Madame Curie, Potion's Mistress

Special thanks to my pinch hitter beta Kat who has helped me out immensely getting these chapters out in a timely manner. Thank you to my readers for waiting so long for the update to the start of the fic. I had a hard time continuing the fic in the manner of humour in which it was started, so although I maintain some of the humour, it has transfigured into a mystery/adventure fic at this point in time. Oh, and romance of course. Enjoy!


The sticky mess wouldn’t come off the papers no matter how many times he performed the Evanesco spell over them.

Easy come, easy go; pun intended. He tossed the batch into the fire. Being the greasy bastard he was, the professor would tell the class that their papers were such a collective dismal failure, they had spontaneously combusted on his desk. He would make the assignment twice as long when he told them they had to be redone, due the following day.

Well, that had certainly been a most satisfying orgasm. It was high time he took some leave to find this witch. Madame Curie hadn’t given him any identifying information. It was curious that he knew extensively about her talents, likes and dislikes, and about bits of personality that had shown through in her correspondence. Yet, he knew nothing of her real name, age, looks, where she lived or anything that would tell him who she was. Surely she was someone he knew. A Potions mistress of her caliber would be a well known entity among such a small international community.

The Professor liked a good puzzle. This was going to be a challenge he would relish.
--

Hermione Granger stared at the computer screen in absolute shock. Severus Snape was coming to Paris, intent on meeting, ‘the illustrious Potions Mistress that has captured my heart and imagination.’

Uh, right. Okay. This wasn’t exactly what she had had in mind when she began this correspondence. It had been an entertaining way to pass the time, in between waiting for order fulfillment and billing cycles. The evil little cursor blinked at her in all its digital innocence, the blank page before her mocking as it waited for her to reply.

Maybe it was time for her to come clean. No, wait. She couldn’t do that! Snape had the worst vindictive streak of anyone she had ever known. How could a man of his caliber fall in love with a fictitious swot over the fucking internet? Oh, right. She had lied through her teeth. It was her fault he probably imagined her with a posh office on the fifty eleventh floor of some posh wizarding penthouse, all three inch spiked heels and red lipstick, dripping sarcasm at all of the employees at her disposal.

Instead, she was sat in gold and maroon sweatpants with holes gracing the knees, a comfy old sweatshirt and a mug of disgustingly black coffee to the right of her state of the art laptop nestled in the tatty Internet café booth. This was her life, her façade. Madame Curie, Potions Mistress was a stroke of genius. Drop shippers and web development geeks took care of the majority of her work. All she had to do was procure new suppliers and bullshite the various clienteles that ate up her image.

It was a morning routine. Get up, roll out of bed, feed Crookshanks, frig herself in the shower, laptop, croissant and coffee down in the café beneath her flat in downtown Paris, bullshite the morning away, back upstairs for a nap, another frig in the shower, change, out for a stroll, back home and off to bed. It was a droll way to spend one’s life. No one expected anything of her, and she could run away from everyone that she had let down following the war.

“Christ.” Hermione muttered to herself, running a small hand through her disheveled hair. What was she going to do? She couldn’t very well cast a Fidelus Charm around the Internet Café or the Muggles would never be able to find it. The damn place was perfect to hide in. She hid in plain sight and no one was the wiser. The most the transplanted hippie owner of the joint knew was that she had flipped her lid and was living off an inheritance. She certainly hadn’t dissuaded him from this amusing observation. As long as she kept buying his horrid coffee and stale croissants, he didn’t say a word.

Hermione shot off a quick email to Professor Snape and ran upstairs to pack her bags. It was high time she relocated. If he figured out who she was, she would be ruined. Dragging a brush through her hair and quickly magicking her few belongings into a sports duffel, she hitch-hiked to the train station and took off on the first bullet out of Paris.

Reflecting on the ride to who knew where, Hermione was brought back to the horrible practical joke played on Snape by her friends; the joke that got blamed on her, thus landing her in the blessing and curse of a life she was in today.

The awards ceremony to hand out Order of Merlin’s to war heroes packed the rented Wizarding Auditorium in Lincolnshire. Every member of the Order of the Phoenix was in attendance, including the exonerated Severus Snape, accompanied by the miracle return of Albus Dumbledore, who in retrospect, had faked his own death with a very real likeness of himself that disintegrated after the burial, much to the shock and unanimous delight of almost the entire wizarding world, including Snape himself.

Hermione had been enlisted to organize the awards ceremony, including the cards that would be opened by the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Hermione spelled each card to open at the tap of his wand. The card would announce each recipient as he or she came to the stage. When handed the card, it was charmed to transform into the Medal of Honor bestowed on said recipient in a puff of blue, silver or green smoke depending on class, or white smoke for Fourth or Fifth class.

Gasps of appreciation rose from the audience as each witch or wizard accepted their award, made a short acceptance speech, and then took their places behind the Minister for Magic and his newly elected cabinet. Hermione stood on the right side of the stage to shake the hands of the award recipients as they ascended the stage. The front row of the awards ceremony included the head of the Wizengamot as well as the new board of Governors.

Snape had shifted uncomfortably in his seat, waiting what seemed an interminably long time for his name to be called, as Albus assured him it would. The infernal twinkle in the old geezer’s eyes stayed him in his chair as finally, Shacklebolt announced his rise to the podium.

In the traditional swirl of black robes, Snape ascended the stage and stepped onto the dais. What happened next had played over and over in the mind of one Hermione Granger each and every night she closed her eyes, often crying herself to sleep.

As Snape took hold of the proffered card which had originally been spelled to announce an Order of Merlin First Class, it came alive and shot out of his hand. The card transformed into what appeared to be a great swooping black bat that beat its wings, rushing low over the startled heads of the crowded auditorium. A great booming voice from somewhere in the rafters of the building announced, “And the award for greasy git, scum and blood traitor goes to Snivellous Snape, black bat of the dungeons, Order of Merlin Low Class!”

Dead silence fell over the rustling crowd as the black bat dissipated in a puff of conjured smoke. A stunned panel stared from Snape to the Minister, and then all eyes came to rest on Hermione Granger.

Her mouth opened and closed in close approximation of a fix on a hook, unable to move or speak for fear nothing would come out but a horrified shriek.

Snape had narrowed his eyes and glared at her in a most venomous manner.

A dull roar erupted at once as pandemonium ensued, numerous Wizarding flashbulbs going off when Snape leapt from the stage with his hands outstretched, reaching for Granger in what appeared to be an attempt to strangle her on the spot.

Not knowing what else to do, and with nowhere to go in the crowded arena, Hermione Disapparated.

Much speculation was bantered about when Hermione did not surface for questioning. At first, people assumed she was deeply embarrassed over the entire incident and had gone underground for a few days to let things blow over until the truth came out. Surely, the indubitably impeccable and trustworthy Hermione Granger would never pull such a despicable stunt.

A week went by, and the initial scathing and conflicting reports turned into speculation that her continued absence was an admission of guilt by absentia.

A month went by, and search parties of the Order gave up looking for her. No one had come forward to claim responsibility for the humiliating act, and, after all, it WAS only Snape. He had since received his Order of Merlin, First Class, but the damage was already done. Severus Snape had been humiliated in front of the entire wizarding elite.

Hermione knew she couldn’t go back to face her friends or family, so she had fled to Paris and started her own company. Now, it was all threatening to come crashing down around her, so she was booking it out of there to her backup office in Romania. She fell asleep to the rhythm of the train clickity clacking down the tracks at breakneck speed while the low hum of private conversation swirled around her.

--

Snape Apparated in three stages to the Roissy-Charles de Gaulle airport just north of Paris. It had been a common meeting point for overseas business dealings for both the Dark Lord’s and his own private acquisition of various potions ingredients from French suppliers. The secluded Apparition point was still obviously used quite frequently, judging from the look of the discarded bottles and international Wizarding newspapers scattered about the disillusioned field. A dumpy witch in a wrinkled purple robe snored on the bench across from him.

Jerking out his thumb, the Autobus de Chevalier, came to a screeching halt mere inches from his face. Choking on the copious amounts of ghastly smoke emanating from the hulking contraption’s tailpipe, he waved it away from his face before stepping onboard. God, how he hated travelling on the Knight Bus in France! It was a horrid way to travel, but he had no idea where to begin looking for this Madame Curie, other than infiltrating the records at her Internet service provider.

The dirty bus driver greeted him, inquiring as to his destination. “Bonjour Monsieur Rogue ! Accueillir à Paris. Où dans cette ville fine fera vous dirige aujourd'hui ?”

Snape replied in flawless French, “S'il vous plaît me prendre au Berekely, et lui voir nous le faisons là dans un morceau.” The driver gave a snort at the rude Englishman, who had insinuated the driver would not get him there in one piece.

As if to spite the tall, ugly foreigner, the driver sneered and stepped madly on the gas before Snape had a chance to sit down. At the conclusion of the hellish ride, the driver yelped in surprise as Snape hexed his balls into ice cubes just prior to stepping off the bus. It served the bastard right for knocking him about on the journey.

The luxurious Berkeley was another of Severus’ favorite hotels for informal business. It was downtown, but had its own private suites for paying wizarding clientele that wished to remain discrete. A past fling with the owner’s wife helped him to maintain a discounted rate and guaranteed point for passing on sensitive information or contraband potions supplies. Such a handy little spot to still have tucked under his wing, and more importantly, away from Dumbledore’s prying mind.

Snape stretched out on the Slytherin green four poster embossed with silver filigree nymphs dancing down the teak headboard, giving sneak peeks of their wares. It was an interesting touch, albeit useless, to the otherwise tasteful décor. His long fingers unzipped his laptop bag, wrestling out his portable computer, propping it on his stomach as he sat up against the pillows. Frowning at the screen that stared back at him with the blinking message counter for his email, he swore softly when he read the short missive from his lovely Madame Curie.


Monsieur Snape,

I regret to inform you I have been called away suddenly and will be unable to meet you for your unexpected visit to Paris. I sincerely hope you enjoy all that our fine city has to offer and extend my sincere condolences if my absence has caused you undue hardship. Please accept my apologies. I feel as if I must make up for this somehow, and I have expedited a shipment of Felix Felices to Hogwarts in apology for your inconvenience.

Sincerely and Regretfully, Madame Curie


Fuck. Now what the hell was he supposed to do? It was almost if she were purposely avoiding him. Why else would she send an extremely valuable batch of potions as an apology? The witch had to be incredibly wealthy to throw about that kind of gift as a casual apology.

Rubbing his hands together, Snape set his laptop off to the side and whisked off to the shower, the gears turning in his head as they worked out a plan to hunt down the elusive Madame Curie, whether she liked it or not.