Disclaimer: What you recognize isn't mine. Many thanks to JK Rowling for letting use her characters, and even more for reading our little ditties herself …

A/N: My spring break is now sadly over, so I don't know how long it will take me to get the next chapter up. My apologies in advance – it will probably be a week at the earliest. Still, thank you to my devoted readers! Enjoy the chapter.

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Hermione appeared smack dab in the middle of the kitchen, the early afternoon sun pouring through the windows. She took a deep breath in, and slowly released the oxygen.

Calm yourself, Hermione, she thought. The fists balled at her sides were only now beginning to loosen; her knuckles white from the pressure she had exerted on them.

It hardly came as a surprise that Molly had figured out the source of Hermione's obsession with her research. Molly was not the mother of Fred and George Weasley for nothing, Hermione noted wryly, having regained her composure enough to pull the dark roast out from the second cabinet. Molly was naturally intuitive, and knew exactly how to ferret information out of suspicion. She was the quintessential expert, Hermione thought, at discerning the fact from the chaff.

The dark roast was brewing itself in an incredibly timely fashion. Its heady, familiar aroma rose to comfort the distressed academic, still fashionably dressed in the heels and red sundress. Hermione put a hand on the counter, steadying herself. She did not know what it was about Severus … that the thought of him could so entirely unnerve her at any given moment. It was disconcerting to the highest degree. She prided herself on her self-control, on that cool Gryffindor bravery, in her never-failing sense of direction and morality. Once a course was chosen, she staid its path, for better or worse.

Go to him, Molly had said. She quietly selected a Canons mug (courtesy of Ron) from the cupboard and poured the steaming, not entirely brewed dark roast into it.

She could not wait for it to finish brewing. She needed it now.

She sipped its rich decadence, the flavor bursting in her mouth. It was slightly bitter, and she momentarily felt remorse at having been so impatient. The regret, however, quickly faded as calmness swept over her, and her contorted face relaxed into a serene countenance.

She drank deeply of its richness. It offered her support as little else could. She could not pour her heart out to Molly. Honesty and confession was one thing, but Molly was not a therapist, and Hermione certainly didn't have any demons she couldn't exorcise on her own. Ginny knew enough, but she would propose retail-therapy as the aphrodisiac of choice, and Hermione was in no mood to shop. Besides, they had plans for that later on in the week.

No, she thought to herself … this is exactly what I need.

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Several hours later, Hermione gave a deep sigh. She had just concluded her latest perusal of the incomparable Most Potente Potions. She rose from the white sitting room lounge chair and walked over to the bookshelves that flanked the fireplace on either side. She slipped the massive, leather bound copy back into its place on her reference shelf, in between Important Modern Magical Discoveries (with entire chapters devoted to Unforgiveables) and Arsenius Jigger's highly underrated Magical Draughts & Potions, Fourth Edition. She ran her hand lovingly over the books on the shelf. She reread them, and their fellow shelf occupants, on a regular basis; searching for elusive facts that would enlighten her research, or even tidbits that would give her ideas for potions unrelated to the Unforgiveables. Due to the latter distraction (and the lack of solid material), she had made very little progress.

She stretched her arms out with a brief yawn. Her readinghad given her an idea, purely experimental, that demanded the postponement her daily lab work. Her passion for learning was, frequently, the only thing that could leave her devotion to research in the dust.

She looked at the timepiece on the mantle. It was nearly four o'clock. She had enough time to go to Diagon Alley's Apothecary and get a few ingredients.

Accio mirror, she thought, summoning a hand mirror from a kitchen drawer. She had found it during her first week in the house, while exploring the abode's nooks and crannies. There had also been some rogue and hairpins – Minerva's, no doubt, either hidden away or long forgotten. Probably both, Hermione thought as she held her hand out to the approaching mirror.

It floated to her effortlessly, and she quickly checked her hair and makeup. They were decent, considering that it had been a Sunday brunch. Since her arrival home she had changed into Calvin Klein jeans (wizards really didn't know what they were missing) and a simple tank. Slipping on a pair of nearby flip flops, she fluffed her long hair out and apparated to the Leaky Cauldron.

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She appeared in a relatively quiet spot of the pub, which itself was relatively vacant. It was, after all, a Sunday afternoon.

"Anything I can get for you, Miss Granger?" the crockety old landlord called. Hermione smiled in his direction.

"No thanks, Tom. I'm just in the market for some herbs today." She started to walk towards the back door.

"Of course. You take care, miss," he smiled kindly at her.

Hermione quickly walked out the back door to the brick wall. She tapped the appropriate bricks with her wand, which at present was barely two inches long. She shrunk it for travel, as was custom. She stared at the bricks as they slowly began to unfold. There were, of course, easier ways to get into Diagon Alley, but she preferred this one. She remembered the first time that she and her parents had seen this. They'd walked out behind the Leaky Cauldron to the dingy little alley, a bit befuddled but mostly skeptical. The old man had tapped the bricks slowly, as if seeking to extend suspense and time. Hermione's lip twitched in nostalgia at the memory. She smiled, remembering her eleven-year-old self, as the bricks opened before her eyes in the present. She had felt such wonder and awe those ten years ago, as the world she'd imagined in playtime had been brought to her doorstep.

The Diagon Alley she stepped into now was relatively similar to its appearance a decade prior. The war, of course, had shut down shops and blackened the Alley's bright aura with terror and suspicion, but that had passed. The year of peace had returned successfully commerce and light to the district.

As Hermione walked down the street, she received few glances from passerbys. Her heart practically burst with newfound joy. Ignored and rarely mentioned by the Prophet these last two months, she had blissfully fallen away from the public eye. In spite of this, she had long since decided to remain at the beach house. Minerva hadn't said a word, and the arrangement remained extremely satisfactory – especially to Hermione.

She passed Madam Malkin's, briefly glancing in the window to see if Ginny was still working. She caught Madam's eye, her own orbs asking the question, and Madam shook her head slightly. The women nodded to each other in acknowledgement before Hermione continued her path. She walked passed Ollivander's (now run by the late owner's nephew) and Fluorish and Blotts.

No, Hermione, she chided herself as she quickly walked passed the gleaming bookstore. You are here for herbs, not for books …

She quickly arrived at the small, white storefront in question, and went in.

The bell on the door chimed, announcing her entrance. Hermione inhaled the heady, intermingling smells of jasmine, lavender, ginger, and eucalyptus. She quickly remembered that the entryway was charmed, so as not to announce to customers the stronger, more sinister scents of herbs located against the back wall. Hermione briefly glanced to her left. Most of the common and novelty inventory was located along the wall-length shelves. The long, chocolate brown tables ran perpendicular to the wall, baskets of herbs and displays of oils on them. Hermione noted two older witches ogling Far East remedies. Charmed inquiry cards floated above the tables, each of them containing holographic images of the entire stock of herbs, oils, and rare and exotic potions ingredients. They were, Hermione knew, the second best source of information in the tiny store.

"Ahh, Hermione!" a pleasant male baritone rang out. Hermione turned to her right, towards the counter and locked display cases, and saw the voice's origin.

Archibald Longheven was a very tall, very muscular middle-aged wizard, resplendent in dark pants and a cuffed but unbuttoned white shirt. Not as young as Remus Lupin but not quite the age of Minerva McGonagall, he had run the shop with his father until the old man's retirement during Hermione's fifth year. So much the better, Hermione had thought at the time. Archie was an intuitive herbologist and a skilled potions maker who had the enviable ability to choose the perfect ingredient without prior research. His long, thick, slightly wavy hair was streaked with grey, and Hermione could have sworn that his salient beard was tinged with blue. His thick Scots accent reminded her of the TV news anchors she saw when visiting Bill and Fleur's flat in Glasgow.

"Archie, dearest." Hermione quickly walked over to the charismatic gentleman and embraced him. The older witches clucked in disapproval, quickly turning back to their conversation by the Far East table.

Archie's jolly green eyes twinkled. "How's the Brighton coast treating you, my dear?"

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "How do you know where Minerva's …"

He winked knowingly and chortled with deep laughter when her eyes bugged with realization.

"Oh, my!" Hermione quickly covered her mouth with her hand to stop the sheepish grin that was spreading. A slight blush flushed her cheeks. Archie had a reputation as a lady's man, to be sure. It made sense, she supposed, that the brazen intellect of her mentor would not escape this man's notice – nor his vibrant lust for life hers.

"Only a flirtation, of course," Archie noted, deciding to cut off Hermione's rampant stream of thought. "This was before she was with Albus. I knew she loved him but, young rogue I was, I thought I could change her mind." He chuckled pleasantly, obviously amused at the thought of his younger self. "Didn't lead anywhere, but nothing ventured, nothing gained." He clasped his hands together, smiling at the young witch. "I know you aren't coming away from your blissful seclusion – which you are enjoying, are you not?" he asked sternly. Hermione nodded in response, satisfying her friend's protective nature. "Good. As I was saying, I know you're not here to listen to an old cad's blutherings …"

Hermione guffawed. "You're hardly an old cad, Uncle Archie!" she fondly used the nickname she had bestowed on him years ago.

"Calling him her uncle!" Hermione swung her head over to the two witches, who had moved their gossip to the aromatherapy section. She opened her mouth, about to verbally flay them, when Archie firmly took her arm.

"No, Hermione," he chided. "They are customers, after all!" he started to laugh. "Let the old bats have their fun," he finished in a congenial but purposefully loud tone.

The two women quickly went back to perusing the samplings of rosemary oil, with far more interest than was necessary.

"I never knew rosemary to be so intriguing," Hermione remarked dryly.

"I knew a Rosemary once. Beautiful woman, she was …" Archie cleared his throat, cutting himself off at Hermione's scolding expression. "What are you here for today, Hermione? You seem quite eager to defend my ignominious but quite deserved reputation, yet I know that is not what brings you to my store."

She smiled. "Much as I do love you, Uncle Archie," she emphasized loudly, trying to control her laughter, "I am here for a few herbs I don't have in my collection at Minerva's."

"Ahh," Archie crossed his arms, his inner herbologist taking over his characteristic flamboyance. "What may those be?"

"Aglaophotis and Orielibos."

"Hmm," he said, stroking his chin. "Extremely rare, and used for the expungence of dark forces, correct?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "Aglaophotis, at least, is reputed to secrete a crimson liquid that can be used for the summoning and expelling of demons, and for the exorcism of dark forces."

"Yes, yes, I remember now," Archie said, leaning against the counter. "Arabian desert, correct? Extremely hard to find. They're only legend in the muggle world; modern bonatists have not found the herbs, though not for lack of trying."

Hermione chuckled. "Yes, botanists have certainly tried to find them. But they're not wizards," she said in a high tone, smiling cheekily. "I don't want them for summoning demons, though, Archie, so you can rest your fears there."

"I do confess a certain relief."

"They're supposed to have unlimited healing powers."

"Your research?" he asked, smiling wisely.

She nodded. "So do you have them?"

"I can almost assure you that I don't. Muggles think they don't exist. Apothecaries can sympathize," he said wryly, walking behind the counter. "Those are expensive herbs, Hermione, and blasted difficult to get your hands on."

Hermione's countenance fell slightly.

"Rest assured," Archie offered. "They're hard to find, but I can get them."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "What do you have up your sleeve?" she asked in a moderate but demanding tone.

He smiled. "I'm not the best apothecary in Britain for nothing. The family who controls the area of desert where the plants grow is legendary in their own right. However, one of their distant relatives was a friend of mine in Slytherin from a few years back."

"You were in Gryffindor, Archie."

"Should have been in Slytherin!" he huffed. "I'm too good with women to have been put in Gryffindor … they're not all bad, you know, Slytherins. A minority are awful, to be certain, and in light of recent wars they've given the entire house a bad name. Cunning intellect goes hand in hand with bravery, you know." He looked up at her from the papers he was ruffling through. Hermione raised her eyebrows, in sarcastic disbelief. He cleared his throat. "Most students go seven years through Hogwarts without having the animosity with Slytherin that you and your friends had within your first year."

"We had the likes of Draco Malfoy to contend with."

"Yes, and I had his Aunt Andromeda." Archie's eyes misted over, with deep appreciation for the woman. "A better Slytherin you'd be hard pressed to find," he told Hermione as he continued to make a mess of the already cluttered desk. "Cunning, intuitive, brutally intelligent, and completely stunning. Married a muggle!" Archie shook his head in practical disbelief. "Although I hear her daughter is a Metamorphmagi – those abilities don't just spring up in families, you know. They evolve and develop as each generation increases in its magical ability. I'm glad that that it was through Andromeda that such an ability manifested itself. I don't see her daughter often, you know, Aurors aren't in much need of herbs now are they? – but I hear she's just as clever and vivacious as her mother was."

Hermione grinned. "Tonks – well, she goes by Tonks, anyway – she's just delightful. Married to Remus Lupin, actually, she walks her own path," she smiled, thinking of her klutzy, high-spirited friend.

Archie nodded, completely unaffected. "Of course she would be. Her mother was the first Black to ever marry a muggle, it figures that her daughter would marry a werewolf … but I digress. As I was saying, it's good that the metamorphmagi ability came to fruition underneath the direction of Andromeda Black, and not under that of her younger sisters. Bellatrix was younger when I was in school …" he involuntarily shuddered. "That was the beginning of that group – Lestrange, Avery, all the others. And then there was Narcissa, the pampered, insolent chit baby of the family who got herself married to Lucius Malfoy and had that prat son, may he rest in peace of course."

Hermione frowned. "Draco turned to the right side, Archie. I was with him when he died," she sighed, putting her elbows on the counter. "Truly reformed. He was a pure soul … the perfect example of how environment can conform a person." She shuddered. "Enough of that. Can you get me what I need or not?" she asked matter-of-factly.

"Here it is!" he cried triumphantly, lifting a paper from the gigantic stack. He pressed his lips together in concentration as he perused the sheet. "I have contacts in the Mediterannean," he said, setting the paper down, "whom I will now be able to contact. They have far easier access to the family then I do, and this particular friend of mine is a distant relative. I can guarantee you, Miss Granger," he said, winking, "that I will have your precious plants for you within the week."

"Thank you, Archie!" Hermione cried, bounding behind the counter to jump in his arms. He patted her back familiarly.

"Ahh, well, the old bats left the shop, nothing to perform for, sadly," he said, setting her down.

"What would I do without you?" she smiled. "These plants have so much potential, given the right mixture and texture of the healing potion, to at least …"

Archie waved a hand off. "I'm sure they do, Hermione. Don't go off telling me all your plans for the research, though. That way you have nothing with which to blackmail me for my sources." He looked at her, slightly interrogating. "There will be no attempting to steal the paper with my contact on it, Hermione, or attempting to see through Invisible Ink, memorizing its contents."

Hermione blushed a violent red. Caught in the act. She had been trying to look at exactly which paper he had put down … Archie's list of contacts, when organized, was irrefutably the best in Europe …

"And you say you don't like Slytherins. Goodness, girl," he jested as Hermione walked around the counter again.

They smiled at each other in mutual understanding. She glanced at the timepiece he had mounted on the wall. "I'd best be heading back home …"

"More books to read through?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Shockingly so."

She grinned. "Well, I'd best be off, but I will pay any price they name for the herbs," she called over her shoulder, walking out. "I am quite desperate to have them!"

"Off with you, then!" he called cheerfully from the counter.

Hermione walked out of the apothecary with a beat to her step. Mission accomplished.

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It was six o'clock. The store had been devoid of customers since the lovely Hermione's departure. Archie smiled to himself, looking over at the stack of papers he had cluttered about. He walked over the door, wand in hand, silently casting protective charms over his products and setting up the elaborate wards. The request he had received was surprising, to be sure. The requester, however, had not shocked him in the slightest. Hermione Granger was not a girl to settle for normalcy in her herb choice, Archie pondered, amused. She was a dear thing, completely unaware of how others looked on her. Good thing, too, he thought, cringing inwardly. Those who knew her loved her. Everyone in the rumored Order of the Phoenix, which Archie had great reason to believe actually existed, adored her. The Weasley family had adopted her, and she was, after all, a close friend of the infamous Harry Potter. She was a singularly brilliant and talented witch, possibly the greatest feminine mind to grace the wizarding world since Rowena Ravenclaw. Ravenclaw, now that's the house she should have been in … Archie thought wryly. Even Minerva McGonagall would not be able to measure up to Miss Granger's talent in the next few decades.

Archie circled around the tables, back to the counter. In spite of her brilliance and kind heart, there were those in the wizarding world who, he knew, were intensely jealous of the attention Hermione received. She shunned the media and had few, if any, kind words for the ministry, and still certain groups gossiped and despised her. Parkinson's circle, for one … some potion circles, too, come to think of it … he thought. However, considering that it was tantamount to social suicide to condemn any member of the Golden Trio in public, any misgivings about Hermione Granger remained quiet. But for how long …

Archie apparated out of the now-secure shop to his luxurious apartment on the floor above. He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and sat down at his large Yew desk, pulling a piece of parchment out from under the silver paper weight. He knew that his old friend was in Italy now, and that a recommendation from him would secure a sizeable amount of the requested herbs immediately. He grabbed the quill, which had sharpened itself the moment before, and began to write.

My dear old friend - Severus …

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A/N: Thank you SO much to those who reviewed chapter seven. Your compliments encouraged me beyond belief – you are wonderful! Many hugs to Gwenog Jones, PheonixFlight, enchantedlight, rinny08, Barb8, Natsuyori, Tooi ake, Softballchick dreaowa, bunnyrabbit228, KellyRoxton, shadowgirl75, and duj!

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