On Teenagers and Love

a story by anamatics

part three - the fog

Chapter 21 - On Poison


The weekend of the wizarding banking holiday which usually coincides with the March visit to Hogsmeade falls on Ron's birthday and the day before the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw quidditch match. Hermione has no patience for the slowly unfolding petty dramas between her friends and their various love entanglements, and instead spends the week leading up to the proposed visit lamenting the banking holiday and Fleur's already busy schedule. There's no way she can get away from work on such short notice. On Thursday, when the announcement is made that the trip is canceled, Hermione can't even find it in herself to be upset. A letter from Fleur sits open next to her cup of tea on the breakfast table next to a half-eaten orange. She can't get away for the weekend. Hermione will have to write her that it's no matter anyway.

Harry and Ron hadn't turned up yet, and Hermione was starting to wonder where they were. Dean, Neville and Seamus had come down, chattering about Ron's new watch (the traditional coming of age present from fathers to son within pureblood families), and Neville was lamenting that his gran probably wouldn't think it proper to reciprocate the gesture for him on his own birthday.

Listening to them, Hermione thinks darkly of the silver cufflinks wrapped in brown paper and tucked away in her bag. She doesn't want to give Ron such a nice gift in front of anyone else – especially Lavender – because she simply has no patience for the reaction her dorm mate is sure to have. She's ordered from the same jeweler who made Fleur's ring, letting him now she wanted something simple but still formal enough to wear with dress robes, and explained they were for a friend's coming of age. The letter she'd received back earlier in the month had described several options, and had a photograph of all available options. Hermione had asked Pansy during patrol which she thought were suitable.

Pansy, had, naturally rolled her eyes and asked if Hermione was looking for them to be pawned because "Well, he is a Weasley, Granger, they don't have two knuts to rub together" before pointing out that the set of silver and pewter ones wouldn't look too garish with Ron's complexion. Hermione, annoyed at the slight but grateful for a second opinion had said nothing, instead tucking the photo away and moving around the corner to encounter two fourth years sticking firecrackers under Professor Flitwick's office door. By the time that was sorted and Pansy was onto describing the shortcomings of that particular set of Hufflepuff boys' intelligence, Hermione was able to speak to her again, and the patrol went on as they normally did.

She glances up from her tea to see Professor Snape stalking toward her, a piece of parchment clutched in his hand. She sets her tea down and eyes him, ignoring the hush which comes over the table as he approaches. "Miss Granger," he says as he draws level with her. There's something about his face which betrays his sour expression. He looks exhausted, Hermione realizes. Like he hasn't slept in days. "You and Miss Parkinson's patrol days and times have changed. There was an incident with a Hufflepuff prefect which has resulted in her having to return home for the foreseeable future. This is the updated timetable."

"Thank you," Hermione says quietly.

"I trust you can inform Miss Parkinson?" He asks.

"Of course," Hermione is unfurling the paper to take a look at the new times, which don't seem too bad. Their Monday and Wednesday early morning patrols are now an hour shorter and are on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and every other Friday. Their evenings, thankfully, are unchanged. Hermione reaches for her bag and realizes, then, that the long shadow of Professor Snape is still looming over her. "Was there something else, professor?" she asks. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Neville get to his feet, his breakfast half finished, and gather his things – leaving Dean and Seamus alone.

He regards her for a moment. "Miss Parkinson mentioned you were having some troubles with your memory, do see that such…issues…don't continue in future." With that, Snape sweeps away. Hermione doesn't think she's ever heard Professor Snape sound quite so northern before.

"I—of course, sir." Hermione stammers at his back, but already she's seeing red. How could Pansy? How could she mention something so private to her head of house?

"Oi, Hermione," Dean calls, but Hermione's already gathering her things. Tea forgotten, she gets to her feet and slings her bag over her shoulder. Stalking over to the Slytherin table, where Pansy is sitting, her nose buried in the Prophet, next to Daphne Greengrass.

Ignoring the dark looks she receives from some seventh year Slytherin boys, Hermione exhales slowly. Clearing her throat, Hermione taps Pansy on the shoulder. "Could I have a word with you, Parkinson?"

Pansy lowers the newspaper. "What?" she snaps. "Some of us are reading, Granger."

"Well," Hermione shoots back. "Some of us just had rather telling conversations with your head of house," she leans forward, shoving the parchment into Parkinson's hand. "Our patrol times have changed. That's the new schedule." She lowers her voice. "I need to speak to you. Privately."

"To ah…coordinate schedules?" Pansy says, perhaps a little too loudly. She folds the newspaper and hands it back to Daphne. "I'll be right back, Daph. Schedules, you know, Granger gets her knickers in a twist over the stupidest of things."

Daphne Greengrass, to her credit, takes the paper and shrugs. "Don't know how you spend so much time with such fil—her."

"It isn't by choice," Pansy answers, loudly enough for Hermione to hear, tossing a haughty look over her shoulder at Hermione.

Hermione says nothing, but stalks out of the hall, head held high. She hears Pansy's footsteps behind her and she can't remember the last time she's stormed out of the Great Hall like this – probably that time, when Fleur was angry at her in fourth year. Back when this whole thing started. Her feet taker her on that same route, up the main staircase to an unused classroom on the second floor. She has her wand out, sparks of yellow energy are crackling around it as she holds it loosely in one hand – a dueler's stance. Pansy slams the classroom door behind her and whips her wand out, throwing up a shield charm – a hybrid Protego by the wispy blue of it – just as the energy releases from Hermione's wand.

"Bloody hell, Granger," Pansy says, flicking her wand and sending another spell in Hermione's direction. "If you wanted a duel at least warn a girl."

Hermione steps out of the way of her spell and lets her wand fall back to her side. "You told Snape about my project."

"Of course I did, you colossal tit," Pansy shoots back. "Not about your bloody arithmancy, but the professors should know when someone is mucking around in their own brain before they end up in the loony bin like Lockhart."

"That was my business!" Hermione gits her teeth. The anger feels good, comforting. She's been alone since Christmas save the brief conversation with Fleur two weeks ago. She feels out of control, her magic wild and pulsing like the heated stone at her neck. She needs this, to rage, to release, to heal her wounded soul with her lover so very far away. "You had no right!"

"Merlin, Granger." Pansy says. "You—" She stops, her fingers rising to her own neck. She takes a step back, and then another. "Delacour's necklace." She croaks.

Hermione's hand flies to her neck and she hisses in pain as her fingers touch the stone there. It's heated, dangling over her shirt, so hot it burns her. "I…" She exhales and then grabs the stone and holds it close, concentrating on quelling the ache in her heart and the rage she still feels. "What's happening?"

Pansy boggles at her. "Your bond is stretched thin, with Delacour in France, obviously."

Hermione opens her mouth to speak, to demand to know what Pansy's on about, but is spared the trouble when Harry, Ginny hot on his heels, bursts into the classroom. A dirty piece of parchment is clutched in his hand, the Marauder's Map. Hermione knows from the look on his face that something isn't right. She glances at Pansy, who tilts her head to one side, wand held carefully between two fingers.

"Hermione!" Harry says breathlessly. "We've been looking everywhere for you. You need to—what's Parkinson doing here?"

"We're coordinating our schedules – our prefect patrols changed." Hermione supplies quickly. Couldn't very well say they were having a row. "What's going on, Harry, Gin?"

Ginny eyes Pansy for a moment. "Ron's in the hospital wing."

"What did Weasley do, it's only half eight?" Pansy demanded.

"Long story," Harry says quickly. "The was a love potion and then a bezoar and…" he paused, running a hand through his hair. "I think someone is trying to kill Professor Slughorn."

Pansy opens her mouth, closes it, then turns to Hermione. "This conversation isn't over." She says.

"Clearly not," Hermione shots back.

"I'll leave you to your mess then."

"Thanks," Hermione says. She scowls as Pansy slips past Harry and Ginny and leaves the room.

"Been dueling Parkinson?" Ginny asks, eyebrow raised. "That's a nasty looking scorch mark on the wall behind you."

"It was nothing," Hermione answers. "What's happened to Ron?"

"You'd better come with us," Harry says.

By the time they reach the Hospital Wing, Hermione is certain she can never allow either of these boys out of her sight again. In the space of an hour this morning, Ron consumed a love potion left for – and this was just speculation on her part – Harry by Romilda Vane – only to have been offered alcohol by a professor at eight bloody o'clock in the morning (on a school day! A school day!), only to have that wine be poisoned, resulting in some quick thinking on Harry's part with a bezoar. Which was another thing – because while Professor Snape had mentioned it on their very first potions class back in First Year, Hermione was certain Harry didn't remember that class and certainly didn't recall when, later that same year, Professor Snape had explained to them that while useful when one didn't know what the poison was, bezoars could take a lot out of a person. Especially if they had the magical essence of any other potion in their body at the time.

"I won't let you inside," Madam Pomfrey's voice cuts through Hermione's racing thoughts, effectively derailing them. "Mr. Weasley needs rest, and I need time to work to ensure the poison has been completely removed. I've already owled your mother, Miss Weasley, so you needn't bother unless you'd like to speak to her directly about this."

"Is she going to come?"

"I have yet to hear back from her, Miss Weasley; but given her son is grievously hurt, I would assume so, yes." And with that Madam Pomfrey slams the door in their faces.

Ginny, looking deflated, sighs and slumps back against the wall. "This is a right mess."

"Yes," Harry agrees, slumping next to her.

Hermione chews on her lip. This morning has been a disaster and Hermione has no idea what has her more frightened: Ron's potential demise, the fact her magic is starting to go haywire, or Snape knowing about her experimentations with memory charms. Her jaw works and she stares hard at the door, wanting Fleur, wanting answers, and most importantly being terrified for Ron, who has only just come of age and now…is hurt. Because of something that probably has to do with Harry and Dumbledore's lessons together.

By the time they're let into the hospital wing and Fred and George arrive, hours later, Hermione's mind has composed three letters to Fleur demanding to know what on earth is happening to her magic. When Ron wakes up, grunting Hermione's name, because she was the last one speaking, admonishing Ginny's theory that somehow the wine Ron had drunk was meant for Dumbledore deliberately.

"Then the poisoner didn't know Slughorn very well," she points out. Her throat feels raw and her hand is only just now starting to relax itself from where it clenched into a fist following her fight with Pansy earlier. The burn is there, raw and red for anyone to see. It stings. "Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he would keep something that nice for himself."

"er-my-nee," Ron grunts from the bed before his eyes ease open, briefly. He cracks a wry smile. "Had some of that good stuff, have you?"

And then, just as easily as the world stopped, it started up again. Ron was alright. They would be alright. A bubble of hysterical laughter filters out of Hermione's lungs and she feels her shoulders sag. "Go to sleep Ron, you've had a whale of a day." She says, nudging his shoulder.

After a moment, he starts snoring.