Chapters 21-30

A Good Night’s Rest

The good thing about the last night before the NEWTs was that Hermione had an excellent reason for not being able to sleep. An easy to explain, very obvious reason. She took the Calming Draught provided for her by Madam Pomfrey and dozed, her head resting on her pillow, which in turn rested on a stack of the most important books for her four subjects. (No one was here yet to find out about how she had at last succumbed to ancient superstitions. And if the house-elves discovered her last-ditch efforts to prepare for her exams, they probably wouldn’t tell on her.)

Arithmancy wouldn’t be a problem. She felt safe there. Numbers were good. Figures were fine. Calculations were, well, calculable. And the Muggle maths she’d been doing seemed to help her figure out the more bizarre problems posed in the mock exams she’d been doing. Even though she wasn’t quite sure why.

She turned on her back, the rounded spine of her Potions book pressing almost comfortable against her neck her underneath the pillow.

Charms…ordinary, NEWT-level Charms wouldn’t be hard either. Apprentice level Charms—even if the apprenticeship wasn’t Charms, but Potions, was much harder.

She rubbed her aching left wrist.

Now that she had two practice wands to deal with, the joy over Flitwick’s trust in her potential had given way to strained sinews and several small bruises. But she did love the feel of the second wand in her left hand. It felt almost as if she were finally able to eat with both fork and knife. She giggled and drew her feet up against her body. What a silly comparison!

Theoretical herbology would be a lark. Of that she was certain. But the practical. She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. She simply didn’t have Neville’s affinity for plants. Or Luna’s…whatever it was Luna was having. Empathy?

Then something strange occurred to her. She sat up, a frown creasing her brows.

In sixth year, when Harry’s potions skills had suddenly increased due to his perusal of the Half-Blood Prince’s book, she’d been—well, worried about the book (and after the incident with Riddle’s diary, who could blame her for that?)—but mostly she’d been plain jealous. She’d hated her clumsiness on a broom, too, but that had been easier to ignore. Brain vs. brawn, she could live with that. Some people had talent for dancing or Quidditch; others didn’t. But when it got to book-learning, or even something to do with your hands, like preparing potions ingredients, or taking care of plants—that was different. You could learn those things by practicing.

But now…She knew that she could reasonably expect to ace the theoretical part of Herbology. And she’d do well in enough in the practical. However, Neville would be much better at both, because he just really got plants. And Luna was a Ravenclaw. For all her weirdness, she was almost as good academically as Hermione. And not…Hermione huffed a little. As uptight about things. Not as tense. Luna just…remained unfazed. Even if she was not quite as smart as Hermione, Luna made up for that by being more relaxed. Somehow Hermione felt that really ought to be a contradiction, but she knew it wasn’t.

Weird.

And weirder still, she wasn’t bothered by the fact. A thought occurred to her and she turned towards her cat, a ginger fluffball at the end of her bed.

‘Crooks,’ she asked. ‘Do you think I’m growing up at last?’

The cat didn’t react.

Hermione snorted. ‘Okay, I get it. As long as I’m even asking that question…probably not.’

She lay back on her bed and her books, staring up at the hangings of her four poster bed. Dark blue, with tiny silver stars it was almost like looking at the sky on a summer’s night.

Potions.

The one subject that made her stomach quiver with nerves and made her feel nauseated instantly. She fidgeted, nervously twisting her fingers this way and that, resisting the sudden urge to jump up and pace the room. But that would undo all the nice drowsiness of the Calming Draught she had taken.

Deep breath—down to her stomach. Hold to the count of three. Concentrate on breathing out, let your body take care of inhaling.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

Slughorn, slimy slug that he was, had been an excellent tutor. Perusing Professor Snape’s old book and Lily’s Potions Diary had been a real eye-opener. And though her experiments were not getting anywhere at the moment, even just attempting them, forcing herself to move beyond textbook recipes, no matter how scary that was…It had changed her outlook on the subject. It was intriguing, it was exciting. As if she was doing riddles—as if the solution was lying hidden just outside her field of vision, with the properties of possible ingredients providing the cues.

Hermione released her breath in a deep sigh.

She was fairly certain that she could take anything the Ministry would throw at her.

Severus Snape was an entirely different matter, however. He was the best Potions Master the wizarding world had seen in over a century.

And he did not want an apprentice.

He hated students. He’d hate having an apprentice even more. And most of all, he’d hate having her as an apprentice. Not to mention—no. It was best not to think about that. She wouldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t. Or she’d have a nervous breakdown.

Her stomach lurched and she swallowed dryly.

She would simply (simply???) have to make sure that she was the best apprentice imaginable. No. She had to do more. She would have to make sure to be the best apprentice Severus Snape could imagine.

And that was a task that might just turn out to be impossible to master. It was also very definitely a far more frightening challenge than any NEWTs potions exam could ever be.