Classes became blurred in the following weeks: Rehearsing the content of five years of magical education stirred several memories, not all of them pleasant, but vivid enough to make her loose track of time. More and more often she woke with a start from intensive studying in the library, realizing that the sun had already set, before reason kicked back in: Reading on the werewolf transformation process had immersed her completely that she expected Madam Pince to shoo her out of the library at half past eight, as third years were obliged to return to their common rooms until nine.
Snape, apparently, had decided to keep her at arm's length. In their previous meetings at Thursday evening either Umbridge herself or Malfoy had payed them a visit, only to find her tending the marble kettle keen and upright. Last week, they had not even spoken, as Hermione knew where to resume preparations from the week before. In fact, she realized, it was her brewing the potion, within Snape's realm and subjected to Umbridge's mercy. She found it hard not to mess with the recipe: After all, this substance would soon serve as an instrument to question students, prematurely presumed guilty of disobedience, reluctance or any conviction inconsistent with teachings of the ministry, which, Hermione was certain, included mostly Umbridge's distorted, reproachful view on non pure-blooded creatures. On the other hand, all mistakes she made might harm other students, innocent as they would probably be. When Harry inquired on her absence at Thursday evening, avoiding the Quidditch pitch since Umbridge had banned him and the twins, she told him she was in detention, and it did not feel like lying.
She had tried to trick Snape into telling her more about Dean's accidental poisoning, but the potions master wouldn't allow himself to be fooled: He deflected all questions on Mekaratium, catalytic agents or metabolization of poison by demanding the class to answer her, and when no one raised their hand, he simply declared the issue voluntary additional research. This way Hermione was left with books in the Restricted section, Friday evening before last match of the year.
Much to her dismay, the formerly rich and omnifarious Section concerning potion making almost completely let her down. Apparently no wizard had considered it necessary to document side effects of Veritaserum, much less describe the phenomenon of an overdose. She found no mention of appropriate counter-measurements in case of an intoxication, either.
Sun had set on Hogwarts and her hours ago, when she finally laid eyes on some new information. Or the excuse for such. Her magical, drip-safe candles shed just enough light to decipher needlessly wrinkled writing: On the precise description of its effects on non-magical humans ('Muggles', in layman terms), we shall not indulge, since any application is strictly forbidden by basic ethical standards, she read, infuriated. Cast aside that ethical standards have turned out to be variable, Hermione thought, perhaps a description would keep some idiots from giving it to them, if only to see what happens?
She tossed Advanced Antidotes on top of the already unstable pile and started to skim through the table of contents in Important Ingredients In Improper Infusion.
"It's half past ten, my dear", Madam Pince reminded her, scurrying into the narrow space between windowsill and shelf, almost filling it with her puffed presence, "I'll close in an hour, so you might think on taking notes and work out the phrasing in your common room, since -"
"It is forbidden to borrow books from the Restricted Section", Hermione completed her sentence. "Yes, I know. I'll leave on time."
The overlarge witch obviously considered her job done so far, emptied the remote working area and started storing back today's used books into their place. Judging from the isolated sound of the librarians hard and uncomfortable shoes, further away already, Hermione was alone in the Section.
Her research, however, remained unsuccessful. "Then why mention it at all", she muffled, slamming Bewitching, Blurring and Bludgeoning By Brews shut.
"It's not in Copious Concoction, either."
Hermione jumped to her feet, knocking over the pile. Snape lightly caught the oldest one, a thin covenant of ancient making, and prevented the book from breaking apart and Hermione from detention until term's end.
"Let me guess what you are looking for." He stepped up to an improper distance to her, but kept his eyes on the shelf, his gaze hovering over the various backs of the books. His perfume smelled like santal and full moon at a still lake and gave her goosebumps. "Here."
He made an effort to pull Redefining Remedies out from between Rapid Rescue and reluctant Reparation of Ruined Relationships (Dark Wizard Edition), which actually threatened to curse his mother and sister, that lying bitch, if he did not come back to it and read it until ever after.
Withdrawingto a more decent distance, Hermione noticed she had not felt uncomfortable before. She kept her face as blank as she could muster when he handed her his choice. "Start on page eighty-nine. With the theses on non-magic metabolics."
"Professor -"
"Don't you waste your time, it's almost eleven", he urged her. "Now read the first twelve paragraphs, and then tell me about the redefined application principles according to the authors genealogical approach." With a flick of his wand, he conjured himself another chair, filling the corridor, and lowered himself into it. For a second, Hermione felt tempted to take the book, turn around and leave him there, hurt by his recently cold manner.
"Is this a penalty?", she teased him. "Preemptively applied?"
"It's a tutoring", he replied. "And completely voluntarily."
She wasn't sure where they were heading. She felt used, rejected even, her mind getting exploited, with him watching.
"If you're not interested", Snape commented on her hesitation, "As I said, this task is completely optional."
If he had asked her to trust her, she might have refused and left. This way, curiosity overpowered her ambiguous mindset, and she sat back in her chair, both their faces faintly lit.
"The author proposes three theses", she summarized after a while, with Snape listening above crossed legs and arms folded in his lap, "Each an explanation for the different effects of Mekaratium on pure-blood wizards, 'those of lesser heritage', probably half-bloods, and wizards born to muggles."
"Any hint at why he assumes a difference in the first place?"
"Er – he makes a cultural reference – here: 'Introduction to wizarding community was processed quicker and easier, as the witch or wizard would accept their role as new member of their community and be less hampered by mourning or, in some cases, depression over their loss upon integration.' - What's that supposed to mean?"
"As it says right there", Snape answered, voice strangely thick, "Witches and wizards with magical parents did not start their life in magic community with mourning."
"They killed - ?"
"Not by wand", Snape explained, undeterred by her aghast expression, "The head of a household would invite to dinner and hand out wine or water, mixed with a cold infusion from Argentinian Sour Grass, or its roots, which contain a higher concentration. He's then propose a toast to his guests, and if muggles were among them, they'd get sick during the night and die in the morning. The healer or aide – what's its name, coroner? - would declare a natural cause of death, since Mekaratium, as you know, produces no toxic components in itself."
"Why would they do that?!"
"It's an ancient custom, practiced two nights before a wedding in certain pure-blood families still", Snape elaborated, voice flat and disturbingly neutral, "You get the idea? The ingredient lifts the enchantments of a love potion. Magical parents wished their children wed only whom they were truly in love with. The lethal effect on muggles was discovered when wizards came from hiding, and it came in handy to those parents who disapproved of their children's choice for a husband or wife. That is, their parents."
"So it does not work differently on wizards, depending on who their parents were", she concluded, struggling to think straight, "But the author observes a different reaction among subjects, and explains it with internal factors -", she watched his features change a little, was he suppressing a smile?, " - instead of external influences in the process?"
"An adequate interpretation."
"What happened to those whose parents got killed like this?"
"Well, if a close sibling of yours dropped dead the day before your wedding, what would you do?"
"Call it off, probably", she sighed.
"Precisely", he confirmed, "And in those rare cases when a witch or wizard pulled through and married the son or daughter from such overbearing magical parents, establishing a certain amount of control over them – subtly, of course – posed no challenge. After all, they were freshly orphaned, perhaps pregnant, so your supportive and reliable in-laws easily become earth and heaven to you."
Hermione needed several deep breaths to slow down her mind. She understood Mekaratium now, and why several authors were so keen to conceal its use in a veil of silence, but several inconsistencies remained.
"I still don't get", she then phrased the idea from the back of her head, "That night with Dean - how you were so quick to assume that it wasn't poison. Or any other ailment by Dark magic."
"With a curse, it would have been much harder to get his condition under control, and both poison or other messed-up potions can be sufficiently treated with that Bezoar of yours.", he added.
"Judging from his history – his performance in the common room – it could easily have been a rotten love potion", Hermione did not let him off the hook.
His expression changed again. "Isn't it obvious?" In the warm light of her candles, she detected sadness in his eyes, and something she could not read on.
"Er – no?"
"That young man was dying." He uttered the statement as if Hermione had asked him for a weather forecast. "Love potions induce obsession and arousal", Snape laid out, "But you witnessed the magically intensified reaction to true love. What could kill someone faster and more violent than a prolonged overdose of love and truth?"
He reached out for Redefining Remedies, shut it softly and placed it carefully on top of the loose pile. "We'll leave these for Madam Pince to restore to their proper place."
She did not want him leave.
He probably would not allow her to share his thoughts and feelings again, but she needed to know what to expect from him. They were not, could not be friends, she was aware of that, but they had long outgrown the relation of student to teacher. A traditional version of it, at least.
"If love and truth can kill someone", she said when he made no attempt on rising from his chair, "Passion's nothing to be afraid of, I presume."
"Oh, quite on the contrary. Depends on its – implementation. And the sources it feeds from."
"Well, in love, one might hardly harm someone in passionate -"
"We weren't talking about love, Hermione", he interrupted softly, "You were talking about passion. That's about the same difference as between a thought -", he allowed her to look him straight in the eye for the first time that night now, "And a wish."
Her heart must have felt misplaced in her chest, for it pumped in her throat.
"As much as wishes and purposes don't concur", he added.
She resisted the urge to turn her head, escaping his gaze.
"Passion's an element in human behavior", he went on, either oblivious or ignorant to her shame, "That must not be underestimated."
The patronizing pushed her over the edge before she knew it. "Stop preaching", she challenged him, holding on to his gaze, "Show me."
"I'm not -"
"You sneak up on me in the dead of night, when I'm alone, Madam Pince somewhere at the other end of the library", she boiled over, "After weeks of distance, to tell me horrific stories about marriage rituals. I've been hurt, I'm being used, and I'm lying to my friends because of - everything. So don't you preach me on my phrasing, hair-splitting between thoughts and wishes, or passion and love. Show me. I can take it."
She could not have provoked him so easily, but he played along. His scarcely lit eyes grew larger, deeper, swallowing her...