Tension in the Laboratory

Happy New Year!

Need some help on British-isms. What's "soda" in British? In America, it'd be maybe "pop" or "sodapop" or if it's the South, "Coke". What it is it Britain?

And do you "break off" a relationship? "Break it off"? I think there's another term...

Thanks!

*

Dinner in the Great Hall was one of the most trying Hermione had ever experienced. She was seated, for some reason, on Snape’s side of the table, two down from him with Flitwick in between. McGonagall was at her usual place, not sparing Hermione a glance. Harry was gone. This is it, Hermione thought. Tonight I will learn something that puts me at ease about seeing Snape, or I break it off with him for good.

The thought of breaking it off filled her with unaccustomed sadness, and she found herself staring at Dumbledore. His right hand was still hidden in his robes. He was eating with only his left hand, as though he’d done it that way every day of his life. The Great Hall was uncharacteristically quiet. Students were whispering among themselves, nudging each other and indicating Dumbledore, who continued to eat with an amiable smile on his face. The dishes for dinner sailed back into the kitchens with the house elves, while trifle and cake began to float from the same place, Dumbledore rose and raised his left arm for silence. At once, the soft roar of conversation ceased. Hermione looked up. The ceiling, a clear gray, was beginning to fog up with silver tendrils.

“Some of you,” Dumbledore began, “may have noticed a change about me.” He lifted his right arm. Now it ended with…Hermione could hardly bear to look…a—she risked a glimpse—hand? She looked harder. Yes, a hand. Definitely a hand. She felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. What was going on? Had it been a dream? She shot a quick look at Snape. But he was leaning back in his chair, a sly expression on his face. Dumbledore was flexing his right hand, examining its back then its palm. “I may have seemed distant to you lately, less involved,” Dumbledore continued. “But I assure you,” he cast a severe look over his half-moon spectacles at the goggle-eyed student body below, “I am as engaged as ever, if not more so. I assure you that whatever you may have heard to the contrary, Hogwarts is well protected, and the Dark Lord will not be encroaching on our grounds for some time to come. I would like to personally thank each of our Heads of Houses for their unfailing help in this regard: Minerva McGonagall for her bravery,” Hermione saw McGonagall’s chin lift, “Pomona Sprout for her loyalty, Filius Flitwick for his quick thinking, and lastly,” Dumbledore paused, “Severus Snape for his cleverness.” Hermione saw Snape regard the students before him as if they were some particularly loathsome specimens for an experiment he was being forced to conduct. Hermione looked down the table at McGonagall and saw the older woman’s thin nostrils flare. “Now, without any further speechifying…dig in!” Dumbledore concluded. The bewildered students slowly turned their attention to the delectables floating before them.

Hermione put down her fork. What had Snape done to Dumbledore’s hand? Then another thought occurred to her. What had become of her? She remembered herself five years ago, tossing out orders to Harry, Ron, the younger witches and wizards, formulating plans for the Order, carrying them out with nerve. Now what was she? A satellite in Snape’s orbit, she answered herself glumly. She didn’t dare look his way.

She heard a chair scrape back.

“Headmaster.” It was Snape’s voice, pitched low but loud enough to carry across the head table.

“Yes, Severus?” Dumbledore replied mildly.

“I have some pressing business to attend to in my office.”

“Very well.”

Snape gave him a sketchy bow and turned with a billow of his cloak, departing out an oaken side door.

Hermione surveyed her plate some more, unseeingly. At last, she rose. She hardly knew what to say to Dumbledore. At a loss for words, she inclined her head toward him and smiled with only her mouth before leaving by a different door.

With her eyes on the floor, she could not see where she was going. Striding down the hallway, she hit something tall with a woof. Someone took her by the shoulder.

“Hermione?”

Looking up, to her surprise, she saw Ron Weasley. He was much taller than she remembered. His shoulders were wider, his collarbone showing above muscle in the vee of his robes. His red hair had darkened to the color of cherry cola. His skin was clear with spots of color on the high cheekbones, and his blue eyes were, for the moment, focused on her with concern. “Hermione?” he repeated.

“What are you doing here?” she replied bluntly.

“Well, Dad’s taken me on at the Ministry. Yeah!” he added when he saw her astonished look. “And I have some ideas I’d like to try to get things working better down there. But, see, I need to be an Auror first. So I came down here to talk to McGonagall about training me. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve had to promise the old battleaxe to get her to agree. But…here I am!” He grinned at her frank amazement.

Hermione blinked. She had known that somewhere inside Ron was competence and ability. He certainly could play the best game of wizard chess she’d ever seen. But usually he came across as lazy, insecure, and lacking serious focus. “Where’s Luna?” she managed after a moment.

Ron’s smile went out like a flame in a draft. “She went back home,” he said. “It, er, didn’t work out.” He seemed to want to say something more.

“What didn’t—work?” Hermione brought herself to probe delicately.

Now Ron looked intensely uncomfortable. “It was just, well, I can’t argue with her. She would just stop talking and look at the ceiling or something. I’d rather she’d hexed me or yelled at me, or said something like one of your put-downs. It just got—" he shuffled his feet and turned red—“boring. …Anyway, aren’t you still with the g—I mean, er, Snape?”

Hermione scowled. “If you mean ‘the greasy git,’ then yes, I’m still seeing him.”

“And, er, how’s it going?” Ron carried off nonchalance better than he used to, Hermione noted.

“It’s—" what to say? “never a dull moment. Listen,” she hastened to change the subject, “how’s the Ministry?”

“Oh, it’s, well, it needs improvement.” An idea seemed to occur to him. “Say, 'Mione, the Ministry’s reworking wizard policies toward magical creatures. No one’s taken on house elves yet. Maybe,” he hesitated a bit, “you’d like to apply for the position?”

Hermione’s heart lifted for the first time in almost a year. This was perfect! Just what she’d been looking for. Excitement and gratitude coursed through her. “That’s brilliant, Ron! I’d be so—well, that’d be great! Thanks! Thanks for thinking of me!”

Ron smiled back, and for a moment, contentment and peacefulness mingled with anticipation for the future stole over her. In the next minute, Ron’s face reddened and he said, “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you…around.”

Hermione felt her own face heat up. “Yeah. Cheers, then.”

Confusion, self-recrimination, guilt, and dread battled for her attention as she dragged her feet toward the dungeons. Mentally, she kicked herself. Time to face up and take it, she thought. Time to break off this agonizing dance—

She tapped her wand on Snape’s door, which creaked open.

“You’re late,” came his voice, coldly.