“beyond wandpoint” 092 by gingerbred

[beyondwandpoint]

“11 12e Wednesday - ...and Dine”

Hermione and Severus, the Bloody Baron, Sunny, the Giant Squid

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Originally Published: 2018-10-16 on AO3
Chapter: 092

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She blushes terrifically and leaps from the seat, leaving the blanket behind and hurrying past him with a, "I'll be right back..."


Apparently they'll need to work on that. And he may need to work on a Notice-Me-Not after all.

Severus, currently undertaking a detailed study of the ceiling - no, no cracks to speak of - manages to bite back a sarcastic 'I can hardly wait' (although that had been another close call), but he simply isn't up to finding anything non-inflammatory to answer. Fortunately she's gone before that becomes too apparent.

He takes advantage of her absence to slip into his own room and find a Hangover Helper, some Pain Relief and a phial of Touchstone's Tummy Toughening Tonic he would normally avoid for the name alone. But needs must, as Albus would say. And it's a bloody good thing Touchstone's Triple T settles one's stomach as the taste is enough to otherwise cause it to riot. He knows exactly how he'd improve it were he ever to go into business for himself, starting with the ridiculous name. Snape's Stomach Soother... And he stops himself right there. Surely he has enough things tormenting him this morning.

Next he takes the jar of Bezoars in hand and shakes one out to replenish the supply he'd... expended yesterday. After a moment's consideration he taps out another for the witch, just in case, and pockets it as well. After all, were there ever to be an issue, the Protection Vow would otherwise almost definitely force him to give her his. This seems... only prudent. And it's not as though it makes any discernible difference if he carries a Bezoar more or less in his extended pocket.


Hermione, now dressed in a white version of another of those fitted blouses that make Severus uncomfortable (particularly when they have as many buttons undone as hers has - which is the clear advantage to the usual requirement for ties) and her uniform skirt she's Transfigured dark green, returns to the lounge to find neither Professor, elf nor their breakfast there yet.

Possibly she'd been in a bit of a hurry.

Mindful of the fact the Baron is probably waiting for her again this morning and how she'd unintentionally given him the slip yesterday, she goes to the door. She listens to the wards as the Professor had shown her, and certain the coast is clear, opens the door. The ghost is nowhere in sight, but she's come to recognise that doesn't mean he isn't present.

A little uncertain of how to proceed, she decides the most straightforward approach is to call for him and, stepping into the hallway, she does. A moment later he fades silently into view beside her, highly puzzled at being hailed in this fashion. Before he can speak, she's cheerily greeting him, "Good morning, Baron," avoids enquiring if he's had a good night - she's not sure how he feels about that, Nick was often... tetchy - and then quickly explains she'll be eating in and didn't wish to leave him waiting for her.

He floats there blinking. Beyond a doubt she's the single oddest creature he's dealt with in decades, possibly longer. Odd, but apparently... considerate. Presumably that's... nice.

He nods in reply, mulling it over. "Good morning, Madam. I'll return later to see you to class then?"

"If you wouldn't mind? I'd certainly appreciate it," she answers with a smile, and he's again struck by the... yes, the oddness of it. People don't smile at him. They may smile at the news he brings - say, when he alerts the Slytherin Prefects to Estrays straying after hours, especially then - but not at him. This is all very... strange.

And then he recalls he'd had news for the Head. Focus isn't just an issue for Draco this morning. Of course, for the Baron, that's a far more... pervasive problem.

"You are breakfasting with the Head." It's whispered, as always, and sounds more like a statement than a question, but Hermione nods nevertheless. "Would you be so kind as to inform him the Slytherin Prefects didn't perform their rounds last night." Hermione has almost completely forgotten about rounds. She has to think, it'll have been the Slytherin seventh years' turn last night.

Malfoy.

Malfoy and Parkinson.

The Baron, for his part, can well imagine why the current Malfoy hadn't, he'd seen the three Serpents after all, but that doesn't account for Miss Parkinson. And here he'd been... eager to tell them of the Hufflepuffs he'd heard making plans to rendezvous after curfew. Well, perhaps not eager. But he'd certainly planned to. That may not be quite the same thing. He'd been rather... satisfied with that bit of intelligence, and then no one went on rounds. It was all very... disappointing.

It occurs to the ghost that he hadn't... appreciated that no one had informed him they wouldn't be on duty, and here the Head's bondmate, by stark contrast, is apparently making an effort to keep him apprised of her plans. He's trying to decide if this is somehow related to the fact she's an Estray. A Moggie, as the kids today like to say. Or simply her nature.

She's certainly... different.

Hermione thanks him for the information, a little uneasily, she's not quite comfortable being drawn into what she assumes amounts to House disciplinary matters, but the Baron doesn't notice that as he's still rather preoccupied with his own thoughts. He bows and takes his leave, floating off down the corridor, his chains once again not rattling until he disappears from sight.

Soon after, he rounds a corner, and with a terrible din - there are limits to his self control, Madam Snape is now absent, and even ghosts require... diversion - startles the living daylights out of Mrs. Norris, who was apparently lurking by the Slytherins' Dungeon entrance, hoping to catch anyone jumping curfew. Her yowl creates still more racket which echoes... satisfactorily though the passageways. It's suitably... atmospheric. She'd have been better off in the Estrays' Tower anyway. They had meant to have early Quidditch practice today after all. That often holds more promise.

For that inefficiency alone, the cat had almost deserved it. Almost.


When Hermione passes back through the perception barrier to their chambers, closing the door behind her, she's a little surprised to discover the elf present and Professor back at his desk, apparently working on a scroll. The red throw has been folded tidily and returned to the bench seat to give him room to work (not that he feels it's enough). Sunny is bearing two trays, presumably under Stasis Charms, clearly suspended by magic and not the single knobby finger holding each of them, patiently waiting for the Professor to finish his work or for her to return. She's not sure which. Possibly both.

In case she's the one holding things up, she quickly retakes her seat in front of the window, mumbling apologies at the elf, not quite daring to be so forward as to suggest the dining table (particularly as she'd effectively buried it under the mound of wedding presents). She can't help noticing the Professor hadn't taken a seat there after all, or even at the breakfast bar. The latter almost makes her laugh, she'd thought when she first saw the thing that she couldn't picture him eating there. Those always struck her as mostly decorative anyway. And here he now sits, apparently preparing to eat at his desk, despite his other perfectly reasonable options. She suspects he can be stubborn that way.


While he was waiting, Severus had reapplied his attention to Goyle's Care for Magical Creatures assignment which he's now finally Incendioed. (So strangely, in the witch's absence, he'd recollected the Incantation. He probably has the Hangover Helper to thank for that...). He'd easily recognised certain similarities with Crabbe's work from Monday - the boys have probably never had an original thought between them - that would lead all but the most obtuse, gullible or kind-hearted (all three of which unquestionably apply to Hagrid) to assume those two have been cribbing from one another, or more likely a third. With typically Slytherin efficiency, he'd decided there was little point in not getting extra mileage from having read the boys' homework and was considering how best to set Hagrid on them.

The witch, now returned, is sitting there looking just the least bit smug, for some reason or another he can't begin to fathom, when Severus makes a note to himself to speak to Hagrid about some of Goyle's specific shortfallings in CMC. With his Selkies' Silken Signatures ink. The one that almost invariably summons the Squid.

And does so now.

Miss Granger practically leaps from her seat - with a squeak - as the dark shadow passes mere inches behind her, accompanied by a very noticeable gurgling, swishing sound as the Squid swoops past. To be fair, it can take some getting used to, as any Slytherin Firstie can attest (but wouldn't), but it's so marvellously... satisfying, that Severus fully intends to do it again.

He'll just need to wait until she's settled and forgotten the Squid.

He likes it; it's almost elegant. The ink summons the Squid, the Squid in turn makes her start. It's a bit like having a remote control for the witch, without the bothersome illegality of the Imperius. (He ignores the indignity of a Geas for self-evident reasons.)

Severus is far from obvious; Hermione certainly hasn't noticed his amusement, but then her pulse was busy racing and he's basically the Slytherin after all. Sunny, however, has lived with him for a very long time. The elf has probably registered the wizard's enjoyment only too clearly and apparently decides enough is enough. With much enthusiastic chirruping, Sunny now bustles into action, taking things in hand and navigating the trays into position.

"Mistress is enjoying her breakfast. Mistress is wanting anything else, Mistress is calling for Sunny," he's grinning ear to pointy ear and rocking back and forth on the balls of his little feet in barely restrained excitement. He knows full well he has her to thank for being permitted to serve breakfast this morning, which only improves her standing as far as he's concerned.

Decidedly more stern, he turns to Severus, "Master of Potions is eating now, no more is working." Said Master of Potions twitches a brow at the imperious elf, who sounds just a breath away from Banishing everything from the surface of his - shortened - desk. With a hint of amusement, Severus lays his quill down, and is immediately rewarded with more ebullient elven cheer. Somehow, he can't help thinking that doesn't seem all too incentivising. "Master is enjoying Sunny's meal. Master is wanting for anything, Master of Potions is calling Sunny, yes. Sunny is answering immediately."

The house elf floats Hermione's breakfast in front of her, the Professor's off to the side of his desk between them, so he's almost forced to face her to eat. Hermione finds herself automatically sliding a little further up the bench so that he now does so. Severus flinches minutely, recalling he'd Banished the Disillusioned couch legs not far from where she's now seated (and luckily, she'd stopped short of them), but evidently her goal had more to do with being able to maintain eye contact than some furniture legs she couldn't possibly know were there. But for a brief moment he wonders if the elf does, considering where he'd placed their trays.

The Professor's, "Thank you, Sunny," finishes this time before the little creature disappears, but would seem to work to dismiss the elf.

Hermione immediately notices the grapes on her tray - she hadn't requested any - and smiles. There is no conceivable way she'll be able to finish the plate in front of her, even if she hasn't been eating all that much the past few days. But the food smells absolutely delicious.


Severus would prefer they attack their meals in silence, but Hermione isn't used to it. She doesn't last long - it might have been seconds; Severus hasn't even tried the first mouthful - before she feels the need to initiate conversation. Teasing a little, she prods, "What, no black pudding or haggis?"

It gets her a raised brow and eventually an answer. "I haven't gone native," he drawls. She's pretty sure she's seen him eat both before and merely cocks an eyebrow at him. The slight quirk of his lip confirms his facetiousness. "You don't think this was enough?" He's beginning to wonder if she has a hollow leg.

For her, it certainly was, beyond any doubt. He might be another matter. She's reasonably certain she knows all that he had for dinner last night, and no, it wasn't nearly enough. "You haven't had much to eat the past several days have you?" She asks. Luna would be so proud. Well, Hermione's paying it forward.

Severus is about to protest when his traitorous stomach answers for him. It growls. It's a growl fit to rival anything any of Hagrid's wee beasties have on offer. It demands attention and food. Soonest. He blames the enticing scents. It might have been embarrassing, but she greets it with a warm laugh and an offer of more to eat.

"Would you like half of my sausages? I haven't touched them yet. Or one of my eggs?" And before he knows it she's standing in front of him and neatly piling still more food on his plate. Some of her bacon, vegetables and half the grapes (he does not snort at that; well, not loudly) join the proffered rest. She's right, though. Now that his stomach is no longer upset, he's famished.

Beaming, she does that a lot, she retreats to the window seat again and resumes eating.

"What were you doing in the hallway?" He asks between bites. She likes that he manages to swallow first. She assumes he wouldn't be exactly flattered to hear it.

She tells him she'd advised the Baron of her breakfast plans, which earns her another blink. Severus would sort of love to know what the ghost makes of her. He definitely owes the poor spectre something for his patience. He imagines the witch is providing their House ghost with quite the change of pace.

A little hesitantly, she doesn't wish to be seen as shit-stirring, she passes along the Baron's report to Severus. Contrary to her expectations, he doesn't take it the wrong way. In fact, now that he isn't Occluding for all he's worth (that event - so oddly - seems to coincide with her having gotten dressed), he can feel her anxiety in doing so and is reasonably quick to reassure her. "You needn't worry, Miss Granger. You weren't the one to make the report, this will not come back on you. On the contrary, it would have been more of an issue had you not related it."

He checks the wards, and he can confirm it. Pansy and Draco didn't do their rounds. The Prefects are some of the few students he monitors individually (it's far too much overhead to monitor them all), and he's been alerted soon enough that the signatures won't have completely faded. The timeliness of the Baron's report makes all the difference. A few hours more, and he wouldn't have - couldn't have - known for certain.

He'll have to speak to them about it. He's not in the least surprised that Draco hadn't performed his duty, Merlin's hairy ball sack, and has to make an effort not to chuckle. Had Severus been in better shape yesterday, he'd have organised a replacement for him himself, but he wasn't.

And that's enough said about that.

Now that his hangover is gone, he has no desire whatsoever to dwell on his excesses from the previous night.

Ever so strangely just a little more alert, it's a wonder what a good Hangover Helper can do, and now that she's suitably... covered, aside from a somewhat plunging neckline, Severus finally notices that the circles under her eyes from Sunday have faded. Arse that he is, he becomes momentarily annoyed that she was getting a good night's rest while he was in the Infirmary before it occurs to him that they had been more evident yesterday evening when she'd come home, and he knows full well she slept - and where she slept - last night.

And isn't that... disconcerting.


He deals with that typically, which is to say he takes a verbal jab at her. "And surely your Loyalty Vow wouldn't permit you to keep such things from me." She blushes furiously. Neither is certain that that's the sort of thing the Vow should be working to ensure, but both are well aware that it isn't even doing remotely what it should. Which naturally was the entire point of the comment. That reminder causes a rather visible reaction, the bond supplies the rest.

It's strong enough that Severus almost feels guilty for needling her.

Almost.

Well, he feels better at any rate.

Having about a third of the food he does, she's soon finished her meal except for her grapes, and now sits there watching him. He can't figure out why she doesn't just leave. Instead she pushes her tray a bit to the side and eschewing the red throw, wraps herself in the soft blue blanket again. At a guess, it looks like she's here to stay. He may be beginning to eat faster. That's all in the eye of the beholder, however. Hermione can't help thinking how nice it is that he doesn't wolf down his food.

It occurs to Hermione, now that she's calmer and fed, to wonder that the Professor was at his desk when she'd first left her room, and not in the lounge as she'd expected. Apparently she can't read the bond, or maybe it's the wards, the whichever, quite the way she thinks. She's a little disappointed, not so much that she hasn't got the capability, of course; she hadn't expected it anyway. No, her disappointment, such as it is, stems entirely from having been wrong. She's never liked that.

She looks about a little as she snacks on her grapes, searching for something to say. Turned as she is, she's angled away from most of the room. As such, there isn't much that look around calls to mind. Not until her eyes alight on the pot of Salve still standing on the end table. "Did you remember to use the Scar Salve?" She asks. She's quite right that it's unlikely he used it if it's still standing out here.

That wins her a rather pinched face, or perhaps his bite of bacon was unusually bitter. Although that seems... unlikely. He swallows and with more than a little snark evident, answers, "Thank you for the reminder, Miss Granger, but I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself." He's not one of her benighted friends, in need of oversight...

She can hear the sarcasm, she'd have to be deaf not to, and even then, the bond would presumably still get that across quite effectively. But she simply shrugs. "Madam Pomfrey asked me to keep an eye on you, and frankly, Sir, scars hurt. You don't deserve that."

It was sight politer than he deserves. "They don't always hurt," he replies more softly and feeling a little guilty as he watches her finger her own scar under the neckline of her blouse. The movement had drawn his gaze, and rather automatically he begins staring fixedly at her fingers and the scar they occasionally reveal beneath them in an effort to avoid her décolletage. Unable to guess his motivation, it only serves to make her feel even more insecure.

Her fingers fan to cover her scar, her thumb still worrying it under them. He can feel her embarrassment and his first instinct is to think she's embarrassed for telling him, of all people, about scars or pain... A little unfairly, but it's a sore point, he decides that's too self aware and it wouldn't have occurred to her.

Or maybe the reaction was because she finds scars themselves embarrassing, and has just, ever so kindly, expressed where that would leave him by extension...

But the bond doesn't let him get away with that. It feels... There's shame there. But no... disgust. No... judgment.

No, the embarrassment is entirely her own.

He almost feels guilty again.

The bond is certainly proving bothersome.

Either way, it's sufficient to draw a relatively honest answer from him. "You can reassure Poppy. I had some lying about, and I did apply it." Which earns him another beaming smile. He's beginning to feel like that's her version of House points. Well, in comparison to the bonbon system, it has the clear advantage of being calorie free. It's probably also more worthwhile, he thinks with a soft snort, when one's smile looks more like hers and less like his. Although that was presumably only to be expected of the child of dentists.

He's finished his plate now, too, and placing his unfinished cup of tea on his desk, like her he pushes his tray to the side and begins snacking on the grapes she'd given him, casually popping one into his mouth every now and again in a way that's making Hermione struggle not to stare. He has to admit they're very good. Sweet.

"Oh," Hermione squeaks up, something just occurring to her, "The Headmaster stopped by yesterday. I wasn't able to let him in."

"Good," comes the immediate and emphatic reply. She sits there blinking at the force of it. He makes the mistake of expanding on it. "I don't want anyone in here." And there go those doe eyes again. Realising his mistake, probably not a moment to soon, he rushes to amend that. "Anyone else." She doesn't look convinced, and probably shouldn't be if she's anything less than a complete nincompoop. His lips press together in a tight line at the very thought, but - with some effort - he manages to force out an apology. "I beg your pardon, Miss Granger. I didn't mean to imply you weren't welcome here."

Frankly, he hadn't just implied it, but Hermione is wise enough to let it go. She knows he wanted this arrangement even less than she did. He had been correct, they have a number of things to work out. She can't expect this to go without some teething troubles. She merely nods her acceptance.

"What did Albus want?" He asks a bit superfluously, trying to move past it. If it had mattered, Albus obviously would have mentioned whatever it was when they Flooed yesterday.

"Oh. Ah," she's off to a magnificent start, and he already regrets asking. "Uh, to give us our, um, wedding presents."

Brilliant.

Right.

Splendid.

That hangs there in the air between them for a while, both try to pretend it doesn't. Severus (so suavely) hides behind his tea, Miss Granger nervously nibbles a grape, and yet they both turn reflexively to look at the dining table which still has the witch's artfully arranged display of rubbish upon it.

Swallowing visibly, apparently that comes a little more difficultly than usual, she finally offers, "I thought, if you don't object that is, that I would take care of writing the 'thank you' notes." Severus can't help it, his bark of laughter coincides with an attempt to sip his tea, so much for appearing nonchalant, and he ends up coughing it over his desk. Sufficiently so that he needs a Tergeo to sort it. (Minerva would be proud.) Perfect. Very subtle. Severus Snape. Master Spy. He's still trying to clear his throat when she, even less certainly, makes her next offer, "Unless you wanted to sign them?"

Oh, yes, that was exactly what he wanted to do. He'd lost sleep nights, lying awake, just dreaming of such a thing. It was, in fact, his sustaining daydream, the very thing that gave him the strength to endure Crucio upon Crucio...

Frankly, there is not enough sarcasm in his repertoire to answer this adequately. Which means he sits there silently once he finishes clearing his throat while she just blinks at him.

Expectantly.

It's as though she's never met him.

His preferred approach was to ignore this, but it seems, like everything else, it won't go away of its own accord either. Marvellous. He has two options, allow her to write the cards, and conscientiously objecting, he could predictably refuse to sign them. And be upstaged by the litte chit of a witch. Everyone expects him to ignore the presents, he is sure, just as he is equally sure that not a one of them was intended for him. Or he can take up the challenge, the happy mantle of domesticity, and participate in the sham.

At the least it would be... unexpected. With a vaguely predatory smirk that leaves her wondering if she should have mentioned it at all, he replies, "By all means. I'll be happy to do so."

He leans back in his chair, casually crosses his long legs and with one elegant hand sketching the imaginary layout in the air, begins pretending to dictate just such a note line for line. "'Thank you so much for the... ill-considered bit of tat that now clutters our home and proves you know neither of us in the least despite having known us both for years.' More in my case, fewer in yours, naturally, but we needn't harp on the obvious. Continuing...

"'It was so kind of you to think of us! We wish you could have been there for our bonding. It just wasn’t the same without you' - although that last is undoubtably true. Which is even better. Signed, 'Warmly, the Snapes'. Etcetera etcetera, ad nauseum and so forth." He looks proud of himself.

She looks scandalised.

"Uh." She doesn't get any further for another moment or two. Possibly, he just became prouder. Yes, option two. He'll be signing the cards, ta muchly. It was clearly likely to cause more uproar than ignoring them would have. He's warming to the idea. "I'll just handle the text then, shall I?" She offers very tentatively.

"Oh, only if it makes you happier, dearest." A very wolfish grin spreads across his face. But he seems to be enjoying himself, rather a lot, and he isn't... he isn't angry with her, and she finds herself beginning to relax again.

She doesn't think she quite gets his sense of humour, but it's reassuring to know he has one.

"There was something else..." She begins.

"Yes, Crumpet?"

"'Crumpet'?" Her voice may have broken. He weighs never addressing her as anything else.

"'Bakewell tart' and 'Eton mess' both have connotations I considered it best to avoid..." He flicks his first two fingers as though discarding the inadequate choices.

"But 'Crumpet' didn't," she mutters, but he continues as if he hadn't heard.

"And 'Angel Delight' seemed... excessive." He's unquestionably taking the piss, and Hermione should really know better than to fall for it after all these years in the dorms. It appears he can be every bit as bad as the boys. Or the girls, for that matter.

"Because those are the only other options..." This is one lesson she never learns.

"Pray, what did you wish to ask, my little scone. Syllabub? 'Crumpet' was better, don't you think?" He's positively cheerful. The bond continues to cause some emotional... upheaval, but it's remarkable the difference it makes to have had a good cuppa, finally eaten well, and - presumably most importantly - rid himself of the frankly gratuitous hangover pains. He probably should have done that from the outset, although obviously it had been a deliberate decision. Not that those are always the soundest...

Hermione just really regrets ever mentioning the gifts now, which was rather the point.

"Are you glowing?" She springs it on him without warning. It wasn't at all what he expected and actually gets him to shut up about that almost as thoroughly as an Everard's Everlasting Gobstopper would have. She might just be proud of herself now as well.

"Am I what?"

"Glowing."

"Oh, for..." he twitches his wand at the windows and plunges them into darkness (Hermione squeaks in surprise) and, bloody Nora, he is in fact glowing. He had sort of thought... No, he hadn't thought about it at all. Because he should bloody well know it wouldn't have worn off by now. Well. He is an idiot. He twitches his wand in the direction of the windows again, and Hermione finds herself blinking against the light. It had been hard to tell in the brightly lit room if he were glowing or not. That had definitely settled it decisively.

"Well, that's certainly liable to give rise to the wrong sort of speculation, shouldn't you think?" She's grinning now. He pales, briefly, but recovers soon and stops mucking her about.

"Thank you for pointing it out, Miss Granger. I hadn't noticed." And just like that, she's appeased.

She lifts her similarly afflicted finger, and now that he knows to look for it, he can discern a faint glow to it as well. "May I ask why we're glowing?" She asks.

"It was the first potion you gave me last night. Glower's Glowing Elixir. As the name suggests..." He lifts a hand and with a small wave indicates himself and shrugs.

"And why am I glowing?" She wriggles her finger at him demonstratively.

"I can only assume you came into contact with the Potion when you unstoppered or administered it. Evidently it works topically as well. Although I don't believe anyone has thought to bathe in it."

"What on earth is it for?"

He quirks a brow at her, "You mean to say neither the name nor the results were sufficient to answer that?" But she doesn't flinch, more's the pity, and he finds himself replying. "The Lumos isn't as old as the Elixir. It predates the Spell by centuries. There are jobs where light is required, but an open flame is an exceedingly poor idea. This was developed in answer to those requirements. Even in the present day, it's useful for work in the dark where a Lumos is difficult to constantly maintain, or perhaps simply can't be used. When collecting potions ingredients sensitive to magic in a cave or underwater, say." That sounds perfectly logical really, and explains why she wouldn't have encountered it. Of course, he'd expected that when selecting it yesterday; had she been familiar with the Potions, his experiment could scarcely have worked.

"And the other Potion I gave you?" She prompts. She makes an effort to keep her voice even, and he looks a little sheepish. No, no he doesn't really. He looks pretty much the same as always. But she is sure he feels a little sheepish, and she bites back a smirk.

"Gnomicide," he answers succinctly. "A Potion that's since fallen out of favour." She looks scandalised again, more, he thinks, that he should be in possession of such a thing then that he'd taken it. Or had her give it to him, more to the point.

"You wouldn't!" She cries. He's fairly certain she'd see things differently were her garden of rare Potions ingredients under threat, but bites his tongue. Not nearly as fiercely as a Gnome would, but all the same...

"Calm yourself. I don't even advocate the use of Jarveys to run the little blighters off. Tossing them over the garden wall generally does the trick more than well enough. But I do have and brew a wide range of Potions. Rest assured, no Gnomes were injured in the process." She relaxes again. She actually relaxes. He's about to be offended that it's apparently all well and good when he's poisoned with the stuff when it finally dawns on him that he probably doesn't want to open that particular can of worms. Well, he has only himself to blame. Very literally.

As long as he seems inclined to answer, she's eager to mine him for information. Looking at her hand and then up at him, she begins, "I tried to wash it off, but..." She waggles her finger again. He nods. "Disillusionment didn't work either..."

He snorts. "Because walking around with a largely invisible hand struck you as less likely to attract attention than the faint glow of your finger by daylight?"

"I was simply being thorough and thought to test it." He thinks his usual thoughts about that, but keeps them to himself. It doesn't help much as her scowl would indicate she seems able to anticipate them well enough. "And the Notice-Me-Not didn't appear to work either..." It sounds a bit like a question, and it is. Notice-Me-Nots are imperfect at best and can be seen through, all the more easily when one knows what to look for. But she wasn't entirely certain if it had simply failed because she knew what she expected to see.

Severus confirms her assessment. "No, it probably wouldn't. It should take an exceptionally strong one to do the trick. Fortunately, I have just the thing." He doesn't sound... feel happy about it. She's right about that. It's the Spell Albus has been using to disguise his withered arm. So far it's kept even Poppy from detecting it when she's done her scans, where a Glamour wouldn't have succeeded. But Severus would happily have never heard of the Spell if it meant Albus hadn't had need of it. "If you'd extend your hand, I'll do the honours." She does and soon there's that now familiar warmth that comes when he performs magic on her. She'll have to test it in the dark, but she thinks it's done the trick. Of course, the wizard is fairly reliable in that regard.

"How long will this last?"

"The Charm or the Potion?" Comes the counter-query. He doesn't wait for her answer. "The Potion will have worn off completely within twenty-four hours. Within eighteen, the glow is generally so faint as not to matter. By daylight, I doubt anyone would notice. And the Notice-Me-Not should last you all day.

"Which reminds me, I still need to show you the Charms for the windows to regulate daylight and privacy. Would an hour before dinner suit you?" She nods, and he appreciates that she's being accommodating. Truthfully, she's looking forward to learning something new. And even more so, she's exceedingly eager to teach him the automagic Fur Banishing Charm she'd discovered at his request. She wouldn't miss this for the world. But her being obliging has him being more so as well. "If I'm in my laboratory or office, just knock."

Sensing that inclination about him, Hermione screws up the courage to ask, "As long as you're teaching me the Window Charms, is there any chance... I assume you know a Privacy Charm." He snorts; she chooses not to get insulted, especially as she's angling for a favour, and takes that as confirmation. "Is there any chance you'd be willing to teach me one?"

"You need to know the Window Charms to live in the dungeons with any degree of autonomy. It's another matter entirely to teach you a Privacy Charm. I very much do not wish to be forced to play teacher within my own four walls. And it's hardly fair to the other students."

She looks disheartened, and he feels he has to justify himself, which leaves him a touch resentful.

"Completely disregarding my personal wishes in the matter, as most people and things do, let's play the 'what if' game, shall we? How would I explain it to You-Know-Who? Particularly as, in light of the... issues with the Loyalty Vow, your memories are not secure. Albus hasn't demanded it of me, and I have no real justification."

She's about to argue that he could be doing so to maintain his cover, to fool her into trusting him (although his explaining why he can't instead is probably still the better move), but his words about people disregarding his wishes sink in - they'd definitely rung true - and she stops. He doesn't want to do this, and she thinks she's asked more than enough of him lately. She doesn't wish to demand this, too. Not that she could force him, that's not the point, but she gets the feeling rather a lot is asked of him; she doesn't want to make it any worse. She nods her acceptance, and she means it, but her disappointment appears to have intensified. Involuntarily, he feels moved to defend his position once more.

"Surely you can learn one that would suit your needs from the restricted section?" The bond answers for her; her disappointment has progressed to dejection. Severus thinks he's being quite reasonable - Merlin's beard, he's been quite reasonable all morning; well, most of it - and can't begin to explain why his question just made matters worse.

Given how clearly he'd just expressed himself, Hermione has about as much desire to explain her problems with Madam Pince as he appears to have in... 'playing teacher'.

She can't quite bring herself to lie (she's not that convincing anyway), so she just nods. No, the situation with Madam Pince is a secret she's prepared to take with her to her grave... Fine, that might have been overly melodramatic, although a phantom pain on the back of her head almost begs to differ. But she's certain she'll find another way to sort it. She always does.

Severus isn't sure why the mood turned, and he's a little annoyed with her that it had. He hadn't been unreasonable, now had he? At least he doesn't think so. He's not her personal tutor, after all. And then he recalls that Albus had asked him to provide private Potions lessons and could almost groan. He'll probably leave it until she brings it up. Avoidance has worked so well for him...

Noticeably more restrained, she rises from the window seat and folds the blanket neatly together. "Shall I return it to the couch?" She asks. When he nods - frankly, he's perfectly willing to give it pride of place, exchanging it for his blue throw that's customarily draped over the couch's back, if she's prepared to leave it there - she Banishes it to the couch with a 'Depulso' and sweep of her wand.

It's followed by a quiet, "Are you finished with your tray?" He replies in the affirmative, and without further comment she takes it from him and pushes both tablets towards the kitchen. It's an oddly Muggle way of tidying up. Normally he'd Banish the trays to the Hogwarts kitchens, use magic to clean the things or have Sunny take them - which is generally the better of the options by far, for a variety of reasons - but there she is, stood at the sink, doing the dishes by hand.

He does things like that himself sometimes. He suspects it's a byproduct of being Muggle-raised. He has to be careful, of course, not to do that in the wrong company, but he understands there's some comfort to be drawn from physically performing tasks oneself now and again.

Of course, Sunny will no doubt be thrilled she's taken over his chores. Severus can't help thinking that's a mistake, a minor tactical error, but it's probably something she needs to learn on her own. He has no intention of moderating between witch and elf unless things go very wrong. Maybe he'll get lucky. She's far too liable to assume he's pursuing his own agenda if he tries to get involved, or that he's just insensitive to elven needs. And Sunny is perfectly capable of... expressing his own objections, should he feel the urge. Merlin is he ever.


Hermione hadn't failed to register that when they entered the flat Sunday evening, with the exception of a single open book, nothing had been out of place. Obviously he hadn't known, he couldn't have, that he'd be out of chambers for days, and then there was the fact he hadn't known he'd have company with him when he returned... She's very aware of how tidy he must be and the importance he presumably places on it. She may be underestimating Sunny's role; that's only natural. But her estimation has left her with a marked desire not to make a bad impression.

She's in the process of scraping the plates clean and doing the washing up when there's a ripple to the wards. It becomes stronger and stronger until it culminates in a knock at their door.