“beyond wandpoint” 104 by gingerbred
“11 12q Wednesday - Dinner 1 Dealing”
Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, Slytherins: Draco Malfoy, Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Millicent Bulstrode, Harper Hutchinson, Hestia Carrow, Gryffindors: Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, Ginny Weasley, Romilda Vane, Ravenclaws: Michael Corner, Hufflepuffs: Zacharias Smith, Others: Crookshanks, Sunny
Mentioned briefly: Slytherins: Gregory Goyle, Tracey Davis, Ella Wilkins, Flora Carrow, Valerie Vaisey, Gryffindors: Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan, Lavender Brown, Fay Dunbar
Originally Published: 2019-02-24 on AO3
Chapter: 104 Characters:
Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)
Slytherins:
Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper (but only in the Quidditch sense...)), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Winged ex-Couch still-Potato), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater, yes, that.), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser, sporty twin)
Gryffindors:
Harry 7G (Team Captain, Seeker, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Severus), Neville Longbottom 7G (errant Herbal Knight), Dean Thomas 7G (mannered Chaser), Ginny Weasley 6G (Chaser), Romilda Vane 5G (notorious groupie)
Ravenclaws:
Michael Corner 7R
Hufflepuffs:
Zacharias Smith 6H (bonded to Salome Smith 7H, née Perks)
Others:
Crookshanks 'Crooks' (Hermione's half-Kneazle), Sunny (the Snapes' house elf)
Mentioned briefly: Slytherins: Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Flora Carrow 6S (friendly twin), Valerie 'Val' Vaisey 6S (Chaser), Gryffindors: Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (but also only in the Quidditch sense), the Boy-Who-Exists-to-Annoy-Hermione), Seamus Finnigan 7G (fiery Reserve Beater), Lavender 'Lav' Brown 7G (blonde!), Fay Dunbar 7G (Reserve Chaser)
Previously:
Severus has Sunny bring him all the potions in the possession of his seventh year boys. He discovers Vince is a potions dealer, and is unable to identify three of the potions without further testing. (097) He sets about addressing them after classes Wednesday. (102)
Over breakfast Tuesday, Harry and Ginny discuss what may have happened to Hermione. (063) The possibility Molly may have sent a Howler in response to Ginny's owl brings that conversation to a dismal close. (064) Minerva tells Ginny her mum had sent Howlers to both Severus and Hermione. (072)
Minerva anonymously orders Silencing Syrup from Fred and George, requesting it be delivered to Molly by way of a 'thank you ever so' for the aforementioned Howlers. Sadly, or not, an unknown side effect causes Molly to lose her voice for a fortnight. (Mentioned 072)
Under the cover of a Muffliato and a Notice-Me-Not, Hermione Confunded Madam Pince Tuesday evening after the librarian attacked her with an enchanted ink pot. Their relationship? Yeah, it's complicated. (080)
Michael Corner gets into a duel with the Slytherins after making a variety of crude remarks about Severus and Hermione. Severus puts an end to it and Episkeys Corner's broken nose. So oddly, considering the circumstances, Severus left a very noticeable lump behind on the nose in question as he did so. (071)
Theo is hiding from Daphne - and everyone else - in his dorm room. (102)
With just the slightest pang of guilt, Hermione asks Sunny if he'd mind, terribly, bringing her something to eat in her room. Sunny wouldn't dream of minding, naturally - it's like she doesn't understand him at all - but that's just not how Hermione is used to thinking. It will come with time. For the moment, however, her feelings of guilt are greatly offset by her overwhelming desire to not eat in the Great Hall. (Goodness, anything but that.) That outweighs her social conscience rather thoroughly.
Later, all too typically, she'll think poorly of herself for that as well, but then it will quite suit her mood and probably can't be helped.
At present, she's happily digging into the cottage pie he's brought her. "This is excellent," she practically hums between bites as she sits at her desk in the Professor's comfy chair, eagerly scoffing the hot dish. Its warmth seems to physically cheer her, and it would appear there's some call for that. She hadn't realised she needed this until she had it, and it really hits the spot.
Sunny stands grinning beside her, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, content to stand there and absorb her praise and very evident appreciation. Not that he isn't fond of the Master, obviously he is, but there's something to be said for the Mistress' more... expressive nature.
He's finding it quite uplifting.
And perhaps a little strange. (He's in good company on that count.) It would appear the Mistress - still not dismissing him - also wishes to chat with him. Sunny's not adverse - of course not, he's tickled - but that doesn't mean he considers this normal behaviour.
Or that he's actually equipped for it.
Crooks watches the scene from the bed where his witch has ordered him to remain. As if it worked that way. Still. He's willing to humour her.
For now.
He's biding his time. The wonderful self-warming duvet is proving something by way of a consolation prize, so there's that at least.
The elf creature seems overly confident, relying on its Mistress' protection. But Crooks knows: she won't always be there. Sooner or later, the library will beckon, and off she'll tot.
It's only a matter of time...
He purrs in not quite silent contemplation of that event, not that it provides the witch with the slightest inkling of his thoughts, but then that's generally the case between them.
Hermione compliments Sunny on the choice of meal. Truthfully, he had asked about in the kitchens and happens to now know that she finds the cottage pie... soothing. Considers it what the witches call 'comfort food'. He thought she could use some from the look of her, and had set about preparing the meal on spec after that exchange with the Bulstrode in the corridor. And then Mistress' attack of the wobblies with the Professor earlier had only reinforced that notion. He's done something or another like that - fixing meals just in case - often enough over the years, but his attempts on her behalf are proving more... fruitful; she's easier to help than the Master, by far. Naturally he doesn't tell her any of this, which makes his efforts harder to truly appreciate for the deliberately considerate acts they are.
No, he simply stands there, grinning, rocking back and forth and rubbing his hands in glee.
Were she any less kindly disposed towards him and his species, it might even be creepy.
Next she asks him if he likes the dish as well. Sunny does, and nods happily, his grin ever widening. As a matter of fact, cottage pie is advancing up his list, presumably influenced by her reaction, not that he says as much either.
It's not much of a conversation, really, and Hermione soon gives up, unsure precisely where it's going wrong.
Sunny, of course, has learnt - over the better part of two decades - to find the answers to his questions by observation or asking his fellow elves and the occasional portrait what he wishes to know. He rarely asks the Master, and he's not of a mind to trust the man's answers when they're given. 'Does the Master of Potions needs anything?' The reply is too often in the negative, when anyone can clearly see that's not the case.
No. Sunny doesn't see much point to questioning humans.
If the right people ask him questions, however, he's likely to respond. Although... It's possible his answers are no more truthful than the Master's... He gives the answer he considers... best. Typically in his complaints about a certain human's foibles, he fails to recognise the Potions Master would claim much the same thing...
Hermione finally just apologises for any bother she may have caused and thanks Sunny for his pains, and a moment later, he's silently disappeared from sight.
There's something else Crooks is sure he knows by now: the elf will return. Soon. The fireplace mantle seems the most probable location. He'll be keeping an eye, or more precisely a nose out for the wrinkly creature in the little black robes. Yes. He doesn't expect he'll have to wait long.
Severus returns to his laboratory a scant minute or two before the reducing potion turns colours for the first time, indicating it's time to add the ingredient he'd prepared. It's the sort of precision landing that shrieks of a love of drama, a desire to impress, or would had any witnessed it. In the absence of witnesses, he prefers to couch it more in terms of an enduring... appreciation of efficiency.
That precision would ordinarily cheer him, at least a little - it's always pleasing to see both his grasp of the situation and mastery of the art so clearly reflected - except the noisome noisette now in the cauldron before him is the first substantial proof that his suspicions, his fears about this potion may be correct.
He lifts the Protego and Stasis Charms on his cutting board and deftly adds the reactive agent, carefully stirring seven times clockwise, waits a half a beat and then stirs a further seventeen times anticlockwise. In reward, it goes a putrid puce, mirroring his mood all too well.
A tight ball of anger forms in his gut as he watches it. He'll need to wait, of course, before he can add the final agent and know for sure, but it's a bad sign. There are few options left as to what this potion could possibly be, and he feels confident it won't prove to be Touchstone's Tress Tonic, a once popular hair setting salve from the '20s, for example.
No, it's not likely to be that at all.
But only because the Tonic doesn't start the process as a deep, malevolent red, of course...
Or perhaps because Crabbe generally sports very close cropped hair and has no use for it...
Yes, that will undoubtably explain why this potion isn't something as innocent as a hair tonic. It wouldn't be that he's come to know something of the inner workings of the boy. How preposterous.
He's saved from having to find a sensible way to occupy himself until the next colour change by the rather demanding stirring regimen and ingredient prep the analysis requires. Which isn't to say that keeps him from thinking about the potion he's identifying, or what it was probably meant to be used for. No, not at all...
Hermione finishes her meal and the plate disappears from her desk. She can't decide if there's a charm for knowing when she's finished, or if Sunny is lurking about Disillusioned. Years of cohabiting with Crooks have eliminated any possible discomfort that last thought may have once provided. Living under the watchful eyes of portraits and ghosts with four roommates for over six years has done the rest. She's accustomed to being observed.
There's some time before dinner will officially start, and she sets about packing her things together for the library, the pet-keeping books and their Geminioed copies included. She huffs her disapproval at the stuffy one as she puts it in her beaded bag, but she's a practical woman. It's had the other answers for her. She reluctantly suspects it will have this one as well. The wizarding world could probably do with a good editor. She wonders as she thinks it, how many authors, how many books it would take to keep a business like that afloat.
She's eager to be gone before the Professor emerges from his laboratory. She has a little time. The bond says he's still busy. Concentrating. Sort of... consistently occupied, which is an odd feeling, but she's certain she's reading it correctly. There's no change in those feelings that indicates he's done or wrapping up, and while she can't quite tell what he's doing or thinking, he's been growing steadily less pleased, almost... angry, which doesn't bode well. Not at all...
It's making her increasingly nervous, and has more than made up her mind as to how to handle this.
Perhaps it's cowardice on her part, but... Discretion is the better part of valour, as the saying goes...
She'd resolved to encroach on his privacy as little as possible, after all...
Plus she'd been hoping to maintain a low profile as to avoiding meals in the Great Halls, and can't imagine how she'd explain that convincingly were she to still be in their chambers when he's ready to leave. She's just not up to talking about it, why she doesn't want to face her friends, although that might be the lack of any sort of Calming Draught in her system speaking there... But if she's gone, there'll be no discussion, and that sounds like... an excellent idea.
And of course she's also hoping not to inconvenience him further.
Worse.
She's secretly worried he wouldn't be inconvenienced at all by her presence, and simply go about his day as usual. She can picture it all too clearly: she could be left standing there, watching him leave for dinner without her...
It's stupid. She knows it even as she visualises it. She's not sure why that strikes her as such an unpleasant thing, really. She's been eating without him all her life, and she wouldn't be eating with him now even if he had walked her to the Great Hall - not that she even wants to go there... And yet she discovers she's anxious to avoid that scenario just the same. All of which has a good deal to do with why she finds it all so blazingly... Stupid. That was the right word for it. But then feelings sometimes are. They don't have to make sense.
Possibly it's just the feeling of being all alone in the dungeons that's getting to her. That's probably it. The thought of having to make her solitary way out of them making her feel even more lonely...
Of course, that right there should have told her it's a rubbish construct she's cobbled together and poorly at that. If she leaves now, without him, her way out of those selfsame dungeons is every bit as solitary. It definitely casts some doubts on her thinking.
But that thought doesn't occur to her.
It also doesn't occur to her as she ends the Transfiguration of her skirt, buttons her blouse, dons her uniform robes and tie, grabs her bag, quaffs a four hour Draught of Peace, bids Crooks 'goodbye' and leaves their chambers that she's essentially just done exactly that to Severus: left him behind.
He can feel her leaving, a little early for the meal, and finds it... puzzling. He pauses in his work as she passes through the wards. Irksomely, they feel... off now that she's no longer there. He decides not to think about that any further, although his subconscious immediately begins to work on... innocent, less... perturbing explanations to counter the more damning ones that instantly leap to mind.
He isn't pleased, naturally - when is he ever? - that she's left without him, but neither does he have any idea of how he thinks it should have been handled, which... stumps him a little.
Oh, certainly, he could escort her to meals, perhaps carry her books like some mooning teenager while he's about it, and then watch her go off to sit with her friends, her fellow students... It's absurd, and her solution is probably better...
He just doesn't quite like the taste it leaves behind.
It's not long before he's - so typically - decided she's avoiding him. Which annoys him even more. To be fair, that was virtually a forgone conclusion, however, with the way his experiment was going, not that he considers it. It has radically soured his mood. But he'd been perfectly civil, hadn't he? Almost social, even. Tolerant. Understanding.
When she doesn't return to chambers after the meal, well, he'll be certain avoiding him was her sole motivation. She has all the peace and quiet she could possibly need right there in their chambers, after all. She would hardly need to go to the library to study... No, the answer is abundantly clear...
Much as Hermione had failed to consider his feelings when she left without speaking to him first, he fails to follow her reasoning, neglecting to recognise she's only trying to leave him as little disturbed by her invasion of his space as she possibly can.
"Hey, Gin," Harry greets her as she enters the Gryffindor common room. "Where've you been lately?"
Ginny elegantly folds herself into the orange squashy chair next to him with a sigh of exhaustion, and that's about the extent of her elegance at the moment. She looks haggard. The early morning practice won't have helped, but the interpersonal problems running riot in the Tower are a far more likely root cause. The fingers of one hand card through her long hair before she finally looks up, meeting his gaze, and answers truthfully, "Hiding from Ron."
Well.
Harry's not sure what to make of that, even less so when it dawns on him he'd like to do much the same thing. He feels guilty for it, of course. Ron's his best friend, after all. Harry's been doing that a lot lately, though. Feeling guilty. Every time he's been glad 'Mione wasn't there to argue with Ron, for example. Or when he begins to wonder about what happened to her...
Not that he cares to think about that at all...
Avoiding Ron!
Hmm.
Difficult.
Unfortunately, unlike Ginny, he shares a room and all his classes with her brother. Ah, and Quidditch, too, of course.
The detention their Head of House has Ron serving is proving something of a reprieve for the rest of them. Godric knows, the ginger's been in a terribly foul mood since Monday morning...
No, Harry can understand the impulse to avoid him only too well. Things were tough enough as it was with the 'Mione situation, and Ron's strop-to-end-all-strops - Harry's unwilling to dignify it with any other term, although he had recently upgraded it from 'snit' - was only making everything worse.
Ginny is luckier by far. She's been exploiting the fact the boys can't enter the Gryffindor girls' dormitories to the fullest, and has spent almost every minute she's been in the Tower in the comparative safety of her room.
She may be anxious, but that doesn't mean she isn't also irate. As a woman, she's capable of feeling more than just one thing at a time, ta, and she's been simmering, sitting on her anger for a good day and a half, allowing things to stew. She draws her wand and soon has a Muffliato up around them.
Neville, seated on a love seat across from them, just shakes his head at the telltale buzz, grabs his books and goes to sit with Dean and Seamus. Neville has enough experience to know it generally doesn't end well when one of them uses that Privacy Charm. (Hermione and Madam Pince just so happen to cross his mind at the thought. Merlin.) No, it's best to withdraw to a more neutral corner. He imagines sparks are likely to fly.
Dean's attention drawn by Neville's sudden appearance at their table, he tracks the boy's movement back to the seat he'd just vacated and recognises the look on Ginny's face all too well. Good Godric. Dean's been on the receiving end of that before. The reflexive shake of his head at the recollection turns smoothly into a wry smile that's soon accompanied by sympathetic nodding of approval towards his roommate. No, Neville had the right idea here. Good call getting well clear.
"Don't think for an instant I've forgiven either of you for letting me send the wrong information home to mum," Ginny hisses at Harry angrily, her eyes flashing, her temper every bit as fiery as her hair. It's his turn to sigh and ruffle his hair; he's a good deal more practised at both. He now finds himself wondering if there isn't some Weasley-free corner of the castle where he could just try to forget about... all of this.
Perhaps he'll use the map...
"Gin, don't start. We've been through it. We told you what we could. And I certainly didn't tell you to owl your mum. And I definitely didn't tell you to send her what the rumour mill had on offer." He spares a glance for Lav and Fay and Romilda and shakes his head. Romilda naturally interprets any glance of his her way in the most favourable of all possible lights, his ongoing conflict with Ginevra only fuelling that fire. Not that it would take much, if anything at all. "They're worse than the Prophet.
"If you really want to take it up with someone, talk to Ron about it, but leave me out of it." It sounds final because he means for it to be his last word on the subject, but something about Ginny's expression has him reevaluating that.
"Why are you giving me grief instead of him anyway?" He's spent enough years lying about all manner of things to recognise when someone is being evasive in turn. Gin's behaving oddly. "And why exactly are you avoiding Ron?"
"Mum wasn't happy about what I had to tell her."
"Bloody hell, Gin. None of us are. Show me one person who is."
"Yeah. Right. But considering what we were talking about, y'know, yesterday at breakfast, maybe the bonding makes sense, yeah? At least a little. And with what I knew at the time..."
"She did it, didn't she? Tell me she didn't. She sent a Howler?" Gin just nods. She's gone green enough that she looks like she might sick up any moment now. For once it's a shade that's not a good colour on her. "'Mione or Snape?" Harry asks his voice breaking as he remembers his initial fears about Howlers.
"Both," Ginny manages. Her voice sounds like it's about to quit on her, too.
"Bloody hell," Harry answers. It's almost a sigh. "Are you sure?" She nods. He's having trouble swallowing the lump that seems to have lodged in his throat.
He'd imagined this possibility, but not really. It had been a theoretical horror scenario, sure, but he'd accorded it no more belief than Frankenstein and the Mummy, and spared it about as much thought. As an academic exercise, that was about par for the course.
Now...
"We have double Potions tomorrow," he informs her.
"I know," she replies. "Why do you think I've been avoiding Ron?"
"Bloody hell," he repeats.
Ginny lets out a huff of dark laughter, the amusement clearly absent. "You're beginning to sound like him."
"We need to do something," he tells her, convinced. "There's no way he's going to make it through class without..."
"Well maybe he deserves it, yeah?" Gin rounds on him, her temper flaring, just like her nostrils. He can see the muscle in her cheek twitch as she tries to rein it in.
"I'm not saying he does or doesn't. That's not the point. Snape is going to kill Ron tomorrow, and he hasn't the sense to keep his mouth shut."
"If he's dead he won't need to," she snarks in reply.
"It's not funny, Gin," he complains. She kind of thinks it was, at least a little. "How many House points d'you think it's worth to you? This is Snape we're talking about. And with the match against Slytherin coming up? He's given me a detention during a game before." Conveniently, neither bothers to consider that it had been Harry's punishment for attempted manslaughter, but then that's a rather inconvenient truth they generally leave unvisited. "Is it worth risking? Can we afford to lose Ron for the match?" Ginny's green tone has finally deserted her for something decidedly paler, and Harry nods. "So what are we going to do?"
"There's always Hermione's solution? A Calming Potion?" She suggests after some thought.
"Won't be strong enough, but the idea isn't half bad." Ginny shoots him a look at that, but that wasn't how he'd meant it, and he ignores it anyway. "Draught of Peace." He sounds sure again. Funnily enough, she misses the correction. "We need one." He scans the common room only to realise as the only seventh year Potions student, he's nominally the most qualified one there.
Well.
They're buggered.
"The question is: where do we get it?" He sounds beaten, but Gin perks up at that. Unlike certain individuals she could name, she actually talks to people in other Houses. The boys really are far too insular.
"I might know where to get some. Who's going to pay for it?" Her look fixes him squarely, and Harry shifts, feeling more than realising there's a tacit rebuke for his not thinking to offer it first.
"I can do that, just let me know what you need. Do you think you can get some by tomorrow morning?"
"I'll try," she says. There's nothing else she can promise at this point. She rises, ends the Muffliato and leaves for her room again, just in case Ron returns before the meal.
At dinner, Ginny will speak to Ravenclaw Michael Corner about it, his nose now sporting a marked bump she can't account for or seem to recall, and he'll be kind enough to make an effort to get his ex what she wants. Essentially that just means asking sixth year Hufflepuff Zacharias Smith to do him a solid. Zacharias, typically, will quite happily acquire whatever the Ravenclaw needs - for a profit. It would surprise the recipients, greatly, to learn that acquisition in turn means purchasing the Draught from Crabbe. And as he won't be present at dinner, the request will have to wait until breakfast.
Naturally Vince won't have any of the Potion with him at the time, why would he, and the urgency of the request will send the price soaring. For the inconvenience, it should go without saying. At least that's the reason he'll name. (Although Smith's cracks about Vince's mouldy hair and Inferi nails add another two Galleons to the price, one for each insult.) He does, however, legitimately have to return to the dungeons on his own before class to fetch it and will have to hurry not to be late to Beckford's Ghoul Studies class. And that all because Smith won't be willing to wait for the Draught until after lunch when Vince has a double period free... But apparently he doesn't care about the price hike. Of course not. He'll just pass the added expenses along.
Fortunately Harry can afford it.
Harry takes advantage of his Weasley-free moments - which he's now progressed to consciously savouring - to sit there thinking about the ''Mione situation' as he's coming to call it. It was all well and good worrying about Snape's reaction to the Howler, and Ron's inevitable reaction to that. Both should be catastrophic, which might be a good excuse for why he and Gin hadn't thought any further than that.
But it was really only half of the problem, wasn't it?
Mrs. Weasley had sent 'Mione a Howler as well.
And considering that, it might help explain why she'd been so... mad at them lately. Unwilling to see reason or understand why they'd been upset that she'd bonded Snape, and that without even telling either of them...
He still isn't sure what happened to his friend, what he thinks happened, how to talk to her about that, or if he even should... He isn't sure about so very many things.
But he suspects he's not likely to become any surer sitting around here.
Decided, he tells the others he'll see them at dinner and heads for the portrait hole.
Arthur steps through their Floo, hollering, "Mollywobbles! I'm home. Molly?" He emerges in their living room with a cloud of soot, and coughs twice as he looks about, until he discovers his wife sitting on the couch, arms crossed, giving him a very baleful glare.
"Ah, right you are. Hmm." She can't speak, of course. That had rather been the point of his errand, after all.
"The Healers sent me to the Apothecary, and I've the lozenges they recommended. Should have you right as rain in no time, they said."
And it might have done, too, had the cause of her laryngitis not been her sorely overtaxed throat and her sons' Potion. As it is, the Burrow will be unusually quiet for some time to come.
Afterwards, Arthur will have some difficulty convincing people he hadn't enjoyed it.
The Slytherin Quidditch team heads to the Great Hall for dinner. Hestia carries everyone's equipment in Flora's extended satchel, brooms included this time. They're just too tired to want to carry them themselves anymore. Practice had been a trial, and they're dragging. It hadn't helped that most of them had had two practices today.
Millie goes ahead with most of the sixth years, her fingers intermittently nursing a bit of a lump on her head. Hestia is apologetic, it had been her Quaffle, after all, and there's probably no way to justify asking Tracey for more Pain Relief either.
"Maybe Ella will be able to help?" She suggests tentatively.
Millie laughs it off. Ella hadn't been able to help when she'd asked her last night... She doesn't consider that it might have had something to do with the fact she had asked Ella to help Vince. "I think I'll survive. It's just a bump, Hestia."
She's right, but Hestia can't help thinking it was rotten luck. If it had happened to her or Val, they could have gone to Tracey and gotten more Potion. Millie's pretty much the only one who can't having asked for some before. She can hardly explain she hadn't taken it after all. And she certainly can't tell Tracey she'd given the dose to Draco instead...
No, it was just bad luck. Millie does take her up on the offer to apply a Cooling Charm, however. That makes a real difference.
Draco milks the opportunity the walk provides to resume working on Harper, who completely recognises it for the transparent manoeuvre it is, much to his own amusement. Blaise trails sullenly behind, more than a little annoyed at being ignored once again. He'll soon learn that's preferable to the wrong sort of attention, but Draco just doesn't have time to worry about his sensibilities right now; he has some manner of truce to broker. Soonest.
It's tricky, and he doesn't want to overplay his hand. Harper had seemed to at least be interested in seeing Draco spared the brunt of the House's displeasure. That's the best offer he's had yet. It's the only offer, in fact. But he's not sure he can leverage that into a reprieve for all of them...
Draco feels sure with time he can get the others to ease off Theo. It helped, clearly, that Theo was largely blameless and they logically should, but Draco wouldn't normally allow a little thing like the question of guilt to get in his way. Of course that's part of the reason his word isn't necessarily good enough for many of his Housemates, but then that's what Oaths are for.
Vince and Gregory are both in the Infirmary thanks to this... whatever it is. Revenge for Severus' bonding probably. Or the ignominy of having brought a Muggle-born Moggie student into the House by marriage. Yeah, that had most likely managed to offend every last member of the House in one fell swoop... Any one of those is probably grounds enough for their attacks. But it's clearly already gotten out of hand, and Draco imagines it's only the beginning.
With the seventh years on the outs, Harper is the next obvious choice as a spokesman for the boys. He's the next most senior Prefect, the most experienced sixth year on the Quidditch team, and the oldest in his year. He's bright and clever and far from as... simply wired as many in their House. Draco thinks there's a real chance of getting through to him.
If he can convince him it's in the team's interests...
But that's too direct.
So he begins by talking to him about his plans to work on the reserve teammates' fitness instead. And it's not feigned interest, far from it. This may be necessary. Draco's eager to see the Gryffindorks annihilated. By any means. But Harper isn't entirely sure how best to go about training the others.
Draco suggests, "You should talk to Gregory. If anyone knows their way around a fitness programme, it's him." No one in their House would argue that given what Gregory had done with his own body over the past couple of years. Merlin. But Harper seems reluctant, and Draco realises just how badly off the seventh years are if Harper doesn't even really want to speak to Gregory unless absolutely necessary...
So he offers to do it himself.
"I could always talk to him, if you'd rather. See if he can come up with a exercise plan for them and get back to you with it?" That seems to sit better with Harper, so Draco presses, "Would you be alright with implementing it if we did?"
"If we don't make too big a show of it," Harper finally agrees. "At least not initially. Get them on board first..."
"Absolutely. We need results first. Then we'll see," Draco assures him. Harper doesn't for an instant imagine this is altruism on Draco's part, but sometimes interests align. He can believe this is one of those times. "And maybe we should use some potions to facilitate that? A week and a half is a short time to get them whipped into shape..." And in retrospect, Draco wishes it had occurred to him to do something about that sooner. He'd been too confident the seventh years would carry the team.
And where would that leave them next year? Somewhat myopically, it hadn't been his concern.
"I'm not going to Vince for potions, and I doubt any of the others will either," Harper tells him quite definitely. If he hadn't even been willing to ask Gregory for advice, this certainly doesn't come as a surprise. Draco nods, his mouth nevertheless tight.
"No, I can see where you wouldn't want to. Look, I'm happy to get them if that's the route you decide to go." Harper doesn't appear sold, and Draco offers, "I'm even happy to pay for them." But Harper still doesn't look pleased... So Draco gives it some thought and honestly adds, "I'm not sure I can talk him into contributing them voluntarily."
It's Harper's turn to nod. It's nice that Draco seems to understand the issues. It's makes things easier. "Acknowledged, and thanks for the offer, but I'm not sure anyone in the House is still willing to line his pockets. If we were to decide to go with potions, you may need to order them from someone else. Would that cause a problem?" Harper knows better than anyone how quickly Vince can take offence.
"I guarantee you it won't." Harper looks like he's about to object, the claim seems naïve at best, and Draco stops him with a raised hand, "I'll sort it either way. But I think our best bet might be Girding Potion, and I can brew it myself if the others agree. On my Knut, so we're clear." It's a third year's potion; Draco is a seventh year N.E.W.T. Potions student and one of the best brewers in the House. That really shouldn't present a problem.
"I won't need any, I've got my own regimen," Harper answers and mentally runs through the others. "And I'm not sure Sheldon would either..." He trails off, and Draco can just see him thinking. With some hesitation, he finally voices his concerns, "But we wouldn't give it to anyone who doesn't want it?"
"Merlin no!" Draco answers. Immediately. Horrified. That particular lesson learnt. Admittedly too late.
Harper's not sure why, but he finds the response... comforting.
Shortly before they reach the Great Hall, Harper turns to tell Draco, "I'll talk to the others, ask them to cool it. And I might be able to get them to listen, but you have to understand, I won't be able to get them to stop. You'll have to be willing to take what they dish out if they go easier on you, or," and this is where Harper's inner Slytherin really shines through, "at least give the appearance of doing so, or it won't stop there." That approach is at the heart of how he deals with Vince, after all. If Harper takes his lumps like a wizard, they're able to put aside their differences fairly quickly. But sometimes it's more about how things look, much like he's banking on a weak Protego softening Vince's blows later this evening.
Draco doesn't need long to think about it. He bobs his head once, grimly. "I'll tell the others. Make sure they cooperate. Thanks, Harper."
Harper shakes his head, "I'm not sure I'm doing you a favour, you know."
The admission isn't strategic, and Draco appreciates it all the more. On the heels of it, he isn't surprised when Harper darts forward as they reach the doors to enter the Hall with the others instead. Apparently he doesn't want to be seen talking to Draco either.
That's probably just as well. Draco needed to have a little chat with Blaise anyway...
Harper is as good as his word. He takes his seat and soon sets about telling the others that Professor Snape wasn't exactly pleased about the number they'd done on Vince last night. It had taken him an absolute age to sort things, and now he has Harper doing detention Friday evening. That's true enough anyway. The others are shocked to hear it, a few apologise to him, they hadn't meant to get him into trouble, but Harper waves it off.
"It's alright. It was worth it. Those wings..." Several people nod in agreement, and a few of the boys can't help stealing surreptitious looks at Sheldon who sits there beaming. "But we need to wind it back a bit. We can't keep causing him that much work, and as a result of, well, you know, two of the team missed practice today." He gives them the rundown, and he's good. Ten days till the match, they can't afford to keep this up... By the time he's finished, they've accepted two rules: don't inconvenience the Head, don't interfere with the game or, by extension, practice.
That's simple enough even for the Firsties to grasp.
Harper was right, though. That may not actually be doing Draco and the others any favours.
Theo is growing increasingly miserable, which is saying something as he'd been fairly wretched to begin with. It transpires an empty and growling stomach only makes matters worse. He'd had no breakfast and lost both what little he'd eaten of today's lunch and yesterday's dinner, and he's beginning to really feel it. Not that his appetite has returned, but...
It dawns on him that he's the only one of the seventh year boys in the dorms, and he begins to worry. A Protego quickly cast on the door helps a bit, but... First and foremost, he has no desire to interact with witches, Draco's no longer there to run interference for him, and Theo feels that loss. And then there's the memory of Vince this morning, and Theo's trying to picture his having to fight his way out of the dorms. He can hardly go up against the whole House on his own...
Theo's quietly confident - quite - that he's much better than Vince in a duel, but he's also physically a lot less intimidating, which annoyingly has a way of leading people to actually challenge one to that duel in the first place. He finds they can be incredibly stupid that way, at least until one's proven, definitively, that it's idiocy to do so. Here at Hogwarts, most of his classmates don't know that about him yet, that they really don't want to take him on. A mild manner also has a tendency to convince people there's not a lot of strength behind his casts. People are always forgetting the difference skill makes. It's more important than intent. The fact Vince and Gregory steer well clear of confrontations with Theo should really tell them something. But for the most part, that's not how they think. In time, they'll probably be forced to learn that as well if things keep going the way they have the past few years, not that he'd wish it on his worst enemy. It's a rotten way to live.
But for the moment, he chooses to let his skill work for him.
Skipping another meal doesn't seem to be an option, and he needs to get to the Great Hall where the other seventh years will undoubtedly go directly after practice. Or at least as many as are able. Who knows if Vince and Gregory are up to it. But it should be enough to have Blaise and Draco with him. He has a queer turn as it occurs to him he might need to start going to their Quidditch practices to avoid this situation moving forward... Bugger.
He casts one of his very own Notice-Me-Notts and slips from his room.
He's able to sneak out of the dungeons behind a group of third years, and is something close to satisfied when no one notices him right up until the moment he takes the seat next to Draco and lifts his Spell.
Not that that solves their problems, of course. That would have been too simple.
The potion shimmers and then shifts back to the soul sucking brown it had been before the last addition, and Severus prepares for the final step.
There are pleasant browns, pretty even. He can think of a few, and then tries to pretend he hadn't pictured brunette curls or chestnut eyes even briefly amongst all the other things that came to mind. His, her... their chocolate wedding torte, for example... And then he tells himself there had been so many other things on the list, it made their inclusion insignificant. He's always been an observant man after all; there was nothing, nothing whatsoever to be made of registering facts.
He almost succeeds in making a believable case.
But perhaps given the potion presumably at hand, it was only logical she'd come to mind. His thumb runs absently over the thin band on his ring finger at the thought.
Yes, there are pleasant browns. Pretty even. These viscous dregs of a potion are none of them.
Within minutes, he'll know.
Again he lifts Shield and Stasis Charms from the final reactive agent and stirs it fastidiously into the cauldron. It emits a sinister hiss he finds... appropriate before returning once more to its initial cruel crimson.
It confirms - unequivocally - all his worst suspicions.
It's the Lust Potion that had started all of this.
Perhaps that ignores a host of contributing factors, but the decisions that had most assuredly led to what followed had been Crabbe's. To bring that Potion to Minerva's classroom last Friday night and to insist that it be administered to Miss Granger...
He's trying to determine why he's so surprised. He isn't really, he supposes. It simply makes him feel better to pretend he hadn't expected it. But then, why else had he wished to examine the potions or chosen to analyse those he didn't recognise if not? Perhaps he'd simply been... conscientious. Yes...
No. No, it had only stood to reason: where the was one of the damnable draughts, there was almost definitely more to be found...
He struggles to remind himself how they're generally used by students, by wizards - and witches...
He tries to be objective.
It isn't easy.
This is clearly a modification on one of the standard Liquid Lust Potions, although he has to wonder about the addition of Circe's Cinnamon which had changed the scent, colour and undoubtedly taste... But then, as an aphrodisiac, it did presumably serve a purpose...
Usually, Liquid Lust is a... recreational substance, taken to... heighten pleasure. Quite typically, it was a consensual affair. Not that he thinks all that highly of that, but unlike Muggle equivalents, the Ministry had never seen fit to schedule the substances.
His is not to reason why, his is but to brew and die...
He scoffs.
It's a prejudice of his, pure and simple, and he attempts to put it aside. He's never thought much of those sorts of things, in either the Muggle or the Wizarding worlds. There were more than sufficient natural, physical means of achieving pleasure were that one's goal. He's not fond of the artificial or patently lazy shortcuts. Possibly in part because they chiefly reward those poled very differently to himself...
But Severus has always been clear that his primary asset lies between his ears, and - with the notable and regrettable exception of Tuesday night's drunken binge (the half-Kneazle ledges come to mind unbidden) - he prefers to remain sober, keeping his wits well about him. These days, it might even be a question of life and death, but even in more innocent times (had they ever been?), use of such potions was only guaranteed to dull his singular... distinction.
No, he'd never been a fan of these sorts of substances.
But to address the facts, the Potion is legal.
It's application shouldn't have been, although the Ministry hasn't quite come round to that way of thinking. There's a tendency, all too commonly, to blame the victim for not having enough... care. Here once again, he and the Ministry don't see eye to eye.
Had it gone... further, it might be another story, not that he'd trust the Wizengamot to make the right decision.
There's a flicker of tormenting doubt and he masochistically has to ask himself if there's much difference between dosing someone with such a Potion or simply taking advantage of their very evidently weakened state... Technically, of course it's the difference of being the cause and taking what's on offer, but morally...
The thought only makes him angrier.
There can be no question that he'll confiscate the Potion.
But he's having difficulty - great difficulty - wrestling with the fact that decision is apparently just a fit of 'pique' on his part, the confiscation potentially less legal than the Potion itself. That this was... largely condoned.
In his mind's eye, he sees Miss Granger in that chair once again and has to fight the urge to throw the Potion against the wall.
He's seething.
In one smooth series of moves, he takes the cauldron and drops it into his sink, withdrawing the remaining Liquid Lust phials from his extended pocket and tossing them in after with a clatter.
And then in a burst of nearly uncontrolled fury, he unleashes Fiendfyre on the lot.
The flames shriek, leaping up and out, eager to take something, anything else, demanding the next sacrifice. He thinks briefly about giving them the centaurs' portrait, before deciding once again to keep to his current plan.
There's a final burst from the cursed flames like a series of sentient, screaming mouths, hungry, questing, yearning, chasing in tight circles about the immediate vicinity, shooting up from the unnatural fire before he extinguishes it, all trace of the potions gone.
As well as his cauldron.
Hmm.
Still.
It had been worth it.
Satisfying.
Not that it comes close to helping him get over the discovery of the Potion in Crabbe's possession.
But it had been a good start.
The third potion still simmers, innocently in a cauldron of its own. He looks at it with less hope than he had before, although he doubts it will be anywhere near as offensive to him as the Lust Potion. A cursory check on its progress, and then he sets a Tempus, not that he's likely to forget, but he's careful. This time there's no pleasure in the thought of working with it later. Somehow this whole experience is only serving to sour him on potions...
He performs a Reparo on his sink, and then two more - the Fiendfyre was pure stupidity, but it had felt... good - tidies things once again and finally leaves for dinner.
Alone.
Elsewhere, Hermione pauses to listen the bond. Without the Peace in her veins, she suspects she'd be terrified. As it is now, she can't begin to imagine what the Professor has got up to.
It was probably for the best she'd left, although her hand has gone back to fingering the phial at her neck of its own volition.
Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, Slytherins: Draco Malfoy, Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Millicent Bulstrode, Harper Hutchinson, Hestia Carrow, Gryffindors: Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, Ginny Weasley, Romilda Vane, Ravenclaws: Michael Corner, Hufflepuffs: Zacharias Smith, Others: Crookshanks, Sunny
Mentioned briefly: Slytherins: Gregory Goyle, Tracey Davis, Ella Wilkins, Flora Carrow, Valerie Vaisey, Gryffindors: Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan, Lavender Brown, Fay Dunbar
Originally Published: 2019-02-24 on AO3
Chapter: 104 Characters:
Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)
Slytherins:
Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper (but only in the Quidditch sense...)), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Winged ex-Couch still-Potato), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater, yes, that.), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser, sporty twin)
Gryffindors:
Harry 7G (Team Captain, Seeker, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Severus), Neville Longbottom 7G (errant Herbal Knight), Dean Thomas 7G (mannered Chaser), Ginny Weasley 6G (Chaser), Romilda Vane 5G (notorious groupie)
Ravenclaws:
Michael Corner 7R
Hufflepuffs:
Zacharias Smith 6H (bonded to Salome Smith 7H, née Perks)
Others:
Crookshanks 'Crooks' (Hermione's half-Kneazle), Sunny (the Snapes' house elf)
Mentioned briefly: Slytherins: Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Flora Carrow 6S (friendly twin), Valerie 'Val' Vaisey 6S (Chaser), Gryffindors: Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (but also only in the Quidditch sense), the Boy-Who-Exists-to-Annoy-Hermione), Seamus Finnigan 7G (fiery Reserve Beater), Lavender 'Lav' Brown 7G (blonde!), Fay Dunbar 7G (Reserve Chaser)
Previously:
Severus has Sunny bring him all the potions in the possession of his seventh year boys. He discovers Vince is a potions dealer, and is unable to identify three of the potions without further testing. (097) He sets about addressing them after classes Wednesday. (102)
Over breakfast Tuesday, Harry and Ginny discuss what may have happened to Hermione. (063) The possibility Molly may have sent a Howler in response to Ginny's owl brings that conversation to a dismal close. (064) Minerva tells Ginny her mum had sent Howlers to both Severus and Hermione. (072)
Minerva anonymously orders Silencing Syrup from Fred and George, requesting it be delivered to Molly by way of a 'thank you ever so' for the aforementioned Howlers. Sadly, or not, an unknown side effect causes Molly to lose her voice for a fortnight. (Mentioned 072)
Under the cover of a Muffliato and a Notice-Me-Not, Hermione Confunded Madam Pince Tuesday evening after the librarian attacked her with an enchanted ink pot. Their relationship? Yeah, it's complicated. (080)
Michael Corner gets into a duel with the Slytherins after making a variety of crude remarks about Severus and Hermione. Severus puts an end to it and Episkeys Corner's broken nose. So oddly, considering the circumstances, Severus left a very noticeable lump behind on the nose in question as he did so. (071)
Theo is hiding from Daphne - and everyone else - in his dorm room. (102)
With just the slightest pang of guilt, Hermione asks Sunny if he'd mind, terribly, bringing her something to eat in her room. Sunny wouldn't dream of minding, naturally - it's like she doesn't understand him at all - but that's just not how Hermione is used to thinking. It will come with time. For the moment, however, her feelings of guilt are greatly offset by her overwhelming desire to not eat in the Great Hall. (Goodness, anything but that.) That outweighs her social conscience rather thoroughly.
Later, all too typically, she'll think poorly of herself for that as well, but then it will quite suit her mood and probably can't be helped.
At present, she's happily digging into the cottage pie he's brought her. "This is excellent," she practically hums between bites as she sits at her desk in the Professor's comfy chair, eagerly scoffing the hot dish. Its warmth seems to physically cheer her, and it would appear there's some call for that. She hadn't realised she needed this until she had it, and it really hits the spot.
Sunny stands grinning beside her, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, content to stand there and absorb her praise and very evident appreciation. Not that he isn't fond of the Master, obviously he is, but there's something to be said for the Mistress' more... expressive nature.
He's finding it quite uplifting.
And perhaps a little strange. (He's in good company on that count.) It would appear the Mistress - still not dismissing him - also wishes to chat with him. Sunny's not adverse - of course not, he's tickled - but that doesn't mean he considers this normal behaviour.
Or that he's actually equipped for it.
Crooks watches the scene from the bed where his witch has ordered him to remain. As if it worked that way. Still. He's willing to humour her.
For now.
He's biding his time. The wonderful self-warming duvet is proving something by way of a consolation prize, so there's that at least.
The elf creature seems overly confident, relying on its Mistress' protection. But Crooks knows: she won't always be there. Sooner or later, the library will beckon, and off she'll tot.
It's only a matter of time...
He purrs in not quite silent contemplation of that event, not that it provides the witch with the slightest inkling of his thoughts, but then that's generally the case between them.
Hermione compliments Sunny on the choice of meal. Truthfully, he had asked about in the kitchens and happens to now know that she finds the cottage pie... soothing. Considers it what the witches call 'comfort food'. He thought she could use some from the look of her, and had set about preparing the meal on spec after that exchange with the Bulstrode in the corridor. And then Mistress' attack of the wobblies with the Professor earlier had only reinforced that notion. He's done something or another like that - fixing meals just in case - often enough over the years, but his attempts on her behalf are proving more... fruitful; she's easier to help than the Master, by far. Naturally he doesn't tell her any of this, which makes his efforts harder to truly appreciate for the deliberately considerate acts they are.
No, he simply stands there, grinning, rocking back and forth and rubbing his hands in glee.
Were she any less kindly disposed towards him and his species, it might even be creepy.
Next she asks him if he likes the dish as well. Sunny does, and nods happily, his grin ever widening. As a matter of fact, cottage pie is advancing up his list, presumably influenced by her reaction, not that he says as much either.
It's not much of a conversation, really, and Hermione soon gives up, unsure precisely where it's going wrong.
Sunny, of course, has learnt - over the better part of two decades - to find the answers to his questions by observation or asking his fellow elves and the occasional portrait what he wishes to know. He rarely asks the Master, and he's not of a mind to trust the man's answers when they're given. 'Does the Master of Potions needs anything?' The reply is too often in the negative, when anyone can clearly see that's not the case.
No. Sunny doesn't see much point to questioning humans.
If the right people ask him questions, however, he's likely to respond. Although... It's possible his answers are no more truthful than the Master's... He gives the answer he considers... best. Typically in his complaints about a certain human's foibles, he fails to recognise the Potions Master would claim much the same thing...
Hermione finally just apologises for any bother she may have caused and thanks Sunny for his pains, and a moment later, he's silently disappeared from sight.
There's something else Crooks is sure he knows by now: the elf will return. Soon. The fireplace mantle seems the most probable location. He'll be keeping an eye, or more precisely a nose out for the wrinkly creature in the little black robes. Yes. He doesn't expect he'll have to wait long.
Severus returns to his laboratory a scant minute or two before the reducing potion turns colours for the first time, indicating it's time to add the ingredient he'd prepared. It's the sort of precision landing that shrieks of a love of drama, a desire to impress, or would had any witnessed it. In the absence of witnesses, he prefers to couch it more in terms of an enduring... appreciation of efficiency.
That precision would ordinarily cheer him, at least a little - it's always pleasing to see both his grasp of the situation and mastery of the art so clearly reflected - except the noisome noisette now in the cauldron before him is the first substantial proof that his suspicions, his fears about this potion may be correct.
He lifts the Protego and Stasis Charms on his cutting board and deftly adds the reactive agent, carefully stirring seven times clockwise, waits a half a beat and then stirs a further seventeen times anticlockwise. In reward, it goes a putrid puce, mirroring his mood all too well.
A tight ball of anger forms in his gut as he watches it. He'll need to wait, of course, before he can add the final agent and know for sure, but it's a bad sign. There are few options left as to what this potion could possibly be, and he feels confident it won't prove to be Touchstone's Tress Tonic, a once popular hair setting salve from the '20s, for example.
No, it's not likely to be that at all.
But only because the Tonic doesn't start the process as a deep, malevolent red, of course...
Or perhaps because Crabbe generally sports very close cropped hair and has no use for it...
Yes, that will undoubtably explain why this potion isn't something as innocent as a hair tonic. It wouldn't be that he's come to know something of the inner workings of the boy. How preposterous.
He's saved from having to find a sensible way to occupy himself until the next colour change by the rather demanding stirring regimen and ingredient prep the analysis requires. Which isn't to say that keeps him from thinking about the potion he's identifying, or what it was probably meant to be used for. No, not at all...
Hermione finishes her meal and the plate disappears from her desk. She can't decide if there's a charm for knowing when she's finished, or if Sunny is lurking about Disillusioned. Years of cohabiting with Crooks have eliminated any possible discomfort that last thought may have once provided. Living under the watchful eyes of portraits and ghosts with four roommates for over six years has done the rest. She's accustomed to being observed.
There's some time before dinner will officially start, and she sets about packing her things together for the library, the pet-keeping books and their Geminioed copies included. She huffs her disapproval at the stuffy one as she puts it in her beaded bag, but she's a practical woman. It's had the other answers for her. She reluctantly suspects it will have this one as well. The wizarding world could probably do with a good editor. She wonders as she thinks it, how many authors, how many books it would take to keep a business like that afloat.
She's eager to be gone before the Professor emerges from his laboratory. She has a little time. The bond says he's still busy. Concentrating. Sort of... consistently occupied, which is an odd feeling, but she's certain she's reading it correctly. There's no change in those feelings that indicates he's done or wrapping up, and while she can't quite tell what he's doing or thinking, he's been growing steadily less pleased, almost... angry, which doesn't bode well. Not at all...
It's making her increasingly nervous, and has more than made up her mind as to how to handle this.
Perhaps it's cowardice on her part, but... Discretion is the better part of valour, as the saying goes...
She'd resolved to encroach on his privacy as little as possible, after all...
Plus she'd been hoping to maintain a low profile as to avoiding meals in the Great Halls, and can't imagine how she'd explain that convincingly were she to still be in their chambers when he's ready to leave. She's just not up to talking about it, why she doesn't want to face her friends, although that might be the lack of any sort of Calming Draught in her system speaking there... But if she's gone, there'll be no discussion, and that sounds like... an excellent idea.
And of course she's also hoping not to inconvenience him further.
Worse.
She's secretly worried he wouldn't be inconvenienced at all by her presence, and simply go about his day as usual. She can picture it all too clearly: she could be left standing there, watching him leave for dinner without her...
It's stupid. She knows it even as she visualises it. She's not sure why that strikes her as such an unpleasant thing, really. She's been eating without him all her life, and she wouldn't be eating with him now even if he had walked her to the Great Hall - not that she even wants to go there... And yet she discovers she's anxious to avoid that scenario just the same. All of which has a good deal to do with why she finds it all so blazingly... Stupid. That was the right word for it. But then feelings sometimes are. They don't have to make sense.
Possibly it's just the feeling of being all alone in the dungeons that's getting to her. That's probably it. The thought of having to make her solitary way out of them making her feel even more lonely...
Of course, that right there should have told her it's a rubbish construct she's cobbled together and poorly at that. If she leaves now, without him, her way out of those selfsame dungeons is every bit as solitary. It definitely casts some doubts on her thinking.
But that thought doesn't occur to her.
It also doesn't occur to her as she ends the Transfiguration of her skirt, buttons her blouse, dons her uniform robes and tie, grabs her bag, quaffs a four hour Draught of Peace, bids Crooks 'goodbye' and leaves their chambers that she's essentially just done exactly that to Severus: left him behind.
He can feel her leaving, a little early for the meal, and finds it... puzzling. He pauses in his work as she passes through the wards. Irksomely, they feel... off now that she's no longer there. He decides not to think about that any further, although his subconscious immediately begins to work on... innocent, less... perturbing explanations to counter the more damning ones that instantly leap to mind.
He isn't pleased, naturally - when is he ever? - that she's left without him, but neither does he have any idea of how he thinks it should have been handled, which... stumps him a little.
Oh, certainly, he could escort her to meals, perhaps carry her books like some mooning teenager while he's about it, and then watch her go off to sit with her friends, her fellow students... It's absurd, and her solution is probably better...
He just doesn't quite like the taste it leaves behind.
It's not long before he's - so typically - decided she's avoiding him. Which annoys him even more. To be fair, that was virtually a forgone conclusion, however, with the way his experiment was going, not that he considers it. It has radically soured his mood. But he'd been perfectly civil, hadn't he? Almost social, even. Tolerant. Understanding.
When she doesn't return to chambers after the meal, well, he'll be certain avoiding him was her sole motivation. She has all the peace and quiet she could possibly need right there in their chambers, after all. She would hardly need to go to the library to study... No, the answer is abundantly clear...
Much as Hermione had failed to consider his feelings when she left without speaking to him first, he fails to follow her reasoning, neglecting to recognise she's only trying to leave him as little disturbed by her invasion of his space as she possibly can.
"Hey, Gin," Harry greets her as she enters the Gryffindor common room. "Where've you been lately?"
Ginny elegantly folds herself into the orange squashy chair next to him with a sigh of exhaustion, and that's about the extent of her elegance at the moment. She looks haggard. The early morning practice won't have helped, but the interpersonal problems running riot in the Tower are a far more likely root cause. The fingers of one hand card through her long hair before she finally looks up, meeting his gaze, and answers truthfully, "Hiding from Ron."
Well.
Harry's not sure what to make of that, even less so when it dawns on him he'd like to do much the same thing. He feels guilty for it, of course. Ron's his best friend, after all. Harry's been doing that a lot lately, though. Feeling guilty. Every time he's been glad 'Mione wasn't there to argue with Ron, for example. Or when he begins to wonder about what happened to her...
Not that he cares to think about that at all...
Avoiding Ron!
Hmm.
Difficult.
Unfortunately, unlike Ginny, he shares a room and all his classes with her brother. Ah, and Quidditch, too, of course.
The detention their Head of House has Ron serving is proving something of a reprieve for the rest of them. Godric knows, the ginger's been in a terribly foul mood since Monday morning...
No, Harry can understand the impulse to avoid him only too well. Things were tough enough as it was with the 'Mione situation, and Ron's strop-to-end-all-strops - Harry's unwilling to dignify it with any other term, although he had recently upgraded it from 'snit' - was only making everything worse.
Ginny is luckier by far. She's been exploiting the fact the boys can't enter the Gryffindor girls' dormitories to the fullest, and has spent almost every minute she's been in the Tower in the comparative safety of her room.
She may be anxious, but that doesn't mean she isn't also irate. As a woman, she's capable of feeling more than just one thing at a time, ta, and she's been simmering, sitting on her anger for a good day and a half, allowing things to stew. She draws her wand and soon has a Muffliato up around them.
Neville, seated on a love seat across from them, just shakes his head at the telltale buzz, grabs his books and goes to sit with Dean and Seamus. Neville has enough experience to know it generally doesn't end well when one of them uses that Privacy Charm. (Hermione and Madam Pince just so happen to cross his mind at the thought. Merlin.) No, it's best to withdraw to a more neutral corner. He imagines sparks are likely to fly.
Dean's attention drawn by Neville's sudden appearance at their table, he tracks the boy's movement back to the seat he'd just vacated and recognises the look on Ginny's face all too well. Good Godric. Dean's been on the receiving end of that before. The reflexive shake of his head at the recollection turns smoothly into a wry smile that's soon accompanied by sympathetic nodding of approval towards his roommate. No, Neville had the right idea here. Good call getting well clear.
"Don't think for an instant I've forgiven either of you for letting me send the wrong information home to mum," Ginny hisses at Harry angrily, her eyes flashing, her temper every bit as fiery as her hair. It's his turn to sigh and ruffle his hair; he's a good deal more practised at both. He now finds himself wondering if there isn't some Weasley-free corner of the castle where he could just try to forget about... all of this.
Perhaps he'll use the map...
"Gin, don't start. We've been through it. We told you what we could. And I certainly didn't tell you to owl your mum. And I definitely didn't tell you to send her what the rumour mill had on offer." He spares a glance for Lav and Fay and Romilda and shakes his head. Romilda naturally interprets any glance of his her way in the most favourable of all possible lights, his ongoing conflict with Ginevra only fuelling that fire. Not that it would take much, if anything at all. "They're worse than the Prophet.
"If you really want to take it up with someone, talk to Ron about it, but leave me out of it." It sounds final because he means for it to be his last word on the subject, but something about Ginny's expression has him reevaluating that.
"Why are you giving me grief instead of him anyway?" He's spent enough years lying about all manner of things to recognise when someone is being evasive in turn. Gin's behaving oddly. "And why exactly are you avoiding Ron?"
"Mum wasn't happy about what I had to tell her."
"Bloody hell, Gin. None of us are. Show me one person who is."
"Yeah. Right. But considering what we were talking about, y'know, yesterday at breakfast, maybe the bonding makes sense, yeah? At least a little. And with what I knew at the time..."
"She did it, didn't she? Tell me she didn't. She sent a Howler?" Gin just nods. She's gone green enough that she looks like she might sick up any moment now. For once it's a shade that's not a good colour on her. "'Mione or Snape?" Harry asks his voice breaking as he remembers his initial fears about Howlers.
"Both," Ginny manages. Her voice sounds like it's about to quit on her, too.
"Bloody hell," Harry answers. It's almost a sigh. "Are you sure?" She nods. He's having trouble swallowing the lump that seems to have lodged in his throat.
He'd imagined this possibility, but not really. It had been a theoretical horror scenario, sure, but he'd accorded it no more belief than Frankenstein and the Mummy, and spared it about as much thought. As an academic exercise, that was about par for the course.
Now...
"We have double Potions tomorrow," he informs her.
"I know," she replies. "Why do you think I've been avoiding Ron?"
"Bloody hell," he repeats.
Ginny lets out a huff of dark laughter, the amusement clearly absent. "You're beginning to sound like him."
"We need to do something," he tells her, convinced. "There's no way he's going to make it through class without..."
"Well maybe he deserves it, yeah?" Gin rounds on him, her temper flaring, just like her nostrils. He can see the muscle in her cheek twitch as she tries to rein it in.
"I'm not saying he does or doesn't. That's not the point. Snape is going to kill Ron tomorrow, and he hasn't the sense to keep his mouth shut."
"If he's dead he won't need to," she snarks in reply.
"It's not funny, Gin," he complains. She kind of thinks it was, at least a little. "How many House points d'you think it's worth to you? This is Snape we're talking about. And with the match against Slytherin coming up? He's given me a detention during a game before." Conveniently, neither bothers to consider that it had been Harry's punishment for attempted manslaughter, but then that's a rather inconvenient truth they generally leave unvisited. "Is it worth risking? Can we afford to lose Ron for the match?" Ginny's green tone has finally deserted her for something decidedly paler, and Harry nods. "So what are we going to do?"
"There's always Hermione's solution? A Calming Potion?" She suggests after some thought.
"Won't be strong enough, but the idea isn't half bad." Ginny shoots him a look at that, but that wasn't how he'd meant it, and he ignores it anyway. "Draught of Peace." He sounds sure again. Funnily enough, she misses the correction. "We need one." He scans the common room only to realise as the only seventh year Potions student, he's nominally the most qualified one there.
Well.
They're buggered.
"The question is: where do we get it?" He sounds beaten, but Gin perks up at that. Unlike certain individuals she could name, she actually talks to people in other Houses. The boys really are far too insular.
"I might know where to get some. Who's going to pay for it?" Her look fixes him squarely, and Harry shifts, feeling more than realising there's a tacit rebuke for his not thinking to offer it first.
"I can do that, just let me know what you need. Do you think you can get some by tomorrow morning?"
"I'll try," she says. There's nothing else she can promise at this point. She rises, ends the Muffliato and leaves for her room again, just in case Ron returns before the meal.
At dinner, Ginny will speak to Ravenclaw Michael Corner about it, his nose now sporting a marked bump she can't account for or seem to recall, and he'll be kind enough to make an effort to get his ex what she wants. Essentially that just means asking sixth year Hufflepuff Zacharias Smith to do him a solid. Zacharias, typically, will quite happily acquire whatever the Ravenclaw needs - for a profit. It would surprise the recipients, greatly, to learn that acquisition in turn means purchasing the Draught from Crabbe. And as he won't be present at dinner, the request will have to wait until breakfast.
Naturally Vince won't have any of the Potion with him at the time, why would he, and the urgency of the request will send the price soaring. For the inconvenience, it should go without saying. At least that's the reason he'll name. (Although Smith's cracks about Vince's mouldy hair and Inferi nails add another two Galleons to the price, one for each insult.) He does, however, legitimately have to return to the dungeons on his own before class to fetch it and will have to hurry not to be late to Beckford's Ghoul Studies class. And that all because Smith won't be willing to wait for the Draught until after lunch when Vince has a double period free... But apparently he doesn't care about the price hike. Of course not. He'll just pass the added expenses along.
Fortunately Harry can afford it.
Harry takes advantage of his Weasley-free moments - which he's now progressed to consciously savouring - to sit there thinking about the ''Mione situation' as he's coming to call it. It was all well and good worrying about Snape's reaction to the Howler, and Ron's inevitable reaction to that. Both should be catastrophic, which might be a good excuse for why he and Gin hadn't thought any further than that.
But it was really only half of the problem, wasn't it?
Mrs. Weasley had sent 'Mione a Howler as well.
And considering that, it might help explain why she'd been so... mad at them lately. Unwilling to see reason or understand why they'd been upset that she'd bonded Snape, and that without even telling either of them...
He still isn't sure what happened to his friend, what he thinks happened, how to talk to her about that, or if he even should... He isn't sure about so very many things.
But he suspects he's not likely to become any surer sitting around here.
Decided, he tells the others he'll see them at dinner and heads for the portrait hole.
Arthur steps through their Floo, hollering, "Mollywobbles! I'm home. Molly?" He emerges in their living room with a cloud of soot, and coughs twice as he looks about, until he discovers his wife sitting on the couch, arms crossed, giving him a very baleful glare.
"Ah, right you are. Hmm." She can't speak, of course. That had rather been the point of his errand, after all.
"The Healers sent me to the Apothecary, and I've the lozenges they recommended. Should have you right as rain in no time, they said."
And it might have done, too, had the cause of her laryngitis not been her sorely overtaxed throat and her sons' Potion. As it is, the Burrow will be unusually quiet for some time to come.
Afterwards, Arthur will have some difficulty convincing people he hadn't enjoyed it.
The Slytherin Quidditch team heads to the Great Hall for dinner. Hestia carries everyone's equipment in Flora's extended satchel, brooms included this time. They're just too tired to want to carry them themselves anymore. Practice had been a trial, and they're dragging. It hadn't helped that most of them had had two practices today.
Millie goes ahead with most of the sixth years, her fingers intermittently nursing a bit of a lump on her head. Hestia is apologetic, it had been her Quaffle, after all, and there's probably no way to justify asking Tracey for more Pain Relief either.
"Maybe Ella will be able to help?" She suggests tentatively.
Millie laughs it off. Ella hadn't been able to help when she'd asked her last night... She doesn't consider that it might have had something to do with the fact she had asked Ella to help Vince. "I think I'll survive. It's just a bump, Hestia."
She's right, but Hestia can't help thinking it was rotten luck. If it had happened to her or Val, they could have gone to Tracey and gotten more Potion. Millie's pretty much the only one who can't having asked for some before. She can hardly explain she hadn't taken it after all. And she certainly can't tell Tracey she'd given the dose to Draco instead...
No, it was just bad luck. Millie does take her up on the offer to apply a Cooling Charm, however. That makes a real difference.
Draco milks the opportunity the walk provides to resume working on Harper, who completely recognises it for the transparent manoeuvre it is, much to his own amusement. Blaise trails sullenly behind, more than a little annoyed at being ignored once again. He'll soon learn that's preferable to the wrong sort of attention, but Draco just doesn't have time to worry about his sensibilities right now; he has some manner of truce to broker. Soonest.
It's tricky, and he doesn't want to overplay his hand. Harper had seemed to at least be interested in seeing Draco spared the brunt of the House's displeasure. That's the best offer he's had yet. It's the only offer, in fact. But he's not sure he can leverage that into a reprieve for all of them...
Draco feels sure with time he can get the others to ease off Theo. It helped, clearly, that Theo was largely blameless and they logically should, but Draco wouldn't normally allow a little thing like the question of guilt to get in his way. Of course that's part of the reason his word isn't necessarily good enough for many of his Housemates, but then that's what Oaths are for.
Vince and Gregory are both in the Infirmary thanks to this... whatever it is. Revenge for Severus' bonding probably. Or the ignominy of having brought a Muggle-born Moggie student into the House by marriage. Yeah, that had most likely managed to offend every last member of the House in one fell swoop... Any one of those is probably grounds enough for their attacks. But it's clearly already gotten out of hand, and Draco imagines it's only the beginning.
With the seventh years on the outs, Harper is the next obvious choice as a spokesman for the boys. He's the next most senior Prefect, the most experienced sixth year on the Quidditch team, and the oldest in his year. He's bright and clever and far from as... simply wired as many in their House. Draco thinks there's a real chance of getting through to him.
If he can convince him it's in the team's interests...
But that's too direct.
So he begins by talking to him about his plans to work on the reserve teammates' fitness instead. And it's not feigned interest, far from it. This may be necessary. Draco's eager to see the Gryffindorks annihilated. By any means. But Harper isn't entirely sure how best to go about training the others.
Draco suggests, "You should talk to Gregory. If anyone knows their way around a fitness programme, it's him." No one in their House would argue that given what Gregory had done with his own body over the past couple of years. Merlin. But Harper seems reluctant, and Draco realises just how badly off the seventh years are if Harper doesn't even really want to speak to Gregory unless absolutely necessary...
So he offers to do it himself.
"I could always talk to him, if you'd rather. See if he can come up with a exercise plan for them and get back to you with it?" That seems to sit better with Harper, so Draco presses, "Would you be alright with implementing it if we did?"
"If we don't make too big a show of it," Harper finally agrees. "At least not initially. Get them on board first..."
"Absolutely. We need results first. Then we'll see," Draco assures him. Harper doesn't for an instant imagine this is altruism on Draco's part, but sometimes interests align. He can believe this is one of those times. "And maybe we should use some potions to facilitate that? A week and a half is a short time to get them whipped into shape..." And in retrospect, Draco wishes it had occurred to him to do something about that sooner. He'd been too confident the seventh years would carry the team.
And where would that leave them next year? Somewhat myopically, it hadn't been his concern.
"I'm not going to Vince for potions, and I doubt any of the others will either," Harper tells him quite definitely. If he hadn't even been willing to ask Gregory for advice, this certainly doesn't come as a surprise. Draco nods, his mouth nevertheless tight.
"No, I can see where you wouldn't want to. Look, I'm happy to get them if that's the route you decide to go." Harper doesn't appear sold, and Draco offers, "I'm even happy to pay for them." But Harper still doesn't look pleased... So Draco gives it some thought and honestly adds, "I'm not sure I can talk him into contributing them voluntarily."
It's Harper's turn to nod. It's nice that Draco seems to understand the issues. It's makes things easier. "Acknowledged, and thanks for the offer, but I'm not sure anyone in the House is still willing to line his pockets. If we were to decide to go with potions, you may need to order them from someone else. Would that cause a problem?" Harper knows better than anyone how quickly Vince can take offence.
"I guarantee you it won't." Harper looks like he's about to object, the claim seems naïve at best, and Draco stops him with a raised hand, "I'll sort it either way. But I think our best bet might be Girding Potion, and I can brew it myself if the others agree. On my Knut, so we're clear." It's a third year's potion; Draco is a seventh year N.E.W.T. Potions student and one of the best brewers in the House. That really shouldn't present a problem.
"I won't need any, I've got my own regimen," Harper answers and mentally runs through the others. "And I'm not sure Sheldon would either..." He trails off, and Draco can just see him thinking. With some hesitation, he finally voices his concerns, "But we wouldn't give it to anyone who doesn't want it?"
"Merlin no!" Draco answers. Immediately. Horrified. That particular lesson learnt. Admittedly too late.
Harper's not sure why, but he finds the response... comforting.
Shortly before they reach the Great Hall, Harper turns to tell Draco, "I'll talk to the others, ask them to cool it. And I might be able to get them to listen, but you have to understand, I won't be able to get them to stop. You'll have to be willing to take what they dish out if they go easier on you, or," and this is where Harper's inner Slytherin really shines through, "at least give the appearance of doing so, or it won't stop there." That approach is at the heart of how he deals with Vince, after all. If Harper takes his lumps like a wizard, they're able to put aside their differences fairly quickly. But sometimes it's more about how things look, much like he's banking on a weak Protego softening Vince's blows later this evening.
Draco doesn't need long to think about it. He bobs his head once, grimly. "I'll tell the others. Make sure they cooperate. Thanks, Harper."
Harper shakes his head, "I'm not sure I'm doing you a favour, you know."
The admission isn't strategic, and Draco appreciates it all the more. On the heels of it, he isn't surprised when Harper darts forward as they reach the doors to enter the Hall with the others instead. Apparently he doesn't want to be seen talking to Draco either.
That's probably just as well. Draco needed to have a little chat with Blaise anyway...
Harper is as good as his word. He takes his seat and soon sets about telling the others that Professor Snape wasn't exactly pleased about the number they'd done on Vince last night. It had taken him an absolute age to sort things, and now he has Harper doing detention Friday evening. That's true enough anyway. The others are shocked to hear it, a few apologise to him, they hadn't meant to get him into trouble, but Harper waves it off.
"It's alright. It was worth it. Those wings..." Several people nod in agreement, and a few of the boys can't help stealing surreptitious looks at Sheldon who sits there beaming. "But we need to wind it back a bit. We can't keep causing him that much work, and as a result of, well, you know, two of the team missed practice today." He gives them the rundown, and he's good. Ten days till the match, they can't afford to keep this up... By the time he's finished, they've accepted two rules: don't inconvenience the Head, don't interfere with the game or, by extension, practice.
That's simple enough even for the Firsties to grasp.
Harper was right, though. That may not actually be doing Draco and the others any favours.
Theo is growing increasingly miserable, which is saying something as he'd been fairly wretched to begin with. It transpires an empty and growling stomach only makes matters worse. He'd had no breakfast and lost both what little he'd eaten of today's lunch and yesterday's dinner, and he's beginning to really feel it. Not that his appetite has returned, but...
It dawns on him that he's the only one of the seventh year boys in the dorms, and he begins to worry. A Protego quickly cast on the door helps a bit, but... First and foremost, he has no desire to interact with witches, Draco's no longer there to run interference for him, and Theo feels that loss. And then there's the memory of Vince this morning, and Theo's trying to picture his having to fight his way out of the dorms. He can hardly go up against the whole House on his own...
Theo's quietly confident - quite - that he's much better than Vince in a duel, but he's also physically a lot less intimidating, which annoyingly has a way of leading people to actually challenge one to that duel in the first place. He finds they can be incredibly stupid that way, at least until one's proven, definitively, that it's idiocy to do so. Here at Hogwarts, most of his classmates don't know that about him yet, that they really don't want to take him on. A mild manner also has a tendency to convince people there's not a lot of strength behind his casts. People are always forgetting the difference skill makes. It's more important than intent. The fact Vince and Gregory steer well clear of confrontations with Theo should really tell them something. But for the most part, that's not how they think. In time, they'll probably be forced to learn that as well if things keep going the way they have the past few years, not that he'd wish it on his worst enemy. It's a rotten way to live.
But for the moment, he chooses to let his skill work for him.
Skipping another meal doesn't seem to be an option, and he needs to get to the Great Hall where the other seventh years will undoubtedly go directly after practice. Or at least as many as are able. Who knows if Vince and Gregory are up to it. But it should be enough to have Blaise and Draco with him. He has a queer turn as it occurs to him he might need to start going to their Quidditch practices to avoid this situation moving forward... Bugger.
He casts one of his very own Notice-Me-Notts and slips from his room.
He's able to sneak out of the dungeons behind a group of third years, and is something close to satisfied when no one notices him right up until the moment he takes the seat next to Draco and lifts his Spell.
Not that that solves their problems, of course. That would have been too simple.
The potion shimmers and then shifts back to the soul sucking brown it had been before the last addition, and Severus prepares for the final step.
There are pleasant browns, pretty even. He can think of a few, and then tries to pretend he hadn't pictured brunette curls or chestnut eyes even briefly amongst all the other things that came to mind. His, her... their chocolate wedding torte, for example... And then he tells himself there had been so many other things on the list, it made their inclusion insignificant. He's always been an observant man after all; there was nothing, nothing whatsoever to be made of registering facts.
He almost succeeds in making a believable case.
But perhaps given the potion presumably at hand, it was only logical she'd come to mind. His thumb runs absently over the thin band on his ring finger at the thought.
Yes, there are pleasant browns. Pretty even. These viscous dregs of a potion are none of them.
Within minutes, he'll know.
Again he lifts Shield and Stasis Charms from the final reactive agent and stirs it fastidiously into the cauldron. It emits a sinister hiss he finds... appropriate before returning once more to its initial cruel crimson.
It confirms - unequivocally - all his worst suspicions.
It's the Lust Potion that had started all of this.
Perhaps that ignores a host of contributing factors, but the decisions that had most assuredly led to what followed had been Crabbe's. To bring that Potion to Minerva's classroom last Friday night and to insist that it be administered to Miss Granger...
He's trying to determine why he's so surprised. He isn't really, he supposes. It simply makes him feel better to pretend he hadn't expected it. But then, why else had he wished to examine the potions or chosen to analyse those he didn't recognise if not? Perhaps he'd simply been... conscientious. Yes...
No. No, it had only stood to reason: where the was one of the damnable draughts, there was almost definitely more to be found...
He struggles to remind himself how they're generally used by students, by wizards - and witches...
He tries to be objective.
It isn't easy.
This is clearly a modification on one of the standard Liquid Lust Potions, although he has to wonder about the addition of Circe's Cinnamon which had changed the scent, colour and undoubtedly taste... But then, as an aphrodisiac, it did presumably serve a purpose...
Usually, Liquid Lust is a... recreational substance, taken to... heighten pleasure. Quite typically, it was a consensual affair. Not that he thinks all that highly of that, but unlike Muggle equivalents, the Ministry had never seen fit to schedule the substances.
His is not to reason why, his is but to brew and die...
He scoffs.
It's a prejudice of his, pure and simple, and he attempts to put it aside. He's never thought much of those sorts of things, in either the Muggle or the Wizarding worlds. There were more than sufficient natural, physical means of achieving pleasure were that one's goal. He's not fond of the artificial or patently lazy shortcuts. Possibly in part because they chiefly reward those poled very differently to himself...
But Severus has always been clear that his primary asset lies between his ears, and - with the notable and regrettable exception of Tuesday night's drunken binge (the half-Kneazle ledges come to mind unbidden) - he prefers to remain sober, keeping his wits well about him. These days, it might even be a question of life and death, but even in more innocent times (had they ever been?), use of such potions was only guaranteed to dull his singular... distinction.
No, he'd never been a fan of these sorts of substances.
But to address the facts, the Potion is legal.
It's application shouldn't have been, although the Ministry hasn't quite come round to that way of thinking. There's a tendency, all too commonly, to blame the victim for not having enough... care. Here once again, he and the Ministry don't see eye to eye.
Had it gone... further, it might be another story, not that he'd trust the Wizengamot to make the right decision.
There's a flicker of tormenting doubt and he masochistically has to ask himself if there's much difference between dosing someone with such a Potion or simply taking advantage of their very evidently weakened state... Technically, of course it's the difference of being the cause and taking what's on offer, but morally...
The thought only makes him angrier.
There can be no question that he'll confiscate the Potion.
But he's having difficulty - great difficulty - wrestling with the fact that decision is apparently just a fit of 'pique' on his part, the confiscation potentially less legal than the Potion itself. That this was... largely condoned.
In his mind's eye, he sees Miss Granger in that chair once again and has to fight the urge to throw the Potion against the wall.
He's seething.
In one smooth series of moves, he takes the cauldron and drops it into his sink, withdrawing the remaining Liquid Lust phials from his extended pocket and tossing them in after with a clatter.
And then in a burst of nearly uncontrolled fury, he unleashes Fiendfyre on the lot.
The flames shriek, leaping up and out, eager to take something, anything else, demanding the next sacrifice. He thinks briefly about giving them the centaurs' portrait, before deciding once again to keep to his current plan.
There's a final burst from the cursed flames like a series of sentient, screaming mouths, hungry, questing, yearning, chasing in tight circles about the immediate vicinity, shooting up from the unnatural fire before he extinguishes it, all trace of the potions gone.
As well as his cauldron.
Hmm.
Still.
It had been worth it.
Satisfying.
Not that it comes close to helping him get over the discovery of the Potion in Crabbe's possession.
But it had been a good start.
The third potion still simmers, innocently in a cauldron of its own. He looks at it with less hope than he had before, although he doubts it will be anywhere near as offensive to him as the Lust Potion. A cursory check on its progress, and then he sets a Tempus, not that he's likely to forget, but he's careful. This time there's no pleasure in the thought of working with it later. Somehow this whole experience is only serving to sour him on potions...
He performs a Reparo on his sink, and then two more - the Fiendfyre was pure stupidity, but it had felt... good - tidies things once again and finally leaves for dinner.
Alone.
Elsewhere, Hermione pauses to listen the bond. Without the Peace in her veins, she suspects she'd be terrified. As it is now, she can't begin to imagine what the Professor has got up to.
It was probably for the best she'd left, although her hand has gone back to fingering the phial at her neck of its own volition.