About A Potions MasterChapter 13By Pigwidgeon37Immobile as rocks, hardly daring to breathe, three people stood like statues and watched an encounter of dramatic density; the intersection of two comets’ trajectories. Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, Caesar and Cleopatra, Carmen and Don José, Prince Charles and Lady Diana… Crookshanks and Nefertiti. The necessary precautions had been taken. Crookshanks, who was quite an old gentleman by now—Hermione had tried a spell conceived for Magical Archaeology and thus established that he was only six years younger than she, which made him fifteen—hated being stuffed in a basket, hated Floo travel, and hated Apparating. At closer examination, Crookshanks hated every activity that didn’t include dozing quietly on one of his favourite spots in Hermione’s flat, being cuddled by Hermione, or eating delicatessen an average cat wouldn’t even have dreamed of, and if it had, it would have gone straight to a psychotherapist. After staying at Godric’s Hollow, where the food had been average and the company execrable, and a forced, if brief, sojourn in a carrier basket, his mood had plunged to hitherto unknown depths. A scratch, running diagonally over Hermione’s throat, bore eloquent witness to just how far below zero it had sunk. Severus eyed the scratch with sympathetic anticipation, thinking how nice it would be to tend to it. With great care. Crookshanks had stayed for some time in Hermione’s rooms, where she had humoured him into a state of grudging accessibility. Then, she had tiptoed over to Mrs. Snape’s suite, where the Mistress of the Manor was cajoling The Cat Who Had Severus’s Temperament in preparation for the historic encounter. Both women had agreed that it was wiser to let it happen on more or less neutral territory, and concurred that the entrance hall seemed to be an ideal location. Severus had been informed and was already waiting downstairs when the two women descended, first Mrs. Snape and then Hermione. All doors were closed, the flames in the fireplace extinguished, the House Elves had been told to stay clear of the space until further notice. As far apart from each other as possible, the two women had exchanged one last, half-hopeful, half-desperate glance, controlled whether Severus had his wand ready, and contemporaneously put their feline companions down on the floor. Nefertiti gave her favourite human being a look clearly indicating that she thought Mrs. Snape had crossed the border to the country of lunacy, shook herself, licked a stray hair on her paw into submission and curled up at Mrs. Snape’s feet. Crookshanks, bottlebrush tail held high, stalked over to Severus and dug both forepaws into his right shin with the precision of a surgeon using his scalpel. Severus stifled an exclamation of pain and looked down at his tormentor with a glare usually reserved for Repeatedly Relapsing Cauldron Destroyers. Visibly disappointed at this lack of reaction, Crookshanks desisted from further exploring this interesting pair of shins, strutted over to where Mrs. Snape was beginning to suffer from asphyxiation—to hold her breath and at the same time fight her urge to giggle at Severus’s pained expression was conducive to lack of oxygen—licked Nefertiti’s sleek head, got a sleepy look and a friendly purr in return, rolled himself into a ball beside her and instantly fell asleep. For a while, the three merely looked at each other, pleasantly surprised but dumbfounded at this anticlimax. Then Mrs. Snape cautiously pulled her right foot from under Nefertiti, only to be hissed at by the two just-united soul mates, and said, a little weakly, “Well, I think I need something invigorating now.” “We will join you in an instant, mother. I’ll just deal with our scratches and then, I think, we might be in need of fortification, too. Come, Hermione, the Skingro Potion is in my laboratory.” Emerging from her stupor, Hermione nodded and crossed the hall. When she reached the spot where the two cats were peacefully dozing, she stopped and said to Mrs. Snape, “I think we made a mistake. Do you have that acute sense of loss, too? Call me stupid, but I’m really, really jealous.” “I suppose we should be happy for them. But this was certainly the most frustrating turn-down I have ever received in my life.” With these words, she vanished into the salon, and seconds later the sound of liquid splashing into a glass could be heard. Severus and Hermione descended the stairs down into the basement. **°°**°°** 31 October 1991
Hermione looked down at her old diary with a fond smile. This was the last entry—she had never used it again after the incident with the Mountain Troll. But she had kept it, with the intention of writing in it again when she needed to. Acting more on an impulse than on rational thought, she had put it into her bag when she had gone back to Canterbury to fetch the things she needed for her extended vacation. It had been a good idea, though, she thought. Somehow, she needed to clear her head; to call Ginny wasn’t always possible, and so she had decided to recur to the old diary. It was early morning—since she had arrived at Snape Manor, she always woke up at the crack of dawn. It was Severus’s fault, of course. When she opened her eyes, she thought that she was going to see him within the next hour, her heart started hammering, and sleep became a theoretical concept instead of a real possibility. She dipped her quill into the inkwell and, after a brief moment of hesitation, began to write.
19 August 2001
Whoever said that writing down one’s problems helps to solve them is an idiot. To see them stare back at one’s face only makes them more embarrassing. **°°**°°** Mrs. Snape was enjoying her morning walk, and Severus was taking advantage of her absence to sneak into her boudoir and have a talk with his father. They had already talked a lot, all three of them, on Saturday morning, when Hermione had gone home to fetch her things and her cat. It had done them all a world of good. He had tried to explain, and he thought he had been understood, at least to a certain extent. And now, he simply needed his father’s advice. Had he still been ignorant of the portrait’s existence, he would probably have turned to Dumbledore. Probably. Grudgingly and with gritted teeth. His father was the better option, though. To his enormous frustration, Hadrian Snape had left his frame and gone somewhere else. With a long-suffering sigh, Severus set out on the quest for him and finally found him, engaged in an amiable conversation with a very impressive Isaiah by Michelangelo, a painting for which art historians, dealers and directors of museums would have killed first each other and then its owners had they known that it existed. Unsure of how to address a prophet properly—Your Holiness sounded tempting, but somehow wrong—Severus merely bade him good morning, was rewarded with a dignified nod and said, “Er, sorry to interrupt you. Do you think you might spare some minutes for me, father?” “Of course. What can I do for you?” Severus cleared his throat. “This is… er, quite personal. I am not sure whether the topic is suitable for the ears of a prophet. Do you think we might go elsewhere?” Isaiah stroked his curly beard and gave him a stern look. “I wanted to have a word with the young lady in the Watteau anyway. So I’m going to pay her a visit and leave you gentlemen to your privacy.” “Thank you,” Hadrian Snape said, patting him on the shoulder. “But please behave yourself—my wife will return from her walk shortly and I do not want to hear any complaints.” Isaiah grinned, rather un-prophetically in Severus’s opinion, rearranged the folds of his tunic and stepped out of the painting. “Is he that bad?” Severus asked. “Well, yes. The problem is, of course, that he is not Isaiah, but a Roman carpenter called Isidoro Piccini. Did you not notice his accent?” “Er… yes,” Severus said, “But somehow I thought it was Hebrew.” “No, no, it is Italian. And you would never believe the stories he told me once he had a sufficient grasp of English. It seems that he was quite the lecherous, dirty old man. But tell me, Severus, what did you want to talk about? Considering your blush and your somewhat sheepish expression, I suppose it is Miss Granger?” “Yes. Yes, indeed. I just wanted to ask for your advice.” “Take her to bed and then marry her,” his father said. “I would not advise you to do it the other way round, because you might be in for a nasty surprise. Although, if you ask me, I think it will be a most pleasurable experience. But then you never know for sure until you try. If you find out that you are absolutely incompatible, there is still the possibility of backing out. Not nice, but better than being tied together in an unhappy marriage.” It took Severus a few moments to process his father’s words. “Are you saying that this was the way you proceeded with mother?” “Of course I did. Or rather, we did. It was a mutual agreement. Neither of us would have wished to discover we were not made for each other.” “That was different, though,” Severus objected. “You were the same age, both from ancient families… I’m afraid Hermione would not take it very well, were I to suggest such a… well, experiment.” “Ah, yes, I forgot that she is Muggle-born. But all the same, I fail to see the difficulty. Or do you not want her?” “Not want her? Are you joking? I want her so much that… well, no need to go into details. But she seems a little… hesitant.” “Hesitant in the sense of shy, or in the sense of prudish?” “That is exactly what I am unable to discern.” “Mmmh… forgive me if I am being indiscreet, but then this topic of discussion does not really allow for discretion. How far have you arrived?” “Kissing… nothing more.” “Oh, but then you must be able to gauge her reactions. Does she retreat when you touch her?” “Well,” Severus admitted, “As for touching… I mean, I do not want to frighten her, or hurry her, so I kept my hands well above breast level.” Hadrian Snape rolled his eyes. “Well, in that case, what do you expect? She is young, she is inexperienced, what do you want her to do? You used to be her teacher, Severus. She is not likely to jump at you and tear off your clothes. This is more your game than hers, at least for the time being. I do not mean for you to hurry her, but a little coaxing will certainly do no harm.” “Oh, Merlin,” Severus said, shaking his head, “I knew you were going to say that. What if I misjudged her intentions? What if she—” “Severus, the fear of being rejected will always be there unless you try to overcome it. She is half your age, can you imagine how insecure she must feel?” “Thank you for mentioning the age difference,” Severus said surly, “You made my day.” “Now please do not become irrational,” his father snapped, a little impatient. “Both of you knew it was there right from the start. I am sure she does not mind, probably she even appreciates it. But bear in mind that in the beginning, it might contribute to her insecurity.” Severus sighed. “All right, if you say so… You would advise me to make my intentions a little clearer, then?” “Exactly. She may be shy, but she is not the type that screams and jumps on top of the next table when she sees a mouse. Believe me, Severus, she has potential. In whichever sense of the word,” he added with a rather unambiguous grin. “Very well. Thank you father. Give my regards to Isaiah. And… er, you will not tell mother about this conversation, will you?” “I may be dead, my dear son, but I am by no means dumb. Cassandra would whip up a lust potion and feed it to the poor girl faster than you can say aphrodisiac. No need to worry, your secret is safe.” Severus nodded and slowly left the room. A glance at his watch told him that it was still very early, so that Hermione probably hadn’t yet come down for breakfast. He might… yes, that was definitely one of his better ideas. He would go to her rooms to fetch her. Maybe a little good-morning kiss, perhaps she was still en deshabillé… Or she might just have taken a shower… He quickened his pace. When he crossed the entrance hall on his way to the stairs, a minuscule owl came flying in through the part of the wall that was charmed to open for the birds which brought mail. Twittering madly, it circled his head a few times before he could catch it. “Oh, stay still!” he clipped impatiently while holding it—it fitted into his cupped hand entirely—and untying the roll of parchment from its leg. The owl have an indignant hoot. “Yes, I know it’s for Hermione, don’t fret, I will give it to her.” He called Piggy and ordered her to feed and water the miniature bird, then made his way upstairs. The letter was rolled up, but not sealed. He stopped in mid-ascent. It was tempting, very tempting. An ignominious thing to do, though. Reading other people’s mail was clearly a breach of confidence. On the other hand, it couldn’t be that important and personal, considering that the sender hadn’t sealed the missive. Of course they didn’t seal it, Severus, after all, the owl is supposed to deliver it directly to the addressee. But it was so tempting… He unrolled the first inch and peered inside. The handwriting… he knew that handwriting. Whose was this untidy scrawl? He stared at the ceiling, trying to coax the information from his brain. It was… it was certainly a Weasley, they all had similar calligraphies—apart from the fact that cacography would have been the far more correct term. Maybe it was from Ginny Potter! Then it might contain some very useful information. Go ahead, Severus, read it. You can confess afterwards. With one swift gesture, he unrolled the whole letter and read My darling Hermione, He read further, and the expression of his face changed from surprised to hurt to murderous. His face deadly pale and his lips no more than a thin white line, he continued climbing the stairs. |