Chapter 10: That Old Black Magic or Recipe for Success, Recipe for Disaster

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Chapter 10: That Old Black Magic or Recipe for Success, Recipe for Disaster

Friday, 30 April 1999 – first night of the full moon – Hogsmeade Arms Apartments, Building One, Flat One.

The atmosphere was dense and sultry, but it had nothing to do with the fumbling flirtations of the ghost and Ms. Granger. It was the steamy potion, softly simmering on the hob in Hermione's kitchen, plus a soupçon of tension from the anxious spirit hovering over her shoulder.

That evening, Snape experienced a rainbow of conflicting feelings, none of which he cared to examine in any detail; it went without saying, of course, that annoyance was at the top of the list. And at the moment, her brewing technique – or lack thereof – chafed him even more than any unnamed emotion. Regardless, ghostly inner turmoil had no bearing on Hermione, and her hands remained steady as she sliced bursting mushrooms into delicate slivers.

"Curl your fingers," Snape advised. "I don't recall human parts amongst the ingredients for Fire Protection Potion."

"Thank you, Jamie Oliver. I'll take that under advisement," she replied tartly, continuing her knife work but with a bit more caution. "You know, this isn't the first time I've brewed or cooked, for that matter." She tipped the contents of the cutting board into the standard size 2 copper cauldron, picked up the glass stirring rod from the spoon rest on the counter and began stirring clockwise.

"Of course," he agreed sweetly – the saccharine of his voice nearly sending him into a diabetic coma – adding, "lock your wrist and elbow. The potion is extremely thick at this point, like cold, day-old Mulligatawny. You'll fatigue less this way."

She shot him a sharp look over her shoulder as she continued to stir. The potion then turned a lovely shade of blue – turquoise, to be exact – thus signaling the next step.

"And when did you last brew?" he asked, still feeding his daily quota of snark, a fruitless attempt to gloss over his mixed emotions.

"Last spring. Polyjuice Potion." There was no mistaking the pride in her voice, but she kept her eyes focused on dispensing and adding exactly sixty cubic centimeters of salamander blood to the bubbly potion. Now she stirred anti-clockwise – from the shoulder, of course – the potion thinning to the consistency of warm, soupy, freshly made Mulligatawny.

"Well, I hope that turned out better than your first attempt, although, technically, that was flawless brewing." As his unease grew, so did his sarcasm.

Hermione bristled at his acid-coated compliment and threw herself into stirring, hunching over the cauldron and effectively blocking Snape's view of the potion. Abruptly, it changed from blue to green, a pale seafoam color.

"That's hard for me to say," she said, putting down the stirring rod and donning dragon-hide gloves for the next steps. "I impersonated Bellatrix Lestrange," she explained through gritted teeth as she crushed Wartcap powder with a mortar and pestle. "What's better? A hybrid human/cat or a psychotic witch/bitch?"

Snape laughed, gliding away from Hermione to give her some much needed space. He never did answer her question.

Hermione relaxed her rigid stance and added the powder to the cauldron. She then picked up the stirring rod for the final step, clockwise rotations. The consistency had changed yet again to that of thick, yet homogeneous solution, a honey-like paste that was both liquid and solid at the same time.

Snape noticed a sheen of perspiration blossoming on Hermione's forehead as she struggled to maintain proper stirring technique, her arm tiring from such strenuous activity following a long period of disuse; wand-waving may develop one's muscle memory, but it does nothing for stamina. He had no desire to berate her brewing anymore.

The snippy conversation had died, and the only sounds to be heard were Snape's heavy, petulant sighs and the scraping of glass against copper filtered through dense potion.

After a long interval of sighing and stirring, Hermione broke the tense silence. "I've lived with you long enough to know when something is bothering you, Severus. Would you care to talk about it?"

With his unreadable expression in place, he replied, "Nooo." After another uneasy quiescence, he added, "I'm sorry for criticizing your brewing technique. It was uncalled for."

She spun around, facing him while still maintaining a constant stirring cadence. Her wide-eyed look reminded him of a house-elf about to inflict self-punishment. "Merlin's balls! Something must be wrong if you are apologizing."

In his most disinterested voice, he said , "If you are so conscious of my moods, then you would know something is always irritating me. And when have I ever wanted to talk about emotions?"

Hermione turned her attention back to brewing. She had no time to think of a snappy comeback, let alone reply, for after a few more stirs, the potion changed to its final color, a bright red, the color of a raging blaze. With the Fire Protection Potion complete, she hefted the cauldron off the burner, placing it on a cork trivet for cooling, and doffed her protective gear before joining Snape at the kitchen table.

"Let's review the plan again, Severus." She switched from agony aunt to bossy witch in under a second. "At eleven thirty, we move the operation to Flat Four, taking with us the cauldron and the additional ingredients I've stored in my magically enhanced evening bag." She patted the lumpy, ruffle-edged pocket of her gingham apron and continued, "We'll set up in the bedroom where I'll complete the potion. Then you'll drink the potion, I'll recite the incantation, and Bob's your uncle. Any questions?"

"You're not very forthcoming with specific details, are you?" he drawled, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance.

She looked him squarely in the eye and spoke with utter confidence. "As I said before, I have it all under control. Besides, I've found that when I disseminate information at the last possible moment, my compatriots have less time to ruminate or stage a coup."

Just like Dumbledore, he thought. "You've learned from the best of plotters, Hermione."

"Thank you... I think." She shook her head as though clearing out dusty cobwebs and mushy sentiment and, without further ado, rose from her seat. "I'll be getting ready for the ritual. See you later, Severus."

The ghost in the kitchen was once again left behind to... do what?

Clean up? That would have been a productive distraction, but Hermione was very neat for a rank amateur potioneer, and the kitchen was near spotless already; she had even washed her utensils as she brewed.

Retire to the lounge for a spot of brandy and a bit of fluffy reading? A frivolous and enjoyable distraction, indeed, but Snape needed his wits about him for the upcoming ritual; one couldn't be too careful when playing with fire and dabbling in untested spells and potions.

That left the one time killer he was wont to avoid at all costs: introspection. What was vexing him so much?

Control. Just a seven-lettered, two-syllabled word, but to Severus Snape, it meant everything because he never truly had any. His parents had controlled the early years, so his every action, reaction, and utterance had been a perfected response made only to avoid punishment. At Hogwarts, his teachers, peers, and enemies had kept him on guard, vigilant to a paranoiac fault. Voldemort and Dumbledore had pulled the strings in his adult life. Even in death, The Powers That Be confined him until he could resolve his unfinished business. And for that to happen, he was at the mercy of one of the most aggravating thorns his metaphorical side had the misfortune to encounter in his too brief life: Hermione Granger. Granted, her intellect and perseverance made her the perfect candidate to resurrect Snape. Still, it irked him that he was dependent upon another being yet again for his continued existence.

What else to consider on such a lovely evening? Well, there was hope and despair and everything in between. What if the resurrection were a failure? Could he withstand any more heartbreak in his short, miserable, yet memorable existence? But what if the resurrection were a success? How would he explain his sudden reappearance to the wizarding world? What the hell would he do for the rest of his second life? What would that mean for Snape and...?

Having reached his quota of allotted questions in a thirty-second period, Snape retired to the library-cum-lounge for a speed round of chick lit. Would he choose the spendthrift shopaholic or the yo-yo dieting diarist? He really hadn't the capacity for either, considering the "life-altering" ritual which would take place in a few hour's time, so instead he read the seminal work of one of the wizarding world's literary giants, Magical Me by Gilderoy Lockhart.

Eleven thirty, Hogsmeade Arms Apartments, Building One, Flat Four.

With elegance and a bit of trepidation, Snape eased his vaporous body through the wall and unlocked the back door for Hermione's unhindered entrance. A heavy, invisible cloud of patchouli and musk wafted into the room, and she arrived a few seconds later. Snape's eyes widened to the extreme, his brows almost blending seamlessly with his hairline; to say he was taken aback, speechless, caught off guard by her appearance would have been an understatement. She was the literal vision of loveliness: a crown of freshly picked spring flowers perched atop her head, the perfect adornment for her wild tresses, and she wore...

"What the hell are you wearing?" he exclaimed when his vocal cords finally overcame their paralysis.

A flush of red infused every inch of her exposed skin, as though she were a hot-flashing middle-aged witch toiling over a hot cauldron. Her hand flew up to the circle of buds and blooms on her head. "Oh, this... erm... Well, tomorrow is the first, and I'm supposed to be..."

"The May Queen, yes, I can see that, but I don't understand why."

"We need all the help we can get. If dressing like this gets the pagan gods on our side, then all the better." She handed Snape her well-used beaded bag and the cauldron containing the potion base. "Would you take these upstairs please? I have one more detail to handle." Using her wand, Hermione began working her magic on the counter top and plumbing.

"Let me guess, we need all the help we can get?" he asked with sardonic insouciance.

"Right!" she exclaimed, finishing her task with a twirly, whirly flourish. "The potion will have everything and the kitchen sink." She levitated the porcelain-coated monstrosity and headed toward the staircase. "Well, are you coming or not? We have lots to do before midnight."

Snape rolled his eyes, although he risked offending his savior. He followed closely behind her and admired the view. This ritual might go pear shaped, but the evening isn't a total loss. Her long chestnut hair cascaded down her back in a river of ringlets. Simply beautiful. She truly has mastered Charms if she managed to tame that crazy mane of hers. The pure white gown made her look like an angelic sex goddess, the gossamer material accentuating her subtle curves, skimming her hips and buttocks like a second skin. Is this what she meant by 'getting ready for the ritual?' Did she paint that dress on? Is she wearing any underwear? She's killing me and I'm already dead. Hey! Are those tiny buttons on her sleeves and hem? "Hermione, where did you get that dress?"

She tripped on the last step, the kitchen sink faltering slightly in its mid-air flight, but she continued marching stolidly into the bedroom. The sink landed gently on the hardwood floor, and Hermione blew a sigh of relief. "Whew! That was close. Just put those," she waved imperiously, then began walking around the room, inspecting the windows and ceiling, "anywhere, and I'll take care of them."

Snape placed the cauldron inside the sink and laid her bag beside it. He was waiting for the answer to his question, tapping his foot impatiently, which made a noise only ghosts and half-Kneazles could hear. "The dress...?"

Hermione remained at the back of the room, avoiding the bright beam of moonlight streaming through the window. "Well, as you know, we need..."

"All the help we can get," he chimed in, joining her oft-repeated chorus.

"Right, so necromancers of old would immerse themselves in the macabre parts of death. They ate foods that symbolized rot and lifelessness and wore clothes belonging to the deceased. Some necromancers went to the extreme, mutilating and eating corpses." She smiled tentatively, seemingly embarrassed and pleased by her knowledge of ancient necromancy.

"So, you're wearing my transfigured frock coat and you cannibalized my body?" He didn't know which shocked him more, the desecration of his body or the desecration of his wardrobe.

"What! No! I'm not that kind of necromancer. I'm not even an official necromancer. I'm just dabbling in it, and... and, erm, we're wasting time, Severus. There's lots to do still. A potion to finish, a roof to blast off." Once again, she walked about the room, examining the ceiling very closely.

Snape didn't think the night could become any more strange. "And why are you blasting the roof off?"

"The ritual needs to be performed under the full moon and out in the open. But you would run the risk of dangerous temporal anomalies if you step outside the boundaries of the Shrieking Shack. Removing the roof is the next best thing."

"So potential temporal anomalies are dangerous, but taking the roof off a building isn't?"

"And that's why we're here in the empty flat instead of ours. I didn't want to risk losing...Severing Charm! Why didn't I think of that in the first place? It's so much neater than Bombarda Maxima. I'll simply cut off the roof over this room and then mend it with Reparo. I may still get to keep my security deposit." Hermione spoke the incantation, "Diffindo," and aimed her wand at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. A diffuse cloud of sawdust and plaster appeared, followed by a razor thin beam of moonlight piercing through the short and slightly uneven incision. She repeated the procedure for each wall, effectively detaching the roof, and then levitated it softly to the ground.

For the first time in almost a year, Snape looked upon the open sky, beautiful, daunting, and filled with moon and stars. A light and unusually warm, late-April breeze caressed and embraced him. The faint sounds of rustling leaves and drunken revelers roared in his ears. All his senses transcended the confines of the Shrieking Shack. It was the closest he'd been to freedom in almost a year. Nature threatened to overwhelm him, distract him from the task at hand, until...

"And now to finish the potion," Hermione announced exuberantly.

She flicked her wand at the kitchen sink, and four sturdy, squat legs grew from the bottom to raise it up several inches from the floor. She decanted the thick and sticky Fire Protection Potion into the sink and then conjured her patented bluebell flames beneath. Soon, tiny bubbles rose to the surface and burst with excitement. Kneeling next to the sink-cum-cauldron, she next reached into her omnipresent beaded bag and retrieved three more bags containing the remaining ingredients.

"This resurrection ritual, including the potion you'll drink, Severus, was inspired by many sources and cultures. The additional ingredients can be categorized into three distinct groups. First, the Greco-Roman elements, tributes to the gods, meant to ensure your safe passage from the underworld... or, wherever it is you've been this past year... back to the land of the living." She reached into the largest and lumpiest of the three bags and pulled out the contents, item by item, explaining the meaning behind each ingredient. "This golden bough is symbolic of the gift Aeneas presented Proserpina, wife of Pluto." Hermione used the foot-long, gilded stick to stir the potion base.

"I know Horace surrounds himself in luxury, but this is ridiculous. When did a gold stirring rod become part of the standard potions kit?" asked the cynical ghost.

"It's not, although Horace did allow me free run of the school stores when I told him I wanted to brew a "special" rheumatism potion for Professor McGonagall's birthday. Of course, I failed to mention that it takes place five months from now."

"He wouldn't think to question your motives because you are a decorated war heroine and his head is probably so far up Minerva's arse that he can't tell whether it's day or night."

"Eww, that's just... eww." She shook her head violently, as though she were trying to rid herself of that unappealing mental image. "No, this bough," she waved it about, as though conducting an invisible orchestra, "was donated by everybody's favorite sentient tree, the Whomping Willow, and coated with gold paint purchased from a Sainsbury's superstore in Greater Edinburgh. In fact, that store was a great source for many ingredients like this..." She pulled out several oddly shaped, tan-colored biscuits, crushed them in her hands and sprinkled the crumbs over the potion. "These Bonios, which I've doused in Draught of Living Death, are tribute for a potential guest... Fluffy."

"You have to be joking. Do you really expect a Cerberus to appear tonight?" Apparently, he was wrong earlier when he thought the night couldn't get any more bizarre; it had already surpassed his expectations on the weirdness scale.

"Well, maybe. Frankly, I don't know what to expect. We are performing an untested ritual, and anything could happen. So we have to be ready for anything, even to the point of over-preparation." Then she pulled not one but four coins from the bag. "In ancient Greece, coins of small denomination – gold, silver, bronze or copper – were used as Charon's obol, payment for entrance into the underworld. We will use Muggle and wizarding currency," she dropped the coins – Knut, Sickle, Galleon, and vintage halfpenny – one by one into the potion, "to fund your safe return to the land of the living."

Next, she produced a half-liter bottle of a thick, murky substance – transparent, gray, and chunky – accented with flecks of black; it resembled moldy, watery porridge seasoned with freshly ground pepper. "This represents water from the river Acheron." She uncorked it, tipped it over and forcibly shook the contents into the already-viscous potion, and it became... more glutinous and sticky, the consistency and color of cold molasses. "Huh, what do you know... I thought the water would make the potion... well, more watery."

"The Acheron is both actual and mythological; it's not surprising it would behave in a manner other than expected. And when did you have time to travel to Greece and collect that?"

"Erm, I didn't have time to travel to Greece, but I did have time to visit your hometown of Cokeworth. I thought the sludge-tinged water there could stand in for the major waterways of the underworld." He had spent his formative years in that dismal, dreadful place, and he couldn't argue with her reasoning.

Continuing, she produced a small vial of burgundy-colored liquid. "These are Persephone's tears, metaphorically speaking."

"Persephone is the Greek counterpart to Proserpina. I thought we covered her with the golden bough," Snape commented, a bit perplexed by the redundancy.

"Exactly! Remember, over-preparation... Please as many gods as possible... We need all the help we can get..." She drew the pomegranate juice into an eye dropper and dispensed exactly twelve drops. "One for each month you've resided in the underworld... or wherever." She stirred and stirred and stirred the potion, adding one counter-clockwise turn for good measure, and it deepened to a dark blood-red hue, the color of... well, pomegranates.

Having emptied the first bag of ingredients, Hermione began to dispense from the second bag. "These ingredients represent rebirth and regeneration, symbolic of your new start in life, your second chance." Upon hearing Hermione speak those hopeful words, Snape blanched, but fortunately for the stoic ghost, his pale visage hid his reaction well.

She launched into exposition once again, adding items to the potion one by one, and his opportunity for navel gazing was lost. "Most of these were locally grown and harvested from the Forbidden Forest: ouroboros, the tail-devouring snake – non-venomous, of course – the eternal cycle; caterpillar and butterfly, metamorphosis; phoenix feather, nature's supreme recycler; and finally..."

"You found Fawkes in the Forbidden Forest?" Snape asked excitedly, truly delighted to learn his old friend/mentor/employer/puppet master's familiar had returned to roost. "He hasn't been seen since..." He intentionally trailed off, successfully staving off those messy emotions which threatened to overwhelm and transform him from reserved spirit to weepy, soppy mess.

"No, I nicked Dumbledore's phoenix feather quill from the Headmistress's office," she answered, disappointment and guilt evident in her voice. "And finally," she repeated, quick to divert his attention back to the task at hand, "Olay® Total Effects moisturizer, the ultimate renewal fluid."

"Let me guess... Sainsbury's?" Acerbic Snape had returned to action.

"Exactly! It's one-stop shopping at its best." Hermione poured the creamy liquid into the sink and continued stirring. Now the potion had the consistency of warm pancake syrup, but the color resembled tomato bisque, bright red and opaque with chunky bits strewn about. "Moving on to the last set of ingredients now: the essence of Severus Snape."

Essence. The word disturbed him, made him anxious. What on earth did she think made up the man, the wizard, Severus Snape? Over the past months – especially after learning he was never meant to die – he had performed a character analysis of sorts, contemplating what he was, who he was. The brutal truth he discovered was neither good nor bad but somewhere in between: he was a complex mixture of commendable characteristics and repugnant ones as well, just like any number of wizarding world citizens, with the exception of Voldemort, who had been overwhelmingly despicable. Her opinions on the subject had little or no practical value to him, yet Snape was afraid and more than a bit curious to learn what Hermione considered his essence, his nature, his very being.

"DNA, Severus, your cellular fingerprint, the biological makeup that distinguishes you from everyone else," she stated, poetic and scientific. His silent sigh of relief could only be heard by ghosts and half-Kneazles. "But to obtain that, I needed personal effects. Sadly, I couldn't find a thing at Hogwarts. Winky was loathe to even part with your frock coat. I literally had to wrest it from her bony, little hands. She's one loyal and creepy house-elf."

"Why didn't you just go to my home at Spinner's End when you were collecting the tainted water?" he offered. "Surely, you would have found personal items there."

"Erm, right..." She hesitated just enough to pique his anxiety again. "Are you familiar with the term urban renewal?"

"Yes, I believe I'm standing in the Hogsmeade version of it, and..." He groaned, his brain finally catching up with his ears. "Do you mean to tell me it's gone? My home is..."

"Razed. Flattened. Torn down last fall. Its 'essence' and contents buried deep within the Cokeworth landfill. That includes your personal effects." She sounded as dejected as he felt.

He groaned again. Not only was I the unluckiest man on the face of the earth, now I am the unluckiest ghost on the planet. He buried his face in his hands and continued his lament. "My library, my potions lab... destroyed. Oh, the horror..." He would have collapsed on the floor in a weepy heap of ghostly gray robes had Hermione not been there.

"Hey, Kurtz, don't lose it now. Books and potions equipment can be replaced, even the rare stuff. And for the purposes of this potion, I found a way to get around the lack of Snape-specific DNA."

He regained his composure and looked to Hermione, his face appearing both expectant and indifferent at once. "You have my attention again."

"Keep in mind I'm painting with broad strokes here." She reached into the third bag and began to pull out the last of the ingredients. "These items symbolize your major character traits. There are admirable ones and... Well, remember, even roses have thorns."

He would learn what Hermione thought of him after all. It was the kind of emotional bareness he wouldn't want to endure on a good day. He was about to realize one of his worst fears. It was one thing to endure honest self-analysis; it was an entirely different matter to hear those harsh words spoken aloud by a subjective critic, especially one who had been the frequent target of Snape's sharp tongue.

"When I think of Severus Snape, the first thing that comes to mind is intelligence, and to represent that, I've chosen cervelle de veau...," she paused to drop in a pink, slimy, encapsulated mass of tissue about the size of a Pygmy Puff, "calf's brain!" The potion grew violently foamy for a few moments, then settled down to a slow and steady boil.

He scowled, annoyed at her blatant disregard for quality culinary delicacies. "I could have put that to better use: sauteed with brown butter, lemon, and capers."

"When you are resurrected, you can saute all the offal in Scotland, but in the meantime... A slug." Kerplunk. "A snail." Ploink. "A puppy dog's tail." Plop. "That's what..."

"Little boys are made of," he finished the popular nursery rhyme in a flat, humorless voice.

"Well, you had to start somewhere. I can assure you that, despite popular belief, you didn't come into this world fully developed and dressed in black." She blushed for the second time that night, and Snape could only imagine what she was imagining.

"Is there a tail-less dog roaming the Sainsbury's superstore of Greater Edinburgh?" He smirked, horrified and pleased at the prospect of Hermione maiming an innocent animal on his behalf.

"Actually, that's a frankfurter transfigured into a Crup tail. And keeping with the category of food..." She added a thick slice of cold cut, jellied with hunks of meat. "Head cheese to symbolize your pigheadedness."

"I'm not the only stubborn one around here," he countered, becoming very defensive to her analysis.

She exhaled a heavy sigh, one part exhaustion, one part exasperation. "I don't disagree, but time's running out, and I have more ingredients to add to the potion. We can debate this later, but I'd like to finish without interruption, if you don't mind."

He did mind, but to bring a speedy end to the night's worst moments – the assassination of his character – he acquiesced with a brief, sharp nod to which Hermione responded with a nod of her own, slow and graceful. The painful process continued, alternating between admirable traits and unfortunate flaws.

She reached into the bag and pulled out an oddly shaped object, multicolored and globular, fitting in the palm of her hand. "For endurance, I've chosen the Everlasting Gobstopper, but not the standard commercially available one. This has been transfigured to look like the fictionalized version." The confection floated innocuously on the surface, refusing to dissolve or dissipate in any manner, as its name implied.

"Courtesy of greenhouse number three," she produced an oval-shaped red-green fruit covered with sparse, tiny needles, "a prickly pear because you are..." It went without saying, and the heavy fruit fell with ease through the mucilagenous mass.

"Next, this pork belly, from the soft, unprotected underside of the pig, represents vulnerability." She probably considers that a positive attribute, given her bleeding heart Gryffindor sensibilities, he thought.

The next ingredients were presented in quick succession. "These shouldn't need explanation: sweet and sour sauce, salt, Angostura bitters." She emptied the bottles willy-nilly into the sink, sticky drops and granules occasionally falling to the floor, then used her special stirring rod to incorporate the condiments into the mix.

"This is for your grit, your indomitable... spirit." She produced a pickling jar of sand collected from the shores of the Black Lake and emptied the contents atop the catch-all potion. It sat on the surface at first, slowly drawing up moisture, then sank to the bottom of the sink.

Hermione dipped into the bag again and retrieved a leggy cutting of delicate green leaves topped with tiny yellow flowers. "Rue for regret." She crushed the herb and sprinkled it atop the potion. She followed that with another flowery specimen, sparse in appearance with burgundy stalks and untidy pink-purple petals. "In the language of flowers, the ragged robin symbolizes wit." It received the same treatment as the rue.

Next, she used her wand to remove a third plant, obviously too dangerous to touch with bare hands. It had a tall and wiry stem, long spade-shaped leaves with a serrated edge, and tiny hairs covering its entirety. Snape cringed, recognizing the plant and what it meant. Nettle for cruelty. Perhaps she witnessed his reaction, for she said nothing in explanation as she dropped the entire specimen into the psychedelic stew pot and stirred the potion again to incorporate the leafy greens and flowers into the mix.

"This last ingredient is most rare and, in my opinion, describes your essence more than anything other." In her hands, she held a heart, recently harvested from the looks of its purple-red flesh and gamey, ferric odor. Was it animal, human, or something else entirely? Snape tried to maintain his workaday unreadable expression, but one quizzical eyebrow had a mind of its own, rising to the occasion. "I can practically see the wheels turning in your head, Severus. There's nothing to fear: this boar's heart came from a local butcher in Hogsmeade. It is doubly special because the boar is a symbol of courage in heraldry and the heart also represents courage." She treated it as though it were a precious gem, lowering it softly and slowly into the resurrection potion. "Just a bit of blending, and the potion will be completed."

Hermione applied near-Herculean effort to stirring the potion for the last time. Kneeling beside the sink/cauldron and gripping the golden bough with two hands, she locked her wrists and elbows, as her Potions master had earlier instructed, and threw herself into churning the gooey, grainy, chunky mixture. She rocked with fervid intensity, knocking her crown of flowers askew; she didn't even pause to wipe the beads of sweat from her brow.

Conversation lulled, and the room grew near silent; labored breathing and bursting potion bubbles were the only noises to be heard. In those moments of peace, Snape thought about Hermione's assessment: accurate to a fault regarding his imperfections, but perhaps a bit ambitious in extolling his virtues. Vulnerable? Gritty? Sweet? Courageous? She's mistaken me for Molly Weasley. Yet overall, the process wasn't terribly painful.

"Whew! It's finally done," she proclaimed, sitting back on her haunches and dabbing her face with a fluttery bell sleeve. "It needs to rest and cool down a bit." Flourishing her wand like an seasoned Charms mistress, she extinguished the bluebell flames beneath the sink. She reached into her beaded bag once again and pulled out a cup. Not an ordinary cup, nothing that one could purchase at a local Sainsbury's superstore, but a homemade cup fashioned by Hermione herself: a slightly misshapen cylinder made of flimsy-looking silver-gray material...

"Is that a duct tape cup? How can that insubstantial vessel even hold water, let alone that heavy, dense goo?" He could foresee the future, and it featured him covered in resurrection potion.

"It is indeed duct tape, a man-made fix-all for any mechanical problem. I've said it before: we need all the help we can get. Besides, the cup is magically fortified; it will hold. See...?" Using her wand, Hermione directed a slow-moving stream of thick, lumpy potion into the cup, then proudly proffered it to Snape as though it were the prized Triwizard Cup – without the evil enchantment, of course.

He reluctantly accepted it, but kept it at arm's length, lest he be overcome by any potential noxious fumes. Snape swirled the cup and, having verified its structural integrity, brought it to his face to examine the contents. Using proper technique, he wafted the scent to his nose – rather than plunging his proboscis in the potion – and inhaled an earthy, gamey, mineral-laden aroma. Not bad, not terribly good either. Gloppy, gluey blood-red droplets streaked the inside of the cup and coalesced, pooling again at the bottom. Pomona Sprout has better legs than this. Bits of grit, internal organs, invertebrates, and herbaceous matter peppered the potion. It couldn't taste any worse than Skelegrow. "I'm going to need a chaser after this. Is there any beer or brandy in your bag?"

As the old saying goes, timing is everything, and at that moment, he heard the bells toll as the Hogsmeade clock tower struck midnight: the witching hour was upon them like tartan on a Scotsman.

"Sorry, but time has run out." She Evanesco'd the potion, pulled out an Duraflame Xtra Firelog from her bag, tossed it into the sink and set it ablaze. "Incendio! Bottoms up, Severus. We have a ritual to perform."

"Cheers," he said without one iota of enthusiasm. Snape pinched his nose and guzzled the potion as though it were a cheap Cabernet from a screw-top bottle and he were dying of thirst. If this works, I'll need copious amounts of alcohol to wash away the vile aftertaste. If this fails, I'll still need copious amounts of alcohol.

Hermione walked a clockwise circuit around the sink-cum-firepit and launched into the resurrection spell. "I appeal to the gods of the underworld. Flesh and bone, blood and sinew, heart and soul, body and mind. Return Severus Snape to life, return him whole."

She turned about and repeated the procedure in a counter-clockwise direction, this time speaking in Latin. " Deorum inferorum appello. Caro et os, sanguine et nervus, cor et anima, corpore et animo. Et convertimini ad vitam Severus Snape, reddite ei pro toto." She then stood stock still, rooted in place beside the fire, reciting the spell in Greek, "Apef̱thýno̱ ékkli̱si̱ stous theoús tou Káto̱ Kósmou . Sárka kai ostá , to aíma kai ténontas , ti̱n kardiá kai ti̱n psychí̱ , to só̱ma kai to myaló . Epistrofí̱ sti̱n Severus Snape sti̱ zo̱í̱ , na epistrépsei synoliká," and waving her wand in a pantomime language only the gods and nature could understand, movements nonsensical and haphazard, graceful and precise.

The elements answered Hermione's song and dance with a musical act of their own. The fire flared high, reaching just beyond the erstwhile roof line. The wind whipped into a howling frenzy, rattling the walls and windows. A roiling vortex of dark, ominous clouds gathered overhead. Smoky haze saturated the room, obscuring their vision and enveloping the pearly gray ghost in its foggy embrace.

"Severus!" she cried, frantic, groping the air in futility, searching for the vaporous Snape. "I can't see you! Are you okay?"

"I'm still here," he shouted over the roaring wind. "I'm fine. I feel... I feel..." Warm, tingly, solid. For the first time in almost a year, Severus Snape felt something other than cold, numb, and airy. "Keep going, Hermione. I think the spell is working!"

Hermione redoubled her efforts, striding around the column of flame, brandishing her wand, and shouting the incantation in three languages. The elements responded with the same intensity: the fire stretched into the night sky and teased the glittering stars; the wind outside grew stronger and stripped the trees of their springtime growth; the clouds condensed into a swirling black ring, drawing up loose leaves, twigs, and other assorted bits of flora. Hermione's crown was lost in action. She was windblown, mussed, and glorious in her magical fervor.

Snape grew stronger and more substantial, changing from ethereal to material. He dared look at his hands, once gray and transparent, now pink and opaque. He could feel molecules combining, cells expanding, tissues thriving, blood pumping. Heat and density flooded his body. Energy and emotions pulsated within him. Hope and elation and fear swelled his heart; it beat fierce and steady, perfectly synced with Hermione's chanting.

Resurrection. Rebirth. Life. He felt giddy just thinking about it all, but soon he grew lightheaded, full consciousness just beyond his reach. Then the world he knew came crashing down. Without warning, the storm-force wind died, and the air in the room collapsed on itself, forming a veritable vacuum. The pillar of fire petered out with a whimper, but not before belching out a stadium-sized cloud of dense black smoke that extinguished the light from the star-studded sky.

Hermione crumpled to the floor in a heap of white, drained of all vitality and sentiment, the elements and exhaustion conspiring against her. Snape followed in kind, his numb, faltering legs unable to support him. And when the smoke cleared on the first night of the full moon...

Oooh, a cliffhanger. Weren't expecting that, right (insert multiple winks)?

The resurrection ritual is very loosely based on the necromancy rite in Homer's The Odyssey in which Odysseus whips up a special beverage – complete with the blood of a sacrificial animal – for the spirits to imbibe while he recites prayers to Hades and Persephone.

The title of this chapter is a popular song written in 1942 by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer. It has been performed by way too many artists to mention here.

Next Up: When the smoke clears...