Of Purest Blood

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C H A P T E R TWO

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Two days later, Hermione was joined at dinner in the Great Hall by Ron and Fred Weasley. It was good to see them, of course, but her mind was elsewhere. She tortured her pudding with her fork, but didn't feel like eating. She pushed her dish away in favour of Prescribed Potions for Peculiar Perils, which contained the formula for Inversitoxin. She'd been taking every spare moment to read and re-read the instructions, and wouldn't be satisfied until she'd memorized it to the last punctuation mark. She had made more complicated draughts than Inversitoxin, but never under the duress of certain mortality if she failed.

The Weasleys continued to chatter as if she wasn't there.

"Sometimes, it's like he never left," said Ron.

"Yeah," agreed George, "And the pranks he can pull off as a ghost are bloody brilliant!"

Fred's ghost haunting Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had actually been great for business, and his presence tempered the family's grief. Hermione half-listened as Ron and George described Fred's latest antics, and enthusiastically discussed a new line of bird treats that briefly transfigured owls into chickens, ducks or turkeys.

After roast beef, welsh pudding and mashed potatoes had created a lull in the conversation, Ron finally realized that Hermione hadn't said a word since they'd sat down.

"Oi, Hermione! We did come to see you, y'know," he said, tapping the top of her head.

"Yeah," said George, swiping her book and hiding it behind his back. "What's on your mind, anyway? Term's barely started. You can't have that much work to do yet."

"Hey!" Hermione protested.

"You'll get it back when you tell us what's up," said George. He glanced at the cover. "Didn't you already finish potions?"

"Yeah, 'Mione, you were top of the class even though the greasy arsehole had it in for you."

"Don't talk about Professor Snape that way!" Hermione snapped, immediately regretting it.

"Oh, come on, Hermione! He made our lives miserable!" protested Ron.

Hermione frowned, and unsuccessfully tried to snatch her book back from George. "Did you two know that out of everyone in the Order of the Phoenix, Professor Snape is the only senior member who never got recognized by the Order of Merlin?"

"Maybe that's because, I dunno, everyone thought he was dead," Ron replied, with George nodding in agreement.

"Well he's not dead, is he? And Harry, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Moody were all awarded post-humously."

"Fashe it, Hermione, he was a Deffeeter," said George, swallowing a big mouthful of potatoes. "And Unbreakable Vow or not, he killed Dumbledore. Nobody's ever gonna see Snape as some kind of hero."

"Except for Hermione, apparently," Ron added.

"You know, Snape's human, too," Hermione retorted. "He did a lot for us. For everybody. He must have suffered in silence for years. "

"Yeah, and he made sure we suffered out loud," quipped George.

"Never mind," she said, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, can I please have my book back? I have some, er, work to do."

"Oh, I don't think so," George grinned. "C'mon, tell us!"

Hermione sighed, knowing she had to come up with something to get them to leave her alone.

"It's for my D.A.D.A. class," she lied. "I have to write an eighteen-inch essay about the importance of potions knowledge in defending against magical attacks. Defensive potions, antidotes, things like that. Professor Tonks only gave us three days to write it. Now, can I have my book back?"

"Yeah, all right," grumbled George, handing it back to her.

"Oh, so that's who's teaching it now!" grinned Ron. "Great choice, really."

"Yes, she's really good," agreed Hermione. "Anyway, I'll see you both next week, and I won't bring any books to dinner," she promised, managing a smile. "Tell Neville and Ginny I'll see them tomorrow at lunch."

She kissed each Weasley on the cheek, and took her leave.

George nudged Ron. "I think 'Mione's got a crush on the ol' potions master!"

Ron, still blushing from Hermione's kiss, punched George in the arm. Hard.

***

It was evident from Snape's appearance that he had already been hard at work. Moisture plastered a few strands of hair to his forehead, and his sleeves were unbuttoned and turned up. She tried not to look too long at him, but couldn't help notincing the tiny blue veins crawling from his hairline to his brow and the skeletal thinness of his long hands.

"Time is of essence," he said, quietly. "Put down your books and come with me." Hermione did as she was told. Snape led her to a door at the back of his office she'd always assumed was another storage closet. He magicked the door open, ushered her in, and charmed it shut behind them in one sweep.

She was unsurprised to discover that the "storage closet" was, in fact, Snape's private laboratory-- his own personal Room of Requirement. It consisted of eight walls of shelves crowned with a domed rotunda ceiling emblazoned with alchemical symbols. Four walls were stacked with books. Three-and-a-half were dedicated to bottles, flasks, jars, tools, and dozens of tiny labeled drawers filled with potions ingredients. The bottom half of the wall opposite the door housed an elegant fireplace, accessorized with large green wing-backed armchair and an endtable.

Under different circumstances, Hermione would scarcely be able to contain her curiosity, presented with such a heaven of unusual books. Tonight, though, she would give all her attention to the task at hand. She approached the cauldron simmering on the large, circular ironwood table at the center of the octoganal room. It was accompanied by a flask of yellowy-orange liquid that sent sulphurous wisps curling into the air.

"Please begin adding the infusion I've prepared one drop at a time. I will stir," said Snape, readying a stirring rod. She nodded, and dipped a glass pipette into the flask. Holding it perpendicular to the steaming cauldron, she allowed one drop to fall into the murky liquid. One, two, three, four, five, six, she counted silently as Snape stirred. Another drop, and six more strokes. The two wordlessly repeated this routine until the potion shimmered and changed color in response to the infusion.

"Orange," said Hermione, upturning the pipette and then replacing it in the flask.

"I see you've done your research, Miss Granger... very good." He gave her a nod as he tapped the rim of the cauldron twice with the stirring rod and set it aside.

Hermione, unused to receiving any positive feedback from Snape, felt herself smile a bit, and inwardly chastised herself for responding to the slight praise. After all, this wasn't potions class. She had his life in her hands.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "I realize it isn't time to add the ... my blood, yet, but I did have a question."

Snape regarded her blandly. "You're wondering if the potion will be effective without my blood. The fact is that it won't. We must simultaneously introduce our essences to the draught."

"Oh. Erm, how?" she asked.

"I've given the matter some thought," said Snape. "Give me your hand." Hermione hesitated for a moment, eyeing the gleaming, ebony-handled dagger on the table. "You know very well I'm not going to cut you. Yet. I merely wish to demonstrate how it will be done when the time comes."

Snape indelicately grasped Hermione's wrist and laid his right palm against her left, interlacing their fingers. For reasons she couldn't afford to understand at the moment, Hermione flushed at the contact.

If Snape noticed her reaction, he gave no indication of it. "As I'm sure you've read," he continued, "the blood must come directly from the vein. We will place our wrists together. I will pass the blade between them, cutting both simultaneously. Our blood will mingle as it drops into the cauldron. When it is finished, I will heal your wound. Do you understand?"

She nodded. He released her hand, and she rubbed her palm nervously, the tingle of his touch lingering on her skin.

"Something the matter, Miss Granger?"

"N- no. It's just that your hands are so... cold, sir. Sorry."

Snape said nothing to this, and went about pulverising scarab beetles in a large granite mortar. A few minutes later, he sprinkled the crushed insects into the cauldron. There were several small pops as the powdered beetles dissolved rapidly into the potion. When the liquid settled, he turned to Hermione.

The moment had come.

Hermione swallowed hard, beating back her fear as she offered Snape her hand. They stood over the cauldron as he took up the dagger and slid it between their two wrists. Then, twisting the blade edgewise, he drew the knife cleanly and cleverly across their skin. Despite her best effort, Hermione was unable to completely control her reflex to pull away from the sting of the blade. Her arm spasmed, and the dagger clattered to the floor. Snape steadied her with a firm arm around her waist.

"You must hold still," he said. "You are safe."

The even timbre of his voice soothed Hermione, even as their blood pooled hotly in the cleft between their tightly-pressed wrists. She could feel the professor's pulse against her skin, and his heartbeat against her back. A peculiar warmth spread through her -- a strange, heady rush that nearly caused her to swoon. Breathing deeply, she clung to the arm that supported her, allowing her head fall back against Snape's shoulder. A few crimson rivulets escaped to scurry down their arms, but most of the blood flowed freely into the cauldron, pattering against the gently bubbling surface of the thickening draught.

"Professor," she gasped, snapping back to reality. "Th-thirteen drachms --"

"The measurement is an approximation. We must continue until the potion turns blue. Then we must pull our hands away immediately, do you understand?"

Hermione nodded. And then, something went horribly wrong.

Nagini. She saw Nagini, striking at her throat. She saw Voldemort, commanding his pet to destroy the traitor before him. She felt very cold, then feverishly hot. As she fell, she thought she could hear someone calling her name from somewhere very far away.