Spilled Potion Has A Bitter Taste

Disclaimer: see first chapter

Many thanks to Dacian Goddess for rereading this.

Oh, my head! My head hurts! And why do I feel like my bed's moving? I sigh inwardly. I can't spend my day in bed. I open my eyes. Thank God, the curtains are pulled down. I don't think I'd be able to bear light this morning. First, I slowly reach a sitting position. I wait for the bedroom to stabilize, then turn on my side and put my feet on the floor. I wait again for the furniture to stop moving (that's stupid, the furniture isn't supposed to move, but with magic, you never know). At last, I stand. I can even walk! And run to the toilet where I vomit bile while the Firewhisky remains in my blood system.

I remember now. I drank several glasses of Firewhisky yesterday evening together with Severus Snape. Not a good sign, then. I probably did something that I will regret. I couldn't have been in my normal state if I let myself become tipsy in Snape's presence. Even when I'm sober, I don't trust him. He may have helped us win the war, but I can't find anything else in his favour. He's as disagreeable as always, and he gives me goose flesh.

Here I come into my kitchen. My stomach won't allow me to swallow anything else than coffee, so I set out to prepare some for myself. I vaguely remember a parchment bearing the YLC heading. A strong apprehension invades me; I have the feeling that a cataclysmic catastrophe is about to occur. Feverishly, I hunt for the parchment through my things and find it in my robe pocket. I read it.

I, the undersigned, Hermione Jane Granger, sound in body and mind, am committed to marrying Severus Romulus Snape before April 1st 2000. I confirm that I have read the penalties that will be imposed upon me should I fail to fulfil my commitment.

Hermione Granger.

No, no, I didn't do that! It's not true! The bastard! He took advantage of my intoxication to get me to sign his fucking promise of marriage! Argh! My cup of coffee has just met the wall, and the coffee pot as well. I won't leave it at that. I swallow some aspirin, I wash my face, and I wage war on Severus Snape.

It's a bit past ten a.m. this Saturday morning as I stride into the Ministry of Magic. I have my wand checked at the reception, and then I head to the Department of Magical Equipment Control. The people there should be able to tell me if my parchment is a real magical contract. The corridors are empty...it's the week-end...and my footsteps ring out strangely in the empty building. I find the office I'm looking for and enter to meet the employee who is on duty.

"Hello, sir."

"Hello, Miss. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I'd like to know... How does one know if a parchment is a magical contract? And how to withdraw from one if you've already signed it?"

"It's very simple, Miss. A magical contract can't be destroyed by magic, nor by fire or any other means. This department also has at its disposal an identification spell for such contracts. The contracting parties are bound, except if they have a mutual agreement to break it. If that is the case, they must meet around the parchment and destroy it together. If only one party wants to withdraw from the contract, they have to lodge an appeal by the Aurors' Office. But these proceedings might last a very long time and are by no means suspending."

I take the damned promise of marriage and hold it out to the employee.

"Would you mind using this spell on this parchment, please?"

"I'm sorry," he answers, looking embarrassed, "but the two persons who know the spell don't work on week-ends. Come back on Monday, and I'm sure one of them will be delighted to help you."

"And if I try to destroy it now? If it's a real magical contract, there's no risk, is there?"

"No. Well, not most of the time. It sometimes happens that the parchments used for this kind of commitment bear so many spells to enforce their protection that even the slightest voluntarily made scratch can have disagreeable consequences, such as the word 'perjurer' etched on the forehead. Do you feel well, Miss? You look pale."

I guess so. I've felt my blood drain from my face at his words. I try to make a good face, though.

"What if the parchment is signed under duress or by some one who isn't really conscious of what they're doing?"

"If that is the case, the magic won't protect the parchment, and the signatories aren't bound."

"Thank you. That's what I wanted to know. Good bye and have a good week-end."

I must find Snape. There's a good probability that the contract isn't valid. I was intoxicated when I signed it, but in doubt, I'd rather convince him to destroy it together with me. He doesn't work on week-ends, I heard the twins make remarks about it. Nevertheless, they must know where he lives. A visit to WWW is called for.

Fred and George first look astonished when I arrive, but they quickly look embarrassed. Their faces take a bright red shade. It's obvious that they don't know how to behave with the almost ex-fiancée of their brother.

"Hello, Fred. Hello, George."

"Hello, Hermione. It's kind of you to come and see us."

"Actually, I wanted to ask you something."

Their uneasy faces show that they believe I'm going to ask something about Ron. I carry on. "Put your minds at rest. This is not related to Ron."

They relax immediately.

"I'd like to brew some potion for dreamless sleep because.... Well, you understand."

They nod vigorously, and I don't doubt that they hope to prevent me from speaking more about the matter. Besides, my hangover should give me a very convincing face.

"I don't have asphodel anymore. The Apothecary doesn't have any more either. I don't know who else to ask. I don't dare go to the Burrow, Harry is away on duty, Hogwarts is far, and then I thought that Snape must have some, I mean, some asphodel or potion. Is he here today?"

I've spoken very quickly. I cross my fingers in the hope that they will swallow my feeble excuse. It seems to work.

"I understand," one of them says. "But Snape doesn't work on week-ends and has taken to double-locking the cupboard with the ingredients..."

"...since we've helped ourselves with what belongs to us, after all, to make a special order of Canary Creams for a birthday," the other finishes.

"Perhaps you could tell me where he lives. I really need the potion. I can't go on like that. Really, I can't wait until Monday." I can't believe how whiney I sound.

They seem impressed by the extent of my despair. I suspect they feel a bit guilty for not disapproving of their brother's decision.

"We're willing to tell you where he lives. You must be at the end of the end of your rope if you plan to visit him in his lair. But we know for sure that he's had a romantic date yesterday evening. Maybe he won't be in the mood for guests today."

Now, it's my turn to gape. They know! Oh, my God, they know! One of them resumes the conversation (I'm incapable to differentiate them from each other this morning. A side-effect of my hangover?).

"I know; you're not the only one who can't believe that old Snape can convince a woman to go on a date with him. But that's a case of life or death for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. You see, Scrimgeour's last decree, the one which forbids to all people associated with Voldemort to handle specific Potions ingredients, endangers our business. With that law, Snape wouldn't be allowed to touch some Potions ingredients that are essential for the products he creates for us. The only way we could think of to keep him in the company is for him to have an unemployed wife to support. We need him to get that authorization to keep working for us. We've already written a certificate vouching for our needing him."

Once more, I offer them a full view of my caries. To be granted the sweetness of life, he'd said. And I'm the Queen of England. He only wanted to save his payslip, and I fell into the trap like a bloody stupid naïve young girl. I hope he's paid well, for this subterfuge will cost him a lot.

"I understand, but could you please give me his address now?"

"All right, all right. It's in Spinner's End, near Manchester."

One of them writes the Apparition coordinates. I say good-bye to them rather hastily and Apparate on a dirty river's bank.

It takes me an hour to find his dilapidated house among even more dilapidated houses. I think it perfectly reflects his personality. I knock at his door; I hear some noise on the other side. He opens it a crack, then completely when he notices who is calling on him.

"Hermione, what a pleasant surprise. Come in and make yourself at home. It will soon be your home, after all. What do you want to see me for?"

I squint at him, a sure sign that I'm very displeased. I don't like his smirk nor the way he speaks to me. I come into the house, but I remain standing in what looks like a mix between a lounge and a library.

"It's Miss Granger to you, Mister Snape."

"We are in the twenty-first century, Hermione. It is custom nowadays to call one's fiancée by her first name."

"Precisely. I don't think you and I are affianced."

"Oh, but you are wrong. You signed a promise of marriage. Actually, your visit is most convenient. You fainted before I could give this to you."

He grabs my left hand and slips an old but nice-looking ring on my ring finger. I wrench my hand from his grip: I can't stand him touching me. Argh, I can't take the ring off. It's one of those antiquated objects made in antique times when men owned their wives the same way they owned their cattle: he is the only one who can take it off. I hate his mocking eyes. I hate him, period. All of a sudden, what he's just said rings a bell.

"If I fainted, how did I go back home?"

"As you had signed the promise of marriage, the YLC receptionist accepted to give me your address. I Apparated there with you and put you to bed."

I was in my pyjamas when I got up...

"You rummaged through my cupboards! You... you... changed my clothes."

"I was not going to let you sleep in your robes. Besides, there is nothing I will not see after we are married."

I manage to sit down on a clapped-out armchair before my legs ridicule me by going wobbly. I'm so shocked that I have a hard time breathing.

"Stupid girl! I used magic to put your pyjamas on. That does not change the fact that I will see everything you have to offer after our wedding," he adds maliciously.

"You'll see nothing because there's a fair chance that our contract is invalid. I was intoxicated when I signed it. I've come here to ask you to destroy it with me. If you refuse, I'll go to the Ministry on Monday, and I'll prove that this contract has no legal validity whatsoever."

Ah, Mister Snape is wide-eyed at that; he's afraid. However, he pulls himself together.

"It is true that you were drunk, yet nobody forced you to sign. You were by no means under duress."

"You practically held my hand while I was signing, and you have the gall to tell me I didn't sign under duress! Besides, you lied to me. You only want to keep your job. Marriage doesn't interest you."

"Which is why it's a very good reason for us to get married."

I don't understand his reasoning.

"Think, Hermione. Do you want to get married?"

"You very well know that I don't."

"Neither do I. I don't chase after marriage. That's one thing we have in common. I am certain that we will feel pressed not to be in the way of each other more than strictly necessary. And I happen to know that your income is, how to put it, meagre. If I get married, the Weasleys promised to bring my salary to three hundred and sixty Galleons per month AND I will receive a commission on sales of the products that I have created. You will be able to have everything you need without resorting to asking for help here and there."

Three hundred and sixty Galleons? A commission on sales? Did I hear clearly? I hardly live on seventy Galleons a month! He's trying to buy me!

"I am not a mercenary or a whore. I don't marry for money. You're using very vile arguments to convince me, Mister Snape. I'm not surprised: you're a vile person. If I were you, I'd begin to look for another fiancée, a real one, for it won't be me. It'll be my pleasure to give you your ring back on Monday. Good bye."

He doesn't even try to detain me when I leave.

Author's notes

(1) 350 Galleons = 2610 Euros

(2) 70 Galleons = 507,5 Euros