Grains of Paradise

Grains of Paradise

a ficlet set in AngieJ's Paradise Universe

 

by PeacockHarpy

June 14, 2003

"Now, let's go over the lists one more time," Caroline Granger said, and Molly Weasley nodded agreement. "Of the 500 invitations, we've had 500 positive responses -- which means more than 500 people, of course. I do hope there will be enough food…"

Sunlight spilled through the open windows and into the Burrow kitchen where Hermione sat between her mother and her mother-in-law-to-be. The kitchen table was covered with pieces of parchment and notebook paper (from Caroline's notebook), all of which contained neatly handwritten lists. Caroline was aware that, in addition to the Muggle wedding traditions that she would expect, an entire set of magical traditions would have to be observed. So she and Molly were working together to give Caroline's daughter and Molly's son a wedding of combined traditions -- the wedding of the millennium.

Molly sat down at the table and poured a cup of tea from her wand. "Not to worry, Caroline. We will have more than enough food. The Hogwarts house-elves will take care of it all."

"House-elves," Caroline said as she made a note on yet another piece of paper. She didn't say anything further, but the corner of her mouth quirked skeptically -- a mannerism she shared with her daughter.

"They're rather fond of Hermione, you know, as she helped set them free," Molly explained.

Hermione smiled at Molly. "I did try to convince them that we could hire an outside caterer, but they wouldn't hear of it. Their rates are quite reasonable, and their cooking is phenomenal, Mum."

"So, food is taken care of," Caroline continued. "Flowers. Hermione, did you approve the list of flowers for the wedding?"

"Yes, Mum, I've reviewed it three times."

"What about Aphrodite's Apron, dear?" Molly asked.

"Aphrodite's what?" Caroline asked, as Hermione's Muggle pager began beeping.

Molly began to explain the tradition of the apron, while Hermione glanced at the pager. "Whoops -- emergency at the hospital -- I need to go."

"When will you be back?" Caroline asked, as her daughter slid from her chair, changed from casual clothing to a sedate suit and white smock with a wave of her wand, and then Summoned her briefcase from the next room.

"I don't know… just go on without me. Whatever you decide will be fine." Hermione stepped outside the kitchen door. "Love you," she called back, just before Apparating out.

"I don't know where she finds the time and energy," Molly said.

"I'm glad she finds her career so fulfilling," Caroline said, "but I'm afraid she'll burn herself out. She's only twenty-two, for heaven's sake."

* * * * *

Hermione appeared with a pop in her Muggle medical office and sat down at her desk with a groan. She'd magically sent the page herself because she couldn't bear the planning meeting any further. She was trying her best to give her attention to it, and she was genuinely thankful that her mum and Molly were taking care of so many details, but she felt tired and fretful. The hospitals, both Muggle and magical, had needed her services quite often this week -- and the final week of wedding planning was taking up all the rest of her time. In the few hours she'd actually gotten sleep, she'd had dreams…

You're a bride-to-be, and this is a stressful time, she reminded herself sternly. It's only natural to have strange dreams before you get married. Every bride gets nervous.

But not every bride dreamed about making passionate love with... who? She could never see his face, but she knew instinctively it wasn't Ron. The dreams were nearly tangible. Embraces that began soft and sweet, but then warmed to a more passionate ardor... then there were numerous wonderful sensations: his hands and his mouth exploring her body, worshipping her until every sense she had was filled... his emotions and responses ringing through her body, unshielded, unafraid. Flowers nodding lazily around them, filling the air with a redolent, exotic perfume. His voice, ragged and low, breathless with desire: "You taste like honey, Hermione... like sweet, wild honey..."

She gasped, and looked wildly around her office, trying to shake away the dream, crossing her legs against the sweet pressure she felt. She was fully awake, and yet the dream still had the power to pull her out of her surroundings. Worse, she felt the dream almost as clearly as a memory, but when she tried to recall it more clearly, it was lost in a haze, unattainable.

She touched the picture of Ron on her desk. It was a Muggle picture; he was static, smiling, looking handsome in a Weasley jumper (this one with the Cannons logo) and a pair of worn jeans. This was the man she loved, the man she was going to spend her life with -- not some formless dream or forgotten memory.

It was lack of sleep that was troubling her, she told herself. What she needed, more than anything else, was uninterrupted sleep. There was a fainting couch against the back wall of her office for just such an occasion; putting a Shielding Charm on the door to ward off any interruptions, she took off her shoes and stretched out on the couch. The familiar surroundings of her office comforted her, and she looked around with a small smile playing about her lips. She had worked so hard to get here, and this room was the tangible expression of her goal -- bookcases filled with her research books; cabinets filled with her patients' files; her Muggle diplomas hanging on the wall behind her desk. She closed her eyes... but every time she was near sleep, her body shook her awake. She was afraid to dream again.

With an impatient sigh, Hermione shoved her feet back into her sensible low-heeled pumps and Apparated out of the office.

* * * * *

Hermione's mediwitch office, at the Granger-Longbottom Clinic near St. Mungo's, was almost exactly like her Muggle medical office, except that the people in her photographs waved and laughed at the viewer, and the diplomas on the wall were much more elaborate. The books, too, were quite different. Without hesitation, Hermione went to the shelf and pulled down a large book titled Charms for the Charming. She waved her wand over it, revealing the true title: Moste Potente Potions, Annotated Edition.

The dreams have to stop, she muttered to herself as she spread the book open on her desk and leafed quickly through the pages. I can make them stop. I can. I am Hermione Granger, and I can make them stop. I can make a potion that will make me forget these dreams...

She paused at that thought, and shook her head. That was the problem, forgetting. She was already forgetting. Maybe a potion to help her remember, then. She paged through the book, until she saw it:

The Adamareminisci Philtre: True Love's Remembrance. This philtre, when consumed in the presence of the loved one, will temporarily return to the drinker the memory of the first flush of love.

The philtre's main ingredient was grains of paradise, which were noted as much for their magical tendencies toward love and lust as for their culinary taste, which hovered between pepper, cardamom and ginger. The annotations at the bottom of the page noted that the philtre was often used for marriage counseling purposes, but that its use was restricted because it returned not only the memory of first love, but the giddy feelings that accompanied it, as well.

Hermione stared at the page. It could work... only if she knew who that mysterious shadow-person was, the person in her dream. Maybe she could tie the philtre's effects to the dream, rather than to the actual person... she kicked off the Muggle shoes and selected several books from the shelves, paging through them, looking for answers, taking copious notes as she did so. Finally, she felt that the philtre could be tied to the dream... but she would need to acquire the ingredients.

As she wrote up the list of ingredients, she frowned. It would not be easy to lay hands on these, and especially not so quickly -- but she had to know who was haunting her dreams, what the memories were. This half-memory, half-dream had stolen her peace of mind; would it destroy her future happiness? For Hermione, the need for answers outweighed all else... because by knowing the answers, she would be able to deal with the problem -- before the wedding.

She had only a week. There wasn't much time.

* * * * *

"Hey, have you seen Hermione?" Ron's head asked from the fireplace in the little cottage on Ayr Island. Flames danced merrily around his red hair

"Nope, I thought she was with your mum and her mum," Harry responded from the leather chair nearest the fire. "Aren't they still planning things?"

"You'd think they'd have taken care of all the details by now. We've been engaged for more than two years," Ron said. "But no, I checked at the Burrow, and she's not there."

"Well, maybe she's off doing a little planning of her own, for your sake. You know, weddings are special to women."

"I think ours is a little too special. Medieval dress?"

Harry laughed and waved a hand at the ivory houppelande hanging from the front of the wardrobe. "You're telling me ... but I think you have your own sister to blame for that, Ron."

"Gin and her fashion sense. Ha. Well, if you see 'Mione, send her my way, would you? We had agreed to go out to dinner."

"I'll let her know that if I hear from her."

"Thanks, Harry." Ron's head disappeared from the fireplace.

Harry closed his eyes. One week. One week until Hermione became Ron's, irrevocably, forever. The past three years had not been easy, but he had regained a sense of balance around the two of them -- gotten involved in wedding planning, helped patch up the little arguments that crop up between a bride and groom. Especially a bride as driven as Hermione, and a groom as stubborn as Ron.

This week seemed to be the longest and most difficult part, though. As the wedding day drew nearer, he began to question his ability... could he really let Hermione walk down the aisle to another man?

He had to. He'd made his decision. There could be no going back -- not without ruining the Covenant between the three.

Harry pulled himself out of the leather chair. It would be no good hanging around the cottage alone this evening, for he'd only torture himself with thoughts of Hermione, the beautiful witch who was his soulmate, but would never, could never be his lifemate. He waved a hand at the wardrobe; the doors flew open and a pair of tailored black pants and a green Muggle shirt wafted toward him. With a few quick motions, he was wearing the new clothes and had left the cottage for London.

"Harry? Harry, I hope you're there..." Hermione's voice echoed from his fireplace, her head surrounded by crackling amber flames. "I think I might need your help..."

But Harry was gone.

* * * * *

It took three days before Hermione could gather all the ingredients for the philtre. In the spare minutes that she was not haunting stores for the magical ingredient or attending to her duties as a mediwitch and Muggle doctor, she had worked on a charm that would, she was sure, tie the effects of the philtre to her dream, and hopefully jog her memory.

The grains of paradise had been the most difficult to find, but a visit to a Muggle herb specialty store had finally turned them up. The tiny brownish pellets looked innocent enough. She had ground up a few as an experiment as was surprised to see that the resulting powder was a sharply pale grey. She had even tasted one of the little grains -- safe enough, as it was the combination of ingredients in the philtre that brought out the grains' magical qualities.

The flavor was soft at first, a little peppery, but then sharpened with a citrus tang, a slight hint of ginger, the sweet taste of cardamom. As the flavors spread through her mouth, the peppery heat intensified, until, at the final moments, all that was left was a warm, undulating heat and the memory of the tastes before, all still within that spicy warmth. She had never tasted a spice that so mimicked the rush of love in taste itself.

Surely, the philtre would work. It had to work. In the few minutes of sleep she did get each night, the dreams were intensifying... but the memory was no easier to regain.

She carefully measured, prepared and mixed the philtre in her mediwitch office, then left it to bubble over a waterproof fire behind her desk for a day and a night.

* * * * *

"Hermione. I need your answer on this... this apron thing," Caroline said, waving a book entitled Flowers and Their Magical Meanings at her daughter. "Which flowers do you want to use?"

Hermione looked up from a battered copy of Charming Dreams: An Analysis."What, mum? Oh, Aphrodite's Apron." She frowned. "I don't know."

"Well, Ron's mother would really like to have this little detail settled, so if you could turn your attention to it for just a moment..."

Hermione easily read the frustration in her mother's voice, and felt guilty. She had been ignoring the wedding planning this week. "Um, ivy, I guess. And buttercups." That was safe enough. Friendship, childhood memories... those were appropriate.

"What else?"

She thought about it. Lilacs, for first love, seemed wrong, somehow. And, remembering hers and Ron's earlier problems with a pang, she could not bring herself to choose the faithful violets.

"I'll think about it, Mum. I promise."

"See that you do. We only have three days left before the wedding, and I'd like the day itself to be worry-free."

"So do I, Mum." Hermione hated herself for using the impatient tone with her mother, but it was all she could do not to Apparate out of the house and into her office. The philtre would be ready that afternoon, and she would be able to banish the dreams, or find an answer to the haze that shrouded her memory. Either way, she wanted it done, wanted to be able to walk up the aisle to Ron without a cloud in her mind... or a doubt in her heart.

* * * * *

The philtre filled Hermione's mediwitch office with a rich, spicy aroma. She bottled it quickly, and tucked the bottle into her briefcase. Ron was going to be out with his brothers tonight -- stag parties were as much a wizarding tradition as a Muggle one. Despite her fears over the trouble he might get into, she was still far more focused on solving her own problem -- and his stag party meant she'd have the house to herself to let the philtre take hold.

She left her office without Apparating. Now that the philtre was ready, she could breathe easier for a bit -- and it would be a few hours before Ron was out of the house. Maybe a spot of dinner at the Leaky Cauldron... she nodded to herself at this, and went into the darkened little pub.

"Hermione! Didn't expect to see you here -- I thought you'd be firmly ensconced at Hogwarts by now."

She smiled at Harry. "Just trying to get all my patients settled before I take off for the wedding and honeymoon, you know," she told him, pulling up a stool next to him at the bar.

"Are you having a hen night?" he asked, taking a long drink of his butterbeer.

"No." Sam walked over, and she ordered a light meal -- salad and a bowl of soup. "I hate the idea of that, some scantily-clad wizard jumping out of a cake... and do not tell me what you have planned for Ron's. I don't want to know."

Harry laughed. "All harmless and above-board, I assure you. Besides," he placed a hand theatrically over his heart, "he only has eyes for you."

Hermione groaned. "Look who's become Mr. Maudlin Sentimentality. Take care of him, okay?"

"You know I will." Harry finished the butterbeer and left a generous tip for Sam. "But -- you know, go easy on him. I don't know how much he'll drink tonight, but I'm sure that tomorrow he'll be groaning a bit. I'm glad we aren't having this the night before the wedding."

"Yes -- you'll need that extra day to recover. There are anti-hangover remedies in the kitchen cabinet," she reminded him, "and you and the boys can crash in the guest rooms if you need to. I'll be going up to Hogwarts tomorrow."

"Always thoughtful and prudent. Thanks, doc. I'll see you on Friday." He ruffled her hair with his hand and left the bar.

* * * * *

Hermione and Ron's house was quiet and empty when she entered, but the boys had evidently begun the festivities before leaving -- emptied bottles, dirty glasses and wrapping paper were strewn about the living room. She waved a hand to tidy it all away as she walked through the room and up the stairs, into hers and Ron's bedroom.

It was time. She pulled the bottle from her pocket, opened it, and inhaled again the rich scent of the philtre, warm and peppery. She would have her answer, and have her wedding, and that would be the end of the troubling dreams.

Carefully, she whispered the charm that brought her dream toward the forefront of her mind... the gentle hands, the whispered words of love against her hair, her own sensual response. She lifted the potion to her lips, and drank deeply...

A sweep of warmth enveloped her body, and she felt her passionate response to the dream. Quickening, rising within her, sweet and hot... she remembered falling among the wildflowers... heard his words, felt them, whispered against her skin... she felt the clouds lifting inside her, and knew that if she closed her eyes, she would see him, know who he was. Her eyelids fluttered shut and...

"Hermione? I didn't know you were still here."

She heard a sound like wind whistling past her ears, and clouds raced in, pink and gold like a sunset, as she opened her eyes to see Ron standing before her. With an amazing blinding rush, she remembered their first night together... not merely remembered, but felt it anew... Ron, shy and stumbling over the words, had held out a hand to her, and she had taken it... as amateur as they both were, every kiss, every touch, brought them closer in love, closer in passion. His emotions coursed with hers, and she was able to crest waves of ecstasy she'd never dreamed possible.

She took a step forward and held out her hand. "Ron," she whispered. "I love you... love you so."

He saw the ardor in her deep brown eyes, and decided that the stag party could wait, just for a bit. "Hermione... I love you too." He took her hand, and she pulled him toward their bed.

Ron's hands warmed her already heated skin as he removed her skirt and slip and blouse. As their passion increased, Hermione forgot all about the clouds, or the philtre... her love, her world was centered on the man in her arms... and he was centered on her.

* * * * *

When she awoke, Ron was gone with the rest of the stag party. He'd left a bouquet of red, red roses on the pillow next to her and a hastily scribbled note: "I love you, forever, my beautiful bride."

Yawning and stretching, she sat up, then left the tangled sheets for the bathroom. The clock on her nightstand pointed to the words "exceedingly late" -- late to meet her mother and Molly at Hogwarts, no doubt. She pulled her silk bathrobe from a chair and tied it around her, then headed toward the shower.

Her foot found the philtre-bottle, where it lay on the bedroom floor. She picked it up, and her euphoric mood dimmed somewhat.

Her attempt had failed. There was no time to make or take a further draught; no time to pursue the mystery of her clouded memory further. Ron had walked in at the crucial moment...

But maybe that was what she needed to know -- that her true love, despite whatever dream was lurking in her head, was Ron. Certainly, after their lovemaking, she had slept the best she had in weeks -- soundly, dreamlessly. She felt relieved, as though a great question or pressure had been lifted from her. Humming, she started the water for a shower, and made the bottle disappear with a satisfying pop.

Once showered, she Apparated to Hogsmeade and used her time-turner to reduce her tardiness by a bit. Caroline and Molly had been waiting for her eagerly; they welcomed her with open arms. But they still had one last detail to work through.

Hermione was ready, now, to design her Apron. To the ivy and buttercups she'd previously selected, she added a variety of flowers... but the three most striking were three she gave to herself, a reminder that she should never have doubted Ron's love. Narcissus, for selfishness; had she truly been so self-centered that she wouldn't consider Ron's feelings for her? Lavender, for her hesitation. And golden chrysanthemums, for having nearly slighted a love so dear to her.

Caroline and Molly thought the selection was odd, but they said nothing; a bride's apron was her own, and there were more important matters to talk about on this night, before their daughter's friends and family arrived to rehearse and celebrate the next day; mothers' advice for a wife-to-be.

And Hermione, released from her doubts and her dreams, was happy in the knowledge that she had been spared the mistake that could have lost her true love.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

A culinary note: Yes, grains of paradise are a real spice, and they really do taste as described in the text. Grown in Africa, grains of paradise were popular among medieval cooks because they were similar to peppercorns, but with more depth of flavor. They were also easier to import. Demand for the spice fell off after the middle ages, when trade routes increased and pepper was more easily obtainable. You can still acquire grains of paradise, but, like Hermione, you'll have to find an herbal specialty shop to get hold of them.

Amanda Hesser, in a May 2000 article for the New York Times, described them thusly: "I put a few [grains of paradise] between my teeth and crunched. They cracked like coriander, releasing a billowing aroma and then a slowly intensifying heat, like pepper at the back of my mouth. The taste changed in a second. The heat lingered, but the spice flavor was pleasantly tempered, ripe with flavors reminiscent of jasmine, hazelnut, butter and citrus, and with the kind of oiliness you get from nuts. ... Grains of paradise are dense fragrance underlined with heat."