            Hermione’s gaze slid over her tangled sheets to her nightstand. Her eyes widened as she grabbed the potion. It was unlabeled, of course. Back when Snape brewed for the Order, he insisted on labeling the shelves rather than the potions themselves—to preserve the integrity of his glassware, he liked to sneer when the subject was broached. She sniffed the blue vial, but it gave nothing away. Whatever it was, it led her to Sirius. She had to find out what, and how, and if it was safe to take again. Even if it wasn’t, the accidental dosing had solved that little piece of parchment.