Laboring Under the Delusion

    Hermione ran a hand absently through her hair, pulling the dirty roots up and watching with amusement as they stayed in the air. She wondered how long it had been since she had showered. Living as a Muggle in the middle of nowhere wasn’t the easiest way to keep clean, she supposed. She could always go back, she reminded herself. Dumbledore had told her, one night in sixth year, that she must always remember she was a witch. She was not a “Mudblood” or any other derivation of the insult. She was a witch, and as such she would always be able to find her way back to the world in which she truly belonged.

    Oh, yes. Dumbledore. She thought bitterly. He’s always there when we need him. Even the night Harry died, the night Voldemort killed my Harry--the night Dumbledore stood and silently watched as the two had fallen as one; his eyes perhaps a bit too bright for the occasion.

    Oh, Hermione, stop it, she scolded herself. She had run in these circles in her mind for years--ten years, now, actually. She couldn’t logically hold Dumbledore to blame--and yet she did--for Harry’s death. A seventeen year old boy, given the responsibility no one should have had to bear. Hermione shivered, even in the oppressive heat of Brazil. She remembered the look of clarity that had come across Harry’s face in his final seconds of life. Seconds she had screamed and run for him, desperate to do anything she could--he couldn’t die, he just couldn’t. Seconds he had raised his head to smile at her, and fallen back, his face blank and strangely peaceful. Hermione had not dared to look into the dead face of Voldemort--she had been as brave as she could have been, and her best friend had died. She felt like being a coward. She had buried her face in Ron’s chest, her sweet Ron, staring at Harry’s dead body, utterly stunned that his friend was gone.

    Another pang of misery hit her as she remembered Ron walking up to Harry and gently prodding him, as if unwilling to believe he was dead. She had clung to his arm, pulling him back. It was then she had spotted Dumbledore again, standing as still as the second the curses had started flying. Standing as still as a man who knew what was to happen, and cared naught to change it. Hermione began to shake with anger. Why did these memories still make her so angry? Why hadn’t nine years of distance from the wizarding world eased this ache?

    Since the news of the prophecy, Hermione had wandered aimlessly throughout the world--her bank account seemingly never depleted, thanks to someone in the Order, she was sure. They’d have close tabs kept on her, of course--but as of yet she hadn’t heard from or seen another wizard or witch since the week of the prophecy. She had spent that week fitfully in the company of either Professor Dumbledore or Professor Snape, both of whom had tried to ease her mind a little. Well, perhaps Snape hadn’t tried to ease her mind so much as try to pretend the whole nasty situation did not exist. He had thrown himself headlong into the research of this new potion--the name and properties of which he did not dare speak to Hermione.

    She had pieced together a rough idea from the ingredients--it would be something which affected the emotional or mental state; not the physical. It would more than likely result in the death of the taker, as several ingredients were poisonous if allowed to ferment properly. And it was definitely not going to taste good, as three separate kinds of dung and more intestines than she’d ever seen were required. As the week wore on, the secrecy and furtive glances began to annoy her. She couldn’t overcome her anger at Dumbledore, and found that she was actually getting on better with Snape--a sure sign that she had become a bitter, sarcastic shrew in the year since her graduation. As she had already had several people point this out, she wasn’t pleased for the daily reminder. Making house with Snape was not on her list of things to do; so she left in the dead of night with no warning. Of course, they knew--didn’t they always--but perhaps they had understood that she needed to be alone.

    But even Hermione herself hadn’t anticipated that her retreat would last nine years. She was well aware that she was approaching the time she was supposed to meet this dark purveyor of dung-ridden potions. She knew that her dreams were coming with increasing regularity--dreams in which Snape was working tirelessly on an antidote, having no success. She even dreamed of Dumbledore and Snape testing the potion on a human subject, who had died horribly, coughing and spluttering blood before Snape had killed him with a muttered spell. She didn’t want these dreams; she didn’t want to be reminded of the importance of the situation. By disentangling herself from the magical world, she hoped to avoid the whole business altogether.

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    Severus Snape absently ran a hand through his hair, pushing the lank strands away from his forehead, which was beading with sweat over the steaming cauldron. His nose involuntarily wrinkled; he had never smelled anything so vile, in all his years of brewing potions. Irreversible Potion, indeed. He’d give Dumbledore irreversible--a boot up the ass would be hard to undo.

    The potency of the potion was not lost on him, however much he despised his task. He understood how powerful it could be. The lucky drinker would have exactly 72 hours to live from the time they imbibed the potion--but during those 72 hours, anything they felt, anything they desired, anything they said would become true. A terrifying enough thought for an innocent person, but in the hands of a Dark wizard, it could truly be chaotic. In the hands of Hermione Granger--he shuddered to think. She would give herself speed reading abilities with which to read every book on the face of the earth before she died.

    And if this prophecy business were true, she’d also be at the mercy of the dark lord controlling her. Whatever he convinced her to want would become true--and there was the problem. Nine years had passed, and the potion had been complete for some time now. They had even gone so far as to test it on a human subject--a prisoner already slated for execution. Dumbledore still had humanity, even in his ruthless determinism. Now it was up to Snape to brew an antidote.

    He had tried mixing all the ingredients which were the exact antithesis of those in the Irreversible potion. That had resulted in more than a few explosions. Upon cooling, it invariably disappeared, leaving Snape no closer to any answers. He had endured a fair amount of disappointment. He even took a few months off; but now in the ninth year, he was feeling some pressure from Dumbledore, who hadn’t seen fit to tell anyone else about the prophecy. It was a Hogwarts secret, and truth be told, Snape felt most of the staff had forgotten about it. Of course, that miserable woman Trelawney had never even been told what she had said. It seemed Dumbledore did not wish to stroke her already overlarge ego.

    “We must have an antidote prepared soon, Severus,” he stressed each time they saw each other--more and more infrequently, as Dumbledore had handed over his Headmaster duties to Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. He now only popped by from time to time, mostly to prod Snape about the potion, and check in with Minerva. As much as Snape loved the man, he had to say he’d seen a definite improvement in the Hogwarts students since Dumbledore had left--house rivalry was even down. As powerful as Dumbledore was, he was not as stern as McGonagall, and the students seemed to know it. In the shock of the century, McGonagall had offered the Deputy position to Snape himself. He had politely declined.

    He had wished for a moment that Potter was still alive--he would have loathed nothing more than seeing Snape have that much power at the school. As always, with the thought of Potter came the thought of Miss Granger--who could have joined her friend in the land of the dead, for all they knew. She had decided to leave, and one thing you could say for her--she stuck by her beliefs. She wanted to be separate, then separate she would surely make herself. Irrational girl.

    He reflected for a moment that she would no longer be a girl. It had been ten years since she left Hogwarts, nine since he had seen her. She would be a woman by now. Perhaps she had married a nice Muggle man and had children. But, no, that was too ordinary for a member of the dream team. It would be a waste of her brains besides. Snape tried to reason to himself that Dumbledore knew where she was--but he couldn’t ignore the now familiar feeling that there was something about the whole business that was being kept from him. He didn’t enjoy being a pawn, and tried to shake that feeling with the comfort that so far, he’d been the only person Dumbledore had trusted to brew the Potion. He wasn’t the only Potions master in the world, yet Dumbledore hadn’t seen fit to ask anyone else to work on the task. It was a nice ego boost, but was becoming quite daunting as failed potion after failed potion disappeared from the cauldron.

    As if he were not already feeling enough pressure, he continued to have dreams of Miss Granger, in hotels and restaurants the world over--in jungles and forests and mountains. Shaking dirt from her hair, crying over Harry, reliving the last moments of his life over and over again. Dreams of Hermione falling in love with a mystery man in a restaurant… dreams of a woman he didn’t know, drinking a dark vial of liquid. Which worried him enough to consider taking on an assistant in the brewing of the antidote.

    Maybe he could ask around… perhaps a little help wouldn’t be so bad. He could turn over the whole task, he thought with a glimmer of happiness. He could go away and disentangle himself from the whole business.