Seraph’s Balm
Hermione slumped out of Herbology, the day’s haze still clinging to her like an unwanted shadow. She’d spent most of the first of classes drifting between drinking and pretending she was anywhere but here. Lost in that familiar fog of self-destruction, she barely noticed Professor Sprout approaching until the older witch gently intercepted her path.
“Seraph’s Balm,” the professor said, extending a small potted plant with an understanding smile. “I thought you might find it useful.” The professor’s tone was matter-of-fact, the explanation clear and unembellished. Hermione managed a quiet “Thank you,” not out of gratitude so much as an acknowledgment of the simple kindness being offered.
For a long moment, Hermione turned the plant over in her hands. Its silver-blue leaves pulsed faintly with a soothing light—a subtle, living contrast to the numbness that had defined her day. As she examined it, she recalled the precise medicinal properties she’d read about: a careful dosage of its leaves, when ingested, could activate a mild sedative effect, easing even the most tangled nerves. The realization struck her firmly—this could be better than drinking away her night like she usually did. Merlin knew her liver needed a break. So she decided, she would cook dinner for herself with this and stashed it into her parcel.
The walk was quiet and uneventful, a measured progression away from the oppressive familiarity of Hogwarts and toward the modest refuge of the Hogsmeade house. The soft light of dusk played over the landscape, and though she still carried her scars, there was a small, stubborn determination in her step. When at last the unpretentious door of the Hogsmeade house came into view, Hermione paused, took a final, measured breath, and pushed it open—ready, if only for tonight, to do something that might just make tomorrow a little bit better.
Hermione stood alone at the counter in the Hogsmeade house kitchen, methodically pulling ingredients from neatly labeled jars and cupboards. She measured out flour, grabbed a few vibrant red peppers, and arranged a basket of fresh herbs on the counter. In a small dish, she carefully set aside a few leaves of Seraph’s Balm, the silver-blue plant gifted by Professor Sprout earlier. Just as she reached for a knife to begin cutting the peppers, the soft creak of the kitchen door signaled an intrusion.
Dean ambled in first, rubbing tired from his eyes. “Oi, Hermione, what’s cookin’?” he said, eyeing the spread on the counter and the pot on the stove. “I’m starvin’—“
Seamus appeared behind him with a lazy grin. “Yeah, what’s on the menu tonight? I hope it’s not just for you.”
Hermione didn’t even look up from her work as she continued chopping a bell pepper. “This is my dinner,” she replied flatly. “And besides, you can’t have any of it.” She paused, then added, “I’m using a medical plant in here.”
Dean cocked his head, smirking. “Oh? Like muggle weed? I love that stuff. Why can’t I have a taste?”
Rolling her eyes, Hermione said sharply, “No, Dean. Not weed. It’s—well, it’s for girls. You wouldn’t understand—it’s for my, um, ‘special needs.’” Her tone was clipped, more out of exasperation than genuine explanation.
At that moment, Neville stepped in from the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the little dish of Balm leaves. “Hermione?” he said, crossing his arms. “If you’re using Seraph’s Balm for its calming properties, you can’t just say it’s only for your ‘special needs.’ It works for anyone if you dose it right.” His tone was both incredulous and mildly chiding.
Dean snorted. “So you’re saying it’s not some women-only miracle? That’s a shame then you won’t make us any—we could all use a bit of calm tonight.”
Seamus joined in, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Yeah, we’re all so stressed out, it’d be the best thing ever.”
Hermione set her knife down with a frustrated sigh. “Look, the plan was for me to cook dinner for myself tonight. I’m not volunteering to be your personal chef.” She paused, her eyes flashing in irritation. “I said no—you’re not getting any.”
Dean leaned casually against the counter, feigning exaggerated misery. “Please, Hermione, don’t be selfish. My stomach’s practically growling out loud, and I’m telling you, a bit of your magic in the stew might just save me from this stress.”
Seamus chimed in, “Yeah, if you’re not sharing, you’ll have to explain why we’re left here hungry and stressed while you dine alone.”
Neville’s tone softened, and he added, “Honestly, Hermione, I’m really hungry. I can’t function on stress alone, you know.”
After a long pause, Hermione exhaled sharply, her eyes darting between the three expectant faces. With a resigned mutter, she set down her spatula. “Fine,” she snapped, “we’re cooking for the house tonight then.” She folded her arms and glared at them. “But you three are staying here to help with the cooking and plating. No more whining once we start, got it?”
Dean and Seamus exchanged sheepish grins, and even Neville nodded, albeit still looking a bit anxious. “Alright, Hermione,” Dean said, “we’ll help. We promise.”
Seamus clapped his hands together lightly. “Team dinner it is, then!”
Hermione resumed her work, now issuing curt instructions as the three gathered around. “Dean, get the extra bowls from the cupboard. Seamus, chop those carrots—nicely, please. Neville, measure the Balm extract accurately. I’m not risking a full-blown sedative overdose here.”
The kitchen filled with the sound of clattering utensils and light-hearted banter as they set to work. Despite the teasing and the initial resistance, the shared task had a way of diffusing tension—even if Hermione’s internal stress was still a constant undercurrent. As the aroma of the simmering stew, mixed with the delicate, slightly herbal scent of Seraph’s Balm, began to fill the room, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a reluctant acceptance. Tonight, her plan had changed. And as they worked together, even the most infuriating teasing turned into a small, shared moment of respite from the chaos of their world.
Malfoy pushed open the kitchen door and surveyed the scene with a casual smirk. The counter was neatly laid out with bowls of chopped vegetables and spices, and a large pot bubbled steadily on the stove. He folded his arms and let out a low whistle.
“Well, Granger, it looks like you’re whipping up something special tonight,” he said, his tone laced with amusement as he stepped closer.
Hermione didn’t look up from her work as she measured a pinch of rosemary. “I’m wasn’t planning to cook for everyone,” she replied dryly. “This dinner was meant to be just for me.”
Malfoy’s smirk widened. “For all of us?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “Then, please don’t dump all that rosemary in there.”
Hermione set down her measuring spoon with a sharp tap on the counter. “What would you know about cooking?” she snapped, the irritation clear in her tone.
Malfoy leaned casually against the counter, his eyes glinting with a familiar blend of condescension and mischief. “Just because I grew up with meals made by house-elves doesn’t mean I didn’t learn to cook for myself,” he replied coolly.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before she returned to her task, muttering under her breath. Malfoy, satisfied with his jab, shrugged and sauntered off—not out of the kitchen entirely, but toward the adjoining dining room. He pulled up a chair at the long table by the window and settled in with a book, his gaze occasionally drifting back toward the bustling kitchen.
The rich aroma of the stew had filled the Hogsmeade house kitchen for a while now as it simmered steadily on the stove, its gentle bubbling a constant background hum. Hermione moved about the counter with deliberate precision—washing crisp lettuce for a salad, rinsing vegetables, and laying out ingredients in more bowls.
Not far from her station, Dean and Seamus had already staked out their corner of the counter. Their voices rose in playful debate over the best way to roast a potato. Dean was insistent that the chunks needed a generous, even coating of oil before hitting the oven, while Seamus argued that a quick toss was all it took to get them perfectly crisp. Their banter lent the kitchen a light, chaotic energy that contrasted with the simmering, methodical pace of Hermione’s own work.
Just as the debate over potatoes reached a spirited peak, Theodore Nott breezed into the kitchen with an easy smile. “There you are,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the dining area where Malfoy sat.
From his quiet nook in the dining room, Malfoy looked up from his book and replied nonchalantly, “Just watching these four ruin my dinner.” With that brief remark, he returned to his reading, leaving the kitchen chatter to continue undisturbed.
Stepping fully into the kitchen, Nott leaned casually against a counter and addressed the group with genuine curiosity, “So, what exactly are we making in here?” His question cut through the lively banter, drawing momentary attention from everyone gathered.
All eyes turned toward Hermione, who had been orchestrating the meal. The room’s clamor softened for a heartbeat, as if waiting for the explanation behind the carefully arranged ingredients and the bubbling pot.
Hermione sighed, setting aside the washed lettuce with a quiet exasperation. “I was planning to cook dinner just for myself tonight,” she explained, her voice low and edged with weariness. “—until Dean, Seamus, and Neville started whining about being hungry.”
Nott nodded thoughtfully, his eyes softening as he regarded Hermione’s tired expression. “If you’re cooking for yourself—and now for the whole house—I’d be happy to help,” he offered in a calm, measured tone.
Dean grinned widely, clapping his hands together. “Great—yeah! Now that you’re letting Nott help, maybe you can delegate some tasks to him so we can get out for a quick round of Exploding Snaps!” he declared, his tone playful and insistent.
Seamus nodded in agreement, adding with a mischievous glint, “Exactly. If Nott takes over a bit of the chopping, we can vanish for a while—consider it a necessary break.” Their eagerness was laced with both genuine desire for a breather and the familiar, teasing camaraderie that marked their interactions.
Neville, who’d been hovering with his habitual shyness, shifted his weight and offered a small, hesitant smile. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind taking a break either,” he admitted softly.
With a heavy sigh and a roll of her eyes, Hermione addressed them in a tone that blended irritation with reluctant acceptance. “Fine,” she snapped, “you three go to the dining table and play, but don’t expect me to cook for everyone next time if you vanish the moment the food gets interesting.”
Dean, Seamus, and Neville exchanged excited glances and quickly gathered their things. As they trailed off toward the dining room,
Left alone in the now quieter kitchen, Hermione resumed her work at the counter while stealing occasional sidelong glances at Nott. His presence was unassuming yet persistent, and although she maintained a standoffish air.
Nott stepped in closer to assist with arranging the herbs and vegetables, his actions careful and respectful. “I promise I won’t get in your way,” he murmured, meeting her gaze with a tentative smile. Though Hermione’s tone remained cool, there was a flicker of acknowledgment that his help might not be entirely unwelcome tonight.
Hermione shifted her focus to the potato’s, spreading evenly chopped potatoes on a baking tray and drizzling them with olive oil before sprinkling a dash of salt and pepper. Meanwhile, Nott tossed fresh salad greens with sliced cucumbers and tomatoes, the colors vibrant against the backdrop of the simmering stew.
From the dining room, the playful clatter of cards and the sound of raucous laughter echoed through the house as Dean, Seamus, and Neville engaged in a lively game of Exploding Snaps. Their cheerful shouts and teasing challenges filled the space with a sense of carefree rebellion—a stark contrast to the measured focus in the kitchen.
At one point, amidst their enthusiastic banter, Dean called out, “Hey, Malfoy, why don’t you come join us?” The invitation carried both jest and genuine curiosity. However, Malfoy, still perched in his corner with his book, merely shook his head and offered a puzzled expression before returning to his reading, as if the frivolity of the game was beyond his interest.
Back in the kitchen, as the roasted potatoes began to crisp and the salad came together in a fresh, vibrant bowl, Nott and Hermione found themselves working side by side in a quieter rhythm. After a few minutes of careful stirring and the occasional adjustment of seasoning, Nott broke the comfortable silence. “You know, I never thought I’d find solace in cooking,” he said softly, his gaze lingering on the herbs he was sprinkling into a sauce. “I grew up in a house where I had to fend for myself—my dad was abusive, and my mum was hardly ever around. Cooking was one of the only ways I could create something warm, something real.”
Hermione paused, her hands momentarily still as the memory of her own childhood flickered across her mind. “I learned to cook with my parents,” she admitted quietly. “Those evenings in the kitchen… they meant a lot. It wasn’t just about food—it was about togetherness, about feeling safe. I miss that warmth.” The vulnerability in her voice was brief but genuine.
Nott responded softly, “I get it. I practically grew up at Malfoy Manor—if I think back, they were the only people in my childhood who ever offered me any real warmth.”
Hermione’s gaze drifted toward Malfoy and as though he could sense her stare, he lifted his eyes, momentarily away from his book to observe the scene. His expression shifted into a wry smile, and he leaned forward slightly as if to inquire, “Are you guy’s talking about me?”
Before Hermione could muster a reply, Nott’s voice cut through with a teasing lilt. “Hmm? No, you’re just full of yourself, Draco,” he remarked lightly, a playful glint in his eyes. The remark drew a small chuckle from Hermione.
After a beat of comfortable silence, Nott straightened up and said decisively, “Draco, why don’t you go fetch the others? It’s time to call everyone down for dinner.” Malfoy closed his book with a sigh and reluctantly rose to do as he was asked. In that moment, as the simmering stew, the freshly roasted potatoes, and the crisp salad bore witness to a shared effort, Hermione and Nott exchanged a look—a quiet acknowledgment that this shared meal was a small, defiant act of normalcy.
The door creaked open and, one by one, the housemates began trickling into the dining room. First came Zabini, followed by Davis, then Nott—already lingering near the counter with his usual quiet air—next Greengrass, Parkinson, Michael, Zacharias, Susan, Mandy, Hannah, Neville, Dean, Thomas, Padma, and Parvati. In the final moments, Hermione emerged from the kitchen and Malfoy arrived last, plate in hand, taking the seat directly across from her.
Before anyone dug in, Neville cleared his throat. “Listen up, everyone. Just so you know, this stew has a twist—Hermione’s mixed in a bit of Seraph’s Balm. It’s a sedative, meant to ease our nerves when stirred in slowly. It won’t cure everything, but it should help take the edge off.” His announcement was delivered in his earnest, matter-of-fact tone, earning a few appreciative nods.
Zabini leaned back with a wry smile. “Not exactly your everyday recipe, Granger,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he eyed his plate.
Davis added, “It’s different, I’ll give you that.”
Greengrass gave a curt nod. “I didn’t expect anything less from you.”
Parkinson snorted softly, “Well, it’s certainly more interesting than the usual meals we have at Hogwarts.”
Michael remarked, “The aroma’s fantastic—almost therapeutic.”
Zacharias chimed in, “I’m intrigued to see if it really calms the nerves as promised.”
Susan mused, “I never imagined stew could have that kind of kick.”
Mandy shrugged, “It’s a pleasant surprise, really.”
Hannah added, “Better than eating alone in silence any day.”
Thomas nodded, “After today, a little culinary magic goes a long way.”
Padma observed quietly, “I appreciate the effort, Hermione. It’s not what I expected, but it’s welcome.”
Parvati smiled softly, “Definitely beats the usual.”
The room buzzed with easy conversation as everyone began to tuck in. Laughter and light teasing mingled with the clink of cutlery, punctuating the relaxed atmosphere.
Then, from his seat across the table, Malfoy cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. “I must say,” he drawled with a signature smirk, “I really would’ve used less rosemary.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she looked directly at him. “What was that?” she challenged, her tone cool but edged.
Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly, his gaze drifting to his plate before returning to hers. “Oh, nothing. It’s a good meal. Thank you, Granger,” he replied, his voice dry as he resumed his quiet observance.
As the dinner continued, an odd but welcome sense of unity settled over the room. For the first time since they’d been sorted eight years ago, every house—Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff—sat together at the same long table. The tradition of isolated meals, divided by ancient rivalries, had given way to this unexpected camaraderie. Even though it was strange to see such a mixed assembly, it didn’t feel wrong at all; lively chatter filled the space as each housemate contributed their own small commentary, anecdotes, and gentle ribbing about the meal and the evening. Amid the warmth of the food and the unfolding connection between old enemies and unlikely friends, the night settled into a comfortable, if unpredictable, reprieve from the day’s hardships.
The night had settled into a comfortable, if unpredictable, reprieve from the day’s hardships—a rare moment of unity among unlikely friends. The long dining table, filled with chatter and soft laughter, had become a melting pot of shared memories and gentle ribbing. For a few hours, it was as if the past rivalries had melted away, replaced by a quiet understanding that they were all in this together.
That was, until Harry, Ron, and Ginny returned from Gryffindor Quidditch practice. Their entrance brought a sudden ripple through the table. Seamus, who had been mid-laughter at one of Nott’s offhand comments, abruptly covered his mouth with his hand as the three of them walked into the dining room. His eyes widened in feigned surprise, and he quickly scooted his chair a little further away from Nott—just as if his father had caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
The shift was palpable; conversation paused for a beat as the returning Gryffindors reclaimed their space. Yet, even as the familiar banter resumed, the mood had subtly changed.
Harry and Ginny, catching their breath after practice, exchanged curious glances as they grabbed plates from the stack by the door. “Where did this food come from?” Ginny asked, peering toward the kitchen.
A quick reply came from Davis, “Hermione made it.”
“And it’s got that special plant in it,” added Greengrass, nodding toward the whispered mention of Seraph’s Balm. Harry’s eyes widened in genuine intrigue, while Ron’s expression darkened as he eyed the spread—especially the fact that Hermione had cooked for everyone, including the Slytherins, and was even sitting directly across from Malfoy.
Unable to contain his frustration any longer, Ron grumbled, “I can’t believe you’d cook for all of us—especially letting Slytherins share your meal. What’s wrong with you, Hermione?”
Hermione met his glare with a sardonic smile. “Oh, come on, Ron,” she shot back, voice dripping with wry humor. “Be careful—I might’ve poisoned some of these plates and forgotten which ones were meant for the Slytherins!” Her remark earned a round of mixed laughter and exasperated groans from the table.
“Really, Hermione?” Ron retorted, half-miffed, half-amused. “You’re sitting right across from Malfoy, too.”
Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “Honestly, Ron, I share a wall with him every night. This hardly seems like cause for alarm.” Before Ron could muster another complaint, someone from across the table—Dean, in his usual deadpan tone—called out, “Eat something, Ron! It’s good—if you’re so worried about our ‘special’ stew, you should try it.” Reluctantly, Ron huffed and reached for a plate, grumbling as he sat down.
Hermione sat quietly for a moment, watching as her housemates exchanged glances and spoke in hushed tones. She couldn’t help but notice that the tension wasn’t coming from the stew or even the conversation itself—it was Ron. His scowl and barely contained irritation seemed to cast a long shadow over the table. Every time someone tried to join in a light-hearted joke, their words would falter when Ron’s disapproving look passed over the group. It was as if everyone was walking on eggshells around him, their voices lowered and their banter tempered by the palpable weight of his mood.
Across the table, Nott leaned over toward Ginny with a suggestive smirk. “You know, Ginerva, can I call you that? I’m gonna call you that. Gin-erva you’ve got quite the… captivating scent tonight. It’s almost intoxicating,” he murmured, his tone low and teasing. Ginny raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Oh, really, Theo-dore, I was going for ‘eau de Quidditch practice meets triumph’.”
Before the flirtatious banter could carry on any further, Ron’s scowl deepened. Suddenly, he slammed his fork down and muttered loudly, “I’ve lost my appetite.” With that, he stormed from the table, his chair scraping back sharply as he left a stunned silence in his wake.
For a moment, the table fell quiet again. Then Seamus burst into laughter, shaking his head. “That git isn’t hungry? Okay, sureee,” he jeered, his laughter infectious. The tension began to melt away as others at the table exchanged amused looks. Harry, noticing the shift, started chatting with those nearby—asking Michael about his latest project and trading jokes with Zacharias.
Gradually, the atmosphere grew lively again. Light-hearted teasing resumed, and the lingering heaviness that Ron’s departure had imposed began to lift. Hermione, watching the scene unfold, allowed herself a small, wistful smile.