“beyond wandpoint” 075 by gingerbred
Mar. 22nd, 2019 08:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 11o Tuesday - Unexpected Champions”
Hermione, Neville, Professor Filius Flitwick, Hafsa Devi, Professor Pomona Sprout, Severus, Crooks, Draco, Morag MacDougal, the Bloody Baron, Rita Skeeter, Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Prophet Barnabas Cuffe, Maude, Theo Nott, Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass, Gregory Goyle, Harry, Ron, Hannah Abbott, Lavender, Parvati, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Susan Bones, Poppy
Originally Published: 2018-05-21 on AO3
Chapter: 075
"How many?" Tracey calmly asks the boys. They never break step.
Theo answers a little optimistically, "Five, maybe six," with a quick glance at Madam Snape, "to nine of them. Worst case."
Tracey taps her left forearm, the spot the Serpents are wound around Draco's and Gregory's arms. "Because we're feeling lucky today?"
Draco snorts, "That's only if the others from Herbology don't catch on. In which case..." He shrugs. He needn't say more; they all know the rest. In which case they're screwed.
Daphne gives Hermione a friendly smile and says, "But if you're with us, then it would only be three to one."
Hermione wonders, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, if the students wouldn't be better served with some basic maths courses, instead of, say, Divination, because those sound like some frankly miserable odds, and Greengrass... Daphne still seems far too cheery in the face of them. On the other hand, the witch sits in both Arithmancy and Transfiguration with Hermione. Maths shouldn't be the issue here.
Next Hermione has a strange turn where she wonders if they calculate the odds like that on making it unhexed to every class. It definitely seems suspicious that they're all so cognisant of the numbers. It doesn't sound like... fun.
And then she has an even stranger turn where it occurs to her that this fight they're facing right now is only because of her.
It's not her fault, she doesn't feel that at all, of course not. It never occurs to her; it's completely out of the question. She has a rather lengthy list of people whom she considers at fault for... any of this, and her name is definitely not on it. But the Slytherins could have ducked this, beyond any doubt, by not standing up for her. It would have been that easy.
And yet they hadn't flinched.
This isn't friendship, there's no confusing it for that. On the other hand, friendship hasn't seemed so very much like... well, friendship lately. This... This is probably some queer mix of duty and pride, made possible by a series of Obliviations and lies.
Oof.
She has no idea how she feels about that. Any of it. She defers any decision on the matter. One thing at a time...
"A lot of those are Hufflepuffs," Goyle tries to encourage her, quite reasonably misreading her expression. Anything else would have required Legilimency. "And Macmillan is still missing."
"Ah, well then. Only two and five sixths to one." So clearly not a maths problem then... "That makes all the difference," Tracey snarks with some affection. Gregory has a way of trying to see the bright side of things that she often finds amusing, and more than a little remarkable considering the family's situation. His outlook seems vastly... preferable to Vince's given much the same circumstances. It probably helps that the Goyles aren't nearly the rabid fanatics that the Crabbes are. For Tracey, that's... hard to stomach.
"Plus Macmillan doesn't put up much of a fight," Theo, all too typically, feels the need to detract from his earlier success. It's a bit of a shame, as he'd done some really good work in that duel.
"You lot are a bad influence," Daphne quietly informs Draco's back. And then trying to sound more confident than she is, merrily quips, "Well, I've never been done for duelling before."
"But you can do, and that's what matters," Tracey softly assures her. "Just remember Professor Snape's self defence course and you'll be fine."
Hermione now very much wants to know when the hell that was offered and why the hell she hadn't been in it. She and her husband will be having... words.
Which is probably the moment she begins to understand she's... off. Slaphappy. Punchy. Not that the realisation helps her any, but there it is.
"If we get detention," Daphne further demands of Draco's shoulders, "you're explaining this to my mother."
"Agreed." Probably over tea with his mother in Hogsmeade... But it's only a matter of time before Daphne finds out how much of this is his fault anyway. He may as well begin working against that now. He imagines it will take quite some time until that ledger is balanced.
Tracey turns to Hermione and in little more than a whisper suggests, "If the Hexes start flying, keep behind Draco."
Hermione almost laughs. For one thing, she very much wants to keep him in sight. For another, the idea of using Malfoy as a human shield has a ridiculous amount of appeal.
She has a quick vision of herself, hiding behind Malfoy's back, sticking her head out now and again to repetitively taunt Ronald, and then just watching them unleash the Hexes on one another...
Beautiful.
It really has far, far too much appeal. She so wants that. So much so, it's probably not healthy...
But she schools her face instead and answers, "Thank you. I'll be sure to do that." Tracey gives her a funny look, so perhaps it wasn't quite as schooled as she'd hoped, but Hermione can tell the young woman means her well, and manages what she hopes is a friendly smile in return.
Which is when three things happen almost at once. Harry and Ron had turned back at Finch-Fletchley's call and just come into sight, and Harry's begun shouting out, "Hey, 'Mione, what're you doing with..." he sounds offended. Ragwort.
It's not an insult, but it sounds like it should be. Toxic. Hermione is sure.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the Bloody Baron appears between them and the wand brandishing clump of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs that are now approaching from the front and with a terrifying rattle of chains, silences Harry and hisses, "There will be no duelling here." Unsurprisingly, everyone comes to a complete halt.
Oh, but Hermione really likes him. And she can't help wondering how he manages to be heard so well despite never raising his voice above a whisper. For once the answer probably isn't 'magic'.
And into the sort of shocked silence that ensues, Morag MacDougal now also appears, almost as surprisingly as the apparition, sweeping down towards their little group at a good clip with a cheerful, "Malfoy!" and wave of her whole arm far more excessive than Daphne's, and then rather demonstratively puts herself between Harry and his lot and the Slytherins as she walks towards them, making something of a shield of herself. Certainly an impediment.
That seems to work well enough, as everyone's wands lower. But then that might have been the Baron's doing, it's hard to say.
"You really can't seem to get enough today," Morag quips as she gets closer. Draco's hand begins to reach for his ear, before he notices and stops it.
She notices and smirks. And there he is, staring at her lips again. She can't recommend that lippy enough.
"So, not joining their side again?" He asks her. An eyebrow raised in silent accusation, but the tone wisely very neutral. She did just put herself in what might well have been harm's way, after all.
She shrugs. "Nott was right. We were way out of line earlier." She gives Hermione a somewhat lopsided apologetic smile that she can't quite reconcile. It's just as well. She really doesn't need to know what was said.
"Although I thought you looked good with a little colour in your cheeks," Morag taunts Draco. He manages not to blush this time.
"So what brought about this realisation?" His tone is a little friendlier now, and perhaps a bit teasing.
"What can I say? It's all pretty straightforward. I gave it some thought. You three were right. We were in the wrong." Another shrug, this time accompanied by a smile. "We absolutely suck," Morag sums up nicely, coming to stand now just to Draco's side.
He owes her one from earlier, and he lowers his voice so that hopefully only she will hear, looks her straight in the eye, and somewhat cockily tells her, "I like that in a witch." He's a little smug, counting on making her squirm this time. Of course, he's reckoned without his host. Or as Daphne would tell him: counted his Fwoopers before they've hatched.
Morag gives him an incredibly wicked grin, he's back to staring at her lips, she leans in a little and only just breathes, "And when I'm in the mood, pretty boy, I even swallow."
And just like that, he finds himself incapable of swallowing.
She doesn't give him a break, she just continues with a smirk and a dramatic sigh, "Oh, for fuck's sake, Malfoy. The correct response is 'I like that even more.' Can't swear, can't banter. You really aren't good at this..." She winks.
He has no answer for her, but the colour she liked has indeed returned to his cheeks. He really is too easy.
Tracey, who was standing the closest to the two of them caught at least some of the exchange. That, coupled with Draco's reaction... Well, she half snorts at his discomfiture. "Come on," she prompts "We'd best not be late to class," and they resume their trek to the greenhouses.
The Baron waits for them to come almost abreast of him and then leads them in a thoroughly bizarre procession past the small crowd from the other three Houses that's now assembled there. Staring.
Ron's sputtering, "What the hell is that?"
Harry sort of disbelievingly croaks, "'Mione?"
Justin, always so eager to be in the know, or at least to be seen that way, tells them, "Apparently that's her thing now. Hannah says she was hanging about with them before Arithmancy."
"And the Bloody Baron was there as well, too," Susan, appalled, feels the need to emphasise, but amusingly not above a whisper. Her throat goes dry when the ghost nevertheless seems to hear and looks her way.
Hannah sort of wishes she'd kept her mouth shut.
As they reach them Ron calls out, "So what are you now, 'Mione? The Bride of Slytherin?" Harry elbows him in the gut in a way that might have Lav completely redefining 'indignity', but it's too late to stop him.
Hermione, almost unbelievably calm, merely gives Ron a baleful look as she passes before heading in to class, glad she sits with Neville in this one, too.
Harry registers her behaviour, and finally has to admit it was probably a lot milder than they have any right to expect. Way milder. Almost tranquil, really. He's reminded of what Ginny had suggested about how Hermione's most likely taking some sort of Calming Draught and feels guilty once more. Once she's out of sight, he elbows Ron again.
That only gets him a disgruntled, "What?!"
Herbology comes to an unusual end shortly before the hour when the five Slytherins jump from their seats and rush from the room, more or less as a unit. Hermione wonders if they train for these kinds of things. Naturally it makes little sense for the onlookers as no one has any way of knowing they're in a rush to gather to open the Poste Serpentes.
Belatedly it dawned on the Snakes that they had no good way of explaining their early departure to Madam Snape. A serious cock-up after all the attention they attracted on their march to class. Tracey will give Draco a piece of her mind for that later. How fortunate that she has brains to spare. But looking at his arm, they had silently agreed that will have to wait until tomorrow at the earliest. By then, as luck would have it, she'll also be feeling a lot less kindly towards him.
Theo reckons Draco had enough on his mind and blames himself instead, of course. This was poorly managed and there's no excuse.
They couldn't even sensibly use a Notice-Me-Nott to help fill her in, because Wrongbottom was sitting between them, and there's no way the super-swot is just going to follow them out of there. She won't grasp the dynamics of the situation until it's too late...
But the Serpents don't leave them very much choice, and Draco's on a Tempus. Gregory, too, of course, but... Three! Three Serpents... Merlin.
There are a bunch of muttered, indistinct explanations as they leave that no one understands (not that it matters, because they didn't actually explain a thing). That's besides Daphne's, "Sorry," which Hermione is pretty sure was directed more at her than Professor Sprout.
Which is precisely the moment she realises she's now on her own with... everyone else. That is closely followed by the completely unexpected realisation she'd felt safer with the Snakes there. Holy Cricket.
Well, she's buggered now.
Professor Sprout looks quite startled by the mass exodus and then simply shrugs and calls an early end to class. And Hermione is back to deliberating how to get herself out of there without her... retinue, although she's now virtually certain the Baron will be waiting for her outside.
Neville takes matters in hand by turning to ask her, a little louder than necessary, so she's fairly certain this is for Harry's and Ron's benefit, "Hermione, would you like to take a look at some of the things I'll be working on for my internship?"
"I'd love to, Neville. Thank you very much." She'd have enjoyed looking at his projects either way, but she especially appreciates his consideration right now. She wasn't completely wrong about seeing the knight in him.
Ron's still muttering variations on his 'Bride of Slytherin' theme, they may be becoming increasingly more insulting as he goes, and Harry's just trying to get him out of there. Again. He feels like too much of his day has been spent dragging the ginger through the castle and grounds, and he's trying to remember why he doesn't just put a Langlock on him and leave it. The answer is because Ron can easily lift it himself, knowing the Incantation as he does. Hermione would point out that this is an advantage to learning unusual spells, and not sharing them, but as that would probably dictate reading as well as keeping one's mouth shut... Well, that observation wouldn't be likely to do him very much good.
Hermione ignores Harry as he walks past, but she could just have given Ron her most expressive 'fuck you' smile. Anyone else might take it for sweet, but with the situation as it is between them, it's just oil on the flames. Predictably, it sets him off again, Harry puts up yet another Muffliato, that's rapidly becoming ubiquitous, and Hermione's back to picturing herself stood behind Malfoy, winding Ron up and watching them Hex the bollocks off one another.
Holy Cricket, that really does the trick for her.
Harry's muttering dark things about idiot friends as he drags Ron from the greenhouse. Not that anyone but the idiot friend can hear anything but the buzz of his Privacy Charm.
Neville, who had gone on ahead of Hermione and remains largely unaware of the exchange, leads her over to Professor Sprout as the rest of the students leave. MacDougal and Hannah give Hermione sympathetic looks as they file out; other people's guilt can be advantageous. Lav and Parvati take whispered counsel before deciding their interrogation of their Housemate will simply have to wait until dinner and leaving. They'll be disappointed of course.
Meanwhile Neville explains what he had in mind to the Herbology Professor, and she's just as pleased as Neville is to show his Housemate some of their work. Right off, Hermione's happy to notice one of his plants is the same thistle that had adorned her... wedding dinner tray. Naturally, she can't help but ask about it.
"That's Thickening Thistle," Neville explains. "We're experimenting with a new variety, theoretically more potent. Our hope is it will make for a better Liver Tonic.
"The thing about this kind is it produces Potions with a more favourable viscosity." He smirks a little, all too aware of the irony of him trying to tell her something... anything about Potions. "The idea behind it being that should be more beneficial, entering into the patients' systems more slowly."
Hermione wonders if this is the wizarding equivalent to time-released medications. Neville wouldn't know what they are, so she doesn't ask, but she's correct. That's precisely what he and Professor Sprout are hoping to be able to facilitate with the new Potions ingredient.
"'Viscosity', huh? Just look at you. All Potions savvy." Her grin assures him he isn't being mocked, and he reddens a little, embarrassed.
"Well, it's a lot easier when I don't have to actually brew the stuff and I'm only growing the ingredients," he allows with a sheepish chuckle.
"It suits you Neville." Her smile is warming. "Why wouldn't you just add an edible thickener to the regular thistle instead?"
"You normally can't thicken the Potion without drastically reducing the milk thistle's benefits. There are only a few thickeners that wouldn't interfere, things like doxy eggs..."
"And their thickening properties are temperature sensitive," she completes his thought.
He nods, "They fail to work at the temperature range required to make the Potion, every last one. And anyway, this sort of thistle is purported to be a lot stronger." His grin completely takes over his face at being able to answer a Potions related question, well, Potions ingredient related, but still... For Hermione no less. He's rapt.
Hermione is now smiling almost as broadly. "It sounds promising. So what's the problem you're having with it?" Professor Sprout stands there glowing with pride as he describes some of the difficulties they're having trying to grow it in the greenhouse. He really has an amazing grasp of the matter.
Apparently it normally grows at much higher altitudes in areas with a thinner atmosphere, more sun and less pollution. As robust as the plants usually are, it's practically a weed, this thistle is proving unusually... tricky. Finicky. It's just not thriving, which ultimately diminishes its potency.
"It simply fails to reach its potential," he declares with a sad but so very serious shake of his head.
Hermione smiles again as she listens to him explain it. There's something truly nice about watching Neville in his element, and he really, well, blossoms here. Coming into his potential, as it were. It really does suit him.
He ushers her around, presenting a few other plants, Professor Sprout interjecting with an anecdote every now and again. The Herbologist, Hermione can't help noticing, keeps speaking a bit loudly - obviously that's not for Ron's sake - shaking her head and occasionally hitting her right ear. Hermione is fairly certain Luna would pronounce 'Wrackspurts' as the issue. She's wondering if it might be the result of sudden hearing loss...
Briefly her, well, the Professor's... Howler from this morning crosses her mind - it's conceivable Professor Sprout had been similarly... blessed - but Hermione decides not to let thoughts like that ruin her mood. Somehow that's much easier now than it was earlier today. She supposes Neville and Luna have made a real difference there, and then it occurs to her the Slytherin support had also helped. Which is just weird... Well, certainly the Baron's support had. But she can't shake the feeling that there's something coming over the bond... She feels more... buoyant.
Which is really strange, as she's positive the Professor's mood isn't... good.
As Neville finishes, Hermione thanks them both for showing her about the place. Which jogs her memory. And her manners. She turns and addresses Professor Sprout. "And I especially wanted to thank you for the beautiful flowers, both Sunday and this morning. They were gorgeous."
"Oh, not at all, my dear. That was my pleasure." Pomona's eyes tick uncertainly to Mr. Longbottom, but then again the news had been announced to one and all... "Congratulations, I'm sure," she finishes with more conviction and a welcoming smile. It helps greatly that Miss Granger, Madam Snape that is, isn't in her House. Pomona isn't uncomfortable with her bonding as such, more the idea of it happening in the school at all. That is disquieting. But the young woman can hardly help that...
Something else crosses Hermione's mind, and she asks, "Do you have Centaurea here? Cornflower?”
“You mean Bachelor’s Buttons?” Professor Sprout asks.
Considering the number of buttons a certain ex-bachelor usually seems to sport, Hermione finds herself trying to suppress her grin. Somehow it strikes her as funnier now that she's begun to come to terms with the fact that he is an 'ex-bachelor'. "The very same," she agrees, but the Herbologist has already turned, bustling away to lead her to them, and Hermione and Neville just follow.
"There's such a sweet tradition to them, do you know it?" Neville has already shaken his head 'no' and Professor Sprout is off in her usual hearty fashion. "Well, bachelors would wear them as boutonnières," unnecessarily her hand goes to her ample chest to imitate the placement of such a spray, "hence the colloquial name, when they went courting to signal to their intended that they had forsworn all others for her. That she was the only one for them...
"It's all so very romantic. Flowers are lovely things, aren't they?" Neville, naturally, nods. Hermione, strangely enough, finds herself blushing and glad their attention is focused elsewhere. Oddly, the Professor hadn't mentioned any of this when he'd explained the flower's meaning to her.
As it's not a strictly practical aspect of the flower, she's now calculating the odds on whether or not he'd have known of it. Given he'd known the Victorian flower code, she thinks it's not altogether unlikely. But she has to admit she can understand why he might not have felt comfortable telling her about the associated lore...
The vine of a Flitterbloom reaches out and curls around Professor Sprout's ankle as she leads them down the path between two large potting tables. She absently uses a Diffindo to free her leg and then smacks the plant back into place, proceeding as though it were nothing, which for her it probably is considering the quantities of Venomous Tentacula she raises. She Banishes the leaves still around her ankle to the compost bin and continues without missing a beat.
"And the story then goes that the cornflower would show if the recipient of the wizard's attentions held him in her affections or not. Just how much he's loved..." She sighs. She has a weakness for romances. "Of course it would wilt if she didn't. That seems fitting. It's cheating a bit, naturally, as they don't tend to wilt so very quickly." She winks and Neville chuckles, appreciating the floral ploy. That in itself would be sufficient to endear him to the Hufflepuff, were she not already so frightfully fond of the boy.
When she stops in front of a small sea of gently wafting waves of blue, Hermione recognises they’re not quite the same as the flower from Sunday evening. Close, very close, but it's clearly a different species.
"But we don't grow them just so people will have something for their buttonholes, do we?" Neville enquires.
Professor Sprout laughs, "No, not at all. Not much call for them with your set. They consider it too old fashioned, I'd imagine. More's the pity. No, we keep it on hand for bouts of pink eye, prosaically enough. There's always plenty of that in the school, although the bluet is delightful in a cup of tea as well. Earl Grey, for example," she explains serenely, running her hands very lightly over the heads of the flowers. They're hands that have worked hard and long for decades, their strength readily apparent, and yet as she runs them over the cornflowers, her touch is surprisingly gentle. Nurturing.
"I don't suppose there's any truth to the story?" Neville would like to know. He has to ask; in their society, one can never really tell. Hermione's gone unusually quiet.
"Well not with these cornflowers," the Herbology Professor laughs. "But I've heard there are varieties... Magical varieties, you understand - can't say I've ever seen them, though - with a great deal more use for healing applications. One wonders if that's where the myth of the telltale boutonnière stems from..."
"'Stems' from?" Neville challenges.
Professor Sprout laughs. "I can't help myself." She winks again.
"That's definitely the flower I meant, but I don't think it's the same variety. Do you have any other sorts?" Hermione asks.
"Not in bloom at the moment." Which now has Hermione wondering where Sunny had gotten the flower from. She wishes the Professor hadn't Vanished it so quickly, but then, to be perfectly honest, if he hadn't, she probably wouldn't even be interested in the bloom. She laughs at herself.
"Of course, these are delayed blooms," the Herbologist continues, "or they wouldn't be blooming now either. They're obviously not in season, but I used a Cooling Charm this summer, and, well, here we are... So useful, that Charm. Temperature regulation as a whole, really. Quite lovely, aren’t they?” Professor Sprout asks with a bearing almost as proud and nearly as maternal as the one she takes on when Neville holds court on their plants.
“Yes, they are,” Hermione agrees.
With some reluctance, she shakes off the spell of the flowers. “Well, I should be getting back.”
She thanks them again for the tour and the Professor leaves to see to some adjustments on Irrigation Charms they’re trialing. Neville walks Hermione to the greenhouse doors.
"I'm really glad you seem to have found your niche, Neville."
He laughs and says, "You know, actually, that's what gave me the idea to ask Professor Sprout for the internship. I really have to thank you for that."
Hermione's brow furrows vaguely, not following, "I'm sorry, what was?"
"Friday." He answers, and she has a flash of panic. Friday! Oof... "It got me thinking. You were talking with the others about finding your own niche. Well, um, maybe yelling..." He looks a little uncomfortable about that, not meaning to rub her nose in her problems. He's just doesn't know how else to prod her memory. She doesn't seem to remember what she'd said, and yet it had made such a huge difference to him...
She's more than equally uncomfortable as she recalls the argument that had sent her out Friday evening... And suddenly she knows exactly what he means.
There's an incredibly brief moment when she teeters between... everything. There's panic, fear, anger, outrage, hurt, sadness, shame, embarrassment, so many things associated with the events of that night, but now there's this... laughter, and it's like it's all just sitting there waiting for her to decide which way she's going to go.
She takes a decision.
It's not like the Draughts aren't helping, they surely are. Or the support she's received, her day would have been a nightmare without it. Or even the strange whatever it is through the bond... But still, in this moment she decides how she feels. Fortunately she comes down on the healthier side of all... that.
She begins to giggle.
It's not long before she's overcome with laughter.
"Oh, Neville... I think you got that all wrong," she tells him between hiccoughs of laughter. "I was arguing with them about using the common room's study niche..."
He stands there blinking and thinking that over and then just starts laughing along with her. "I guess it was a good thing I wasn't listening closely..."
"Either way, I'm happy for you," she tells him again as their laughs subside, feeling sort of pleasantly exhausted and wiping a tear from her eye.
“Will you be alright returning on your own?” He asks, confirming her suspicions that the timing of this tour had been dictated primarily by a desire to get her clear of Ron. And possibly even Harry...
"If not, I still need to get a little work done here, but we could walk back together for dinner..." he offers.
“It should be fine now. Thank you, Neville.” She beams at him.
“If you need anything...” he falters, because it’s not their dynamic. He’s the one who needs, and she’s always the one who gives, it’s been that way since the day they met, and he’s not sure he’s ever had much of anything to offer before.
“Thank you, Neville,” she repeats and gives his arm a grateful squeeze before she turns to head back to the castle. Her smile leaves him feeling better about himself. More worthwhile somehow.
Quite as she expected, she hasn’t gone far before the Bloody Baron fades into view beside her. She greets him with a ready smile; he continues to find her... puzzling.
But he won't allow 'puzzling' to keep him from his... duty.
Not that fulfilling aforementioned duty in any way diminishes the number of thoroughly baffled looks he regularly throws her way. No, that's a fairly regular occurrence.
They cross the grounds, working their way back to the castle, and she merrily tells him all about the things she'd seen in the greenhouses - he imagines he'll emerge from this better informed, if nothing else - as he quietly accompanies her back to her chambers.
There she makes a discovery both pleasant and disturbing.
The wards, she's startled and more than a bit happy to note, feel just as good as they had yesterday. Better possibly. Amazing, actually.
That's not the problem. Amazing is nice. Hell, it's... amazing. Very impressive, excellent. By definition. No, that's not the issue at all.
A bit of deductive reasoning, however, and she's beginning to suspect that how they feel has something to do with whether or not the Professor is... in. Which throws up a whole slew of questions she finds... tricky. Dangerous. She's not at all sure she should pursue them.
Not that that has ever stopped her before.
She is reasonably sure if she asks Sunny, he'll be able to confirm the Professor had been in his office the whole time when she returned home after classes yesterday. Just as he'd been in the adjoining classroom when she returned to chambers yesterday morning. And she's equally sure that when she opens this door, he'll be somewhere within their wards now, too...
More eagerly than she'd care to admit, she may have squeaked - at this rate, the Baron's going to think she does that all the time - she opens the door...
Filius has called one of his fourth year Slytherins over for a small confab after class. He’s just trying to explain to the younger Mr. Hutchinson, Hunter as it happens, why his swish needs to be more, well, swishy and his enunciation leaves a little to be desired. These things can make a great deal of difference, as he knows all too well.
He’s still rubbing the knot on the back of his head from where the less swishy swish had sent him flying.
He really should Charm the walls and furnishings on days like these; somehow he’s always the one to take flight. It might be the smaller comparative mass, or it might be that some of his students take advantage of the opportunity to unleash some pent up aggressions. Charms can be tricky. And frustrating.
Nevertheless, he finds that hard to believe of Mr. Hutchinson, and is firmly convinced, with just a bit of extra help, this problem could be quickly resolved.
Naturally he’s all the more surprised when the boy darts from the room instead.
But of course, Filius has never heard of the Poste Serpentes either, and hadn’t observed their arrival this morning.
He’s just trying to work out what could have gotten into the lad when there’s a knock on his door. It’s young Miss Devi, and by Gryffindor standards, she’s rather timidly asking if he has a few minutes to spare for her.
“Of course, my dear. Come right in and take a seat.”
“I wanted to thank you, Sir, for reversing the Charm. You know, the one I put on my brother?” She supplies, just in case he were unsure, still standing awkwardly, but closer to his desk now.
Filius smiles at that. “Yes, I was telling my colleagues, that was lovely bit of work you did there. I was quite impressed.”
“I appreciate that,” she tells him openly. “That compliment probably got me out of more detentions, to be honest. Well, that and your Countercharm, obviously.” She shuffles a little gawkily and then tries again from a different approach. She’s been carrying something sort of hidden in her robes and now she holds it out to him instead. He looks at her, a little curiously, and then she deposits it on his desk.
He’s cautiously studying it as she now finally takes a seat.
It’s an old text, probably very, he suspects from India, given the characteristics of the decorations, decidedly ethnic. Not leather bound... He believes some manner of snakeskin, from the pattern, with gold embossing. “May I?” He asks before touching it. She thinks he’s a bit daft to have done so, but then she has a great deal less experience with these things than he does. It isn’t simply a question of manners, it’s also a wise precaution.
“Sure,” she’s quick to agree. He has the book open in a trice, he’d been that eager. His suspicions are quickly confirmed. It’s an exceptionally ancient work, he can feel the Preservation Charms on it, that's how strong they are, presumably from the Indian subcontinent, able to be Charmed readable, thank his lucky stars - which he discovers when he immediately tries to render it so with a Translation Charm - and he’s almost certain this is a family heirloom.
Miss Devi confirms some of that for him, “That’s the book where I found the Charm I used. My grandmother left it to me.”
“It’s beautiful.” He tells her, quite honestly somewhat enchanted by that beauty.
She shrugs. “I wanted you to have it.”
That puts an immediate stop to his perusal of the book, he closes it and Banishes it back to her desk. “I couldn’t, Miss Devi. Thank you very much for the generous offer, my dear, it's so very kind, but I really couldn’t. It’s far too valuable.”
"It's like this," she tries to explain, "Professor McGonagall kept me after class today," she begins to fidget at the thought, "and she made it very clear how displeased she was, um, about Dhanesh's tail."
Filius has a hard time not smirking thinking about Minerva's response to student canoodling. "Yes," he encourages the girl.
She's begun scratching her head nervously. "Well, she was set to give me a bunch of detentions unless I put an end to the Spell on him. She really wasn't happy about it." She starts kicking her legs back and forth, becoming visibly more anxious at the thought.
"I guess my mother sent a Howler this morning, and Professor McGonagall figured when she heard about the tail, well, she'd probably send more."
Filius has met the woman before. Heavens, he remembers her from her days as a student, and he would agree with that statement in a heartbeat. Of course, it helps explain Minerva's reaction to the appendage. Greatly. Merlin knows, Filius is happy he's not the one to have to deal with the Devi matron.
"So it was really helpful to be able to tell her you'd already sorted it."
"Well, I'm sure she'd have given you a chance to deal with it first," he tries to defend his colleague. Given the girl had already been disciplined for casting the Spell to begin with... It seems likely Minerva would have given her the chance to lift it before resorting to punishing her again.
"Yeah." She goes quiet. "Except I didn't know how to do that." One shoulder twitches up in a self-conscious shrug, her discomfort obvious, but she finally looks up and meets his gaze. "I didn't know the Countercharm."
"Wasn't it in the book?" He asks, a little surprised. It's been known to happen, but most books make an effort to include both the Charm and Countercharm or it greatly reduces their value.
"Oh, it was, but I couldn't make, forgive me, head nor tail of it." He chuckles, and she gives him a slightly impish smile. "If I'm being honest, I hadn't quite understood that part. I was kind of counting on the Spell just sort of wearing off at some point. Resolving itself?" There's another half shrug and an even more mischievous smile, "I probably shouldn't have chosen that Charm, really."
He's been at the school more than long enough to know, Gryffindors frequently have a way of employing Charms they don't fully understand. Merlin knows, he's usually the one who has to undo the Spells gone awry.
"Anyway, the book is probably better off in your hands. Please. I'd really like for you to have it." She extends it to him again, and this time he hops off his chair and walks around his desk to take it from her.
"Perhaps if you wait until you're older, then you'd find yourself better able to understand it?" He suggests, leaning against his desk, not too far from the one where she's seated, and trying to keep his fingers from curling all too possessively around the tome's spine while he endeavours to make her see sense.
"No, Sir, I rather doubt it. And if I really wanted the information, in a few years I should just be able to purchase it again." He blinks once, taken aback at her casual approach both to money and what he is certain is such a rare work. "But if you wouldn't mind," she adds, "perhaps you could teach me the Countercharm."
"I'd be more than glad to," he smiles, but manages not to chuckle. "I assume your brother asked?" She grins quite broadly and nods.
Filius has quite some years of experience with students under his tiny belt, and he patiently waits her out.
Eventually she supplies, "He's of age, and now he's bonded. This autumn he came into both of his trust funds our grandmother created for us. The first on his birthday and the second just this morning, because he and Kiera got married."
There's no envy as she says it, but she sounds just a little wishful. And then her features settle into something decidedly... frustrated. "I'm not even of age yet, so when I want something, I have to write home and ask our mother for it, and she, well, she rarely approves. There's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up, and Dhanesh offered to make it very worth my while if I taught him the Tailing Charm, but it's no good without the Countercharm." She shrugs, both shoulders this time, she's relaxing a little, "It's worth the book to me to learn it."
"And yet you gave me the book first," Filius reminds her.
She shrugs again, "It seemed less... transactional? And I guessed right. You were still willing to teach it to me."
He laughs and holds the book out to her, "I'd be happy to teach you the Countercharm anyway, you needn't give me your book."
"No, Sir," she pushes it gently back towards him. "You keep it. I meant it, I didn't understand most of it anyway. It's of more use to you. When Dhanesh says 'very worth my while' he really means it. And sooner or later, Dhanesh would have thought to ask you, and then you'd have been just as happy to teach him, only then I'd have been out of the loop. I wouldn't be getting any money, and you wouldn't have had the book. This way, everyone gets something they want."
Filius looks at her appraisingly and his forehead wrinkles as he tries to remember. "You were a Hatstall, weren't you, Miss Devi?"
She tips her head somewhat noncommittally to the side and corrects, "Almost."
He considers her academic performance, only marginally more promising than her brother's decidedly unspectacular achievements, the lack of value she places on the rare tome, her thoroughly unruffled admission of her inability to understand much of it... "But not, I should think, with Ravenclaw."
She begins to smirk mischievously. "No," she agrees.
"You wouldn't have been a bad fit in Slytherin," he tells her, quite sure that was the other choice.
"I had no desire to write home and tell my mother I hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor. Everyone has for generations. I don't think she'd have taken it well."
"She's your mum. I'm sure she'd love you no matter..."
"Do you know what 'Hafsa' means?" She interrupts, and Filius must concede: he does not. "'Cub'. She named me 'cub'. 'Little lioness'. Tell me again she'd love me anyway."
"I see your point," he thinks for a few moments and then gives her the best advice he can, "At some point, it's quite acceptable, healthy even, to live to fulfil yourself. You won't always be able to please others."
"I'm quite certain I won't," she agrees with a smile that has him thinking she's in entirely the wrong House. "But I thought it would make sense to wait until I had access to my trust funds first."
"I can't fault your logic, Miss Devi." He considers once more and tries again, "And you're sure you wouldn't wish to keep the book in memory of your Gran?"
She snorts. It was an actual snort. He'll take that as a 'no' then, but she's clearly used to dealing with the less astute and explains, "She reminded me a lot of mother."
There's no judicious response to that and so he cleverly holds his tongue on the matter. "Hmm. Very well, Miss Devi, why don't we see about teaching you that Countercharm?" The grin she gives him is heart warming and leaves him feeling he's hasn't done badly by her after all.
They practice both the Charm and Countercharm until dinner, and - with the exception of a fit of uncontrollable giggles when it occurred to Hafsa that between the tail, his size, his nose, and his natural dueller's stance, Professor Flitwick looked more like the mouse that roared than Dhanesh ever would - they got along splendidly.
Back in his chambers - on the floor thereof, more specifically - Severus is struggling to make some sense of Miss Granger's emotional roller coaster. Not that he particularly wants to, but it's been quite overwhelming all afternoon long. It keeps hammering at him, demanding attention like a needy child...
He finds himself very eager not to draw any parallels with that analogy.
Listening to the bond, it's proving incredibly difficult not to, there's... fucking everything.
She goes through more emotions in an afternoon than he does in a year.
Presumably her life has more variety...
The overwhelming amusement had left him utterly without words.
He can't begin to imagine feeling that after everything that's occurred - to both or either of them - over the past few days. He's more than a little offended that she seems able to be off somewhere, possibly laughing herself silly, when he'd only just finished fighting for his life. Again.
He forgets that she's only too aware he's alright. Well, mostly alright. She no longer needs to see that for herself. She can feel it well enough.
In retrospect, given the occasional spike of fear, he realises he can count himself lucky that the Geas hadn't forced him to respond. It would seem he no longer just needs the Sober Up in case he's... called.
He thinks a variety of unpleasant thoughts about the bond and Albus, neglecting in his funk to consider that as a Head of House, he's really never off duty anyway. The bond may place another demand on him, but in some ways, far too many ways really, it's just more of the same...
Of course, that disregards the involuntariness of the Protection Vow's call to action, which he's quite right to find more frightening.
The feline has ceased playing with his Transfigured ball of yarn and returned to Severus' side, and the wizard has resumed petting the creature. There's something... relaxing about the purrs his fingers seem to generate, the rumblings he can feel beneath them in the animal's chest, and he is apparently able to occupy himself for long stretches doing nothing but that. Well, that and drinking.
Thinking they've achieved a degree of understanding between them, he asks the animal, "How difficult would it have been for her to just take the Potion like I had suggested? Was it asking too much?"
The cat 'mrowr's in response, and Severus is now quite sure, they're coming to understand one another.
Far away, on the South Side of Diagon Alley...
Rita Skeeter is going over her notes for the final time. She's satisfied she has a cracking result in her grubby little hands, jumps from her seat and closing her brightly lacquered talons evermore tightly over the piece of parchment, she storms into the antechamber of Barnabas Cuffe's office.
Maude, the editor-in-chief's hapless secretary, leaps up and tries to put up at least some resistance, but Rita has no compunction whatsoever about casting a Body-bind to clear the way. Serves the woman right if she forgets she's a witch. Maude thuds inelegantly to the floor - not that's it's particularly easy to 'thud' elegantly, but Maude fails in this as in so many things - and with a casual, "Is he in? I only need a minute..." Rita steps over the prone form and pushes her way into Barnabas' office.
Barnabas is indeed surprised at the disturbance, less so that someone has once again gotten past Maude, and even less so to see Rita, of all witches, or discover that she has left the poor girl immobile on the office floor, of all places. No, that seems about right. He's known Rita too long to be shocked by that.
"Rita? Do I want to know?"
"Barnabas, I have just the thing for the front page of the evening edition," she crows, waving her parchment in front of him. He looks sceptical.
"Out of the question, I'm afraid. Smudgley already has the slot," he informs her.
"But I have an inside line. Dumbledore has completely flipped his wig..." She wheedles, depositing the parchment in front of him.
"Won't happen. Smudgley's doing a piece on the death of Barry the roofer with vertigo. He's got page one."
"Barry!" She scoffs, "No one cares about Barry." And that right there was easily half the reason the man was being buried the day after tomorrow... "But there've been some exceptionally strange goings-on at Hogwarts this weekend..."
"Exceptionally old fashioned, more like. Yes, I've heard. Sounds tedious. Bondings." His eye roll is almost audible. "Just the thing for the great granny-set." Rita stares at him in disbelief. He can just make out the muffled moans of Maude from the front room. He waves his wand, flicks a Silencing Charm in her direction and carries on. There was never any question of closing his door and subjecting himself to Rita's company even a moment longer than need be.
"But..." she starts in again, and Barnabas decides to cut this short.
"No."
She blinks, and he can already see her making up her mind where to peddle her story next. "But..." he begins, and her eyes refocus. He has her full attention. "I think that might be just the thing for them to take with their Sunday tea. Give me a full work up, the history of bonds, everything..."
"Wouldn't we do better to concentrate on what drove the old goat to this madness?"
"Make it a separate piece, and I'll decide Saturday if we run with it, too."
"Front page?" She asks. He can already see her planning to owl the Quibbler if he says 'no'.
But he easily hooks her again, "If you come up with a good story, I don't see why not. But I want full and thorough backgrounds," he tells her.
She can't begin to imagine why he doesn't want to run the piece now, but the chance for the front page and having them run two articles... Well, hers is not to reason why. There's little point to it anyway, as she doesn't know who came to see him this morning or that the individual's father had been a roommate of Cuffe's at school, and that the editor has always been something of an honorary uncle.
She rushes out of the office to make notes, hopping over Maude on her way. Rita has Floo calls to make, owls to send. Sunday's headline will be hers. She can practically taste it.
Barnabas lifts the Silencing Charm from his secretary, "Can you get yourself out of that... Hmm? Fine. Finite Incantatem. And I could use a cup of tea."
Maude lies there thinking for the eighth time this afternoon that she desperately needs to find a different job.
Hermione returns to their chambers late that afternoon to find the Professor deep in his cups. Hell, he's deep in his bottle. And from the looks of it, it's almost empty. That can't be good. Just how bad it is probably depends on how full it was to begin with. A quick reccy of the dining table reveals that the bottle they'd, he'd received as a present is still there. And closed. So that's a relief.
There's a flicker of dark humour on her part where she thinks they might need Neville's Liver Tonic sooner rather than later... She immediately chastises herself for being too glib. She can't quite help it, though, it's a coping mechanism.
But judging by the way he's sprawled on the floor in front of their couch... He's rat-arsed, off his head, and of course still doing incredibly poorly, having released himself from the Infirmary against Madam Pomfrey's advice. And very vocal objections.
Hermione happens to know this because she went to the Infirmary before lunch to check on him. Fine, and maybe to eat with him, were he willing. Or unable to object, she's not picky. Mind, she wasn't sure how that was going to go over now that he had regained consciousness, but it had seemed the thing to do. To that end, she'd kept a low profile and practically snuck in. It's really far easier to keep an eye on him when he's... unable to keep one from doing so, she supposes.
She had looked suitably appalled that he should have left, it wasn't hard given the circumstances, which resonated nicely with how Madam Pomfrey felt about the matter. That in turn seemed to have triggered something within the Matron, and she went on at length about how he was actually doing, what was still wrong with him - the list was considerable, and the care he really needed but would never receive at this rate.
"You asked why he has so many scars? Things like this are why! He scarpers before I'm finished with him, the incorrigible... man." Hermione couldn't quite decide if the Mediwitch had something more colourful or younger in tone in mind for the Professor. She certainly ranted about him like a misbehaving child.
Had Hermione stopped by the Infirmary just a little later, once Severus' flowers arrived, no doubt Poppy would have been more kindly disposed towards him. But as things stood at just that moment...
Ever practical, Hermione had asked the Matron for a bunch of potions that he should be taking, but probably wouldn't by their assessments, and with her pockets full to bursting returns to chambers. The irony that those chambers belong to a Potions Master escaped neither, nor the fact that he brewed most if not all of what she now carries, but this way she has it, has access to it, and means to see that he gets it. If at all possible. She really hasn't thought that part of it out. Worst case, perhaps she can enlist Sunny's help.
The Professor is Occluding less in this state, but what comes through is only a muddle. First and foremost, it leaves her feeling... squiffy. He's in pain, angry, seems to feel betrayed... He's worried, possibly even scared... Thoroughly drunk and beyond miserable. He greets her with nothing but a disdainful look. It lasts awhile, but probably only because he's rather slowed at the present and fails to look away faster. She suspects it was meant to be dismissive, but it went on far too long for that.
He's seated on the floor, his back against the couch, his right leg, the one towards her, bent and his right arm propped on his knee, his fist in turn supporting his forehead. The bottle and what remains of its contents is clutched in his left. His left leg is stretched in front of him towards the hearth. She can't help noticing just how long his legs are.
She considers briefly how to handle this. She really hasn't any relevant experience to draw on. She decides this might make it easier to get him to take his potions, and so goes to join him instead of withdrawing to her room, which would clearly have been the more sensible option. She never once thinks it might be a very bad idea to approach a volatile man, essentially unknown to her, yet a known practitioner of dark magic, physically significantly larger and stronger, certainly magically far more versed, in this state. That's not because she trusts the Protection Vow; she hasn't even thought of it. Fundamentally, she trusts him.
She doesn't take the less obtrusive route, behind the couch. Instead she demonstratively makes her way to her chair by crossing quite obviously in front of him, stepping deliberately over his outstretched leg, and then settles in, somewhat conspicuously, on the floor in front of her chair perpendicular to him. This is the closest they've sat outside of the Infirmary. His body is still effectively turned towards where she's now seated, and he lacks the requisite coordination to quickly do something about it, so he leaves it be. It'd be almost cosy were he not... absolutely plastered.
"Feeling all better then, Sir?" she chirps.
"Splendid. Ta." He sounds as wretched as the bond indicates he feels. He glares at her Gryffindor tie. Sensing his gaze, she begins to remove it as Crooks comes to lie in her lap. She completely mistakes the source of his displeasure as being primarily related to her House.
He can't quite decide what to focus his animosity on first, his wife the student in her oh so obvious student uniform seated on the floor with him, or the traitorous feline that abandoned him at the first chance it got. Oh so magnanimously, he alternates scowling at both.
"I'm glad to hear it," she replies, stowing the offending bit of cloth.
He nearly scoffs as she does so. As if her House were the issue. Her House hadn't kept him from loving Lily. He's not an idiot. Nothing that trivial, that incidental would ever dictate his responses. It certainly hadn't changed his feelings then.
No, no sadly it hadn't. It had merely made their situation impossible. Doomed from the start...
The issue now, of course, is that he's married to a woman he doesn't love and she's a student to boot. That is the issue. Her House is simply the icing on the cake...
Actually, that's bollocks. All of that taken together is really only a very small part of the issue.
No, if he's thinking about the problem here, he'd have to say it was the fact that his marriage had already nearly gotten him killed, which had been spectacularly painful - amongst other things - and was highly likely to succeed in getting him killed in the near future. And that at the cost of not achieving any of the goals he's sacrificed everything for all these years. Yes, that sums it rather well.
Not that it made the fact she's a student any better...
He's biting the insides of his cheek as he sits there smouldering, trying to keep his thoughts to himself, successfully endeavouring to stifle any unfortunate comments on his part. For the moment.
"You had us worried," she assures him, inexplicably smiling.
Her assurances feel strangely sincere, which only wins her another glare. "To see to it that it stays that way, Madam Pomfrey has sent a few potions..." She is the soul of friendliness. His world is hell.
"Meddling old gobermouch?" He demands. She resolves not to ask. To the best of her knowledge there is only one Madam Pomfrey in the castle. Presumably they mean the same woman.
"Who seems to care a great deal about your well being. So what do you say we reward that with compliance?"
"Compliance? Compliance?" 'Hell' doesn't begin to describe his world. He hates his life. "I have no wish to comply..." Ever again, for that matter. Compliance is what got him into this mess, for fuck's sake. His scowl unfortunately bypasses terrifying completely and lands firmly at grumpy, with a hint of a pout. It's more than a little amusing, and just a trifle cute, but she senses neither reaction would be welcome.
Not that it keeps that slight amusement from becoming clear across the bond. That undoubtedly helps the situation.
Hermione, picking up on his looks at Crooks, misinterprets them. Naturally. Noticing the cat hairs now on his trousers, she draws her wand and casts the Charm she'd found yesterday to Vanish the fur and Impervious his clothes. She firmly resolves to herself to do the research she'd promised him on Banishing the fur.
He's simply angry that she had gotten to the fur before him. He should have done that when he felt her entering the wards. Doubtlessly he has the Ogden's to thank for that. He wonders how much fur is required to achieve the desired results with Crabbe, if he's already Banished enough to the boy's bed...
Of course, instead of saying any of that, he complains, "And I don't require a nursemaid." She thinks that is exactly what he needs given the way he's acting, but wisely keeps that to herself, too. She's not always the most tactful person, but sometimes she has a clue.
Her disagreement, however, also telegraphs clearly enough, and in his current state, he's only marginally able to recognise that he should appreciate her restraint in not giving voice to the notion. It's not like she can help her thoughts...
"That's certainly not required in addition to all the other manifold joys this bond provides," he mutters.
Unwisely, she prompts him. "Sir?" He's drunk and in a wretched mood. He's also at that stage where he's feeling sorry for himself. The answer was obvious. They nearly fucking killed him last night. He's only just crawled from the Infirmary, and she has to ask?
He doesn't answer with the obvious, firstly because it's, by definition, obvious and secondly because it would feel too much like fishing for sympathy. Which he certainly doesn't need. And definitely not from her. If she can't see the glaringly obvious, he most assuredly will not be the one to point it out to her.
So he swerves left, goes for the petulant and somewhat absurd. It's a questionable choice.
"Well no fucking sex for starters."
She's gives herself a moment. It probably doesn't help matters that she is far too inclined to take things at face value. Celibacy wasn't exactly something either of them wanted, but they had discussed this. It hardly comes as a surprise. She's also unaccustomed to hearing such ordinary language from him. She senses this is supposed to distract from something more vital, but unfortunately doesn't follow that line of thought to its logical conclusion. Instead she decides to meet him as an equal; as tactics go, not an altogether poor one.
"As opposed to non-fucking sex then? How does that go?" She's completely unfazed, or does a good job mimicking it.
He scoffs, unwilling to back down from a challenge and in no condition to consider the advisability, or lack of such, of the topic. "That would undoubtedly be by candlelight on a bed full of rose petals." He sneers, and then follows that ridiculously with a morose, "I hate roses."
"And their petals, too, presumably. Handholding, snuggling and petnames optional, one supposes? Or are they for afters?" And there's the amusement again...
"Clearly." He huffs, clearly answering neither question, although they were rhetorical anyway, followed by a somewhat wistful sounding, "Bugger."
She has a brief moment of panic where she wonders, extremely fleetingly, if he's trying to suggest that they should... That is, any time soonish... Because as long as all her... friends are still at school... Well, that could be... awkward... Before she realises the bond had confirmed that he was absolutely sincere about abstinence, never minding the whole revulsion issue, and relaxes. He, on the other hand, feels her flash of panic, interprets it more or less correctly as luck would have it, and is in equal measures repulsed and enraged.
"Are you mad? That was the whole reason I was supposed to want to do this; the only thing I was supposed to get out of it, to never be forced into something... inappropriate. Why on earth would I wish to start with you?" That 'you' didn't sound much better than his 'boys' tends to.
It was certainly blunt. It's hard not to feel offended in the face of it, and she fails. "And once again, saying that just a little less emphatically might be... considerate," she complains, and her feelings, whether he can understand it or not, are actually hurt.
"By what definition is that considerate? By all means, allow me to objectify you. I should have thought you'd have had enough on that front..."
That comes far too close to referencing what happened Friday for his comfort, and he immediately wishes he hadn't said it. Too late. Which makes her reply all the more surprising.
"Well, it's not like I look at you and say 'not if you were the last wizard on the planet'..." Her brain works differently. "Or I'd rather with a Blast-Ended Skrewt..." Clearly.
His relief that he hasn't just carelessly inflicted another wound is palpable, and helps him pull himself together. A little anyway. He'll be more reasonable in the morning. He just needs her to give him some space to work through this. And he needs her out of harm's way while he does so. That most definitely includes his vicinity.
Hell, the way he's feeling, she might be better off at the Manor.
In her black bikini, even...
He instantly berates himself for any and all possible overtones of that thought, not that's he's sure there were any at this point, but he should really try being less facetious, and tries to make her see sense.
"Miss Granger, I have decidedly not had enough to drink for this conversation, and when I have, I most certainly shan't wish to continue it. If you could desist with this... I don't even know what this is. Just stop. Go."
"Shall I stop or go, Sir?" There's something about him so clearly disadvantaged that invites a spot of fun.
"Leave. To the library perhaps. Just go be elsewhere." His hand waves vaguely in the direction of the door, but it lacks conviction, and she hasn't managed to get him to take the potions yet and isn't going anywhere soon.