Chapter 9

A/N: Beta reading thanks and hugs to Lariope, Sshg316, and Machshefa, with Brit-picking thanks to Magically. Thanks and kisses to Mischievous T and Lady Rhian for alpha reading!

'There is a privately owned conservatory where I harvest my own potions ingredients...one can visit only by appointment, and I rarely see anyone other than the person who manages the place when I'm there.' He looked up from the purring ginger Kneazle-cushion. 'I could use the skill of a NEWT-level potioneer to gather ingredients. I can promise there will be no crowds of people. If I give you the directions, will you meet me there at two o'clock?'

Chapter 9

Severus was on the spot twenty minutes early, pacing back and forth on the white gravel path before the sign reading:

P Glen Conservatory

By Appointment Only

The series of greenhouses, some interconnected, stretched over eight acres of land on the outer edge of a Muggle neighbourhood. Muggle passersby were stricken with the troubling notion that they had left their stoves on, and those who overcame the compulsion for long enough to glance at the conservatory saw non-descript outbuildings behind a fence marked 'No Trespassing'.

Would she come? It was the question to which he had no answer. Although some of her actions and responses since he had first taken true notice of her, two months before, had been precisely what he would have predicted, more often, she had chosen behaviours completely alien to him. It was a bit daunting to him...he who had spent years of his life playing a double game, wherein his ability to read people and their intentions was paramount...to have such difficulties reading Hermione Granger. Was it because he was male and she female that she seemed so strange to him? Or was there some elemental difference in their personalities...in their conscious, if not rational minds...that caused her to pursue courses of action that defied his ability to comprehend them?

He had not too long to puzzle over his questions, for at two o'clock on the dot she appeared at some distance from him, walking from the copse of trees he had suggested for an Apparition destination. As she approached, he had the opportunity to study her. The shorn hair, which she had worn at first straight and flat upon her head, had grown out enough in one month that it fluffed in a halo of curls, like those of a careless...if clean...schoolboy. She wore trainers, jeans, and a dark hooded jacket over a high-necked white jumper.

'Hi,' she said when she was within hailing distance, a hesitant smile curving her lips.

He nodded in greeting. 'Excellent,' he said briskly. 'You made it.'

Gesturing for her to precede him, they approached the unmarked door to the main building. There was an old-fashioned bell-pull situated on the wall beside the door at Severus' shoulder height, and he gave this a firm tug, setting a bell deep within the building to ringing.

'They keep it locked up?' Hermione said, glancing over her shoulder at him. 'Isn't that odd for a business?'

Severus shrugged. 'As I mentioned, it's privately owned. Visits are permitted only by appointment. We are expected for two o'clock.'

The door opened, and a small white-haired wizard was there, smiling broadly. 'Good afternoon!'

Severus reached past the girl to shake the man's hand. 'Good afternoon, Sodd. This is Miss Granger. She'll be assisting me this afternoon.' To Hermione he said, 'This is the conservatory manager, Twiggle B. Sodd, Master Herbologist.'

Mr Sodd took Hermione's hand between both of his. 'You're welcome, miss...come in from the cold!'

They followed the older wizard into the warm greenhouse, the girl murmuring to him, 'Please, call me Hermione.'

Sodd responded to her, 'Then you must call me Twiggy.' He turned then, gesturing inclusively with both arms, and said to her with self-deprecating pride, 'What do you think of my greenhouse?'

Mr Sodd and Snape began to discuss a grafting project, and Hermione had the leisure to study their contrasting figures. Snape was a head taller than the herbologist, who stood only a few inches taller than Hermione. The potioneer was sallow, eyes fierce beneath expressive brows, hooked nose jutting above thin lips set in determination, his back ramrod straight beneath his black cloak. Twiggle Sodd had rosy round cheeks beneath his shock of white hair, bright blue eyes above a bulbous, pear-shaped nose, and he conversed animatedly, his hands as mobile as his lips. The smaller wizard eschewed robes and wore much more practical Muggle gardening clothes, his many-pocketed trousers bulging with the tools of his trade. His arms were covered, wrist to elbow, in yellow pigskin pruning sleeves, and no-nonsense gardening gloves were tucked into his belt. He wore impressive mud splattered dragon-hide gaiters that reached past his knee; Hermione knew without a doubt that he did not spend much time behind a desk but was greatly involved in the daily doings of the conservatory.

As she watched, the two wizards moved off together, deep in conversation, leaving Hermione alone. She gazed longingly toward a section of the room currently receiving a light mist of precipitation, and when her former professor noticed her absence, he turned to speak to her.

'Look around, if you like,' he said. 'Just remember your lessons and mind yourself around the Colossal Colombian Pitcher Plant and the Venomous Tentacula.'

Hermione walked into the humid air of the greenhouse, unzipping her jacket and tying it about her waist as she went, soaking up the warmth and inhaling the scents of soil, greenery, and natural compost. The rows of meticulously tended plant life were soothing to her, bringing back vivid happy memories of school, of Herbology, under the tutelage of Pomona Sprout. She smiled as she remembered her exasperation at vying with Neville for top place in that class, frustrated that his natural affinity could outpace book knowledge and bloody-minded determination. She had lost out on the top spot in Herbology, just as she had done to Harry in Defence, but her fondness for her friends had robbed the defeat of its sting. Indeed, she had frequently been content in the school greenhouses, up to her wrists in muck as she repotted developing seedlings, giving their trailing roots larger scope for growth.

She admired the organisation of the rows, with the cold-resistant plants closer to the walls, those needing warmth nearer the heat source, which she was eager to investigate. Did this grower use the super-heated water system favoured by Madam Sprout, or some other magical method? She wandered through the perennials, then the annuals, and admired the warm, dry area segregated for the succulents and cacti...then she passed into a section given over completely to flowers. The eye-pleasing palette of colours combined with the luscious scents to fill her heart with gladness. How happy would be the woman who spent her days tending these beautiful, if non-magical, flowering plants!

The designer of the flower room had grouped the plants by colour first, then type, so that she walked through a veritable colour wheel of blossoms. She passed from red gerbera daisies, through yellow tulips, to the blue agapanthus and deep purple pansies, drawn ever onward by the gorgeous hues. Snape came upon her when she had her face buried in a mass of silvery lavender roses, breathing deeply of their soul-soothing scent.

'I'll leave you to wandering, if you prefer,' he said, sounding gruff, 'but I had thought you might like to make yourself useful.'

Hermione turned to face him, seeing that his mouth and eyes did not match his tone...it pleased him to see her enjoying the flowers, and this knowledge gratified her. He seemed to know instinctively the things that would benefit her in some way, and she felt a rush of gratitude.

'What did you have in mind?' she asked, surprised by her own question and a bit embarrassed by how he might take it.

He placed a hand at the small of her back, directing her through a door at the end of the flower room and into a tube-like connecting passage to the next greenhouse. A shiver rippled up her spine at his touch, and she was suddenly acutely aware of his bulk at her back, conscious of his superior height and breadth, feeling the air separating their bodies like an electric charge.

He, however, seemed unaware of her hyper-consciousness and continued on as before.

'The magical plants that are classified as hazardous are in greenhouse three,' he said, pushing through a door with a large black numeral "3" painted on its surface.

'Just like at Hogwarts!' she said rather stupidly, striving to rein in her runaway senses.

'Precisely,' he answered and stopped just inside the door beside a wooden potting table covered with the detritus of repotting. On the wall opposite the table were sturdy shelves filled with gloves, goggles, earmuffs, trowels, and other standard gardening equipment, each sort upon its own labelled shelf. She drew a steadying breath, diverted and somewhat alarmed to see a shelf given over to flame-retardant overalls.

Were there dragons around here somewhere?

'Gear up,' Snape instructed, handing her a set of dragon-hide gloves.

Hermione noted that the gloves appeared well-used but not unclean, and she pulled them on, taking up a set of likely looking goggles as well, fitting the strap about the back of her head and allowing the safety glasses to rest upon her curls. She could not help but notice that Snape was taking his equipment from a box marked "Do Not Use."

'I suppose you have permission,' she remarked, her rule-loving heart somewhat offended by this cavalier disregard.

He looked down at her, an instant look of annoyance passing quickly to amusement, and pulled on a pair of black protective gloves that fit him so precisely they might have been made for him. 'Indeed I do,' he said with mock gravity. 'Sodd insists that I use his gear when I don't bring my own.'

He drew his wand and took hold of one of her hands. She parted her lips to ask a question, but before words could leave her mouth, the gloves on her hands warmed, then contracted, covering her fingers like a second...if dragon-hide...skin.

'These aren't mine!' she protested. 'You've altered their gloves!'

He shrugged and turned, tucking his wand away. 'The spell will expire in six hours or so,' he said indifferently.

He then led her down a row filled with pitcher plants, beginning with small, Muggle specimens and graduating in degrees to the Colossal Colombian Pitcher Plant, a magical variety large enough to trap...and digest, with its enzymes and acids...a full grown man. As they walked, Snape spoke to her, glancing periodically over his shoulder to be sure she was attending to him.

'You remember, I am sure, the characteristics of the Snargaluff,' he said, 'and the pods of the Passiflora Passionata plant have some similar attributes.'

He rounded the corner of the outer aisle, and she followed him, passing the Venomous Tentacula behind its fine mesh guard and stopping before a large flowering vine, adorned with beautiful flowers and bulging pods the size of ostrich eggs. The flowers had five bluish-white petals topped with a white and purple corona; between the petals and the protruding corona were thin, undulating appendages of palest lavender. Hermione drew a deep breath and took a step back.

Snape looked at her approvingly. 'Your instincts and learning are working in your favour,' he commented dryly. 'Immobilising the tendrils is imperative before extracting the scent globule hidden beneath the corona. Otherwise, the tendrils will pierce the skin like the blade of a knife, and the poison coating each appendage is excruciatingly painful.'

Although Snape was speaking to her, she never took her eyes from the treacherous plant. 'Is the venom ... fatal?'

'In large enough quantities, left untreated, it can lead to irreversible brain damage,' he said, 'not unlike the effects of the overuse of the Imperious Curse.'

The change in his tone drew her eyes to his face, but he was looking past her, as if his thoughts were suddenly far away. Did he have some special history with the devastating consequences of the Imperious Curse?

He stepped forward then. 'Now, observe closely.'

Hermione watched in fascination as he immobilised the quivering tendrils, then poked his forefinger through the corona and scooped out a shimmering magenta bead, which looked rather like a liquid paracetamol caplet filled with glitter. He produced a small square box from his pocket and handed it to her.

'Will you do the honours?' he asked.

Hermione lifted the fitted top from the wooden container, revealing a thick pad of cotton wool. Snape placed the globule in the padding.

'The box should hold eight,' he said. 'Would you care to collect them whilst I attend to gathering some other ingredients? I thought, when we're finished here, we could stop off nearby for a late tea.'

Hermione stared at the perfectly symmetrical casing filled with an exotic potions ingredient, cradled as it was in cotton batting, and several thoughts occurred to her at once. What was this substance? For what potion did he need it? And why did he trust her to collect it for him, he who had such exacting standards?

What was he up to?

'Is there anything else I should know about the'...she looked down at the plaque on the pot...'Passiflora Incarnata SS Variation?'

'The danger lies only in the tendrils,' he assured her. 'In the garden variety Maypop, which is the common name of the original flower, there are no magical properties and no poisonous tendrils. The ... sentience came with the grafting of another magical plant to this one.' He studied the exotic flower for a moment, then looked down into her face, and a twisted smile touched his lips. 'It is dangerous for mortal beauty to be examined by too strong a light,' he murmured, and when her brow puckered in confusion, he became all business once again. 'Is this an acceptable task?' he asked. 'Or would you prefer...'

She cut across him, determined to keep her assignment. 'I'll be fine. You can leave it with me.'

And with a slight inclination of his head, as if in thanks, he left her, striding from greenhouse three without a backward glance.

They left the conservatory two hours later, and Mr Sodd was on the spot to see them out. When Hermione confessed how her time...'I've not seen hide nor hair of you these past two hours, miss!'...had been spent, his bright blue eyes grew round.

'I might trust a third-year Apprentice to harvest from the Passiflora variation,' he mused, regarding her now not only with good-natured warmth but with new respect.

'Miss Granger was the top student in her year,' Snape replied smoothly, obviating the necessity of Hermione producing a reply. 'An exceptional scholar with the focus...and steady hands...of a true proficient.'

Hermione turned her face to him, her eyes wide with shock, her lips parted in an "O" of surprise. Snape responded with a tightening of his lips and a jerk of his head; she wasn't attending to their host.

Mr Sodd beamed. 'It is a true pleasure to have met you, my dear,' he assured Hermione. 'I hope you won't object if I bestow you with a small token of my esteem.' And from behind his back, like a Muggle magician, the Master Herbologist produced a bouquet of six perfect buds of the silvery lavender roses she had admired.

Hermione flushed with pleasure at the gesture, but she was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed. Though she felt great inward satisfaction for successfully completing her assignment, physical exhaustion was taking hold of her. It had been a long time since she had been anywhere other than her flat or Grimmauld Place for an appreciable time.

'Thank you,' she said, accepting the stems, which had been carefully wrapped for freshness. Tears were threatening, and she could only be grateful when she felt a strong, if gentle, hand upon her shoulder.

'We'll be off now,' Snape said firmly. 'I'll see you next week, Sodd.'

And Snape turned her to the door, shepherding her out into the chill January dusk.

A/N: Snape uses a partial quote from Samuel Johnson in speaking to Hermione about the plant from which she harvested the ingredient. The full quote is:

It is dangerous for mortal beauty, or terrestrial virtue, to be examined by too strong a light. The torch of Truth shows much that we cannot, and all that we would not, see.

Author: Samuel Johnson (1709 - 1784)