Not that she really had much hope.  Her best prediction was that he’d listen to her, laugh with delight, and tell her he’d send flowers.  Then he’d show her the door and she’d go home and see how long potions could stave off the inevitable.  Harry swore he could use Snape’s old textbook to brew a better remedy than the one she could buy at the apothecary, but she could already feel the itch of her heritage between her shoulders. A better potion might buy her an extra month, but that was all.