About A Potions Master

Chapter 18

By Pigwidgeon37

It was good to see her friends again. A lot better than she had expected, and, above all, much easier. Harry, hair more tousled than ever over his lightning-shaped scar—somehow, they had all half expected it might vanish at the moment of the Dark Lord’s demise, but it hadn’t—glasses slightly askew for he had been bending down to put more wood into the fireplace, strode towards her, arms open, and pulled her into a tight, brotherly hug.

“Mione,” he said, releasing her, “I’m so glad you could come. You’re always so busy at work, so I thought you’d maybe want the weekend for yourself, to relax…”

“No,” she said, “it hasn’t been such a bad week, all in all. And I still have tomorrow, if I really need to relax. Where’s Ginny?”

“Still in the kitchen. I offered my help but it seems that I’m highly inadequate. She told me to peel apples, and then scolded me that I had done it all wrong. Not to mention the slices I cut. Although I’m not sure whether they were too thick or too thin. So she simply threw me out.”

“Poor Harry. I’m sure you’re inconsolable.”

“Well,” he said, beckoning for her to sit down, “not actually inconsolable, but it would have been nice. I’m away from home so often, and she spends relatively much time at the university, that I try to stay glued to her whenever I can.  Even if that means slave work.” He grinned. “Would you like something to drink?  I saw her mix some arcane aperitif the last time I dared poke my head into the kitchen.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, that would be nice. Provided it doesn’t contain too much alcohol.”

Not alcohol, my dear, but Veritaserum. Bless Mrs. Snape’s knack for potions-brewing. “No, I don’t think so. But I’ll ask her, just to be safe. No,” he said seeing Hermione rise from her seat, “stay here, I’ll go and fetch everything. You know Ginny, she’s quite the Kitchen Tyrant. Woe to whomever dares to intrude upon the Sacred Ground.”

He went into the kitchen where Ginny was indeed still busy, hair piled up on her head, but visibly hot all the same. Harry brushed a kiss on her neck.  “Everything ready?” he whispered and then said aloud, so that Hermione could hear it, “Hi, darling. Hermione is already here. I’m getting the aperitifs.”

Ginny nodded. “Okay. They’re in the fridge.” And whispering, “The one with the strawberries is for Hermione.”

“Great.” He drew his wand and undid the freezing-and-locking charm on one of the cupboards, took out two glasses and put them on a tray. They contained a very appetizing-looking, pinkish-yellow liquid that smelled faintly of roses and oranges. Their rims were adorned with fruit, one with pineapple slices and one with strawberries.

With a last conspiratorial grin at his wife, Harry left the kitchen and rejoined Hermione. “Considering that I’m allergic to strawberries,” he said, offering her the glass that was meant for her, “I suppose this is yours. Just a splash of alcohol, so you can drink it without problems.”

They toasted, and Hermione took the first sip. Meanwhile, Harry sneaked a look at his wristwatch. Almost seven. He was going to arrive any moment now.

Ginny, who had done exactly the same and come to the same conclusion, called out from the kitchen, “Harry, darling, could you come for a moment? I’m in a bit of a scrap here.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Women! First they chase you away, then they need you. Just a moment, Mione, I’ll be right back.”

He strode towards the kitchen, entered and closed the door behind him. “Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered, “Time to go!”

Arm in arm, they Disapparated.

**°°**°°**

I definitely have to ask Ginny what she put into that cocktail, Hermione thought. I’m sure it isn’t alcohol, but it causes that strange, tingling feeling. Then there’s definitely rose essence, a bit of white wine… whatever. It tastes great. She had almost emptied the glass and turned her attention to the strawberries, which she loved. Mmmh, those are wonderful. I could live on strawberries. Uh-oh, the so-called scrap must have been a medium-sized catastrophe if it takes them so long to set it right. Well, maybe they took advantage of the occasion for a bit of necking. A quick kiss in the kitchen while the guests are waiting… that’s nice. So very happily-married couple. Then again, they are a happily-married couple. Stop, Hermione. That’s not a good thought. Stop thinking of happy couples. Immediately.

With a sigh of resignation, she downed the rest of her cocktail. There, she felt that pleasant tingle again. What on earth—

The mental chemical analysis was interrupted by a rumbling sound from the fireplace behind her. Now what was that? Hadn’t Ginny told her they were going to be in three? She turned round.

No. No, she refused to acknowledge the truth. It couldn’t be. Ginny and Harry couldn’t be so heartless as to—she closed her eyes and reopened them. He was still there. “Ron! What are you doing here?”

He was looking himself up and down, flexing his fingers. Stupid, conceited bastard. As if that were the right moment for vanity. Although she should be lenient on him. After all, she had broken his nose. No need to say things that would hurt him. Not entirely sincere, maybe, but then one didn’t always have to be… “Ron, you stupid, vain bastard. There’s a mirror over there. Why don’t you go and have a look?”

No. There was no way she could have said that. She had to apologize. “Don’t look at me like an innocent puppy, Ron. I can’t stand it.”

The look he threw her was one of total incomprehension. Small wonder, I never talk like this. And I wonder… then it dawned on her. Shrewd couple indeed. They had laced her drink with Veritaserum—now she understood why it had made her tingle. How sweet of them! They wanted to give her the possibility to tell him once and for all what she thought of him, without being able to gloss over the nastier bits. Poor Ron. Well, she was going to do what she could for him, but that was little enough. There was no way you could tell lies. If you possessed a strong will you could choose your words carefully. But the truth remained the truth.

“Uh…” he said, “I… hello, Hermione!”

**°°**°°**

They had practically force-fed him the Polyjuice Potion. Sirius had transformed his clothes, while Dumbledore informed him that Mr. Ron Weasley had recently had his nose broken by the belligerent Miss Granger. Then his mother, smiling her best Slytherin smile, had told him that, just to be on the safe side, Hermione was to be given Veritaserum. Then they had shrunk the diary—for eventual further use, as Sirius had remarked with one of his insufferable grins—shoved it into his pocket, opened the Floo connection and dumped him into the fireplace like a parcel. And now… now she was sitting there, alone—which meant that the Potters had accomplished their part in this ridiculous charade—looking up at him over her shoulder with a mix of fury and bewilderment on her face. And she had already called him a stupid bastard. All in all, not bad.

What he had feared most had not come to pass: she had not precipitated herself into his arms, begging forgiveness for what she had done to him. Satisfying, to say the least. Only he was a bit at a loss as to what he should say. Finally he managed to choke out “Uh… I… hello, Hermione!” Not elegant, not original. But then again, this was Ron Weasley. For him, it was probably a very witty, not to mention lengthy, speech.

“Hi,” she said, “how’s the nose?”

She didn’t sound particularly concerned. “Um, not too bad.” Say it, Hermione, say you’re sorry. Ask him to forgive you and marry you. So I can just get over with it and return to my life. My normal, boring, miserable—

“What brings you here?”

“Well, I was… kind of invited.” After all, he wasn’t the one filled up to his ears with Veritaserum.

“Invited? Really? Did you know I was going to be here as well?”

“Y-yes. Ginny mentioned it, I think.”

“So why in bloody hell did you come?” She rose from her chair, eyes dark with fury. “You knew it might hurt me. And it’s very embarrassing. So why did you accept?”

Ah, so she was coming to the point. Hurt. Embarrass. He had known it!

“I’m waiting for an answer, Ron. Staring at me is not an answer. I know you can talk. So talk before I get really angry!”

“I…well, I though we might talk things over a bit.”

Her chest was visibly heaving with quick, shallow breaths. “Talk? You want to talk? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think everything has been said already. If you wanted to talk you would have had more than enough occasion on Monday. But you chose to behave like the bastard you are.”

Maybe he did have a streak of masochism after all. He loved it when she called him bastard. “Don’t you think we might give it another try?”

“What? Talking or your dreams of marital bliss, which I can only assume are the result of some psychedelic drug you discovered in Africa?”

She made it increasingly difficult for him to keep a straight face. “I meant talking. I thought we might clear matters a little…”

Standing with her balled fists resting on her hips, she looked at him from under furrowed brows. “Very well,” she finally said, “If you think that they aren’t yet clear enough, be my guest.” She indicated the end of the sofa—the farthest possible point from her chair. “I suppose that Gin and Harry have retired to the kitchen to give us an opportunity to talk, so I will do it for their sake, not for yours. And,” she added with a grim smile, “they might rescue you, in case I forget myself once again.”

“Yes,” he said, slouching over to the sofa adopting as Weasley-ish a gait as possible, “I guess that’s what they planned. I wanted to say that I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“Really? For what?”

Go for the safest option, Severus. “For being an idiot.”

“You were born an idiot, Ron, it’s hardly your fault. But you should feel sorry for having written such a letter. Proposing to marry me, but thinking so little of me that you thought you might just as well do it by letter, after a five-months absence. I don’t blame you for what happened afterwards, I honestly don’t. There was no way you could know Severus would find the letter…”

She paused. And swallowed. Hard. Again. And once more. Now her eyes were growing bright…

“No,” he agreed, doughtily resisting the urge to rush over and take her into his arms—it would have been tempting to have another bump added to Weasley’s nose, but not as long as he had to endure the pain. “But it’s not as if you were…in love with him.”

“I believe,” she retorted, “that I told you I was in love with him. Am in love with him, to be exact.” She sniffed and searched for a handkerchief.

Severus automatically slipped a hand into his pocket, but all he produced was the diary. Damn his reflexes, he thought, not only didn’t he have a handkerchief, but now she had also seen the book. He tried to slip it back into his pocket, but it was too late.

“What is that?” she asked sharply.

What would a Gryffindor simpleton probably answer? “Er… nothing.”

“It is very obviously something, Ron. And I want you to tell me what it is.”

Severus tried to manage an incredibly sheepish expression, which wasn’t difficult, because he was feeling incredibly sheepish. “It’s nothing, really.  Not important, I mean.”

Merlin, but she was quick! Drawing her wand and summoning a the book had been a matter of two seconds, nothing more. Her eyes widened when she examined the small object in her hand. “Engorgeo!” she muttered, and the diary slowly returned to its original size. “How did this get into your hands?”

Improvise, Severus, improvise! You were good at it once, so do it again! “ My—” Yes, of course, Severus. My mother. Be cautious, for heaven’s sake! “My sister, I mean Ginny, gave it to me. I have no idea who she got it from.”

“Really. And did you read it?”

What to say, what to say? “Yes, I… I glimpsed at it.”

“And didn’t it tell you anything? You can’t be that stupid, Ron, not even you!”

Oh, yes, he can. “I…well, you weren’t that explicit. You write that you thought you were in love with—” No, Severus. Not ‘me’. Him. Him. Think of Caesar. He always referred to himself in the third person. He could do it, you can do it.  “—with him,” he finished lamely.

“Indeed. What kind of person would I be if I declared myself madly in love with him after only five days? Paradoxically, I realised that I am in love with him only after the catastrophe. When I missed him so much that my heart hurt. And when… well, that’s nothing to you anyway.”

Oh Gods, she had said it. She was in love with him. He had to hear that again.

“You love Snape?”

“I didn’t say I love him. I said I’m in love with him. There’s a subtle difference. Not that you’d notice. Love, real, true love, is something that grows with time. But I’m convinced it would have grown between the two of us.  But never between you and me, Ron. Never. There might be friendship, although you did your best to destroy it, but never love.”

He hid his face in his hands. I can’t believe it. She said it again. And I can’t just hold her and kiss her and touch—shut up. And instead of giving yourself an erection, which she certainly wouldn’t appreciate, try to find out whether she still wants you. He raised his head and saw with grim satisfaction that there was no trace of compassion on her face. She simply sat there, gazing calmly at him, her fingers drumming a gaudy rhythm on the armrest of her chair. “Sorry. I just… never mind. Hermione, is there anything I can do? I mean, I could go to him and explain—”

“Oh Ron.” She smiled at him. “That’s sweet of you, really sweet. But it’s no use. You didn’t see how he reacted… so cruelly…” Her eyes became bright again.  “All this wasn’t my fault. He didn’t give me a chance. He didn’t even allow me to defend myself. I certainly won’t be the one who makes the first step. Neither in person nor through a mediator. He must do it. He must come to me. Knowing him, that’s the last thing he’s likely to do, anyway.”

Now she cried. Oh, what the hell… I’ll go and comfort her. He’s her friend, he is authorized to comfort her. He stood up and went over to perch on the armrest of her chair. “Now there,” he said, putting an arm round her shoulders, “Don’t cry. Please. Maybe… maybe he’ll realize how much he misses you and come to you after all.”

Raising her head, she gave him a small, watery smile. “I don’t think so, Ron. He has his pride, his stupid, stupid Slytherin pride…” New wave of tears. She snuggled into his shoulder. “It’s nice of you to comfort me,” she muttered.  “Thank you. It seems I underestimated you.”

A grim smirk on Ron’s boyish face, Severus patted her back. “That’s what friends are for.”

She nodded and snuggled closer. He let her have her cry-out, stroking her hair, mumbling to her that she shouldn’t lose courage, that everything would come to a good end…

“You know,” she said, sitting up again, “it’s funny, I never realized that you smell very much alike.”

Oh, no. If your personal smell returned, that was the first sign you were changing back. Oh, catastrophe. He had forgotten to keep an eye on his watch.

And he couldn’t just stand up and leave without a comment. But he had to. He simply had to, before…

Her arms clamped around his waist. “Sorry,” she said. “That was tactless. But give me some more time. It feels so comforting…”

It was too late in any case. He could feel himself change, could sense his body grow and his limbs narrow, his hair become longer and his shoes too wide… Oh, Merlin. She was going to hex him all the way to Australia and back. Oh Gods, have mercy. Why didn’t that moron Potter creep out from his thrice-damned kitchen? Probably snogging his wife, forgetting time…

Hermione sniffed. Gave him one more squeeze, the finality of which made his heart hammer, and raised her head. And so he said it again. Not elegant. Not original.

“Uh… I… hello, Hermione!”