A Most Convincing Liar

Chapter 7 A Most Convincing Liar

Hermione climbed the steep stairs and emerged through the trap door, using one hand to steady herself against the edge of the aperture and the other to clutch the crock of lacewing flies. In the light of the storeroom...for the cellar was quite dark, and she hadn't a hand to spare for her wand or a torch...she read the date scribbled on the side of the crock in chinagraph pencil: 27.8.08.

Perfect. She set the crock on the floor and swung herself up after it, then closed the trap door. She supposed she could have cast a Stasis Charm and waited another couple of days to brew the Polyjuice, but there were suppliers and rent to be paid, and her innate sense of order to be placated. Best to do things on schedule.

It would be nice to have an assistant of Snape's caliber, though, for an order of this volume. "Assistant," Hermione? Who are you kidding? All right, not an assistant. A mentor? No. A partner, then.

She had laid out the rest of the potion ingredients on the table before bringing up the stewed lacewings, and now set about chopping, grating, weighing, and measuring. She wound three whole boomslang skins into the food processor, pausing to admire the pale green-and-grey checkered pattern before pressing the button briefly and reducing them to shreds. I wonder what Snape would think of this device, she thought. He would have to admit that it beats the hell out of all that tedious slicing we used to do.

She let herself imagine for a moment what it would be like to work alongside him on a more regular basis. She liked working alone, and had guarded her privacy fiercely over the years. As convenient as it might have been to bring in a partner when the orders were coming thick and fast, she liked being free to come and go as she pleased, and hated the thought of having to make small talk as she worked. In that regard, at least, Snape would be an ideal colleague: he was less likely than anyone she knew to make vapid social conversation. She doubted he even knew how.

Bicorn horn next: this went into a small coffee grinder more suited than the food processor to handling small, very hard objects. Both appliances operated under a permanent Muffliato Charm that allowed her to use them without disturbing the quiet of the laboratory: the grinder, in particular, otherwise made a loud high-pitched whine that put her in mind of an outraged mandrake.

So, no egregious noises from machines or colleagues . . . but if she was being completely honest, that was...by far...not the biggest obstacle to her taking on a partner. Neville Longbottom, for instance, could certainly have been counted on not to natter on unnecessarily, and he was a dab hand at herbology, which had never been her strong suit. But Neville was Gryffindor to the core, as straight as an arrow, and would have balked immediately at the first hint of any sort of dubious undertaking.

And "dubious" applied to a good two-thirds of the transactions that paid her rent.

The notorious laxity of the Spanish Ministerio de magia allowed her to run her business unmolested here in Spain, but she was well aware that much of her custom came from Britain and involved materials and enchantments that were carefully controlled there, if not banned outright.

While this did not bother her in the slightest, she knew Neville would never stand for it.

Snape, on the other hand . . .

Of course, this little fantasy that she was having took as a given that he would be available, not to mention willing. He had offered no explanation for his presence in Salamanca. She had no idea how he was occupying his newly liberated self, or whether...more to the point...he would want to spend any time at all in her presence.

There. That's the crux of it, isn't it?

She had felt, the whole time he was here, the oppressive presence of their shared history. Had kept waiting, expecting him to say something, anything. And the closest he had come to mentioning it at all had been that bitter comment about Wilbur's being better off dead.

What did you expect, you silly cow? Gratitude? From Snape?

No, not gratitude...and a good thing, too, as that was clearly not on offer...but at least perhaps some acknowledgment. A little nod in the direction of the intersection of their paths.

There was a tap at the French doors and she looked up to see a spectacled owl settling onto the railing and casting a darkly covetous glance at Tuppenny in her cage. She fed it a bit of ham instead, and sat down to read...not without some difficulty, as her Portuguese was limited...the letter it had brought.

16 de Setembro de 2008

Gabriel

Her pulse quickened as she read the first paragraph. So the lingua mentirosa vine really did exist!

Bla, bla, bla, five hundred kilometers up the Rio Negro, bla, bla, Luz is about to have her baby, bla, bla . . . oh shit.

Oh. Shit.

And where, pray tell, was she to procure uma bruxa ou um bruxo capaz, much less one in whom she could confiar?

The answer was in her mind almost before the question formed itself, and she snatched up quill and parchment, determined to have done with it before she lost her nerve.

17 September 2008

Dear Snape (this seemed the least awkward of the possible ways she might address him),

I wonder if you would be interested in accompanying me on a materials-gathering expedition.

H Granger

She sent the owl off with the letter, and then did her best to put the matter out of her mind while she concentrated on finishing the Polyjuice. If she was to be gone for three weeks, she would need to have all her current orders filled before she left, and the list pinned to the storeroom door seemed suddenly intimidatingly long.

It had been dark out for several hours when she finished the potion, and there had still been no reply to her owl. The more she thought about it, the more embarrassed she felt...it had been hugely presumptuous to ask him such a thing on the basis of one day's companionable work. What had she been thinking? She began to imagine all the different sarcastic and belittling forms his answer might take, all the scathing turns of phrase he might use to cut her down to size.

Or perhaps he would simply not reply at all, and she would spend the next week in this awful state of speculation, her mercilessly comprehensive memory dredging up every humiliating incident, every cutting remark from her years at Hogwarts.

I am a bloody great idiot.

There was a tap at the French doors, and she looked up, hoping the owl had returned with some kind of answer to put her out of her misery.

There was no owl. What there was, was Snape himself, robed this time against the cool night breeze, his cloak and hair looking indigo in the moonlight.

Fuck.

She crossed and opened the door, and he entered in a swirl of robes. Hermione's throat constricted painfully...this was not yesterday's shirtsleeved and agreeable colleague. This was full-strength, undiluted Professor scare-the-shit-out-of-you Snape.

Fuck fuckitty fuck fuck FUCK.

"Do you mind if I sit?" he asked, and she realized she was standing and gawking like a first-year.

"Oh, no, yes, please do, I...I'll make some tea."

"I could do with something stronger, if you have it."

Gods, so could I. "Whisky. Yes." Brilliant, Hermione: from babbling to monosyllabic in thirty seconds.

While she was pouring, he brought out the letter from his pocket.

"So tell me about this plant."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No babbling. He's not going to bite you.

"It's called lingua mentirosa: 'lying tongue.' I first heard of it a few months ago."

"And what does it do that's so sensitive you can't put it in a letter?"

She blushed slightly. "Supposedly it makes you a most convincing liar. It has a reputation as a drug of seduction."

She saw the beginnings of a smile. "And whom were you planning to seduce, Miss Granger?"

"No one, I'm not...god, no! That's not...I mean...I wasn't planning on using it to seduce anyone."

So much for no babbling. She took another deep breath. "I was thinking it could be used to brew an antidote for Veritaserum."

He set his glass down gently on the table. "That," he said, "is a very interesting possibility."

"Yes."

"And potentially quite lucrative."

A wild impulse seized her, and the words were out before she could stop them. "I'll split the profits with you."

"Done," he said.

A/N: In addition to the usual effusive praise for my beta/Britpick team of corianderpie and exartemarte, extra super-special thanks are due this chapter to ferporcel for her help with the Portuguese