A/N: You've been very patient while I've been away on holiday, so I wanted to post something for you before the New Year, even if it's a rather short chapter. I'll try to have another chapter for you by the weekend. Happy New Year! I hope 2010 will be a banner year for all my faithful readers!


For the Potions Master's Amusement

Chapter 59: Epiphany

Dragging hours became a day, which passed into another, and Hermione existed through those days on nothing but sheer nerve. She was far too upset to eat more than scraps of toast with endless pots of tea, and with courage born of her knowledge of all her professor had endured and all he lived with still, she read through the books he had risked so much to provide for her. When her attention wandered to speculate on his health or well-being, she forced herself back on task with a brutal disregard for her own tender feelings—a tactic which her professor would both recognise and approve. Did he not constantly deny himself and continue on the course he had set, regardless of the consequences to him personally?

So she read the books he had provided, her quill in her fingers as she made notes, subsisting on tea and toast. She permitted herself to dwell on him only when she crawled into her bed, a thick dildo thrusting into her body as she laid herself open to him, reaching for his consciousness with her own. It seemed that she brushed against his mind a time or two, but she received no answering touch of his indomitable spirit, so she brought herself off with his name on her lips and sat up with fingers redolent of her own cunt to write of her orgasms in the journal only he could read.

If desperation drove her to masturbate more frequently and furiously than before, this did not seem odd to her. He wanted her to be a sexual being—he considered it to be part of her over-all health—and if she could not permit herself to worry about him, she could at least give in to her lust for his whipcord thin body dominating hers, his hips between her thighs as he pounded into her, his mouth held in a grimace of combined cruelty and reverence.


On the third day after her receipt of the books from the Hogwarts Library, an unfamiliar owl fluttered at her bedroom window at mid-morning. Jerking to her feet so quickly she upset the teacup at her elbow, she hurried to let the owl in. It waited patiently as she removed the parchment from its leg with trembling fingers, and as she sagged down on the edge of her bed to read, the owl snatched up toast from her breakfast tray and was gone with a sweep of enormous wings.

She noted it was not her professor's handwriting, even as she began to read.

Hermione,

It's Maximus here. He is not currently in possession of the journal, thus this note.

He was hit twice—Sectumsempra, if you know of it—but he's mending. I have no authority with you, but as a friend, I have a plea. You have to stop fighting him about staying out of the line of fire. He frets over you constantly, and that's not good. I've never seen him this unhinged, and it's impairing his judgment. For all our sakes, do what he tells you and don't distract him. There are things only he can do—information the Old Man shares with no one else—and if we have a chance in hell of finishing this thing, we need him focussed.

Otherwise, thank you for all you've done—for the friendship you've shown—and good luck on your project.

Hermione raced through the missive feeling sick with cold dread. What sort of injury would prevent her professor from writing to her himself? And where was the journal? Had it been left behind at his lodgings when he had gone to Hogwarts to fetch the books? Or had it been taken from him? What if some foul Death Eater had the journal and had worked out the spell to read it—had been reading her graphic sexual adventures? The notion flushed her cheeks with shame, and there was no secret excitement threading through the emotion—only humiliation. For the last two days, she had thought of nothing but Severus Snape, desperately hoping the blood on the rucksack had not been his, and obsessing over masturbation. Now she knew that not only had the written reports of her exploits not been read and enjoyed by the intended recipient, but also that he was suffering from injuries severe enough to prevent him from writing to her.

She crumpled Rafe's note and let it fall from her fingers, then went into the bathroom and washed her face. No matter what else happened in her life, there was a war going on. People were fighting—people she knew and cared for deeply. Harry! she thought with a stab of real regret that she was not beside him, as she had always meant to be. Still, the warriors in this conflict fought without counting the cost to themselves for the hope of a world untainted by Tom Riddle and his insanity, and their sacrifices would be in vain if she were unable to decipher the spell.

She took up a soft, white hand towel and dried her face, all the while staring at her own reflection in the mirror. She had no control over her Master's illness—could do nothing to hasten his recovery from the horrible slicing spell—but she could read the books he had risked too much to obtain for her. She could concentrate all of her not inconsiderable skill on the task of translating the ancient spell Harry needed to unmake Voldemort's body.

With renewed resolve, she returned to her worktable and began to read.


Vi surprised her by coming to her door at suppertime with two steaming bowls of savoury stew and a loaf of warm brown bread.

'You have to eat more than toast,' she said, brushing past Hermione and putting the tray on the worktable.

Hermione watched with some bemusement as the blond woman carefully stacked books and parchment to make room for the dishes. She worked with attention to detail, and Hermione had no doubt that her place was marked in the books and her notes were organised logically. Was it possible there was more to Violet than submitting to Claudius and knitting baby things?

'You don't have to talk to me, if you'd prefer not,' Vi said, indicating that Hermione was to sit down before a bowl of stew and a brimming cup of milk, 'but Hadrian said I'm to make sure you eat the food, so I may as well eat with you.'

Hermione slid into the indicated chair, her stomach suddenly rumbling in happy anticipation of eating the food. 'Thank you,' she said, dipping her spoon into the bowl.

Vi watched her critically for a moment before beginning to eat, as well. 'Is it a secret, what you're working on?'

Hermione buttered a slice of the brown bread. 'It is, rather,' she admitted.

'So it isn't a school assignment that Professor Snape has given you?' Vi watched her with curious eyes.

'It's similar,' she said. 'I'm working on an Ancient Runes translation—a spell—and I can't make it come right. So I'm doing some background reading to see if I can work out why the translation makes no sense.'

Vi's face became lovely with animation. 'Ancient Runes was my best subject!' she enthused. 'I was pants at Professor Snape's class, but I was good at Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.' She gave her head a rueful shake, causing her silky hair to move about her face. 'I've probably forgotten everything I knew.'

Hermione was dumbfounded. She had thought Vi as cold and dry as her Master, Claudius, but Vi wasn't really indifferent to others—she was simply reserved. 'Is there anything you can think of that would cause a technically correct translation to read like so much nonsense?' she asked.

Vi gazed over Hermione's shoulder as she mulled over the question, the food before her neglected. Hermione continued to eat, the plain, simple fare the perfect fuel for her body after her days of not eating. She wasn't expecting Vi to tell her anything useful; after all, Vi didn't seem like the scholarly type, did she? Still, it was polite to repay Vi's kindness with kindness of her own. If she had learned anything in her years at Hogwarts, it was that it wasn't necessary to rub everyone's nose in Hermione Granger's intellectual superiority—it made some people surprisingly tetchy if she did …

Vi sighed regretfully. 'The only thing I can think of wasn't something I learned in Ancient Runes,' she said. 'It was something we learned in History of Magic—about how the ancient sorcerers hid magic knowledge from the Muggles.'

Hermione's hand shot out and grasped Vi's wrist. 'Yes!' she cried, feeling the stubborn memory finally falling into place.

Energised by Hermione's reaction, Vi sat forward excitedly. 'They didn't want the Muggles to be able to read the spells and try to work magic on their own—'

Hermione cut across her and finished the thought, even as she reached for the ancient spell book. 'So they used rhyming words to disguise the magic spells!'

After watching the bushy-haired girl feverishly scribbling on fresh parchment, consulting first the ancient text on her right, then referring to a lexicon on her left, Vi loaded the dishes back onto the tray and levitated it before her as she left the bedroom. Hermione hadn't responded to a single word since diving head-first back into the books, so it was undoubtedly best to leave her to it.