Deux

I don't know if I've said this before, but I've always loved the rain.

I don't mean the pathetic drizzle you get in London, where it just sort of drips all over you to trick you into leaving your umbrella in your bag, only to find that after you've been walking on the streets for ten minutes, you're soaking wet.

No, I'm talking about real rain. The rain that pours and pours and pours in the afternoon, when lighting strikes the sky and the thunder seems to rumble beneath you, and makes you squeak delightedly when the lightning gets too close. (Or hide under the covers, if you're that type of person, I suppose. Whatever floats your boat.) The type of rain that you sit inside with a hot chocolate and write poems in.

My father always used to call it 'creative weather', and I have to agree with him because I always come up with my best ideas in the fiercest storms.

The improved Wolfsbane Potion idea was born in that kind of weather, too. Remus, Neville and I were in Rouen, drinking whisky, and it was raining like hell, and I remember thinking that it was a really good thing I'd never needed to drive because the visibility was practically sub-zero, if that was even possible.

I'd said it aloud, and Remus chuckled in that bitter way that he laughs now, which always makes me want to hug him tightly because I don't know if bitterness alone can kill a man, but it sounds entirely possible.

'The way it's going now, I might just have to learn,' Remus had said with a smile that didn't have much to do with amusement. 'The Ministry's thinking of revoking Apparition rights for non-human species. And that includes werewolves.' He'd shaken his head and taken another sip with another bitter laugh that sounded forced.

At this point, Neville had surprised us all by slamming his drink down onto the table and standing up as a flash of lightning struck the sky. He'd had that look in his eyes that reminded me of that time when we were first years and he'd tried to stop us from saving the world.

'Damn it all to hell, Remus,' he'd growled and began pacing. 'There's got to be a way around all of this. If we can't change the opinion of the Ministry, then we'll just have to fix the problem itself. Hermione,' he'd said beseechingly, stopping to look at me with a pleading look in his eyes. 'There's got to be something that we can do. There has to be a cure, there just has to be! You're the best potions-maker I know. I'll supply the ingredients, but we have to do something about this. I hate this, this everyday refusal to acknowledge that being a werewolf isn't the damn werewolf's fault! Are you with me, Hermione?'

At this point I'd raised an eyebrow, shocked into speechlessness by Neville's rare display of anger. Then a grin spread across my face. 'Neville, do you even have to ask?'

Cue sudden end of storm as rays of sunshine peek through the clouds. Thankfully, that didn't happen. Rouen has a lovely way of raining continuously in that satisfying way all afternoon.

Rouen is a really interesting place, actually. It's supposedly where Erik from The Phantom of the Opera, only the greatest musical of all time, is from. It's also where the famous (or not-so-famous if you've never heard of it) Rouen Cathedral sits, looming over everyone. It's a quaint, historic sort of city where the yellowed walls and the creepers winding their way up and the cobblestoned streets tell their stories of war and romance and betrayal and tragedies, the kind of tales that your grandmother tells you on a rainy day while she's knitting a scarf.

Besides that, though, there's not a whole lot to recommend about Rouen. Neville's greenhouse, however, is an entirely different story altogether.

Being from an old pureblood family, and because his grandmother's finally thrilled about something he's doing for once in his life, Neville doesn't want for anything. He owns several hectares of land which are packed with greenhouses, each more interesting than the last. It starts off simply with basic ingredients like the herbs that he sells to both Muggles and wizards, like lovage and valerian. Then you've got the more interesting ones, like the Venomous Tentaculas, Mandrakes, belladonna, Bubotubers, et cetera. There's a large natural lake which has aquatic plants like gillyweed growing in it, and then there's another one for the really deadly ones like Devil's Snare which only Neville has the keys to.

Put it this way: Henri Rousseau would have loved Neville's estate. There are so many different colours that it's a bit like looking through a kaleidoscope, only there's more green than usual. They're sorted by colour, scent, toxicity, level of fascination, whatever. And what's absolutely guaranteed is that if you want it, Neville has it. And it's probably the best quality, too.

It's not like I haven't been there before or anything; in fact I've been there several times. The thing is, there's always something new no matter how many times you go, and knowing Neville I'm quite sure that's on purpose. He stocks the standard potions ingredients types, but his real love is for the more unusual, thrilling plants that make you go 'oh!' with a delighted smile on your face.

This probably explains why, at the moment, Neville and I are lying on the grass right now devouring plums and nectarines, watching a patch of fluxweed. Despite the fact, of course, that it's September and eleven thirty at night, it gets kind of cold. I'm only putting up with it because, as I said before, this is probably something that will make me fall asleep grinning. And Neville, bless his soul, only does it to make me happy.

Fluxweed by itself is rather plain and unassuming; it's a standard green herb that's sometimes known as 'false pennyroyal' because it smells minty. It's picked at the full moon for Polyjuice Potion, and it's known for its morphing properties, which is why it's used in Polyjuice in the first place. It's a full moon tonight, and Remus will probably be pacing about in London waiting to transform. The reason why we're here, actually, is because I do need some fluxweed for exactly those reasons. For Remus' transformation and its changing properties, I mean. Once it's picked it retains its properties for several months, but to get those properties it has to picked at twelve midnight, practically as the clock chimes. I've never actually seen fluxweed being picked at a full moon, so I'm interested in spite of myself.

Neville hires a lot of the local French boys to help him, especially with his Muggle buyers to guard the secret of the magical world. So in the daytime there's quite a bit of a bustle, when the little boys are running about with soil all over their faces, making them look a bit like soldiers in the trenches, only instead of rifles they're shooting herbs at each other.

I've gotten quite used to that kind of activity, so it's a bit eerie now because it's completely still. Neville and I are lying on our stomachs, propped up by our elbows, in about fifty layers of clothing and a blanket each. It's almost silent, save for the occasional rippling of the water in the lake and the crickets chirping. If I strain my ears hard enough, I can almost hear a nightingale song, but other than that, all is quiet on the western front.

I grab myself another nectarine and roll one to Neville.

'Cheers,' he says, sinking his teeth into it with a small sigh. 'Whussa tah?' he asks through a mouthful, tapping his wrist with his finger pointedly (pun not intended).

I roll my eyes. 'Eleven forty-five, and don't talk with your mouth full.' I give him my best haughty schoolgirl look as he does his puppy dog act with me and primly bite into my own nectarine, ignoring him.

He looks as if he's about to say something back, but then swallows and his face brightens suddenly. 'Hey, how was it with Christian? Did you get the Edelweiss?'

I grin back, remembering the white glow and how it transformed everything around it. 'It was great! He had this grumpy salesgirl called Constance who was pretty aptly named considering the continuous frown on her face. But when I opened the box with the flower in it, she smiled! And everything looked amazing. It's really gotten my hopes up because I'd had my doubts before. I'm really glad you pushed me to get one, or I don't think I would have done it.'

''Mione, I already know I'm amazing, you don't have to tell me, dear. But thank you.' He grins cheekily at me.

I chuck a plum stone at his head, rolling my eyes fondly when he winces, 'Oww! H'mione!' taking special care to elongate the 'e'.

The fact is, I can't say too much about the Edelweiss and how that comes in, and that's not because I'm being a prude either. If it hadn't been for Neville and his endless list of contacts, I don't think I actually would have bothered getting it at all. And I still don't really know how I'm going to use it. I've gambled a bit with it really, just because nothing else seems to fit as well into the figurative equation.

I chose it because of the obvious properties...healing, but also because of its purity and beauty. Werewolves are evil, by definition; the Edelweiss is pure and good. It's a bit like mixing black and white and getting grey. Since humans aren't purely good or purely evil, the 'equation' will balance itself to form something basically human.

But that's all theory.

However, since we are on theory, I'll also explain where the fluxweed comes in. Basically, if the Edelweiss has the properties of healing and purity, then the fluxweed should be the catalyst of change that triggers those qualities because of its morphing properties. It'll be a bit like mixing Polyjuice Potion and Wolfsbane together, so that the werewolf doesn't turn into a wolf at all, however harmless that wolf may be, but actually just stays human.

There's one little flaw behind all of this, though. The good news is that it is a very little one. The bad news is that we have no clue how to overcome it.

The thing is, both Wolfsbane and Polyjuice Potion are short-term potions. Wolfsbane lasts one night, and Polyjuice Potion lasts sixty minutes. This means that the next step would be to make it a permanent potion, and not just a monthly one. I mean, if we manage to even succeed in making a potion that stops the transformation, even if it's just monthly, that would still be pretty damn good.

Except that my name is Hermione Granger and I don't settle for second best, and that just damns everything to hell.

At this point Neville hits me on the head with a plum and hisses, 'Watch!'

I barely have time to look at my watch and see that it's midnight before the fluxweed begins to sway in an imaginary breeze. Slowly, so slowly, a silvery glow starts from the roots and steadily makes its way up through the stem, into the leaves, slowly, slowly. It keeps going and my eyes are watering because I don't want to blink and miss something. The area becomes bathed in this strange, moonlight-silver glow, until it reaches the purple flowers at the tips. The small flowers turn silver like the rest of the plant, and I almost blink until I realise it hasn't finished. From silver it turns to white, then a pale yellow. Pale yellow to orange, orange to blood-red, blood-red to a rosy pink, then to lavender, lilac, periwinkle, then blues, so many blues, from azure to ocean-blue to midnight-blue to indigo, then a deep, fathomless black. It streaks through several shades of grey before going back to silver, and then finally, a bright, pure gold that blinds us so Neville and I are peering through our eyelashes.

Then, suddenly, there's a small sort of phut! sound as the flower turns black and explodes in the space of about half a second. I finally allow myself to blink as tiny, delicate ashes flutter to the ground.

For a while there really is absolute, utter silence.

Then I remember that we're supposed to be picking this stuff, except that I think it's already too late.

This makes me say something very unladylike, and Neville grins fiendishly at me.

'If you're worried about why we're not picking this, don't worry. I've got enough to last you for at least six more months before I even need to think about picking more.'

'Oh,' I reply wittily. 'Then why are we here?'

He shrugs lightly. 'It was too beautiful for you to miss.'

I'm back in that stupid portrait shop.

I'm not thrilled to be spending my last day here in France in this shop, of all places I could have been in, but I do have to pick those portraits up.

When I open the door, all the portraits sitting on the side seem to go silent, like I've just walked in on some super private conversation. Then, out of one of the darker corners, one very familiar voice pipes up.

'Miss Granger,' it drawls, leaving me with no doubts as to whom the voice belongs. 'What an unparalleled displeasure it is to see you darken my doorway once again.'

'Professor,' I sneer back, all formalities forgotten. Portrait-Snape can't take house points or give detentions, after all. I find this reversal of power very satisfying, so I smirk and he glowers at me sulkily.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the eyes of the other portraits flicking back and forth between us, like they're watching a tennis match. Portrait-Snape and I continue this staring match for a few seconds before Mademoiselle Chille-Roux bursts through the back door, forcing us both to break eye contact.

'Bonjour, Mademoiselle,' I say politely. 'I see you have the portraits ready for me, thank you for your owl.' I smile sweetly, then throw Snape another smirk for good measure. 'I trust that they're ready for me to take home?'

'Oui, they are finished,' she says, pulling out the two portraits. They look essentially the same, except one is Snape-less. There is a green wingback chair with silver ornaments, and some curtains in the background with books and other things on a small table. Snape himself is dressed in a long-sleeved black dress shirt and trousers, and there is a set of velvet robes which are so dark green that they almost look black folded neatly on the table.

'There is only one Snape, of course. But 'e will be able to go from one portrait to another, so 'e may choose where 'e stays,' she explains. 'I 'ope they are to your liking,' she adds, eyeing Snape warily. He scowls back at her and takes a seat in the chair moodily.

'They're perfect,' I assure her, Reducing the portraits to fit in my pocket and handing her a bag of Galleons. 'Very lifelike.'

A/N: Mmm. I do love Glenfiddich whisky. Good, well-aged whisky was always something I saw Hermione as the type to appreciate.

The fluxweed scene is a nod to 'What E'er Therein Is Promised' by Deeble, in which the scene is very similar. Author's honour, though: I wrote this almost three years after reading it, and only realised the similarity about three days after writing it. (Honest!) By the time I realised how similar it was, I couldn't take it out because it's essential to the whole story anyway. So yes, I did inadvertently steal that scene.

And if you have no idea what I'm talking about, which means you haven't read it yet, what are you waiting for?

Other things: Henri Rousseau was a French artist who painted jungle scenes and could use 50 different shades of green in his paintings. He never, in his life, saw a real jungle.

I also apologise for the shortness of this chapter; it was more of a transition than I would have liked, but I think the next chapter will make up for it quite nicely. :)