A Capacity for Love

Chapter 13

- Preparations for the Christmas Party -

"Lovely, really outstanding!" Slughorn exclaimed when he stopped by Harry's cauldron. "Just look at that colour! You don't mind, do you, Harry--" Without waiting for an answer, Slughorn swooped a dipper into the cauldron and scooped up a sample of the potion, then let the brilliant green liquid dribble back down in a viscous thread.

"And the consistency!" he marveled, his beady eyes transfixed on the aqueous material. "I don't think I've seen a more homogeneous mixture of Skele-Gro." He dipped his ladle back into the cauldron and brought up a couple more samples. "Not a lump. Well, once again, highest marks for Mr. Potter, and I think we'll just send this batch up to Madam Pomfrey for use in the infirmary." He beamed and ruffled Harry's hair.

Hermione suppressed her by-now usual outrage at Harry's potions miracles and concentrated instead on bottling a sample of her own brew, which was also just the right shade, although, yes, a tad thicker than Harry's. She shook the sample vigorously in an attempt to loosen it up, and was considering adding the tiniest drop of wormwood alcohol when she was distracted by hearing Draco's voice, speaking just a bit louder than necessary:

"Remind me not to break anything in the next month or so.... I wouldn't want to end up poisoned, or with rubber bones or something!" He laughed cruelly, and his Slytherin compatriots joined him.

Slughorn chuckled indulgently. "I daresay you'd better keep all your bones intact, young Mr. Malfoy. Can't have our best Seeker sitting on the sidelines, now can we?"

"No, Sir," Draco replied automatically, but he kept watching Harry with a smug look on his face, then whispered something to Blaise which caused the other boy to laugh even harder.

"Samples, everyone, please," Slughorn called out as he waddled back to the front of the classroom.

Ron glumly stoppered his greyish potion, but not without first sneaking a jealous look at Hermione's results. Without a word to her, he shuffled up to Slughorn's desk with the rest of the class.

Hermione hung back, so as not to accidentally be jostled against anyone. She was still extremely jumpy about anyone touching her. Susan Bones had bumped into her inadvertently during Herbology the previous day, and she spent the remainder of the period fighting off the feeling of physical disgust.

Finally, when most of the others had cleared out, Hermione walked quickly to the front and placed her labeled sample in the row of little bottles already deposited there. She was in the process of turning around when Slughorn spoke up.

"Oh, Miss Granger!"

A flutter of impatience arose in her. "Yes, sir?" It wasn't that she disliked Professor Slughorn per se. It was simply that anything associated with Slytherin House made her uneasy.

"I'm certainly looking forward to seeing whom you bring with you to my little soiree next week," he said in a sly manner. "You wouldn't care to give me a little hint, would you?"

It took Hermione a moment to realize he was talking about the Slug Club Christmas party. "Oh, erm, no, that is... I don't have an escort. It isn't necessary, is it?" She felt her face growing red, aware that there were still students in the classroom who were listening in, and she didn't feel like having her social life spread around for public discussion. Especially Ron; she hadn't forgotten their agreement that he would accompany her. But that was a part of another life, now. He surely didn't want to be reminded of it any more than she did. Well, it was his own fault, she thought, now with the stirrings of hurt feelings. If he weren't such an insensitive gob, they might still have been able to salvage their friendship.

Slughorn's caterpillar-like eyebrows reared up. "Oh ho, no escort! We can't have that, can we? It is not so much a necessity as a not-to-be-missed opportunity. Why, there must be dozens of chaps who'd give their eye teeth to be included."

"I don't know," Hermione started, and then, both anxious not to appear uninterested in his party, and with a soupçon of spite (and hoping Ron was still within earshot) she improved, "I haven't found anyone I felt was worthy of the honor." That felt good! She resisted the urge to turn around and see Ron's reaction.

Slughorn appeared pleased by this response and leaned over, beckoning Hermione to come closer. She did, and he said in a gravelly whisper, "I understand perfectly. I must say, I've already picked out the cream of the Hogwarts crop for membership in our little 'Slug Club', and I don't blame you for despairing of finding anyone else suitable. Therefore, you might find it of no little interest to hear that a certain seventh year in your very House has also not settled on the right escort for the most important social event of the year." Slughorn studied her face to make sure she got his drift, then gave her a broad wink and grin before straightening up.

"Oh" was all she could bring out at first, but after a moment managed a "thank you, Professor," and retreated in the wake of his good-natured chuckle.

McLaggen! Slughorn was trying to set her up with that Quaffle-for-brains ape! Hermione wasn't sure whether to get angry or cry. She registered vaguely that Ron was still there with Harry, but brushed off Harry's question as to what she and Slughorn had been discussing and hurried off to Charms.

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"Show it to me, Draco," Pansy purred into his ear, running her fingers along his left arm. "You know how it turns me on."

"Get off me, witch!" Draco growled, yanking his arm away from her grasp. "I'm thinking!"

Pansy deposited herself on the ground at Draco's feet. "That's what I love about you, Draco," she said in a sultry voice. "You take your responsibilities seriously. You know what your priorities are. You're a real man, not like some I could mention." She tossed her head derisively in the direction of a pack of their Housemates, who were chortling and snickering over a Playwizard magazine.

"They have their uses," Draco said absently, rubbing his finger against his chin.

"And me?" Pansy asked with a mixture of slyness and hopefulness. "You know I'll do anything to help."

Draco fixed her with a frown. "You have no idea what my plans involve."

"It doesn't matter," she assured him. "I trust you, Draco. Since you took..." Her glance flicked in the direction of his arm. "Well, you know," she whispered, "I trust you implicitly." She looked at him steadily with her greyish-green eyes, and Draco wasn't sure whether her motivation was a simple teenage crush, or whether she was trying to attach herself to what she saw as a rising star.

Either way, it didn't matter, he didn't want to involve her. He liked her. Not that he'd do anything stupid like die for her or propose marriage, but she was a good girl. He didn't have as many qualms about using Crabbe and Goyle for his purposes (not that he'd ever asked them to do anything directly dangerous); they were pawns, born to be expendable. Pansy was... Well, the chess analogy broke down, but she was someone he didn't want to put in danger. Draco had no more illusions about what he was doing. Not since what had happened to the girl who'd touched the Cursed necklace. Not since what had gone down on Halloween. He was moving in dangerous circles, and he'd be lucky to get himself out alive. There was no need to bring down the entire House with him.

At the same time, he recognized these compunctions--these scruples--as a weakness. If he wanted to get anywhere in the Death Eater organization, he would have to, as Snape said, get rid of his conscience. He couldn't allow himself any sentimentality. It was him or them. Dumbledore's life or his mother's. The choice was easy, really. So why was it so hard?

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"Wouldn't I just love to get my hands on that lurvely arse of his?" Hermione heard a vaguely familiar, somewhat nasal voice right outside the cubicle, followed by a chorus of titters and giggles. There must be at least four of them out there. Hermione had heard the group come in after her, and quickly ducked into the toilet stall and bolted the door. She didn't much feel like exchanging pleasantries, in the case that she knew the girls, or putting up with awkward stares, if she didn't.

As a Prefect, she was not well-liked amongst some cliques. Most cliques. All right, to be perfectly honest, no one much liked her at all. Not even Ron, anymore. Only Harry could be considered any sort of friend, and he was too occupied with More Important Things. Hermione had never really thought about it that way before. It hurt. She was unpopular; more than that, disliked. She suddenly didn't want to be at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry anymore. She wanted to go away, far away. But she couldn't drop out of school, because where would she go? Back to her Muggle parents? She should be preparing for her A levels by her age, but since she'd never even sat her GCSEs, she didn't have any very bright prospects there. So here she was, forced to remain at a place where nobody liked her, and where she was daily confronted with the presence of the man who had sexually assaulted her.

"Did you see the jeans he had on at the last Hogsmeade weekend?" another girl responded to the first. "Luscious, I tell you! It's too bad the school robes cover up so much. I mean, a girl only needs to unbutton the front a bit--"

"A bit, Isadora, we don't want to see your navel!" a third girl shrieked.

"It's not like you've got anything to show anyway. You're flat as a boy," the second girl remarked disdainfully.

Giggles were drowned out by Isadora continuing, "A boy doesn't have half a chance to show much of anything off, does he? Shoulders, arse, they're all covered by all that material."

"I bet he's got the most toned pecs," the nasal voice mused.

"Who?"

"Harry, of course!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. Of course. Harry had achieved a sort of cult status among the younger years. Specifically those of the female variety. Since his vindication after the Department of Mysteries adventure and the public announcement of "Lord Voldemort's" return, it seemed like every pubescent female at the school was scheming to get into his pants. Is that all anyone at this entire school ever thought about? Sex? Hermione was disgusted. There was a war brewing, for goodness' sake! They should be concentrating on serious topics, paying attention to politics, learning how to defend themselves, not pondering Harry Potter's anatomy. She peered carefully out through the crack between the door and the wall, but only was only able to catch a glimpse of sleek, black hair.

"He doesn't have a date for Slughorn's party yet, does he?"

"Not that I've heard," a softer voice answered quickly.

"Then I've still got a chance." Hermione was finally able to identify the nasal voice as that of Romilda Vane, a fourth-year Gryffindor. She was quite bossy and more than a little unsympathetic, in Hermione's opinion.

"You?" Someone else tittered. "Don't make me laugh. Since when has he ever so much as looked in your direction?"

Quite right, Hermione thought indignantly. They were all a gaggle of silly geese. Harry wouldn't waste his time with a single one of them.

"He was going to sit with me on the train," Romilda bragged, "but his stupid friends made him go with them."

"Really?" one girl asked eagerly.

"Would I lie?"

No one answered that, and for a moment there was an uncomfortable silence.

"Well, there's still time," the soft-spoken girl said encouragingly. "Maybe he's still trying to work up the nerve. Maybe his friends are trying to talk him out of it!"

"I can't wait for that; the party's tomorrow. I have a plan." Hermione could imagine the sly look on Romilda's face. This announcement was greeted with excited exclamations and eager pleas to let them in on it.

"All right, all right, I'll tell you," Romilda finally said. "But you have to promise not to breathe a word to a soul.... I've got this love potion--"

Hermione's Prefect side took over, and she banged the cubicle door open.

"Hand it over! Love potions are illegal!" she announced with a scowl, looking around for the offending item, but not seeing anything suspicious.

The other girls started back in surprise. Romilda was the first one to recover. "Is this what the Prefects have to stoop to to fulfill their quota of point deductions? Hiding out in the toilets and eavesdropping on innocent, unsuspecting students? I've a good mind to report this to Professor McGonagall." She regarded Hermione with open dislike.

"I was not eavesdropping," Hermione said firmly. "I simply happened to overhear your rather loud and public conversation. I distinctly heard you say you have a love potion in your possession, which is not allowed in the school."

Romilda instantly thrust her bookbag at Hermione. "Here, look for yourself, Miss Smarty. You won't find anything more incriminating than a tube of Kiss-N-Tell Lipgloss, and you can be my guest and go ahead and listen to what it has to say. It's probably the closest to any action you'll get this year." She smirked unpleasantly.

"I'm sure I don't want to touch your... things," Hermione answered back with a grimace of her own. "You probably pawned the love potion off on one of your friends, or Vanished it, for all I know. Just consider this a warning... All of you," she said, glaring pointedly at the other girls as well. "And I'll be warning Harry about you," she added to Romilda.

"Oh, yes, do give him my regards, won't you?" Romilda said snootily. "And ask him why, if you're so close to him, he's never asked you out? I do believe he prefers girls who take a little more care with their appearance." She gave Hermione the once-over, from her unwashed split ends to her potion-stained robes to her baggy black stockings.

Hermione clenched her fists and felt herself grow hot all over. "Just... watch out," she ground out. "I'll make sure you don't get away with... whatever it is you're planning." She held her head up stiffly and walked past the group.

"Ooh, I'm shaking, I'm sure," Romilda taunted after her.

Once she was out in the hall, just as the door swung shut behind her, Hermione could hear them laughing.

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"Errrgh!" Hermione let out a muffled little scream of frustration and slammed her bookbag down onto her bed. Slytherin certainly didn't have the patent on bitchiness. Fantasies arose in Hermione's mind of Romilda's lips swelling beyond all proportion thanks to a well-placed Bubble-Lip charm, or -- even better -- putting an end to her bluster (and kissing ability) with a Langlock Curse on that slippery little tongue.

But she was a Prefect. She couldn't afford to break the rules...again, she thought with a massive twinge of guilt. What she'd done to Ron with the birds had been a real wake-up call to her. She was losing control. Her emotions were battling to get the better of her. She could never, never, allow that to happen again.

Dashing away the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand, she risked a glance in the direction of the full-length mirror in the corner between Parvati's and Lavender's beds. She hadn't used it in weeks.

She'd seen the necessity of checking her face in the over-sink mirror in the bathroom before heading off to class, to reassure herself there was no toothpaste smeared on her chin or anything similar which might cause others to stare at her, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to face the image of her body. Feet were acknowledged to carry her where she needed to go; hands to write, eat, and carry. Everything in between was shrouded in a sort of haze which only lifted briefly for purposes of hygiene.

Now, she talked herself into regarding her mirror image by pretending it was someone else she was looking at. It was a female of the species, fully grown, of medium height, youthful but not entirely healthy in appearance. The long brown hair was dull and kinky and flew away from her head in every possible direction. The face looked pale and drawn; the eyes surrounded by dark smudges. The lips were dry and peeling. The body was of indeterminate mass, the indeterminacy due to the covering of limp and bulky clothing. Said apparel showed signs of not having been washed recently. A loose string hung from the sleeve. Neglected was the first adjective that sprung to mind. Careless. Slovenly.

Hermione now allowed herself to recognize the figure. It was her. This is what she looked like. This is what he had made her into. She could feel the beginnings of a great ball of despair forming.

No! She wouldn't let him control her life! She had to take the control back. She and Teresa had talked about that. Her life did not consist of one horrific night. It was only one part of a broad range of experiences which made Hermione to what she was. She had to stop living solely in reaction to those six hours. And so she made a decision. A brave decision.

She hastily rid herself of her clothing and stuffed it in the hamper, then headed for the showers.

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"Knock-knock!"

Snape looked up from the second-year essays at the walrus mustache and the rotund, padded blue velvet waistcoat beneath it. He made an impatient sound and indicated Slughorn should enter.

"Severus! Burning the midnight oil as usual, I see," the Potions instructor remarked.

Snape grunted noncommitally and narrowed his eyes at the approaching elderly wizard. A social climber and spineless coward who didn't even have the guts to run away and hide properly in order to save his skin when the water started getting hot. Had to get protection from the Gryffindors instead. But then, who was he to judge? Hadn't he done exactly the same thing? Did this physical wreck of a man wheezing toward him, his broken spirit seeping through all his convivial chatter, portent Snape's own future? No, he thought with a bitter satisfaction. He himself would be dead before two years were out.

"Well, m'boy," Slughorn sighed out, lowering his bulk heavily onto one of the students' desks. "I've just come to make sure you turn up to my little fete tomorrow."

"I doubt that will be possible," Snape said while returning his eye and quill to the essay before him.

"I thought that would be your answer," Slughorn said, "and I assure you I am quite insulted. Yes, I am," he said defensively, in response to Snape's sceptically raised eyebrow. "Head of my own House won't even pop 'round for a holiday nosh."

"I doubt my presence will be missed in the crush of egg-nog-drinking revelers and VIPs you have no doubt booked for the occasion."

"Au contraire, Severus, au contraire. Why, Aucepus Underwood told me he was looking foward to seeing you in particular-- Yes, he named you by name," he said in answer to Snape's other eyebrow going up. "How did he put it? 'I should be interested in seeing what sort of situation the lad's made for himself at the school,' or something to that effect. I shouldn't want to disappoint Aucepus if I were you, he's got quite some clout in the Wizard Financial Regulatory Authority; didn't know he was keeping tabs on your career, be quite flattered if I were you--"

Snape let Slughorn's rambling wash over him. Aucepus Underwood: One of the New Cadre, a DE recruit since the Dark Lord's return. So he was being checked up on. Or was it Draco who was the target of the inspection? He had to assume that either or, more likely, both, were the case.

He knew he was on tender footing since Halloween, his once rock-solid position with Voldemort weakened by his less than stellar performance. Why couldn't he simply have done what was expected, rather than try something so quasi-heroic as to border on the Gryffindorish? He'd spent too much time with Dumbledore over the summer; allowed his character to be sullied by the old man's sense of integrity. It's not that he wasn't principled, himself. But the sort of job he had to do was incompatible with virtue and honour.

"--can't let good old Slytherin be shown up by the likes of Pomona Sprout and her band of snuffly badgers, now can we? Hm?" Slughorn paused, evidently having noticed Snape's attention had drifted.

"A cete," Snape enunciated crisply, making a slashing motion across the parchment.

"Pardon?"

"A cete. A cete of badgers is the correct term."

Slughorn's loose jowls spread into a delighted grin. "Now, then, you see? Got to show the others Slytherin knows what's what. Knew you'd see it my way. Eight o'clock, then, my office. I'll reserve a special glass of the '83 for you!"

Snape exhaled forcefully through his nostrils. He would be there, of course. But not to do old "Sluggy" a favour, nor to put on a good face for the others. It would simply be to keep an eye out for any "accidents". He wouldn't put it past Draco to use the opportunity to get close to the Headmaster and try to pull off another one of his amateurish assassination attempts. He was still appalled Malfoy, Jr. had even managed to get his hands on the Cursed necklace; the stupid girl-- Bell-- was more than lucky she hadn't been killed. Not that it would have been any threat to Dumbledore whatsoever; the thing had been so positively reeking of Dark magic that the canny old Headmaster would have spotted it out at ten yards. It was more the potential collateral damage that Snape was trying to control at this point.

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