The Taking of Tea

CHAPTER SEVEN: SURELY SOME REVELATION IS AT HAND





Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

When a vast image of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of man

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?





The contents of Scrimgeour’s last meal, now disgustingly rancid, were delivered as promised, and Hermione set to work to discover the potion they contained. Using a spell that worked much like a muggle centrifuge, she painstakingly separated the organic particles so that she could identify them, and from there come up with a list of ingredients for the potion. Why the order had put her to this task was something of a puzzle; why was the potion that killed Fudge of any real significance? Discovering the potion and its components wouldn’t bring them any closer to finding out who made the poison and how they managed to slip it into the dead minister’s food. At best, it would yield how exactly the potion worked, which was purposeless. Hermione had the ugly feeling that she’d been given this task simply to keep her occupied.



Of course they did. Ever since her attack last year, they wouldn’t let her do a damn thing. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been able to maintain some measure of privacy, but that hadn’t been the case. She could still hear Harry’s merciless admonition: “what on earth were you doing in Knockturn Alley in the first place?” Buying potions ingredients, that’s what. There were some things that the apothecary in Diagon Alley couldn’t provide, and Hermione had decided long ago that questionable ingredients were acceptable if they achieved a potion’s goal. She smiled to herself, remembering the ominous jars in Snape’s private stores—until she remembered the man himself, and shut the thought off like a light. Wouldn’t do to think on him.



So she had been in Knockturn Alley, buying endangered dragon scales from Mr. Beezle, a moving apothecary who kept his wares pinned to the inside of his cloak. She never did get her scales, although the bastard got her galleons. She’d put the pouch in his dirty hand and then there had been a flash of light, followed by the thunderous crack of someone hitting her soundly over the head. She’d felt the rubble and dirt and the uneven stones of the road as someone dragged her by the hair. The concussion, added to the jerking of her body as her robes were torn, had induced her to turn her head and vomit onto a pair of shoes—very fine grey calfskin—and the wearer had cursed angrily before giving her a solid kick in the ribs. She had fought against the black pull of unconsciousness, trying to twist her body away from the figure settling above her, and then nothing. Her head had gone blank until she woke up in St. Mungo’s feeling sick and sore.



A Death Eater attack, Harry had told her, pacing at the foot of her bed, unable to look at her swollen face. A brutal rape, he’d said, voice fighting to keep even, maybe better that you were unconscious, he’d said, and Hermione had scratched her throat with laughing. She could give him nothing but the memory of grey calfskin boots and the dirt and flesh beneath her fingernails. During her respite, the tasks assigned to her by the Order were given to others, which remained the case upon her return. After six months of protest that she was fine and healthy and ready to fight, she’d given up.



“You’re a target now,” Harry had said, and she’d pointed out that she’d always been a target, the mudblood bitch and friend of Harry Potter.



“But it was never like this,” Harry had argued, “someone’s really out for your blood, and I won’t let that happen.” And she had laughed, that same brittle laughter from the hospital bed, whose sound remained the same ever after.



Despite that feeling, she spent every night of that week working long and hard to put the puzzle of the poison together. Deciphering the ingredients wasn’t particularly challenging. But figuring out how they were prepared, in what order, and how long they were allowed to simmer in the cauldron was a monumental task. In a minor breakthrough, she realized that she could use arithmancy to determine the rate of decay for each ingredient, and work backwards from there to construct a rough timetable for the order of ingredients.



Because school years filled with harassment had taught her that a ravenous passion for study wasn’t something to be entirely proud of, and the rest was largely due to genetics, Hermione didn’t spend much time thinking about her own intellect. Had she been a wizard instead of a witch, her staggering brilliance would have been subject to awe and constant laudation, but as it was, she was slightly embarrassed by her intelligence. The sore that came with being smart and female had festered nastily under the conditions of irritated teachers and jealous students. Minerva had really been the only steady encouragement throughout her adolescence, for which Hermione was extremely grateful. Well, Minerva and her parents, although their support was unavoidably long-distance. Which gave her an idea.



She made plans to lunch with her parents that weekend, and apparated to her childhood home on Sunday afternoon. The front garden, she discovered, was now a mass of carefully cultivated flowers and hedges. They had repainted the shutters, which were now a vibrant blue against the red brick of the house. Walking on to the covered porch, she rang the doorbell and was quickly greeted by her mother.



“Hello, darling,” Mrs. Granger said warmly, pulling her daughter into a tight hug. They pulled back to look at each other, as to Hermione’s chagrin, it had been a while since she’d visited her parents. Her mother was dressed in brown linen, her hair cut short and going heavily grey. She still wore the same perfume, something crisp and floral, and a pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. “It’s so lovely to see you!” The older woman gushed.



Discovering that her daughter was a witch had been a blow—not because she was at all bothered by it, but because it meant that Hermione would be taken away from her. Just as she had begun the trying years of adolescence she’d been snatched away to Hogwarts, creating an empty nest far earlier than Margaret was prepared for. At first it had been nearly unbearable, no longer seeing her lively daughter at the dinner table, no longer listening to her stories from the school day or fighting about bedtime. And as her daughter had aged, she’d become increasingly engaged with a world in which her parents were unwelcome. Margaret and Robert had considered having another child in Hermione’s second year, but they were getting too old for babies, and besides, it was their daughter that they wanted, not a substitution.



And now the child was grown, all the childish softness gone from her face, along with the larger portion of the innocence. During those hard years when Hermione was first at Hogwarts, Margaret’s neighbor, Janet, would often exclaim, “Cor, Marge, if I could send my teenagers off I would. You’ve got lucky, I say.” Suddenly Margaret thought that she would cry, and quickly blamed it on her menopausal hormones.



“Come in, then.” She said, her voice unnaturally bright. “I’ve got lunch all set.”



Hermione’s father was in Columbia—once a year he traveled abroad to perform volunteer dentistry for the indigent. Before her rheumatoid arthritis became severe, his wife went, too, but these days the long plane rides made her joints swell unbearably. Nevertheless, Margaret had prepared a meal fit for at least four. Both women sat down at the small table, and Hermione carved a slice from the enormous roast. They ate in relative silence until the tasteless, sugar-free dessert, when Hermione put her fork down and went over to the teapot.



“Cream, right?” She asked her mother.



“Yes, please. So, my darling, what brings you for a visit? I’m sure it isn’t simply to see your old mother.”



Hermione blushed deeply, feeling considerably guilty at the truth of her mother’s words.



“Of course I wanted to see you,” she admonished softly, bringing the two cups of tea to the table. “But, yes, I did have an ulterior motive.” Margaret was as astoundingly smart as her daughter, and like her progeny, she’d pursued her education with intensity. She was both an M.D. and a D.D.S., and the oral surgeon in the family practice. Given her knowledge of medicine, Hermione was hoping that Margaret might have some helpful advice with respect to her potion problem.



“Oh, is it something sinister?” Margaret inquired, rubbing her palms together and giving her best imitation of an evil grin. “I’d always imagined you lot having wild adventures full of intrigue.”



Hermione laughed. She had kept her parents largely in the dark where Voldemort was concerned, knowing that they’d make themselves sick with worry. Oddly enough, she didn’t feel guilty about it—she had decided, perhaps unfairly, that her parents wouldn’t be able to understand the magical world, and had drawn a line between pre and post-Hogwarts, leaving her parents on the other side. She considered how best to explain the situation to her mother.



“It’s a bit sinister, I suppose. I’ve been trying to figure out the recipe for a poison that someone ingested, using the remnants of their…their last meal, as it were. Now, in potions,” she began, leaning over the table, her body betraying the excitement of discussing a subject of interest, “how ingredients are prepared and the order that they’re placed into the cauldron is of the utmost importance. I’ve got the order down, but I don’t know how they were prepared—if they were chopped, or ground, or just thrown in whole.”



“And the poison was in this poor soul’s food?” Margaret confirmed, her face taking on a contemplative expression nearly identical to her daughter’s. “That is sticky, isn’t it? What about a microscope? You might be able to see,” she made a twirling gesture with her hand, “marks and such, from chopping or grinding or what have you.”



“Mum!” Hermione exclaimed, nearly leaping out of her chair, “that’s brilliant! Of course I’ll have to buy a microscope; I may need some help with that.”



“Nonsense, we’ve got that kind of equipment at the office. I can lend you something.”



Hermione beamed, causing her mother to smile broadly, and take a deep breath of satisfaction. It felt wonderful to be included in her daughter’s life this way, and to feel helpful. With some caution, she approached the burning question.



“Why was this person poisoned to begin with?”



“Oh,” Hermione waved a hand, turning nonchalant, “political intrigue gone amok, I suppose.”



“Hermione,” Margaret’s voice went stern, “you don’t need to protect me, or whatever it is you think you’re doing by keeping me so entirely in the dark about your life.” When Hermione opened her mouth to protest, Margaret raised her hand to stop her interruption. “I’m sure you think I wouldn’t understand, but I wish you’d give me more credit. I’ve seen plenty of destruction on account of The Troubles, plenty of bombs and dead bodies and other terrible things I wish I hadn’t witnessed. I know the fear, and the anger, and the frustration. I may not understand quite how things work in the magical world, but I’m hardly naïve.” She chuffed.



“I just don’t want you to worry,” Hermione said, much subdued. Margaret laughed heartily in response.



“I’m your mother! I’ll always worry. And I know this Voldemort person hates muggles, and you, my dear, have muggles for parents. I can’t imagine his camp goes much for that.”



“They don’t,” Hermione agreed. “It’s just that I,” she faltered, running her fingers along the rim of her teacup in a nervous gesture, “well I’m somewhat…involved in the fight against him, you see. And I’d hate for you to worry about my safety.”



“How involved?” Margaret asked softly, leaning forward in her chair. Hermione gave a disgruntled snort, letting her irritation at the situation supersede her decision to keep her parents in the dark.



“Not enough, that’s for sure. Honestly, this little assignment of mine is rather pointless; whether or not Snape made the poison is of little consequence. It doesn’t get us any closer to defeating Voldemort.”



“Snape? Wasn’t he your teacher?”



Something rolled over in Hermione’s belly. Any memory of him would be forever tied to the memory of her assault, and the whole thing was a tumble of emotions she planned never to address.



“Yes,” Hermione answered glumly, “but he switched sides. Assuming that he was ever on our side in the first place.”







With the muggle microscope and earnest promises to visit more often, Hermione left her mother and returned to Hogwarts, where she immediately put her new device to good use. And useful it was; with the aid of the microscope, she was able to identify the impressions of a blade and the press of a mortar, and determine precisely how each ingredient in the poison had been prepared. She spent the rest of the day recreating the poison, and flooed the headmistress late that evening.



“Minerva,” she said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice, “I’ve been able to reproduce the poison. I’ve only been able to test it on a plant, of course, but I’d bet Gringott’s that it’s identical to the one used to kill Scrimgeour.”



McGonagall, who was now in a dressing gown and looking rather perturbed at the interruption, simply nodded her head.



“That’s wonderful, Hermione. I take it this a new concoction?”



“It is, although the ingredients are the things you’d expect.”



“I knew you’d sort it out. I’m sure the order will be very pleased to hear so at our next meeting,” she concluded, yawning pointedly.



“Next meeting? But why would you wait so long?” Hermione demanded, becoming irritated by McGonagall’s disinterest. “I was led to believe that uncovering the making of this potion was of great importance.”



“And it is,” McGonagall insisted, “it is. But it’s rather late, dear. We’ll discuss it tomorrow, hmm?”



“Of course,” Hermione agreed, her red face hidden by the green cast from the floo.



She pulled her head from the fire and went immediately to the liquor cabinet, where she poured herself a large drink. Of all the nerve! If the order didn’t have anything for her to do, they could at least have the courtesy of telling her so, rather than waste her time with frivolous assignments. Did they really think that she was foolish enough not to recognize this little task as placation? After a few generous glasses of firewhiskey, Hermione settled onto the couch and into a dreamless sleep.







It was Ginny’s voice that wore her, calling insistently from the fireplace.



“Hermione! Oi! Hermione!”



“Hmm?” Hermione sat up on the sofa, her mouth feeling fuzzy and dry. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubbed vigorously, wondering who on earth was calling her name.



“Wake up! I’ve been hollering at you for the past five minutes,” a somewhat irritated Ginny insisted from the hearth.



“Oh,” Hermione responded, making a fruitless attempt to smooth down her hair. “I’m sorry, Ginny. What time is it?”



“Nearly eleven. Are you still coming by for lunch?”



Lunch, Hermione’s brain repeated sluggishly. Lunch. Saturday.



“Oh, yes.” Hermione agreed, remembering her lunch date with the Potter clan. “Let me freshen up and I’ll be over.”



Muttering something that didn’t sound entirely friendly, Ginny’s head disappeared from the fireplace. Hermione got up from the sofa with a groan, putting her hands to the new ache in her back. After a strong shower and a change into a comfortable cotton dress, she left Hogwarts and apparated to Harry and Ginny’s.



Being rather well off, Harry had built his family an impressive home with rustic, high-ceilinged architecture and enormous windows everywhere. Situated not too far from the Burrow, it sat before a wide lake and behind a small glade. It was beautiful and serene, filled with the good smells of pine and baking bread and the noise of children and endless, laughing guests. It was everything that Harry deserved, Hermione thought fondly, apparating into the living room. Pink light from a lovely stained glass panel had settled onto the eldest children, who were twins named Lily and Ruth. Four years old and carbon copies of their father, they were currently engaged in toppling a recently constructed block tower, giggling madly.



“Hermione!” They chorused, running to her and grabbing hold of a leg each.



“Hello!” She smiled, giving each a kiss. “What are you at, then?”



“Making messes,” Ruth replied.



“Indeed,” Harry agreed, rising from the sofa, where he’d been giving toddler Celia a bottle. Shifting the baby to his hip, he gave Hermione a quick kiss. “Ginny thought you’d forgotten.”



“I nearly did,” Hermione admitted, “I fell sound asleep on my sofa last night.” She explained, excluding the private drinking session.



“Working yourself to the bone on that Scrimgeour business, no doubt,” Harry frowned, handing Celia over to Hermione, who was extending her chubby palms to the woman with an eager squeal. Hermione took the warm weight of child into her arms, giving her a smiling hello. Celia was her secret favorite, with unaccountably blue eyes and hair that was beginning to turn from blond to red.



“That’s a matter I’d like to discuss,” Hermione responded, turning her attention back to Harry. “Later, of course,” she added at his questioning look. Interrupting his response was Ginny, who emerged from the kitchen covered in flour.



“Glad you managed to drag yourself out of bed,” she said by way of greeting, though her expression wasn’t cross.



“Yes…sorry about that. I hope you’re not going to too much trouble,” Hermione said, gesturing to the mess Ginny had made of herself. “It’s only me, after all.”



“Oh, well,” Ginny began, and at the same moment Harry began to fidget. “Actually, we’ve invited Remus as well.”



Harry coughed at the word “we” before turning to Lily and away from whatever was impending. Hermione considered whether it was best to appear irritated, thrilled, or to simply keep her face neutral, which she was not at all good at. Ginny’s mission, as with most married people, was to put everyone else in the same situation, and she’d decided that Remus was Hermione’s perfect candidate. They were both intelligent and compassionate, and surely Hermione was above fretting over lycanthropy, and surely Remus was above Hermione’s tendency to snore like a table saw. Not to mention, each was the only reasonable candidate under fifty at Hogwarts.



Earlier that morning Ginny had been pressing upon Harry the importance of helping the two along, as Hermione clearly had an interest in Remus—which turned Harry a lovely shade of olive—and would never muster the courage to tell him so. Harry’s concern that Remus might not reciprocate was met with a sound thump on the head.



“Oh,” Hermione flustered, “well. That’s… that’s nice, isn’t it?” After which she gave consideration to the state of her dress, and hair, and the wrinkle she’d recently discovered beneath her left eye. But Remus never seemed to pay undue attention to his own appearance, and was surely above such things. Or would be, if he ever gave her a second glance.



Ginny smiled warmly, taking Hermione’s nonplussed response as a good omen for her matchmaking plans.



“Come on then,” Ginny said, nodding towards the kitchen, “you can help me get dinner ready.”



Hermione followed Ginny into the kitchen, which was a place that she generally considered alien territory. Hogwarts provided all of her meals, and she’d never bothered with learning to cook. Luckily, Ginny gave her simple tasks with clear directions, such as “pour this” and “stir that.” And while she was stirring that and Ginny was chopping carrots, the younger witch posed a question.



“Do you fancy Remus at all?” Ginny’s question, while voiced in an intentionally casual tone, scared Hermione half to death.



“I,” Hermione floundered, paying close attention to the cream sauce she’d been assigned to, “well I… I admire him a great deal. He’s a talented wizard, and he’s overcome a great deal of adversity.”



“Agreed, yes, but do you fancy him at all?” Ginny persisted.



“I suppose I might,” Hermione replied, her voice gone high and nervous. “But it’s nothing serious, of course. And it’s unwise to become romantically involved with colleagues.”



“Are there any rules against it?” Ginny asked, her attention still focused on the carrots.



“No. Not as such. Not that I know of. Why do you ask? You don’t…” She trailed off.



“I don’t what?”



“You don’t think… that he…” Hermione had abandoned her spoon in favor of nervous gesticulation, and was now looking at Ginny with a mix of fear and eagerness. “That is,” she continued, while Ginny smiled widely, “you don’t think that he might fancy me, do you?”



“I don’t see why not,” Ginny answered, setting her knife down to engage in serious conversation. “You’re a lovely woman, after all.” At this Hermione rolled her eyes, and returned to her stirring.



“What?” Ginny demanded.



“Lovely woman’ strikes me very much as a euphemism for ‘last pick.’” She huffed, irritated, embarrassed, and tired of stirring the damned sauce. Taking her wand from a pocket of her robe, she commanded the spoon to “revolvare” and moved away from the simmering pot. Ginny tsked, although in regards to what Hermione was uncertain.



“Codswallop. You are a lovely woman. You’ve got that wonderfully trim figure, and lovely skin and eyes, and of course you’re absolutely brilliant, which I’m sure your fellow academics find quite appealing. And most of all you’re very compassionate, which I think Remus must appreciate a great deal.” Ginny finished, holding out the hand with which she’d ticked off her friend’s good points. It looked very much like a gesture to halt, which Hermione was at a loss to interpret. Stop what, exactly?



“We’ve worked together for three years now, Ginny,” Hermione said, taking a seat at the kitchen table and conjuring a cup of tea. In a gesture that made the younger witch extraordinarily sad, she put a hand across her eyes and slumped her shoulders with a sigh. “If he were interested he would have approached me already.”



“Well you ought to make it clear that you’re interested, then,” Ginny insisted, keeping her tone bright as she wiped perspiration and flour from her cheeks. “Men are terribly daft about such things, you know. Really, you’ve got to hold up a sign that reads ‘I fancy you’ to have any hope at all. Look at Harry and me! Perfect example of that.”



“You’re married.” Hermione replied, “and I don’t recall you ever holding up a sign.”



“But I certainly made it obvious that I fancied him, didn’t I? Followed him around like the lovesick schoolgirl I was for years before the daft bloke finally caught on.”



“I’m too old to moon.”



Ginny, feeling increasingly irritated and Hermione’s resistance—and increasingly concerned that the older woman might be destined for McGonagall-spinsterhood—only answered with a huff.



Remus arrived wearing gray slacks and a blue knit jumper. Hermione, while in the kitchen, recognized him from the sound of his laughter, and came into the great room to find him swinging Ruth in circles. He had the little girl held tightly by the wrists as he turned, his feet shuffling in rotation as she swung waist high in his orbit, the two of them laughing. Hermione leaned against the doorframe connecting the kitchen to the great room for several moments, taking in the scene before her before stepping past the threshold.



“Hermione,” Remus smiled, catching his breath and setting Ruth upon the floor. “Have you come for supper as well?”



“I have.” She answered. “There are only so many meals in the Great Hall that I can bear, delightful as they may be.”



“Agreed,” Remus nodded. “We’ll be a merry company, then.”





After being banished from the kitchen because of her ineptitude, Hermione spent an hour playing with the children and listening to Harry and Remus discuss whether or not Puddlemere United, for whom Oliver Wood was a reserve player, would make it to the World Cup. When Ginny finally called them to the table, Hermione and Remus helped convince the children to sit down and eat their meal, which presented a small challenge.



“So, Remus,” Ginny began, casually deflecting a spoon of mashed yams flung in her direction, “going to the Halloween dance this year?”



“As a chaperone, perhaps, if Minerva insists. Otherwise, no. I’ve got a year-round Halloween costume, thanks, and I’ve no interest in another.”



“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Ginny retorted. “You and—Ruth, put that down this instant—you and Hermione should go together. Old McGonagal’s likely to pop a blood vessel if all the professors don’t attend, and at least then you’d have someone to talk with.”



Lord, Hermione thought, she’s a subtle as a wrecking-ball.