The Purple Passion Potion Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 10,660 Summary: Hermione gets more than she bargained for whilst helping a friend in need. Written for the 'celebrate ss/hg community' on lj to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the ship. Disclaimer: Characters depicted belong to JK Rowling. No money has changed hands. A/N: Big thanks to Septentrion and Karelia for betaing this story.
THE PURPLE PASSION POTION
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Oh.’ A feeble response to an emotionally charged statement, she knew, but Hermione could never really find it in her to react to such news with much enthusiasm at the best of times—her usual M.O. being to plaster on a fake smile and follow the “Oh” with a forced, “congratulations,” but judging by the pained expression on Ginny’s face, she was not required to make any such comment. So, “Oh,” it remained.
‘Is that all you can say?’ Ginny asked.
Shrugging, Hermione turned off the tap as the kettle overflowed. ‘What would you like me to say? You don’t look terribly pleased about it.' She lit the gas the old-fashioned way, glancing over her shoulder at Ginny before placing the kettle on the hob. ‘Erm… How did Harry react?’
‘He doesn’t know, and you’re not to tell him,’ Ginny snapped and then more softly added, ‘No one knows.’
‘Except me…’ Hermione shifted uncomfortably. ‘Why? Why not your mother?’
‘Because I don’t want it, and I’m not going to have it!’
Ah. There it was. The patented Weasley Whine. Hermione half-expected a bit of foot stamping to go with it. So reminiscent of Ron when she wasn’t in the mood for sex, or hadn’t made his steak and kidney pie up to his mother’s standard, or… well, when anything wasn’t going the way he wanted it, really. ‘And you don’t have to, of course, but…’ Hermione paused, teaspoon midway between the caddy and the teapot, thinking of Harry. ‘I thought you’d be only too happy to get married and start a family.’
‘I will be. One day.’ Ginny sighed. ‘Look, I’ve had an offer from the Holyhead Harpies and… Oh, this is such a mess.’
It certainly was, but it was Ginny’s mess, not hers. ‘That’s great—about the Harpies, I mean, but I still think you should tell Harry—’
‘No,’ Ginny said emphatically. ‘He’d only try and persuade me to have it, and if I didn’t, well… I can’t see us lasting very long after that, can you?’
Hermione had to admit that she couldn’t. She also couldn’t blame Ginny for wanting a career, some independence. They’d not long fought in a war, after all, had no fun-filled adolescence to speak of, and now they were being chucked headlong into adulthood with all that entailed and expected to settle down and get on with it. Still… Harry. He’d be devastated if he found out.
‘Anyway, you will help me, won’t you?’
‘What?’ So that’s why Ginny had chosen to confide in her. She should have known. ‘Ginny, you can get a potion to terminate a pregnancy in any apothecary. Why on earth do you need my help?’
‘I can hardly just waltz into a shop and ask for an abortion potion, can I?’ Ginny scoffed. ‘I’m bound to be recognised. It would be all over the Prophet by morning.’
‘And what if someone recognised me?’
‘But you’re not pregnant,’ Ginny retorted. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
The kettle whistled in the background as Hermione stared at her friend in disbelief. Was she really that thick? ‘Since when did the truth get in the way of a good story? Besides, if news got back to Ron, what could I say to him? They got it wrong; I bought it for your sister? How do you think he’d react to that?’ Things were rocky enough between them as it was. That might just be the icing on the cake.
Ginny’s bottom lip trembled. Here we go: if whining doesn’t work, try the put-upon-why-are-you-being-so-horrible-to-me Weasley face. Hermione had never seen said face get to the dissolve-in-floods-of-tears-stage—though it had been a close run thing that time she’d shrunk Ron’s prized, signed Cannons shirt in the wash, and the ink had run—but there was a first time for everything.
‘You were my last hope,’ Ginny wailed, tears streaming down her face. ‘What am I going to do now?’
‘Oh, here, don’t cry,’ said Hermione, conjuring a hankie. ‘Now, let’s have a cup of tea, and we’ll think of something.’
Hermione ushered Ginny towards the kitchen table and placed a mug of hot, sweet tea in front of her. For a while, the tinkle of the spoon as Ginny stirred her tea, plus the odd sniff, were the only sounds to break the silence in the small kitchen. It seemed her plan had involved asking for help and expecting to get it; a refusal had not been part of the equation. There was no Plan B. Eventually, with the sound of continued snuffling grating on her nerves, Hermione caved in.
‘All right, I’ll help.’ Hermione held her hand up as Ginny opened her mouth to speak. ‘But you must see you’ve put me in an impossible situation, here: if Harry ever finds out, it could be the end of our friendship, and the rest of your family would probably disown me as well. So, I want a wand oath from you, Ginny, should you ever feel the need to confess, to never breathe a word of my part in this, or you can forget it.’
‘Yes, anything,’ Ginny said, looking pathetically grateful. ‘So long as you get it—’
‘Oh, no,’ said Hermione. ‘I’m not going to get it, I’m going to brew it. And you’re going help me buy or collect the ingredients.’
‘What?’
‘Look, it’s quite simple.’ She took a swig of tea. ‘All but about… three of the ingredients are used in all sorts of common potions. Getting the majority of those won’t arouse any suspicion if we split the list and shop around. Of the other three, two are used in several medicinal potions—I’ll tell you which so you can lie if anyone asks. The last one is a specially distilled oil of mistletoe. Its only uses are in easing menstrual cramps, aiding contractions in childbirth and abortion. It would probably be best to buy that on its own at some out of the way place where no questions will be asked.’
Ginny looked like she was about to be sick.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll see to that part. Finished?’ Hermione swept up the mugs and sent them flying to the sink. ‘You know, I don’t want to give you a lecture on contraception, or anything, but if you’d been more careful—’
‘Yes, well, it’s all very well to say that now, isn’t it,’ said Ginny, ‘but we were carried away by heat of the moment. You know how it is.’
Hermione snorted. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never been so overwhelmed with lust that stopping to cast a spell is the last thing on your mind?’ Ginny looked at her quizzically. ‘No… you haven’t, have you?’
‘No, never. I suppose I was just born sensible.’ The idea was too ridiculous.
‘Thought so. Then in that case, I feel very sorry for the both of you.’
~*~
Dusk was falling when Hermione left Dippett and Doodles, her beaded bag laden with a selection of parchments, two bottles of ink (one black, one red) and a bumper pack of quills in an assortment of sizes which had been on special offer. Stepping onto the pavement, she turned up the collar of her cloak to keep the chill wind off her neck and jammed her hat down firmly so that the brim further obscured her face. The shutters were already going up in some of the smaller shops, and she knew she’d have to rush to get the one remaining item on her list before closing time.
Trust Flourish & Blotts to have a book sale. She’d lost all track of time rummaging through all the bargains. Ron would be going home to an empty flat again by the looks of it despite her promises; accusations would fly, and there would likely be another row.
He’d been particularly tetchy and prone to fly off the handle ever since Ginny had announced to the Weasley clan at Sunday lunch that she was turning professional. Hermione couldn’t resist rubbing it in while Harry had swung Ginny around the room in delight: ‘Your little sister, eh? Who’d have thought she’d be the best Quidditch player in the family?’ Ron had sulked for the rest of the day. And then there was her job, which she loved but was eating up so much of her time. Late nights, business lunches: Ron’s resentment was palpable. She had yet to summon up the courage to tell him about the overseas conference she wanted to attend next month. Apart from the obvious objection to her being away from home for three nights, it also happened to overlap with their first anniversary together, and Hermione had the sneaking suspicion that Ron intended to propose. How she felt about that, she was no longer sure.
Diagon Alley was emptying—the few people still milling about were mostly heading for a post-work pint in the Leaky before going home, but there was no one around that she recognised. Luckily. Feeling self-conscious nevertheless, Hermione tucked her chin down, felt for the reassuring presence of her wand and quickly turned the corner into Knockturn Alley.
It always felt like stepping across an invisible barrier. Even now, in a Voldemort-free world, Knockturn Alley had lost none of its sinister atmosphere. It was still the den of iniquity it had always been; unlike its salubrious neighbour, the more acceptable, chocolate-boxy face of wizarding Britain, here was a vestige of an authentic mediaeval street—minus the open sewer running down the middle—with a rogues' gallery of family businesses that, with few exceptions, hadn’t changed hands since the Dark Ages. Magic at its rawest, darkest and somehow most seductive was imprinted in the air, and it was this that was making Hermione clutch her wand tighter and her heart beat faster.
There was little in the way of street lighting, just a few globes emitting a soft, yellowy glow, but enough for Hermione to make out the apothecary’s sign above the entrance and that it was still open. Prince’s Potions (est. 782) was squashed in between Muggins’ Licensed Betting Office and a rather grubby-looking pawn shop. In spite of herself, Hermione glanced in the window of the latter only to wish she hadn’t. A shrunken head winked back at her.
‘It’s closed, girlie.’
Hermione jumped and spun around, finding herself pressed up against the glass. ‘I wasn’t—I’m not interested.’
The old crone leaned in closer and cackled, peering at Hermione with her one good eye. ‘Haven’t seen you round ‘ere before. Are you local?’
‘I... No. No, I’m—’
A door opened a crack, and a hand reached out. Hermione’s wand was raised in a flash.
‘For Merlin’s sake, Mother. Stop frightening the tourists.’
Hermione breathed again as the woman was unceremoniously dragged inside, but still rattled, she kept her back to the shop front, eyes on the alert for any more trouble as she edged towards the apothecary’s door and fumbled for the handle.
And it was because her attention was focused on the street and not her footing that Hermione tripped over the step as she opened the door and went sprawling, banging her knees hard as she landed on the flagstone floor.
‘Oww. Fu-uck.’
A pair of boots, partially covered by the hem of a black robe, appeared in her field of vision.
‘Madam, are you injured?’
Pushing back her hat, Hermione looked up. ‘Don’t think—’
‘Oh. It’s you. To what do I owe this… dubious pleasure, Miss Granger?’ Seemingly losing interest in the young woman currently on her knees before him, Severus Snape shut the door with a wave of his hand and returned to his place behind the counter. ‘Do hurry up. I’m closing in five minutes.’
Hermione scrambled to her feet, trying not to wince while she gathered her wits and what was left of her dignity. ‘Mr Prince not here?’
‘My grandfather died five years ago,’ Severus replied, scowling, ‘making me the proprietor of these illustrious premises. Now, what can I do for you, Miss Granger?’
‘Oh, I see… Sorry, I didn’t realise...’ Hermione approached the counter slowly, taking stock of her surroundings. The shop’s antiquity was self-evident: the odd shape, the uneven floor, the wonky ceiling held up by oak beams, blackened by the ages. Nothing looked straight—even the shelves behind the counter. An optical illusion, obviously, Hermione thought, otherwise the contents would fall over. She scanned the shelves, expecting to find something nasty lurking there, but it was all fairly inoffensive. In fact, compared with the Potions storeroom Snape had kept at Hogwarts, the goods on display were pretty tame. Speaking of which… Hermione’s eyes fell on the wizard standing, arms folded across his chest, behind the counter. Snape was watching her impassively. Waiting.
How was she going to do this? So much for finding an out of the way place where money would exchange hands without so much as a raised eyebrow. Snape could read her like a book; he’d put two and two together. But she’d come this far… She’d have to try and blag it.
‘I think some bruise-healing paste wouldn’t go amiss.’
Severus slowly turned around, took down a small, glass pot from the shelf and placed it on the counter. ‘Will that be all?’
‘Um… no.’ Hermione thought fast. Boil-cure potion. ‘Do you have any dried nettles?’
‘Yes… Would a half-pound bag do you?’
‘That would be fine,’ Hermione replied. ‘Um, and I’d better have an ounce of snake fangs and half-a-dozen horned slugs, too, if you’ve got fresh ones.’
‘I have,’ Severus said. ‘You’ll find them in that box over there.’ He handed Hermione a small container so that she could help herself.
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you require any porcupine quills?’ he asked, weighing out the snake fangs.
‘I have some at home, thank you.’
‘Then that will be four Galleons, seven and six.’
Hermione reached into her bag and paused. ‘Oh… and I don’t suppose you have any mistletoe oil, do you?’
Severus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Distilled or cold-pressed?’
‘Distilled… if you’ve got it.’ Hermione felt her colour rising as Severus’ eyes dropped to her abdomen.
‘Weasley’s got something right at long last, has he?’
‘How-how dare you,’ Hermione spluttered. ‘It’s not—I’m not…’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘If you must know, I suffer rather badly from pre-menstrual tension.’
To her astonishment, not to mention mortification, Severus let out a loud bark of laughter. ‘What do you take me for, an imbecile? You venture into Knockturn Alley after dark, with your ridiculous, unmistakeable hair hidden under a hat that’s almost covering your eyes, and ask for a specialist oil to rid you of period pains—when there are at least six proprietary brands that could do the job equally well, and which would not require all this… cloak and dagger nonsense to obtain—and expect me not to smell a rat?’ Placing his hands on the counter, Severus leaned towards her menacingly. ‘I was not born yesterday, Miss Granger.’
Rather than back away, as he no doubt expected, Hermione took a deliberate step forward. ‘Do you have any, or not?’
A look of surprise passed over Severus’ features, but he recovered quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ he said, drawing himself up to his full height, ‘but unfortunately for you, a recent Ministerial decree has made distilled mistletoe oil a controlled substance. I am therefore only allowed to sell it on to licensed potioneers. And you, to my knowledge, did not get past N.E.W.T. level.’
‘What?’ Bugger. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘Because an overdose can cause severe haemorrhaging,’ Severus replied with a long-suffering sigh. ‘And young women, who perhaps are not thinking at their clearest, have been known to make mistakes in their measuring and bleed to death. Does that answer your question, Miss Granger?’
Hermione’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I see...’ Oh, well, may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb; he obviously knew, anyway. ‘In that case, Mr Snape, do you happen to have a potion that would terminate a pregnancy?’
‘I’m afraid I sold my last one this afternoon.’ His lip curled into a sneer. ‘It rather looks like Miss Weasley is out of luck, doesn’t it.’
‘How did you—?’
‘Lucky guess. If it’s not for you, then who else would you go through this charade for?’ His self-congratulatory smirk made Hermione want to hex him. ‘I’m also guessing Mr Potter is completely unaware of the situation. But you needn’t worry yourself, Miss Granger,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘I am the soul of discretion.’
She was definitely going to hex the git. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘Enormously,’ Severus admitted. ‘However…, I am not entirely without sympathy for Miss Weasley’s predicament, and should you happen upon an apothecary with less scruples than I and obtain the oil illegally, which I have no doubt is well within your capabilities, I would not like my conscience troubled in the event that a botched potion causes her demise. So, I have a proposition for you.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Hermione had a sinking feeling that she was about to be manoeuvred into agreeing to do something unpalatable, but she could at least hear him out.
‘For a fee,’ Severus replied, ‘I am prepared to let you brew the potion here. Now. Under my supervision, using my ingredients.’
That seemed reasonable, but now? Hermione looked at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m really running late. Could I come back tomorrow?’
‘Now or never, Miss Granger.’
Images of angry Weasleys flashed through her mind. This was the last time, the very last time she was going to be sucked into anything like this. They could all sort their own mess out in future. ‘Oh, very well,’ said Hermione. ‘I agree… Unless you have some Polyjuice in stock?’
‘Afraid not.’ Severus drew his wand and cast a series of spells to ward the door and pull down the blinds. The sign in the window flipped to the ‘Closed’ position. ‘Please come this way.’
Hermione followed Severus as he disappeared through a curtain behind the counter. ‘You owe me for this, Ginny,’ she muttered. ‘Big time.’
~ * ~
The potion was coming on nicely, just the colour and consistency it was supposed to be after adding the Doxy spit: yellow, like custard. Hermione had almost forgotten how contemplative potion brewing could be—and how tiring it was on the arm muscles. She’d been stirring for what felt like hours with Snape’s critical eye on her every step of the way, from the cutting and grinding of the ingredients to the sequence in which they were added to the cauldron, but he’d made little comment nor offered any help. Hermione took this as tacit approval of her proficiency and felt ridiculously proud. Why, after all this time, it still mattered what he thought of her was a mystery. Was she that conditioned to please? Was that insecure little Muggle-born, even now, lurking inside, desperate to prove her worth? Was she really that sad?
‘Time to add the mistletoe.’ His voice, inches from her ear, made Hermione jump. She reached for the pipette.
‘Careful or you’ll ruin it. Precisely three drops, now. No more, no less.’
She swallowed, willing her hand steady, and squeezed the rubber bulb gently.
‘Satisfactory,’ Severus said as the potion started frothing. ‘Ten more stirs anticlockwise should do it.'
Frothing turned to a rolling boil as the mistletoe reacted with the mixture in the cauldron, sending up a cloud of steam. There goes the hair, Hermione thought as sweaty tendrils attached themselves to her face and neck, but as Snape had said, on the tenth stir, the potion stabilised, gave one last puff and turned pearly white.
‘This looks just like—’
‘That is the correct milky colour and texture,’ Severus said hurriedly, extinguishing the flame under the cauldron. ‘You may stop, now. I will attend to the cooling process.’
Wiping her face with her sleeve, Hermione gratefully stepped away from the heat. By the time she’d smartened herself up with some freshening charms and sorted out her unruly hair, Severus had brought a wooden rack full of standard-sized potion bottles, a funnel and a ladle to the workbench.
‘Would you like me to bottle up for you?’ asked Hermione.
‘That will not be necessary,’ Severus replied, picking up the ladle. He placed the funnel in the first bottle and scooped up a measured dose of the potion. ‘You may have this one as agreed; the rest will go into my stockroom.’
If Hermione had had a tail, she’d have wagged it. She was grinning like an idiot, she knew, but didn’t care. Gone were all thoughts of hexing him: Snape considered her potion good enough to sell in his shop! ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the offered bottle, adding mentally, I’m honoured. It felt warm in her hand. ‘You know, I haven’t been anywhere near a cauldron in over a year… I’m glad I haven’t lost the knack.’ She held the bottle up to the light between thumb and forefinger to better examine its quality. ‘Looks innocuous, doesn’t it?’
‘The moral implications bothering you?’ he asked, filling yet another bottle.
‘No, not… really.’ Hermione sighed. ‘I only brewed it. Ginny’s the one who has to decide whether to take it or not—it’s not like I’m going to force it down her throat, or anything. But it’s just… I can’t help feeling sorry for Harry. All he’s ever wanted in his whole life is a family.’
Severus snorted, not looking up, his lank hair curtaining his face. ‘I’m sure he’ll make up for lost time. Eventually.’
Hermione decided to let that one go and silently watched Severus carry on ladling: methodically, precisely, never spilling a drop. It was really quite hypnotic…
‘As a matter of interest, how many of these do you sell a month?’ she asked.
‘Four. On average.’
‘And do you ever… I mean…’ She blushed. ‘Sorry, none of my business.’
Severus twisted a cork stopper into the last bottle and deftly sealed it with waxed paper. ‘Do I ever … feel any degree of guilt? Do I ever feel caught between the horns of a moral dilemma?’ The bottle rattled as it rejoined its companions in the rack. ‘The answer, Miss Granger, is no. As you yourself said, I am merely the brewer. And with my past history, I am hardly the person best qualified to judge the morality of others—I leave the navel-gazing to my customers and their own consciences. So, no. I merely provide a service for those in need of it. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Sure.’ Embarrassed, Hermione fiddled with the cuffs of her robe and glanced at her watch. ‘Gods, look at the time; I really must be going. Now, where did I put my bag…’
‘On the chair.’
‘Thanks… So… How much do I owe you for the potion?’ she asked, opening her purse.
‘I don’t want your money, Miss Granger.’ Severus examined his fingernails as Hermione gave him a searching look. ‘By way of recompense, I only require… a few hours of your time to assist me in brewing a potion of my own.’
‘What?’ Why-oh-why hadn’t she listened to her instincts, made him state his terms more clearly? ‘Wh-what sort of potion? What do you need me for?’
‘Nothing Dark, or illegal, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Severus assured her. ‘But in order for this particular potion to be a hundred percent effective, the brewer needs to be the same sex as the client, in this case a witch, and you are adequate for the task.’ He hesitated, but when Hermione didn’t question him further, he continued. ‘I have been commissioned to re-create a True Love potion, more fashionably called these days, a Soul Mate potion, which has been rescued in part from an ancient, Atlantean text… Am I boring you, Miss Granger?’
‘No… no, of course not.’ It had all been a bit of a blur after “You are adequate for the task.” ‘Would Saturday afternoon be okay?’
‘Be here promptly at two o’clock,’ Severus replied. ‘I shall close early. You may Apparate in. And do wear something light and cool; you’ll be stirring for well over an hour.’
Gathering her cloak, Hermione nodded curtly. ‘Fine. I should be able to manage that easily enough. Now, I really must be going. May I Disapparate from here?’
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
Hermione smiled sheepishly and pocketed the bottle. ‘See you Saturday, then.’
‘Wait. Don’t let Miss Weasley take the potion on her own. If the bleeding doesn’t stop within the hour, get her to St Mungos.’ Severus dipped his head, obscuring his features as he rested his hands on the workbench. ‘Arthur and Molly have already lost a son; I would hate them to lose their only daughter.’
‘I give you my word,’ Hermione said to his back. ‘Goodbye, Mr Snape, and thank you again.’
With no response forthcoming, other than a dismissive wave, Hermione closed her eyes, determined her destination and prepared to Apparate home.
I’m so late. Ron is going to kill me.
~ * ~
Glass of wine in hand, Hermione eased herself onto the sofa, wriggling into the small space available between the arm and a snoozing Crookshanks. ‘Looks like it’s just you and me now, old thing,’ she said, giving him a scratch behind the ear. The half-Kneazle shifted to allow his mistress better access, rewarding her with a contented purr as she continued petting him. ‘And I can’t say I’m sorry.’
‘Ron? Hermione? Anybody there?’
‘Come through, Ginny, if you like,’ Hermione replied to the voice echoing around the fireplace, though she was in no mood for company. ‘Ron’s not here.’
‘I’ll Apparate, if you don’t mind,’ said Ginny. ‘I don’t want to get soot on my new robe.’
‘No problem.’
A few seconds later, and an anxious Ginny was standing on the hearthrug. ‘Where’s Ron?’ she asked before whispering, ‘Did you get it?’
'No need to whisper.' Hermione shrugged. ‘He's at the Burrow, probably; he didn’t say. He just… left.’ She took a sip of wine, rolling it around on her tongue before swallowing. ‘I only mentioned the conference in passing—didn’t even say I wanted to attend—he accused me of only ever thinking of myself, and then he just… left.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Ginny said, plonking herself down in the nearest armchair. ‘He’ll be back once he’s cooled off a bit. He always used to do that when we were kids: he’d get mad and storm off in a huff. Never liked confrontation, my brother.’
‘I’m not worried, Gin,’ said Hermione. ‘I’m tired of his tantrums to be honest—all we ever seem to do is argue over the most stupid things… Oh, sorry. Do you want a drink?’
‘No thanks,’ Ginny replied. ‘I’d better not. Alcohol makes me feel queasy at the moment.’
‘Okay.’
‘He does love you, you know,’ Ginny pressed on. ‘I… overheard him talking to Harry the other day—he was asking his advice on engagement rings…’
Hermione groaned. ‘I thought as much. Well, if you see him, tell him to save his money. I’m not interested.’
‘You can’t mean that!’
‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.’ She smiled at Crookshanks, who’d put a sympathetic paw on her knee, and gave him a quick tickle under the chin. ‘How can I even think of marrying someone who just walks out whenever there’s some minor obstacle to overcome? If we can fall out over something so trivial, what hope is there for us?’
Ginny stared at her hands. ‘Don’t make me pick sides, Hermione.’
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to unload on you.’ She drained her glass and Summoned the bottle from the kitchen. ‘It’s been a stressful day—oh, the shopping trip was a success, by the way.’
‘Oh, thank Merlin for that. Shall I go and get my ingredients?’
‘No need.’ Hermione quickly brought her up to speed on the afternoon’s events, leaving out the bit about Snape’s fee. ‘You’ll find the bottle in my cloak pocket.’
Hermione poured herself another glass while Ginny went in search of her potion. At least now she wouldn’t have to make excuses for her absence on Saturday afternoon, and in all honesty, she was really looking forward to helping Snape with his experiment. It would be challenging, no doubt about that. Maybe he’d let her have some for helping…?
‘Hermione…’
She turned around to see an ashen-faced Ginny standing in the doorway, clutching an empty bottle.