The Taking of Tea

A/N: Hey, I know Lucius is a silly, foppish prick in the books. The children's books. But this is a world of grown-ups, and in that world bad guys are rarely one-dimensional.









CHAPTER FOUR: HER KIND



I have gone out, a possessed witch,

haunting the black air, braver at night;

dreaming evil, I have done my hitch

over the plain houses, light by light:

lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.

A woman like that is not a woman, quite.

I have been her kind.



I have found the warm caves in the woods,

filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,

closets, silks, innumerable goods;

fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves;

whining, rearranging the disaligned.

A woman like that is misunderstood

I have been her kind.



I have ridden in your cart, driver

waved my nude arms at villages going by,

learning the last bright routes, survivor

where your flames still bite my thigh

and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.

A woman like that is not ashamed to die.

I have been her kind.







Hermione had made a number of changes to the potions classroom, all of which would surely have displeased its former master greatly. There were, unfortunately, no windows in the dungeon classroom, so she’d had the walls painted in a warm, antiqued yellow. The long desks were now made of polished maple, and the banners of each house hung from the walls, along with a number of prints illustrating potions ingredients and their uses.



At the moment she was seated behind her large desk, going over some calculations for her attempt at a more permanent wolfsbane potion. But no matter how many times she dissected her theories, the problem remained the same; the ingredients simply weren’t stable enough to produce long-term effects. The only possible solution would be to replace the majority of the potion’s components, and developing a new formula would necessitate several trial runs. Which Remus wasn’t likely to agree to, even if she did screw up the courage to tell him about her project. Pushing the parchment aside, she looked over her class.



There was a low din of noise from the students as they discussed the steps and ingredients, along with the chopping of knives and the grinding from mortar and pestle. The room had become a bit warm, as most of the cauldrons were beginning to simmer, resulting in loosened ties and rolled sleeves. The group of fifth year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were fairly competent, and far less accident prone than some of her younger students.



Bill and Fleur’s daughter, who had unfortunately been named Eugenie, was sitting particularly close to her partner, and if the blush on the girl’s cheeks was anything to go by, they weren’t discussing their potions assignment. In fact, their ingredients were scattered before them untouched, despite the half hour that had passed since the beginning of class. Hermione had a sudden vision of Snape, who would’ve no doubt barked a remonstrance in their direction, deducted house points, and embarrassed the young couple as much as possible.



Instead, Hermione rose from her seat and walked down the isle dividing the two rows of tables, inspecting progress and giving suggestions as she walked by.



“Miss Weasley,” she said gently, bending near the pair, “Perhaps you and Mr. Treefoot had better get back to your assignment, and save your conversation for another time.” Both students looked up with guilty faces.



“Yes, Professor Granger. Sorry about that.”



Hermione smiled indulgently, wearing an expression to suggest that she, too, had indulged in such romantic interludes as a Hogwarts student. Which was of course absolute untruth. While her school years hadn’t been entirely devoid of romantic experiences, she’d kept them at a strict distance from her academics. They had never been important enough to interfere with her overwhelming desire for success, and as a girl, the sea had seemed full of fish. Which was no longer the case, she thought ruefully, returning to her desk after one more glance over the class.



Hermione diverted her attention to a stack of essays, and very quickly the class had come to an end.



“All right, people.” She announced, “please place your results on my desk as you leave, along with your essays on today’s potion. Don’t forget; a two foot parchment on the draught of peace is due on Friday.” As the class filed out Kelley Kearney, a blond Hufflepuff who had grown quite tall this year, stayed behind. She was shifting from foot to foot, twisting the end of her long ponytail through her fingers.



“Professor,” she began, her voice apologetic, “I don’t… well, I don’t have my essay for today.” Suppressing a sigh, Hermione set down her quill.



“And why is that?”



“Well,” Kearney continued to fidget, her eyes widening as she sucked in her bottom lip. “It’s just that I…oh!” She put her face in her hands, and Hermione braced herself for the impending theatrics. “I just don’t have it, Professor Granger. I’m so sorry! Really I am! I just—I just forgot! Please forgive me!”



“No forgiveness is necessary on my part, Miss Kearney; the only person who’s been hurt is yourself. I’m afraid you’ll receive a zero for today’s assignment.”



“But, but,” now the girl was pouting in earnest. “But couldn’t I turn it in later? I honestly just forgot, Professor. I can have it in by dinner tonight, I swear!”



“I’m sorry, Miss Kearney,” Hermione shook her head. “We all forget from time to time, but I can’t excuse you on that basis. The assignment was due at the end of class today, and you can’t make it up.”



Kelley gave her teacher a look that was not entirely friendly.



“Fine.” She huffed, turning quickly on her heel and speeding away. Hermione cradled her head in her palm, massaging her temples. That girl was Pansy Parkinson incarnate. With a tired sigh, she gathered up the papers on her desk. Classes were over for the day, which was both a blessing and a curse; now she had free time, and well, now she had free time. And nothing to do with it.



She sighed irritably, shuffling the collected homework into a tidier pile. Some of the students had apparently used sugar quills to write their essays, as many of the parchments were dotted with goo.



“They can’t be that bad.” Came the voice of Remus Lupin, and Hermione turned to see him leaning in the doorframe. His robes, which were a faded black, hung to one side as his legs tilted to the other, while a broad shoulder braced against the frame to make a picture of casual repose. Remus had a way of inserting humor into his gestures, and Hermione grinned.



“They might be—I haven’t read them yet. To what do I owe your illustrious presence, Professor Lupin?”



“The even more illustrious person of Headmistress McGonagall requests your presence, Professor Granger.”



Hermione’s eyebrows came together in an expression of concern, one that her mother swore would give her wrinkles. Something afoot, no doubt, as a casual invitation would have been made directly. As if in response, Remus pushed from the doorframe to stand.



“Shall we?”



Hermione put the essays in a desk drawer and stood, walking with Remus through the castle hallways. Throughout the castle students were coming from their lessons, and the hallways were jammed to capacity. Small clusters formed where students paused to discuss their lessons and gossip about their teachers. Couples were holding hands, and here and there a kiss was stolen. A third year Gryffindor was chasing his familiar down a staircase at breakneck speed, and although Hermione commanded “no running in the halls,” the boy only paused, gave a sheepish and apologetic smile, and ran on. Older students pushed past underclassmen with the rude air of seniority, and most of the students who caught the eyes of the professors stopped to give them a wave, or a nod, or a quick hello, barely heard above the whir and thrum of noisy children.



The bloody baron was attempting to decapitate Sir Nick completely by pulling the ghost’s hair, while Peeves looked on with a demented giggle, his attention divided between the entertaining struggle and the desire to harass passing students. Hermione gave the ghost a threatening scowl while Remus ignored him completely, and soon after they had arrived at the door to Minerva’s office.



“Pax,” Remus told the gargoyle, which swung away to let them inside. With a flourishing bow, Remus stood aside, letting Hermione enter without following. The office was lit with candles, and full of magical artifacts and old, leather-bound textbooks. There was also the strong, bitter-sweet odor of Darjeeling, the earthy smell of animal, and the heavy perfume from a censor, which puffed verbena air in plumes of smoke. Fawkes, whose current bath explained that unusual odor, gave a rather affronted squawk at their presence; the bath, it seemed, was a rather private undertaking.



“Oh, don’t be so prudish.” Came the voice of Minerva, at which the phoenix puffed as best he could with wet feathers. Dumbledore’s old familiar and the new headmistress had bonded tightly, both apparently needing the other as a link to the dead wizard. As the transfiguration professor and head of Gryffindor, Minerva herself had been seen as something of a prude, forever tutting and hushing and pursing her lips. Although she remained far more animated than her predecessor, her persona had changed considerably, both from the weight of her position and the burden that forced it upon her.



Her appearance had changed as well, which Hermione noted as she watched the older witch pour two cups of tea. Her hair had turned almost completely white, and she wore it in a thick braid that fell well down her back. Her robes, spectacularly elaborate, were made of aubergine silk, and embroidered with gold knot work. To the surprise of her employee, she was hatless, and without its added height she was rather short.



“Please sit down,” she told her, taking her own seat behind her desk. Hermione obeyed, taking the offered cup of tea, blowing across the surface in a fruitless but ritual gesture.



“What is it, Minerva?” She said softly, here eyes on the steaming cup. The older woman sighed, which was not a good omen.



“Lucius Malfoy has somehow wrangled an appeal for his son. You’ve been subpoenaed to testify.” She tapped her fingers on the desk, two large silver rings clicking together between the first and middle finger of her aging hand.



“My testimony? That’s ludicrous. I certainly don’t have anything even remotely positive to say about Draco Malfoy,” Hermione snorted.



“Of course not,” Minerva agreed, her tone suggesting that anything else would be unacceptable. “Apparently, the new defense is to suggest that Draco is incapable of casting an Avada Kedavra. They’re quite confident that you’ll give effective testimony to Draco’s incompetence.”



Hermione blustered with outrage, opening and closing the mouth in her reddened face and waving her free hand wildly in the air. After several false starts, she finally spoke:



“That is absurd. I have no intention of aiding in Draco’s defense in any way, even if it’s by declaring to the Wizengamot what an incompetent sod he is. I will not testify!”



“I really don’t think you have a choice, Hermione,” Minerva said gently, and it was clear from her calm demeanor that she’d had some time to digest the information. “A magical subpoena is as binding as those of muggle British law.” When Hermione stayed silent, though her face indicated she was on the brink of explosion, Minerva continued, “however, it may interest you to know that Lucius Malfoy wishes to make a personal request to you, for your…assistance.”



“So that’s it,” Hermione declared, returning her teacup to its saucer with a look of grim satisfaction. “I wondered why he was so courteous to me.”



“You refer, I assume, to your conversation with Remus the other day in the great hall?” Like her predecessor, McGonagall seemed to be aware of everything that went on in the school. Apparently, it was some kind of sixth sense that developed with the position of head of Hogwarts, and Hermione was not at all surprised that the woman had overheard the conversation.



“Yes.”



“Well, he’s here now, I’m afraid.”



Hermione scowled. She was in no way prepared for a visit with Lucius Malfoy. She was tired from her long day, her stomach was beginning to growl, and she still had that damned patch of green in her hair. But expressing her disinclination to meet with the elder Malfoy on such short notice would only demonstrate weakness, and suggest that she was afraid of the man. Which she wasn’t. Of course not.



“Where is he?”



“He’s in the west garden. It was the most neutral place I could think of.”



Leaving Minerva’s office for her next impromptu meeting, Hermione fought the urge to dash back to her rooms and fix herself up a bit. It was pointless, she knew; Lucius’ dislike for Hermione was more than skin-deep. He hated her for what she was, for her blood and her parentage, and fresh robes and lipstick wouldn’t change a thing. Although they might have given her a bit more confidence, she thought, stepping into the garden.



He was seated on a bench beneath a large dogwood tree, black robes open to reveal a grey suit a la page, although the tightly buttoned vest and dangling chain of a pocket watch removed anything contemporary from his appearance. His hair was pulled tightly back, keeping it from his face as he bent over a copy of The Daily Prophet. Unsurprisingly, the yard was otherwise empty, as the students had no doubt chosen to steer clear of the menacing Malfoy patriarch. Hermione ignored the bite of fear that stung her chest. Malfoy would certainly kill her if the opportunity arose, but he wouldn’t be foolish enough to attempt anything at Hogwarts.



“Mr. Malfoy.” She said, keeping her voice clear and cool.



“Ah, Professor Granger,” he smiled, half-rising from the bench to give her a polite nod. “I gather that Headmistress McGonagall has informed you on the nature of my visit.”



“She has.” Hermione said curtly, decided that it was probably best to say as little as possible.



“I realize that you are not likely inclined to testify on my son’s behalf. Please know that I’m asking you to do nothing untoward; you’ll simply be asked to describe Draco’s magical abilities as you’re familiar with them. And, of course, the subpoena is mandatory.”



“Of course,” Hermione said, and forgetting her just-made decision, added, “I don’t see why you felt the need to address me in person, Mr. Malfoy. As you’ve said, I have no choice in this matter, and no intention of breaking the law, despite my misgivings.” She was standing before him in the bright sunlight of late afternoon, feeling awkward and tired and resisting the urge to shift from foot to foot.



“Please,” Lucius said, moving to one end of the bench and gesturing to the other, which was a suitable distance away, “sit down, Professor Granger.” She did, deciding that trying to keep the maximum distance between them would only make her seem childish, even if it was her first inclination. Once she sat down, he stared at her for so long that she began to feel intensely uncomfortable. It had been a long day, yes, but did she really look such a fright? “You’ve got a bit of green in your hair.” He told her, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.



“Potions accident,” she told him, touching the fading patch in a self-conscious gesture.



“Ah,” he nodded. “I can recall Severus suffering many similar mishaps during his tenure as Potions instructor.”



At the mention of Severus Snape Hermione paled—his name would always sting deeply, for reasons she had no desire to make Malfoy aware of. But why on earth had he brought the man up? Did he mean to insinuate something?



“You two were close, were you not? In your last year, at least.”



Hermione felt her stomach drop. Clearly, he knew something, although his face was absent the gloating expression she had expected to follow. She clasped her hands very tightly in her lap, raising her head to look him in the eye.



“I fail to see what Severus Snape has to do with my testimony at your son’s appeal.”



“Rightly so,” Lucius agreed amiably. “I was simply curious; I know that Severus helped you through a rather difficult time, and I imagine that must have made his betrayal all the more difficult for you.”



He was taunting her, the son of a bitch. It wasn’t enough that he had managed to manipulate the law into forcing her to help his bigoted, murdering son—now he wanted to cause her even more distress by hashing up old troubles that he shouldn’t have known anything about. Hermione considered her options. Option one, which was by far the most appealing, was to give Malfoy a hard slap in the face and storm off. Option two was to ignore what was obviously baiting, and option three, which was perhaps most sensible but least attractive, was to reply head-on. As usual, she chose the toughest course.



“A gentleman doesn’t betray confidences, Mr. Malfoy. Whatever Severus told you was certainly a betrayal, and I suggest that you distinguish yourself by not repeating the same ugly behavior.” Anger mounting, she continued, “I’m sure that the prospect of raising my ire entertains you to no end, but I’d remind you that you’re no longer the only one with allies in high places. Do you think it would be so hard for me to gain access to Azkaban?”



Malfoy leaned toward her, his body going tense as his face turned white with rage. For a moment he looked as though he was going to reach over and strangle her, and she could see his right hand twitching, eager to grasp his wand. After a few deep breaths, he seemed to compose himself, and his face returned to its usual mask of indifference.



“Take care how far you let the world harden you, Professor Granger. The loss of compassion can have ugly consequences.”



Hermione’s derisive snort made it clear that she found his statement to be completely hypocritical. After giving her another unsettlingly appraising stare, Malfoy rose from the bench.



“It would seem that our discussion is concluded. You’ll be owled with a trial date sometime within the next three months. Good day, Professor.”







Apparating into the cool wet of evening rain, Hermione stood before the entrance to 12 Grimmauld place. The lawn surrounding it was full of weeds and wildflowers, most of them small, purple blooms that grew close to the ground, their faces closed for night against the light rain. Adding sound to the growing darkness were the voices of crickets, their chorus raised to deafening forte as they called their last song before the frost, their last song ever.



Before her was the former home of Sirius Black, its white paint peeling from the years of weather and inattention, the gutters clogged thick with leaves. Through the windows of the first floor, which were thick with grime, Hermione could see light; the other Order members had arrived, and no doubt expected her presence shortly. For a moment, she hesitated, wanting to turn back. It was so much, this war. Such a heavy burden. Suppressing a sigh, she passed through the specialized wards that allowed her entrance, and headed for the living room.



Voldemort certainly had more flair, Hermione thought, greeting the other Order members with a nod. Set atop a thin and fraying oriental carpet were chairs in varyingly poor condition, arranged in a circle so that the members could look at each other as they plotted Voldemort’s downfall. Someone, probably Molly Weasley, had thoughtfully arranged for tea, and Hermione took the pot from the sideboard and poured herself a cup. She took a kitchen chair that sat near the fireplace, close to the warmth and the rich smell of burning pine. It cast the only light, rising halfway to the vaulted ceiling before falling back to paint the room’s faces in dreary chiaroscuro.



Beside Hermione sat Minerva, looking stately in satin red robes, smelling of milk and sage. It was comforting to sit beside her; the headmistress’ powerful magic rolled from her in waves of rich and royal purple. The rest of the party included Remus, Tonks, Kingsley, and most of the Weasley clan, among others. Harry, who was seated directly opposite Hermione, had one hand on Ginny Weasley’s knee. The pair had been married since Ginny finished Hogwarts, and she was again pregnant, both palms smoothing over her large belly in an absent pattern. Hermione knew that Harry didn’t approve of Ginny’s participating in Order meetings, given “the delicacy of her condition,” but the hearty witch would unfailingly reply to his protests with the assertion that she was pregnant, not sick.



Ginny’s remarkable strength had come as something of a surprise to Hermione; as the youngest and only girl in a large clutch of boys, Ginny had been the little princess throughout her childhood. Hermione had thought that Ginny’s marriage to Harry, who was doggedly chivalrous, would result in more of the same, but she had been entirely mistaken. As an adult, Ginny was very much like her mother. Chattering, temperamental, solid as iron and tougher still, with an unflinching desire to love and protect any she considered her own.



“Now that we’re all assembled,” Minerva began, “I’ll get to the quick. Rufus Scrimgeour has been poisoned, and Voldemort is of course suspected. The Ministry is attempting to keep it under wraps, which will no doubt fail.”



“Why would Voldemort poison Scrimgeour?” Ginny asked. “He was hardly the man of action we all thought he'd be.”



“Not enough,” Kingsley returned, "that's for sure.”



“Do we know who poisoned him?” Hermione asked. Minerva sighed into her teacup.



“There’s certainly a ready stock of poisons available from Knockturn Alley, but Bill has tracked down recent sales, and hasn’t discovered any purchases made by suspected Death Eaters.”



“What about ingredients?” Hermione countered.



“Scrimgeour is—was—sharper than a beefeater about his food and drink; the potion wasn’t detected beforehand. That’s where you come in, Hermione. I’ve got what’s left of his…last meal, as it were. We need you to see if you can discover the nature and ingredients of the poison.” Bill explained.



“With an eye for what?” She asked.



In lieu of his answer came an awkward silence, until Harry finally spoke up.



“None of the usual suspects have the knowledge necessary to brew a potion that complex. Save one, of course.”



Severus Snape’s name remained unspoken. His betrayal had been a deep wound, and the Order members avoided his name the way that average witches and wizards avoided the Dark Lord’s. Since killing Dumbledore, Snape featured high on a short list of wizards that each Order member wanted to personally hex into oblivion.



The potions mistress’ hands, normally steady and sure, were beginning to shake. She put her teacup on the floor beside her, suddenly afraid of a spill. She knew that the poison had to be the work of Snape—who else could it be—and she wanted nothing to do with this project. Snape’s betrayal had taken her innocence in a way even Cedric Diggory’s murder had not, and for good reason. No one in the order knew, thank Merlin, but it hardly lessened the sting.





A/N This chapter may have been somewhat confusing, for which I apologize—the hubbub concerning Snape will be explained in the next chapter. The poem at the beginning of this chapter is by Anne Sexton.