White Heather for Protection

Matters of the Mind

The ride down the tunnel was as disgusting as ever. Even after a hasty cleaning charm, Heather felt the need to scrub her skin raw. She barely waited for the muted thump signalling her companion's arrival before running deeper into the network of caverns.

She spared a brief moment of déjà vu to her fourth year, with this exact same thing happening. Only this time, she was rushing to save Arthur Weasley and not his daughter.

"We should have brought brooms," she huffed in annoyance.

"If you fancy ending up as the latest stain on these walls, by all means," the man behind her retorted.

"Why, Professor Snape," she began, offended, "are you calling me a bad flier?"

"Do not put words in my mouth, Miss Potter."

Even their back and forth banter was similar. It was almost nostalgic, if it weren't for the distinct atmosphere of doom which tinted both these incidents.

They soon reached the main chamber, whereupon Heather very nearly emptied her stomach on the already-filthy floor. The cloying stench of rotting basilisk was eye-watering and she was quick to throw up a Bubblehead Charm. The clean filtered air was a blessed relief to her senses. For a moment, she was worried about the quality of venom remaining after all these years, but she hoped that the durability of the creature, even in death, would serve them well now.

Professor Snape was quick to get to work, putting on his protective cloak and gloves. Heather stood by, watching him work. Outside of her garden, she had no experience in ingredient gathering. Especially with dangerous materials like basilisk parts. She observed intently as the man pried the maw of the beast open, biceps bulging at the strain. Briefly distracted, she contemplated the strength the man held hidden beneath his restrictive black clothing. Inexplicably, it sent a shiver down her spine, which she attributed to the draughty dungeon.

She returned to attention when Professor Snape turned around, venom sac encased safely in a diamond phial. Painfully aware of the clock ticking, they headed off hastily to begin brewing Arthur Weasley's cure.

They worked around each other seamlessly, familiarity smoothing away any bumps that might have arisen. Between the two of them - one a Potions Master, another a budding one - they made quick progress with the complicated brew. While Professor Snape was clearly the more skilled, Heather was able to keep up admirably.

Nearing the end, when the liquid was simmering quietly, she tapped her teacher lightly on the arm to nudge him away from the cauldron. She took up a diamond stirring rod, looking pointedly at the other wizard for permission. When given the go ahead, she smiled at the show of trust. With an experienced flourish, she drew the runes for swiftness, wholeness and health in rapid succession. The potion glowed brightly before settling.

She had tinkered around with the best combination of runes for this particular potion over the summer, when she had remembered the basilisk carcass lying underneath the school. It was truly serendipitous that she had, now that there was no time to think it over from scratch.

When the basilisk antivenin was finally done, they carefully ladled it all into unbreakable phials. Not a drop of the precious curative was spilt. They each took an equal portion of the phials by unspoken agreement.

Potion in hand, the older man shared triumphant a look with Heather. Both were looking worse for wear, robes askew and filthy from their time in the Chamber of Secrets. Nevertheless, a spark of something passed between their locked gazes. Hours seemed to pass as she lost herself in his dark stare. An urge she couldn't name rose up in her and she found herself taking a step forward.