Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I am up to no good. JKR owns it all and I'm not profiting- financially at least.
Notes: Please review and share your thoughts so far :)
A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.
George Bernard Shaw
George had been more than happy to let her look over his notes before he went to bed. If Hermione could realistically call them notes: the few parts that were actually legible seemed to be written completely without context. It was more like an amalgamation of personal reminders than anything else. She was resolved to buy him some sort of note-taking quill and journal for Christmas. How WWW had come this far was beyond her.
Still, the few parts she could make out on the brewing process were brilliant enough to make up for it. He really was a genius. In messy scrawl George related that he'd been unable to find anything on using memories in potion. Next to which the term bugger had been hastily crossed out. The next 6 pages marked his unsuccessful attempts at using memories in the actual brewing of Excito Animatum. It seemed the memories refused to combine with any other material: If you infused them with plain water, they formed a separate globe before eventually fizzling out of existence. Somehow none of this had discouraged George.
It was only on the last page of notes that George seemed to make any progress. Giving the previous efforts up as a loss, he had modified the contents of Excito Animatum, and simply added the memories to the revised potion at the end stage.
After copying his instructions for the revised potion down onto a separate sheet of paper, Hermione rose and gathered the rest of her notes. Then, reaching up to the books stacked on top of Percy's old wardrobe she pulled down what appeared to be a shiny-new copy of Hogwarts a History.
Only, of course, it wasn't.
Furtively glancing at the door, Hermione removed the glamour and a battered second hand volume of Advanced Potion Making was revealed.
Hermione Granger, you are a terrible human being.
As usual, Hermione couldn't assuage the guilt that flooded over her. Lying about her research, ignoring Ron, and insulting the Weasleys' hospitality all weighed upon her conscience daily. But this, this was tenfold. Opening the tatty hard cover, Hermione lightly traced the now faded ink.
This book is the property of the Half Blood Prince.
She truly hadn't been able to help herself. After finding out the identity of the 'Half-Blood Prince', Hermione had shuddered at the loss of such knowledge. The irony of mistrusting the book all year was not lost on her. Especially since she alone had constantly defended the infuriating Professor. She had reclaimed the tattered textbook on her last day at Hogwarts at the same time she appropriated the Horcrux books from Dumbledore's office. She wasn't sure the information would be useful, but it never hurt to be prepared.
She really should have sent it back to Snape after the battle. There was no excuse for keeping it any more. But when the thought had struck her, Hermione had been vehemently reluctant to let it go. After all, as far as anyone knew the book had perished in flames. Plus, Snape obviously hadn't been using it if Harry had found it stashed in the bottom of a cupboard.
Deep down Hermione knew that for all her rationalizations, it was wrong to keep the book. So she had resolved to return the book after she passed her potion Newts. She reasoned she was sitting them without an instructor and a little extra tuition and study never went amiss.
She spent three-days pouring over the tiny cramped handwriting. It was then she knew there was no way she could ever give it back. The tiny offhand comments and notes scattered through the book provided more academic stimulation than the entire Weasley clan put together. It was one such alteration, the single word 'Distilment' (circled and underlined twice) that led Hermione to her research in Dittany. She couldn't bear the idea that she'd scarred Snape irreparably when another option had existed. A method he had conceived in the first place. How he must have loathed her. She had sent him letter after letter, confessing her possession of the book, and announcing her perfection of the distilment process. She was prepared to send him all her research in atonement; the royalties he would earn might finally resolve her of her guilt.
Six letters later, one personally handed to Professor McGonagal, and Hermione had had enough.
Severus Snape was not the only person in the world, and Hermione knew that others all over the Wizarding world could be spared future disfigurement. Hermione hadn't mentioned the breakthrough to anyone. How could she explain to Ron that she had been lying all that time? Her first published work, and she was positive only half a dozen people in Great Britain would know of it.
It was sitting in the Burrow's kitchen, the morning she received word from the Italian Potions Publisher, that Hermione promised to set her parent's memories straight. The war they might not understand. Her magic, her newts, her status as a hero of the Wizarding world might all seem foreign to them. But her very first publication was something she knew they would understand. She had missed them then more than ever before.
Looking down at the tattered textbook, Hermione flatly ignored the pulsing guilt and remorse. She was determined. Taking up her quill, she set about re-working her calculations. Using memories had to be the answer.
The moonlight swam across the bare stone floors, seeping in through the curtains and bathing the corners of the room in darkness. Severus was laid in bed, fruitlessly attempting to clear his mind and find some respite in sleep.
He didn't know what to do.
It felt like he'd been woken up from the stupor his life had become. He'd spent so long simply surviving from hour to hour, attempting to rob each day of feeling, and Granger had ruined it all. The numbness had been shattered and surges of rage and guilt and worst of all doubt had taken its place.
He didn't think he could sustain the carefully constructed veil of apathy anymore. He wasn't sure he wanted to. For the first time in years, Severus Snape cared about something; something purely concerning himself too. Not a long dead woman and her meddling brat, not the whims of a delusional madman or the pleas of an old fool.
He was angry. No, he was furious. He had cleared his mind again and again, occluding away the irrational emotional response and waiting for it to fade. But it persisted. It seemed to have taken the form of buck-toothed bushy haired child waving her hand in the air. He couldn't ignore it and it wasn't going away. Tranquil as he attempted to appear, the rage still seethed under the surface. She had taken the only thing he was good for. As much as he hated himself, as much as he loathed and belittled every other fragment of his being, he was proud of his intellect. He was proud of his research, proud of the potions he had patented and the cures he had made possible. It was his only redeeming factor and Hermione Granger had pissed all over it.
How could he go back to comfortably wasting his life now?
Snape stared sightlessly up at the dark ceiling. No. He was going to make her admit to the theft, he was going to make her surrender his notes, and he was going to make her admit, to the entire Wizarding world, that the research was his.
And what will that achieve? You're going to tear apart this brilliant witch's life and career all because she made you feel something?
Severus ignored his thoughts. This was all her fault anyway.
