Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960

oooOooo

August 23, 2009

Hannah cannot afford to lose money with her soups of all things. Cheaply produced, consumed in large quantities for lunch, sold again as starters at night, they are meant to bolster the precarious balance of a half-blood's business revenue in hard times.

I have tipped the scales now, and she can't afford that.

We both know this. But naturally, true to her foolishly faithful Hufflepuff nature, Hannah won't consider the obvious solution.

I cooked Hairst Bree today. Harvest Brew or Summer-in-a-Pot. Meat and vegetables are at their freshest, their colours at their brightest—white, orange, brown, green. The broth is heavy with flavour.

But you know what it means that I brought another huge pot of soup home tonight.

I must make a decision.

It may tip the scales, and we cannot afford that.

At least we have another week before we must present ourselves in London, until we must prove we have met the conditions of our probation.

You say: "Miracles do happen."

(Where, where in Merlin's and Mithridates' name do you find this faith, even now, after eleven years—or bloody 136 months or fucking 590 weeks or hellish 4,131 days?)

I could not bring myself to reply.

(Although there is one miracle I believed in. And it did, in fact, happen.

—You, of course.)

Instead I sat down at the kitchen table with you and went through the papers you need to owl to the DMLE in order to become employed as Minerva McGonagall's assistant.

These forms make the conditions of our probation appear child's play.

(Which is an interesting observation all on its own, it seems to me.)

Padma, however, has produced the necessary recommendation from Minerva's healer at St Mungo's within a day. It seems the Patil chits are not without useful connections after all.

But what of their warning? What of Agan?

She has helped you twice now.

Why, I wonder. Why are the Patils so scared of her? And why do I feel as though I ought to know her, when I don't? —I am quite certain I have never seen this woman before August 8, when we met her at the lake.

The explanation could be simple: Agan may have been one of Voldemort's inner circle, risen to prominence only after you and I were incarcerated, but after eleven years an enemy of long-standing fear and hatred to both Patils.

As I've stated already: she is a mystery, therefore I disapprove on principle. Worse, I fear we won't have world enough nor time to solve it.

Am I making an error of judgment if I choose not to dwell on that now? I've made mistakes before; each of them has cost me dearly. Yet…when I look at you now, how you frown at your diary and pout at the pages, all I want is to distract you from your duties.

I want to fuck you.

You.

Rail-thin, stubble-headed, stubborn, bloody brilliant Hermione.

Without any doubt about where I am and who you are.

oooOooo

A/N: Many thanks to Mia Madwyn for looking this over.

Further notes:

# A recipe for Hotch-Potch or Hairst Bree may be found here: http://www. soupsong. com/rhotchpo. html (take out the spaces to use the URL)

# Mithridates: Mithridates VI of Pontus, who fought not just one, but three prominent generals of the late Roman republic (Sulla, Lucullus, and Pompey the Great), and who is legendary for immunizing himself against poisons by consuming small amounts of them on a daily basis.

# "... world enough nor time" refers, of course, rather lamely to "His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell.