - the Apothecary opens quite early. I'll go there, and maybe to Flourish and Blott's as well. Do you need anything?"
He shook his head. "Nothing at the moment." He could, perhaps, have afforded a page or two, but not an entire book. Not that he intended to admit that to her.
She nodded. "I won't be more than two hours or so, and then we'll go home," she said decidedly. "Percy will be here, if you need anything or if you get bored."
"I am perfectly capable of fending for myself for a few hours," he said indignantly. "I do not need a nursmaid!"
"Of course not," she said soothingly. "But you do get bored when you've got nothing to do. I'm sure Percy would be happy to lend you a book... or he plays chess, significantly better than I do." She smiled ruefully. They'd played a few times - she was an average player at best. Her tendency to think there was a One Right Way to do things tended to block her perception of other options.
"He could hardly be much worse," Severus said, but without any particular acidity in his tone. She wasn't bad, exactly... just clumsy and unpracticed. He was sure she would improve. In the meantime, however, a more challenging game or two would be pleasant - and he'd always liked Percy Weasley as much as he'd liked most of his students. The boy had worked hard, obeyed the rules, and was extremely safety-conscious. These were also traits that he appreciated.
"Good. I'll let him know you're ready to honour him with a trouncing." Hermione smiled. "In the meantime... you must be starving, and I know I am. I'll go start breakfast."
Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes was even busier now than it had been during the war. It took Hermione a few minutes to fight her way through to where Fred was extolling the virtues of a new product line - nightcaps that would give a sleeper a different good dream every night for a week, then alternate between the seven at random until the charm wore off. "Fred?" He didn't hear her, and she smiled, leaning over to poke him. "FRED!"
"What?" He looked around, then beamed. "Hermione!" Hastily waving at a pretty blonde witch in bright magenta robes to take over, he hustled her into the quieter back room. "Hermione, what are you doing here? I mean, it's great to see you and everything... GEORGE!" he shouted up the stairs at the back of the room. "GET DOWN HERE!"
George - slightly mussed, Hermione noticed with some amusement - sprinted down the stairs, with a very pretty brunette witch on his heels. "Fred, what's the... Hermione!" He beamed, giving her a quick hug. "It's great to see you!"
Hermione looked at the other witch, who blushed and hurried into the front of the shop. "Do you have a red-haired one around somewhere as well, to make up the set?" she asked rather dryly.
"Nah. Too much like snogging a family member," George said cheerfully. "So why are you here?"
"Doesn't it occur to either of you that I might just want to see you? To see how you're getting on?" She gave them a mock-reproachful look.
They looked at each other. "No," they said in unison.
Fred explained. "We were at the trial yesterday, don't know if you saw us. So, you know, we figure it's sort of unlikely that you're going to be making purely social calls today."
"There is that." Hermione nodded, and gave them a slightly suspicious look. "And you're not going to have fits about my current choice of companions?"
"Nah." George shook his head. "Look, we never liked him, and we admit we gave him plenty of reasons to loathe us. But the way we see it... he's a miserable git, but if he didn't murder US when he had the chance, he can't be completely evil."
"And we did hear what he said yesterday," Fred agreed. "And get a good look at him. We had no idea he'd been messed up so badly."
"And we weren't surprised you were the one to go and find him and look after him," George finished, smiling down at her. "You always stuck up for the old bat, and you're always trying to help people, even when they don't want you to, like the house-elves."
"How did everyone get so damn perceptive?" Hermione asked, smiling back. "I mean, Neville, Percy... now you two. Next I'll be finding out that you're going around being considerate of others."
"Who us?" Fred asked, looking shocked. "Never!"
"So why are you here?" George asked curiously.
Hermione blushed a little. She didn't want to do this... she REALLY didn't want to do this... but she'd given it a lot of thought and the twins were really the only people she could ask, given assorted contributing factors. "I wanted to ask you for a favour," she admitted. "It's... kind of a big one."
"Of course."
"Just name it."
She winced. "I need to borrow some money," she admitted in a small voice.
They both stared at her. Whatever they'd been expecting, it wasn't this. Fred found his voice first, frowning a little. "Not a problem - we're doing really well, lately, we can give you whatever you need. But... Hermione, why do you need to borrow money?"
She gave him a half-embarrassed, half-exasperated look. "Because I don't have any, Fred."
"What... not any?" She shook her head mutely, and George frowned. "But... look, if you need a job or something, we could-"
"I have plenty of job-offers lying around. That's not the problem." She sighed. "You were there yesterday, you know why I can't take any of them right now."
"Because of Snape, I guess... but then why isn't he-"
"Because he doesn't have any either," Hermione snapped. "He doesn't have a job anymore, remember? Even if he did, he's not well enough to actually do it. And he doesn't have a family or an inheritance to fall back on... as far as I've been able to determine without asking, because he'd have a fit if I did, all he has in the world right now is a lot of books and a rather manky little house in a tiny town where hardly anybody lives." She scowled, not knowing how fiercely protective she sounded. "And me and Winky, of course."
The twins exchanged looks. "Blimey," Fred said quietly. "Look, we'll lend you whatever you need, Hermione - no worries about paying us back, either, whenever you can manage it is fine. Couple of hundred Galleons be enough for now? We're a bit tied up in stock at the moment, but it's moving fast..."
"More than enough!" Hermione said hastily. "Fifty is plenty, really... all I really need is Potions ingredients. It's not safe to use magic to create those."
"Make it a hundred, just in case." George reached over to pat her shoulder gently. "You're doing a good thing, Hermione. A little stupid, but good. If there's anything else we can do to help, let us know, okay?"
"I will." She sighed. "And... uhm... please don't tell anyone?"
"'course not."
"Your secret is safe with us." Fred grinned at her. "And we'll even throw in a SweetDreams Cap. See if you can get the old git to wear it."
"Of course, I'm not sure he'd qualify frolicking mermaids, unicorns, and damsels in distress as good dreams," George added brightly. "He might be ill."
The current Apothecary of Diagon Alley was almost always in the shop which shared his name. He had several lesser minions to attend to actual customers, of course, but unusual requests could be brought to him in the small room at the back of the shop where he tended and prepared the rarest, most difficult ingredients.
Hermione smoothed her robes nervously, checking her hair for escaping curls. One or two, but she still looked tidy. Good. She approached the Apothecary's room, tapping very quietly on the door. Oh, maybe he wasn't in, she could come back later-
The door popped open, and a small, withered-looking man with greying hair and bright grey eyes looked at her piercingly. "Ah. Miss Granger," he said thoughtfully. She must have jumped a little at the mention of her name, because he smiled very slightly. "Two of my assistants attended the trial yesterday. Your picture was in today's Daily Prophet, and your name keeps coming up in conversation. Come in."
She slipped into the room, blushing. This was NOT how she'd wanted to start this conversation. "I... yes." She twisted her fingers together nervously. "I suppose, then, that you are aware of my... situation. Tending an invalid who cannot be left alone for any length of time rather... limits one's possibilities of gainful employment."
The Apothecary raised an eyebrow at her. "Indeed it does," he said dryly. "Is there some reason why you wish me to know this?"
"Yes." She took a deep breath. "You sell potions, as well as ingredients," she said slowly. "And I know you don't make them all yourself - there are three different maker's marks on the bottles out there, only one being the one belonging to this shop. I would like the opportunity to make it four."
"I see." He looked surprised, but not entirely displeased. "Miss Granger, I am aware that you are currently residing with one of the more brilliant Potions Masters currently living, but I was under the impression that he was too unwell to work."
"He is. I'm offering on my own behalf." She fished in her pocket, bringing out three small bottles and two tiny jars. "I appreciate that you only accept the most perfect and reliable of stock. You have a very good reputation to maintain. But please, before you say no, at least look at what I can do?"
He inspected her closely with those bright eyes, and then nodded. "I will do so," he conceded, and she relaxed just a little. "You are, by all accounts, an extremely courageous and principled young woman. I will trust that you are not wasting my time."
"Thank you, sir." Hermione folded her hands to keep them from twitching nervously, as he turned away from her, going back to a workbench covered with odd artefacts and devices. She'd given him her very best... the mild sleeping potion she'd devised herself, that brought peaceful sleep without leaving the sleeper muzzy or keeping them from waking up if they needed to, along with the healing salve she'd improved and the Oxygenia potion that she knew she brewed well. Just so he'd know she could do non-healing potions, she'd also included an antidote that would work on most common poisons (broad-spectrum antidotes were much, MUCH more difficult than specific ones), and an Ointment of True Sight that was almost impossible to make exactly right.
He took his time, examining each potion or salve with careful attention. First by sight, then by smell... he tasted the Oxygenia and the antidote, just a drop, and examined all five under an odd device that looked like a large blue magnifying glass.
After some time, and several more tests, he made a quiet, satisfied noise. "I am impressed, Miss Granger," he said, giving her a thoughtful look. "You obviously take great care with your work." He jerked his head at another workbench, this one set up with a very small cauldron and an enormous range of ingredients. "Open the book to page eighty-one, and make the potion described therein."
Hermione nodded. "Yes, sir," she said hopefully. He hadn't thrown her out, that was something. A muttered spell wrapped the loose sleeves of her robes tightly around her wrists, so they wouldn't knock anything over. She flipped the book open and... yes! A potion of Invisibility, one she'd learned in her seventh year. It didn't take long to make, which was presumably why he'd selected it, but it was infernally delicate - it wasn't enough to get the ingredients right, you had to time everything perfectly too. Even the slightest mistake, and... well.
Forty minutes later, her back and shoulders screaming with tension, she banished the magical blue fire below the tiny cauldron with a sigh of relief. The potion was perfect - it looked almost like greenish water, glittering faintly. "There," she said softly, and then coughed a little as she realized how dry her mouth was.
"An exemplary performance," the Apothecary observed, offering her a cup which she accepted gratefully. Water flavoured with orange juice, she discovered, draining the cup. "I do not sell poisons, nor the more dangerous sleeping potions. I would, however, be willing to carry the potion you showed me... it is much less forceful than most, and would, I judge, be difficult to harm oneself with."
"It's supposed to be," Hermione agreed. "It's so easy to take too much of some of the others - and when you're caring for someone whose state of mind is... unpredictable, it's not wise to keep anything dangerous within his reach."
"A very valid point." The Apothecary nodded. "Very well, Miss Granger. If you wish to create potions for sale, I will sell them. You will, of course, be expected to send samples of each new potion before I agree to offer it, and you are expected to test each batch before sending it to me for distribution."
Hermione couldn't quite believe her ears. She'd hoped, she knew she was good, but... the Apothecary hadn't approved a new distributor in nearly twenty years! "I... thank you!" she blurted, beaming. "I will! I'll get started at once! I have a laboratory at the house that I can use, very well-appointed... I'll send samples to you as soon as I can get them done!"
He inclined his head, smiling a little. "I shall look forward to it. It is always... interesting... to work with someone new."
"Winky, we're home!" Hermione called cheerfully as she let go of Severus, dropping several parcels in the process. He gave her an odd look, which she ignored. She knew he was wondering why she'd been so much more cheerful since her trip to Diagon Alley... but she wasn't going to tell him. He could just use those years of experience to ferret out what she was up to. It would be more fun for him that way, and something of a challenge for her to see how long she could keep the secret.
"Welcome!" Winky popped into existence in the middle of the room, beaming. "Winky is having your lunch ready in moments!" She gave Severus a long, critical look. "Master Snape is looking peaky," she added, giving Hermione a reproachful look.
"The trial was hard on him," Hermione explained, piling up the rest of her purchases on the long sofa in the small sitting-room. "But he had a nice long sleep last night, and a nice breakfast and a couple of games of chess this morning. I went shopping," she added, a bit unnecessarily. "Most of these need to go in the laboratory - I had to replace a lot of things - but the little one from Flourish and Blotts goes to Severus's room, and the bigger one to mine. And I got something for you, too, Winky." She dug out the small, odd-shaped parcel, and held it out.
Winky gave it a suspicious look, but accepted it, peeking inside the wrapping. Then she beamed. "What is it?" she asked, pulling the shiny metal object out and examining it rapturously.
"It's a garlic press," Hermione said brightly. "You see, you put the garlic in here - and you squeeze - and it comes out these little holes. Muggles use them for cooking."
Winky hugged the device to her tiny chest. "Thank you, Hermione!" she said joyfully, whisking herself and the packages away.
Hermione felt the startled black gaze on her, and blushed a little. "House-elves love cooking implements, the more exotic the better," she explained, giving him a sheepish smile. "Dobby told me once."
"It looks like a medieval torture device," Severus said a little waspishly, and then a thoughtful look crossed his face. "It might be just the thing for preparing certain ingredients, however, without touching them..."
Hermione laughed. "I got one for the lab too," she admitted. "They're very useful devices."
He nodded. And didn't say anything critical, which, from him, was approval. "I see you're preparing to do more than the basic brewing you have been so far," he said, looking at the several bags and bundles from the Apothecary. "Do you have anything particular in mind?"
"Some of the potions in your books are VERY tempting," she said - which was true. "And... well, it's something to do. I get bored even more easily than you do." She grinned lopsidedly at him. "You are talking, you know, to a girl who taught herself to read medieval French over one summer holiday. I ran out of homework."
He looked startled again, and then smiled a little. "Medieval French? Why?"
"My Aunt Miriam teaches it," she explained. "She loaned me her textbooks. I wanted to learn German, but mum and dad wouldn't buy me the books. They never did," she added, a little disgruntled. "They instituted a policy when I was eight. No schoolbooks - or textbooks, or anything like that - over the holidays. I was only allowed to have them for school. I think they were afraid my brain would explode or something."
He laughed softly at that. "No wonder you were always so... overenthusiastic... when you returned to school."
"Dear god, yes. You have NO idea what kind of sentimental dribble people think teenage girls ought to read." Hermione shuddered. "Thank god for the classics section of the local library. If it's got pretty pictures of centaurs and half-naked heroes on the front, it's easier to look like you're not learning anything."
"On the contrary, I have a very good idea of the precise kind of sentimental dribble." She blinked at him, and he smiled wryly. "In my years as a teacher, I confiscated a small mountain of the stuff."
She snickered. "I hope you disposed of it safely," she said solemnly. "I'd hate for it to leak out and start contaminating the school."
"I gave it to Filch for burning. I always suspected that he saved a few of the more... lurid... romance novels for his own perusal." Severus shuddered slightly.
Hermione shuddered to. "That is a mental image I NEVER needed to have," she said fervently. "And I bought you something at the Apothecary, she said, changing the subject..." She grinned, and tossed him a small, square package. "I owed you for that."
He blinked, opening the package... which contained both Boomslang skin and bicorn horn. He stared at in bewilderment. "Why would you owe me..." He trailed off, and his one eye snapped up to give her a look of dawning comprehension.
"You didn't really think Harry took those out of your office back in second year, did you?" she asked, giving him an impish little grin. "I mean, what would he do with them? Eat them?"
It took Severus nearly three weeks to find out what had made Hermione so suddenly cheerful after her shopping trip.
He hadn't taken much of an interest at first... despite her best efforts, the trial pushed him back into his depression, and for a few days he refused to take an interest in anything. Then, painfully, he'd started pulling himself out of it again. Still not well, but... better. More good days, fewer bad ones.
And he'd found that Hermione, instead of hovering, had taken herself off to the potions laboratory. She hadn't neglected him, or anything, but she'd spent at least part of each day in there. When he started taking an interest again, she'd even encouraged him to help - they'd brewed a batch of the mild sleeping potion she favoured, and one of a fiddly but very useful memory-restoring potion, and started a very small cauldron of Felix Felicis.
After two weeks, it occurred to him to wonder why. She obviously very much enjoyed the challenge of making the potions, but she, at least, could have no use for a memory-restorer. Like him, she almost certainly had more that she wanted to forget than that she wanted to remember. And it wasn't like her to do something for no reason - she was very practical, and much less likely than he was to get caught up in the intellectual challenge a potion presented.
When he smelled the distinctive lavender-and-puffapod scent of a concentration-enhancing syrup on her robes when she passed him in the hall, he knew she was up to something. Hermione did not NEED a concentration-enhancing syrup. A concentration-lessening one, maybe, then she might remember meals without Winky having to go and bang on the door...
It took him a few more days to catch her, which he eventually managed by limping wearily around the house until she ordered him upstairs for a nap, going with a very bad grace, and then waiting for half an hour. Once she was sure he was asleep, she slipped outside and down the overgrown garden to the shed. He waited for another ten minutes, just to be safe, and then followed her. He was still using the cane she'd made for him... it helped a lot, and his love for independence was stronger than his concern for how he appeared.
He skulked down to the laboratory, and listened at the door. She was humming a rather pleasant tune that he didn't recognize, and he heard... cardboard. Cardboard squeaking as it was folded. He frowned. Cardboard? Very carefully, he turned the doorhandle and pulled the door wide. She preferred bright light to work in, it would be a moment before the sunlight alerted her to his presence...
She was sitting crosslegged on thin air, something he would normally decry as a shocking waste of power... but the floor was, just at this moment, entirely occupied. At least a hundred jigsaw-ish pieces of cardboard were spread out across it, slowly folding themselves into small boxes. Above them, Hermione was filling dozens of tiny glass bottles with the concentration-enhancing syrup, the very tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she tried not to spill.
In a cage on one of the workbenches, three white mice were assembling a tiny see-saw.
"Hermione Granger, what on EARTH are you doing?" he expostulated, when he'd finished a brief and completely deniable moment of gaping.
She jumped, nearly falling out of the air, before catching herself with a flourish of her wand and turning in mid-air to face him. "You're supposed to be resting," she told him reproachfully.
"And you're supposed to be telling me what you're doing!" he snapped, looking at the boxes, which were now hopping across the floor to congregate underneath her.
She looked at the bottles, she looked at the boxes, and then she looked at him, dark eyes dancing with sudden, impish amusement. "Knitting," she told him, absolutely straight-faced.
He opened his mouth to dock points from Gryffindor, remembered that he couldn't, and scowled instead. "Very amusing," he said, without the slightest trace of a smile. "What are you doing?"
"Engaging in a cottage industry - well, shed industry, really." She gave him a slightly embarrassed smile. "Brewing potions and selling them. Not everyone is as brilliant as we are at this, you know, they can't do it for themselves."
"I... see." No income, his mind told him. Not for months. Winky, of course, could provide food, using the magic of house-elves, and since he had wanted nothing else - hadn't even wanted that - he hadn't thought about it much except for that day in London. But Hermione had been here for months, with no money and no way of getting any while she was burdened with him... "I owe you an apology," he said rather grimly. "I hadn't considered the burden I must-"
"Don't be ridiculus," she said firmly. "I volunteered, remember?" She went a little pink. "Anyway, I was hoping that you'd want to help, when you were feeling better," she said a little tentatively. "Since I assume you don't want to go back to the school..."
He snorted. "Not for all the gold in Gringott's, no." He hadn't really thought about any future career prospects... hadn't really thought about any future, actually. The thought was... actually an interesting one. He could stay at home, brew interesting potions, and be given gold for it. "Who are you selling them through?"
She straightened, looking rather proud of herself. "The Apothecary."
He blinked. She had every reason to feel proud of herself. The Apothecary sold for very few people, and to his certain knowledge, never for anyone so young.
And the Apothecary's prices were high, because he only stocked the very best. He was even licensed to sell controlled potions like Felix Felicis, which would explain why she was making that... it was, if he recalled correctly, worth significantly more than its weight in gold.
"That is... an interesting thought," he conceded, trying not to let triumph show on his face. How very helpful of her, to render any plotting unnecessary. If they went into business together, she would HAVE to stay. If not here, then somewhere nearby, and they'd work together often... "What are you suggesting?"
"A partnership?" she offered, and one of the small bottles floated over to him. "I... uhm... may have anticipated a little," she said guiltily. "I do that. I hope you don't mind..."
He wasn't sure what she meant, until he looked more closely at the bottle. Etched into the side, small but beautifully detailed, were two profiles enclosed in a circle, both facing the same way, as if they were side by side, one slightly behind the other so both could be seen. That of a serpent - a python, he thought, from the shape of the head- and 'closer' to the eye, the blunter head of a big cat... no, a lioness. It was a distinctive symbol, and... a meaningful one. House-partisanship had been the root of almost all the conflict between them, when he had been her teacher, and in fact at the root at most of the problems either of them had had at school. Her decision to make an alliance of the symbols... he wasn't sure exactly what it implied, but it was speaking to him. "I don't mind," he said softly, running a fingertip around the graceful profile of the serpent. "It is... strikingly apposite, in fact."
"I thought so," she said softly, turning another of the bottles over in her fingers. "We work well together. And we both like doing this... creating, refining..." She smiled tentatively at him. "It would be a pity to let all that talent go to waste, don't you think?"
He returned her smile, equally tentatively. "I think it would," he agreed. He extended his right hand, and she took it, shaking it solemnly. "A partnership, then."
She looked as happy at the prospect as he felt. There was definitely something in this 'companionship' notion... he didn't know why anyone bothered with romance, when this was an option.
Tragic, isn't it? Between the Death Eaters and spending his time entirely with the single and the adolescent, he honestly doesn't think there's more to love than hormones and treacle. Doesn't even know the real thing when he sees it, poor thing.
I'm going to be doing something about that, naturally.
