Work Text:
“Lab, five minutes.”
“Yes, Mr. Snape.” Hermione shovelled eggs into her mouth with a speed Ron would have envied, though hopefully with a bit more grace. She knew her master didn’t like to be kept waiting.
He also refused to be called “Master,” and understandably so, given his history. “Mr. Snape” was their compromise: close enough to the traditional address that it didn’t raise eyebrows while preserving his sensibilities. He’d also been surprisingly decent to her. She was tempted to imagine he was worried about scaring her off, if she didn’t know he took great delight in scaring people in general and Gryffindors in particular.
She charmed her dishes to wash in the little apothecary kitchen and gave a small wave to Martin Louis, the thin little wizard who ran the front shop. It took her a moment to locate her protective robes and boots, and she had to slip them on as she hurried back to the lab.
Her foot crossed the threshold just as a chime sounded: her five-minute timer, probably. Mr. Snape looked her over, scowling, but didn’t comment on her appearance. For a man so scrupulously meticulous about lab safety it was almost a compliment.
“We will be starting on Ogden’s Elixirs today,” he said, pausing to take a sip from the flask he always carried with him. Hermione was vividly reminded of Moody - both Barty Crouch, Jr. and the real one - but she bit back her grin with the ease of practice. “I assume you are familiar?”
“Ogden’s Elixirs were a set of three potions developed by Master Elphius Ogden in the 18th century. They are famous for having vastly different results despite sharing the same base, though the specific recipe is difficult to find both because of how tricky it is to brew and because the results are more easily achieved via other means. It is theorised-”
“The effects, Apprentice Granger.”
“Yes, sorry. Elixir 23 is a potent herbicide. Elixir 25 is a cure for fever. Elixir 128 is a…a love potion.”
Mr. Snape shared her grimace, but nodded. “Ogden’s journals record over five hundred brews using his base. These three are the only ones we know of that yielded results. What does that tell you?”
Hermione paused. This was her favourite part of her apprenticeship: not just learning how to brew, but how to think. “It tells me,” she responded slowly, “that even a renowned Potions Master like Elphius Ogden failed far more than he succeeded with his experiments, and that he kept going even after hundreds of failures.”
“It should also advise caution in those experiments. It is assumed by his biographers that it was an explosion during the brewing of the potion base that took both of his hands…and very nearly his life. Let’s not repeat the experience, hmm?”
“...Yes, Mr. Snape.”
“While - as you noted - Ogden’s Elixirs are impractical compared to more modern advances, they are a perfect case study for our purposes: namely, developing you from a theorist into a potioneer. Your foundations are solid,” said the man who’d taught her, “but the difference between an amateur brewer and a master of the art is understanding. You must learn to deviate from the written recipe, both the ‘how’ and the ‘why.’ As it does not come naturally to you, we will need to take…other measures.”
She blinked at him, speechless. She hadn’t accepted this apprenticeship to become an innovative potioneer: she’d accepted because he’d spent two months helping her restore her parents’ memories - at great cost to himself physically and financially - and because he still exhausted too quickly to keep up with the demand at his apothecary. She’d assumed she was just a spare pair of competent hands until he grew strong enough to throw her out. This was the first time he’d even implied anything different.
A small part of her that craved a teacher’s approval hummed to life. If Mr. Snape was offering, then he believed she could do this. He wouldn’t waste his time otherwise.
The thought sent a curl of warmth through her bones, but after all this time it was easy to ignore that.
“Of course, Mr. Snape. Where do we start?”
“Why…with a book, of course.”
The book in question was a thin volume, heavily annotated in Mr. Snape’s spiky hand, that had clearly seen some use. To Hermione’s dismay it didn’t have anything like a recipe, but rather a description of what steps had gone into the creation of Ogden’s Elixir Base. Oh, it was fascinating - ritual magic was rare in modern brews because of how unreliable it could be - but there wasn’t nearly enough information to create a working potion.
“Knowing this,” Mr. Snape said, snapping the book shut before she could read the entry a fifth time, “how would you go about brewing it?”
She stared at him, gobsmacked. “Brewing it? I wouldn’t dare! Something that can explode and maim a highly experienced Potion Master?”
“Oh? Then you would concede defeat? Let’s say this is the only hope of survival for one of your friends. What then?”
“Then…I would need to do more research. I’d need to find something on measurements, successful and unsuccessful trials…or maybe even people who’ve experimented with it before.”
“Really? The life of a friend hangs in the balance, and you’re going to bury your nose in a book?”
She stalked up to him, her entire being vibrating with tension. “I don’t have nearly enough information to brew something so dangerous! Perhaps if I had more knowledge or experience…”
“So you value your life over your friends’?”
“Of course not! But I’m no good to them if I blow myself up or botch a potion so badly I create a poison instead of a cure!”
“Then?”
They were nearly chest-to-chest, she realised abruptly. She’d never been so close to him before. She’d hardly been so close to anyone before - her parents, the boys, the Weasleys…Viktor Krum? - and she felt…strangely lightheaded. “I would ask you,” she said firmly, tasting the truth alongside the clean, herbal smell that seemed to permeate his workrooms. “You know more about this set of potions than I do. If you aren’t able to guide me, I believe you’ll be able to offer an alternative or another avenue of research.”
Silence met this, and she licked her suddenly dry lips. Mr. Snape’s eyes twitched - just the tiniest fraction, only visible because they were so close - before he whirled away with such grace that his robes didn’t even brush hers. “An excellent answer, though not very…Gryffindor. Yes: if you are being pressured to brew something you have no knowledge or understanding of, you must decline.
“Experimenting under pressure is something only few can do with any efficacy, and even then it is all too easy to slip up. I am not teaching you to aid in blowing yourself up or poisoning your friends, but to give you the freedom to decide what you will make and the confidence to experiment on your own.” He glanced back at her, apparently done with his little monologue.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
“Mr. Snape?”
“Hmm?”
“How does one brew Ogden’s Elixir Base?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a complex ritual - I don’t have it memorised and haven’t seen it in years. I’ll need to locate it again before we can proceed.”
She must have been gaping like a landed fish, from the way he smirked at her.
He wasn’t smirking later that afternoon when they reconvened in the apothecary’s back office. It looked so much like his office at Hogwarts - dark wooden furniture gleaming in the dim light he preferred - but two smaller desks stood in place of the massive one he’d used as a teacher. That even left room for a small table in the corner where they sometimes took tea.
He was stalking the room when she entered, frowning at a heavy tome bound in leather, but glanced up immediately. She would never be able to sneak up on him, probably.
“This isn’t right.” He tossed the book onto her desk with an ominous thud.
“It isn’t?” She seated herself at her desk, taking measured breaths to calm her heart as he leaned over.
One long, elegant finger ran gently down the page in front of her. The ingredients of Ogden’s Elixir Base were typical for potions of the period - ashwinder dust, occamy eggs, fine-ground smoky quartz, and so on - and the ritual instructions for preparing the potion appeared to more or less match the book they’d examined earlier.
“Someone has tampered with the ritual’s instructions,” he growled.
“How do you know?”
“Because it used to list freshly drawn blood.”
Her head snapped up at how…casually he’d said it. “What, human blood?”
“What else? It’s one of the reasons Ogden’s Elixirs are a mere footnote in history. Oh, cease your righteous indignation; it’s for the ritual portion, not the potion itself.”
Still. They both knew that magic involving blood was borderline Dark at best.
“What do you mean by ‘tampered?’ Isn’t this your book?”
“Your faith in my library is - as always - flattering, but no. I borrowed this from the Restricted Section of Hogwarts.”
Hermione couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath. She hadn’t realised he was still welcome back in the castle. She was happy for him, of course, but she’d found it so difficult to go back and sit her N.E.W.T.s after the Final Battle; she couldn’t imagine what it was like for him.
On a completely separate issue, she was pretty sure relieving Madam Pince of one of her beloved books - even temporarily - qualified as Dark Magic.
“Apprentice Granger, cease your woolgathering. I would have thought that you, of all people, would recognize the danger here.”
She tore her eyes away from him - Merlin, had she been staring at his mouth? She shoved the embarrassment down - and re-examined the book. The altered book. “Who could have done such a thing? Madam Pince would never stand for anyone meddling with her books. Is it possible it was added to the library in this state?”
“Unfortunately, no. I am familiar with this tome, and I last consulted it myself in February of 1996.” He grimaced and took another sip from his flask. “Madam Pince was delighted to inform me. I recall glancing through the recipe at that time, and the ritual portion remained the same.”
“...Ah.” Then the book had been…adjusted sometime during or after her fifth year. An awful lot had happened in that time. “Wait, the first book you showed me didn’t mention blood, either.”
“Indeed. However, that is a record by an observer, not instructions by Ogden or any of his assistants. If anything…”
He disappeared into the lab and returned with the book he’d shown her, flipping it open to the correct page with a flick of his wrist that left Hermione unbelievably envious. “As I thought,” he murmured. “See? The instructions in the tome have been adjusted to match what’s been written here.”
“Could it be someone trying to…I don’t know, protect the sensibilities of the students? I can’t see it being very useful to let students know about blood rituals.” She’d gotten into enough trouble with just the standard curriculum!
Mr. Snape was smirking to himself, and she abruptly remembered that he had helped cure her of her Polyjuice…experience. Of all the foolish mistakes…and of all the people to steal from…
She cleared her throat. “Is it possible it was done with good intentions?”
“Possible? Yes. However, the Hogwarts library is open to the staff, outside researchers, and - on occasion - teachers from various other educational institutions. If the intent was to…protect the students,” and she wasn’t imagining the small sneer under those words, “the book could simply have been placed with the others that require specific approval to view.
“There is also the matter of what changes were made. Freshly-drawn blood from a witch or wizard is a powerful component in ritual magic. Here, it acts as a stabiliser. Removing it…”
He looked up, expectantly.
Hermione narrowed her eyes, putting together the pieces. He’d claimed that Elphius Ogden had blown himself to pieces trying to brew this same potion. “By removing stabilisers, the vandal has set us up for…explosive failure.”
His lips quirked up, just a little. “Quite so. The question then becomes: was this a random act of violence, or a targeted one?”
It was, indeed, a serious and pressing question, but Hermione’s mind was full of that little twitch of his lips, and how it made something in her middle feel warm.
Merlin, she was losing her mind.
With Mr. Snape’s lesson on Ogden’s Elixirs derailed, Hermione found herself with all too much time on her hands. The apothecary’s ready-made potions were stocked; she’d done an inventory the day before, and Martin hadn’t reported any unexpectedly large sales. There would be no ingredients to prepare for another two days, when the next delivery from their supplier was due. Mr. Snape himself was working on an experimental potion involving werewolves that sounded fascinating, but which was well above her current skill level.
She asked for a few days off to visit her parents, fully expecting to be denied. Instead, she found herself gently guided out the door with a small case of Sullivan’s Solution - because “muggles react differently to mind magic, Apprentice Granger; better safe than sorry” - and left, gaping on the doorstep of the apothecary.
The name of the store - Regeneratio - shone gold in the midmorning light from its place over the door. Initially she’d thought it meant regeneration, renewal. Martin had corrected her: it was the nominative form of the word, and meant ‘one born again.’ Arrogant, perhaps, given how close the vote on Mr. Snape’s pardon was, but…fitting.
Also, the fact that Hogwarts didn’t teach Latin as a core class was a travesty.
As she Apparated away, Hermione felt - yet again - an overwhelming gratitude to Mr. Snape. He could have tossed her out of his hospital room when she’d broken down in tears and confessed what she’d done to her parents. She’d expected some sort of judgement - a sneer, at least - but instead, her confession had been met with an offer of assistance. How he had managed to create a new spell to reverse her parents’ memory charm, prepare for his trial, and set up his apothecary in the span of a few months (and while recovering from the brink of death at that) remained a mystery to her.
Her parents were, as always, delighted to see her. Despite the horror of what she’d done, they had been nothing but warm and accepting to her since she'd reversed the memory charm. Admittedly, she’d shown up on their doorstep with a half-skeletal Snape and looking barely better herself. That probably counted as cheating.
Snape had been polite to them, surprisingly so, but it was impossible to overlook the effects the war had had on one of its principal participants. His grim, quiet confirmation that they had been targets of his erstwhile compatriots had actually brought tears to her mother’s eyes.
There had been some very difficult conversations after that. Years of prevaricating - both from her and from the various authorities at Hogwarts and the Ministry - left a gaping hole in their knowledge that Hermione struggled to fill. It was easier to do so after the fact, standing in front of them alive and…well, not healthy, but…alive.
The result? Hermione told her parents everything. Screw the Ministry, screw the Statute of Secrecy; she had been given a second chance at a relationship with the people who’d raised her, and she wasn’t going to throw that away for anything.
Which meant she also told them about the book, strangely edited and dangerous in form.
“Good morning, Mr. Snape?”
Her master grunted a greeting, looking like he hadn’t slept the entire time Hermione had been gone. He took a long drag from his flask, and Hermione once again wondered what kind of potion it contained. Something for healing? Pain? Pure alcohol?
The thought of Mr. Snape resorting to heavy drinking to tolerate her was…amusing, on one level, but it also made her chest feel heavy and her eyes sting.
“The shipment came in last night,” he rasped, gesturing towards an unsteady-looking stack of crates. “I took the liberty of culling the toads and beetles, and the stasis charm will hold for a few days.”
Hermione nodded. Processing animals into potions ingredients was one of the most disgusting parts of the job. She’d initially thought Snape was giving her a kind of detention, but once he grew strong enough he worked right alongside her - faster, with his greater experience, even.
She’d never known throughout her school years that the man had even an ounce of humility, but there it was.
She gathered her knives and got to work.
“Your parents are well?” he asked, once they finished the first crate of beetles.
“Hmm? Oh - yes, sir. They send their thanks for the Sullivan’s Solution. They’ve apparently been having some headaches over the past few weeks, but it helped enormously.”
“Hmm.”
“By the way, I told them about our conundrum with the book.”
“Oh?”
“They’re my parents; they already know about our world. Anyways, I explained what had happened, and we came up with some theories. First, is there a relationship between Ogden’s Elixir Base and the potion Voldemort used to resurrect himself back in 1995?”
“Only insofar as they both use ritual magic. The potion, as far as I can tell, was a very ancient piece of dark magic adapted for the Dark Lord’s specific purposes. It was originally intended to restore a body that had been cursed or corrupted beyond use, as in the case of severe injury or particularly malignant curses.” His eyes cut to her sharply. “I’m not teaching you Dark Magic, Granger.”
“Sorry - I didn’t mean to imply you were.” She waited for his nod before continuing. “It’s just that there’s so little information about ritual magic in potions, and it is a fascinating subject.”
“Quite. It involves a heavy crossover with both Arithmancy and Astronomy, however, which raises the complexity to the point where few are willing to undertake it.”
“But you believe we can?”
He nodded. “Once I track down the correct version of the ritual, that is.”
“About that. We came up with two possibilities, based on the information we know.”
“...Go on.”
“First, while Madam Pince is very protective of her books, she also…sometimes…has some regard for students. It’s possible that, during the awfulness last year, she may have altered the books in the library to prevent students from stumbling across anything too severe, considering…well, everything.”
Mr. Snape winced, but shook his head slowly. “The Restricted Section was inaccessible last year. The castle and I arranged it that way, to prevent…further harm.” He turned away sharply. “Anyhow, Irma doesn’t have the background to edit the ritual: she’s no potioneer.”
“See, that’s the thing. If someone had access to both the outsider’s view of the ritual and the original tome, making one match the other would be relatively simple.”
He hummed again.
“That’s why my other suspect is Umbridge.”
He turned back to her, eyes suddenly keen. “Explain.”
“There are a limited number of reasons why an outsider would want to observe and record a ritual, and Ministry approval of a potion is one of them. Even back in Ogden’s day, the Ministry had a system - rudimentary though it was - to record the details of spells, rituals, potions, and so on, to avoid disputes between inventors and such.
“If the explanation you showed me originated as a Ministry record, it’s entirely possible that Umbridge would have access to it. I doubt she would’ve had the knowledge to find the recipe herself, but if someone was able to direct her to the book it was located in…well, she would have had both the access and the motivation to change a book to something more…Ministry-approved.”
Hermione risked glancing up. Her gaze met Mr. Snape’s, and for once…oh, for once she could tell that she’d genuinely impressed him. She could feel her breathing pick up, despite her attempts to even it out, and…and…
Mr. Snape glanced away, and it almost looked like his cheeks were…a little pink?
He cleared his throat. “Well. You have given this some thought. I must say that, on the balance, Umbridge is the more likely culprit. At least she’s in Azkaban, though there’s no telling how much damage she did at Hogwarts. Perhaps…hmm. I shall write to Minerva and…” he trailed off, looking at her. “No. Apprentice Granger, hand me that crate of rhinoceros beetles, wash up, and go write to Minerva. Inform her of what you’ve found.”
Honestly, at least half the credit went to him and her parents as well, but the implied praise had left her so pink that she was grateful for the opportunity to retreat.
…And to not have to dismember any more beetles. Ugh.
She let herself into the office and closed the door, taking a moment to breathe deeply. The room smelled of him, something cool and almost minty mixed with the woody and spicy scents of herbs, a strain of smoke from the fireplace, and just a touch of the sweetness he carried with him from whatever potion he regularly dosed himself with.
A single piece of paper on Mr. Snape’s desk caught her eye, and she couldn’t help glancing it over. It was a simple note in his spiky handwriting: 12 August - Hermione returns
Hermione. He called her Hermione, at least to himself.
She raised her hands to her cheeks, retreating back to her own desk. She ignored their shaking as she dug through her drawers for parchment and a quill.
No amount of self-admonishment could quite stop her smile.